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Shoot the Breeze: Funk Is A Cool Guy (Don't Crush Me Domo)


My life's most difficult decisions revolve around breakfast cereal. I can't tell if this is depressing or if things are going better than anyone could have predicted.

I have spent the better part of this last week without internet access at home - or should I say the worst part of the week? Haha, no, but seriously, I nearly strangled myself. I'm a creature of the web, going without was like hauling a fish out of its ocean of porn to lie gasping on the dry land of real life. Do you know I ended up going outside? There was socializing. I could have died. Anyway, I'm terrified it's going to drop again, so I'm in a hurry to get this out before the connections cuts o-

The Fury of a Thousand Bananaless Monkeys

Last week, in the time before time, muppet hivemind and Lucifer's own samba partner Occams implored me to, and I quote with embellishment, "let fly Heaven's hammer against great wrong; cast it against the anvil of our enlightened minds; forge truth." Given lease to loose the hounds of hate, I staid the huntsman's horn only long enough to draw in a breath of muse with which to sound that vengeful cry.

I am, in anger, a man with a glacier's pace, but - and heed this close - a volcano's heat. My rage is tectonic, an unstoppable, intractable event whose measure upsets the very globe, against which the only defense is a hasty retreat from the lines of fault. It is the rainbow's shadow, shedding all light. It is the nadir sun about which the dark planets of sorrow and fear turn. It is the midnight cloud whose vicious deluge blossoms misery's seed into the efflorescence of torment. Finding oneself the target of such elemental emotion is best equated with challenging a rocket ship made of spiders to a kick-boxing bout. It is unwise. Good fortune then that this ire raises only on the blue moon's tides.

But today, friends, pentagons have been drawn, maidens let of blood, and the great fury-Shiva within me drawn forth to tread the earth along the devil-black path of these paragraphs. Hold close and breath relief that you are not the luckless lamb picked for slaughter. No, that piteous title is held by another.


So, yeah. For some reason, my total moon monies ends in a 50. I know that doesn't sound too bad, but picture it. A 50. In a denomination quantized by 40s. You can't spend 50 Microsoft Points. It's impossible. It's like trying to spend a penny and a half or, more accurately, trying to spend 1.25 pennies. I'm don't even know how this happened. I think, and maybe I'm just struggling to find reason in this tumultuous universe where none seems to be found, that they used to sell cards in packs of 1450 up here in Canadia. It doesn't justify the utter lunacy of the act on their part, but it might give my venting a direction. Gah.

On my darker days, I consider virtually torching and burning my gamertag and starting fresh, but I know, no matter what I do, it will be out there, waiting in the musty corners of the net and poised behind every closed door in my mind. 50.

The Sous Chef of the Brain Buffet

○ So, remember how Elsa did that Remembrance Day blog? Uh-huh. That was good. I spent my Remembrance Day making quesadillas, playing Pokemon, and watching Firefly. I am going to hell. No, it's okay, I'm prepared. Can't be any worse than chomping down on a mouthful of molten cheese.

○ Oh god, Nathan Fillion. He's like an entire volcano of masculine sexuality. I would be the Pompeii to his Vesuvius, covered by his eruption.

○ Please let me remember to edit that.

○ I don't know why, but I never manage to comment on Elsa's blogs. I'd suggest it stems from a subconscious envy of her blogging ability, but I'm very much conscious of my envy, so that can't be it.

○ I wish "shank" wasn't such a horribly violent verb, because it's a lot of fun to say. Guess I can always "thank a bitch."

And I do.

○ The Indie Games Winter Uprising warms me in a way I only wish a certain space captain would.

○ Because I watched a video about Ski Free, my Youtube recommendations is glutted with vore. What? How did this happen? At any rate, I'm a little afraid. Is this how it starts? Because I gotta tell you, there's this one with Mickey Mouse and god damn if I'm not curious. Who eats whom?

○ After I helped a man get his laptop connected to the internet, he explained to me hagiography and, in gratitude, my place in it. Thank you, exotic foreigner from Illinois, you enriched my life and made my time at work on my day off well worth it.

○ Had I mentioned I'm working at a help desk? Oh, the stories. I love being able to do good for folks and I accept that not all of them will be computer literate, but if I can impart some wisdom to you, my dear reader, while Google might be your best internet friend, Google is not your address bar. Google is probably not your browser. Google is definitely not your operating system. Please remember that. Don't be afraid to Google it if you need to.

○ I had this thing about Ellen Page and how it's totally cool to have a thing for her, but it ended up being terribly uncomfortable. She's older than I am for goodness' sake, when am I going to stop feeling like the mustached uncle who comes to all of his niece's basketball games?

○ I broke down and bought my first article of nerdery in a few months. Incidentally, it was one of the most mainstream articles of such in existence. The first Scott Pilgrim met the promises made, at once culturally-relevant, irreverent, and cloyingly smug in its exploitation thereof. All in all, a good read.

○ Speaking of, I started into my second Tom Robbins book. The man doesn't write so much as he brassily romances the language and entreats you to shamefully enjoy the mess.

○ I may have spent a dozen bucks on a belt because it sort of looked like it had a racing stripe. I'll get back to you when I figure it out.

○ No, you can't get back to me about it. You can't even begin to catch me. My pelvis has a racing stripe.


Oh yeah, those. So, there I stood in my local game parlor, torn with indecision about which game to buy. Also torn was my shirt. It's sort of how I cope with stress. Removing and ruining whatever I'm wearing. Anyway, stood there did I, my tattered shorts flapping in the breeze, Ivy the Kiwi on my left, Mystery Dungeon: Shiren the Wanderer on my right, and do you know what I did? I consciously made the choice to forsake fun for hours of gameplay analogous to entering a three-legged race with a puma that viscously mauls you whenever you stumble, then drags you back to the start to begin again. It's inspired me to start writing a book, The Profranomicon, whose perusal summons arcane demons that proceed to swear like sailors until Time itself falls to a furious insanity and the world is ended.

So, Shiren the Wanderer. It's a game. Or, depending on whom you ask, it's frustration given form. And nunchucks. For the unaware, the game is a cute little roguelike where the player tries to progress through the linear level set all the way to the end, fictionally, the much-fabled El Dorado. Functionally, it's a pretty standard roguelike, turn-based with randomly generated rooms, though there are static towns every few levels. Notably, the game is difficult, with death tossed out like confetti at a parade. More notably, dying means starting the journey at the beginning, way back at level one on the first stage with only the equipment you've stashed in towns along the way to mark your progress.

In a word, ████████

The above censored for delicate readers. Right, well, that aside, there's fun to be had, as long as you can remind yourself that death is pretty much inevitable. A good life lesson, that, the sort of thing we should be screaming toddlers. Y'know, to prepare them. Shiren is not a terribly refined game, but it's straightforward for a roguelike. If you can have the resilience to pick yourself up after another horribly crushing defeat, I think you'll find something worth coming back to. I wouldn't recommend it to anyone who is the least put off by the challenge that is, at it's worst, cheap, but for someone looking for everything the genre offers brought to a DS, pick it up.

I had a paragraph here complaining about a few things. Sorry, I know's it utterly breaks the flow to talk about what I've edited out, but I think it's important. I've played a few more hours and it's starting to gel. The whole thing might be a giant, life-bridging item grindfest. It's going to take me some time to get the hang of that, but I feel as though I'm just at the tipping point, not where I'm successful, but where I might have an idea of how to be. So, before I say anything further, I want to figure out how much of what I want to call detrimental really compliments the game and how much is just a ridiculous pain. This is going to take up so much of my life. Have a good week everybody. You know where I'll be.

Holy bananasaurus-rex. Mass Effect theme. 50 points. BRB, paying Microsoft to cling fiercely to my last bastion of sanity.
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About Beyamorone of us since 1:10 PM on 06.24.2009

I知 a gamer. Take a minute and get over that shock. I can say I知 an Xbox man, though I値l support anything that advances gaming (I love you Sackboy). I致e also got a DS Chunky, so I can take this whole nerd thing on the road.

As far as genres, shooters and western RPGs top my list. Halo, Fable, and Morrowind, for instance, rock my socks hard. Of course other things, stuff like Animal Crossing and Kingdom Hearts, do their share of stocking rocking.

In the world outside of buttons and pixels, I知 an engineering student (that nerd thing I mentioned? I do it hardcore) on the west coast of the Great White North. I知 a fan of a harder rock, bands like Breaking Benjamin and Hurt, though I値l kick it (very much figuratively) to stuff ranging from The Fray through Franz Ferdinand to Five Finger Death Punch. Optimus Prime is my hero, but I do love Starscream. Finally, thumbs up to you for reading this. You池e never getting that time back.

Kirbey by the talented and generously endowed (probably) Enkido