In an attempt to unlock some gustav in ESPN NHL 2k5, I have set the North America All-Stars against Kazakhstan and set all the sliders in all the right directions. The score is currently 33 to 0, and I haven’t touched the controller in several minutes. If you thought Sergei Gonchar couldn’t score six goals in a game, you were wrong.
The saga continues. I started getting the old Blue Screen of Death again, so I email Dell support about it. The next day I get a reply with some dangerous-looking instructions. There was DOS typing. So, mustering up some courage, I give it a go last night. Nearest I could tell, the idea was to remove a corrupted file from my PC and replace it with the orignal from the XP CD. I got down to the end of the process, and my PC told me “Access is denied” in its typically flat manner. So, I exit and restart, becoming the proud owner of a machine built for one thing — bringing up a blue screen.
I call Dell Support. The nice pre-recorded lady asks me to enter my express service code. After a few seconds, she patiently informs me that it can be found on a label on my PC. This is fiction. I go back to the beginning and try to guess what combination of numbers will give me a person who knows how to do something other than sell me stuff. Twenty minutes on hold and one hour of instruction later, my PC is now allegedly configured exactly the same as when I first opened the box.
It froze up when I started it up this morning. It’s ok now. Further updates as events warrant.
Boy did I get it last night. At a party with some friends, I revealed the nature of my new PC and was met with revulsion and disrespect. While this was deserved, I felt the need to defend myself by stating quite clearly that I am done with PC gaming. From here on out, it’s either PC classics or console titles. I hold the singular claim of being the cheapest gamer out there (I’ve had the PS2 for several years now and have never once paid full price for a game) and PC gaming just ain’t cheap. Buying a game-worthy rig and keeping up with upgrades hits the wallet too hard.
I’ve paid my dues, and am moving on to easier and cheaper things.
I had no plans of seeing The Matrix. Keanu Reeves? Are you joking? Having been dragged there, I fell deeply and irrevocably in love with the movie at the first sight of the green terminal text. It brought back memories. Good memories of early geek tendencies allowed to flourish.
The next day, the deep desire to bring some part of the movie back home with me to love in private led to the purchase of the soundtrack. This stayed in constant rotation for a long time. There was a splinter in my mind, though. The song Neo is listening to when we first see him, fallen asleep on his PC, was not to be found. The little that we hear sounds like the best song in the movie, and being denied it was unacceptable. Nonetheless, I pressed on with life, unsated and soured.
Years later, Her Worshipfulness was toying with Rhapsody and the song came on. I walked into the computer room wild-eyed and slack-jawed, trying to force long-dormant synapses to fire. Finally it came to me, and I did rejoice. And the best part was, another song from the soundtrack of another favorite movie of mine is on the same album. So go listen to Massive Attack’s Mezzanine.
Why do they always make me hold the baby? Is it just to watch me freak out? Do they think it’s cute? Why do they say I’m a natural when I quite clearly am holding my breath and sweating? Is that what infants like? Is the sound of blood rushing from my face similar to the noises of the womb? Does the mother-baby bond cause a positive reaction to terror in others? Most people won’t let you drive their new car or wear your shoes on the new carpet, but hold the progeny? I insist!
I went through the agony of downloading a couple things from Fileplanet the other night. One was the Tron 2.0 demo, which upon install came up with an “are you joking? Seriously, dude. Come on.” error, mocking my lack of respectable videocard. Looks like I’ll be waiting for the X-box version. What do you say, Byte? I thought you’d say that.
The other file was a video of the blitzball action in FFX-2. Eff that ess. If I wanted to put the controller on the floor and watch as figures throw balls at each other, I’d watch basketball.
I applied for a job this weekend. I’m not actively seeking a new job, but when this passed my field of view, I knew I could not resist. I’ve been checking in now and then since they posted a writing position a while back, and this position is pretty much the same as my current job. Except with more Star Wars. The Lucasfilm site used to have benefits etc posted, and working on the ranch, taking the company sailboat out for a turn about the bay, and living just a few minutes from Frisco sure sounded pretty good to me.
So, I threw together a cover letter and resume detailing my exploits and explaining beyond any doubt why I’m the guy. I pasted ’em into the provided boxes, filled out my personal info, and sent my little baby out into the wide world to see what he could do. But, as I clicked “Submit”, something seemed strange. I hit the back arrow, and there it was, for all the Employment Office to see. My home phone number was wrong.
I have been the office joke at the Ranch for the last few days. Unconfirmed rumors on theforce.net have stated that the HR folks were seen laughing it up at lunch, talking about “that phone number guy”. “I hope they don’t ask me about attention to detail at the interview, honey.” “Hey, saw you had an opening, give me a call. Oh wait.” Et cetera.
In the vein of yesterday’s post, a story idea has been rolling around in la cabesa. This dude is skulking around a factory, on his way to assassinate the head of the company. His people have been in the thrall of the owner for ages, since before he was born. Their entire society was transplanted from the homeland to the giant factory, which as far as he can tell is in the middle of a giant city. He and his kind work the machines, toiling endlessly to make specialty foods for the decadent city-dwellers. The oldest of his fellows in slavery call the factory owner a savior, naming some long-forgotten aid he provided, but he doesn’t buy it. So, he’s on his way to kill the owner and free his people. His people being the Oompa-Loompas from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. It’s one of those stories.
I think you can see why I’m not a writer. I have zero original ideas. If
a career could be made out of writing “but he’s really the Cowardly Lion!” stories, I’d be a wealthy man.
I’d like to see an American-McGee‘d-out version of Peter Pan. Some kid falls in a barrel and becomes a Lost Boy. When he shows up in Neverland, he is immediately grabbed by Hookcorp Security and impressed into service in the Fairydust Extraction Complex. The fairies have been hooked up to Giger-looking machines that pull their flight-granting dust directly from their glands. All the fairies have to look forward to is death, but the dead are shipped down to the Reanimation Floor, where former pirates and indians sit in drug-induced comas repeating that they do believe.
With Pan gone and grown-up, the Lost Boys have split into various Lord-of-the-Flies factions. Some are hired by Hookcorp as fairy hunters. Others are bent on rebellion, fired by timeworn stories that the ancient Mother told their forefathers. Their tormented bodies are often seen on display in the Complex, an example of the natural result of non-compliance with corporate policy. Naturally, our hero falls in with one of these bands and brings about the demise of Hookcorp. And there are mermaids in there somewhere.
Sorry for the wait. You still love me, don’t you?
Sunday was a rough day. All I wanted to do was make a few changes and post. At ten-thirty PM, after a day of demands, I sit down at the new Dell and watch the Blue Screen of Death appear. I know no fear, having seen this screen many times in my travels. A quick reset, and I’m back in business.
Except that I’m not.
A couple hours of bugging (I mean -out, not de-) and it’s time for bed. Couldn’t get through to support. Set up the trusty old Win 98 rig, email support my tale of woe. Much to my surprise, this morning there’s a reply. Like all oracles, this reply spoke in byzantine riddles. I replied to the replier, making sure to use the word “warranty”. Another response comes, this one clear as crystal in February. And now I’m back in the game. I have a weird bruise on my knuckle, which I can only assume cam from me biting it during my tense sleep, but other than that, no harm done. Could this have caused the problem? Who can tell? Either way, I’m buying a new scanner.
