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8:06 PM on 04.13.2010

Double Down Brown Town Tribute

My friends and I decided to give the heart attack sandwich a try for all those who respect their bodies enough not to eat poison. We have kind of taken the "Double Down Brown Town" phrase from Podtoid and made it into our own little meme. Hope you enjoy it! (I'm the one with the glasses, and Part 3 is by far the funniest part).




[embed]170942:29060[/embed]   read

11:52 PM on 02.23.2010

NVGR: My Cowboy Jesus

(I recently wrote this paper for my English class and I am pretty proud of it. I know it has nothing to with videogames, but if anybody so chooses I would love to hear feedback.)

Memories without substance fail us. To remember an action renders that moment important to us in some matter, but most memories are a few pieces short of a complete puzzle. Memories grow fainter from the moment they're conceived. We have to attach ourselves to the wandering puzzle pieces so that what we consider most precious isn't forgotten. It is simple for us not to misplace memories that are substantial not only to us but to society. That's why it's easier for you to retain who won the presidential election than it is for you to remember what you had for breakfast this morning. We maintain this knowledge to be able to repeat it to others so that they gain our memories. You tell stories, whether in conversation or written down, in order to relay your memories to others. In essence you are binding yourself with the person. Memories fuse us into one mass. Then we have memories that aren’t substantial to anyone but ourselves, yet we remember them more clearly than other past events. This seems to be in contradiction with the idea that memories shared by a group are the most complete and full, but it is our personal memories which define ourselves, and become part of our daily lives. This is not to say that memories held by the many are unimportant, but we rarely identify ourselves with them. September 11th 2001 would be an exception to this thought because while it is a memory shared by many, most Americans were affected on a deep personal level from the terrorist attacks. The most significant memories influence our inner beings. I have a memory that has affected everything from the way I act to the way I dress.

Nestled into a cranny of earth near the trodden path is a dull burgundy school house named for its coat. The entrance to this holding cell is guarded by a towering plate of glass much too large for children to heave ajar. Each hall is observed by sentries to protect the younglings from the vices of men. From daybreak till sunset children are crammed into the classrooms to be taught lessons of trivial importance. Their parents are unaware of their own frivolous spending for this instruction. Each classroom is equal parts refectory, lessons area, and play space. Most of the day was spent in the play space while unsurprisingly the least amount of time was used for actual teaching. On the base of my classroom was a bland rug which was stained from several years of wear. Decade's worth of tossed up lunch had seeped into the fibers of the mat, but on no account was it washed. The walls were lined with shelves to take care of numerous playthings. The children would not always take the best care of these toys, and most of dolls ended up being ridden with diseases. In the refectory the tables were usually enclosed in filth from dim toddlers who fooled around with their lunches. The tile floors of the refectory gave off an appalling stench from never being mopped, and the petite fridge in a nook on the rear wall hummed shrilly through the day. My recollection accorded during the latter part of a typical day at Little Red School House.

This memory should be a faint glow that smoldered long ago, but this thought continually heaves me into reminiscence about my childhood. I vividly recall all of the fine points and peculiarities of the event. I was again caught nibbling away on a classmate's forearm—a practice that I was particularly fond of in my youth. The daycare employee had noticed me from a distance and rushed over to stop what she considered to be atrocious. This monstrosity of a woman easily took me in to her grasp and spit me back out into the hallway. She screeched at me louder than even the nastiest demons while I paid no attention to her, because the beauty behind her was captivating me. In the corner near the latter part of the hall was a world that had no connection to mine. Majestic creatures from the size of gnomes to colossi were all a living part of this foreign prison. These beings were barred behind a shield that was naked to the eye but known to the touch. These fish were living lives completely alien to my early thought process—my father and mother were never admirers of pets— and yet I had never seen anything so beautiful. Then the witch noticed that I was in my delusional state and she made me flee from this feeling that had always escaped me before. The woman threw me down in the hall outside the rooms of the older groups and left me to question my actions. Now I had nothing to stimulate me. I was left to fair for myself in this oblique wing. After a while it seemed I would not have a single passerby for the entire stay. I gazed at the bare fortifications that surrounded me for the fear of doing nothing was enough to tug my sanity out. The tiles were a bit better than the walls. At least the tiles had a congruent pattern. The walls were nothing more than unimaginative rectangular columns. Before my mind was able to become putty I spotted my savior. A boy from one of the older groups had been punished in a similar fashion of mine. Fate had brought us together. If it weren't for this boy I wouldn't be unique. I would be as bland as a rectangular column. My Jesus wore not a white robe and a crown of thorns, but a child's cowboy outfit. Everything about the way he dressed was completely unordinary and ingenious. From his boots that were a darker tint than that of a night barren of light to his sheriff star which boldly displayed his name. This was more foreign to me than the fish tank, and I enjoyed it!

It would seem like this memory should be meaningless to me. That it's just an insignificant event that got stuck in mind by some mishap. This was no accident. I was destined to live that day for it has completely shaped what I am and what I want to be. I probably didn't spend more than a minute with this kid, but I have narrowed this down to a big turning point in my life. This is where I first realized that I didn't have to be part of a crowd. I could be myself and enjoy life how I want it not how it is handed to me. I don't just follow the normal pattern of life. Instead I try to break free from the chains that bind me (these chains would be my parents, teachers, colleagues, and acquaintances), and by my own individual self. My personal philosophies on subjects from religion to politics all were formed by me asking questions and seeking answers. If I were to just stay bound to the ideas of the people around me than not only would my life be acted out in a different manner, but I would also be a distorted man. I wouldn't be my fun quirky self as I believe I am, but instead would be no better than a mindless drone. I am my own self, and I owe it all to a child that I met when I was a toddler, and he probably has no recollection of me.   read

12:36 AM on 03.19.2009

Jim Sterling's Commercial (Doll on Fire)

On the latest Podtoid, Jim talked about a PSA that used to scare him as a child, and he hasn't been able to
find it on youtube.

All I did was search "doll on fire PSA" in youtube, and it turned out to be the first video.

[embed]125474:18077[/embed]   read

10:45 PM on 11.13.2008

Mirror’s Edge 2D Beta

So a friend of mine is making the official Flash game for Mirror's Edge. To get the word around I decided to
make this post in my blog.

So you can find the beta here:

And, the article about the game is here:

[quote]Brad Borne and Electronic Arts are partnering up for the release of Mirror’s Edge 2D!

I made a post about it in the forum a few days ago, but it looks like the news is out, so here’s the official post
about it.

We’re still a week or two away from full launch, but I’d like to get as much feedback about the beta as
possible, so if you find anything glitching out, or anything you’d like to comment on, just comment this
post.[/quote]   read

7:57 PM on 04.07.2008

Baseball Blues (A Story I Wrote) (NVGR)

Just wanted to see what you all think.

“Ryan! Get over here,” my coach, Bill, deafly yelled at me.

Bill was a monstrous man; to an eleven year old child no taller than four feet, ten inches. He was as big as an elephant, and as tall as a giraffe. He had shamrock green eyes, and short straight hair that was as dark as the night sky. “I need you to win one for the team,” Bill told me, “You are after Jim, who is on deck, so get ready.”

I went over to the bat rack, to grab my bat. My bat was long, slender, black, and as shiny as a brand new car. As I grabbed the bat, I knew that I was going to win the game for my team. I looked out onto the freshly cut field, that had dew drops dripping from the short blades of grass, and I saw my teammate, Sean, who was up to bat; hit the ball into deep left field, and then he ran around the bases until he slid into third. With all the cries of joy in the dugout; it got as loud as a F14 Tomcat’s jet engines. We were only down by one run in the championship game, and we only had one measly out. I saw Sean get up from the slide; his red and white Philly’s uniform was now dirt brown. My teammate Jim went up to bat and I went on deck.

I put the shiny red, yet muddy, weights onto my bat and I started to take a few light swings. I stared at the umpire while I was swinging my bat. He was a short and plump man with a scowl on his face that could scare the dead. I guess he really didn’t like watching a bunch of eleven year old children play baseball. I turned around and looked at Jim just in time to see him strike out.

I was walking up to home plate, but as I came close to Jim I saw him holding back tears so I gave him a pat on the shoulder. He only said, “Thanks,” and then he kept on walking.
After that I walked up to home plate, which was covered in mud, and you could scarcely see it now. The plump umpire walked up to home plate, and dusted the plate off. Then he went back to where he was standing, and proclaimed to everyone sitting or playing, “Play ball!”

I took a few more swings, and then stepped into the batter’s box. I looked at the other team’s pitcher. He had on a green and white uniform, since he was on the Athletics team. He was staring at me intently; to where it almost looked like he would kill me just to win the game. He began his windup and then the ball left his hand, so it could not have been more than a second, and then I swung. “Strike one!” yelled the umpire.

I stepped out of the batter’s box, and took a few more practice swings. Then I stepped into the batter’s box once more, and I struck my bat onto the plate. I looked at the pitcher again, and he was still eyeballing me. He took a deep breath, and then he threw the ball as hard and as fast as he could. I reacted instantly and swung the bat. I had felt contact with the ball so I ran as fast as I could. I made it to first when the umpire yelled, “Foul ball.”
I was very depressed as I started to walk back to home plate. The ball had just been to the right of the line by about an inch. I stayed out of the batter’s box and took a few more swings. I looked over at Sean, who was still at third, and he mouthed to me, “You can do it!”

I stepped up to home plate, and looked at pitcher again. He still looked like he hated my guts. Then the catcher for the other team started chanting, “Hey batter batter … swing.”
I tried to ignore him, and I looked at the pitcher once more. He took another deep breath, and he hummed the ball towards home plate. I swung the bat with all my might, and then the umpire uttered those famous baseball words.   read

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