There was a brief moment in my life when I was devastatingly terrified of mirrors because of the concept of "Bloody Mary." The whole idea of Bloody Mary had filled me with such a profound fear of mirrors that to this day, I still stare behind my reflection, almost expecting some apparition to suddenly show its grotesque face. It never happens, not for as long as I remember staring at the reflective glass, yet the irrational fear still remains.
I attribute this to the story of Bloody Mary, which promises visions of a grisly brutish face right before your death, only because you decided to court the mistress in a one-sided affair. The story is, of course, a cautionary tale, designed to warn kids of flirting with the kind of risque, the dangerous, and the taboos that are, rightfully, banned. The ritual comes from the same breed as playing with Ouija boards, knockin' down grave stones, reciting incantations from the Necronomicon, or as Paranormal Activity has shown, messin' around with demons. The lesson is clear, don't fuck with the unknown. Yet, there's a certain appeal, an exhilaration that comes from skirting with unnatural dangers. Maybe its the idea of touching beyond the physical borders, revealing some supernatural plane where ghosts, demons, and angels exist, that gives us a kind of solace in life after death. We go through these irrational extremes as if to confirm our own immortality.
When I first heard of the story of Bloody Mary, I was afraid to go into the bathroom for weeks, especially at night. It didn't matter that I didn't satisfy the conditions for her appearance (lit candles at darkness, and chanting her name several times in succession), because in my mind, she had already appeared. Jaundiced and hollowed out cheeks, fleshy green and yellow mottled skin, crooked, jagged teeth, and dark impenetrable eye sockets, with rivulets of blood streaming out, a sickly grin stretched across her face, arms reaching out from behind the reflective surface, until finally, I am engulfed in her sweet deadly embrace.
It is particularly apt that a mirror is what scares me most since what scares me isn't what I see, but what I imagine seeing. My mind often thoughtlessly invents the most terrifying of visages in some sick contest of creating the most horrifying face imaginable. The train of thought is dangerously linear, relentless in its pursuit of horrific perfection.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Monday, May 3, 2010
Build It and They Will Come
The old saying presents something of a conundrum for today's modern audience. "Build it and they will come" might've worked in the old west when pioneering explorers traversing the sand-blasted plains saw an odd saloon built in the middle of nowhere as a proverbial oasis. Taking it to the 40's, even when the press caught wind of the the world's "tallest building" ever built, crowds would flock to that one single spot, swarming like bees to engulf a topical hotspot made hot by the media's singular voice, delivered by newspaper, radio and TV. Nobody knew everything, everybody had to know somebody who knew something. Whether it came from the air waves or from the dead tree, people made choices based on what they could see. Build it and they will come simply because your building's the only one around.
But the world has shrunk. No longer are people wandering out in the wilderness in desperate need of a good saloon, and information has become so free and unhindered, the popular press' influence on tourist-habits has taken a backseat to impersonal blogs and twitter posts. "Build it and they will come" no longer applies to this glitzy fast-paced world where every building looks the same and everything is the same. The most pressing question is: how can you stand out from the endless hordes of duplicate and similarly qualified individuals?
The American education system is designed to put kids through the grinder, pumping and relentlessly promoting children to higher and higher levels of education. You get the diploma, then you get the degree, then the masters, and finally the Phd. Surely if you follow this path to success, the accolades are all but ensured...right? The truth is, building it alone no longer works. There are tons of buildings that have the same height, color, and look as yours. No longer does the old adage apply. I propose then, a simple revision to make it more accurate to reflect today's modern sensibilities.
Build it, advertise the shit out of it, and then maybe, just maybe, they will come.
But the world has shrunk. No longer are people wandering out in the wilderness in desperate need of a good saloon, and information has become so free and unhindered, the popular press' influence on tourist-habits has taken a backseat to impersonal blogs and twitter posts. "Build it and they will come" no longer applies to this glitzy fast-paced world where every building looks the same and everything is the same. The most pressing question is: how can you stand out from the endless hordes of duplicate and similarly qualified individuals?
The American education system is designed to put kids through the grinder, pumping and relentlessly promoting children to higher and higher levels of education. You get the diploma, then you get the degree, then the masters, and finally the Phd. Surely if you follow this path to success, the accolades are all but ensured...right? The truth is, building it alone no longer works. There are tons of buildings that have the same height, color, and look as yours. No longer does the old adage apply. I propose then, a simple revision to make it more accurate to reflect today's modern sensibilities.
Build it, advertise the shit out of it, and then maybe, just maybe, they will come.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Destination: Nowhere
When it comes to my first memory of video games, it wasn't as if I opened Pandora's Box, unleashing a torrent of hell-frenzy, 8-bit blips and bloops, pixel storms and scrolling flicker lines. It is a rather humble memory, jumbled, and mixed in with all the subdued undulation of an ocean wave. My first experience with gaming didn't sweep me away in a tsunami, rather, it softly encircled me until I began to float to the shiny reflective surface of sprites and MIDI synth sounds. Retro all the way baby.
I remember Castlevania, Metroid, Mega Man, and of course, Mario. The NES wasn't something I touched, but a divine object, a relic worthy of worship. Gaming to me was something to watch, not to engage in when growing up. The messy and fun task of tackling gaming objectives fell on to my brothers, while I watch enraptured by their ministrations on the d-pad and A and B buttons. It was truly a vicarious experience, but it certainly planted the seeds for my full-blown passion of today, where video games are truly a meaty and substantive part of my every day life. A world without video games is a world without oxygen.
When I think of the toddling doe-eyed youth that absorbed his brother's digital feats on the NES, Genesis, and Playstation, I can only shake my head. How was this little boy supposed to know that one day, he would soon be able to play his own video games? That he would own not one, not two, but three next-generation platforms that include the PS3, Xbox 360, and PC? How was this boy, who, delighted with the Gameboy Pocket, would soon come to possess not one, but two portable platforms that include the Nintendo DS and Sony PSP?
I still remember when I was a boy, tucked away in bed at night, I dreamed of owning my own Playstation and playing "Blasto" (the commercials made it look great, sue me) all by myself. The thought was always "when I'm older," or "when I have enough money." That time has long passed. I've gone a long way since then. I didn't really become a full blown gamer until well into the PS2 generation. Until then, me and my little brother had to be content with playing our own portable gaming devices. Pokemon was a godsend. We couldn't touch the old Playstation, but the Gameboy Pocket was all ours. Pokemon was the perfect game for us to play. Then we steadily advanced to Color (Metal Gear Solid and Legend of Zelda DX, Oracle of Seasons and Oracle of Time, truly the best GBC games out there), and of course, the Gameboy Advance (Castlevania, Advance Wars, Golden Sun).
It was around this time that restrictions on consoles became lax. My brothers' enthusiasm for gaming had dwindled while mine only increased in fervor. Gaining access to the Dreamcast was a lucid dream come true (Sonic Adventure, Code Veronica, Shenmue 1/2), access to the Playstation was a nice bonus (Metal Gear Solid, Final Fantasy VII), but the biggest moment was when we acquired a Playstation 2 (FFX, MGS2, GTA, DMC, GoW, SotC, RE4 -- bonus points for understanding all the acronyms). Suddenly, I am now left with a predicament that I never thought possible: I have too many games to play.
The backlog is an ever present list of games that I've started, but that I've yet to beat. It sits in the back of my mind like a gnawing sensation that can't be satisfied. Some of my biggest and most memorable moments in gaming have to do with beating a game that I've been working on for the longest time. Final Fantasy VIII, which I borrowed from my friend for almost three years and restarted three times was one of the most satisfying accomplishments simply because I've been on it for so long. Hell, I've been working on Persona 3 for that same amount of time and I own the damn thing. Persona 4, Tales of Vesperia, and Yakuza 3 have remained untouched in my gaming library. Psychonauts and Portal has been sitting in my Steam queue for months. And I never got the chance to beat the original Star Ocean: The Second Story (re-releases give me ample opportunity to revisit though). Despite all this, I have the gall to borrow Assassin's Creed 2 from a friend, and just purchased Super Street Fighter IV. There's something to be said for the expression, "He who knows that enough is enough will always have enough." When will the gaming madness stop?!
The problem is, there's still a ton of games that I'm still looking forward to. Having just beat the shit out of Batman Arkham Asylum, I can't wait for the sequel. There's Red Dead Redemption in the pipeline, Alan Wake, StarCraft 2, The Last Guardian, Metal Gear Solid: Peace Walker, Halo Reach, etc. etc. It's easy to see where I'm going for vacation: Nowhere.
I remember Castlevania, Metroid, Mega Man, and of course, Mario. The NES wasn't something I touched, but a divine object, a relic worthy of worship. Gaming to me was something to watch, not to engage in when growing up. The messy and fun task of tackling gaming objectives fell on to my brothers, while I watch enraptured by their ministrations on the d-pad and A and B buttons. It was truly a vicarious experience, but it certainly planted the seeds for my full-blown passion of today, where video games are truly a meaty and substantive part of my every day life. A world without video games is a world without oxygen.
When I think of the toddling doe-eyed youth that absorbed his brother's digital feats on the NES, Genesis, and Playstation, I can only shake my head. How was this little boy supposed to know that one day, he would soon be able to play his own video games? That he would own not one, not two, but three next-generation platforms that include the PS3, Xbox 360, and PC? How was this boy, who, delighted with the Gameboy Pocket, would soon come to possess not one, but two portable platforms that include the Nintendo DS and Sony PSP?
I still remember when I was a boy, tucked away in bed at night, I dreamed of owning my own Playstation and playing "Blasto" (the commercials made it look great, sue me) all by myself. The thought was always "when I'm older," or "when I have enough money." That time has long passed. I've gone a long way since then. I didn't really become a full blown gamer until well into the PS2 generation. Until then, me and my little brother had to be content with playing our own portable gaming devices. Pokemon was a godsend. We couldn't touch the old Playstation, but the Gameboy Pocket was all ours. Pokemon was the perfect game for us to play. Then we steadily advanced to Color (Metal Gear Solid and Legend of Zelda DX, Oracle of Seasons and Oracle of Time, truly the best GBC games out there), and of course, the Gameboy Advance (Castlevania, Advance Wars, Golden Sun).
It was around this time that restrictions on consoles became lax. My brothers' enthusiasm for gaming had dwindled while mine only increased in fervor. Gaining access to the Dreamcast was a lucid dream come true (Sonic Adventure, Code Veronica, Shenmue 1/2), access to the Playstation was a nice bonus (Metal Gear Solid, Final Fantasy VII), but the biggest moment was when we acquired a Playstation 2 (FFX, MGS2, GTA, DMC, GoW, SotC, RE4 -- bonus points for understanding all the acronyms). Suddenly, I am now left with a predicament that I never thought possible: I have too many games to play.
The backlog is an ever present list of games that I've started, but that I've yet to beat. It sits in the back of my mind like a gnawing sensation that can't be satisfied. Some of my biggest and most memorable moments in gaming have to do with beating a game that I've been working on for the longest time. Final Fantasy VIII, which I borrowed from my friend for almost three years and restarted three times was one of the most satisfying accomplishments simply because I've been on it for so long. Hell, I've been working on Persona 3 for that same amount of time and I own the damn thing. Persona 4, Tales of Vesperia, and Yakuza 3 have remained untouched in my gaming library. Psychonauts and Portal has been sitting in my Steam queue for months. And I never got the chance to beat the original Star Ocean: The Second Story (re-releases give me ample opportunity to revisit though). Despite all this, I have the gall to borrow Assassin's Creed 2 from a friend, and just purchased Super Street Fighter IV. There's something to be said for the expression, "He who knows that enough is enough will always have enough." When will the gaming madness stop?!
The problem is, there's still a ton of games that I'm still looking forward to. Having just beat the shit out of Batman Arkham Asylum, I can't wait for the sequel. There's Red Dead Redemption in the pipeline, Alan Wake, StarCraft 2, The Last Guardian, Metal Gear Solid: Peace Walker, Halo Reach, etc. etc. It's easy to see where I'm going for vacation: Nowhere.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Quality From the Source
I never understood the idea of, "we'll edit it out later." As if editing programs can miraculous cover up bad acting, lighting, and terrible direction. Depending on editing tools to clean up the uncleanable is akin to polishing a turd, it doesn't matter how many quick cuts and music overlays or generic graphics you use, it doesn't the change the fact that what you have filmed is simply shit.
Quality from the source has always been my mantra, which means that the best movies are not always the best edited. Those who rely on editing, splicing, and splitting for their video work fail to recognize that great movies come from great scenes. No amount of computer wizardry can make up for genuine performances and carefully crafted shots. The story that you're trying to tell is first and foremost the central anchor, and all else is ancillary.
I came to this realization after years of experience. I think PhaMeLe Guy Productions was a pioneering concept. Surely we weren't the first to create a video project in the entire history of high school projects, but I'd like to think that we paved the way for future generations -- at least at Orange High School. After our first movie, they suddenly became all the rage. Chalk it up to my directorial aspiration, I've always wanted to make awesome movies. Jack the Ripper will stand as my crowning entry into this world of amateur film-making (the fact that my first movie doesn't really have an official title says a lot though). It was an amazing project for its time and I'd like to think it broke new ground at OHS. The floodgates busted open, and everybody but everybody wanted to do a video project. I pulled double duty, providing not only for my own movie, but did some shooting on the side to help out another group in another class, planting my mark on two of the best projects in the history of AP World History.
The idea that I peaked creatively in high school kind of pisses me off. Surely there's more to me than those projects because despite their breakthrough quality, it's shit. Looking back on them, I cringe at all the bad moments, those awful awkward moments that smack of inexperience. Even when I watch over my little brother's shoulders when he was off making his own movies, or when I look to the projects that other people have made, they all share one thing in common: they don't tell a story. I realize now that story is the key to everything. It's about how you present it, how it shows through in not only the scenes, but in the scenarios you concoct. The helter-skelter style of movie-making just doesn't cut it anymore, there's no room for improvisation, everything has to be scripted, planned, and laid out days before the actual shoot. The difference it makes is absolutely staggering. Quality from the source means quality from the script. If you break down most of the movies on paper, they read terrible -- just like their actual quality.
Making a movie is no small feat. It requires ambition, actors, (which are hard to come by since friends hardly make for the best of actors and, they're always too damn busy to whet the appetite of amateur auteurs), time, and hard work. Getting the equipment together is a hassle all on its own, but the reason most movies never make it off their feet is because people never spend the necessary time in pre-production to plan a really great movie. The last movie I made used no cameras at all. It was for all intents and purposes, an "anime."
The movie was for my Japanese class and it was nothing short of spectacular. I drew every character myself, made use of black and white photographs as backgrounds, and scrounged up some students in class to be voice actors (have you ever had foreign language voice directing experience?). I had to write the whole script, have it translated, proofread, and then have all the actors act out their roles with their voice in addition to drawing all the necessary panels, putting together the voice track with the pictures, and adding in the right music. I pulled it off in about 3 weeks and in the process, probably shortened my life by 3 weeks. It was so amazing that the traditional bounds of "extra credit" had to be broken because such a project was deserving of so much more. I don't think I've made such an exertion sheer will and effort since.
Upon review though, the script has a lot of unnecessary moments and pieces of dialogue that I put in for the sole purpose of demonstrating many of the grammar structures and vocabulary we learned in class, so the audience was very specific. I've always wanted to do a "director's cut" version that cut down on all the extra chatter but I'm too lazy to get around to it. I should probably put that on my schedule of things to do now that I think about it. I'm feeling particularly ambitious right now though. I believe this year is due for another project, but I don't know what I should do. It should be something dazzling, something big, and something that demonstrates my creativity. Whatever it is, I'll make sure to remember one thing: quality from the source.
Quality from the source has always been my mantra, which means that the best movies are not always the best edited. Those who rely on editing, splicing, and splitting for their video work fail to recognize that great movies come from great scenes. No amount of computer wizardry can make up for genuine performances and carefully crafted shots. The story that you're trying to tell is first and foremost the central anchor, and all else is ancillary.
I came to this realization after years of experience. I think PhaMeLe Guy Productions was a pioneering concept. Surely we weren't the first to create a video project in the entire history of high school projects, but I'd like to think that we paved the way for future generations -- at least at Orange High School. After our first movie, they suddenly became all the rage. Chalk it up to my directorial aspiration, I've always wanted to make awesome movies. Jack the Ripper will stand as my crowning entry into this world of amateur film-making (the fact that my first movie doesn't really have an official title says a lot though). It was an amazing project for its time and I'd like to think it broke new ground at OHS. The floodgates busted open, and everybody but everybody wanted to do a video project. I pulled double duty, providing not only for my own movie, but did some shooting on the side to help out another group in another class, planting my mark on two of the best projects in the history of AP World History.
The idea that I peaked creatively in high school kind of pisses me off. Surely there's more to me than those projects because despite their breakthrough quality, it's shit. Looking back on them, I cringe at all the bad moments, those awful awkward moments that smack of inexperience. Even when I watch over my little brother's shoulders when he was off making his own movies, or when I look to the projects that other people have made, they all share one thing in common: they don't tell a story. I realize now that story is the key to everything. It's about how you present it, how it shows through in not only the scenes, but in the scenarios you concoct. The helter-skelter style of movie-making just doesn't cut it anymore, there's no room for improvisation, everything has to be scripted, planned, and laid out days before the actual shoot. The difference it makes is absolutely staggering. Quality from the source means quality from the script. If you break down most of the movies on paper, they read terrible -- just like their actual quality.
Making a movie is no small feat. It requires ambition, actors, (which are hard to come by since friends hardly make for the best of actors and, they're always too damn busy to whet the appetite of amateur auteurs), time, and hard work. Getting the equipment together is a hassle all on its own, but the reason most movies never make it off their feet is because people never spend the necessary time in pre-production to plan a really great movie. The last movie I made used no cameras at all. It was for all intents and purposes, an "anime."
The movie was for my Japanese class and it was nothing short of spectacular. I drew every character myself, made use of black and white photographs as backgrounds, and scrounged up some students in class to be voice actors (have you ever had foreign language voice directing experience?). I had to write the whole script, have it translated, proofread, and then have all the actors act out their roles with their voice in addition to drawing all the necessary panels, putting together the voice track with the pictures, and adding in the right music. I pulled it off in about 3 weeks and in the process, probably shortened my life by 3 weeks. It was so amazing that the traditional bounds of "extra credit" had to be broken because such a project was deserving of so much more. I don't think I've made such an exertion sheer will and effort since.
Upon review though, the script has a lot of unnecessary moments and pieces of dialogue that I put in for the sole purpose of demonstrating many of the grammar structures and vocabulary we learned in class, so the audience was very specific. I've always wanted to do a "director's cut" version that cut down on all the extra chatter but I'm too lazy to get around to it. I should probably put that on my schedule of things to do now that I think about it. I'm feeling particularly ambitious right now though. I believe this year is due for another project, but I don't know what I should do. It should be something dazzling, something big, and something that demonstrates my creativity. Whatever it is, I'll make sure to remember one thing: quality from the source.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
The Ideo Girl
Unknown to most people, Ideo has been responsible for many of the product designs that we see today, and their invisible guidance has seen an increase in profits for their clients, and an increase in the ease and usability of the products they designed.
In the swampy wetland of my mind, with the anxiousness regarding my writing workshop swirling around with my new-found entrepreneurial spirit ignited by watching the first season of The Apprentice, an idea emerged. A combination of product design and what I see as my ideal girl. If only we can manufacture for ourselves the perfect soul mate, half of the world's problems would undoubtedly be solved, but until that day comes, we have to make do with the messy affair of actually meeting up with vapid paper-thin machinations that we call "people," and go through the time-consuming, fund-dwindling enterprise known as "dating."
In either case, there are certainly some expectations that people have of their partners, and I will summarily provide my own. I won't say that my standards aren't impossibly high (or simply out of my league--so they say), so I have but only three conditions for my ideal girl.
1. Share my sense of humor.
Humor is a universal thing--well, most of the time it is, but that's what makes it such a unique skill. Comedians definitely have their work cut out for them because finding the one thing that makes everybody laugh is like trying to find a needle in a haystack. Thankfully, these poor fools provide the rest of us, at least a shared base of laughs that we can dip into. How often have we quoted "The Chapelle Show" for cheap laughs since its inception? Because of their work, even the most unfunny of us can bring up a reliably funny quote and not sink into the pit of shit sense of humor.
That's why this requirement shouldn't be too hard to satisfy, though much of my humor has been informed by the admittedly nerdy gamer culture--rife with references to Engrish mistranslations of 8 and 16-bit games, full of message board 4chan memes and obscure allusions to shows from the 80's, with a healthy scoop of demented off-kilter Sacha Baron Cohen and Flight of the Conchords on top.
You know, I don't think I can ever recall a time in which a girl has made me laugh. How many times have I seen on TV, online, in real life, girls who say they want a man that can make them laugh? Relationships aren't one way, ye giveth, and ye taketh. If I'm gonna have to bust my ass to make you laugh, how bout you repay in kind? Unfortunately, I think my sense of humor is so demented and bent towards gamer culture, the girl's just going to have to rely on mainstream movies like "I Love You. Man," after all, who can't laugh when you're "slappin' the baaaasss!" In either case, if she laughs when I say "dick. in yo mouth," that's good enough for me.
2. Be daddy's little girl.
Never underestimate the power of childhood trauma. It can make even the most well-adjusted gentlemen turn into an outright dick, or a seemingly innocuous girl into one crazy-ass bitch! A girl with daddy issues is a recipe for disaster. This is my psychological-screening demand. It's not like you can ask a girl, "are you obsessive compulsive, bi-polar, or manic depressive?" No, you can ask, "are you daddy's little girl?" Girls who adore their fathers will demonstrate no issues with male authority figures, and because of that, we can avoid the case of obsessively mistrustful and jealous girls who have no faith in themselves. Really, with a daddy's girl, there are only two possibilities: a well-adjusted personality that is rewarding to spend time with, or: she and her father are psychotic partners in crime. 99% of the time, it'll be the former.
3. Be a worthy opponent.
I believe in equality. I don't want a girl that will feed my ego, it's horrendously big enough as it is, and if it got any larger, I'd miraculously turn into a jerk--if I'm not one already. Just to be on the safe side, I wouldn't want a girl that I could dominate because domination gets pretty boring after awhile, as my friend would say to me, "don't be a bully." I'm sure there are men out there who would love their women meek and mild, but that's not for me. On the flip side, I wouldn't want to be a dog either, the idea of a whip-cracking dominatrix for a partner does not entice me in the least. I don't wanna be henpecked to death by a "strong-willed" woman either. I'd like to keep my balls thank you very much.
We all have issues, even if we don't want to admit it. I just need somebody to help me sort them out. We all need to win and lose on occasion, and for that, I'll just need a worthy opponent. It gives me something to strive for. The final boss can't be mind-numbingly difficult, or easy as pie, it just has to provide the right amount of challenge that doesn't make it too frustrating, but still give you that sense of satisfaction and accomplishment.
Those are my three conditions and chances are, I will never ever find those three in combination in this vast wasteland of a world. Who knows, it's not like I've been looking for a relationship to begin with, although I do have to add that I find short boyish hair completely irresistible. Some guys like long luxurious locks but I find those short pixie bob cuts incredibly sexy. I'll stop now.
In the swampy wetland of my mind, with the anxiousness regarding my writing workshop swirling around with my new-found entrepreneurial spirit ignited by watching the first season of The Apprentice, an idea emerged. A combination of product design and what I see as my ideal girl. If only we can manufacture for ourselves the perfect soul mate, half of the world's problems would undoubtedly be solved, but until that day comes, we have to make do with the messy affair of actually meeting up with vapid paper-thin machinations that we call "people," and go through the time-consuming, fund-dwindling enterprise known as "dating."
In either case, there are certainly some expectations that people have of their partners, and I will summarily provide my own. I won't say that my standards aren't impossibly high (or simply out of my league--so they say), so I have but only three conditions for my ideal girl.
1. Share my sense of humor.
Humor is a universal thing--well, most of the time it is, but that's what makes it such a unique skill. Comedians definitely have their work cut out for them because finding the one thing that makes everybody laugh is like trying to find a needle in a haystack. Thankfully, these poor fools provide the rest of us, at least a shared base of laughs that we can dip into. How often have we quoted "The Chapelle Show" for cheap laughs since its inception? Because of their work, even the most unfunny of us can bring up a reliably funny quote and not sink into the pit of shit sense of humor.
That's why this requirement shouldn't be too hard to satisfy, though much of my humor has been informed by the admittedly nerdy gamer culture--rife with references to Engrish mistranslations of 8 and 16-bit games, full of message board 4chan memes and obscure allusions to shows from the 80's, with a healthy scoop of demented off-kilter Sacha Baron Cohen and Flight of the Conchords on top.
You know, I don't think I can ever recall a time in which a girl has made me laugh. How many times have I seen on TV, online, in real life, girls who say they want a man that can make them laugh? Relationships aren't one way, ye giveth, and ye taketh. If I'm gonna have to bust my ass to make you laugh, how bout you repay in kind? Unfortunately, I think my sense of humor is so demented and bent towards gamer culture, the girl's just going to have to rely on mainstream movies like "I Love You. Man," after all, who can't laugh when you're "slappin' the baaaasss!" In either case, if she laughs when I say "dick. in yo mouth," that's good enough for me.
2. Be daddy's little girl.
Never underestimate the power of childhood trauma. It can make even the most well-adjusted gentlemen turn into an outright dick, or a seemingly innocuous girl into one crazy-ass bitch! A girl with daddy issues is a recipe for disaster. This is my psychological-screening demand. It's not like you can ask a girl, "are you obsessive compulsive, bi-polar, or manic depressive?" No, you can ask, "are you daddy's little girl?" Girls who adore their fathers will demonstrate no issues with male authority figures, and because of that, we can avoid the case of obsessively mistrustful and jealous girls who have no faith in themselves. Really, with a daddy's girl, there are only two possibilities: a well-adjusted personality that is rewarding to spend time with, or: she and her father are psychotic partners in crime. 99% of the time, it'll be the former.
3. Be a worthy opponent.
I believe in equality. I don't want a girl that will feed my ego, it's horrendously big enough as it is, and if it got any larger, I'd miraculously turn into a jerk--if I'm not one already. Just to be on the safe side, I wouldn't want a girl that I could dominate because domination gets pretty boring after awhile, as my friend would say to me, "don't be a bully." I'm sure there are men out there who would love their women meek and mild, but that's not for me. On the flip side, I wouldn't want to be a dog either, the idea of a whip-cracking dominatrix for a partner does not entice me in the least. I don't wanna be henpecked to death by a "strong-willed" woman either. I'd like to keep my balls thank you very much.
We all have issues, even if we don't want to admit it. I just need somebody to help me sort them out. We all need to win and lose on occasion, and for that, I'll just need a worthy opponent. It gives me something to strive for. The final boss can't be mind-numbingly difficult, or easy as pie, it just has to provide the right amount of challenge that doesn't make it too frustrating, but still give you that sense of satisfaction and accomplishment.
Those are my three conditions and chances are, I will never ever find those three in combination in this vast wasteland of a world. Who knows, it's not like I've been looking for a relationship to begin with, although I do have to add that I find short boyish hair completely irresistible. Some guys like long luxurious locks but I find those short pixie bob cuts incredibly sexy. I'll stop now.
Monday, April 5, 2010
One Hundred Steps
Nobody keeps count of this shit. The only one who does is the only one who cares, and as such, it falls down to me to put the celebratory touches on my very own, 100th goddamned motherfuckin' Facebook Note. One hundred ain't no joke. Such a number is powerful in all walks and avenues of life. One hundred dollars? That's some serious coin. One hundred tacos? That's some serious taco. One hundred is a landmark number no matter how you slice it, most of us could only hope to reach one hundred in one way or another, whether it be our savings account, how many years you want to live, the number of hugs you get, or the number of people you kill. There's just something special about the juxtaposition of one next to two extra zeroes.
So I shall spend my 100th note explaining the whole reason for my Note enterprise--doubtless, a thankless and glossed over enterprise that necessarily takes a backseat to all the schooling and working that keeps you guys busy for the bulk of your days. To toil away, mostly for my own amusement, on the keyboard, pumping out Notes day in and day out only to have no one read it kind of pisses me off. My talents are wasted on you swine. I started this whole "Note" thing to get myself better acquainted with writing. As an aspiring writer, it comes as no small surprise that I would practice the damn thing, and what other reason is there to write then for other people to read? So I've gotten part one down, as evidenced by the fact that I got 100 notes underneath my belt, but the lack of feedback from anyone is a serious detriment to part two. It hampers any chance of development on my end in my pursuit towards greater and higher levels of writing.
I understand though. I probably jumped in at just the wrong place at the wrong time. We are all university students (or something like it) and its not like we can afford to waste time chatting on FaceBook, going out with friends, watching movies, making wall posts, playing Farmville or Texas Hold'Em, considering that we have to go to school and work--oh wait...that's right you thankless fucks, you have more than enough time to take ten measly minutes and entertain that dude named "Thanh" on your friends list and give his quest for writerly stardom some credibility, otherwise, delete my fucking ass already. I'm just walking up the escalator at this point. I may be calling you guys out, but it's not like you're reading this anyways. You be damned if you do, and you be damned if you don't. It's called the catch-22. No matter who wins, we all lose. That's life in a nutshell. A series of losses and punches to the face that come no matter what you do. The only thing we can do, is try to take it the best we can.
I want to become a journalist. Not just any journalist mind you, but a legitimate video game journalist. The state of gaming journalism right now is more or less, consumer-orientated advertising. All the power lies with the gaming companies, they decide what gets shown and what doesn't, and the enthusiast press have to battle each other for the scraps. People have often remarked that the gaming press is really a bunch of fanboys dressed up as writers, and that the volume of the content produced lacks the kind of austerity and objectivity of legit everyday journalism. Basically, none of it is particularly good writing, and most, if not all, is simply mindless fanboy drivel. While I'm not pretending to become the first legit gaming journalist, I would like to expose some of the lesser known parts of the gaming world. There are so many stories out there that have been touched upon, but not really focused. There's already a few topics I could think of, the life of a Chinese gold farmer, love over the MMORPG, an inside look into the vintage gaming collector, development hells, and all sorts of things--typically the kinds of things that take a backseat to reviews and previews of the latest and greatest.
Print's death isn't a question of if, but simply when. There's so many tech-savvy gaming enthusiasts out there, one writer into the pool isn't going to make much of a difference. I honestly don't know if my aspiration will get me paid, but all I know is that I will be doing what I love. But like all dreams, it's just a speck in the distance. I'm taking steps to get there but I don't know how far I'm going or how far I've gone. 100 Notes? That's a pretty good distance, but it feels like I'm just getting started.
So I shall spend my 100th note explaining the whole reason for my Note enterprise--doubtless, a thankless and glossed over enterprise that necessarily takes a backseat to all the schooling and working that keeps you guys busy for the bulk of your days. To toil away, mostly for my own amusement, on the keyboard, pumping out Notes day in and day out only to have no one read it kind of pisses me off. My talents are wasted on you swine. I started this whole "Note" thing to get myself better acquainted with writing. As an aspiring writer, it comes as no small surprise that I would practice the damn thing, and what other reason is there to write then for other people to read? So I've gotten part one down, as evidenced by the fact that I got 100 notes underneath my belt, but the lack of feedback from anyone is a serious detriment to part two. It hampers any chance of development on my end in my pursuit towards greater and higher levels of writing.
I understand though. I probably jumped in at just the wrong place at the wrong time. We are all university students (or something like it) and its not like we can afford to waste time chatting on FaceBook, going out with friends, watching movies, making wall posts, playing Farmville or Texas Hold'Em, considering that we have to go to school and work--oh wait...that's right you thankless fucks, you have more than enough time to take ten measly minutes and entertain that dude named "Thanh" on your friends list and give his quest for writerly stardom some credibility, otherwise, delete my fucking ass already. I'm just walking up the escalator at this point. I may be calling you guys out, but it's not like you're reading this anyways. You be damned if you do, and you be damned if you don't. It's called the catch-22. No matter who wins, we all lose. That's life in a nutshell. A series of losses and punches to the face that come no matter what you do. The only thing we can do, is try to take it the best we can.
I want to become a journalist. Not just any journalist mind you, but a legitimate video game journalist. The state of gaming journalism right now is more or less, consumer-orientated advertising. All the power lies with the gaming companies, they decide what gets shown and what doesn't, and the enthusiast press have to battle each other for the scraps. People have often remarked that the gaming press is really a bunch of fanboys dressed up as writers, and that the volume of the content produced lacks the kind of austerity and objectivity of legit everyday journalism. Basically, none of it is particularly good writing, and most, if not all, is simply mindless fanboy drivel. While I'm not pretending to become the first legit gaming journalist, I would like to expose some of the lesser known parts of the gaming world. There are so many stories out there that have been touched upon, but not really focused. There's already a few topics I could think of, the life of a Chinese gold farmer, love over the MMORPG, an inside look into the vintage gaming collector, development hells, and all sorts of things--typically the kinds of things that take a backseat to reviews and previews of the latest and greatest.
Print's death isn't a question of if, but simply when. There's so many tech-savvy gaming enthusiasts out there, one writer into the pool isn't going to make much of a difference. I honestly don't know if my aspiration will get me paid, but all I know is that I will be doing what I love. But like all dreams, it's just a speck in the distance. I'm taking steps to get there but I don't know how far I'm going or how far I've gone. 100 Notes? That's a pretty good distance, but it feels like I'm just getting started.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Your Shoes Are Untied
As a pragmatic, grounded, and realistic individual, I generally manage my expectations--things just don't jump out and surprise me. It's a large part of the reason that I don't believe in any of that fate or "love-at-first sight" nonsense. That kind of stuff just doesn't happen in real life and to expect that it will is just plain unreasonable. You'd have better luck winning the lottery than finding that one true perfect soul mate that complements you in every way, but that doesn't mean that I'm immune to epiphanies, the kind of earth-shattering revelation that makes you question your whole perspective on things. Today, I woke up and had one such momentous and tremendous discovery: I am in love with a man.
It all happened over spring break, it was the time to be loose and free, having come off the heels of finals, I was looking to celebrate. I drove over to my friend's place for a few drinks--I was entitled to it, after all, I triple aced my classes (probably). My friend warned me that he was going to have a couple of friends over, which I didn't mind since I was sufficiently buzzed enough to not care about unfamiliar faces, but how was I supposed to know that at that moment, everything would change? That my entire perspective in life would suffer a paradigm shift so dramatic, that the very tectonic foundations of my life have, more or less, been disintegrated?
It was when I saw him for the first time. It was an odd sensation, it felt wrong, almost...forbidden, but the leaps in my stomach and the warm feeling that rose from up inside me was pleasant in a way. I've never felt this way towards another man before so its foreign nature was exotic, alluring, and irresistible. I tried to chalk it up to my alcohol induced haze; surely, I could not be attracted to another man could I? Trying to quell this new-found urge was a difficult and trying task; it went against everything that I thought I knew about myself. Despite my attempts, it persisted.
The first conversation was awkward. I was red-faced, too shy to be "natural" about things, but he volunteered most of the relevant information himself. His name was Jack. Despite "Jack" being the most common name and all that, the actual number of people that I've met whose name was actually Jack has been, well, zero up until that point. When you think about it, Jack is a pretty nice, strong-sounding, very masculine name. He was--it's hard to say this--considering--but, well, he was beautiful. His chiseled features were fine and rough, it was a very grizzled look. I couldn't help but be mesmerized. I hoped my glances were surreptitious, but he would catch me a few times and smile back, much to my embarrassment.
It was touch and go from that point on. I would visit my friend periodically, hoping to catch another glimpse of Jack. His presence had me far more affected than any other person, or any other girl for that matter. It was uncomfortable at first, realizing this conclusion but I could no longer deny the truth. When you go through life, and finally meet that special someone who makes your days a little brighter, it finally dawns on you on how dull your life was before meeting that person. The constant justifications didn't make things any better. No matter how many times I looked at it, I had to close my eyes.
There were just so many obstacles. My family is Catholic, how would they be able to handle the news? I mean, it took me such a long time to come to terms with it. But I've come to terms with it. All those feeling of uneasiness, after freely admitting it to myself, just disappeared. The feeling of freedom is just unimaginable. The world really does seem like it's full of possibilities. So now I'll just say it plainly: I am gay. I am a gay man. God it feels good to admit it. I hope that with this post, I can finally start my life in a new way, with a fresh perspective, and meet any challenges head-on.
It all happened over spring break, it was the time to be loose and free, having come off the heels of finals, I was looking to celebrate. I drove over to my friend's place for a few drinks--I was entitled to it, after all, I triple aced my classes (probably). My friend warned me that he was going to have a couple of friends over, which I didn't mind since I was sufficiently buzzed enough to not care about unfamiliar faces, but how was I supposed to know that at that moment, everything would change? That my entire perspective in life would suffer a paradigm shift so dramatic, that the very tectonic foundations of my life have, more or less, been disintegrated?
It was when I saw him for the first time. It was an odd sensation, it felt wrong, almost...forbidden, but the leaps in my stomach and the warm feeling that rose from up inside me was pleasant in a way. I've never felt this way towards another man before so its foreign nature was exotic, alluring, and irresistible. I tried to chalk it up to my alcohol induced haze; surely, I could not be attracted to another man could I? Trying to quell this new-found urge was a difficult and trying task; it went against everything that I thought I knew about myself. Despite my attempts, it persisted.
The first conversation was awkward. I was red-faced, too shy to be "natural" about things, but he volunteered most of the relevant information himself. His name was Jack. Despite "Jack" being the most common name and all that, the actual number of people that I've met whose name was actually Jack has been, well, zero up until that point. When you think about it, Jack is a pretty nice, strong-sounding, very masculine name. He was--it's hard to say this--considering--but, well, he was beautiful. His chiseled features were fine and rough, it was a very grizzled look. I couldn't help but be mesmerized. I hoped my glances were surreptitious, but he would catch me a few times and smile back, much to my embarrassment.
It was touch and go from that point on. I would visit my friend periodically, hoping to catch another glimpse of Jack. His presence had me far more affected than any other person, or any other girl for that matter. It was uncomfortable at first, realizing this conclusion but I could no longer deny the truth. When you go through life, and finally meet that special someone who makes your days a little brighter, it finally dawns on you on how dull your life was before meeting that person. The constant justifications didn't make things any better. No matter how many times I looked at it, I had to close my eyes.
There were just so many obstacles. My family is Catholic, how would they be able to handle the news? I mean, it took me such a long time to come to terms with it. But I've come to terms with it. All those feeling of uneasiness, after freely admitting it to myself, just disappeared. The feeling of freedom is just unimaginable. The world really does seem like it's full of possibilities. So now I'll just say it plainly: I am gay. I am a gay man. God it feels good to admit it. I hope that with this post, I can finally start my life in a new way, with a fresh perspective, and meet any challenges head-on.
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