You Two Can Learn How to Darw (5ive Easy Spets)

I got into a pretty heated passive-agressive argument* with a game developer the other day.

I started it by bringing up the modern saw that games get released bugs and all, and screw perfection, whereas novels, etc. tend to have fewer errors on day-and-date releases.

His response was that if there's a mistake in a game, it can ruin it, but if there's a typo or missed punctuation mark in a piece of writing, it's still understandable; it's flawed, but you can continue with the story.

My response: "Plenty of people make broken games. It doesn't mean the job is hard, it means the people making broken games are unqualified. If I read a typo in an Associated Press article, sure, I have the story, but it's stilled marred by amateur writing. It still has acne. It's still kind of ugly."

"But you can make one mistake and it still works. If I make one it doesn't."

"You guys make so many mistakes, though. If a doctor has to do heart surgery on a patient, he can't wait five weeks and do it again after messing it up the first time."

"You have it so easy, though. You can use spell check and so on to make sure you didn't make a mistake."

"Are you sugar about that hat?"

"What?"

"I said, 'Are you sure about that?'"

"I think so. Are those shoes real suede?"

"No, their fake. I brought them form waht I taught was a tursted olnine website, burt my cerdit crad nubmer was sloten."

"Oh..."

"But ask me that question in a couple of weeks. My shoes will be pure leather, and I'll have enough time to go back and fix every other mistake I made."


* Case, meet point. Now kiss.

Rantastic Damage (Redux)

It's late and I'm bored, so here we go.

You know, for years now, every now and again I tell myself it's worth playing Final Fantasy XII, and every time I do, I quickly realize how much I loathe the game. The problem is that there is a lot to like about the game, but its major flaw is too hefty.

Ultimately, I can't forgive a real-time RPG that allows some bosses to erect invincibility barriers for minutes at a time, while allowing those same bosses the full range of attacks during that same period. That has to be one of the fucking dumbest and laziest imitations of a challenge imaginable, and the question isn't whether it's possible to overcome said deficit, but whether it's worth overcoming.

Nevertheless, I wonder how the meeting went for that one.

Project Leader: How can we make the game more challenging? Developer A: We could make certain bosses susceptible to a type of weapon, or maybe a certain string of attacks. Something unique. Project Leader: Sounds like we'd have to put our brains to work. Any other suggestions? Developer B: We could just allow the bosses to become invincible for randomly determined periods of time. Project Leader: Give that man a raise. Who's ready for happy hour?

Same Title, Different Song XV

Tonight's battle isn't the slightest bit fair.

Allow me to explain. All things considered, I think Ingrid Michaelson is a talented songstress yet the fact remains that pitting Michaelson's The Chain against the Fleetwood Mac song of the same name is a bit like having the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man face off against Godzilla. Sure, I have a soft spot in my heart for ye olde Stay Puft (and who in his or her right mind doesn't?) but the outcome is never in doubt. In other words, grab yourself some chocolate and graham crackers because there's going to be one hell of a s'mores opportunity coming up.

Fleetwood Mac - The Chain

Ingrid Michaelson - The Chain

Trivia

The first time I listened to Fleetwood Mac's Rumours was on LP as a kid, and being that kids like me are dumb, I mistakenly played side two first, thus resulting in my erroneous interpretation of The Chain as the album's opening song. To this very day, I tend to think of The Chain that way even though the adult in me knows better. Damn kids.

Cognitive Dissonance (All the Time)

I had two somewhat conflicting responses to the video embedded below:

1) What...what the hell just happened? What is this even about?

2) That was beyond awesome. Like, erases the effects of trauma and/or prevents STDs awesome.

Beware!

Lucid Dreams (are Binary Affairs upon Occasion)

The Sounds - It's So Easy

     You are aware of your surroundings, mostly. It's a house, though one not entirely recognizable, yet pleasant, spacious, and inviting nonetheless. Inside, there is a gathering of sorts taking place, which is why you find yourself seated on a leather couch in a living room populated by a throng of people not quite ready to party but happily engaged with one another. You want to say that each of these folks is identifiable, which isn't the case, of course, for they are as familiar as someone you've seen at the supermarket more than once, but you wish it were true.

     So you sit upon a leather couch in the middle of a unknown home full of unfamiliar people and amidst the lackluster music, chatter, drinks and jokes it becomes apparent that day has since progressed into night, but through a sizable window with curtains drawn you note that night does not equate to darkness, as the moon, visible and enlarged, bathes the world in a sickly shade of blue that can't quite be described so much as felt and what you feel is unwell.

     What makes you feel especially uneasy is a man seated on a simple wooden chair directly facing you from a distance. Unlike everyone else, the man is dressed rather simply in faded jeans, ripped but not in the usual places. There are lengthy tears near the ankles and that is all. He is wearing a plain, white t-shirt atop an equally chalky, long-sleeved shirt with indecipherable cursive script that sprawls down each arm, written in the reddest of red hues. His arms, crossed, further obscure the text as the man stares at you, eyes mirthfully ablaze. You recognize him, yet this man isn't the one you know. Close, but not quite, though close enough.

     The man's mouth opens and a sentence is uttered; between the myriad of conversations and spatial divide, his words remain a mystery. Since he is something akin to a man you know, you suggest that he speak up, to which he merely smiles. You then suggest that he cease letting things slide or, at the very least, learn to state what he means in no uncertain terms because obscurantism is way overrated. As you speak, his left eye begins to wiggle in its socket, bleeding profusely in the process. You state that he should work on his interpersonal skills and as you do, the man's right ear falls away from its proper place and finds a new home in his lap. Arms now unfolded, the man flicks the discarded flesh, propelling it to the carpet while the crowd remains oblivious to everything beyond its own devices.

     The lettering on the man's sleeves has all but disappeared, indistinguishable from the ichor gushing forth and despite the unsightliness of his appearance or perhaps because of it, you tell him to stop acting as though friends are analogous to foes. The man, still smiling, plants a hand upon his face and between spindly fingers spread wide, gazes upon you with the eye left intact, the one so very, very blue. You shout that he needs to stop playing around and his hand pulls away, taking with it anything the hand once touched. Nose, lips, teeth and tissue; not so much off as out, for his face isn't being stripped, it's being stretched into something else, something snouty to match what he is quickly becoming.

     You rise, as does he, but his eye now surveys the teeming crowd of unobservant partygoers before returning to you. A clawed hand lazily extends toward the person nearest him but before said claws reach their destination, you tell him to shut up because this is your dream, not his, and ain't nobody got time for that.

Foster the People - Helena Beat

Show up to the party late, after dark. No one notices, nobody cares. Came to see what she was doing here; namely, in a dream that isn't hers. She tends to do that. Not unwanted, but perplexing. Perhaps there is no why. Still, peculiar. The plan remains, albeit reconfigured. Came for a different reason, actually. A dream is a dream and it serves a purpose. They always do.

She does not notice, at least not immediately. Wrapped up in surroundings, probably. Strange, as stated, because she normally displays keen senses regardless of the locale presented. Curious. The music, no. The people, no. The jokes, absolutely not. The situation, possibly. The moon, most likely. She is distracted, yes.

Feel like putting on a show, this time for two. Not adept at entertaining others, if only because most are incapable of appreciating pageantry. She might enjoy this, maybe.

Attention, achieved. She may ponder the meaning behind the torn jeans and cursive script, of which there is none until she establishes some. Hopefully.

"Stick around and catch sight of a spectacle not soon forgotten."

Her actions imply that the statement went unheard. She has something to say to the wrong person or, perhaps, in the wrong reality. Body falling apart, coming together; beauty personified. Ear lost, no big deal. Dream comes, flesh goes. Nobody notices, no one cares. Typical.

She wants someone to stop playing but this face is so itchy; so ready to burst; so psyched to consume. Friends and foes comment applicable to life, perhaps. This is not an atmosphere conductive to such concepts.

Stage set. Arm outstretched. She radiates disinterest, perhaps disapproval. Puzzling, though not unexpected. Still, peculiar. Almost disheartening, nearly demoralizing. Almost, but not sure why.

Six Shots till Summation: A Matter of Predation

Manhunter (1986)

The first adaption of a Thomas Harris novel, in this case Red Dragon. While Anthony Hopkins may not be present, there's more than enough of a young, non-beerbellied William Peterson to go around. (You wouldn't know it from looking at these pictures, folks, but trust me, he's in the film.)

Trivia

Readers might recognize the film's director, Michael Mann, from such movies as Collateral, The Last of the Mohicans, and Heat. Conversely, for those familiar with atrocious, kidney-punching cinema, he might be recognized as the director of The Keep. 

The Resurrection

[/stasis]


Sports as an analogy for life might be an overused cliche*, but only because the best cliches are often pretty accurate. Why do we watch sports (or America's Got Talent) if not to witness competition, the very definition of living, or at least a reasonable hand-drawn facsimile? After all, we're all of us here because we won a race. I've never understood, nor completely trusted, anyone who dislikes sports for this very reason. We enjoy the best of fiction because it feels personal, it stimulates our imagination, it inspires us, and -- ideally -- makes us examine our world in a different way. Here's the thing about sports: they do the same thing, only they're real.

That's the greatest thing about sports. I don't believe the infinite monkey theorem is possible, just as I don't believe that, if I were given infinite time, I would be able to turn myself invisible**. Sure, the former is based on mathematical chance, the latter on scientific impossibility, but neither, infinite time withstanding, would ever happen. There are miracles, and there are miracles. Only the one in italics exists.

And those italic-miracles exist in all aspects of our lives. We use phrases such as "dumb luck," "close call," "happy accident***;"
or, for the more spiritually inclined, "karmic justice, "cosmic balance," and "manna from Heaven****," to explain the incredible. They're not really miracles, but then again, they're not not miracles.

For the collective population of Earth, nowhere are "miracles" more abundant as they are in sports. They happen all the time. A Spartan example is the Red Sox in '04, down 0-3 to the Yankees in the ALCS, winning four straight and then going on to win the World Series; or (and my apologies to a certain Bostonian who may read this) David Tyree's helmet catch in Super Bowl XLVI. Keep in mind that those are very well-known sporting events; if you were to take into account how many times the incredible regularly occurs at all levels of sport -- every scrappy pick-up game, every amateur competition around the world, the time I was drunk and got three bull's-eyes in a row*****, this -- you would marvel at how often sporting triumphs occur.

Of course, there are two tales to every struggle. A W for one is an L for another. And so it goes. In daily life, in war, in Mario Kart******, those who reap don't always sow, and those who sow don't always reap (especially in Ohio). Sometimes life isn't fair. God doesn't always favor the humble, but neither does he reward the grandiose. Because there is no god. Win or lose, it's all up to human competition. And when "miracles" happen, it's a marvel to behold, but rarely is it "fair."

I experienced my greatest sports epiphany******* under the most unlikely of circumstances. I am a huge fan of the Miami Heat. (Check the archives of this hallowed blog if you doubt my sincerity.) After basking in the glow of the second Heat title in seven years and the first for the then much-maligned LeBron James, the 2012-2013 NBA season was a roller coaster of emotions. With NBA League Pass********, I watched almost every regular season game (I missed one: the Heat-Celtics nail-biter, which was spoiled for me because I checked Facebook on my phone at 7 AM KST, forgetting that the game had a 1 PM EST start time). It was AMAZING.

The playoffs, however, were an entirely different animal. Working a day job, it wasn't possible for me to watch most games in real time. During the regular season, I would avoid social media and wait until I got home to watch the games on League Pass. The Heat won 66 games during the regular season, including 27 in a row, so this was usually a pleasant experience. Except when it wasn't. (See: Bulls, Chicago the)

I don't think many people watched the Heat as closely as I did, but it was apparent during the season that the Heat had a major flaw in its defense. It's rim protection was atrocious, like a bleeding carotid and a stabbed jugular. Some of that was stanched when the Heat signed Chris Andersen in January; but, come the playoffs, you can't leave a gaping wound like that around the basket to be exploited.

Exploited they were. Milwaukee was easy fodder in the first round, but after dropping Game 1 to the Bulls in the Eastern Conference semis, the sharks started circling. We know how that turned out: four straight wins for Miami to advance to the Conference Finals. Then, Indiana.

-- Intermission --

I shouldn't have this much invested in basketball. I'm a relatively well-adjusted man with a beautiful wife, a beautiful daughter, and a dachshund that can run faster than lightning (or at least faster than the dude in QWOP). But here's the thing: I have middle child syndrome. I always want to be bigger, more defiant, smarter, and more virtuous than the people who have slighted me or put me down. I think that is a natural human emotion, even if it isn't a very good one.

In the summer of 2010, I was beyond elated when LeBron James signed with the Miami Heat. The best basketball player in the world on MY team? Yes, please, and thank you! I soon discovered, however, that none of my friends shared my enthusiasm. James was a traitor, a villain, a charlatan who had deceived a nation for his own misguided gain. And I was a by-product of his Decision. Suddenly I was a bandwagoner, a front-runner. I had to defend myself for liking the basketball team that I had followed for over a decade after moving to Korea.

I started to develop a complex. The hate got to me, eerily similar to how it appeared to affect LeBron's game. After the Heat lost the 2011 Finals to the Dallas Mavericks, I was a wreck. I called my wife after the Game 6 loss and told her that we needed to buy a dachshund. We named him Flash. He's awesome.

Sports, as they relate to human relationships, should, ideally, be an innocuous matter, if not among opposing fanbases then at least among family. Yet on the day the Miami Heat won the NBA Championship one year later, I received the most hurtful message from my brother: "You know your daughter is in Canada, right?" It wasn't a question, it was a venomous non-sequitur that floored me with its raw malice.

I had a very difficult time between 2005 and 2007. I got divorced, fought for custody of my daughter, wasn't granted custody, then ultimately was granted custody for reasons I won't disclose here. My parents have taken care of my daughter since then, and I visit her every year. She turned 10 this month and is a remarkable child. She will be a remarkable woman. That's one variable I'll bet my life on. I can't wait to see her this Holiday Season. So, yeah, I know my daughter is in Canada. Go light a cat's tail on fire, asshole.

-- End Intermission --

(Sorry for the digression. Rewind to paragraph 9 then fast-forward to this one to skip baggage claim and clear customs.)

Eastern Conference Semi-Finals. Indiana. Game 1: a last-second victory. Game 2: a tough loss. Then this message for Game 3: "You watching the game tonight? the Heat lose tonight, they lose the series." Spoilers: they didn't lose the game or the series.

They went on to the NBA Finals. Heat vs. Spurs. Basketball supremacy at stake!

And here's where I get salty. I'm fine with sports rivalries; they're great! But having no investment in one team and actively cheering for an opposing team's failure is the basest, ugliest, and cheapest aspect of sports "fandom." In what way does hoping one side loses rather than hoping the other wins a normal way to look at life?

I'm not sure if I've adequately expressed how much I was invested in (and irrationally motivated by) the 2012-2013 Heat, but the Finals solidified how much I could (again, irrationally) lose. When the Heat went down 2-3, there wasn't much mirth in the Forbes-Yoo household.

And then: June 19, June 18 EST by my reckoning. I woke up that morning trembling like a fiend looking for a fix. Fly or die, win or don't win. At work, I had to keep checking my phone for score updates. I was stuck in a meeting when the tide turned in the Heat's favor, and when I left the meeting midway through the 4th-quarter, the Heat were, miraculously, winning.

That didn't last. Sartre wrote that Hell is other people; I posit that Hell is having to follow a tight basketball game on a smartphone around other people. Because we were bug bashing a game that day, I stayed glued to my phone while munching on a Big Mac. When the Spurs took a 2-point lead late I stood up to...I don't know, escape? Hide somewhere? Jump out of an open window? I definitely knew that I didn't want to be around other people.

So I took the elevator downstairs to the basement. It was very, very hot (this isn't an Inferno allusion; the basement wasn't air-conditioned). Then I checked my phone. A 2-point Heat deficit became 3, then 4, then 5, all while I paced the basement and SAS MADE FREE THROW 1-OF-2 stared cruelly back at me on my phone.

Hope lost, I returned to the office and checked my phone just as LeBron hit a 3-pointer to, miraculously, make it a 2-point game. Then Kawhi Leonard missed a free throw. Then... And then...






* What that was was redundant.

** But isn't it pretty to think so?

*** I am one such happy accident. A certain 10-year-old I know is another.

**** I'm an agnostic, but I capitalize Heaven. Because when I was nine years old Belinda Carlisle told me it's a place on Earth, and I always capitalize proper nouns.

***** I've done it twice, actually, which makes the infinite monkey theorem a little less unbelievable.

****** And, really, minus the pain and dying part, they're all quite similar, aren't they?

******* On a professional level. My greatest amateur sports epiphany occurred in late 2011 when a then-8-year-old 18th Letter absolutely destroyed my wife and I in Wii Sports Bowling. You had to be there. There are zones, and there are zones. Good thing they don't test for PEDs in e-sports.

******** According to some articles I've read, League Pass's quality is awful in North America. I had a few small issues with the service during the season, but overall I will definitely re-up this coming late-October.

********* Caw!

"It's So Easy!"

"Aw [Oh?], I did it! Did you see that?"



I did indeed!* I mean, holy shit, even a woman can do it. Mind blowing.

Disregarding the fact that the commercial is potentially offensive to a) women; b) guys pretending to be feminists in the vain hope of getting laid; c) those in the acting profession; d) adherents to the pronunciation of 'use' as |yoōz|; and e) men with anything less than piercing eyebrows, there's something about the video that is so hilariously bad as to make it ridiculously awesome. 

See also: your dick

"This is the thing my husband uses to turn pointy metal things!"

Basically, flying through the air with a female avatar 2.5x faster than normal is this thing's biggest selling point.

Pictures alone can't capture the magic of the aforementioned advertisement, of course, but if nothing else it makes me long for the halcyon days, back when those behind the commercials really knew how to reach their target demographic. 




* I also saw what appeared to be a guy wearing frames with no lenses but let's leave that one alone.

Same Title, Different Song XIV

Tonight's matchup pits eternal teenager Tommy Lee, better known as the drummer from Mötley Crüe or to some of our more discerning readers, as the "Fuck, Lover, I fucking love you" guy from one of the many Pamela Anderson sex tapes against Seattle act Minus the Bear, better known as just another band from Seattle.

Minus the Bear - Hold Me Down

Tommy Lee - Hold Me Down

As to which song is superior, ladies and gentlemen, I think it's best to leave such weighty proclamations up to the King of Kings.