Watched Revenge of the Sith awhile back, and I have to admit that I enjoyed it, for all of its massive badness. Annikin's bad pick up lines are a constant inspiration to me.
On the other hand, I'd just like to point out some of the things that robots (robots that were built solely for combat purposes I should mention) do not do:
Robots do not say "Uh Oh."
Robots do not yell at other robots when they feel they are lying down on the job.
Robots do not get insulted when you grab light-sabers out of their hands without asking.
Robots, when they are electrocuted, do not say "Ow!"
Robots never kick other robots out of anger. Robots don't feel anger.
Robots do not flee battle. Robots do not feel fear.
Even if they were fleeing, they would not raise their arms up in a comical, "I'm running away" manner.
Robots do not groan in pain when they are destroyed. Robots don't feel pain.
That's about it.
Wednesday, September 6, 2006
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Childhood Memories
The other day I had this weird flashback to this awful trip I went on when I was ten or so.
My grandmother and my step-grandpa Ray took me to what I think was the Adirondacks, or possibly to Maine. To tell you the truth, I really just don't remember. We were driving around in this white truck with a trailer attached, the kind of vehicle that didn't have AC, and that forced us to all sit uncomfortably close to each other. I remember this trip really being the moment at which I realized that I hated spending time with my "grammy," who was nothing like the warm and fuzzy grandmothers that appear in the movies/television. I retrospect she reminds me of a woman capable of Dickensian style cruelty. This is the woman who, when she comes to see my shows, tells me I'm no good and implies that I'm gay (to strangers) because of my involement in the theater.
Anyhow, there we were, driving for mile after mile in this hot, sweaty truck. And we're not even really talking. I read this whole book while we were driving, the one about the two kids who hide in the museum and live off of the coins that people throw into the fountain. The files of something, as I dimly recall. By the end of the day I'm literally crying on the phone to my parents to please let me come home, that I never wanted to go on this trip, etc. I feel rather guilty about this in retrospect, since I know that my grandparents just wanted to spend time with me. Actually, I only really feel bad for Ray, who died while I was in college. I wasn't really his grandson though so I figure he could probably deal with it (he had four other kids of his own, who had sons and daughters of their own. A story for another time.) As for grammy, you can't really make up for years of snide remarks and neglect with a simple trip into the middle of nowhere.
The first night we're parked by some lake. I get to play for a bit at this playground and its really sort of creepy, since all the kids look like extras from "deliverance," including one with (I kid you not) a hook ensemble for an arm. We go to some restaurant attached to a lighthouse (which supports my Maine theory) and I eat fried clams, which before this trip used to be my favorite food. That night, being eaten alive by the mosquitos that seem to be easily infiltrating our trailer, I eventually totally lose it and vomit into our camp fire.
The next day we drive to some other woodsey place, and I attempt some conversation. My grandmother tells me an honest to god "in my day" story about when the ice-man used to come and bring ice for the ice box, and that she had to walk to school through snow drifts. The not so subtle implication is that I have it too easy, which is obviously true, but you don't really want people to give you a hard time about it, especially when you are ten. When we get to the campsite I see a family of what appears to be twelve children carrying buckets of water and setting up a tent while their parents boss them around. Grammy points out that that's what real kids should do. I silently thank a higher power that I wasn't brought into life as my mother.
The main thing I kept thinking was: "What am I going to do now to make the time go by? How can I kill more time?" I had read all the books that I had brought to keep me occupied, and had no real desire to sit and talk with grammy. Grandpa Ray had a good sense of humor, but we were never terribly close and I was afraid of him because I had accidentaly broken his grandfather clock a year or so previous while hiding in it during a hide and go seek game. So what to do? Looking back, I tend to attribute the current rich fantasy life going on in my head to moments such as these, when i was forced to kill time. I distinctly remember that as night went on I began to daydream about a horrible black sentient slime that might creep out of the marshland around us, perhaps engulphing a vagrant before eating the family of fourteen that was camped nearby. Then we'd have to make a riveting escape through the night in the truck, leaving the mosquito infested trailer behind to slow the thing down. Ironically, I daydreamed about a horrible monster to get myself to fall asleep that night.
Anyway, the next day grammy informed me that we were heading home. I was obviously sick. It just goes to show how much power your mind has over your body that though being so horribly upset I had made myself physically ill. The drive back actually wasn't all that bad, since I had something to look forward to, and we even stopped at a place to camp for the night that had a pool. I love pools, and swimming was one of my favorite things when I was younger. I swam for hours, even getting to go for a swim in the morning before we left. Hard to believe, knowing how incredibly white I am now, but I was quite olive from all the time I had spent outside that summer. This was, of course, before my dad had cancer.
My other memory of that place was that it had an arcade, the magical mecca of a boy growing up in the 80's youth. Back then I didn't have any kind of home entertainment system (I'm sensing my own "in my day" speech coming on), and arcades were where you could go to see what was essentially better than any magic show. My parents, and grammy, are intensely against violence, which probably explains my own fascination with it. Also, this was before the first nintendo power came out, so I was easy to impress.
Long story short, we finally got back to Syracuse, and went out to the now defunct Mr. Steak in Fayetteville for dinner. I remember being so happy to be back, but at the same time I remember taking my parents aside before we rode over there. I think the gist of my conversation was: "Never make me go on a trip with grammy again. Ever." It was probably the first time that I had made real demands on my parents, that if broken I would have considered a sort of deal breaker. This trip seemed to mess me up more than you would think. For years I had problems going over to other people's houses to spend the night, and refused to go to summer camp. I had never had problems like this before. I still feel I have some vestiges of this, such as my enduring hatred of sleeping anywhere but my own bed.
But enough about me.
My grandmother and my step-grandpa Ray took me to what I think was the Adirondacks, or possibly to Maine. To tell you the truth, I really just don't remember. We were driving around in this white truck with a trailer attached, the kind of vehicle that didn't have AC, and that forced us to all sit uncomfortably close to each other. I remember this trip really being the moment at which I realized that I hated spending time with my "grammy," who was nothing like the warm and fuzzy grandmothers that appear in the movies/television. I retrospect she reminds me of a woman capable of Dickensian style cruelty. This is the woman who, when she comes to see my shows, tells me I'm no good and implies that I'm gay (to strangers) because of my involement in the theater.
Anyhow, there we were, driving for mile after mile in this hot, sweaty truck. And we're not even really talking. I read this whole book while we were driving, the one about the two kids who hide in the museum and live off of the coins that people throw into the fountain. The files of something, as I dimly recall. By the end of the day I'm literally crying on the phone to my parents to please let me come home, that I never wanted to go on this trip, etc. I feel rather guilty about this in retrospect, since I know that my grandparents just wanted to spend time with me. Actually, I only really feel bad for Ray, who died while I was in college. I wasn't really his grandson though so I figure he could probably deal with it (he had four other kids of his own, who had sons and daughters of their own. A story for another time.) As for grammy, you can't really make up for years of snide remarks and neglect with a simple trip into the middle of nowhere.
The first night we're parked by some lake. I get to play for a bit at this playground and its really sort of creepy, since all the kids look like extras from "deliverance," including one with (I kid you not) a hook ensemble for an arm. We go to some restaurant attached to a lighthouse (which supports my Maine theory) and I eat fried clams, which before this trip used to be my favorite food. That night, being eaten alive by the mosquitos that seem to be easily infiltrating our trailer, I eventually totally lose it and vomit into our camp fire.
The next day we drive to some other woodsey place, and I attempt some conversation. My grandmother tells me an honest to god "in my day" story about when the ice-man used to come and bring ice for the ice box, and that she had to walk to school through snow drifts. The not so subtle implication is that I have it too easy, which is obviously true, but you don't really want people to give you a hard time about it, especially when you are ten. When we get to the campsite I see a family of what appears to be twelve children carrying buckets of water and setting up a tent while their parents boss them around. Grammy points out that that's what real kids should do. I silently thank a higher power that I wasn't brought into life as my mother.
The main thing I kept thinking was: "What am I going to do now to make the time go by? How can I kill more time?" I had read all the books that I had brought to keep me occupied, and had no real desire to sit and talk with grammy. Grandpa Ray had a good sense of humor, but we were never terribly close and I was afraid of him because I had accidentaly broken his grandfather clock a year or so previous while hiding in it during a hide and go seek game. So what to do? Looking back, I tend to attribute the current rich fantasy life going on in my head to moments such as these, when i was forced to kill time. I distinctly remember that as night went on I began to daydream about a horrible black sentient slime that might creep out of the marshland around us, perhaps engulphing a vagrant before eating the family of fourteen that was camped nearby. Then we'd have to make a riveting escape through the night in the truck, leaving the mosquito infested trailer behind to slow the thing down. Ironically, I daydreamed about a horrible monster to get myself to fall asleep that night.
Anyway, the next day grammy informed me that we were heading home. I was obviously sick. It just goes to show how much power your mind has over your body that though being so horribly upset I had made myself physically ill. The drive back actually wasn't all that bad, since I had something to look forward to, and we even stopped at a place to camp for the night that had a pool. I love pools, and swimming was one of my favorite things when I was younger. I swam for hours, even getting to go for a swim in the morning before we left. Hard to believe, knowing how incredibly white I am now, but I was quite olive from all the time I had spent outside that summer. This was, of course, before my dad had cancer.
My other memory of that place was that it had an arcade, the magical mecca of a boy growing up in the 80's youth. Back then I didn't have any kind of home entertainment system (I'm sensing my own "in my day" speech coming on), and arcades were where you could go to see what was essentially better than any magic show. My parents, and grammy, are intensely against violence, which probably explains my own fascination with it. Also, this was before the first nintendo power came out, so I was easy to impress.
Long story short, we finally got back to Syracuse, and went out to the now defunct Mr. Steak in Fayetteville for dinner. I remember being so happy to be back, but at the same time I remember taking my parents aside before we rode over there. I think the gist of my conversation was: "Never make me go on a trip with grammy again. Ever." It was probably the first time that I had made real demands on my parents, that if broken I would have considered a sort of deal breaker. This trip seemed to mess me up more than you would think. For years I had problems going over to other people's houses to spend the night, and refused to go to summer camp. I had never had problems like this before. I still feel I have some vestiges of this, such as my enduring hatred of sleeping anywhere but my own bed.
But enough about me.
Monday, January 30, 2006
Follow the Worms
I wonder if there's ever really been an ancient tomb or temple that was guarded by actual mechanical traps that shoot darts or caused boulders to crush people. You never read about archeologists being killed by giant saw blades that spring out of walls all that often. No, most people are killed by the saw blades at the end of robot arms, which isn't surprising given that robots have a natural tendency to rebel against their human overlords. Thank god that it rains so often.
Because robots are allergic to rain.
That said, I've been thinking about robots (and cyborgs for that matter) for the last couple of days. Mainly because I'm watching Ghost In The Shell Standalone Complex at night. Think we'll see walking, talking robots in our time? Will they take over the low level service sector?
Because robots are allergic to rain.
That said, I've been thinking about robots (and cyborgs for that matter) for the last couple of days. Mainly because I'm watching Ghost In The Shell Standalone Complex at night. Think we'll see walking, talking robots in our time? Will they take over the low level service sector?
Saturday, January 21, 2006
Hagar the Horrible Long Term Planner
Villians: Always fucking their good plans up.
You ever notice that? They sit around in between the time when films or television shows come out (sometimes for two or three years) and come up with a master plan. One that took years of planning and organization to set up. And what do they do? They have the whole first part pretty much down, but at the last minute they start acting like a bunch of idiots. They lose their cool. They treat their employees like garbage, for no apparent reason other than the fact that they are villians. They start making speeches. Listen, villians: DO NOT make a speech about how powerful you are until AFTER the hero is dead and your plan has gone off without a hitch. Then you can hold a big villian banquet at a local hotel and invite your henchmen.
Here's the other thing: Let's say your plan fails, and you don't end up falling into a shredding machine, or off of a cliff while a flaming helicopter (ironically, its always your escape helicopter) plummets from above to crush you after you break every limb you have. Let's say your plan almost worked, but because someone wasn't tied up well enough, or because you had a traitor in your ranks, it failed. WHY do you never try the same plan twice? Except, the second time, work out the kinks. It would be brilliant, because the hero would think, "He's not really going to try it again, is he? That would be ludicrious."
If I was a villian (and of course, I'm not saying I'm not) and some suave hero killed my second in command and blew up my base, you know what step one of my next plan would be? The step we'd have to take before any other step could be made? That step would be to kill the hero. Does he live in a house? Blow it up. Does he like melon? Poison all melons. Does he go camping? Two words: Robotic Bears.
Anyhow, villians, clean up your act. And stop hiring creepy albinos. They're not really that tough.
You ever notice that? They sit around in between the time when films or television shows come out (sometimes for two or three years) and come up with a master plan. One that took years of planning and organization to set up. And what do they do? They have the whole first part pretty much down, but at the last minute they start acting like a bunch of idiots. They lose their cool. They treat their employees like garbage, for no apparent reason other than the fact that they are villians. They start making speeches. Listen, villians: DO NOT make a speech about how powerful you are until AFTER the hero is dead and your plan has gone off without a hitch. Then you can hold a big villian banquet at a local hotel and invite your henchmen.
Here's the other thing: Let's say your plan fails, and you don't end up falling into a shredding machine, or off of a cliff while a flaming helicopter (ironically, its always your escape helicopter) plummets from above to crush you after you break every limb you have. Let's say your plan almost worked, but because someone wasn't tied up well enough, or because you had a traitor in your ranks, it failed. WHY do you never try the same plan twice? Except, the second time, work out the kinks. It would be brilliant, because the hero would think, "He's not really going to try it again, is he? That would be ludicrious."
If I was a villian (and of course, I'm not saying I'm not) and some suave hero killed my second in command and blew up my base, you know what step one of my next plan would be? The step we'd have to take before any other step could be made? That step would be to kill the hero. Does he live in a house? Blow it up. Does he like melon? Poison all melons. Does he go camping? Two words: Robotic Bears.
Anyhow, villians, clean up your act. And stop hiring creepy albinos. They're not really that tough.
Friday, January 20, 2006
Ribbit Ribbit Ribbit
In older days, video games were hard. So hard that they were unbeatable. Some games didn't even really have endings: Take the original Gauntlet: It had an endless number of levels that just got progressively harder. What was the point? We didn't know. They didn't tell us. I'm not even sure who "they" are.
In any case, now we expect endings in games. Hell, we expect fucking three act structure from them. And we expect to be able to play through the whole game. After all, what's the point of designing a game that only a few people are able to see through to the end? Its ironic that you* want to reward good players, but also want to make sure everyone sees all the hard work you put into making said game. Who cares if the final fight is the greatest gaming experience known to mankind if people keep getting killed by Darknuts (actual enemies from the original Legend of Zelda, I swear) on level six of twelve?
I guess what I'm observing, or what I have observed as I have gotten older is a shift in the focus of what games around about. Originally they were more like a sport for people with great hand eye coordination. Now they are more like interactive films.
* And by you, I mean "them."
In any case, now we expect endings in games. Hell, we expect fucking three act structure from them. And we expect to be able to play through the whole game. After all, what's the point of designing a game that only a few people are able to see through to the end? Its ironic that you* want to reward good players, but also want to make sure everyone sees all the hard work you put into making said game. Who cares if the final fight is the greatest gaming experience known to mankind if people keep getting killed by Darknuts (actual enemies from the original Legend of Zelda, I swear) on level six of twelve?
I guess what I'm observing, or what I have observed as I have gotten older is a shift in the focus of what games around about. Originally they were more like a sport for people with great hand eye coordination. Now they are more like interactive films.
* And by you, I mean "them."
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Avenging Unicorns
We all know that ground up unicorns horns can help prevent poisoning, and that cutting them off plunges the world into an age of eternal darkness, and that the horns are invisible to people who have stopped believing in unicorns, but what do unicorns themselves use them for?
What I'm picturing is this: A bunch of toughs are roughing up a kid, trying to steal his coin purse or a piece of bread. Suddenly, we hear galloping. Then, a unicorn flies out of a bush and impales the toughest looking guy there and throws him into a tree.
Has anyone seen a unicorn do anything remotely resembling this? If you have, think back, because it might have just been a triceratops that was an off white color.
What I'm picturing is this: A bunch of toughs are roughing up a kid, trying to steal his coin purse or a piece of bread. Suddenly, we hear galloping. Then, a unicorn flies out of a bush and impales the toughest looking guy there and throws him into a tree.
Has anyone seen a unicorn do anything remotely resembling this? If you have, think back, because it might have just been a triceratops that was an off white color.
Friday, January 13, 2006
Cold Iron Avail You
Have you ever noticed that most looming statues aren't just statues? They usually end up animating just as you walk into the room, and then you have to fight them. Sometimes it's just a stone shell around some sort of demon creature, who emerges angry at being awakened. Other times you try to walk between them and their eyes open an obliterate you with laser beams of some sort. Any time that I see a statue I usually just start shooting. If I have a gun. Which, usually, I don't. Often, all I have to protect myself is a pair of car keys. I wonder if they could be considered masterwork?
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