Coasting

Welcome back to the normal sturm and drang of posting. I'm back in snowy, freezing Minnesota and questioning my sanity for steadfastly digging in to the climate. I've had a column in the chamber, loaded and ready to go for a day where I can't really type much of anything, so here goes.


Today we look at another of Chris Moore's excellent books, Fluke, (or I Know Why The Winged Whale Sings). It's a story of a marine biologist who investigates the mysteries of the whale song and how it dovetails with a secret as old as life itself. Let's dig in, shall we? 

Continuing in line with my precious assesment of Moore's work, Fluke is a book that is both ingenious and insane. The tale is one of conspiracies, far-out ideas on the nature of life and a demanding request of an acceptable break from reality for the reader. If you find yourself incapable of suspension of disbelief, you might consider looking elsewhere for reading material. Accordingly if you like the idea of people being swallowed by whale without ending up any worse for the wear, read on! 

Nathan Quinn is the protagonist of our story. He spends his days on the island of Maui and the surrounding water observing whales and examining their song in the hopes of deciphering what function it serves for the cetaceans. Nate serves as the level headed skeptic and grizzled veteran for the insane tale that unfolds throughout the course of the book. His donor for the funds facilitating his work is a kind-hearted but seemingly out-to-lunch New Ager who listens to whale songs, not for the mystical effects but supposedly because she hears messages. Nate figures a donor is a donor and tries not to lose patience. One day, while out with his attractive young lab assistant, Amy, he spots a fluke (whale tail, to you and me) that he swears up-and-down to say "Bite Me" in big letters across the underside. Frantically scrambling for his camera, he manages to capture a single shot of said fluke. When the developers claim they have no photos he chalks it up to his burn-out lab assistant Kona, your typical white-boy surfer who is perpetually baked. However when his lab is tossed and the research vessel scuttled, Nate begins to expect sinister things are afoot. Obviously, he's on to something, but what? Unable to secure more funding from his benefactor, Nate resolves to borrow a friend's boat. As he heads out to the open sea Nate ends up getting knocked overboard by the very same whale. Reading about it looming up behind him in the open water, jaws agape, gave me the willies. 

Gulp. 

Nate gets swallowed whole and the book subsequently gets weird. He survives the the trauma only to find himself tumbling down a rabbit hole of divergent evolution and ocean madness, or what Turunga Leela calls "The Wet Willies" or "The Screaming Moist". Nate is presumed lost at sea and his friends and colleagues assume the worst. Amy and Kona dig in to the remaining research that had been left untouched by the mysterious vandals, determined to press on with their cause. The crazy old benefactor calls from her mansion, high up on the mountain side, to say she's heard him and they need to speak right away. 

To say more about what exactly ensues would be to spoil the excellent but wholly bizarre tale of a man's quest to save himself from stranger and stranger circumstances. This book is, for lack of a better summation, utterly insane in the best way possible. If your predilection allows for some weird and wacky stuff, by all means, dig in. You will not be disappointed.

Homeward bound

Tonights the last night in San Fran. Massive day today, went to Mission Beach Cafe for breakfast, where I had the best breakfast I've had in months. They make everything they serve in house, from the english muffins to the awesomely spicy sausage. The sandwich I had had bacon and caramelized onions in a sweet and salty mix that was sublime.

Took the cable car from one end to the other, had some seafood. Went by Lombard street, walked all over the city. It was a non stop, go-go tourist day. Honestly I love this city, from everything I've seen. At the same time I can't stand these half-posts, its frustrating to not be able to write a proper post. As insane as it is to go back to the frozen tundra I look forward to being able to use a keyboard like a normal adult. Give it time. Tomorrow may be a day of travel and time zone changes but I think I can fit one in.

I wait with baited breath.

Pig Cone

Still in San Fran, limited posting options ensue. I was testing my better half about what she would recommend for a good bite. She texted me:

"pig cone"

I was convinced it was a typo until I spoke with her. It's definately a thing. Boccalone deli in the Ferry building in downtown SF. Their business card describes their work as "Tasty Salted Pig Parts." Straight forward and dead on, they do delicious cured meats. The cone I had was slices of prosciutto, salumi and other stlyes of pork that were crazy good. A sharp contrast to the sinful food I ate during the game. Yes, I watched.

This is gonna be the cutoff point, typing on my phone is not as conducive as I want it to be. More sober, less passion. Such is life. California is gorgeous.

Crazy taxi

In a strange town car, heading back to our hotel in San Fran. Really hope it's a real cab and not the start to a horror movie. Unbelievably good dinner at Water Bar, crazy beautiful view of the Bridge. When I don't die and get back to the hotel I might be able to write more. For now, I plan to get another round with mon petite frere, whom I may solicit for guest content. Stay tuned. Cab updates are hard to type.

So we ended up in a tiki bar called the Tonga Room. It was something straight out of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. It was a bar that my parents (completely succinctly) described as Epcot Center meets your alcoholic tendencies. Little did I know it was basicLly made for me.

It rained every thirty minutes, which is practically a guarantee for Warm Fuzzy Viewings. Also, as if I needed to stress this awesomely kitschy moment, the band was on a float in the middle of the pool. Updates S they become available.

Love,
jToycen

Aeronaut

I'm somewhere over the plains right now, hurtling along in a metal tube. Reminded of Louis C.K.'s bit about not being sufficiently amused by modern tech, I though I'd start poking around and maybe sneak in a post. 


So where to start? Like any sane person about to embark on a trip through the airline system, I indulged in some preflight cocktails, so forgive my scattered musings.


Trapped on a plane and left to my own devices, i typically turn to a book. This flight made me fidgety, though, and I couldn't concentrate. Looking for a diversion I grabbed my trusty, well worn nintendo DS, a pleasant little distraction I only pulled out when bored or on a trip. While it's definitely been a worthwhile investment I occasionally forget all about it, only realizing it's there after buying tickets and packing a carry on bag. I guess I almost grab it out of habit. As a result the games I have are only ones I've really felt compelled to get - there's little fluff to my meager collection. Among these choice games are some of the more notable/requisite title for the system. GTA, Mario 64DS, Chrono Trigger (an excellent expanded remake, btw). The superstar among the bunch though?


Scribblenauts.

This game, made by the geniuses at 5th Cell, is both simple and deep. Your goal is just "get the starite" but doing so involves a task, anything from rescuing a princess to opening a traffic jam. How you go about doing that is the real trick of the game. Sporting a dictionary of over 20,000 words, you merely write an object and it appears. It's amazingly detailed, too. You want a boat? What kind? Yacht, schooner, dingy, hovercraft, raft, jet ski. They're all in there. Need something for self defense? Swords, guns, military equipment, ufos. You can create a black hole and suck up effecting on the screen just for the hell of it. Have to get to sunken treasure? Submarine! Shark in the way? Cthulu! Here's fun - summon a zombie and watch him infect any other people around. Cows run from ufos, bakers love pies, ninjas fight robots, vampires fight werewolves. It's a game that seems to have anticipated your every move. Even Memes from the web are in the list - long cat, philosoraptor, it's there. 


Plane air is making me groggy, kinda sky drunk, not gonna keep pushing this. Timing is everything, so I'm wrapping here for now. Maybe more later.

Ducking Out

In the lieu of a proper column today (and the fact that they tend to be long winded, rambling diatribes as of late) I want to give notice that for the next few days posting will be on an erratic and most likely reduced schedule. Due to familial obligations I will be travelling to California until the middle of next week and as a matter of course I won't have regular access to a proper computer. While I would love to be able to sit down and bang out a proper post every day, even if just for the mental exercise, it simply may not fit into my schedule. Hopefully I can sneak in a break or two while I'm abroad, but at the present I have no expectations for down time to write. Ideally I would have had a backlog of material, but what little there is, isn't fit for posting at the moment.

However, this is not to say there will be a complete dearth of material. I will have my phone with me, as well as a trick or two up my sleeve, so I plan on doing a few impromptu posts on what strikes me at the time. Additionally if you haven't noticed the twitter feed to the right, you can follow me @jdtoycen for updates, observations and whatever the world throws at me. I'll be in San Francisco attending some events, so if things get weird and wacky I'll just start shooting from the hip. Or maybe if I get a stream of consciousness thing going I'll just post whatever happens throughout the day. I'm already rambling the the thought, mentally chomping at the bit to get going, so whatever happens, happens. Stay tuned and see what unfolds!

Until next week.

Let's see what happens! 

Arcade Fiend

All right, readers.

Another day, another tale of lost and found, memories just barely flashing on the edge of my subconcious.

As a kid in the Midwest, I spent my share of time in arcades and Circus Pizzas. Lots of great times to be had, playing games with friends and eating the horribly greasy and bland pizza that, for reasons unbekownst to me, was always cut into squares. To this day I hold a deep love and appreciation for the game, the glory, that is Skeeball. There is no activity like it, whatsoever. There's something unique yet elusive about it, something in the tactile sensation of rolling the wooden balls up the ramp. The unmatchable satisfaction for getting the bulls eye in the center. When I happen on a game as a grown man I can't resist the compulsion to indulge, no matter the amount of sore knees and shoulders afterword. No one said getting older is easy, after all. Cocktails are the difference, I find. What was whimsy as a kid is replaced by light inebriation and arrested development as someone in their late twenties. Alas, my love for Skeeball is not why I write this. 

No, my friends.

Today's post is of another mystery solved! Like my post on Depresso, it's a tale of the internet leading me to what I had lost and forgotten. 


Read on!

For years I had hazy memories of a game that I was enthralled with, yet whose name escaped me. My friend Scott and I would plunk down our quarters, sit in a cockpit, and steer a hover-craft type vehicle through tunnels and futuristic city-scapes, blasting aliens and hurtling forward with unstoppable momentum. It was a blast! The graphics I could recall were, at the time, mind blowing. Sure, there were plenty of other great games - Street Fighter II, the excellent Simpsons arcade game, the bizarre Play Choice 10 cabinets and even the legendary 6-player X-Men cabinets. Of course, my beloved Skeeball. None of these, however, held the same feel, the same je ne sais quois, that this strange, frenetic After Burner clone held. Looking back now, I realize it was de riguer for the time - mode 7 scaling, sleek Blade Runner-style cityscapes. The music was interesting too, as I recall.

Time passed, attention wandered. I discovered girls. I started playing music. Basically my life moved on from the arcades right before the arcades started to die out, anyway, so the timing was congruent with my forgetting the game. Years later, though, it came back to me. I don't even know why. It may have been a trip to Gameworks in Minneapolis. It may have been something I saw while surfing the web instead of writing a paper in college. Whatever it was, the memories started to come back, if only slightly. I had just the vaguest memories of playing the game, whatever it was. Gripping the joystick, feeling like I was holding on for dear life as I dodged attacks and steered through canals and tunnels. Laden with nostalgia, I wanted to play it again, maybe just to see if it held up, or maybe just to relive my childhood in the smallest, silliest way. But there was a problem.

I couldn't for the life of me remember the title. 


All I knew were some of the vaguest details - the type of game, what it looked and felt like. I couldn't even nail down the year. How old was I? Was it 1991? 92? 94? No idea. So, completely blind on the web, I started to look, casually at first. It was one of those things I would pick up sporadically - twenty minutes here or there on Google or a vintage gaming site. I was hindered by my lack of specifics. At one point I stumbled onto the sprawling Arcade Game Museum and their wonderfully refinable search engine. Still, nothing came up that was right. Things were close, but nothing hit it on the head.

Toward the end of a work day I mentioned it to a coworker. It was slowly growing an bothering me. The more I searched the more I grew frustrated. I just wanted to know what it was at this point. I knew it existed, it had to have a title. He mused along with me, saying "So it was like some tunnel-racing thing?" It dawned on me to just try putting some descriptors like that into the search bar. What came up was closer than ever - a similar if less refined game called S.T.U.N. Runner. Indeed it was a tunnel racer, as the genre was known. So, I had a genre to work with. I kept poking away, bit by bit, patience increasing with every refinement of the terms.

Then I saw it. 

A screenshot from the game. It was a eureka moment in the nerdiest way. Eagerly, I clicked on the link and lo and behold - the game. Released by Taito of Japan, it was called Night Striker. No wonder I couldn't recall it - the title was so generic it might as well have not had one. But there it was! In a rush it all came back - hunching over in the cabinet, yelling at the screen and elbowing my friend Scott as he grabbed the controls for his turn. The sounds of the arcade, the noise of other games in the background, feeling like you're the baddest kid in the world when you're nine years old. Nostalgia is a strange thing.

I may or may not have found a legal way to experience playing the game again, but suffice it to say I was able to satisfy the beast of childhood memories with a computer program and some ridiculous YouTube videos. It's pretty cheesy and dated, but take a look - seeing this awesomely old school game in action just makes me feel like a kid in the best way. To me it was like finding your old action figures and remembering the good times you had as a kid. It's another mystery I've been able to solve in my adult life, thanks once again to the depths of the web. Hell or high water, it's out there for finding, provided you know where to look. Happy hunting, kids.

Walls of Text

Hmm...

Okay.

The Stand.

One of my favorite books by one of my favorite authors. In college I briefly flirted with majoring in English (if it isn't painfully apparent) and I remember the withering looks I'd get for even mentioning Stephen King. As someone who has read a significant portion of his work I am all too aware of the jokes and perceived quirks. The term I've heard most commonly is schlock, which...I get. Crazy or hokey premises. That actually seems to be a more recent development. The Family Guy gag about a 'lamp monster'? Turns out it wasn't too far off the mark. His recent collection, Just After Sunset, while full of interesting stories, does contain one about what essentially is a haunted exercise bike. Yeah.

Despite these obvious flaws, there is plenty worth defending. Some of his character work is absolutely outstanding, particularly his early work. Do we discount U2 and all their bland posturing despite their historic early work? Or say, Kubrick and his decent into muddled results in his later years? Carrie stands out. So does The Shining, which also was turned into a phenomenal film by Kubrick. Hell, look at some of the movies that have been adapted from King's novels - The Green Mile. Stand By Me, The Shawshank Redemption and the recent re-teaming with Frank Darabont for the grim and gritty Mist, based on a spectacular novella. Basically it boils down to King taking flack from the academia but writing widely popular material. So why do I advocate a popular if hackneyed author? Because one of his best, if almost forgotten these days, novels has recently been green lit for production as a major motion picture. You should read it before the hype grows and fades, only to leave the inevitable bad taste in your mouth of a Hollywood book adaptation. 

King has (somewhat sheepishly) admitted that his secret intention when starting The Stand was to essentially create a modern, American take on Tolkien's Lord of the Rings. Obviously it's an arrogant and overly ambitious thing to do. The crazy thing is, though, is he came pretty damn close. It's a massive, sprawling book, full of richly drawn characters and tons of vivid scenery. Do yourself a favor if you undertake the book - pick up the expanded and uncut edition, which clocks in at an almost obscene 1141 pages. If you don't like it you can always hollow it out and store a Bible inside. It's that big. But go for it! It's worth it to get the extra flesh on the characters and subtle plot developments.

I'm getting ahead of myself, though.

The book stemmed from King overhearing a piece on the radio about a chemical spill that killed a large amount of sheep in Utah. Had the wind shifted slightly, Salt Lake City would have been affected instead of livestock. While it made the news at the time, it was quickly swept under the rug with surprisingly little fanfare. The inherent potential in such an idea was immediately apparent to King. What sets the ball in motion for the whole novel, then, is the accidental release of a superbug, a flu-like virus, from a chemical/germ lab in the desert. One man and his family make it out and the first section of the novel traces the spread of the disease as we are introduced to some of the characters. This opening volley has been hailed as some of King's best work for its honest voice and believable setting. It's not until the bug spreads and humanity suffers that things get weird.

The flu, or Captain Tripps as it comes to be known, turns out to be 99.99% fatal. It spreads across the country with ease, since people were dismissing it as allergies or a cold at first onset. We meet our cast, people from all walks of life, as it culls the population. Society starts to break down and people, understandably, wig out. Larry Underwood, one-hit wonder and washing-up rocker, experiences a creepily deserted New York, empty but for that surviving .01%. King does an amazing job of painting the picture in this section of the book. Things simply break down and slowdown to a halt. Reactors blow. Bodies rot. Many people die alone. It really is disturbing and terrifying.

We've only just begun! 

The people we've met thus far begin to have dreams, vivid ones, of a corn field in Boulder. Either subconsciously or just out of desperation, our cast heads west, towards Boulder, CO. As various cast and crew converge along the way, alliances are formed and pockets of humanity agree to work together. Arrival in Boulder brings about the formation of an ad hoc society of survivors, led in part (though she would rather not have it) by a 108 year old woman named Abigail Freemantle. 

At the same time, a separate faction of people are compelled to head farther west, to Las Vegas, under the tutelage of a shadowy stranger. He's described in nervous spits as the "dark man" and the "walkin' dude", someone whose eyes you won't want to meet and whose smile makes you sick and uneasy. King's descriptions of this man, this force of a person, are eerie and strange, effective in the best way. As these people settle into their lives and going about the business of getting back to civilization a conflict begins to emerge and a showdown is inevitable.

Obviously condensing over 1100 pages into a few paragraphs does no justice to the saga. It's a staggering work of world-creation and character development that King constructs bit by bit, until you're deep into the novel with a rich cast of people (and a lovable dog, natch) all with fleshed out, believable motivations. The ambition to do the Americanized Ring cycle was insane, but rewarding. What results is a book that is so real and rich that I've read it twice and plan on going in for round three somewhere down the line. It's made an impact on others as well. Many of his fans cite it as his best work. It's clear that he was at the height of his game when King wrote this. Whether you're on a plane or trapped inside due to the incoming blizzards, I highly suggest you give this book a go.


Chemical warfare. Germ labs. The last people on Earth. Sometimes King's scary material isn't the supernatural, but the dangers of our modern world. He hit it on the head in this case. It's a fantastic book, in every sense of the word. Happy reading, and sleep tight, kids. After all, it's not like this could ever happen in real life, right?

For Love Of The Game

Happy snowstorm, everyone! I am beginning to think I should consider a move to Alaska, as I seem to be the only person I know who genuinely gets excited by blizzards. In the interest of fighting community-wide cabin fever and the cooped-up-crazies I want to share a treasure trove of entertainment with you. 

I speak of Gamespite, a blog I follow devotedly yet of which I have never formally become a member. Bear in mind, though, my reluctance is based only on my personal reticence at being a 'joiner', or a fear of being rejected. I probably sound more neurotic and weird than I intend to here, but I digress. It's thoroughly awesome and you should check it out.

Obvious personal nerdery aside, I love the site for both its content and tone. I first became acquainted with it from listening to the (now sadly defunct) Retronauts podcast from 1UP.com/. The host for the show, Jeremy Parish, has been maintaining the Gamespite domain for the last decade, on and off, as a place to write and host honest, heartfelt critiques about games both new and old. It certainly doesn't need an endorsement from me to keep it's momentum rolling; it's a thriving community that chugs along, creating some of the most interesting breakdowns on video games and culture I've read anywhere. Honestly, the driving factor behind my writing this article evangelizing the site is simply that I think Gamespite deserves the accolade and attention. 

The site has become a repository for insightful and detailed articles on everything from psychological profiles on the background players in Nintendo games, to a forum full of some of the most intelligent, kind, and above all witty members, on the internet. Additionally there is the fantastic 'Let's Play!' section, where you can vicariously experience a game, either to relive it or experience it for the first time, most often with incredibly funny commentary that makes the experience akin to a modern MST3K. All of this and more, gathered and maintained by the persistent and prolific Parish. 

While Parish has made no bones about his own passions, among them Klonoa and Mega Man Legends, he has been a well-rounded editor and publishes a broad cross section of the  world of electronic gaming. The lion's share of the posts come from Parish himself, with contributor's columns being collected into themed issues he's dubbed Gamespite Quarterly, available for purchase in both soft and hardcover. Themes for issues go in suites, such as one for Heroes and another for Villains. The varying authors show their love for the overlooked and unsung, writing on sidekicks and bitplayers that they hold dear to their hearts. Other times its heavy, analytical critiques on the nature of choice in the medium, like Bioshock or Maniac Mansion. If all of this sounds way to intricately involved in the culture, try looking for something as familiar and famous as Mario and the impact its had on society.

What I find to be most enjoyable about the collective writings as a whole is the tone of the work - it's approached with both a reverence and light-hearted sense of humor, with little of the typical snark endemic of video game communities. Of course, this is not to say there is a dearth of knowing winks and elbows in the ribs, but the mood is one of appreciation and contemplative study that shows a genuine love of the subject matter. Take, for example, this massive list of articles, freely available for perusing.

If it seems like I'm rambling on in a disjointed matter, it's probably an accurate assessment,. It's most likely due to the over abundance of material that's been gathering over the years. For my non-gaming brethren it may seem like a shot in the dark into a niche community, but to a large part of the internet it's a well known haven, a group of friends and family that just seem to get each other. It's a place for kindred spirits to find people to play online with (Who Don't Suck, according to the thread title, in an inspired stroke of  social networking) or to share their appreciation for heavy metal. It's a massive community that just exudes positivity.


Check Gamespite out, and if you have any interest in ye olden days of gaming, the Retronauts podcast is still available at the site linked above as well as iTunes. Take a look and see what you find. 

Modern Prog Rock

Evening, all.


Long day of typical Sunday stuff - errands, groceries, cleaning, sweeping, vacuuming, exercising and to counteract the exercise - a massive meal of the most delicious, and above all healthy, tacos I've ever had. So I write this in a bit of a dozing food coma, battling fatigue and the nods. Accordingly today's post will be a bit truncated, but fully formed regardless. I thought I'd expound a bit on my favorite album of all time, which is also a bit of a guilty pleasure. While I've already written about the Smashing Pumpkins, today we look at their exceptional offering, Siamese Dream.

Recorded in the early winter of 1993 in Georgia, the album marked a turning point for the band. Notoriously egocentric frontman and driving force Billy Corgan began writing from a much more personal perspective and, under the watchful eye of producer Butch Vig, started down one of the most prolific and high quality segments of his artistic career. An aside here - Vig is a known 'personality', i.e. a strong opinioned musician whose career has brought high praise as well as personal scorn, but his output, as well as involvement in the odd-ball band Garbage (another 90s favorite of mine), are fit for another day's post. To acknowledge his involvement in the album is to put it in another category, one that is also associated with interpersonal conflicts as well as incredible results. 


Moving on.


The band struggled through the sessions, with varying results. Corgan's neurotic and obsessive work ethic resulted in amazing craftsmanship, but at the sacrifice of his relationships with his band mates. According to legend, he not only locked guitarist James Iha and bassist D'arcy Wretzky out of the recording booth, but ended up re-recording everything the pair had lain down by that point. Another well known factoid is that Corgan went crazy on the overdubs and 'aural construction' of the album by putting a whopping 70 overdubs on a single lick in the song 'Soma' just to create the proper tone. Despite the descent into blind ambition, the album turned out to be a master stroke, and was heralded (at the time) to be their best work.


While the band was and continues to be regarded in some circles as blatant careerists and corporate shills, the music on Siamese Dream speaks for itself. 14 songs, all in a row, show the massive jump the band had made from their debut album, Gish, to here. They (or Corgan, if you prefer the insinuations) had gone from psychedelic rock and flailing, jangly chords to streamlined, intensely rhythmic riff-age and stadium sized hooks. The songwriting quality was also leaps and bounds beyond what they had previously accomplished. The first single for the album, and my favorite song of my lifetime, the straight-ahead power-pop 'Today' was written after a bout of writers block. It's straightforward nature almost stands in defiance of the struggles that had prevented its creation. The sweeping, lush 'Disarm' served as a signature stamp of what the band's sound would be in their acoustic mode, moody and sorrowful. The album opener, 'Cherub Rock', is a signifier of the new sound, starting with a drum roll and building, octave chord riff that crescendos into an undeniably catchy song that stays with you long after it ends. 

The band clearly came into their own with this album. By creating simple, accessible songs like the weeping and droningly beautiful 'Mayonnaise' or the brooding and powerful 'Soma' the band honed their distinctive sound that set them apart from the grunge sound-alikes of the era. While their peers and rivals focused on dirges and lo-fi indie rock, here was an album of polished and obsessively micromanaged prog rock. It was almost iconoclastic move, at this point in the music scene, to be so knowingly well-practiced when the easy money was on slouching, flannel driven grunge.


Rather than ramble on for another 500 words about how great this album is and why you should be listening to it, I'll let it speak for itself. Either it will move you or it won't. Good music stands the test of time and I keep coming back to this album, no matter how many times I've heard it. The craftsmanship and mood of the album just speak to me on a personal level. It may be due more to where I was in my life when I first heard it and how it affected me, but I feel today that the music does stand the test of time. Oddball or not, anal-retentiveness aside, I love Siamese Dream.