The dappled moonlight shone fiercely, but could barely penetrate the dense canopy. The result was a peculiar pseudo-luminance; here and there pillars of sparkling light spiraled down, eventually reaching the forest floor. They illuminated the frantic, ever-changing nature that was the rain forest: mosquitoes danced en mass in a serene ensemble. Crickets, the forest's orchestra, engineered its perpetual melody, one that would last the night long, only, finally, ceasing once the sun cast its first brilliant red tinge into a distant horizon. The air was almost completely still on this night, yet still hung thick with moisture, a consequence of the suffocating humidity, a specter that never subsided. He made his presence known to all the creatures in this place, lacing their every movement with an uncomfortable heaviness. The slightest breeze, cooling, eased its way through, gently brushing aside lush vegetation, before at last, rustling the Tiger's generous whiskers.
He stood, wrinkling his nose and twitching his ears- tuning them to the very air's frequency. Nothing escaped the Tiger, and even now the slightest rustling bushes or humming insect greeted those soft, pointed ears with ample clarity. But these were of no interest to him, and he discarded them as a bored child might a toy. He stood, crouched low, his body hard with now tensed muscle. Despite his bizarre, unmistakable appearance the darkness enveloped him, concealing his massive figure to the point of complete incognito, and only his eyes, his two shimmering eyes, betrayed the Tiger's presence. Eyes which pierced through any undergrowth, inducing a dread, a fear, in any of his enemies' hearts. It was the Tiger's eyes, more than his teeth or his claws, that they had learned to avoid so desperately. Yellow and bright, they boldly challenged any other creature. But none would answer. Here, the Tiger was king.
His throne stretched endlessly before him- vast and sublime. It was one the Tiger knew so well; he was born there, he had been raised there, he had hunted there. Tonight, he would hunt again. And he would kill. Bloodshed would always follow the Tiger's hunts, and all were well aware of this.
In the distance, the churning of the shallow stream was pleasant, soothing. It cleared his mind of all thoughts- that was good. He must focus entirely on what he was presently doing, lose himself in the act of killing, of taking a life, of liberating a soul from this world, and allowing it to pass into the next. This was the afterlife, what they in the forest called only the White. The Tiger was not especially religious or sentimental, merely he accepted what he had been told, and what his ancestors had been told. He didn't feel any kind of animosity towards whichever creature he might happen upon tonight- taking a life was a matter of survival, of subsistence. An animal would be no less happy in his next life as he was in the current one, and in this sense the Tiger would never be remorseful following a kill. But nor would he boast about the act- it was not an aspect of life he particularly enjoyed, rather an essential one, like breathing. Certainly it was equally as instinctual to him.
Yes, he was getting closer now. He felt it deep inside him, an energy synonymous with his hunts. He felt the very pulse of his prey, let its scent fill his lungs. Long, slow breaths told him it remained oblivious to the Tiger. Presently, he padded forward, allowing his massive hind legs to gradually transfer weight to his relatively slender front ones. Silence. Through a last section of bush, he emerged on a small cliff that long since surrendered to the tenacity of creepers and moss. Below him stood a Boar, its head dipped, lapping at the clear, freezing stream water; the lifeblood of the forest. Here the moon's glow projected unobstructed, and it refracted and reflected over the surface in thousands of glittering specks. They dazzled the Tiger. The Boar now raised its head, its laryngeal prominence thrusting up and down as it gulped the water. It raised its vile, protruding snout in worry.
Now was the moment. The Tiger did not hesitate.
His whole mass coiled tightly, he unwound in a fraction of a second, accelerating through the air in a high arc, like a diver. Before the Boar became aware of his freefall, the Tiger was upon it. It screamed, attempting to rear back, but the Tiger, in one expert move, sank his teeth into its soft jugular, silencing it. Blood, hot and red, gushed out generously. An emotion like frenzy overcame him, and he bit and tore at the Boar until only bloody bones remained. The Tiger slowly came to; regained his senses and awareness. It was over, the hideous whims of the malicious night had been satisfied once more. The Tiger was free.
High above the forest, a violently bright Toucan sang out loudly, spreading new of what had taken place. Below, the water tinged pink.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Monday, February 21, 2011
an article to fill in time while you await a better one: funny french sentences.
I promise the upcoming post will actually be decent, it's just taking me a long time seeing as though I have quite a bit of devoirs at the moment, plus it's quite descriptive and I inevitably labour over each sentecne for ages, slowing overall progress to a snail's pace, as it were. Here are the aforementioned funny french sentences, but perhaps only if you speak french:
- "Je me réveille plutôt tôt pour avoir le temps de prendre mon temps". Meaning: I wake up rather early so as to have enough time to take my time.
- "On en a envie". Meaning: We feel like it.
- "Sa propre chambre propre". Meaning: His/her own clean bedroom.
- Teacher: "Quel est le temps aujourd'hui?" Dumbshit student: "Jeudi". Meaning: "What is the weather like today?" "Thursday."
- "Je me réveille plutôt tôt pour avoir le temps de prendre mon temps". Meaning: I wake up rather early so as to have enough time to take my time.
- "On en a envie". Meaning: We feel like it.
- "Sa propre chambre propre". Meaning: His/her own clean bedroom.
- Teacher: "Quel est le temps aujourd'hui?" Dumbshit student: "Jeudi". Meaning: "What is the weather like today?" "Thursday."
Thursday, February 17, 2011
democracy with a side of toast.
I saw an interview on Breakfast the other day, the subject of which being "why should scalping be illegal?" with regards to the 2011 Rugby World Cup. The actual topic under discussion, though, was "come look at this freak who has an opinion vaguely resembling something original; let's interrogate him with often irrelevant questions not pertaining to his original argument".
This article has two points to make. The first is about the shocking decline of Breakfast following the departing of Paul Henry. The second is the broader and more general opinion that scalping indeed shouldn't be illegal, and that the fact that it is a merely another example of the unnecessary interfering with economics by our nanny-state government. Phew, long sentences there.
Breakfast was never that bad. Let me rephrase: it always rested miles ahead of its six o'clock counterpart, thanks to some much needed personality and wit in the form of Paul Henry, who has since 'resigned', though under immense public pressure, meaning that he was as good as fired. In Henry, Breakfast had somehow managed to discover and fill a niche- news with soul. His became a humour iconic of our young nation, a satirical wit thoroughly lacking from other shows, be they the following (and I really don't envy them because Henry only highlighted their total blandness) Sunrise, or the dismal Australian Good Morning, both little more than advertising thinly veiled by far-too-cheery yin/yang style hosts and a certainly blind wardrobe guy.
These shows had nothing, nothing on Breakfast, and Henry and the rest of the team knew it. They knew the joys of a complete 6:30am media monopoly, and the managers must surely have spent days at a time on luxury cruises in baths of $100 bills surrounded by women who would make Burlesconi blush. Henry, too, grew bolder with each week, and what began as a single remark regarding a woman's pseudo mustache (I laughed) or use of the phrase "fucking mongrel pommy prick" at the QANTAS Awards, grew and grew, finally and perhaps inevitably, culminating in one hell of a week. Slamming the Governor General as "not a real New Zealander" (despite Henry himself, as the "pommy" witticism referred to, being born in the UK) followed promptly by the "Diksit" (etymology: dik- shit) incident. The poor man.
Or maybe it was foreseeable, not only to the public but to Henry himself. Maybe going out with a metaphorical "bang" was his way of immortalising himself in pop culture- god knows he had the self-inflated view of himself that would crave desperately an Achilles-like downfall. His equivalent of Steve Irwin's death (not that the Crocodile Hunter's fate was self-engineered (or was it- possible conspiracy theory (ha, brackets within brackets (Inception!)))): a method of ensuring he never fade into the interminable mediocrity celebrities fear so deeply in the twilight of their careers.
It makes me mad, the routine our public have fallen into these days- one of the more regrettable byproducts of free speech I guess: we love something, be it Paul Henry's sharp tongue or otherwise, and then as soon as someone even slightly oversteps the mark, we are suddenly out for their blood. The same idea carries over to politics, in the sense that our populous are fundamentally all swing-voters, and it only dawns on us to vote for the opposing party (I'm only talking Labour and National here) once we have grown tired of not the other party's policies and ideologies, but rather are prompted by some external intervention like revelations that John Key earns a bazillion dollars and drives a Bentley. So? His job sucks, and he at least deserves to be compensated for his efforts. We expect a ridiculous amount from our politicians, and utterly fail to acknowledge that we could scarcely do a better job.
Back to Breakfast. For a short while, the hung in there, making do with substitutions like the straight-talking and occasionally droll Peter Williams or intelligent and eloquent Alison Mau, or even, god forbid, the scarcely post-pubescent Jack Tame. Yet there was a noticeable void, a profound feeling of emptiness, that no weak one liners could fill. You felt it every time the cameras panned over to Tamiti in some nondescript North Island village; you felt it when we were greeted by the furiously fast-speaking Corin Dann at the Business Desk, to discuss figures I can only imagine even he harboured no real interest in.
Ah yes, Corin. He now sits atop Henry's once extolled throne, paired with what I can only contemptuously describe as the washed-up b-grade presenter Petra Bagust. It seems that Henry (and, granted, Pippa Wetzell) were tough acts to follow. Breakfast is meaningless to me now, joining the likes if Pokémon and Home and Away. I will tune in only if it is already on, and even then, will only pay the bare minimum amount of attention required to get the gist of what is being discussed. My apologies, Mr Dann, but it is my belief that it would have been better to stick to the markets and currencies- your journalistic style and apparent glare at guests simply doesn't make for gripping viewing.
As for this scalper business, I fail to see how it is very different from my sister buying clothes from an Op-shop and re-selling them on TradeMe users at five times the price- and, naturally, pocketing the difference. Nor do I see anything inherently unethical about this- at the Australian Open, and most events, last minutes tickets are sold at vastly inflated prices, and this is the basically same thing, isn't it? The only difference being that someone other than the organisers will profit- and in the case of the Rugby World Cup, the Government. I do see the irony in my being outraged at this having just openly derided those who do exactly what I am doing, but in my defense, the act declaring scalping sports tickets as illegal could surely easily be reversed.
Sure, I'm all for increased export receipts from the World Cup (cue endless flow-on effects), and I'd rather see this profit re-dispersed in the health/education sector than go directly to private corporations, but what about this fabled market dictated wholly by supply and demand?
I suppose I'm just a capitalist at heart.
This article has two points to make. The first is about the shocking decline of Breakfast following the departing of Paul Henry. The second is the broader and more general opinion that scalping indeed shouldn't be illegal, and that the fact that it is a merely another example of the unnecessary interfering with economics by our nanny-state government. Phew, long sentences there.
Breakfast was never that bad. Let me rephrase: it always rested miles ahead of its six o'clock counterpart, thanks to some much needed personality and wit in the form of Paul Henry, who has since 'resigned', though under immense public pressure, meaning that he was as good as fired. In Henry, Breakfast had somehow managed to discover and fill a niche- news with soul. His became a humour iconic of our young nation, a satirical wit thoroughly lacking from other shows, be they the following (and I really don't envy them because Henry only highlighted their total blandness) Sunrise, or the dismal Australian Good Morning, both little more than advertising thinly veiled by far-too-cheery yin/yang style hosts and a certainly blind wardrobe guy.
These shows had nothing, nothing on Breakfast, and Henry and the rest of the team knew it. They knew the joys of a complete 6:30am media monopoly, and the managers must surely have spent days at a time on luxury cruises in baths of $100 bills surrounded by women who would make Burlesconi blush. Henry, too, grew bolder with each week, and what began as a single remark regarding a woman's pseudo mustache (I laughed) or use of the phrase "fucking mongrel pommy prick" at the QANTAS Awards, grew and grew, finally and perhaps inevitably, culminating in one hell of a week. Slamming the Governor General as "not a real New Zealander" (despite Henry himself, as the "pommy" witticism referred to, being born in the UK) followed promptly by the "Diksit" (etymology: dik- shit) incident. The poor man.
Or maybe it was foreseeable, not only to the public but to Henry himself. Maybe going out with a metaphorical "bang" was his way of immortalising himself in pop culture- god knows he had the self-inflated view of himself that would crave desperately an Achilles-like downfall. His equivalent of Steve Irwin's death (not that the Crocodile Hunter's fate was self-engineered (or was it- possible conspiracy theory (ha, brackets within brackets (Inception!)))): a method of ensuring he never fade into the interminable mediocrity celebrities fear so deeply in the twilight of their careers.
It makes me mad, the routine our public have fallen into these days- one of the more regrettable byproducts of free speech I guess: we love something, be it Paul Henry's sharp tongue or otherwise, and then as soon as someone even slightly oversteps the mark, we are suddenly out for their blood. The same idea carries over to politics, in the sense that our populous are fundamentally all swing-voters, and it only dawns on us to vote for the opposing party (I'm only talking Labour and National here) once we have grown tired of not the other party's policies and ideologies, but rather are prompted by some external intervention like revelations that John Key earns a bazillion dollars and drives a Bentley. So? His job sucks, and he at least deserves to be compensated for his efforts. We expect a ridiculous amount from our politicians, and utterly fail to acknowledge that we could scarcely do a better job.
Back to Breakfast. For a short while, the hung in there, making do with substitutions like the straight-talking and occasionally droll Peter Williams or intelligent and eloquent Alison Mau, or even, god forbid, the scarcely post-pubescent Jack Tame. Yet there was a noticeable void, a profound feeling of emptiness, that no weak one liners could fill. You felt it every time the cameras panned over to Tamiti in some nondescript North Island village; you felt it when we were greeted by the furiously fast-speaking Corin Dann at the Business Desk, to discuss figures I can only imagine even he harboured no real interest in.
Ah yes, Corin. He now sits atop Henry's once extolled throne, paired with what I can only contemptuously describe as the washed-up b-grade presenter Petra Bagust. It seems that Henry (and, granted, Pippa Wetzell) were tough acts to follow. Breakfast is meaningless to me now, joining the likes if Pokémon and Home and Away. I will tune in only if it is already on, and even then, will only pay the bare minimum amount of attention required to get the gist of what is being discussed. My apologies, Mr Dann, but it is my belief that it would have been better to stick to the markets and currencies- your journalistic style and apparent glare at guests simply doesn't make for gripping viewing.
As for this scalper business, I fail to see how it is very different from my sister buying clothes from an Op-shop and re-selling them on TradeMe users at five times the price- and, naturally, pocketing the difference. Nor do I see anything inherently unethical about this- at the Australian Open, and most events, last minutes tickets are sold at vastly inflated prices, and this is the basically same thing, isn't it? The only difference being that someone other than the organisers will profit- and in the case of the Rugby World Cup, the Government. I do see the irony in my being outraged at this having just openly derided those who do exactly what I am doing, but in my defense, the act declaring scalping sports tickets as illegal could surely easily be reversed.
Sure, I'm all for increased export receipts from the World Cup (cue endless flow-on effects), and I'd rather see this profit re-dispersed in the health/education sector than go directly to private corporations, but what about this fabled market dictated wholly by supply and demand?
I suppose I'm just a capitalist at heart.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
a cool story... bro.
I know that ambulances, fire trucks, and police cars (each using their respective sirens) are given unconditional right of way by other cars. But what about from each other?
Scenario: a man is cooking a surprise dinner for his wife, to mark their anniversary in the gentlemanly fashion. At the same time however, and unbeknown to this man, a burglar is breaking in to his apartment. Just as his dish is nearing its completion, the man hears the sound of glass breaking, followed by the appearance of a balaclava clad thief. He is shocked.
So shocked, in fact, that he flings his dish into the air, and it ricochets back into his face, scolding him. Other fragments fly past the curtains, setting them promptly alight.
At this point, the man's poor wife makes her timely arrival. Surveying the scene (the thief is standing dumbfounded), she dashes to the phone and calls 911:
911 Operator: "911 what is your emergency?"
Wife: (incoherently) I-, my husband-, random thief in pompously idiosyncratic attire-, CURTAINS!
911 Operator: Very good, Ma'am. A fireman, police officer, and medic will be at your house soon.
Yet, little did any of the persons involved realise, they would soon have another tragedy on their hands, as the policeman, ambulance driver and fireman all believed they had the right of way...
So en route to the caller's house, a huge collision occurred. In fact, this phenomena continues endlessly, and can be observed to this very day.
The end.
Scenario: a man is cooking a surprise dinner for his wife, to mark their anniversary in the gentlemanly fashion. At the same time however, and unbeknown to this man, a burglar is breaking in to his apartment. Just as his dish is nearing its completion, the man hears the sound of glass breaking, followed by the appearance of a balaclava clad thief. He is shocked.
So shocked, in fact, that he flings his dish into the air, and it ricochets back into his face, scolding him. Other fragments fly past the curtains, setting them promptly alight.
At this point, the man's poor wife makes her timely arrival. Surveying the scene (the thief is standing dumbfounded), she dashes to the phone and calls 911:
911 Operator: "911 what is your emergency?"
Wife: (incoherently) I-, my husband-, random thief in pompously idiosyncratic attire-, CURTAINS!
911 Operator: Very good, Ma'am. A fireman, police officer, and medic will be at your house soon.
Yet, little did any of the persons involved realise, they would soon have another tragedy on their hands, as the policeman, ambulance driver and fireman all believed they had the right of way...
So en route to the caller's house, a huge collision occurred. In fact, this phenomena continues endlessly, and can be observed to this very day.
The end.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
argument at an airport lounge
Premise: a man and a woman queue to enter a lounge at an airport. The woman, well-dressed and aged about 35, is named Eva. Behind her stands a shabby, portly man of about 40. This is Gary. Seated behind the desk is the young staff member Harriet.
Harriet: Good afternoon, Madam. Where are you flying to today?
Eva: (extracting a card from her purse and handing it to Harriet) Singapore- on Singapore Airlines. DJ4… something.
Harriet: No, no- that’s fine. Go on through.
Eva: Thank you.
(Eva carries on towards the entrance of the lounge. Gary starts towards the desk)
Gary: Hey…(squinting) Harriet. Can I come in?
Harriet: Umm… are you a KrisFlyer member sir?
Gary: Huh, a what? Oh nah, but I know Jane- you know, in customs. She said it wouldn’t be a problem. (in mock voice) I promise I’ll be good.
Harriet: Well, usually unless you’re flying in Business Class or are member of our KrisFlyer service you can’t-
Gary: (in annoyed voice) Look, my boss doesn’t fork out three grand for me to be spoon-served Bollinger like the rest of these up-themselves rich pricks. All I want is to-
Eva: (standing observing from entrance in plain disdain) You want to what? What exactly do you want? To sip some free Bollinger while the rest of us “rich pricks” had to work to be here?
Gary: I’m sorry lady, who are you, and why is this your business?
Harriet: (flustered) No it’s fine, it’s fine. I’m sure you can come in this once-
Eva: No, it’s not fine. This man shouldn’t be here; he isn’t allowed to be here. Why don’t you explain to me the reasoning behind my paying to have access to this lounge, when I could, far more easily, claim some acquaintance in the deepest recesses of the airport and instantly demand entry?
(Gary stands, dumbfounded)
Gary: I-, you can’t-
Eva: Yes? Do go on- we are intrigued to hear your opinion.
Gary: (enraged) Look! I’m not some fucking bludger! (he fumbles in his jacket’s inner pocket, withdrawing a ticket. He thrusts it on the table) I’m on the plane, for god’s sake!
Harriet: Please, sir. Please don’t yell.
Eva: Just fuck off. (muttering) Anyway, you’re far too badly dressed to-
Gary: What did you say, bitch?
(at this point, two more men of Gary’s age stroll through the lounge entrance, laughing- Terry and Joe)
Terry: Hey! There he is!
Eva: (nodding knowingly) Uh huh- I see. You thought you might just sneak your cronies in, too. Where do you people get off?
Joe: What is this?
Gary: You people? You fucking cow; you-
(Harriet rises from her seat)
Harriet: (yelling) LEAVE! All of you! Now!
(Gary, Terry and Joe all back out in disbelief)
Eva: (flustered) Gosh, I’m really sorry. I’m not usually so forceful and…loud. I just got so pissed off. What a cock!
Harriet: (breathing heavily) Wow. That hasn’t happened before.
Eva: I’m really sorry it had to. Honestly, usually I don’t care about this kind of thing. Just that guy… (trails off)
Harriet: I always hope I don’t get those kinds of people; they think that just because their kid’s best friend’s bloody aunt had a job here they suddenly are entitled to whatever they feel like. We are trained to decline them politely… but I usually just want to avoid a scene, you know?
Eva: Of course, everyone’s the same. You look so young- you can’t have been here that long?
Harriet: (smiling) Yeah, six months.
Eva: That’s not long to have to deal with a situation like that; with a guy like him.
Harriet: And the hours are awful. Trying to sleep during the day just doesn’t work the same. I wouldn’t put up with it, except I get travel perks. But then, who wants to when you might get stuck with people like them.
Eva: Fuck!
Harriet: What?
Eva: I just remembered, I’m sitting next to that asshole.
Harriet: (grimacing) Now I’m sorry. You might need that Bollinger now- inside on your right.
Eva: (giggling) Maybe I could sedate myself and not have to see his ugly face?
(they laugh, and Eva leaves)
Harriet: Good afternoon, Madam. Where are you flying to today?
Eva: (extracting a card from her purse and handing it to Harriet) Singapore- on Singapore Airlines. DJ4… something.
Harriet: No, no- that’s fine. Go on through.
Eva: Thank you.
(Eva carries on towards the entrance of the lounge. Gary starts towards the desk)
Gary: Hey…(squinting) Harriet. Can I come in?
Harriet: Umm… are you a KrisFlyer member sir?
Gary: Huh, a what? Oh nah, but I know Jane- you know, in customs. She said it wouldn’t be a problem. (in mock voice) I promise I’ll be good.
Harriet: Well, usually unless you’re flying in Business Class or are member of our KrisFlyer service you can’t-
Gary: (in annoyed voice) Look, my boss doesn’t fork out three grand for me to be spoon-served Bollinger like the rest of these up-themselves rich pricks. All I want is to-
Eva: (standing observing from entrance in plain disdain) You want to what? What exactly do you want? To sip some free Bollinger while the rest of us “rich pricks” had to work to be here?
Gary: I’m sorry lady, who are you, and why is this your business?
Harriet: (flustered) No it’s fine, it’s fine. I’m sure you can come in this once-
Eva: No, it’s not fine. This man shouldn’t be here; he isn’t allowed to be here. Why don’t you explain to me the reasoning behind my paying to have access to this lounge, when I could, far more easily, claim some acquaintance in the deepest recesses of the airport and instantly demand entry?
(Gary stands, dumbfounded)
Gary: I-, you can’t-
Eva: Yes? Do go on- we are intrigued to hear your opinion.
Gary: (enraged) Look! I’m not some fucking bludger! (he fumbles in his jacket’s inner pocket, withdrawing a ticket. He thrusts it on the table) I’m on the plane, for god’s sake!
Harriet: Please, sir. Please don’t yell.
Eva: Just fuck off. (muttering) Anyway, you’re far too badly dressed to-
Gary: What did you say, bitch?
(at this point, two more men of Gary’s age stroll through the lounge entrance, laughing- Terry and Joe)
Terry: Hey! There he is!
Eva: (nodding knowingly) Uh huh- I see. You thought you might just sneak your cronies in, too. Where do you people get off?
Joe: What is this?
Gary: You people? You fucking cow; you-
(Harriet rises from her seat)
Harriet: (yelling) LEAVE! All of you! Now!
(Gary, Terry and Joe all back out in disbelief)
Eva: (flustered) Gosh, I’m really sorry. I’m not usually so forceful and…loud. I just got so pissed off. What a cock!
Harriet: (breathing heavily) Wow. That hasn’t happened before.
Eva: I’m really sorry it had to. Honestly, usually I don’t care about this kind of thing. Just that guy… (trails off)
Harriet: I always hope I don’t get those kinds of people; they think that just because their kid’s best friend’s bloody aunt had a job here they suddenly are entitled to whatever they feel like. We are trained to decline them politely… but I usually just want to avoid a scene, you know?
Eva: Of course, everyone’s the same. You look so young- you can’t have been here that long?
Harriet: (smiling) Yeah, six months.
Eva: That’s not long to have to deal with a situation like that; with a guy like him.
Harriet: And the hours are awful. Trying to sleep during the day just doesn’t work the same. I wouldn’t put up with it, except I get travel perks. But then, who wants to when you might get stuck with people like them.
Eva: Fuck!
Harriet: What?
Eva: I just remembered, I’m sitting next to that asshole.
Harriet: (grimacing) Now I’m sorry. You might need that Bollinger now- inside on your right.
Eva: (giggling) Maybe I could sedate myself and not have to see his ugly face?
(they laugh, and Eva leaves)
The life I need.
I play video games too much, and I should stop.
This will be the statement central to today's discussion, so read it carefully.
I've been gaming for a long time. I have fond memories, in fact, dating back to the halcyon days of 1999, playing our family's Sega- a racing game, which I sat watching for hours, transfixed by the ever-changing colours and dancing pixels. I didn't reason this at the time, though. Rather, gaming was simply an amusing way of passing the time, and could easily be likened to playing with Lego, or watching old episodes of Pokémon on tape.
Unlike Ash's nomadic adventures, or my beloved uniform plastic bricks, though, gaming has stuck with me until now. This in itself doesn't mean a great deal- adults who fished or skated as kids still indulge in these activities on a regular basis, don't they? And up until recently, I didn't give it much thought. With nearly half the world's population having played a Call of Duty game, and 'gaming' itself being more or less intrinsic of modern pop culture, it has always been easy enough to find like minded souls, and in this way, to justify several times over this habit and its implications- or lack there of, as I always figured.
Because practically everyone I know aged similarly to myself games. We game at home, we game at our friends' places, we game during the day, and into the small hours of the night. And when we aren't gaming we talk about gaming, think about gaming. We may hide from the stress of everyday life, of work and school and relationships, instead choosing to hide in a perfect, blissful place where we are granted absolute anonymity and the freedom to slam others, to 'make friends', to shoot, stab, kill and generally put our angst and worries behind us. Who wouldn't want this?
YouTube lies in the middle of what I believe to be the modern version of Golding's "essential human illness". A community where anyone can seek, and often find, worth in their lives, in the form of something as meaningless as a thumbs up. YouTube has bred a generation of kids searching so desperately to fit in that they will forgo having an actual opinion in favour of a comment or attitude that they know will earn them support. Support from who? A 16 year old in California, thousands of miles away, who happens to...what? Play the same game as you?
Practically no effort goes in to making a gameplay/commentary on YouTube. We might respect guys that post up huge scores, but who hasn't known the joys of a well-planned spawn trap in their life times? I am so fucking sick and tired of seeing people's comments as "nth nuke"- I don't care, and anyone who does really needs to take a good, long, hard look at themselves and the empty life they have. Because while video games might provide a few hours thrills at a time, deep down, we know it isn't doing us any good, and for me at least, almost any other activity gives me at the very least vague sense of fulfillment.
I am going to quit gaming. Let me rephrase: I am going to try and quit gaming. I realise that nothing is actually holding me back- this isn't smoking. I know no one is with me, but that's the point (except, apparently, Ukrainian Limbs). I will find other ways to fill my time, and I won't think longingly back to these bygone days with nostalgia. I will feel sad, considering what I could have achieved in this time, in lieu of slaying Old King Doran, killing thousands of SpetSnaz operatives, surviving several zombie apocalypses. Gaming will one day die, and I won't be entrenched in the pitiful community that faithfully obeys it when that happens; I will have transcended gaming altogether.
Thanks for reading.
This will be the statement central to today's discussion, so read it carefully.
I've been gaming for a long time. I have fond memories, in fact, dating back to the halcyon days of 1999, playing our family's Sega- a racing game, which I sat watching for hours, transfixed by the ever-changing colours and dancing pixels. I didn't reason this at the time, though. Rather, gaming was simply an amusing way of passing the time, and could easily be likened to playing with Lego, or watching old episodes of Pokémon on tape.
Unlike Ash's nomadic adventures, or my beloved uniform plastic bricks, though, gaming has stuck with me until now. This in itself doesn't mean a great deal- adults who fished or skated as kids still indulge in these activities on a regular basis, don't they? And up until recently, I didn't give it much thought. With nearly half the world's population having played a Call of Duty game, and 'gaming' itself being more or less intrinsic of modern pop culture, it has always been easy enough to find like minded souls, and in this way, to justify several times over this habit and its implications- or lack there of, as I always figured.
Because practically everyone I know aged similarly to myself games. We game at home, we game at our friends' places, we game during the day, and into the small hours of the night. And when we aren't gaming we talk about gaming, think about gaming. We may hide from the stress of everyday life, of work and school and relationships, instead choosing to hide in a perfect, blissful place where we are granted absolute anonymity and the freedom to slam others, to 'make friends', to shoot, stab, kill and generally put our angst and worries behind us. Who wouldn't want this?
YouTube lies in the middle of what I believe to be the modern version of Golding's "essential human illness". A community where anyone can seek, and often find, worth in their lives, in the form of something as meaningless as a thumbs up. YouTube has bred a generation of kids searching so desperately to fit in that they will forgo having an actual opinion in favour of a comment or attitude that they know will earn them support. Support from who? A 16 year old in California, thousands of miles away, who happens to...what? Play the same game as you?
Practically no effort goes in to making a gameplay/commentary on YouTube. We might respect guys that post up huge scores, but who hasn't known the joys of a well-planned spawn trap in their life times? I am so fucking sick and tired of seeing people's comments as "nth nuke"- I don't care, and anyone who does really needs to take a good, long, hard look at themselves and the empty life they have. Because while video games might provide a few hours thrills at a time, deep down, we know it isn't doing us any good, and for me at least, almost any other activity gives me at the very least vague sense of fulfillment.
I am going to quit gaming. Let me rephrase: I am going to try and quit gaming. I realise that nothing is actually holding me back- this isn't smoking. I know no one is with me, but that's the point (except, apparently, Ukrainian Limbs). I will find other ways to fill my time, and I won't think longingly back to these bygone days with nostalgia. I will feel sad, considering what I could have achieved in this time, in lieu of slaying Old King Doran, killing thousands of SpetSnaz operatives, surviving several zombie apocalypses. Gaming will one day die, and I won't be entrenched in the pitiful community that faithfully obeys it when that happens; I will have transcended gaming altogether.
Thanks for reading.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Differentiation- Your calculator is the scene of the crime.
An extract from my script for Differentiation, a mathematical comedy that parodies Inception. Enjoy.
Differentiation
By
William
Munn
INT. PHARMACY - CONTINUOUS
Row upon row of wooden shelves holding hundreds of dusty
glass bottles of all shapes and colors. At the far end, a
portly 40-year-old man rises from behind his desk, beckoning.
This is YUSUF.
Row upon row of wooden shelves holding hundreds of dusty
glass bottles of all shapes and colors. At the far end, a
portly 40-year-old man rises from behind his desk, beckoning.
This is YUSUF.
Yusuf: So, you are seeking a mathematician
(Cobb nods)
To calculate problems for a job.
Cobb: As well as to be our runner for Cantamath.
Yusuf: You know, I rarely go into the field, Mr Cobb.
Cobb: Well, we would need you there to tailor equations specific to our needs.
Yusuf: Which are?
Cobb: Great complexity.
Yusuf: (nodding)Ah... A function within a function- two sets of brackets.
Cobb: (leaning forward) Three.
Yusuf: Not possible... that many functions within functions would be far too baffling for a non-Korean student.
Cobb: It is...possible. You'd just need to use a graphics calculator.
Yusuf: A powerful graphics calculator.
(holds a rectangular object up to the light)
This, I think, would be a good place to start. I see it every day.
Cobb: Where?
(Yusuf beckons to a door. On it is written "D12")
Yusuf: Or, perhaps you will not want to see.
Cobb: (beckoning) After you...
INT. CLASS ROOM, BURNSIDE HIGH - CONTINUOUS
A class room with ROWS of low DESKS. Each with a school student. They type numbers and symbols on their calculators. An ELDERLY BALD MAN watches over them.
Eames: (counting) 18, 19, 20- mostly Asian. Bloody hell.
Yusuf: They come here every day, to practice calculus.
Yusuf nods at the Elderly Bald Man, who moves to the nearest
desk. Reaches out to the STUDENT. Gives his face a FIRM SLAP.
The student does not even stir.
Yusuf: See? Very diligent.
Cobb: How long do they work?
Yusuf: Three, four hours every day.
Cobb: How many papers?
Yusuf: With this calculator? About 40 papers, each and every day.
Saito surveys the room, appalled.
Saito: Why do they do it?
Yusuf: Tell him, Mr Cobb.
Cobb: After a while, it becomes the only way you can be challenged at school.
Yusuf: Can you still use the Binomial Theorem, Mr Cobb?
Cobb stares at the students, still uneasy.
Eames: They come to do calculus?
Cobb turns to the Elderly Bald Man, who looks fondly at his
dreamers.
Elderly Bald Man: No. They come to live the calculus. The algebra has become their reality.
The Elderly Bald Man pokes a crooked finger at Cobb's chest.
Elderly Bald Man: Who are you to say otherwise?Who are you?
Sunday, February 6, 2011
How to do well in Call of Duty
These are the integral steps which, if followed correctly, will almost guarantee a great score in any Call of Duty game. I have compiled these based on years of experience with the best-selling franchise.
1. Be host. You'll know if you are host because next to your name (Viet Will) there will be 4 green bars, and if you are like me and live in New Zealand, your teammates' and enemies' connections won't be terribly god (i.e. red or yellow).
2. Laugh as your enemies flee helplessly, safe in the knowledge that your every shot is bound to hit. You are host, after all. This is your world, and you make the rules.
3. Sit back and enjoy your utter dominace, and the ensuing mass rage quitting. What a legend.
1. Be host. You'll know if you are host because next to your name (Viet Will) there will be 4 green bars, and if you are like me and live in New Zealand, your teammates' and enemies' connections won't be terribly god (i.e. red or yellow).
2. Laugh as your enemies flee helplessly, safe in the knowledge that your every shot is bound to hit. You are host, after all. This is your world, and you make the rules.
3. Sit back and enjoy your utter dominace, and the ensuing mass rage quitting. What a legend.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Hell design
I still don't believe in hell, but if it did exist, I'm pretty sure this is what it would look like. Took me about half an hour. Enjoy.
Friday, February 4, 2011
The Alexander Supertramp article
In case you aren't entirely familiar with Alexander Supertramp, I'll summarise: It was the self-assigned alter ego of one Chirstopher McCandless, a young American college graduate who, confunded by a material good-orientated, greed-hungry capitalist society, hiked into the Alaskan "wilderness", sporting little more than a semi-automatic rifle, a sack of rice and more than a few youthful ideals.
Needless to say, McCandless died.
His was made a famous life, and death, following the release of a biography by Jon Krakauer, and later a film. Both these texts, though (jeez, I am horrified by my adopting of NZQA's bullshit phrasing) painted the portrait of a disaffected, bright, humanitiarian, Thoreau-like young man, whereas a source not bound the constraints by a novelist's poetic license like Wikipedia represents an entirely different school of thought, as it appears. Reality.
And what a harsh once McCandless must face up to. His apparent total lack of preparation and general ineptitude where a hostile place like Alaska was concerned, compounded by his romanticisation in Into the Wild provoking many Alaskan natives to lash out. I have picked the best of them and pasted it below, from Sherry Simpson:
"Astounded by page after page of such writings, we counted the number of people identified in the notebooks. More than 200 had trekked to the bus since McCandless’s death, and that didn’t account for those who passed by without comment. Think of that: More than 200 people, many as inexperienced as McCandless, had hiked or bicycled along the Stampede Trail to the bus — and every one of them had somehow managed to return safely... Among my friends and acquaintances, the story of Christopher McCandless makes great after-dinner conversation. Much of the time I agree with the "he had a death wish" camp because I don’t know how else to reconcile what we know of his ordeal. Now and then I venture into the "what a dumbshit" territory, tempered by brief alliances with the "he was just another romantic boy on an all-American quest" partisans. Mostly I’m puzzled by the way he’s emerged as a hero, a kind of privileged-yet-strangely-dissatisfied-with-his-existence hero.... For many Alaskans, the problem is not necessarily that Christopher McCandless attempted what he did – most of us came here in search of something, didn’t we? Haven’t we made our own embarrassing mistakes? But we can’t afford to take his story seriously because it doesn’t say much a careful person doesn’t already know about desire and survival. The lessons are so obvious as to be laughable: Look at a map. Take some food. Know where you are. Listen to people who are smarter than you. Be humble. Go on out there – but it won’t mean much unless you come back. This is what bothers me – that Christopher McCandless failed so badly, so harshly, and yet so famously that his death has come to symbolize something admirable, that his unwillingness to see Alaska for what it really is has somehow become the story so many people associate with this place, a story so hollow you can almost hear the wind blowing through it. His death was not a brilliant fuck-up. It was not even a terribly original fuck-up. It was just one of the more recent and pointless fuck-ups."
I want to make a neat, contradictory summarising statement, but so succinct yet so very very accurate is this criticism that I struggle to fault her logic. Yes, McCandless was a dumbass, and people more knowledgeable on the topic could doubtless spend all day taking to pieces his poor decisions, leading him from one bad situation to the next. I want to say, "yet cruelly analyse his ideology and actions though she may, Simpson must admit that McCandless has achieved something..." But what? We knew what no food and no map already led to.
We just didn't know anyone would do it.
Needless to say, McCandless died.
His was made a famous life, and death, following the release of a biography by Jon Krakauer, and later a film. Both these texts, though (jeez, I am horrified by my adopting of NZQA's bullshit phrasing) painted the portrait of a disaffected, bright, humanitiarian, Thoreau-like young man, whereas a source not bound the constraints by a novelist's poetic license like Wikipedia represents an entirely different school of thought, as it appears. Reality.
And what a harsh once McCandless must face up to. His apparent total lack of preparation and general ineptitude where a hostile place like Alaska was concerned, compounded by his romanticisation in Into the Wild provoking many Alaskan natives to lash out. I have picked the best of them and pasted it below, from Sherry Simpson:
"Astounded by page after page of such writings, we counted the number of people identified in the notebooks. More than 200 had trekked to the bus since McCandless’s death, and that didn’t account for those who passed by without comment. Think of that: More than 200 people, many as inexperienced as McCandless, had hiked or bicycled along the Stampede Trail to the bus — and every one of them had somehow managed to return safely... Among my friends and acquaintances, the story of Christopher McCandless makes great after-dinner conversation. Much of the time I agree with the "he had a death wish" camp because I don’t know how else to reconcile what we know of his ordeal. Now and then I venture into the "what a dumbshit" territory, tempered by brief alliances with the "he was just another romantic boy on an all-American quest" partisans. Mostly I’m puzzled by the way he’s emerged as a hero, a kind of privileged-yet-strangely-dissatisfied-with-his-existence hero.... For many Alaskans, the problem is not necessarily that Christopher McCandless attempted what he did – most of us came here in search of something, didn’t we? Haven’t we made our own embarrassing mistakes? But we can’t afford to take his story seriously because it doesn’t say much a careful person doesn’t already know about desire and survival. The lessons are so obvious as to be laughable: Look at a map. Take some food. Know where you are. Listen to people who are smarter than you. Be humble. Go on out there – but it won’t mean much unless you come back. This is what bothers me – that Christopher McCandless failed so badly, so harshly, and yet so famously that his death has come to symbolize something admirable, that his unwillingness to see Alaska for what it really is has somehow become the story so many people associate with this place, a story so hollow you can almost hear the wind blowing through it. His death was not a brilliant fuck-up. It was not even a terribly original fuck-up. It was just one of the more recent and pointless fuck-ups."
I want to make a neat, contradictory summarising statement, but so succinct yet so very very accurate is this criticism that I struggle to fault her logic. Yes, McCandless was a dumbass, and people more knowledgeable on the topic could doubtless spend all day taking to pieces his poor decisions, leading him from one bad situation to the next. I want to say, "yet cruelly analyse his ideology and actions though she may, Simpson must admit that McCandless has achieved something..." But what? We knew what no food and no map already led to.
We just didn't know anyone would do it.
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