25 & Life

Seriously, how the fuck did I make it to 25? I really don't know myself . . . by all accounts I should have been dead years ago. But here I am, still ticking and wreaking havoc on society.

25 goddamn years. Holy cow. When I was a teenager, 25 was the big time. It was wife and kids, house with two cats in the yard kind of shit. Boy was I wrong! Here I am hitting the big 2-5 as a career-less college grad that couldn't possibly be farther away from being a family man. But hey, I have a PS3 and a yellow sportscar. Fuck yes!

I've included a photo of myself for you out-of-towners that haven't seen me in a few years.

Here's to 26! Whoooooop! Time to go have some beers.

I Hate Television

Tomorrow is my last day of work for several weeks, and I must say, the prospect of being even less productive than I already am has me more than a little excited. You can be damn sure I'll partake in choice activities such as: getting drunk on Mondays, wearing my Pac-Man pajama pants all day, and waking up and playing Mega Man 2 before I even brush my teeth. Yes, kids, it's true. I still live in a fantasy land.

I've already received news that several card-carrying members of the Cool Club will be making their way to The Pass to celebrate gift giving and savior birthing. Hanging out is always fun, but going out . . . not so much. Over the past several months I've transformed into a semi-agoraphobic caricature of my former self. I'm not sure what exactly the problem is here. I'm positive that it's not because of maturity (the first paragraph completely kills that theory,) but perhaps it's due to boredom. You know, same places-same faces kind of shit. Yes, we'll call it that for now. But regardless of my lack of enthusiasm about going out, I am excited to see these cats again. I really fucking love these guys and their new common law spouses. Things should be fun.

I suppose that I should touch on the abomination that aired last night on MTV. Of course I'm talking about the last episode of A Shot at Love. I always had my doubts about the legitimacy of that slut's claims about being bi-sexual, but last night was just disgusting. I mean, she chose Bobby!? I guess in the entire time that she's been working on her career she's never ever been to a college bar, beach, frat party, sporting event, or Hollister store in her entire life, because if she had she would've found love years ago. Guys like that idiot are a dime-a-fucking-dozen. Poor Dani. Oh well, she was too good for that show anyways.

In gaming news--I recently finished Mass Effect, BioWare's latest science fiction dialogue-simulator for Xbox 360. It started off a little slow, but I gotta say I ended up loving it. I had my angry Annie Lennox-look-alike soldier destroy everything. And that's really the core of its brilliance, the choices to be a total dick and blow everything up or a benevolent saint and save everyone are real choices that you feel have real weight. It has a spot on my top five of '07 list, and had it been released in any other year, it would have been a major contender for my GOTY. A distinction that is not at all coveted, but definitely should be.

Which brings me to my next point. I'm holding off on making my real decision about game of the year until I play Rock Band. Now I know that the chances of me changing my mind on the early winner are slim to nil, but I'll still give it a chance to be in the running. After all, it's Christmas!

Addicted to Tequila

I mentioned in a previous post that my latest television obsession is the so-bad-it's-good A Shot at Love With Tila Tequila. My DVR currently holds all the episodes to date, and come tonight will get another one. I'm so excited!

No, but seriously. Around here we get together and watch it each week and are continually amazed by it always manages to outdo itself. I think just about the only thing left that would surprise me would be if someone got shanked during eliminations . . . you know what? That wouldn't even surprise me. At this point I expect it.

For those of you who actually have lives (and those that try really hard pretending to,) you might not know who or what Tila Tequila is. Lucky for you, I can sum up her entire life in one run-on sentence, here goes. Tila Tequila is a four-foot tall bug-eyed nude model with an amazing body and a goofy laugh who pretty much made a name for herself by being the number-one friend whore on everybody's favorite networking site: Myspace.com.

Bug-eyed, naked and all over the Interwebs.

The premise of the show is just as ridiculous as her "career." Tila, a long-time slut, has found her life of thousands of sexual encounters to be unfulfilling and is looking for love. Yes, LOVE. Like many other celebrities, finding love is easiest for Tila by moving 16 people into a mansion, keeping them drunk 24-7, and making them compete in humiliating contests, in which the losers of said contests end up getting eliminated. Man, sure beats a lifetime of soul searching and dating . . . These celebrities have it so easy.

By far you've gathered that it's pretty much the exact same premise as all of the other C-List celebrity dating shows out there, and it is, with one exception. Tila Tequila is bi-sexual, so on this show she's got men AND women competing for her "love."

Of course I put love in quotation marks because it's bullshit. Even a heartless cynic like myself who can count the amount of people I've said "I love you," to on one of Homer Simpson's hands knows that no one here is in love. But hey, these delusional frat boys and lesbians make for some damn good TV!

The appeal is really hard for me to pinpoint exactly . . . I mean, arousal from watching girls makeout is something that I outgrew when I realized that getting two girls to kiss was about as difficult as making toast. And seeing the female contestants prance around half naked can't be it, either, because even before they started getting eliminated the girls were only about 40% as hot as the girls on other reality shows . . . There's the fights, I do enjoy those, and there's already been several.

I suppose it's just the way the show so unabashedly embraces everything that is awful about reality television in each one-hour episode. There is a reason that reality TV has become so popular, and it's because people love the escapism of watching other people's "problems." Nothing can get rid of the feelings brought on by a shitty day at work quicker than watching some clown eat Rocky Mountain Oysters while wearing a Speedo all in the name of love.

It's good stuff, really.

This is my plug for A Shot at Love With Tila Tequila. A show that I shouldn't love, but do. And a show that you probably don't watch, but should.

Giftmas

Pretty much from the time you can walk, up until you're old enough to buy cigarettes, Christmas TOTALLY kicks ass. The combination of gifts and a lengthy vacation from school make it the best thing ever. Over the years I've still managed to maintain some level of excitement about the holidays, mostly by trying to hold onto what made it so exciting when I was a little kid.

This past weekend was an unexpected jump start to the season for me. Not only was EVERYONE in town, but I went shopping on Friday and enjoyed the unexpected snowfall on Saturday. Now I'm ready trees, lights, lavish gifts, and gluttony.

The snow as seen from the passenger's seat of my father's Jeep.

Even as I've gotten older I've strayed away from asking for "practical" gifts. Sure, sweaters and pants are great, but nothing beats a ridiculously fun gift that really don't need. Three years ago I wanted Metal Gear Solid 3 and Metroid Prime 2. Two years ago, I asked for the original Guitar Hero and an extra guitar. Last year it was the Wii and Twilight Princess. Take a look at this year's totally awesome and totally unnecessary gift:

Please excuse my mediocre cellphone-photography skills.

Yes, that's what you think it is--Rock Band for PS3. The lucky winner of the Gift That Still Manages to Make Me Feel Like A Kid Award for 2007. Lugging this bulky, 40lb son of a bitch around the mall for an hour wasn't fun, but the resulting hernia will be totally worth it when I get to try to simultaneously drum and sing R.E.M.'s Orange Crush come Christmas morning. Yes!

If all this sounds a little materialistic, it's probably because it is. Having never subscribed to any of the religious aspects of the holidays, the season is pretty much just fond memories of giving and receiving gifts. There's also lights, food, family, the occasional snowfall, candy canes, and TV Christmas specials. Think of everything that Charlie Brown hated about Christmas and you'll get a good idea of what it is that I love about it.

I'll leave you with this photo of my three-foot-tall tree, as it illuminates my apartment with the electric-synthetic joys of Christmas that we all should embrace.

Anything Box

For the past few weeks, the only disc that's been spinning in my 360 is The Orange Box. For those of you who aren't in the know, The Orange Box is Valve's love letter (or love package?) to FPS fans everywhere. It's a collection of five games, all of which could easily be packaged and sold separately and make Valve truckloads of money. When describing all that you get by purchasing this collection, I get so enthusiastic that it's hard for me not to sound like the guy on TV hawking Magic Bullets at 3 AM. It's SO GOOD and you get SO MUCH for money.

I completed Half-Life 2, and Portal, and I've put in a little bit of time with Team Fortress 2. All of which are brilliant, but so far the real stand out has been Portal. It's an extremely short and extremely satisfying first-person puzzle game. It's like a nugget made with the finest quality of meats, although unlike most nuggets, it really is satisfying. It's three-hour life span ensures that the game (which is built around a single concept) never gets old. It's an experience that you really must experience, and one that anyone with the necessary hardware to run it would be stupid to pass up.

I feel that Valve's generosity towards gamers is going to spoil us in the long run. Think about it . . . All the overweight virginal gamers eagerly drop $60 on a single product that gets them less than 10 hours of entertainment. Yeah, gamers do that OFTEN. In my case, once or twice a month. But depending on the age, weight, and number of years gone without touching a woman, that figure could increase to three, four, or even FIVE games a month!

Now that's a damn shame . . .

I know it's unlikely, but I hope that Valve's experiment in value and quality OF quantity sends a message to the rest of the industry to stop sticking their dicks in our collective asses and show us some respect.

The spirit of The Box has me giddy, and when I'm giddy I enjoy posting blogs with lists. So! Here I've put together a list of the most famous boxes in the history of boxes. Enjoy!


5. I actually hate this particular box, but its fame cannot be denied. Since 1951, Jack in the Box "restaurants" have been fattening Americans with its over-priced mayonnaise-laden menu. Seriously, they put mayo on the motherfucking breakfast sandwiches! Pardon me while I go throw up at the thought of eating an egg and cheese biscuit with mayonnaise on it.






4. In addition to ditching a boy band, making two amazingly successful and equally amazing albums, and fucking Jessica Biel, Mr. Timberlake thought he needed to prove to us again how awesome he is with an SNL skit. The Dick in a Box video became and Internet/pop culture phenomenon and even won an Emmy . . .or a Grammy. Or an Oscar. Who knows, but that video sure is hilarious.



3. Sure, you can say that me listing Microsoft inaugural gaming device as a cop out, or bias, but then I'll just give you the finger. One could argue that the 360 is more famous, but you can't deny the impact of this monstrosity here. The 87-pound beast came equipped with a hard-drive, four controller ports, and all the network gizmos necessary to bring online gaming to us console folk. I still have mine!





2. Having a shitty day? Well, you can blame this bitch. According to myth, Pandora here was beside herself with curiosity when told not to open a box by a deity or something. Having no self control, she opened it anyways and let loose a set of evil, plagues, death, and destruction upon the world. The legend doesn't say, but I'm sure rush-hour traffic, waiting in line at the bank, and those decals of Calvin peeing on various logos were in the box, too. Thanks a lot, Pandora.


1. OK, don't pretend like you weren't expecting this. The Orange Box is sooooo fucking good that I simply couldn't resist mentioning it again. Five games! Five fucking amazing games! Stop reading this nonsense and go buy the fucking thing already.

Vertically Scheduled

When I first created this blog as an alternative to the voyeurism and self-importance that is Myspace.com I had good intentions of keeping it up to date. But like most endeavors I pursue these days, my efforts have been half-assed at best. Since my last update, a whole SHIT LOAD of stuff has happened--so here goes:

My friend Richard and I moved into an apartment together a few weeks ago, and so far the results have been somewhat of a mixed bag. Living with Richard is great; so don't go mad with the prospect of gossip, those of you who know Mr. Rodriguez, but there have been a few other issues . . . First of all, getting the Internet hooked up has been a battle worthy of a Tolkein novel movie adaptation. The motherfuckers over at Time Warner have their heads so far up their asses I'm amazed that they haven't sunk themselves into chapter eleven. I'm serious. Getting put on hold, and transferred, and put on hold again, and transferred to a guy named Fernando, then switched back to some woman, etc., etc . . . Now multiply that scenario by two weeks and raise it to a power of frustration capable of launching you into a murderous rampage and you'll get an idea of how I feel. It's sad to admit a dependency on the Internet, but you know what? That's just how it is today. I don't only use it for Halo/Team Fortress 2 playing, but for communication, and podcast listening, and hardcore pornography downloading, and so on. Today is the first day it has been working, and I'm crossing my fingers that it doesn't fuck up again.

In addition to the Internet Wars of 2007, we have began a squirmish with our downstairs neighbor. PIcture the most awful, buzzed headed, ex-military tattooed white trash dad in the universe, and you have our neighbor. You see, I suppose either the shell shock of war or several years of raising SHITTY kids has made our "friend" very sensative to noise. The first night we had everything all set up we had a few friends over. We didn't have the TV in the living room yet, so we instead played my iPod in one of those little speaker dock things. Well, the next day, Colonel Tattoo stops Rich and I and tells us to keep it down. Ok . . . whatever. Fast forward two weeks, we have some more people over. This time we have the TV in the living room and the surround sound set up. Anyways, the kids come over and we start watching Entourage (brilliant show, by the way,) and all of the sudden it sounds like our floor is going to collapse out from underneath us. Apparently General Dickhead thought it was too loud, and in his combative conditioned response decided to bang THE SHIT out of his cieling. Not once, not twice, but SIX TIMES! It shook the couch I was sitting on. Ok, I know Richard's speakers have the ability to to be ass-rockingly loud, but we were watching Entourage. Not motherfucking Transformers or something. Jesus. I hate his face and his ugly kids.

What else is new . . . well there's the Halo 3 thing. I suppose not supplying the interwebs with more material about "the most successful entertainment product" in history makes me a terrible person, gamer, and even a worse blogger. Halo 3 is an amazing game, but it isn't the industry-changing experience that Combat Evolved was. The single player campaign is exceptionally fun, yet laughably short. The real value comes from the multiplayer, which is really more like a competitive sport than a videogame. But yeah, if you have a 360 and enjoy a good round of shooting, pick it up.

In other news, two weeks ago was the insane Daft Punk/Vegoose music festival in Las Vegas. By a combination of chance and personal awesomeness, I managed to see both Daft Punk's first US show (Coachella '06) and their last (this here Vegoose thing.) Being pushed up against so many shirtless, dirty, sweaty hippies may have given me a mild case of ringworm, but I don't care. It was AMAZING! Those of you that are unfamiliar with the work of this Parisian robot duo are doing yourself a GREAT disservice. Go buy the Discovery album and look on Youtube.com for some videos of their live performances. The rest of the weekend was amazing, too. Walking around and drinking yards of stawberry daquiri while occassionally stopping to shop/watch a water ballet was a blast.

That's about all I've got so far. I need to head out to my teacher classes pretty soon. Hopefully tonight will end early enough for me to catch the new Tila Tequila. Yeah . . . I know. Don't say anything.

Beardly

It's hard to relate the process of beard growth to those that lack the testosterone and appropriately-located follicles to experience it, but I'll try. You see, my job this summer was pretty strict about the facial hair . . . Even peach fuzz was cause for reprimand. But since my internship (or should I say internment?) has ended, I have totally let myself go. Free of the facial-hair regulations of the refinery, I now have some quality Chia-esque action going on, and despite the itchiness and my general homeless appearance, it feels fucking great.

I have always been an advocate for the beard, not only for style reasons, but also because shaving FUCKING SUCKS. The idea of gliding a hand-held instrument equipped with not one, not two, but THREE razors along my jugular has never sat well with me. I sympathize with you ladies out there, I really do. Because the amount of surface area you all have to shave is several orders of magnitude greater than ours. But keep it up, cause I don't like hairy bitches. Just Kidding!

Kind of.

It's funny, too, how something that sucks as much as shaving is a right-of-passage that so many kids look forward to. I don't really get it. I was never gung ho about the whole thing. When everything that those 1970s videos they showed us in gym class started happening to me, the desire to shave was furthest from my mind. In fact, my first "razor" was an electric--a method that I still embrace today for that permanent five o'clock shadow look.

From puberty to my 20-somethings, I thought it'd be fun to take a look at great moments in Michael Hash Facial Hair History. Think of it as a retrospect that celebrates the basic human right to be hairy as well a guide to facial hair done right. Here goes:



















Here we have the Post-Scruff. When combined with a t-shirt and an unkempt looking coif, it is UNSTOPPABLE in the clubs. Beat that, Mystery.















Oh, the Handlebar. Nothing SCREAMS jackass like this pro-wrestler/NRA member popularized classic. When displayed on the beach, it even manages to attract drunken-patchy dopplegangers. Go figure.














Yeah, this totally isn't me. It's some teacher-that-subbed-for's sad husband. This 'stache/glasses/feathered hair combo is the perfect example of what NOT to do.














What we have here is the Winterly, a perfect example of form and function in those cold winter months. Note the completely unnecessary UTEP headband and matching plugs.















The Lincoln tells everybody, "Hey, shaving is for suckers and I am NOT cool with slavery." Which are obviously good messages to send to the world. Snappy clothes and a shiny cardboard hat can really jazz up this particular look.














The Amish look is perfect for those that have a high level of contempt for mustaches and a fondness for butter-churning. Just remember to leave the horn-rimmed glasses at home.


So throw away your Bics and Shicks, because growing and maintaining your facial hair is fun and easy. Well, once you get past the Kevin McDonald Kids in the Hall sketch stage of growing it out, anyways . . . .

Road Rage

I was driving home from the far-side of town on Saturday night when an act of road rage got a little out of hand. I drive a very small, very light, very easily destructible car, mind you, and the perpetrator of this vehicular harassment was in a large, heavy, OLD Jaguar. I'll spare the details of my attack, but just know that the incident involved high-speeds, wet roads, and sudden breaking. In all seriousness, I was a little shook up by the whole thing.

Driving a car allows for moments of empowerment and freedom that can instantly turn into feelings of fear and helplessness, which some films have managed to recreate flawlessly. Almost getting destroyed by the clearly insane driver of a Jaguar got me to thinking about the best car-related horror movies out there. So queue up these classics on your Netflix with these classics, and please folks, if you see me driving on the freeway, don't try to kill me.


Duel, 1971
Duel was Steven Spielberg's first feature-length film which originally debuted on television in the 70s. But unlike today's Amy Fisher/Hallmark Hall of Fame piece of shit Lifetime Network movies, Duel was very (read VERY,) good. The film is about a greasy little businessman driving through what looks like Arizona and getting terrorized by a big-ass semi truck. There's some really good Hitchcockian paranoia mixed in with the visual flair that helped make Spielberg such a Holly Wood big shot. It's
available on DVD, and VERY worth checking out.


Breakdown, 1997
I love it when really good low-budget movies succeed. Breakdown did just that in '97, coming out of nowhere and knocking people on their asses with its oh-so-intense man on a mission to save his wife from psycho redneck truckers story. Clearly drawing inspiration from Duel in its opening scenes, Breakdown takes a sharp turn into what can be considered action movie territory. But even the explosions and gunplay never distract from the feeling of dread you get when Kurt Russel's wife disappears ten minutes in.


Joyride, 2001
So if Breakdown and Duel made baby (a baby that would likely grow up to dress in all black and hurt little animals,) it'd be Joyride. Joyride is a great movie, but it's certainly entertaining. The truck vs car Duel dynamic plus the relationship aspects Breakdown multiplied by slasher movie violence is the formula for the film's success. So if you can stomach Paul Walker's school of Keanu Reeves acting technique for a couple of hours, it's definitely worth your time.

BioShoXXX

The first drop of the 40-days and 40-nights-caliber storm of big games this fall has landed upon us. And I think the biblical muse I'm channeling would agree with me and say, "And it was good."

Ken Levine and the boys and Irrational Games gained their industry notoriety back in '99 with the release of System Shock 2. According to Wikipedia, the game was technically impressive, played well, AND was scary. Which are all things that most games today developed on fancy-pants Cell processors fail to achieve.

Being a console gamer, I completely missed out on the collectively decided awesomeness that was System Shock 2. But lucky for us console-types, visionary PC designers are making the jump to the console space and making some fucking amazing titles and--hopefully--some profit for themselves as well.

In pre-release interviews, members of the design team were adement in stressing that the game is a shooter. I suppose this was done to ensure sales, because typically ambitious abstractions fail to compete with regurgitated genres on the best-seller charts. It's sad to see a product that will likely be remembered for everything it accomplishes outside of combat be undersold as a shooter.

Though shooting is the vehicle that drives the BioShock experience, it is definitely not its strongest point. In fact, when compared to the Halo's of the world, BioShock is mechanically imprecise. But that doesn't make it any less fun. What BioShock lacks in solid shooting mechanics, it makes up for it's level and character designs.

The plausible impossible underwater city of Rapture and its inhabitants really suck you in. Each room is meticulously detailed and radically different from the next. This isn't your standard gun-metal hallway after gun-metal hallway typical sci-fi shooter level design here. There are constantly new things to see and nooks and crannies to explore.

Rapture is populated by several classes of citizens, all of which are rather creepy and decidedly fucked up. The main enemy characters are called Splicers. Splicers are essentially insane-mask-wearing-lead pipe-wielding-bible-hymn-singing psychos that lurk in the shadows and hunt in packs to take you down. They vary in degree of difficulty, and have a represent a moderately impressive AI behavior. There are times when they will retreat to save their own skins, but that's about the extent of it.

In addition to Splicers, there are the Big Daddies and Little Sisters. In a nutshell, Big Daddies are big and scary and mean and Little Sisters are ugly bug-eyed little girls that walk around poking corpses. Big Daddies are the steadfast guardians of the Little Sisters that will protect them at all costs. Each battle with a Big Daddy is as unnerving as it is exhilarating. When fired upon their docile yellow-lit helmets turn a fiery-red and they charge at you with screen-blurring speed. These fights are amazing at first, but wane in excitement as the game progresses due to their necessity and the game's they-won't-attack you-until-you-attack-them-mechanic. I often found myself completing the game's narrative-related tasks and ready to move on to the next section when an on-screen reminder prompted me to go back and kill the Big Daddies.

I'm well aware that I'm nit-picking, but when a game succeeds on so many levels it forces one to focus on the minutia. BioShock's only failings are its constant reminders to the player that it is, in fact, a videogame. The art direction, sound design, and story are all brought down by the conventions of the medium. Menu screen shuffling that disrupts the action, on screen prompts oblective prompts, a GTA-esque directional arrow, and the final "boss" encounter are all examples of how ambition like this can only go so far given the boundaries of the videogame language.

But is good? Fuck yes it's good, I'd even go as far as to call it great. A definite must-buy that you will not regret going $60 in the hole for. Gaming experiences like this are rare; when cinematic videogame envelope is pushed just a little farther. BioShock could very well go down as this console generation's Metroid Prime, and a higher praise than that I could not give it.

Maybe in Retrospect I Should Have Said "Country"

Among the hardcore, it's been unanimously decided that Donkey Kong Country was not a good game. The fanciful pre-rendered characters and backgrounds made for some of the most delicious eye candy around back in '94, but has since become inedible.

What Rare Ltd achieved with the original DKC was precisely what they set out to do, which was prove that the SNES was capable of major graphical feats, and could still be a viable competitor against 32-bit machines. There was a skeleton of a game there, for sure, but its apparent now that the Brits simply read the platform game Cliffs Notes, threw in a bunch of big words, and got by with an A.

The smoke and mirrors used made it easy for me to forgive the game's lack of depth (the fact that i was 11-year-old helped too.) I remember when that mysterious VHS tape in a leaf-covered box came in the mail. I was totally blown away. The propagandists at Nintendo Power really knew how to put together a promo video. The whole thing was less than 20 minutes long, and showcased only a tiny glimpse of the gameplay. But the graphics--my God, the graphics--aroused me more than the Playboy magazines under my older brother's bed.

Being the income-less 11-year-old that I was, I was forced to beg my mom for the game. It's release was slated for November, which meant I would have to wait until Christmas. Damn Nintendo and their marketing prowess . . .

Needless to say, it was a very happy Christmas, indeed. I played the game backwards and forwards. I made it my goal, my mission, my LIFE to find all the hidden bananas and bonus stage barrels. I remember playing the snow level over and over . . . you know the one, where the snow fell lightly at first and then became thicker and thicket as you progressed through the level? Yeah, that's the one.

The immediate success of DKC warranted a sequel, and Rare had a quick follow-up ready for release just one year later. This time around, they lacked the "holy shit!" factor that the original had. The visuals were simply cleaned up, but the gaming community's reaction barely registered on the Richter scale. Sony had released the Playstation several months earlier, and gamers were already beating off to the jagged polygonal race cars of Ridge Racer and blocky humanoid combatants of Battle Arena Toshinden. Suddenly it seemed hard to care about a monkey jumping on reptiles and collecting bananas--especially considering the game's title character wasn't even playable.

The blokes at Rare must have come down with a case of Mad Cow disease, because the direction they took with DCK 2 made no sense. Removing Donkey Kong, perhaps the most recognizable figure in videogames next to Pac-Man, and replacing him the with the ridiculously designed Dixie Kong is a travesty. Dixie is essentially Diddy Kong in drag, and her long blond ponytail acts as a sort of auxiliary appendage, capable of lifting barrels over her head and tossing them at enemies.

Dixie's hair also gave her the slow-descending ability, which had become a platform game staple in the years following Super Mario Bros. 3. This occurred when Dixie spun while falling, turning the ponytail like the propeller of a helicopter. It all makes perfect sense.

Besides the superfluous Dixie, Rare began what would become its downfall: collecting tons of meaningless bullshit. In addition to bananas, in DKC 2 you collect banana coins, Kremlin coins, balloons, golden letters that spell out the word "KONG," and feathers. It's a cheap way to add longevity and replayability to a game that Rare eventually perfected.

I played DKC 2 quite a bit during its initial release, but never owned a copy. What it lacked the charm and uniqueness, it attempted to make up for with lame characters and frustration. It amazes how that DKC 2 is widely regarded as the best the game of the franchise. Because even now that I am old enough to realize the original game's flaws, it still has that nostalgia factor going for it, which counts for a lot.

Despite its shortcomings, DKC 2 was still wildly popular, and like any entertainment product that returns even a $1 profit, a sequel was made. By now, the whole monkeys grabbing bananas while shooting out of barrels schlock had gotten really old, and I never knew a single person who owned the game. And get a load of the character designs here: the shit-fest Dixie returns, and this time instead of Diddy or Donkey, she's brought along Kiddy Kong. Yes, Kiddy Kong. Words cannot bring justice to the loathsome feelings I have for this character, so I'll just wrap it up here.


It's sad to think that the game that single-handedly saved the SNES from an early grave went down in history as such a dud. If Rare had just managed to squeeze an actual game in between all of those graphical tricks, then the SNES could have went out with a well deserved bang.

T9--The "T" Stands for "Truth"

Being the socially awkward poor conversationalist that I am, I immediately embraced text messaging as my preferred method of communication so many years ago. At first it was a little weird . . . New rules of etiquette had to be established. Is a text impersonal? It's too late to call, but is it too late to text? I just met this girl, would it be weird if I text her before I call her? Etc., etc., etc.

Years later, I still text more than ever. In fact, there are some people that I have never once spoken to on the phone, yet have carried on lengthy full-text conversations with. In fact, texting is so important, that when I left ass raping T-Mobile, text plans were the FIRST thing I took into consideration.

Texting to the degree of intensity that my friends and I do requires the use of T9. You know, predictive text--that magical little function that makes texting fast and easy. According to Wikipedia (also known as the never-wrong fountain of knowledge,) T9 is short for Text on 9 Keys. This program not only makes texting easier, but just so happens to reveal some eerie truths about life. The validity of these truths is proven by the fact that certain combinations of key presses form words that are linked together in ways that defy coincidence. Here are a few examples:

4663=GOOD=HOME
This is an easy one. Home is GOOD. No matter if it's your childhood home, or the new home that you've made for yourself, everybody loves their home. And that is . . . good.

5477=LIPS=KISS
Ah yes . . . the infamous kiss/lips example. Once in a drunken rage of chauvinistic stupidity I sent Bob a text bragging about a makeout conquest that read, "I'll lips anything that moves!" The rest is history.

2665=BOOK=COOL
This one used to ALWAYS infuriate me. I say "cool" hundreds of times a day, but when the fuck do I ever say "book?" Well, that was until I discovered that books are in fact cool. Yes, the genius of J.K Rowling has helped me to become a literate member of society and a regular reader of books . . . that are cool.

5437=KIDS=LIES
Oh children . . . Always LYING. And parents too, always lying to their kids and lying to themselves about being good parents. It's a vicious circle of lies that's existed ever since the first monkey man made sex with the first monkey woman and proof, once again, that T9 knows all.

2625=ANAL=COCK
This one just makes me laugh.

Pac-THIS

Arriving right in between the Space Invaders quarter-shortage-inducing craze and the medium-evolving Donkey Kong was Pac-Man. It's colorful graphics and extremely simple gameplay made it appealing to everyone from overweight children to successful businessmen. I was too young to experience the pop culture phenomenon that ensued firsthand, but its reverberations can still be felt today. To many, the word "videogame" brings to mind a mental image of the little yellow glutton cruising around mazes and avoiding ghosts. It's synonymous relationship with the medium is particularly amazing given the fact the game is almost 30 years old.

A couple of weeks ago, original Pac-Man developer Namco revitalized the series with the release of Pac-Man Championship Edition on Xbox Live Arcade. Arriving just as the Halo 3 Beta was drawing to a close, Pac-Man CE was like a gift from a benevolent God that I'm still not quite sure that I believe in (though the quality of the game sure does make a strong case for the existence of the big guy.)

Pac-Man CE maintains the charm of the original visually, with extremely simple character sprites that would've been right at home on an arcade board in 1979. The mazes were jazzed up a bit with a glowing vector-graphics effect that works extremely well. The entire maze is still contained within one screen, and thanks to the dominance of HD TVs it's a widescreen.

The gameplay has only a few subtle differences that when combined create a fast, frantic experience. For example, in the original, once all of the dots were cleared within a maze the action would stop. The player would be rewarded with a much-needed rest before the screen would black out and a new maze generated. In CE, the maze is divided into left and right sections. When all of the dots on one side are cleared, a piece of fruit appears on the opposite side. Eating the fruit replenishes the dots on the opposite end and in some cases changes the layout of the maze. This is done seemlessly, leaving absolutely no break in the gameplay.

Games can be played in a variety of modes, which vary in five or ten minute intervals. The timer and score chasing make for a perfectly old-school arcade experience. I can't really do the game any justice here, the incredibly addictive gameplay must really be played to be fully understood. But if words are your thing, there's no shortage of enthusiast press on Pac-Man CE. Everyone from 1up.com to Penny-Arcade has covered has covered the game at length.

If you have a 360, buy it. If you don't have a 360, then you should just go ahead and end your life right now.

Grand Theft Autonomy

There's only one thing in the entire world that I hate more than AIDS and cancer. It's all around us and we see it everyday. No one is safe, really. It can happen to your best friend, your brother, your sister, your primo, prima and abuelita . . . . and it can even happen to YOU. I'm of course talking about pandemic of losing yourself completely when in a relationship that's spreading like a proverbial wildfire.

No doctor of medicine or expert of psychological pseudo-sciences can explain it. How does a grown man, with a fully-functioning pair of testicles instantly lose them when he meets a girl? Where do they go!? Jesus Christ . . . you'd have a better chance of finding Amelia Earhart and Jimmy Hoffa on the same day than you would your friend's manhood.

And before the ugly finger of misogyny gets pointed in this direction, it must be said that it goes both ways. All too often smart, fun-loving, and ambitious women are mercilessly molded into boring, reclusive, non-text-message-answering dopplegangers of their former selves.

Is it really worth it to lose yourself? The only thing we are born with, that is ours eternally and unquestionably is our-motherfucking-selves. Why would anyone willingly give that away? Perhaps its a combination of things . . . like loneliness, low self esteem, and the temptation of the all powerful FUCK--dangled over their heads by a string like a carrot leading a donkey.

Whatever the case may be, it saddens me greatly. Every time I witness a case of grand theft autonomy, a little piece of me dies inside. Each and every person can give their friends, loved ones, strangers, and lovers SO MUCH if they could simply be themselves.

I leave you all with lyrics from the ever-wise REO Speedwagon and their 1987 hit That Ain't Love. It's an inspirational "fuck you! i'm better off without you" ballad in the tradition of I Will Survive. Here goes:

You tell me what you think Im feelin', you know why I do what I do
Why should you listen to a word I'm sayin', when it's already so clear to you
You tell me 'bout my bad intentions, you doubt the very things I hold true
I can no longer live with your misconceptions, baby all I can say to you, is

That ain't love, I believe you've got the wrong emotion
That ain't love, at least it doesn't feel like love to me
As long as I say what you wanna hear
Do what you wanna do, be who you want me to be
You think that's love, well baby that ain't love to me

Not to be Confused With That Robin WIlliams Movie

Strolling through Target for no reason is one of my favorite pastimes. There's something about all that red and the curious Target-smell that brings my comfort. I can almost always find a CD, DVD, videogame, or solid-colored Mossimo shirt that I don't need, but end up buying anyway.

During one of my recent Target constitutionals I wandered into the toy section. Now, usually I stay away from there, given my disdain for screaming children, terrible parents, and the general disorganization of the merchandise (due in large part to the screaming children and terrible parents.) So against my better judgment, I cruised into the toy section to see what kids are playing with these days. My findings made me a little sad.

Toys today are terribly boring. First of all, there is a line action figures based on people with regular "manly" jobs. You know, like cops, fireman, construction workers, etc. I don't know about you guys, but the idea of playing with a toy based on an under-paid blue-collar schmo does not sound all that exciting. There was also your standard licensed fair, such as Spider-Man toys, Shrek toys, and other toys based on high-budgeted PG-13-rated films.

It was all just SO boring. It made me think about how awesome toys were when I was little. Toys that were fun, and creative, and worth throwing a fit in public for. So let's reminisce about a time when children's shoes were bereft of wheels, a time when Saturday morning cartoons were a big deal and punctuated by commercials for toys that didn't suck . . .

Every once in a while, toy-designers like to get together and create a toy that reminds fat kids about how much the world hates them. During my youth, that toy was the the PogoBall. This rubber inflated ball and plastic foot-stand was definitely not for the hefty. And even those that were blessed with not-so-big bones got very little "pogo" out of it. Jumping on a PogoBall felt a lot like jumping while weighted down by an inflatable ball and plastic stand.



Boys love action figures--not dolls--action figures. Action figures with big fucking muscles and guns and mean looking scowls on their faces. I was lucky enough to be born in era that saw the release of a line of action figures that not only fulfilled my masculine fantasies of warfare and destruction, but my culinary ones as well. The Food Fighters were surely the result of brilliant focus group testing that managed to tap into kids love of both fried foods and Rambo.




Jealous of Mattel's success with Food Fighters, rival toy manufacturer Playmates applied similar focus group testing and released the Barnyard Commandos. After all, the only thing kids love more than snacks and blowing shit up is petting zoos and, well . . . blowing shit up. The Barnyard Commandos added some much needed drama to the chaotic, pointless fighting of their food counterparts. The Commandos were divided into two factions: the R.A.M.S. and the P.O.R.K.s. This gave many-a-child their first taste of how cute and cuddly a race war could be.




I barely remember these rosy-cheeked pastel rodent abominations known as Popples. I know I had the orange one and that there was a tie-in cartoon show, but I can't recall how or why these things existed and what the significance of their ability to turn into a ball was. But I do know that pulling the fabric flap down to make a Popple into a ball was really fucking hard for a four-year-old.



What were some of you all's favorite toys when you were kids?

The Pied Piper of Pixar

Browsing around my usual entertainment news sites I've been seeing more and more buzz about Disney and Pixar's latest computer-animated concoction Ratatouille. I'm somewhat susceptible to internet hype, but there was something about this movie that was bothering me . . . then I realized it.

Pixar is not perfect.

Pixar is the studio that is single-handedly responsible for the motion picture industry's phasing out of traditionally animated films. Toy Story was absolutely out of this world when it debuted in 1995, but was it as mind-blowingly awesome as Snow White and the Seven Dwarves in 1937? Probably not. And call me old fashioned, but I was a little sad when Disney put thousands of Korean sweatshop workers out of a job and completely stopped producing traditionally animated films. Especially when its last attempt was the abysmal Rosanne Barr-voiced Home on the Range . . . . but the traditional vs. computer-animation debate is one for another time.

Like many of you out there, when I think of Pixar, warm memories of the first time I saw Toy Story on the big screen, the amazing animation techniques used in Finding Nemo, and the decidedly grown-up approach they took with The Incredibles are recalled. These thoughts make it easy to neglect the more forgettable attempts that the uber-successful studio has thrown at us over the years.

A Bug's Life was Pixar's sophomore entry into the world of full-length animated films. The technology had come a long way since Toy Story, but that did nothing to help the film. A Bug's Life ended up being an unimpressive take on the Seven Samurai plot, remembered more for its competition by another computer-bug flick Antz than its own merits. Ask anyone to make a list of their favorite Pixar movies, and unless they're a entomologist or a retard A Bug's Life will most assuredly be at the bottom.

Then along came Monsters Inc., which had the misfortune of following up the near-perfect Toy Story 2. Conceptually it was pretty cool. Taking the "there's a monster in my closet" idea and focusing it on friendly monsters that harvest children's screams to power their city. And they even managed to get Billy Crystal away from Academy Awards hosting gigs and Analyze This sequels long enough to lend his voice to it. But even a cool concept and a washed-up comedian couldn't save this film. The single best part was Boo, the child character that was literally voiced by a child spouting nonsense into the microphone. One viewing was enough--and it's anybody's guess as to how it went on to make $250 million. I'm thinking it was the lack of cg-toon competition back in 2001.

And finally we have Cars. A movie that trailered so poorly that I never even bothered to see it. But I didn't really need to, because I was sure I'd seen these characters before. Oh, that's right . . . they're complete knock-offs of the Chevron Techron cars from an ad campaign that first debuted over 10 years ago. Seriously, what the fuck? After The Incredibles proved to audiences that animation can have a narrative with the sophistication of a live-action film and the heart of a family film, this G-rated fluff piece was an abomination.

This brings us back to Ratatouille. A movie that, from what I gather, is about a rat that dreams of being a chef. The sad thing is, the plot of the movie is SO BAD, that it must immediately be followed by, "it's the new movied from Pixar!" in order to spark any sort of interest in it. Which is what brings me to my original point: Just because a movie is stamped with the Pixar logo, it does not mean that it is an immediate classic worthy of your $8.75.

People need to get away from having a pleasure-induced seizure every time a studio or director with a semi-consistent track record releases a new movie. I was happy as shit when the over-advertised, over-done, overly-long, complete waste of time and talent that was Grindhouse tanked at the box office. It had Quentin Tarantino's name on it, but that didn't mean I couldn't smell a rat . . . or in this case a Ratatouille (sorry, I couldn't resist.)

What They Don't Teach You in Biology Class

I often ask myself--what differentiates human beings from the animals? Is it our ability to reason? Our opposable thumbs? Our advances in art and technology?

Hell no. It's our ability to spice up our lovemaking with more positions than just "doggie style."

Look at all these sad quadrapeds . . . just humping away for millions of years in JUST ONE POSITION. The thought alone makes me want to end my own life.

I mean, it's totally effective right? If your goal is simply to reproduce like our four-legged friends here, then that's fine. But think about the monotony. It's so sad, because even if they wanted to they couldn't do it. For example, if an elephant ever wanted to get a little freaky and get on top, it would literally destroy its partner. Now that's fucked up.

So yes folks, be thankful that you walk on two legs instead of four. And the next time you want to try something new with your partner, say a silent prayer for the animals out there that have been damned to an eternity of boring sex.

Il Grande Finale

Every one seems to be furious about the ending of HBO's The Sopranos.

"What the . . .?!"

"I want closure!"

"After eight years you give us this?!"

"That's a cop-out!"

And to these naysayers, I say nay to you! Wake the fuck up and appreciate the gift that David Chase (in his infinite brilliance) has given us.

The Sopranos was a trail-blazing television drama. It took the mythos of the Italian mafia and modernized it, and gave a more intimate look into the personal lives of its members. It was extremely brutal and unpredictable. Unlike other television dramas, the characters met their end in shockingly bloody ways. It was always a little sad when one of your favorite characters got "whacked," but by that same token, it was EXTREMELY satisfying when one of your LEAST favorite characters got what he deserved. The threat of death was imminent, and helped the show remain true to its source material.

Tony was the heart of the show. A complex anti-hero that over years has proved himself a liar, murderer, adulterer, drug-user, gambler, racist, and misogynist. Seems like he certainly deserves to die, doesn't it?

Yeah, he probably does. Or maybe all the good things he has done, and all the good things he may still do means that he shouldn't die.

There is no right or wrong or answer here, and the ending that Mr. Chase chose let's us make up our minds about the future of Tony Soprano.

As fans, we become extremely attached to fictional characters. We relate to them, empathize and sympathize with them, and enjoy watching their growth over the course of a series. But we are always at the mercy of the invisible Hollywood writers as to what happens to our favorite characters. And why is that? How come a group of creative writing majors that sit in a room all night smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee together get to decide how everything will end?

The ending is a fair one. It's a realistic one. It deftly avoided dramatic cliches as it set them up. The mysterious angry guy in the windbreaker? Meadow out in the street? All the pieces were there for a catastrophe . . . or not.

I was shocked by the abruptness of the finale, and given the medium I thought that perhaps the cable had gone out at the worst possible moment. But after dwelling on it for a while I realized that ending was the smartest possible way for the show to end.

Kudos to you, Mr. Chase. Now it's time to start buying the rest of the DVDs.