Alright, that title wasn't the best thing since sliced bread. Boo-bloody-hoo.
And now you probably think I'm in a bit of a foul mood. Quite the contrary, really; this has been a rather good day so far, and the evening looks promising for matters of a rather secret nature right now (i. e., it's a surprise).
So far: I nearly ran out of kitty treats. Even if I don't much care for them myself (mind you, I never tried them, but the smell alone rather makes me want to. Besides, they're made of malt and salmon, none of that nasty ground fish flour dog biscuits are made of... if you want to call those foul things biscuits), my cat loves them. She likes them so much she is willing to learn tricks for treats as a reward. I was, therefore, a bit aprehensive to find out they were sold out at the pet shop, and had to bring plain malt treats instead. Now, I knew Kunoichi (like you're pet's name is any better) loves salmon, and was a bit afraid she wouldn't care much for plain malt treats, but, as it turns out, she loves them just as much (or at least she's managed to spare my feelings much better than a human female would in that manner they all alledgedly try to spare a man's feelings... you know who you are).
Also today I got a delivery for some manga I had ordered from Amazon. Again, I don't much care for manga myself (mango, on the other hand, I rather like... if only I could have some and not spoil my diet), but my teenage cousin has succumbed to the current vampire craze.
A short (riiight...) parenthesis here: my long-time readers know I liked vampires before the current craze. They know I liked propper vampires before those abominations portraied by "Twilight" made vampires as a whole popular and should bloody well know I spurn "Twilight" and have done so even before I realised it was also almost a cool as vampires themselves in the current conjuncture.
That said, she's said to go ballistic over "Vampire Knight". So, with one fell swoop, my cousin is happy to have the first nine volumes of the thing, my aunt is happy she got to make her daughter happy and I got free vouchers out of the whole deal - oh, and some family members of mine are happy too, so, you know, sunflowes and rainbows, puppies and sunshine and butterflies and so forth (even my most recent readers should note that particular bit of cynicism is meant only for comical purposes, unless they're Twilight fans, in which case, allow me to point you in the general direction of a dictionary so you can look up "cynicism", "comical", "vampire" and "read").
On other news, I seem to have gathered yet another follower. I hope you enjoy your time.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is now typing on a blacked-out keyboard (well, silvered out, as I used aluminium tape), to prove or disprove claims by the manufacturers of Das Keyboard. So far, I have inly realised how hard it is to tell I apart from O.
Second wind
After what most likely will have seemed like a period of that all too common idleness we mere mortals comfortably came to denote as "death", this blog seems to be alive and once more kicking (meekly, as though not to hurt anyone).
And, speaking of hurt, not long ago I had a sudden bout of the most heart-gripping guilt I have ever bore, for twice I have spoken aloud and ill of what you might now know to be my often sworn foe, Fate (which should not, under any circumstances, be mistaken with Faith, the name of both the protagonist of the (IMO) massively underrated game "Mirror's Edge" and Eliza Dushku's character in the (IMO) massively overrated series "Buffy the (IMO, very very silly) vampire slayer", who lent her voice to the protagonist of yet another (IMO) somewhat underrated game, "Wet".
For the sake of disambiguation, it should be noted that the qualifier "very very silly" should be applied both to the vampires in the show and to their slayer in equal measure. Aside from the particiaptions of Ms. Dushku, as stated above, and Allison Hannigan, there isn't a single redeeming characteristic in the whole show (IMO, mind you).
Now, about undully putting down Fate - would Madam Fate kindly accept a heartfelt apology for my earlier scathing remarks in the face of what I consider to be a peace offering in the form of that most lovely young lady who, after an absence of several months (starting on the very day I was about to propose we should meet outside of the parameters of our regular meeting medium, the theater, thank you for that, Madam Fate) and perhaps even grace me with the good fortune of not becomming thoroughly disenchanted with her after a single outing for coffee (which I don't even drink of my own volition, mind you) as was the case with the lovely (in a purely platonic sense, mind you) girl from the salad bar? Or is she (Ms. Fate, that is, naturally) merely setting me up for a massive disappointment, as was the case with the first incident that drove me to scathing remarks? Really, I have good faith in Fate (no pun intended), but you must make some allowance for my suspicion.
And now, for something completely different. Mr. Idle has the copyright to "a man with three buttocks", so we'll haev to make do with a short story I conceived on the back of a thought, last night (or, technically, this early morning), whilst preparing a sandwich:
"I was quite thrilled to have met you. Your first impression on me was, quite simply, marvellous. I'd venture mine on you can't have been all bad, quite the contrary, for, for some reason, you picked me - imagine, me, exactly me - from the ranks of all the others, my peers, each and every last one of them so much like myself. It must have been love at first sight - I know it was for me.
"Then you took me to your home. I can't say it was all peaches and cream for me - the transition, I mean. I was not accustomed to familiarity, to being cared for, so to speak, and that's exactly how it felt from then on, that you had given me a seat in the bosom of your house, of your own free will, because you liked me. The elation, once I came to terms with my new reality, was more than I can put on words.
"Then, over however long or short as it may have been - truly, it seemed like a lifetime to me, as long as it takes to live out a wonderful life too, mind you, even if clearly it wasn't quite as long, not for you, at any rate - you made me feel things I never thought I'd experience. You showed me what it was like to be liked. You showed me what it was like to be wanted. You showed me what it was like to be appreciated. Seeing you enjoy the fruits of my labour felt oh-so-wonderful I often wondered if I ever performed more out of selfishly wanting to feel like only you could make me feel.
"I never even mentioned - let alone complain about - feeling neglected when you went for longer than usual without paying me any attention. I really didn't care. If ever I suspected you might again call upon me, the thrill of the possibility alone was quite enough to scatter any doubt or disappointment. You never really treated me wrong. Nor did I, did I?
"But, of course, every time you called on my service - which, I am proud to say, I never refused to offer, nor did I ever perform anything less than my best, and always entirely up to your demands, and I dare you to even say otherwise - I could feel myself depleting little by little, emptying, as it was, realising, with dread, that someday I'd have given all that I had, all that I was, and shuddered to think what then I could possibly offer you, should that seemingly vaccuous notion of "my love" not suffice.
"I never asked for anything in return of all I have given, for, honestly, I never felt I needed anything in return. You sated all of my needs, as I did my very best to sate yours, even if, for the most part, I would have been only massively inadequate. Mind you, I was always proud of my strengths, and you need not say it for me to know you agree with me on this point.
"Still, the day I dreaded the most came about: you found me empty - void - unable to go on serving you in exchange for the joy of seeing you happpy with me, as I had from the very day we'd met. The turmoil of emotions - sorrow, inadequacy, fear, despair, longing - in that great big void within me, where once had been all you really ever wanted from me - all I had given to you - was matched only by your cold, callous casualness, as though you expected this to happen from the moment you first laid eyes on me.
"It was then that I knew for sure you didn't feel about me anything like the way I felt about you. You didn't even feel anything remotely like they way I thought you felt about me. To you, I was just some disposable thing, some plaything you found and took in for your entertainment alone, someone you could wring the lifeforce from to the last drop and coldy chuck away the moment they became a dessicated rag, lifeless and useless, a thing not to be loved or had or even thought of in the least.
"It was so evident, as you merely brought about my replacement the very moment you saw me falter. Everly last bit like any of the others around me when you picked me from them, every last bit like myself, really, bright eyed and eager and deliciously scared and expectant of his new surroundings, of being about to find a drive and a purpose and a raison d'être. I can only be sorry for the poor bastard - though no more than I feel for myself.
"And what of myself? You stripped me of my rank, of my seat, and, as you casually gave them to my readily begotten replacement, I realised these things meant nothing to you - yet I had tricked myself into believing them something else, something bright and beautiful, indeed, something to be proud of, just like the one before me - and the one after me, no doubt - had done and will do, respectively. And now, in exchange for however long I unwaveringly gave you my service and my very being, you discard me, dispose of me like common rubbish. I have to wonder if you ever cared about me at all.
"I know you'll never know this - any of this. You'll never read or even come across my words, and why should you? I am not the sort of thing you'd care for, I know this quite well now. Know only this: I don't resent you. No, not in the least. It was I that was a fool for not having seen things for what they were - and, in retrospect, perhaps I should have. It was all quite evident, wasn't is? I wished only you could hear me, my true voice, if I ever had one, if only once. I wished you'd hear my all too silent cry.
"I thought you loved me..."
-- A mayonaise bottle.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wonders what makes a good gift for an immaterial, everlasting, omnipresent, seemingly random, yet oh-so-deterministic driving force. Do you suppose Fate cares for flowers?
And, speaking of hurt, not long ago I had a sudden bout of the most heart-gripping guilt I have ever bore, for twice I have spoken aloud and ill of what you might now know to be my often sworn foe, Fate (which should not, under any circumstances, be mistaken with Faith, the name of both the protagonist of the (IMO) massively underrated game "Mirror's Edge" and Eliza Dushku's character in the (IMO) massively overrated series "Buffy the (IMO, very very silly) vampire slayer", who lent her voice to the protagonist of yet another (IMO) somewhat underrated game, "Wet".
For the sake of disambiguation, it should be noted that the qualifier "very very silly" should be applied both to the vampires in the show and to their slayer in equal measure. Aside from the particiaptions of Ms. Dushku, as stated above, and Allison Hannigan, there isn't a single redeeming characteristic in the whole show (IMO, mind you).
Now, about undully putting down Fate - would Madam Fate kindly accept a heartfelt apology for my earlier scathing remarks in the face of what I consider to be a peace offering in the form of that most lovely young lady who, after an absence of several months (starting on the very day I was about to propose we should meet outside of the parameters of our regular meeting medium, the theater, thank you for that, Madam Fate) and perhaps even grace me with the good fortune of not becomming thoroughly disenchanted with her after a single outing for coffee (which I don't even drink of my own volition, mind you) as was the case with the lovely (in a purely platonic sense, mind you) girl from the salad bar? Or is she (Ms. Fate, that is, naturally) merely setting me up for a massive disappointment, as was the case with the first incident that drove me to scathing remarks? Really, I have good faith in Fate (no pun intended), but you must make some allowance for my suspicion.
And now, for something completely different. Mr. Idle has the copyright to "a man with three buttocks", so we'll haev to make do with a short story I conceived on the back of a thought, last night (or, technically, this early morning), whilst preparing a sandwich:
"I was quite thrilled to have met you. Your first impression on me was, quite simply, marvellous. I'd venture mine on you can't have been all bad, quite the contrary, for, for some reason, you picked me - imagine, me, exactly me - from the ranks of all the others, my peers, each and every last one of them so much like myself. It must have been love at first sight - I know it was for me.
"Then you took me to your home. I can't say it was all peaches and cream for me - the transition, I mean. I was not accustomed to familiarity, to being cared for, so to speak, and that's exactly how it felt from then on, that you had given me a seat in the bosom of your house, of your own free will, because you liked me. The elation, once I came to terms with my new reality, was more than I can put on words.
"Then, over however long or short as it may have been - truly, it seemed like a lifetime to me, as long as it takes to live out a wonderful life too, mind you, even if clearly it wasn't quite as long, not for you, at any rate - you made me feel things I never thought I'd experience. You showed me what it was like to be liked. You showed me what it was like to be wanted. You showed me what it was like to be appreciated. Seeing you enjoy the fruits of my labour felt oh-so-wonderful I often wondered if I ever performed more out of selfishly wanting to feel like only you could make me feel.
"I never even mentioned - let alone complain about - feeling neglected when you went for longer than usual without paying me any attention. I really didn't care. If ever I suspected you might again call upon me, the thrill of the possibility alone was quite enough to scatter any doubt or disappointment. You never really treated me wrong. Nor did I, did I?
"But, of course, every time you called on my service - which, I am proud to say, I never refused to offer, nor did I ever perform anything less than my best, and always entirely up to your demands, and I dare you to even say otherwise - I could feel myself depleting little by little, emptying, as it was, realising, with dread, that someday I'd have given all that I had, all that I was, and shuddered to think what then I could possibly offer you, should that seemingly vaccuous notion of "my love" not suffice.
"I never asked for anything in return of all I have given, for, honestly, I never felt I needed anything in return. You sated all of my needs, as I did my very best to sate yours, even if, for the most part, I would have been only massively inadequate. Mind you, I was always proud of my strengths, and you need not say it for me to know you agree with me on this point.
"Still, the day I dreaded the most came about: you found me empty - void - unable to go on serving you in exchange for the joy of seeing you happpy with me, as I had from the very day we'd met. The turmoil of emotions - sorrow, inadequacy, fear, despair, longing - in that great big void within me, where once had been all you really ever wanted from me - all I had given to you - was matched only by your cold, callous casualness, as though you expected this to happen from the moment you first laid eyes on me.
"It was then that I knew for sure you didn't feel about me anything like the way I felt about you. You didn't even feel anything remotely like they way I thought you felt about me. To you, I was just some disposable thing, some plaything you found and took in for your entertainment alone, someone you could wring the lifeforce from to the last drop and coldy chuck away the moment they became a dessicated rag, lifeless and useless, a thing not to be loved or had or even thought of in the least.
"It was so evident, as you merely brought about my replacement the very moment you saw me falter. Everly last bit like any of the others around me when you picked me from them, every last bit like myself, really, bright eyed and eager and deliciously scared and expectant of his new surroundings, of being about to find a drive and a purpose and a raison d'être. I can only be sorry for the poor bastard - though no more than I feel for myself.
"And what of myself? You stripped me of my rank, of my seat, and, as you casually gave them to my readily begotten replacement, I realised these things meant nothing to you - yet I had tricked myself into believing them something else, something bright and beautiful, indeed, something to be proud of, just like the one before me - and the one after me, no doubt - had done and will do, respectively. And now, in exchange for however long I unwaveringly gave you my service and my very being, you discard me, dispose of me like common rubbish. I have to wonder if you ever cared about me at all.
"I know you'll never know this - any of this. You'll never read or even come across my words, and why should you? I am not the sort of thing you'd care for, I know this quite well now. Know only this: I don't resent you. No, not in the least. It was I that was a fool for not having seen things for what they were - and, in retrospect, perhaps I should have. It was all quite evident, wasn't is? I wished only you could hear me, my true voice, if I ever had one, if only once. I wished you'd hear my all too silent cry.
"I thought you loved me..."
-- A mayonaise bottle.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark wonders what makes a good gift for an immaterial, everlasting, omnipresent, seemingly random, yet oh-so-deterministic driving force. Do you suppose Fate cares for flowers?
Following the deceased
I can imagine your shock to see how a blog which hasn't seen activity for nigh on five months suddenly gets a jolt of posting. Imagine now my shock as I found out that a very much dead blog has three followers (and two comments in a language I can't even begin to read). So here's looking at brightening up the day of my three followers (and then, how about we start a cult?)
This is a bit of a variation on a recipe by Mrs. Nigella Lawson, whom I not only admire as a cook, but also to whom I'm more than slightly attracted, even though she's only young enough to be my mother.
Ferrero Rocher and Mon Cherie might make themselves unavailable in the summertime, allegedly due to the warm weather (like I haven't heard that before...), but ice cream will give you no such cop outs, regardless of the weather. So brighten up these last few chilli pre-equinox nights (or wait until those first chilly spring nights, really) with some lively citrusy frosty delight... E!
Please excuse me while I blow my nose; bit of a cold, here, sorry.
Alright, so, you'll need the following:
- 1 orange;
- 2 limes;
- 600mL of heavy cream;
- 4 tablespoons of sugar-free sweetener (give or take...);
- 1 cup of cat (every recipe calls for it!).
This recipe has two distinct components: the medium component, which is the cream; and the flavouring component, which is just about everything else (except for the cat). Start by combining the zest of the orange and of one of the limes with the sweetener and the juice of the orange and both limes. If you're doing this away from the judgemental eyes of other humans, don't deprive yourself of a whiff of that lovely lime scent, even covening your nose with the dried husk of half a juiced lime like a bizzarro clown, if you'd like. Your cat, however, might not be quite as fond of that particular scent and recoil from it if you let it smell the limes, which only means more to you, really. I find that juicing a zested orange is not as easy as juicing one with it's peel intact, but I can't imagine zesting a floppy hollow skin to be any easier (quite the contrary), but gladly I'll take your input and other opinions. Limes, however, seem to have no such issues (juicing them after they've been zested, I mean). Also, remember that rolling your citruses on a flat, hard surface with the palm of your hand before halving them helps get all the juice out. Stir for a while so the sweetener dissolves in the juice.
Now pour your cream into a large container (2L and up, ideally. You've been warned....) and add the flavourful mix. Remember to stir it again so the zest doesn't gather in the bottom of whatever container you've put it in. The sadistic among you will enjoy this next bit: proceed to beat the subject at hand (that's the cream mixture, not the cat). Mind you, as the juice, being both liquid and acidic, will severely lower the viscosity of the cream, you'll need to start at a low speed, and even so you're bound to get quite a bit of splatter on your sink, on your apron, on the cat and on the side of the microwave. Remember to wipe them afterwards (better yet, wait until the eve of a cleaning to do this). Yet another little tip is to tilt your mixer back and hold a lid closely in front of the actual beaters so it can take the brunt of the splatter.
Stop before you have propper citrusy whipped cream, beat it only to soft peaks (no matter how much it begs you for more, Masters and Mistresses). Then pour your mixture into an airtight sealable container, such as a Tupperware (which pays me nothing to advertise it, so go ahead and use something from any other brand with my blessing) and leave it in the freezer for five hours (although we all know this means overnight, for even better results). Take it out some 15 minutes before you serve or leave it in the fridge for 30 to 40 minutes and enjoy.
This is probably when you'll want to lick the beaters. If you find yourself thinking you should spare some for the cat, remember that cats don't have sweet-perceiving taste buds, usually don't like citruses and are generally lactose intolerant, so there's really nothing in those beaters to impress it. Again, more for you.
If this isn't enough and you just can't have it without some chocolate sauce (you glutton), take a (preferably sugar free) dark chocolate bar of your choice. Make sure it's a high cocoa content chocolate, anything under 70% is unnacceptable. You might like 70% cocoa culinary chocolate, but my favourite, hands down, is Lindt Excelence 99% cocoa chocolate (mind you, it'll knock your teeth out with bitterness). Regardless of the actual chocolate you choose, break it in little pieces and combine it with an equal volume of double cream in a pot (do not weigh the chocolate or the cream; only volume matters here) and stir on a low heat until all the cocolate melts and you're left with a smooth, homogeneous mixture. Remeber, as ther's liquid in the pot, you don't need (or want) a bain-marie. You might want to add some more sweetener before you take your pot to the stove, especially if you go for the more bitter chocolate. I wouldn't. Just saying... And remember to let it cool before you pour over the ice cream.
And there you go, a lively tangy fruity icy treat to enjoy with your friends (if they're good).
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would like to remind you that Claymore isn't the only cook around these parts... but probably still the best one.
This is a bit of a variation on a recipe by Mrs. Nigella Lawson, whom I not only admire as a cook, but also to whom I'm more than slightly attracted, even though she's only young enough to be my mother.
Ferrero Rocher and Mon Cherie might make themselves unavailable in the summertime, allegedly due to the warm weather (like I haven't heard that before...), but ice cream will give you no such cop outs, regardless of the weather. So brighten up these last few chilli pre-equinox nights (or wait until those first chilly spring nights, really) with some lively citrusy frosty delight... E!
Please excuse me while I blow my nose; bit of a cold, here, sorry.
Alright, so, you'll need the following:
- 1 orange;
- 2 limes;
- 600mL of heavy cream;
- 4 tablespoons of sugar-free sweetener (give or take...);
- 1 cup of cat (every recipe calls for it!).
This recipe has two distinct components: the medium component, which is the cream; and the flavouring component, which is just about everything else (except for the cat). Start by combining the zest of the orange and of one of the limes with the sweetener and the juice of the orange and both limes. If you're doing this away from the judgemental eyes of other humans, don't deprive yourself of a whiff of that lovely lime scent, even covening your nose with the dried husk of half a juiced lime like a bizzarro clown, if you'd like. Your cat, however, might not be quite as fond of that particular scent and recoil from it if you let it smell the limes, which only means more to you, really. I find that juicing a zested orange is not as easy as juicing one with it's peel intact, but I can't imagine zesting a floppy hollow skin to be any easier (quite the contrary), but gladly I'll take your input and other opinions. Limes, however, seem to have no such issues (juicing them after they've been zested, I mean). Also, remember that rolling your citruses on a flat, hard surface with the palm of your hand before halving them helps get all the juice out. Stir for a while so the sweetener dissolves in the juice.
Now pour your cream into a large container (2L and up, ideally. You've been warned....) and add the flavourful mix. Remember to stir it again so the zest doesn't gather in the bottom of whatever container you've put it in. The sadistic among you will enjoy this next bit: proceed to beat the subject at hand (that's the cream mixture, not the cat). Mind you, as the juice, being both liquid and acidic, will severely lower the viscosity of the cream, you'll need to start at a low speed, and even so you're bound to get quite a bit of splatter on your sink, on your apron, on the cat and on the side of the microwave. Remember to wipe them afterwards (better yet, wait until the eve of a cleaning to do this). Yet another little tip is to tilt your mixer back and hold a lid closely in front of the actual beaters so it can take the brunt of the splatter.
Stop before you have propper citrusy whipped cream, beat it only to soft peaks (no matter how much it begs you for more, Masters and Mistresses). Then pour your mixture into an airtight sealable container, such as a Tupperware (which pays me nothing to advertise it, so go ahead and use something from any other brand with my blessing) and leave it in the freezer for five hours (although we all know this means overnight, for even better results). Take it out some 15 minutes before you serve or leave it in the fridge for 30 to 40 minutes and enjoy.
This is probably when you'll want to lick the beaters. If you find yourself thinking you should spare some for the cat, remember that cats don't have sweet-perceiving taste buds, usually don't like citruses and are generally lactose intolerant, so there's really nothing in those beaters to impress it. Again, more for you.
If this isn't enough and you just can't have it without some chocolate sauce (you glutton), take a (preferably sugar free) dark chocolate bar of your choice. Make sure it's a high cocoa content chocolate, anything under 70% is unnacceptable. You might like 70% cocoa culinary chocolate, but my favourite, hands down, is Lindt Excelence 99% cocoa chocolate (mind you, it'll knock your teeth out with bitterness). Regardless of the actual chocolate you choose, break it in little pieces and combine it with an equal volume of double cream in a pot (do not weigh the chocolate or the cream; only volume matters here) and stir on a low heat until all the cocolate melts and you're left with a smooth, homogeneous mixture. Remeber, as ther's liquid in the pot, you don't need (or want) a bain-marie. You might want to add some more sweetener before you take your pot to the stove, especially if you go for the more bitter chocolate. I wouldn't. Just saying... And remember to let it cool before you pour over the ice cream.
And there you go, a lively tangy fruity icy treat to enjoy with your friends (if they're good).
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would like to remind you that Claymore isn't the only cook around these parts... but probably still the best one.
Oobleck is a funny word
As most of you totally serious scientists who regularly come here certainly know, oobleck, which is a saturated solution of cornstarch and water, is a non-newtonian fluid which displays some quite amazing characteristics.
For the totally serious scientist types who regularly come here and do not know what a non-newtonian fluid is (the void is shrinking!), a non-newtonian fluid is one which displays varying degrees of viscosity at any given temperature depending on the force that is being exerted upon it. In this case, you might be able to run on the surface of oobleck, but not walk. This is because, as you run, the force at which your feet strike the surface is usually enough to make it so viscous it will seem nearly solid. In fact, it might not even break up the surface tension, leaving you dry after running across a body of liquid, but, as you walk, the force of your calm, slow steps is much slower, and you might sink. Tragically (oh noes!), as you struggle to break free of the vicious - sorry, viscous - Oobleck (what, is a great name for a monster!), the force of your squirming might make it viscous enough to trap you, just like quicksand is rumored to behave.
On the smaller, lighter scale, you can so dome neat things, such as pouring a little on the cupped palm of your hand. It will feel and slosh about like a liquid (which it is), but the moment you try to roll it up into a little ball like you might do with silly putty or modelling clay, it will take a shape - until you stop rolling it, that is, at which point it will instantly revert to oozing out of your hands like light honey. You can also make it bounce off walls and floors - so long as you don't even consider enlisting my services or even my help to clean up after your science (fluid dynamics is, after all, a branch of physics, and, thus, totally serious science).
Here's a recepy for disaster: mix up a batch of oobleck. If you don't know how, then I'm fining you in one free internet, to be collected at my lesiure, but, out of the kindness of my heart, allow me to explain: pour about half a cup of cornstarch into a bowl and add just a little water. Stir slowly. At first, you'll get nothing but hard clumps, and nothing even remotely similar to a fluid, newtonian or otherwise. Preservere, and resist the tentation to add more water right away, but go on and add small amounts from time to time, stirring all the way as you go. Eventually, you might get a runny liquid you have absolutely no trouble at all stirring. That's when you know you've added too much water. No problem, just keep adding more cornstarch until you have a coveted non-newtonian fluid. You'll know you're there when it feels like you're breaking up clumps of the flour in the bottom of the bowl (as the resulting liquid will me a milky beige, you won't be able to confirm or deny the presence of said clumps by sight) if you stir as you'd usually do, but you'll feel no such resistance if ou stir very slowly. Alternatively, you might want to stir with your fingers. This will give you a much more accurate feeling for clumps or lack thereof, and some might find it more fun, but it's a bit messier. At this point, quickly strike the surface of the liquid. If you're at the right point, it should bend, but not allow the striking object (spoon, whisk, finger) to penetrate as easily as a regular liquid (or, as totally serious scinetist would call it, a newtonian fluid) would. If not, keep adding more cornstarch and stirring.
Now, let's make something a bit more fun: get some balloons and put them inside one another like a Matrioska (which, in case you don't know, is a hollow doll which you can open at the waist to reveal a smaller version of itself which contains yet a smaller version of it self and so on a few times. Even though these are most commonly associated with Russia, I distinctly recall reading somewhere that they are originally Indian, but so popular in Russia that they would be commonly know as typically Russian. I won't swear by this). Now fill the innermost ballon with the oobleck you just made. If you want a small finished product (about the size of an uninflated balloon), just pouring the goo inside with a funnel will do, but that's hardly any fun. Instead, pour as much as you want inside the balloons into an empty bottle. then blow some ait into the innermost balloon and clamp the neck as low as you can with a clothespin or something to that effect. Carefully stretch the unclamped portion of the neck over the neck of the loaded bottle and secure it with your fingers and thumb, just to be on the safe side. Unclamp the balloon, turn the bottle upside down and wait until all of the oobleck has poured into the balloon. As the air will have to bubble through the (slowly) oozing goop, this will take a little while. Then tie off the innermost balloon and cut off the excess rubber above the knot. SO this for all of the other balloons and presto, a dirt cheap stress ball. This fun little thing will feel very soft if you squeeze it slowly and gentrly, but if you squeeze it quickly and hard, you'll feel it harden against your fingers and very slowly brwak under the pressure.
Note: The most lonely of the totally serious science types who regularly come here should note that this is a poor substitute for a woman's berast. Try this instead.
And now, the disaster: Before I perfected the process of making these little stress balls, I had a balloon with over half a pint of oobleck burst over a shag rug. As I finished panicking, I realised I couldn't just hold it over my tub and rinse it off, as this mixture will percipitate if left undisturbed for long, and clog up your pipes. Always dispose of it in plastic, sealed bags. Then I remembered I should just pick up the rug and pour the oobleck into a large bowl to re-use it. That's when I found out about a property of oobleck I didn't know about: if left undisturbed for even a minute, it will gain a nearly solid skin. I found out about this as it wouldn't ooze into the bowl, and when I touched it, it had about the same consistency as cake icing, but it "melted" into its more familiar texture as soon as I broke off the little pieces.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is considering the possibility of brewing up some hand analogues from unflavoures, unsweetened gelatin and latex gloves for casts.
For the totally serious scientist types who regularly come here and do not know what a non-newtonian fluid is (the void is shrinking!), a non-newtonian fluid is one which displays varying degrees of viscosity at any given temperature depending on the force that is being exerted upon it. In this case, you might be able to run on the surface of oobleck, but not walk. This is because, as you run, the force at which your feet strike the surface is usually enough to make it so viscous it will seem nearly solid. In fact, it might not even break up the surface tension, leaving you dry after running across a body of liquid, but, as you walk, the force of your calm, slow steps is much slower, and you might sink. Tragically (oh noes!), as you struggle to break free of the vicious - sorry, viscous - Oobleck (what, is a great name for a monster!), the force of your squirming might make it viscous enough to trap you, just like quicksand is rumored to behave.
On the smaller, lighter scale, you can so dome neat things, such as pouring a little on the cupped palm of your hand. It will feel and slosh about like a liquid (which it is), but the moment you try to roll it up into a little ball like you might do with silly putty or modelling clay, it will take a shape - until you stop rolling it, that is, at which point it will instantly revert to oozing out of your hands like light honey. You can also make it bounce off walls and floors - so long as you don't even consider enlisting my services or even my help to clean up after your science (fluid dynamics is, after all, a branch of physics, and, thus, totally serious science).
Here's a recepy for disaster: mix up a batch of oobleck. If you don't know how, then I'm fining you in one free internet, to be collected at my lesiure, but, out of the kindness of my heart, allow me to explain: pour about half a cup of cornstarch into a bowl and add just a little water. Stir slowly. At first, you'll get nothing but hard clumps, and nothing even remotely similar to a fluid, newtonian or otherwise. Preservere, and resist the tentation to add more water right away, but go on and add small amounts from time to time, stirring all the way as you go. Eventually, you might get a runny liquid you have absolutely no trouble at all stirring. That's when you know you've added too much water. No problem, just keep adding more cornstarch until you have a coveted non-newtonian fluid. You'll know you're there when it feels like you're breaking up clumps of the flour in the bottom of the bowl (as the resulting liquid will me a milky beige, you won't be able to confirm or deny the presence of said clumps by sight) if you stir as you'd usually do, but you'll feel no such resistance if ou stir very slowly. Alternatively, you might want to stir with your fingers. This will give you a much more accurate feeling for clumps or lack thereof, and some might find it more fun, but it's a bit messier. At this point, quickly strike the surface of the liquid. If you're at the right point, it should bend, but not allow the striking object (spoon, whisk, finger) to penetrate as easily as a regular liquid (or, as totally serious scinetist would call it, a newtonian fluid) would. If not, keep adding more cornstarch and stirring.
Now, let's make something a bit more fun: get some balloons and put them inside one another like a Matrioska (which, in case you don't know, is a hollow doll which you can open at the waist to reveal a smaller version of itself which contains yet a smaller version of it self and so on a few times. Even though these are most commonly associated with Russia, I distinctly recall reading somewhere that they are originally Indian, but so popular in Russia that they would be commonly know as typically Russian. I won't swear by this). Now fill the innermost ballon with the oobleck you just made. If you want a small finished product (about the size of an uninflated balloon), just pouring the goo inside with a funnel will do, but that's hardly any fun. Instead, pour as much as you want inside the balloons into an empty bottle. then blow some ait into the innermost balloon and clamp the neck as low as you can with a clothespin or something to that effect. Carefully stretch the unclamped portion of the neck over the neck of the loaded bottle and secure it with your fingers and thumb, just to be on the safe side. Unclamp the balloon, turn the bottle upside down and wait until all of the oobleck has poured into the balloon. As the air will have to bubble through the (slowly) oozing goop, this will take a little while. Then tie off the innermost balloon and cut off the excess rubber above the knot. SO this for all of the other balloons and presto, a dirt cheap stress ball. This fun little thing will feel very soft if you squeeze it slowly and gentrly, but if you squeeze it quickly and hard, you'll feel it harden against your fingers and very slowly brwak under the pressure.
Note: The most lonely of the totally serious science types who regularly come here should note that this is a poor substitute for a woman's berast. Try this instead.
And now, the disaster: Before I perfected the process of making these little stress balls, I had a balloon with over half a pint of oobleck burst over a shag rug. As I finished panicking, I realised I couldn't just hold it over my tub and rinse it off, as this mixture will percipitate if left undisturbed for long, and clog up your pipes. Always dispose of it in plastic, sealed bags. Then I remembered I should just pick up the rug and pour the oobleck into a large bowl to re-use it. That's when I found out about a property of oobleck I didn't know about: if left undisturbed for even a minute, it will gain a nearly solid skin. I found out about this as it wouldn't ooze into the bowl, and when I touched it, it had about the same consistency as cake icing, but it "melted" into its more familiar texture as soon as I broke off the little pieces.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is considering the possibility of brewing up some hand analogues from unflavoures, unsweetened gelatin and latex gloves for casts.
An evil which resides
On a seemingly unrelated note, "Hot Fuzz" is a delightful British comedy, titles so as to parody film titles that read and sound appealing, yet are somewhat meaningles (e. g., "Die Hard". How hard can one die? How soft can one die, for that matter? Is the hardness of one's death a means to gauge the likeliness of his or her ressurection?).
Resident Evil seems to be one such title. Apparentely, in Japan, where it was originally made, it was known as Biohazzard, which, from what little I gather of the story of the original game, seems to be a more adequate title. After all, what is a "resident evil"? Or, for that matter, how can can (an) evil (not) reside? Or does that mean that this particular evil is confined to its place of residence, and is therefore of no consequence to the rest of the world? Really, why didn't they just call it Biohazzard?
Enough with that. Resident Evil 5 is an action game for multiple platforms that's been out for quite a while, and so it's about time I reviewed it. Now, Yahtzee has already reviewed it, so you may think my review is just about pointless, but he did it so long ago now that you might like a little refresher course.
Fans of the Resident Evil storyline have an opinion about this game. I, however, haven't got the foggiest idea what said opinion would be, seeing as I have never really liked a resident evil game myself. Now there's something to be said in the interest of fairness: what I mean to say is that I didn't like the original Resident Evil and the following two were more of the same, or so I was told, even though I didn't play them myself. Resident Evil 4 I have never played or seen in action, nor have I had the desire to, but the moment I caught a glimpse of "5" I wanted to try it out myself. It might have been the online co-operative campaign mode I've been wishing for for so long and which was only nearly done properly in Red Alert 3 (nearly!). Or it might have been the superb graphics. What definitely wasn't it was the quick time events. So far, I have only seen QTEs done right once, and it was in The Force: Unleashed. One of ther reasons why they were done right was that they were entirely optional, rewarded the player for doing them, punished the player for failing them, but not for not even attempting them, which is dramatically different than "Repeateddly tap the "F" key during a cutscene or it'll start over again and we will lower your score", or, as Yahtzee so eloquentely put it, "Press X not to die". There's one thing they could have done without.
Back to the praise track, then. There is something a little odd about the gunplay in this game, and that is the ready weapon stance. Simply put, a player cannot use any weapon unless they "ready" the weapon first. This sounds standard enough, as one might confuse "ready" with "equip", but the fact of the matter is players cannot move (although they can turn around and aim) whilst "readying" a weapon, meaning no fancy running while shooting, let alone jumping while shooting. This feels odd at first, as I said, but it works like a bit of an equaliser, as it negates the obvious advantages of gun totting experts over clumsy newbies picking up their first Kalashnikov. Unfortunately, it makes the game a bit overly easy, even for clumsy newbies picking up their first Kalashnikov such as myself. The it tries to correct itself by making itself difficult in other aspects, and the illusion of balance versus the reality of the absence thereof eventually ruins their day. One of the difficulty adding aspects is the very small inventory: you're only allowed nine (9) spaces. Some kinds of items stack, whereas others don't, which breaks down the immersion a bit, especially regarding what items stack and how. For example, grenades stack, and you can carry up to five of any one type in a single space. Herbs, however, don't stack, and you can carry oly one per space. Eggs also stack (of course there are eggs in the game! What kind of shooter hasn't got eggs in it?), also five per space, which brings the question that an egg either has the same volume or the same mass or the same bounding box than a grenade, which is borderline believable, especially if you've never held or seen a grenade (or an egg, I suppose), but then the same could be said of proximity land mines, and that concept is utterly bonkers. You have none little (or no so little) pockets in your vest, each large enough to fit five landmines (or one RPG-7 rocket launcher. Which is just as large, just as heavy and has the same general shape as five mines. Or a handgun. It all makes sense), but not two herbs. Also, each of those pockets can hold 150 rounds for you AK-74, but only 12 for your magnum revovler. OK, sure, the magnum is a very high calibre, but no way each round is over ten times as large as that of an AK-74.
Now I'd like to take the time to bring to your attention how the Molle system works. The Molle system, adopted by just about all major ballistic armour vests manufacturers, consists of a series of paralell strips of nylon cloth apart from each other by their own width. The purpose of this pattern is that if the same pattern is present on the surface of, say, a pouch, then, with as little as a perpendicular strip of either cloth or some other stifer, sturdier material, said pouch can be attatched to your body armour, meaning that you can carry more stuff when you're wearing your bulletproof vest than otherwise. Unless you're playing Resindet Evil 5, where there are two kinds of body armour, which you can use simultaneously, but each one takes up a whole space in your inventory.
Then there's the rpoblem of ammunition. Some weapons (I should say some weapon classes) are more efficient, ammunition-wide, than others. This means thatfive well placed rounds from your shotgun can fo a whole lot more damage than twice as many from your machine gun, which is why you can carry so much more machine gun ammo than shotgun shells, but it doesn't really matter, as the game is, in the beginning, surprisingly frugal with ammunition, hanging you out to dry shooting blanks in hopes of scaring off the enemy more times than you'd like. One contributing factor is that the game gives you ammunition types in complete disregard (I should say, in utter contempt) for what weapons you are carrying at the time, meaning that if you decide to carry only one or two guns, most of the ammo you pick up can't be used. Of course you could stock up on it until you get a chance to change weapons, but until then, not only are you wasting your precious inventory slots but also you still don't have ammo for the guns you do have with you. Later in the game that becomes less of a problem, but, by then, one is usually used to carry two or three different guns, which meas at least four to six inventory slots taken by the very simple funtion of shooting the baddies and very little space for utility items, such as healing items, grenades or eggs. For the second and following playthroughs, the game allows you to bless any weapon with unlimited ammo (which you don't have to carry), which does solve the frugality problem, at the cost of not only rather simplifying the game but also making most items found lying around or dropped by slain enemies utterly useless.
It has been said that a great many shooter games made nowadays have RPG elements built into them on e way or another, and RE5 is no exception, only it does so discreetely, allowing you to upgrade your weapons. Care should be taken to mention that said upgrades are made to a gun's exemplar, not a class of guns or even a model of guns, meaning that any upgrades you make to yuor AK-74 stay with that AK-74, but won't reflect on any other AK-74 or any other machine gun, for that matter. These upgrades are paramount to allowing said weapon to discard it's eed for ammo, and they do raise a rather curious issue: the very first handgun you're given, at the begiining of the game, has a magazine capacity of 10 rounds. After you fully upgrade it, it doesn't really matter what capacity it has, as you can then have it old infinity plus one rounds and never have to reload again, but if you don't, it holds 100 rounds. Bear in mind that outside of your gun, each space in your inventory can only hold 50 handgun rounds. Do the figures seem off to you?
One major hoof of this game, as something that has scarcely ever been done in games, cinema or even television, is pairing the muscle bound war veteran action hero (which is, as usual, Chris Redfield) with an attractive, yet stron willed and able bodied female sidekick, who is just as capable as the hero (admit it, you smelled the sacrasm coming); enter Sheva Alomar. Some praise is in order: The character is, indeed, very attractive, just as capable as the "hero man" in every way and gifted with just as many (or should I say as few) inventory slots (but didn't Jill Valentine use to have two extra inventory spaces in the first Resident Evil? Something to do with bulky pouches she wore on her chest...). Sheva is able to wield the same weapons as effectively as Chris, except fo the character exclusive weapons, to which she has a counterpart. Sheva is an integral part of the gameplay, not only because she is there to be taken over by another player in friendly co-op play, but also becase you'll be using her as a pack mule for all the items you only might need when you're playing offline. On the side of fairness, SHeva becomes available to be played as once you play through the game once, allowing you to use Chris as a pack mule. Some dissimilarities exist, namely some sections require Chris to give Sheva a leg up to accomplish otherwise unthikable leaps, effectively baring the "hero man" from some areas of the game, but other than that, equalitarism had it's way with both characters to such great extent that they feel interchangable, if not for the fact that they appeal to different audiences on different levels (for the most part) and that the camera angle is abive Chris's right shoulder, as opposed to Sheva's left shoulder. In the end, it becomes a matter of where you like your camera, as neither character has any advantage of any sort over the other in any way. PC, but boring.
Another element common to RPGs and Shooters alike is the concept of enemy drops. For as long as there have been Shooters there has been the notion of scavenging weapons and ammunitions from your defeated foes and emply them as your own. Except, for the most part, these foes are african peasents armed with either spears, machettes or nothing at all, which doesn't sit very well on the barrel of your guns, meaning the odd ammunition drop from the tribal warrior feels a bit strange, but the random bits of gold they drop every now and again fit the theme well enough. Although that doesn't explain why some enemies drop large heart-shaped gems when they are vanquished.
The story probably makes a lot more sense to the die-hard fans of the series, and I will neither spoil it nor force it on you by trying to recount it or summarise it, but it's there and it's enjoyable enough, especially the way it is told by documents you might pick up and read throughout the many levels (or not, if that's not your cup of tea, there's nothing to be lost by skipping them).
There's a bit of a collectionistic/completionistic aspect of this game, as there is treasure to be found in the form of gems and artefacts, which can be sold to upgrade your weapons or buy new ones.
On the whole, I like this game, I like it enough to play through it more than once in the same day (it is a bit short, i suppose. It can comfortably be finished in under seven hours, and there is a reward for players who finish it in less than five), especially as it is interesting how even with overpowered, inexhautible weapons, some enemies don't seem to lose their challenge, but the ones that do provide a bit of mindless fun, being helplessly shot at without even as much of a hint of a prayer. A negative note should be issued for a rather out of place puzzle sequence, which I felt didn't really go with the overall feel of the game, and, paradoxically, a positive note should be issued for the way many boss fights combine mindless shooter-style action with a bit of puzzle play. In the end. I award it eight out of a possible ten thumbs up (I'm all thumbs, me).
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is available for online co-op play of this Capcom title. Drop me a line if you're interested.
Resident Evil seems to be one such title. Apparentely, in Japan, where it was originally made, it was known as Biohazzard, which, from what little I gather of the story of the original game, seems to be a more adequate title. After all, what is a "resident evil"? Or, for that matter, how can can (an) evil (not) reside? Or does that mean that this particular evil is confined to its place of residence, and is therefore of no consequence to the rest of the world? Really, why didn't they just call it Biohazzard?
Enough with that. Resident Evil 5 is an action game for multiple platforms that's been out for quite a while, and so it's about time I reviewed it. Now, Yahtzee has already reviewed it, so you may think my review is just about pointless, but he did it so long ago now that you might like a little refresher course.
Fans of the Resident Evil storyline have an opinion about this game. I, however, haven't got the foggiest idea what said opinion would be, seeing as I have never really liked a resident evil game myself. Now there's something to be said in the interest of fairness: what I mean to say is that I didn't like the original Resident Evil and the following two were more of the same, or so I was told, even though I didn't play them myself. Resident Evil 4 I have never played or seen in action, nor have I had the desire to, but the moment I caught a glimpse of "5" I wanted to try it out myself. It might have been the online co-operative campaign mode I've been wishing for for so long and which was only nearly done properly in Red Alert 3 (nearly!). Or it might have been the superb graphics. What definitely wasn't it was the quick time events. So far, I have only seen QTEs done right once, and it was in The Force: Unleashed. One of ther reasons why they were done right was that they were entirely optional, rewarded the player for doing them, punished the player for failing them, but not for not even attempting them, which is dramatically different than "Repeateddly tap the "F" key during a cutscene or it'll start over again and we will lower your score", or, as Yahtzee so eloquentely put it, "Press X not to die". There's one thing they could have done without.
Back to the praise track, then. There is something a little odd about the gunplay in this game, and that is the ready weapon stance. Simply put, a player cannot use any weapon unless they "ready" the weapon first. This sounds standard enough, as one might confuse "ready" with "equip", but the fact of the matter is players cannot move (although they can turn around and aim) whilst "readying" a weapon, meaning no fancy running while shooting, let alone jumping while shooting. This feels odd at first, as I said, but it works like a bit of an equaliser, as it negates the obvious advantages of gun totting experts over clumsy newbies picking up their first Kalashnikov. Unfortunately, it makes the game a bit overly easy, even for clumsy newbies picking up their first Kalashnikov such as myself. The it tries to correct itself by making itself difficult in other aspects, and the illusion of balance versus the reality of the absence thereof eventually ruins their day. One of the difficulty adding aspects is the very small inventory: you're only allowed nine (9) spaces. Some kinds of items stack, whereas others don't, which breaks down the immersion a bit, especially regarding what items stack and how. For example, grenades stack, and you can carry up to five of any one type in a single space. Herbs, however, don't stack, and you can carry oly one per space. Eggs also stack (of course there are eggs in the game! What kind of shooter hasn't got eggs in it?), also five per space, which brings the question that an egg either has the same volume or the same mass or the same bounding box than a grenade, which is borderline believable, especially if you've never held or seen a grenade (or an egg, I suppose), but then the same could be said of proximity land mines, and that concept is utterly bonkers. You have none little (or no so little) pockets in your vest, each large enough to fit five landmines (or one RPG-7 rocket launcher. Which is just as large, just as heavy and has the same general shape as five mines. Or a handgun. It all makes sense), but not two herbs. Also, each of those pockets can hold 150 rounds for you AK-74, but only 12 for your magnum revovler. OK, sure, the magnum is a very high calibre, but no way each round is over ten times as large as that of an AK-74.
Now I'd like to take the time to bring to your attention how the Molle system works. The Molle system, adopted by just about all major ballistic armour vests manufacturers, consists of a series of paralell strips of nylon cloth apart from each other by their own width. The purpose of this pattern is that if the same pattern is present on the surface of, say, a pouch, then, with as little as a perpendicular strip of either cloth or some other stifer, sturdier material, said pouch can be attatched to your body armour, meaning that you can carry more stuff when you're wearing your bulletproof vest than otherwise. Unless you're playing Resindet Evil 5, where there are two kinds of body armour, which you can use simultaneously, but each one takes up a whole space in your inventory.
Then there's the rpoblem of ammunition. Some weapons (I should say some weapon classes) are more efficient, ammunition-wide, than others. This means thatfive well placed rounds from your shotgun can fo a whole lot more damage than twice as many from your machine gun, which is why you can carry so much more machine gun ammo than shotgun shells, but it doesn't really matter, as the game is, in the beginning, surprisingly frugal with ammunition, hanging you out to dry shooting blanks in hopes of scaring off the enemy more times than you'd like. One contributing factor is that the game gives you ammunition types in complete disregard (I should say, in utter contempt) for what weapons you are carrying at the time, meaning that if you decide to carry only one or two guns, most of the ammo you pick up can't be used. Of course you could stock up on it until you get a chance to change weapons, but until then, not only are you wasting your precious inventory slots but also you still don't have ammo for the guns you do have with you. Later in the game that becomes less of a problem, but, by then, one is usually used to carry two or three different guns, which meas at least four to six inventory slots taken by the very simple funtion of shooting the baddies and very little space for utility items, such as healing items, grenades or eggs. For the second and following playthroughs, the game allows you to bless any weapon with unlimited ammo (which you don't have to carry), which does solve the frugality problem, at the cost of not only rather simplifying the game but also making most items found lying around or dropped by slain enemies utterly useless.
It has been said that a great many shooter games made nowadays have RPG elements built into them on e way or another, and RE5 is no exception, only it does so discreetely, allowing you to upgrade your weapons. Care should be taken to mention that said upgrades are made to a gun's exemplar, not a class of guns or even a model of guns, meaning that any upgrades you make to yuor AK-74 stay with that AK-74, but won't reflect on any other AK-74 or any other machine gun, for that matter. These upgrades are paramount to allowing said weapon to discard it's eed for ammo, and they do raise a rather curious issue: the very first handgun you're given, at the begiining of the game, has a magazine capacity of 10 rounds. After you fully upgrade it, it doesn't really matter what capacity it has, as you can then have it old infinity plus one rounds and never have to reload again, but if you don't, it holds 100 rounds. Bear in mind that outside of your gun, each space in your inventory can only hold 50 handgun rounds. Do the figures seem off to you?
One major hoof of this game, as something that has scarcely ever been done in games, cinema or even television, is pairing the muscle bound war veteran action hero (which is, as usual, Chris Redfield) with an attractive, yet stron willed and able bodied female sidekick, who is just as capable as the hero (admit it, you smelled the sacrasm coming); enter Sheva Alomar. Some praise is in order: The character is, indeed, very attractive, just as capable as the "hero man" in every way and gifted with just as many (or should I say as few) inventory slots (but didn't Jill Valentine use to have two extra inventory spaces in the first Resident Evil? Something to do with bulky pouches she wore on her chest...). Sheva is able to wield the same weapons as effectively as Chris, except fo the character exclusive weapons, to which she has a counterpart. Sheva is an integral part of the gameplay, not only because she is there to be taken over by another player in friendly co-op play, but also becase you'll be using her as a pack mule for all the items you only might need when you're playing offline. On the side of fairness, SHeva becomes available to be played as once you play through the game once, allowing you to use Chris as a pack mule. Some dissimilarities exist, namely some sections require Chris to give Sheva a leg up to accomplish otherwise unthikable leaps, effectively baring the "hero man" from some areas of the game, but other than that, equalitarism had it's way with both characters to such great extent that they feel interchangable, if not for the fact that they appeal to different audiences on different levels (for the most part) and that the camera angle is abive Chris's right shoulder, as opposed to Sheva's left shoulder. In the end, it becomes a matter of where you like your camera, as neither character has any advantage of any sort over the other in any way. PC, but boring.
Another element common to RPGs and Shooters alike is the concept of enemy drops. For as long as there have been Shooters there has been the notion of scavenging weapons and ammunitions from your defeated foes and emply them as your own. Except, for the most part, these foes are african peasents armed with either spears, machettes or nothing at all, which doesn't sit very well on the barrel of your guns, meaning the odd ammunition drop from the tribal warrior feels a bit strange, but the random bits of gold they drop every now and again fit the theme well enough. Although that doesn't explain why some enemies drop large heart-shaped gems when they are vanquished.
The story probably makes a lot more sense to the die-hard fans of the series, and I will neither spoil it nor force it on you by trying to recount it or summarise it, but it's there and it's enjoyable enough, especially the way it is told by documents you might pick up and read throughout the many levels (or not, if that's not your cup of tea, there's nothing to be lost by skipping them).
There's a bit of a collectionistic/completionistic aspect of this game, as there is treasure to be found in the form of gems and artefacts, which can be sold to upgrade your weapons or buy new ones.
On the whole, I like this game, I like it enough to play through it more than once in the same day (it is a bit short, i suppose. It can comfortably be finished in under seven hours, and there is a reward for players who finish it in less than five), especially as it is interesting how even with overpowered, inexhautible weapons, some enemies don't seem to lose their challenge, but the ones that do provide a bit of mindless fun, being helplessly shot at without even as much of a hint of a prayer. A negative note should be issued for a rather out of place puzzle sequence, which I felt didn't really go with the overall feel of the game, and, paradoxically, a positive note should be issued for the way many boss fights combine mindless shooter-style action with a bit of puzzle play. In the end. I award it eight out of a possible ten thumbs up (I'm all thumbs, me).
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is available for online co-op play of this Capcom title. Drop me a line if you're interested.
Spare some butter?
A funny thing happened today. I had gotten a 7 oz. bar of sugar free cooking chocolate, which my mother occasionally eats (even though I find it a bit bitter, but still...), and it came with a recepie for chocolate mousse on the wrapper. Now, ever since (well, not ever, but thereabouts) I started doing my Atkins, I have been improvising chocolate mousse recepies, with only whipped cream, nolten 99% cocoa chocolate (painfully bitter stuff, let me tell you) and sugar free sweetener. This time, I set myself up to do an actual mousse. You know, with eggs and all.
Now I could bore you with how I dropped the ball with the egg whites and ended up beating them almost one at a time and piling them on a soup plate (which only worked so well... but still, pretty well) or how I deftly managed to separate the whites from the yolks (bachelor stereotypes... yes, we can cook), but the funny thing is even though I had gone to the market with the specific intent to get the ingredients, I still managed to forget the butter. I couldn't be bothered to go back, so I remebered I could just mooch off my new next door neighbour. And so I did.
I rang on her bell even as I heard her clean up after her late supper and heard the little metal cover on the peep hole slide as she peeked out. I wonder how good those are, as they are placed even below my chin. Eventually, she asks "Who's there?", and I answer, as kindly as I can make myself sound, "I'm your next door neighbour". Picture my amazement when she says "Look, I don't know you, so I'm not going to open the door". Well, alright, it's her perrogative, and she was just being cautious, I won't hold it against her. She even asked, just after a short beat, while I pondered exactly what to say next, "What would you like?". As I apologised for bothering her at such a late hour (nearly half past ten) and asked if I could have just a spoonful of butter as politely as I could word it, she excused herself, saying she didn't have any. Fair enough. After all, I didn't have any myself.
The surreality come asbit further ahead. Having been turned down, I thought I'd ask the neighbours from across the hallway for the needed butter. I don't really know them any better, but I hadspoken to them before, and knew them to be kind people. Again, she looked out the peephole (another funny tidbit. The first time I knocked on their door, it was in the daytime and she didn't look out the peephole. Just as she saw me, she nearly jumped back with fright. I have that effect on the ladies. I wished I could turn it off...), recognised me and opened the door... slightly. Again, I apologised and asked for the butter just as politely as before, and she was kind enough to oblige. While she went to the kitchen to fetch the stick of butter, the other neighbour, having probably stood by the door to listen out for me laving or lingering by, opened the door to see if I was true to my words or if I had managed to snag an unsuspecting victim after all (of course, I'm speculating a bit here). Looking at me from behind, with a cup in my hand and waiting for the other neighbour to return from her kitchen, she realised she had nothing to fear from me (yet...) and proceeded to apologise for her overzealousness and explained that, through the peephole, I appeared fuzzy and looked like an elderly man. At any rate, she really was out of butter, she said. She further explained that, having never seen an elderly man on this floor, she was afraid to open the door.
OK, let's just check out facts for a minute. First of all, I'm not even anywhere near my thirties, yet I looked to her like an elderly man!? Am I aging that fast? Sure, my hair is thinning on top and my spine isn't what it used to be (what with the hernias and all), but come on! She can't have even noticed that (literally. She's not tall enough to have seen the top of my head and unless she's related to Kal-El, she couldn't have seen my spine). Another thing is, there's not that many people living on this floor. There's me, her, the couple across the hallway and a vacant apartment. She had never seen me before, but I expect she would have seen the neighbour across the hallway (the man, I mean). Would this mean that any seemingly young adult, in spite of his evetual murderous or otherwise nefarious intent could have sold her my (truthful, in my case) tale, but me, because I don't seem to look my age, arise hers suspicion... Oh, well, I had been having a pretty boring day.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark has lost as much weight as he had set himself to at first, but I now realise that I had been compromising and that I might actually make it to my ideal weight. I'm at a bit of a crossroad in my lief right now...
Now I could bore you with how I dropped the ball with the egg whites and ended up beating them almost one at a time and piling them on a soup plate (which only worked so well... but still, pretty well) or how I deftly managed to separate the whites from the yolks (bachelor stereotypes... yes, we can cook), but the funny thing is even though I had gone to the market with the specific intent to get the ingredients, I still managed to forget the butter. I couldn't be bothered to go back, so I remebered I could just mooch off my new next door neighbour. And so I did.
I rang on her bell even as I heard her clean up after her late supper and heard the little metal cover on the peep hole slide as she peeked out. I wonder how good those are, as they are placed even below my chin. Eventually, she asks "Who's there?", and I answer, as kindly as I can make myself sound, "I'm your next door neighbour". Picture my amazement when she says "Look, I don't know you, so I'm not going to open the door". Well, alright, it's her perrogative, and she was just being cautious, I won't hold it against her. She even asked, just after a short beat, while I pondered exactly what to say next, "What would you like?". As I apologised for bothering her at such a late hour (nearly half past ten) and asked if I could have just a spoonful of butter as politely as I could word it, she excused herself, saying she didn't have any. Fair enough. After all, I didn't have any myself.
The surreality come asbit further ahead. Having been turned down, I thought I'd ask the neighbours from across the hallway for the needed butter. I don't really know them any better, but I hadspoken to them before, and knew them to be kind people. Again, she looked out the peephole (another funny tidbit. The first time I knocked on their door, it was in the daytime and she didn't look out the peephole. Just as she saw me, she nearly jumped back with fright. I have that effect on the ladies. I wished I could turn it off...), recognised me and opened the door... slightly. Again, I apologised and asked for the butter just as politely as before, and she was kind enough to oblige. While she went to the kitchen to fetch the stick of butter, the other neighbour, having probably stood by the door to listen out for me laving or lingering by, opened the door to see if I was true to my words or if I had managed to snag an unsuspecting victim after all (of course, I'm speculating a bit here). Looking at me from behind, with a cup in my hand and waiting for the other neighbour to return from her kitchen, she realised she had nothing to fear from me (yet...) and proceeded to apologise for her overzealousness and explained that, through the peephole, I appeared fuzzy and looked like an elderly man. At any rate, she really was out of butter, she said. She further explained that, having never seen an elderly man on this floor, she was afraid to open the door.
OK, let's just check out facts for a minute. First of all, I'm not even anywhere near my thirties, yet I looked to her like an elderly man!? Am I aging that fast? Sure, my hair is thinning on top and my spine isn't what it used to be (what with the hernias and all), but come on! She can't have even noticed that (literally. She's not tall enough to have seen the top of my head and unless she's related to Kal-El, she couldn't have seen my spine). Another thing is, there's not that many people living on this floor. There's me, her, the couple across the hallway and a vacant apartment. She had never seen me before, but I expect she would have seen the neighbour across the hallway (the man, I mean). Would this mean that any seemingly young adult, in spite of his evetual murderous or otherwise nefarious intent could have sold her my (truthful, in my case) tale, but me, because I don't seem to look my age, arise hers suspicion... Oh, well, I had been having a pretty boring day.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark has lost as much weight as he had set himself to at first, but I now realise that I had been compromising and that I might actually make it to my ideal weight. I'm at a bit of a crossroad in my lief right now...
Eighteen Years Ago
Eighteen years ago today, in the early morning, I wrote, with very very trembly hands, in inordinately large letters, in cursive script (perhaps for the first time), on the large top line of an A5 sheet of paper, the date: September 17th 1991. And thus began my very first day in school.
Today, my education is a minor no more. It may now legally enjoy alcohol, cigarettes and sex. It may also stand trial as an adult (and I'd like it judged for a few shorcomings, too).
Eighteen years is a quite a while. I really should consider a career change.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark remembers a mixture of joy and anxiety from his first day of school. Also the buckle on my backpack was very hard to unclasp for my infant fingers. It has been a long time indeed.
Today, my education is a minor no more. It may now legally enjoy alcohol, cigarettes and sex. It may also stand trial as an adult (and I'd like it judged for a few shorcomings, too).
Eighteen years is a quite a while. I really should consider a career change.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark remembers a mixture of joy and anxiety from his first day of school. Also the buckle on my backpack was very hard to unclasp for my infant fingers. It has been a long time indeed.
Assumption
I don't want to talk about Fate anymore. Let her rot in some corner - far away from me. But no so far that it'll disturb the Aussies or the Kiwis, I've no beef with them. Send her to, oh say, France? Onwards...
Assumption, unlike Fate, who goes as a harsh mistress, is more of a deceitful little minx, one I just can't stay mad at. More often she's naughtier than she's nice, the little rascal, but she's an alright gal.
Today she might have done me quite a favour. Thank you, Assumption, dearest. Kick your colleague fate in the chin when you see her for me, if you will, and don't be a stranger.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is well aware that Fate isn't done taunting him, but, at this stage, it's manageable enough.
Assumption, unlike Fate, who goes as a harsh mistress, is more of a deceitful little minx, one I just can't stay mad at. More often she's naughtier than she's nice, the little rascal, but she's an alright gal.
Today she might have done me quite a favour. Thank you, Assumption, dearest. Kick your colleague fate in the chin when you see her for me, if you will, and don't be a stranger.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is well aware that Fate isn't done taunting him, but, at this stage, it's manageable enough.
Well, now...
Just when I thought I was finally getting on with my old whole self, our good friend fiend Fate throws yet another spanner in my gears.
Come on, can't I just have one year for myself without you stepping onto my already rather frail balance and mucking it all up? One measly year? Is it too much to ask, Fate?
And don't expect to be excused by that flimsy attempt at would-be Greek tragedy style you're flaunting right about now. You suck at it.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is rather outraged at how Fate would corrupt and pervert a very much selfless act of his to wound him yet again. So this is what I get for being nice!? Naughty time draws ever closer, then.
Come on, can't I just have one year for myself without you stepping onto my already rather frail balance and mucking it all up? One measly year? Is it too much to ask, Fate?
And don't expect to be excused by that flimsy attempt at would-be Greek tragedy style you're flaunting right about now. You suck at it.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is rather outraged at how Fate would corrupt and pervert a very much selfless act of his to wound him yet again. So this is what I get for being nice!? Naughty time draws ever closer, then.
Game on
We've come a long way since pannum et circences, you might say, but I beg to differ. Sure, pannum is no more bread or even brioche than ready made, mass produced, streamline packed, subliminally advertised junk of all sorts and circences is a far cry from slaves or convicts slain in an arena for fun, mostly because the arena is digital now, as are the gladiators and their likes. Nonetheless, it would seem that the pursuit for enlightment, knowledge and cold hard scientific fact has become rather unfashionable in the face of the most basic needs of simple nourishment and enterntainment.
Nothing wrong with that, really. Or perhaps we need a modern day Nero to burn this global Rome to the ground. I know I shouldn't be so lucky to turn to a pillar of salt.
So, gaming, then. Gaming, it appears, has become a major vertent of entertainment, today. Long gone are the days when an Atari 2600 was a kids toy and video games were merely novelties for the very young. It has becomme acceptable for adults to enjoy video games, and why not, when you think about the way games and their themes have grown to encompass just about all other aspects of entertainment.
I started gaming in the very early 90's, as a consequence of the dissemination of home gaming systems (I had a Sega Mega Drive for my birthday! Oh joy!), as opposed to the iconic arcades of the late 80's. Therefore, I have only a mild recollection of passing by arcades and wishing madly to go in and try out that dazzlingly wonderful world of flashing lights and beeping sounds that seemed so much fun from the outside, but, alas, no persons under 16 were ever admitted, and by the time I was 16 (and I had three home consoles under my belt), arcades were no more. Also, personal computers had grown to the point where they were afordable enough that just about every household had one sufficientely powerful to run games most arcade machines dared only dream of. And now, the market is veritably flooded with games and gaming systems, and I thought we'd take a look at the wide picture.
First of all, I'd like to make a remark on the evolution of games. My long gone Mega Drive (known as Genesis, across the pond) came with two standard gaming controllers. each had one (1) 8-way directional button and a grand total of three (3) buttons, plaus the start button, which was usually assigned to pausing the game, and, if it wasn't, odds were there was no option to pause the game (Hello, Mortal Kombat, who had the start button used to block, as punch, mid kick and high kick took up all of the other buttons, how do you do these days? How's the arthritis treating you?). Now, my X-Box 360 came with one standard controller with one 8-way directional button, two analogue thumbsticks, four action buttons, two shoulder (or bumper) buttons, two triggers, start feature button, back feature button and the iconic X-Box Dashboard button. You'd think that with this greatly enchanced range of controls (even more so when you think of combinations), games could offer a much wider range of complexity, but I just don't see that happening.In fact, it seems to me that game mechanics have become simpler than ever, but not "streamlines" simpler, rather "dumbed down" simpler. See, one game I used to love to bits was Jane's Fighters Anthology. Long before computer games came in ultra thin DVD cases (as some of you might remember, if Alzheimer's allows you to), they used to come in these shoeboxes you could fit nearly anything into. That was enough for a jewel case for the game disc, plenty of promotional material and a propper instruction manual, and Fighter's Anthology had a big one. Ben "Yahtzee" Croshaw once complained that "The Witcher" came with an instruction manual "you could bludgeon goats to death with". Well, that's his opinion, I din't think it was all that large, but maybe that was because I had read all of Fighter Anthology instruction manual, and that wasn't stapled together, it was properly bound, like a book. It had a good half-inch thick spine, and it wasn't merely "press Ctrl to fire" (obviously), it was a comprehensive manual of flight physics, tactical maneouvers, dogfight strategies, flight patterns, weapons selection and stuff I can't even begin to remember (that was almost fifteen years ago, you know). Some of you, Yahtzee among them, I suppose, might shudder at the thought of a game needing a manual the size of a small Thesaurus, but bear two things in mind: first, you didn't need to memorize the whole thing, not by a long shot, to be able to play the game; and second, all the added content contributed immensely to the enjoiment of the game. All I'm trying to say is I miss chunky manuals. Refering players t online tutorials all the time seems to be today's trend, but I still like the thought of being put in command of my character or whatever my role is and to be expected to know the controls, rather than being condescendingly taught to press X not to die.
Another thing I'd like to talk about is the inordinate quantity of systems available for today's gamer. Step into any games store and you'll find a dozen sections. Often enough, this means developers have to make each game available to each system. Most any game you can buy today has a version for PC, X-Box 360, Wii (a silly name for a silly console, wouldn't you say?), Nintendo DS, Playstation 2 (it's still kicking, the old girl!), Playstation Portable (another odd concept, if you ask me, but I'll let it slide in face of it's performance) and Playstation 3. I suppose you can plainly understand the pressure on game makers not to ostracize any gamers and try to cover all their bases, but how do you think it reflects on the quality of games? This isn't to say that the quality of a game is inversely proportional to the number of platforms it can run on, but wouldn't you say that a game that is developped for a particular platform has the potential to be much better than another game which was made bearing in mind that each aspect has to be compatible with each of the platforms it's goimg to be run on? Frankly, I think that diminuishes a gamer's experience. If I had my way, everybody would realise that with tons of games comming out each year, genres would be sufficientely distributed across the plethora of platforms that if each game was developped for a single system, it really wouldn't be that much of a deal. or maybe we could go the other way around and decide that each console was best suited for a particular genre, and gamers would buy a console based on their preference of genre rather than agonize over specs, politics and predictions of what might come to pass in the gaming panorama. Wouldn't it be great if there was a console best suited for mindless FPS types, another for single minded racing game types and so on? It would certainly simplify things a lot. Or maybe we should all plainly discard the thought of consoles and focus on developping games for the PC.
On the subject of hurting the games industry, hello, there, Electronic Arts. Hopefully, you've realised by now how moronic ypu concept of renting games was when you created that presposterous arrangement for Spore. I can only hope the expansion pack doesn't excpand on that idea, even though I'm only scarcely considering it. But you thoughts on The Sims 3 are worthy of punishment by St. Catherine's wheel, followed by decapitation with a rusty spoon. Ostracising players who try to improve their own gaming experinece as well as others' by adding custom modified objects is not OK. Not even in the planes of Oblivion (now that was a great game. Not perfect, not by a long shot, but the potential was all there). Now I'm told that Command and Conquer 4 will have an online based player progression, and after I read up on it for a few minutes, I don't think that's a bad thing, but I can't help but wonder the way's You'll find to muck it all up.
On a lighter note, olly olly oxen free, Starcraft 2.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is not a hardcore gamer, but, surprisingly, neither are most game developers, I hear.
Nothing wrong with that, really. Or perhaps we need a modern day Nero to burn this global Rome to the ground. I know I shouldn't be so lucky to turn to a pillar of salt.
So, gaming, then. Gaming, it appears, has become a major vertent of entertainment, today. Long gone are the days when an Atari 2600 was a kids toy and video games were merely novelties for the very young. It has becomme acceptable for adults to enjoy video games, and why not, when you think about the way games and their themes have grown to encompass just about all other aspects of entertainment.
I started gaming in the very early 90's, as a consequence of the dissemination of home gaming systems (I had a Sega Mega Drive for my birthday! Oh joy!), as opposed to the iconic arcades of the late 80's. Therefore, I have only a mild recollection of passing by arcades and wishing madly to go in and try out that dazzlingly wonderful world of flashing lights and beeping sounds that seemed so much fun from the outside, but, alas, no persons under 16 were ever admitted, and by the time I was 16 (and I had three home consoles under my belt), arcades were no more. Also, personal computers had grown to the point where they were afordable enough that just about every household had one sufficientely powerful to run games most arcade machines dared only dream of. And now, the market is veritably flooded with games and gaming systems, and I thought we'd take a look at the wide picture.
First of all, I'd like to make a remark on the evolution of games. My long gone Mega Drive (known as Genesis, across the pond) came with two standard gaming controllers. each had one (1) 8-way directional button and a grand total of three (3) buttons, plaus the start button, which was usually assigned to pausing the game, and, if it wasn't, odds were there was no option to pause the game (Hello, Mortal Kombat, who had the start button used to block, as punch, mid kick and high kick took up all of the other buttons, how do you do these days? How's the arthritis treating you?). Now, my X-Box 360 came with one standard controller with one 8-way directional button, two analogue thumbsticks, four action buttons, two shoulder (or bumper) buttons, two triggers, start feature button, back feature button and the iconic X-Box Dashboard button. You'd think that with this greatly enchanced range of controls (even more so when you think of combinations), games could offer a much wider range of complexity, but I just don't see that happening.In fact, it seems to me that game mechanics have become simpler than ever, but not "streamlines" simpler, rather "dumbed down" simpler. See, one game I used to love to bits was Jane's Fighters Anthology. Long before computer games came in ultra thin DVD cases (as some of you might remember, if Alzheimer's allows you to), they used to come in these shoeboxes you could fit nearly anything into. That was enough for a jewel case for the game disc, plenty of promotional material and a propper instruction manual, and Fighter's Anthology had a big one. Ben "Yahtzee" Croshaw once complained that "The Witcher" came with an instruction manual "you could bludgeon goats to death with". Well, that's his opinion, I din't think it was all that large, but maybe that was because I had read all of Fighter Anthology instruction manual, and that wasn't stapled together, it was properly bound, like a book. It had a good half-inch thick spine, and it wasn't merely "press Ctrl to fire" (obviously), it was a comprehensive manual of flight physics, tactical maneouvers, dogfight strategies, flight patterns, weapons selection and stuff I can't even begin to remember (that was almost fifteen years ago, you know). Some of you, Yahtzee among them, I suppose, might shudder at the thought of a game needing a manual the size of a small Thesaurus, but bear two things in mind: first, you didn't need to memorize the whole thing, not by a long shot, to be able to play the game; and second, all the added content contributed immensely to the enjoiment of the game. All I'm trying to say is I miss chunky manuals. Refering players t online tutorials all the time seems to be today's trend, but I still like the thought of being put in command of my character or whatever my role is and to be expected to know the controls, rather than being condescendingly taught to press X not to die.
Another thing I'd like to talk about is the inordinate quantity of systems available for today's gamer. Step into any games store and you'll find a dozen sections. Often enough, this means developers have to make each game available to each system. Most any game you can buy today has a version for PC, X-Box 360, Wii (a silly name for a silly console, wouldn't you say?), Nintendo DS, Playstation 2 (it's still kicking, the old girl!), Playstation Portable (another odd concept, if you ask me, but I'll let it slide in face of it's performance) and Playstation 3. I suppose you can plainly understand the pressure on game makers not to ostracize any gamers and try to cover all their bases, but how do you think it reflects on the quality of games? This isn't to say that the quality of a game is inversely proportional to the number of platforms it can run on, but wouldn't you say that a game that is developped for a particular platform has the potential to be much better than another game which was made bearing in mind that each aspect has to be compatible with each of the platforms it's goimg to be run on? Frankly, I think that diminuishes a gamer's experience. If I had my way, everybody would realise that with tons of games comming out each year, genres would be sufficientely distributed across the plethora of platforms that if each game was developped for a single system, it really wouldn't be that much of a deal. or maybe we could go the other way around and decide that each console was best suited for a particular genre, and gamers would buy a console based on their preference of genre rather than agonize over specs, politics and predictions of what might come to pass in the gaming panorama. Wouldn't it be great if there was a console best suited for mindless FPS types, another for single minded racing game types and so on? It would certainly simplify things a lot. Or maybe we should all plainly discard the thought of consoles and focus on developping games for the PC.
On the subject of hurting the games industry, hello, there, Electronic Arts. Hopefully, you've realised by now how moronic ypu concept of renting games was when you created that presposterous arrangement for Spore. I can only hope the expansion pack doesn't excpand on that idea, even though I'm only scarcely considering it. But you thoughts on The Sims 3 are worthy of punishment by St. Catherine's wheel, followed by decapitation with a rusty spoon. Ostracising players who try to improve their own gaming experinece as well as others' by adding custom modified objects is not OK. Not even in the planes of Oblivion (now that was a great game. Not perfect, not by a long shot, but the potential was all there). Now I'm told that Command and Conquer 4 will have an online based player progression, and after I read up on it for a few minutes, I don't think that's a bad thing, but I can't help but wonder the way's You'll find to muck it all up.
On a lighter note, olly olly oxen free, Starcraft 2.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is not a hardcore gamer, but, surprisingly, neither are most game developers, I hear.
Out for drinks
Most of you might know I'm not a heavy drinker. I'll have the odd beer with the mates at gatherings or even go out for drinks on special occasions, but generally I don't drink, and when I do, I pace myself.
WHich is a good thing, because
It would take 34 bottles of Guinness Guinness Draught to kill me
I don't like Guiness all that much...
Feel free to try this at home. Taking the test, that is, not chugging down 34 bottles of Guiness. If you do (the latter), however, can I have your earthly possessions afterwards?
Pax (et vino) vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark has tried to have some Jagermeister for his last few outings for drinks, but with no success. How hard is this drink to come by, really?
WHich is a good thing, because
It would take 34 bottles of Guinness Guinness Draught to kill me
Created by Bar Stools
I don't like Guiness all that much...
Feel free to try this at home. Taking the test, that is, not chugging down 34 bottles of Guiness. If you do (the latter), however, can I have your earthly possessions afterwards?
Pax (et vino) vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark has tried to have some Jagermeister for his last few outings for drinks, but with no success. How hard is this drink to come by, really?
Vacationing soon?
I have never made any effort to conceal my fondness for London either as a vacationing spot or a place to live. However, I might be going to Okinawa sometime soon instead, after seeing this...
I just have to see what in blazes they mean by this sign.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark dares to brave the flu scare and will be going to London for one (1) weekend in late August. Single attractive females of age between 18 and 40 are welcome to apply as travel companions.
I just have to see what in blazes they mean by this sign.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark dares to brave the flu scare and will be going to London for one (1) weekend in late August. Single attractive females of age between 18 and 40 are welcome to apply as travel companions.
Ciao
"Ciao!", she said.
And though I was the one who left, I was left wondering:
"What the bloody hell did she mean by that!?"
Cyphers I can deal with. Subtlety, on the other hand, is like a foreign language of which I know only a few words. Kind of like German...
Pax vobiscum aque vale.
ArabianShark would like to to notice that last post (not this post, last post) was this blog's 169th post. That's thirteen squared. Very bad luck if you're superstitious, very good luck if you're a fan of the very lovely Olivia Wilde. Draw your own conclusions.
And though I was the one who left, I was left wondering:
"What the bloody hell did she mean by that!?"
Cyphers I can deal with. Subtlety, on the other hand, is like a foreign language of which I know only a few words. Kind of like German...
Pax vobiscum aque vale.
ArabianShark would like to to notice that last post (not this post, last post) was this blog's 169th post. That's thirteen squared. Very bad luck if you're superstitious, very good luck if you're a fan of the very lovely Olivia Wilde. Draw your own conclusions.
Incompetence spreads...
I used to think this wretched excuse for a country was the only massively incompetent country nearby. Well...
In the 28th of June I ordered a pair of boots from a Spanish website. I had had dealings with that website before and thought it was good enough. Back then, when I had ordered a pair of sunglasses, I had paid with credit card the moment I placed my order. A few days later I received an e-mail from them saying that as soon as I made a money order transfer to some account they indicated, they would proceed with shipping. I made my best to send an e-mail in Spanish (which I never do) calling their attention to the fact that I had already paid. They made their excuses and said that their boss was on vacation and only he had the credit card numbers, so if I could re-send just the credit card number, they'd proceed to send my order. So I did, and they sent me the sunglasses and I thought it had been just a minor hiccup and never thought much about it.
Back to my new boots. On the same day as I placed my order, they sent me a confirmation e-mail, and I thought everything was running smoothly. On the 6th of July, a whole week after I had placed my order, I had heard nary a peep from them, so I went to their site to see if there was a problem. Now, most commercial sites keep a log of their clients' orders, and even an option to track yet undelivered packages, but my latest order wasn't even listed on my account information. I sent an e-mail asking about this. They were quite quick to answer that the order wouldn-t be listed until it was processed. So, I wonder, what the bloody hell had they been doing for the previous week, faffing about with bulls? THey did, however, promise to give me a delivery date the next day. Which they never did.
Fast forward another week and I sent them another e-mail, complaining a bit more. They said nothing about that, but they called me the next day, saying they had lost my order, and asked me, on the phone, to place my order - again. By this time my patience had run out, and I tired of trying to make my point across in Spanish, so I adressed them in my own mother tongue and let them work for a sale, for a change.
Today I received an e-mail stating that they could not satisfy my order. Mind you, this was not an apolgetic e-mail, more of an informative e-mail, as though they were telling me when my order would be delivered (which, in fact, they were - never). And for this they took more than a whole fortnight. What the hell!? They also said I should contact my local distributor for that particular brand. Well, don't you bloody think I tried that even before I went to you, you paella shovelling castanette heads!?
In a way, I'm glad to see mine isn't the only masively incompetent country. In another, it seems competence isn-t just as within reach as I thought. I really need to get out of here.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark fails to see why the Brits have such a warm spot in their hearts for Spain, as there-s hardly anything there they wouldn't find in their former colonies - the ones worthwhile, that is.
In the 28th of June I ordered a pair of boots from a Spanish website. I had had dealings with that website before and thought it was good enough. Back then, when I had ordered a pair of sunglasses, I had paid with credit card the moment I placed my order. A few days later I received an e-mail from them saying that as soon as I made a money order transfer to some account they indicated, they would proceed with shipping. I made my best to send an e-mail in Spanish (which I never do) calling their attention to the fact that I had already paid. They made their excuses and said that their boss was on vacation and only he had the credit card numbers, so if I could re-send just the credit card number, they'd proceed to send my order. So I did, and they sent me the sunglasses and I thought it had been just a minor hiccup and never thought much about it.
Back to my new boots. On the same day as I placed my order, they sent me a confirmation e-mail, and I thought everything was running smoothly. On the 6th of July, a whole week after I had placed my order, I had heard nary a peep from them, so I went to their site to see if there was a problem. Now, most commercial sites keep a log of their clients' orders, and even an option to track yet undelivered packages, but my latest order wasn't even listed on my account information. I sent an e-mail asking about this. They were quite quick to answer that the order wouldn-t be listed until it was processed. So, I wonder, what the bloody hell had they been doing for the previous week, faffing about with bulls? THey did, however, promise to give me a delivery date the next day. Which they never did.
Fast forward another week and I sent them another e-mail, complaining a bit more. They said nothing about that, but they called me the next day, saying they had lost my order, and asked me, on the phone, to place my order - again. By this time my patience had run out, and I tired of trying to make my point across in Spanish, so I adressed them in my own mother tongue and let them work for a sale, for a change.
Today I received an e-mail stating that they could not satisfy my order. Mind you, this was not an apolgetic e-mail, more of an informative e-mail, as though they were telling me when my order would be delivered (which, in fact, they were - never). And for this they took more than a whole fortnight. What the hell!? They also said I should contact my local distributor for that particular brand. Well, don't you bloody think I tried that even before I went to you, you paella shovelling castanette heads!?
In a way, I'm glad to see mine isn't the only masively incompetent country. In another, it seems competence isn-t just as within reach as I thought. I really need to get out of here.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark fails to see why the Brits have such a warm spot in their hearts for Spain, as there-s hardly anything there they wouldn't find in their former colonies - the ones worthwhile, that is.
First exemplar
For once, Yahtzee disappointed me. His review of Prototype said nearly bugger all about the game, and while it was entertaining enough, as are all of his reviews, I feel he put way too much emphasis on comparing it to inFamous to give any sort of idea of what the game was all about. This must be addressed...
Imagine that GTA IV, Assassin's Creed and Mirror's Edge had a threesome (OK, now I gave myself the image of Altair and Niko Belic going at it with Faith at the same time. Hot, a bit, perhaps, but hilarious, a lot, definitely. The joke potential is out there and there's a pecan nut cookie with the name of who can make the best joke out of this situation on it) from which a beautiful child was born, and then that child got stuck on one nasty acid trip.
So storywise Alan Mercer (that's you, the player) woke up at his own autopsy, and rather than reassure the coroners who hadn't started to cut into him, decided to murder them brutally with appendages that he wasn't supposed to have, as much to his surprise as to ours (if we had no previous knowledge of what the game was all about, that is). So he sees what he did, and someone shoots him for it (fair enough, I'd say), except that doesn't kill him and he resumes his fledgeling rampage. This does alright to set the tone for the game: Everyone hates you, kill everyone.
Well, that's a bit simplistic, really. There's the harmless, innocent civillians, who can do absolutely nothing to hurt you and exist only to kill for a disguise, kill for a tidbit of the story, kill for extra health or kill for the heck of it. There's no penalty for killing civilians, and no law enforcement, at least not the way you'd expect from GTA, where you can't accidentally shoot someone's head off without a whole police station worth of police forces chasing after you. In this game, killing everyone is alright provided you don't let the militray see you do it. Come thi think of it, the Marines (because that's the branch of the military they're going to pick on in this game) are really only concerned about your superpowers, so I suppose they'd be cool with you picking up one of their spare M-16 and going postal on the rest of the populace. I'll ahve to try that.
Onto gameplay then. As I said, the game plays much like GTA, except that instead of driving about, you parkour around. Parkour, in spite of being the definition given of Alan's free running on the manual, isn't really what he does, as I am yet to met any traceur who can leap like Alan, although that's probably a techinicality, run up a vertical wall for as long as there's a wall to run along, although that's probably because most traceurs aren't strong enough to dig their feet into brick walls with each step like Alan, or, for some reason not entirely given neither in game nor in the manual, glide, although that's probably because traceurs are real people without fictional mutant afflictions. Much like GTA, you run around Manhattan (they recreated Manhattan for the game, and quite well, I thought) looking for the lazy bum who sits about and tells you what you need to do. See, this is why I liked Scarface (the game, not the movie, although the movie is good too, just not called upon for this matter). In Scarface, you alone knew what to do next, you didn't need some NPC to tell you what to do next. I mean, you're given control of a character, the character is supposed to somehow embody you in the game. What does your character say about you if he/she can't think for themselves as far as deciding what the next story mission is going to be? So anyway, you run errands like a good little boy with some wierd mutation that allows you to perform awesome feats of strength and agility and twist your body into weapons of bludgeoning, slicing, ripping and whipping (for the S&M crowd, I suppose) and in between there are sidemissions that pop up and sit there until you can be bothered to do them (or don't that's alright). Sometimes (and I mean "in some games") these missions are fun and rewarding and look like they have a purpose and a place in the setting of the game (again, Scarface had you do drug runs, protecting your empire and shylocking, all well within Tony Montana's character and trade). Prototype has you seeing how many zombies (they're not called zombies, but ever since Fallout 3 started calling its zombis "Ghouls" I decided every sort of Zombie should be properly called zombie instead of whatever their creator called it, and if you're not happy, I demand that you refer to my opinions, as I have created them, as "Commandments". So there) or Mrines you can kill in a specific way within a time limit. There remind me of GTA II and III's Kill Frenzies, and are alright enough. Then there's the War Missions, where you join either the Zombies or the Marines and kill the other faction before everyone else in yoour faction snuffs it, and this seems aright as well, although a bit strange, as neither faction actually likes you or goes one iota out of their way to stop themselves from killing you as soon as they kno eho you are. And then there's the races. Why, oh why races? Yahtzee said this, and the races have absolutely no place in this game. Really, if you were to find yourself hunted by Marines and Zombies, with no memory whatsoever of anything and suffering from some disease that gave you superpowers as well as driving you insane with the memories of those you killed, would you set up races or yourself against the clock around some rooftops? I wouldn't either. And Gliding? Those are fun, but I feel they have no place either. I suppose that's where this game should not have taken so much after Mom (that's Faith, from Mirros's Edge, if you couldn't figure it out for yourself).
Combat is where this game realy shines. There's something for everybody: Hack and slash fun makes up most fo the combat, with fluid attacks from your claws/blades/hammers/whips/fists (yes, you can just duke it out in a regular fist fight with super strength, but half the fun goes away, if you do), but there's a rather bland shooter component with auto aim (at least for the 360 version) and only one weapon at a time which you discard as soon as you run out of ammo (again, Faith's colours shining through) and, of course, you can get your hands (if you can find them) on a military vehicle and blast about in it. As this isn't GTA, there's only a handful of things to drive: so far I've found an APC, with homing missiles and a heavy machinegun, a Tank, with a main turret and a machine gun, a transport helicopter, with rockets and a machine gun and a redition of the AH-64 Apache anti-tank helicopter, with tracking all-purpose missiles, rockets and, surprise, a machine gun (go figure). It should be said that usually fliying in these games is a nightmare, as the controls aren't made for flight simulation, and this is hardly any exception, although nowere as nightmarish as, say, Operation Flashpoint, in the late 90's, and even less of a nightmare than in GTA IV. However, once you get down and dirty with melee, combos are a bit dodgy, and the whole thing is button mashingly repetitive and bland, at times, nothing like, say, Samurai Warriors and it's like. Still, there's a wide enough array of things to do with your enhanced mutant flesh in combat, but most of them are a bit ungainly to be done often.
Character progression is always nice, and here, it's a bit of a hybrid. Some evolutions you get as part of the story, and others you buy with experience (which Prototpe calls EP, but as Microsoft hasn't tried to copyright the abreviation XP, I suppose it might as well have used it like everyone else). Yhis is the only reason to do most of the side quests, except those which have you breach a military base and eat up personnel with skills, which you acquire and cannot be had any other way. But even this isn't such a good reason to do the side quests. More on this in a while.
Innovation for this game comes in the Consume gimmick. For any reason, at any time, you can consume people. If you do, they vanish in a brutally violent cloud of groy brutality, your health gets replenished a bit and you can take on the form of whoever you just ate (so you are what you eat, in this game). This is useful to shake off pursuers when you behave badly in front of the Marines, but is also useful to infiltrate their bases, as they don't usually bother you at all for as long as you don't do superpowers, don't kill them and look like one of them, which allows you to do all the things you shouldn't while they're not watching under their own noses. At some foint, it also enables you to point at any Marine and yell "It's him", and the other Marines around (including automated turrets) will shoot the Marine you pointed at for you. You may then ask them who wrote "gullible" on the ceiling, and they'll all look up, even if they're outdoors. Well, you can't, but if there was an action for asking them who wrote "gullible" on the ceiling, they would look up.
Workarounds come in the form of exploiting the Hives (not, not the disease). You see, for some reason, every now and then, the zombies infest a building, and make it a zombie churning hive. Destrying the building, provides XP like crazy for doing hardly anything, really. Just wlak into a base, wreak some havok and the Marines, instead of just fending for themselves, then calling reinforcements, then upgrading reingorcements and so on, immediately call in the helicopters. An then, your day is made. If running about isn't your thing, save your XP until you can get the jump upgrades, the Whipfist power and the one that allows you to grab from a distaance. Now go into a Military base, bitchslap the Commander (or any other Marine) and wait for the helicopters. Then jump up, latch on to a helicopter, "skyjack" it (skyjacket is not a garment worn by pilots) and dispose of the other helicopters. Now unload your rockets into the Hives and let the XP roll. When you run out of ammo, take the helicopter back towards some Marines and hassle them until more helicopters come (i. e., in a heartbeat). Knowing this takes some of the fun out of the game, but the storyline compels me such... Oh, wait, no it doesn't.
Finally, the real nasty dealings. First, there's the useless collectionism. Spread around the city there are phantom fire looking things that are either hints or landmark collectibles. Hints are usually about as useful as "Press the jump button tpo jump", and landmark collectibles do bugger all, in game. Bad to the bone, if you ask me. Then, storywise - ok, hold on. The story is a convoluted mess of starting out knowing nothing and finding out that nowing nothing is probably the way to go. There are some fellows walking around that know stuff, and consuming them lets you know what parto of the storyline they know, and if you can be bothered to stop playing, then go into an unnavigateable menu to see who knew whom (remember the names won't have a face to put it to - because you ate it) and what did they know of the story, then you might be able to learn what the hell is going on in this strange, diesase ridden Manhattan - but, really, why should you care? This is probably where this acid junkie should have taken after one of the dads (Assassin's Creed had a neat story), which leads me to believe Altair was probably the only one - no, I won't do this. I suppose the story might be alright, but the game is enjoyable enough without it, and I don't see how it's going to make it any better, especially because the memories I've been getting are usually much too biased to be storytelling, or only barely relevant (or so it seems, but I haven't really been playng attention). Then, storywise, there came a moment, after a Boss fight where I lost all my powers. What the hell was that all about? So now, for a few story missions, I can't do most of the stuff that makes the game fun? And how would the game explain that I had lost all battle worth powers, but not the ability to absorb people, disguise, run up walls and glide? Major fault, Prototype...
In conclusion, however, this is pretty good. It's not revolutionary in any way, and seems to pick up on many other titles and fames (there's a persistent, undrlying Spider Man thme to the whole thing - young adult in New York jumping from rooftop to rooftop in disguise with figures of authority after him, they could have made a good Carnage game instead), but is well entertaining. So give it a whirl.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark has his last final ever in a few hours.
Imagine that GTA IV, Assassin's Creed and Mirror's Edge had a threesome (OK, now I gave myself the image of Altair and Niko Belic going at it with Faith at the same time. Hot, a bit, perhaps, but hilarious, a lot, definitely. The joke potential is out there and there's a pecan nut cookie with the name of who can make the best joke out of this situation on it) from which a beautiful child was born, and then that child got stuck on one nasty acid trip.
So storywise Alan Mercer (that's you, the player) woke up at his own autopsy, and rather than reassure the coroners who hadn't started to cut into him, decided to murder them brutally with appendages that he wasn't supposed to have, as much to his surprise as to ours (if we had no previous knowledge of what the game was all about, that is). So he sees what he did, and someone shoots him for it (fair enough, I'd say), except that doesn't kill him and he resumes his fledgeling rampage. This does alright to set the tone for the game: Everyone hates you, kill everyone.
Well, that's a bit simplistic, really. There's the harmless, innocent civillians, who can do absolutely nothing to hurt you and exist only to kill for a disguise, kill for a tidbit of the story, kill for extra health or kill for the heck of it. There's no penalty for killing civilians, and no law enforcement, at least not the way you'd expect from GTA, where you can't accidentally shoot someone's head off without a whole police station worth of police forces chasing after you. In this game, killing everyone is alright provided you don't let the militray see you do it. Come thi think of it, the Marines (because that's the branch of the military they're going to pick on in this game) are really only concerned about your superpowers, so I suppose they'd be cool with you picking up one of their spare M-16 and going postal on the rest of the populace. I'll ahve to try that.
Onto gameplay then. As I said, the game plays much like GTA, except that instead of driving about, you parkour around. Parkour, in spite of being the definition given of Alan's free running on the manual, isn't really what he does, as I am yet to met any traceur who can leap like Alan, although that's probably a techinicality, run up a vertical wall for as long as there's a wall to run along, although that's probably because most traceurs aren't strong enough to dig their feet into brick walls with each step like Alan, or, for some reason not entirely given neither in game nor in the manual, glide, although that's probably because traceurs are real people without fictional mutant afflictions. Much like GTA, you run around Manhattan (they recreated Manhattan for the game, and quite well, I thought) looking for the lazy bum who sits about and tells you what you need to do. See, this is why I liked Scarface (the game, not the movie, although the movie is good too, just not called upon for this matter). In Scarface, you alone knew what to do next, you didn't need some NPC to tell you what to do next. I mean, you're given control of a character, the character is supposed to somehow embody you in the game. What does your character say about you if he/she can't think for themselves as far as deciding what the next story mission is going to be? So anyway, you run errands like a good little boy with some wierd mutation that allows you to perform awesome feats of strength and agility and twist your body into weapons of bludgeoning, slicing, ripping and whipping (for the S&M crowd, I suppose) and in between there are sidemissions that pop up and sit there until you can be bothered to do them (or don't that's alright). Sometimes (and I mean "in some games") these missions are fun and rewarding and look like they have a purpose and a place in the setting of the game (again, Scarface had you do drug runs, protecting your empire and shylocking, all well within Tony Montana's character and trade). Prototype has you seeing how many zombies (they're not called zombies, but ever since Fallout 3 started calling its zombis "Ghouls" I decided every sort of Zombie should be properly called zombie instead of whatever their creator called it, and if you're not happy, I demand that you refer to my opinions, as I have created them, as "Commandments". So there) or Mrines you can kill in a specific way within a time limit. There remind me of GTA II and III's Kill Frenzies, and are alright enough. Then there's the War Missions, where you join either the Zombies or the Marines and kill the other faction before everyone else in yoour faction snuffs it, and this seems aright as well, although a bit strange, as neither faction actually likes you or goes one iota out of their way to stop themselves from killing you as soon as they kno eho you are. And then there's the races. Why, oh why races? Yahtzee said this, and the races have absolutely no place in this game. Really, if you were to find yourself hunted by Marines and Zombies, with no memory whatsoever of anything and suffering from some disease that gave you superpowers as well as driving you insane with the memories of those you killed, would you set up races or yourself against the clock around some rooftops? I wouldn't either. And Gliding? Those are fun, but I feel they have no place either. I suppose that's where this game should not have taken so much after Mom (that's Faith, from Mirros's Edge, if you couldn't figure it out for yourself).
Combat is where this game realy shines. There's something for everybody: Hack and slash fun makes up most fo the combat, with fluid attacks from your claws/blades/hammers/whips/fists (yes, you can just duke it out in a regular fist fight with super strength, but half the fun goes away, if you do), but there's a rather bland shooter component with auto aim (at least for the 360 version) and only one weapon at a time which you discard as soon as you run out of ammo (again, Faith's colours shining through) and, of course, you can get your hands (if you can find them) on a military vehicle and blast about in it. As this isn't GTA, there's only a handful of things to drive: so far I've found an APC, with homing missiles and a heavy machinegun, a Tank, with a main turret and a machine gun, a transport helicopter, with rockets and a machine gun and a redition of the AH-64 Apache anti-tank helicopter, with tracking all-purpose missiles, rockets and, surprise, a machine gun (go figure). It should be said that usually fliying in these games is a nightmare, as the controls aren't made for flight simulation, and this is hardly any exception, although nowere as nightmarish as, say, Operation Flashpoint, in the late 90's, and even less of a nightmare than in GTA IV. However, once you get down and dirty with melee, combos are a bit dodgy, and the whole thing is button mashingly repetitive and bland, at times, nothing like, say, Samurai Warriors and it's like. Still, there's a wide enough array of things to do with your enhanced mutant flesh in combat, but most of them are a bit ungainly to be done often.
Character progression is always nice, and here, it's a bit of a hybrid. Some evolutions you get as part of the story, and others you buy with experience (which Prototpe calls EP, but as Microsoft hasn't tried to copyright the abreviation XP, I suppose it might as well have used it like everyone else). Yhis is the only reason to do most of the side quests, except those which have you breach a military base and eat up personnel with skills, which you acquire and cannot be had any other way. But even this isn't such a good reason to do the side quests. More on this in a while.
Innovation for this game comes in the Consume gimmick. For any reason, at any time, you can consume people. If you do, they vanish in a brutally violent cloud of groy brutality, your health gets replenished a bit and you can take on the form of whoever you just ate (so you are what you eat, in this game). This is useful to shake off pursuers when you behave badly in front of the Marines, but is also useful to infiltrate their bases, as they don't usually bother you at all for as long as you don't do superpowers, don't kill them and look like one of them, which allows you to do all the things you shouldn't while they're not watching under their own noses. At some foint, it also enables you to point at any Marine and yell "It's him", and the other Marines around (including automated turrets) will shoot the Marine you pointed at for you. You may then ask them who wrote "gullible" on the ceiling, and they'll all look up, even if they're outdoors. Well, you can't, but if there was an action for asking them who wrote "gullible" on the ceiling, they would look up.
Workarounds come in the form of exploiting the Hives (not, not the disease). You see, for some reason, every now and then, the zombies infest a building, and make it a zombie churning hive. Destrying the building, provides XP like crazy for doing hardly anything, really. Just wlak into a base, wreak some havok and the Marines, instead of just fending for themselves, then calling reinforcements, then upgrading reingorcements and so on, immediately call in the helicopters. An then, your day is made. If running about isn't your thing, save your XP until you can get the jump upgrades, the Whipfist power and the one that allows you to grab from a distaance. Now go into a Military base, bitchslap the Commander (or any other Marine) and wait for the helicopters. Then jump up, latch on to a helicopter, "skyjack" it (skyjacket is not a garment worn by pilots) and dispose of the other helicopters. Now unload your rockets into the Hives and let the XP roll. When you run out of ammo, take the helicopter back towards some Marines and hassle them until more helicopters come (i. e., in a heartbeat). Knowing this takes some of the fun out of the game, but the storyline compels me such... Oh, wait, no it doesn't.
Finally, the real nasty dealings. First, there's the useless collectionism. Spread around the city there are phantom fire looking things that are either hints or landmark collectibles. Hints are usually about as useful as "Press the jump button tpo jump", and landmark collectibles do bugger all, in game. Bad to the bone, if you ask me. Then, storywise - ok, hold on. The story is a convoluted mess of starting out knowing nothing and finding out that nowing nothing is probably the way to go. There are some fellows walking around that know stuff, and consuming them lets you know what parto of the storyline they know, and if you can be bothered to stop playing, then go into an unnavigateable menu to see who knew whom (remember the names won't have a face to put it to - because you ate it) and what did they know of the story, then you might be able to learn what the hell is going on in this strange, diesase ridden Manhattan - but, really, why should you care? This is probably where this acid junkie should have taken after one of the dads (Assassin's Creed had a neat story), which leads me to believe Altair was probably the only one - no, I won't do this. I suppose the story might be alright, but the game is enjoyable enough without it, and I don't see how it's going to make it any better, especially because the memories I've been getting are usually much too biased to be storytelling, or only barely relevant (or so it seems, but I haven't really been playng attention). Then, storywise, there came a moment, after a Boss fight where I lost all my powers. What the hell was that all about? So now, for a few story missions, I can't do most of the stuff that makes the game fun? And how would the game explain that I had lost all battle worth powers, but not the ability to absorb people, disguise, run up walls and glide? Major fault, Prototype...
In conclusion, however, this is pretty good. It's not revolutionary in any way, and seems to pick up on many other titles and fames (there's a persistent, undrlying Spider Man thme to the whole thing - young adult in New York jumping from rooftop to rooftop in disguise with figures of authority after him, they could have made a good Carnage game instead), but is well entertaining. So give it a whirl.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark has his last final ever in a few hours.
American Soil
Two very bad topics to discuss on a first date are politics and religion, and you can take it to the bank (although finance is hardly substacne for a romantic conversation). But this isn't our first date, is it, dear readers?
Movies: now that might be a rather better topic for a fist dte chat. From circa 1944 up until the mid, maybe late 90's, whenever a beligerant threat was needed, you could depend on nuclear ordinance as a plot device. It worked for Dr. Strangelove or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb, The Hunt for Red October, Dr. No and, more recently, The Sum of All Fears (where it was proved that Ben Afleck's suck may outweight Morgan Freeman's awesome - sorry, Mr. Freeman, you're still awesome anyway) and The World is Not Enough - and Bond doesn't usually dabble in something as unimaginative as nuclear weapons. Lately, however, it seems there's a bit of a shift in the current of thought towards either biological weapons (vide The Tuxedo and so many others) or terrorism, especially with heavy civillian casualties (vide Collateral, Fight Club, Iron Man, for example) or both (vide 24 and loads more).
Now me, being bit stuck in the past (I tell you, this Internet thing seems like news to me every single day), would like to focus a bit back on the nuclear weapons. Have you ever noticed there is a very small nuber of countries where a nuclear warhead was ever detonated intentionally by another and an even smaller number (x is defined as even smaller then y if x %le y) number of countries who have actively used nuclear weapons on other countries. It should come as no surprise that, among all the countires that currrently count nuclear warheads in their armouries, one of them has more than any other. I wonder if it's a surprise that said country has never been the victim of a nuclear attack or, even had nuclear weapons detonated on its soil (Hawaii hardly counts as American Soil. I mean, they even had specially pritned currency after WWII that would have no monetary value in case Japan tried to reminesce about Pearl Harbour and take Hawaii). Enter the SADM.
By now you may be asking, Shark, you cynical bastard, you, what on Earth is a SADM? Well, this is a SADM. For thise of you whose stubby little fingers are much too good to waste on a click to an external link wich could save me the trouble of typing this long drawn rant that far outweights the actual definition of a SADM, but oh, no, you had to save your precious fingers for your APM or your CS:S or COD or wahtever FPS and TLA you can think of, it's a small, portable nuke, conceived by your friendly neighbourhood Americans in the 1960's to use against the Soviets, should they try to invade Europe. Yes, there's a thought, let's blow the hell out of somewhere we have no business in and irradiate and contaminate their water and their soil under the pretence that we'd be doing them a favour, stopping those gosh darn Soviets. We might even get some thank yous out of it. And before you go on thinking how those crazy European chicks might have "sophisticated European" ways of saying thank you, isn't this on par with American foreign policy? So kind of them...
I'd like to propose a worlwide boycott on good ol' Red, White and Blue (which, by the way, they stole from the Brits. Their flag's colour scheme is taken from the Union Jack. I wonder what it means, thatone of their patriotic icons is actually, first and foremost, the patriotic icon of another country, on from which they claimed emancipation after a war, some would say, instigated by a lie), but I know that's not going to take. We're all a bit too hung up on Ameritrash (kind of Eurotrash, only it refers to products. And not people. And it's from America. And it's not witty in any way, but never mind). Of course, most of Ameritrash isn't even made in America (except for McDOnalds and 5.11 boots. I might be wrong on both counts. You have been warned), so, if a worldwide boycott would mean that Ameritrash still gets made and shipped worldwide, only not passing GO, not collecting $200 and, thus, a bit more affordable... You know, I think this could work. How about we give it a whirl, a trial period. Six months? We can do without pron (oh, right, porn is usually made either in Oakland, San Francisco or San Fernando Valley, so that's also Ameritrash made in America) for six months, right? If not, talk to the Germans and the Austrians, they'll hook you up. Just don't leave them in the same room unattended.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark realises his usual parting sentence sounds a bit ironic in this post, but really, how many wars have the Yanks not been in recently? And how many of the ones they've been on were in their soil? Do you think that explains their war-mongering?
Movies: now that might be a rather better topic for a fist dte chat. From circa 1944 up until the mid, maybe late 90's, whenever a beligerant threat was needed, you could depend on nuclear ordinance as a plot device. It worked for Dr. Strangelove or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb, The Hunt for Red October, Dr. No and, more recently, The Sum of All Fears (where it was proved that Ben Afleck's suck may outweight Morgan Freeman's awesome - sorry, Mr. Freeman, you're still awesome anyway) and The World is Not Enough - and Bond doesn't usually dabble in something as unimaginative as nuclear weapons. Lately, however, it seems there's a bit of a shift in the current of thought towards either biological weapons (vide The Tuxedo and so many others) or terrorism, especially with heavy civillian casualties (vide Collateral, Fight Club, Iron Man, for example) or both (vide 24 and loads more).
Now me, being bit stuck in the past (I tell you, this Internet thing seems like news to me every single day), would like to focus a bit back on the nuclear weapons. Have you ever noticed there is a very small nuber of countries where a nuclear warhead was ever detonated intentionally by another and an even smaller number (x is defined as even smaller then y if x %le y) number of countries who have actively used nuclear weapons on other countries. It should come as no surprise that, among all the countires that currrently count nuclear warheads in their armouries, one of them has more than any other. I wonder if it's a surprise that said country has never been the victim of a nuclear attack or, even had nuclear weapons detonated on its soil (Hawaii hardly counts as American Soil. I mean, they even had specially pritned currency after WWII that would have no monetary value in case Japan tried to reminesce about Pearl Harbour and take Hawaii). Enter the SADM.
By now you may be asking, Shark, you cynical bastard, you, what on Earth is a SADM? Well, this is a SADM. For thise of you whose stubby little fingers are much too good to waste on a click to an external link wich could save me the trouble of typing this long drawn rant that far outweights the actual definition of a SADM, but oh, no, you had to save your precious fingers for your APM or your CS:S or COD or wahtever FPS and TLA you can think of, it's a small, portable nuke, conceived by your friendly neighbourhood Americans in the 1960's to use against the Soviets, should they try to invade Europe. Yes, there's a thought, let's blow the hell out of somewhere we have no business in and irradiate and contaminate their water and their soil under the pretence that we'd be doing them a favour, stopping those gosh darn Soviets. We might even get some thank yous out of it. And before you go on thinking how those crazy European chicks might have "sophisticated European" ways of saying thank you, isn't this on par with American foreign policy? So kind of them...
I'd like to propose a worlwide boycott on good ol' Red, White and Blue (which, by the way, they stole from the Brits. Their flag's colour scheme is taken from the Union Jack. I wonder what it means, thatone of their patriotic icons is actually, first and foremost, the patriotic icon of another country, on from which they claimed emancipation after a war, some would say, instigated by a lie), but I know that's not going to take. We're all a bit too hung up on Ameritrash (kind of Eurotrash, only it refers to products. And not people. And it's from America. And it's not witty in any way, but never mind). Of course, most of Ameritrash isn't even made in America (except for McDOnalds and 5.11 boots. I might be wrong on both counts. You have been warned), so, if a worldwide boycott would mean that Ameritrash still gets made and shipped worldwide, only not passing GO, not collecting $200 and, thus, a bit more affordable... You know, I think this could work. How about we give it a whirl, a trial period. Six months? We can do without pron (oh, right, porn is usually made either in Oakland, San Francisco or San Fernando Valley, so that's also Ameritrash made in America) for six months, right? If not, talk to the Germans and the Austrians, they'll hook you up. Just don't leave them in the same room unattended.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark realises his usual parting sentence sounds a bit ironic in this post, but really, how many wars have the Yanks not been in recently? And how many of the ones they've been on were in their soil? Do you think that explains their war-mongering?
That is the question...
I've been working long and hard for this. Now, it's nearly done. I'm almost done with my degree. I have only the summer and the very beginning of fall to endure (hopefully) and, if I manage to finish my dissertation, I'll be doe with this once and for all. And then my trouble begin, but I'll cross thatr bridge when I get to it... I might even burn a few bridges at hat time. Meanwhile...
So let's see... I't now 2009, nearly seven years after I began this college thing - seven never dull years, and, taking the good with the bad, seven years well spent, I'd say. It's also been about five years since I last asked myself if Engineering was really the path to follow for me - yes, for two whole years I wondered if I had made the right choice. For the last five years I've been wondering only if I was cut out to be an engineer after all. Not whether I'd be happy as an engineer, but merely if I would be able to become an engineer. See, I've been wanting to be an engineer for over a decade now (give or take), and along the way, I've seen fellow aspiring engineers succeed, fail and change their mind. I've seen fellows become perfectly content with something more along the lines of becoming a technician, and that's fine with me if it's fine with them, I've seen fellows dropping this particular line of work altogether in search for something more up their alley, and why shouldn't theny, if thats what they want. And Then there's that fellow dearest to my heart who once shared my dream and who is now ver very close to becomming something completely different. In spite of the small legion of colleagues whom I've seen follow due course and become what I want to become myself, theree's always been at least a quantum of self doubt.
Well, not any more. These last few days I've seen the kind of silly wanker that can become an engineer, and a respected engineer at that. Of course that isn't to say that all silly wankers become engineers, and certainly not that all who become engineers are silly wankers or even that all engineers become silly wankers, but the percentage of silly wanker enginners, regardless of the direction of the cause-and-effect relation, begs the question, or rather replaces "Can I become an Engineers" with "Do I really want to become associated with this kind of engineers?".
The asnwer, most naturally, is twofold. No, I do not want to wind up in constant association with the ilk of silly wankers I'm discovering more and more, although yes, I want to become an engineer in spite of the silly wankers littering the profession. Maybe a propper bridge burning can provide the flame to cleanse some of the silly wanking stain. If you can take this and make a Monica Lweinsky related pun, contact me as soon a you can for your free chocolate mousse and whipped cream topped cookie.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is quite proud of some ninety pages written over the course of the last year or so and might - just might - profit from them, it seems. Let's not jink it yet. Eat your heart out, Paulo Coelho. And learn to write!
So let's see... I't now 2009, nearly seven years after I began this college thing - seven never dull years, and, taking the good with the bad, seven years well spent, I'd say. It's also been about five years since I last asked myself if Engineering was really the path to follow for me - yes, for two whole years I wondered if I had made the right choice. For the last five years I've been wondering only if I was cut out to be an engineer after all. Not whether I'd be happy as an engineer, but merely if I would be able to become an engineer. See, I've been wanting to be an engineer for over a decade now (give or take), and along the way, I've seen fellow aspiring engineers succeed, fail and change their mind. I've seen fellows become perfectly content with something more along the lines of becoming a technician, and that's fine with me if it's fine with them, I've seen fellows dropping this particular line of work altogether in search for something more up their alley, and why shouldn't theny, if thats what they want. And Then there's that fellow dearest to my heart who once shared my dream and who is now ver very close to becomming something completely different. In spite of the small legion of colleagues whom I've seen follow due course and become what I want to become myself, theree's always been at least a quantum of self doubt.
Well, not any more. These last few days I've seen the kind of silly wanker that can become an engineer, and a respected engineer at that. Of course that isn't to say that all silly wankers become engineers, and certainly not that all who become engineers are silly wankers or even that all engineers become silly wankers, but the percentage of silly wanker enginners, regardless of the direction of the cause-and-effect relation, begs the question, or rather replaces "Can I become an Engineers" with "Do I really want to become associated with this kind of engineers?".
The asnwer, most naturally, is twofold. No, I do not want to wind up in constant association with the ilk of silly wankers I'm discovering more and more, although yes, I want to become an engineer in spite of the silly wankers littering the profession. Maybe a propper bridge burning can provide the flame to cleanse some of the silly wanking stain. If you can take this and make a Monica Lweinsky related pun, contact me as soon a you can for your free chocolate mousse and whipped cream topped cookie.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark is quite proud of some ninety pages written over the course of the last year or so and might - just might - profit from them, it seems. Let's not jink it yet. Eat your heart out, Paulo Coelho. And learn to write!
What if theories
If there's anything more boring than watching paint dry is to listen to other people's dreams. And possibly the only thing more boring than that is to read about other people's dreams. So let me tell you about this dream I had last night...
Of course I'm not going to do that. But let's stick to the topic of dreams. Of course you've had dreams about acquaintances or even total strangers before, and possibly dreams that don't make much sense. A great many things could be said about nonsense dreams, and Freud would have a blast poring over them, but let's not go there. Rather, instead of addressing the causes and implications of preposterous dreams, let's talk of the consequences.
But Shark, you charismatic stallion, what consequences could silly little ravings of one's subounscious have to a sensible person?
Well, you might not want to call me a charismatic stallion, or Mr. Ben "Yahtzee" Croshaw might take offence that you're imitating his fans, rather than understand that such imitation is really the highest form of homage... to his fans... from my fans. Nonsensical dreams, then.
Consequences, then. To address your question, I don't think there might realistically be any consequences, but what if any time you dreamt of someone, that person had the same dream from their prespective? Of course limitations must exist to this hypotheseis, such as it can only be verified if both people are asleep and in REM stage (Rapid Eye Movement, naturally, not asleep on stage at an REM concert) at the same time. Wouldn't that be neat? Some Hawaiian would have woken up this morning in a right confusion, then.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would like to remind you that, for a working graph cut algorithm, one should assign costs to edges with a formula along the lines of e^(-k*d), where k is a threshold constant greater than 1 and d is a propperly computed distance value between the color values of the nodes.
Of course I'm not going to do that. But let's stick to the topic of dreams. Of course you've had dreams about acquaintances or even total strangers before, and possibly dreams that don't make much sense. A great many things could be said about nonsense dreams, and Freud would have a blast poring over them, but let's not go there. Rather, instead of addressing the causes and implications of preposterous dreams, let's talk of the consequences.
But Shark, you charismatic stallion, what consequences could silly little ravings of one's subounscious have to a sensible person?
Well, you might not want to call me a charismatic stallion, or Mr. Ben "Yahtzee" Croshaw might take offence that you're imitating his fans, rather than understand that such imitation is really the highest form of homage... to his fans... from my fans. Nonsensical dreams, then.
Consequences, then. To address your question, I don't think there might realistically be any consequences, but what if any time you dreamt of someone, that person had the same dream from their prespective? Of course limitations must exist to this hypotheseis, such as it can only be verified if both people are asleep and in REM stage (Rapid Eye Movement, naturally, not asleep on stage at an REM concert) at the same time. Wouldn't that be neat? Some Hawaiian would have woken up this morning in a right confusion, then.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark would like to remind you that, for a working graph cut algorithm, one should assign costs to edges with a formula along the lines of e^(-k*d), where k is a threshold constant greater than 1 and d is a propperly computed distance value between the color values of the nodes.
Diets and Consequences
For this past weekend, as I was set to do a lot of dining out, I decided I wasn't going to stick to my diet. Sure, I wasn't about to go on a carb spree, and I kept well away from refined sugars, but I thought the odd potato wouldn't lay waste to over six months of dieting. I even allowed myself to indulge on some crisps.
Not just any crisps, I'd like to point out. Those were the fine "gourmet" crisps, alledgedly cut extra thin from selected potatoes and fried in extra virgin oil or something. Even the package is black and, as we all know, everything that comes wrapped in black is of superior grade, superb quality, exquisite taste and so on and so forth. But let's not get ahead of ourselves.
Saturday lunch was a casual snack at a seaside café bar and consisted of a hot dog with chips. I hadn't tasted chips in six months (not quite, if you count the very odd chip here and there, very few and very far between), and I found myself not enjoying them as much as I had expected. I thought those were probably poor quality chips, because lets face it, when was the last time you were served fine cuisine at a sea side café bar?
Later that night I got my teeth into those fine quality crisps, and they still didn't taste as good as I remember. That I did not expect...
So am I to conclude that after six months of strict(ish) diet I no longer like some of the high-carb, fattening foods I was so fond of as much as I used to? Compound to that that, after what can be called oversatisfaction, I find myself not enjoying some foods within my diet as much as I used to, and it seems like I'm growing to dislike food altogether.
Oh, well, I'll always have heroin.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark has yet to verify that cream sauce, extra cheese, onion, bacon and pepperoni pizza no longer tastes as good, but that won't come to pass anytime soon. Although I might have some more chips someday, just to be sure.
Not just any crisps, I'd like to point out. Those were the fine "gourmet" crisps, alledgedly cut extra thin from selected potatoes and fried in extra virgin oil or something. Even the package is black and, as we all know, everything that comes wrapped in black is of superior grade, superb quality, exquisite taste and so on and so forth. But let's not get ahead of ourselves.
Saturday lunch was a casual snack at a seaside café bar and consisted of a hot dog with chips. I hadn't tasted chips in six months (not quite, if you count the very odd chip here and there, very few and very far between), and I found myself not enjoying them as much as I had expected. I thought those were probably poor quality chips, because lets face it, when was the last time you were served fine cuisine at a sea side café bar?
Later that night I got my teeth into those fine quality crisps, and they still didn't taste as good as I remember. That I did not expect...
So am I to conclude that after six months of strict(ish) diet I no longer like some of the high-carb, fattening foods I was so fond of as much as I used to? Compound to that that, after what can be called oversatisfaction, I find myself not enjoying some foods within my diet as much as I used to, and it seems like I'm growing to dislike food altogether.
Oh, well, I'll always have heroin.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark has yet to verify that cream sauce, extra cheese, onion, bacon and pepperoni pizza no longer tastes as good, but that won't come to pass anytime soon. Although I might have some more chips someday, just to be sure.
Creepy...
Toniht, the most unremarkable, banal thing happened. I had a dread. Well, several, in fact, that I remember. One of them was about opening a parcel, only to find a novelty item I had sent for about a week ago. Then, as it is costumary when one is dreaming, I woke up.
You know how sometimes you wake up from a nightmare and instantly know it was all a dream and you kind of feel relieved? or when you're having a great dream and you know the moment you wake up that it wasn't real and you feel a bit frustrated and a bit angry and bit sad? Well, it was nothing like that. Instead, I wasn't sure I had been dreaming at all, and had to argue with myself to decide whether my parcel had arived or not. All pretty run of the mill, really. I concluded my parcel hadn't arrived because I have placed my order a week ago today, and it wouldn't have been dispatched for at least one or two days. Compound to that that the expected delivery time was 7 to 10 days, and it was far too early for my order to have arrived.
I snoozed some more, and, at about noon, when I wasn't likely to sleep anymore, I lay in bed lazily, contemplating my to-do list for the day and the disdainflu sensation that I just might blow it all off and doze the day away (I'm not going to do that... but I could) when a loud, angry buzz jerked me awake from my slumber.
It was the mailman.
With my order.
About which I had dreamt.
What are the odds? The package came sooner than expected and I foresaw it in a dream. In my book, that's pretty damn creepy.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark does not see dead people... yet!
You know how sometimes you wake up from a nightmare and instantly know it was all a dream and you kind of feel relieved? or when you're having a great dream and you know the moment you wake up that it wasn't real and you feel a bit frustrated and a bit angry and bit sad? Well, it was nothing like that. Instead, I wasn't sure I had been dreaming at all, and had to argue with myself to decide whether my parcel had arived or not. All pretty run of the mill, really. I concluded my parcel hadn't arrived because I have placed my order a week ago today, and it wouldn't have been dispatched for at least one or two days. Compound to that that the expected delivery time was 7 to 10 days, and it was far too early for my order to have arrived.
I snoozed some more, and, at about noon, when I wasn't likely to sleep anymore, I lay in bed lazily, contemplating my to-do list for the day and the disdainflu sensation that I just might blow it all off and doze the day away (I'm not going to do that... but I could) when a loud, angry buzz jerked me awake from my slumber.
It was the mailman.
With my order.
About which I had dreamt.
What are the odds? The package came sooner than expected and I foresaw it in a dream. In my book, that's pretty damn creepy.
Pax vobiscum atque vale.
ArabianShark does not see dead people... yet!
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