Archive for the 'poindextrose' Category

As if I needed more proof…

Published July 3rd, 2008 in muzak, coolness and poindextrose. 0 Comments

I’ve written before about how I have been karmically deducing that the Old 97s are meant to be my favourite band. It’s out of my hands. I can no longer be held responsible for my actions where they are concerned.

Never, in a million years, would I presume to see my two favourite things combined in such a way.

Is it kind of a crappy music video? Yeah. Is my inner geek mentally correcting the rather egregious typo that is throughout? Let’s just say that the phrase “There’s no ‘C’!” is repeated in my head frequently.

I mean, there’s something to be said for a random video that doesn’t relate to the song, and then there’s this. There’s the band having a minimal role in a video, and then there’s the weird tangential pass-bys that go on here (the band appears, or is even suggested, for about 16 seconds).

Do I still LOVE IT? Of course. If only just for what it represents if not for its execution.

Setting the line right now

Published April 4th, 2008 in brain, teevee and poindextrose. 0 Comments

Before the final season starts, I am laying my cards on the table in re the final Cylon. Get it out there in print so I can look good once I’m right, or the fool once I’m proven wrong.

If you don’t know what I’m talking about, you should probably turn back now, there’s nothing for you here.

I thought I was playing it cool over the last week, not geeking out quite so much, but turns out over the last few hours, knowing that the Galactica premiere airs in now less than four hours, I can’t stands it no more.

Last March, so very long ago, when the finale aired and four of the final five were revealed, I was pretty proud of myself for picking up three of the four (Tigh, Tory and Anders), but the accomplishment was minimized a little in that they pretty much told you as much in the first part of the two parter. Tyrol was a surprise, I believe I shouted at the TV.

I’d chosen two others in my back-and-forth with Ms. Julia Bronsteter (nee Kirkham), but now that we’ve only got one left, I’ve got to pick a horse, or chicken out and pick someone new.

Fortunately, I’m confident enough in my pick to side with one of my originals, and ride them ’till we’re done.

Felix Gaeta.

There, I said it. The marvelous, ever-present, vaguely simpering (in a good way) Gaeta. He was at the helm of the only ship destined to (really) survive the attacks; is responsible for the ‘mistake’ of miscommunicating jump coordinates when Adama is shot, a problem only solved by creating a dreaded computer network; sticks by Baltar’s side the whole time on New Caprica, but still helping the resistance, for some end; lies to implicate Baltar at the trial (he pissed off the Cylons); and is just overall one of those ubiquitous presences that HAS to have some sort of ominous hand in everything. Plus the gay vibe. Kidding.

There’s just too much, and he’s too shifty and sly, I don’t even think he’s a sleeper, I think he knows what’s what.

Very tricky, Mr. Gaeta. You have 20 episodes left to prove me right or wrong.

P.S. Jon, don’t you dare tell me anything. Or. Else. You. Die. I don’t care how married you’re getting. There would be killing.

Any fellow Galactites with theories?

Urge … to punch-uate … rising

Published March 12th, 2008 in muzak and poindextrose. 0 Comments

That may be my favourite blog title I’ve ever written.

But they say that the best material comes out of conflict, and man am I conflicted.

Vampire Weekend.

Do I hate them? Do I love them? Do I just want them to call me up at about 11 at night once or twice a week and be gone before breakfast?

On the one hand, they’ve got a rather staggering amount of cable-knit sweaters and boat shoes, sound a tad too much like early Police, and are just generally Upper-East-Side, Cape-Cod, Ivy-Leagued privileged music geeks who were on the cover of Spin before they had a record released (read: someone’s Daddy knows someone, even if it’s just Mr. Franklin and all of his friends, Washington, Lincoln, et al).

On the other hand — so. damn. catchy. Exhibit A — “Oxford Comma”. Is it just that the English grad in me is giddy at the prospect of a song centred around punctuation? Should I be offended, as I am definitely one to have an opinion on Oxford commas, and have recently gone to lengths to communicate that opinion to a colleague (they’re perfectly correct and appropriate in a large number of situations!)?

I’m very much unsure how I feel about the record as a whole. Does my sensibility towards the extreme preppy attitude impact my clear enjoyment of the music? I mean, for God’s sake, they have a song whose central conceit is about being too bored at Cape Cod. Their music is based pretty heavily in not only pointing out how educated and privileged they are, but in pretty much celebrating it. It’s the kind of setup that makes even mild-mannered gentlemen like myself get all clenchy-fisted and forced to push back a desire to pummel some squares.

The fodder for ridicule and much railing-against in pretty much all other indie pop, done in a way that would seem pretentious to the freakin’ Arcade Fire? Shouldn’t I hate this? (And yes, I realize that if you google “Vampire Weekend” and “blog”, you get thousands of other middle-class 20-something hipsters wondering the exact same thing.)

I probably should. However, I most definitely do not. At least not yet.

128-bit Memory Lane

Published January 15th, 2008 in retrospecticus, megaspection, poindextrose and l337 gamez. 0 Comments

In my pre-work blog perusal this morning, my one of my bookmarked gaming blogs (Level Up at Newsweek) linked to a piece on MTV Multiplayer featuring little blurbs from gaming luminaries/writers/creators/journalists about their first real gaming memory.

Seeing as a lot of these people are older than me, though not by too too much, most of the memories involve the Atari 2600, or cabinet arcade games, but a few choice nuggets really triggered a flood of memories in me as well.

I’ve been on a big gaming kick lately, and 2007 was a very, very good year in video games, so it was a good time for me to jump back in. Probably even a bigger kick than towards the end of my university career, when I went on a very short but intense kick of sending resumes out to video game publishers in hopes of getting a (very elusive) job on the creative/production side. Turns out, if you can’t program, you better have a game or two to your credit already, or years of experience elsewhere that is somehow applicable.

I still believe gaming is the next big entertainment front, one where there will be a huge break in the next few years as a primary storytelling form, maybe even nearing the impact that movies or TV have, so maybe I can look into it in the future. For now, I’ve sufficed with reading a ton about what’s going on in the industry, and taking in the amazing games that have been on offer lately (having finally purchased the 360 that had been saved up for for more than a year).

But as to the nostalgic kick mentioned earlier, it only took seven words: Where In The World Is Carmen Sandiego?

I loved those games. The word “Broderbund” is forever etched into my brain as a bringer of good things. But that recollection sent me back even further. I knew Carmen and her motley crew thieved away with a big part of my heart as a kid, but they weren’t the first, so who was? I pictured a mountain. A mountain made up of blue lines, pretty basic early computer art. Big blue letters. What did the letters say?

Sierra.

I saw big ears. Who did these ears belong to? Oh man, that takes me back. Soft white vinyl case, creaking plastic.

Mickey’s Space Adventure.

There may have been earlier games, those floppy disks full of 4-bit bowling games, game shows, dozens of games probably no bigger than 5kb for the Commodore (we had a 128, no stinkin’ 64 for us, no sir), but that space-faring mouse and his quest for … something were the beginnings of what I’m only now realizing is a lifelong and close friendship with video games. I truly believe that those early educational games helped sate my need for dynamic interaction (I was a bright kid who craved stimulation), helped me solve puzzles (even when they got repetitive, and I did play them until I knew them backwards and forward) and develop my brain, and I may not be who I am today if I resorted to amusing my only-child self in front of even more children’s TV or other solitary activity.

So I googled it for fun, and guess what? It still runs. Those geniuses at ScummVM (the emulator that runs old Lucasarts games, among many others, on modern computers) has included Mickey’s Space Adventure in its most recent build.

I found the ROM, updated my (*sheepish eyes* … work computer) version of ScummVM to the recent beta, and heard that familiar bleeping within about 90 seconds. I switched off then, as I’m not a complete layabout at work and I had plenty to do, but just knowing that I can go back and explore the solar system with Mickey and Pluto again anytime I like, even though our Commodore 128 is long, long, long dead, is immensely comforting.

It even more or less sums up my current feelings on video games. The best experiences, to me, involve adventure, intrigue, a decent amount of heart, and no less thought, preferably more. Where hundreds of thousands of other impressionable youth were gobbling down pellets in Pac-Man, or shooting down 10-pixel planes in Combat for the 2600, or God-forbid playing E.T. for Atari, I was flying the solar system in a primary-coloured, slow-to-load, memory crystal-searching starship from the planet Oron.

Good times indeed.

P.S. Stay tuned for reviews of the last five years in my gaming life, maybe more. Seems to me that reviews are something I’m quick at, and can help me write with a purpose on a regular basis. I’ve got a list here, I plan to address it.

First up, Portal.

Only the Brits.

Published January 2nd, 2008 in brain, coolness and poindextrose. 0 Comments

More specifically, only Stephen Fry, one of the most sterling examples of Brits.

Watch this. Now.

Done? Wasn’t it marvelous? Doesn’t it just grab you by the testicles, or by whichever testicular substitute/equivalent you may happen to possess, and shake you until something tears?

For Christmas, my dad gave us the first season/disc (as BBC seasons of TV are criminally short) of A Bit of Fry and Laurie, sketch comedy by the two gentlemen who most make sense in such a show, Stephen Fry and Hugh Laurie (TV’s House, among many other wonderful things). This sketch appeared about midway through, and I’ve been thinking about it ever since. It very aptly summarizes many, many of the things I think about language, but which I also realize I believe/think almost solely because of previous Fry writings I’ve previously read. Language is amazing, and the substance of this sketch effectively illustrates why I have made working with it my life’s meat.

I mean, if you take out some of the quirks of delivery, and Hugh Laurie’s interjections, which were mostly likely only included to give him something to say in the four minutes this sketch takes to play out, this could essentially be a part of a History of the Language lecture at just about any university. There is stuff in here that is deliciously complex ⎯ things about culture and language and perception and and and … I love him.

Stephen Fry is a golden god.

Much of the series, as far as I can tell so far, is based very much around Fry’s notions of playfulness and flexibility of language as not only a purveyor of message, but a shaper therein. Things are funny not only because of how they are said or by whom (although those aspects are not hurt by the two immensely talented people saying them), but most essentially by exactly what is being said, down to the finest verbal detail. I must own it all.

I may be a nerd, but…

Published November 28th, 2007 in internetz and poindextrose. 0 Comments

These people need some pummeling. At the very least.

I was going to put this in my little sidebar, but I was concerned people might miss it over there, and if anyone is even still reading this here corner of cyberspace, this cannot be missed.

While I may disagree with a bit of the book-bashing in the actual linked post here, Harry Potter being something I do enjoy, I have to say I agree with the calls for nerd-bashing and the doubts raised over the ability of people involved herein in regards to copulation, shall we say.

I also enjoy the word ‘poindextrose’.

But here’s the video in question, free of exterior linkage, to help us all re-engage in the ages old favourite sport of all, Vassar bashing.

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