2009: A Seriously Brief Summary

It was the best of years, it was the worst of years… Truly it’s been a dizzying ride these past twelve months. Massive upheaval and changes were rung in last year, and the majority of it was then spent haunting the graveyard shift. But as I’ve emerged blinking and shielding my eyes into the warm embrace of day I’ve finally begun to enjoy life again.

There have been some fascinating new people that have entered into my life, many of which I’m looking forward to getting to know better, along with some valuable past connections that were reforged. Professionally I managed to set myself back by about ten years while simultaneously increasing my level of happiness substantially with my employment. A fair trade in my book. Looking forward I’m thrilled about the personal, creative and professional potential that the new year holds. Not to mention there is a bevy sweet looking of games on the horizon.

And so, before I bit farewell to this year for good, some favorites:

Film: tie between Moon and District 9

Film that’s been around forever I finally saw: Chinatown

New show: Legend of the Seeker

Show that’s been around forever I finally started watching: The Office

Show that actually got me all weepy like a little girl: Battlestar Galactica

New band I discovered: Band of Horses

Band I discovered that I should have listened to a long time ago: The Flaming Lips

Book: Thud! by Terry Pratchett

Book I started in 2009 and still haven’t finished because I’m lazy: I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell by Tucker Max

Incredibly delicious beer discovered: Chimay

Second favorite incredibly delicious beer discovered: Karl Strauss’ Red Trolley Ale

Favorite new games: Batman: Arkham Asylum and Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2

Favorite casual game: World of Goo

Old game I started playing (and subsequently became addicted to again): World of Warcraft

Favorite new food I shouldn’t eat but occasionally do: Jack in the Box (I just… can’t link these guys in good conscience…)

Coolest event attended: Comicon

Most catastrophic gadget/electronic moment: my PC exploding

Best moment of foresight: having a backup drive on hand for my data

One thing I didn’t work on enough that I tell myself I will improve on but probably still won’t: this blog

Happy New Year, peoples!

December Memories

Growing up in the New England countryside, Christmas wasn’t so much a holiday as it was a one-month way of life in our house. Of course we had all the activities of what would be considered a “traditional” Christmas if you went and framed one from a Charles Wysocki calendar (which coincidentally usually hung in our kitchen). For example: the entire family would all traipse into the woods, plowing our way through a few feet of snow in freezing cold to cut down our tree; the holiday music would be playing constantly from the day after Thanksgiving until New Years Day without fail; the stockings were hung (not by the chimney, but certainly with care); and there were the little things, like baking and decorating cookies and watching the Charlie Brown Christmas special each year.

But above the regular stuff that most family units tend to engage in we had our own absurdities which always stick out in my mind and make me smile. The tree, for example, would be insanely huge. Our kitchen area where it stood had a sixteen foot or so vaulted cathedral ceiling, which afforded a massive amount of room. What started out as probably an eight foot tree eventually exploded into at least a twelve foot behemoth, my father always making sure that each year topped the last one.

We actually got the point that the trees would absolutely have to be angled and securely wired to the wall in such a way that it wouldn’t topple over at the first touch, as there was no man-made stand designed to hold such a monster. Decorating it was a project as well, typically involving an entire weekend afternoon, a few step-ladders, and I would imagine more than a couple drinks for my parents in the process. The final touch, an angel on top, was always applied via a precarious balancing act that involved my father somehow vaulting my sister up there so she could reach. How one of us never brought the entire assembly crashing down I will never know.

Baking was my mother’s forté, and for her every one of her enthusiastically over-cooked dinner meats (a trait she unwittingly passed on to me) she would excel beyond expectations with all manner of baked goods. Cheese breads, mountains of different types of cookies, assorted pies, three separate small gingerbread houses for the three of us kids (as she smartly knew it would eliminate bickering over who got to eat what) and the famous Christmas morning cinnamon buns. To this day my mouth still waters thinking of them…  The only one part of the baking process we kids were really involved in was the cookies. The entire production would go as one would expect up until the decorations, when my little sister would always inevitably manage to discreetly adorn one in some hilariously perverse fashion. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen a gingerbread person with exposed icing anatomy, let me tell you.

Presents were always a carefully balanced operation as well. Somehow, between three children who were constantly in competition with each other, my parents managed to always work it all out so everyone felt evenly gifted. It may sound petty, but looking back it means a lot that they cared enough to do this. Christmas afternoons were then happily spent playing together with whatever new stuff we got; a computer game that my brother and I dove into, a new movie, toys, whatever… Perfect memories of a wonderful time in my life.

But beyond my parents’ efforts to give us something tangible, they managed to do something else – something far more precious. Christmas, now and forever for me, is an entirely magical and amazing time of year. The memories they shaped for us of growing up in a loving, caring home, of wishes coming true and of a picture perfect holiday experience despite the craziness of family will stay with me until the day I die. And no holiday season passes that I do not look back on those days, smile, and feel the emotions pull me back to when I was a child. That magical sense of happiness, as lucid as when I first felt it, has been the greatest gift I ever received. Thank you Mom and Dad – for always taking the time to make it special.

For anyone else reading, I wish you Merry Christmas to you and yours, and may your holiday season be as happy and full of love as mine have been.

Brutally Compelling

As of last night I am about three to four hours into Brutal Legend, and already I’m of the opinion that this thing is a masterpiece.  As a fairly serious student of the game industry I’m kind of embarrassed to say I missed Tim Schafer’s last few outings.  In fact I actually haven’t played a game he’s been involved in since 1995’s Full Throttle (tsk tsk, I know).  But everything I remember as being stylistically unique to his design methods is present in Brutal Legend to perfection.  The quirky characters, the unique universe, the spot on comedic timing, top notch voice acting (featuring Jack Black as your roadie hero, Eddie Riggs), it’s all there in spades.

One of the things that really stood out to me the past few days has been the character design.  Rather than go in the direction of many competitors and strive for the most hyper-realistic models they could - in a nod to Schafer’s previous title, Psychonauts, the characters are full on cartoon-like caricatures of the stereotypes they’ve been so loosely designed around.  This enables the cut-scenes to be acted out with hilarious comedic timing reminiscent of some of the better done Disney cartoons such as Aladdin or The Emperor’s New Groove without distracting by skirting the edge of the uncanny valley.

Your hero, Eddie Riggs.

Further testament to the game’s genius design is the rock ‘n roll fantasy world they’ve built up for these characters to inhabit.  Take the gnarliest, most death-metal 1970s album cover you can think of and imagine breathing life into it.  What if chrome plated animals roamed through massive big-block engine forests strewn across a wild landscape that looked like it sprung straight from Ozzy Osbourne’s mind?  (Incidentally the mumbly Prince of Darkness himself makes a fantastically cast cameo as the Guardian of Metal.)  At first you might be tempted to wonder: could it work?  In proving that it does Schafer’s team also demonstrates that there’s still room for incredibly unique vision in the industry, not just in the independent small-budget title sector (speaking of, play World of Goo if you haven’t yet!) but the big blockbuster arena as well.

Now that’s not to stay I have anything against gussied-up retreads.  Titles like Mass Effect and Gears of War, while they are certainly new twists on tried and true genres and gameplay styles, will always hold a special place in my heart.  But it doesn’t give me the goosebumps the way true innovation does.  Let’s face it, as far as actual game mechanics go Mass Effect is essentially a refined version of Bioware’s Knight of the Old Republic.  And genre-wise the Gears of War franchise is just another take on the “tough guy space marine” action set we all grew up idolizing from Aliens.  (Not a day goes by I don’t find myself walking into at least one appropriate moment to stammer “Game over man…. GAME OVER!!!”, though I typically resist the urge.)

Eddie's impresses with his ride, the aptly named Druid Plow.

In the end, Schafer and co. have managed to draw the curtain back on yet another imaginative universe of gaming that I doubt even in my craziest dreams I would have had the vision to conceptualize.  Kudos to the Brutal Legend team for taking me on an innovative journey that not only delights and amuses, but I would guarantee is incredibly thought provoking to anyone who find the game industry as fascinating as I do.

On Optimism and Inner Strength

I’ve had a lot of opportunity lately, personally and professionally, to consider what real internal strength actually is.  A lot of people I know seem to have the view that doing what is morally right, or doing what they “should” do (by whatever standards you measure yourself with) is a sign of this inner fortitude.  But I think I’ve come up with a different kind of definition that works better for me.

Initially doing what is right or proper seems to be motivated by positive and negative things alike.  The positive aspects of taking what is perceived to be the right direction are that one would feel better about themselves.  On top of that many believe in a karma-esque type of system, or have morality framed by some kind of religious reference maybe, which tends to produce a deep-seated believe that in doing the right thing there is some kind of cosmic force out there (Jesus, Buddha, the Flying Spaghetti Monster, etc.) which will reward you for this.

But there is a devious, elusive and more negative motivator in this view of strength as well.  The age-old whisper of fear.  Fear that if you make the wrong decision about something you’ll be caught, or things won’t work out, or that all manner of negative consequences may follow.  It might be brought on by a few different things… Perhaps a lack of confidence, a strict religious background, or maybe it’s just human to feel this.  But in either event the fear exists, negatively motivating (even if just a tiny bit) the decision process.

It is for this reason that I entirely reject any of the above having to do with inner strength.  We are all forced to approach and deal with our choices, but I believe it’s how we react to these choices that defines this strength.  It is therefore my opinion that true internal fortitude comes from being able to look at a situation and see the positive side of things.  Being able to take a poor situation, a crummy choice, or just a moral quandary and find the bright angles to it.

It is rare, it is challenging, and it is exponentially rewarding when sincerely done.  And because of this I think a more accurate measure of someone’s inner strength is whether or not they can do this.  Do you have the strength to keep smiling?  To find the positive spin on the everyday frustrations and decisions we all face?  This is what I ask myself daily – and more and more lately the answer is a resounding “yes”.  Strength through optimism has become my new mantra.

Stardust and the Fragile Perspective

It’s a humbling thing to look into the vastness emptiness that is our universe…  I think that a lot of us, including myself at times, stay caught up in everyday events because it literally helps us keep our sanity.  When you begin to fathom the big picture, and what a tiny little piece of that picture you actually are – just a collection of stardust luckily assembled into a sentient being – it’s hard not to feel humbled.

From a pessimistic point of view I wonder if that’s part of what drives us to want to leave our mark on the world.  Whether it’s getting a book published, having children to carry on our legacy, or just accomplishing something noteworthy in whatever our chosen field may be, the extreme fear that we are simply a brief flash in the pan of life can certainly push us to want to be more.

But an optimistic point of view might see something different, because perspective has another advantage.  Letting go of some of the hard-earned individuality that helps us define our place in society, you may be reminded of the fact that you are one of many.  A minuscule part of the massive symbiotic organism of humankind.  Everything you do, whether it relates to us culturally, scientifically, or otherwise, serves to advance the organism’s development throughout the universe.  So although you might not be remembered as an individual, you most certainly make your mark by being part of that driving, pushing force that compels us to evolve ever onward.

The differences between optimism and pessimism is just a hair’s breadth apart for some… but a gaping chasm of impossibility for others.  There are moments I think that this is why I love to write.  It enables me to build bridges with my words in a more permanent sense that just speaking to someone can.  Conceptually assemble a way to cross the gap with a time-honored human tradition older than almost all others: telling stories.

I would urge you to take a moment, whether it’s when you finish reading this or the next time you’re outside somewhere peaceful, and reflect on the eventuality that all is impermanent.  Are you able to wrap your mind around this concept?  Are you afraid of it?  Or do you feel what I feel, an overwhelming sense of peace and well-being.  Secure in the innate knowledge that you, whether you feel insignificant or not, are a vital part of the human organism.  One of many who will push us further toward a destiny that is likely far more grand than any of us could possibly imagine.

Writing About Writing: A Time Management Paradox

Writing is such a squirrely, elusive creative process sometimes. Especially for those of us not lucky enough to call it a full time career (yet!) in that we’ve got to squeeze it in between actual bill-paying work and whatever other time is left over for socializing, exercise, food, laundry… you get the idea. If I could wrangle it as a full-time profession I could easily establish a routine; a nice repeatable series of steps to get myself in the proper frame of mind for creative output. But that not being the case it becomes not so much a matter of when I’m ready to write, but more when I am able to make the time to do so.

As a result I’ve tried all sorts of different things to keep myself on a regular schedule. Of all the quotes about this type of work I’ve read the one that’s really stuck with me is “Quantity produces quality. If you only write a few things, you’re doomed,” said by Ray Bradbury. Translation: write as much as you damn well can. Having finished my first book (74,000 words… cripes!) it would be way too easy to sit back and rest on my laurels. Yep, I’m a writer alright. I wrote a book after all! See? There it is… my book. Sitting there in the unopened submissions pile. But the truth of the matter is that as soon as I finished my final edit and didn’t launch into a new project (whether in mind or in actuality) I ceased to be a writer.

“A writer never has a vacation. For a writer life consists of either writing or thinking about writing.” – Eugene Ionesco (French playwright)

So yes, I admit, I took a break and stopped thinking and doing. When I returned just a few months later I found myself having trouble kick-starting the habit again. It was with this in mind I took the position at the Examiner.com. I figured a regular, twice-a-week (roughly) column would keep me exercising the word muscles and get the juices flowing again. And lo and behold… this past weekend Jay, Blondie (and to an extent the White Witch’s) adventures began anew. The sequel was born.

Yet I now find myself frustratingly torn… the style of the Examiner articles is very journalistic, almost a polar opposite of the first-person, emotionally volatile voice I need to have my head in to write from Jay’s point of view. Not to mention, with the limited time as outlined above, actually making time for anything can be a real challenge. Many thoughts rattle around in my brain now… Do I drop video games? I’d rather not. Do I leave the Examiner column? Also would rather not… if anything it helps lend some credibility to me as an actual wordsmith. Or… do I manage my time better?

Time management. Sounds like a corporate buzz-phrase, which is probably why I’ve avoided it for so long. Any aspiring writers out there struggling with this same dilemma are more than welcome to shoot me suggestions. At this point I’m going to spin the plates and simply wait to see what shatters on the floor first.

In Which I Become Less of a Gaming Snob

My brother (of whom I’d like to provide a link to a blog or something, but alas he does not have one), after much badgering finally convinced me to subscribe to ‘Netflix-but-for-games company’, Gamefly.  I’ve always been somewhat hesitant to slide this gushing I.V. of digital entertainment directly into my veins, mostly because I try to maintain balance between my console gaming, PC gaming, and writing time.  But the perfect storm of situations recently arose when, combined with a trend of having less disposable income than I’d like, my PC ended up biting the dust.

Forced to choose between acquiring a late generation Vista machine and then upgrading the operating system, or just waiting for a few months until Windows 7 comes pre-installed, I elected to wait.  This has surprisingly birthed a copious amount of free time that I normally would spend gazing into the vacuumed beauty of New Eden or wandering around Norrath.  And thus, the Gamefly subscription was initiated.

In addition to losing balance in my recreational activities my other fear was that I would end up barreling through titles with wild abandon, never taking the time to stop and appreciate what I was playing.  This is less of a concern for my brother, who actually makes a point of barreling through games as quickly as possible (which little does he realize shall be his undoing in our ongoing struggle to maintain Gamerscore superiority).  I on the other hand have always prided myself on picking through whatever virtual palate was laid out in front of me with the utmost care; a connoisseur of the digital flavor if you will, choosy about what discs would have the honor of gracing my Xbox’s tray.  But since the stream of new titles has begun arriving in our mailbox in their precious ivory-white envelopes I have learned that this system has a few innate advantages beyond the financial savings.

The first of which is that I’m playing games I would normally not go out of my way to play.  A recent example would be Call of Juarez: Bound in Blood.  A first-person shooter set in the old west shortly after the Civil War, it’s not a genre that generally interests me.  To pay full price for it would have been unlikely, and it’s even less probable than when the game inevitably tumbled from top tier pricing that I would have given it a second look… yet to slide it into your game queue takes little effort and invests zero risk beyond “I didn’t like this, I think I’ll mail it back now.”  And so, prompted by my bro’s love of the old west cowboy genre, it arrived last week and we both dove into it to see what it had to offer.  Surprisingly fun, and delightfully different from my usual fare.  Especially since I’d just come off a steady diet of Riddick for the past three weeks.

Another advantage that struck me after playing through the new Bionic Commando (though this game was obtained via borrowing) is that I have probably relied too heavily on reviews in the past.  The game, which turned out to be the ill-fated Grin Studio’s final opus, scored only a moderate 70 on Metacritic.  Far below my usual standard for justifying picking up and playing through a title.  But when I donned the mechanic swig-arm and began blasting my way through a post-military coupe landscape with equal parts firepower and bad dialogue, I found myself having a hell of a lot of fun.  Was the game flawed in certain areas?  Yes.  But it was satisfying in the same way watching the Governator chew through the scenery in Commando can be.  Goofy, over the top, but damn if you don’t get caught up in the madness and explosions.  And I never would have picked that game up if my brother hadn’t brought it home after borrowing it from a co-worker.

Overall I feel as if lately I have gone from discerning fine diner to sampling the food wares at the skeezy hot dog stand on the corner.  And I like it.  After all, how can you appreciate the finer things if you don’t partake in the mid-level entries?  I wonder if there’s something in this I can apply to my overall life’s philosophy…

You see kids?  Gaming can be good for your mind.

Fireworks Make Her Giggle

Though there exists, at least to my knowledge, no know standard for measuring the level of an individual’s to-date lifetime exposure to “culture” – I imagine if there did I would at least score somewhere near the apex of the bell curve.  My parents are both originally from New York City, and there was a strong effort on their part to ensure my two siblings and I experienced this area of the life despite our rural New Hampshire home base.  We annually attended the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade in person.  There were numerous Broadway trips to see such classics as Cats, The Phantom of the Opera and The Who’s Tommy.  I recall on many occasions being fascinated by the overwhelming magic of the performances and always walking away with a feeling like I’d just seen something unique, despite the fact that it was one of an infinite number of carbon copied performances.

But in my exposure to the museums, the stage and the inexplicable entertainment of the city streets themselves one piece of the puzzle I was missing was that I’d never actually seen a live classical music performance.  Overall an odd exclusion given the fact that I actually listen to classical music on a fairly regular basis.  Whether it’s an Amadeus inspired helping of Mozart or just a flip to the random low-key radio station while driving it’s a genre of music I find stimulating in a unique way.  Almost like there’s a complex mathematical formula being actively patterned into my mind in a manner that’s nothing short of pleasing, but with rousing emotional finishes to boot.

Earlier this month I finally had an opportunity to listen to classical in person for my sister’s 30th birthday (Happy Birthday sis!) at the Hollywood Bowl in Los Angeles.  A massive concrete amphitheater dug into the Hollywood hills, it was a perfect venue for my first classical show.  After taking over a large section near what would probably be called the nosebleed seats, a group of us began our celebratory consumption of food and drink.  It was therefore with a pleasantly healthy buzz that I was able to enjoy my first live classical performance, courtesy the LA Philharmonic Orchestra.

After some time the lights finally dimmed… the world around us went black with the sunset… and then the orchestra took the stage.  What commenced beyond that I can barely put into intelligible words.  A myriad of sounds and lights leapt off the stage.  Tense peaks and somber valleys of emotionally laden music reverberated through the night air, flawlessly strewn across a rapt audience.  The music was all Tchaikovsky, which even if you wouldn’t recognize by name you have likely heard.  There was a piano solo, the performer’s hands dancing magically across they keys with inhuman speed.  Another piece delivered a song from Tchaikovsky’s unfinished Romeo & Juliet opera.  Sung entirely in Russian (subtitles courtesy the giant screens flanking the stage) it was a touching, beautiful back and forth duet in which the two lovers spend their last night together.  And there was an explosive finale, with fireworks shooting high off the rounded edge of the theater into the night as the symphony pounded away an enthusiastic finish.

The hours passed by in the blink of an eye for me.  I have always had a great appreciation for, if not an awe of, people who have musical talent.  The coordination of this entire orchestra’s efforts combined with the unique solo performers we were privileged enough to see was enough to keep me entranced the entire time.  But despite all the wonder and talent displayed in front of us my biggest treat for the night sat right there in the seat next me.  My little sister, eyes bright with mischievous laughter and a smile that would melt an iceberg, squeaking gleefully with joy and amusement when the fireworks first shot off into the inky black above.  I love you Liss, and I’m glad I had the chance to be out here and celebrate with you after all these years apart.

Cutting Thirty-two Hundred Doctor Who Fans

It was with no shortage of enthusiasm that I rolled out of bed Sunday morning and made my way down to the San Diego Convention Center, blearily accompanied by my equally hung over brother.  Destination: Comicon 2009.  Upon arrival my first impression was exactly as I expected it to be with one exception: I was surprised at how I’d underestimated just how massive the entire celebration is.  I knew it was a huge event, but large enough to warrant an entire gymnasium-sized room devoted purely to handing out ID badges?  That’s pretty freakin’ big.

After acquiring our plastic sleeved passes we made our way down toward the first intended event of the day (and reason for an early start despite our booze-fest the prior evening), the Doctor Who panel.  Originally thinking we’d get a jump on waiting in line by arriving there an hour early at 9 a.m., we realized how vastly our underestimation had been as soon as we neared Room 20.  The line not only stretched outside the building, winding around and in on itself like some vast British sci-fi enthused serpent, but actually ended so far away from the building we would have had to have traipsed down two different flights of exterior stone steps to park ourselves at the end.  Four thousand people, we later learned, was roughly the amount of people in that line.  Wait at the end and get stuck in the back?  Didn’t sound attractive to either of us.

We wandered off with gears turning, my thoughts weighing the importance of actually seeing the panel and justifying missing it, my brother’s moving in a far more unscrupulous direction; one which turned out to be the far more beneficial of the two.  First we approached the main door, where standing only feet from the shuffling line of fellow Whovians he attempted to convince the main Elite (Convention center door guard/ushers) that we were supposed to meet someone in there and should have already been inside.  It was a weak ruse, admittedly, but worth a try.  The head Elite, who only seemed to be half listening to him anyway, gave the impression he didn’t buy it but told us to check back when the line had shrunk down a bit.  In other words: “You’re probably full of shit kid, but if you have persistence enough to check back I might let you in when it can’t get me in trouble.”

We wandered away and began to case the room perimeter, me suddenly thinking that perhaps he was right and there might be another way of gaining entry.  Moments later we rounded a corner and wandered by a large propped open set of side doors.  One older woman with her red Elite polo standing sentry amid a few fringe groups hovering about the outside.  If the phrase opportunity only knocks once holds true, we were at the door before it even rapped.  My brother scanned the area, looked back at me once with a “what the hell” expression, then sauntered through the door.  I hesitated only long enough to determine if any secret Con ninjas would be leaping to intercept him, which they didn’t, then followed suit.  The Elite looked at him, seemed to consider asking what was going on, then turned her attention to me and attempted to catch my eyes to ask what I was doing also.  I ignored her piercing gaze and continued pointedly moving inside.  Neither of us looked back to see if anyone was pursuing (to avoid looking guilty) until we were a good distance in.  When I finally posed the question to him “Anyone behind me?” and he scanned our wake and gave a triumphant “Nope!” I knew we were in the clear.  We had successfully circumvented a four thousand person line and were in the door before 80 percent of the crowd.  Needless to say we got pretty sweet seats.

The Doctor Who panel was incredibly awesome.  Light on upcoming spoilers, which made sense since both series reviver Russel T Davies and star David Tennant were both leaving after the specials this year, the entire thing was still heavy on fun and laughs.  There’s actually an excellent summary of the panel here if you’re interested.  Tennant was incredibly charming… the type of actor you really love to like with his impishly bemused demeanor.  For me though, I’ll remember the emotional moments far more than anything else.  Doctor Who fans are a devoted and stubborn bunch, often referring to “their Doctor”, the one who hooked them on the show all those years ago as being the undisputed best.  Knowing what a fan Tennant was before even taking the role, and knowing the bulk of American viewers have been married to the idea of Tom Baker as “their Doctor” since you had to shift the rabbit ears for a clear PBS picture, there was one particular moment which struck a chord with me.  During the Q&A session there was a guy who stood up and, before asking his question, remarked simply “Mr. Tennant, I’d just like you to know, you are my Doctor,” to an enthusiastic round of applause from the crowd.  The glee on the tenth Doctor’s face was so readily apparent, it’s almost no mystery why the show has exploded in popularity of late… his brilliant energy is almost contagious.

The rest of Comicon was equally fun, although not nearly as geek-tastic for me as seeing Tennant in person.  Other geek-related celebrities spied by us: Brent Spiner (Data from Star Trek: The Next Generation); Edward James Olmos and Michael Hogan (Adama and Tigh from Battlestar Galactica); Thomas Jane (The Punisher) who was wandering unobstructed with a smile on his face looking at Star Wars figures, which cracked me up; Peter Mayhew (the original Wookiee); and an assortment of various television personalities from such channels as G4.  Half a bargain hunters paradise, half incredibly cool stuff display showcase, we took in the rest of the floor with unbridled joy.  My brother and I were little kids again wandering around a giant-sized toy/comic book store with each other in a constant state of enthused wonder.  Although I expect my own level of excitement was slightly higher than his given that it was my first time there, he still kept pace and was just as into it as I was.

I think the only disappointment, which was not at all a surprise to either of us (though I’m sure we both secretly hoped it would be better) was trying the upcoming G.I. Joe game on the Xbox360.  A garbles mess of auto-aiming and jenky camera work, it left must to be desired from the original description we’d both read about a Gears of War type shooter.  But then again, we did still get to try it out before the release day, which in and of itself is a treat.  Overall though Comicon really was a blast, and something I’ll be hoping to attend regularly for quite a few years to come.  Definitely a must see for anyone into any aspect of geek culture.

If You’ll Just Sign This Fiddle Contest Waiver…

How ironic my previous post’s title now seems…  Not only did my graphics card finally get a workout, but my entire home desktop computer apparently collapsed under the weight of my recent gaming.  (“I guess you could shay it got itsh ‘final workout’, eh Ms. Moneypenny?”)  Ha!  Heheh… heh…  Err… never mind.  Anyways, at first I was fairly convinced it was just a slight problem; a little hickup on a big, mostly functional circuit board.  But alas, the computer shuffled off the mechanical coil this past weekend and drifted its ethereal way off toward Robot Heaven.  Actually, considering everything that was on the hard drive when it croaked, it is much more likely that my ill-fated machine landed in Robot Hell (New Jersey, for any Futurama neophytes).

First it was just this funky sounding whirring.  I figured maybe a faulty fan, or an odd but harmless kink it picked up during the move out to Cali, as my machine was about five years old.  I did do one intelligent thing during the decline though: I backed everything up.  Scooped a 1TB external drive off Newegg.com and duplicated my entire library of vital, non-vital, and just irreplacable files and media.  Score one for foresight!  But still… I sure didn’t expect it to wheeze out its last gasp of life so soon.  In fact I really did anticipate being able to fix it this past weekend.  The display had gone a little messy, but it was still readable.  Not anywhere near the dreaded: cooked.

Surely it can still be saved, I mused hopefully.

But as the rapidly pixelating image became more and more distorted, I began to worry.  That’s when it occured to me that it must be the graphics card.  I had tested the monitor by jacking it temporarily into my budget laptop I’ve had floating around for a few years (which I’m currently plunking away on) and that was working correctly.  So I figured it must be the card, right?  Well… half right on that one it turned out.  The card is surely cooked.  Upon cracking open the case I carefully and oh so respectfully removed the colorful board with all the care of Indiana Jones handling a holy golden idol.  Except the idol didn’t have exploded capacitors.  All of them, blooming out like the pods from Alien (after the little critters burst out of ‘em, of course).  How horrifying.

And then, like a stubborn Captain going down with his ship, my dead NVIDIA 8600 GT traitorously dragged the rest of my box down with it.  I replaced the fried card with an old one I’m sure works, and still there’s no picture.  The machine turns on and churns away loudly like it’s about to roll down a runway and haul a cabin full of cranky passengers overseas, but that’s about all it can do.  With a little extra investigation I discovered a formerly green LED on my surge protector is now beaming a soft orange light.  It’s the one next to the words ‘PROTECTED’ – as in I’m not anymore.  I believe I am the victim of a random surge of electricity.  Well… I’m not, my poor pc is.

Too bad it really isn’t in Robot Hell.  I could at least try to take advantage of that Fiddle Contest Clause…