“Hey, Want to Buy a Shirt?”

In the two seconds it took me to move from my car to the door of the liquor store yesterday, I was accosted by a crack head. This isn’t an uncommon occurrence, especially given the locale I was in. One key thing to note is that there was no crack head nearby as I exited my vehicle. If I had intended to be cautious, I would not have noted his presence. That is because he swooped in by bicycle. Crack heads these days are very mobile when they can pick a bike lock. They have to be if they want to find crack.
One thing about having your bike stolen: if you ever find it, you rarely want it back. It’s usually going to be in the river somewhere. Amsterdam is one of the most bicycle friendly cities in the world. It is also one of the cities where you’re most likely to have your bike stolen. When they drain the canals in Amsterdam, it reveals a bicycle graveyard. It is not enough for a thief to merely dismount a bicycle he no longer requires and be on his merry little way. He must dispose of it like a body. If bicycles were more flammable, I’m certain they would be torched on a frequent basis like cars. This destruction is what makes bicycle theft a “theft” as opposed to “borrowing.” I don’t understand the reasoning for this. It’s the same mentality a person uses when kicking over a sandcastle. Human beings may not be inherently evil, but they are douchebags, so I assume they do it to ruin someone’s day. Or perhaps that as bicycle thieves they realize that they have an excellent chance of having their stolen bike stolen from them, and this angers them on a professional level.
Anyway, this particular crack head was different from other in that he didn’t merely want money for nothing. He had something to sell. A shirt. A navy blue Hanes shirt still in it’s package. He lauded it’s freshness like it was fish he had caught that morning. Likely he had stolen it earlier, then realized he had no use for it. Ever the entrepreneur, he tried to turn a profit on it. No such luck. You see: I was already wearing a shirt. I wonder what he would have sold it to me for if I had gone in on the deal. Would it be an outrageous price? Would I be expected to haggle and bring the price down for this dubious shirt?
The only thing that could have made this encounter more random was if he was trying to sell me the shirt he was wearing. That would have been fucked up, and cliché. Losing the shirt off your back.

Technorati Tags: Abbotsford,weidos

G.I. Shmoe

By now I’ve seen several trailers for the upcoming G.I. Joe movie, and each one drives me closer to madness. Not just any kind of madness, either. Remember in Star Trek: Next Generation where the Kardasian interrogator tries to break Captain Piccard by getting him to say there’s only four fingers when he’s really holding up five? The trailers make me feel like Piccard. Fantasy requires a suspension of belief, but G.I. Joe requires you to cease all higher brain functions.
C.O.B.R.A. has developed a weapon that dissolves metal. This is considered their ultimate weapon, one which requires the likes of G.I. Joe to stop. The payload is delivered by missile. So instead of using explosives, they’re using some kind of wacky acid. The effect is exactly the same. You hit the Eiffle Tower with a missile, it really doesn’t matter what it’s full of: that metal bastard is coming down. Also: the scene where the Eiffle Tower collapses reminds me a lot of the scene from Team America: World Police.
There’s a French trailer that basically shows the entirety of a chase scene in Paris. The Joes have to follow the Baroness and Storm Shadow as they escape in their pimped out Hummer. Now: they’re in a van. They have a vehicle. They are fully capable of continuing the chase in their vehicle. They decide against this. Instead: they decide to chase this speeding black SUV on foot. Snake Eyes does a sweet-ass jump off of an overpass onto the top of their SUV and proceeds to chip his way through their armour with a hand gun to sink his sword inside. I have no problem with people riding on the tops of moving vehicles. I’m all about Teen Wolf over here. My problem is with what follows.
If you’ve see 10 seconds of the trailer, you’ve seen the Accelerator Suits. It’s a ridiculous and miraculous suit of armour that enables them to run like crazy. Now: these suits must cost billions. They basically do nothing besides enable the wearer to run fast. A cheaper alternative would be to get on a motorcycle, but this is the U.S. military we’re dealing with.
Speaking of motorcycles, Scarlett happens to catch up to the SUV on hers and blows off a dude’s head with a tricked out crossbow. She also does several physically impossible things with her motorcycle, but that’s neither here nor there.
Meanwhile, Snake Eyes does this unbelievable ninja move where he swings around an exploding car that’s hurtling towards him. I say unbelievable because it couldn’t happen in anything resembling real life. Then he ends up under the SUV, where he clings on for dear life. While he’s under there, it never occurs to him to cut the brake line, or the fuel line, or any of the things within easy reach that’ll bring the chase to a standstill.
Duke’s running after them in his Accelerator Suit with Jar-Jar Binks. Somehow, they’re able to dodge missiles, but they can’t catch up with this SUV. Now: Snake Eyes is still under the SUV, so Duke decides, “Hey, I’ll just shoot a missile at him.” Let’s say you’re on the same team as someone. They’re in a bad situation. Do you then proceed to alleviate your teammate’s problems by firing a missile at him? No. That’s called team-killing, and it’ll get you kicked. Duke doesn’t see it that way. His dad was Duke Nukem, and he had balls of steel, so eat shit and die.
Also: have you see the toys for this movie? Cobra Commander has a clear mask, and he’s got a Robocop/Freddy Kruger thing going on underneath. You’re supposed to take this guy seriously. Apparently giving him a executioner style hood wasn’t menacing enough. Plus: Snake Eyes has lips moulded on to his mask. Big, kissable lips. The idea is for his enemies to be overcome with strange new emotions.
Frankly, this looks worse than the animated movie based on the cartoon that came out way-back-when. At least that made some semblance of sense. Even the weapons were better. They had a Weather Dominator. It dominated the weather. What does this movie have? Oooh, look out, or we’ll melt your spoons!

Let the Credits Roll… Elsewhere

Credits. They’ve always been the dullest part of a movie. They’re of little use besides re-learning the name of a character you might have forgotten over the course of the movie. Few people are interested in knowing the names of anyone besides the star and co-star, and even then these names are usually false. Vin Diesel is not Vin Diesel. These are stages names. I often wonder what happens when they use their credit cards and the name written on it is completely different.
Then there’s the nicknames inserted into the names themselves. You’ll find these in the crew section. “Robby ‘Pony Boy’ Benson: Special Effects,” or “George ‘Slippery’ Elwood : Catering.” Having your name on the big screen is the biggest reward for your hard work in producing a movie, but no one outside your friends and family remotely care. They’re just waiting for the two-minute extra-footage coming after the credits. It’s so common place that it’s expected these days. Every action, sci-fi or comedy has to have it. Some will stay through the entire credits and see nothing. Others will leave as the credits begin and then kick themselves later for not seeing Samuel L. Jackson as Nick Fury say two lines of dialogue. Oftentimes, these extra scenes are completely pointless. Take many of the Marvel Comics movies released lately. As I just mentioned, there was the Samuel L. Jackson appearance in Iron Man, but then Iron Man appeared at the end of the Incredible Hulk. These appearances are supposedly setting up an Avengers movie, which will likely not relate in any meaningful way to the previous movies that spawned it, making these scenes meaningless. Especially the one that appeared at the end of Wolverine, where it shows him drinking in a Japanese bar and little else. If you’re going to make people sit through five minutes of credits with bad music by Nickleback playing in the background, at least give them something to go home with.
Others are more gracious. The Naked Gun series inserted little jokes into the credits. Monty Python jokingly had false credits with bizarre comments about moose and replayed the credits at the beginning and end of the Holy Grail. Cannonball Run was probably most memorable for the bloopers it showed during the credits, and movies like Talladega Nights show and Old School show extra scenes as the credits roll.
Foreign movies are the worst, however. Their credits usually begin in earnest before the scene is even set. There’s little to do but sit there helplessly as minutes tick by. Some can last up to ten minutes, plus there’s little to discern them from the end credits, making you wonder if you arrived late at the theatre.
Then there’s TV shows like The Simpsons, where the opening credits usually last close until the second commercial break. I think I was five minutes into the episode once while the credits were still popping up. You’d think after 20 some odd years of being on the air that people would have become familiar with their names. The only decent idea TV has had in a long time is to start playing the opening to the next show while the credits for the last show are still playing. I don’t know why this hasn’t been implemented across the board. A TV show is 22 minutes long. About two minutes of that is credits. Less bang for your buck.
Worse yet are video game credits. Some games give you the option now of viewing the credits separately in the opening menu, but others force you to sit through them at the end of the game. You’ve spend 30+ hours plowing through a game, and after the final boss battle is over, you get to sit there for an insane amount of time and wait as it runs through the Japanese Game Tester credits. The ending to most games is usually a let down, so many people

Technorati Tags: movies,credits,games

will sit through the entire credits to see if there’s an extra scene explaining the plot holes. There rarely is. If there is another scene, it usually just raises more questions, like the one at the end of Final Fantasy VII. You can’t just turn off your game system either, because you may have to see if you can save your game at the end and replay. If not, you’ll end up at your last save point, which is usually right before the final battle that you barely scraped though by the skin of your teeth. Going through it again will only bring you the same reward: watching the credits. I usually go and make a victory sandwich while I wait.
Unlike movie credits, however, you’re not watching game credits on a DVD, or VCR. You can’t just pause and point to the screen and say to someone, “There’s me!” if you worked on it. No, you have about 1/2 a second to see your own name. Plus you can’t just skip to it, or fast forward. You have to play the ENTIRE GAME. If you’re the one who developed it, you’re probably sick to death of it after testing it for 1,000 hours. You might never see your own name on screen.
It’s funny how much more acceptable it is to make someone sit through the “credits” at a live performance, like a play or a concert. It’s far more intimate than it could ever be on screen to have the singer introduce the roadie. You might run into them after the show and go, “Hey, you, I know you!” That’s never going to happen with a movie. “Hey, you! You were Carnival Extra #3! I hardly recognize you with a face!”

Sleepover

Technorati Tags: Wal-Mat,idiots,Abbotsford

LiveJournal Tags: Wal-Mart,Apocalypse,idiots,Abbotsford

I know there’s a recession on, and the availability of camping sites not currently occupied by German tourists is limited, but day after day I see the Wal-Mart parking lot filled with RVs. These RVs have “camped” out overnight in their lot, for nights on end. I’m fairly certain that at least one camper seems as if he has moved there permanently. I used to see one camper trailer painted with Biblical nonsense and forehadowings of the Apocalypse, although I forget what his slogan was. He was advertising himself as the person to talk to in case of Armageddon. No thank you. If you’re what’s left after the Rapture, I’d rather move on. He use to be there every night. Now it looks as if he’s been forced to move on as others take his place. Maybe he felt like he was in Ground Zero, and hurried away on his perpetual escape.
I know that the Wal-Mart parking lot probably isn’t the choice destination, but I worry that these mobile-slum dwellers will complain to me out their sliding windows that I’m making too much noise as I drive past them on my forklift. I don’t know what I would do in my rage then.
Today a woman called to me and complained that I had not explained to her that items taken from the store had to be paid for.
…Yes. In today’s civilized society, I am still expected to explain how stores work to people, and it’s considered a failing for not realizing the vast stupidity of others.

Down in the Dumps

Technorati Tags: trash,recycling,Abbotsford

I seriously have to question why we bother with recycling bins in my town. There is literally no reason for them to exist any longer. Seconds upon placing a can in the trash, a crackhead will come up and take it. Don’t believe me? As I was stopped at a gas station today, I decided to empty the trash out my car. The timeframe between placing a can in the recycling bin and the moment a crackhead came up to take said can out was less than a minute. I had also thrown a can in the trash, as I couldn’t be bothered to sort every little item. The crackhead also went through the trash container to collect the can there as well. So I could have thrown my can into either receptacle and it would still have been collected. I’m not making life any easier for him by placing it directly in the recycling, as he will still check in the trash. Technically, I could have just left it on the sidewalk, and he would have picked it up. If not him, then someone else. Hence, not only does the recycling bin not count for anything, but the trash can has become outdated as well. Fascinating, when you think about it. I can litter without littering.
Why does this occur? Well Abbotsford is the murder capital of Canada. Those murders are connected with the drug trade. Abbotsford is flooded with drugs of all kinds, shapes and descriptions. Shit I’ve never heard about, probably, and gangs are at war over who controls it. Who’s buying all these drugs? It’s not just the poor, it’s all kinds of people, but the more drugs you buy the poorer you get. Then you’re reduced to rummaging through trash cans for pop bottles to buy more drugs. Sure, not everyone in this situation is a drug addict, but society treats them all with the same regard, so what difference is a little distinction going to make? Fact of the matter is: living in an apartment building, I see these people as often as I see my neighbours as I enter and exit the facility. They’re unavoidable. My bags of trash are cut open, rummaged through, and sorted, making the recycling bins next to the dumpster good for cardboard and plastic only. With cans and bottles I can do whatever the hell I want.

Frankenstein vs. The Zombies

Technorati Tags: zombies,writing,novel,serialized

LiveJournal Tags: writing,novel,serialized,hobbies,zombies

Hey, hey! I’ve decided to get back into writing. My life right now doesn’t afford me time to read or write much more than a few scraps here and there, but I’ve got a vacation coming up soon and no destination in mind. I might as well spend some time putting words on paper, except instead of paper I’ll be using them new fangled computers. My observations on zombie horror fiction have led me to believe that I might be able to contribute something to this burgeoning genre. Will my efforts be a help or a hinderance? How the fuck should I know? Shut up and read:
Chapter One:
    Percy Willoughby cursed his fortunes as a low-hanging branch caught him in the face. Rain-ladden leaves swept across his ill-kempt beard and he spat out the dewy taste they left on his lips. He continued to swat at them and rage long after they had left his immediate vicinity. Finally contenting himself, he pulled his shapeless hat lower over his eyes, which were as grey and restive as the skies themselves, and continued his surveillance for potholes on the winding road ahead of him. The rain had not been so menacing when he left Edinburough eight hours earlier. Rain was to be expected during such a season, but now it threatened to wash the road away under him. Soon, he would have to stop for the night, but Nottinghamshire was still many miles ahead of him. He worried what might happen should he get stuck out in the woods, with no dry spot to set camp. With his passengers, he would not be permitted to sleep inside the carriage. The best he could hope for was to pull a blanket over his head  and  find some kind of shelter under the boughs of a tree. Of course, he would be expected to keep watch during the night for brigands, which the elderly woman was deathly afraid of. He had tried to assure her that the last highway robber to roam the road they were upon had been hanged years ago, and no one thought it worth the effort to replace him. She had merely given him a withering look that signalled her distrust.
    The way she behaved made it clear she thought he would try to molest her poor young daughter at the first opportunity. As if he would want such a pale specimen when he had a perfectly suitable woman waiting for him at home with a smile and a warm cup of beer. It served her right to be so wrought with  misgivings, travelling unaccompanied by a man in these troubling times, but they claimed her husband was waiting for them at their new home in Canterbury. In his absence, Percy promised himself to be their chaperone, but he was beginning to doubt it was worth the effort. He prided himself on being a perfect gentleman, but they treated him like a scullery boy. Would it pain them to know they weren’t the pair to ride inside his carriage, nor were they the most gracious? He had inquired about their lives and their business to pass the hours of their journey, but the girl was too shy and the mother was too disapproving of his general existence. The horses were better company.
    Suddenly, the carriage came to an abrupt halt and Percy was lurched forward on his seat. He barely was able to get his hand up in time to prevent himself for toppling over the side. The horses gave startled whinnies to accompany the yelps of surprise inside. He could hear things clattering around below him, and he did not know if it was luggage, or women.
    Casting a look back, he saw his left rear wheel firmly wedged in the mud. “Abomination!” he cried out. Cracking his whip, he flicked the reins and urged the horses onward. They struggled valiantly, but they were tired from the long journey. He cracked the whip a few more times before thinking better of it. He was as likely to kill them as free himself. Sighing, he tied the reins and climbed down for a closer look.
    “What is the meaning of this?” the old woman demanded as she flung open the door, nearly catching him in the face as he walked around the side.
    “Get back inside,” he told her irritably. “Nothing you can do.”
    Bending down with a grunt, he saw the wheel was wedged in about ten inches of mud and muck. “What’s the problem?” she asked him.
    “The wheel’s stuck,” he muttered more to himself than to her. He looked around for his pry bar and came back to try and wrench them free. Setting the bar deep in the mud beneath the wheel, he gave a great pull, but the wheel remained in place. He tried again, and this time managed to fall over backwards as it slipped from his grip. He landed on his backside, fully muddying his coattails. “Damnation,” he swore as he flicked mud off of himself.
    “Language!” the old woman chided him.
    “Lady…” he began, but bit his tongue. She was a paying fare after all. He pitied her husband, though.
    Now that he thought on it, it seemed odd that a woman her age would have a daughter such an age as hers. It was a matter for another time, however, as he had larger problems to tangle with. He began to go over his options. Perhaps if her could get the horses to pull as he used his pry bar.
    That’s when he became aware that the woman had grown deathly silent. He looked up at her curiously, and she was staring, pale-faced at something directly behind him. He was puzzled, until he felt the presence. There was no true shadows to be cast in such a light, but he suspected there would be one over him now. There was something else too: a smell. A smell of something quite not right. It was a smell one would only find if they went digging in places that were forbidden to them. Yes, just like fresh dug earth, but something else as well. A stench of age, like an animal that had lived longer than it should properly do. He had a dog like that once, and that was like he was sensing now.
    Turning slowly, he looked up at the tallest man he had ever seen. It was like being a toddler again and craning his head up towards the adults. The man was close to seven feet tall, if indeed it was a man. He could discern no features, as they were hidden beneath a sagging hood of a cloak that had been stitched together quite crudely. He could hear him breathing lowly, and it sounded much like his horses.
    His thoughts turned to the woman and her suspicions about brigands. If that was the case, he had best turn over his belongings. He had no hope to defend himself against such a monster. All he had was his ridding crop and a simple knife used more for paring apples than defending his life. In a fight, he was less than adequate. His nose was still crooked from where his brother had punched it in a dispute he could no longer recall. The injury had taught him that his physical ability was not his strongest suit, so he had lived a gentler life.
    With a deep grumble that seemed to come up from his toes, the man swept past him. Their arms momentarily touched, and he felt a cold shiver pass over him. He looked helplessly as he advanced on the carriage, wondering if he should interject with his own life to save those of his charges, but a moment was all it took to discern that this was not going to be necessary. The beast before him clutched the carriage’s wheel and gave a heave. With seeming effortlessness, the carriage lifted up out of it’s rut and was freed. The woman retreated into the carriage with a squeal, and slammed the door shut behind her.
    Still not quite believing he was seeing what he was seeing, Percy opened his mouth to thank the man. As he did, the figure turned on him. He saw it’s eyes, and grew cold. There was something wrong about  his eyes. It was as if there was no life in them, and the left one did not properly match the right. Percy thought he had an ugly nose, but the man’s was more misshapen. It was bent first one way, then the other. Long scars covered his face, and broad patches where flames had licked his skin. Due to these scars, he could not read the expression it wore. It was like trying to read a scribble on a piece of parchment.
    The strange man grunted at him wordlessly, and with that, took his leave. He began a procession down the road in the direction of Nottinghamshire, where they were bound.
    Percy wondered what the decorum should be. Should he offer the man a lift, or should he turn his carriage around and flee, forgetting his destination? One decision was made for him

That’s not much, is it? That’s not even two pages, I think. Locations are probably going to change, but I need a setting before I can get rolling, don’t I? Also, I don’t think there was any zombies in those pages, but you have to give me props for busting Frankenstein’s Monster out so quick. You know those horror movies where you don’t even see the monster until the last ten minutes? This isn’t like that.
Also: the title is Frankenstein vs. the Zombies. Technically, Frankenstein is the doctor who created the “monster,” so it’s not like you’d want to read about some nerd hacking away at zombies for four-hundred pages. I could call it Frankenstein’s Monster vs. the Zombies, but Frankenstein employed a hunchback and created a female monster as well. Which monster am I referring to? Besides, it just doesn’t have that kick. You know what you’re in for with my title, so just play along, and I won’t sock you one.

Murdertown, Canada.

Abbotsford, the town I live in, has become the murder capital of Canada. Again. Meaning that his isn’t the first time. It was also the murder capital back in 2003. Furthermore, the town has a murderer named after it, “The Abbotsford Killer.” In all fairness, however, he was also a rapist.
The vast majority of murders committed here a a part of a drug war between two gangs called the Red Scorpions and the United Nations (no relation). The police are constantly trying to reassure the public that they are in no immediate danger, as these are targeted killings, but some of the people getting killed are just kids selling dime bags in school. They took two teenagers hostage out of a public park, drove them off and killed them and left their bodies in a car for police to find. And I thought I had it rough in high school. All I had to deal with was murder threats and savage beatings.
The Province chose to approach this tropic by interviewing someone from Abbotsford’s other group of undesirables: crotchety old geezers. The had a photo of one of the old farts who spend their days riding around on their rascals, but still have no clue how to drive. These are the ancient bastards backing up into you as you try to manoeuvre your shopping carts around them at the grocery store, then make you wait in line as they use pennies to pay for their discount cat food. What this this fine fellow have to say? Well, for one thing, he carries around a stick for beating on the young’un’s. Yes, a stick. It’s the perfect weapon. It’s wooden, and it’s sticky. You can use it to deflect bullets. In a town that’s supposedly the national capital for murder, you think you’d be able to pick someone with a more interesting story than fending off a mugging (allegedly). You know, someone who might have been a witness to one these murderers. I suspect, however, that these people are understandably too afraid to talk.
One error The Province printed: they quoted someone as saying it’s still a decent town. No. No it is not, sir. They closed down Popeye's Chicken. THEY CLOSED DOWN POPEYES CHICKEN. Remember the days when you could say, “At least I have chicken!” Those are gone. Abbotsford is a city with a hockey arena and no hockey team. They have an art gallery with no art. Millions have been invested in both projects. They flaunt the price tag. These missing necessities are all forthcoming, but that is a murky future. Meanwhile: property taxes are skyrocketing on houses no one wants, mainly for fear of being murdered. A gas tax is coming soon as well to pay for more crap.
The Province also cited how cheap it is to live in Abbotsford, compared to Vancouver, of course. We do not live like kings. Mainly because there are no jobs paying more than minimum wage. That’s why most kids turn to crime. It’s either that or get a job working in the prison, or becoming a cop. It’s a system that’ll keep feeding itself. I don’t foresee Abbotsford attracting much in the way of business with these conditions, although I see new office buildings going up. We’ve run out of place to build houses, so now we’re building condos. Condos no one buys.
Meanwhile, in the same paper, people are decrying the use of new identification systems in local bars and clubs. Some locations force you to have your Driver’s License scanned and your photo taken before entering the premises, in order to protect people from the kinds of violent crimes I just mentioned. Sure, it’s invasive, but then so is every aspect of our lives. We’re constantly under surveillance. My work has over forty security cameras. A computer logs every time I take the elevator down to the parking garage in my apartment. Castle Fun Park knows every game I play at their arcade. Any human being can discern every aspect of my person from my Facebook profile. We’re simply deluding ourselves into thinking we’re not inches away from having chips implanted in our necks. The only reason they haven’t is because they already have tracking chips in our cars, our cell phones, and even our pets. I personally have no problem with having my picture taken before going into a bar. We know crimes can take place there. They wouldn’t be called “bar fights” if they weren’t held in a bar. Plus this procedure should cut down on under aged drinking, so you don’t have to worry about that girl you picked up being jail bait. I do have a problem with someone having access to my address. This could actually lead to more crime. After all: they know I’m not home, and they now know where my home is. The bouncer is clearly on steroids, and his job probably doesn’t cover those expenses. All he’s got to do is call his buddy, and all my shit’s gone. As for misusing my personal information: that’s just a given. Every place you shop now, or website you frequent demands your phone number, e-mail address, etc. They buy and sell that information to other, less reputable businesses. There’s probably millionaires who do nothing but collect your data without your consent.
A judge has ruled the practice of collecting date in this manner illegal. Which means we’re more likely to be shot next time we go to eat. Hmm…
Why do I live here? Is it the entertainment value?
Want to hear some good things about Abbotsford? Mill Lake Park. Castle Fun Park. A convenient airport. The Abbotsford Air Show. Lou’s Bar and Grill. Fat Freddy’s Pizza. It’s a quick drive to Vancouver. That’s not enough to want to raise your family here, which I’m currently doing unsuccessfully. Meh.

Technorati Tags: Abbotsford

Game Buoy

LiveJournal Tags: Red Faction,Bee Movie,Battlefield 1943,Secret of Monkey Island

I spent the last week juggling between four different titles for my Xbox 360. I had rented Red Faction: Guerrilla, a sandbox game where you are strongly urged to blow up every building you encounter. Unfortunately, on the sparse landscape of Mars these buildings are far and few between. I would rather have seen this sort of platform set in a dense urban setting like New York, but it would smack of a terrorism training video. Mars is a poor choice for setting, simply because it is red. For hours on end, you have to stare at the endless, bleak, desolate wasteland of Mars, and it is red. This pains the eyes like staring at the sunset. The game play was hardly revolutionary. It was basically another GTA clone, but with destructible buildings. Missions grew quite dull as they basically consisted of: Drive to point A and get objective; drive to point B and destroy target building/rescue hostages/shoot bad guys; drive to point C. Repeat. I died quite often playing, but usually in the final act of accomplishing the mission. I would often find myself in the blast radius of the charges I just planted, or else I would be shot down while fleeing the crime scene. The online play provided more equipment options than most shooters and character customization that allowed one to create characters you could actually tell apart. The missions were basically the same as the game, which involve destroying shit while being shot at. Of course, as with any shooter, you get the same 14-year-olds telling you you suck. They follow you from game to game. I’m surprised I haven’t encountered them in 1 vs. 100, likely because such children consider it “gay.”
I also downloaded Battlefield 1943, which I ended up playing more than anything else. For a game that only cost $15, the action is certainly intense, even if the graphics are not. There’s only a few choice of levels, but they are rather large once you enter them. Each level is a mix of CTF/Slayer, with a wide choice of vehicles to help you achieve your goals. There’s tanks, jeeps, boats, planes, and air raids you can all pilot. You only have three choices for characters per two factions: Rifleman; Machine-Gun; and Sniper. Snipers seem the most popular, and are the better choice for some maps. I’ve been in levels where three snipers side-by-side will be targeting three other snipers across a valley. You can get sniped by another sniper while trying to snipe a third sniper, who in turn is targeting a fourth sniper, and so on. I believe that’s called a Daisy Chain. A lot of the environment is destructible as well, such as trees, buildings, etc., so if someone’s hiding behind a building, you can pepper it with cannon fire until there’s no building left. As I said, however, the graphics aren’t that great and there’s a few glitches. Usually upon entering some levels you’ll encounter black streaks as the virtual environment tries to tear itself apart. Armageddon will likely look the same way. This passes shortly if you travel enough distance, but then I also found the oddest thing: a grey cube floating in space. It wasn’t an object: it was the absence of space itself. I wondered if grandpa even encountered anything like this in the Pacific Theatre.
Favourite moment: I saw a plane spawn next to the base I just captured, but as I ran towards it, I saw an enemy Jap was booking it for the same plane. He was so close I had to switch from my sniper rifle to handgun to get a good shot as I ran. He dodged the bullets and boarded before I could reach him. As he started up the propellers, I pulled out my satchel charges and threw one directly under the plane. As he began to pull away, I detonated it, and the burning wreckage of his plane scattered down the runway. This earned me an in-game award, which I will away cherish.
Speaking of planes, this is quite common:

My girlfriend’s mother bought the Bee Movie Game for her grandson, (soon it will be easier to say my step-son and mother-in-law and wife, etc., but I must wait for that) nd thus I was forced to play it. I was surprised to find the main level of the game a scaled down version of GTA set in a beehive. Let me explain: inside the beehive city, if you want to go anywhere, you can just hop in a car. It’s like car-jacking, but the driver is actually quite glad to drive you to your destination. During this mode, you play as the driver himself, and not the protagonist hitchhiker. This sandbox driving mode enables my girlfriend’s son to play the game, as it’s a quite simple interface, and he gains points for knocking over lampposts, etc. Pedestrians jump out of the way. Occasionally they will shout at you about driving on the sidewalk in what I must call very Jewy voices. Indeed, with Jerry Seinfeld as the hero, this is perhaps the most Kosher game ever. Shalom! The hive serves as the staging ground for the more movie based levels, which are too challenging for a boy not yet turned four. They involve pressing buttons in sequence with flashing symbols on screen and shooting dragonflies. In that regard, it’s rather eclectic. My future step-son grew tired of these trials, however, and demanded to be returned to the beehive, where he was actually able to earn me a few achievement points just by dicking around a little. Still, these were not the easiest points I’ve ever gained. That honour goes to the next game.
Even with updated graphics, The Secret of Monkey Island is about as old school as it gets in the Xbox Live Arcade, which is an actual Achievement. Simply by pressing the “Back” button, you can go back in time to the original graphics and earn yourself 5 Achievement Points. I doubt there is any easier points in any game, and I’ve heard about Avatar. As I said, the graphics are updated, but not the animation itself, which remains stuck in 16-Bit mode. Everything has been hand-drawn into the game, but for close-ups the characters used to be more photorealistic. Now they are cartoony.
It angers me trying to remember what item is used where after so many years of separation, and I often find myself walking around lost. Curse the cruel hand of time!

Zombie-Fic

Having avoided the bookstore due to a general disassociation with the lower forms of literature I once loved and a lifestyle that affords me less time to pursue such endeavours, I happened to discover that a new genre has emerge in my long absence. That genre is zombie fiction, a subgroup of the horror genre, but due to the increase in volume is fast becoming a genre unto itself.
I had gone to the bookstore specifically looking for a book of this genre after having read about it online, and had not known how popular it was going to be. I went to Chapters thinking it would be a hard-to-find item that they specialize in, and was delighted to see it was front and centre. I did not realize this until I was on my way out, so convinced I was that the novel in question would only be found by a computer search. By the doors, I found it accompanying ten other books in the same vein, but I had to restrict myself to a single purchase.
It had also become a New York Times best seller, according to the logo emblazoned on the cover. This I had not expected, but I was not surprised. After all, it was a classic, Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen, with an entrepreneur adding, “and Zombies,” to the title.
Truthfully, this is an accurate title for the work, as it is Jane Austen’s original work with references to zombies added in. This is usually a passing reference made every page or so, with words added like, “zombies,” “unmentionables,” “deadly,” “musket,” “dagger,” and “plague.” When speaking of the sisters in the work, it may mention how refined they are in culture, as they are in the deadly arts. And so it goes. If a character should have to travel for any length upon the open road, they will be set upon by zombies. This may break away to an action sequence, involving heads being split open and zombie faces being kicked in, etc. Perhaps they’ll be at the ball, and zombies will suddenly burst in through the windows and begin devouring the guests, and the girls will have to fend them off with skills they learned in the Orient. It’s basically Classic Lit. for people with short-attention spans. There’s illustrations to go along with these asides, showing the ladies with their swords in hand.
The rest is the work of Jane Austen. If you are unfamiliar with the work, it’s basically about a group of sisters trying desperately to get laid. The modern equivalent would be American Pie. Of course, these were gentler times, and to get laid one must first be married, and sex is never mentioned, but it’s there in the subtext. Jane Austen was a horny old bitch.

Sherlock Bones

Okay, so I just saw the trailer for the new Sherlock Holmes movie coming out, starring Robert Downey Jr. as the title character. I heard about this a few months ago, and I was expecting it to be more intellectual, like the classic literary series. Not so. I almost had it confused with the comedy version coming out with Wil Ferrel and Sacha Cohen Boren. It looked more like the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen than Sherlock Holmes. I saw a lot of jumping around and explosions in a movie trailer that should probably have contained neither. I know today’s audiences have grown accustomed to a particular fare, but that’s really just ridiculous. What pisses me off is the fact I’d probably still enjoy it. From what I gleaned from the trailer, I believe the plot follows Holmes as he tries to stop some resurrected baddie, possibly Voldemort, from destroying the world. …Why? Why is this the default plot of every movie? I know it’s exciting and everything, but seriously: Fuck! It looks like they wanted to do a Batman movie but couldn’t get the rights.

Sorry Mr.Jackson, I am for Real.

Since his death, speaking ill of Michael Jackson has become taboo. Fans have refused to acknowledge his controversial lifestyle, so I will bide my time until reality takes over. In the meantime, let me speak of Michael’s father, Joe Jackson.
Michael Jackson publically disowned his father, and accused him of physical abuse and even hinted at sexual abuse. Latoya Jackson, his sister, confirmed this. Don’t believe me? Look it up. I’m not a reporter, or a professional blogger. It’s not my job to hyperlink for you. Want a hyperlink? Here. Yeah, it’s old. Deal. Does it make me less reputable? Yes it does, but I’m a man of ill-repute. Why build myself up? This story is not about me, it’s about the Jacksons.
Despite the rift in the family, the media has conducted numerous interviews with Joe Jackson, because you can’t interview a dead man. His insights have been less than inspiring. The popular belief among the Jackson family is that Michael was murdered.
…Okay. By who? His doctor? His ex-wife? A crazed fan? MacCully Culkin? Elvis Presley? O.J.? Who? Seriously, WTF? Michael was an over-the-hill pill-popper who survived being set on fire and underwent plastic surgery as many time as Joan Rivers. Look at this picture:


That’s a healthy looking fro. Now, look at this one:


…That’s scary as hell.
You can’t tell me that man is healthy. He’s had 90% of his face restructured.  Skin, nose, cheeks, eyes, lips, and a John Travolta chin-cleft for wind resistance. Why? He was a good lookin’ guy. Remember early on when he had his nose done? That was unnecessary, but acceptable. Should have stopped there, but he’s not the first person to go overboard with cosmetic surgery. Thing is: he was addicted to painkillers. The media’s rumour is that he took 10,000 pills in a six month period. That’s more than some AIDS patients take. You can’t take more than eight Aspirin in a day without risking death, so explain how 55 pills a day isn’t probable grounds for death? Most of those were pain pills. Y’know: the ones that killed Elvis. So pills can take down the King, but not the Prince of Pop? Remember Marilyn Monroe? Pills. People OD.
If it was murder, why would anyone murder Michael Jackson by giving him a heart attack? Candy is dandy, but guns are quicker. I doubt he was the target of international assassins. Best bet is poor medical advice. Plus you can’t really blame the doctors in this case. A man who cares so little about his well-being as to totally transform his physical appearance beyond recognition isn’t likely to listen to the advice of his doctors, no matter how much he’s paying them. No doubt it was the cheques Michael was signing that made the doctors ignore their Hippocratic oath, and pumped him full of so many drugs it eventually killed him. That doesn’t make it murder, even if it’s still criminal.
Fact is : Joe Jackson’s desperate for attention. This is a man who beat his kids with a belt until they got their dance routines down pat, all so he could live on easy street. Plus he’s up to his old tricks again: he was heard saying how Michael’s daughter has a career in

LiveJournal Tags: Jackson

music and used the opportunity for his son’s death to announce he’s starting his own record company. Classy. Way to make lemons into lemonade, you parasite.

Bustin’ Makes Me Feel Good

Ghostbusters is 25-years-old. Not to the day, necessarily, but lets pretend it is for the sake of argument. I believe it’s the proper time to review the phenomenon that is Ghostbusters for the sake of all you eighteen-year-old EMO fuckwads out there that are too busy cutting your wrists and listening to Linkin Park to appreciate a good move like Ghostbusters, or it’s ensuing cartoon series, the REAL Ghostbusters. I bet you little pricks don’t know why they called it Real Ghostbusters, do you? It’s because there was a group of fake-ass Ghostbusters running around trying to catch ghosts in fucking butterfly nets with a gorilla. That shit doesn’t fly with me, even if gorilla companions are awesome.
Let me explain to you that the root of my deep, dark depression is knowing that I can never be a real Ghostbuster, because there’s no longer any ghosts. They were all busted into extinction back in the 80’s. You see: before the Ghostbusters came to be in ‘84, there were ghosts everywhere. They were all over the place, like sperm on Paris Hilton. You couldn’t take a shit without a ghost jumping out of the toilet. That all changed when the proton cannon was invented.
See: the one thing about the Ghostbusters was they weren’t afraid of no ghost. They took the fight to the ghosts. Soon, the ghosts were the ones afraid. Mainly because they were being taken to concentration camps. That what the containment units were, really. I think a lot of people knew the truth, but they didn’t care. All they knew was that there wasn’t any ghosts.
Now you might ask, Why are there no ghosts today, when people are still dying?” Because ghosts are still too afraid. They opt for the Hell that awaits them instead of being sent to the ghost camps. Do you know what goes on in there? Do you know what a Hot Carl is? Imagine getting that from Slimer.
Seriously, though: there was a time in my life when being a Ghostbuster seemed like a viable career choice. Name one job that’s better. You can’t. It’s like being a fireman, only you get to blow up giant marshmallow men on the side of skyscrapers. You get to slide down the firepole, drive around with the siren on, kick down doors, hook people up to potentially dangerous electronic devices. The only downside: you’re going to be torn to shreds by demons from another dimension. Oh well.

Is That Your Professional Opinion?

So I just finished playing Prototype for Xbox 360: a game in which you Chuck Norris a blackhawk helicopter. I have no qualms with this game, save for the AI. You play as a walking, talking virus who can run up the side of the Empire State building and do a back-flip off the top and punch through a tank as you land. Yet, the “highly-trained” marines charged with the sole duty of taking you down don’t find this suspicious in the slightest. They will simply stare at you as you do this. Occasionally they’ll chatter on about reporting you to command, but then they do nothing. Even if you steal a tank right off of their bases, they’ll hardly glance at you. The only way they notice is if you turn your hand into a fifty-foot whip to cut a group of people in half. Then they’ll sort-of fire at you until you climb over a building. Their patience for chasing you is usually only one city block.
Halo 3, on the other hand, is all kinds of pissing me off. I started playing again this week for the opportunity to win special armour. However, to get this, I’d have to magically find myself in a match with Bungie employees. There’s about fifty of them and 300,000 people trying to play against them, and they’re going up against only five people at a time in matches that last about ten minutes. You do the math. Obviously, I never got the opportunity. The problem is: the other geniuses playing had the bright idea of quitting during regular matches to “increase” their odds of finding a Bungie opponent. Which meant I’d frequently find myself alone after four other teammates abandoned me, and would be pitted against five other opponents and having to steal their team’s flag. Good times. Of course if I chose to quit as well, I’d be penalized.
I was honestly hoping to find just one Bungie employee, not because I want the armour so much as I want to shoot them in the face again and again. The little dropout problem I just described is just one of the many faults the game has. If a player drops, another should be able to join in to replace them. Fucking World at War lets you do that, and without disrupting the game. I love it when I’m about to pistol-whip someone in the back of the head only to be taken to a “Migrating Host” screen, and have to wait up to two whole minutes to return somewhere unexpected, and the little prick I was about to cap manages to shoot me through the eyes.
Also: if a game is best out of five, the game should end when one team has scored three points. It shouldn’t go on for another two fucking rounds. What’s the point of that? Are we expected to a make a mathematically impossible comeback? There’s literally no point. None. You’re wasting an extra ten to twenty-minutes of my life.
When you Veto a round of Capture the Flag, and there’s other options available in the playlist, the room should not in any circumstances bounce you over to another round of Capture the Flag, but with a different map. The maps don’t matter. In other online shooters like World at War, Capture the Flag is one of the least popular games in the playlist. Oh! AND THEY HAVE MORE THAN FOUR OPTIONS.
Plus: jumping and shooting should never be combined outside of Super Mario. People should not be able to magically leap over me as I’m trying to shoot them. It’s not realistic. It’s not a fucking skill. It’s just you pressing the “A” button. It shouldn’t be so fucking effective.
Anyway: I was playing again today in another glorious round of Capture the Flag, and one guy is just mouthing off about how everyone else on the team sucks, which starts about two seconds after the game begins, and hence no one can distribute any displays of skill. Later, in the game, he’s got the flag, and I drive up next to him, ready to take him back to base in style. There’s an enemy on him, and I run the red fucker over. He tells me I suck, and doesn’t get on. …WTF? Seriously, I just saved your life, and set us up for a win, which you turn down, and I suck. Sorry!
I always notice how my Rep goes down, but only after playing Halo 3. It’s all for “Unsportsmanlike” conduct, but I don’t know how that is. I don’t team-kill, meaning I don’t bash fellow teammates in the back of their heads and steal the flag they’re carrying when they’re about to score a win. I got “Unsportsmanlike” once while playing World at War, but I believe that’s because I like to take grenade guns and just repeatedly bomb the shit out of whatever hidey-hole the enemy is in, which is being kind of a douche.

Busking Without the Busk

Abbotsford has never been a classy city. A trip to the multi-million dollar Reach Gallery exhibiting it’s “rich” history this past week has proven that to me. It’s a lavish facility housing little more that the refuse of a past generation: logging implements, arrowheads and traditional Sikh garb. Basically, whatever people had in their basement crawlspaces they could give away and housed under glass as if of unspeakable importance. Archaeology is a dubious pursuit at best, and these are hardly treasures to be displayed thusly. These effects are little more than the plastic sporks we use at KFC. The art itself reflected local landscapes and not much else. To me, art that acts only as a snapshot doesn’t do much as art. In summation: it’s a $32 million facility with about $160 of exhibits.
Every town has people standing on street corners and meridians with signs stating how hungry and poor they are, but I’ve been noticing a surge in number of people doing this in the past few weeks. I believe I counted five the other day. Two of them are out by the Home Depot and Wal-Mart. I know this because I have to drive by them four times a day. This is a pair who camps out behind the Home Depot doing drugs. I know this because I’ve stumbled upon them doing this as well. Typically, in the States, illegal immigrants hang out by the Home Depot hoping to make an honest -albeit still illegal- buck performing menial labour. I believe these two offer nothing in exchange for cash, which they then spend on drugs.
The other day, while sitting in my car waiting for my girlfriend to get off work, I had the window rolled down because it was about eight-four degrees. This was apparently enough of an invitation for a crackhead to come up to me and demand money, saying they were hungry. This was at 9:40 at night. The only thing a person like that would spend money on at that time was likely drugs. A car is supposed to be something of a private sanctuary. Lately, it’s come under attack by the people waiting at traffic lights. There’s even those who wait at fast-food line-ups and beg for money as the people wait for food. They ask for money, of course, and not food, although they still use the old excuse of using that money for food of coffee. Crack is one hell of a drug.

669

Someone’s been leaving pamphlets all over town: I’ve been finding them on car windshields and in elevators. I’d hasten to call them religious propaganda, but it would be a bit reluctant. It’s a document regarding the Anti-Christ, how he’s coming, and how he’s going to fuck up your life and rape your dog unless you’ve got Jesus backing you. It points to various factors like Global Warming as a sign that he’s already here, so apparently the Anti-Christ has been leaving his car idling in park.
Let me just say: it takes a real guts to speak out against the Anti-Christ, because NO ONE has had the balls to do that before.
…He’s the FUCKING Anti-Christ. I know you’re a crazed religious fanatic trying to start your own cult, but people don’t need to be told the Anti-Christ is bad news. He’s got that whole, “Anti-Christ,” thing in his name. He’s supposed to be the evil opposite of Christ. He turns wine into water and causes leprosy, or some shit like that. Maybe he has a goatee. Who knows? Why are you wasting paper trying to tell people he’s up to no good?
I didn’t read that much of the pamphlet, because it is essentially a book. Best guess is about thirty pages, and it could fit snugly in your pocket. If I read more than the front and back I’m sure I’d see the author spewing hatred at homosexuals and insinuate that Obama is the Anti-Christ: fun stuff like that.
Can I ask a question? Let’s say the Anti-Christ is real, that he’s here today, and he’s going to destroy the world. What the fuck do you expect me to do? Am I supposed to go stop him? How? He’s the Anti-Christ, meaning he’s equal to Jesus Christ, who himself is 50% God, which if my math is correct: the Anti-Christ has half of God’s power. I’m 100% mortal. I’m going to get fucked up if I try to take him on. I don’t have to see Brock Lesnar in person to know he could slam me headfirst through the floor. Stuff like that hurts, and that’s exactly the kind of crap the Anti-Christ could probably do if he put his mind to it. I’m not going mono-a-mono with him. He’s the Anti-Christ, so it should be Christ himself who has to take him on. Good luck to him. I’ve seen crucifixes, and Jesus doesn’t look all that imposing a fellow. I could probably beat him up if I wanted to. Plus he’s been dead for about 2000 years, so that’s not good. Usually, when you’re looking for someone to save the day, you don’t choose someone who was tortured to death 20 centuries ago. Maybe Jesus will get lucky and the Anti-Christ will turn out to be some 11 year old in a wheelchair. Maybe then he could win a physical confrontation.
I get the feeling that whoever wrote this thinks Jesus is fuelled by the magic of prayer, and if we pray enough Jesus gets super powers. I don’t think it works that way. Jesus doesn’t get juiced up like Hulk Hogan when people clap their hands. You need a better plan: like get Jesus some mixed-martial arts lessons. Have him spar a bit, then try to take on the Anti-Christ. Like he could try to fight Dick Cheney first and work his way up.
I also noted how the author kept referring to “666” being the Number of the Beast, when in fact is in the page the devil first appears in the original King James Bible. It is only a reference number. I know there’s some great songs and that about the Number of the Beast, but it’s not that significant.
Also: believing in the Anti-Christ is just plain retarded. There’s lots of evil men and women out there who like to fuck shit up, but they’re not the Anti-Christ. You know why? Because the Anti-Christ in very specific terms laid out by Revelations has to be born of jackal. That’s not a metaphor: they literally have to be born from a jackal. That’s not happening: mainly because it can’t happen. Human babies do not come from canines. Case closed.