tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-40775712069065083602024-03-13T00:41:48.295-07:00Kiltartan's CrossGranthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02643239855692810325noreply@blogger.comBlogger20125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4077571206906508360.post-36812785708256014852013-10-24T06:47:00.001-07:002013-10-24T06:49:16.614-07:0010 Hours, 60 Dollars Part 1: Gaming's bright future and why AAA games might not see it.<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #111111; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">The Videogame industry seems to be caught in an interesting
predicament, creatively speaking. </span><span style="color: #111111; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; text-indent: 36pt;">Note
that when I use the all-encompassing term "The Videogame Industry" I
am in fact committing the unfortunately common sin of equating the entire
breadth of human creativity in interactive media to its largest (or at least
loudest) corner: The AAA sphere*. I won't misrepresent the medium like this
again, but it's worth pointing out how easily we tend to see issues in the AAA
sphere and extrapolate doom and gloom for the whole videogame industry, which
is actually doing pretty darn great.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #111111; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">In fact, I think that gaming on the whole is the strongest it's
ever been and is only going from strength to strength, even if 'AAA' gaming is
in grave danger of losing its relevance. For all our grumbling about endless
brown military shooters, Gaming has long been an artform where unfettered
creativity and even surrealism has thrived, moreso now that the act of creating
Games has itself been embraced by greater numbers of increasingly diverse
people; people willing to both take the medium in risky new directions, and
deliver focused and refined gameplay that isn't solely concerned with wrangling
as many demographics as possible. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #111111; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">It
isn't hard to see why we're seeing such an exciting influx of fresh
perspectives: What with the growing accessibility of game development (Unity!
Gamemaker! RPG maker! Twine! Etcetera!) and greater commercial viability of
publisher-free distribution (Steam! GOG! Humble Bundles! Newgrounds! Your own-dang
website! App-stores a’plenty!), the spectrum of different people and
perspectives getting involved in making Games grows in turn. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #111111; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">And if the richness of an artform can be measured by the breadth
of human experiences expressed through its artists, the fact that self-expression
through Games is no longer primarily restricted or beholden to just Rich White
Dudes is certain to make Games a far richer medium for all of us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #111111; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">What's more: the gaming market (and marketing) has evolved to a
point that this diversity and daring can be rewarding for small dev-teams at
both a critical and commercial level. As the mainstream gaming audience has
matured and more mechanical and thematic ground has been covered, Gamers (and
the Gaming media that informs them) have begun to grow hungry for the kind of
innovation and daring personal expression that leaves large publishers
screeching and clutching their focus-tested data as they scuttle off into the
night. The success of the likes of <i>Minecraft,
The Binding of Isaac, DayZ</i> and <i>Gone
Home</i> shows us that fresh ideas (and well-executed old ones) have begun to
hold more weight than just flashy new graphics, and for a fair few years the
indie and ‘zinester’ scenes of game creation have been able to do their thing,
find their audience, and (crucially but tragically rare for artists across
history) stay ‘fed’ and ‘alive’ doing it.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #111111; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; text-indent: 36pt;">This
is not to say that it’s all sunshine and roses for all independent and hobbyist
game creators, financially or otherwise. One of the sad realities of the
commercial side of pop-art is that the more uncompromising and personal artists
are in their work, the smaller their potential audience (and revenue) tends to
be. As is the case for artists in any medium, there are countless incredibly
talented game-makers who aren't getting the attention and success they deserve.
However, more so than any prior point in gaming's short history, the internet's
tremendous ability to facilitate word-of-mouth marketing among 'niche'
audiences puts that recognition well within reach. And that right there? That's
something to be celebrated.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #111111; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> Of course, profitability needn't necessarily be a concern for the many people making games purely for the love of the artform and/or for the betterment of humankind. Just look at the hundreds of people who participate in game-jams such as Ludum Dare: submitting daring and unique games in all their unpolished glory for no more sinister motivation than the thrill of the challenge and the love of creation and the exploration of new territory within the medium. Humanity’s selfless dedication to the artform doesn't end at 48 hour whirlwind development cycles though, as many devs choose to invest major portions of their lives into developing and freely distributing games for the common good. Take Zoë Quinn & Patrick Lindsey's “Depression Quest" or Anna Anthropy's "Dys4ia", games that deftly use the meduim's strengths to express (and let players explore) the creators' deeply personal experiences of depression and hormone-replacement therapy, respectively. These and many other interactive experiences, which possess so much potential to spread awareness, understanding and empathy about the issues they deal with, are released to the public for free; an act that can only be described as a public service. Personally, the fact that games like Depression quest (which did more to help me understand and fight my depression than a lifetime of people telling me to just "make myself happy") are being made and given to humanity with such regularity gives me more hope than a thousand Dead Space sequels.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #111111; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">No
one’s saying there isn’t room for improvement in the indie scene, but I don’t
think it’s unreasonable that right now I feel more excited about Gaming and its
future than I’ve ever been. Every day I’m hearing about, discovering and
playing phenomenal titles that ten years ago would probably have been doomed to
obscurity; and I find it hard to feel the same cynicism so many people seem to
have about modern AAA gaming when there’s so much amazing stuff going on right
outside that sphere. This is not to say that these concerns aren't valid when it comes to the
shinier side of game development. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #111111; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">In
fact, I think it’s time I addressed some of them. As much as my attention is
focused on the little-fish, big-ideas wonder of indie-gaming right now, I feel
there should always be a place in our medium for the big ‘ol blockbuster, and
it’d be a terrible shame if AAA development crapped itself out of existence for
good. Speaking of AAA’s craptacular current trajectory, let’s talk some of
its bigger issues, shall we?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #111111; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Now don’t worry, I'm not going to make any ridiculous sweeping
statements decrying the quality of games from any single development paradigm,
that'd be close-minded, presumptuous and obviously wrong. Many of my favourite
games, old and new, are big-budget affairs, and their size, scope and polish
are big part of why I like them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #111111; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">While
there’s certainly nothing inherently bad about big budgets, it’s hard to ignore
how the handling of these budgets and publishers’ Sisyphean struggle for
profitability keeps many AAA games from reaching their full potential. From a
general consumer perspective, it’s clear to see that the mindless greed and
incompetence of said publishers have tethered AAA gaming to a grotesque parade
of unsustainable standards: one of ever growing budgets, less realistic sales
expectations and talented development studios left broken and scattered in its
wake. This parade, by the way, is being quite-rightly laughed-at by smaller
devs achieving artistic and (relative) commercial success with tight budgets,
realistic expectations and helluva lot more heart.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #111111; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">Indeed,
while the humbler sections of the medium struggle and succeed in their quest to
create new, exciting and meaningful experiences with the limited tools at their
disposal (To The Moon, Thomas was Alone, Sword & Sworcery, Depression
Quest, Dys4ia and so many more), the primary force for innovation driving the
AAA sphere seems instead to be the major publishers' short-sighted crusade to
find new ways to separate consumers from their money, no matter the cost. The
cost being, of course, obscene amounts of money**, which is where it all falls
down I suppose. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #111111; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">This
isn’t news to you, though; the AAA industry’s downward spiral seems to be
obvious to everyone except the publishers themselves, and the briefest
look at any respectable gaming site’s news feed should be enough to clue one in
on the fact that the wheels on the proverbial apple cart of AAA gaming are
rotting and collapsing under the strain of publisher hubris. </span><span style="color: #111111; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Many have speculated that we're headed for a total industry implosion akin to the infamous Atari-crash of the 1980s, but I don't tend to agree with this assessment; mostly because all the aforementioned exciting stuff outside AAA's cacophonous shit-show render it highly unlikely that public interest in videogames as a whole will ever drop to "ET: The game" levels. I do fear that the AAA sphere is hurtling towards some manner of reckoning though: possibly a point where many big publishers quite rightly realize trying to eke out impossibly huge audiences with even huger budgets just isn't worth it, but quite wrongly decide to jump ship entirely rather than actually come up with a sensible business plan. Time will tell I suppose.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #111111; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; text-indent: 36pt;">With
that said, when it comes to the depressing business-ey side of gaming, I’ll
leave the bullshit-calling and solution-suggesting to the far-more-qualified
likes of people like Jim Sterling and Shamus Young. I’d rather talk about
issues concerning the games themselves, and I imagine many of you do too. So
let’s get back to the matter at hand: a predicament that can’t be solved simply
by having AAA publishers and developers coming to their senses, as it is as
much an issue with how we as consumers define a game’s worth as it is a problematic
trend in the games themselves.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #111111; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">This "predicament" is one of limitations, specifically
the self-imposed standard length and pricing that the AAA development sphere
has unanimously adopted, and which we as consumers have learned to expect (and
even demand, when game length is concerned). Now I'm sure many of you are quite
comfortable with the AAA development sphere as it is, in terms of the games
themselves anyway, and your perspective is every bit as valuable as mine. I
just think that when anything becomes anywhere near as ubiquitous as the
$50-$60 price point and the 8-12 hour (or more) standard playtime in AAA games,
it's vital to discuss why these norms are in place and whether it is truly in
the medium's best interest that they be that way. I'm not saying anything
necessarily HAS to change, I'm just discussing the potential for creative
expression to be limited by the relative lack of wiggle room with standard
length and pricing that publishers push and consumers expect. So pitchforks
down, yeah?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #111111; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">[To be continued in Part 2 – How long, oh Game? Or: How
developers should learn to stop worrying and love Good Pacing]<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #111111; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">*While exact criteria for AAA gaming are kinda nebulous, I
broadly define it here as the section of the industry that makes games with the
biggest budgets, biggest pricetags (40-100 USD) and biggest marketing campaigns
designed to capture the attention of the widest possible audience.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #111111; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">**Of course, profitability certainly doesn’t need to be a
concern for the people who make games purely for the love of the artform and/or
the betterment of humankind. Just look at the hundreds of people who
participate in game-jams such as Ludum Dare: submitting daring and unique games
in all their unpolished glory for no more sinister motivation than the thrill
of the challenge and the love of making Games. Humanity’s selfless dedication
to the artform doesn't end at 48 hour whirlwind development cycles though, as
many devs choose to invest major portions of their lives into developing and
freely distributing games for the common good. Take Zoë Quinn & Patrick
Lindsey's “Depression Quest" or Anna Anthropy's "Dys4ia", games that deftly use the meduim's strengths to express (and let players explore) the creators' deeply personal experiences of depression and hormone-replacement therapy, respectively. These and many other interactive experiences, which possess so much potential to spread awareness, understanding and empathy about the issues they deal with, are released to the public for free; an act that can only be described as a public service. Personally, the fact that games like Depression quest (which did more to help me understand and fight my depression than a lifetime of people telling me to just "make myself happy") are being made and given to humanity with such regularity gives me more hope than a thousand Dead Space sequels,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: #111111; font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">**The mind boggles at how much money EA dumped into the massive
marketing campaign trying in vain to get Battlefield 3 to sell as much as its Call
of Duty counterparts, despite the actual Profit margins for the whole shebang
taking a dive for the sake of having BIG NUMBERS on both sides of the
proverbial ledger. Also spare a thought for nigh-universally despised
“services” such as EA's Origin, Microsoft's Games for Windows Live and
Ubisoft’s U-play, and just how much money these companies must have invested in
developing these services only to end up with nothing but server expenses and
new reasons for their customers to hate their guts. Now think about how many
Passion Projects could have been greenlit with that money and weep.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Granthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02643239855692810325noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4077571206906508360.post-68237314408049404692011-11-23T02:07:00.001-08:002011-11-23T02:41:10.916-08:00<p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >The Kind of Music I Listen to, Part 1: Me and the Music<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >“So uh… what kind of music do you like?” asks my new acquaintance, desperately trying to cling to conversation as the evident common ground between us shrinks with each awkward word. “Surely this<span lang="EN-GB"> ol</span>’ standby can’t fail to ignite debate?” he thinks to himself, “After all, <i>everyone</i> likes music!”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >For the longest time though, this universal truth, like so many others before and since, just didn’t apply to my contrary ass.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >“Music?!” I would say, my disdainful tone rapidly dissolving any hope of pleasant conversation from my friendly victim’s features, “You mean that whiny repetitive garbage that punctuates the pain of every annoying commercial? That self-satisfied screeching of the bastards responsible for the pointless music videos that so intrusively intersperse my beloved cartoons? That virulent tool of the diabolical Spice Girls that inspired my friend’s older sister to subject me to a unique performance of ‘Tell me what you want, what you really, really want’ in which she threw ACTUAL SPICE directly into my EYES? <i>That shit</i>?”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >“Uh, yeah. So you don’t like any of it?”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >“No. No I do not. You monster.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >In my defense, this was the late 90s: The likes of Britney Spears, the Backstreet Boys and the aforementioned Spice Girls had reached a critical mass that granted them total audio dominance until the blessed day that they stumbled drunkenly out of our ears and into the tabloids. The last wheels of Cobains’s mopy revolution were grinding loudly on in a desperate facade of relevance. R&B had gained mainstream appeal. It was a dark time. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Understandably I feel, I went through the first 15 or so years of my life just <i>tolerating</i> music as the inexplicably popular vice of the society that I’d already devoted my existence to abandoning in favor of the “Democratic Republic of Me and my Damned self Alone.” They could keep their music, I thought, just as they could keep their sports and their friends and their unreachable goals of happiness and love. I had my books, I had my videogames, and to the acceptable exclusion of all else, I had <i>myself</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >This is about as true today as it was then, with one obvious exception: I have <i>my </i>music now.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I’m not sure when it was <i>exactly</i> that I was born into my new glorious world of audible emotion, but I do know <i>what</i> it was that set me on my way. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I was a listless teenager (as I imagine most of us are as we have our first accidental stumbles into the selves we shall ultimately become), surfing the vast HTML oceans that my new broadband connection afforded me. One of my regular internet haunts at the time was Newgrounds.com, a site both famous for its Flash Portal that hosts tens of thousands of user-created flash-animations, and infamous for the fact that among these are the birthplaces of the “Numa Numa” and “All your Base” memes. Anyway, one of the prominently featured animations on that day was a fun little music video called “<a href="http://www.newgrounds.com/portal/view/315814">Yoshi’s Island Jam</a>”, which was a tribute to one of my favorite childhood videogames. For me, the most striking thing about the video (aside from the disturbing image of an adult-sized baby Mario bobbing his head to the music while the words 1-UP flashed epileptically across the screen) was the music itself. While I wouldn’t call this little electric ditty anything approaching a masterpiece by my current and (I’d like to think) refined sensibilities, it intrigued me at the time with its clever mixing of melodic layers and its relieving lack of the obnoxious lyrics that had so far soured me to the medium. I clicked on the “audio” link in the video’s credits in hopes of finding a new mp3 to inhabit the barren memory card of my new N-Gage (Disclaimer: <i>I regret nothing</i>), which at the time boasted only Strauss’ Blue Danube, an mp3 that I used solely for demonstrating the wonders of technology to old people. Fully expecting a flood of spyware to ooze forth from whatever dark alley of <i>teh interwebz</i> that this professional-sounding track could be illegally downloaded, I was pleasantly surprised to find that the link simply led to another section of Newgrounds.com: its oft-overlooked Audio Portal.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Much like its Flash counterpart, the Newgrounds’ Audio Portal allows independent artists to submit their creations for grading and categorizing by their peers. The key difference being that users are actively encouraged by said artists to freely download, remix and/or use the tracks in their own flash creations (as long as proper credit is given, via such aforementioned “Audio” links). <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >After guiltlessly listening to the Yoshi’s Island track (actually called “<a href="http://www.newgrounds.com/audio/listen/38449">All of the World</a>”) to exhaustion and downloading it for what would prove to be years of use, I checked out another of API’s (the author’s) more popular works, which was another techno track called “<a href="http://www.newgrounds.com/audio/listen/32772">Paradise on E</a>”. Now I know what you’re thinking, but I opted to ignore the song title’s colorful serving suggestion and immediately find what wonders the track would hold for my tragically dope-free mind to soak in.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I’d say this was about the point that life became worth it.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >This track, a fantastically paced and coordinated mix of measured anticipation and intense euphoric release, was my first pure experience of beauty. I mean, before that I had a vague idea of what beauty was supposed to be: the pleasantly coalescing features of the women who scorned me, the epic vastness of nature that I could never quite force myself to forget was just air and sticks and dust, a singer’s sincere vocal expression of a love I would never hope to understand, let alone feel for myself; the reason the true nature of beauty always seemed to elude me was that it was always something that belonged to someone else. But as I sat there, listening to the beautifully inhuman melody glide from the quietly emboldening set-up to the masterfully controlled explosion of unrelenting joy over and over again, each time focusing on a different melodic aspect or layer of sound so as to experience it with renewed virginity, I knew I had found a beauty that was <b><i>mine.</i></b> The track forged a connection to my ever waning acceptance of my existence that has since been an invaluable conduit for the world’s redeeming features to pull me back from the brink. I had discovered a fundamental truth about myself…<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I fucking <b><i>love</i></b> Techno.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Not the mindless obscenely repetitive droning of three-note tunes, brain-boring phrases and clumsy, artless bass that tragically seems to represent the genre in the wider public sphere, mind you. I’m talking the proverbial good shit here. I’m talking about a natural evolution of classical music that uses modern tools and sensibilities to produce art with the same intentions that Mozart and Pals had when they defined their cultural eras: music whose myriad audible aspects are meticulously crafted to convey the purest representation of the artist’s emotions and musical talent, while remaining unrestricted by petty lyrics that would tie our interpretations down to a single perspective that only the artist could ever truly embrace. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Like you, I love my music, and like you, I want to share my music and the feelings it invokes in me with the rest of the world. Usually one could just trust the radio or MTV or whatnot to do this work for you since most genres are given a fair shake by the mainstream media, giving the casual listener enough opportunity to whet their appetite for the really good stuff even if said stuff is pushed into obscurity by the auto-tuned whumphing horror of Lady Gaga and her ilk. As I’ve mentioned though, techno has been unjustly misrepresented by the polarizing mindless extremity of the bass-drenched 20 minute atrocities and keening Europop gibberish (which I imagine could only be marginally enjoyed through a filter of nigh-fatal doses of ecstasy) that you’re likely to think of when someone tells you they’re into techno. This is an injustice I hope to help correct.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >So join me as I present The Kind of Music I Listen to, one artist/style at a time, and listen as I describe just why each track is as amazing as it is. Each part in this ongoing series will contain a set of mini-reviews for individual tracks that I feel best represent a particular artist (or particular style if one artist’s work isn’t enough to go on) starting with my current favorite artist, <a href="http://nemesistheory.newgrounds.com/audio/">NemesisTheory</a> (whose list of freely and legally downloadable music is linked) next week sometime.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >In the meantime though, here are links to the musical libraries* of some of my favorite artists (in no particular order) if you’d like a taste of their greatness before I cover it with my own strange definition of depth.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >*All music is uploaded personally by independent artists and intended for free distribution and even sampling provided full credit for the original artist is given in either case.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><a href="http://nemesistheory.newgrounds.com/audio/">Nemesis Theory</a><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><a href="http://envy.newgrounds.com/audio/">Envy</a><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><a href="http://dimrain47.newgrounds.com/audio/">Dimrain47</a><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><a href="http://nighthawk22.newgrounds.com/audio/">Nighthawk22</a><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><a href="http://eon.newgrounds.com/audio/">EON</a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.carbohydrom.net/music/album/random-gamer-memories">CarboHydroM</a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><a href="http://psybot.newgrounds.com/audio/">Psybot</a><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><a href="http://b0unc3.newgrounds.com/audio/">B0UNCE3</a><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><a href="http://cornandbeans.newgrounds.com/audio/">Cornandbeans</a><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><a href="http://api.newgrounds.com/audio/">API</a><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><a href="http://dj-nate.newgrounds.com/audio/">DJ-Nate</a><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >>Next time, Symphonic Storms and the majesty of NemesisTheory</span><span class="Apple-style-span" ><o:p></o:p></span></p>Granthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02643239855692810325noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4077571206906508360.post-87876874084661885922011-11-16T04:24:00.000-08:002012-10-08T03:46:18.334-07:00Splunk’d: The Many Failed Lives of a Spelunky Player. Life 1<div>
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<i><span lang="EN-ZA"><i><span lang="EN-ZA">I’ve always felt that <a href="http://spelunkyworld.com/original.html">Spelunky</a> (which some of you should remember as Derek Yu’s magnum opus of randomly-generated runny, jumpy, treasure-grabby death) never did get the recognition it deserved. Despite the fact that Quinton Smith (late of Rock Paper Shotgun) took the time to write a <u><a href="http://www.rockpapershotgun.com/2009/03/30/snake-to-death-the-majesty-of-spelunky/">dead-on summary</a></u> on just why Spelunky is so fantastic, I've never seen true reflection of the game's greatness in the form of a diarised account of Spelunky's true majesty: the countless never-repeated obstacles, heart-seizing discoveries, precious victories and crushing failures that every (probably) doomed venture into Spelunky’s depths entails. Of course, we can probably forgive Quinns his shocking negligence in light of certain <a href="http://www.rockpapershotgun.com/tag/mine-the-gap/"><u>other</u> <u>dis</u></a></span></i><i><span lang="EN-ZA"><u><a href="http://www.rockpapershotgun.com/tag/mine-the-gap/">tractions</a></u></span></i><i><span lang="EN-ZA">.</span></i></span></i></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-ZA">In an attempt to bring balance to the universe , I’ve made a diary of a few of my own ill-fated ‘Splunks’ (as I really shouldn’t call them, but do), in which I perform my usual insane practice of roleplaying the kind of ‘Splunker’ (oh god someone please stop me) that the randomly generated blurb on every startup of the game suggests I am.</span></i></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-ZA">I have a feeling this will end badly, and since Spelunky’s score screen suggests a 4:273 ratio of things <b>not</b> ending badly, I’m pretty confident I should trust my gut on this one. This never stopped me before though (excepting, of course, the 269 times that it did. Badly)<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span lang="EN-ZA">Life 1: Shot through the Heart, and I'm to blame.</span></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-ZA">Putting the folded photo in my pocket<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-ZA">I furrowed my brow<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-ZA">And thought of her one last time</span></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-ZA">A strange breeze swirls around me as I approach the entrance to the place in which I’ll earn her back: cool as the night, but tinged with the faint wisps of desert heat still smoldering in the sand below me. The moon is full tonight, blazing in its own quiet way. It gets me thinking again: Thinking of her and the way she-GAHFUCK! GIANT BATS!</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-ZA">THEY’RE AS BIG AS MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!</span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span"><span lang="EN-ZA" style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">Everything blurs together as I force myself forward towards the cave (though it’s hard to tell what’s forward anymore. Maybe it’s her, maybe it’s the Great Dimensional Leak of ’87, I don’t know. Let’s just say that when I say this crazy direction I’m going in is forward, it feels <i>right</i>). Piercing chiptune screeches fill the air as I run to the cave entrance. Frantically lighting a torch, I search for the secret entrance she told me would be here. The screeches grow louder by the moment but...Found it! I throw down a rope and begin my descent. At least I’ll be safe in </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 17px;">the cave, I’m sure of it.</span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-ZA">My fears that this would be another profitless bone-hunt are eased instantly as I drop into the first chamber. Already I see a brilliant golden Idol gleaming in the gloom, well within my reach: its only defense a silent stone guardian carved into the cavern wall: probably some kind’ve piggy diety worshiped by the ancient natives. *snort* I’m sure whatever Godless savages arranged this believed the threat of divine retribution alone would ward off superstitious looters. Ha I say! Their puny beliefs will have no effect on my looty lust because I’m a rational, thinking-type genius. I'm a goddamned junior scientist! Bill Nye sent me a certificate and everything! </span></div>
<span lang="EN-ZA" style="line-height: 115%;">As I stride valiantly towards my prize, I furrow my brow even harder to more effectively think about how awesome at thinking I am. I think of her. My brow hurts. Hastily picking up my prize and dismissing the ominous click of what I can only assume to be an unrelated geological phenomenon, I rush even valient-lier back to the entrance which is...closed. Completely. And something’s rumbling. Oh shi-*CRUNCH*</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-ZA">AAAAAAAIIIIIIII BELIEVE I BELIEVE I BELIEVE I BELIEVE I...</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-ZA">*huff* HIIIYUP!</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-ZA">Woo-Hah! Did you see that? Did you fuckin’ see that? I am the freakin’ God-King of badassery over here. Did Indiana Jones ever escape a boulder by<b> jumping</b> over it? No. No he didn’t because he’d have never thought of it because he isn’t me and I am a genius. Who’s the creepy wannabe now, Ford? Ho-yeah! Not this guy!</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-ZA">Err, I mean uh (angst, angst, angst, okay)...Uh, the cold stone rolled beneath me like, uh, like I was one of those circus bears who stand on those big rubber balls and...roll...them...but the ball isn’t rubber, it’s a SKULL and the bear is like, bald, or something because that makes it sad.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-ZA">Whew, saved it.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-ZA">I have my prize, but the victory seems bittersweet as I my gaze flits between my Idol and the firmly sealed entryway. As I look around me, desperately searching for a way out, I feel strangely comforted. I hold the idol and I feel the warmth of something familiar, something I thought I’d lost long ago.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-ZA">It has her smile...</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-ZA">Heartened, I push forward into the unknown. The cave is riddled with equal parts danger and vindication: I find gaping holes to leap over and (adorably) deadly snakes to fight off either with my obligatory whip or with the shrewd combination of gravity and a solid-gold idol. These hazards only serve amplify the rush I get as I scoop up the priceless gold coins and assorted gems littered around every deadly nook and cranny. Actually "priceless" isn't quite accurate. My inexplicably precise sense of appraisal puts my net profits at exactly $2300, not including my Idol which I believe selling would be a bad idea for any number of reasons.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-ZA">Oh crap.<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-ZA">I don’t like the look of that carving. A minute or so back I noticed the bloody giblets of a bat flying at me from the general direction of one of these. Plus, I’ve seen bloody arrows of questionable origin littering the floors of the cavern. It doesn’t take a genius to deduce that death and that statue have a few things in common, but I am and it helps. Knowing might be half the battle, but it doesn’t help the fact that the only way onto that ledge is the ladder leading directly into that carving’s line of fire. I’ll need a cunning plan if I’m going to-ahhh yes that’s it. Genius. Seeing as those <b>flying</b> bats got gibbed by these things and no one with any sense of symbolism would carve giant googly eyes onto their death trap if it wasn’t meant to <b>see</b> stuff, I’m guessing the mechanism is triggered by things moving in front of it. I’ll just climb up that ladder, wave my precious but crucially not-me Idol at the trap’s face until it’s spent, then climb up in safety. The plan’s infallible. It’s genius.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-ZA">Yes Genius, which is why it totally worked and I escaped heroically and the loss of half my health points is completely unrelated and probably due to snakes or type-2 diabetes or something. I am a genius. You know this. Shut up I still have my Idol.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-ZA">I continue my descent, braving falls and foes too numerous to mention before I hit what seems to be the cavern’s ground floor. My unshakable belief in a fair and just universe tells me that there must be a way out of here somewhere on this floor. Too excited for caution, I blaze forward, sneering at the lesser beasts lurking in the alcove below me as I pass harmlessly over them. It’s about at this point that I notice I’ve run under the hairy horror lurking above.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi1b5shsVGkcCvu9uS5MkoKkOxzAykij4Vn16aMm5awZcAbzpdtfwUwqiGzFTGbJEEJ6rl48YpptBmJeQ_pibaR9pjgU9afx-fGS16b3Xe7TuuZ2QtwEBKjBfe1dLOxkhJU582guhtFrAI/s1600/image015.png" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5675581096190268722" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi1b5shsVGkcCvu9uS5MkoKkOxzAykij4Vn16aMm5awZcAbzpdtfwUwqiGzFTGbJEEJ6rl48YpptBmJeQ_pibaR9pjgU9afx-fGS16b3Xe7TuuZ2QtwEBKjBfe1dLOxkhJU582guhtFrAI/s320/image015.png" style="cursor: pointer; height: 140px; width: 320px;" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-ZA">The man-sized arachnid plunges down towards me like an eight-legged guillotine, its crimson eyes creating a frighteningly effective contrast with its glistening white fangs that I can’t help but admire as I run away screaming. Actually wait, I don’t do that. Well okay I <b>do</b> do that a little but then I stop. I’ve beaten man-sized snakes and bats and giant boulders and that jet-bike level on Battle-Toads. I can beat this.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-ZA">“Listen here, Bub”, I shout in my flawless Australo-Canadian accent at the surprisingly non-conversational fanged monstrosity bounding towards me, “It’s clobberin’ time!”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-ZA">All across the world a million nerds are screaming at their monitors in fury. Their hate feeds me. “Suck my Face”, I scream eloquently as I chuck the golden head into the airspace I deduced to soon contain spidery death. However, my perfectly understandable miscalculation of freak-wind conditions in ancient caves leaves my precious careening into the aforementioned alcove of insignificance whilst Arachno the Fangular (as I somehow find time to name him) flies unhindered into my actual face as invited. The pain is indescribable so I won’t describe it, I’ve no time for brutal similes as I dash in what a spike filled dead-end seems to indicate is the wrong direction despite it seeming so<i> right</i> at the time. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-ZA">Arachno continues his pursuit, his speed quickening greatly as his frenzied leaping sends him ricocheting down the low tunnel after me. In a brilliant manoeuvre, I duck on a ledge as he leaps over me. For a single precious instant I dare hope he’ll impale himself on the deadly spikes in his path, but he lands within a hair’s breadth of safety. I might have the time to flee but no time to get My Idol, this has to end now. Clamouring up into tunnel, I ready my whip-he follows-I strike-he leaps-a shock up my arm and a shower of blood: too much, not all his. He’s done, but the clenching throb of my last heartbeat and the abrupt end to the funky retro soundtrack that has played in my head all my life tells me I am too. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-ZA">As I lie here in this cave of insurmountable peril, my life’s achievements seeming to flash above me for the world to see, I think of her again. I remember our last conversation where I’m standing over her smashed laptop and asking how I can make her love me again. As it plays out with perfect clarity I remember for the first time how a small pang of guilt crosses her features before she tells me just where to go.</span></div>
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Wow.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2HylsaLzgiC5GQipSiZA20gCwkf_8SLduC34xnzh-qKBZ1z5FRn2RFtMtOipuYVVlHSHBxtr3TyprcRgW4adF45XAK6_7YJEAw5nX8KVOWgXZnm1XY2mit5X64i8YPBMTBgsyGfX_Llhc/s1600/image017.png" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5675581095686779682" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2HylsaLzgiC5GQipSiZA20gCwkf_8SLduC34xnzh-qKBZ1z5FRn2RFtMtOipuYVVlHSHBxtr3TyprcRgW4adF45XAK6_7YJEAw5nX8KVOWgXZnm1XY2mit5X64i8YPBMTBgsyGfX_Llhc/s320/image017.png" style="cursor: pointer; height: 241px; width: 320px;" /></a></div>
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What a bitch.</div>
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Granthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02643239855692810325noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4077571206906508360.post-70885834269790798622011-06-02T07:47:00.000-07:002011-06-02T08:30:41.445-07:00Call Me Holmes: A comic adaptation of Sherlock Holmes<div style="counter-reset: scenecountl 0; background-color: white; margin-top: 20px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; font-size: 10pt; width: 560px; "><p class="dialog" style="margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >I recently wrote the first half of a graphic-novel adaptation of a Sherlock Holmes story for my "writing for comics" media seminar. Much like the seminar, this piece is kind of a dry-run for the novel I intend to write one of these days (from which this blog derives its name, by the way), addressing similar themes and using the same sort of style. I'm rather proud of how this one turned out so rather than let it languish forever unknown in the depths of UCT's media department, I've posted a copy below. It's the script for an 8-page comic so it has panel descriptions (not labeled due to having to import it from the program that lists them automatically) which you can skim over to get the general idea, and dialogue expressed through balloons represented by the name of the character speaking with the words under it. There are also semi-dialogy captions which are described in the panel descriptions and are followed by a colon. Here's an example of how the pages go:</span></p><p class="dialog" style="margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Page X - 1 panel</span></p><p class="dialog" style="margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >STEVE is standing in a field and talking to himself. Caption top left<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>(panel description)</span></p><p class="dialog" style="margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>(Narrator): Steve was talking to himself one sunny day...<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>(caption - basically one of those <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>square text boxes that aren't speech <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>balloons)</span></p><p class="dialog" style="margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>STEVE</span></p><p class="dialog" style="margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" > Hello, Self! <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></span></p><p class="dialog" style="margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>(dialogue)</span></p><p class="dialog" style="margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Which you could use your fancy shmancy imagination to deduce would look something like this:</span></p><p class="dialog" style="margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; "><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEXQEOhTu6-87ljfE0zDu1kB56CsgcUdjEQP4wt3D4CJeMhtUmJseT8cNKqonv-XK0pBLkF89IQYDR6pMhZphtGCAzYSdbc96sV5bSHFNCCO5SKpHUBQH8uIgyk5C7fnx0gJAPNy8JtpF7/s1600/Panel+example.png" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEXQEOhTu6-87ljfE0zDu1kB56CsgcUdjEQP4wt3D4CJeMhtUmJseT8cNKqonv-XK0pBLkF89IQYDR6pMhZphtGCAzYSdbc96sV5bSHFNCCO5SKpHUBQH8uIgyk5C7fnx0gJAPNy8JtpF7/s320/Panel+example.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5613644425239214642" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 268px; " /></a></span></span></p><p class="dialog" style="margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >but, you know, good.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; ">So without further Ado:</span></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; "><br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">Setting: London 1960s<br /></p><p id="gloH0000" class="sceneheading" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 100px; margin-right: 40px; counter-reset: shotcount 0; ">Page 1 - (8 panels - 3x3 grid of panels with the last two(i.e. bottom-right) panels merged to make a panel that is double the usual width)<br /></p><p id="5nbj0000" class="shot" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 120px; margin-right: 40px; ">DOBSON (White collared shirt with maroon tie, black pants, black shoes) is sitting at his desk, on a swivel chair (over the back of which a brown waistcoat is draped), in his office (darkened, 3.5m x 3.5m, sterile white colour motif), writing something (presumably paperwork related to his medical practice). We view him from his left side in a semi-profiling medium shot: the whole left side of his face is visible and illuminated by the light of a small ceiling fan (only about 7.5 feet off the ground due to the office's low, cramped ceiling). A small fraction of the right side of his face is visible, but is basked in shadow. The tired and morose-looking DOBSON is writing with a pencil. The surface of DOBSON's desk (placed against the room's Western wall, assuming the door faces North, as we shall do from now on for the purposes of description) is mostly visible, but its left edge is hidden off panel ('under' the panel). On the rightmost edge of this surface is an intercom (to communicate with the secretary, DEIDRE) the papers DOBSON is writing on are in the middle of the desk. On the left-hand side of the room's Northern wall (furthest from the reader, facing him/her) is a sturdy wooden door (hinged on its right) which has been bolted on its left side (despite the fact that it leads to his private practice's reception area), keeping the outside world where it is. A caption (black text on pale blue background- indicating that Dobson is thinking) is placed against the top-left corner of the panel.<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">(DOBSON): Well here we are again. Just a few more prescriptions, then home, then tea and...<br /></p><p id="Gt8v7000" class="shot" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 120px; margin-right: 40px; ">Similar to Panel 1, but looking at DOBSON from his right side. The lighting on DOBSON's face has swapped sides (now illuminating the right side of his face because he has turned his chair slightly clockwise, making his right side face the ceiling-light. Mirroring panel 1, his face's left side is partially visible, but covered in shadow.). DOBSON (HOLMES), distracted from his work, is leaning back in his chair and examining his pencil with deep, contemptuous scrutiny, as if trying to deduct its entire life story from its every scratch and blemish (any alternative to dull paperwork, which HOLMES strongly resents having to sit through). On the Southern wall (where the North wall was in the last panel) to the left is a curtain presumably covering a window (the curtain is crimson with maroon lining, framing the view of the outside world with passionate colours that are in stark contrast to the rest of the room). To the curtain's right is an analog clock that shows that it is 11:00PM. The left edge of the desk is now visible, on which a tobacco-pipe lies. A caption (black text on pale orange background, indicating Holmes is thinking) is placed against the right edge of the panel (under the clock, above the desk, to DOBSON's right).<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">(HOLMES): ...and another irrecoverable day is tossed onto the ever-growing shit-pile that is James Dobson's wasted life. Surely there's something <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: underline; ">else</span> worth doing out there?<br /></p><p id="Kapk8000" class="shot" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 120px; margin-right: 40px; ">Profiling close-up of the left-side of DOBSON's face, illuminated again as in Panel 1. He looks like he is sternly concentrating on his work (off panel, to the bottom left, to which his head is pointing). The left edge of the office door (specifically its bolt) is visible on the right side on the panel. A DOBSON-caption lies against the top-left corner, as in panel 1.<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">(DOBSON): No. No there <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; "><span style="text-decoration: underline; ">isn't<span style="text-decoration: underline; "></span></span></span><span style="font-style: italic; text-decoration: underline; "></span><span style="text-decoration: underline; "> </span>because I <span style="font-weight: bold; ">have</span> to get this done, I <span style="font-weight: bold; text-decoration: underline; ">want</span> to make it home today without aggravating all of bloody London, and I<span style="font-weight: bold; text-decoration: underline; ">won't</span> get mixed up in anyone's private affairs for the sake of some deranged whim.<br /></p><p id="Be1ud000" class="shot" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 120px; margin-right: 40px; ">Like Panel 2, but DOBSON is now looking at the clock (which now reads 11:05PM), stretching (arching his back , arms raised and bent, clenched fists) and letting out an audible yawn. There is a Holmes caption as there was is panel 2.<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">(HOLMES): Though I can't imagine there are any decent affairs to be had at this hour. Not that that's ever stopped me before. No power in existence can keep James Jonah Dobson from getting what he wants eh?<br /></p><p id="zj4De000" class="shot" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 120px; margin-right: 40px; ">A medium profiling shot of DOBSON's left side. He looks strained and angry. His eyes are squeezed shut. His teeth are clenched, as are his fists which are pressed hard on the edge of his desk closest to him. The visible left side of his face is less illuminated than usual, shadow having crept westwards from the back of his head to his cheek. A DOBSON-caption fills the top of the panel.<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">(DOBSON): No. <span style="font-style: italic; "><span style="font-weight: bold; ">I</span></span> don't want this. I<span style="text-decoration: underline; "> </span><span style="font-style: italic; "><span style="font-weight: bold; "><span style="text-decoration: underline; ">never</span> </span></span>want to wade arse-deep into London's <span style="font-style: italic; "></span>filthy bloody underbelly to puzzle out the horror with you. I don't <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; ">want</span> to track down every soulless monster this city can squeeze out. I <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; text-decoration: underline; ">can't bear</span> to take one glance at a kindly old woman and deduce she's drinking herself half to death every night, just because I can. I'm not <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: underline; ">you</span>, thank God.<br /></p><p id="4lh3f000" class="shot" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 120px; margin-right: 40px; ">Close up profile shot of DOBSON's face (right side), looking up at the ceiling (and, incidentally, the top-right panel in which Dobson's face's left side is looking down). His eyes are half open and his mouth is smirking lightly, giving him an expression of serene smugness in stark contrast to his strained frustration in the previous panel. A HOLMES-caption is above him.<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">(HOLMES): Ha! It never ceases to amaze me how dramatic you can get while defending your right to be <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; text-decoration: underline; ">boring</span>. Besides, I'm quite certain God hasn't any say on who James Dobson happens to be. I do though. And I'm in a mood for adventure that I'm sure you'll come to share soon enough.<br /></p><p id="QIkhf000" class="shot" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 120px; margin-right: 40px; ">Medium shot facing DOBSON's front directly. DOBSON has swiveled his chair 180 degrees and is now facing away from his desk. He is seemingly in actual mental pain now. His face is stretched into a tense grimace, his eyes are jammed shut and his left hand is pressed firmly into his left temple. His right hand is still on his desk, beginning to take hold of his pipe. Shadow has all but consumed the left side of DOBSON's face, while light seems to gradually be filling the right side. A DOBSON-caption is placed against the upper-left corner of the panel, and a HOLMES-caption is placed to its right, as low as possible without overlapping with DOBSON's head.<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">(DOBSON): Stop, just... I won't let you alright? Not again. I refuse to play a puppet for a fucking voice in my head!<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">(HOLMES): Voice in your...? Ah now Dobson, my lad; let's not regress to <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; text-decoration: underline; ">petty insults</span>. How many times have I told you...<br /></p><p id="zfr4g000" class="shot" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 120px; margin-right: 40px; ">Extreme close up of DOBSON's head, which takes up all of the panel's vertical space, and about 2/3 of its horizontal space (placed in the middle). DOBSON's head is bowed forward, facing the reader directly, the left side of his face (to the reader's right) is completely bathed in shadow, as is the background. His illuminated right-side of his face holds an expression of smug, cruel vindication. His smile is wide and thin, and his eyes look straight at the reader. DOBSON's right hand is visible in the left of the panel, holding his pipe and pressing it into the right corner of DOBSON's mouth (once again, to the reader's left). A small HOLMES-caption is placed against the top edge of the panel, in the middle.<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">(HOLMES): ...To call me <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; text-decoration: underline; ">Holmes</span>?</p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; "><br /></p><p id="4jnG0000" class="sceneheading" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 100px; margin-right: 40px; counter-reset: shotcount 0; ">Page 2 - 7 Panels. 3x3 grid, Panels 1 and 3 double width.<br /></p><p id="4i3N0000" class="shot" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 120px; margin-right: 40px; ">Frontal medium wide shot of Dobson sitting behind his desk (torso+arms and most of desk's surface visible). He is almost fully illuminated now (his face completely so). He looks surprised by the sudden transmission emanating loudly from the intercom on his desk. His arms are near to their prior position, but jolted slightly out of place. He has dropped his pipe which is seen hanging in mid-air, just outside his grasp and on its way to the floor.</p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">INTERCOM<br /></p><p class="parenthetical" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 0em; margin-left: 180px; margin-right: 160px; ">(Jagged balloon - tinny intercom sound)</p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">Dobson?<br /></p><p id="ixca0000" class="shot" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 120px; margin-right: 40px; ">Medium shot of Dobson on the floor who is fumbling for his pipe on the the underside of his desk. His torso is facing downwards (parallel with floor), his right arm is on the floor, supporting him. His left arm and head are turned towards his pipe which is deep under the desk (face turned away from the reader and not visible). There is a Holmes caption and a Dobson one in the upper left and bottom right corners of the panel respectively.<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">(Dobson): Oh bloody hell, the carpet! Can you not manage being in control for one <span style="font-weight: bold; text-decoration: underline; ">instant </span>without destroying something?<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">(HOLMES): As I'm fairly <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; text-decoration: underline; ">fucking</span> sure you'll<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; "></span>agree, Dobson mate, all evidence points to Deidre on the damnable intercom being the culprit here, whom I'll <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; text-decoration: underline; ">get</span> to as soon as these worthless bones of yours can manage.<br /></p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">INTERCOM<br /></p><p class="parenthetical" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 0em; margin-left: 180px; margin-right: 160px; ">(Jagged Balloon)<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">James? Hello?<br /></p><p id="4QI91000" class="shot" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 120px; margin-right: 40px; ">Same as Panel 2, but DOBSON (now possessed by HOLMES) is holding up his recovered pipe with both hands, carefully inspecting its hole for leftover tobacco. His brow is furrowed thoughtfully (as it most often is when HOLMES is in control) and his mouth is pouting slightly in an expression of disappointed contemplation. There is a Dobson and Holmes pair of captions as in Panel 2.<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">(DOBSON): Wait! Listen Holmes, just let me handle her alright? You <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: underline; ">know</span> you'll probably say something...uncharacteristic of me, and you <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: underline; ">know</span> what will happen if she catches on to us.<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">(HOLMES): I'm well aware of the stakes at hand here, Dobson, they're what makes this <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; text-decoration: underline; ">fun</span>.<br /></p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">INTERCOM<br /></p><p class="parenthetical" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 0em; margin-left: 180px; margin-right: 160px; ">(Jagged Balloon)<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">Dr. Dobson, answer me<span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; "> <span style="text-decoration: underline; ">please</span></span>.</p><p id="fx7o2000" class="shot" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 120px; margin-right: 40px; ">Close up of HOLMES' hand pressing the intercom's button. A small DOBSON caption in in the top left and a HOLMES one is in the bottom right.<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">(DOBSON): No! Just...<br /></p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">HOLMES<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">Um, Yes Deidre? Did you want me- I mean, did you need something?<br /></p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">INTERCOM<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">Ah, at last. Come down to reception please, Doctor. We've an emergency.<br /></p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">HOLMES<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">Oh dear me. I'll come as quickly as possible.<br /></p><p id="n8jh3000" class="shot" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 120px; margin-right: 40px; ">Full body shot of HOLMES in the process of getting up from his desk and picking his waistcoat from the chair. His whole face is visible, and holds an expression of Holmesy smugness. A Holmes caption is in the bottom right.<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">(HOLMES): Oh aren't you proud Mummy? I answered the 'com all by myself! A spot on impression of you as well I dare say. I'm <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: underline; ">particularly</span> proud of how I managed to capture that pathetically repressed sexual undertone of yours.<br /></p><p id="J1y93000" class="shot" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 120px; margin-right: 40px; ">As in Panel 5, but HOLMES (now wearing his waistcoat) is now standing and beginning to turn towards the door. He is putting his pipe in his waistcoat's inner pocket. He looks a bit annoyed. A Dobson/Holmes caption pair (as in panels 2&3) is visible.<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">(DOBSON): Yes. <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; text-decoration: underline; ">Fine</span>. Well done. Now please let me handle the rest. A quick chat through the intercom is one thing, but do you honestly think you've the civility to manage looking in the eye for one minute without telling her how you've deduced her entire sexual history from a single wayward eyelash?<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">(HOLMES): In all honesty, no. How those wild, lustful lashes do wander...</p><p id="C05g4000" class="shot" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 120px; margin-right: 40px; ">Medium close up of the back of the left 2/3 of HOLMES' torso (including head)up against the office door. HOLMES has his right hand on the doorknob (bottom left of the panel) and seems to be leaning against it: waiting to act until his mental conflict is resolved. HOLMES' head is turned slightly to the left and what is visible of his face is cast in shadow. Four captions (Dobson-Holmes-Dobson-Holmes)begin at the top middle of the panel, going down and to the right as space allows.<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">(DOBSON): I'm sure. Listen, be honest with yourself. Best case scenario: she sues for invasion of privacy or harassment or...<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">(HOLMES): And what kind of harassment would I...<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">(DOBSON): You'll find one. Now worst case scenario: she catches on to all this double-minded lunacy and we'll be shipped off to the asylum to be lobotomized or whatever they do these days. Either way, it'll be your head as much as mine when you're through being <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; text-decoration: underline; ">you</span>. Now give. <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; text-decoration: underline; ">me</span>. back.<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">(HOLMES): Fair points I suppose. I still swear I'll have my fun before the day is out, but for now my dear Dobson...<br /></p><p id="B0Lt2000" class="sceneheading" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 100px; margin-right: 40px; counter-reset: shotcount 0; ">Page 3 - 8 panels, 3x3 grid. Second panel double width.<br /></p><p id="Lae82000" class="shot" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 120px; margin-right: 40px; ">Frontal body shot of DOBSON emerging from the other side of the aforesaid door, entering a very short passageway. He is still holding the door handle and has put his left foot carefully forward. He holds an expression of weary apprehension. His whole face is illuminated (as it will be from now on unless otherwise stated). He is talking to the unseen DEIDRE. On the wall to the right of the doorway, some Doctor's certificates are hung (DOBSON puts them there to build clients' confidence in him, though he can't bear to look at them himself). A Holmes caption is placed on the upper right side of the panel, next to Dobson's head.<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">(HOLMES): You're all yours.<br /></p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">DOBSON<br /></p><p class="parenthetical" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 0em; margin-left: 180px; margin-right: 160px; ">(To DEIDRE) Yes fina- um...you needed me for something Deidre?<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; "><br /></p><p id="mBct2000" class="shot" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 120px; margin-right: 40px; ">Long shot of the reception area of DOBSON's practice from his current perspective. Opposite the reader is the room's 'northern' wall, which has a door, a window and a coat rack holding a coat placed against it. The room has the slightly warmer motif than the office, as it has wooden flooring and off-white walls. Its windows (with a view of the street) are barred and draped with white curtains. The only other colour in the room (people aside) comes from a small collection of potted flowers arranged neatly on the reception desk (partly visible on panel left - its left border is against the western wall and its back is near the southern wall, of which we see the corner on the far left). The left edge of the door of the practice is visible in the background (panel right). A table topped with magazines is in the centre of the room, in front of six soft-looking felt chairs. These chairs are lined along the western wall. DEIDRE and KATE Whitney are sitting on the 4th and 5th chairs from the left respectively. DEIDRE is dressed in a floral dress and woman's vest. Her hair is held back by a blue Alice-band and some reading spectacles hang from a string around her neck. Her outfit gives the impression that while she holds some regard towards workplace formality, DOBSON lets her get away with as much casualness as she wants. DEIDRE is looking at DOBSON and talking to him. Her head is slightly tilted to the right and her expression both displays and evokes sympathy. Her hand is placed tentatively on the hunched shoulder of KATE, who is sitting bent over with grief in the chair to DEIDRE's left (panel right). KATE is dressed in a long black overcoat that looks recently rained-on, and she wears a black bonnet. Her hands cover her face as she weeps into them.</p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">DEIDRE<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">Dr. Dobson, at last! She burst in a few minutes ago, crying something about her husband. I haven't made out much since then.<br /></p><p id="HOj54000" class="shot" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 120px; margin-right: 40px; ">Medium frontal shot of (from left to right) DOBSON (busy taking a seat and talking to DEIDRE), DEIDRE (talking to DOBSON with her hand on KATE's shoulder and handing her a tissue) and KATE (still crying).<br /></p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">DOBSON<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">to DEIDRE: I see.<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">to KATE: Might I ask your name, Madame?</p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; "><br /></p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">KATE<br /></p><p class="parenthetical" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 0em; margin-left: 180px; margin-right: 160px; ">Kuh, *sniff* K, kuht...<br /></p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; "><br /></p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">DEIDRE<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">This is Kate Whitney, James. Surely you remember her? She and her husband come in for checkups every month.<br /></p><p id="a3Eu5000" class="shot" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 120px; margin-right: 40px; ">Like Panel 3, except DOBSON is settled in his chair with his hands folded in his lap, listening intently. DEIDRE is looking down at the hunched KATE sympathetically. KATE, whose modest touch of mascara is running for all its worth, has turned her head out of her hands to look at DOBSON. There is a Holmes caption in the top left of the panel.<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">That's always the way with her, eh Dobson? Deidre attracts humanity's most miserable specimens like birds to a lighthouse. I'm starting to see why you like her.</p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">DOBSON<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">Ah yes, your husband, uh...<br /></p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">KATE<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">I-Isa.<br /></p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">DOBSON<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">Isa Whitney of course. Um, how is the old chap?<br /></p><p id="oGg75000" class="shot" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 120px; margin-right: 40px; ">Close up of KATE from her left side. She is staring wide-eyed at DOBSON with an expression of mingled shock, grief and disbelief at his insensitivity.<br /></p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">KATE (WAVERING)<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">He's...<span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; text-decoration: underline; ">Dead</span>...<br /></p><p id="797a5000" class="shot" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 120px; margin-right: 40px; ">Frontal close-up of Dobson, who gapes stupidly, looking greatly taken aback by KATE's statement. Holmes caption, bottom left. A bubble from DEIDRE is visible to the caption's right<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">(HOLMES): Haha yes! A stunning bungle by the <span style="font-style: italic; "></span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; ">civil</span> James Dobson, and over a sudden tragic death too? I daresay this night is turning out to be as interesting as I'd hoped.<br /></p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">DOBSON<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">Dead? I-I'm sorry I...<br /></p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">DEIDRE<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">Oh, Kate! Really?</p><p id="374d7000" class="shot" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 120px; margin-right: 40px; ">Like panel 4,except DOBSON and DEIDRE look shocked and surprised, and KATE is blowing her nose. Her speech is separated into three speech bubbles.<br /></p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">KATE<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">...or living in a drug den.</p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; "> *sniff* </p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">T-take your pick.<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; "><br /></p><p id="sDnu7000" class="shot" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 120px; margin-right: 40px; ">Like Panel 4, but DEIDRE and DOBSON seem a bit relieved, although still concerned. DOBSON is leaning forward towards KATE, questioning her. DEIDRE is getting another tissue for KATE. Holmes caption top left and bottom right. KATE's head is turned angrily towards DOBSON. She looks hurt and angry, and is clenching her old tissue to her chest.<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">(HOLMES) I'll pick mysterious every time, thank you. Nevertheless, tracking down his addled arse could be fun. Does she know what den he's fallen into specifically or is there an adventure in this?<br /></p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">DOBSON<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">Well, uh, I don't suppose you have any idea where Isa might be? I mean, assuming he's ali- assuming he is in a drug den anyway.</p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">KATE<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">Of course I know!<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">(HOLMES): Shit.</p><p id="91K38000" class="sceneheading" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 100px; margin-right: 40px; counter-reset: shotcount 0; ">Page 4 - 7 panels, 3x3 grid (4th and 6th panel double width)<br /></p><p id="wgn48000" class="shot" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 120px; margin-right: 40px; ">Medium shot of KATE and DOBSON. KATE is standing now. She is leaning aggressively towards DOBSON, who is sitting back in fear with his hands held open palmed by his chest, facing her. KATE is shouting in rage, her mouth is wide open and she is glaring daggers at DOBSON. DEIDRE is leaning to the right, out of KATE's way (her head is visible between KATE's back and the panel's right edge). Holmes caption bottom right.<br /></p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">KATE<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">Listen, you pathetic worm, do you think that if I knew my husband was associating himself with such vagrant, jobless, lowlifes as inhabit a fucking drug den, I wouldn't make sure I knew every possible detail? What kind of wife do you think I am?</p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">DEIDRE<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">Now then Kate...<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">(HOLMES): The kind who likes her divorce lawyers heavily armed, I'd wager.<br /></p><p id="8nz4b000" class="shot" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 120px; margin-right: 40px; ">Close up of KATE, still standing and facing to the left, away from the wall and chairs, on which DEIDRE and DOBSON (centre and upper right of the panel respectively) are still sitting.<br />Her head (on the right side of the panel) is tilted away from the reader and slightly shadowed. She is dabbing her right eye with the new tissue. DOBSON, recovering from his scolding, has his fist held up against his chin, and his head is tilted down and to the left in an expression of sheepish embarrassment. DEIDRE has one arm on her knee and the holds the other (bent slightly) out in front of her in a questioning manner. She is talking sympathetically to KATE.</p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">DEIDRE<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">Please Kate, try to relax. It was very sweet of you to come to us. I'll get you some water and you can tell us all about it - Would you prefer it if James left?<br /></p><p id="shn2b000" class="shot" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 120px; margin-right: 40px; ">Medium frontal shot of KATE, who is sitting again. She is hunched forward, her elbows rest on her knees, which are about 30cm apart, and her forearms hang defeatedly downwards in the space between her legs, angling towards each other. KATE seems of the verge of tears again, her eyes lightly clenched shut and her mouth opened in a small, forlorn grimace. Holmes caption bottom right.<br /></p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">KATE<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">No, no, I'm sorry Doctor, please stay. I'm just...I've no one else to turn to. The police would just arrest him and if people...It's just he's been gone for <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; text-decoration: underline; ">days</span> with no word and I just can't stand to think of him in that <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; text-decoration: underline; ">place</span> with those <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; "><span style="text-decoration: underline; ">people</span> </span>and no way for me to know what he's doing! All I know is that I last saw him at the-</p><p id="4zN4c000" class="shot" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 120px; margin-right: 40px; ">Medium shot of KATE and DOBSON, facing away from the western wall and out into the rest of the room. In the background, from the panel's top middle to centre right, are the Eastern wall, on which is the door to the bathroom which DEIDRE has emerged from, carrying a glass of water), the short passage to DOBSON's office and the reception desk. DOBSON (right) has his head turned towards KATE so that only the left side of his head is visible. He looks angry, and is saying "no" loudly and sternly, with a speech bubble coloured like a Holmes caption. KATE and DEIDRE look somewhat shocked at this brief outburst.<br /></p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">DOBSON/HOLMES<br /></p><p class="parenthetical" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 0em; margin-left: 180px; margin-right: 160px; ">(Holmes balloon)<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">No!</p><p id="Gsb9d000" class="shot" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 120px; margin-right: 40px; ">Close up of DOBSON, whose head is turned slightly towards the right. He looks nervous and horrified at himself. His left eye is half-squinting and his mouth is half open in a stammering gape. There are four captions and two speech balloons arranged from top to bottom in this order: Dobson caption (DC) speech balloon (SB), Holmes caption (HC), DC, HC.<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">D: How d- Why the <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; text-decoration: underline; ">fuck</span> did you do that!?<br /></p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">DOBSON<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">Uh, I mean, um...<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">H: She was just going to <span style="font-style: italic; "><span style="font-weight: bold; "><span style="text-decoration: underline; ">tell</span> </span></span>us where he is. I can't have that.<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">D: No. No I refuse to believe to would be so<span style="font-weight: bold; text-decoration: underline; ">dense</span> as to risk everything for the sake of a puzzle. Listen you-<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">H: No <span style="font-weight: bold; text-decoration: underline; ">you</span> listen, you little fucking nitwit. You have kept me cooped up and unstimulated in this woefully puny skull of yours for nearly a week. Now I <span style="font-weight: bold; text-decoration: underline; ">am</span> going to deduce the location of Mr. Isa Whitney so you'd best stall for time while I do so because if you value your precious little life, by God, you <span style="text-decoration: underline; font-weight: bold; ">will</span> let me have this.<br /></p><p id="3qque000" class="shot" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 120px; margin-right: 40px; ">Like panel 4, except DEIDRE is now standing in front of KATE, handing her the glass of water. DEIDRE is staring at DOBSON quizzically and somewhat sternly. KATE seems a bit annoyed, but she seems to have calmed down a bit. She is wiping away her running mascara with her right hand while she accepts DEIDRE's water with her left. DOBSON is trying desperately to seem friendly after his outburst. He is smiling unconvincingly and his hands are held up towards KATE as if imploring her to speak. HC bottom right.<br /></p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">DOBSON<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">I just think it would be best if you told us the whole story.<br /></p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">DEIDRE<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">Yes...perhaps you should, Kate dear.<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">H: There's a good boy.<br /></p><p id="m5d4e000" class="shot" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 120px; margin-right: 40px; ">Medium shot of KATE from DOBSON's perspective (i.e. her right). She is sitting and looking forlornly into her glass. HC centre left, DC bottom right.<br /></p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">KATE<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">A-alright. I suppose it began when...<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">H: Right, here we go. Now <span style="font-weight: bold; text-decoration: underline; ">do</span> pay attention, Dobson, I do like to think our little chats are educational for you.<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">D: Oh I'm quite sure they are, Holmes. I'm actually looking forward to it.<br /></p><p id="t0ryf000" class="sceneheading" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 100px; margin-right: 40px; counter-reset: shotcount 0; ">Page 5 - 7 panels, 3x3 grid. First panel double width.<br /></p><p id="D1aJg000" class="shot" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 120px; margin-right: 40px; ">Like the previous panel, but zoomed out a bit to show KATE's whole body, calm and a bit more relaxed now, is now looking upwards, seemingly in thought. The background, its reality completely forgotten, appears as a dark, cloudy, reddish vortex. One HC next to and partially overlapping the first SB (not covering any significant info but giving the impression that there is only space in DOBSON's mind for the bare bones of the monologue once HOLMES' powers of deduction begin) and one on the bottom right (after the last SB).<br /></p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">KATE<br /></p><p class="parenthetical" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 0em; margin-left: 180px; margin-right: 160px; ">(balloon partially covered by HC)<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">Well It's been months that I've known something strange was going on. I mean his behaviour was a bit...off, you know? A bit elusive, a bit closed. I mean at first I put it down to his little theatre fantasies not working out and him quitting his job at the paper, but even after he got taken on by this out-of-town consulting firm he was acting odd. I mean, you can imagine the things I suspected. Though I'd never have dreamed it was <span style="font-weight: bold; text-decoration: underline; ">drugs</span> until I followed him on one of his "errands" and found him at that abominable drug den. When he stopped there I-<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">H: Okay what do we know? Housewife, middle aged, whiny, inquisitive (admirable but undesirable as spouse), the kind who's only friend in a crisis is doctor who doesn't even remember her. Husband disappearance probably voluntary. Therefore drug den hideout of convenience: Near to house. House where though? Pungent smell off of wet clothes. Fine when dry but emergent when damp. Urine? The Thames. Probably lives near-</p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">DOBSON<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">Sorry, but where was that exactly?<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">H: <span style="font-weight: bold; text-decoration: underline; ">Wait, I-!</span></p><p id="38i93000" class="shot" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 120px; margin-right: 40px; ">Long shot of DOBSON, DEIDRE and KATE. DOBSON is on the left, an open chair is between him and KATE (who is looking up at DOBSON, slightly bemused at the interruption to the left of whom is DEIDRE. DOBSON is leaning back, his head turned towards the women so that only its right side is visible. He looks uncommonly smug, considering HOLMES isn't in control. HC under the SBs, and a DC to the bottom right of that.</p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">KATE<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">Oh, uh, it was "The Bar of Gold": nasty little 'bar' on Upper Swandam Lane, by the river just North-East of London Bridge, but I'm getting to that.<br /></p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">DOBSON<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">I see.</p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">KATE<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">So, where was-? Oh yes...</p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">H: Dobson, <span style="font-weight: bold; text-decoration: underline; ">you</span>...<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">D: Haha! Save it, Holmes. You'll get your mystery soon enough, but stop and listen for once, would you?<br /></p><p id="flku3000" class="shot" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 120px; margin-right: 40px; ">(flashback) A long shot of KATE (Dressed in a stodgy black dress and matching large, identity-hiding sunhat) emerging cautiously from a London cab. Both are facing a building off panel (behind the reader's perspective, slightly to the left). The street stretches behind her, bustling with workers hauling goods into their truck, beggars sitting against buildings with their hands held out, and a staggered group of stoned people (many of whom are brightly-clothed hippie youngsters) moving dazedly away from the aforesaid building and into the harsh sunlight. The area seems to emanate poverty and the damp of the Thames. A caption occupies the top of the panel (it is simple black text on a white background, unlike DCs and HCs). A small HC is in the bottom right.<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">(KATE): I waited a bit after he went in so I'd be able to catch him 'in the act', so to speak. I just wanted to be sure, you know? </p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">H: Dobson...<br /></p><p id="gjC04000" class="shot" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 120px; margin-right: 40px; ">Close up of KATE (still in the flashback), looking from behind her head, which occupies the bottom left quarter of the panel and is turned upwards and to the right (enough for her to be recognizable). The street in front of her is much the same as the previously described street behind her, except that a dilapidated double story building dominates the right side of the panel. The building, painted a sickly yellow with a rusty sign proclaiming it to be "The Bar of Gold" over the door, has a large, open window on its second story, through which a man (ISA Whitney) is leaning, having just noticed KATE. KATE is glaring angrily at ISA, who looks very shocked to see her. His Shirt is unbuttoned down to his lower sternum, and his hair is ruffled. He is waving one hand frantically at her. A KATE caption takes up the top of the panel, as before. Another HC is in the bottom right.<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">(KATE): It was just as I was getting out the cab that I heard this cry from up above me. I looked up and was struck cold by the sight of Isa. He Looked a state: half undressed and probably blitzed out of his mind. I think he was trying to tell me something, but he disappeared before I could make it out.</p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">H: Answer me Dobson!<br /></p><p id="Lf4L5000" class="shot" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 120px; margin-right: 40px; ">Medium frontal shot of the three people in the same position as in panel 2, but centered around KATE. DOBSON and DEIDRE are mostly off-panel. KATE's arms are folded on her chest. Her head is tilted to the right and she is looking down into her lap with an expression of concerned despair. </p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">KATE<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">I got back into the cab and left. I knew he was still in there but I just couldn't bear the idea of going in there to drag him away from all the whores and beggars and filthy bloody addicts. I just assumed he would come home that night with his tail tucked, but that was <span style="font-weight: bold; text-decoration: underline; ">days</span>ago!<br /></p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">DEIDRE<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">Do you suppose he's still in there?<br /></p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">KATE<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">Maybe. It's just that I've been thinking about how he disappeared from that window. I was certain at the time he had just ducked away to hide, but I've just been thinking and thinking about it for days, and the more I do, the more certain I am that he was <span style="font-weight: bold; text-decoration: underline; ">pulled</span>.<br /></p><p id="y5aH7000" class="shot" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 120px; margin-right: 40px; ">Medium profiling shot of DOBSON's right side as he stands up from his chair and adjusts his tie . KATE and DEIDRE are still sitting on the chairs to his left (panel left centre and top), looking at him. The reception room's northern wall is visible in the background. There is an HC in the top left of the panel, and a DC in the bottom right.</p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">...Dobson what are you doing?<br /></p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">DOBSON<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">Mrs. Whitney, if what you say is true, I feel that as my patient and Deidre's friend, you deserve nothing less than my most sincerely offered help. </p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">DEIDRE<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">James, you're...?<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">D: Precisely what you've been whining at me to do all night. This woman has a problem that you will never cease to torment me over, and that being the case there is of course but one way out of it: We solve it.<br /></p><p id="u3nm8000" class="shot" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 120px; margin-right: 40px; ">Like panel 6, but DOBSON is standing next to the coat rack by the north wall, in the process of putting on his coat. DEIDRE and KATE are looking at each other. We canto see KATE's expression but she has her fists held up to her chest hopefully. DEIDRE, who looks at KATE with a hurt expression is beginning to stand up out of her chair. HC top left. DC bottom right.<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">Listen Dobson, I don't quite know what small measure of spine you found to pull that spiteful little joke of yours out of, but I'd be a fool to assume it's been sucked dry. What possible reason...<br /></p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">KATE<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">Well I'd hardly say the receptionist and I are<span style="font-weight: bold; text-decoration: underline; ">friends</span> but...</p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">DOBSON<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">Oh. Well I'm still a doctor and doctors are supposed to help people past writing up their appointments. I'll have Mr. Whitney back in two hours at the most. Fetch my keys, would you DEIDRE?<br /></p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">KATE<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">But what if he's been...?<br /></p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">DOBSON<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">I'm certain that he's perfectly fine, Madame. Two hours, I swear.<br /></p><p id="fwlI9000" class="shot" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 120px; margin-right: 40px; ">Medium shot of DOBSON (from the same perspective as in panel 7, but closer) now wearing his coat and ironing out some of its creases with his hands. He is looking at DEIDRE with warmth. DEIDRE approaches from panel left, holding out DOBSON's keys. She is smiling faintly, her eyes squinting with wry perception. HC under the 2nd SB. and a DC under that.</p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">DOBSON<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">Thanks.<br /></p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">DEIDRE (SOFTLY)<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">Are you sure you'll be alright fighting your way through the slums to save the illustrious Isa Whitney and resist the clutches of the evil paperwork?</p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">DOBSON<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">Well I...heh.<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">H: Ah. <span style="font-weight: bold; text-decoration: underline; ">That</span>.<br /></p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">DEIDRE (SOFTLY)<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">Relax, this is a decent thing you're doing. Besides, since when wasn't paperwork my job?<br /></p><p id="5gx1a000" class="sceneheading" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 100px; margin-right: 40px; counter-reset: shotcount 0; ">Page 6 - 3 triple width panels.<br /></p><p id="tgx1a000" class="shot" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 120px; margin-right: 40px; ">Long shot overlooking the front door of DOBSON's practice and the street in front of it, on which DOBSON's Ford is parked. It is dark, with only a pair of streetlamps on either side of the panel and the opened door of Dobson's practice providing radiating light (the moon is likely smothered by London's smog), giving the street a darkly smoldering orange ambiance. DOBSON and DEIDRE are seen silhouetted in the doorway. Four captions in this order: HC, DC, HC, DC<br /></p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">DEIDRE<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">Good luck, James.</p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">H: Now, I'm not discounting Sex's titanic powers of motivation, Dobson lad, but even you aren't so repressed as to push past your insufferable weakness just to get into Deidre's good graces. What is this really about?</p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">D: Would you cut down on the over-analysing for a bit? You'll do my head in. The job is just less trouble than it's worth, alright? </p><p id="vIjxb000" class="shot" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 120px; margin-right: 40px; ">Like Panel 1, but DOBSON is standing next to his car, has the door open and is about to get in. His left side is partially illuminated by the streetlight. DEIDRE is still standing silhouetted in the doorway, watching him. HC top left. DC bottom right.<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">H: Oh, and you being so brilliant at dealing with trouble? I suppose I'll just have to take your word for it seeing as your old army buddies aren't in any condition to remind me just how <span style="text-decoration: underline; "><span style="font-weight: bold; ">wonderfully</span></span> you perform under pressure.<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">D: Not another <span style="font-weight: bold; text-decoration: underline; ">bloody</span> word, Holmes. I said I'd do this and I'll shall do it. Without you.<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">H: Oh I'm sure you'll be just fine, Dobson. I know this because I am <span style="font-weight: bold; text-decoration: underline; ">utterly</span> certain that the very instant anything serious needs doing, you'll run straight to me to sort everything else. That's how it is, how it's been and how things are going to go from her on out. Shite, Dobson, you actually consider dragging this probably-comatose gentleman back from his new personal hell as a <span style="font-weight: bold; text-decoration: underline; ">job</span>. If his old one hadn't so thoroughly struck me as an irrational harpy I might have held out some hope for that little murder theory of hers, but no. I fear your expedition will prove as pointless as-</p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">D: -your 'lesson' in deduction? Tell you what,<span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; ">mate</span>: This field trip can be my way of thanking you for that little smidgeon of education.<br /></p><p id="zem2f000" class="shot" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 120px; margin-right: 40px; ">Like the last two panels, but DOBSON, unseen is now inside the car, which is driving off-panel to the right (its front half is already off panel). DEIDRE has turned her head to watch the car go. All we see of DOBSON is an HC (top left) and a DC over the car's rear window.<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">H: Forgive me if I've leaped clean past whatever semblance of logic you scraped together to form that statement, but I got the distinct impression that the very instant I tried to broaden your little mind you shot me down. What could you have possibly learned from that?<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">D: That I could.<br /></p><p id="4ozxg000" class="sceneheading" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 100px; margin-right: 40px; counter-reset: shotcount 0; ">Page 7 - 5 panels, 3x3 grid. First panel triple width, 4th panel double width. 5th panel triple width.<br /></p><p id="onfvg000" class="shot" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 120px; margin-right: 40px; ">Long crane shot of DOBSON's car as it parks outside "The Golden Bar". Three police cars are parked nearest the building, into which a handful of policemen are desperately pushing as many captured clients of the Bar as possible. Other clients are streaming out of the Bar like blood from a diseased wound, those who manage to evade the hopelessly understaffed police force stagger away as quickly as their wobbly muscles allow. Uncolored caption top left, DC in centre left, HC bottom right.<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">Later, at the docks...<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">D: Oh of all the bloody times the police could have chosen to act halfway competent... Do you suppose Isa is still in there?</p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">H: Well, although running the risk that this will be turned against me somehow, I shall say that regardless of whether Isa in in there or not, the police presence may make this whole thing worth my time. Consider Dobson, if you even have the capacity for consideration, whether this long-overdue raid on what is possibly the least subtle drug den in London, and the minimally suspected demise of one Mr. Isa Whitney are too closely matched to consider coincidence as the culprit.<br /></p><p id="3PEk0000" class="shot" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 120px; margin-right: 40px; ">Medium shot of DOBSON approaching a police officer while trying to seem authoritative, but not fooling anybody. His left arm is holding his head, which seems to be paining him, his other is waving at The OFFICER (police uniform, 6 foot), who holds a heavily sedated a client of The Bar in his grasp, held against the police car as he is handcuffed. The OFFICER is looking at DOBSON and responding to him, seeming quite pleased to see him. There are HCs and DCs between the SBs as indicated.<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">H: It's never quite enough just <span style="font-weight: bold; text-decoration: underline; ">expecting</span> that I'm right though. Alright, Dobson, you've had your fun but I'm sure this devlopment is enough indication that this is the big-boys' game now.<span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; ">My turn</span>.<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">D: No-Urgh...<span style="font-weight: bold; text-decoration: underline; ">No, Holmes</span>! Not this time.<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">H: Eh? No! Let m-<br /></p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">DOBSON<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">Excuse me? Yes, Hello. I don't know if you recognise me, my name is Do- uh, 'Holmes'. You may remember I advised the Force on-<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">H: Listen Dobson, earlier was one thing but you can't actually imagine you can handle this yourself. If you won't let me take a shot at Deidre then you can't...<br /></p><p id="O94h2000" class="shot" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 120px; margin-right: 40px; ">Medium shot of DOBSON (left) and OFFICER (right) standing and talking face to face. They both seem friendly. The top of the police car (in which the prisoner is visible through the windows) occupies the bottom of the panle. There are HCs and DCs between the SBs as indicated.<br /></p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">OFFICER<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">Well fuck me if it in't mister Sherlock Holmes hisself?<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">H: I suppose you're fucked then, MacNeil, old boy.<br /></p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">OFFICER<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">Suren' yeh did nae think I'd forget the man who cracked the Baker Street Burglaries? I've yeh tae thank for gettin' considered for Captain!<br /><br /></p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">DOBSON<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">Ah yes, that. No need to go on about it, uh, MacNeil right? You could say it was...simply elementary.<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">H: It-what? What in blazes is that supposed to-<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">D: Oh I don't know. Seemed like something you would say.<br /></p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">OFFICER<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">Elemen-? Uh, right well I don't suppose Yeh've been called in just tae help convict this sorry lot, so I suspect yeh're here about the murder, aye?<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">H: Oh thank you ye Gods, yes! Something worth<span style="font-weight: bold; text-decoration: underline; ">doing</span> at last.<br /></p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">DOBSON<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">Murder? I uh, yes of course. Could you just tell me what <span style="font-weight: bold; text-decoration: underline; ">you</span> know of it?<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">H: Smooth.<br /></p><p id="kFqm1000" class="shot" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 120px; margin-right: 40px; ">Medium shot from behind DOBSON, facing the OFFICER, who has successfully herded his dazed prisoner into the police vehicle (on the right). The OFFICER is leaning on his car with his left side and looking off to the left, where a section of the The Gold Bar is visible.<br /></p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">OFFICER<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">Well we've been meanin' tae blast these fockers for ages but wi'out a reasonable reason tae investigate it was only today that we got the chance. We got a noise complaint about a pair a' blokes screamin' at eachother on the second floor; still goin' at it when we got here even. Not hard to spot the smack once we're in aye? Thing is, tho', when we finally get tae the second floor, there's just this homeless bloke, Boone, and signs of struggle. Everyone fit tae talk confirms there's a prim bloke that goes up there regular, like, but he's nowhere, no body, nil. We've arrested Boone, but we haven't much to pin anything on 'im.<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">H: A Prim bloke eh? Dobson I'm going to hazard a guess here, but I believe you might have come up at some trouble.<br /></p><p id="Bx3e3000" class="shot" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 120px; margin-right: 40px; ">Long shot of the street, with DOBSON and OFFICER standing in the centre, both facing The Gold Bar with their backs to the reader. The officer is looing up at The Bar's second floor window and Dobson has his head in his left hand. Captions interspersing the dialogue as indicated.</p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">DOBSON<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">Oh God...This prim gentleman, his name wouldn't be Isa Whitney would it?</p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">H: Level with me here, Dobson, I think you know what has to happen now.<br /></p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">OFFICER<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">Yeh know I do believe it was, but how'd yeh...?<br /></p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">DOBSON<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">Call it a hunch.<br /></p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">OFFICER<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">Fair enough, I've learned the sense not tae question yeh. Yut do yeh think yeh can find him? We've been scourin' the place for ages and we figure that with the evidence we've got, findin' him is looking pretty fockin' impossible.<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">Alright Holmes. Alright...<br /></p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">HOLMES<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">My dear McNeil...<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">Page 8 - 1 full-page panel</p><p id="QEFp4000" class="sceneheading" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 100px; margin-right: 40px; counter-reset: shotcount 0; ">Full page Frontal Full Body shot of DOBSON (Now with HOLMES in control). He has taken his pipe out of his waistcoat pocket and has placed it in his mouth, holding it with his right hand. The left side f his face is cast in shadow as his head is turned slightly to the right and downwards. He holds an expression of smug vindication and self confidance. The darkened, smoldering street, police cars, onlookers and buildings stretching far behind him. A small white caption is in the bottom right corner.<br /></p><p class="character" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 220px; margin-right: 40px; text-transform: uppercase; ">HOLMES<br /></p><p class="dialog" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">I wouldn't say it's impossible<br /></p><p class="caption" style="font-family: monospace; margin-top: 0em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 140px; margin-right: 40px; ">To be continued...</p></div><p></p>Granthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02643239855692810325noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4077571206906508360.post-67243856371800373812011-01-25T00:52:00.000-08:002012-10-08T03:48:18.663-07:00In Space, Nobody can hear you make Sense: A Mass Effect 2 Review<span class="Apple-style-span"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-C2iChoOe5tXW7wlkc9s6ilNk9pVZWuRhKoTgu3OzEebDfFrpt0cynMhdiM-zcxHvRgX1srCoq2anTCsgVpcZ5ow0Nltuq8fWgf4zvpkfaAXYXekKIi_CTO1j0ykITxTG7l4uXEa4JNgc/s1600/mass-effect-2-front-cover-23567.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566145505905366450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-C2iChoOe5tXW7wlkc9s6ilNk9pVZWuRhKoTgu3OzEebDfFrpt0cynMhdiM-zcxHvRgX1srCoq2anTCsgVpcZ5ow0Nltuq8fWgf4zvpkfaAXYXekKIi_CTO1j0ykITxTG7l4uXEa4JNgc/s320/mass-effect-2-front-cover-23567.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; height: 320px; width: 227px;" /></a></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span">I know I really shouldn't love Mass Effect 2, but I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">kind've</span> do.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">There's a lot to like in the second installment of Bioware's face-shootingest series of shooter-RPGs, not least of which is the much greater sense of place, phenomenal combat and improved characterisation of its rich cast of strained heroes and dubious villains: traits in which the first game was sorely lacking. For all its sequal-tastic building on the first game's mechanics and style however, ME2 critically leaves behind the series' dedication to tight, coherent storytellling and healthy self-awareness in favour of explosion-laced and po-faced space-opera that'll be unlikely to leave you satisfied if you consider plot coherency a high priority in your stories about magical blue pansexual space-babes. Unfortunately for me, I kind of do, so here we go:</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span">Set two years after the events of the last game, Commander Shepard (AKA, your fine self) has once again been called to single-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">handedly</span> save the universe from a faceless evil army of doom, this time in the form of the mysterious Collectors (<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">insectoid</span> monstrosities controlled by a single sinister hive mind) who have been abducting entire human colonies. From pretty much the get-go, your ultimate goal: to give these creeps a kick up their collective <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">keester</span> on their home-turf, is laid out for you, with everything up to that point being a fair few main missions interspersed with largely optional preparation for the grand finale in the form of self-contained missions to build up your team of the galaxy's finest and/or learn more about the Collector threat.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN7Kr5F9_8r1ojF9SbV6-6EQg9tD0rgrALvxI2aArnVPLtIZeVBXH_5QpAkX6GxKJY3tJB0u_hIxikWbunVSDrbPUh_f7W_Gp-99JHaOGR-K8zdPCZJAnO4AwO3OHbxJoBMINKBjBux7jv/s1600/collectors+ME2.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567190039274227794" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN7Kr5F9_8r1ojF9SbV6-6EQg9tD0rgrALvxI2aArnVPLtIZeVBXH_5QpAkX6GxKJY3tJB0u_hIxikWbunVSDrbPUh_f7W_Gp-99JHaOGR-K8zdPCZJAnO4AwO3OHbxJoBMINKBjBux7jv/s320/collectors+ME2.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; height: 179px; width: 320px;" /></a> </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBYzw_rre6xeKR9gOO6PsZ0faNWxB01eXQi4yHvSXpdpJiBXupGQ7kQ-3zDlkTVicnIyERakw57uS8dLmFWgDW-UMXgwdCSWsjtj_QV-5EQEjsfhsIfRqnTyB17uHxiOKSKTMAK103gRIn/s1600/asc_060+-+less+than+sign_L.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567190524074974898" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBYzw_rre6xeKR9gOO6PsZ0faNWxB01eXQi4yHvSXpdpJiBXupGQ7kQ-3zDlkTVicnIyERakw57uS8dLmFWgDW-UMXgwdCSWsjtj_QV-5EQEjsfhsIfRqnTyB17uHxiOKSKTMAK103gRIn/s320/asc_060+-+less+than+sign_L.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; height: 72px; width: 75px;" /></a></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBYzw_rre6xeKR9gOO6PsZ0faNWxB01eXQi4yHvSXpdpJiBXupGQ7kQ-3zDlkTVicnIyERakw57uS8dLmFWgDW-UMXgwdCSWsjtj_QV-5EQEjsfhsIfRqnTyB17uHxiOKSKTMAK103gRIn/s1600/asc_060+-+less+than+sign_L.jpg"></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu9HFxdtn-YmwwMwaSDGF0FcW571PDN7Skl2qjSAMc0Rxp2OWAuokr0CucuoJD_Mt_rJS1T2x_DKL_JXhEjQj8C8Ofyivd1G8zyzQzCybKA2vdpTf14Hd2f5E_dSc8pflQgZZyvlYNKPyd/s1600/sarenwithgeth_2.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567188026184997938" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu9HFxdtn-YmwwMwaSDGF0FcW571PDN7Skl2qjSAMc0Rxp2OWAuokr0CucuoJD_Mt_rJS1T2x_DKL_JXhEjQj8C8Ofyivd1G8zyzQzCybKA2vdpTf14Hd2f5E_dSc8pflQgZZyvlYNKPyd/s320/sarenwithgeth_2.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; height: 320px; width: 257px;" /></a></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN7Kr5F9_8r1ojF9SbV6-6EQg9tD0rgrALvxI2aArnVPLtIZeVBXH_5QpAkX6GxKJY3tJB0u_hIxikWbunVSDrbPUh_f7W_Gp-99JHaOGR-K8zdPCZJAnO4AwO3OHbxJoBMINKBjBux7jv/s1600/collectors+ME2.jpg"></a></span></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span">While they're certainly creepier than the robotic <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Geth</span> of ME1, the overly-mysterious and elusive Collectors couldn't hope to provide the focused, omnipresent antagonism that the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Geth</span>-leader <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Saren</span> pulled off so well.</span></i></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">This story structure is interesting in that it lets players choose almost exactly what order in which they want to experience the game's roughly 15-30 hours of content, though the game’s overall plot pacing suffers from this free-form approach to storytelling, since the only real advantage it provides is the ability to play your favorite missions first or save them for last on subsequent <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">playthroughs</span>, while the sense of pacing and coherency in the main plot suffers considerably. Whereas ME1's plot played out as a series of significant events leading up to a ball-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">crunchingly</span> climactic conclusion, the entire main-plot of ME2 can be summarised as one (arguably) significant event with a bunch of relatively inconsequential fluff tacked onto its prerequisite end. As a result, precious few of your actions leading up to the final assault on the Collectors (i.e. 95% of the game) carry much narrative weight, being more focused around the personal stories of your squadmates than anything else. Not that that's inherently bad mind you, if you think intense character focus has no place in Sci-Fi then I think "FireFly" would like to have a word with you. But for a sci-fi story selling itself as space opera (as Mass Effect clearly does with its big events and big personalities doing big stuff with big guns) having the grand events put in motion so effectively by the first game's dynamite finale end up being a mere sub-plot in "The New Adventures of Commander Shepard doing dumb stuff because dumb people told her to" feels like a betrayal of what I felt were the series' greatest strengths. For all of ME1’s vague, snail-paced first half, at least once the plot ball got rolling it did a great job of making your actions feel significant, successfully pulling all the subtle emotional strings to emotionally convey exactly what was at stake.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5Pppr4ews0t_35ggoiCZ1q0zAYzDGLA-ALu1I7thnhxPKNeA7jM38ywXXT0DSMDCIV8fLs4lrM1LhnWMbQ6JIDtM9M7cumeRIq0nYR_JGHXvSB-ShENGfPnKaXqkGV6XJmRMy-S1jx-HP/s1600/Andromeda_gendler_sm.jpg"><span class="Apple-style-span"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567191728479040882" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5Pppr4ews0t_35ggoiCZ1q0zAYzDGLA-ALu1I7thnhxPKNeA7jM38ywXXT0DSMDCIV8fLs4lrM1LhnWMbQ6JIDtM9M7cumeRIq0nYR_JGHXvSB-ShENGfPnKaXqkGV6XJmRMy-S1jx-HP/s320/Andromeda_gendler_sm.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; height: 232px; width: 320px;" /></span></a></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span">Pictured: What was at stake.</span></i></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">While the plot itself is problematic in the extreme, it'd be tough to argue that the setting surrounding it isn't richer than ever. With the exception of a few shoddy <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">retcons</span> (the game has you working for Cerberus, an organisation that has magically transformed from an unambiguously evil terrorist group in ME1 to a morally-wobbly defender of humanity because the designers wanted to mix-up players' mindless lackey-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">ing</span> a bit and continuity is for suckers), ME2 does do an amazing job of creating a world that feels connected to the one your actions created in its predecessor. Should you choose to import your ME1 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">savegames</span> into the sequel, ME2 simply overflows with references, characters and consequences that directly result from decisions you made in the first game: big or seemingly insignificant. In terms of the series' overall plot though, I can't shake the feeling that nothing accomplished in ME2 is going to significantly affect the galaxy-shattering event that seemed so imminent at the last game's conclusion (which seems to be booked for ME3). I sincerely hope I'm wrong though.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">Since ME2 is the middle child of a three-game trilogy, it can probably be forgiven for feeling a bit unfocused and irrelevant in the overarching plot. I believe characterisation should take top priority in any second act, and ME2 does almost nothing <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">but</span> characterise and flesh out its universe's tangy sci-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">fi</span> flavour, but lack of focus is far from ME2’s biggest issue.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhssf8K-Mm4NZshGKmx7tz9SLrGyxbmYCzGLKCUSuhDnfL9S5Ra__5er3pEFuAwZvTEKRbOujnDhoPyuodQ40dAx9ARLeiIIv9PsxF9jJ4-dzjKkGFUJMprHVVGc0_5oD6moudnZb3zcGYB/s1600/miranda+ass.jpg"><span class="Apple-style-span"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5577164580164005362" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhssf8K-Mm4NZshGKmx7tz9SLrGyxbmYCzGLKCUSuhDnfL9S5Ra__5er3pEFuAwZvTEKRbOujnDhoPyuodQ40dAx9ARLeiIIv9PsxF9jJ4-dzjKkGFUJMprHVVGc0_5oD6moudnZb3zcGYB/s320/miranda+ass.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; height: 180px; width: 320px;" /></span></a></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span">Neither is the game's "Creative" sense of scene framing and costume design, but it sure as hell doesn't help the whole "games are a mature art medium" argument.</span></i></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">In my review for the first Mass Effect, in-between boring mechanical explanations of how third-person shooting works, I made a throwaway comment on the game's attempts to manipulate our emotions, implying that this was why the game felt off-putting at times. Thinking back, I've decided that games, (or movies, music, paintings, whatever) have every right to (and totally should) make every possible effort to invoke emotion in their consumers, but when the artificial and fictional origins of these moments is made <i>searingly </i>obvious by heavy-handed heart-string gropings (so brutishly felt in Mass Effect's 'emotional scenes'), the art of the game's immersion is irrecoverably buried under the mental image of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">the developer's</span> resident hack beaming over his cold, lifeless scripts. For a creative work to truly come into its own as a piece of art, its content has to be meaningfully experienced and its themes have to emotionally resonant those who experience it. The Mass Effect games do an admirable job of putting the invocation of such experiences as their primary goal, but the key problem with both of them (<b>especially</b> the second) is that they're valiant attempts at emotion-instilling art, but they've gotten the art-creation-sequence on backwards.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">At damn-near every turn, Mass Effect 2's plot feels like it was hastily written to justify a set of preordained emotions, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">gameplay</span> mechanics, "subtle" messages and/or ideas that the writers thought would be cool and desperately wanted to jam ass-backwards into the player's experience, rather than writing something even remotely <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">sensical</span> first, then tweaking it so as to emphasise the emotions that arise naturally <b>through </b>the experience, as you would do in any other narrative art-medium.</span></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span">It's kind of like if you invented a beloved movie franchise, came up with the concept of some kind of awesome mysterious mystical force so as to give the universe's mythology a strong focal point, then later -realising you'd forgotten to come up with any kind of explanation for its existence- made some prequels in which you just passed the whole thing off as Space-AIDS and hoped no-one would notice your goof.</span></i></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgad1AZYpSKZw6ecaKZutK5RtomMWglrIy-x69OtqjNEpoRa1MoYQvE9RhuQ1ERxzWedqF7_sRC2J0iXEu2G5w9mppipKWM6MB0iDziXD6Qyh6gFYNxUdeo8WFweNa7m9Sd_jS4oc3pGtxZ/s1600/midichlorians.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566145506964148018" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgad1AZYpSKZw6ecaKZutK5RtomMWglrIy-x69OtqjNEpoRa1MoYQvE9RhuQ1ERxzWedqF7_sRC2J0iXEu2G5w9mppipKWM6MB0iDziXD6Qyh6gFYNxUdeo8WFweNa7m9Sd_jS4oc3pGtxZ/s320/midichlorians.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; height: 215px; width: 320px;" /></a></span></i></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span">Not that I'm bitter or anything.</span></i></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">You're constantly thrown into situations that make no sense and given nonsensical explanations for them, if any. At one point, your boss orders you to single-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">handedly</span> infiltrate a (seemingly) disabled enemy base despite every-damn-sign in the known universe indicating that the base is a trap. You're given the option to (perfectly reasonably) suggest calling in reinforcements from the galactic council who refuse to believe in the enemy threat due to lack of proof (proof such as, say, a giant disabled enemy base), but you're shot down, no bullshit, by the boss simply waving his hands and saying "That would be a bad idea for <span style="font-style: italic;">any number of reasons</span> " and sending you on your suicidal way. Let me tell you it's hard to stay engaged with a story when its writers seems to be actively insulting its audience. The sheer unfiltered idiocy of such situations wouldn't be so bad if not for Mass Effect's trademark super-limited conversation system, which more often than not only lets your character respond to such bullshit with:</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><br />"Sure thing, buddy!";</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><br />"Fine"</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><br />or "alright but I feel somewhat grumpy about it."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">(mild spoilers for the first half hour of the game)</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">Another example: <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Bioware</span>, wasting very little time in insulting the players' intelligence, has the tutorial mission feature a conveniently-timed but barely justified horde of deliciously fragile robots to teach you the game's combat mechanics. Over the course of the mission you meet up with Miranda (the chick on the game's cover), who wastes no time in shooting a character you were accompanying, before going off into a ridiculous floundering justification about how he was an agent of her organisation's (never mentioned again) "enemies" and had hacked the aforementioned robot horde to attack: An explanation that falls painfully flat when one considers that less than five minutes prior, the game had forced players to heal him of a<b> </b>wound <b>sustained while fighting off these robots </b>for the sole purpose of teaching them how to revive teammates. What? He can hack his way through the security system of this super-advanced <s>terrorist organisation</s> human interest group but he just couldn't grasp how to make them shoot everyone but him? Or at least get out of the facility before triggering the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">robo</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">pocalypse</span>?.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span"> The shooting is obviously a contrived way of characterising Miranda as a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">badass</span>, no-nonsense, anything-it-takes sort of gal, but it's painfully obvious that the writers brainstormed this character trait first, and as with damn-near everything else in the game, decided that it must be drilled into the players' heads instantly and AT ALL COSTS, only then hastily scribbling down something that would do so, with little to no regard for the already-established facts. Once again, your character, despite having a cruel facade of choice paraded in front of him/her at every turn, has no option but to go along with the writers' crack-addled sense of reasonableness, having no <i>choice BUT to choose</i> to step into a small inescapable shuttle with the crazy, ass-dangling lady who shoots people and <i>does not do the research</i>.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">It's one thing to write <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">NPCs</span> as gibbering idiots, but when you make a game in which players create, characterise and insert characters that are often intended to be in-game representations of <i>themselves into the game </i>(as is a staple of the western-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">RPG</span> genre, onto which the ME series so tenuously hangs itself), forcing players to <b>choose </b>to steer their character down Loony-Lane is a brutal betrayal of the player that, unforgivably, feels <b>self inflicted.</b> There really isn't any worse feeling in all of gaming than the creeping, soul-shredding shame of having your Commander Shepard be about to do something that's both mind-numbingly stupid and completely at odds with your own morality, and only being able to pick between three shades of "I'll just do this because the writers were too damn lazy to write an alternative solution". Making such "choices" feels like <i>condoning</i> the behaviour of a hated enemy, and when your narrative causes someone to hate even <i>themselves</i> due to your incompetence, that's when you've hit the Hack singularity. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span"> The first game had its low moments in this respect (The plot-awfulness of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">Virmire</span> mission in ME warrants its own article), but it pains me to see that even after two years, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">Bioware</span> are still too far stuffed up their own asses to put their admittedly great ideas together in a meaningful, multi-layered way. The fact that they so perfectly nailed subtle, artful (albiet uncomplicated) storytelling and characterisation in Dragon Age: Origins makes the more-recently-released ME2 feel all the more disappointing, at least in terms of plot.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">I'm well aware of the game developer's mantra of "never compromise <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">gameplay</span> for story" and I'll reluctantly agree that all the excellent writing in the world can't save a game that you could have more FUN with by playing <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">frisbee</span> with the disk (I'm looking at you <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">Psychonauts</span>). To its credit, the non-plot-related aspects of ME2 (which I'll get to later) are polished to nigh-perfection, but I wish that <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">Bioware</span> hadn't seemingly spent all their time making a great GAME only to throw a mediocre story at it as an afterthought. It's not just the badness that gets me, it's the insult of unjustified developer-laziness. Every slap of the stupid-glove reeks of the developers going, "oh it's not like those filthy <i>gamers</i> are smart enough to give a shit about plot coherency, let's just write any old thing and get to the kick-ass space battles because that's all they'll understand!"</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">Putting up with crappy explanations that justify cool explosions largely comes with the territory of being a gamer, but it is deeply disappointing that <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">Bioware</span> -a company once renowned for having arguably the best writing in the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">videogame</span> industry - has seemingly plummeted to par for the course.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">I do mean it when I say the game has tons of great ideas though. Many of which are executed and explored to glorious perfection. The game's locations -ranging from bustling, vibrant city-planets to gorgeous tropical vistas to the terrifying mechanical gizzards of long-dead <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">starships</span>- easily put the first game's legion of featureless hilly <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34">dustbowls</span> to shame. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimEhC3_Y_58bG6bWzQizMW939mlsETbdeK2ZJnOMNUzHMkYVRBe6ppdNx3VfayuGUtWY9u0v1kD5gExQNBRZT1BaTs0_rO09Fgo-N0wWDnmoijteACgVeKLWGwUcUSYGZUloI4wFmPyIp-/s1600/ME2+location.jpg"><span class="Apple-style-span"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567185120570728098" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimEhC3_Y_58bG6bWzQizMW939mlsETbdeK2ZJnOMNUzHMkYVRBe6ppdNx3VfayuGUtWY9u0v1kD5gExQNBRZT1BaTs0_rO09Fgo-N0wWDnmoijteACgVeKLWGwUcUSYGZUloI4wFmPyIp-/s320/ME2+location.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; height: 256px; width: 320px;" /></span></a></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span">More care, love and talent went into the location of this one optional side-mission than did into the most of the first half of ME1</span></i></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Characterisation has also taken major and welcome boost since the “Mildly to seriously <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35">badass</span> + <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_36">clichéd</span> personality trait + two sentence <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_37">backstory</span>” characters (and Tali) from the first game, and while the level of complex emotions and layered motivations doesn't quite hit Dragon Age level, the pure richness of some of your fellows in face-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_38">shootery</span> is simply without match, as are the missions focused on them, most of which breaking the game's mold of mediocre storytelling and delivering some brilliant character-focused narratives. From the eternal moral calculations of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_39">Mordin</span> the geneticist to the poetic philosophising of Thane the assassin to the effortless coolness of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_40">Garrus</span> (who returns from the first game having since grown a personality), most of the sizable cast of supporting characters are brilliantly conceived and executed to their fullest potential, which makes it all the more painful that a few just plain <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_41">aren</span>’t.</span></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcdIyHEeO-7N3tGgscFDa0rQ09qSjzynmQoH21b455rD0THFTJIDTcMEAF9AnVE4fsAaY2mY-5-3Hdz95frXzMN3fUtw0W4YyTdivGHZA3cPluhRGAO8DRSUJyAloPPwoEJQ3086sHDZzX/s1600/Jack_Bio-amp_Upgrade.png"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566145505738379378" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcdIyHEeO-7N3tGgscFDa0rQ09qSjzynmQoH21b455rD0THFTJIDTcMEAF9AnVE4fsAaY2mY-5-3Hdz95frXzMN3fUtw0W4YyTdivGHZA3cPluhRGAO8DRSUJyAloPPwoEJQ3086sHDZzX/s320/Jack_Bio-amp_Upgrade.png" style="cursor: pointer; height: 160px; width: 320px;" /></a></span></span></i></div>
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<i><span lang="EN-GB">This is Jack. Her name’s stark rejection of conventional femininity, the arcane network of tattoos covering almost every inch of her self-objectified body, and her <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_42">backstory</span> detailing her time as first the subject of horrific genetic experiments and later the most dangerous criminal in the known galaxy: all this points towards her being a fascinating, complex and deeply dark character; a character expressed just by her saying "Fuck" a lot.</span></i></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">"But is it fun?" you ask, becoming increasingly annoyed that my game review has yet to address the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_43">goddamned</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_44">gameplay</span>. To which I answer, "Quiet! I'm being all pretentious and critical here...but yes. Oh God yes, a thousand times yes."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_45">Bioware</span> have made every possible effort to add to, refine, and overhaul the competent but unremarkable third-person <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_46">shootery</span> of ME1, producing a combat system that brilliantly blends nail-biting shoot-outs, feats of tactical mastery and gloriously rewarded experimentation into the illustrious field of "creative ways to shoot dudes in the face". Part of the credit goes to the aforementioned gorgeous locations, which never fail produce new and exciting combat situations without detracting from the authenticity of the setting (a quality I wish the plot shared, but I digress). More credit goes to the core <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_47">gunplay</span>, which has taken a nice turn for the visceral with localised damage zones (the game now <i>crucially</i> makes shots to the face more effective than say, bullet-induced pedicures), better "feeling" weapons (you can almost feel the deadly inner-workings of your future-shotgun crunching together to blast out its face-shredding shells), and a more dynamic damage system.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">The first Mass effect made the critical mistake of tying an overly-complex set of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_48">RPG</span> mechanics to an overly-simple set of shoot-em-up <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_49">gameplay</span> mechanics. As in the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_50">DnD</span>-inspired <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_51">RPGs</span> that defined <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_52">Bioware's</span> previous works, most every gunshot and ability in ME1 carried with it the locking-of-horns of the user and target's arcane network of stats. This is usually all well and good for the number-crunching satisfaction of me and my fellow uber nerds, but without the complex tactics and mechanics of said old-school RPGs (I feel I must pause here to say how much I loves ya, Dragon Age), the complexity felt flat and unnecessary. The first game's cool-blue telekinetic powers were awesome and all when they worked, but since you could never be sure of when said powers would overcome an enemy's unseen "physical resistance" score, the only safe fighting style was to hide behind cover and periodically spam your abilities at everyone until something clicked. Or you could just play on casual difficulty. Wuss.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">Mass Effect 2 on the other hand, understands that sometimes you have to 'dumb down' a system to 'smarten up' the experience. All the fancy 'physical resistance' scores in the world couldn't save the first game's fights from being unremarkable, stationary shootouts. Now, the presence or absence of secondary health bars are all that affect the enemy's ability to resist the effects of the new, wonderful ways that Me2 allows you to screw with them. If your opponent lacks a secondary protection system, having only their squishy red health bar standing between them and Death's bony appendages, all your abilities are guaranteed to do their good work. Be they blasts of telekinetic doom blowing enemies around like dust from the blow-hole of a triathlete whale, to blasts of elemental energy freezing baddies in place or sending them into a fire-related panic (thus considerately leaving their faces exposed and shootable), to wresting their free will from them and setting them upon their befuddled comrades, gaining you a nice meat-shield behind enemy lines. In fights, the countless multitudes of low-level mooks will generally will be undefended in this way, making the possibility of tearing through hapless henchmen with jubilant variety essentially omnipresent, while the interspersion of tougher enemies that do have the aforementioned protections keep the tactical pressure on with their own abilities and their need to be stripped of their protections, thereafter joining the "anything goes" crowd of death-enthusiasts. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy6ctScwrIhizc5ya5DGxeyVWcoIx_5IPtnpTjMQO9pHPAJQkJHYTThS6aRvV6LkiKJHqN5sZBUp3hAW5kKZWSJTCwbkKSgHm3bRoLkkWmb5Xj-dzuk6J14A_5vZR0j-Dhu9JcNSB25LV4/s1600/ymir.jpg"><span class="Apple-style-span"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580714273402670770" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy6ctScwrIhizc5ya5DGxeyVWcoIx_5IPtnpTjMQO9pHPAJQkJHYTThS6aRvV6LkiKJHqN5sZBUp3hAW5kKZWSJTCwbkKSgHm3bRoLkkWmb5Xj-dzuk6J14A_5vZR0j-Dhu9JcNSB25LV4/s320/ymir.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; height: 180px; width: 320px;" /></span></a></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span">These guys are both a terror and a joy to take on.</span></i></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">The game's countless fights tend to be rich with tactical possibility, as the obstacles you face and the tools with which to overcome them mesh together in visceral harmony. Whether it be lining up headshots from a safe cover position (if you're boring), barreling into the enemy lines,while slinging blasts of psychic might, infiltrating and eviscerating the back-lines of an entrenched position to catch those between you and your squad in a deadly cross-fire, or carefully coordinating your squad to peel away the defenses of a particularly bitchy boss, before telekinetically blasting her previously-almighty ass into the airborne traffic lines of the planetary city glistening below you; every second of every battle becomes an instant of simultaneous joy, terror and vindication. It's almost enough to make you forget you're only fighting because the developers wanted to shoehorn a warehouse shoot-out </span><span class="Apple-style-span">into (in one example) an emotional family drama story-arc because they couldn't trust us to pay attention otherwise.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">Of all the truly unreasonable amount of games I've payed over the years, I've never had such conflicting feelings as I have about Mass Effect 2. Half its narrative is idiotic, patronising bile, smugly splashed at an audience apparently undeserving of Bioware's respect, while the other half is a collection of deep, thoughtful and character-driven exploration of one's own morality, and all the juicy combat in-between is just top-fucking notch!...</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">I've yet to decide whether Mass Effect 2 will ever hold a place in the gaming-related sections of my soul (though frankly, it's the only section there is and there's ample space to spare). while the main plot seemingly represents everything that is wrong with videogames, just about everything else is a stellar example of everything gaming is doing <i>right</i>. I really don't know how else to quantify its quality except to say I recommend it.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">Though when you hear/see/think anything concerning "The Illusive Man"...</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkEncQ3FE6Qp34Q-omj0SrxKO4ad8-iVzODRERw_naxlBOza5cQXj_ZJk0s1Kfjeq3ZtTSyoPi9GP1dw0wS6OmMrMb-wA1MkniOFXVRIdAn-fPjTTqxIqkH4dtq8u9P0OZzDdmDPQQyBzC/s1600/700px-me2ellusive1.jpg"><span class="Apple-style-span"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5580724634656637266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkEncQ3FE6Qp34Q-omj0SrxKO4ad8-iVzODRERw_naxlBOza5cQXj_ZJk0s1Kfjeq3ZtTSyoPi9GP1dw0wS6OmMrMb-wA1MkniOFXVRIdAn-fPjTTqxIqkH4dtq8u9P0OZzDdmDPQQyBzC/s320/700px-me2ellusive1.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; height: 180px; width: 320px;" /></span></a></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span">Shepard, something's come up. I need you to run into the galactic council building, strip to your nethers and start repeatedly punching yourself in the dick while screaming "I ARE A TERRORIST" until we can get the<b> data we need</b>. Any Questions? No? Good.</span></i></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></i></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span">...just be sure to leave your brain at the door.</span></div>
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Granthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02643239855692810325noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4077571206906508360.post-62015496275059119362011-01-07T00:42:00.000-08:002011-01-21T11:21:13.000-08:00Adventures in MineCraft Day 1, Part 2<b>When last we left our hero, he had just discovered his amazing ability to cause material to fly off the bodies of unsuspecting sheep with a single touch. Unable to meaningfully investigate the extent of this power due to the lack of passing supermodels, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Minecraft</span>-Me (whom I shall just call Steve from now on) has opted to find shelter in a nearby cave and hide from the ravenous beasts rumored to roam the area at night. </b><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>I think now's as good a time as any to mention that I'm using the <a href="http://www.minecraftforum.net/viewtopic.php?f=25&t=77619"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Gerudoku</span> texture pack</a> to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">reskin</span> everything in the game. Usually I wait until I've played more of a game before installing mods, but since <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Minecraft</span> vanilla looks like this:</b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkjanJrxXS6YB2hPSD_GDsbo104ba90HyiIGzOYqWWyLfs-OTebCo0ehUoePmx6JCD6X__GFJfL6nDUu4ypCocN4zoAJyV2CfdDTmmfco5t17MWmlcnJOEzzeZwOluWX2P76q1ynSwgAxS/s1600/Minecraft+crappy.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkjanJrxXS6YB2hPSD_GDsbo104ba90HyiIGzOYqWWyLfs-OTebCo0ehUoePmx6JCD6X__GFJfL6nDUu4ypCocN4zoAJyV2CfdDTmmfco5t17MWmlcnJOEzzeZwOluWX2P76q1ynSwgAxS/s320/Minecraft+crappy.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560471831518075970" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 166px; " /></a></span></b></div><div><b>I think you'll forgive me for wanting to reduce the hideousness as much as humanly possible.</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>Anyway, Let's go.</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwJYOSVH1yIdPmkdJwF_sMtrjjQcQ59cB3eeaGHlu3PBQS_1fvengs4qu7xcy6EphiH0va6SJSgDSsiU3eDFMgIjuXJfHW6QT8mYDKUFyzv1R2fO-pbbAkx72b9f_iXHWdIVm6dOSmiP1j/s1600/mcd1+5.png"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwJYOSVH1yIdPmkdJwF_sMtrjjQcQ59cB3eeaGHlu3PBQS_1fvengs4qu7xcy6EphiH0va6SJSgDSsiU3eDFMgIjuXJfHW6QT8mYDKUFyzv1R2fO-pbbAkx72b9f_iXHWdIVm6dOSmiP1j/s320/mcd1+5.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560472666709787090" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 207px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>This cave should do. Certainly not the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">stylin'ist</span> way to spend my first night stranded in the middle of nowhere I'll admit, but hey, it's quicker and easier than making a shack from scratch and it's not like there's anyone around to witness my descent into neolithic hobo status.</div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>Your shame is our joy, Steve.</b></div><div><br /></div><div>Hello...<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">there're</span> two entrances right next to each other. Seems I get to choose between two gloriously dank holes in the ground to spend the night in, lets see now...</div><div><b><br /></b><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLPCdNZCgxcY_5ynDfcDiixQpBpiAtlpcD821XTaScX-JowaVSfBpExwaxxBT5_ziJQrbdx5wFLQOB65-161nCZoVO3WqYUyVJcHN_w2J9yLOvVeSIWFyI5h91_qIjFchyphenhyphenQNeFcUmeOXkQ/s1600/2011-01-03_15.37.35.png"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLPCdNZCgxcY_5ynDfcDiixQpBpiAtlpcD821XTaScX-JowaVSfBpExwaxxBT5_ziJQrbdx5wFLQOB65-161nCZoVO3WqYUyVJcHN_w2J9yLOvVeSIWFyI5h91_qIjFchyphenhyphenQNeFcUmeOXkQ/s320/2011-01-03_15.37.35.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5559377550557752834" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Yeep</span>. This one's entirely too deep and wide to hole up in with the deadline I've got. Not sure I fancy the prospect of hordes of unknown abominations of the Earth's crust crawling out of the darkness to devour me in my sleep either, let's try the other one.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbWawfAL8CLIvidlquyy9ZBcvBpsOq1sqqgeXQoSHSa7z8hR2N3-YBCUP553P8VUbzDSm7cjB2tk48AYw2hBhQSGkd9cQzRkkoTkaFMRzlFLxw5iHmV5O-2y8znykdszUVjlBCkItxOHwV/s1600/2011-01-03_15.37.43.png"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbWawfAL8CLIvidlquyy9ZBcvBpsOq1sqqgeXQoSHSa7z8hR2N3-YBCUP553P8VUbzDSm7cjB2tk48AYw2hBhQSGkd9cQzRkkoTkaFMRzlFLxw5iHmV5O-2y8znykdszUVjlBCkItxOHwV/s320/2011-01-03_15.37.43.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5559376373171402594" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Nice. This one is more of a tunnel that just leads back to the surface; there's an extra entrance that needs blocking but it all stays at ground level and there aren't any in-cave orifices from which <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">hellspawn</span> can freely flow. So there's that. Still, I'm not keen on going gently into this dark night, poetically or otherwise. I'll need some kind of light source for my new digs and since my current surroundings strangely lack a convenient electrical outlet, I'm guessing some kind of fire's my best option here.</div><div><br /></div><div>And what better fuel to burn for fun and profit than our life-giving arboreal buddies, the trees!</div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdFrhVK7h7iOG2FQDqRbpQgFjjyGxol1l9k0ejc79lNQKIHX04I_Nf1gYtxSjpINCmi7lE52hcKYmVC6QH89PI57ggg2jAjolZfX8ZjXq3lAdMAmuovW2pwj-CDclUdBo0uliZiSjbDyBV/s320/2011-01-03_15.38.42.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5559376376603367602" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px; " /></div><div><i>The <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Parlotones</span> can suck it.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>I've no tools to cut this magnificent bastard down or anything, but it's not like I'm refurnishing a country home here: I only need to pry off a few sticks worth of wood and I'll have enough to last the night. Unreasonable levels of machismo, don't fail me now!</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIAdwPOngiUwZEBPNqOjDwUz6Yfp-LPRNftSOMg1gvHb0YAuhKAQ5Jsnw8BNY6-I5jE_XnjLA_on4C3mLSKOP696Mw329zb8yXo_8j8S56IfjENDKaOm16nvVWrsqqJ39opxgHbzyNSO61/s1600/treemastah.gif"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIAdwPOngiUwZEBPNqOjDwUz6Yfp-LPRNftSOMg1gvHb0YAuhKAQ5Jsnw8BNY6-I5jE_XnjLA_on4C3mLSKOP696Mw329zb8yXo_8j8S56IfjENDKaOm16nvVWrsqqJ39opxgHbzyNSO61/s320/treemastah.gif" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5559376381048125122" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 181px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>HULK SMASH!</div><div>Holy Hogan! Within a minute, the sheer force of my gargantuan manliness (and gargantuan <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">blocky</span> biceps) has sliced right through the trunk: Leaving entire inexplicably <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">miniaturised</span> log segments for me to collect. Science!</div><div><br /></div><div>Let's see what I can make out've these logs then.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Here's some of that crafting that the game's title keeps going on about.</b></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuN_qNEV9ad3jDFhspUjVrEm2nbALTj8s-f1BSzJrxxlulFlFq8nM6zsSeB1UQ1nd_GcT0cZvefW48dHLX49mYT3tiaFaC_xtnL22UyGkgPqmfar1B7WzaQfmO2z3qsOT_3iTQETYIcqJ3/s1600/logcraft.gif"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuN_qNEV9ad3jDFhspUjVrEm2nbALTj8s-f1BSzJrxxlulFlFq8nM6zsSeB1UQ1nd_GcT0cZvefW48dHLX49mYT3tiaFaC_xtnL22UyGkgPqmfar1B7WzaQfmO2z3qsOT_3iTQETYIcqJ3/s320/logcraft.gif" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5559376385336997554" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 293px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>I manage to break each log into four planks (which all inexplicably become blocks OF planks and grow to the size of the original log when placed)</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWZSbnBfM_Ts0HPjHKcyaMq-mCqRxBssUjrYyn_8dXV30euGmdVebv1-duMj0RXwQ98D7b3Cpz_Bj1Hdfa3ODutGCXzrcvvU3O85GMYQOuNDV1dLNfyWKkEbkjEuqz19kHcXu7CMTuOfVv/s1600/stickcraft.gif"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWZSbnBfM_Ts0HPjHKcyaMq-mCqRxBssUjrYyn_8dXV30euGmdVebv1-duMj0RXwQ98D7b3Cpz_Bj1Hdfa3ODutGCXzrcvvU3O85GMYQOuNDV1dLNfyWKkEbkjEuqz19kHcXu7CMTuOfVv/s320/stickcraft.gif" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5559377557424557826" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 310px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Connecting a plank to the top of another plank and breaking apart the combination seems to create four homogeneous sticks through some bizarre twist of logic, physics and shop-class.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>The "1 Log -> 4 planks -> 8 sticks" <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">trifecta</span> is the backbone of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Minecraft's</span> crafting system. Planks are resources for building and tool-making akin to stone and iron, while sticks are used to make all tools as well as fences and ladders.</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>Well I've got the wood I wanted, but these sticks, so freshly torn from the realm of the moist and alive, are more than a match for the tiny damp tinder box I skimmed off of the ship's more loosely-packed cargo. A full-scale fireplace is out of the question until I find some chunks of flint and steel that don't resemble the testicles of a professional wrestler, but I don't have any kind of time to search for those now. The <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">sticks'll</span> make great handles for tools though, and if I attach them to pieces of the coal I spotted in my designated cowering-cave, I could make some sweet torches.</div><div><br /></div><div>Trying to get usable chunks of coal by hand proves to be a hopeless endeavor as my hands (tree-shatteringly manly as they are) can do nothing but scrape at the tough rock holding my coal in place, leaving only unusable coal dust. I'll need at least rudimentary tools to mine anything, but I don't have nearly enough gripping appendages to slap a pickaxe together in mid air. I'll need a decent surface to work on.</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzeNmbScDGAhiav-5zU2me_S3TtbluY-YZBEizHGJrg0b_vS-r0ePZLF917DR_QmSJGukN5aGUN5RkZjaTE2gBXr_qL5KCjbcgZRYbXutlQjDc4H__Jc92jUy7-UWvhPTX98TdtK0UQ-aX/s1600/tablecraft.gif"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 297px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzeNmbScDGAhiav-5zU2me_S3TtbluY-YZBEizHGJrg0b_vS-r0ePZLF917DR_QmSJGukN5aGUN5RkZjaTE2gBXr_qL5KCjbcgZRYbXutlQjDc4H__Jc92jUy7-UWvhPTX98TdtK0UQ-aX/s320/tablecraft.gif" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5559377559273646162" /></a></div><div>Slapping a few planks together yields a crude but effective crafting table. Despite its humble looks I sense this table has opened up a universe of crafting potential for me! With this space, this metaphorically 9x9 area for the placement and arrangement of various resources, I sense I can make <i>ANYTHING</i>; do <i>ANYTHING</i> with certain specialised aspects of the object-related <i>ANYTHING</i> that isn't the action-related <i>ANYTHING</i> I mentioned just now. With my skills I can forge the raw hide of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Gaea</span> into my legacy! I see it now, Table: A glorious future of industry to be ruled with firm benevolence from my Fortress of Justly-Administered Doom! <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">MWAHAHAHA</span>!</div><div>Come, Table! Let us make TOOLS with which I shall assimilate that feeble, doubting coal into my empire! With the full extent of my glory I shall create...(!)</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8-jkm6oOp88WmVQPKdaQM0wXBBhWVx3CO7dtv3LKnQ8Vh7XSz13Y0bh_JLMrkceEiF3ZZxw9k6QDhPr_qMWNLAAODUlic0Hj_9EEpDe4Nvrx55IVxCZFZRkob9tbtTPN0TxeygYdCSee5/s1600/pickcraft.gif"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8-jkm6oOp88WmVQPKdaQM0wXBBhWVx3CO7dtv3LKnQ8Vh7XSz13Y0bh_JLMrkceEiF3ZZxw9k6QDhPr_qMWNLAAODUlic0Hj_9EEpDe4Nvrx55IVxCZFZRkob9tbtTPN0TxeygYdCSee5/s320/pickcraft.gif" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5559377558839892786" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 305px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Well, uh... a Wooden <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Pickaxe</span>.</div><div><br /></div><div>Just some wood artlessly jammed onto some other wood really, but I'm pretty damned proud of myself for making the pick-bits as sharp as I did, even if my bare hands needed to have more splinters than were likely present in the original tree lovingly jammed into them to do so. The whole Empire-in-my-image thing may be something of a work in progress right now.</div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ3pHy240XPshRJ-Fr_mhcD38KFw5VMwYxUG_qmsLkoMDD2eKEJPQD1xscEtBnj7N4P4dd0TU0LHM2ZKDhXVeMB-wBLbWjd8ZfXNhFoo5MBUvfEYZSlHzcDi5gyjYJFo2IYDVkrgxrFh5I/s1600/torchcraft.gif"></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn2MdxBvVqUv4XXoV5OrOEsFp3DFicJpQT8bz7lJP4E79lFFHPFIqyXANgsHJGJbRGIXveqeJWKim0z7qE8WKVIGA9s9YVfNNO7IYHWi5O5f4x6nkBohTitrM6HdwMh6Yh8QaHZYQVVJK6/s1600/coalmastah.gif"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn2MdxBvVqUv4XXoV5OrOEsFp3DFicJpQT8bz7lJP4E79lFFHPFIqyXANgsHJGJbRGIXveqeJWKim0z7qE8WKVIGA9s9YVfNNO7IYHWi5O5f4x6nkBohTitrM6HdwMh6Yh8QaHZYQVVJK6/s320/coalmastah.gif" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5559378754223901074" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px; " /></a></div><div>Still, despite being the product of hot plank-on-stick action, my humble <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">pickaxe</span> makes it a bit easier to mine out the coal in significant chunks. Now for some <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Torchcraft</span> (TM)!</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ3pHy240XPshRJ-Fr_mhcD38KFw5VMwYxUG_qmsLkoMDD2eKEJPQD1xscEtBnj7N4P4dd0TU0LHM2ZKDhXVeMB-wBLbWjd8ZfXNhFoo5MBUvfEYZSlHzcDi5gyjYJFo2IYDVkrgxrFh5I/s1600/torchcraft.gif"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ3pHy240XPshRJ-Fr_mhcD38KFw5VMwYxUG_qmsLkoMDD2eKEJPQD1xscEtBnj7N4P4dd0TU0LHM2ZKDhXVeMB-wBLbWjd8ZfXNhFoo5MBUvfEYZSlHzcDi5gyjYJFo2IYDVkrgxrFh5I/s320/torchcraft.gif" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5559378756281748018" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 281px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Fastening a coal chunk to a stick seems to produce four torches instead of one for reasons I neither understand nor care about right now. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>These reasons being player convenience. Seeing as torches are needed in such masses for reasons we'll get to when Steve goes spelunking, and coal isn't exactly growing on trees around here (at least not for a few million years anyway), this ridiculous little convenience proves that <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Minecraft</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">devs</span> are more concerned with keeping the game simple and fun rather than realistic, if the uniformly <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">blocky</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">gameworld</span> hadn't clued you into that fact already.</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; ">Thankfully, my invisibly small tinder box (<b>which isn't actually in the game but which I made up to explain how torches are automatically on fire) </b>just barely manages to get my torches' remarkably high-purity coal tips to spark into life. I slap one onto my cave's wall using a dubious sticky substance of questionable origin </span><span class="Apple-style-span">(</span><span class="Apple-style-span">possibly made up)</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "> and...</span></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn2MdxBvVqUv4XXoV5OrOEsFp3DFicJpQT8bz7lJP4E79lFFHPFIqyXANgsHJGJbRGIXveqeJWKim0z7qE8WKVIGA9s9YVfNNO7IYHWi5O5f4x6nkBohTitrM6HdwMh6Yh8QaHZYQVVJK6/s1600/coalmastah.gif"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ3sfy-gRmhZ-OQoYvNzKqZsB-yCeQ3Uqb73P3Gni0n_G2JfCjilD5RKPlzjSLYxCPCUv45sM8M4aLtYDPgZlr-e8UBBtsLy39gNTwrhctR5vPRSdYRSktoFnXYdaL_i-88mgR4NMGGguP/s1600/2011-01-03_15.53.36.png"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ3sfy-gRmhZ-OQoYvNzKqZsB-yCeQ3Uqb73P3Gni0n_G2JfCjilD5RKPlzjSLYxCPCUv45sM8M4aLtYDPgZlr-e8UBBtsLy39gNTwrhctR5vPRSdYRSktoFnXYdaL_i-88mgR4NMGGguP/s320/2011-01-03_15.53.36.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5559377555213720882" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px; " /></a><br /><div><div><div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUa1a6tQNs4chrDYgtaoEoATu9IXieRRH4qxL82I1NoGK82b9hKNJFm7UDNOEkMpNk_U2ewfQb1iOBUSHYPj9Y6BjOcu9DB8M2e8C4IIhUOuMrjUCqnHxaUkhw1yflXksCFa1Xliw46zZk/s1600/2011-01-03_15.37.35.png"></a><br /><div>Success! The torch floods my new abode with the light of my crafty brilliance. One problem though:</div></div></div></div></div></div></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKkbBHPqoBQtT1qIJGJBNTQuJ6dbuwLxWJibktTc_6zrFT_SxDLfHVO0pggymeBRjI45BohF1ZofVhdW8EKN-O_rIBXsqXWR1zXELFgtE_fIb7ktsaKNTMgAd5eDfUAwNLGUExpIAuSpkN/s1600/2011-01-19_16.31.14.png"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKkbBHPqoBQtT1qIJGJBNTQuJ6dbuwLxWJibktTc_6zrFT_SxDLfHVO0pggymeBRjI45BohF1ZofVhdW8EKN-O_rIBXsqXWR1zXELFgtE_fIb7ktsaKNTMgAd5eDfUAwNLGUExpIAuSpkN/s320/2011-01-19_16.31.14.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5564207334141908626" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Things are lookin' dim out there. The sun seems to have disappeared behind the serenely blocky horizon and taken precious seconds of my time left on this mortal coil with it. Meanwhile, my cave remains dangerously open for business. No time for dignity, it's dirt-packin' time!</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_qppTb7_cS3AUxkKYYUja2fMVr9M25qrQMu5c-5CHhTRix9OlAOyVUt0sXHYAx0j5pONyznYhccorBuR1WYIt5BkPFmyOEbZ8NeH6gt213zs3QGZkkAG84MAQ1qyyn-sacnszaaWQAY9Q/s1600/dirtmastah.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_qppTb7_cS3AUxkKYYUja2fMVr9M25qrQMu5c-5CHhTRix9OlAOyVUt0sXHYAx0j5pONyznYhccorBuR1WYIt5BkPFmyOEbZ8NeH6gt213zs3QGZkkAG84MAQ1qyyn-sacnszaaWQAY9Q/s320/dirtmastah.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5564207345300701538" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 181px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>After meticulously packing up my crafting table (<b>read: punching it until it transforms into a collectible cube and sucking it into my pants through sheer force of will) </b>and plonking it down inside my entirely-too-humble abode, I frantically scrape clumps off of my cave's outermost wall (<b>remember, the cave is more of a mountainside tunnel with one side made of dirt and the other made of the mountain's stone</b>) and pack them into the two openings, hoping desperately that they can hide me from, or at least hold off the unspeakable horrors that I am beginning to hear squelching, hissing and groaning outside. </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpUaCqLFEtsya7dZFksOQJjuIz5Hz5fjjuV1Op8LRLPHFmdiSl_tqMmVol0FTZFiuF_dFzQcWoawpfMsfeQb26foh-J_ecyZYmUCBlpK62sjhq3tXB3tyx0nBNQ15_650rMpvWhNF1tZet/s1600/2011-01-19_16.33.06.png"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpUaCqLFEtsya7dZFksOQJjuIz5Hz5fjjuV1Op8LRLPHFmdiSl_tqMmVol0FTZFiuF_dFzQcWoawpfMsfeQb26foh-J_ecyZYmUCBlpK62sjhq3tXB3tyx0nBNQ15_650rMpvWhNF1tZet/s320/2011-01-19_16.33.06.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5564215104086096658" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>I do leave a small, defensible hole though. I'll need it to see when day breaks since my Rolex is irreparably broken on account of it apparently being allergic to shipwrecks. I'm going to be counting on the sun to set my schedule from here on in. </div><div><br /></div><div>Right then, for all the dinginess of my colonial dwelling I'm at least marginally sure that I'm safe from biting, flesh-rending, devouring death for the time being. Marginally. </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZgGF0oD8WC0yTmmTn_utupCRnhilIZJsXbwt189aFGPERBPgmzQT84iWA33GTcJpz2LIfjM3GyvtMGvA4Cfk5ZA4ovf94zGy8btmRkP-eBZJ6qc4-OIBtkbT_Xl4u-DsF4NSM_7AAE0SZ/s1600/2011-01-19_16.33.22.png"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZgGF0oD8WC0yTmmTn_utupCRnhilIZJsXbwt189aFGPERBPgmzQT84iWA33GTcJpz2LIfjM3GyvtMGvA4Cfk5ZA4ovf94zGy8btmRkP-eBZJ6qc4-OIBtkbT_Xl4u-DsF4NSM_7AAE0SZ/s320/2011-01-19_16.33.22.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5564207339226236626" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Not bad digs if you like mildew and wet clumps of dirt falling into yer mouth while you sleep. Speaking of: I lay down some of my ExplodiWool (tm) to form a makeshift mattress, though trying to lie on it isn't exactly helping my relaxation. Aside from the fact that I strangely don't feel tired at all despite my pulse-pounding, sheep-punching day, I just don't like the idea of having my eyes closed what with the remarkably terrifying sounds seeping into my cave from all directions.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>*Gruhhhhhh...GrOWLF*</i></div><div><br /></div><div>eep.</div><div><br /></div><div>*HssthITH. fffffSSTH*</div><div><br /></div><div>Yipe!</div><div><br /></div><div>*<i>ScrLTCH scrLTCH*</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Oh God.</div><div><br /></div><div>*<i>SssssCRLTCH*</i></div><div><br /></div><div>It's okay it's okay I'm fine I'm safe it's okay it's...</div><div><br /></div><div>*<i>SssssSCRALUH-GGHHHH!*</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>AAAARGH! I CAINT TAKE DIS SHIT NO MO'!</div><div><br /></div><div>I've gotta take my mind offa these sounds right now or it'll be a one-way trip to Lovecraft-Lane for my sanity. Might as well tidy up the place since I'm in here. I use the splintered remains of my pickaxe to pry off some of the jutting pieces of stone knobbing me from every which direction as I move through my cave, eventually transforming it into a fairly neat tunnel and collecting the falling chunks of stone as I do so. I could probably make some halfway decent tools out these, it's better material than karate-chop-hewn wood anyway.</div><div><br /></div><div>Utilising my new stone and masterful crafting skillset, I create:</div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq9Lkyb8kJueimispatsORr6b78HaU2UDBrFdiiyu69GV972ViNZYNgYlPaYOpXLepG5tg9EalgDc2idmAFUBGdRs94XWzXAlCR-TyvmztjPVAlejYOIGe4LWrPIYG2JBdW71_Yld8tZF9/s1600/spademastah.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq9Lkyb8kJueimispatsORr6b78HaU2UDBrFdiiyu69GV972ViNZYNgYlPaYOpXLepG5tg9EalgDc2idmAFUBGdRs94XWzXAlCR-TyvmztjPVAlejYOIGe4LWrPIYG2JBdW71_Yld8tZF9/s320/spademastah.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5564207353590135490" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 179px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>A spade! My blistered fingers will be grateful for a replacement in the dirt/sand/snow/gravel removal field.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>*GrrOLWF*</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Gah! I think I'd feel better about those noises if I made....</div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq9Lkyb8kJueimispatsORr6b78HaU2UDBrFdiiyu69GV972ViNZYNgYlPaYOpXLepG5tg9EalgDc2idmAFUBGdRs94XWzXAlCR-TyvmztjPVAlejYOIGe4LWrPIYG2JBdW71_Yld8tZF9/s1600/spademastah.jpg"></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisHUU2ifzwIyWmSTDeaa31B4eaIcEht6QCiNKcfxzfZAkRbQ-nN-q13lnLWefg_3ys_vYa1vFUyGCTjtRWjcxL5cfgkcaD519oXbdQUWaHBHdYbCjqVZnU0Nw2qsPru0HQ5meFapFV2FQb/s1600/swordmastah.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisHUU2ifzwIyWmSTDeaa31B4eaIcEht6QCiNKcfxzfZAkRbQ-nN-q13lnLWefg_3ys_vYa1vFUyGCTjtRWjcxL5cfgkcaD519oXbdQUWaHBHdYbCjqVZnU0Nw2qsPru0HQ5meFapFV2FQb/s320/swordmastah.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5564207350123226834" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 282px; " /></a><br /><br /></div><div>An ugly but surprisingly sharp stone sword! Well more of a stone club with a pointy bit, really; although I doubt them beasties will be too concerned about how polished the thing smashing their heads in happens to be.</div><div><br /></div><div>I spend the rest of the night hollowing out the ol' Earth Orifice, making spare tools (including a stone pickaxe to replace my ruddy wooden one) and practicing with my new weapon in hopes of surviving the coming day.</div><div><br /></div><div>Speak of the devil...<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkbRaDQ0VAGCtl95FBceg2aepcDeymtxJJRyQupfCvcR2ah7xoqAoGfhXGqdY0dSqUqxNDx_EHAZzzUrOSeIaqNu1wKOpUGwEtwlU6ud5L_yIu71kcTRuavIfDo-WqX_mwj_rIb_jORrDz/s1600/2011-01-19_16.42.42.png"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkbRaDQ0VAGCtl95FBceg2aepcDeymtxJJRyQupfCvcR2ah7xoqAoGfhXGqdY0dSqUqxNDx_EHAZzzUrOSeIaqNu1wKOpUGwEtwlU6ud5L_yIu71kcTRuavIfDo-WqX_mwj_rIb_jORrDz/s320/2011-01-19_16.42.42.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5564223843816780642" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><b>Next time: Spider-Sense tingling...</b></div>Granthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02643239855692810325noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4077571206906508360.post-86929356359121013182010-12-29T02:02:00.000-08:002011-01-03T11:08:37.203-08:00Mine, Build, Explode: A Terrifying Adventure in Minecraft. Day 1, part 1.<div><div><div><div><div><div>If you've been keeping tabs on the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">videogame</span> industry over the last year and a bit, you've almost certainly heard of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Minecraft</span>: The terminally <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">blocky</span> super-sandbox game that's managed to ensnare the imaginations of damn-near anyone who's played it.<div>For those of you not in the know, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Minecraft</span> is about trying to survive in an entirely destructible randomly-generated world made entirely out of blocks, and in which you can build anything you can imagine using materials and tools made from resources ripped from said world's massive underground tunnel networks. Incredibly hazardous enemies are spawned anywhere covered by darkness, so the game's day/night cycle requires you to make a mad dash to find shelter before the sun goes down, or else have your innards lovingly rearranged by countless undead horrors.</div><div><br /></div><div>In an effort to understand just why this game is the biggest thing in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">internet</span> popular-culture since dyslexia met cats, I intend to play <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Minecraft</span> in all its <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">pixellated</span> insanity and document the results. The very, very terrifying results.</div><div><br /></div><div>Speaking of terror, I'm mainly going to be relaying my game experience from the point of view of my character in the game itself, since <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">roleplaying</span> and actively convincing myself that my fat arse is actually placed firmly in the jaws of horror rather than my comfy computer chair keeps things exciting. Everything typed normally from now on will be from the point of view of my small, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">blocky</span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">extremely</span> fragile <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Minecraft</span>-denizen while everything typed <span class="Apple-style-span"><b>in sexy and authoritative bold</b> is an observation or explanation regarding the game from my impartial real-life point of view.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">For Example:</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">Wow, this sure is a nice <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">blocky</span> world in which I actually no-bullshit reside in at this present moment, I'm glad nothing <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">horri</span>- <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">AAAH</span>! Zombies! Creepers! Death! RUN <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">AWAAAAY</span>!</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">...</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">Okay. Safe now. Wait, what's that hissing-</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">*CREEPER <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">DEATHSPLOSION</span>*</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Blarg</span>.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><b>My enlightened real-world perspective tells me that the above situation suggests, the developers have designed an idyllic and world for the express purpose of making the player's eventual horrible demise particularly surprising and painful: Hastening the move towards their active goal of crushing the player's soul under their spiky <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">cyber</span> boots and drinking our tears through crazy straws so as to nourish their cold, shriveled hearts.</b></span></div><div><br /></div><div>Let's get started shall we? (click images for larger versions)</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn2brdyeWhY84mb6UUBkn4N1B9Ac0QGDjg78hLxjV3ysQdoz6UCuzs4zgli7qe3LlUg9C9AN7_LMIWzAB6GPq8C_srxVMlB-Av7Jzb-sVrPHtA-7xclujIclmC-obe8iMsr0JRQ5n2jzV5/s1600/mcd1+2.png"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn2brdyeWhY84mb6UUBkn4N1B9Ac0QGDjg78hLxjV3ysQdoz6UCuzs4zgli7qe3LlUg9C9AN7_LMIWzAB6GPq8C_srxVMlB-Av7Jzb-sVrPHtA-7xclujIclmC-obe8iMsr0JRQ5n2jzV5/s320/mcd1+2.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556145424226659922" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 206px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><b>I choose single player, click "empty world" on the level selection screen and let the game do its magic. When you start a new world (you can have up to five at a time), <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Minecraft</span> generates a completely unique "planet" that the developers claim is four time the size of the actual earth. While I fall slightly below the margin of insanity required to actually test this theory, somehow I don't doubt it. The game seems to generate a blueprint for the entire world (as seen in the screenshot), then seamlessly builds it as you explore, which you could do until your great grandchildren up and tell you that enough is enough and still be nowhere near done finding all of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">kind've</span> wonders the game's world building algorithm throws at you.</b></div><div><br /></div><div><b>Incidentally, to keep things exciting I'm playing the game on the hardest difficulty setting and when I die, my adventure ends. Usually when you die, you lose all the stuff you were carrying and start back at the spawn point (seen in the next screenshot) with anything you've built or stored still intact. I figure if I'm set to lose everything forever at the slightest mistake, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">things'll</span> stay as tense as this game can possibly get. Analogies fail me at this point, so we'll just have to play the game to see just how tense that is.</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>Without further ado...</b></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn2brdyeWhY84mb6UUBkn4N1B9Ac0QGDjg78hLxjV3ysQdoz6UCuzs4zgli7qe3LlUg9C9AN7_LMIWzAB6GPq8C_srxVMlB-Av7Jzb-sVrPHtA-7xclujIclmC-obe8iMsr0JRQ5n2jzV5/s1600/mcd1+2.png"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8YiyJE-2CWJgsbDiuAUP8zcd7V3ZbrqdH23oSwUWnKiiAVn7Svrun1awhlSBY5k8oFKv7S2x_hPLNr32hZT-oZJjPHXwKegD-BChqAitZksuV9J7T4LfaGCu7HwoiRZIq75mMwEAOoiKf/s1600/mcd1+3.png"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8YiyJE-2CWJgsbDiuAUP8zcd7V3ZbrqdH23oSwUWnKiiAVn7Svrun1awhlSBY5k8oFKv7S2x_hPLNr32hZT-oZJjPHXwKegD-BChqAitZksuV9J7T4LfaGCu7HwoiRZIq75mMwEAOoiKf/s320/mcd1+3.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556145430225184130" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 206px; " /></a></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">Bwuh</span>? Where...? Ugh.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>When I said terminally <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">blocky</span>, I meant TERMINALLY. Even the clouds have right-angles.</b></div><div><br /></div><div>Dammit! I told em that ship wouldn't last us past the Cube of Good Hope, I told em! So many leaks the piece of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">flotsam</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">must've</span> gone down before I had the sense to wake up.</div><div>Dammit dammit dammit. </div><div>And what did I do? I signed on-board anyway like the avaricious little fucker I am 'cause the bastards offered a cut of the profits and suspiciously generous benefits package. dammit.</div><div><br /></div><div>Ugh. Again. Let's see how I'm doing at least.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN7qY3g2kN379V10E0p92Na7R70GrO4WaypGWL0k9IrYfxVsOtcdv0lhU4f3mm-5HbghzTj_VUT_CWCk-KFlomfSYgAEXk52kj6vYKXPzN6rKHfJFDDDxOQUcYgA0Z8p5I9qlnwdW6-sQG/s1600/2011-01-03_13.13.16.png"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN7qY3g2kN379V10E0p92Na7R70GrO4WaypGWL0k9IrYfxVsOtcdv0lhU4f3mm-5HbghzTj_VUT_CWCk-KFlomfSYgAEXk52kj6vYKXPzN6rKHfJFDDDxOQUcYgA0Z8p5I9qlnwdW6-sQG/s320/2011-01-03_13.13.16.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557916261457685250" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Still the epitome of Cubic manliness and not a scratch on me! Considering what happened to the ship I figure I should probably thank the next deity I happen to meet for my uncharacteristic luckiness. But seriously now, where the hell am I?</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIS3psdyxOxhfCsHlt3VSkg9IGMUGf2d7XhfkN5rfR4oFugl7jGI5uK97BHxvwDjcGJH3I83bhAJm-rnR_3eTrnMjND6h3mYbCi8x7EyeWOOHvAengfF5QAwCG4DFz5MTAxGEmOwtgli_S/s1600/mcd1+4.png"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIS3psdyxOxhfCsHlt3VSkg9IGMUGf2d7XhfkN5rfR4oFugl7jGI5uK97BHxvwDjcGJH3I83bhAJm-rnR_3eTrnMjND6h3mYbCi8x7EyeWOOHvAengfF5QAwCG4DFz5MTAxGEmOwtgli_S/s320/mcd1+4.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556145431840790082" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 206px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">Hmm</span>. One hell of a bay out there. No sign of a wreck and I'm sure as hell not going bobbing for <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">snowglobes</span> or whatever-the-hell else the good <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">cap'n</span> thought would go down big in the orient. I'm on my own over here and all I'll have is what I find. There's tons of trees at least, so it's no desert island...</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXxXhUAzP4nqhlWQIv0Dw-q6ODs2__KsO30EW4sTUS0diKXnCYLlKdYxqL_eLOT7ylZFByosPYYprW4ySkn0eO0nBMwTlU27DTyb4o9A8J8VebUKenSTIkJmgV6v1EP9Tv2ji4nTPEvQTK/s1600/mcd1+5.png"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXxXhUAzP4nqhlWQIv0Dw-q6ODs2__KsO30EW4sTUS0diKXnCYLlKdYxqL_eLOT7ylZFByosPYYprW4ySkn0eO0nBMwTlU27DTyb4o9A8J8VebUKenSTIkJmgV6v1EP9Tv2ji4nTPEvQTK/s320/mcd1+5.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556145442623577986" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 207px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Or any <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">kind've</span> island, really. Jesus, this place goes on for miles! Mountains, trees, caves, and are those...</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYbiHWP_B74FNZxKvmJDzOKCjML_ODYrz2z9FLRdqU3i5Iq0X9qTM4VkJhvPd68M7urCEwm_S_SlZvOYr2hmfLPEUZZUfjvKy4mAjYVLNEt8rIqVYc-KLk6YJJXIHr9gswreE1_aA8yI8R/s1600/2011-01-03_12.19.47.png"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYbiHWP_B74FNZxKvmJDzOKCjML_ODYrz2z9FLRdqU3i5Iq0X9qTM4VkJhvPd68M7urCEwm_S_SlZvOYr2hmfLPEUZZUfjvKy4mAjYVLNEt8rIqVYc-KLk6YJJXIHr9gswreE1_aA8yI8R/s320/2011-01-03_12.19.47.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557902564986686098" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>COWS! <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">Doofiest</span> damn cows I've ever seen but near as I can tell they're fat and thriving, and if they can somehow survive out here despite the known universe apparently residing between their ears, then my infinitely more acute intellect should keep my head firmly above water until help arrives or I die a horrific, gruesome death for reasons that are entirely not my fault.</div><div>Speaking of gruesome deaths, that snow in the distance worries me. I've no idea of this place's climate; and judging by the snow-patches despite the current sunny weather, I'm guessing there's a fifty-fifty chance winter has either passed or it's on the way to bite me in the ass. I'm not sure I like those odds.</div><div><br /></div><div>First things first: I'll need some shelter. I've heard stories from other sailors (<b>Read: The <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">Minecraft</span> Wiki</b>) that these parts are rife with nocturnal monsters <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">that'll</span> devour a guy whole before the thought to "fuck right off" makes it halfway across his now-very-tooth-marked brain. Now I'm not the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">kind've</span> guy who believes everything spouted out by salty nutters whose entire experience of "Vitamin C" doesn't go past that chick who sang "Graduation", but whether it's from the jaws of flesh-hungry monstrosities or the nibbling voracity of these dumpy cows, I think I'm going to need protection in the form of some warm and comfy walls.</div><div><br /></div><div>Speaking of warm and comfy:</div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEC88SNPtCDJs99sNVQqp5fquLfmyL816J9_wILszyRMGpshRBPDdkQ6GV9Xyvgpadk9yjEFoMvM4nyrWvGjJF1zQAxmk_DAcny_EkwXF9vCK7vZsGje7tpRUUsypCggvVD18yWyzTHDBn/s1600/2011-01-03_12.15.28.png"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEC88SNPtCDJs99sNVQqp5fquLfmyL816J9_wILszyRMGpshRBPDdkQ6GV9Xyvgpadk9yjEFoMvM4nyrWvGjJF1zQAxmk_DAcny_EkwXF9vCK7vZsGje7tpRUUsypCggvVD18yWyzTHDBn/s320/2011-01-03_12.15.28.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557901446496868914" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Some sheep seem to have joined the cows in their League of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">Doofy</span> Wildlife. That wool could come in handy if I'm to fend off the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34">kind've</span> weather that bred that snow, but with no tools I'll have trouble getting it off Fluffy over there. Still... He seems pretty docile and there's probably some wool that's been shed but still mixed up with the skin-attached kind, I'll just grab him and see how much I can get with a few gentle tugs. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35">Heeeere</span>, Fluffy-baby, I'll just grab here and...</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmpuYkhc4XiJvG_A-MXY296kqi37QqbgGBijmdDP4cStCKmZTjwQjcIPZz_rXYj0pkCvZfzBtIsOPPfZ4x451wzBhIk0vGa35xhKr1Yqwh1NDcNGUn8ynGo-kXilR9j9_MbIJpzzH2le3T/s1600/sheepsplosion.gif"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmpuYkhc4XiJvG_A-MXY296kqi37QqbgGBijmdDP4cStCKmZTjwQjcIPZz_rXYj0pkCvZfzBtIsOPPfZ4x451wzBhIk0vGa35xhKr1Yqwh1NDcNGUn8ynGo-kXilR9j9_MbIJpzzH2le3T/s320/sheepsplosion.gif" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557919486837761538" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_36">Gah</span>! Fuck!</span></i> At the slightest nudge, damn-near every thread of wool explodes off of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_37">Fluffy's</span> flesh with terrifying tearing precision! These sheep are clearly built for convenience if not survivability. I hastily collect the fallen blocks(?) of wool and look around <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_38">shee</span>- I look around anyway. Well I got plenty of wool at least, though I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_39">kind've</span> feel bad for accidentally inflicting what must be my <i>Poke of Sheering Death (TM) </i>on fluffy over there.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpzYQzXsTPUednXoS9zKWPt5M9R0ROazhoe4-hRmtlkk1f9HcOf7ODnuAmDb6ILgyNinKpStfZD2jB0cijtTCnDKhyphenhyphen-fmfGhffrjIarbWKIG5kkh-vn2UN6DNchyphenhyphenS7F0SYNQHanMWKAGWn/s1600/2011-01-03_13.31.51.png"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpzYQzXsTPUednXoS9zKWPt5M9R0ROazhoe4-hRmtlkk1f9HcOf7ODnuAmDb6ILgyNinKpStfZD2jB0cijtTCnDKhyphenhyphen-fmfGhffrjIarbWKIG5kkh-vn2UN6DNchyphenhyphenS7F0SYNQHanMWKAGWn/s320/2011-01-03_13.31.51.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557921370924461330" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Actually, I may need to redact the <i>Death</i> bit from the title. Fluffy seems pretty okay considering the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_40">eldritch</span> forces apparently residing in my little finger have stripped him balder than Britney Spears on an off-day. Assuming winter's behind us, I've probably done him a favour, of course assuming winter's on its way I've doomed him to a slow descent into death's icy arms. I blissfully ignore this possibility as I shear some more sheep. Let's see how much wool I've got shall I? </div><div>Wait.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCDqx8qC5XCU7ZW9iVPV5VE4YuczKFJB8J0tSV7XgZN4y47Uyp7iboZvnAy7HiGj5YkT3ynJkHEVU_NuXkLl_M55zRRdDsJRR2qXVeJR2tcPh6ah8oUg1Y_3-uRS_3UIYp3kp87z6TIsLt/s1600/2011-01-03_15.21.45.png"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCDqx8qC5XCU7ZW9iVPV5VE4YuczKFJB8J0tSV7XgZN4y47Uyp7iboZvnAy7HiGj5YkT3ynJkHEVU_NuXkLl_M55zRRdDsJRR2qXVeJR2tcPh6ah8oUg1Y_3-uRS_3UIYp3kp87z6TIsLt/s320/2011-01-03_15.21.45.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557949402314269026" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Uh. Okay. Every piece of wool is inexplicably larger than the entire body of any member of Fluffy and Co.: the same size as every clump of dirt, sand or stone that makes up the entirety of my surroundings. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_41">Hurm</span>.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Just about anything in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_42">Minecraft</span> that isn't a creature or player-related tool is a uniformly sized cube. Dirt, sand, bricks, cacti, they're all different textures (and properties such as flammability) on equally-sized rigid blocks. All these blocks are breakable and collectible so as to place them elsewhere in (usually) the same state. This is what <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_43">Minecraft</span> is ultimately about: excavating and changing the landscape around you to suit your ends. It's difficult to describe just how compelling actions revolving around this simple <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_44">gameplay</span> mechanic can become, so I'll just let <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_45">Minecraft</span>-Me get back to it.</b></div><div><br /></div><div>I spend a while contemplating the economic implications of matter that can grow to a fixed mass regardless of its prior state, sheep related or otherwise, before I notice...</div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIR1MW3LwHNoEjFS3DPcLN1zR9XS9rh4TfRfCvnS1VShWC6FhHM-m_1RI9u3kcmM3JfwVi0jAJlkrp04Pcsp8xHI38sOe87bXtsiTyzCWEwS1Cp7PQ-bpGn-fe-lOgud5QafCLv8IoU2Od/s1600/2011-01-03_14.37.57.png"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIR1MW3LwHNoEjFS3DPcLN1zR9XS9rh4TfRfCvnS1VShWC6FhHM-m_1RI9u3kcmM3JfwVi0jAJlkrp04Pcsp8xHI38sOe87bXtsiTyzCWEwS1Cp7PQ-bpGn-fe-lOgud5QafCLv8IoU2Od/s320/2011-01-03_14.37.57.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557938523349508370" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIR1MW3LwHNoEjFS3DPcLN1zR9XS9rh4TfRfCvnS1VShWC6FhHM-m_1RI9u3kcmM3JfwVi0jAJlkrp04Pcsp8xHI38sOe87bXtsiTyzCWEwS1Cp7PQ-bpGn-fe-lOgud5QafCLv8IoU2Od/s1600/2011-01-03_14.37.57.png"></a>Damn. It's already midday and all my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_46">sheepy</span>-shenanigans have been burning precious daylight, I need to find a place to whether out the night before sundown, but where...</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicOj13TDGioqhGPorwyZnMnEutFPeOJsOK5ZWAzWOnnb_BaQshApRYQgbqhMfM-bczASg5N-sf9a6PJKqLH05HiVpRjS9UiCFGNxilRq5VFu1zOlU_qrOlWw-PZdmVgY1yi_H3j0F9spS3/s1600/2011-01-03_15.17.44.png"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicOj13TDGioqhGPorwyZnMnEutFPeOJsOK5ZWAzWOnnb_BaQshApRYQgbqhMfM-bczASg5N-sf9a6PJKqLH05HiVpRjS9UiCFGNxilRq5VFu1zOlU_qrOlWw-PZdmVgY1yi_H3j0F9spS3/s320/2011-01-03_15.17.44.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557948390458787778" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Bingo.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Next Time on <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_47">Minecraft</span> Adventures: Will the dingy cave provide shelter from the voracious undead hordes? Will our hero be overwhelmed by the truly impossible amount of things that can kill him? Will we finally get to see some motherfucking Mining and Crafting?</b></div></div></div></div></div></div></div><div><b>Short answer: "Hope so", "Hope not" and "Yes"</b></div><div><b>Long Answer: Tune in next time to find out.</b></div>Granthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02643239855692810325noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4077571206906508360.post-35346425741467054562010-12-12T02:51:00.000-08:002013-11-04T00:25:30.223-08:00My Worst Videogame Break-Ups<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="apple-style-span"><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black;">We've all been there, right? You meet someone, you find them to be fantastic, certain inexplicable arcane forces cause them to find yo</span></span>u tolerable too and you both decide to stick with each-other for a while. Completely natural, right? So you spend some time together, you're having fun and you're beginning to wonder if this might be a long-term deal. Then something happens, be it the emergence of a subtle irksome detail or a disagreement that blasts you apart, and suddenly an avalanche of disillusionment has crushed your affection under its inescapable suffocating blanket. You can't bear another second unless you get away, so you do. Cue depression. We've all been there right?</span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black;">Well I haven't. Ha.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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While I'm sure having no romantic ability whatsoever has its fair share of downfalls, I’m convinced that the advantages of not having to deal with romantic love outweigh the disadvantages, if that weeping beachside hobo stuffing octopi into his pants is to be believed anyway. That said: I'm no robot. I doubt you can be truly human unless you've got something to love, and don't I just love the hell out've videogames to the exclusion of all else? However, just because they're pulse-less, soulless piles of data shoved into a magical electric box, it doesn't mean they can't do a guy wrong. I've had countless relationships with videogames over the years (not the digital characters<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>in</i><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>videogames, mind you. That would be weird), and most of them begin and end fairly amicably: fun while they last, and ending because eventually I just want different things. But sometimes things are a bit messier than that. Sometimes I find a game that I fall suddenly and madly in love with before it brutally tears my nearest approximation of a heart out of its socket and crushes it between its cold digital fingers. Here are a few of those "sometimes".</div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black;"><b>Fallout 3</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black;">Some guy once said that you could never have too much of a good thing. This guy was a blithering moron for many reasons, but the most crucial flaw in his theory is his failure to account for repetition’s constant exposure of shittiness: That is, the universal truth that enjoyment of a subtly flawed experience, no matter how initially enjoyable, will gradually and constantly decline as it is repeated since good aspects lose their novelty while shitty aspects seem more grating every time they’re seen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black;"><i>Also known as the HIMYM factor.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black;">After hundreds of hours of blowing mutants of varying levels of ‘super’ into tiny bits with my inexplicably green slow motion powers, my love for wasteland-murderin’ has run drier than Helen Zille’s bathing suit area and only the game’s increasingly prevalent crap makes any impact on me. Intense bazooka duels in the ruins of the <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Lincoln</st1:place></st1:city> memorial? Been and Done. Dismembered a swarm of zombies with a miniature nuke? Old news. Occasions on which I stuck a chainsaw up the power-armoured ass of a US army marine so as to steal his plasma rifle and blast his pet Deathclaw into goo? I’ve lost count. Now whenever I even think of the game, all I can see is the grimy textures of the endless wastes, the stiff animations of a hundred forgettable NPCs, and all I can hear is the sound of those three guys they got to do the voice acting, their NPCs’ faces frozen in a soulless stare, casually suggesting that I kill some giant mole-rats for them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black;">Real-Life Counterpart:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black;">Marriage.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black;"><b>Bioshock</b></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black;">I could write countless essays on how bad this game truly is, and I plan to if I’m ever in a bad enough mood, but here’s the short of it: <i>Bioshock</i>, despite having interesting (albeit unoriginal) combat mechanics and excellent atmosphere up to a point, has the stupidest and most insulting storyline out of any game I’ve ever played. And I’ve played an adaptation of <i>Spiderman 3</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3FnwiEapEmNqpAsRDML6A7lxT8epwEfE8LbrJKjTGZZ6DG7Jc-APeeAFJrlBDcUemv5WO6f4JAg5rm4Sgng9aMDcOa5R1DZRzmocsYCtz48alxu3dW1PcJuZ6chwl2gXloTBtaF1TOnsl/s1600/splicer.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549750276388042722" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3FnwiEapEmNqpAsRDML6A7lxT8epwEfE8LbrJKjTGZZ6DG7Jc-APeeAFJrlBDcUemv5WO6f4JAg5rm4Sgng9aMDcOa5R1DZRzmocsYCtz48alxu3dW1PcJuZ6chwl2gXloTBtaF1TOnsl/s320/splicer.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; height: 180px; width: 320px;" /></a></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black;"><i>For you see, my vastly intellectual colleagues, the stiff, unconvincing, and extremely repetitive enemies are supposed to represent the...oh wait, the game's just shit. My mistake. moving right along.</i></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black;">After hearing the endless multitudes of game reviewers and cavalcade of people with low standards claiming that <i>Bioshock</i>’s story was the most awesome thing since Big met Bang, I picked it up at a bargain price and played through it. Now, the geek code forbids me from saying any spoilers here, even though this story hardly deserves to be preserved for the lucky ignorant. Suffice to say, the game comes up with the most ass-derived idiotic twist imaginable to justify its painfully linear progression, before trying to convince the player how stupid they are for falling for it. It was kind of like George Lucas showing up at the end of the Star Wars prequel trilogy and going “Hoho, for you see, I made Jar Jar Binks specifically so you would hate him and embrace your anger, going down the path to the dark side alongside Anakin Skywalker! Now don’t you morons think I’m just the smartest fucking man alive?” When writers try to justify their own hack-itude with claims on the audience’s stupidity like this, rewarding them by slapping on game-of-the-year awards isn’t painting much of a future for the games industry, guys.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black;">Anyway, after a first playthrough in which I kind of enjoyed the game but was indifferent to the story, and a second playthrough in which a good think about the idiocies of the game’s plot made my blood boil over like racial tension on Paul McCartney’s piano, I left the damn thing alone for good; only to be tormented by the still on-going singing of the game’s undeserving praises.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black;">Real Life Counterpart:</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: black;">That girl who initially seems intelligent, arty and interesting, but proves to be a shallow manipulative bitch with a god complex. After the inevitable breakup, you slowly driven insane by an endless stream of pretentious morons chastising you for not appreciating what you had, and refusing to believe that what you <i>had</i> was a girlfriend who repeatedly kicked you in the nuts so as to make an ironic artsy statement about the downfall of modern masculinity. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><b>Tropico 3</b></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">I lent it to a friend and he won’t give it back.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Real-Life Counterpart:</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">“Hey, just because we got an open relationship, doesn’t mean you can move in with my best friend just because of his superior gaming rig and ability to punch me into paste. You’re so shallow. God!”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><b>Fire Emblem</b></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">For me, the Fire Emblem series has a lot of things going for it. A turn-based strategy game with RPG character progression has pretty much been my dream-genre ever since I played <i>Shining Force </i>on a friend’s rapidly disintegrating Sega Genesis. Unfortunately, whenever I try to get back into <i>Fire Emblem: The Sacred Stones</i>, my favourite in the series, I’m mercilessly slapped down by the game’s brilliantly sadistic methods of getting me to bust out the crying snacks.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">You see, the series seems to pride itself on the fact that if one of your (fairly few) characters dies in battle, that character can never be used again. This mechanic has some upsides, since it encourages players to use defensive strategies such as forcing enemies to only attack tougher units, and gives every move an underlying sense of tension and dread. On the other hand, battles can take up to two hours to complete and have no check points. Also, units have a varying chance of scoring a critical hit which triples the amount of damage done, and considering most scuffles are live-or-die affairs as is, this is a death sentence for anyone not covered in at least three tanks.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsLBQkq1qi2rciFM_vVTrtLpQuhoYh4iPSlqYJ1X75Tkj_vyrlViqrfdVTtKdbel9s9S_uZ2WuZc-BxV1wnUFpH1PLQaYjyeTMuxtm-cYlUUyZc8vEhcJ7D4EOVQuUa0ttVqt5QynIQM-K/s1600/fe+general.png"><span class="Apple-style-span"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549754327490992882" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsLBQkq1qi2rciFM_vVTrtLpQuhoYh4iPSlqYJ1X75Tkj_vyrlViqrfdVTtKdbel9s9S_uZ2WuZc-BxV1wnUFpH1PLQaYjyeTMuxtm-cYlUUyZc8vEhcJ7D4EOVQuUa0ttVqt5QynIQM-K/s320/fe+general.png" style="cursor: pointer; height: 123px; width: 263px;" /></span></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><i>Only he is safe. </i></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">That’s not really the problem though, difficulty I can deal with. It’s the way that the game sadistically dangles fantastic (and necessary) rewards in front of my nose while devising impossibly hazardous requirements to get them. For example, in an early mission you are given the option to recruit one of the strongest characters in the game. Problem is, he starts as an enemy unit, an enemy unit that makes a bee-line for only your weakest units, insta-killing them with a sword designed for the aforementioned critical hits. The only way to recruit him is to get one specific character, a completely defenseless cleric chick, to walk right up to him and talk to him. He subsequently FLIPS A FUCKING COIN to determine whether he joins you or slices the cleric up right there.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">The fantastic strategic combat, creative animation and (surprisingly for a Japanese-translated game) great dialogue just can’t hope to detract from the fact that in the final minutes of a three hour battle, where through a glorious but painful push filled with countless close calls, I had decisively crushed the enemy’s defensive lines and prepared for victory, only to have a squad of Pegasus-knights with critical-hitting weapons unexpectedly swooping in from outside the map to brutally and permanently gut both my favourite wizard and those three hours of my life.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">And I retry the goddamned mission anyway.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Real-Life Counterpart:</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">That gorgeous, brilliant dream-girl for whom you feel deep uncontrollable affection even though she takes every opportunity to think up and execute new abuses and tortures that scar you down to the deepest recesses of your soul; but you take it anyway. Also she has a bear trap attached to her vagina. True story.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><b>Dragon Age: Origins</b></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">DA:O differs from the other games on this list in that it is in no way to blame for our strained relationship. In all honesty, this game has everything I’ve ever wanted in a game: Deep, complex characters, intense and dynamic tactical combat, in-depth character customisation and progression, the ability to play a character with a personality truly of your choosing, gorgeous locations and a fully realised world-mythology. The game is an absolute dream that I could easily lose myself in for endless hours.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvlj0m96YKdtIB4r8q-BZM8KeOxCAIDQvGnoC7wtzhp6KCBWr6mjC8pk344iVt9uRt7IqkOsdw6IcVT8EbXblizZhOLIX51dpljbb8RWlUtY9e3x1KgQbx51FTzNTvPbYfJGQqs2OfflwF/s1600/alistair_archdemon.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556037524308206962" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvlj0m96YKdtIB4r8q-BZM8KeOxCAIDQvGnoC7wtzhp6KCBWr6mjC8pk344iVt9uRt7IqkOsdw6IcVT8EbXblizZhOLIX51dpljbb8RWlUtY9e3x1KgQbx51FTzNTvPbYfJGQqs2OfflwF/s320/alistair_archdemon.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; height: 200px; width: 320px;" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><i>Oh HELL YES!</i></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">That’s the problem.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">After my soul-crushing over-playing of Fallout 3 led to my utter inability to grasp anything of my past affection for it, I have become terrified that should I play any more of Dragon Age (a game for which I have nothing but the fondest memories) the same thing will happen, forever killing the brightest spark in my otherwise cold and shrivelled heart.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Real-world Counterpart:</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">The perfect woman: gorgeous, intelligent, kind, strong-willed, available and actually interested in you, but who you’re terrified of getting close to because you just can’t bear to be hurt again.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Well, that’s by closet-shoebox-of-relationship-doom for you. I don’t know if my experiences truly relate to the standard human-on-human deals the rest of you seem so fond of, but if yours hurt anything as bad as mine, I’ll pass on the extra heartbreak that genuine human bonding might bring to the table. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m on my third try of the last mission on <i>Fire Emblem</i> and I’m almost sure the game won’t randomly spawn a legion of Elite Fo’kyu Knights to tear apart my irreplaceable back-lines this time.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Actually no. No I’m not. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">And I love her for it.</span></div>
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Granthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02643239855692810325noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4077571206906508360.post-38162703739108016912010-08-14T05:22:00.000-07:002010-08-14T05:25:26.451-07:00One Last Glimpse and a Heartfelt Goodbye: Toy Story 3 Review<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CStudent%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><link rel="themeData" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CStudent%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_themedata.thmx"><link rel="colorSchemeMapping" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CStudent%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_colorschememapping.xml"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves/> <w:trackformatting/> 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mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} </style> <![endif]--> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">****************************************************************<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Plot Synopsis (Mild spoiler warning):<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">We rejoin the toys belonging to a boy named Andy just as he prepares to depart for college and leave most of his secretly sentient childhood playthings behind. The Toys, feeling abandoned and disillusioned with their lives’ purpose as a result, organise to be sent to a children’s daycare for an apparent existence of eternal attention and play. After discovering that the daycare is a far-cry from their initial expectations, the Toys attempt to escape, but are still plagued by the idea of existence without the meaning provided by their owner’s love.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">*****************************************************************</span></p><p style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">The <i style="">Toy Story</i> movies, the flagship franchise of current animation kings Pixar studios, have always held a small place in my heart (although some might say that in comparison to the rest of it, this space is relatively gargantuan, but I digress). The first instalment was the first film I ever watched in a theatre, and in what was likely and intentional move by the creators, I and my generation have aged in parallel to the series’ timeline and the character of Andy, with the final instalment arriving roughly fourteen years after main-toys Woody (a cowboy doll) and Buzz Lightyear (a space-ranger action figure) began “falling with style” into our young hearts.
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<br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">In Pixar’s latest (and in my opinion, greatest) venture into animated storytelling, Andy, the subject of the titular Toys’ existence, is undergoing the transition to adulthood that strikes an all too familiar chord; particularly with my newly-matriculated generation. The experience of leaving one’s childhood behind is made intimately familiar through the excellent first act, which wrenches us from a pulse-pounding full recreation of an imagined playtime scenario (which long-time fans will surely find hilariously familiar), through time and into Andy’s barren pre-adulthood where the Toys, once central to Andy’s life, have gradually come to the realisation that having been outgrown by their child, they now face a sentient toy’s closest approximation to death, and must essentially choose their afterlife in either the deceptively heavenly day-care, or a hiatus in the attic in anticipation of the messianic arrival of Andy’s possible future children.</span></p><p style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">This theme of mortality and loss of self has always lain subtly beneath the surface of the <i style="">Toy Story</i> movies. The first film deals with Woody’s fears of replacement by the flashier Buzz Lightyear (who had to come to terms with his own syntheticity as a space ranger), while the second dealt with Woody’s chance at a loveless immortality in opposition to the abandonment that, due to his choice in said movie, faces him and his comrades in this one. This sense of consequence and character development across sequels is rare, especially amongst “kids movies”, but it’s a testament to Pixar’s sincerity and growth in storytelling that one can look at <i style="">Toy Story 3</i>-Woody’s expression of utter horror at being chosen as the favourite and <u>only</u> toy to accompany Andy to college, and (with no narrative discomfort) identify it as belonging to the same core character as <i style="">Toy Story 1</i>-Woody (who would probably have jumped at the idea).</span></p><p style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Deeper meanings and emotions aside, <i style="">Toy Story 3</i>’s content is immensely entertaining: Pixar continue to display their mastery of visual comedy in totally unexpected ways, and even manages to slip in some subtle humour that the adults in the audience can chuckle at while their infants, placated by more obvious (but no less hilarious) assaults on our funny-bones drool in oblivious bewilderment. There’s also no shortage of “Grand-Heist-genre” thrills as the Toys face the familiar challenges of getting from point A to B despite their small stature and cardinal rule of not revealing their “non-inanimate-object” status to any humans; challenges that are over come with amusingly childlike ingenuity (further playing into the film’s themes). In terms of visuals, the fact that the characters look so vibrant and expressive but so familiar to their 90’s iterations highlights Pixar’s excellence in character design even then; and the film’s various locations convey their intended sense of mood (whether it be emotional emptiness, innocent contentment or suppressive horror) perfectly.
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<br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">If anything about <i style="">Toy Story 3 </i>can be criticised, I would mention that Woody’s female counterpart Jessie the Cowgirl isn’t really given any meaningful development in this instalment, which seems strange considering she practically carried the second, in which her character was revealed to have abandonment issues which should have surfaced more strongly given the Toys’ current predicament. Also, I feel that the motivations of the film’s antagonist, which are revealed to be incredibly deep and interesting when given careful thought, could have been made infinitely more accessible simply through one extra line of dialogue.</span></p><p style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:11pt;" ><span style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >Ultimately though, the film is a masterpiece of cinema and storytelling, and the most perfect possible way to end this fantastic trilogy. With deep, funny, memorable characters, great animated visuals living up to the Pixar pedigree and an ending that astoundingly managed to drag out the first shred of genuine emotion I’ve felt in years, Toy Story 3 is almost certainly the best way to spend two hours and sixty bucks that I can think of. I can’t really recommend the film on its own though, since much of its brilliance and emotional weight stems from how it builds on the first two instalments and our long-time attachments to the characters. If you’ve watched the first two films, you should definitely watch this one. If you haven’t watched the first two, you should definitely watch them as soon as humanly possible and <u>then</u> watch this one. The Toy Story trilogy is one that must be experienced, not just because it’ll entertain one’s kids, not just because it looks fantastic, but because unlike most movies it genuinely <i style="">gives</i> us something: A final glimpse into the magic and tumultuousness of our beloved childhoods, and the best possible way to come to terms with bidding them goodbye.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p> Granthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02643239855692810325noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4077571206906508360.post-80253751218338425532010-08-10T02:28:00.001-07:002010-08-14T05:19:11.911-07:00DreamsI'm in London, as it seems to be an appropriate location for this sort of thing. Dinosaurs are rampaging through the city, which not only fails to surprise me, but has a ring of boring inevitability to my dream-logic-addled mind. I'm shooting through the air in a jet-pack because (of course) I am an immensely famous person, and I therefore happened to be performing an incredible aerial acrobatics show that somehow advertised some brand of men's perfume I don't care about when the outbreak hit.<br /><br />This is all really, REALLY cool.<br /><br />I'm flying low now, zooming scant metres above the devastated streets and weaving between the skyscrapers of the London CBD as savage reptilian heads extend from their windows in explosions of glass and the entrails of unfortunate window-cleaners, grabbing and slashing at me as I dodge them with an air of mocking confidence.<br />Seriously, why aren't more dreams anything like this?<br /><br />I bank upward, angling my berocketed-legs towards the ground and willing myself into a sky of utter empty whiteness. Everything freezes for an instant as I stand suspended, then what seems very much like the universe explodes beneath me and I'm shooting upward, arcing lightning and all traces of my past despair trailing behind in a blinding shower.<br /><br />Looking down, I notice that the universe hasn't actually exploded after all. London stretches out for miles all around me, waves of prehistoric death machines flow through the streets while scaly titans lay waste to any buildings that their claws and tails and teeth can reach.<br /><br />Central in my field of vision (as conveniently as one would expect given the circumstances) is my target. An armored body built with focused destructive purpose blitzes its way through apartment block and shopping mall and suburban palace alike, its gargantuan tail sweeping flat anything its clumsy claws couldn't finish in a fashion of sadistic perfectionism. As I swoop towards the beast to get a better view, its eye, pupil twisting and narrowing like an organic targeting reticule, meets mine. We begin.<br /><br />I enter the storm of whirling claws without a second thought. Titanic blades of bone seem to fill every inch of air I'm not occupying. I'm dodging, knowing everything there is to know about the life I've taken on and how to preserve it. I duck and kick upwards, falling under a twirling tail and shooting just out of reach of the following jaws. I take the offensive, gliding as close as I can to the now exposed belly before turning my feet towards it and blasting in the opposite direction, the force of my launch sending the behemoth reeling backwards.<br />Sensing my chance as the beast steadies itself, I swoop upwards-upwards until everything that seemed huge and horrible in the world, the beast most of all, is revealed to be insignificant in comparison with my littlest finger. I know it's time to dive and I do, the air around me inexplicably filling with a plethora of barely glimpsed colors as my descent quickens towards its climax. I quickly spin, realign my body and divert power to the rockets in my palms: streaking towards my adversary in a blazing diagonal kick. There's an inferno in the palm of my hand now, its blue heart pumping masses of white flame into the now burning heavens. The beast turns to see its death approaching with a familiar eye, which before my boot plunges into it, witnesses the air itself cracking in submission to my velocity. In its final throes, the beast angles its fatal entry point directly upwards, whining with barely an echo of its former ferocity before I, in grim satisfaction, divert all power to my now deeply-embedded foot.<br /><br />Bang.<br /><br />I'm propelled upwards with the speed of a hell-bound erinyes, flaming shards of skull and spine initially surround me before disintegrating under their own force. A world of joy swells in me as my ascent peaks long after the extent of the galaxy opens up to me. My peaceful but brief descent is rewarded with a city cleansed of its reptilian horror (for in my mind, in this world, the battle has ultimately been won, and the other murderous dinosaurs have been dismissed as unnecessarily pedantic). I've won, everything feels amazing. I've won and I'm a hero and I can fly and I'm happy and I've done the most fantastic thing I'll ever do and none of this is rea<span style="font-size:100%;">l</span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" ><span>.</span></span><br /><br />My eyes pop open and I'm in my bed looking upwards at the filthy Grey, impenetrable ceiling of my dorm.<br />"Well. That's that then," I mumble; turning over and going back to sleep.Granthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02643239855692810325noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4077571206906508360.post-1324775582492164692010-07-20T09:49:00.000-07:002013-11-04T00:15:55.415-08:00Caribbean Dictators in SPACE!: Reviews of some videogames.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I'm sure that most of </span><s><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">my readers</span></s><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><s><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">friends</span></s><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> you guys have long since deducted that I have a mildly crippling <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">videogame</span> addiction, both from the subtle hints that I include in just about everything I write and the less subtle fact that I never leave the house. Your Holmes-like intuition has proved correct once again it seems as, yes, I do engage in tons of "any-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">goddamned</span>-thing-BUT-r<wbr></wbr></span><span class="word_break" style="display: block; float: left; margin-left: -10px; padding: 0px;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">eal</span>-life" simulators; and yes, it impacts on my already <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">lazyness</span>-marred productivity something fierce.<br /><br />I've always wanted to write proper pieces about the activity that eats up the vast majority of my free time, but I've aways had the niggling sensation at the back of my mind that the infinitely cool members of my friends list just wouldn't care.<br />I mean, seriously now: <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">VIDEOGAMES</span>! Just think about the enormity of how much you don't care right now. Go on, just think about it.<br />Scary isn't it? You see what I'm working with here?<br /><br />However, after having finally come to the inspiring conclusion that No-one cares about ramblings regardless of their subject matter, I've decided to share my thoughts on the latest four dastardly software-contributors to my eventual total emotional death anyway!<br /><br />I recently bought Mass Effect and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Tropico</span> 3 for dirt cheap online, having heard good things about all of them. I'll give my thoughts on how they measured up:<br /><br />**************************<wbr></wbr></span><span class="word_break" style="display: block; float: left; margin-left: -10px; padding: 0px;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">**************</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><b><big><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">MASS EFFECT 1</span></big></b></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><b><big><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"So uh, after we k</span></span></span></big></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><b><big><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">ill these dudes and save the galaxy from an army of robotic dreadnoughts bent on the total extermination of organic life, you wanna catch a movie or something? If we're not killed in some contrived plot twist I mean.</span></span></span></big></b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><b><big><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Mass effect is one of the newer games to be released by <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Bioware</span>, the studio who developed <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Baldur's</span> Gate and Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Bioware</span> are widely regarded as the kings of the Role Playing genre (i.e. games where you decide how your character develops as the game progresses, both in combat style and how he/she reacts to in game situations), but although character development, equipment arranging and conversation play a large part of Mass Effect's <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">gameplay</span>, the core combat revolves around cover-based shooting from a third person perspective a la Gears of War.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">As in most <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">RPG's</span>, you choose a class for your character that caters for your preferred methods of inserting bullets into certain undesirables' faces. You have the soldier, who can use all types of weapons with which to shoot people in the face; the Biotic, who has a wonderful array of psychic ways of knocking people over so someone else can shoot them in the face, and the engineer, who throws explosive mines with a variety of effects that aid in the shooting of guys' faces by you and your somewhat useless companions. There are also hybrid classes that mix aspects of the existing base three (e.g. Soldier/Biotic or Engineer/Soldier). As you complete objectives, resolve problems and of course, engage in face-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">shootery</span>, you gain "experience points" which allow you to gain combat abilities or upgrade old ones, once again, standard fare for a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Bioware</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">RPG</span>.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The combat itself is where Mass Effect differs from the Dungeons & Dragons based battle systems that <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Bioware</span> utilized in its other games (feel free to skip to the next paragraph if you're familiar with third-person cover-based shooters). When attacked by guys with faces deemed <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">shootable</span> by the game's moral code, you'll have to use cover to survive the deadly gunfire of your assorted opponents. taking out your weapons will make your character automatically stick to walls where, once attached, you can press the fire button to pop out quickly and shoot (before automatically ducking back into safety) or press the aim button to stay out of cover and shoot accurately using your weapon's sights for as long as you feel your face can risk it's consistency.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Fairly unique to shooter-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">gameplay</span> is the ability to pause the game to issue orders to your two <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">squadmates</span> and queue an ability to be used accurately when you <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">un</span>-pause, so you can respond to threats tactically. Many missions also require exploration and combat within an armored buggy, which has some satisfyingly bouncy controls, but isn't used to do anything particularly interesting.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The combat is decent fun and keeps you on your toes both in terms of reflexes and tactical reasoning, and fighting your way through the often gorgeous <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">setpieces</span> is as thrilling an experience as you're likely to find without prying your <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">gargantuanly</span> lazy buttocks from your safe, comfy chair.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The stories of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">Bioware</span> games are usually top-notch and defy the standard <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">videogame</span> premise of "There's aliens or terrorists or some shit and YOU (alongside your wisecracking ethnic sidekick) are the ONLY ONE who can STOP THEM!. In Mass Effect, a particularly unpleasant member of the galactic secret police has gathered a massive robotic army behind him to serve his mysterious agenda, while you (the only human member of this group) and your mostly alien squad have to...<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">Waaaaaaiiit</span> a minute.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">Ok</span>, so the premise isn't exactly oozing originality, but it certainly has its high points, not least of which is your cool, sinister antagonist, and a twist which brilliantly and hilariously both explains and parodies the game's own spotty sci-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">fi</span> setting. More critical players may find some plot points to be a bit contrived and manipulative of one's emotions, but for the most part, it's <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">Bioware</span> doing what <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">Bioware</span> does best, making you genuinely give a shit about the lifeless polygons on your screen. Of course, the heart of every <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">Bioware</span> game is its characters, and fans of the studio's previous efforts will find learning about the game's universe through exploration and conversation with the game's great cast of characters to be as entertaining and fulfilling as ever, even if said characters lack the usual emotional depth seen in the studio's other efforts.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The conversation system itself, one of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">Bioware's signature features,</span> which almost always appears in one form or another, is not without its flaws. Whereas other <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">Bioware </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">RPG's</span> let you choose from a list of fairly complicated responses for your character that non-player characters (<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">NPCs</span>) will respond to (provoking your response and so on) Mass Effect provides a radial menu (seen in the following screenshot) with shorthand indications of the lines your voice acted character will say.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></big></b></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><b><big><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">For example: Here's a screenshot of a conversation with the ruggedly handsome <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">Wrex</span>, one of your companions/<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34">squadmates</span>/guys<wbr></wbr></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> who hopefully die before you do. One of the ridiculously vague conversation </span><i style="font-family: 'lucida sans','lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">choices</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> for your character to say is "keep talking". Now, the dialog your character produces (and the direction of the conversation) only roughly follows the tone of the option you choose, and connotation-ambiguous stuff like "keep talking" can and WILL be interpreted in ways that you don't intend. You might choose "keep talking" thinking it means you'll say "Go on, I'm interested in your tales of reptilian <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35">badassery</span> and want to be <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_36">BFs</span>-4-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_37">LYF</span>" while the game might interpret it as "Tell me everything you know or I'll blow you back to the discovery channel!" or worse: "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_38">Oooh</span>, keep talking, I like the way your sexy lizard lips move." You pretty much have to roll the dice at each turn and hope desperately that you don't get boned one way or another.<br /><br />There are some other minor issues: The non-linear progression on the plot screws with the game's pacing in that you can inadvertently get too much conversation and too little action (or vice <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_39">versa</span>) in one stretch depending on order in which you do missions. The game is also a tad reliant on the lacklustre non-essential missions that have nothing to do with the main plot, since the missions on the main storyline can be very difficult if one hasn't gained the combat skills and equipment that these "side quests" offer.<br /><br />Overall though, the game is great, and though it may be <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_40">Bioware's</span> worst game: calling it the worst thing to come out of the studio is hardly a major knock on its quality.<br />It's combat is fun and satisfying, it's world is great to fall in to, and its story, although somewhat mediocre by <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_44">Bioware</span> standards, is miles above most other studios' attempts to pull at your heart-strings.<br /></span><big><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">4 pairs of space pants out of 5</span></big><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /><br />**************************<wbr></wbr></span><span class="word_break" style="display: block; float: left; margin-left: -10px; padding: 0px;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">****<br /></span><b><big><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_45">TROPICO</span> 3</span></big></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /><br />I'm sure most of you have played some sort of simulator in the past, whether it be a game about the building of an expansive metropolis in "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_46">Simcity</span>" or the micro-management of The Sims' pointless little lives. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_47">Tropico</span> 3 takes all the best aspects from other simulation titles and combines them into a complex but relatively easy to learn sandbox of political buggery that will finally answer the age-old question of how how things would be "if only I was running things!"<br /><br />You take the role of a small Caribbean island's new "El <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_48">Presidente</span>", and can subsequently either lead your small island nation to a future of prosperous democracy, embezzle your way through your own personal brand of dictatorship, or anything in-between; all within the context of the cold war-dominated mid-20<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_49">th</span> century. The game has a great sense of parody around it, and everything in the game, from the light-hearted propaganda spouted by your island's radio station to the loading-screen quotes by real-life dictators, seems to make fun of the kind of "democracy" that sprang up during the last century's dingier periods.<br /><br />Where <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_50">Tropico</span> 3 really shines as a strategy/simulator is its ability to cater for any type of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_51">playstyle</span> by offering the choice of many entertaining solutions to the many problems your island might face. For example, say it's early on in the game and the island's religious faction feels neglected because your burgeoning farming nation hasn't built a full-on cathedral yet: You can either tighten your belt and build the darn thing (after appealing for foreign aid from the USA by letting them test their nukes on your pristine tropical paradise), ignore the protestors and build up your military to fight off the inevitable rebel uprising, bribe, arrange an "accident" for the faction's leader or stage a public book burning and/or order a contraception ban to appease the rioting devout at the cost of education efficiency and a huge influx of job-requiring, food-guzzling, for-you-probably-not-voting youngsters respectively. Every choice has (highly amusing) consequences for your island, and the game has a great way of mixing in unforeseen consequences so you'll never fall into bored complacency in between show trials.<br /><br />Aside from balancing approval of different factions on your island, and keeping the ever-looming forces of the USA and the Soviet Union from deciding to practice their invasion techniques on your dictatorial buttocks in the name of "democracy", <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_52">Tropico</span> 3's core <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_53">gameplay</span> revolves around construction of infrastructure and the managing of your Island's economy. Unlike most building <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_54">sims</span>, which tend to revolve around "build magic money generating structure X so you can build a few of non-profit building Y", <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_55">Tropico</span> 3 has a much more realistic system to be exploited in the interest of keeping the presidential slush fund healthy. Structures have to be built by hired construction workers, and goods produced from your farms, mines and other resource generating structures must be picked up by teamsters and shipped to your dock for export before the sweet caress of cash can fill the nation's coffers. More advanced industries (and their more advanced profit margins) require said resources to function, and must be staffed with educated employees, who must be either educated on the island or hired from abroad. Managing the different aspects of your country feels really stimulating, and as in most large-scale simulators it is immensely satisfying to build from this:<br /></span></span></big></b></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><b><big><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><a href="http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?pid=5172950&op=1&view=all&subj=421235725776&aid=-1&auser=0&oid=421235725776&id=653501267" style="color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;"><img class="img" src="http://sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc4/hs079.snc4/35314_412668156267_653501267_5172950_2827431_n.jpg" style="border-width: 0px; display: block; margin: 0px; width: 460px;" /></a></span></big></b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><b><big><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />(Gotta love how every cent of the island's wealth has so far been invested solely in your presidential palace while your loyal subjects have barely a handful of shacks to their name.)<br /><br />to this:<br /></span><div class="photo photo_none" style="border-width: 0px; clear: both; line-height: 14px; padding: 0px;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />*Disclaimer: This republic was in no way contributed to by the selling, eating or concept of bananas.<br /><br />You can also take direct control of your own avatar, who can boost buildings' efficiency and help out in military skirmishes with any rebels that don't buy into the idea of your presidential perfection.<br /><br />The graphics are beautifully vibrant, the the engine remarkably optimised so that your island will be breathtaking at any level of zoom, while keeping the strain off of your computer's hardware. Foliage sways, buildings catch the sunlight with a realistic gleam and your citizens perform the myriad actions in their daily lives with realistic animation (even though you'l spend the majority of your precious presidential time hundreds of meters above them,where you won't see it).<br /><br />The level of complexity might feel overwhelming for some, especially those not used to gaming problems that require more complex and premeditated solutions than "click on these bad guys with your death-laser equipped." Luckily the game features a tutorial and a set of campaign missions that will teach you how to deal with a variety of situations, while introducing all the wonderful ways to toy with the lives of lesser mortals. The game also features a level editor and a thriving online community with which to share custom scenarios and compare mission scores.<br /><br />Overall, Tropico 3 is brilliant. It's beautiful, functional and entertaining at every turn, and the gameplay's economic and political depth will definitely satisfy the control-freak nerds among you. But that's also a problem. This is a game for nerds. Big nerds. The kind of nerds who watch Dr. Strangelove and discuss the political allegories of Watchmen in internet forums while fantasizing about revolutionary income-tax systems: My type of Nerd. Many might not derive the same level of fun from the game, but if you have the patience to discover it, the inner workings of Tropico 3 will give you everything you've ever wanted out of a management sim, while its lighthearted sense of satire will keep you chuckling throughout.<br /></span><big><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">5 defrauded elections out of 5</span></big><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> (Though it might not be your cup of tea)<br /><br /></span></span></big></b></span></div>
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Granthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02643239855692810325noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4077571206906508360.post-25210703061286028262010-07-20T09:48:00.000-07:002010-08-11T02:32:35.279-07:00Dreadlocks, Taxis, Jacob Zuma and the Flossy Courtesan: My walk down the road.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); line-height: 14px;font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;" >This could be interesting. The “residence what has a right screwy name” (RWHARSN) as I have named it, as it’s titular right screwy name has made it absolutely necessary that I do so, requires that I get some photos of myself to accommodate their intricate legislation cipher. Old fashioned glossy studio photos, mind you. Not like the wonderful digitally captured and meticulously printed out set of images I handed them. Seeing as I prefer not to keep stone-age devices in my presence, on account of that thing Og D. Caveman said about my mother and the walrus that one time, I lack any kind of camera that could get the needed snaps. I therefore have to scope out the local chemists for photography booths all the while hoping they don’t share my sentiments (and only keep the damned things around with a sense of detached irony, if at all).<br /><br />Since my fine self lacks any personal transportation, it seems I’ll be exploring Rondebosch’s labyrinthine roadworks on (soon to be quite sore) foot. Woo. At least I have an actual existential map this time, lacking any specific indication of chemists of course, but if I check around the area filled with the pretentiously roofed condos, I’m sure to find something vaguely pharmaceutical. Upper-middle class socialites gotta get their happy pills somewhere, right?<br /><br />Judging by my ravishingly high quality and not at all needlessly overpriced digitally printed map, the condos in question seem to be lingering around the quite inspirationally named “Main Road”. Since my shrewd detective skills have suggested that this Street could possibly be quite Major, I’m guessing that there’ll be at least one chemist in which I may obtain my gorily glossy goals. The road even shares a border with my Residence. This should be easy too.<br /><br />*One fairly uninteresting yet long and pointless walk later*<br /><br />Okay, how in the Sam Hill did I manage to walk in the exact opposite direction to the one I read off the map? There I was: Standing at a T-junction, looking at my map and thinking, “Alright, I have to turn left here”, and then I go right for some reason. Gah! Sometimes I think there’s a neuron stuck between my sense-of- my direction head meats and my doing-shit head meats that’s gone completely off its tits. Anyway, I’m back to my beginning with lead legs to bear me forward and a crystal sigh to bear the failures left behind. Or something. Damned if I get it wrong this time.<br /><br />The road isn’t quite as bustling as it seems when you’re speeding down it and fifty kilometres per hour. I’d put it down to the early time of day but somehow I get the impression that this city isn’t as vibrant as the 2010 organisers would have you believe. The air shifts between various chemical flavours, from choking to sickly sweet to metallic. The people, the walkers anyway, seem to slouch onwards into the smoky beyond, shielding their eyes from a world in which they’ve seen it all before, and it had betrayed their expectations.<br />Upper-middle class socialites I tells ya. No sense of perspective.<br /><br />Hey! Street-lamp billboards. I’m not quite as clued up on current events as I’d like to be, and we all know how reliable the abstract headlines on these cardboard curtailers of wisdom are!<br />“ANC big-shot behind killing.”<br />Whoa, that’s news. On the one hand I wouldn’t put it past some of our illustrious politicians to bestow a nasty case of death on election opponents or puppies, but since ANC-needling seems to have become a national sport popular among the media and disgruntled whities, I’m a bit sceptical on whether to believe this little factoid. I’m guessing some ANC bloke’s secretary ordered a hit on her ex-boyfriend or something and he’s getting the blame; as people whose public humiliation and suicide would cause a strong sense of arousal in Helen Zille (and her horde of flying monkeys) tend to do.<br /><br />There seem to be an impossible amount of hair and beauty salons along the street. God knows how they all stay in business, though my guess is that they won’t for long. I’m getting the image of regular battle-royales between the various owners for the rights to an indecisive customer. “Five Stylists Enter the Thunder Dome; ONE Stylist Leaves!” The funny thing is, most of the salons seem to specialise only in braiding and dreadlocks (apparently, dreadlocks require something other than just dipping your locks in mud and waving ‘em around as Tarzan had me believing up till now). I guess you should work with what you know, but seeing as I’ve seen less than five people on this whole (Main) road with braids or dreads, and I doubt there’s much future in reggae stylings amongst the Upper-middle class socialite market, the continued existence of these glorified groomers seems even more unlikely.<br /><br />“Zuma says sorry (again)” blurbs the next lamp-post poster. Gosh, I wonder what our glorious leader has stepped in this time, or at least gotten caught fo-WAIIIIT a minute! I wonder if this has anything to do with that other poster. “ANC big-shot behind killing”, well there aren’t any bigger shots than Big Jake up in the impenetrable sky-fortress from which the ANC rains down commands and defamed ex-members down upon our tiny heads. My aforementioned shrewd detective skills (and sense of humour) have me utterly convinced of these stories’ connection! We shall have to gather some more info! (Unofficially from these billboard headlines of course, I wouldn’t want to get the wrong idea.)<br /><br />*Beeep Bip Beebib* *Phweeeeeee*<br />Kerrr-ist! That taxi-driver isn’t half obnoxious. Beeping and whistling and whatnot and with no potential passengers in sight. There’s gotta be a reason behind it. I guess it’s about attention more’n anything else. This guy’s a taxi driver; he soars the highways making precious little and not making any meaningful contribution to anyone, save for their convenience of getting in his taxi rather than the one further along. He probably knows he hasn’t got much time left, soon to end in a mangled heap of metal and flesh after one risky hard turn too many, or shot to pieces by another minibus jockey pushed too far into poverty to afford competition. He knows he has no future, he knows he’s insignificant, and he’s hooting his horn as if to say “I’m here now. Take a look”. He wants to get his whistle: his unique exhalation of pure sound, into as many heads as possible and as hard as possible, if only to have left something behind.<br />He still annoys the hell outta me though.<br /><br />‘Allo: “Travoka defends Zuma”. Well he’d have to; murder is for serious and you need an alibi up ins when you’re accused of it. Unless we’re talking a more practical and involved kind of defense here. No one said this Tavorka, or Tagover, or Titpoker (I forget) was a politician! I’ll bet he’s a famed mercenary that Zuma has stationed outside the impenetrable sky-fortress (Though I wonder why he’d bother, it being impenetrable and all) and equipped with a spear tipped with a replica of J.Z’s remarkable skull (A viciously pointy weapon that my diseased brain tells me is standard issue in the secret “Zumarmy”)<br /><br />I seem to be wandering dangerously close to the boundaries of my map. One turn-off outside the shown area’s comforting embrace and my well documented directional quirks will probably get me lost for eternity. No chemists so far either. I’d better head in the other direction…Hold on.<br />“Church of Latter Day Saints”, eh? Seems quiet now but I bet if I were to wait around I’d soon see an immeasurable wave of pamphlet chucking, doorbell ringing, me annoying Mormons emerge from the building’s black heart. I’m totally okay with you, your beliefs and your five wives, guys. Just keep the hell off my porch.<br /><br />Another headline! “Pastor’s wife stabbed to death”. Yowie, that’s not a great way to go. Though it kind of annoys me that if this chick wasn’t a pastor’s wife (the epitome of socially perceived purity) and got brutally stabbed, no-one would lift an eyelash. Anyway, since the fact that this particular tidbit showed up right after the ones ousting Jacob Zuma as a cold-blooded killer CAN BE NO COINCIDENCE, it looks like we have a victim and a murder weapon. If this had all gone down in a spooky mansion and had Zuma been a military Colonel, I might almost have a joke there.<br /><br />Finally! A pharmacy! Now to get immortalised on crappy wax paper that will inevitably fade and crumble in a thoroughly un-digital way (NOT THAT I’M BITTER OR ANYTHING!).<br />“Excuse me, miss? Do you guys do photographs?”<br />“Photocopies?”<br />“No, photographs. Pictures. Like pictures of me.”<br />“No, sorry.”<br />“*sigh* Alright. Thanks anyway.”<br /><br />Coises! Foiled again! Well there’s always the bit of Main Road on the other side of RWHARSN (pronounced “Rawr-son”). I foresee another long and pointless walk ahead of my tired but still unmistakeably fine self.<br /><br />*Another long and pointless walk later*<br /><br />Whew. I should really organise a petition to have some benches set up along here; my dawgs are killin’ me!* At least there’s another chemist over there.<br /><br />*Disclaimer: Dawgs here being the old western term for feet, not hip-hop enthusiasts of my acquaintance. Those guys would totally let me off with a light beating.<br /><br />“Yo. You wouldn’t be in the photos of ruggedly handsome wanderers of the roads business wouldja?”<br />“Eh?”<br />“Of me. Can. Photos. You take?<br />“That service isn’t available on Sundays, I’m afraid.”<br />*hurk!*<br />“Sir?”<br />“Oh, don’t worry yourself, miss. You get used the regular minor heart-attack when you’re in my line of cruel existence. I guess I’ll be seeing you tomorrow.”<br />“Very good sir.”<br /><br />I’m definitely noticing a recurring theme in my adventures. Were this fiction, I’d guess my adoring multitudes would be chanting “HACK!” in a glorious chorus. But hark: a final headline! Perhaps this one shall shed light on our little political murder mystery. “Ellie’s love for a sheep”.<br /><br />…<br /><br />Yes! It’s all clear to me now! J.Z, in all his lecherous splendour, was involved in the sordid business of Ellie, the publicly loved wife of the local pastor. A business, peddling SHEEP WHORES no less! Yes, for all the charms of his 15 wives and their possibly even more numerous genitalia, the ol’ king of the sky fortress just couldn’t resist the occasional woolly embrace of his sheepish mistresses. Once Ellie threatened to come clean to the authorities (apparently because God isn’t that warm to the idea of flossy concubines after all, as one mistranslation in the holy bible led her to believe) Jacob unsheathed his presidential kukri and added a few less desirable orifices to the Molly merchandising madame. Our fearless leader then made a run for the sky fortress, leaving the infamous Titpoker McGee to hold off the authorities while the presidential death ray warmed up.<br /><br />I should really get more involved in politics. It could be interesting.</span>Granthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02643239855692810325noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4077571206906508360.post-36616018846503613832010-07-20T09:47:00.000-07:002010-08-11T02:33:01.592-07:00UCT: Day 1<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); line-height: 14px;font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;" >*The following is a first-person perspective description of my first day at UCT, for those of you unfamiliar with the concept of a first person perspective, just imagine having your consciousness jammed into my quivering head-meats and experiencing the world as I do. Resist the throes of madness that may claw at your soul as a result, and read on.*<br /><br />Alright, I'm up. Barely. Only three hours of sleep accounted for but I think I can avoid sinking into a coma by rolling out of bed. Drastic, sure, fatal maybe, but if I don't shock my way into sprightlyness, there's no conceivable way today or any point up to next month is happening with me. Okay, count down from ten. 5; 4; ... ; 2... Alright, the next ten: 7; ...; 4; ...; 1. OVER I GO!...<b>*WHUMP*</b><br /><br />Ahh, Christ on a bike! Moses in a flaming hemp handbag! That was a bad idea. The hell'd I leave a God-damned game controller next to my bed for? And in line with my uncannily fragile falling face-bits? Urgh.<br />Nose? Yup, barely. Eye? 'S been through worse I guess, if you take into account alternate dimensions in which UNHOLY, UNSPEAKABLE FLYING EYE-SKEWERING SKY TERRORS are kind of an every-day thing. Never liked that pancreas anyways. Up I go.<br /><br />*Soon afterwards*<br /><br />Teeth? Sanitised to all possible yet minor extents.<br />Hair? Eh, I'll call it a new style on account of hedgehogs being so IN right now, probably.<br />Face? Lost cause.<br />Clothes and sundry? Pants are overrated. Got my bag.<br />Willingness to step out into the wide world of terrible responsibility and vicious reality? I'll get back to me on that one.<br /><br />That'll be the doorbell and...Here we go...<br />I am so screwed, you don't even KNOW.<br /><br />*One coma-enriched drive through the mindless metal hordes of Cape Town rush hour later.*<br /><br />Nice, we're here and I'm only an hour late for the welcome ceremony. Who needs inspiring acceptance and initial guidance into the adult world anyway? I've been in it for like 5 seconds and less than 10 arguably-essential emotions have short-circuited under the pressure. My mainstays: Irritation and regret seem to have buzzed out. I'm all good for another 5 ticks if I try not to think about kittens. Crap, I just thought about kittens, and how fluffy and adorable they a-OH GOD I'M DEAD INSIDE!<br /><br />Kittens, meh. Lets just find some warm welcomage before the senses fuse out too.<br /><br />Say goodbye to Justin, lucky bastard's just in time for his welcome and he knows just where to go. Try not to look envious of this fact or the fact that he has his own car and drum-set and state-of-the-art computer and social life and the way the girls' eyes are naturally drawn to him as he walks away. Nope. Not envious at-goddamned-all. I'll just get out my trusty map with these hands that seem to be trembling with unbridled rage for reasons my totally non-envious mind can't even IMAGINE, dammit!<br /><br />Let's just check where this welcome dealie is then. On the map. Which I don't have and vaguely doubt I ever had. Shit. No problem, there should be signs pointing to the orientation since it's kind of a big deal up ins.<br /><br /><span>Signs, signs, signs...Aha! There's one for commerce orientatees (Orientatites? Orientatots? Blood sacrifice to the ATM god?). Too bad I'm a wishy-washy hippie humanities student with no sense of calculation or direction. I'll just keep walking till I see a humanities version. Doo-doodly-bing-bang-skido</span><wbr><span class="word_break" style="display: block; float: left; margin-left: -10px; padding: 0px;"></span>o, commerce, commerce, commerce, sciences (Variety isn't dead it seems.), commerce, commerce, com-fucking-merce, Humanities! Sweet, now we're cooking with the hot stuff!<br /><br />Hrmm, "Humanities Orientation <b>|^|</b> " One arrow, brilliant, I now know that the orientation is going down somewhere to the right of a point ten steps from the left-most parking lot. Thanks Douche McDirection pasterson! Never mind, there's gotta be more at least five steps, no, twenty steps, no, OH GOD MY FEET HURT AND NOT A SIGN TA BE SEE(G)N! Still a five parts commerce direction poster to one part dust particle ratio gong down. They must have a great sense of confidence in Humanities Students' impeccable sense of calculation and direction.<br />OH. WAIT. *grumble* *grumble*<br /><br />Right, I'm just going to have to abandon every masculine instinct in my body and ask someone for directions. I'm going to have to stop secreting testosterone for a moment if I'm to pull this off. Now let's see...Hrrrrrrgggg *Ding!*. Phew! Now that I'm free of all that absolutely <i style="font-family: 'lucida sans','lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;">beastly</i>man-junk, I just have to find a little guidance. Aha! There's someone, now I hope he'll be a dear and...GAH! Oh crap, I'd better get some of that advice and butch up again before I break into a song and dance routine! That bloke seems a bit paint-splattered and grungy for a distributor of sagely advice, but he IS and adult, and if Barney is to be believed, he must therefore be a living pool of vast amounts of wisdom up to and including the non-suicidal use of safety scissors, and I certainly know better than to question Barney's wisdom a second time. I like my remaining toes.<br /><br />"Uh, excuse me sir? Could you tell me where the Humanities Orientation is happening uh, sir?<br /><br />"Whussat? 'Ewman'ties? Thessa ewman'ties building a little way back theh."<br /><br />"Sweet, thanks!"<br /><br />A linguistically challenged reservoir of infinite wisdom, it seems, and his directions do seem to contradict what the immensely solitary poster told me, but I'll take what I can get. For all his colourfull perspective on the English language, he has at least a million brain cell on that hopelessly vague son-of-a-pink-slip, so I'll be sticking with team human on this one. The humanities building it is!<br /><br />*A quick walk later*<br /><br />Can't believe I missed the "Humanities Graduate School" sign earlier. I'm tempted to accuse that dubiously placed shrub of machinations against my line of sight, but I'm a friggin' adult now! I'm gonna take responsibility for somehow missing the gigantic notice-board with "Humanities" plastered across it in large friendly letters, dammit!<br />I'm totally ratting out that bush if I'm pressed though.<br /><br />Let's just take a look around then, surely they wouldn't skimp on humanities orientation directions in the thrice-damned humanities building?<br />Hmm, lots of notices about exam results and info on how awesome the bloke/blokette that this dump got its name from was, but nothing big and colourful to calm and guide the wild and tortured psyche of your average undergrad. I might be really late to the party but I highly doubt that the cleaning staff are the type to be taking down helpful notices an hour after the start of the event, whether out of and inflated sense of duty or spite or otherwise. This whole deal is really starting to piss me off and I'm feeling DANGEROUS. I guess I'd better look for another reservoir of infinite wisdom to harass for information. I might not even remember to say please this time because that's just how DANGEROUS I'm feeling baby!<br /><br />*One frantic search around the whole damned building later.*<br /><br />By the many wondrous orifices of Venus! That tired me out! How the hell does a major university manage to keep a whole damned building abandoned? The building that would under normal circumstances undoubtedly have someone who could help me, no less!<br />I'm guessing that someone up there hates me, probably because of my habit of declaring that certain someone's position relative to various house-hold items and Richard Simmons whenever I'm surprised or pissed off (which is pretty damn often considering my love for video games in which players constantly sneak around and blow eachother into soup). Divine interference be damned though. I shall overcome!...<br />...someday.<br /><br />Okay, new plan: I head to some sort of secretary's office and get some directions from there. The issue of directions to the office itself immediately arises, but if I check out the area around the important looking pseudo-classical age buildings atop the right-large stairs, I should run into a teacher or politician or foreign dignitary or something. This is a major university after all.<br /><br />Damn it's hot today, and all this walking around isn't helping matters. I'm sweating like a polar bear at an Al Gore global warming seminar. I bet I stink too. This might be par for the course for some politicians and foreign dignitaries I could mention, but if I have to deal with an actual human being things could get sticky in less literal ways.<br /><br />Ah screw it! Cleanliness may be close to godliness but godliness on a certain someone's part clearly isn't doing me any favours, so I'll just have to try not to linger near anyone and do my best to seem French when I do. I'd bet the Frogs have some kind of cultural pardon going on for this problem by now.<br /><br />Now if memory serves, the fancy steps are somewhere uphill from here so I'd best head in whatever direction hurts my calves the most. Seems to be the right-hand side road. That way then...<br />Hold on, there's a specimen of the local breed of studentia and he seems in a hurry. He looks fairly sure of himself, or at least as sure of himself as someone with more hair covering his face than I have on my entire body can look (for those of you fortunate enough to be unfamiliar with my entire body, this is quite a lot). I'll just be following him straight to the welcome then. no need for any more being run around by the aging multitudes.<br /><br />He's going into what yet another deviously concealed sign tells me is the Leslie Social Sciences building. That was totally my second choice of random wandering destination so it's still a personal victory.<br />Yes! He's heading for the lecture theatres (which seem oddly quiet, but this can be put down to sound-proofing I guess). Strange...He's passed the main theatres and headed down a passage way. Perhaps the welcome is meant to be completely hidden from the godless commerce students' prying ears. There's a door straight ahead and "Chewbacca Lite" over there just went in! Finally my triumph (or lack of complete and utter failure anyway) is at hand! I'm at the door, my hand's on the doorknob. I can't begin to describe how relieved I am to have finally reached...<br /><br />The bathroom. Lovely.<br /><br />Well I'd better play it as if it was always my intention drop a number in the wonderful white waste wagerer. I wouldn't want to seem like a creepy guy-follower or worse yet, an honest to penis dude who actually DOESN'T know EXACTLY where he's going! Since I'd rather not swap measurements with strange university guys, I think I'll opt for the private stall as opposed to the urinal.<br />Unzip; Unpack; Unload....Dude, I said unload!<br />....<br />Alright, listen Dick Willington or whatever I may decide to call you if my ego ever reaches critical mass, my masculine pride's on the line here so are you going to make with the waterworks or am I gonna have to slap a bitch?<br />*tinkle* *tinkle*<br />Better, now back to plan: Secretary's office.<br /><br />*In light of the previous exchange, the idea that Grant has been engaged in a one way dialogue with his penis this whole time, rather than talking to himself like a SAFE kind of lunatic, may have arisen in the mind of the less civilised among you. We at the <b>O</b>rganisation for <b>S</b>uitable and <b>N</b>urturing <b>A</b>rticle <b>P</b>ieces (O.SNAP) would like to assure you that such a thing would be unacceptable to our high moral standards and as such is <b>mostly</b> not the case.*<br /><br />Alright. No more distractions or detours or directions from suspected hobos. I'm heading straight to the source.<br /><br />"Sup, Grant?"<br />Hey! It's someone from my high school! A dick by any other description but with all that's been happening, it's nice to see a familiar face, even if it is one I'd like dearly to rearrange.<br />"Sup, (name of jerk)"?, I say as coldly as it is possible to say "Sup".<br /><br />*A painful uphill hike later*<br /><br />Finally, the right-massive stairs. All I have to do is haul my pathetic carcass up these and find an office.<br /><br />*An extremely painful dragging of my pathetic carcass (and my body too) later*<br /><br />I'm really going to have to talk to mom about her ideas for an appropriate packed lunch some time. As much as I'm loathe to look a gift carcass in the mouth, I'm going to have to dump this thing. Come on, birdies! Lunch!<br /><br />Eh? Thought I heard something coming from that main hall with photographers standing at the entrance. Probably something vastly important and newsworthy that I shouldn't interrupt, now where's that office?<br />...<br />There's one! "Student Orientation and Advocacy Centre". Well if that can't help me get to Orientation, I'll eat the rest of my packed lunch, and no-one wants that, believe me.<br />I'll just peak inside and...OH COME ON!<br />Another abandoned settlement, there is something DEEPLY wrong with the karma system and I'm getting slapped with the pointy end of it. All plans have failed. Pretty much all hope too. The only thing for it is to run around the whole damned campus until I find hints of a large and important gathering.<br /><br />*MULTIPLE runs around the kilometres of upper campus ensue*<br /><br />Hgggh, hehggggh *wheeze* Nothing for miles around and I'm back at the stairs without a prayer. There's that sound coming from the main hall again. How am I supposed to hear for any major gatherings if...<br /><br />...oh.<br /><br />"Uh, *wheeze* is this the humanities orientation, miss photographer lady."<br /><br />"Why yes, just find a seat, you're very late aren't you?"<br /><br />Fai-nah-lee! It took more impossible difficulties than I've ever experienced up till now, but I'm here now. Frankly I can't be bothered to listen to what the stage-jockey up there is on about, and seeing as my timetable foretells nothing but lectures for the rest of the day, I'm pretty sure I'm not going to be conscious enough to have any more wild misadventures, thank goodness.<br /><br />Ah, they're bringing in the student adviser/orientation leader guys. They seem nice. Wait, what the hell is that guy calling himself? J-Money? Urgh, I hate all that pseudo hip-hop persona bullshit. If I ever have to talk or deal with that guy I may have to kill myself with a spork.<br /><br />"Alright students, It's time to split you up into groups and assign you to your orientation leaders who will accompany you and spend a great deal of time helping you adjust to UCT life. That row, go with Pumi. That one, with Kyle. And that one, including that disheveled looking gentleman with the somehow visible body odour, yes you, you lot are with J-Money."<br /><br />You know, if I could stop weeping for just a second, I may actually chuckle at the entire universe's incredible dedication to screwing me over.<br /><br />*All events described here, with the possible exception of a certain pathetic carcass, are unfortunately completely true. I was certainly not shitting you when I said my life had gotten interesting.*</span>Granthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02643239855692810325noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4077571206906508360.post-31490506234911516472010-07-20T09:46:00.000-07:002010-08-11T02:28:58.181-07:00UCT: Day Zero.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51);font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:100%;" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;font-size:13px;" ><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; line-height: 14px;font-size:11px;" >So Wednesday was a pretty big day for me.<br /><br />After an impossible length of time goofing off and devoting the entirety of my energy to transforming virtual Zombies and Dragons into a thick paste upon my trusty Devourer of Social Skills and destroyer of my already meagre chances at getting a date, the very machine that I extend my slothful existence by typing on right now, it seems reality has arrived on its gigantic meat-wagon of responsibility to cart me off to the slaughter-house of NOT sitting on my ass and clicking on dudes before they click on me.<br />Oh the horror, amirite?<br /><br />From the moment I gained the ability to perceive the world as more than a cramped wet room with magical automatic meal delivery and waste removal built into the contract, life has, if not handed everything to me, at least presented it in a completely idiot proof and user friendly way to prevent my delicate mind from experiencing the ravages of the badlands of tax returns, application forms and generally not getting shit for free (mostly, as I'll explain later).<br />Gotta sort out school lunches? "Let mommy write you this note and draw you a map."<br />Need to go to a birthday party? "Ag, it's too far to walk, let me drive you, darling."<br />Got a school project? "Here's an in depth rubric telling us EXACTLY what we want from you, and take your time dearie"<br />As of two days ago, my entrance into "big big BIG school", I've been thrown into the adult world with all the force, abruptness and surprise of a lightning bolt somehow made of fat guys smacking me in the temple on a sunny day.<br /><br />Suddenly I'm organising my own transport half way across the world (as I know it) every day; I'm having it drilled into me by my own common sense and the entirely more abundant common sense of others that the whole (9 : 0.3) ratio between vidjeo games and every-goddamned-thing else isn't going to be working out quite as sweetly as it has been for the last 14 zombie apocalypses (or however you socially adjusted people calculate time these days).<br /><br />Up untill now my life hasn't really been interesting enough to warrant any bloggy behavior on my part, seeing as how it's revolved around nothing more than the aforesaid vidjeo games and what schoolwork I got done in between new Super Mario titles.<br />Before, I could only really make up fictional parodies about what I could glean of the world at large with my jaded and badly degraded Nerdeyes(tm). Now that I'm out there, having real life experiences as the adult I swore blind never to become (and yet somehow get rich and famous while doing fuck-all), I think I've got some interesting stuff to say about reality; stuff that might cause reality to become a little red-faced were it to get out.<br /><br />Suck it, Reality. I'm here now and you're quite hilarious, looking forward to messing witcha.<br /><br />Crap, I haven't even gotten to the anecdotes about mah first University day yet. Tell ya what, I'll have those on your desk(top) by tomorrow, but right now: Reality has gifted me with a peace offering of the first full night's sleep in days, and though I'm naturally cautious of this possible Trojan Horse, I'm also too damned bushed to do much mocking today one way or another...<br /><br />... but don't think you're getting it any easier now, Reality Old Chum, I haven't even gotten started.<br /><br />Grant out.</span></b></span></span>Granthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02643239855692810325noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4077571206906508360.post-91315158676233644502010-07-20T09:45:00.000-07:002010-08-11T02:29:36.379-07:00Couch Picasso - A study of television and its impact on human creativity.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); line-height: 14px;font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;" >Television: both the babysitter-of-convenience for modern parents and the drug of choice for our time's kids (or at least the ones with meagre allowances and less meagre morals) and a good number of the rest of us too, has never been bigger. Countless different shows (of equally countless degrees of quality) have the potential to bounce in and out of our magic picture boxes every day. The ol' teevee is one of the most exciting (to the average Joe) and certainly the most convenient source of entertainment to society at large, but does so easily being able to watch the fruits of others' creativity discourage the viewer to create something worthwhile themselves? Wouldn't the creative juices poured into our better spent as oils for the creation of (what is commonly considered to be) fine art?<br /><br />"But is it art?", is a question that the world's elitists constantly stamp on all forms of modern entertainment, and television is no different. It's certainly true that the vast majority of "The Box's" programming is uninspired rubbish (the words "Reality Shows" spring instantly to mind), and I have no doubt that the human race would be a fat lot more cultured if the time spent watching a group of sweaty and grimy Americans scheming against each other on an island were spent on reading (or better, writing) a fine work of fiction.<br /><br />On the other hand, high budget affairs such as "Lost", "Heroes", "House" and (I reluctantly admit) "Desperate Housewives", although doomed to sink into mediocrity due to the thoroughly un-bottomless well of human creativity, are shining examples of storytelling and cinematography in their early seasons. The really good episodes can leave the reader asking themselves deep moral questions, and the soul searching from these art-induced (and yes, I said ART) dilemma can be more enriching than a lifetime of staring at the Mona Lisa and trying to decide what the frigid bitch is smiling about. Of course, one can vegetate mindlessly in from of these shows (as many pretentious gits would do in art galleries and claim to be "cultured"), but ultimately it is up to the calibre of the viewer to determine whether any deeper message is gleaned from the dancing screen. In that sense, good television is just like any other art form, and is just as worthwhile to create.<br /><br />Of course, even with the wealth of quality entertainment that television provides to the enlightened few, if those with the potential to make a valid contribution to the global culture pool needs only to press a button for his or her daily culture fix, how can they have any incentive to create art of their own? In my opinion, artists do what they do for two reasons: Firstly, to express their own emotions and opinions on life, and secondly to fill a percieved gap in society's consciousness. I'm betting that one of the top reasons that Shakespeare pulled on his writing pantaloons and scribbled down his plays was that he wanted to make the usual incomprehensible grunts of the filthy archaic proleteriate and in-bred nobilty a tad more high brow. What with television, internet blogging, telecommunication and other such modern ways of forcing your creativity (or lack thereof) into the world's collective noggin, these days expressing oneself is just a click away, and with enough "culture" to fill ten civilisations similarly accessible through a simple grabbing of the remote control, the average Joe will be unlikely to be compelled to dig his pen out from the depths of his couch and write a sonnet.<br /><br />Once again though, the choice to put in some effort and make something amazing is entirely up to "the Box's" eagerly watching (and sometimes drooling) public. Despite modern society's subtle pressure on its populace to become mindless drones chasing after the almighty dollar and eagerly following the "career" of Paris Hilton, and the apparent lack of a need for new art, the fact remains: new paintings still appear in art galleries, the occasional new symphony (classical or techno), and despite all apparent odds, yet another new quality show often makes its rounds in the T.V. guides. Visionaries still roam the Earth, gentle reader, and there's no getting rid of them. The times, bad luck and the omnipresence of cretins have always opposed the creation of art. Whether it be how Beethoven had to compose despite is nasty case of deafness or how Homer had had to write the Illiad while having to flee from the occasional barbarian horde. Art has prevailed, in all possible forms, throughout history and we should stop fussing over it so much. It's old enough to take care of itself by now, after all.<br /><br />Television's impact on the modern world's culture and our minds is impossible to ignore, and I suggest we accept the intrusion with open sensory organs. Some television good, some television is bad, and some television is "The Bachelor" (*shudder*), as is the case for all of mankind's attempts at art, but it's in the eye of the beholder whether to take something meaningful from it. Television may rot the brains of the modern neanderthal and the lazy artist (it's not like we were seeing anything out of them anyway) and it might oppose the emergence of the next "Great Bard", but ultimately, it simply creates a new platform for art and abundant potential for the emergence of something new and beautiful.<br /><br />It's a fair trade, I'd say.</span>Granthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02643239855692810325noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4077571206906508360.post-44565020079862943172010-07-20T09:43:00.000-07:002010-08-11T02:30:09.694-07:00The Cod Delusion: A brief but stirring tale of Life, Loss, False Hopes and a whole mess of terrible fish jokes.<img src="http://sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc3/hs076.snc3/14341_196640546267_653501267_3640640_4131948_n.jpg" /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); line-height: 14px;font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;" >"So I says to Freddie," ranted Salmonella McScales in his excruciating wetlandish drawl, "I says: Ya gots fashion and ya gots batshitzania, and by my reckonin', keeping that hook stickin' out've yer head with yer goddamn brain matter danglin' off of it and all, just because Shellvin Brine says it's some kinda new-tide fashion statement steers pretty far to the latter."<br /><br />Calfin Cuttle floated idly, trying to seem empathetic to Salmonella while desperately scanning the riverbed for lifelike objects and/or actual aquatic life whom he could convince Sally to share his opinion on sea ranching with, giving Calfin the chance to make a swift retreat.<br /><br />Salmonella was known as Sally to his friends, or at least any marine life that were subjected to his personal brand of psychological torture (that rivaled Ricki Lake in its IQ decimating capabilities) on a regular basis. Said "friends" generally complied unquestioningly to his demands that he be addressed by this girly moniker, mostly out of fear of hearing the five-hour epic on why "Sally's a right respectable name for a feller cos what with gender equality, I kin' have an equal name to a girl and not get shot when I enter a sports bar, see?". Sally's stories were so legendarily boring that were Gordan Brown to die and be reincarnated as a sea cucumber, any observed activity on his part would be to Sally's anecdotes what a good sized nuclear explosion would be to that "Make your own volcano" experiment your parents got you when you were nine, and which did little more than gurgle menacingly at you and subsequently fill you with the horrifying knowledge that this would be the ultimate height of your scientific achievements.<br /><br />"Listen, Sally," cut in Calfin as Salmonella was spreading his fins to their limit so as to describe a human he claimed to have caught once, "You know that our <i style="font-family: 'lucida sans','lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;">incredibly</i> regular talks bring meaning to my otherwise pointless fishy existence and all, but I've got a plankton parmesan sam'mich in the oven and..."<br /><br />"GRRRREETINGS, my fishy followers, my submarine subordinates and my liquid lackeys! I come bearing news of my latest and once again (what are the odds) GRRRREATEST discovery!"<br />Freddie Freshwatersworth drifted pompously into sight with all the pseudo-grandeur of a hobo who had just been told by a slightly less well mentally adjusted hobo that he was the second coming of Jesus Christ. Freddie, upon arrival in the pond through the W.P.P.D wetness protection program, had taken to his new identity very quickly, though not quite as quickly as he had begun with the same batshit insane shenanigens that got him transferred in the first place.<br /><br />"Urgh, hi Freddie," groaned Calfin upon seeing his second least favorite <i style="font-family: 'lucida sans','lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;">friend</i>. Even Sally looked a bit exasperated through his regular mindless staring visage, if only because he subconsciously knew that he would no longer be the least enjoyable company around, and he resented this for inadequately explored reasons.<br /><br />"<i style="font-family: 'lucida sans','lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;">Freddie</i> ? I know not of this Freddie of whom you speak, mayhaps (Freddie loved inventing pseudo-thespian words to sound cultured rather than dangerously mentally retarded) this identity was once associated with the sad lump of flesh that was this body before my divine enlightenment, but this vessel is most certainly a Freddie no longer! Nautical nether-fishies such as yourselves may address me as The Great Sashimi! Gaze upon my uncanny ability to swim upside-down, ye scaly, and despair!<br />With this, Freddie indeed exhibited his admittedly-uncanny ability to swim upside-down for a few seconds, giving himself a small heart attack in the process, but when displaying his believed superiority over lesser littoral life-forms, no price was too high as long as no actual cash was involved.<br /><br />Sally watched this spectacle with dumbstruck admiration, as suicidal feats of daring-do appealed to his <i style="font-family: 'lucida sans','lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;">Highly cultured</i> sensibilities. Calfin simply rolled his eyes and groaned at the supreme stupidity of the world and peers around him (He'd have made a believable female). He had just remembered that Freddie had recently adopted this latest personality a few days prior and had pioneered no less than five revolutionary programs to "improve" the lives of the pond's inhabitants in new (read: stupid) ways.<br /><br />"I have come to this humble corner of the halogen-light district to tell you, my chosen disciples, of the plan to rid ourselves of the metaphorical shackles that this cruel concoction of crap that would call itself water has placed upon us!"<br /><br />"Gleh?" inquired the two-fish audience.<br /><br />"You see, toadies, all our lives we have been imprisoned in these liquid walls, forced to desperately and endlessly squirm through its thick, restricting density with every movement! I bring news of a world above: Infinitely larger and with no surface tension to restrict how high we can climb! In this world above that our oppressor, the very water around us, has kept us from, we need never swim just to keep water flowing over our gills. we need never want for kelp, for endless fields of shorter, altogether more manageable kelp shall stretch endlessly around us upon our liberation. This liberation is within reach, flunkeys, thanks entirely to my brilliance and generosity in sharing it! I have, through the wonders of modern holistic science, constructed a device that shall send us forth into the great unknown and the liberty it brings us! Now, minions, shall you aid me, your savior, in my holy exodus, or shall I have to beam you a hypnotically hurt expression and guilt you into it?"<br /><br />"Gleh?" Sally reiterated, though Calfin's having a relatively infinitely more complex mind than the wetlandish wonder (an achievement he shared with several mineral groups) allowed some semblance of understanding of Freddie's speech, resulting in a response more akin to "Huh?"<br /><br />"Ah, I see you are confused and dazzled by my brilliance, guppies. Swim in my majestic wake for a while and maychance shalt your ignorance be purged!"<br /><br />"Derrr.."<br /><br />"FOLLOW ME YOU DUMB SHITS! er, I mean, blessed are the me, and the meek too, maybe, and stuff...FOLLOW!"<br /><br />With this, Freddie did a U-turn about as pretentiously as it is fishily possible to do and swum off, put slightly off balance by his recurring heart attack, but in a way one might describe as elegant if one's perception of elegance was built around secret Queen Mother shower-cam videos.<br /><br />"He said sumthin' 'bout dumb shits, think he's a talkin' ta you," whispered Sally to the slight water disturbance where Calfin had previously floated.<br /><br /><span>Upon realizing that the condensed insanity that Freddie was spouting was a vastly superior spectator sport to Sally's drivel, Calfin had followed post-haste, knowing that when things got unbearable as they usually did, Freddie's spastic emotional state left lots of windows for slipping away unnoticed. Besides, Freddie was carrying no deadly weapons to speak of this time, so the window into Batshitzania that now called himself The Great Sashimi wouldn't be able to cause any lasting harm to anyone but himself with this latest endeavor, so it might be entertaining in a train-having-a-head-buttin</span><wbr><span class="word_break" style="display: block; float: left; margin-left: -10px; padding: 0px;"></span>g-contest-with-a-puppy sort of way.<br /><br />Somewhat disheartened by the disappearance of his favorite bullshit receptacle, Sally decided to head home and engage in his second favorite hobby, filling out internet surveys. This, he felt, was the best way to share his brilliant opinions on a large variety of subjects and have a significant and positive impact on society. It is rumored that the "Idols" series of television shows have survived based solely on his repeatedly submitted opinions on good entertainment. It is also rumored that as a result of this, the massive arms build-up in the Middle-East exists due to anticipation of finding Sally's home address and that all the hoo-hah over the Gaza strip is just target practice.<br /><br />Anyway.<br /><br />The swim to what Freddie called the "Exodus-O-Matic" was, as Calfin saw it, unnecessarily tedious. This was mostly because said device was on the far side of the pond. Since the pond's size and volume had nearly doubled in the weeks since the pond-side outhouse broke down (which did not do the local aquatic real estate market any favors, let me tell you), the swim from one end to another was both long and about as pleasant as having four good-sized platypuses infected with rabies and left to roam free in your pants. Twice.<br /><br />The device itself somewhat resembled an archaic catapault or trebuchet, but made mostly out of rocks, seaweed and the remains of an unfortunate human hobo that had dropped in for a paddle three weeks prior and had, through the wonders of modern alcoholic beverages, clean forgot how to float.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); line-height: 14px;font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;" ><img src="http://sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc3/hs076.snc3/14341_196653606267_653501267_3640660_7812049_n.jpg" /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); line-height: 14px;font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;" >Picture this, then remove any semblance of intelligent design, add three parts decomposing hobo-bits and you've got the Exodus-O-Matic in a nutshell.<br /><br />"I lack the higher brain functions required to process smell, but I still somehow know that this...<i style="font-family: 'lucida sans','lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;">thing</i> , and to a larger extent, whatever your plan that involves it is, stinks," said Calfin upon witnessing the device that Freddie was now proudly gesturing towards similarly to the way a parent would gesture towards a child that has used its alphabet soup to formulate a comprehensive plan to end world hunger and eliminate the French in one fell swoop.<br /><br />"You wound me, my dear inferior," whined Freddie, a single tear glistening in his eye before collapsing and evaporating under the pressure of its own insincerity, "can you not see the brilliance of this device? Using the wonders of Freddionics(TM), I have converted the brilliance swirling around my divine noggin into physical form! This device shall be Fish-Kind's chariot to the heavens above! I just need a little help in its operation on account of my heroic injuries is all."<br /><br />Calfin could argue many points of that statement, but the bit about Freddie's injury was somewhat sincere. In his last revolutionary scheme, Freddie had put forth a program to end human persecution of the pond's inhabitants through dolphin impersonation ("If they are to love us as they do porpoises, then we must BE porpoises, toadies!"), and had subsequently badly sprained his fins in an effort to clap them together while simultaneously whistling the national anthem and doing a double back-flip. Clearly actions do not speak loader than brain-cell count.<br /><br />"you see, my bottom-crawling compatriot, sources from the great above have informed me that once we escape the unholy pull of our oppressive watery surroundings, we shall be freely relocated to a terrestrial integration center, where we'll be given our start in our new land-living lives. Said sources would offer the service to us right now, but what with all of this oppressor around and all, it's a bit difficult for them to effectively make contact. My device will brilliantly launch us out of our aquatic confines so that we can be easily airlifted (the most luxurious way to travel, trust me) to the centers by our avian brethren."<br /><br />"Avian, you said? As in Birds? As in storks and fish eagles and shit?"<br /><br />"Ah, I see your vocabulary is relatively impressive, lackey, my influence must be rubbing off as planned! Yes I do mean birds, glorious isn't it?"<br /><br />"Depends. Are you the first one to be, err, <i style="font-family: 'lucida sans','lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;">liberated</i>?" asked Calfin, the wonderful truth of the whole affair dawning upon him.<br /><br />"Why of course, my dreary disciple, as your messiah it's only fair that I get first dibs on liberty," replied Freddie as he blissfully ignored said truth with a sense of denialism that would make Thabo Mbeki blush.<br /><br />"Very glorious then. What do I do?"<br /><br />"Oh, it's brilliantly simple, really, any lesser mind would have been completely unable to make such ingenious use of hobo-physics, but as luck would have it, only my mind could be arsed to do so. Just pull that femur once I've positioned myself in the Launcher-me-thingy. I'd do it myself if not for my valiantly buggered fins."<br /><br />"Gladly, Freddie, ol' pal" chuckled Calfin Evilly as he positioned himself to yank the hobone and permanently free his home of its greatest hazard since hippie skinny-dipping.<br /><br />"Gladly: The Great Sashimi, if you please, subservient," retorted Freddie indignantly, "You may pull when ready."<br /><br />"Messiah says what?" Asked Calfin innocently.<br /><br />"What? I said pu-YYYYEEEEEOOOOOWWWW!"<br /><br />Freddie rocketed upwards faster than Sonic the Hedgehog and Roadrunner's ill-conceived love child would if it were on ecstacy. After a second or so of upwards velocity, a faint plop signaled Freddie's ascent into the world above, followed by a frenzy of squawks and highly pretentious screams as numerous large dark shapes flocked around the distinctly Freddie-like shape that could be made out from the pond bed. Perhaps it is wise, when making inter-species deals, to stick with business partners that are lower than yourself on the food chain.<br /><br />"Exactly," grinned Calfin, smugly, before going off to see what Sally was doing.<br /><br />Well let's see you come up with something more exciting to do at the bottom of a friggin' pond!<br /><br /><big>END</big></span></div>Granthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02643239855692810325noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4077571206906508360.post-81464752311075031982010-07-20T09:41:00.000-07:002010-08-11T02:33:14.985-07:00Those ARE rather nice trousers though.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); line-height: 14px;font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;" >"Wow, having been in this industry for five years, I sure see a lotta abominations of science. But you, Bro, you really take the cake!"<br /><br />I wasn't sure how to react to that. Seeing as I was strapped to a filthy operating table and half sedated by anesthetic that this particular seedy secret laboratory had probably scored off the fine folk in the next-door crack house, I couldn't pursue the obvious actions that immediately came to mind, them being:<br /><br />1) Smash the be-labcoated jackass in the face with a chair.<br /><br />2) Think up and write a mile-long essay that comprehensively explained that as the experiment had not yet taken place, I was not yet a scientific abomination of any degree of attractiveness and that he fornicated with goats.<br /><br />3) Smash him in the face with a foot-stool.<br /><br />Feeling that the natural way of things had suffered a great loss, I settled for giving the smug bastard a sheepish smile and incomprehensibly (thanks to the wondrous aforementioned drugs) pointing out that no essay was needed to conclusively prove his obvious sexual preferences.<br /><br />"Hehee, good to hear it! You take care now , bro!", Suggested the abominable Merv (for Merv was the name I groggily made out to be on his greasy name tag) before smugly joining his cohorts in scientific villainy, who all stood giggling in a small control room overlooking the lab I found myself in.<br /><br />The low-budget nature of this week's dubious corporation was made apparent by the fact that said control room didn't have any of that nifty one way glass you see in shitty police shows, for I could hazily make out that frantic work was being done by said cohorts, on what must have been intensely complicated panels and switchboards.<br /><br />I mused briefly about the fact that in every single one of the godawful jobs that the temp agency has set me up with has been shared with at least one member of the "Obnoxious Dickwad" archetype, a role now filled by the towering pile of solid bacon grease unconvincingly assuring the human race that it is a human called Merv. I've been told that finding consistency in one's life is a good way to deal with trying times, and I can tell you that thinking about how every position I've been in for the entirety of my working life has been spent alongside people who deserve nothing less than to watch "The Hot Chick" repeatedly for the remainder of their natural lives almost completely took my mind off the ridiculously elaborate and pointy looking device hovering evilly over my crotch.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); line-height: 14px;font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;" ><img src="http://sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc1/hs124.snc1/5328_108376701267_653501267_2692548_5302803_n.jpg" /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); line-height: 14px;font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;" >(It looked kinda like this, but with flesh-hooks placed around the tip and a sticker on its base advising not to point it at any living body parts. My new employers clearly weren't all that concerned about the well-being of temp-agency employees. Shocking, I know.)<br /><br />As the activity in the control room became more frantic and the (rather cliche'd) Tesla-esque electro-thingies positioned around my unfortunate self began to crackle with static (as a result, I'm guessing), I resolved then and there to pay more attention to the job descriptions my temp agent might give me in future. From this job's description, all I could vaguely remember were the words "Guinea-pig", "Synthesis", "Wombat" and "Paste". The fact that these words were all part of the same sentence probably should have tipped me into not accepting the job. Hindsight's a bitch, ain't it?<br />Ah well, "Terminal Test Subject" was a pretty new field for me, and it's always useful to have some variety on your CV.<br /><br />The crotch-pointed-at device (which I had lovingly nicknamed "Manhood-Muncher", if by lovingly you mean the precise and utter opposite of lovingly) began to hum menacingly, much like a thuggish bee would after having being told that "This whole honey thing is a hippie fad anyways". As the pointy bits of the machine began to spin and glow to the great delight of Merv and his posse in the control room (and my not quite so great delight), a new irony about the term "Temporary employee" became painfully apparent.<br /><br /><span>Closing my eyes and contemplating in horror that I'd probably have to share the pre-afterlife waiting room with Michael Jackson, I waited for the inevitable *BBBRRRIZZFWORP*, unimaginable burning crotch pain, and the end of my altogether-too-wasted-on-v</span><wbr><span class="word_break" style="display: block; float: left; margin-left: -10px; padding: 0px;"></span>ideogames existence on this mortal coil. In that order unless I was lucky.<br /><br />What followed was more of a *KLAKBWOOANG* and not so much of a burning crotch pain as a mildly warm reprieve from the chilly lab air around my entire lower body. This was surprising to me and the total lack of exclamations concerning the status of my life signs implied that the nutty scientist blokes felt likewise. Merv was the first to react with anything other than a valiant attempt to break the record for the largest distance between one's jaw and skull by bursting out of the control room and rushing towards my table, lab-coat constantly catching on the unnecessarily spiky parts of the dingy lab's architecture.<br /><br />Other than the fact that I evidently would not have to ask future romantic interests if they felt particularly aroused by the concept of raw mince, I wondered what the possible presidential candidate was so surprised about. Looking down with a level of caution previously restricted to Viet Nam veterans at a landmine convention, I noticed that the reason for my newly acquired leg-coziness were a pair of brand new trousers. At least five shades of purple at once in any given place and inexplicably glowing a faint orange in the dim lab lighting, but completely tangible backside-attire nonetheless.<br /><br /><span>By now Merv was standing next to my table in a state of shock and confusion and was staring at my new and embarrassingly flamboyant pants. Although somewhat understandable under the circumstances, the idea of a slimy looking gentleman staring at my lower half while lay strapped to a table and wore nothing but a pair of glowing purple denims was one that seemed a bit dodgy to me, and mostly with the hope of this status quo changing I quickly demanded to be untied and told what-in-the-sweet-name-of-</span><wbr><span class="word_break" style="display: block; float: left; margin-left: -10px; padding: 0px;"></span><span>your-mother-and-all-of-her</span><wbr><span class="word_break" style="display: block; float: left; margin-left: -10px; padding: 0px;"></span>-friends-named-Dave was going on.<br /><br />"Well", said Merv, "it seems that instead of doing it's, um, intended purpose, the device seems to have knitted you a pair of rather fabulous trousers."<br /><br />"Well yes, I've got that. What I'm not clear on is how that makes any damn kind of sense."<br /><br />"Urgh", groaned Merv, cradling his likely to be illegally ugly face in his altogether unhygenic palm and showing signs of great annoyance, "I've been warning the guys upstairs about this shit going down for years! It's just with having the underground lab in the secret moon base and all the maniacal laughing over experiments while guys called Igor prance around and singing "Deh Marstah iz a geniosss", the inherent wackiness of the whole goddamn system (Joe from accounting has crazy Einstein hair for fuck's sake!) actually becomes tangible and leaks into the machinery, leading to, err, THIS I guess."<br /><br />"I'm not so sure making glowing purple trousers appear out of thin air is so much wacky as it is completely fucking impossible, Merv."<br /><br />"Guh, I dunno...Wait, can you move them?"<br /><br />I gave a quick tug on the pant leg which yielded no movement and caused my leg to seemingly explode with burning and previously unimaginable pain<br /><br />"Ah", said Merv, knowingly, "It seems they're knitted out of your own leg hairs. Wacky, amirite?"<br /><br />"Very", I grunted, blinking tears from my eyes, "I suppose that explains why they're purple and glowing then."<br /><br />"Indeed." replied Merv, the sarcasm flying over him with all the majesty of an eagle in flight, "They ARE rather nice trousers though."<br /><br />"Thanks, I thought so too. Hey what's the time by the way?<br /><br />"About 5pm", Merv stated after glancing at his novelty Dr. Evil wrist watch.<br /><br />"Well that'd be the end of my shift, when's the next shuttle leaving the moon base?"<br /><br />"In about five minutes, you can probably make it if you cut through The Sea of Tranquility."<br /><br />"Thanks. Guess I'll see you tomorrow, Merv."<br /><br />"Catch ya later, Bro!"<br /><br />"Asshole", I muttered as I bounded out of the lab, taking some comfort in the fact that I was leaving work slightly less naked than usual.<br /></span></div>Granthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02643239855692810325noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4077571206906508360.post-82120175534479047672010-07-20T09:37:00.000-07:002010-08-11T02:31:19.358-07:0050 things you already knew about me and wished to god you had not got me started on!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); line-height: 14px;font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;" >1. WERE YOU NAMED AFTER ANYONE?<br />The guy from Jurassic Park, the one with the cowboy hat.<br /><br />2. WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU CRIED?<br />Yesterday, but you should see the other guy.<br /><br />3. DO YOU LIKE YOUR HANDWRITING?<br />It's untidyness occasionally transcends the boundries of modern lettering and transforms into a form of hieroglyphics thought lost to mankind up until that foolish wench of a 1st grade teacher made the mistake of teaching me my ABC's. SOON THE WORLD WILL KNOW THE TEACHINGS OF THE $&^%(_L@#!!!!!<br /><br />4. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE LUNCH MEAT?<br />Pickled mole rat, but I'm partial to Llama<br /><br />5. DO YOU HAVE KIDS?<br />Sometimes I make "them" call me daddy...<br /><br />6. IF YOU WERE ANOTHER PERSON, WOULD YOU BE FRIENDS WITH YOU?<br />Now that's just silly, I'd have nothing bloody new to say to myself would I?<br /><br />7. DO YOU USE SARCASM?<br /><span>I use the truth on secretive-personal-opposit</span><wbr><span class="word_break" style="display: block; float: left; margin-left: -10px; padding: 0px;"></span>e day.<br /><br />8. DO YOU STILL HAVE YOUR TONSILS?<br />Yup, I have named them Jerome and Greg, they tap-dance.<br /><br />9. WOULD YOU BUNGEE JUMP?<br />Am I the only one getting annoyed by the way the quizz shouts at me all the bloody time?<br /><br />10. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE CEREAL?<br />STFU-O's YOU SHOULD TRY EM SOMETIME!<br /><br />11. DO YOU UNTIE YOUR SHOES WHEN YOU TAKE THEM OFF?<br />Heck I don't even untie 'em to put em back on if I can help it.<br /><br />13. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE ICE CREAM?<br />That one with the two guys.<br /><br />14. WHAT IS THE FIRST THING YOU NOTICE ABOUT PEOPLE?<br />My overwhelming desire to ask them these EXACT 50 QUESTIONS AT EXACTLY THIS VOLUME!<br /><br />15. RED OR PINK?<br />I feel my options are somewhat restricted beyond my tolerance here.<br /><br />16. WHAT IS YOUR LEAST FAVORITE THING ABOUT YOURSELF?<br />That I lack the resolution to do anything with my life except answer smelly quizzes such as this and murder hobos.<br /><br />17. WHO DO YOU MISS THE MOST?<br />Darkwing duck.<br /><br />18. DO YOU WANT EVERYONE TO COMPLETE THIS LIST?<br />I want everyone on this earth to burn and die for allowing such a travesty as this quizz to come into existance, but I guess forcing everyone to answer it should be a close second.<br /><br />19. WHAT PANTS AND SHOES ARE YOU WEARING?<br /><span>Yours! *nudge*--*nudge*--*wink*--</span><wbr><span class="word_break" style="display: block; float: left; margin-left: -10px; padding: 0px;"></span>*wink*--*implied rape and theft*--*implied rape and theft*<br /><br />21. WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO RIGHT NOW?<br />The voices in my head begging me to follow the tuxedo'd leprechaun to the land of the peanut brittle where I may find the sacred herpes medication.<br /><br />22. IF YOU WERE A CRAYON, WHAT COLOR WOULD YOU BE?<br />The kind that causes massive gastric hemorraging in the f*cker who turned me into a bloody crayon upon seeing me.<br /><br />23. FAVORITE SMELLS?<br />Money with blood on it (and that's the only honest answer I'll give)<br /><br />24. WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON YOU TALKED TO ON THE PHONE?<br />Nice enough chap, seemed a bit pessimistic though, awful hung up on something happening in 7 days though. I wasn't really paying attention, "The Lab" was on.<br /><br />25. DO YOU LIKE THE PERSON WHO SENT THIS TO YOU?<br />No-one bloody sent it to me, I'm answering this out of my own free will as is the only way for this thing to work as far as I know. If you want to publish crap, at least learn its bloody format.<br /><br />26. FAVORITE SPORTS TO WATCH?<br />THAT ONE WITH THE TWO GUYS....So table tennis or martial arts I guess.<br /><br />27. HAIR COLOR?<br />I believe my profile covers this sort of question but if you're interested in my ideal hair colour I'd refer you to 22, but replace the word "f*cker" with "Extended family and Geese"<br /><br />28. EYE COLOR?<br />As described in 27, but with a dash of royal purple, for flavor.<br /><br />29. DO YOU WEAR CONTACTS?<br />My optometrist has insisted that contacts are the tools of satan used to chisel his teachings onto our cornea's, though I suspect the price difference between contacts and regular specs plays into it.<br /><br />30. FAVORITE FOOD?<br />I know for a fact that I've answered more specific versions of this question 5 times already. You are clearly treading water here, Bucko McQuizzwriterson<br /><br />31. SCARY MOVIES OR HAPPY ENDINGS?<br />Well I feel that I don't show any particular preference to either genre in the general sense but I feel that it must be said for Ha-THE ONE WITH THE TWO GUYS!!!!!!!!!<br /><br />32. LAST MOVIE YOU WATCHED?<br />Richard Simmons' adventures in Boy's Town: A tale of loss, hope and courage in the face of constant butt-sex. 4 STARS OUT OF 5!<br /><br />33. WHAT COLOR SHIRT ARE YOU WEARING?<br />Do you have any idea how difficult it is to come up with sarcastic answers to every one of these god-forsaken menial questions? DO YOU!?<br /><br />34. Summer or winter?<br />NUCLEAR FALLOUT<br /><br />35. HUGS OR KISSES?<br />THE ONE WITH THE TWO...oh right, um, I dunno. Going to go do manly stuff now, yeah...<br /><br />37. MOST LIKELY TO RESPOND?<br />Greg, he was always the talkative one.<br /><br />38. LEAST LIKELY TO RESPOND?<br />My sense of dignity, but that's to be expected as he buggered of to the Bahamas years ago.<br /><br />39. WHAT BOOK ARE YOU READING NOW?<br />THA- Oh screw it, Burmese Days by George Orwell, happy now you persistent text based demon you?<br /><br />40. WHAT IS ON YOUR MOUSE PAD?<br />A small birthmark and a couple of leftover hairs.<br /><br />41. WHAT DID YOU WATCH ON TV LAST NIGHT?<br />A taped recording of the brutal execution of that one pet your parents said had run away.<br /><br />42. FAVORITE SOUND(S).<br />The sound of a pick-axe being embedded in the skull of a dust mite, ya need some heavy machinery to catch it but hoo-boy does it satisfy!<br /><br />43. ROLLING STONES OR BEATLES?<br /><span>Resisting...urge...must...</span><wbr><span class="word_break" style="display: block; float: left; margin-left: -10px; padding: 0px;"></span>skip..predictably answered question...<br /><br />44. WHAT IS THE FARTHEST YOU HAVE BEEN FROM HOME?<br />Home is where the heart is, I suspect therefore that I since am currently over 5 light-years away from the nearest black hole, I'm sitting on my record.<br /><br />45. DO YOU HAVE A SPECIAL TALENT?<br />Making people want to murder me due to my actions in 14<br /><br />46 WHERE WERE U BORN?<br />In my house's downstairs bathroom, no jokes.<br /><br />47. WHOSE ANSWERS ARE YOU LOOKING FORWARD TO GETTING BACK?<br />Not so much the answers themselves as the methods I'll use to extract them.<br /><br />48. HOW DID YOU MEET YOUR SIGNIFICANT OTHER?<br />Oi, I signed up for 50 questions, If you're going to be shirk your unholy responsibilities to go for the full deal then I'm afraid I'll feel compelled to begin the answer to 47 immediately.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); line-height: 14px;font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); line-height: 14px;font-family:'lucida grande',tahoma,verdana,arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px;" >Well I hope you've all learned some valuable things about me today. I just hope you're good at dealing with regret.</span></div>Granthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02643239855692810325noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4077571206906508360.post-53844919596337511162010-07-20T08:16:00.000-07:002012-05-14T11:06:00.975-07:00My Extremely Manly Papercraft Adventures.<div style="text-align: center;">
Disclaimer: This was the first humour article I ever wrote, and is a product of my younger and much sillier self. I include it here only because of its historical significance in my life.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">In the early days of my Summer holidays, I found myself faced with the dreaded "buffer" period during which all my contacts have gone on some sort of holiday abroad, b</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">ut my own scheduled holiday shenanigens are still far off, and with no decent TV on, entering a vegetative state and hibernating the empty days away was out of the question.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />Clearly the only course of action to take would be to fill my empty afternoons with dozens of manly activities until the time for eating turkey, guiltily accepting cash presents from relatives who I can't stand and desperately trying to keep my mouth shut while my abominable grandmother ignorantly rattles on about how the country has gone down the toilet since her era, arrives.<br />I still wonder if the cash presents aspect is entirely worth it.<br /><br />Anyway, after about a week of such manly endeavors as working out, punching communists, putting out fires and eating hundreds of t-bone steaks, It was pointed out to me by Mrs. Van Vreekazoed (whose cat I had just rescued from a tree for the forty second time), that I may need a hobby.<br /><br />"Of course!" said I, out loud and in a dramatic and infinitely manly way, before rushing home and putting a shirt on for the first time in weeks. A hobby would mean I could pass the time with minimal effort and I wouldn't even need to leave the house! The hobby would still need to be really manly though, and therein lay my problem: What stay-at-home hobby could be manly enough to fulfill my gender imposed standards?<br /><br />The answer: PAPERCRAFT!<br />What could be an activity more undeniably rugg</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">ed than cutting out images, folding them and pasting them together to make various 3D shapes? Just about anything els</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">e you say? I would direct your attention to this promotional poster which I obtained from one of Hulk Hogan's many secret and unreachable blogs and which I totally did not make with MSpaint just now:</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> <img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496012192709558498" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjtLiqMr66Qb2opF_Ma1fWPWmji6lJbibMO4I3XtwLDpnhPvexQurfO7dO1m72s6JE352k52v0BPknpioqnEu4HLBsc3BgHF2xKnBouq9OMGp9ElyEc5n_pUSi7LNMxK5YlImLD_dSL_vR/s320/hulkitty.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; height: 238px; width: 320px;" /></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And There you have it!<br /><br />So what would be my first papercraft creation? After all there are countless animals, people and objects that some guy somewhere decided would look a whole lot better made out of paper and subsequently spent da</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">ys designing a hugely elaborate template so that others may share his</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> dream.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"></span> <img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496012213009764354" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZlR34SM2brJYpGDSgtUON80Hka-n1Rdxe7ONK383-0D3ZP4oNZeCGkRIS4QidBiZ0SmefB_mj_32SjYRRNPC96QYUHX_B_G9Upoq-Th1p8zYwliOfqG2lGnkHK93gY5F3t7yzduFRlIvd/s320/someguy.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; height: 262px; width: 210px;" /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">(Dr. Some guy Somewhere also enjoys painting individual sand grains and tallying his own nasal hair)<br /><br />Suddenly it dawned upon me! Papercraft Pokemon! After all, what could be more manly than this!</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> <img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496012205864953554" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgukRB9Cj5UC4nCoRTDaqVlZYBZeeunFyaeVV-2q-UsXXuk2AxvME1m7nnKlZ5cp08OwMH74cTYDqpCjOG4ngE2OHIeLTIQlO9e77Z9lSZcVLXiM5AN1qDTYSpTUy4WK7gP8Vzcqj-oDgzk/s320/igglybuff.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; height: 180px; width: 257px;" /></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And so I embarked on an epic epic online search spanning, like, FIVE web-pages and found a template for making my very own Turtwig, one of the newfangled Pokemon that, along with the online trading introduce in the latest series of games, has destroyed the time-honoured tradition of tackling that brat from down the street with a link cable and stealing his charizard.</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #0000ee; font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: normal;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496015322836123922" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8yboZ49GFbHIBqFOl8wUrP8jVwzp9bUXQeI42V8J-k0CDRUylTfZIS1kXMRAdedFMU_sCQaVxhiK6SyiqRccbdGJwpQ9HDafbVTMjBCfG4Ucp3oRESbJqE3AqW_hv0HdZR-WCZ6HgbF76/s320/turtwig.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 292px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #0000ee; font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">After heroically pressing the print button, I retrieved my paper and got to work.<br />Cutting out the little blighter proved to be my first and possibly greatest obstacle on the road to manly papercraft Nirvahna, carefully cutting out every fold and flap was time consuming as hell, and and mishaps would ruin the final product, thus an air of unbearable tension was created around my latest (and arguably greatest) excuse not to go and do something productive with my life.<br /><br />Incidentally, the "Helpful Assembly tips!" which I printed out to aid me in my struggle states that, aside from the fact that small (manly) children should make sure they have grown-up help and should refrain from castrating themselves with their safety scissors (as kids are quite prone to do, judging by the HUNDREDS of newspaper headlines telling us "FIVE YEAR OLD LOBOTOMISED WITH SAFETY SCISSORS! PARENTS NOT PRESENT!" and other such realistic tales of woe), the entire project should take roughly 2 hours to complete.<br /><br />Bollocks.<br /><br />Cutting out the damn thing took damn near an entire afternoon to do (at least if done RIGHT!). The remaining steps which I'll go into shortly took as long combined, leading me to one of two conclusions:<br /><br />1) The target market for these papercrafts are steroids enhanced versions of Father Christmas' elves which cut and past papery products at speeds bordering on supersonic<br />OR<br />2)The corporate hobo's who published the helpful hints are too damn lazy to assemble their own damn papercraft<br />I'm guessing the latter.<br /><br />Anyway, after much sweat, tears and scissor induced blisters, I finally had my component parts!</span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #0000ee; font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikzex6cHYSm8BvK-He1j7almJYfelw8MNEAT89zmJVrxVjb8oJ9ZvJw109npX0X5V-o1dBwwP-2GR-rc21NAQ6pNj9xRPCdqq3P0yftbNevjr5jC-zdJ_vUcFI1-mFOGbrCDJAwxxOSHAk/s1600/turtp1.jpg"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496012218222522146" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikzex6cHYSm8BvK-He1j7almJYfelw8MNEAT89zmJVrxVjb8oJ9ZvJw109npX0X5V-o1dBwwP-2GR-rc21NAQ6pNj9xRPCdqq3P0yftbNevjr5jC-zdJ_vUcFI1-mFOGbrCDJAwxxOSHAk/s320/turtp1.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; height: 240px; width: 320px;" /></span></a></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #0000ee; font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">After a tedious half-hour of folding along EVERY GOD-FORSAKEN DOTTED LINE on every seperate part the time came to stick the little tag doo-hickeys to whatever open area the folding directed them to. But horror of horrors, there was no glue or equivalent sticky substance in the house!<br /><br />"Hindsight is always 20/20," said the snarky bastard that lives in my cupboard and whom I punched quite hard before rushing to the nearest seven-eleven to obtain the sacred and necessary adhesive! (and a soda)<br /><br />Stationery was clearly not this store's strongpoint though, and despite my subtle legal threats to the establishment, I was denied the crucial sticky requirement needed to proceed in my quest.<br />Dejectedly, I returned home for one last rummage through my school bag and, as luck would have it (sexually anyway, "it" being dressed in a scaly bikini and eating a cheeseburger, but that's neither here nor there), I found and ancient relic from my primary school days!: A glue stick so thick and dry that you would probably have trouble carving it with a chisel, but glue nonetheless!<br /><br />After soaking the remaining glue in the sink for a while and sticking it in the microwave, I got it into a semi-sticky gooey state, and fashioned a glue brush from an old pencil. I could finally get to the all important assembly stage of my creation, and assemble I did, easily enough since the pre-folded paper guided the flappy things to their appropriate places. I now had the distinct body parts of my creation, all that remained would be to stick 'em together in some sad mockery of Turtwig's form.</span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #0000ee; font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #0000ee; font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: normal;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496015312826922258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxsHcEb9cHiRr3wwpyKEgmpEuNTSc55PxciZ6ZGk6b-_Y7SbCOvbZJaIL6CixILBqh1_Vys1_7L7PQHCNrNkmp0r5FszfzZATplDFsZ7J1YADf405tWWzp4Cr6UUpu1Jd1Bu9k3cDNeYeO/s320/turtp2.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 206px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #0000ee; font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #0000ee; font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Before you lies a dismembered Pokemon, now there's something the TV program won't give ya!<br /><br />After gluing what flaps I could to what spaces my not-so-nimble-as-they-used<wbr></wbr></span><span class="word_break" style="display: block; float: left; margin-left: -10px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">-to-be fingers could manage, and ingeniously fashioning a few modifications to the design to get the damn head to stay on, my prize finally took shape!</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #0000ee; font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #0000ee; font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #0000ee; font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: normal;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496015318748083090" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZc1OzvCBCaSTescyzWISNGbYnemAl2TBZDf1XsPHBNlULCvbPfptCVrxv7Y1IAA20wHRrZtB3JNyHSR5dsKsVDTKx5vcQ0UnqmLxFue9ozvQmA4geOr1UQyeE-qBpTW6IAy91hyphenhyphenAyzTdT/s320/turtp4.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #0000ee; font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #0000ee; font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #0000ee; font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">A bit of a far cry from the original idea, but you get what you anonymously download I guess...<br /><br />My Ultra manly quest had reached it's apparent end, I had spent one more day lying between me and the oh so desirable cash gifts of Christmas-time, But more days lay ahead, and more manly activities were necessary! I resolved to stare at my creation and marvel at it's glory until my waiting period was spent, but as I looked down to begin my long hard look, my eyes met only the bare counter-top, my creation had vanished! Where it is now, we may never know, more importantly, what was I going to without my newest time waster? A new papercraft was needed and it was needed soon...<br /><br />Tune in some time in the foreseeable future for part 2 of "My extremely manly papercraft adventures!" In which I shall attempt to create a new and previously unheard of critter!<br /><br />(Unless I catch up to the old one somehow, but I doubt it, judging from this newspaper article that got printed and delivered to my house just as I was writing this and was totally not modified in any way:</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdMKa2k6HaiB5hXA62KDrtT_yw-FrTCa5johld9RvZ_KCPA5Jqh6VIVFrSnatvFcmZuS7WIiOBZZNSVCASEY0t2M5qfFvclQvmbziTPWjtVgZ6EaYdeCFt99G30zm0AcOzW9WzrIlA2ugF/s1600/turtgodzilla.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdMKa2k6HaiB5hXA62KDrtT_yw-FrTCa5johld9RvZ_KCPA5Jqh6VIVFrSnatvFcmZuS7WIiOBZZNSVCASEY0t2M5qfFvclQvmbziTPWjtVgZ6EaYdeCFt99G30zm0AcOzW9WzrIlA2ugF/s320/turtgodzilla.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #0000ee; font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #0000ee; font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #0000ee; font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Oh my.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>Granthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02643239855692810325noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4077571206906508360.post-74252404553126626222010-07-20T08:04:00.000-07:002010-08-11T02:32:17.126-07:00Well, here I am. Now what?Hello, I'm Grant Barnard and I'm going to be presiding over this small part of this great big internet of ours. I'll mostly be using this space to post my humour articles, reviews, drafts and various other pieces of my mind's accumulated detritus. For the most part I'll let my writing speak for itself, but I feel I can say with some certainty that if you can't derive at least a chuckle from one or all of my pieces, then you most certainly aren't human; In which case: Awesome! I hate those guys. Let's see if we can work something out.Granthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02643239855692810325noreply@blogger.com0