Tuesday, December 23, 2008

Back in the Cockpit

It seems that no matter how hard I try to be respectable, I just can't escape my Star Wars roots. Like the tentacles of the Sarlacc, it just goes too deep. Ever since my brother came to visit for Christmas, we've been doing all sorts of Star Wars things: playing video games, watching the animated TV show, and even watching the movies. Why is a grown man still playing with lightsabers?

Well, because they're just that cool.

It's worth thinking about, though. I think that we as a culture embrace some things as a guilty pleasure without stopping to consider their true depths. Star Wars is a fairy tale for the present, full of wise wizards, brave knights, even the princess in need of rescue. The same cultural principles that bound society for thousands of years continue to be passed on in this new medium, and we also encounter and experiment with new styles of thinking. That's one of the advantages of science fiction: you can create whole new worlds of thoughts and norms without having anyone label you a rebel (or perhaps they will... if they're Imperial! :)).

From ancient samurai to modern fears of an oppressive government regime, Star Wars is a chronicle of our culture. Best of all, the exploration of a galaxy far, far away helps us better understand who we are and what we could be.

Now, if only I could make things levitate with the power of my mind....

Monday, December 22, 2008

Fine Eyes

"I have been meditating on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow." - if you don't know where this quote is from, you don't get a cookie.

I haven't written about it in my blog before, but I felt it was time to do so. This blog really hasn't been so much about my life as about my thoughts, but over the last few months my thoughts have been very agreeably engaged in the company of the finest young lady I know. We met at the local poetry reading, and we are engaged in the same great enterprise - that is, of course, the infinitely noble pursuit of writing literary criticism nobody cares about, not even the writer. Of course, it's not half that bad most of the time, but this is Christmas vacation, when any thought of academia (or, even worse, teaching composition classes) brings the kind of hideous terror that only mention of Cthulhu usually produces.

But I'm on a tangent. The simple truth is that I'm finding myself becoming increasingly cheesy and even, dare I say it, cliche. There's truth to all those things that used to make me cringe, things like just finding joy in being in her company and feeling like I'm a better person when I'm around her. It's hard to talk about. Love doesn't lend itself easily to writing because it feels like everything wonderful and worthy on the subject has been written.

Let it just be said, then, that as I'm surrounded by my family for Christmas, and she is with hers, I am nonetheless filled with happiness and contentment. I feel like Scrooge waking up on Christmas day.

Merry Christmas!

Thursday, December 11, 2008

In Like Him

I dreamed I was in an old-fashioned magical movie theater with huge ceilings and all sorts of carvings, and all the old stars from the black and white era were arriving. They came larger-than-life, fifteen feet tall as a solid hologram. Each name was announced as the star appeared by an invisible voice, and the huge image was a three-dimensional representation of the star from a famous role. Olivia de Havilland, Fred Astaire, Ingrid Bergman, Humphrey Bogart, Katherine Hepburn. But I, of course, only wanted to see one person, whose giant Robin Hood made me just about pass out when I finally saw it. But as the stars became human and started to mingle, drinking champagne and laughing, he sat apart. While the others were themselves from their heydey, he was different, an air of palpable sadness and majesty around him.

Errol Flynn was his aged self, a faded relic, but he was sitting in a high-backed chair apart from the rest looking regal and wearing a blue tragedian mask, one half comedy, the other half tragedy. I had tears in my eyes when I saw him. I pulled up his mask just for a moment, and his hair was white and his face lined. I helped him put the mask back on, seeing that he wanted it that way, and he knew better than I that it was meant to be so. And when I spoke to him, he told me that he saw what his life had become, a symbol of an ephemeral ideal and a charicature of himself, the real man destroyed by drugs, alcohol, womanizing, and cigarettes. This was his final performance, as a shadow of himself, the man gone while the actor remained for one last show.

Monday, December 1, 2008

Novel FAIL

As much as I wanted to write a 50,000 word novel this November for National Novel Writing Month, I didn't make it. I could complain about having too much to do (I had my thesis defense and a lot of papers to grade, primarily), but that's not right. I have long been a believer in the fact that you find time to do the things you really want to do, and I just didn't come through.

That being said, over the last three days I dedicated myself to trying to get as close to 50,000 words as I could. I only started with around 16,000 and I told myself that I could do it if I really tried. On the last day, with the seconds counting down, I told myself that if only I reached 30,000, I wouldn't be an utter failure. When I saw the clock in the corner of my screen hit 12:00, I finished the word I was typing and took my hands off the keyboard. Microsoft Word told me I had exactly 30,000 words. Spooky.

That still doesn't disguise the fact that I was 20,000 words short of victory.

Cyberpunk FAIL.

That being said, I did learn an important thing. The key to cyberpunk is that feeling of hot tech. Of course, it's more than that. The two keys (or so I think right now) to making a scene feel cyberpunk are making it feel techy and making it feel crowded.

Oh, and also run down.

The three keys to cyberpunk....


Now, for something completely different:

One of my favorite websites.

There are fewer than 80 characters in the full HTML of the site.

Yakuza front for secret data smuggling, or just a really awesome website? You decide.

Saturday, November 22, 2008

Teaching

I like teaching. I like discussing things with students and hearing what they have to say. Even when they wander a bit from the topic, facilitating discussion is wonderful. When they start to debate each other and get into complicated issues, I feel like I've done something worthwhile with my life.

That being said, I hate grading papers. I don't mind reading student papers, which are usually at least enjoyable in some way. But I hate having to correct them, to mark them up, and to justify the grade I give them.

I'd rather just sit down with them each individually and talk about ways they could improve their writing. And then just give them all an A if they put in the effort.

Wednesday, November 19, 2008

Nostalgia is Hazardous to My Health

Now that I'm attempting to write cyberpunk, I have become nostalgic for some of my first experiences with the genre. Perhaps the first time I was floored by cyberpunk was when I read the introductory story to the game Spectre when I was probably not much on either side of 10. I loved that game fiercely, man, so much so that I forced my parents to buy me a copy of it even after my dad got a pirated copy from a friend. The story was surprisingly intricate for something in a video game manual, perhaps because they had to justify having a manual for a game with seven buttons for controls and no story whatsoever in the actual game.

As I got nostalgic for good old Spectre, I also started thinking about the sequel, Spectre VR. Unlike the first game, this one actually had video (as much video as any game had back in the early-to-mid 90's), and I remembered it in a rather fond light. It set the mood of the noir, gritty world of hackers and whatnot, or at least that's what I thought. Eager to see the videos again, even for a bit, I started checking out the usual warez and abandonware sites, only to find that the game is apparently open to download if I sign up for something else. Twenty minutes and a lot of headache later, I finally managed to make one of their third-party programs work. One figured out that 01 My Ass Street wasn't a real address and assured me they would contact me to resolve the issue (good luck contacting yourmom@isaho.com), and another reminded me to enter a ZIP code when I tried to send the form, even though there was no ZIP code slot.

When I finally got the game, it didn't come as a .exe with the necessary files clustered around it, because that would have been too convenient. It came as .zip files that I had to extract, piece together, run with a special emulator program, and then spend five minutes messing with virtual drives to convince it that these files were, in fact, part of three separate disks in my floppy drive. When I browbeat the computer into submission and bent it to my indomidable will, the game finally started.

With no video. The game itself worked fine, but that's like saying the radio works in a car with no wheels.

I asked YouTube, and it gave me a couple of videos, really just enough to brutally remind me that my judgment on cool when I was ten doesn't stand the test of time. I also thought the Smurfs were cool.

This reminds me of the time I spent an entire morning and afternoon trying to get Red Baron 2 to run on my computer....

That being said, if I could find the original CD game, I'd probably still be tempted to play it just for the videos. Cheesy though they are, I at least want to play the game through to see what happens in the cutscenes. Assuming the game does end.

Monday, November 10, 2008

I HAVE BEEN PUBLISHED!

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Saturday, November 8, 2008

Genuinely Amazing

Don't get me wrong; I'm glad Obama won. But have a look at this:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:2008_General_Election_Results_by_County.PNG

That knocked me on my ass. I know, I know, population density and all that, but SERIOUSLY, dude!

Wednesday, October 29, 2008

Thumping

Something primordial in me hears and feels the bass thumping in the ceiling and immediately calls up a memory of big guns, something from the First World War. In a moment, I feel back in the Air and Space Museum in DC, surrounded by dioramas of mud and barbed wire, feeling in my chest the atmospheric booming of simulated guns. I am in awe at the sheer creative power of mankind, a creativity that seems to be best harnessed for destruction, as though the human race was a single maddened ouroboros, eternally feeding on itself.

I read in an essay by a student yesterday that no human should ever take the life of another; my heart rebelled against it. Which of us would not, in a fury born of rage or justice, make himself the embodiment of retribution? The ability to take a life is as much a part of man as his strong right arm; power over life and death is as vital as breath, as primal as the heartbeat of thumping in the ceiling. If we choose not to, be it weakness or strength, it is not because we could or should not.

I curse any man who, if his child was in danger, would not put his hand upon the gun. We are born to the timelessness of violence, the eternity of a life consumed in another's choice; it is more ancient than speech.

Perhaps all of this is barbaric and vile, but something about an angry bass thumping brought it out in me so quickly and so clearly that I had to put it down.

Sunday, October 26, 2008

RMMLA, Part 2: The Gathering

(This one feels sloppier than the first; it's longer, too. I should chop back pieces.)

The change from the bent-backed gamblers around their machines, the forests of improbably dyed hair seemingly torn from 1980's television, to the calm of the conference level is enough to leave me speechless. Tables assembled through the long room are lined carefully with pamphlets and books available for anyone to take free, provided they write a review. The few people wandering around are mostly middle-aged but academically handsome, their large white name tags pinned to their suit jackets or hung around their necks on a line. The rooms adjoining the lobby have whimsical names like Paiute, Hospitality, and Shoshone, but each is filled with padded chairs facing toward the presenters. Each table comes with plastic cups and plastic pitchers filled mostly with ice. On the podium, a gaudy, starry logo reminds me where I am.

A girl who looks no older than me greets my mother and gives her a folder, handing me my own embossed white folder without asking my name and giving me the choice between a blue tote or purple: it's hardly a choice. After I clip the nametag to my favorite red shirt, I notice that even most of the men wear their tags around their necks, careful not to ruin their dress shirts. Ironically, this is the last time I will wear my red shirt; it's fated to be destroyed in the wash just after I return from Reno.

As my mother and I walk past the escalator that brought us to the conference level, we pass a pair of women, and my mother stops and exclaims that they're speaking Hungarian. Backtracking, we greet the women, who smile and say they saw the names on our tags and decided to speak Hungarian loudly to see, employing what seems to be a sure Hungarian summons. I have experienced this effect before, as complete strangers approached my family in foreign countries, greeting us like old friends because we share this little language.

They introduce themselves as Helga and Martika. Martika is a little younger than I am, an undergraduate from UC Berkeley, fair skinned and dark haired. Helga is closer to my mother's age, blonde and striking. They, along with a woman we haven't met yet, will be presenting on the Hungarian panel my mother is the chair for. I stand nearby. It's not just my shyness about attempting a language I speak at most with two people regularly with strangers, but my lack of familiarity with the topics and cultures of both conferencing academia and Hungarian literature. In Reno as well as in Hungary, I am a stranger, watching and understanding but not quite present, a projection of a self I left back in Utah.

We go to dinner soon, a rather bland affair at a dining room that's part high school cafeteria, part Reno bar. The highlight is chicken wings. I keep an eye out for two friends from the University, but I don't see them, and I end up pulling a chair to the end of a small table my mother, the two other Hungarians, and a French lady share. They talk; I mostly eat. When I turn in my voucher for one free drink at the bar and ask for water, I get a bottle of plastic bottle that holds at most one cup. A group of half-drunk academics at the next table talk loudly over the introductory announcement, making sniggering jokes about the tiny woman speaking not being loud enough, not that it matters to them whether they hear or not. From what I overhear, they're not wrong, although I dislike them no less for it; it's the same welcome speech I could hear at any gathering of like-minded people, full of automatic praise for those who helped arrange it. After dinner, my mother and I walk Martika back to her hotel, every bit as bizarre as our own.

I meet my mother and the Hungarians the next day in the conference center lobby. Martika's parents are there as well, having come from California to see her present, and her father tells me stories about the Hungarian language and its influence on the world. They are outrageous, making the thinnest connections between similar words; I wonder if he himself believes a word of it, or if he just wants to see how I'll react. I am polite but noncommital, careful not to be the fool.

My own panel begins at the same time as the Hungarian panel, so I excuse myself and plunge again through the sea of tacky carpeting, the slot machines like flotsam from a wrecked alien ship that these shabby gamblers tinker at like a Baby Boomer cargo cult. I walk past whole fast-food restaurants built into the casino, the familiar sight of a Quiznos momentarily jarring. There is no-one there but a bored clerk; it's too early in the day for the patrons to need refueling.

When I walk in, the rest of the panelists and most of the audience have already taken their places. I am not late, but it feels like it. A middle-aged woman is the chair of this panel. She introduces herself as Patrice and invites me to sit. We would go in the order of the brochure, which means I am first to read. I slip my stapled paper from my bag, glancing over the hasty revisions in pen, and mentally gird my loins for battle. My two friends, fellow grad students from the English department, smil at me, sitting in the back row and half-hidden behind others. The French lady from dinner is here as well.

To my astonishment, Patrice skips me and first introduces the stunning blonde sitting beside me, a PhD student I remember as Isabella (whether or not that was her name), with a soft accent I am unable to place. I feel like a child who has had a new present he isn't yet sure he likes suddenly snatched away. As she reads a paper about the combination of the Western and science fiction genres in Joss Whedon's Firefly, Patrice nudges me and apologizes for going out of order. Nothing to be done about that now but to sit and enjoy the brief reprieve mingled with extended expectation.

I enjoy the Firefly essay, feeling the little furry fanboy inside me purring. Then, in a long blur like a streak of muddy paint across canvas, I read my essay. "William Gibson is awesome. I want to be like William Gibson," I feel I am repeating over and over. The next reader is what I will later, uncharitably, refer to as a 'character,' advertising her Harry Potter parody books and even offering her card and bookmarks before her presentation. She presents, as my honor grudgingly requires me to admit, an altogether solid reading exploring the heroine's journey in fantasy literature. Patrice reads last, a fascinating exploration of a possible inspiration for Superman: a pulp science fiction story about a girl from Mars published a few years before the first Superman story was written.

I fear one question in the question and answer session after the readings, and I think I can see it lurking in one of the corner seats, crouching and clutching a black cloak around itself, ready to leap up and unveil itself as soon as the tension in my neck is enough to snap tendons. I wait for the question to come, putting out my own answers as best I can with half my mind occupied with watching for my shadowy nemesis. I know it was gathering in the back of every mind there, "Do you see your thesis applying to other modern science fiction writers?" And I have my plan: I will jump onto the table, whip off my shirt like Conan, and exclaim with my fist in the air, "I have no idea. No idea whatsoever! Suck on that, academics! Suck on it!"

To my astonishment, the question does not come. As we file out of the room, I think I catch a glimpse of a shadowy figure giving me the thumbs-up on its way out the door. Instead, I have a very pleasant conversation about Firefly, fantasy, and science fiction. When it is over, I bid a hazy-headed farewell to my compatriots and return into the bowels of Harrah's. In my stunned state, the gamblers hardly matter. My mother's panel is over by the time I slide up the escalator out of the soupy morass of casino, but we have a pleasant conversation afterwards, and my mother marks me down as having been in attendance for her total count; a little dishonest, but Hungarian studies are not as popular as science fiction. There were more than a dozen to hear me babble about William Gibson, but less than half that to hear my mother's panel.

Lunch is a fairly excellent salmon I enjoy in the company of my new friends of the Hungarian panel. The highlight isn't the speech, a tepid affair discussing gambling in classic French literature, but the dessert: a creamy mousse in a chocolate egg. If I wasn't so stuffed, I'd steal the desserts set at the unoccupied spaces at the table.

The rest of the conference descends in a mist. I enjoy a panel on medieval romance, although I have read none of them. Something about medievalists, perhaps, makes them excellent storytellers, and I am as eager to hear the next part of each story as I am to hear their interpretation of it. I next endure an 18th Century Literature panel. The best part is a middle-aged man in sneakers and an outrageous Texas accent who has difficulty pronouncing the words in his own paper, a confusing muddle about Jane Eyre and Paradise Lost. I don't think Charlotte Bronte ever imagined snatches of her prose being read in the manner of a Baptist preacher, all gesticulation, pitch rising and falling. I look at my mother, who sits beside me, grinning like a hyena. She says if she looks at me she'll break out laughing. In the question session, someone manages to weasel out that our Texan friend wrote his essay at the suggestion of a friend and doesn't fully grasp the concept himself. He is the most honest person at the conference.

I have dinner with my friends, my mother, and Agnes, the final member of the panel my mother chairs. The next day, my mother's presentation is attended by three people, the panel being composed of three and the chair. Late nights of revision and worry take their toll; I have already fallen asleep several times; once at 18th Century Lit, twice at Shakespeare, and I struggle to remain politely awake. My mother's friend, Denice from the local University, has earrings and enthusiasm in abundance. In her leather jacket, she is perhaps the most comfortable of all of us. She is more used to Reno than I am, but it's more than that; she sees the conference, not the slot machines, not the giant plastic leprechaun. At the end of the panel, we say our goodbyes and start home.

There is something unnatural about the conference, something that the greater weird of Reno mutes but doesn't quite squelch. We are strangers, never seeing each other before or since. At most, we breathe the same air once a year. We all come to read, to bolster our curricula vitae, to justify the letters before and after our names. When it's over, the papers go in the bin and we go back to our schools. It is a gathering as ephemeral as a city built in the desert.

We stop at a Burger King, and I get a Whopper. Although I'm fond of their greasy taste, it is perhaps the worst Whopper I've ever had. Even the meat in Reno tastes fake.

Wednesday, October 22, 2008

So Much for Frugal Republicans

Yeah, the Republicans sure know how to manage the budget.

http://www.iht.com/articles/2008/10/22/america/palin.php

With that much money, I think even I'd make a hot woman.

Now there's a mental image that might cost you $150,000 in counseling to get rid of.

Enjoy

Well, I'm not really one for giddy Internet zaniness, especially something that involves a lot of cut and paste (I mean control-c control-p; I like real art). But then again, I thought I would give this a shot, just for a lark/because I have better things to do but don't want to do them.




My good friend, who is a better poet than I am, 'invited' me to give this a try, and never let it be said I backed down from being 'tagged,' whether by a friend or by an eight year old who doesn't know he's three seconds away from having his face smeared across the concrete like the mop that's going to go through the mess he leaves.

Here's the sordid tale, brought to you by even more copy and paste:

Create a mosaic based on the following questions:

1. What is your first name?

2. What is your favorite autumn food?

3. What was your favorite movie?

4. What is your favorite color?

5. Who is your favorite celebrity?

6. Favorite autumn drink?

7. Dream Vacation?

8. Favorite dessert?

9. What do you want to be when you grow up?

10. Your favorite Flower?

11. One word to describe you.

12. Favorite Fall activity.


The instructions to create the mosaic are:

Type your answers to each of the questions intoFlickr Search

Using only the first page, pick an image

Copy and paste each of the URLs into the mosaic maker

Sunday, October 19, 2008

Cyberpunk Soon?

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/programmes/click_online/7676552.stm
In the cyberpunk novel I wrote last November for National Novel Writing Month (and haven't brushed up since, despite "meaning to" ever since), the characters can either plug a computer directly into their brains or, if they're not ready for that step, wear a headset that both sends and receives information.

Well, this isn't quite up to that point yet, but a headset that can act as an input (but, sadly, not yet an output) device is definitely getting there.

I don't know whether I'll do National Novel Writing Month this year. It really depends on how many of my friends decide to do it. In this case, I'll definitely just follow the crowd. If it feels like most people are passing it up, don't want to do it, or aren't really serious about it, I don't think I will put in the effort. But we'll see.

Wednesday, October 15, 2008

Appaloosa

A surprisingly intelligent and complicated Western, Appaloosa will hopefully be a sign that we can still make new, compelling Westerns after Unforgiven took all the old tropes out back and put them out of their misery. It's a rich time in American history, and quite possibly the nearest thing we have to samurai stories (as the rich cross-pollination between the two genres shows), medieval stories notwithstanding.

The film constantly surprised and pleased me by taking the more difficult and fresh path. Although I never saw a trailer for it and it's not being widely shown, I strongly recommend you go see this if you like mature films that give you plenty to ponder.

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

Drafting

Version 1: Oblique

Dear neighbor,
I believe the prolonged and loud banging on my wall I have experienced intermittently over the last few weeks is coming from your apartment. I hope that you will find whatever is making this noise and correct it, as it is becoming increasingly obnoxious to me.

Version 2: Sarcastic

Dear neighbor,
I am pleased to hear, frequently and at great length and intensity, that you and your significant other(s) are enjoying a healthy relationship. I hope that I can continue to experience the world of auditory delight that this provides me, as it has kept me from resting or working excessively, which I would otherwise tend to do.

Version 3: Direct

Please move your bed away from the wall.

Version 4: Angry

Hey, asshole,
I have had it with the almost daily racket coming from your apartment. Your lack of regard for your neighbors is disgraceful. I am embarrassed to have company over because of you. If this continues, I'm going to do something about it.

Version 5: Gangsta

Yo.
If your bed don't stop rockin', I'm gonna come knockin'.

Monday, October 13, 2008

The Wasp

As I was watching a documentary about Akira Kurosawa, a wasp almost the size of my thumb flew up from the heating grate of my room and, after flying around the ceiling, circled the lamp before landing in its dish. After a few seconds of cooking under the four lightbulbs, the wasp zoomed out, bounced off several walls, and finally came to rest in the shadow of my chair. It did this again a few minutes later, and again, before flying off to try its love with the cooler fluorescent lamp in the kitchen instead.

There was something very appropriate about that wasp while I was watching Kurosawa.

RMMLA, Part 1: Nevada Blues

It's not hard to imagine Nevada without the highway and the power lines. The road stretches contentedly through the sagebrush, as straight as a path across ice. To either side, beyond a chain-link fence I could easily hop, the level, scraggly brush sweeps slowly upwards toward the snow-dusted mountains in the distance. With a little more imagination, I can see Wyatt Earp or Clint Eastwood, steely-eyed and watchful for danger, riding a weary horse through the featureless landscape. This is what the American West really looks like: plants that are neither really alive nor dead, the skeletal dream of green life shrunken into brittle points by the sun.

We pass through a canyon, the wind whipping through the plastic that covers one broken window, roaring into the cabin and making us shout to talk. We turned the radio off countless miles ago; one mile or ten seems to pass with the same speed, as though the desert isn't crossed by time or distance but by will and humility, an accession to its endlessness. Time is a solid entity here; it has shaped the rocks into chunks, standing like soap whittled by an attentive boy's sharp knife. The towns we pass are few, sleepy restaurants with names like "Rita's Diner" handpainted on the peeling eaves. Now and then, a blue sign announces how many miles it will be before the next service station or rest stop. Here, it's important to pace yourself, like a Pony Express rider judging the time and energy between posts.

In the dark, it's hard to tell whether the dark, low shapes on the side of the road are cows or just trees. The car's headlamps don't penetrate the restful darkness. It's a time for deep thoughts and long conversations. I call my brother and we talk about things without any intention of arriving at understandings or resolutions. It is a conversation we might have had a hundred fifty years ago on horseback, feeling the steady motion of flesh between us and the sun-baked ground, weaving unhurriedly between bushes of blue-black sage. I'm just pleased to talk to someone, to hear my voice, proof that I still exist. Chapped white tumbleweeds roll across the road surprisingly quickly, as though unaware that they are cliche; the wind is strong enough to shiver the car.

After hours in the desert, Reno makes a kind of sense, a child's dream of the big city: all lights and flamboyance without enthusiasm or meaning. It's grand without class, and a giant sign proclaims in bold block letters: "Welcome to Reno, the biggest little town in the world!" It reminds me of red light districts I've passed through: attention is everything, as though, if everyone looked away, Reno would blow away and fade back into the desert it's meant to be, just another lonely stretch on the highway.

We stay at the Fitzgerald's hotel/casino, across the street from Harrah's, the hotel/casino at which the conference will be held. The "/casino" is ubiquitous; there are slot machines in the gas stations. A giant plastic leprechaun greets me at the entrance to Fitzgerald's; I weave between blackjack tables and slot machines on my way to the elevators. The room looks just like every other hotel room one stays in for between fifty and a hundred dollars a night; beds, color TV, coffee maker, bathroom. The wallpaper is peeling where years of chair backs have scraped it off; a plastic sheet at chair-level failed to prevent it. The remote for ordering pay-per-view is a repurposed Nintendo 64 controller; it still has the Nintendo logo on it. I pick it up and run my fingers over the controls, feeling my fingers and thumbs slide into a position they haven't been in in years, remembering Goldeneye and Perfect Dark as a teenager.

I step outside into the bitter cold, feeling my nose, ears, and fingers complain first after I leave the blast of hot air projected from the casino's ceiling. Less than ten feet from the entrance, a man asks if I can give him 43 cents. I tell him no and he tells me to have a good day. Across the street, street art in the form of oversized gambling chips adorn the corner. A few steps away, a man is curled up on his side, trying to sleep.

There is no class in Harrah's or even attempt at class. Patrons walk around in sneakers and T-shirts. Most of them are elderly, backs bent and faces pressed close to the game screens. Seeing so many quarter-driven machines without Street Fighter or Area 51 in sight makes me uneasy; it feels basically wrong. A group of Latinos talk loudly over the sound of a horserace; the announcer excitedly follows the progress of horses and the chariot-like carriages they pull. I don't know what this sport is called. The youngest people here are the waitresses, who look like teenagers in tiny black skirts and black stockings. I try to imagine what resolve it must take to stand peacefully in clothes like that, holding a tray stock-steady on an escalator surrounded by shuffling patrons. As I go down one escalator, an animated board announces a card tournament, intercutting a lively game with pictures of the busts of hardly-dressed women. Youth and beauty seem out of place here.

In the morning, thick flakes of snow blow past my window, hinting cars and buildings like spraypaint. A few blocks from my hotel, bridges cross a quickly flowing river. The water tumbles over itself; it is secure in its self-knowledge. That is something the rest of the city does not know.

Thursday, October 9, 2008

Robert Wrigley PS

One of my colleagues suggested that Robert Wrigley looks more like Robert De Niro than Al Pacino, and, on reflection, I'm inclined to agree. Let it be known that the award-winning poet Robert Wrigley is now no longer Al Pacino in my book.

He's Robert De Niro.

Special Delivery

The internet has yet again poured onto my unsuspecting head a shining nugget of something completely worthless and yet irresistably, inexplicably awesome. It's given me something I never thought possible. Of course, it could be complete crap, but if it's true, then Ronnie James Dio once covered Jethro Tull. This is supposed to be a recording (a very crappy recording, which only cements its authenticity) that purports to be from Dio's days in the band Elf (or Elves, according to whoever put up the video).

You be the judge: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tYx6JJutH04

One thing's clear, it's not a Tull recording, so I guess someone must have recorded a cover of Aqualung at some point. And that's kind of cool. I guess.

Wednesday, October 8, 2008

The writer Brandon Schrand

... is much shorter than I expected. He came to the school to meet with students and read from his work. The selections he read from his work were excellent; he read a few chapters from Ender's Hotel, his memoir about growing up in the hotel his family owned and managed. He also read from a new book he's writing, which is a memoir in the form of an extended annotated bibliography. Apparently, he was really into pot and Morrison when he was younger, which he humorously insisted was fictional, since his mother-in-law was in the audience. He also seemed to like my question; I asked what he would say to young people who don't feel they've had much life experience who are looking to write nonfiction. He replied that everyone can tie their work in with the greater human experience and thereby make it meaningful. He also encouraged us to find the meaning in everyday life; just because we haven't experienced weird stuff or had great tragedy befall us doesn't mean we can't write something that speaks to the human condition.

Good on you, Brandon Schrand. Good on you.

Back to working on my essay about William Gibson. The more I write, the more I'm convinced I'm just full of it. Sigh. Excelsior!

Netflix Charges Extra for Blu-Ray

Dear [Bluefish],

As you may know, Blu-ray movies are more expensive than standard definition movies. As a result, we're going to start charging $1 a month (plus applicable taxes), in addition to your monthly membership charge, for unlimited access to Blu-ray movies.

The additional charge for unlimited Blu-ray access will be automatically added to your next billing statement on or after November 5th, 2008 and will be referenced in your Membership Terms and Details. If you wish to continue getting Blu-ray movies for $1 a month more, you don't need to do anything. If not, you can remove Blu-ray access anytime by visiting Your Account at the Netflix website.

If you have questions about this change or need any assistance, please call us anytime at 1-888-638-3549.

-The Netflix Team


I don't like this. I don't like this at all. I have a beautiful high-definition television and a Blu-ray player (my PS3), so I enjoy watching the remarkable clarity that is Blu-ray every now and then. On the other hand, I love old movies, Asian films, and esoteric films, none of which are generally available in Blu-ray format. I watch a Blu-ray movie perhaps once every other month, so as things stand, I would be paying two dollars extra for the chance to watch the higher definition.

I don't want to give up watching Blu-ray but I don't want to pay more for my Netflix membership. Aar! By me hook, this be encouragin' me to try fishin' in another of the seven seas.

Now, for a little analysis. To me, this suggests that Blu-ray isn't catching on, or else it would be moving toward becoming the dominant, standard medium rather than the one we pay extra for. What's preventing it? I think it's probably three things. First, people still don't have Blu-ray players and/or HD TVs. Second, most movies are still only on DVD, which means Blu-ray is more an occasional treat than a meat-and-potatoes experience. Third, streaming video over the internet is starting to compete with solid-form (VHS, DVD, and Blu-ray) media.

Does this mean Blu-ray will be the last big format that you can touch? Or will the next big thing pass Blu-ray by, like DVD did laserdisk? Or will, perhaps, Blu-ray catch on as the format becomes more common? Only time will tell, my friends. Only time will tell.

What's Bluefish's prediction? Blu-ray won't catch on and we'll get a new major media form in the next twenty years, within which time high-speed internet will be so widespread (and so fast) that streaming HD will be possible and solid-form media will fall away.

Monday, September 29, 2008

The Elections

I know they're still a long way off, but let's look at them this way: if I get to vote, it's clear whom I'll be voting for. If McCain wins, there's a statistically significant chance he'll die in office, and then we'll get a woman who's been governor of a state with a lower population than San Franscisco for two years as the most powerful politician in the world.

And that's all I have to say about that.

Sunday, September 28, 2008

Another day, another defilement

I read Robert E. Howard's short story "Pigeons from Hell" today, inspired by a piece of art that my good friend the Lord Admiral bought for a paltry ten dollars at a convention he had the pleasure (and I did not) of attending. Although the story sounds as though "Two Gun Bob" was challenged to write the scariest story he could with a silly title, it works.

Place plays a crucial role in the story, as it is uniquely steeped in the culture and legends of the South. In much of the story, Howard seems to be responding to HP Lovecraft's tales of horror by arguing that his native South is much scarier than New England. For instance, the character through whom we see the story exclaims halfway through,

"Voodoo!" he muttered. "I'd forgotten about that -- I never could think of black magic in connection with the South. To me witchcraft was always associated with old crooked streets in waterfront towns, overhung by gabled roofs that were old when they were hanging witches in Salem; dark musty alleys where black cats and other things might steal at night. Witchcraft always meant the old towns of New England, to me -- but all this is more terrible than any New England legend -- these somber pines, old deserted houses, lost plantations, mysterious black people, old tales of madness and horror -- God, what frightful, ancient terrors there are on this continent fools call 'young'!"

Earlier, Howard narrates the same character's changed perception about the South, seeming to echo how he imagines Lovecraft would react to Texas: "He had thought of the South as a sunny, lazy land washed by soft breezes laden with spice and warm blossoms, where life ran tranquilly to the rhythm of black folk singing in sunbathed cottonfields. But now he had discovered another, unsuspected side -- a dark, brooding, fear-haunted side, and the discovery repelled him."

Much of the story owes to Howard's own self-image as a Southern storyteller, which he defends and validates through his story. In his letters, he often refers to his stories as "yarns," and he uses Southern tropes to explain how his stories come to him: he says, for instance, that the idea for Conan popped into his head fully realized without much thought on his part.

The story itself seems to be a purposeful who's-who of Southern storytelling elements. Black magic, voodoo, snakes, the Devil, a man on a horse wielding a Colt six-gun, returning from hell, the living dead, a haunted house, and the Civil War all play a role. Howard, best known for writing stories in mythical Hyboria, is perhaps best seen here as exploring the legends and stories of his native South.



Now for something completely different:
Freaking cool!

Friday, September 26, 2008

The poet Robert Wrigley

A poet from Idaho (but not an Idaho poet, as he pointed out) came to my campus today, and I had the opportunity to attend his poetry reading, to go to lunch with him, and then to attend a panel discuss that he shared with three of our local creative writing faculty: Michael Sowder, Jennifer Sinor, and Charles Waugh.

Wrigley looks a little like a gray-haired Al Pacino, and the way his mouth moves made me smile a few times at the likeness. The poems he read were quite good; poems about how fragile and beautiful life is, using some excellent nature imagery and exploring human relationships with a soft touch.

After the reading, some of the other graduate students and I, along with one of our creative writing faculty went to lunch with Wrigley. At first, I felt as though he was a bit too focused on himself as he talked, laying on his opinions and insights a little thick, but after I spoke with one of my fellow graduate students, I came to the decision that, since he was being paid to be here and talk to us as the great visiting poet, he was giving us our money's worth of his wisdom and experience. That was more palatable. The lunch was interesting: there were sweet potatoes, ham, and pie, among others. The Skyroom was practicing for Christmas Dinner already.

The panel was solid, but I never really liked panels. It seems people always ask the same questions. It was interesting to hear various insights into how place and the natural world affect writing. I agree with Wrigley's assessment that speaking of writing about the "natural world" presumes that there is an "unnatural world," when really, there isn't. Cities aren't unnatural. Most animals change their environment in some way; we're merely termites building our mounds on a larger scale.

Robert Wrigley, you're not Naomi Nye, but I won't hold that against you. Thanks for visiting. I look forward to seeing your poem in The New Yorker.

Monday, September 22, 2008

lol. noobs.

Earlier this evening, I received an e-mail from someone obviously very confused about the way listserves work. This anonymous person wrote the following e-mail to everyone signed up for the Caine School of the Arts listserv:

I would like to be on this list.
Thank you! :)

I shook my head and smiled, hitting delete. Everyone would understand that someone had made a mistake, I reasoned. A few minutes later, the following, also anonymous e-mail response demonstrated that wasn't the case:

Um what?

=EDIT=

(It gets better:)

i think the system is messed up because i didn't write either of these messages and i don't even know what caine school of arts is.

(And then...)

Did everyone here just get a random message about this?

(And)

I don't want to be on the list

(And even...)

Take me off the list. I don't know what this is
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

=EDIT 2=

I finally got sick of receiving these idiotic e-mails (I got five in less than ten minutes at one point), so I sent out the following:

Due to the nature of this mailing list, every reply that you send to these messages will rebound to a great many people. We who are receiving your e-mails do not have any way of knowing who you are, let alone of removing you from the list. Please, if you have an issue with the service, contact a webmaster from the Caine School of the Arts about it. For the sake of everyone's sanity, do not continue to reply to these e-mails.

Only you can prevent more spam. And nobody likes spam. Well, nobody except Monty Python.

Sunday, September 21, 2008

Pests

I walked down to the dumpsters to throw away some recyclables I had been gathering in my apartment. As I went to throw them away, I saw a whitish-blond cat climb out of one of the dumpsters and into the parking lot a level above where I was standing. A few weeks ago, I was throwing away a couple of pizza boxes when a cat jumped out of the dumpster and just about startled the life away from me. This led me to an interesting thought: what is a pest? What difference is there between vermin and a pet? I have always loved cats, those furry, purry creatures that make me smile just by rubbing against my leg or climbing into my lap. But what role does a cat have? They don't guard a house and they don't drag children out of fires (with maybe the odd exception). They're just assigned the role of companion, a role they're not particularly suited for. They're just a change in fate from climbing around in garbage. It's entirely a matter of subjective perception.

Take rats. Some people keep rats as pets; for most people, rats are vermin, annoying at best and dangerous at worst. It's all subjective. We choose arbitrarily to call one thing a dear pet and another a pest. Heck, some people keep poisonous snakes and tigers as pets.

But what does this thought lead to? Sadly, I have the feeling this question also applies to us. One person's pest is another person's loved one. Do we ever treat people as they are, or are we always dependent on our subjective views, the entirely arbitrary responses we have to people based on the tiny part of their lives that we observe? With a different first impression, could an obnoxious jerk have been a hilarious scamp? Could arrogant have been self-assured? How much of what we think we know about people is based on our own wishful thinking or skewed perception?

Well, it's a thought.

Tuesday, September 16, 2008

Paul Muldoon

I went to a reading by Irish poet Paul Muldoon today in Salt Lake City. He is a fantastically funny man, in a very quiet, clever way, and he has very curly gray hair that was almost a joy to look at in itself. I traveled with my mother and a teacher/poet from the University.

I enjoyed his first few poems the best; they were about growing up in Ireland, and created vivid scenes and inspired deep emotional connections with lovely phrases and stunning images. One poem started by talking about visiting a new traffic circle, the first in the area, as a day's excursion, but then ended with the story of a boy who got his bicycle trashed and had a gun held against his head by Unionists who forced him to curse out the Pope.

His later poems relied, I felt, more heavily on word play (the rhyming in some of his poems was particularly thick), although I will admit that, for the most part, his poems were lyrical and clever. He has a way of connecting something simple, like a turkey buzzard feasting on roadkill, with something personal, like his sister slowly dying, and making it sound beautiful and touching rather than as odd as I just made it sound.

Afterwards, there was going to be a reception, but we didn't stay because it was already eight o'clock and we still had the hour-and-a-half drive up.

As a side note, we stopped at a small restaurant called Salt Lake Pasta and Pizza, where they got us our sandwiches, soup, and salad in less than five minutes when we told them we were in a hurry to catch the show. I've never seen a place be so Johnny-on-the-spot, which was particularly nice since they said they were so busy. They definitely catered to our demands, and although my soda was flat, my sandwich was quite good and my fries were great.

Wednesday, September 10, 2008

Where creativity goes to die

So, the new Dune book by Brian Herbert is called Paul of Dune, further cementing the fact that they are going to write every conceivable novel and simply add of Dune to the end of it. Yes, prepare for Phil of Dune, Hank of Dune, and the page-turning bestseller Bubba of Dune.

Maybe I'm just tired and bitter. I only read the first book, back when it was still of Dune (except without the of), and I'm not sure I even finished that one. One thing is for sure: it's another argument against having any children. Being childless means not having my progeny screw up my legacy after I've moved on to the Happy Hunting Grounds. I'm looking at you, Christopher Tolkien.

(Yes, I know Paul was the name of the protagonist in the first novel. You may have too much time on your hands. Just like me.)

Thursday, August 28, 2008

Toph time!

Holy crap, I've gone fanboy. Okay, I'm wearing my Naruto headband and my Alucard hat, and it's time to talk like I have a retainer in my mouth, because I'm pulling out the stops (and the sanity) to go all-out fanboy.

I was on Deviantart earlier. I'm tired of the rep it gets as a home for softcore porn. It's that... AND lots of great fan-drawn pictures of anime shows. So, without further ado, everyone's favorite Earthbender. I picked pictures that I felt did a good job portraying the character differently than she appears on the show, while still keeping true to who she is.

http://greendesire.deviantart.com/art/Toph-Bei-Fong-56855462 A realistic picture of Toph's face.

http://lychi.deviantart.com/art/Toph-69678934 A very dynamic shot of Toph Earthbending. Bend away, Toph. Bend away.

http://piyoko-shannaro.deviantart.com/art/Toph-81195943 Toph cosplay! I felt the artist captured her personality as well as her costume.

http://nokomento.deviantart.com/art/TOPH-61317018 A uniquely comics-like Toph.

http://ninjatic.deviantart.com/art/Toph-Badass-70035962 A more realistic Toph.

http://poorachan.deviantart.com/art/LOAD-THE-TOPH-68548309 And last, because I had to include it, unabashed Toph cheesecake shot.

What have I become? *Tears in the rain...*

Don't judge me!

And, because I suppose it must be said, Toph is from the Nickelodeon show Avatar: The Last Airbender, and you should check it out.

Wednesday, August 27, 2008

Doomsday, aka Dog Soldiers Reunited

What do Terry, Joe, Spoon, and the Sarge from Dog Soldiers have in common?

They're all in Doomsday. Although only Spoon really gets much of a role, and even that is mostly as the guy following along whose presence really doesn't affect the story. At all. He's a foil. He might as well have foil wrapped around his head with a sign following him around that says, "Foil." I almost started hating him myself, even though he was spoon.

The lead character is a one-eyed, smoking badass who just doesn't give a shit (one of the other characters underlines this by saying, "You just don't give a shit, do you?") whose mission is to go into a quarantined zone where the locals have gone savage, on a secret mission to retrieve something of vital importance to the country.

And it's not Snake Plissken. (Or so they claim. Pretty much the only difference is it's a woman with a bionic eye. Oh, and she's emotionally scarred and out for nonspecific revenge.)

Take one part Mad Max, one part 28 Days Later, and one part Escape From New York. Mix thoroughly. Voila! Doomsday.

I was hoping there would be a zombie epidemic in this film, but I don't think the writers ever worked out whether or not the virus made people psychotic, or if people just went psychotic from fear/panic. At one point, an infected person murders a few people in cold blood, but it never explains why. I guess he just had issues.

The production values were pretty much off the hook and made the film great to watch at times (it also had some great shots of Scottish countryside), which is sad, because the writing was bottom-shelf and the characters weren't even stock; they had virtually no character at all.

The Mad Max reject villains and their over-the-top villainy were cool, but then I had a moment where I sat back and said, "Okay, now this is just silly." You see, the second group of bad guys had just wandered off the set of BBC's Robin Hood show, seeing as they were dressed in perfect medieval armor and carrying bows and things. They even hung out in a castle (I guess they got the weapons from the castle, but come ON! There was even a hawk in one of the scenes, and an old guy with a skullcap reading a mouldy tome). Oh, and they were led by Malcom McDowell in a fur cloak.

The movie also starred the guy who played Doctor Bashir in DS9 and Bob Hoskins, looking older and jowlier than ever. Not that either really matters.

I give the movie points for some imaginative sequences, particularly with the Mad Max ripoff post-apocalyptic villain gang, because I have a soft spot for that sort of thing, I suppose. But I just can't support the movie as a whole. When we got to the Renfaire rejects as a villain group, my brain said, "The hell with this, I'm going back to sleep" and my body spent the rest of the movie watching alone.

That wasn't a particularly coherent review, but it wasn't a particularly good movie, and my brain is still fighting me. I'm inclined to give it 4 stars on Netflix just because Hollywood needs more cannibalistic savages in leather. But I won't, because that would be just dishonest. Three stars for effort.

I think the bottom line is that a movie like this needs a strong leading character that the audience enjoys spending time with, watching him or her kicking ass and getting into all kinds of bizarre situations. This movie just doesn't deliver that. The heroine is, to use a Kevin Smith line, weak sauce.

And the hot savage woman who appeared in all the promo work? Dead in the first third of the movie, although that's not the last we see of her. I think she spends about as much screentime dead as alive.

Just like the movie as a whole.

Last thought: at one point in the movie, our heroes stumble across the BIGGEST HERD OF COWS EVAR. Why, then, are the bad guys all cannibals? I guess they just really like the taste of people....

Sunday, August 24, 2008

When Nature Attacks!

Yesterday, as I was catching a ride home with a friend of mine, I noticed something small and chitinous crawling under my pants near my ankle. I tried to shake it out, but a few minutes later I noticed it at my knee. I tried to flick it away, but again, it resurfaced near my hip. Ack! Finally I managed to shake it out of my pant leg after getting out of the vehicle, but that was an awfully interesting car ride.

I think Mother Nature has it in for me.

Friday, August 22, 2008

Arches National Park is Down an Arch

No, it has nothing to do with computers, but as a Utah citizen who has visited the park before, I found this interesting.

http://deseretnews.com/dn/view/0,5143,700249410,00.html

It's fascinating to think that something as seemingly timeless as a rock formation slowly gives in to erosion. Entropy, my friends, will destroy everything. Even humanity, one day, will succumb to these patient and inescapable forces.

Unless, of course, we perfect our immortal robot bodies in time.

Great googly moogly!

I'm excited about technology again! Why didn't anyone tell me about http://www.hulu.com before? You can watch free streaming television LEGALLY! Yes, I know that the last word is the only thing that makes this new to me, but it's definitely a load off my mind to know that I won't have to 'brb fbi', not to mention that warm fuzzy feeling in my cockles that I get to, at least in some small way, support the shows I like.

And what have I been watching? "I Survived a Japanese Game Show." The people involved are all complete douchebags, of course, but that's not the point: the point is just how messed up Americans get when Japanese people totally screw with them, not to mention how hilarious it is to see what Americans will put up with for a chance at money. The best part is people crying or yelling, full of sound and fury about "I don't want to leave this! I want to win!", when, when you think about it, they're getting worked up over a show that makes them dress up ridiculously and perform insane stunts. HILARIOUS! Major kudos to whoever thought this up. Ritualized humiliation for Americans.

Wednesday, August 20, 2008

Oh, no!

I'm starting to become bored with technology. I feel like I'm at a point where I don't really want the next big thing. Maybe it's just that I've been too thoroughly disappointed with too many new, cool gadgets; not things I've bought, but things I looked forward to, and ultimately felt let down by. Or maybe it's just that there are such obvious strains of internet memes that none of it feels new or cool any more. Even "All Your Base" just feels like an old, tattered stuffed animal that I still get out now and then just because I used to like it so much.

I have a feeling this is fairly inevitable for our generation. We are so inundated with technology that, sooner or later, we're going to come to the realization that we don't really need any of it. The other day, I was in the Apple store thinking of buying an iPod Touch. The expert there made it sound miraculous (I think he even used that word) and told me, "I guarantee you'll love it." When I really thought about it, though, it simply didn't appeal to me. I don't feel rushed into checking the internet all the time: Facebook and MySpace are so quiet that I think I see tumbleweeds and old-timers sitting on the porch saying, "Yep. I reckon." I don't want to check my e-mail more than I already do because there's simply no point to it. And frankly, I hardly listen to music any more. It's just something I can't find much passion in. In the end, I decided that a $300 gadget I really wouldn't use all that much would be a bad investment.

Even today, I had a moment where I thougth to myself, "I should play some PS3." But then I realized that playing felt a bit like a chore, and I would much rather be reading a book, so I read some Soon I Will Be Invincible instead, and thoroughly enjoyed reading it.

Go figure.

Friday, August 8, 2008

When Technology Attacks!

I saw an ad today for a laser hair removal kit you can use at home. Permanently remove body hair from the comfort of your own bathroom.

What were they thinking? When the frat boys get their hands on it, the planets will fall out of alignment and the long dark times will be upon the world!

That, and there will be a lot of very awkward hair restoration requests.

Wednesday, August 6, 2008

Thanks, Best Buy

I had my LCD HDTV calibrated today. I had two guys sitting in my bedroom for upwards of an hour, tapping away at different functions of the television. It's supposed to make the picture more color-detailed, but so far it just seems to have made everything darker. Not only that, but I have a sneaking suspicion they turned down the sharpness of the set, because some of that OMG ITS FUL OF STARS razor's-edge sharpness seems to have faded; maybe that's just an illusion because the screen is darker now.

My real complaint is that they used a sensor that attached to the middle of the television. Although they made token attempts at cleaning the screen afterwards, there's still a smudge in the middle of my screen. Seriously, guys. If you would have just washed the thing before sticking it on my TV, I wouldn't have a bunch of dark suction-cup rings there now. I really can't enjoy my (supposedly) better colors with a black smear smack in the middle of my TV screen.

Well, it will supposedly extend the life of my TV by half, so I hope I'm not sounding too ungrateful. I would have had to buy cleaning stuff for my screen sooner or later anyway. But was it really worth three hundred bucks? That I really can't speak to.

Still, like I said, longer life really is nice.

Tuesday, August 5, 2008

The importance of being a jerk

It's just a random thought I had because of a comment on my last entry that very thoughtfully and accurately pointed out that another problem with cyberpunk is that people no longer question the Man and stand up for themselves, they revere the slavish goons of the corporate estate who do what they're told. I say it's good for people to call you an asshole once in a while. That means you're going your own way and showing people that you don't just blindly follow. You're taking chances and making waves. You're being an individual, and anything else is just wasted space. So be a jerk when it's important. Tell people they're just plain wrong. Don't compromise. The world was never changed by people who went with the flow. Passionate people make a difference.

This blog is brought to you by Toph, who always speaks her mind. Because Avatar: The Last Airbender is just that kind of awesome.

Monday, August 4, 2008

The Problem with Cyberpunk

I think the main reason cyberpunk died out is not because technology has become too mainstream, which is the reason I frequently hear. I think it's because there were no decent cyberpunk movies made! Apart from The Matrix, which was made after the time the industry declared cyberpunk dead, I couldn't think of a single even halfway decent cyberpunk film. I mean, just look at Johnny Mnemonic. Yeesh. And before you start mentioning anime, I want you to take off your Naruto headband and your Inuyasha ears and remember that anime has about as much relevance to mainstream American culture as Bollywood does.

Well, I don't think that thought really went anywhere. I'm not sure I even agree with it. But hey, I'll throw it out there, and see what the internet (read: the two people who read this blog) thinks.

And here's a thought about modern technology that has a bearing on cyberpunk: modern tech is slowly making us stupid by taking away the importance of knowing things. It used to be that facts and understanding were vital to life; these days, I myself have often fallen into the trap of thinking, "I don't have to remember this; I'll just Google it" or "I don't know what that is, but I won't ask; I can just look it up on Wikipedia." Whatever happened to the importance of sages, those who knew and understood so much? Is the internet becoming the one great sage of our time, while we become nothing more than its drooling supplicants?

My completely arbitrary decision is that you're just not allowed to be an expert (or even to THINK that you're an expert) on anything if you start your statements with, "Well, I read somewhere on the internet...."

Unrelated note: Remember my post about McCain and his slip about the Illuminati? The 'comment' section keeps disappearing. Only on that one post, too.... Are they trying to

Thursday, July 31, 2008

Bla!(wg)

It's hot. It's "I want to put my head in the fridge" hot. It's "I think my eyeballs are melting" hot. Seriously, it's hot. The outer wall of my apartment faces due West, so the setting sun in the afternoon turns the place into an oven.

That being said, at least Soul Calibur 4 is some kind of awesome. The story mode is shockingly short at 5 levels for every character, and the ending sequences are pretty darn confusing for most of the people involved (at least they're cut scenes and not just a three-picture slideshow). The graphics, however, are absolutely eye-popping, and every now and then something happens that makes me just go "okay, that was flipping sweet." And in a game like SC4, the versus mode is the key to the kingdom, and it's definitely hot in this version. Full screen HD looks absolutely jaw-dropping. The first time I saw some of my favorite characters rendered with the PS3's enhanced graphics, I drooled a little on myself. Sure, Ivy's breasts are the size of a small child and her outfit probably uses about as much cloth as an average handkerchief, but man, oh man, your humble narrator isn't complaining.

The game is noticeably slower than SC2 and 3, but that just makes it more tactical. As for the inclusion of armor that breaks, it doesn't really seem to affect the game much, and the new cinematic 'critical finishers' haven't once made an appearance in versus mode. I imagine they will only show up once in a blue moon, or if someone is a complete pussy.

Friday, July 18, 2008

E3 and The Dark Knight

I have this to say about The Dark Knight: stop reading this and go watch it. It will kick the shit out of you.

Maggie Gyllenhaal's nose looks terrifyingly like Michael Jackson's. She is not a good-looking woman. That's a real shame, since every character seems to make a point of saying how good-looking she is in the movie, as though the producers were trying to convince me of something I know isn't true. And no, that's not a spoiler; the Joker says it in the trailer, and anything in the trailer isn't a spoiler.



I'll be honest: my review of E3 is a huge complaint-fest. Read this only if you want to hear me whining like a bitch with a skinned knee.

So I actually paid attention to the ultra-consumerist stack of advertisements and shamelessly masturbatory presentations that is the Electronic Entertainment Expo this year. At least, that's what I think E3 stands for; there wasn't a single indication WHAT the three E's are in this year's presentation, but that's neither here nor there. Apart from some significant website surfing, most of my information came from G4. Side note: holy crap. Watching G4 makes me feel like I'm watching a student production by a bunch of nerds on cocaine. Is there nobody on set who's older than thirty? What's meant to seem fun and random feels like a bunch of kids doing public access, except they get to interact with some real industry powerhouses, like some Bizarro world Wayne's World.

Moving along, there was almost nothing at E3 that got me excited for anything. One of Sony's few exclusive games is BigLittlePlanet or LittleBigPlanet or whatever it's called. It's so adorably cutesy I almost had to have a root canal just hearing about it, and it involves the sixaxis controller's direction sensing function. Note to Sony: get off the Wii bandwagon! I bought a PS3 because I don't give a shit which way my controller is pointing and neither should my system. So long as I'm pushing the right buttons and moving the right sticks, the controller could be up my ass, and that's fine (well, not technically, but you know what I mean). If I wanted to waggle a controller like a jackass trying to convince the system to do what I'm desperately trying to approximate, I would have bought a Nintendo.

I've been really excited for Left4Dead, but now I'm not so sure. They unveiled new footage to go with what they already showed us. The verdict? It looks like outdoor maps play just like the indoor ones, except with new backgrounds. Give me a break. This is starting to feel more and more like an endlessly repetitive, mind-numbing zombiefest that only a good multiplayer will possibly save. But I'm starting to doubt it.

Resistance 2, fortunately, made the hurting stop for a second by reassuring me that it has a multiplayer co-op mode. I breathed a sigh of relief. But wait: it's online only! If I want to play on the same console, I have to play competitively. Since I don't have any friends who own a PS3, I'm humped. Thanks, Resistance 2!

And Fallout 3 looks cool as hell (I'm already considering assless chaps and a leather facemask to get into the post-apocalyptic feel), but is also disappointingly single player. I'm starting to feel like the days of co-op multiplayer on one system are becoming a happy memory.

They were raving about Farcry 2 on G4. It doesn't look any better than games that were out years ago. Seriously, UT 2004 looked pretty comparable. It's nice of them to try to make games that will run on my five-year-old system, but there was seriously nothing in this game that set it out from anything else. It must have taken a whole trunkful of amphetimines to try to get excited about that game.

And what the hell, SquareEnix? Honestly, I shouldn't bitch about Final Fantasy XIII being on both X-Box 360 and the PS3 since I'm probably not going to plunk down sixty or seventy big ones to buy it, but seriously, I was hoping it would give the PS3 a big market boost to help it in the console wars so I'd have other, better games to look forward to. But no dice, so I'm pissed. It looks like the poor performance of the PS3 so far has caused SquareEnix to have second thoughts, so now they're in their "trial separation" phase, where they're still getting together now and then, but all they do is awkwardly watch TV until SquareEnix comes up with an excuse and leaves early, leaving Sony alone in bed and clutching a bottle of Jack Daniels, curled up in the fetal position wondering where it all went wrong.


This blog is for entertainment purposes only. Don't come crying to me if you disagree.

Sunday, July 13, 2008

In which the man discusses a very un-cyberpunk theme

It's surprising where cyberpunk pops up. Yesterday, I went to the Oneida River Festival on the Bear River in Idaho. The theme of the festival was to raise funds and awareness to preserve the Bear River as free-flowing, as opposed to putting a dam on it, as the plan currently seems to stand. I'm not entirely sure about the specifics, but there you have it. Damming it would be bad for the ecosystems, and therefore we should all go read poetry and listen to live music.

It was about the most folksy event you can go to without men in tight jeans and flannel standing around saying, "Yep. I reckon." There wasn't even a jitter of cell phone reception. The music included covers of Bob Dylan and Janis Joplin, as well as an original song by a young man bewailing his change of fate since he spent his lucky quarter on buying a Coke from a machine (yes, you read that right). I wrote a poem for the event on the spot, and it seemed to be fairly well received, or at least as well as anything is received that I didn't labor and sweat over for hours. Nobody threw themselves at me.

Normally, the lack of people flinging themselves at my feet isn't a tragedy, but this one had a hint of the tragic about it. There was a lovely young woman there with beautiful bronzed skin and long, curly brown hair who danced to the band when no-one else did, in a cheap green dress and sandals. Watching her just stand there and dance with everyone watching made me think what it must have been like to watch hippies dance. She had the kind of build that makes skinny girls look sticklike in comparison, with amazing legs that had a pair of the most well-defined calves I've seen. As much as I imagine one of my characters becoming enthralled by a dancing punkette in a seedy techno club, I myself was mesmerized by this young thing. Naturally, I never talked to her. The cynic in me just kept telling me that there's no use talking to a pretty girl I'll never see again. The romantic in me just watched her dance.

But, as I said at the onset, cyberpunk did pop up. I grabbed Neuromancer to read. One of the professors from the school saw me reading and told me that she would be teaching the book in an online class in the Fall about cyberculture.

A class about cyberculture? Teaching Neuromancer? Now that is win. I'm going to have to get in on it somehow.

Friday, July 11, 2008

Hellboy 2: The Golden Army (warning: "spoilers")

If you're the kind of person who whines about having had a movie "spoiled" because you learned what's going to happen, stop reading now.

Still with me? On with the show. ((Please note that this review is just my silly opinion after one viewing. I don't expect you to agree. I don't even expect myself to agree in five minutes.))

I wish I could say that this review really did stand a chance of "spoiling" Hellboy, but Guillermo del Toro beat me to it. Normally, I hate to blame one person for the failure of a film, but since Guillermo directed it, wrote the screenplay, and shares story credit with Mike Mignola, I think it's safe to say his fingerprints all over it, for better or worse.

It's not fair to say this is a bad movie. It's much more complicated than that. You see, I have the full story, as told me by my good buddy Guillermo himself.

Guillermo del Toro was walking along the beach one day in his native Spain, gazing out over pristine water while feeling the sand between his toes. Just then, as he watched the setting sun brilliantly illuminate the water and cover the sky with gorgeous, vibrant colors, he had an epiphany: he was going to make a wonderful fairy-tale movie in the same vein as Pan's Labyrinth, and he was going to call it The Golden Army. The plot was beautiful, mixing folklore and social commentary: a war between humans and mythical creatures long ago was ended when the king of the mythical creatures commanded an invincible army of machines (the Golden Army of the title) to defeat the humans. (I think the king and his family are meant to be fairies, but that was never quite clear, which I assume is because if you say 'fairy' to an American audience, they picture something sparkly the size of your thumb, with wings). Saddened by watching the slaughter of even greedy humans, the king divided the magical crown of Golden Army-control into three pieces and gave one piece to the human as part of a truce. The humans would stay in the cities, and the mythical creatures would live in the wild places. The king's son did not trust the humans, so he went into exile, vowing to return when the humans broke that agreement. And now, with urban sprawl and deforestation and everything, they have, so he comes back.

And as Guillermo del Toro had this grand dream, he got a phone call from his agent: "Guillermo, you DID remember you have to be working on the Hellboy sequel, right?"

Mierda! thought Guillermo, but no worries: he would just wedge Hellboy into the story and everyone would be happy.

What everyone actually winds up getting is a very mixed affair. The fairy tale story and the visuals are absolutely fantastic; Pan's Labyrinth, but even more spectacular. Top hole. Hellboy and company, on the other hand, are just as mangled as they were in the first movie. Yes, we did lose the annoying British accent for Abe Sapien, played by Doug Jones, but he remains weirdly effeminate and has psychic sensors in his hands. He also listens to classical music and memorizes poetry. Liz Sherman, played by Selma Blair, looks like the actress just took it on faith from her agent to take the part in the first movie, and is now just in it for contractual obligations, even though she never had a clear idea what was going on. Watch any interview with her about the movie, and you'll see her looking vaguely nervous/concerned, probably because she's worried someone will figure out she doesn't know a thing about Hellboy. She looks the same pretty much the whole way through the movie.

"Did I leave the gas on?"

And Johann's suit looked cool, but they really could have gotten someone who actually speaks German. Hint to Hollywood: go to France and go east until you find people wearing lederhosen. These people are called Germans, and most of them speak with something very like the accent you're looking for.


"Hilfe! Mein Deutsch ist kaput!"

As for Hellboy, Ron Perlman does fine, but the script keeps him more or less as the vaguely stupid, wisecracking, immature character of the first movie. I'm no Hellboy expert, but that just doesn't feel right to me.

That being said, let's go back to the fairy tale. The creatures are creative, the plot is actually very touching, and the visuals are fantastic. Prince Nuada, the king's son I mentioned earlier, may well be the most complex and charismatic character in this movie, particularly if you pair him with his sister, Princess Nuala (yes, those are their names; get over it). You can't help but appreciate his English accent, his slick moves, and the deep pathos of his desperate quest to save what's left of the beauty and magic of mythical creatures in this increasingly mundane and banal world. Thumbs up for the movie called The Golden Army.


You might find yourself wishing this guy would just kill the shit out of everything on screen. This feeling is natural.

Hellboy and crew, however, are a source of constant groans and head-scratches (Liz is pregnant via Hellboy, while Johann is a Teutonic stereotype who insists on running things by the book). Everything felt cliche, predictable, or just plain bizarre to me. Hellboy and Abe Sapien have a duet singing, "I Can't Smile Without You" by Barry Manilow while getting drunk, providing some very odd attempts at humor. I wish I could make this crap up. In the first scene, two BPRD agents get eaten alive by 'tooth fairies,' while Hellboy and friends are more concerned about the bad press. When Hellboy discovers the picked-dry skeleton of his former cohort, he says something along the lines of, "Huh." Thumbs down for the movie called Hellboy 2.

The film mentions several times that the Golden Army numbers "seven times seventy" mechanical soldiers. It doesn't take a math genius to figure out that we're talking 490, which is respectable, given their size, strength, and indestructibility, but hardly a massive army. Put in rows and colums, it makes for roughly twenty by twenty-five Golden Machine-Dudes. Try to count how many you see on screen at once in the big finale. I guess maybe they've been breeding ever since they were placed in storage....

Now, if only someone explained to Guillermo del Toro that for gears to work, the teeth have to actually lock into something else, usually other teeth, rather than there being just a big, pretty gear turning in space.

Random note: Tecate beer features so prominently in this movie that I have a feeling the working title of the project was Hellboy 2: Tecate Golden Army.

Final word: Better than the first one, but not as good as Constantine, which remains the best Hellboy movie (even though it didn't have Hellboy in it).

What did we learn today? Mike Mignola should stick to making comics and Guillermo del Toro should just make the movies he wants to make.

Monday, June 30, 2008

Writing Moment

This morning, I had a remarkable dream, and I was inspired, not to write it down, but to use a clue given in the dream to write a scene that I had been struggling with in my novel. I try to aim for regular scenes that genuinely have an emotional impact on the reader, and so I try to find things that have a genuine impact on me as a writer. I think that reading a book should be an experience that offers more than just a "that was cool" reaction: it should strike the reader on a deep emotional level and offer him the opportunity to change his way of seeing the world, as though he himself had experienced the events of the book. In that way, I think reading a book can be as moving as real life. But I've heard this before, and it's true: if the writer doesn't feel anything while writing it, the reader doesn't feel anything when reading it.

And so I made the change to the scene in my head, and it felt right, so I got up, turned my computer on, and wrote it. And as I was typing the final words, I was overcome with emotion, I sobbed aloud, and tears ran down my face. It was the first time I had driven myself to the point of tears in a story.

I don't know if I'll even use the scene in the final draft of the novel, since it's still a while before I connect where the novel is now to that point, so things might be different by then. I do have the feeling that it will still be there in some way; I was genuinely heartbroken by characters that exist only in my imagination.

And that was remarkable.

Thursday, June 26, 2008

Oh Shit

Sony has lost more than three billion dollars on the PS3.

Seriously, that sucks.

Sorry for the language to everyone below 18 and/or living in Utah.

I know it's fairly common for games companies to lose money on their consoles, and we've known the PS3 is being sold well below cost ever since it first came out, but considering how badly the PS3 is being WTF PWNED in the console wars by the Wii, this isn't good news.

Wednesday, June 25, 2008

McCain Lets It Slip

Most of the blind puppets of the coporate and government-controlled media meekly swallow what they are fed: that there is no Illuminati. They think the world is not run by powerful individuals and clandestine groups who control trillions of dollars in assets and guide the course of countries. But John McCain is getting on in years, and he has, I'm afraid, let it slip that Vladimir Putin also rules Germany:




Some people would call this evidence that John McCain is a senile old coot. I call it evidence that John McCain knows much more about who really runs the world than he's letting on.

Tuesday, June 24, 2008

Because he IS the Mother Fucking MAN

http://williamgibsonboard.com/eve/forums/a/tpc/f/2866012481/m/5401073773?r=4531033383#4531033383

Just... bask, minions. Bask.

Cyberpunk Radio

"Disregard the mainstream: media distorted." Not exactly original, but a pretty good line from a reggae/rap thing that was also in the podcast.

When I first checked out the Cyberpunk Radio SF podcast on iTunes, I wasn't very impressed. The first one that it played was episode 104, which started with a mashup of Obama's speeches counterpointed against the ravings of his minister. On that note, I have only to loosely quote Socrates when I say that I disapprove of his warmongering and his discontent. That was followed by some shitty pseudo-noise that I suppose was supposed to sound unreal and cool, followed by crappy rap. Overall, the radio seems to be a mix of music, soundbyte mashups, and dystopian-slanted rants about modern news and changes.

I tried episode 103, which set off with an absolutely awesome "story" about the cyborg insects that the military is building for remote control. It was ... well, it was cyberpunk. The voice was mildly distorted to make it more cyberpunky, and it used expressions like, "Do you know what this really means, meat-puppets?" and "this is the data-stream." But it followed that with a music choice with a genre I couldn't even begin to explain, a pseudo-blues, pseudo-punk piece of shit with some theme about beer and a deadbeat dad. Talk about a buzzkill. Next came a soundbite mashup about Bush's warmongering and nanobots. THEN another bit of awesome: mixing in Pink Floyd's "Welcome to the Machine" with cyberpunk messages advertising this radio, topped off with some weird techno. It was fucking cool.

Final word? No final word yet. But final link: http://www.mental-escher.net/cyberpunkradio/

Enjoy the data-stream, chipheads.

Also, where credit is due: a comment on a post on Kawaika's blog. A comment from one of the guys involved, apparently. When I said your music was sometimes shit, bro... well, actually, it was. Them's the breaks.

Something completely different: Maybe there's some truth to the dire warnings about a future of computer uprisings. It looks like laser printers are illegally downloading Iron Man (but not really; the university just rigged their IPs to make it look that way). Big Brother is watching you. And he's also watching your printer.

Saturday, June 21, 2008

Train Man (Densha Otoko)

Yatta!



Everyone knows that I'm not a huge otaku (the Japanese word for nerd). Most anime are more or less passe for me, and I don't read manga or fantasize about catgirls. That being said, I have a movie recommendation for you that I'm putting out there with my absolute stamp of approval. It's been a long time since I saw a movie that wasn't recommended to me by anyone (unless you count Netflix) and truly enjoyed it, but this one really grabbed my heart and held it tightly in its two little hands. In a good way.

The movie's premise is that a complete otaku is smitten with a beautiful woman on the train. When a drunk starts bothering her, our hero stands up for her (although very awkwardly) and she asks for his address. Having gone his entire 22 years without having a girlfriend (and, one can only assume, hardly talking to girls at all), our hero turns to the best source of information he can get: 2chan (yes, although it's not named in the movie, the special features explain that it was indeed 2chan, the famous Japanese mega-internet forum). A colorful gang of internet misfits start giving him advice, including a married couple who have grown apart, a teenage shut-in, a nurse holding on to a long-lost love, and (most importantly) a scene-stealing trio of uber-otaku who practically live in a manga cafe. Guided by this questionable bunch of love 'experts,' can our young hero pursue the love of his life? Or is she out of his reach?

This movie's characters are endearing, the story is fun yet poignant, and ... well, I really can't gush about it enough. As a super-nerd, I couldn't help but pull for our awkward young hero as he takes his brave steps into the world of love. It's in Japanese with English subtitles, of course, although those of you with an allergy to reading while watching a movie should still bear through it, because this movie is a treat!

What are you waiting for? Here I am, your friendly blogging geek, telling you to go out there and get a movie about a geek! So go do it!

There's also a commentary track by an American and two Japanese experts on otaku culture. I haven't listened to it, but I look forward to doing so soon!

*****POSSIBLE SPOILER BELOW*****
You have been warned. You may return to reading after the sirens stop.

Final word: The last scene of the movie might confuse some viewers, because it seems to suggest (or did to me) that the whole movie might have just been a fantasy. Don't worry; if you watch to the end of the credits, you'll see another scene which makes it clear that the movie did happen; the last scene was just a flashback showing you that the two characters were always closer than they thought.

And don't worry; I'll be back to writing other things than just film reviews soon. This movie really fit in so well with my themes and interests that I just had to share it with you!

Friday, June 20, 2008

eXistenZ

What happens when you get a video gamer to write a screenplay? Although I can hardly be sure that this movie was written by a video gamer, it certainly feels like it. The dialogue is awful, the characters are flat, and the premise is a combination of thought-provoking and silly.

First, the bad: the props are ridiculous. The special effects are weak. The science behind it all is nonexistent. Don't even try to figure out the logic behind it all; trying to match real world logic to this movie is like trying to hook up an American toaster to a European electrical socket.

Now, the good. Yes, it does have Jude Law in it, although he doesn't really have much to do. It also kept me thinking. I did have to be quite generous with my interpretation and extrapolation, but all in all, this film can be an excellent way to get an interesting conversation going among a good bunch of people, and for that alone I'd suggest it.

The basic plot, such as there is, involves a video-game designer and the man who ends up having to protect her from an anti-video game conspiracy. You see, video games are so real in this movie that some people want to destroy them outright, before they destroy real life with their simulated reality. You'll be able to guess most of the plot twists long before they happen, but that's fine if it makes you feel clever, as it did me. Although that's a little like feeling uber after beating an 8 year old in CounterStrike. I constantly had the feeling that the movie was written by a kid who was 15, tops. You'll know what I mean when you watch a particularly awkward love scene between the two main characters in which the game compels them to kiss! Saucy!

At the end of the movie, my reaction was, "Yeah, yeah, all right. I get it already." There are echoes of The Matrix here, but also a few original ideas, and some of the scenes are downright thought-inducing. Watch for Ian Holm speaking Hungarian badly, and the Hungarian word "isten" in the title of the film, relates to one of the film's themes: that technology allows us to be gods of our own worlds. Wikipedia agrees with me.

Tuesday, June 17, 2008

Renaissance: Sci-Fi Computer Animation

You can tell it's France and it's gritty because it's raining and it's black and white.

I just got done watching a French film called Renaissance, so I thought I'd give you the skinny. Verdict: it's good enough, if you can forgive it a few flaws.

The skinny: The plot follows a French cop named Karas as he searches for a kidnapped researcher working for the corporation Avalon, which sells products offering "Health, Beauty, Longevity." He also runs across the kidnapped woman's older sister, who is something of a spitfire and, inevitably, the love interest, although her character really is very interesting. As Karas digs deeper, he uncovers conspiracy and corruption on all sides. And by the end... but why spoil it?

The film is rendered in black and white: pure-black and pure-white, with no grays. Think Sin City, but much harder on the eyes. Some of the shots are wonderful, but most of the time I was wishing I could just see the film without the effect, which hurt my head and had me confused some of the time about who exactly was doing what. The stunning visuals of the sprawling dystopian city of future Paris were also marred by this; some of the shots were great, but in many shots, I just couldn't figure out just what I was looking at. It created a very dreamlike, surreal atmosphere that I felt clashed with the film's gritty realism.

That being said, the characters were great. They were complex, serious individuals, but the film still allowed itself enough humor (although usually gallows humor) to make it work. Since the film was shot in CGI using motion-capture, the movements were photo-realistic (for the most part) and some of the subtleties of movement and expression looked great in the black-and-white style of the film. The faces of the main characters were well done. One of the advantages of CGI is that the emotions can be done so finely. Note the poster: that's the black/white animation when it's at its best. It really is beautiful, even hyper-realistic when it precisely highlights faces, bodies, and backgrounds. But a lot of the time, since it's all done digitally, the computer chose a black/white configuration that doesn't quite work. But again, when it does, hold onto your butts.

On the flip side, some of the characters looked rather poor, considering this was 2006 and therefore post-Final Fantasy: Advent Children, which in this humble reviewer's opinion is the best full-CGI film to date visually. The faces of the old characters, of which there are many, were particularly weird.

I should also warn you that the film's tag-line, "Live forever or die trying," doesn't apply to the protagonist's viewpoint. In fact, his is the opposite opinion. I found that mildly confusing.

THAT BEING SAID, (seriously, there were good points), the film's setting is beautiful. The science fiction stuff is something a little unrealistic, but it never takes away from the tone or plot. The plot itself is a little hackneyed, but the film pulls it off with style. I'd recommend seeing the film just for the visuals and some of the themes. When the film is working right, the tone is so right I could just drop myself right into it.

One last note: the very last bit of the film is highly confusing, and I have a feeling some studio bigshot added it because he wanted to adjust the ending a bit to suit his tastes. Without spoiling too much, hit the stop button when you see two characters talking against a white background after the movie has reached its conclusion. The film is effectively over: you can now finish your popcorn and leave the theater without being confused by that one last bit. The film ends perfectly if you end it there, with that ending being one of the best endings in science fiction I can think of.

I sincerely hope they make more movies like this. Adjust the color technique a bit, improve the character modeling, and kneecap whoever pinned on that ending bit, and you'll have a beautiful thing. Even flawed, this is definitely worth checking out.

Very last word, and then I promise I'm done: Fun game! Count how many shots of the Eiffel Tower this movie has. You can almost imagine someone jumping up and down shouting, "Hey! This is PARIS!"

Watch out for that ICE...

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/7456216.stm

A hacker calling himself Solo got into 97 American military and NASA computers and is now facing extradition to the US. Solo is a pretty awesome hacker name.

"His lawyers told London's High Court last year that he was subject to improper threats...." A hacker being threatened by shadowy government forces? ^____^ How unexpected!

"A US embassy legal official quoted New Jersey authorities saying they wanted to see him 'fry'." Maybe, but are they willing to hire dour ex-Special Forces assassins to make sure that the job is done properly?

"He said he was motivated by curiosity and only managed to get into the networks because of lax security. " He also added that their ice were no match for his '1337 skizz-wizzles,' because he got his icebreaker from an ex-KGB dealer with a little basement shop on fourth street.

Anyway, check it out. To everyone who thinks that hackers are a thing of the past, that cyberpunk has come and gone, take note.

Side-note: I doubt he hacked anything like the computer here: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/technology/7458479.stm Check out the video halfway down the page. Only twenty-five minutes to do the calculation? Only a week to set up the operation? Unheard-of!