Thursday, December 31, 2009

The Generic New Year’s Resolution.

1) Don’t die.

2) Do that thing I’ve been putting off for a whole year.

3) Buy that thing for my significant other that I forgot about this year.

4) Make something I’m proud of.

5) Find something I’m good at.

6) Don’t kill anyone.

7) Erase that dirty habit I have from my daily routine.

8) Clean up my shit.

9) Discover the meaning of love.

10) Stop lurking 4chan.

11) Start posting on 4chan.

12) Reignite my lost romance.

13) Don’t get arrested.

14) Read a book for once.

15) Remember birthdays.

16) Grow a spine at work.

17) Quit my job.

18) Love thy neighbour?

19) Move out.

20) Enjoy life.

Happy New Year. And have fun tonight.

Monday, December 28, 2009

Aurally Audacious Endeavours – DJ Deckstream

Hope you had a Happy Festivus, Christmas Eve, Christmas and Boxing Day. Let’s throw in the Sunday after Boxing Day, just to get them all down. Also, Happy Holidays to all you other people. Now that we’ve addressed your celebratory state of mind, let’s get onto business at hand.

It’s high time I got back into the auditory sharing mood, since it is a festive time and all. In my hiatus with these kinds of posts, you can say I’ve been doing extensive research and fine-tuning my ears in both tolerance and experimentation.

Since the last post I did, which I believe was on underground rapper Atmosphere, I was in a hip and hoppy mood. Ever since then, I’ve been browsing the intarwebz for pretty much everything from rap sub-genres to some pretty sweet DJ-ing.

And one of these guys, as I would find out, created some pretty dope beats.

Something that has always caught my interest was unorthodox combinations in music. You’ve seen that I certainly enjoy the right genre-melding, or unique sounds (at least to my ears). When I heard DJ Deckstream, I hear jazz piano, shuffling drumbeats, and featured rappers, whom when combined with Deckstream’s beats, create something worth awing at.

Hailing from Japan, he has already released two major albums, DJ Deckstream Soundtracks I & II. I have yet to listen to most of the tracks, but some quick research shows a pretty impressive line-up in terms of team-ups. The likes of Lupe Fiasco, Talib Kweli, and as you’ve heard, Mos Def, already give legitimacy to this man’s musical ability. Combining forces with famed local rappers from his home country of Japan, Deckstream combines his impressive beats with lyrics from the best hip-hop artists of North America, and some indie ones too.

Whether it’s the instant connection with this man’s combination of smooth and chill style with classic hip-hop fashion, or his musical chemistry with which seems like any MC he makes a track with, DJ Deckstream is a hit, even if he is indie.

Some people keep saying that hip-hop is dead. This man proves the opposite.

Check him out, because you won’t be disappointed.

Thursday, December 24, 2009

I don’t have a chimney. D=

And my family doesn’t like strange, bearded men at their doorstep. I will see how things turn out.

To everyone else with a chimney, Merry Christmas.

I hope your presents are useful, thoughtful, or really damn good gift cards. If not, your family doesn’t love you. Just joking. They’re probably poor though. Doesn’t matter, since Christmas is a time for giving, so keep up the yuletide joy for a day or two, and then waste as much money as possible on boxing day.

Or buy gifts for your family right in front of them, tell them that’s their Christmas present, and then force them to get you something equal—if not greater—in quality or cost. That’s how I do.

Giving feels great. Enjoy your holidays, wherever you may be.

Let’s celebrate with some Christmas music.

Merry Christmas, Earth.

Tuesday, December 22, 2009

Give Me Wings.

Give me wings, because I need to fly.
I need to get out of this place.
Give me eyes, so I can see.
My vision of the world is impaired.
Give me lungs, so I can breathe.
I want to take in the sky and clouds.
Give me a place to go, because I want to get out of here.
Give me a place to be, because I don't know where I'm going.

Give me freedom.

Monday, December 21, 2009

For those crappy days.

If you haven’t seen it already, make sure you bookmark it for when you do bad on an exam, or have a shitty day at work, or when you just feel down.

You could also watch it just because it makes you smile.

:)

A Bad Investment.

Grade 12 Writer’s Craft Short Story Assignment.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

The car in the driveway is brand new. No financing. A pretty good down-payment. They even let me drive it home. Confident buy, I think. It’s spacious and wide, almost like an SUV, but it’s a minivan. Looks homely from the outside too—perfect soccer mom car for the everyday drive to school. I sit in the middle row of seats. Behind me are boxes of something. I forgot what. The keys are still in the ignition and the passenger door is open. I can feel a cool breeze pass through the car and out the open window of the other side. It sends chills down my spine.

I smell something barbecuing at the house next door. Maybe I should go there in a bit. I want to sit in the car for a little longer though; I have to settle into my new investment. A few weeks ago I had argued with her about buying a car. I told her it’d be a good investment—those were my exact words. She said I didn’t have a job anymore, and asked how I could afford paying for a car and a house at the same time. I told her she should think about the kids, and how they deserve a decent car to grow up with. She didn’t bother trying to argue with me. I was disappointed, since I thought I hadn’t proven my point yet.

If she could see this thing now, she’d know what I was talking about. The kids could fit right in here. Big, comfy seats. Maybe if I invested a little more into it, I could have one of those fold-down television screens and let them watch cartoons on road trips or something.

“Damn it.”

I should have thought about that at the car dealership. I should have bought it earlier, so she and the kids could have seen it. The old car was such a piece of crap. I should have sold it when I had the chance. I should have done a lot of things when I had the chance.

“Damn it!”

The back of the seat is surprisingly hard on impact. My knuckles bruise within a few seconds. I stretch and clench my hand to try and get the feeling back. It’s almost as hard as the fridge.

This car is starting to make me sick, so I get out. I look at the paint finish. The silver gleams in the sun. Good choice on my part. I notice the phone and the piece of paper in the passenger seat and go back into the car to get them. Cordless phones; another good investment. Pretty useful in everyday life.

The window of the front door blurs the interior. It’s dark inside. The door won’t open. I forgot the keys. I make another trip back towards the car. The car’s front end is round, but sleek at the same time. I open the driver’s door and pull the keys out of the ignition. Phone and piece of paper in one hand, keys in the other; my hands are full for once. I hear the door unlock when I twist the key to the right. It opens with a loud creak.

The mat under me has ‘Welcome Home’ stitched into it. I stomp my feet on most of the letters. There are still those bills on the desk. The vacuum is still on the floor. I was cleaning the living room when they called. What if the stove was on and I was cooking something? All these investments burnt to the ground. The bills I pay for those investments disintegrated. The vacuum cleaner would probably be melted to the wood. All these pictures, the television, the fridge—the cars wouldn’t survive either; the crap one or the new one I brought home. Good thing she took it. Good thing the stove wasn’t on.

I yawn while I make my way to the kitchen, stepping over the vacuum cleaner and ignoring the bills on the table. I throw the phone and piece of paper onto the counter. Water is an important investment too. I pour myself some out of the pitcher and gulp it down quickly. Cold and refreshing, it hits the back of my throat and goes into my stomach. I can feel it sloshing around.

The dishes are piled in the sink and the dinner table has coloring books on it with crayons scattered all over. They drew on the table too. I don’t bother trying to clean it up. The living room looks clean, seeing as I vacuumed it before I left. The couch looks lonely, so I occupy it.

The remote was where I left it yesterday after putting the kids to sleep. I didn’t even finish watching the game; I guess I was too tired to see the ending and spent the night on the couch. She left before I woke up in the morning and took the kids and that crap car with her. I would have driven them, but she kept insisting that I rest and relax. “You’re under too much stress,” she said. Maybe she was right. I turn on the television. I guess she changed the channel to check the weather this morning. Otherwise, it would have been on the game highlights.

The news featured some lady behind a desk telling me that streets should be safer to avoid accidents like this. She’s referring to the two mangled cars sitting on the side of the road. One of them is a piece of crap—maybe both of them. A bad investment. I see the emergency vehicles surrounding the crash site; little people in black and others in yellow scrambling around. The lady’s voice starts breaking. She says when kids are involved it becomes a whole other issue.

I agree.

Kids are another kind of investment, I think. You have to invest a lot more in them though. More than a car. A wife is another investment. An investment you’re supposed to be committed to, like a binding contract. Life is full of investments; some more important than others, as I’ve found out in the years I’ve had a life, and a family.

The thing about investments, though, is that you have to watch them. Watch them so they don’t end up going bad. I didn’t do that with the car.

Why didn’t I do it with the car?

I don’t know. But I knew it was a bad investment, almost from the start. And she always said that it’s either that piece of crap or taking our kids to school in a bus. I should correct myself—lately it seems that life is filled with bad investments. Everything I invest my time in, my attention, my heart and my soul; everything seems to be a bad investment. Not that new car though. No, I think that one is pretty good.

I think I can make good investments. I always tried to tell her that I could. I always tried to convince her with the things I did and the stuff I bought; they were good investments. I don’t know if she agrees with me. This car would have convinced her though; it’ll convince anyone. I don’t think I’ve had a bigger investment.

I don’t think I’ll ever have a bigger one.

I’ll just have to wait till then. I stare at the television and notice that the news story has changed to something else. I turn it off and go back to the kitchen counter. The piece of paper lays crumpled and folded a few times beside the phone. I didn’t read it at the hospital. I don’t really want to read it now, either. I’ll wait till she gets back. I’ll wait till everyone gets back.

The house is quiet and empty. I walk towards the centre of the foyer and look at the upper levels, then into the living room, behind me to the dining area and back towards the kitchen where the piece of paper I have yet to read lies. Technically speaking, this house was a bigger investment. But I don’t live technically.

I wish I did. That way, I would know what good investments and bad investments are. It’s the damn car. I always hated it. Now I begin to feel light-headed. I have to lie down somewhere. I lean against the wall of the foyer and slide down to sit against it. I didn’t even notice the crumpled piece of paper in my hand. I forgot where it came from. I’m tired of waiting. I unfold it to see what it says.

“Huh.”

I was supposed to pick up eggs and milk. She must think the time I invest into this life—our life—is worth eggs and milk. What does she know? I don’t want her to see the car anymore. She doesn’t care about my investments. Why should I show them to her?

I crumple the piece of paper smaller and tighter than I did before. It makes a crunching sound as the paper starts to dig into my palm. I can feel it fold in on itself as it gets smaller in my hands. My fingers grab the sharp edges sticking out and squish it into the ball, rolling and rolling. The rough scratching sound of skin against paper stops when I open up my hands and decide it’s crumpled enough. I look for the garbage bin beside me. One overhand throw and it hits the plastic covering the bin, bouncing off the edges and tumbling down onto the other garbage. Hell, garbage bins are good investments too.

What are the bad investments, then? Binding commitments. Daily obligations. Crappy cars. They’re all gone though, so I should have only good investments left. Why do I still feel like something’s wrong? Come to think of it, there is one investment I was never happy with. It’s probably the worst thing to invest a lot in. You have so much to lose.

I guess I wasn’t watching this one. That’s too bad; it started pretty good.

I open the closet door and find the shoebox on the top shelf. I open it up. There it is. It has a cold and metallic feel in my palm. I lift it up and down in my hand; a hefty weight to it. It still has its shine too. I run my fingers down the barrel. Roll open the chamber. The click of it going back in place is a nice sound.

The cold is the same against my temple. It feels nice.

“Damn good investment.”

Sunday, December 20, 2009

Black & White (Part 5)

The sound of rain hitting the pavement confused Frank's breathing. He tried to steady his breaths. In and out. Patter, patter, patter. The sound of it hitting the car with a clank added to the confusion. In and out. Patter, patter, clank. Frank dry heaved, lurching forward and almost crumpling to the ground. He used his gun hand to brace his fall.

In and out. Get up.

Frank holsters his gun and takes out a handkerchief from one of his back pockets. He wipes his face profusely. The handkerchief is soaking when his face is dried. He could see clearer now. Still, the lighter provided no illumination past the reach of his arms. He needed something else. He hadn't prepared. He had no tools. He had a gun, and he had his head. The latter was not reliable at the moment.

Frank had hunches; he had gut feelings about scenarios. It's what made him a good soldier, and a good private detective. Frank's gut had told him to vomit. Not a good sign, Frank thought. He needed tools. He needed light and confidence. He knew where to get them. He hoped his office wasn't drenched in rain.

Frank turned around for the open door. He could see his car from across the street, parked alone along the sidewalk. The pathway towards the door was serpentine. The silhouettes of shrouded furniture formed jagged edges around Frank’s trail. He had only made it fifteen feet into the warehouse. The door seemed to sway back and forth in the wind and rain. He quickly walked out.

***

Frank expected his office to be destroyed by the time he got back, but he was relieved to find only papers fluttering about and parts of his floor wet. Frank stares at his chair, pushed away from his desk at a slight angle. Frank looks at the window. The hole was now twelve inches across and cracks extended all around it towards the outer frame. The rock. Frank quickly gets on his knees to look under the desk. The coat rack. Frank gets up just as quick and leaps over his desk to get to it. He slides against the wet floor, hitting the coat rack and almost toppling over with his hanging scorched trenchcoat.

There it sits. The incessant nagging at his sanity. The message that plagues his mind. The problem. Frank picks it up in his hand and throws it up and down. It can’t be more than ten pounds. Easy enough for an able-bodied man to throw through a ninth-story window. Whoever threw it must be physically fit; good upper-body strength. Certainly not an old man. Frank was getting it back. He was glad.

Patter, patter, patter. Frank closes his eyes and attempts to think. Patter. Patter. Bang. Wrong think to think about. He takes out his gun from his holster and places it on the table. Frank needed tools. Light and confidence. Frank was grateful that he had no other place to sleep for the past three months. He did not want to think it, but he was grateful. The couch opposite his desk doubled as a bed. His dresser had been empty before he shifted his living quarters to his workplace. Now it had three shirts and a shotgun. Confidence.

As he took out the 12-gauge, he checked both barrels. Loaded. He did not know why they were, or why he possessed a shotgun. He looked down the sights. He hovered across his office; towards his desk; out the hole in the window. A figure in the window across the street seemed to stop behind the curtains and face Frank. Patter. Patter. Bang.

Frank lowers the shotgun slowly as he tilts his head straight. He looks for a box of ammunition. He feels something on the top shelf of the dresser. It rattles and clangs as he gets a hold of it. At least thirty shells. He grabs a handful and struggles to find a place to put it. Shotgun shells in one’s pocket would limit movement. He turns around towards his trenchcoat. It was only scorched in a small section.

Frank feels warmer. Multiple pockets. He returns to the dresser and grabs three handfuls full of shells. His hands are still trembling. He checks the barrels again. They are loaded, Frank. He clicks the shotgun closed and places it on his desk. He holsters his pistol once again as he opens up his bottom desk drawer. One flashlight, a box of revolver bullets, and three cartons of cigarettes.

Light. Frank’s hands cease shaking as he tests the flashlight. He flicks the switch and the light flickers in his dark office. He taps the end and his office becomes bright. He turns it off.

His watch reads 5:20. Daylight won’t become near while the clouds still patter rain onto the streets. He has time. His trenchcoat waves as he makes his way out of his office. The pattering continues. The rock lies still beside his empty coatrack. The open dresser. The dim lighting. The broken window. Frank stares at it all before he closes the door. The leather of his shoes squeak against the dry, wooden floor of the hallway.

***

Frank stares at the open warehouse door. His shotgun is concealed under his arm inside the trenchcoat. He feels his pistol against his waist. He holds his flashlight in front of him. Frank had closed the door before he left. He uses the butt of the flashlight to push open the door. The floor squeaks under Frank’s leather shoes. He turns the flashlight on.

“Jesus.”

The pathway that had been formed by the shrouded furniture could now be seen clearer than what was outside. It seemed the light had not trouble reflecting off the blood on the floor. Frank steps back while he looks at his feet. The blood was streaked. It stopped where he stood. He looked behind and shone the flashlight on the door’s threshold. Footprints in blood; fresher blood. Two blood sources. Frank pulls out his revolver. Two bodies? Two people?

He places his flashlight hand under the wrist of his other, angling his hand position so that he could see wherever he had it pointed. He carefully moved along the pathway once again, checking each corner and crevice. The furniture was covered in white or blue tarp. An ocean. High shelving units were in the back of the warehouse. Maybe three rows. Beside those were stairs to the upper level. Seven steps, from what Frank could see. He had to get closer. Too much hiding space behind all of the furniture, Frank thought. He had to be careful.

Each step made a creaking sound. Like a slow screech. Frank tried to step lightly, but each step made that sound. The aged and dry wood cried with every single step. The pathway would go to the left or right, depending on the furniture in the way. A fallen dresser in front of Frank had a door open. An empty syringe peeks out from under the tarp. Frank thought with growing distress, exactly what this was warehouse was for.

Franks breathing was steady. In and out. In and out. The rain wasn’t bothering his breathing. The rain wasn’t there at all. He turns back towards the open door. It had closed. He shines his flashlight on the knob.

“What the fuck.”

Wednesday, December 16, 2009

In other news,

The new Iron Man 2 trailer has been exposed to my virgin eyes. Unfortunately, I don’t know whether this is old news or not, so I don’t know if I should post Slowpoke. But for the benefit of the doubt, Slowpoke really isn’t a bad thing anymore. So here I go:

image

Alright, how the fuck did Slowbro get in here? Damn, he must have evolved since I haven’t posted him in a while. Good for nothing Pokémon.

Instead of going into a frame-by-frame literary commentary describing to you what happens in the trailer—much like closed captioning, only I don’t like doing this for blind people—I’ll just link you to the Iron Man 2 trailer site on Apple. There, you will find RDJ and Don Cheadle being the ultimate bros! What more could you ask for?

Mickey Rourke having a badass Russian accent for one, and Scarlett Johansson and Gwyneth Paltrow being hot (probably not with each other, but one can dream). Holy shit, this movie has it all. I shall say no more.

Expect that I am almost 90% sure that this movie will absolutely blow my mind, just like the first one. Way to go, John Favreau! (My God, I’ve already made a catchphrase.)

Time to shake off the rust, Globes. (Part 2)

Okay, so I was getting read to unsheathe my bloody blade of cinematic vengeance yesterday, but I decided to abstain from decimating the entire film industry with one fell swoop from my incredible powers. District 9 at least got nominated for Best Screenplay for a Motion Picture. I was that close too. You probably can’t tell, but my fingertips are practically touching each other. Yeah, that close.

But now for the television side of things, which I truly think has had a better year than film so far, just from watching only two shows in the television categories that got nominated.

Best Television Series – Drama

“Big Love” (2006) - HBO

“Dexter” (2006) - Showtime

“House M.D.” (2004) - Fox

“Mad Men” (2007) - AMC

“True Blood” (2008) – HBO

Once again, I’ve only watched one of the nominees, and yeah, I know what you’re thinking. And this time, you’re damn right. Dexter by a mile. Is it even debatable? Does your opinion even matter? Probably not, since nothing in your life, even if you were the most interesting person in the world, will not amount to the mind-blowing, ball-breaking, jaw-dropping, unfathomably awesome finale that Dexter’s 4th season had. The concentrated awesome of that single episode blows off any genius diagnosticians, Mormon polygamists, advertising tycoons, and thick-accented vampires. Seriously though, Dexter should win. I don’t know if it will, and with something like Mad Men or Big Love already taking up all the attention, I will be thoroughly pissed off if the Globes fuck this one up.

-----------------------------------------------------------

Best Television Series – Musical or Comedy

“Entourage” (2004) - HBO

“Glee” (2009) - Fox

“The Office” (2005) - NBC

“Modern Family” (2009) - ABC

“30 Rock” (2006) – NBC

Same thing here; I only watched one of these nominees. Guess which one?

Hint #1: It’s the one that should win.

Hint #2: It’s not about Mark Wahlberg and friends, Dunder-Mifflin Paper Company, modern families (?), or a comedy series about a comedy series.

Hint #3: Don’t make me unsheathe, God damn it.

------------------------------------------------------------

Television > Film = 2009. A very depressing mathematical statement to me. I don’t think that’s an actual mathematical sentence, but it still provides the same sense of frustration and annoyance. Then again, Glee and Dexter are fuckawesome, so I can’t really complain. Still, I will continue to do so, because I like complaining.

Give District 9 more nominations, you ungrateful egotistical bastards.

I don’t know if I want to post Directing, Screenwriting, Animated, Starring, or Guest Starring. I might just accumulate them into one, and save the commentary. I’ll just include the nominees that will have a chance, or that should win. Probably the latter.

Tuesday, December 15, 2009

Time to shake off the rust, Globes. (Part 1)

Yes, you now see the reason why I have RSS Feeds from Rotten Tomatoes on my blog. So I can give you the news you might have missed because you’re too lazy to check out the sidebar for more interesting news. But I digress.

Another year, and another set of movies that probably shouldn’t have been nominated, or maybe this year is different. I really hope this year is different.

Only way to find out is examine the nominees. 2009 has been a pretty significant year for film, with James Cameron’s comeback into immediate stardom thanks to his multi-billion dollar budget and the word ‘Titanic’ connected with everything he does. It’s also because QT has returned, Kathryn Bigelow surprised the scene with another movie, and the Coen Brothers have also come back after a disappointing awards reception for Burn After Reading, which I was considerably angry about.

I’ll hold onto my blades of bloody vengeance though, since the Oscars haven’t arrived yet. Onto our categories, and their respective nominees!

Best Motion Picture – Drama

Avatar, dir. James Cameron

The Hurt Locker, dir. Kathryn Bigelow

Inglourious Basterds, dir. Quentin Tarantino

Precious, dir. Lee Daniels

Up in the Air, dir. Jason Reitman

Well, here’s a dilemma. James Cameron goes with Avatar. Quentin Tarantino goes with Inglourious Basterds. George Clooney pretty much saves Up in the Air from elimination. But, who the hell is Lee Daniels? I know these aren’t the nominees for Best Director, but I doubt a film with unknown people is going to have a chance at the Globes. Sad, but true. And the reason why I don’t think The Hurt Locker will win is purely because I’m a cynical bastard. It’s going to be Avatar, people. Or maybe this is a plot to batter my trust in the reviewing committee (or whatever they're called) and make the right decision in choosing The Hurt Locker. Lately though, it seems Awards ceremonies for film like choosing the wrong films to win. Let’s see if the never-ending trend continues.

------------------------------------------------

Best Motion Picture – Musical or Comedy

(500) Days of Summer, dir. Marc Webb

The Hangover, dir. Todd Phillips

It’s Complicated, dir. Nancy Meyers

Julie & Julia, dir. Nora Ephron

Nine, dir. Rob Marshall

I’ve watched one of these movies, so I’m going to go ahead and say what I was thinking. The Hangover was extremely funny. See, I bet you thought I was going to be a biased douchebag and pick it just because it’s the only one I watched. Well, you’re wrong. And you’re a jerk for thinking that. However, I will tell you that Nine has a strong chance. I can feel it, because D-Day Lewis’ beard possesses dubious amounts of classy awesomeness. Then again, Zach Galifianakis’s is pretty scruffy too, so maybe The Hangover might sneak in with a surprise. But, D-Day shaves his beard for the filming of Nine! It’s getting pretty heated now. Since (500) Days seems to lack ample beard, and I hope Julie & Julia doesn’t consist of bearded ladies, I think the chances are equal between our two contenders. Oh, and old hacks trying to save their careers by battling over Meryl Streep. So last year. Make way for the beards, amateurs.

Or maybe not, since the last time I checked the Golden Globes didn’t award people for the best beards. It isn’t too late to start though.

-----------------------------------------------------

So, it seems this year’s films have an equal chance at something or the other, but I haven’t put my finger on it. I’m pretty sure one of em’s going to win something. We’ll have to wait for the exciting conclusion to these events. Unleash the beards!

If you don’t want to bother checking Rotten Tomatoes for the rest of the nominees in the other categories, I shall post them up and give my unmatchable cinematic insight on films I have not yet seen. It’s how I do.

Also, WHERE THE FUCK IS DISTRICT 9, YOU MOTHERFUCKERS.

--------------------------------------------------------

Also, I forgot about television nominations. Those will also be going up. Surprsingly, I think I've seen more television series than films this year. Weird.

DISTRICT 9, BITCHES. YOU KNOW IT'S TRUE.

That is all.

In a universe that really isn’t too far away.

You can find some things equally as beautiful.

The awe of high definition photography and video probably won’t be expressed in a better way than the pastures and scenery around George Lucas’ Skywalker Ranch.

Forget the deserts of Tatooine or the advanced architecture on Coruscant. Once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far away from the fiction of Star Wars, there’s Earth.

I don’t need to tell you anything else. If pictures can tell a thousand words, moving ones provide endless possibilities. Enjoy.

Monday, December 14, 2009

‘Hello, Dexter Morgan.’ [Dexter – Season 4 Review]

FFFFFFUUUUU------------

image

While I can’t remember if a show about a serial killer has ever been done before, I know for a fact that a show about a serial killer has never been done like this.

Dexter has emerged from the primetime scene on channels like Showtime or The Movie Network in Canada a few years ago, and it immediately struck home with millions of viewers across North America. The funny thing is, the series of novels it was based on wasn’t even that good to begin with, so using what they had, the writers of Dexter decided to make this author’s name awesome by creating probably one of the best dramas of the current age of television.

No offense to Jeff Lindsay, who I give praise to for creating ‘everyone’s favourite serial killer.’ Enough about the book, it’s the Dexter television show that we’re talking about. And I don’t know where to begin. Probably the best place to start is a summary. image

Season 3 left us on a high note, with Dexter and Rita’s formerly rocky relationship reaching an optimistic point. The finale’s final scenes were of Dexter and Rita’s wedding, moments after Dexter had finished off his heated mental and physical battle with Miguel Prado. The whole arc was intense enough for our hearts to bear. Still, Dexter showed no sign of stopping, even after vanquishing his own brother, the Ice Truck Killer in Season 1, and then moving on to Assistant District Attorney Miguel Prado—Dexter’s best friend for most of the season.

With each season completed, it seems Dexter calculates and carries out effective solutions to the problems that arise in a serial killer’s life, and he does it with class. Every time you see Dex in a particularly sticky situation, you hop up and down on your seat and wait to see if he can contemplate his way out of it. He always does, which is why I love Dexter.

dexter-season-4By the end of Season 3, Dex has learnt that human connection is a viable option in his life, he is capable of showing genuine emotions, people do care about him, and he can lead a double life if maintains his own ‘Code’ along with his father’s—the man who taught him everything about killing the guilty and feeding the ‘Dark Passenger’ inside him. Now he must face another challenge, with a new child in his home and his closer relationship with Rita.

New obligations have entered, and so have new obstacles. Special Agent Frank Lundy returns from Season 2 to tackle on a new foe: The Trinity Killer. Unlike other seasons, this plot immediately begins and wastes no time for Dexter and the viewers to get immersed in it. You would think that with so much attention devoted to the growing reputation and importance of the Trinity Killer, there would be no space for sub-plots to distract us from the main storyline.

Not so, as a literal pile of sub-plots accumulate not only to distract the viewers, but complement the increasingly dense main storyline that would reach its apex in the finale. More on that later. But the niceties like Frank Lundy and Debra Morgan hooking up, Quinn from Season 3 and news reporter Christine Hill; maybe even Lieutenant LaGuerta and Sergeant Batista, end up having a much more significant role than they should in the plot, and it provides us with some surprising, if not shocking, twists and turns throughout the series.

I’m going to assume that you’ve watched the season already, and if you haven’t I hope you’re not wasting your time reading about a season of Dexter instead of watching it, because that would mean you’re a tard. But I don’t need to explain to you the surprises that this season has in store, because you’ve already witnessed them. And by fan reaction, it’s safe to say that this season’s surprises were like no other. It’s also the most jam-packed of the four, with so many characters’ lives addressed and delved into, it seems that Dexter may be getting a back seat to those supporting him.

But the kicker comes in the season finale, which aired yesterday. Already the response has been as expected; a completely incredible episode to conclude the season. The writers and producers of Dexter have outdone themselves, as it seems that this season’s finale beat all others, and I would agree. johnlithgow_t607

I mean, John Lithgow, guest starring as Arthur Mitchell, is enough of a reason to watch this season. His character is amazing, simply put. Michael C. Hall reprises his role with the same narrative and perspective that made us love the show in the first place. Supporting characters like Debra, played by Hall’s wife, Jennifer Carpenter, and FBI Agent Lundy, played by Keith Carradine, have significantly more depth and personality than prior seasons, which is saying a lot. Carpenter’s character especially, with the events that unfold during this season, it can be said that the personality of some of these characters change drastically by the season’s end.

And at the end of the season, change is what defines this show. Characters have changed, the tone of the show has changed, and Dexter’s own attitude towards his obligations is greatly altered. Sure, Dex always prevails, but at what cost? Is this where it begins to fall apart? Has he met his match? Will those around him pay a similar price?

Dexter is a series that thrives on questions. They are always answered with brutally enlightening truth. This season is no different. Between the lovable Masuka-isms to gawk at, the various sub-plots to drool over, and the revamped all-star cast to enjoy, one thing always remains certain.

Dexter is a damn good serial killer.

Saturday, December 12, 2009

PixelCUBE Studios needs your help!

Nominate PixelCUBE's MindBlender Quiz for 2009 Best App Ever Awards!

If you haven't checked the game out, don't worry. It's a good game. Actually scratch that, spend a dollar of your replenishable income to confirm this claim for yourself. If there's even a crumb of doubt in your mind of this game's awesomeness, it will cost you a dollar to prove to yourself that this game is indeed The Best App Ever for the Trivia Game category of this year's awards.

Listen, I know my stuff, and this is included. Nominate this game, and you will be rewarded. I will be releasing limited-edition, state-of-the-art thingymajig capable of doing anything and everything in the physical realm. But that's only if you guys support independent and budding game developers like PixelCUBE Studios and nominate this kick-ass trivia game because it trains your brain to be awesome and makes your iPhone look COOL.

That is all.

Also, nominate Minblender Quiz for 2009 Best App Award!

‘Destination? HORROR.’ [Glee – Season 1 Review]

image Quite an ironic statement coming from a show entitled by the very emotion it creates in its viewers. But being Fox’s new entertainment investment, and seeing as rumours have spread that the series almost got dropped before it even began, I think it’s safe to say that Glee will remain for a long time to make us smile on a bad day.

The first time I watched this show, I didn’t know if it was better or worse than High School Musical. Same stereotypes, same cheesy dialogue, same simple and superficial plots. Cool teachers though, and some kick-ass vocals. So I decided to stay for a couple more weeks and see where that takes me.

And where it took me is one of the best TV shows I have watched in a long time. With the hiatuses of LOST and 24 keeping me foaming at the mouth, the disastrous quality drop of our beloved Heroes a few seasons back, I was eager to find an excuse to move away from my monitor for a while and spend my time on a couch.

By the end of the first episode, I was not disappointed. While the characters really do come off as recycled stereotypes, and the plot and writing are mediocre at best, it’s the music that really matters with this show, and it doesn’t waste any time. Each episode contains at least three musical numbers, all covers of popular and classic songs from both Broadway and the top charts of today’s music. With tunes from Wicked and Grease coupled with Kanye West or Queen, there really is something for everyone in this show.

Which brings me to the actually talent in it. All actors are up-and-coming or already established Broadway performers, well-endowed in awesome vocal ability. Stars of the show like Lea Michele or Matthew Morrison have fresh voices that add a new spin to classics, or add their own touch to chart hits. Each cover of a popular song is already a convincing enough idea to captivate its viewers, but this is a show choir, and they have to dance.

image

Song and dance go hand-in-hand, and combined, they will bring a smile to your face. Each episode I end up with a dumb smile on my face, and another song stuck in my head. Even Avril Lavigne or Kelly Clarkson, Glee just does it. It’s a happy show, and it makes you happy.

However, happy doesn’t cut it these days. Shows need substance and depth to keep a viewer watching every week. If you watch it from the beginning, the plot is shallow and the writing mediocre, but I think the biggest surprise comes when characters start breaking out of their stereotypes, conflict arises in every corner, and truly hilarious shenanigans relieve the show of dry, repetitive humour.

sueSpecial mention of this goes to Jane Lynch, who expertly plays the evil cheerleading coach, for lack of a better term. It seems unanimous that her character alone saves the show, but with so much else going for it, I don’t see this force stopping for a long time.

I can’t cover everything I enjoy about this series, because I enjoy almost everything. But there is singing and dancing, hate and love, competition and conflict, and most of all, there’s a lot of glee. A proper title for a very fun series.

Also, the fall finale is one of the best episodes of a television show I have ever seen, if that counts for anything.

This show will give you chills with each number, and it never fails at doing what it’s supposed to: entertain. I can’t wait for it to come back. The second half of Season 1 returns on April 1, 2010, so pick up a copy of the first 13 episodes, and then hold on to your seats.

We’ll have to wait for the finish to this very musical ride.

Tuesday, December 8, 2009

Last Post.

Scared you there for a moment, didn’t I? But this isn’t referring to me. No, but it is equally saddening.

Once I had gotten back from the frontlines, well aware of the horrors I had seen while trapped in the stench of the dead that lay around me and the pungent smell of urine, feces, blood and sweat filling the air, I was learned of truly devastating news.

In the heat of battle, where many fall valiantly to the abyss of hell—if they were not already there, I had lost a comrade. A fellow soldier; a brother-at-arms; a blog-mate.

Yes, the news is quite heart-breaking, soul-wrenching, and I have already worn out your attention, so I shall honour his dignity and show you the remnants of his broken webpage.

Farewell, brave blog.

* * *

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there, I did not die.

* * *

You shall forever live in the spirit of blogging. I shall carry your torch into glory.

Monday, December 7, 2009

Black & White (Part 4)

No case file, no leads; no people to tail or sources to consult. Frank was doing no investigating or trailing. He was not detecting.


Frank presses sternly on the brakes of his car with his foot. The brakes squeal in strain and the tires compress the loose gravel on the pavement of the road, making a rough-sounding squish that Frank can hear from his seat. His windows are slightly open as the rain has died down to a light drizzle.


Frank hits his dashboard with a clenched fist. He hits it again. And again. Cursing under his breath with every strike. His hand had begun to hurt. Frank buries his head in those hands, pressing against the steering wheel. Frank's car rumbles in idle and remains the only vehicle in sight along 3rd street.


No more pattering. Just faint sounds on his windshield. The wipers scrape back and forth. Frank breathes heavily, matching the rhythm of the wipers. In and out; through the nose and out the mouth. He rubs his face with his hands moving up and down quickly. A couple of blinks and the twist of his neck. Crack in the back of his spine. Another long sigh. A look into an empty passenger seat. It's not going to get any easier.


He looks at the warehouse from across the street. The darkness of night seems to be contrasted by the darkness of the warehouse. The red bricks are faded and stained with various substances. Two shallow levels. Frank could jump off the top of the building and live. He did not plan to do so, however. Bottom level windows are boarded up with two planks of plywood. Thin enough to shoot and break through, Frank thought. If the time came for that. Upper level windows, strangely, were untouched. The windows of these rooms were dusty and opaque. Frank looked closer, sticking his head out of the open window. The light drizzle splashes onto the brim of his fedora, like the splashes his shoes makes against the wet pavement.


There was a handprint on one of these windows. Frank began to open the door and step out, scanning the upper level windows with more detail. The blackness of the night did not help. He noticed on the far right corner of the warehouse a broken window. A circular hole just above the center of the window's crossed wooden frame. Four inches at most in diameter. Frank stood in the middle of the empty road looking up at this window. The light drizzle refreshed his face, more than the coffee seemed to do.


He made his way towards the warehouse's untouched door. A few dents along the frame; the door's hinges were intact however, shining and cleansed in the rain. A brownish-bronze coloured streak of a stain along the hinges of the door ended in similar coloured stain washing away with rainwater on the concrete. The door had been used before.


The handle twisted easily as Frank opened a slither of the door. Immediate darkness. Darker than outside, as Frank had predicted. He pulled out the revolver from his belt. He couldn't see it when he raised it up. He used his other hand and pressed against his shirt and pants. Finding his lighter in his pant pocket, he flipped it open and lighted it quickly. One fluid motion. Frank was getting his senses back. He could now see four feet in front of him.


What he saw confused his senses once again. Large objects shrouded in white plastic sheeting. A river of them, extending past Frank's field of vision. Frank did not move another inch. He scanned everything he could see with the lighter, and noticed a natural pathway formed by the large shrouded objects. Roughly, they were shaped like furniture. Tables and chairs, tall dressers and several couches. Nothing seemed to be left uncovered.


"...The hell."


Frank took one step forward, expecting something to sound off; an alarm maybe, something under his feet that he wouldn't dare to look down at--something alive. Or dead. Either way, the thought made Frank grip the gun in his hand like glue. Knuckles white and the parts of the gun rattling in his shaking hand. The sweat from his head had reached his eyes. He wipes his forehead with the hand holding the lighter. No light in front of him for two seconds. Like a cue, a faint shattering sound is heard in the distance. Far end of the warehouse. That was the alarm, Frank guessed. It did its job.


Frank was scared out of his god damn mind.

Tuesday, December 1, 2009

Reviews from November

Stupid minimum-wage earners rubbing it in my face.

Winter Passing (2005)

Stranger than Fiction (2006)

I can buy like, four really good pencils now.

Sunday, November 22, 2009

Black & White (Part 3)

The bell above the door jingles to an empty building. Frank takes care into wiping his feet dry on the welcome mat before entering the diner. He stares at the design stitched into the mat. Dry shoes are good news. Frank agrees. He looks up and scans the diner. Nobody.


He walks towards the bar counter and sits on a circular swivelling stool bolted to the ground. Frank turns each direction for a brief moment. He likes the stool. He notices a bell on the far side of the counter. He gets up and walks towards the far end. One push of a finger and the small bell rings in a high pitch. Frank backs away and lets the sound resonate through the silence. He moves forward and brings his hand over it for a second ring when he hears the sound of a door opening. A faint grunt in the back kitchen.


Frank goes around the bar counter and peers into the open kitchen area to see who is there. A small woman who Frank thinks is most likely a waitress is dragging a large box into the kitchen. Frank looks back at the empty dining area. His case file is sitting on the bar counter, closed. He looks back towards the waitress as she continues to drag the large box through the kitchen floor.


She stops and exhales sharply.


"Are you going to help me or just stare?"


Frank immediately rushes to lend a hand with the box.


"Yeah. Uh, sorry. I wasn't sure if there was anyone in here so—"


They both lift up the box at two opposite ends and place it on a table. The watiress brushes her hair back and looks at Frank.


"Four in the morning? I'm surprised its not packed."


Frank scratches his head, lifting up his fedora revealing his dark, matted hair.


"I just came in for some coffee. Four in the morning, like you said."


"Of course."


She wipes her hands together and goes towards the bar counter with Frank. She goes to the coffee machine that Frank seemed to not notice when he walked in. He was too busy drying his shoes and ringing a bell. He goes back to his seat on the counter and folds his hands over the manila file lying flat on the table. He can still smell some smoke left over from the burnt areas of the folder. The waitress' back is turned but Frank begins to get the feeling that she can smell it too. It wouldn't make sense since the file has been exposed to outside air--damp, wet and dirty as it may be--but Frank is sure the smell just remains in his nostrils. Everything seems to be remaining in Frank. He can't seem to get any of it out.

 
The waitress slides a cup of coffee down towards Frank with expert precision. The black coffee splashes in the cup only a small amount, not enough to overflow onto the plate below. Frank's eyes follow it down towards his hand, as he stops it with one finger. He looks back up and the waitress has already headed back into the kitchen. Frank looks at the blackness of his coffee. He sees his reflection. He could be worse of wear. Maybe not. Frank doesn't know anymore. He opens the file.


Daisy's calf. Frank's best friend for the past two days. What's gone of Daisy's calf is Frank's most hated enemy. Caulder and the warehouse. The Man and the message. Staircases and expired visas. Frank is not looking at the paperwork in front of him anymore. His eyes are heavy; falling down. Deep, deep down. Dream-like.


A banging bell. Frank's eyes widen. He repositions himself on the swivelling stool. He stopped swivelling. He thought it inappropriate now. His coffee is still steaming. It floats high into the air. Smoke from a barrel. Before he risks anymore loss of consciousness, he bears the extreme heat of his coffee and takes a large sip. His tongue burns for a few seconds. His mind recalibrates.


Frank looks towards the door, and follows a man in a long coat heading towards the far end of the counter. He bangs on the tiny bell sitting atop. The waitress pops up from the kitchen floor to the open window of the bar counter.


"Yes? What? Stop hitting that!"


"Yeah, sorry--do you have any meat?"


"What?"


"Meat? Like red meat. Juicy and fresh. Meat."


"We have burgers. Cooks aren't in though. We only serve coffee late hours."
The man is sweating profusely. It wasn't rain. Frank could tell. This man smelled. Smelled like sweat. Possibly something more. He was not just wet from rain though. His face was incredibly red. Hair more matted than Frank's. Frank had not taken off his fedora yet. He didn't want to. This man had no hat though. His hair was short and cropped; professional almost. But it became unkempt in the rain, or perhaps during whatever he was doing. His face looked like as if he had just run a marathon. The waitress noticed this too.


"Are you okay?"


"Yeah, I just want meat, God damn it!"


The man slams his fist on the bar counter. Franks notices his hands. Brownish-red. Hands of the Man.


"Hon, we don't have any meat right now. And it looks like you don't need coffee either, so stop disturbing our customers and go home."


She points to Frank. The man looks at him. He sees the man's face clearer. His teeth are shivering and his eyes are visibly bloodshot. Drug addict, maybe. The teeth are surprsingly yellow. Frank would imagine his breath not being much better. Under his long coat is a white uniform. Frank cannot make it out. He doesn't want to stare at the man any longer.


Frank gives a single wave and looks down at his coffee once more, taking another long sip. He doesn't care about burning his tongue.


"No, you don't understand! I need meat, lady!"


He leans closer towards the counter. Frank sits up and watches the man. He has a peculiar feeling about this. The waitress comes out of the kitchen to the bar counter.


"We don't serve any right now. Leave, or I'm calling the police."


"Give me...some f-fucking meat."


His finger pointed at the waitress catches Frank's attention more than most of this man's growing aggressiveness or apparent descent from proper hygiene. The finger is odd, as Frank can best describe it. His nail is long, but broken. His hand is bandaged at the palm, stained brownish-red, like the rest of his hand. Frank can tell it is fresher though. The colour of his hand seems to have settled in long ago. This bandaged stain was more recent. The whole finger seems wrong. Seems off. Frank gets up from his seat and starts approaching the man.


"Hey, do you want meat?"


"Yes! Yes! Do you h-have any? Meat? Y-yeah?"


"No, I don't. But if you wait a while, I can get you some. Does that sound good?"
Frank has one arm outstretched in compliance. He puts on a friendly face, which contrasts greatly from his usual calm, cool demeanour. The one any private detective should be accustomed to. But Frank knows he should deal with this situation a different way. A quicker way.


"Yeah, that sound's f-f-fuckin' amazing, p-pal."


The man's eye twitches slightly. Frank is five feet away from him, arm still outstretched.


"What happened to your hand there?"


"Oh, this? This is n-nothing, pal. Nothing to worry about. Little s-scratch. Nothing to worry about. N-nothing to w-worry..."


The man's eyes go blank. Frank stops. The waitress backs up towards the kitchen wall. She notices too. All three are silent. The man presses the palm of his un-bandaged hand to his wet, sweaty forehead. He squints painfully. His mouth widens in pain as well. No sound comes out of it. His body contorts forward and he is stuck in this position for a brief moment. Frank takes a step back.


The man's body recovers from the brief contortion and his eyes open again. He turns to the waitress.


"So where's my FUCKING MEAT?!"


His voice is booming now.


"I'm calling the police!"


She says this to Frank, and not the man. Frank nods sternly and as the waitress sprints to the telephone in the back room, Frank sprints to the front door. The tiny bell tolls once more. Frank runs through the hard rain, his shoes splashing up water onto his pants and shirt with each smacking step. He reaches his car and fumbles to get out the keys. Once able to open his door, he leans into the passenger seat and opens the glove box. Blindly feeling around, he grabs a hold of his revolver and slams the glove box closed. Locks the door. Sprints back to the front entrance. Bell tolls. Frank plants himself in front of the door in a stable and ready stance, like a police officer ready to apprehend a suspect. Only there is no one to apprehend. Frank relaxes his stance and throws his revolver onto the bar counter.


The waitress emerges from the back section of the diner and scans the dining area.


"Where is that asshole?"


"Gone."


"What the hell."


"I don't know."


"Well, the police are coming. I swear to God, I hate this job."


The waitress mumbles in complaint back towards the back part of the diner, out of sight. Frank finds his coffee and drinks the rest. As he puts his cup down he stares at his case file. He also stares at a large red stain on Daisy's calf. He looks under it and sees the remnants of Caulder's report. It has been ripped from the folder. Frank sits down once more on the stool. He starts swivelling as he puts on his fedora.


"Sonuvabitch."


He scratches his matted hair under the fedora. Pockets his revolver and closes the case file. 3rd Street warehouse. He had a guess on who might be there, or on his way at least. Frank takes out a dollar bill from his pant pocket and gulps the rest of his coffee down. The bell above the door tolls one last time. Frank chuckles slightly as he gets into his car, rain once again pattering down on the windows. He turns on the ignition. There were no rocks or old men at this diner. But Frank wasn't careful of what he wished for.


He begins to think he will pay for it.

Saturday, November 21, 2009

The plumber and his princess.

There comes a point in time when an owner of a Nintendo Wii has to come to terms with a sad reality. It’s one that’s almost heartbreaking to hear, and it truly is a shame. But its the sad truth. And sooner or later, each and every Wii owner will have to face this daunting question put out in front of them after however long they put that thing in the living room, now gathering dust and sitting lonely beside the old VCR.

Why the hell did I buy this thing?

It’s a common dilemma; an issue many modern homeowners must face regarding the future of their at-home entertainment experiences. You don’t play it—sure, you may have picked it up often when you first got it. Probably put in the ol’ Wii Sports and flung that wireless controller around like a chump. Yeah, that was pretty cool for about a month. Then some new games come out, and you’re just sitting there thinking, ‘Man, I wish I had another console so I could play those games.’

You stare at your Wii with sympathetic eyes; it’s not the Wii’s fault. It tried its best with something new. The kids love it, don’t they? You tried your best too, but its just too hard. There’s only so much you can do, Wii. Only so much.

But then I remember, this is the Nintendo Wii. This is the greatest game developer of all time! Surely they cannot fall from such a high pedestal. But alas, I see Barbie Pony Riding on one end and Call of Duty: Not Really Modern Warfare But The Closest Wii Can Get on the other. Where is the salvation? The saving grace for this little console?

Nintendo does no wrong in trying to save it the only way it can: Mario.

After all that turmoil of quality games amidst downgraded ports, child-oriented puzzle games, and imitation platformers, Wii owners can always marvel at the gems in the dirt with each Nintendo game that they release. Be it Super Mario Galaxy or SSBB: Brawl, it only fits that Nintendo’s top-selling and top-rated games are the ones they make themselves.

While Galaxy may have made my head hurt a lot and Brawl cause me unnecessary amounts of Wii-rage, the original Super Mario Bros. never lets you down. Ever since my first experience with it on a Gameboy, it’s always the 8-bit music, the Woo-hoo’s of Mario’s jumps and that rewarding sound you get with each coin collected that never gets old. I mean never.

So there it is. Push those games over; the Barbie Pony Herding or Toy Shop Tycoon, and find out what the real purpose of owning a Wii is. Fighting Koopa one more time, saving Princess Peach yet again, or going down those awesome pipes, there will always be enough for more. More fun, more platforms, and now, more players. It’s almost impossible not to have fun just watching the gameplay footage.

Super Mario Bros., Metroid—hell, even Wii Sports now—these are the reasons why we still keep our Wii’s. It’s our obligation to Nintendo to prove to the gaming world that they will always be on top.

No arguing there.

Thursday, November 19, 2009

Black & White (Part 2)

The pouring rain batters the car windshield relentlessly. Frank smokes a cigarette as he squints to decipher street names amidst the blurriness of his windshield. He almost misses the red light in front of him. Frank slams on the brakes and jolts forward, bracing himself with his free hand against the cold glass. He falls back into his seat and exhales sharply. Frank is beginning to feel the effects of insomnia. Only now did he begin to think of the lack of sleep he had been getting. The Man was too vivid in his mind to allow Frank the pleasure of a good night's rest. Frank did not seem to miss it; he did not seem to remember it either.


He looks across the intersection. There are no cars in sight. He looks down onto the case file sitting in his passenger seat. Once again he flicks it open with one finger. Daisy's calf is a little burnt, but the photograph is still good. He picks up the file and looks once again through Caulder's paperwork. Going to the precinct would be a stupid idea, Frank thought. If this is a stolen police file, and Frank enters the headquarters with this, things would go wrong. The light turns green. Frank puts down the case file and continues cruising through the relentless downpour.


Frank wonders how The Man had even obtained it. Did he work for the police? Stupid question. Maybe a doctor or a scientist. Frank remembers his encounter with little difficulty. The shivering of his whole body. His ghost white face. The stiff, outstretched arm with the file in hand. Stained. Was it brown? Was it blood? Come on, Frank. Detect. This is your job.


He rubs his eyes furiously while driving. If Frank does swerve in the road, he doesn't care. The roads are empty. The pain in his shoulder pulses back into attention. Frank grabs it with one hand. The rock. The warning. What the hell was all this? What the hell was Frank's purpose in it? Another red light.


All questions, no answers. You're not doing your job, Frank. In fact you're doing the opposite. He picks up the open case file again and examines Caulder's report. Daisy was found at 23:49 inside the 3rd Street warehouse lying on the left wing staircase. Who called the police? Frank scanned the report with his finger. Anonymous phone tip. Was it him? It had to be him. Frank knew it. Caulder would have to wait, if he could find him at all. 3rd Street warehouse was across town. Frank hadn't moved since the light turned green. He checks his rear-view mirror. A car is behind him. Frank looks back quickly.


He cannot make out the face behind the steering wheel. He turns around and looks at the bright green light, the rain illuminated and whizzing down onto the street. Frank grips the steering wheel tightly with both hands. His knuckles turn white as he grips tighter. His hands shake. The sound of the leather of his steering wheel scrunches and relaxes in his grip. The light turns amber. Frank steps on the gas. The car behind him turns left and out of sight.


The rain patters down heavily. It never stops. Frank closes his eyes. He opens them. He is in the opposite lane. Eyes widening rapidly, he turns his steering wheel the opposite way to avoid hitting the curb. The sharp turning swings the large rear of his car dangerously close to the sidewalk. As he counteracts this with another sharp turn of the wheel, the back of his car stabilizes and he regains control. Frank steps on the brake.


He jolts forwards and back as the car comes to a halt, but he is already burying his head in his hands. Frank widens and squints his eyes in rapid succession to test his consciousness. Test his sanity. Where are you, Frank? Do not do this now. If someone says you're going to die, you should do something about it, Frank. Get out while you can. What if Frank can't? It can't be too late already though. Too soon. Frank needs time to solve this. He must solve this. He sits back up and looks out the blurred window, water covering any detail of what is outside. Still, the bright neon sign is clearly discernable through the rain. Frank needs the caffeine.


He closes the case file and tucks it under is arm while opening the door with the other. The rain and thunder waste no time in penetrating Frank's ears. Hard and cold; as bad as it can be. They hit the pavement quick and droplets bounce back up. His first step out of the car splashes water everywhere. Before he makes a second, he returns to his front seat and grabs his fedora from the dashboard. He puts it on snugly and jogs to the front entrance under the bright, neon sign.


Frank hopes there will be no messages on rocks thrown through these windows. No strange old men confronting him in this diner either. For some reason, he expects anything to happen.

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

‘It’s Russian.’

I can’t pass this one up. I mean, it’s too good. Way too good. And Fox News jumping on it too? Come on, it’s an insult to the video game industry and Infinity Ward if I don’t address this. So here I go:

I enjoyed killing countless numbers of civilians with a machine gun and grenades.

fox-news-logoYes! Run amuck, silly conservative parents! Ban me from things! Call me a terrorist! Brand me a sinner to America’s nationality. Call me a psychopath capable of shooting up his school after a night of Modern Warfare 2. Cry wolf, point and shout, throw rocks if you have to. You won’t change the facts:

This has no impact on anyone’s lives whatsoever.

I mean come on, this game—this incredibly awesome game—tells you straight up if you want to pass on shooting unmoving, unsuspecting and vulnerable targets like cow-tipping on a pasture. It’s the only time you will be able to shoot unsuspecting and vulnerable stationary targets in this game, and possibly any other FPS.

And you expect me to click ‘No’? Are you stupid or something?

If it counts for anything, it was really fun. For the people who survived the initial random spray from my horrible console shooter aiming, I could aim down my sights for once and just shoot them in the kneecaps so they die from trauma or blood loss. Or I shoot them in the head and they explode and whatnot. Wait, wrong game. My bad.

Violence in video games. Honestly? It’s almost an contradiction itself with that statement. Everyone’s caught on to the voice behind the debacle, and if you haven’t, get it in gear. Put the most hardcore COD4 gamer from one of the most prestigious teams in the world into a real-life wartime setting. They will shit their pants. Guaranteed.

So when I hear ‘video games are getting too violent,’ what’s the reasoning behind this? It teaches kids bad behaviour. Uh, no. Fuck off. Or maybe it's conditioning them to think its okay to pick up weapons and shoot everyone they see. I could fertilize crops with that much bullshit. And my personal favourite: the one where a parent, so caring about their child, confronts biased news networks to release to the public how much a ‘violent’ video game as worsened their child’s life and their own.

There’s your crying wolf. Your scapegoat. Mrs. Responsible Parent thinks she’s a smart apple to get some extra attention on the news. And guess what? No backlash. Because the news ceased being the news for a while now. But that’s another story.

imageModern Warfare 2 is a game that will break records. It will be a significant game, if it isn’t already. If your kid is nothing short of downright ecstatic that he got Modern Warfare 2, he’s a faggot. Your kid’s life is worse because you made it worse. Don’t blame a fucking video game. Let’s be adults here, for God’s sake.

I’m not saying this because it happened, its because I’m worried it will happen. And people tend to not learn from mistakes or past experiences that well. Or maybe I’m just surrounded by idiots. Who knows.

All I know is: stop it before it starts. If you’re a COD gamer, or a gamer of any sort, speak up about this kind of shit. Gamers Against Completely Fucking Retarded Prejudice.  GA(CF)RP. It even comes off as a retarded-sounding acronym. If you’re a parent, it depends what you should do. If your kid is 9 years old and he is killing Russian civilians in an airport, what the fuck is wrong with you and return that game immediately. Right now, at once. If you’re a parent with a kid who’s over 14 and capable of conscious thinking, give them a break because chances strongly point towards your child not turning out to be a terrorist.

If you fall into any other category besides that, enjoy the game, because its fucking awesome. 

Sunday, November 15, 2009

Black & White (Part 1)

The rain pattered against the high window of Frank's office. Each patter of rain reminds him of the muffled gunshots heard in the air as he dashes into the sand, scrawling for cover. His comrades lay beside him dead or dying, crying for their mothers, wifes, children, God. But this was just rain hitting the window.


Frank stepped away from it and took a seat back at his desk, ashtray filled with cigarettes and case files strewn all over. Unorganized, he thought, but he can work with it. He was never an organized man, just pragmatic and smart. It got him places. He opens the case file on top of the others as he takes a long, final drag of his cigarette and stuffed it into the ashtray, the smoke dissapating from the extinguished butt. He follows the smoke with his eyes. It reminds him of the smoke from a barrel.


He stares down at the case file open in front of him. Daisy Monroe. Nurse. 27. Frank looks at the evidence photographs. Her face is light and relaxed. Her eyes stare at Frank, though they remain empty. Her hair hangs in front of those eyes, most likely due to a scuffle. He scans each picture carefully. Bruise marks, no indication of outside influence. No ligature marks or textured abrasions. He stops at one. It is of her calf, only it is half. The other half seems to have disappeared in a chunk. He looks at it closer. He runs his fingers over the section of the calf that turns red. Bite marks. Her calf was torn from the leg.


The day before, an old man--hair wild and uncombed, glasses large and magnifying his eyes--stormed into Frank's office with this case file in hand. His hands were stained brown, maybe off-red. Frank paid little attention to his hands, and more to his face. This man's face was white as a ghost. His lips were quivering. Frank had wondered how he'd even gotten to his office. He offered the man a chair, but he fervently refused. He said he had no time. Frank didn't know why he'd go to a private detective before going to a hospital, but this man gave him no time to inquire about any of this. He just said these words and left:


"They will rise. Get out while you can. Now."


The old man then extended his hand sternly, holding out the case file to Frank. It was unmoving, compared to his shivering, frightened body. Frank tried to decipher this man's purpose, origin, ethnicity. Before he could properly do a mental profile of him he stormed out Frank's door. A loud banging sound of it closing was heard throughout the floor. Frank was left standing there, case file in hand. He thought little of it, and more of the man who had just appeared in his office, and as quickly as he came, disappeared.


Now that he had opened it, the closure he was looking for seemed to escape him further. A dead nurse with a chunk of her calf missing. Given to a private detective. What did this man assume Frank would do with this? Pursue the case? He had no monetary incentive. Throw it out, Frank thought. It's not worth the trouble. Look at your desk. Willing clients. Money to be made. Frank closed the case file once more and held it in his hand. He stood there without motion as the rain pattered against the windows and he again remembered the muffled gunshots in putrid, bloody air. He stares at the garbage can beside his desk. And again at the case file.


Frank slams it onto the pile of other folders littered all over his desk. He brings out his worn, wooden chair with one drag. He takes a carton of cigarettes from his breast pocket and a lighter from his back one. One flick lights the flint as the burning of the lighter warms his cold fingers. They are trembling. He doesn't know why. He covers the flame with one hand as he lights another cigarette with the other. Puts it back in his pocket. He takes it out of his mouth and blows out the smoke from his nose in one long trail. Smoke from a barrel.


He stares at the file and flicks it open with one finger. He stands over his desk with the chair under him. Flips through the evidence photographs. Paperwork of a Coroner's Report. Cause of death was blood loss. Frank thought for a moment. Could a wound like that, brutal, yes--but relatively small, cause enough blood loss to kill someone? Daisy must have been incapacitated for her to lose that much blood and die. Found outside the 3rd Street warehouse on Wednesday. One Phillip Caulder, New York Police Department officer, called it in. Frank sat down. He sifted through more paperwork. Last known address. Relatives. None in the city. Canadian citizenship, visa expires four days from now. Nothing significant. Nothing to make him do something about Daisy, or the man who entered his office.


Frank's window suddenly shatters as he flinches when the glass hits his back. He drops the cigarette from his mouth as a hard object hits and bounces off of his shoulder. The glass of the window litters the floor and he can now hear the crashing rain. No more pattering. Thunder penetrates the air as Frank gathers his senses. The sharp pain in his shoulder subsides. The cigarette sets a folder alight. He pours a glass of whisky on the fire by reflex. Frank is not thinking straight. He jumps up and grabs his trenchcoat from the hook. Throws it over his burning files. Jumps up on the table and pats it down with his feet. He takes it off and examines the blackened fabric of his coat. He will need a new one. He takes the squished cigarette off the burnt files and examines these too. Most are intact. Daisy's calf is burnt at an edge. Some paperwork is destroyed. Frank spreads his hands to the edges of his desk and notices his hands are still shaking. He stands up straight and rubs his brow, gathering himself. He had almost forgotten what had caused this stint of chaos in his otherwise calm, dark office.


He sees the rock. It sits beside the leg of his coat rack. A piece of paper stuck on it. He crouches down to pull it off and read the scrambled, barely legible writing.


'Don't trust. Streets run red. TUNGUSKA. HERE. DO NOT TRUST.'


Frank examines smaller writing under this scribbling. It is also barely legible.


'Not from here. Not from anywhere...end. it is end. will not survive. but you will, Frank.'


Frank stands up. Somebody knows who he is. The old man? No, Frank didn't say anything to him. He just listened to the man talk. Could it be him? He looked mentally unstable. No, he was mentally unstable. Frank was tired of cryptic messages throughout his career as a private detective, but this one peaked his interest.
Most likely because it included his name in it and it had been thrown through his office window.


Frank's hypothesis on the message being sent by the Man who entered his office seemed to be gaining legitimacy, logically anyway. He struggled to find a purpose to it however, nevermind the contents of the message. Frank noticed that he had crumpled the paper in his hand while in thought. He looked down to it and discovered writing on the back of the message as well. It covered the entire back, only this writing was clearly legible. He looked closer. Frank's mouth widened slightly.


'YOU WILL DIE IF YOU DO NOT SAVE THEM. YOU WILL DIE IF YOU DO NOT SAVE THEM. YOU WILL DIE IF YOU DO NOT SAVE THEM. YOU WILL DIE IF YOU DO NOT SAVE THEM. YOU WILL DIE IF YOU DO NOT SAVE THEM. YOU WILL DIE IF YOU DO NOT SAVE THEM. YOU WILL DIE IF YOU DO NOT SAVE THEM. YOU WILL DIE IF YOU DO NOT SAVE THEM. YOU WILL DIE IF YOU DO NOT SAVE THEM. YOU WILL DIE IF YOU DO NOT SAVE THEM.YOU WILL DIE IF YOU DO NOT SAVE THEM.'


Frank didn't like the thought of dying. Not one bit. He pocketed the damp piece of paper and grabbed the case file in hand. The crashing thunder and hard rain had turned into ambience to Frank's ears. Only one voice remained in his: The Man who entered his office and his plea. Get out while you can. Out of New York is probably what he meant. New York's a big city. Frank didn't want to get out just yet. He grabbed his trenchcoat from the rack and looked at the blackened fabric once more. He put it back on the rack and grabbed his fedora. A trenchcoat Frank could spare, but a private detective is nothing without a proper hat. Frank was glad he remembered at least this much with everything running through his head.


As he locks his office door and proceeds down the corridor, he reads Officer Caulder's report, though slightly singed. Frank guessed that Caulder would be working at this hour. He exits the building and crosses the street quickly. His car is bombarded with rainwater that splashes on impact into Frank's face. His hair is wet and his shirt is getting wetter. He makes sure to keep a stern grip on his keys as he opens the door and enters his car. The file is kept safe under his arm. He closes the door and puts the keys in the ignition. Throws the file on the passenger seat, along with the message out of his pocket. He exhales deeply.


The rain patters against the car windows. Get out while you can, he said. He remembers the muffled gunshots in the sand. Frank always tried to get out. And he'll try again.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Actually, my blog talks about zombies a lot.

So why stop now?image

A little while ago, in the vague and fuzzy memory of this year’s E3, Valve pulled a fast one on us leetle and puny fans. They announced Left 4 Dead 2 to be released almost exactly a year after the original. Surprised, shocked, doubtful, appalled; the fans expressed all these emotions after learning of this fascinating new news.

Then the boycott started, and it all went to shit. No, the fans were not happy that one of PC gaming’s most revolutionary and loved zombie-themed shooters was getting an early sequel. ‘No!’ they said, ‘we don’t want a sequel! We want more of Left 4 Dead! Give me maps! Give me weapons! Give me game modes!’ So we wept as puny, leetle fans, and Valve could do nothing but cackle at our sorrow and bask in bathtubs of gold from their undeserved fortunes made off of a few PC games.

‘DLC!’ we cried, ‘Down with the system! It’s our God-given right!’ Us PC Gamers really are a spoiled bunch. It seems to me that we just want to see the bad side of things. We’re never pleased. We’re just a bunch of lazy, anti-social elitists who want nothing more than to be aggravated at everything because being happy is something we’ve stopped enjoying a long time ago.

But now, I’m happy again. And I’ll tell you why.

Because of this:

L4D2_chainsaw_omg

…and this:

L4D2_GIBS

…and especially this:

L4D2_spitter

So guess what? I am going to pay $50 for this game. You know why? Because I just played the demo, and from the looks of it, I’d say it ranks somewhere between completely fucking awesome and a god damn once-in-a-lifetime experience.

Let me inform you of why it deserves to be bought and kept close to your heart for eternity. The moment I load up the game the whole feeling of it is different from the original Left 4 Dead. This is due to the modified soundtrack, adaptable weather settings, new characters and the sort. Not DLC material. DLC should keep the same feeling of the game. This is another feeling, or atmosphere, or whatever you call it; it deserves its own game.

Not convinced? Alright, I’ll be frank. The only reason I wanted this game was the new gore effects. And guess what? They’re fucking sick. You shoot the crotch, the crotch obliterates into little bits. You shoot the neck, blood flies everywhere and the poor zombie’s throat is missing. Shoot the stomach and all that viscera is pleasantly displayed. Throw a pipe bomb, wait a view seconds, and then witness godly zombie-exploding goodness.

Still not convinced? How bout some weapons? Which one are you privy to? Want to go back to classics? Then there’s your original L4D weapons: pump-action, auto shotty, M-16, Hunting rifle, Uzi, and don’t forget your trusty sidearms, the M1911 and Glock. Bit boring for your taste? Don’t worry. There’s always the main differentiating factor between L4D1 and L4D2 to humour you. Here’s some pots, axes, baseball imagebats, guitars, batons, machetes and other bludgeoning/slicing weapons to get all that boiled up hate against Valve released onto willing zombified participants. Oh, you like big guns? Well, there’s always mounted machine guns, grenade launchers, AK-47’s, a fucking Desert Eagle, and the enjoyment incendiary ammo to complement it.

Look how big that paragraph is. Do you think that’d fit into L4D1 DLC? Smarten up. DLC shouldn’t introduce features in a game that would end up being almost as large, as large, or larger than the original game. Same mechanics, same gameplay style, but c’mon, really?

For the infinitesimal amount of people that actually fall under the category of L4D2 boycotter or critic who actually reads my blog, this should convince you. Otherwise I’m just rambling on about how fucking awesome the demo of Left 4 Dead 2 that I just played was, and plan to play again shortly.

Left 4 Dead 2 officially releases November 17th. Pre-order on Steam or in-store and you get a free in-game baseball bat to abuse zombies with.

If you’re any kind of respectable zombie-killer, this is a no-brainer.

Hell yes, pun intended.

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

Who said geeks and zombies are what my blog’s about?

I’m going to do something drastic. Something new and exciting. Something blogs only once in a while dare to attempt. You may have seen it a bit here and there—even on my blog, but this is a large-scale change. It’s going to revolutionize my blog. It’s going to be live.

I’m going to post original content.

Flood of amateur photography commencing in 3…

2…

1…

Anthony_B&WBlack & white using Lab Color, with slight levels adjustments to bring out contrast.

Anthony_InfraredFirst try at Infrared effects, using lots of Channels experimentation.

Anthony_CloseUpSlight green filter applied to attempt to take away from the overexposure (shitty).

Anthony_ChoicePlaying with color contrast and masking (failing at the latter).

Anthony_CrossProcess

First attempt at cross-processing, with a low-opacity yellowish-green color applied.

All photos were taken with a Nikon D40 and a Nikkor zoom lens, forgot which length. Photoshop provides all of the editing and effects. As for the model, he’s our trusty friend at kg’s Point o’ View. This is actually him on a daily basis; I just happened to have a camera at the time.