Unless one has been sitting under a rock for the past few days, it's plainly obvious that the world has had its fair share of great folks taken away. Ed McMahon, the whimsical sidekick of Johnny Carson. Farah Fawcett, the 70's sex icon. And of course, the king of pop, Michael Jackson. Oomph. Now that a chunk of my childhood has been stripped, you'll have to excuse me.
Jackson's death was the most shocking. I mean, who the hell dies from cardiac arrest at 50? And with all of the issues he'd been facing these last few years, it wouldn't be entirely surprising if there wasn't some self-assist in the whole matter. If there's a matter. Because I have my thoughts. See, Michael Jackson was well known for his exuberant eccentricity. He lived in a theme park with a chimp and Corey Feldman, for fuck's sake. And he was also accused of bribing kids with his vast array of toys and video games and cookies in exchange for touching no-no parts. And he made the Thriller album, which I still cherish. So yes, he's pretty messed up. And all that's without a comment on his ghoulish face.
Anyway, my point is that I think, or would like to think, that Michael staged his death, Andy Kaufman style, to just escape of to some remote tropical island, so he can just live in peace. If that were really true, it would be the dick move of the century, but only Michael could pull that off. He was that crazy. But it probably isn't true, which is a shame. So say what you want about his bizzare behavior, but the guy is gone, and his music remains as a reminder of a great musician. And while I don't believe in conventional heaven, I'd like to think that at the very least that wherever Michael is now, he's black again.
I find Farrah's death tragic in the sense that the cause of her demise sounds so unflattering. Anal cancer. One would think, in our time, that we could come up with a better name for that. I dunno, intestinal cancer? Lower abdominal cancer? Something that wouldn't coax me into chuckling cruelly, anyway. And while she was quite a bit before my time, I can't deny she was pretty hot. She was especially attractive in her later years, which makes this seem even sadder.
So imagine that, less than an hour ago, I found out that my grandma's eldest brother died. But there will be no remorse for this guy, if there is any justice. Cecil Campbell, as I call it, is scum. If I sound like a prick, let me elaborate. Have you ever watched TV and there's a crime story about a child molester that gets sent to the clink for what, five years. And did you ever go, "They need to just kill that bastard." Let me say that the world is now a little bit safer. There's one less of them.
As a kid, I didn't know Cecil well. By that point in time it was pretty much established that he was fucked up. His unusual behavior went back as far as when my grandma was a kid, and children were cautiously warned not to be alone with him, although there was no real reason given. It was just an understanding to stay away from him. I remember going to his and Aunt Jean's house at least once, idly playing with Micro Machines on a space heater for a few hours until it got dark. I was, of course not out of my grandma's sight. Not long after, he went to jail for, well, yes. I don't know the circumstances exactly, but by then it had gone on for too long.
One of the only other memories of Cecil I have is somewhat jarring, if not frightening. I was probably around seven, and one evening my grandma got the occasional prison call from Cecil. Oddly, he asked to talk to me. Keep in mind I hardly knew the man, and had enough wherewithall to know he went to prison for something bad. Even stranger was my grandma obliged him. She called me to the phone, and here I was speaking to a convicted sex offender. At age seven. To be fair (right...), he wasn't lewd or suggestive. He asked short questions - how I was, how the family was, school, pets, so forth. I answered him as I would a good friend, but thought the entire time that this was the most fucked-up shit ever. After all was said, I handed the phone back to grandma and that was that.
My memory's a bit off, but I could argue that this happened more than once. And while nothing about the phone call(s?) was inappropriate in content, I look back now and wonder what the hell went through than man's head while he was talking to me. And honestly, I can't say that this makes me feel like a victim of violation. He did worse to others, making the phone call seem like bullshit on a stick.
The aftermath was that after a five-year stint, Cecil got out and moved next to his sister-in-law, in an old schoolbus he converted into a broke-ass RV. Years later he got too old and got moved into a retirement center. And now he's dead. Good riddance.
I've done some reflection these past few days with all these losses, and I feel apathetic considering the number of people I lost last year that I was close to. Small potatoes. Things go on as usual, and my direct world isn't disrupted. I can only hope that mother nature continues shedding her kindness.
Hey, lighten up! Transformers 2 is at least as good as the first movie! This is, of course, if you like the first one. Otherwise I'm not proud to give you more bad news.
-C.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Afro Suckery... Kind Of.
And so last week I talked about Afro Samurai, a game that managed to cause Target to clearance it out. This reality doesn't mean that the game is likely bad. I assume they do this because Target can only carry 12 games per system, and need to make room for Call of Duty 8: Modern Vintage Warfare: Call of Duty Edition.
As I've noted, Afro is based on the "hit" anime series featuring a foul-mouthed Samuel L. Jackson that's about how violent shit gets. Basically, the titular Afro owns the Number 2 headband, and seeks vengeance from Justice, the ugly-ass Freddy Krueger (voiced by a silly Ron Perlman) that killed Afro's daddy and took the Number One headband. Legend tells that only the Number Two can challenge the Number One, whereas anyone under the sun can challange the Number Two. The game itself borrows much from this, so the story left little to surprise. Unfortunately, the story of Afro is trite and simple, and other than the semi-interesting premise, both game and anime is essentially Afro running through various gaunlets to get to Justice. These include some old taper-headed men that prattle evangelistic nonsense, a childhood chum with a robot teddy bear head, and an infinite number of generic whosits.
Afro's combat style mimics the newer Ninja Gaidens, and as one progresses through the game Afro levels up, unlocking combo chains and more resistance to damage. Holding the LT button puts Afro in "Focus Mode," where he can perform 1-hit kills called Perfect Slices. This is the general key to getting through the game, as enemies are plentiful and annoying. Ninjas will avoid these attacks by ducking, jumping, or sliding off to the side, so hitting them with a Focus attack is based on dumb luck. The only joy derived from these persistant battles is the occasional cry of "Motherfucker!" as Afro hacks them to pieces.
Boss fights are a pain in their own league, as many are combined with combat puzzles that are explained only by word and not by example. Not that I need coddling in my combat games, but it would be nice to know a move as practical as throwing or deflecting bullets with my sword. I cannot count the number of times I've had to retry boss fights because I had to take apart these fights and figure out the one thing I'm fucking up. For example, one fight had me slicing incoming rockets with a Focus attack - but it has to be a vertical slice, NOT a horizontal slice, otherwise Afro goes boom. This took about six turns to figure out. Another fight involved bullets, and those were deflected with hortizontal Focus slices, not vertical. Duh-huh.
Yet those fights, in retrospect, were simple compared to the balls-out sword battles I had with rocket launcher man and teddy bear face. Whenever faced with a straight-on combat boss fight, it's still a matter of dumb luck. The game has no hub system, so the only way to tell how much health Afro has is how red he gets and how tunneled the audio becomes. Random teddy bears littering the levels restore health, but it also appears that Afro regains health by either killing opponents or kicking ass. Again, this is never explained, but would make sense in battles like the one against teddy bear face. This is a whole level where he shows up every three minutes to fight and cry. What made this boss fight an hour-long fiasco was his constant blocking. And just when it looked bleak and I was about to die, I'd get in a combo chain and suddenly I was no longer red. So I don't know. And sometimes, I think the game doesn't either.
What hindered these fights was the god-awful camera system, which was inverted only in the left-right control, but NOT the up-down. This led to many, many fuckups because I couldn't waggle the camera in the right direction.
While the game is deep with problems, it's slightly aided by having novel aspects to it. Characters are constantly cussing, particularly the Jiminy Cricket-esque Ninja Ninja (also voiced by Jackson), who acts as narrator and nagging subconscious for our hero. There's also a section early in the game where Afro fights topless, heavily-tattooed pole dancer chicks - these interesting baddies don't show up afterward. Speaking of pretty things, the graphics aren't half bad, with an element of cartoonish shading that made the latest Prince of Persia look so damn good. And most of the music is done by RZA, so while fighting was annoying, whupping ass to bass beats and hip-hop jamborees was at the least different.
Afro is a game that, like many games today, is pretty much only worth less than half the money it's going for. I would only recommend it for those who love heavy combat games like Ninja Gaiden or Devil May Cry and tolerate the half-assed combat and camera. Or just go watch the anime - it's only 2 1/2 hours long and delivers the same thing without all the frustration.
Oh no, I just reviewed something. Damn...
-C.
As I've noted, Afro is based on the "hit" anime series featuring a foul-mouthed Samuel L. Jackson that's about how violent shit gets. Basically, the titular Afro owns the Number 2 headband, and seeks vengeance from Justice, the ugly-ass Freddy Krueger (voiced by a silly Ron Perlman) that killed Afro's daddy and took the Number One headband. Legend tells that only the Number Two can challenge the Number One, whereas anyone under the sun can challange the Number Two. The game itself borrows much from this, so the story left little to surprise. Unfortunately, the story of Afro is trite and simple, and other than the semi-interesting premise, both game and anime is essentially Afro running through various gaunlets to get to Justice. These include some old taper-headed men that prattle evangelistic nonsense, a childhood chum with a robot teddy bear head, and an infinite number of generic whosits.
Afro's combat style mimics the newer Ninja Gaidens, and as one progresses through the game Afro levels up, unlocking combo chains and more resistance to damage. Holding the LT button puts Afro in "Focus Mode," where he can perform 1-hit kills called Perfect Slices. This is the general key to getting through the game, as enemies are plentiful and annoying. Ninjas will avoid these attacks by ducking, jumping, or sliding off to the side, so hitting them with a Focus attack is based on dumb luck. The only joy derived from these persistant battles is the occasional cry of "Motherfucker!" as Afro hacks them to pieces.
Boss fights are a pain in their own league, as many are combined with combat puzzles that are explained only by word and not by example. Not that I need coddling in my combat games, but it would be nice to know a move as practical as throwing or deflecting bullets with my sword. I cannot count the number of times I've had to retry boss fights because I had to take apart these fights and figure out the one thing I'm fucking up. For example, one fight had me slicing incoming rockets with a Focus attack - but it has to be a vertical slice, NOT a horizontal slice, otherwise Afro goes boom. This took about six turns to figure out. Another fight involved bullets, and those were deflected with hortizontal Focus slices, not vertical. Duh-huh.
Yet those fights, in retrospect, were simple compared to the balls-out sword battles I had with rocket launcher man and teddy bear face. Whenever faced with a straight-on combat boss fight, it's still a matter of dumb luck. The game has no hub system, so the only way to tell how much health Afro has is how red he gets and how tunneled the audio becomes. Random teddy bears littering the levels restore health, but it also appears that Afro regains health by either killing opponents or kicking ass. Again, this is never explained, but would make sense in battles like the one against teddy bear face. This is a whole level where he shows up every three minutes to fight and cry. What made this boss fight an hour-long fiasco was his constant blocking. And just when it looked bleak and I was about to die, I'd get in a combo chain and suddenly I was no longer red. So I don't know. And sometimes, I think the game doesn't either.
What hindered these fights was the god-awful camera system, which was inverted only in the left-right control, but NOT the up-down. This led to many, many fuckups because I couldn't waggle the camera in the right direction.
While the game is deep with problems, it's slightly aided by having novel aspects to it. Characters are constantly cussing, particularly the Jiminy Cricket-esque Ninja Ninja (also voiced by Jackson), who acts as narrator and nagging subconscious for our hero. There's also a section early in the game where Afro fights topless, heavily-tattooed pole dancer chicks - these interesting baddies don't show up afterward. Speaking of pretty things, the graphics aren't half bad, with an element of cartoonish shading that made the latest Prince of Persia look so damn good. And most of the music is done by RZA, so while fighting was annoying, whupping ass to bass beats and hip-hop jamborees was at the least different.
Afro is a game that, like many games today, is pretty much only worth less than half the money it's going for. I would only recommend it for those who love heavy combat games like Ninja Gaiden or Devil May Cry and tolerate the half-assed combat and camera. Or just go watch the anime - it's only 2 1/2 hours long and delivers the same thing without all the frustration.
Oh no, I just reviewed something. Damn...
-C.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Ow, I'm Getting Old...
So the other day at work, I opted to prove to no one in particular that I can be a strong fellow. I loaded three tables (fixtures, if you must) onto carts and hauled them out onto the store floor for processing. These tables probably weigh a good couple hundred pounds, if not more, as they were a bitch to even get off the dock. After successfully unloading them, I felt triumphant that I pulled this off without hurting myself.
Woe be to the impractical.
Later that night, I went to bend down and felt the beginnings of what could've been severe muscle tearage in my lower back. I immediately stopped moving and only sort of fucked up my back. I managed to get some sleep, strangely waking up in near-perfect 30-minute increments. The next day my back was just sore, but after walking around for five hours my legs were close to falling off. Today, the pain has now traveled to my upper gluteus, meaning two things: this isn't a spinal injury (whew!), and it feels like someone kicked me in the ass with a bulldozer trowel.
This isn't the first time this kind of thing has happened, and it occurs at random moments. The last time it happened I was bending over and a sharp, stabbing pain hit my back so badly I had to crawl to a chair and hyperventilate. It was not fun. It also sucks because it never occurs when I'm actually straining myself, only when I'm just bending down. Fortunately, it doesn't happen often.
But enough about my boo-boo sissy fit. Not much else has gone on since my last post. It's stopped raining. I've moved on to playing Afro Samurai after unlocking enough achievements in Resident Evil 5 to shut me up. Afro is based on the anime series that Samuel L. Jackson has stuck his dick into, a combination of Samurai Champloo and Ninja Scroll that lacks any, if all, reasoning. I liked the anime, and after seeing the game's price drop $20 at Gamestop I squelched. Then I noticed that Target clearanced it out for the same price, so, hey, I bought some Afro Samurai. Thus far, it's proven to be Ninja Gaiden gameplay with Prince of Persia graphics, with hip-hop sounds laying out the entire game. This sounds likes a good thing, but after a few hours of gameplay it runs between simplicity (enemies are constantly respawning), to fucking insanely upsetting (nobody told me how to throw people, ever). It also loosely follows the same story as the anime, so there's few surprises here. But since I've yet to beat it, I can't in good conscience go on bitching.
"Blah blah Carter's reviewing shit again, blah-dee-blah."
And so I'm off to go watch some TV.
-C.
Woe be to the impractical.
Later that night, I went to bend down and felt the beginnings of what could've been severe muscle tearage in my lower back. I immediately stopped moving and only sort of fucked up my back. I managed to get some sleep, strangely waking up in near-perfect 30-minute increments. The next day my back was just sore, but after walking around for five hours my legs were close to falling off. Today, the pain has now traveled to my upper gluteus, meaning two things: this isn't a spinal injury (whew!), and it feels like someone kicked me in the ass with a bulldozer trowel.
This isn't the first time this kind of thing has happened, and it occurs at random moments. The last time it happened I was bending over and a sharp, stabbing pain hit my back so badly I had to crawl to a chair and hyperventilate. It was not fun. It also sucks because it never occurs when I'm actually straining myself, only when I'm just bending down. Fortunately, it doesn't happen often.
But enough about my boo-boo sissy fit. Not much else has gone on since my last post. It's stopped raining. I've moved on to playing Afro Samurai after unlocking enough achievements in Resident Evil 5 to shut me up. Afro is based on the anime series that Samuel L. Jackson has stuck his dick into, a combination of Samurai Champloo and Ninja Scroll that lacks any, if all, reasoning. I liked the anime, and after seeing the game's price drop $20 at Gamestop I squelched. Then I noticed that Target clearanced it out for the same price, so, hey, I bought some Afro Samurai. Thus far, it's proven to be Ninja Gaiden gameplay with Prince of Persia graphics, with hip-hop sounds laying out the entire game. This sounds likes a good thing, but after a few hours of gameplay it runs between simplicity (enemies are constantly respawning), to fucking insanely upsetting (nobody told me how to throw people, ever). It also loosely follows the same story as the anime, so there's few surprises here. But since I've yet to beat it, I can't in good conscience go on bitching.
"Blah blah Carter's reviewing shit again, blah-dee-blah."
And so I'm off to go watch some TV.
-C.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Aftershock.
So it's been a solid week since my escape. And thus far, it's still effective. I passed all my classes, paid off my bursar, and walked the walk. I have no idea if OSU have any tricks up their sleeve, as they're prone to occasionally screw with me. Let us all hope not, or wrath will ensue.
I don't feel different.
And so there have been a few things going on lately.
1. I beat 50 Cent: Blood On The Sand.
This game was a reluctant purchase, as I'd heard both good and bad about it. It's the equivalent of Gears of War with 50 Cent music playing throughout the entire thing. There's also a variety of five bad guys: terrorist in red shirt, terrorist in yellow shirt, terrorist in blue shirt, vehicle, and helicopter. The concept itself is frightfully stupid, but it's fun enough to warrant a playthrough. Fun fact: I netted 225 Achievement Points in 15 minutes. So yeah, it's okay. Just not worth having its own blog post.
2. The Wolverine movie was a letdown.
And yet nobody in their right mind should be that surprised. But the one thing that totally derailed the entire thing was how they treated Deadpool. I won't spoil much, but they pretty much didn't read any Deadpool comics. He's a character that's supposed to wise-ass around and shoot things with guns, and well... yup. Not quite so in film. On the bright side, they managed not to screw up Gambit. Everything else was lukewarm, as the writers cobbled together enough Wolverine backstory to make a movie out of it. I went into this expecting the third X-Men movie, quality-wise, and it was about on par with that. Meh.
3. The Star Trek movie looks interesting.
I only say this because I am not a Star Trek fan. I know little to nothing about it, and I hate spaceship stories (like Fantastic Four, to some degree). This is sometimes fun because my friends at the comic store are Trekkies and always seem to tell me stuff about it that I don't give a shit about. However, this movie looks amusing enough because it appears to have some serious action going on with it. I dunno. I may just wait until it's on DVD.
4. I'm so goddamned sick of rain.
If I were to put a number on it, I'd say it's rained about 46 days in the past week. What sucks is that, in typical Oklahoma fashion, the weather is constantly pulling 180's and for every 6 hours of rain, there's 12 hours of sunshine. So it's never one state. I wouldn't mind so much if I knew that the rain and dreariness wasn't messing up my Internet where I have problems downloading stuff. Also, hail sucks. Fuck you, weather.
Welp.
-C.
I don't feel different.
And so there have been a few things going on lately.
1. I beat 50 Cent: Blood On The Sand.
This game was a reluctant purchase, as I'd heard both good and bad about it. It's the equivalent of Gears of War with 50 Cent music playing throughout the entire thing. There's also a variety of five bad guys: terrorist in red shirt, terrorist in yellow shirt, terrorist in blue shirt, vehicle, and helicopter. The concept itself is frightfully stupid, but it's fun enough to warrant a playthrough. Fun fact: I netted 225 Achievement Points in 15 minutes. So yeah, it's okay. Just not worth having its own blog post.
2. The Wolverine movie was a letdown.
And yet nobody in their right mind should be that surprised. But the one thing that totally derailed the entire thing was how they treated Deadpool. I won't spoil much, but they pretty much didn't read any Deadpool comics. He's a character that's supposed to wise-ass around and shoot things with guns, and well... yup. Not quite so in film. On the bright side, they managed not to screw up Gambit. Everything else was lukewarm, as the writers cobbled together enough Wolverine backstory to make a movie out of it. I went into this expecting the third X-Men movie, quality-wise, and it was about on par with that. Meh.
3. The Star Trek movie looks interesting.
I only say this because I am not a Star Trek fan. I know little to nothing about it, and I hate spaceship stories (like Fantastic Four, to some degree). This is sometimes fun because my friends at the comic store are Trekkies and always seem to tell me stuff about it that I don't give a shit about. However, this movie looks amusing enough because it appears to have some serious action going on with it. I dunno. I may just wait until it's on DVD.
4. I'm so goddamned sick of rain.
If I were to put a number on it, I'd say it's rained about 46 days in the past week. What sucks is that, in typical Oklahoma fashion, the weather is constantly pulling 180's and for every 6 hours of rain, there's 12 hours of sunshine. So it's never one state. I wouldn't mind so much if I knew that the rain and dreariness wasn't messing up my Internet where I have problems downloading stuff. Also, hail sucks. Fuck you, weather.
Welp.
-C.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Happy Ending.
As I start this post, I'm reminded of an off-beat sketch from Robot Chicken where a guy is finishing up at an Asian massage parlor and the female masseuse offers him a "happy ending." He politely declines, and the insistence that he gets one becomes so chaotic he flees from the manic woman. The chase continues into the streets, as cries of "HAPPY ENDING?!" are belted out. The guy eventually falls down a flight of stairs, seemingly breaking his legs and trapping him in a corner. The woman reaches her prey, only to reveal the happy ending - "You get one free egg roll. Happy ending." And then the man sighs with relief, broken and battered.
This is the metaphor for my college career.
It's hard to imagine that it all started six years ago. The reasons it took an extra couple of years to get this far was A.) I changed my major within the first year, B.) I didn't have any genuine guidance throughout college (save one good advisor that lasted a year), and C.) I grew into a procrastinating, lazy shit. I'm not to say it's impossible to get a degree in less than four year's time, and good job for those that do, but I didn't really care to bust that much ass over it. After all, it's only college, right?
What's sad is that I remember little of the first three years, or as I like to call it, TCC. Unlike about every other smarty pants I knew in high school, I didn't have dreams of leaving home and moving into a university, or dreams of campus life and frats and parties and underage delinquency, or paying thousands of dollars for basic education courses. I was quite comfy to settle for community college. I set down that path and watched as the other smart kids went to OSU, OU, NSU, and so forth. Some managed to be dedicated enough to their cause to graduate, while others drifted back out because they didn't realize that in order to stay in school, they actually had to go to class after the parties.
TCC mystified me, as up until then I rarely ventured into Tulsa on my own. To make matters less appealing, the two campuses I had to attend were located in less than savory parts of town. One sat snug amid the one-way hedge mazes of Downtown, while the other settled in the northiest part of North Tulsa, or OklaWatts. I was eighteen, skinny, quiet, dorky, sober, and lost.
Within a couple weeks I managed to trap my truck between vehicles in the parking lot, start a trend of getting begged for money by transients AND attract a homosexual. These were not the bumpkin schools I knew.
At first, my goal in life was to become a zoologist, but seeing as how I have the mathmatical skills of a stop sign, I realized that was out of the picture. So I went with what I knew - art. Hey, I already knew how to draw, so how easy could this be? As it turned out, TCC only liked to teach people who didn't know how to draw, and boredom quickly set in. Twice a week I was forced to draw random inanimate objects set in odd ways - a draped blanket, a kettle, some kind of horn, a vase - or had to look out the window and draw the intricately gothic Boston Avenue Church. The monotony was so severe I began creatively twisting these pieces into false realities. Underpants gnomes dug along the objects with pickaxes, or witches would fly their brooms in circles around the church as lightning clasped in the sky. My teacher grew irritated with these fabrications, and questioned if that's really what I saw. I'd say yes, and by the end of my first year I realized my innate talent had no home at TCC. I spent most of my time playing Street Fighter III in the arcade and playing billiards by myself to improve my left-handed skills, which to this day are all but improved.
Fortuantely, I drew inspiration from an unlikely source: English class. My teacher, Ms. Benford, was a no-nonsense black woman in her late fifties who had a knack for making an otherwise boring subject useful. It was the first time I had taken an English class somewhat seriously, and her appraisal of my writing caused me to reconsider my profession. I knew being an English major wouldn't get me far with what I wanted, so I checked in to the school of Journalism & Broadcast. Hey, maybe I could write articles and editorials.
By the end of my second year at TCC, I realized that I wasn't going to be a news reporter. This was despite the fact that News Writing became one of my favorite classes. It was taught by Tulsa World reporter Jason Collington, whose method was to give us articles to read for the following week and discuss them. When I admitted that I couldn't read through the entire thing, he'd deliver his lesson - that was the point, that it was a crappy article and nobody could sit and read the whole thing anyway. Midway through the semester the class boiled down to just me and one other guy, but Jason continued teaching the class with a more leisurely pace. I DID learn something from him: awful work shouldn't be appreciated.
Fortunately, the journalism program starts off slow, giving a basic rundown of the four parts - news writing, broadcast, advertising, and public relations. I had already lost my desire to write news, I didn't want to be Ron Burgundy, and at the time I felt that PR was just figuratively giving stuff handjobs. Advertising, it seemed, afforded me the best option, as I could use my artistic talent AND my newfound desire to write creative stuff in that field. So it was decided... I was going to be an advertisement major.
Little else can be remembered about my journalism days at TCC, save a few names. My final semester gave me little option but to attend the infamous Southeast Campus, all the way across Tulsa and so close to Broken Arrow that I could smell the snobby kids. I dreaded traveling down the highway to get to it, but once I got there I was floored. It was immaculate compared to the other campuses, hanging over a man-made lake that was viewable through a well-adorned arcade, complete with Capcom vs. SNK 2, Soul Calibur, and more pool tables. Also, it was only a mile from 71st Street, which is essentially shopping central. This was also the place where I created my first comic series since high school. A huge air had been lifted over my head and I felt freedom. My travel phobia disappeared, and I was sad that I could only spend a few months there before I was awarded an Associate's Degree, or as my family calls it, not a Bachelor's. I unceremoniously walked away from TCC, happy.
With the beckoning of all those around me, I reluctantly chose to continue my "education" at OSU-Tulsa. This particular breed of OSU worked just fine with me, as it offered all the upper-level ad classes I needed to get a Bachelor's. It also meant I didn't have to go to Stillwater... yet. But it didn't take long for me to feel the backhand of OSU's system. I had to jump numerous hoops to get in, and it didn't help that my first advisor was anything but one. It also didn't help that my introduction into OSU's journalism program was met with utter failure - I couldn't pass Media Law to save my ass. What was interesting was that the ad classes were connected together with the same group of students. By my second year there, I had joined the ranks of the 2008 ad students, making good friends. Which worked since practically all my high school friends had fallen off the face of the earth, until stuff like Myspace and Facebook showed up. I was now part of a group, but that only lasted until last year, when almost all of them graduated. I was left behind, and had to settle for hanging with the public relations students. Fortunately, they turned out to be a swell bunch. As did the marketing group, as advertising and marketing were clumped together on occasion.
This spring, I repeated history by traveling to a far, distant land to finish up my degree. Unlike Southeast Campus, which was surrounded by fun, I went to Stillwater, which is surrounded by a different fun. A fun I was too damn old for, like wearing OSU T-shirts and joining every conceivable group imaginable. It was as if high school had mutated into a self-sufficient city. Now, I'm 24, and I felt like a cranky old man trudging along the campus - "Why is everything so far? Quit writing on the sidewalks! Stop setting up booths, you'll ruin the grass! Why do I have to pay two bucks for a Dr. Pepper? This sucks." Even the arcade sucked. At least the PR class I took there was enjoyable. As were the bus rides, which let me sleep and catch up on my podcasts. But unlike Southeast, I won't miss Stillwater.
And thus, here I is. I even pulled off the impossible and passed Media Law (thanks in part to the law lady teacher, who was easy on both curriculum and looks... giggle).
For the past few months, I've been consistently asked if I'm excited to be done. Excited being the only word they use. But to be honest, I don't feel excited. I feel exhausted, relieved, and ready for a goddamned nap. I feel like a marathon runner who got talked into it by his buddies, someone who knows how to run but isn't in the exact shape for it. And after running thirty miles in one day, they reach the finish line. Everyone's there, cheering and congratulating him, and he can't do or say anything because he's too tired. Then someone out of the crowd comes up and acknowledges him. "Happy ending?" they ask.
The guy smiles, and lazily lifts his arm and flashes everyone a thumbs-up. "Yeah, dude." Then he gets drove home to rest.
I cannot say I won't miss this. I have been in some kind of school system since I was five, so the change will be pretty deep in a few months when I'll realize I'm never going to have to do this shit ever, ever again. What's amazing to me is the amount of stuff I got out of it all - a love and talent for writing, semi-social skills (I'm still a homebody at heart), a love for driving around and doing whatever, some vague concept of the Japanese language (which I took my first year at TCC), enjoyment of playing pool, being able to drive in the ghetto and not get scared, good friends, and well, probably more that will set in over time.
But I am soooooo glad it's over.
-C.
This is the metaphor for my college career.
It's hard to imagine that it all started six years ago. The reasons it took an extra couple of years to get this far was A.) I changed my major within the first year, B.) I didn't have any genuine guidance throughout college (save one good advisor that lasted a year), and C.) I grew into a procrastinating, lazy shit. I'm not to say it's impossible to get a degree in less than four year's time, and good job for those that do, but I didn't really care to bust that much ass over it. After all, it's only college, right?
What's sad is that I remember little of the first three years, or as I like to call it, TCC. Unlike about every other smarty pants I knew in high school, I didn't have dreams of leaving home and moving into a university, or dreams of campus life and frats and parties and underage delinquency, or paying thousands of dollars for basic education courses. I was quite comfy to settle for community college. I set down that path and watched as the other smart kids went to OSU, OU, NSU, and so forth. Some managed to be dedicated enough to their cause to graduate, while others drifted back out because they didn't realize that in order to stay in school, they actually had to go to class after the parties.
TCC mystified me, as up until then I rarely ventured into Tulsa on my own. To make matters less appealing, the two campuses I had to attend were located in less than savory parts of town. One sat snug amid the one-way hedge mazes of Downtown, while the other settled in the northiest part of North Tulsa, or OklaWatts. I was eighteen, skinny, quiet, dorky, sober, and lost.
Within a couple weeks I managed to trap my truck between vehicles in the parking lot, start a trend of getting begged for money by transients AND attract a homosexual. These were not the bumpkin schools I knew.
At first, my goal in life was to become a zoologist, but seeing as how I have the mathmatical skills of a stop sign, I realized that was out of the picture. So I went with what I knew - art. Hey, I already knew how to draw, so how easy could this be? As it turned out, TCC only liked to teach people who didn't know how to draw, and boredom quickly set in. Twice a week I was forced to draw random inanimate objects set in odd ways - a draped blanket, a kettle, some kind of horn, a vase - or had to look out the window and draw the intricately gothic Boston Avenue Church. The monotony was so severe I began creatively twisting these pieces into false realities. Underpants gnomes dug along the objects with pickaxes, or witches would fly their brooms in circles around the church as lightning clasped in the sky. My teacher grew irritated with these fabrications, and questioned if that's really what I saw. I'd say yes, and by the end of my first year I realized my innate talent had no home at TCC. I spent most of my time playing Street Fighter III in the arcade and playing billiards by myself to improve my left-handed skills, which to this day are all but improved.
Fortuantely, I drew inspiration from an unlikely source: English class. My teacher, Ms. Benford, was a no-nonsense black woman in her late fifties who had a knack for making an otherwise boring subject useful. It was the first time I had taken an English class somewhat seriously, and her appraisal of my writing caused me to reconsider my profession. I knew being an English major wouldn't get me far with what I wanted, so I checked in to the school of Journalism & Broadcast. Hey, maybe I could write articles and editorials.
By the end of my second year at TCC, I realized that I wasn't going to be a news reporter. This was despite the fact that News Writing became one of my favorite classes. It was taught by Tulsa World reporter Jason Collington, whose method was to give us articles to read for the following week and discuss them. When I admitted that I couldn't read through the entire thing, he'd deliver his lesson - that was the point, that it was a crappy article and nobody could sit and read the whole thing anyway. Midway through the semester the class boiled down to just me and one other guy, but Jason continued teaching the class with a more leisurely pace. I DID learn something from him: awful work shouldn't be appreciated.
Fortunately, the journalism program starts off slow, giving a basic rundown of the four parts - news writing, broadcast, advertising, and public relations. I had already lost my desire to write news, I didn't want to be Ron Burgundy, and at the time I felt that PR was just figuratively giving stuff handjobs. Advertising, it seemed, afforded me the best option, as I could use my artistic talent AND my newfound desire to write creative stuff in that field. So it was decided... I was going to be an advertisement major.
Little else can be remembered about my journalism days at TCC, save a few names. My final semester gave me little option but to attend the infamous Southeast Campus, all the way across Tulsa and so close to Broken Arrow that I could smell the snobby kids. I dreaded traveling down the highway to get to it, but once I got there I was floored. It was immaculate compared to the other campuses, hanging over a man-made lake that was viewable through a well-adorned arcade, complete with Capcom vs. SNK 2, Soul Calibur, and more pool tables. Also, it was only a mile from 71st Street, which is essentially shopping central. This was also the place where I created my first comic series since high school. A huge air had been lifted over my head and I felt freedom. My travel phobia disappeared, and I was sad that I could only spend a few months there before I was awarded an Associate's Degree, or as my family calls it, not a Bachelor's. I unceremoniously walked away from TCC, happy.
With the beckoning of all those around me, I reluctantly chose to continue my "education" at OSU-Tulsa. This particular breed of OSU worked just fine with me, as it offered all the upper-level ad classes I needed to get a Bachelor's. It also meant I didn't have to go to Stillwater... yet. But it didn't take long for me to feel the backhand of OSU's system. I had to jump numerous hoops to get in, and it didn't help that my first advisor was anything but one. It also didn't help that my introduction into OSU's journalism program was met with utter failure - I couldn't pass Media Law to save my ass. What was interesting was that the ad classes were connected together with the same group of students. By my second year there, I had joined the ranks of the 2008 ad students, making good friends. Which worked since practically all my high school friends had fallen off the face of the earth, until stuff like Myspace and Facebook showed up. I was now part of a group, but that only lasted until last year, when almost all of them graduated. I was left behind, and had to settle for hanging with the public relations students. Fortunately, they turned out to be a swell bunch. As did the marketing group, as advertising and marketing were clumped together on occasion.
This spring, I repeated history by traveling to a far, distant land to finish up my degree. Unlike Southeast Campus, which was surrounded by fun, I went to Stillwater, which is surrounded by a different fun. A fun I was too damn old for, like wearing OSU T-shirts and joining every conceivable group imaginable. It was as if high school had mutated into a self-sufficient city. Now, I'm 24, and I felt like a cranky old man trudging along the campus - "Why is everything so far? Quit writing on the sidewalks! Stop setting up booths, you'll ruin the grass! Why do I have to pay two bucks for a Dr. Pepper? This sucks." Even the arcade sucked. At least the PR class I took there was enjoyable. As were the bus rides, which let me sleep and catch up on my podcasts. But unlike Southeast, I won't miss Stillwater.
And thus, here I is. I even pulled off the impossible and passed Media Law (thanks in part to the law lady teacher, who was easy on both curriculum and looks... giggle).
For the past few months, I've been consistently asked if I'm excited to be done. Excited being the only word they use. But to be honest, I don't feel excited. I feel exhausted, relieved, and ready for a goddamned nap. I feel like a marathon runner who got talked into it by his buddies, someone who knows how to run but isn't in the exact shape for it. And after running thirty miles in one day, they reach the finish line. Everyone's there, cheering and congratulating him, and he can't do or say anything because he's too tired. Then someone out of the crowd comes up and acknowledges him. "Happy ending?" they ask.
The guy smiles, and lazily lifts his arm and flashes everyone a thumbs-up. "Yeah, dude." Then he gets drove home to rest.
I cannot say I won't miss this. I have been in some kind of school system since I was five, so the change will be pretty deep in a few months when I'll realize I'm never going to have to do this shit ever, ever again. What's amazing to me is the amount of stuff I got out of it all - a love and talent for writing, semi-social skills (I'm still a homebody at heart), a love for driving around and doing whatever, some vague concept of the Japanese language (which I took my first year at TCC), enjoyment of playing pool, being able to drive in the ghetto and not get scared, good friends, and well, probably more that will set in over time.
But I am soooooo glad it's over.
-C.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Resident Evil Fiver.
I'm not the biggest shooter fan. Halo 3 was fun for an hour, Gears of War 2 and Army of Two were only fun on co-op, I disliked Half-Life 2 (whuh-oh!), and those like Bioshock, The Darkness and Portal were only interesting and loved by me because they showed off incredible elements that warranted at least a play-through. But even the better shooters can only do that much for me, and $60 a pop is pretty steep for 10-12 hours of aiming at stuff.
Resident Evil, as a series, never interested me. I hate being spooked, and shooting zombies in a haunted house isn't appealing to me. Even the pants-enoculating RE4, which practically every single gaming journalist wanked off on, hardly budged me into buying into it. And now it's on almost every damn system. And then Capcom announced RE5. And the initial screens and video erupted a shitstorm of speculation and controversy.
This is a typical scene in the first half of the game. This was but one of many examples of what RE5 was going to be. In Africa, in broad daylight, in the community of such-and-such town that has been infected with zombie disease.
It goes to say this wasn't the typical theme in Resident Evil. Daylight, I mean. Most RE games are set at night or in corridors limiting one's movement and tactics. This is coming from someone who's never touched the previous RE games, so take that for what you will. But what struck me as odd was the jittery response to the enemies. Most are African, black males, with some scattered lighter-toned, possibly Arabic folk. It's a popular RE theme that anything in a 20-mile radius of the setting of the game is a zombie. Dogs, lizards, spiders, alligators, and yes, even Africans in Africa. I am not surprised. But the gaming community buzzed about with fingers pointing and loud whispers of "racism" uttered. Everywhere. On podcasts, in editorials, in schlock gaming news and elsewhere.
According to many game publications, this was standard gameplay in Resident Evil 5. Note the embargo on main character Chris Redfield's bunny outfit was broken. Like our hearts.
This blather went on before the game could even be played, and even then the demo, which was one of the first levels, didn't help much. People were more concerned with the racial implications than the game itself. Nobody worried about graphics, controls, gameplay, difficulty, nothing. If anything, some said "Oh, it's Resident Evil 4. But listen to us bitch about the setting and how this could be interpreted...!" and so on.
Here's what I think. I think I'll play through the game and decide that for myself.
So I did.
In the first hour RE5 gives you every idea you need to have to play the game. You're given a traditional AI partner, in this case Sheva Alomar.
Protip: If you can't stop staring at Sheva's ass, the zombie monsters will get you.
What surprised me is how much I didn't have to babysit Sheva throughout most of the game. I mainly designated her as the medic, dumping off healing items on her while I could concentrate on dispatching enemies in more elaborate ways. The AI buddy will usually pot-shot around and hold their own against most enemies anyway. Also, I never had to do what I feared this game would force upon me: escort her around like Helen Keller through a Nickelodeon gameshow obstacle course.
I suppose Sheva's AI self-sufficiency spoiled me, because when I went to play split-screen co-op, my friend Cooper was all but useless. It mostly had to do with my generosity in offering him weapons I upgraded so he wouldn't start so weakly. He whined about starting from scratch. RE5 doesn't offer do-overs, so I had to load another profile so he'd shut the hell up. Then he would swindle all the ammo, leaving me in the dust. RE5's co-op only works if you and your friend can get along. And since the game graciously doesn't offer co-op specific achievements, that won't be a problem. For me.
To counter the speculation that RE5 isn't racist, the game jumps into more traditional fare about 2/3rds into the game. Not to spoil much, but you do get out of the villages and swamps, and you do fight more than transformed citizens. It does get a bit ridiculous when some enemies wield spears and decorative masks, but it's no more questionable than Indiana Jones. Frankly, I would be more upset if Capcom pussed out and made all the enemies white, or if the enemies had cartoon thought bubbles depicting KFC and watermelons floating over their heads as they chased you down. So yeah, it does change gears later on in the game, and it isn't intentionally racist. It's only a matter of playing the game and seeing it for oneself. And game journalists should just stick to telling us if it's good or not.
Is RE5 good? Yes. The graphics are epically grand, despite the monotone greens, yellows, and browns coloring the landscape. Controls are a bit weird at first, but become used to after a while. What people will likely (and have) bitch about the inability to run and shoot at the same time. Fortunately, this isn't really an issue as the pace is equally stop-n-go. My only gripe control-wise is the Simon Says button smashing sequences littering the cutscenes can be a pain and distract from the action. The inventory system is slightly jacked, but is less a concern if one can learn to shoot and conserve ammo.
One interesting point is the exploitation of the money system in the game. Some sites have videos showcasing various tips on earning cash to upgrading weapons, which when maxed out can become gifted with infinite ammo, which eases the game further. I have my tricks, which postponed my beating the game but eased my potty mouth.
If RE5 is indeed just a transposition of RE4, I must be missing out on something. Because RE5 is good. The pacing is steady and linear, the exploits useful, the AI hottie also useful, and the story ridiculously silly. I would, as usual, say that this game is even more purchaseable if it were cheaper. And hopefully now that the game has been out for a while, anyone talking about it would stop pulling the race card out.
-C.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Well, Yes, It's Another Update.
I guess I'm going for some kind of procrastination record, as I've gotten too lazy to even write about stuff or *gasp* review stuff. Such is life. I almost considered throwing my truck in the trash until it was fixed proper for the problem it had. I think my inability to travel in my own comfy vehicle has somehow screwed up my sense of time and place. Hence, putting stuff off.
I beat Banjo-Kazooie: Nuts & Bolts to the point where it said I had beaten it, but I know better. One can reach the final challenges with 75 puzzle pieces, but there are 131 in total. My enjoyment of the game began to wane around 60, so going after twice as many wasn't going to win me over. Mind you, I like the game, but some of the missions became more frustrating than necessary for a non-Japanese game. I don't expect my balls coddled by games in general anyway. However, the idea of repeating a simple "race to the finish line" challenge ten or so times when it's as blatant as "drive in a circle really fast" gets old.
But right now I'm kind of pissed of at Xbox 360s. Cooper got Xbox Live, my ticket into getting some well-needed updates. My first trip included my console, where I successfully downloaded Super Street Fighter II Turbo HD Remix. Oh boy, it's awesome. Until I bring it home and realize I forgot my only controller. So yesterday I traveled back armed with only my hard drive, believing this was the only necessity for getting assorted things off of Live. with my remaining points I purchased a costume pack for SFIV and some Samurai Shodown gamerpics. When I got home last night, apparently my downloadable content save on SFIV is "corrupted." In other words, no costumes in SFIV when I play on my own system. I've yet to test whether I A.) need access to Live to get this stuff (implausible), or B.) actually have to download the shit with my own console instead of from another's. I'd read somewhere that one needs to use their own console for keeping content, but it seemed insane. I'm not so much pissed off as I am irritated - pissed off would be if I couldn't access my $15 game. But it looks like I'm out the Microsoft equivalent of around five bucks, and that's pretty dumb. I've also yet to test my other games that received free downloads, like Guitar Hero III and Prince of Persia, but I don't expect any better results.
Still, I got SSF2THDR. Again, sweeeeeet.
On the PSP side, I bought Prinny: Can I Really Be The Hero? It's essentially a Mario-esque platformer starring the explosive penguins from the Disgaea series. For me, not a tough sell, especially when they pack it with an otaku soundtrack disc. Much to my dismay, Prinny is a hit-or-miss game. It takes a tried system of gameplay and basically botches it with floaty controls (good luck with jumping) and a difficulty system influenced by an in-game clock. I wasn't aware of this and became so frustrated with the mechanics I caused a overly churchy co-worker to gasp in amazement after uttering "fuck" during a break. Followed by "shit." She threatened that I'd have to put money in a cuss jar, but I informed her that it wouldn't be necessary as I was not ten years old. Hey, I don't enjoy getting pissed off at games either, lady, but as Lewis Black would relate, what AM I supposed to say? Pussyfeathers? Sassafrass? Grow up into the 21st century. There are Youtube videos where cats meow "fuck" readily available. Or if not, there should be.
I'm off-topic. Prinny would be good if NIS America continued making turn-based strategy games instead of experimenting with wanky platformers. enough said.
The weather has become more erratic the last few days. It snowed over the weekend, then melted and the sun shone for a good day, then mild hail and thunderstorms last night. As of today, it's a decent 55 degrees and sunny. I'm expecting frogs to fall out of the sky before the week's over.
So enjoy yourselves, sip something alcoholic, go download some Adam Carolla podcast, and have a wonderful whatever until I get back on here. That is, if anyone actually reads this damn thing.
-C.
I beat Banjo-Kazooie: Nuts & Bolts to the point where it said I had beaten it, but I know better. One can reach the final challenges with 75 puzzle pieces, but there are 131 in total. My enjoyment of the game began to wane around 60, so going after twice as many wasn't going to win me over. Mind you, I like the game, but some of the missions became more frustrating than necessary for a non-Japanese game. I don't expect my balls coddled by games in general anyway. However, the idea of repeating a simple "race to the finish line" challenge ten or so times when it's as blatant as "drive in a circle really fast" gets old.
But right now I'm kind of pissed of at Xbox 360s. Cooper got Xbox Live, my ticket into getting some well-needed updates. My first trip included my console, where I successfully downloaded Super Street Fighter II Turbo HD Remix. Oh boy, it's awesome. Until I bring it home and realize I forgot my only controller. So yesterday I traveled back armed with only my hard drive, believing this was the only necessity for getting assorted things off of Live. with my remaining points I purchased a costume pack for SFIV and some Samurai Shodown gamerpics. When I got home last night, apparently my downloadable content save on SFIV is "corrupted." In other words, no costumes in SFIV when I play on my own system. I've yet to test whether I A.) need access to Live to get this stuff (implausible), or B.) actually have to download the shit with my own console instead of from another's. I'd read somewhere that one needs to use their own console for keeping content, but it seemed insane. I'm not so much pissed off as I am irritated - pissed off would be if I couldn't access my $15 game. But it looks like I'm out the Microsoft equivalent of around five bucks, and that's pretty dumb. I've also yet to test my other games that received free downloads, like Guitar Hero III and Prince of Persia, but I don't expect any better results.
Still, I got SSF2THDR. Again, sweeeeeet.
On the PSP side, I bought Prinny: Can I Really Be The Hero? It's essentially a Mario-esque platformer starring the explosive penguins from the Disgaea series. For me, not a tough sell, especially when they pack it with an otaku soundtrack disc. Much to my dismay, Prinny is a hit-or-miss game. It takes a tried system of gameplay and basically botches it with floaty controls (good luck with jumping) and a difficulty system influenced by an in-game clock. I wasn't aware of this and became so frustrated with the mechanics I caused a overly churchy co-worker to gasp in amazement after uttering "fuck" during a break. Followed by "shit." She threatened that I'd have to put money in a cuss jar, but I informed her that it wouldn't be necessary as I was not ten years old. Hey, I don't enjoy getting pissed off at games either, lady, but as Lewis Black would relate, what AM I supposed to say? Pussyfeathers? Sassafrass? Grow up into the 21st century. There are Youtube videos where cats meow "fuck" readily available. Or if not, there should be.
I'm off-topic. Prinny would be good if NIS America continued making turn-based strategy games instead of experimenting with wanky platformers. enough said.
The weather has become more erratic the last few days. It snowed over the weekend, then melted and the sun shone for a good day, then mild hail and thunderstorms last night. As of today, it's a decent 55 degrees and sunny. I'm expecting frogs to fall out of the sky before the week's over.
So enjoy yourselves, sip something alcoholic, go download some Adam Carolla podcast, and have a wonderful whatever until I get back on here. That is, if anyone actually reads this damn thing.
-C.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)