I have forgotten all in life that is not Ninja Gaiden. I will permit it to pass over me and through me, and when it is gone, all that is left wil be me. Until then, though, I am an automaton built for Gaiden and Gaiden only.
Like the original, good but hard. Once you figure out that they want you to use specific attacks, it gets a little easier. Not too heavy on the jumping puzzles, which is nice. A big enough world for exploration. And you’re a goddamn ninja.
Weird dream last night. I was in an office building with a couple of teenagers. The floor we were on was flooded with black water. We assumed the elevator was out so I suggested we take the stairs. Just as one of the teens asked “the stairs to where?”, the corner I was turning became a dark back hallway with peeling paint on the doors. A 6-year-old version of the teen ran past me in terror, and I turned the corner to go up to what I knew was the attic. To face what, you ask? Just at the climax, I could no longer see and my head was forced to the swiftly side by cold, thin fingers. A fingernail lightly grazed the jugular on my exposed neck. Vampires! I lashed out against the arms, only to find that my wife was trying to wake me up so I would stop screaming. Oops.
Sorry ’bout the dearth of posts recently. Been playing way. too. much. Ninja Gaiden. It’s horribly embarrassing to even bring up the title. I mean, playing videogames is geeky enough, but play games with ninjas? Geez. If you need me, I’ll be getting my lunch money stolen.
Sorry ’bout the dearth of posts recently. Been playing way. too. much. Ninja Gaiden. It’s horribly embarrassing to even bring up the title. I mean, playing videogames is geeky enough, but play games with ninjas? Geez. If you need me, I’ll be getting my lunch money stolen.
As I imagine is the case for many blogwrights, for a long time there as been a part of me that wants to be a writer. Of the various genres I’ve tried over the years, the essay is my strongest, but there really isn’t much call for essays written by people what don’t do anything or know anything. I mean, if I wrote magazine articles on my travels in the Yucatan, people might be interested, but I’ve never been to the Yucatan.
This brings me to reflection on the purpose of published writing. We write to communicate information, to make points, and to entertain. I have no information to impart, few well-backed opinions, and my fiction has consistently been terrible. Thus, I have no right to write. Thus, also, this blog. I enjoy writing, but can’t keep up with all the work involved in doing it in a meaningful fashion, so I spill my thoughts here for you all.
Writing is about the only productive thing I have consistently enjoyed or taken any pride in. That means I’m supposed to go for it, right? Aren’t I somehow less of a person if I don’t follow whatever foolhardy dreams I may come up with? Problem is, aside from the dreams of sitting quietly at a desk and finding the notes that resonate, I also have dreams of being able to consistently pay my rent. So, I guess I should pursue it as a hobby and plug away at ye olde grind.
What will future generations say about New Year’s Eve? When the History Channel geeks write up a special on the ancient traditions, what will they have to write about? A a big ball was lowered in New York, everyone counted the last few seconds, they sang an old song no one knew. Lovers kissed, resolutions were made for the coming year, and the whole country got really drunk.
What I like about New Year’s is its secular and non-family nature. If you don’t do New Year’s with family, it doesn’t make you a terrible person. Finally a holiday where the obligation doesn’t overshadow the celebration. While I certainly enjoy the but-you-have-to-come holidays, the back-to-back nature of Turkey Day and Christmas make New Year’s a nice break.
Those who know me know I’m a big Bond fan. I have seen every movie except the one with Denise Richards, have read several of the books, have logged an unspeakable number of hours playing James Bond videogames, have spent hours researching Aston Martin, have been to a Bond-themed bar, have gone as Bond to a Halloween party, laughed at the refential jokes in Austin Powers, etc. After a recent successful viewing of Goldfinger, with 7/8 of my normal blood capacity and under unusual amounts of stress, I gave some strong consideration to a Bond blog, in which I would chronicle a viewing of all of the film. After a nap and some food, I decided against this. I mean, how often would I post? What would I have to say? So, consider yourselves lucky that I didn’t start up yet another ill-advised blog.
I have few guilty pleasures. This is due mainly to the fact that I partake in many pleasures and feel guilt about almost none of them. Today I savored one of those few — calling in sick. Now, I don’t mean calling in sick when you’re not, which ain’t right. I mean calling in sick when you’re actually sick. I usually slog my way through the work day when feeling ill, but from time to time I give the call. I don’t even do the sick voice. This is grand. Sleep half the day, laze about the rest, and feel tip-top the next morning.
Why don’t I do this every time I feel sick? Because I have a work problem. Any time you guys want to stage an intervention to tell me you’re all concerned about my working, feel free to jump right in. Granted, I rarely work late or on weekends, but still. Dude needs to take some damn vay-cay now and then. If I make it to the DMV before my birthday, it will proof of divine providence.
Had some lads by to play some Halo 2. Played Oddball. Liked Oddball. Frustrated the hell out of my compatriots with the following strategy: when you’re about to die with the ball, jump off a cliff. He who chases you must then go all the way back to the ball’s spawn point. I suggest throwing the ball back towards them as you fall to your doom, just to mess with ’em. If ever there was justification for building a “give the finger” command in to a game, this is it. Imagine the joy of taking the ball into the bottomless chasm, leaving your enemy staring down at the bird.
Nothing beats a good sample. It’s like a little puzzle in the song, taunting you for not being cool enough to get it. As a fan of DJ Shadow, I’ve pretty much given up on any meager shot I had at being the guy who points out the source of samples. But yesterday, as I partook in 007 Days of Christmas, I heard a familiar strain. You know that song 6 Underground by Sneaker Pimps, the infi-cool song from the Saint soundtrack? The first few notes are a sample of the music playing when James Bond walks into the bedroom to find his latest girl coated in gold. This, quite clearly, is awesome. It is also an indicator that I need to lay off the spy flicks a little.
I’d offer you a comparison, but Rhapsody doesn’t have the Goldfinger soundtrack. Dammeht.