Knowing XCOM's Unknown Enemy

XCOM: you're pure evil.

As of this writing, I've been avoiding playng XCOM: Enemy Unknown for a month in spite of how well I've been doing. My soldiers have advanced armor and weapons making them well equipped to face the alien threat. Yet, I'm terrified of going back. Even more so than the Gamecube remake of Resident Evil and Amnesia: The Dark Descent. And yet, the game isn't even a horror game, at least in the traditional since. Humanity suffers some gut-wrenching atrocities at the hands of the game's extraterrestrial invaders, but that's not what makes the game so horrific. It's the legitimate sense of dread the game fosters as things progress.

The game is all about escalation on a grand scale. Aliens come and terrorize the populace. Earth responds with clandestine task force XCOM. Aliens respond in kind with bigger baddies. XCOM's troops get bigger and badder. And so on.

It took me a couple of playthroughs to fully realize that formula. After suffering a total squad wipe during a key mission, I knew I had to reexamine my strategy, or rather, lack thereof. Sure, I built up my base and researched, but I didn't research enough technologies at a fast enough pace. Earth was surely doomed. So, like any self-respecting game player, I quit and deleted my save. I couldn't bear to watch the end. It's hard enough watching soldiers die.

For the blissfully ignorant, when your soldiers fall on the field of battle in XCOM, they die for good. Your heavy weapons specialist who survived seven sorties and achieved the rank of major might have plenty of kills under his belt, but if he gets flanked, it'll end poorly for him. "Permadeath" isn't even the game's worst cruelty. Your soldiers all have names. If they survive long enough, they'll get nicknames too. Camaraderie is simulated in the most subtle of ways and quickly exploited when the game's base provides you with a soldiers' memorial.

It's strange. The game allows for little room for the soldiers to show much personality. And yet, just by giving them names and nicknames, it makes them seem more human. XCOM is not a forgiving game. It will not hold your hand, and if you try to reach your hand out to it, it'll likely just bite it clean off. It's a game that sheds any associations of "joy" with the word "game," and I can't help but respect the hell out of the game for it. But it's respect in the same way that you respect a beast or a dictator. Respect out of fear because you never know when tragedy will befall you, but you know well enough that it's coming. Never a matter of if. Always when.

Mannish: The Knights of the 21st Century

I’ve already come to terms with the fact that I’m not classically masculine. I don’t watch football on the regular, I barely understand my own car, and I cannot maintain composure if an insect buzzes past me, regardless if it’s armed with a stinger or not. I’m something of a centrist on the spectrum of femininity and masculinity with a slight lean to the latter—if you subscribe to such binaries. I am biologically male and I own a John Woo movie on DVD. I’d say I’m plenty masculine.

But something tells me I’m not manly enough for the Knights of the 21st Century, a "Christian Men's Ministry and Fellowship." In a blurb on their front page, the Knights set the scene:

Knights brandished swords against evil in medieval times to bring freedom to their land. Times have not changed, but the roundtables have been empty for centuries. Across the nation different Knights men's ministry groups are forming around new roundtables as a result of this innovative and life-changing men's ministry series. They are learning a new way to fight for their women, children, God and country. Men can choose to ignore the holy war that is going on in our nation and our world, or they can join a roundtable in the fight for God and freedom. 

I want to point out my favorite sentiment from this passage: “Men can choose to ignore the holy war that is going on in our nation and our world.” A “holy war”? Who are the combatants? Manly men versus the sissies? Nothing points to anything specific, so let’s dig deeper.

On their “What We Believe” page, the Knights declare, “We believe that not only are men extremely valuable, but they also love metaphors and stories.” What? “Valuable” as opposed to what? The wording suggests that men aren’t valued, but they give no reason as to why they should be valued. Is society as a whole devaluing men? Because, HA HA NOPE. Are they valuable because they know how to use jumper cables or build a deck? I don’t disagree necessarily; men should be valued, but also should women and those who don’t identify as either. Basically what I’m saying is value ascribed by gender expectations is a load of horseshit. But maybe I’m too quick to judge. Let’s read on!

On this same page is a small panel in the corner titled “Changing The Culture” that pretends to go into more detail:

Our culture has a male identity crisis. How can we reach young men and boys? What could it be like if every young man went through a ceremony on the way to manhood? Would they be more likely to participate in the church of the future? 

This is an advert for Bull, “a one year program for fathers and sons or group of males” that “can help a young male achieve manhood.” Here is the poster image for the program:

A quick Google search convinced me that, yes, a male elephant is called a bull, but after I quelled that concern, I took to seeing the two names attached: Mitchell P. Davis, B.A., and Roy Smith, M.Div., Ph.D. Roy Smith looks he might have an impressive resume, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone tag their bachelor’s degree on their name like a Ph.D. I could be wrong, but I feel like that goes against some sort of convention. Did Mr. Davis feel inadequate? That doesn’t seem manly.

But I’ll tell you what is manly: that “Manhood Resources” page. How do I know that this page is dripping with testosterone? Look at that "Additional Manhood Resources” image. LOOK AT IT. You have a hammer, a glove, some nails—that’s a man’s toolbox right there. Wait, is that a paintbrush? For an artiste? GET THAT SHIT OUT OF HERE.

The testimonials page I think was made when they thought they’d have a lot more feedback, but right now it only hosts three accounts. There’s a link to “Read More,” but clicking it just brings you to the top of the page. Jim Andreadis confesses to once being a “spandex male.” In fact, he is credited as “Jim Andreadis, Former spandex male.” I didn’t know what a spandex male was, and Googling that just brought up images of banana hammocks and websites on which to buy banana hammocks. My guess is that it’s their way of saying “homo” while still maintaining an air of political correctness.

So one doesn’t get overloaded by the shower of masculinity that is this website, there’s “A Woman’s Appeal,” in which a woman named Ruthie Davis warns: “Your women need you to be better than what you are.” Again, the inadequacies are not detailed here. We are not told in what areas the men are lacking in their manliness. In fact, it just sounds like it’s not an issue of being shitty men but shitty people. But somehow masculinity plays a role in this.

My weak man heart can’t handle much more, so I’ll end with “The Knight’s Code of Honor,” a five-point dedication. This is where they lay it all out, so I’ll get some answers finally. The first two points of the Code are dedicated to females:

To the women who have longed for a world filled with knights, may they not be disappointed. May all women feel safe, respected and loved by the men around them. 

Safe from what? The big scary world? Do women need that burly man in their lives to protect them from the metaphorical dragons out there? To the Knights, women are all damsels in distress who need a daily dose of heroic manliness.

To our daughters, may they recognize the difference between a male and a man, and may they find the latter. 

Yes. One is biological and the other is a societal construct. NEXT.

To our sons, may they see our knighthood, go on their own personal quest and take the journey of manhood further than we have before them. 

Here I realize my biggest issue with the organization. They focus a lot on the word “manhood” which is also the Harlequin romance buzzword for “penis.” So you can imagine my immature reaction to most of what they say on this site.

To the men who brought honor before us, we join you. To the males who brought disappointment, we offer healing. 

“Disappointment” is yet another instance of vagueness, but given the religious focus of the organization, I doubt this is talking about bedroom disappointment.

To the world in which we find ourselves, may you discover renewed hope, the courage to change and the difference true manhood brings. 

Hahaha, manhood.

DIABLO 3 IMPRESSIONS: ULTIMATE EVIL EDITION

Recently Diablo 3 came to consoles yet again in a bigger and badder way with the ULTIMATE EVIL EDITION, a version of the game that now includes the Reaper of Souls add-on that all us cool PC gamers have been playing for months. Now console gamers can enjoy the fifth and final act of the game’s single player storyline, as well as the madness of the Adventure Mode. Not only that, but those lucky sods with their PS4s and their XBones can rip and tear across Sanctuary as well.

Given that Sam and I have been playing Diablo 3 on the Xbox 360 with a copy rented from Redbox, we haven’t progressed far in the past year. There’s the occasional weekend that comes up when we decide to put our free time to the lazy art of sitting on the couch and mashing buttons, so we haven’t gotten to the point where we can reap (har har) the benefits of the ULTIMATE EVIL EDITION. Neither of us wanted to make a new character (sorry Crusader), and since the game was nice enough to detect the old save file, we’re still dawdling in the desert. For those of you without a frame of reference for where that means we’re at in the game, I’ll help clarify: Not. That. Close.

It was good to get some time in with the ULTIMATE EVIL EDITION, even though the game is identical to what we’ve been playing in months past given our progress in the game. We didn’t reach the end of Act IV to lift up our arms and cry for just one more act. Everything is exactly as it was in the past: we’re still a barbarian and a wizard desperately trying to avoid getting eaten by the minions of hell.

The controls are the same, especially that nifty console-only feature of rolling to evade incoming blasts of eldritch energy that the PC players should be totes jelly of. Menus are still navigated with the weird radial that remains far inferior to the menus navigated via the mouse on the PC, but that doesn’t render the game unplayable. The ULTIMATE EVIL EDITION provides more of the entertainment that Sam and I enjoy together when our weekends overlap, and doesn’t do much more than that except extend the shelf life of its content.

It’s still good fun, so now we ask ourselves: Do we go ahead and save our money for a copy of our own so we longer have to depend on its availability at the local Redbox? Now looms the prospect of finally upgrading to the newest generation of console babies, which means the possibility of losing our progress, especially when it’s the PS4 I’m eyeing and not the Xbox One (sorry Microsoft). Whether or not this will actually happen is still up in the air as the “how” is a puzzle unto itself, but if/when it happens, the adventures of Hogoth the Barbarian and Demena the Wizard will end abruptly. Or just get rebooted if we’re feeling nostalgic.

The Best Taco and Burrito I Ever Had

Dallas is known for many things—Cowboys, Lee Harvey Oswald, and oil—but something that everyone forgot to mention to me was the food. My first meal in Texas was In-N-Out Burger, which also happened to be my first In-N-Out Burger experience. But even that pilgrimage didn’t prepare me for the meal that would change my life forever.

Nestled under the construction of an interstate overpass sits a little gas station called Fuel City. Within Fuel City is a little taco shop that you’ll find listed on Urbanspoon as “Fuel City Tacos.” I figured from its 94% rating that it had to be at least okay, and so we ventured the 2 miles between our very trendy-looking hotel to Fuel City, adorned with a raptor statue and inaccessible swimming pool. There’s seating outside, but most people just take their bounties home. At first glance, the place seems confusing: gas station, car wash, and tacos. But after one bite of their tacos, everything just seems to make sense.

You have five options for your taco: picadillo, chicken fajita, beef fajita, barbacoa, and pastor. Also, you’re not limited to just a taco. You can have a burrito as well. I got the barbacoa burrito and a pastor taco. My total? $6 tops. The tacos are only $1.40 a piece and the burrito’s $4.50. To help you picture the burrito, imagine the last burrito you got from Chipotle. Okay, now half the price and double the quality. This was easily the best burrito I’ve had that I can remember, and at least the best value.

I don’t usually get all the toppings on a burrito, but something in the air told me that it was a good idea. First bite had a spiciness I did not expect, but I welcomed it. It was a hearty burrito, one that I lament that I may never have again unless I return to Dallas. But I have no regrets. Even the spicy pastor taco that did a hatchet job on my stomach was worth the religious experience of eating Fuel City tacos.

Sounds pretty good, right? So good there must be a catch? None. The experience is akin to getting a taco from a food truck, but there is no food truck. Just a building with windows for you to order your tacos. We didn’t even wait that long, maybe five minutes. And we still saw several people coming in and out with nondescript plastic bags toting their culinary treasures. The food won’t break the bank—maybe your stomach. In fact, it’s almost as cheap as Taco Bell and it seems reasonable that the tacos would be made from actual meat.

Fuel City Tacos are the now the standard by which I measure all other tacos, fast food or not. It is a high bar for other restaurants to reach, but don’t think for a second I’ve turned into a taco snob. There may be another taco to usurp this throne, and I welcome the challengers who lay down their gauntlets. Especially if they do so for free.

Widening The Wire

So word is that HBO’s masterpiece The Wire is getting remastered and re-aired here in the coming weeks in glorious high-definition. Most of those who’ve seen the show swear by it being one of the most important programs on television, and even though I haven’t finished my way through the series, I have to agree. Its character development and complex storyline makes for some compelling storytelling, and I lament the fact that there will probably not be anything like soon.

You may be asking, “If it’s so good, why haven’t you finished it?” I have a confession to make. I’m not proud of it, and I’m almost positive it makes me a lesser human being for it. I haven’t finished watching The Wire because it’s not in widescreen.

I know. It’s a terrible reason, especially given the show’s quality. But that is the long and short of it. It wouldn’t be as troublesome if I were watching it on a 4:3 aspect ratio TV because then I wouldn’t have those columns of blackness on each side of the screen. Somehow those black bars are enough to bar me from still watching the program.

In a way, the show’s aspect ratio makes it feel like a relic from a past age like black-and-white TV. That wasn’t all that long ago, but given the meteoric rise of technology in the past twenty years, monochrome feels like it’s reserved for the old or artistic. I hate that I have that attitude towards it, but that’s how I see it. And that’s not to say I haven’t watched shows and movies in grayscale. But to be dumped into an era in which you are deeply immersed in Technicolor is to be spoiled, and boy am I spoiled.

Now you can watch syndicated episodes of Seinfeld that are themselves widescreen. Seinfeld is in widescreen. The Wire was not. The fact that this is a true statement is criminal. You can have those ridiculous black bars on either side of Jerry’s apartment. You don’t need all that space to point and laugh at Kramer’s antics. But The Wire needs that wider screen. It needs to be more cinematic because, despite the show’s episodic structure, it is above the form of its medium. The show doesn’t quite have the cinematography that screams, “SHOW MORE OF ME,” but it is a piece of sophisticated programming that raised the bar for other television shows. It’s time that HBO gave The Wire the treatment it deserves, and time that I give it the attention that I need to. 

Late to the Party: Far Cry 3

I’ve been stumbling through Far Cry 3 for the past month or so after picking it up off the ground during a robbery masquerading as a Steam summer sale. First-person shooters have become less my thing recently, so I thought a game in which you don’t just run and gun might make for a comfortable change of pace.

I was incorrect.

Let me be clear: Far Cry 3 is not a bad game. The voice acting’s sprinkled with a liberal dash of meh, but the gunplay is entertaining and the experience system adds a reasonable amount of RPG number crunching to distract you from the fact that your main objective is force-feeding bullets to red-shirted men with strange accents. Good old family-friendly fun.

There are, however, two tiers of leveling. The first tier is that familiar sort of progress in which you do cool things and you get points for it, and then you spend those points to do even cooler things. Simple, elegant, and hard to beat.

The second tier, on the other hand, really wants to emphasize the fact that you’re on a tropical island trying to survive. You don’t have to manage hunger or thirst or any of that finicky crap, but you do have to hunt and skin animals if you want to carry more than one gun, a handful of loot, and $1000. It’s gross, and it’s also hella boring. Hunting in Far Cry 3 is the sort of activity you’d expect in an MMO like World of Warcraft. You go up to the friendly looking gnome and he tells you that, “Hey, guy, I need, like, five wolf pelts. I’d get them myself but I have to stand here and tell some other dope my sob story. Do this for me and get Generic Item of the Mundane.” Since nothing’s ever easy, you have to do it because for whatever stupid reason, you need that item.

Far Cry 3 falls into that very trap, but without the pseudo-social environment of World of Warcraft. You’re not playing Far Cry 3 with anybody—shut up, I know there’s a cooperative option—you’re doing this solo. Man versus the Wilderness. And somehow, it’s really boring. “Killing wild pigs to make a bigger wallet” was a design choice that an actual person came up with and said, “Players will love it.” Or maybe they just said, “Players will tolerate it.” Because it’s this same process that allows you to carry more than one gun.

I spent more time killing goats to make a bigger rucksack just to carry all the junk I pick up than I have fighting pirates which is supposed to be the meat and potatoes of this game. The amount of goats killed would flag my character as a Satanist. Lo and behold, I’ve had to upgrade it a second time within a half hour. And guess what? Now it’s nearly filled to the brim with old syringes, multicolored leaves, single playing cards, and other bits of useless trash that somehow take up an equal amount of volume in my rucksack made of dingoes.

All I ask is for an easy way. The major theme of the game’s “plot” is the walking the path of the warrior, so I get that the game is supposed to be an arduous climb. But why must the fun play second fiddle to the grind? Why can’t I just pay for a new backpack with $500 in blood-soaked cash from my handmade pig wallet? Real RPGs let me do that. 

Questioning Cranston: Why Another Should Have Won This Year

As some of you heard or saw, Bryan Cranston won for his electrifying role as Walter White. Breaking Bad is easily one of the most compelling dramas we’ve had on television in the past ten years, and its offbeat tone made it stand out in a sea of period-based dramas. Cranston kills (ahem) as Walter White, and he deserves every accolade that comes his way for his performance as the drug-dealing dad. His rise to power made for great TV, and I look forward to rewatching it.

That being said, I’m ambivalent about Cranston’s win this year. He was up against the usuals—Kevin Spacey for House of Cards, Jon Hamm for Mad Men, and Jeff Daniels for The Newsroom—but two newcomers came to the ring: Woody Harrelson and Matthew McConaughey both for True Detective. Everything I said about Breaking Bad still stands, but damn if True Detective didn’t make for some kickass weekly drama. Harrelson was good as Martin Hart, but McConaughey’s Rust Cohle was simply mesmerizing.

For the unfamiliar, True Detective followed two Louisiana sleuths on the trail of a serial killer with a penchant for the occult. For most of the series, Hart and Cohle barely tolerate each other. This isn’t even remotely “buddy cop” territory. Hart’s a family man with a weakness for twentysomethings, and Cohle is every bit an outsider as you can get and still be a cop.

My love for True Detective doesn’t stem from only McConaughey’s performance. The show’s narrative structure and manipulation of story as a concept made for some clever and challenging TV viewing, and its liberal use of Cthulhu Mythos tickled the writer in me. But the show’s success hinges on the performances of its leads, and McConaughey’s Cohle wins out.

So Breaking Bad this time? Why Cranston? The show’s finale aired just under a year ago, and it was a finale that many both dreaded and eagerly awaited. While it’s by no means a perfect end to White’s saga, it’s a good one that fits the narrative of the show. Everything brought about by the five years before it came together in a pleasant way. Five years of work to be considered.

I don’t know who makes the selections for Emmy winners, and I don’t know how they reach their decisions, but I know for a fact that every single one of them who voted for Breaking Bad sure as hell wasn’t just considering the work of the show’s fifth and final season. Whether subconsciously or not, they contemplated the culmination of five seasons of lore, characters, and conflicts. Sixty-two episodes of shocking twists and understated performances. Forty-six seasons of quality television.

True Detective doesn’t have that luxury. True Detective had eight episodes to get it right, which meant McConaughey had eight episodes to bring the nihilistic philosophical gumshoe to life. Watching him play Cohle is captivating, especially during the show’s present day interviews. You aren’t sure what the hell he’s saying, but you’re never sure if you want to. This didn’t even take a whole season. I’m not saying McConaughey was robbed, but the fact that he won’t have a chance to win for his performance as Cohle again tastes bitter.

Five Nights at Freddy's: A Non-Review

Somebody made it past Night 1.

I haven’t played it. I won’t play it. But I am obsessed with it.

I’ve mentioned the game in a previous post about “Let’s Play” videos on YouTube. Five Nights at Freddy’s is a simple game conceptually. You’re a security guard watching over a small Chuck E. Cheese-knockoff called Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza. The restaurant is complete with its own team of animatronic mascots, only there’s one hitch: they all run rampant at midnight. Left to their own devices, they’ll kill anyone they don’t recognize as their own. Armed with a CCTV system, hallway lights, and doors all powered by a shitty battery, you must survive for six (in-game) hours five nights in a row.

I refuse to play the game mainly for my own inability to handle jump scares that the game relies heavily upon. Give me a creepy atmosphere and some disturbing images and I’m ready to roll; have a zombie girl pop out of a closet and I’ll exit the room and go off the grid. I can’t handle it. And since most of Five Nights’ tension draws from the threat of a ratty animatronics getting up in your grill, I’m not about to install the game on my hard drive.

That’s not to say the game doesn’t do a creepy atmosphere or disturbing images. The fixed perspectives of the video cameras give snapshots of each of the different rooms in the restaurant, which are all what you would see at a children’s restaurant. Tables lined with party hats, a stage populated by anthropomorphic bandmates—these are images that starkly contrast the stories we hear on the answering machine from the previous guard. He alludes to a “bite” by one of the animatronics that left one guest brain damaged. Then there’s the news clipping of children being lured and killed by someone dressed as Freddy himself. The game doesn’t depend entirely on the jump scare; it’s pasted together with a macabre atmosphere and sparse lighting.

There’s a reason I still haven’t completed Dead Space on the Xbox 360 or the Resident Evil remake on the GameCube. Or the Amnesia: The Dark Descent demo. For some, jump scares offer a euphoric after-feeling that I don’t experience. Instead, I feel the heart-jostling shock and lingering dread that makes every step all the more difficult. Why do I want to progress when I know there are more things to jump out at me and make me question if I no longer need to go to the toilet anymore. It’s the same reason I don’t see horror movies in theaters or duck my head down when the trailer for whatever Paranormal Activity sequel is playing. Then again, seeing horror movies in the theater is more of a social experience and the presence of friends can soften the scares. This is not a luxury afforded by playing a horror game. Survival horror games especially exploit your solitude. They know that you’re not in a room full of people. They know you’re sitting on a couch or a computer chair. They know you might have someone sitting close by, but they’re not there to help. You’re in this alone.

That being said, I’m genuinely considering giving money to Scott Cawthon, the game’s developer who made the game thanks to Steam Greenlight. All of my experience of the game is once removed via the magic of YouTube and user Markiplier’s channel. The game only costs $5—an impressively low cost for the experience the game offers. Even though it hasn’t been me at the controls, watching someone else play it has been a genuinely thrilling experience, even if Markiplier’s commentary does ease the tension significantly. Just don’t expect me to spend a few nights at Freddy’s. 

A Review Of The Burrito I Had From Chipotle Friday Night

I’ve been to Chipotle a handful of times, but I usually get the same thing: a burrito. I have no interest in their bowls or tacos; just give me that fist-sized tortilla capsule of meat, beans, and cheese and I’m happy. So last night was par for the course. We waited in line for a good fifteen minutes—it’s a new location so I guess that justifies the ridiculous lines—and we waddled sideways down the line, answering the servers’ questions. White rice or brown rice? What kind of meat? Black or pinto beans? Sour cream or cheese?

Some options seemed inaccessible to me. I saw a tray filled with grill onions and green peppers, but why didn’t they ask me if I wanted some? Do they not go on a burrito? Surely they could just as easily dig a plastic gloved-hand in to sprinkle some greens on my burrito as they do the handful of carnitas. Is there some burrito etiquette I don’t know? No peps on your B?

Here was my burrito: carnitas with pinto beans, corn, hot salsa, and cheese. Nothing extravagant, just a hearty burrito made of things I like. The corn was a new addition to my usual burrito, and I figured a healthy addition to my meat-heavy meal. It’s part of Chipotle’s charm: nothing flashy, just a quick and dirty burrito that’s hefty and filling.

I brought the burrito back home and spoke to my parents on the phone for a bit. Finally, I unwrapped my culinary present made with love and took the first bite. While there was some heat to it, it tasted much blander. I suspect it may have been the carnitas themselves since I usually get the barbacoa. The salsa was spicier than I remember, but even that didn’t add much to the flavor. I didn’t expect much out of the corn or beans except filler, and I had to struggle to taste the cheese.

A few more bites and no more flavor could be found. I wondered if I had been burrito bamboozled. I know when I made carnitas a couple weeks ago, there was far more flavor to them. How do you make your carnitas, Chipotle? I demand an answer. Surely you don’t get them in from a wholesaler and just nuke them right before you open? Listen, I'll bring my Crock Pot over, I'll throw a pork shoulder in there with all the fixins, and we'll just let that baby cook overnight. Then, you'll have some fresh carnitas to serve instead of the spongy replacement you gave me Friday night.

Less than Magical: Magic in the Moonlight Review

If this looks like the poster of a bad romantic comedy, I have bad news.

There is no mystery about this being a Woody Allen film: opening titles are nearly identical to the ones I saw at the beginning of Midnight in Paris, and given that both films are set in France and deal with the fantastic almost makes Magic in the Moonlight a companion piece to Allen’s 2011 work. In a way, Magic is a love letter to the French Riviera as many shots focus on the view of the sea from the verdant countryside. This will please the Francophile, but I did not fall in love with the shots. In the end, Magic in the Moonlight ends up an inferior iteration in Allen’s film catalog.

An ideal critic will no doubt cast this film in the context of Allen’s career as a whole; unfortunately, I can’t really do that. There are only three Woody Allen films that I’ve seen in their entireties: Annie Hall, Midnight in Paris, and Magic in the Moonlight. Ranking them in such a small selection is meritless since it ignores a nearly fifty years in filmmaking. And yet, I can’t help but put Magic against the other two. Annie Hall is the beloved masterpiece, Midnight is the work that reinforces audiences’ confidence in Allen’s abilities in his later years, but Magic seems to reveal a moment of weakness.

Magic is well-acted, especially with the two leads, Colin Firth and Emma Stone. Firth’s ardent skeptic Stanley plays inquisitor for Stone’s young mystic Sophie. Despite their fine performances, the chemistry between their characters feels forced in that Sophie seems to fall for the grumpy Stanley all too easily. It was as if Allen wanted us to find Stanley more charming than he truly comes across. What makes it even more infuriating is that Stanley is assuredly the Allen stand-in, giving the character a sort of Gary Stu problem in that he’s super intelligent and has a strange yet strong animal magnetism that draws in the young and naïve Sophie. Thankfully, Stanley is not depicted in such a way that he’s perfect in every aspect, but his negative qualities almost seem as they’re supposed to be overlooked.

I found myself restless throughout many moments in the movie, which is a rare thing. There’s some tension about whether or not Sophie’s truly a psychic, but never was I captivated by scenery or performances, instead wondering what would make this more than a whodunit with a love story. But it’s a bad whodunit with a weak love story. Amusing at times, but never once enthralling.

Simulacra and Simulation: “Let’s Play” and Horror Games

I openly admit to being that bastard who made others watch him play video games. My friends chide me for this, but I’ve gotten better about it. But to be honest, I’ve never had a problem with being in the passenger seat when it comes to video games. When I was 10, I’d watch my friend Sean play through the Resident Evil games because I was too freaked out to play them myself. I may still be too freaked out as I still sit on the GameCube remake of the original Resident Evil.

As the Internet has proven, I’m not the only person who can sit by while someone else wrecks zombies or sneaks past guards in games. The “Let’s Play” trend of recording one’s self while playing a video game has become a strange one at that as several YouTube channels have made money off of what is essentially a common occurrence in one’s childhood. Now that I know I could make money making others watch me play video games, I feel like I screwed up somewhere.

It’s not just the gameplay itself that draws players in, however. YouTube users like PewDiePie and Markiplier shepherded their subscriber base with amusing commentary or over-the-top reactions to video games, especially horror games. A recent upload by Markiplier shows him playing the indie horror game Five Nights at Freddy’s. In the upper left hand corner of the video, Markus “Markiplier” Fischbach sits in a computer chair with a headset on, assuming the role of the gamer. It’s only a small portion of the screen that’s taken up by Markiplier’s face, so the rest can be dedicated to the actual footage of the game. As the gameplay progresses, every reaction by Markiplier is exposed by the camera mounted near his monitor. Every scream every nervous joke is caught on camera for the viewer to see.

The practice is amusing but also voyeuristic. Without clever and judicious application of video editing, one risks revealing a great deal. I’m jumpy to begin with, so if I were to record myself playing a game like Five Nights at Freddy’s or Resident Evil, most of the footage would be me launching backwards from my chair while hyperventilating.

It’s a similar case with the YouTube channel Game Grumps that produces 10-minute clips of web celebs Egoraptor and Danny Sexbang playing vidya games both new and old. The major difference between the Grumps and other YouTube “Let’s Plays” like Markiplier’s is that the former forego the video footage of themselves (likely because there’s two of them). Their commentary is much like the rest, however—jocular, infantile, and, at times, borderline imbecilic. More recently they’ve been playing the pseudo demo for the new Silent Hills game, PT. For a few minutes today, I relived those days when I watched another blow through a scary game because I too much of a wuss to do it myself. I did the same with Markiplier’s Five Nights at Freddy’s videos.

Somehow, having that layer of separation between me and the game makes it all the less terrifying. Knowing that someone else has the reins while I can look away at my leisure gives some comfort in experiencing the game, even if it isn’t directly. If I’m playing the game myself, sure, I can pause it at any time. But at some point, I have to resume the game. At some point, I’m responsible for completing it and experiencing it. It all falls on me.

There are others who watch the Let’s Play to experience a game that they either can’t afford to or don’t have the hardware to experience it themselves. Others might just use them as previews for a game that they plan on purchasing themselves. I, on the other hand, use them to enable my own cowardice.   

Get Your Fill in Fayetteville: Grabbing a Bite at Hammontree’s Grilled Cheese

It’s true for many states—regions within their borders feel disparate—so it’s no surprise that I felt a combination of culture shock and longing for home in Fayetteville in its surrounding area. Topographically, you couldn’t be more different than central Illinois: mountainous hills abound the landscape. But something felt homelike. Perhaps it’s Fayetteville’s inherent college town-ness that evoked the feeling of Champaign-Urbana, yet bigger.

We spent barely an afternoon there, but I felt comfortable there. It’s a definitely a flagship university town with modern looking buildings. There was a street that seemed like you could stumble out of one bar and end up crawling into another without difficulty. There was even a used bookstore that we could’ve spent all day there, though that was due in part to my futile attempt to decode its organizational system. There was something about the city that just seemed right.

We stopped at a restaurant that Sam had been recommended called Hammontree’s Grilled Cheese. As you can guess, they have a very specific menu. As you may well know, I have reservations about gourmet burgers, so I was reluctant to sample what Hammontree’s had to offer. Then I saw how the place ran rife with Star Wars memorabilia and artwork, particularly the Admiral Ackbar painting hanging above the bar. And then I saw the restaurant’s companion food truck is called the GrilleniumFalcon. They tickled my nerd sensibilities, but would they satisfy my appetite?

“Grilled cheese” here feels somewhat like a misnomer. In my book, a grilled cheese sandwich is one without meat, one that sticks to a simple pairing of melted cheese between toasted bread. Several of Hammontree’s sandwiches have ham or pork or some other meat on them, which isn’t to discredit the place—they know how to make a damn fine sandwich. It reminded me of a place we had in my college town called Planet Wiener that, though it touted itself as serving hot dogs in its title, half of its menu were hamburgers. Oddly enough, Hammontree’s serves hot dogs as well. Thankfully, Hammontree’s made a better sandwich than the now-defunct Planet Wiener made hot dogs or burgers.

I ordered the “Cheebacca”—again, Star Wars—which has “Sharp White Cheddar, House Cheese, bacon, pulled pork, grilled onions and garlic cilantro sauce on sourdough.” I wasn’t huge on the garlic cilantro sauce, but everything else on it came together beautifully. It wasn’t a heavy sandwich, either, so it was ideal for a lunch meal. It was disappointing that they served generic potato chips with the sandwich, though again, anything more would’ve made the meal heavier.

Sam got their Chicago Dog, so she looked to see if it held up to her homeland’s traditions. Hammontree’s Chicago Dog is comprised of “Quarter pound all beef frank soaked in Old Style beer, grilled and topped with mustard, tomatoes, relish, onions and a pickle spear on a poppy seed roll.” What impressed me was its Old Style infusion, as even in Illinois you were lucky to find Old Style if you weren’t within an hour of Cook County.

Though I don’t know if we’ll make it to Fayetteville again anytime soon, I’d return to Hammontree’s. It’s an ideal lunch location, and though our wait for food was a little long, it’s an amusing dining experience. If nothing else, we could scout out for the Grillenium Falcon. 

Obligatory Obituary

Death is a funny thing. I’ve only dealt with it personally twice, and neither of those times were close family members. Now we’ve gotten word of Robin Williams’ passing, and it’s like everybody lost their crazy uncle. Facebook showed that “Robin Williams” was trending, and my newsfeed corroborated that fact. I was saddened, but not surprised. Comedians often struggle with the demons that lead people to do what Williams reportedly did.

Many posted on Facebook. I could not in good conscience post on something which I hadn’t quite figured out how I felt about it yet. Almost immediately after the death was reported, people stopped eulogizing and started evangelizing. “If you know someone who’s depressed, reach out.” “Suicide is selfish.” On one hand, it’s surely a springboard for awareness. On another, at times it feels exploitative.

Matt Walsh, “blogger, writer, and professional sayer of truths,” weighs in on Williams’ death: “The death of Robin Williams is significant not because he was famous, but because he was human, and not because he left this world, but particularly because he apparently chose to leave it.” There’s something inherently dickish in the way Walsh contextualizes Williams’ death in that he focuses on the fact that it was suicide and it was a decision that Williams made. No other factors involved here. Not a one.

The name of his post, “Robin Williams didn’t die from a disease, he died from his choice,” exposes how blatantly ignorant the pro truthsayer is. He waxes philosophical on the definition of “celebrity,” hitting no profound notions and instead wags the finger at society for hoisting the rich and famous onto pedestals. Well-trod ground, Mr. Walsh. But all the while he uplifts a man for his humanity, the drops him like hot garbage because “he died from his choice.” Then he balks at the idea of “chemical imbalances.”

“We are more than our brains and bigger than our bodies,” writes Walsh. “Depression is a mental affliction, yes, but also spiritual. That isn’t to say that a depressed person is evil or weak, just that his depression is deeper and more profound than a simple matter of disproportioned brain chemicals.” Except that when we attribute significant depression to “chemical imbalances,” we’re acknowledging that it’s more than a mere mental affliction. Spiritualism might act as a balm for such pain, but it’s not a cure-all and doesn’t work for everyone.

Though he tries to avoid it, the world Walsh paints is a black and white one. It’s very much a his-way-or-the-highway approach, leaving no room for open-mindedness. He speaks only truth, no opinions or editorializing. Absolute truths. “Chemical imbalances” can be overcome. He knows people who have struggled with depression or committed suicide, so he knows the experience and he knows the remedy. He admits, “I can’t comprehend . . . the complete, total, absolute rejection of life.” For a fleeting moment, the man shows some humility. But throughout the rest, we get the same story: “Those who commit suicide are selfish.”

I’ve had my share of bad days, but I’ve never known suicidal ideations or self-harming tendencies. I think Walsh is in the same boat, otherwise he wouldn’t have spit out this drivel. Whether he’s aware of it or not, he comes across like an asshole, one who feels that those who commit suicide lack proper foresight because they perform an act that crushes the spirits of those around them. He comes across like someone who feels wronged by all those who killed themselves that he knew, even though in the end he’s the one who’s still alive.

Robin Williams has died. He made me laugh and he made others laugh too. I was bummed by his passing, but I know there were others much more hurt than me, especially his wife and children and all of those whose lives her personally and directly touched. His death reaffirmed the conversation of depression in the public consciousness, and with that the debate that surrounds our rights to live and die. His life, tumultuous as it was, was his to live. His death, unfortunately, has become ours to talk about and pick apart. People like Walsh are guilty of exploiting something they don’t understand to promote their own agenda. I’m worried I’ve committed the same offense. 

Pockets Full of Hearthstones: Blizzard's Warcraft-themed Online Card Game

I'm no stranger to the collectible card game. When I was a wee tyke, I played Pokémon, and as I grew I leveled up to Magic the Gathering. Falling into the deep pit of board gaming, I discovered other card games like A Game of Thrones and Netrunner. And while I probably own plenty of Pokémon and Magic cards, I can't say that I was ever deeply immersed into the hobby. I never competed, only played casually with friends and acquaintances. Only once did I purchase individual cards. Otherwise, my loot was had from booster packs and theme decks. 

So of course, I approached the Hearthstone beta with caution. Not for fear of getting sucked in, but concern of whether what I’ll get out of it if I remain a casual. Also, it’s got that dreaded tag of “free-to-play,” though the phrase seems to be losing its stigma after the acclaim of Dota 2 and Path of Exile. I make it clear to myself that I don’t want to spend any money on it. I’ve heard no word of it being pay-to-win sort of fare either, so the prospect of playing thriftily seems more and more positive. I give it a shot. I learn the mechanics quickly, either due to the game’s intuitiveness or my own past experiences of card games. It’s all familiar, but it moves with an even brisker speed than its distant analog cousin, Magic.

You pay for your cards with mana, and mana accrues with every turn. No one has to worry about playing cards just for mana—everybody’s in the same financial boat. Cards are tossed out more quickly as turns go by. Creatures attack other creatures or the other player’s hero who’s sitting pretty with 30 hit points. Those numbers drop fast, the same speed as everything else in this game.

There’s probably plenty of nuance to be found in the game’s mechanics, but as it stands right now it’s a charmingly simple game. I wouldn’t be surprised if a physical version of the game materialized in the next year, though I’d be surprised to see it outlive most of its competitors in the collectible card game market. Matches never exceed a half hour in my experience, and the practice AI offer a significant challenge for the uninitiated. It’s good fun, and did I mention the game is fast?

But there’s something keeping me from putting my head all the way under. I don’t return home from work and jump right on. Hell, I’ve only played one actual human and he happens to be a friend of mine. I want to like this game even more and give it as much praise as it deserves, but I still have unrealized hangups about the game so far. Have I even played it enough to be critical of it? I don’t dislike it, that’s for certain. But that’s about all I’m certain about.

Peanuts and Cracker Jacks: Enjoying Comfort at Dickey-Stephens Park

Last night, I had the rare opportunity to enjoy one of the luxury suites at Dickey-Stephens Park, home of the Arkansas Travelers. I should preface this with the following statement: I am not a baseball fan. I’m not really a sports fan in general, and of the sports that I can watch, baseball seems to slip further and further down that list. But this isn’t about baseball or sports in general. This is about living the fancy life.

Dickey-Stephens Park sits right along the Arkansas River, nestled next to the bridge that links Highway 67 between Little Rock and North Little Rock. It opened in 2007, and feels nicely maintained for a seven-year-old facility. They go for a birth of baseball aesthetic, with mostly brick interiors and signs with Copperplate Gothic Bold typeface. It’s not a large park, so there aren’t really any bad places to sit. Everybody gets a decent view of the action. And there’s no shortage of food stands, so it’s unlikely you’ll go hungry. Broke, maybe, but not hungry.

Last night was Museum of Discovery Night (my in to the game in the first place) as well as Bring Your Dog to the Park night, so they appear fairly lax with bringing animals in if only for an evening. Unfortunately, we had no dog to bring, and those who did have dogs who were also enjoying the “suite” life (shoot me now) could not bring dogs into the luxury suites. It was understandable, however, as the room was certainly too small for all 24 of us two-leggers to stay in at once. There was also the concern of dogs tearing up the leather couch, the centerpiece of the room.

We got there a few minutes late, but there was plenty of food and drink left. A mini fridge under a counter secreted shelves of beer, soda, and bottled water. Given that the heat and humidity lately have been oppressive, I needed cold liquid nourishment. I needed a beer. At the time, I was given the choice of Bud Light, Michelob Ultra, and Summit IPA. I wasn’t quite ready for an IPA, and I refuse all things Bud, so I went with a Michelob. Their cans have apparently been redesigned to the dimensions of a Red Bull can: slender, towering over their 12 oz rivals. Still tastes like the same old Michelob.

Our menu was simple, but in the best way: hamburgers, hot dogs, baked beans, potato chips, and potato salad. It was everything you could want for a cookout on a hot summer day. The food was provided by the park itself, so these weren’t gourmet burgers or anything of the like, but they were pretty good. And best of all, they were free.

A flatscreen TV was mounted in the corner of the room, tuned to a Cardinals game for those who weren’t content enough watching the minor league game outside live. It was oddly comforting to hear the others here admit to be Cards fans, not because I myself am one, but because so many back home are. Home felt closer in the room of strangers.

In spite of the horrid humidity, we sat outside with the rest of the group. I did my best to pay attention to the game, but in truth I spent most of the time taking in the sights and sounds and a Summit IPA and Stella Artois. 

I Laughed at a Sentient Sapling Dancing to the Jackson 5: Guardians of the Galaxy Review

Needs more Peter Serafinowicz.

By all means, it should not have succeeded. Andy Dwyer of Parks and Rec should not be a roguish space hero. The guy who made Super should not do a comic book movie. Vin Diesel should not be a tree. A talking, gun-toting raccoon should not work. And yet, in spite of all these and many other factors, this movie works even better than the rest of the Marvel catalogue. Yes, even The Avengers.

Guardians of the Galaxy is and isn’t a superhero movie. It’s an epic space opera that makes for a better Star Wars movie than the Star Wars prequels. Our Han Solo-type is out to make a buck and look what happens—he gets embroiled in a desperate attempt to save the galaxy from certain destruction. He even makes a few buddies along the way. And yet, somehow, all of this is happening in the same universe in which an eccentric arms manufacturer teams up with a Norse god, an irradiated strong man with rage problems, a thawed out WWII super soldier—maybe it’s not so crazy.

But the film itself is insane, or at the very least weird. A lot of effort went in to making this alien and spacy. We don’t need to be told this is in a galaxy far, far away. The images do it for us. Humanoids of varying shades and hues walk in the backgrounds and foregrounds, and the locales are peppered with utopian futuristic architecture and gritty spacer aesthetics. There’s an entire sequence that takes place in a dead giant being’s head that’s being mined out for its riches. It’s reminiscent of the magazine Heavy Metal if its content was toned down for PG13 audiences. It’s very much a comic book movie, and it’s perhaps the best at being that.

The movie serves as a further evidence that the Marvel film brand is stronger than ever and almost certainly stronger than D.C.’s. Marvel was willing to take a risk on an unproven intellectual property, knowing full well that if it fails they’ve got the rest of the Marvel Cinematic Universe to fall back on. Meanwhile, D.C. struggles to slap together a Batman and Superman movie without doing anything to string them together beyond keeping the same Superman actor. It’s this brazen confidence in Marvel’s property that no doubt supports Guardians’ success.

Chris Pratt does a fine job as Peter Quill, earth boy raised by space scavengers. He’s as hilarious as we’ve come to expect given his performances on Parks and Recreation and in The Lego Movie. Bradley Cooper plays the mouthy anthropomorphic raccoon Rocket who was not as annoying as I had expected. For a tree, Groot is surprisingly emotive, though more of that is owed to the animators and not necessarily Vin Diesel’s performance, though that’s not to say he did terribly. He did fine for a talking tree. Dave Batista plays our psychopathic strong man bent on vengeance, and for as angry and serious as he was, he chimed in with some great comedic moments for himself. The weakest performance here seemed to be Zoe Saldana as Gamora, due in part to her noticeably less frequent comedic timing than the rest of the characters. She plays the vengeful assassin lady admirably, but she doesn’t seem to have as much fun as the rest of the actors.

At the end, I’m left wondering how this film will merge with the rest of the MCU or if it even has to. Word is we have a sequel in the works for Guardians already, and while I’m happy to hear it, I’d be even happier if they keep it on that end of the galaxy and not ours. There’s so much more to see in Guardians’ self-contained universe. We could use a good space opera franchise right now, especially when we’ve been burned by other space opera franchises in the past. 

Wizard Triage: The Unforgiving Gameplay of Baldur’s Gate

 

You tell me if 4 sounds like a lot.

When I was 14, a schoolmate of mine talked about a game called Baldur’s Gate. He always spoke of it with a smile that said, “You need to play this.” At the time, I was struggling with Neverwinter Nights, a PC RPG based strongly on 3^rd edition Dungeons & Dragons. I hadn’t played D&D, so most of it went over my head. I saw the message at the bottom of the screen that told me what my twenty-sided die roll was whenever I attacked a goblin, but it never once registered in my brain how important that D20 was.

Fast forward ten years later, after suffering several failed attempts at getting into true D&D, the D&D where you did your own math and rolled your own dice. Finally something clicks. Maybe an enthusiastic DM. Maybe a stronger aptitude for arithmetic. Plenty of factors. In any case, I fall down the rabbit hole and become deeply entrenched in the hobby. I read up on the older editions. I research other systems. Then I discover Baldur’s Gate for myself.

A “remastered” edition of the classic tactical RPG, Baldur’s Gate Enhanced Edition was made for newer machines like mine. Bridging the gap between Windows XP and Windows 7 gaming, this new version brought everything people loved about the old game back, including its frustrating difficulty.

Its spiritual successor Dragon Age: Origins was a game that I thought impossible. It took me nearly 70 hours to complete the game, constantly quick-saving and quick-loading before and after combats that required heavy use of the space bar just to pause the game and give you a chance to figure out your next move. It was a frustrating game, one I didn’t play for months because I got stuck clearing out some bandits and my healer would fall within seconds. When I finally slew the final beastie, I felt a strong sense of accomplishment. I felt that I could win any game. How quickly those feelings went away when I started Baldur’s Gate.

Baldur’s Gate shares a lot of similarities with Neverwinter Nights, the game I never “got.” They both take place in the Forgotten Realms, and as such they’re both based on Dungeons & Dragons. One major difference: Baldur’s Gate is based on the much less forgiving 2^nd edition D&D. Death comes quickly and often without warning. And it’s almost always your wizard that goes first.

I’ve played about 3 hours of the game, and it’s hammered in the cold equations that spellcasters must fall in one hit because if they don’t, they’ll tear the fabric of reality. Shadowrun gets it: “Geek the mage first.” Take out the guy with his finger on the doomsday device first. Unfortunately, my spellcasters don’t have anything resembling a doomsday device because they’re only level 1, the level that so many people just altogether skipped when they played 2^nd edition D&D in real life. And unlike, Dragon Age: Origins, when you’re people go down in a fight, they don’t get back up when the dust settles. You have to scrape together whatever gold you might have to resurrect somebody at a temple. And the price goes up every time.

So now the game forces me into a painful situation. Side quests and diversions are almost necessary if I want to keep my party alive and healthy. I don’t get that luxury of choice between trampling through the main storyline and searching every corner of the low-res Forgotten Realms for some orcs to smash. It’s a form of torture: fight to get money to resurrect your people who keep dying in fights.

This is fun to people. 

Pizza Wars

Down the street from where I live sit two businesses in opposition: Damgoode Pies and U.S. Pizza. As you can probably guess, they both serve pizza. Their buildings stand across the street from one another like duelists trading jabs and parries of words. To some, it may seem like a friendly rivalry of businesses. To me, there’s something more there.

U.S. Pizza was the first place I tried when we moved down there, in part due to some genuine confusion on my part. I thought Damgoode served pies in the strictest sense like apple pies and all that. My assumption had perhaps been informed by the hipster sensibilities of our neighborhood and the refusal to believe that two pizza places that weren’t national chains would shack up so close to one another. Like many of my assumptions, this was incorrect.

Subtle digs from U.S. Pizza derided Damgoode’s holiday hours this past Christmas, proudly announcing that they were open for Christmas Eve, unlike Damgoode. More recently, Damgoode announced on their marquee, “10% OFF FOR U.S. PIZZA EMPLOYEES.” As they say on the Interwebs, shots fired. It’s impossible to maintain a conscientious objection to an all-out pizza war, especially when you yourself are an acolyte of the Cult of Piethagoras. The line was drawn long before we arrived. I’d have to pick eventually. Thankfully, the decision wasn’t difficult.

My U.S. Pizza experience was nothing incredible. The pizza was good, but it wasn’t anything special. It seemed no different from any other thin crust pizza I’d had before. A few weeks later, we tried Damgoode, and it was an entirely different culture. U.S. Pizza is fairly straightforward: it’s a restaurant that serves pizza. No bells and whistles, just pizza and sandwiches and the like. Nothing unique about the restaurant except that you could bring your dog in, but that’s it.

Damgoode, on the other hand, was like an embassy to a college town. The waiters and cooks are laid back, which is good because they’re the first people you see when you enter the building. Seating’s upstairs since most of the first floor is the kitchen and bathrooms, but it works. Coming upstairs, you’ll hear some music that sounds like it’s someone’s Pandora station. On the wall to your right is a large mural of a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon like a shrine to cheap beer. Get there for Happy Hour and you can have a can of your own for 75 cents.

I haven’t even discussed the pizza. They have multiple sauce options. Red sauce, pesto, spicy white, alfredo and combinations between. We usually go for their “pink,” a combination of red and white that gives the sauce a gentle kick. Want some pizza with more pizza? Order the stuffy, a stripped down stuffed pizza. Nothing groundbreaking or innovative, but compared to their rivals, Damgoode is remarkably imaginative. Some don’t want or need that with their pizza. Some just want their pizza simple and familiar, and they are welcome to that refuge of culinary cowards.

Never before had I been on the sidelines of a conflict between two pizza restaurants. Back home, I had placed I’d like to go for a pie, but none ever seemed in direct opposition, perhaps due in part to the fact that there were so many that they were just top dogs in their respective towns. I had Papa Del’s in Champaign, Pagliai’s in Charleston, Villa Pizza in Mattoon—miles between them so no chance for bad blood. No room for hostility. Just pizza.

Now every time I go to Damgoode, it feels like a political act, a greasy shake of the first to U.S. Pizza. Twice we’ve gone to U.S. since our move, and so many more times have we patronized Damgoode. It’s not a conscious middle finger we throw their way, but the hostility fostered between the two contextualizes the gesture with more hate than we intend. Perhaps it is we, then, who are the casualties in the pizza wars, our clogging arteries the collateral damage. 

Citizen Cage: A Brief Meditation on the Merits of Nicolas Cage’s Work

I would watch this movie without the CGI.

This past season on Community, we were treated to a course at Greendale that asked the question, “Nicolas Cage: Good or Bad?” His track record over the last decade and a half has ached for the question, and as Troy puts it in the episode, “He keeps getting hired for some reason and it’s not because of his hair.” Terrible hair or not, Nicolas Cage is a perfectly capable actor who knows what he’s doing even if that means his resume looks bad after the last few years.

TMZ and other sources will no doubt remind you of Cage’s financial troubles, and while that no doubt informs his decisions to accept roles like Drive Angry or both Ghost Rider movies, I don’t believe that in influences the performances themselves. For instance, Drive Angry is an abysmal movie, but what keeps my attention throughout is Nicolas Cage’s performance. It’s by no means deserving of an Oscar, but he’s easily the best thing about it. He’s the brooding dark hero out to get revenge on the cult leader who wronged him—I forget how—who drives straight out of hell. It’s a preposterous concept, and Cage plays it straight and it works. But I don’t think it could’ve worked for anyone else.

36 of his films on Rotten Tomatoes with Tomatometer ratings are rotten, yet 29 of them are all “fresh.” Mathematically, it almost puts him as average at best if we go on ratings alone. Most of those fresh ratings are pre-2000, which is disappointing to see. His golden years were certainly the nineties, where he balanced between the action movies and dramas. Here’s where we got Leaving Las Vegas and Face/Off, Red Rock West and The Rock. There is a noticeable decline in the overall quality of the films Nicolas Cage stars in post-2000, but I don’t believe Cage’s performances do not suffer for it.

For example, in a video that has long since been deleted from the Internet by Sony’s goon squad, a behind-the-scenes featurette for Ghost Rider: Spirit of Vengeance reveals Cage’s method for depicting a vengeful flaming skull: he paints his face like a skull and hoods himself with glow sticks. I confess I haven’t seen that movie, only the BTS clip, but that can’t possibly be the work of a boringly bad actor. Over the top for sure, but never dull. You can’t look away from him.

The 2006 magnum opus to over-the-top Crank starring Jason Statham was supposed to star Nicolas Cage and was written with him in mind. It certainly seems to fit Cage’s consistently manic performances. Imagine Nicolas Cage driving through a shopping mall, chased by cops, all the while talking to Dwight Yoakum on the phone.  The fact that someone had him in mind while writing that script of madness speaks volumes about Cage’s performance.

As of this writing, Cage has seven movies coming up, two of which are sequels and one of which is a remake. They’re all over—one’s a cartoon, one’s an adventure, another’s a religiously inspired thriller. In 2011 alone, he put out five movies. He seems to be slowing down in terms of output, and I haven’t seen any of his more recent efforts. Maybe now he’s the terrible actor so many claim him to be. But they’re still watching him. 

Believing in Destiny: Exploring Bungie's Strange New World

Master Chief could have always used a cape.

Destiny is the far future incarnation of our world, evolving with the intervention of alien technology. The old world is wasteland: you find rebirth in Old Russia, where rusted cars litter the landscape and wildlife slowly retakes the buildings that stand on it. A floating orb calls itself your “ghost” and directs you to safety. You have no idea what’s happening, but you’re not supposed to. You’ve been dead for a while.

The premise is hardly new territory. Hell, at times it feels like its older brother Halo. Waves of alien troops descend upon you from spaceships, shouting their strange guttural language. You are one of the select super soldiers tasked with protecting humanity. Only there are a great deal more of you, and you’re supposed to work together.

Here we have the similar gameplay as the Borderlands series, where you go out to explore and shoot the threatening wilds. Each successful hit puts up a number to let you know how much damage you’re dealing, and there’s satisfaction in making those numbers bigger with a headshot. You level up your character through frequent firefights punctuated with minibosses. These early missions don’t provide much variety beyond go to this point and interact with something or go to multiple points and interact with more things, though that might change as the game progresses. Progress seems to move more swiftly in some aspects, however, as you’re not tied to a town hub just to get rid of gear. Within the inventory menu, pressing a button breaks down a given item into “glimmer,” the game’s currency.

My experience has been pleasurable. I don’t stop every few seconds to think how Borderlands might have done something better, so some of those comparisons may be unfair. The controls feel tight and intuitive. Crouching while sprinting makes you slide across the ground, giving you an illusion of security as you scramble for cover. Access to iron sights offers varying levels of shot precision and control. Like the game’s story, a lot of this is nothing new, but it’s virgin territory for Bungie.

Even on the PS3, Destiny is a pretty game. Perhaps it’s simply the size of my TV, but I still like the way the game works. Compared to its predecessor Halo, the colors are earthier but still colorful. Blue lights shine everywhere like K-mart was responsible for the fall of civilization, but it’s not a silly aesthetic. The armor of certain characters appear to have some pseudo-fantasy feel to them, with fur collars and the like. It’s different enough from the gamut of sci-fi shooters to give the world its own unique flavor.

The game won’t be able to avoid Borderlands comparisons, which is a shame. Destiny does a lot that Borderlands and other shooters already did, except that it attempts to do it in a larger massively multiplayer scale. To what end this scale shall manifest is still unknown to me. Missions I’ve played are limited to three players, and though the game makes matches with other players working on the same level, it seems all too random. Whether it succeeds at its MMO-like aspirations has yet to be seen, however, since we’re still in beta. It’s clear they want this to be a social game, not quite like Halo and its matchmaking, but on that grander scale. As of right now, it doesn’t offer that sense of wonder that inspires and encourages exploration that so many MMORPGs offer, but then again that may change. Until then, I’ll continue to struggle with the game’s mechanical identity.  

Taco Time at Local Lime

Not made with real scorpions.

This past week, I had my cyclical lust for Mexican food, and while the Little Rock area has no shortage of south-of-the-border cuisine, we decided on something slightly different. Enter “Local Lime: Tacos &nd Margaritas,” the brainchild of the same folks that brought me my second favorite LR burger joint, Big Orange. I think there’s a theme.

On their website, Local Lime touts their menu as “crafted by our chefs, from scratch, using original recipes and prepared with premium ingredients (sourced locally whenever possible).” While tacos are advertised on the sign, they also pride themselves on their salsa selection which goes a step beyond the mere red and green options you might get at the average Mexican joint. Here, you pick your salsas from a menu of six options. We voted on the “Tres Chiles,” “Verde Tomatillo,” and “Mango Papaya.” I confess our waitress told us which was which, but by the time I had started dipping their “naturally gluten free” tortilla chips I had lost track of which was which. All three were good, though the Tres Chiles was different due to its soup-like temperature. I’m still unsure of how I feel about that.

The fist-sized tortillas had the appearance of handmade and not factory-spat, which was a good sign. I ordered the lunch special “Local Carnitas” taco plate containing “slow-roasted pork, pickled onion, cojita cheese, red pepper crema, [and] cilantro.” The tacos had a surprising sweetness and little bit of heat that made me lament the fact that the tacos were no bigger than my palm. But a restaurant of this sort is not the place to gorge, and the cilantro lime rice and black beans were filling. You will pay a higher premium than the average Mexican restaurant, but the quality of what you get makes it a worthy investment.

The restaurant’s overall aesthetic is very similar to its sister location Big Orange with its artisanal light bulbs and modern attitude. The while padded stools at the bar looked like props from a Cold War spy movie. They were probably very comfortable. My own seat, however, was one in which the back arm rests are a single bar shaped into a U. I didn’t care for it, though I suppose I could’ve just exchanged the seat for the one next to me.

Next time, I’ll remember to do that. 

Image credit: Local Lime.

Your Song Sucks: What Troubles Me About Katy Perry's "Birthday"

This party apparently had two cakes.

Maybe I’m biased. Though I find Katy Perry aesthetically pleasing, I find most of her musical catalog aurally repugnant. In fact, I can’t summon a single song of hers that I can enjoy. So already I approach her single “Birthday” with skepticism and disgust after recognizing her vocal work from the get-go. She’s a capable singer, I’ll grant her that. But even though she collaborated with four other writers, the song couldn’t be any less boring or formulaic.

The lyrics aren’t subtle in the least: “Pop your confetti / Pop your perignon / So hot and heavy / ‘Til Dawn,” and later, “So let me get you in your birthday suit / It’s time to bring out the big balloons.” This isn’t to say you shouldn’t write songs about sex; Prince established a music empire solely on lyrics of lovemaking, and it’s one of the oldest subjects sang about since we discovered that our vocal cords make pretty noises. But at least make a half-assed attempt to be clever about it. The word “party” is used in that vague way that suggests more than cake and ice cream, Also, the fact that the speaker wants the subject to “pop” two different things that produce two substantially different substances makes me concerned for both parties.

The speaker is also ambiguous about her relationship to the subject. One might be quick to assume that they’re in a girlfriend-boyfriend pairing, but the opening lines suggest something far more complicated: I heard you’re feeling / Nothing’s going right / Why don’t let me / Stop By,” and later, “You know that I’m the girl that you should call.” The second passage suggests that the subject has a harem of female acquaintances that he could select from. Why would a girlfriend tell her boyfriend he can call he when he's in Frowntown? But the speaker insists that she has what it takes to turn his proverbial frown upside-down.

In spite of the speaker’s good intentions, the chorus makes me want to fall on my sword:

Boy, when you’re with me

I’ll give you a taste.

Make it like your birthday everyday.

I know you like it sweet,

So you can have your cake.

Give you something good to celebrate.

So make a wish.

I’ll make it like your birthday everyday.

I’ll be your gift

Give you something good to celebrate.

It reads like the death rattle of a metaphor. Here she uses the birthday analogy in almost every configuration uniform to the North American tradition of the birthday party. We get cake eating, wish making, gift giving—the three primary pillars stand firm even though it feels like Miss Perry and her writing collective are somehow picking up the pillars and beating me senselessly with them. Maybe that’s why the song falls apart.

After the vaguely Daft Punk-sounding bridge, Miss Perry says, “Happy Birthday” in a way that sounds like an attempt to emulate Marilyn Monroe’s famous “Happy Birthday, Mr. President.” It’s not true enough to the original to make me confident that it is in fact what she’s going for, but I’m distracted by it. I’m bothered by it.

I find the melody problematic. In spite of the song’s upbeat disco tempo, we’re left with a dull and ultimately unsexy background to supposedly sexy lyrics. The way she sings the last two words on certain lines like “’Til Dawn” and “’Stop by” feels discordant with the melody as it doesn’t quite keep up the song’s rhythm. This happens enough times that it’s noticeably awkward and feels as though they just gave up when they got to the final lines of those stanzas. The notes also sound as though they don’t offer the temporal finality that we expect from the end of a stanza. But it’s been a while since I took a music theory class so I can’t eloquently or accurately articulate what it is about the song that makes it so boring, so you’ll just have to cope with that. In a way, it looks constructed with the sort of ease of Lego, yet looks like something a three-year-old might put together with a Duplo brick: it technically fits but looks clunky and unsophisticated, and is less fun to step on.  

An X-Wing Maneuvers into a Fruit Bowl: First Impressions of the X-Wing Miniatures Game

Andrew Crivilare: "Yeah, but if they touch, ya know....stuff happens."

Somehow I got two of them on my tail. I’m on my own—far away from the fleet. We exchange misses for some time. They seem just as green as me.

Such is the scenario that played out in my mind when I took Fantasy Flight Games’ X-Wing Miniatures Game for a spin. I was outmatched against Sam’s two TIE Fighters, but my X-Wing had the advantage of durability and firepower. Still, her fighters were quick and evasive. The Star Wars-themed minis game is a quick and dirty combat game that is no doubt made more exciting with bigger ship collections.

It’s one of those rare games that’s especially friendly towards newcomers. They give you the average set of rules for a FFG product (as in a lot), but they were also so gracious to include a “Quick-Start” ruleset. Follow its instructions closely and you’ll get the basics down after one session. Given that they’re all I’ve played with so far, I’ll stick to talking about them.

Proprietary 8-sided dice forego numbers for symbols to resolve combat: red dice giveth hits and green dice taketh them away. The game provides dials for each ship so the player can select how their ship is going to move according to cardboard rulers that determine both distance and direction. Players pick their moves at once and move in order according to pilot skill. The more skillful, the faster you’ll move. However, your piloting skills come at a price: you have to wait to attack. While the rule balances out the static initiative of faster pilots, I can’t rationalize why the better pilots are worse shots. A few more games may settle this.

The game round is punctuated by four basic phases: plan your path, execute it, attack your opponent, and check for victory. Players collect damage cards as they sustain hits to their ship, which is a simple way to illustrate hit points.

The game makes a point to separate the pilot from the ship: starfighters have their own stats as do their pilots. Included with the core XMG set are two named pilots—Luke and Biggs—and several nameless ones. The Quick-Start rules mandate that you stick to the nameless ones for the sake of simplicity, which makes sense. Symbols alien to the Quick-Start rules appear on other pilot cards. I’ll get around to reading the rest soon.

In a move that reminds me of the board game Last Night on Earth, FFG included several other cardboard pieces, such as asteroids and a shuttle. After a quick glance at the full rules, it’s clear that FFG sees players’ creativity playing a part in the game’s longevity. Already included at the end are a couple of missions that complicate the game from an outright dogfight to a structured sortie. I applaud this move, which is to be expected given my high praise for FFG in the first place.

The inaugural game played out like this: 

It took us some time to get used to the maneuver patterns that are available to our ships. She scored some hits on me early on. For a long while, it was a slow awkward dance across our dinner table. At one point (pictured above), our ships nearly collided. While the rules make no adjudication about collisions in space, it's a hell of a thing trying to accurately place the rulers so movements are correct. Most of the time, I was able to evade her shots and she mine, but, despite my advantage of a shield, her shots connected and my nameless pilot was lost in a galaxy far, far away. 

An Orgy of Lights and Sounds: Making the Rounds in Tunica

There’s something to be said about casino advertising. Billboards present happy victors with their wads of cash in each hand. In lieu of past winners, you’ll see instead scantily clad women holding the same cash. “Loosest slots!” the billboards shout. They entice you to come to the smoke-smelling orgy of lights and sounds. I’m not altogether convinced the advertising is necessary.

It’s hard to tell if the people are having a good time. Looks of desperation and despair seem more commonplace than expressions of genuine glee. My parents seem like they’re having a good time. But the overall tone here is less than joyous. A man drags a woman in by the arm playfully but with purpose. A wife offers a despondent husband words of encouragement or chiding. It’s neutral at best.

Penny and nickel slots make the perimeter around the card tables. The residents of card tables seem more determined to win with studied strategies or pure luck, like gambling is more of a skill than I’m led to believe. You hear more cheers and general shouting in the center. Off in a corner sits the very exclusive high limits tables that I would love to sit in but never play. I imagine contestants from the World Series of Poker wearing sunglasses like armor, going to battle with arms of bluffing and observation. I never see anyone enter or exit that room.

This is the third time I’ve gambled at a casino. Logically, my past two experiences would have shunned me away from the practice, but this is a family get-together and I give it another go. I’m met with better luck than before. Slot machines throw free games my way, and with these free games bigger pay outs. In goes five dollars, out comes thirty dollars. Sam sits next to me, eyes wide and mouth open with a slight grin. Her luck hasn’t come yet. The Miller Lite I’m clutching was “complimentary” according to the server. Free or not, it’s there to calm my nerves and kill the stress of winning. I can climb so high but fall quickly with a loose rock.

Later, another set of free games. Bigger pay out. I’ve put in more than five dollars, but I’m still ahead. I go to the automatic cashier and finally notice the pamphlet about treating gambling addiction. It’s like reading the health warnings on packs of cigarettes. The casinos wouldn’t put this literature out if someone didn’t come and say something. I’d like to see the numbers on how many look into this treatment via a pamphlet. One casino even sponsors its own treatment facility.

Sam hits her stride. She ratchets up thirty dollars. Meanwhile, I sink twenty into a few machines. My mind starts calculating the spending in the last twenty four hours. I want to make sure I’m on track to stay ahead. I think I am. I hope I am. After the twenty dollars is officially gone and the machine tells me there are no more credits after the number dropped in forty-cent increments, I stand up. I don’t know what etiquette there is in gambling, but I assume getting up from a machine you’re not playing is one. I also feel freed when I stand, knowing that I won’t open my wallet and grab another five or twenty to feed the machine. I watch as Sam’s stride slows.

Aside from the room, we don’t pay much for this visit to Tunica. We get a complimentary voucher for the Buffet Americana for the supposed long wait we have to get checked into our room. My parents cover our dinner at another buffet at another casino, and my dad slips us each twenty five bucks to feed the slots like it’s a petting zoo. Both buffets reflect of the tone of the casino floor: neutral. But they’re buffets, AYCE, and you’ll need that nutrition if you’re going to sit at a slot all day.