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I sit here on the cusp of a new year in a fashion I've become accustomed to: couple of candles lit (for the smell, not the ambiance), the DVD player playing a sci-fi movie, laptop on my lap (taking a short break from World of Warcraft), one kitty by my side (Nutmeg). It's chilly, so I have a couple of blankets wrapped around me. I'm thinking about eating some cereal.

A new year is a natural break, a natural measurement starting point. We tend to look back at the year that just happened and think about what we did, good and bad. We look forward to the next year and wonder what will happen in it. For some, it's good times and happy memories. For most, it evokes some melancholy. Missed opportunities, unpleasant situations, and broken dreams seem to be much more prevalent than positive situations, or at least that's how memory tends to serve us.

Last year I made some resolutions. I'm not going to this year. I never keep them and they're a reminder that I never keep them, so why bother? Instead, I'll make some New Year's wishes instead:

I wish you peace in the coming year.
I wish you love in the coming year.
I wish you happiness in the coming year.
I wish you understanding in the coming year.

Though they aren't necessarily mutually exclusive, not all of those will happen concurrently for you. That's okay - ride it out.

I hope you have a great year. 9 comments

"Mary Did You Know?

Written by Buddy Greene and Mark Lowry

Mary did you know,
That your baby boy, will one day walk on water?
Did you know,
That your baby boy will save our sons and daughters?
Did you know,
That your baby boy has come to make you new?
This child that you've delivered,
Will soon deliver you.

Mary did you know,
That your baby boy will give sight to a blind man?
Did you know,
That your baby boy will calm the storm with his hand?
Did you know,
That your baby boy has walked where angels trod?
And when you kiss your little baby,
You've kissed the face of God.

Oh, Mary did you know?
The blind will see,
The deaf will hear,
The dead will live again,
The lame will leap,
The dumb will speak,
The praises of the Lamb.

Mary did you know,
That your baby boy is Lord of all creation?
Did you know,
That your baby boy will one day rule the nations?
Did you know,
That your baby boy is heaven's perfect Lamb?
This sleeping child you're holding,
Is the Great I Am.

Labels: Christmas

1 comments

All right, I'm outta here, on my way to Wisconsin for Christmas with the family.

Behave, ya'll, and try to have a merry Christmas, okay? 2 comments

I think I may have invited some legal trouble with this review, particularly in the "Under the Shrinkwrap" section.

The prosecution's case would go something like this:

"Your Honor, we at SEGA, on the advice - nay, the guarantee - of the accused went through great effort to produce a 2D side-scrolling Sonic the Hedgehog game for the latest game consoles. This game did not sell well and now SEGA is out of business. This is all the accused's fault and we demand justice."

They'd probably legal it up a bit, but that's the gist of it.

Please come and visit me in jail once in a while, won't you?

Labels: game review

1 comments

I was cleaning up and organizing my apartment this past week when I was reminded of an odd game I had. The game itself isn't really that odd (it's International Track and Field for the PlayStation, one of those "tap the buttons alternately really quickly to make the onscreen Olympic athlete run really fast or swim or throw a javelin" games), but the size of the box is.

Back in 1995 when the Sega Saturn and the Sony PlayStation hit the market, they packed the games in cases similar to what DVDs come in now, only a bit thicker and maybe a little taller. After a while, Sony started putting their games in regular CD cases, a decision which I begrudgingly admit was wise. More games could be stored in less space, and a person could buy regular CD-holding apparatuses (oddly enough, that's the correct word - "apparati" sounds correct, but isn't) to hold their games. Sega followed suit when the Dreamcast hit (9/9/99, baby!), and that's how things were.

When the newest systems hit (Sony PlayStation 2, Microsoft Xbox), the games came packaged in DVD cases. This makes even more sense, since both these systems could also play DVDs, and both companies wanted their systems to be in the living rooms of the world as part of the whole entertainment system, blurring the lines that define "video game consoles." Systems now do more than just play games, and Microsoft isn't hiding their intentions of making the console more of a media center with the ability to stream music, download updates and demos, and yadda yadda yadda. The Xbox 360, the newest entry in the console realm, lets you hook up your iPod or connect to your PC to play your choice of music while you're playing your games. Crazy times.

But I am getting off my original topic.

So I found this aberration in my collection. A while back I had consolidated all my music CDs, PlayStation CDs, and Dreamcast CDs into one rack. This International Track & Field, in its crazyweird box, didn't fit anywhere. It rested on the top layer of CDs, kind of in the middle, straddling the Bs and Cs of my collection. It's bothered me for a while, but laziness is a powerful master, so there it sat. My organizing last week was the final straw, though, so I moved IT&F from its resting place to the compartment on the driver's door of my van, which, coincidentally, is also where DVDs that need to be returned to the video store get placed.

IT&F rode around with me for a while, as the place I trade my games in is not on any of my regular routes, but last night it was time. I took it in the store and had to wait in line behind a lady and her son, who looked to be about 11 years old. He was trying to turn some old NES (that's "original Nintendo" to us Americans) cartridges and wasn't having much luck. If the store's computer doesn't recognize the game, they can't give any money or credit for it. This kid had about 10 cartridges, and was only going to get a little over $5 for them. He seemed a little disappointed, and he and his mom were having one of those "Well, what do you want to do?" discussions when I noticed that one of the games he was getting rid of was Q*Bert.

It should be noted at this point that, while I do own an NES system, I do not have a power cord for it, so it is as if I don't have one. It should also be noted that Q*Bert is still, after all these years and games, on my Best Games Of All Time list.

"I'll give you $2 for the Q*Bert," I said.

The kid and his mom exchanged "Is this guy crazy? And even if he is, is it okay to take money from him?" looks.

The cashier said, "I'm only giving you 85 cents for that one, so it's a good deal."

Done and done. The kid's happy, the mom's happy, I'm happy - everybody's happy. They finish the rest of their deal with the cashier and then it's my turn.

I hand the cashier my copy of IT&F and he says, "You always turn in the most unusual and interesting things." Now, I'm there frequently enough that they recognize me, but I don't really think this is a correct assessment of my trade-in history. Normally I'm turning in games that I've reviewed for DEN that I don't want to keep, and they're newer games and usually not that good, so that's not too unusual, I don't think. What I do think is that he's surprised to see a 9-year-old game in a crazyweird box come in, and he had to dignify the occasion with some sort of response.

He takes the CD out of its case and examines the back of it and exclaims, "And it's in perfect condition!" This, I'll grant him, is a perfect assessment of my game-keeping history. If I've bought it new, it will look new when the time comes to turn it in. I take care of my stuff, as a general rule. My dad might disagree with me on the subject of cars, but for the most part, the pages of my books are unbent, my CDs are unscratched, and my cats don't have patches of fur falling off them.

"Thanks," I beam, quietly basking in another's recognition of one of my few life accomplishments.

"But..." he continues, "Unfortunately, it's not in the computer."

Ah, well. I had figured the game was only going to be worth a dollar or so in credit, so this wasn't too much of a disappointment. However, I was not going to return home with this game! It doesn't fit!

I look around and notice the kid is still there with his mom, seeing what he could put his five dollars in store credit and two dollars from me towards.

"Hey," I say in the non-creepiest voice I can muster. "Do you have a PlayStation?"

He looks at me somewhat sheepishly and says, "Just a PlayStation 1." He's embarrassed that he doesn't have a PlayStation 2. It's okay, kid. Neither do I.

"Merry Christmas," I say, and hand him the game.

He and his mom both thank me, but I know it was mostly selfishness on my part, so I brush it off. Besides, once he's ruined his hands trying to tap the buttons fast enough to win a gold medal and he has to find a job when he grows up that involves him pushing a button with his nose, well, he won't be so thankful then.

At the same time, though, I feel a sort-of warm glow, based on encouraging a young gamer in the ways of gaming, like some old gunhand passing on a secret to the new upstart in the town, only it's not one of his better secrets, just some old secret he might have told anyone, something along the lines of "Make sure to reload after you're out of bullets."

"Sorry, kid," I think, "but you'll have to pry my copy of PaRappa the Rapper out of my cold, dead hands."

With that, I headed into the sunset. 3 comments

Embarrassing Fact About Me #217:

My three favorite Christmas albums, in order:

1) The Beach Boys
2) Celine Dion
3) The Statler Brothers


And that's why I'll never be President.

Labels: Christmas

3 comments

There was a gleam of confidence in Uncle Nathan's eye as he deftly took control of the conversation.

"That reminds me of something a character in, let me see, yes, my third novel had said." He paused for emphasis.

His sister Mary chided gently. "Nathan, you haven't even written a first novel."

Uncle Nathan recovered quickly.

"Actually, I was referring to a series of short stories I wrote for the Atlantic. It was the second installment to last, and the hero had just..."

"You never wrote short stories for anyone. Not the Atlantic, not anyone!" Grandfather broke in crossly.

"Dad," murmured Mary.

But Uncle Nathan was visibly shaken. "I ... I, uh," then strongly again, "Of course, poetry has always been my forte. I'm experimenting with a new form which..."

Again he was cut off, this time by cousin Jason.

"You," he said evenly, "are no poet."

"This is unhealthy!" Uncle Nathan cried, flinging his arms about wildly. "Repeating one fact over and over again - 'You never wrote this, Nathan; You never wrote that, Nathan; You, Nathan, are no poet.' You people are fixated!"

"But it is a fact, Nathan. You've never written anything," leveled cousin Jason.

Uncle Nathan looked imploringly at every face in the room, then dropped his head. After a short, embarrassed moment he raised it again and managed an unsure grin.

"I've just been having you on. I - I'm not really a writer at all."

-----

-by Dave, a long time ago when we occasionally collaborated. I only wish I had come up with the character. Reprinted here with permission. 2 comments

It is apparent to me that, the older I get, the more of a lizard I'm becoming.

The last few years, once winter hits, my skin dries out. Though it's not happened yet this winter, I've had it where my hands are so dry that they bleed a little. The skin on my back must also get fairly dry, because it gets itchy. And when I say "itchy" here, I mean "feels like if I stretch it too much, the skin could split right open and, BAM, there'd be my spine on display."

So, of course, I need to put lotion on my hands. Lotion! I object to lotion on the following grounds:

1) Girlie smells.
2) Slimy hands.

It's a small list, but an important one.

They don't make moisturizing lotion that smells "manly." It's all lavender and cucumber and fruity, and even the standard stuff that isn't flavored has a definite lotion-y smell to it. While I might really like the smell of vanilla, there's a difference between liking the smell and smelling of it. I'm not a he-man, lumberjack, motorcycle-riding sort of a man already, and adding "vanilla-scented" to the list of what I am is probably just pushing it.

I also hate, hate, HATE the way my hands feel after lotion is applied. Ever see that episode of Seinfeld where Kramer has just applied hand lotion and then has trouble opening a door? That's how I feel, even if that doesn't really happen. It's kind of the same way I feel after trying to wash my hands with soft water - it feels like there's a layer of soap still on me. Ewww.

In the end, though, having lotion-scented hands beats out having scaly, bleeding hands. People are slightly less likely to recoil in horror at the lotion-scentedness. Of course, once I regrow a limb and scale the walls looking for insects, they're back to recoiling, but what can you do?

Labels: Seinfeld

7 comments

A while back I needed to talk to a person at work - it is sometimes unavoidable and is one of the dangers of the job. To get her attention (since I was walking up behind her), I said, "Mrs. Lastname?" She turned and gave me a semi-withering glare and said, "Ms. Lastname." I apologized and went on and things were fine.

Confusion reigns. I grew up somehow associating "Ms." with a "Miss" who didn't want to be referred to as "Miss" for whatever reason. Though it might seem odd to you, in my 33.58 years alive this is the first "Mrs." that I've ever run into that preferred "Ms."

To further the confusion, somewhere else along the way I'd been given to understand that any woman who wanted to be called "Ms." was a man-hating feminist who would break out placards and protest the system should anyone happen to refer to her as "Miss." I don't know where that came from, I just know it's there.

I understand "Miss." I understand "Missus." I don't understand "Ms." I don't think it's short for anything, and it's hard to say with drawing out the end of it, at least for me. I'm trying to make it sound natural, but it always comes out as "Mizzzzzzzz."

I mentioned my confusion to my friend Matt and he looked at me like I was from some other planet. He writes news releases and articles, so he's a bit more up on these kinds of things, and he explained to me that "Ms." is a gender (female)-specific term without being a marital-status-specific term. He compared it to "Mr." for men, since men can be "Mr." whether or not they are married.

So there you have it. Now you know as much as I do on the subject.

-----

Also, as an addendum, using "ma'am" is bad, too. I grew up saying "Yes, ma'am" and "No, ma'am," so it just turned into a standard politeness thing. From what I can gather, saying "ma'am" to a woman makes her think you think she is old. In fact, a waitress the other day, in response to my "Ma'am?" to get her attention said this: "I've heard that when people call you 'ma'am,' it means you're no longer hot."

And you wonder why I try to not interact with people? It's mostly because I apparently don't know how anymore. 4 comments

Please keep my friend Meags in your thoughts and prayers. Her father passed away earlier this week and I know she could use your support. 3 comments

This one was fun.

The problem with games like this is that I keep them. The problem with keeping them is that I can't turn them in and get credit towards an Xbox 360.

Next time you visit, we'll bust this one out and have some fun with it, okay?

Labels: game review

2 comments