Below are the 12 most recent journal entries recorded in winkerwatson's LiveJournal:

Friday, May 5th, 2006
4:33 pm	Revolution (In The Summertime) One of the apparent bafflements about 'Scotspop' is the multitude of jangle bands, lost in some retro 60's dreamland, cobbled together from Love and Byrds press shots. Today, however, it made perfect sense. There's a long lineage of Scottish (mainly Glaswegian actually) bands who've been raised on the three B's (Byrds, Beach Boys and Big Star (previously Beatles but Big Star are more culty and therefore credible)) and thusly can only communicate in harmonies and plucked twelve-strings. This is regarded as a cultural oddity. Doesn't it rain all the time? How does the Big Sur equate with barren glens, shortbread and Sean Connery in a toupee and a kilt? Well it's rather simple, when the good weather comes it's frighteningly vivid. It's like waking up with your ears syringed and your vision corrected. It's a moment of revelation. Out comes the copy of The Notorious Byrd Brothers or Radio City or Mr Tambourine Man or Sunflower. And suddenly it clicks. Those harmonies and jingle jangle and perhaps even that pedal steel all make sense. Today was the first day of summer (more on this later) and for the first time in a long time i went for a wander down by the river, equipped only with some knackered shoes with holes in the soles and some tunes. And it was revelatory. You know i hadn't seen a butterfly in years, perhaps a decade. In my reality they were pretty much extinct, not leaving any trace beyond the dim awareness that somehow things were once not like this, and today i saw a swarm of the buggers: flitting out over the river in twos. spiralling up entwined into the the blue. There were even ducks (also in twos) on the river, apparently lacking any concern, simply enjoying the notion of river life. It was all a bit daft and a shade Romantic but it was one of those moments where you can stop and see the lie of the land and understand where you've been and where you could go. My dear lifejournal hasn't been updated for some time. There are various reasons for this but i'm only going to give the arrogant one: that i've been out having a life rather than thinking about it (sort of the same way that in a relationship you either do all the game playing or you mearly talk about the relationship you're having). But it now seems a good time to stop living and get down to some righteous self analysis and emo posturing. Of late i've been confused. The end of a relationship isn't really like i thought it was supposed to be. I was lookign forward to the end of an act. The simaltaneous conclusion of various storylines in a dramatic fashion and also a handy excuse to be an arsehole for a bit with the excuse of "i'm going through some things right now" but it was not to be. And i'm rather disappointed. Where was the time to say all the things you're not supposed to say? Where was my scene in the restaurant? When was I lost in the rain? Where's my meaningful fucking looks? Apparently only in my head, lost in the ether. I mean I'm sure there is supposed to be a moment where it all ends. Where things crystalise. Where you were once and [i]now[/i] you're not. Today, on my walk whilst i sat on the bank with acoustics and harmonies and vague 'shes' and summers, i came to one of those small realisations that rather than boot the door down and scream eureka in your face bubble to the surface and wait for you to consider before delivering that nod. It's the difference between waking up and realising you're awake. The intrusion of an alarm and the possibility on a Sunday morning that you've been awake for an unknown amout of time. There are relationships that END and those that gradually cease to be relationships. And so at this point you nod and smile and feel relief and the clouds on the water develop a new clarity. A brief segue. You begin walking again and reach the old red sandstone castle and you take another break because there are some things that do have their moment. Like the summer. I can pin point the exact time summer happened for example. Yesterday. Clear skies. Last night. An apocalyptic thunderstorm. Today. Sumer has a-cumen-in. Everything is at once green and blue and jingly and jangly. It's a twelve string kind of day. Scotsmen feel an unexplainable, inexplicable feeling that they belong in Buffalo Springfield. In an instant it's that lost endless feelgood hit of the summer where a young man's fancy turned to love and never turned back. Get ready for another WinkerLifeJourneyTheory guys: There exists an indefinable feeling of girl that can be found in the jangle of guitars and harmony backing vocals. You can see it in a large number of songs. Each is devoted to a vague notion of [i]girl[/i] who is beyond. Beyond what you say? Well beyond all the real life dealings with women you've ever have. This girl exists for all. She can be found in daydreams and smiles. she's always the one you didn't talk to, the one you saw walking. she's tantalising beyond your reach, she always was and always will be because life is full of details. The girl is all shape and shadow. An outline that can only be filled in with reflections of yourself. You'll find her in (get ready for a list of songs you'll probably not listen too) The La's There She Goes, The Stone Roses' She Bangs The Drums, The Delay's Hey Girl, The Dukes Of Stratosphear's Vanishing Girl, Pale & Precious and You're My Drug, Aztec Camera'a Orchid Girl, Badly Drawn Boy's Once Around The Block and all over MBV's Loveless (and shit dog you can't even make out the lyrics there). The purpose of this girl is to be there in your down time. When the idea appeals rather than the reality she's there. Typically she's a Perfect Pop kind of girl. Perfect Pop is a deeply personal thing. There is only one true Perfect Pop sound but what this is varies depending on who is (trying to) make it. For some it's Trevor Horn: all power drums, horn sections, monstrous synth bass lines and enormous fuck off choruses. For others it's all minor chords, finger picking, harmony parts and a wayward vocal line. Etc etc. It goes on. Perfect Pop is an ideal rather than a sound (hence why our girl is sich a fan). It's a matter of conviction, belief and budget. Currently i'm buying into the St Etienne version (dance beats, woodwind, samples and girl group harmonies) mainly because of front person/puppet Sarah Cracknell who is non threatening in all the right ways. And here we see Perfect Pop (this staid, demure sexuality: all hand holding and kissing, all above the waist) is so willfully out of step that it exists mainly in some alterante personal dimension (much like in the above paragraph!) Now here i will call to mind Tim Rogers and state that i'm writing a novel! It was going to be the great Scottish Novel II but i changed my mind and now it's going to be a Jocksploitation effort (or Scotsploitation, this hasn't been finalised so some feedback on which works better is welcome). It's all pretty much there in my head now after much artistic contemplation (ie lies in). Unfortunately guys i'm not going to give you a blow by blow account of the plot because i don't want you stealing my ideas but i will say that it's about the grey sky, the loss of faith, the embarrasment, the sense of being humiliated by one's very time and place, the inadequacies of love and human connection (guys i stole that from a (n already post modern) Paul Morley essay, this is an intertextual device and NOT PLAGARISM OK. The reson i mention this is because it ends with rain and the moment of arrival for a season (summer into winter, skipping autumn)that is instantaneous. Last night shat me up due to this connection ok. (14 Comments |Comment on this)
Thursday, September 22nd, 2005
4:43 pm	LJ Interests meme results : : : : : : : : : : Enter your LJ user name, and 10 interests will be selected from your interest list. Oh wait i don't have any interests :( (3 Comments |Comment on this)
Thursday, June 16th, 2005
4:07 am	Geh Cak Af En Yam I haven't updated in some time, mainly due to laziness. I got my exam results today, and i did not fail. So I don't have to resit the year or start paying my own tuition fees. This good and nice and what not. It also means my summer now has some sort of shape, with a almost visible end in late September. This is far better. As much as I enjoy a shapeless, aimless, effortless Long Hot Summer, the addition of a deadline gives it meaning These is the time where I have an admittedly laid back student life and there is the time where I have a near comatose life. But like some godawful TV movie or series finale I can look and see all those life lessons that I've learned over the course of the year: Firstly Good Days can't be made to happen. The best days are always the ones that just happen, that sneak up on you, they're the ones you only notice at the end. My best day of the summer began poorly with an exam and ended with an exceedingly drunk me undergoing a 5 minute walk to my bed after much cider and sunshine, much reunions with cast aside friends and some temporary setting aside of all that drama (not mine though), such a glorious day can only come about through a lack of expectations. Secondly you cannot pick your friends. The friends I have now may not be the same friends I had at the age of 5 but they can be traced back to them if you catch my drift. The people I spend my time with are there because of something that happened (it's never really a decision at that age) back when I was in short trousers. Recently I've tried to get some new friends or at least solidy them into a shape beyond the no longer associate not quite friend stage. This doesn't work. If friendship is like marriage then such acts are adultery, accompanied by all the requiste guilt. You can't divorce your mates. You're stuck with them (in a good way, I think) Thirdly things are not worth the hassle. Fourthly small talk is never equal: I love small talk. It's pish easy. A well executed 5 minute time filler conversation is far more rewarding than any video game. They are incredibly similar to me at least. I said earlier that games are despite, appearances a one way exchange, it's all the player, taking meaning, beating the boss, power levelling, cheating, whatever. And small talk is similar. It's not 50/50. One person has to dominate for the whole shebang to work. You have to guide the conversation or hold it down. One person asks the questions and the other answers or one just talks. You can even double your fun if it's a threeway. Having one person acting as an audience while you be the arch, piss taking, arse to the ohter, always goes down smooth. Small talk is the ultimate video game, you have the risk reward element, your survival horror aspect as you attempt the initial avoidance of eye contact. I'm fairly certain that scores of barely human e-personalities could be re-integrated into the real world if only a sytem could be deveoped to allow them to converse using a familiar interface such as a pad or for all you cocksure flyboys the mouse keyboard combo. Perhaps that't the Nintendo Revolution? Fifthly Doing nothing is doing something: Sometimes I draw the most satisfaction from doing bugger all. Whether it was sitting in another hour long awkward silence of an English tutorial struggling not to laugh at the delightful stupidity of it all or sprawling out on a Hill under the noonday sun and the shadow of a neo-gothic Victorian University building looking at the cityscape while listening some carefully selected tunes (preferrably something laconic, largely instrumental, gently melancholic and not in the slightest bit of the now. Doing a very particular type of nothing can be the best thing. Lying in bed hungover for the afternoon playing pokemon is, in the very best way, a gorgeous situation. SixthlyVideo games remain to be an utterly horrible wate of time. And this is a good thing. You don't need HDTV, you don't need J Allard or Mario or Maturity or a katamari, and you certainly don't need pongism. And that is the point at the end of the day. The most satisfying video game related thing currently is the Microsft re-branding of the general population into the HD generation. God it'll be great. When everyone can fit onto MTV or a release party you're paid to attend and i can fit a GBAMicro into the tightest apir of trousers in existence and video games are finally acknoledged as being bigger than movies and we all accept that playing against fourteen year old ritalin heads is the future is the day that our lives will have meaning. Lastly we have something both new games journalism and emo. Panzer Dragoon Saga may well be one of my favourite video games but I will never finish it. In fact I doubt I'll ever play it again ever. Disc 3 will remain in my Saturn long after I forgot the story and my Saturn destroys my save. Becuase you see the game now means something to me, something other than LOOK RARE!1!. It represents the death of something, of someone, of a me. So Mr eBay power seller, This ones for you (7 Comments |Comment on this)
Sunday, April 17th, 2005
2:39 am	She Said Hostalgia is a thing that should be encouraged, perhaps. in the liner notes to his quasi best of Luke Haines reflects upon his discography. A remix album that cost £250 to produce and that he has never listened to recieves 5 stars because he gets 100% of the publishing. Alternatively "How I Learned To Love The Bootboys" is awarded nothing. This, he says, can't be reappraised because of its anti-sentimental stance. There is integrity in that I suppose. Anyway aside from listening to music none of you Americans have ever heard of I have been, sort of, living. My first year of university is drawing to its close and it has been strange. I have not changed one iota and in other ways I'm an entirely different person. I am still consumed with a Haines sense of disapproval for most things, my facial hair remains on the wrong side of bum fluff when I don't shave. If I didn't have the self control a Rogers rat 'tache could be mine. The various strains of drama that I can call my own progress in that curious way such things tend to do. Large swathes of empty time filled with wanking or walking or weather. It was because of such events (in this case apparently all my fault) that I found myself forced to attend a party that I wasn't particulary welcome at or really wanted to attend. So there I am in a room full of various people who I used to see every day doing various drugs in a determined effort to have a good time And in such circumstances I should probably felt nostalgia or hostalgia. But there was nothing much there. Only small talk and private jokes. You must understand that I thrive on small talk. being forced into a conversation by social convention is a game that will remain unmatched: The initial sinking feeling of eye contact followed by the vain grope for a suitable topic of conversation and the inevitable exchange of banalities. I love it. It's something which for reasons I never felt compelled to investigate I've always been good at. Much like extracting quotes from unread text or navigating overly complicated archiac public transport systems it over inflates my ego to frightening proportions (in a good way). Others however were not so fortunate. Someone else who had been dragged there unwillingly made the mistakes of letting past events bother her both at the time and in the present and then to feel compelled to tell such people about it. A school boy error if you pardon the joke. And this is where everything starts to crumble. Getting trapped with someone intent on having a meaningful conversation is terribly, dreadfully tiresome. Talking about the essay we had to hand in that day (which for some reason we had done the exact same books and question) and that I had only started writing at 6 that morning was pushing it but exactly why high school was so shit is just not the done thing. I didn't have any problems with it anyway. I mean once you accept the fact that it is a bit, just a tad, shit and then move on its fine. But no, by all means, do talk about it at length. It's times like this when you just wish you had been one of those people who actually had something against goths back in the day. Then I could have spent my evening debating the merits of the various Rockys or something equally gorgeous in its pointless stupidity. Ok now for some pretentiousness: Saudade. I have that feeling occasionally. And yes when I do I feel the urge to wear a long coat, stand by the banks of a river and smoke french cigarettes while looking like I feel things far more deeply than the likes of you could ever possibly hope to understand. I don't however feel compelled to talk about them at length to an aquaintance. I keep such feelings to myself and listen to Scott Walker or early Durutti Column or late Talk Talk through headphones (although I do write about them in an overly emo livejournal so OH NO) So yeah this post is overlong, rambling and without any particular point. This should be the paragraph where I tie it all together so it at least has the artiface of a point but I don't seem able to write it. Let's call it postmodern, or new games journalism or a tribute to Yu Suzuki or something. Nostalgia or Hostalgia. They're both equally invalid choices. Things were and things are. There is meaning in what you got from something or what it means to you. But not in what you wish you got from something. All there is are our Favourite Descending Intervals (obscure reference ahoy) (Comment on this)
Friday, March 25th, 2005
6:33 pm	Dear God Today was a good day. I awoke in the early afternoon to find a mysterious text message: "The La's have reformed" This is probably the worst news I've ever heard. I love The La's as an enigmatic group. A glorious folly. The original cosmic Scousers. Pre-empters of Brip Pop (the GOOD brit pop). I don't need them to sullify the nonsensce I cart around my head with their existence. But To hear this news through a text message, from an unknown number, still groggy and smelling of stale cigarettes. That was gorgeous. Gorgosity. I'm never going to phone this number. I don't want to know who sent the message. It will forever be a mystery. THIS WAS A MESSAGE FROM GOD! On Good Friday this lapsed Catholic was gifted with a confirmation that at least some one is taking an interest. I feel less Emo than I have done of late. As much as I enjoy wallowing in my own angst it's not something I can do for an extended period of time. One short sharp shock every few months is all you need. (4 Comments |Comment on this)
Wednesday, March 23rd, 2005
2:40 pm	Validation! Recently there has been much discussion about the validty of games as a medium. It seems to be disintegrating into Fun Vs Worthiness. Now let me establish one thing, games are FUN. They are percieved as fun, fun is their purpose. Games are never going to be viewed as anything else because they are not trying to be anything else. The games we have that are not viwed as fun are so because they are failures. If you want games to become percieved as the new artistic medium then you need to make a game apart from what we currently have. So. I propose an unfun game. Fun is not part of its remit. It is not on the agenda. It will however be mainstream, for one reason. When PS3 launches this will be the only launch title. In fact it will be the only title confirmed. The only title rumoured to be in development. The only title period. Ladies and Gentlemen. I give you: Skylarking. (now before I get accused of cleverness or originality I will point this out. This is a musical reference. XTC to be precise. However there is a reason for the name) In keeping with industry standards I will summarize Skylarking in easy to understand terms. Its Outrun 2 meets GTA 3. The Beautiful Journey through the sandbox. Its almost paradoxial. There is one element that seperates it from its inspiration. You will be limited. You can only walk. The aim of the game is to walk home.You have a start point. you have an end point. The sandbox elements appear in how you reach home. You can simply wander off in the hope of getting there. Or you can set off down the road. So its not so much a beautiful journey as a beautiful wander. Now the setting is both crucial and utterly unimportant. My setting is my home and my surroundings. Your setting is your home and your surroundings. The start point will be a friends house, say a few miles form your own. All you have to do is get home: but you don't have to. If you catch my drift. Now here's the important part. Photorealism is stupid and pointless. If I want to arse around with the marvels of physics I'll do it outside. Cel-shading is also stupid. So what Skylarking will provide the player with is an interpretation. One version of their surroundings. Not as it is in actuality. As it is in the eyes of one person. Think of a painting. Think of Picasso. He painted what he saw. This will work in much the same way (it needn't be cubism though) Back to the title. Skylarking revolved around seasons. The tracklisting was very carefully considered (IGNORE DEAR GOD). Our Skylarking wil feature seasons also. 4 of them to be precise. For each there will be some music (licensed music much like GTA): For winter we have Daivd Bowie's "Low": glacial, harsh, sparse, synthetic. The key will be the closing track Subterraneans. Think of that sax. Hear that sax. For spring we have Talk Talk's Spirit Of Eden: similarly harsh and glacial and sparse. But organic. Ever so organic. I've spent two months listening to it as the sun rises. This IS spring. For summer we have Tim Buckley's Happy/Sad: similarly organic, similarly jazzy/folky. But warm. ever so warm. And for autumn we have The Return Of The Durutti Column: similarly but not similarly jazzy. But sad. So sad. The passing of time, of seasons, of everything. Note the first track: Sketch FOR Summer. And then later Sketch FOR Winter. Autumn is a time of change obviously. You can feel this music change: from bird song and a thousand guitars intertwined to a solitary guitar fading away repeating itself like a last breath. I'm presuming that most of you won't have heard any of this. But I assure you it fits. It even flows together, sort of, in my head. It's the core of the game. Or at least it is when you combine it with the walkling. Skylarking is a slow game. There are no set pieces. There is just the player. In an enviroment. Not his enviroment. Skylarking's cover would be austere. And oversized. And pretentious (much like the game). It would not be a game you'd want to play,a t least not more than once. It's a game to sit on a coffee table and be pretentious. Just being there would be enough. It would not be a game for me or you. It would be a game for all those worthy folks who don't play games. They would however have this. An unfun game. An important game. A valid game. Note: There would be two other songs that play over the credits. For our bad ending "Sleep Will Come" by The Durutti column. And for our good ending "Orchid Girl" by Aztec Camera (YES!). The ending would be chosen randomly. (4 Comments |Comment on this)
Sunday, March 20th, 2005
3:03 pm	Medium Difficulty Aztec Camera's "High Land Hard Rain" is a curious beast. Hampered by awful, washed out production, 80's instrumentation and average playing it still manages to be a classic: at least for me. Roddy Frame was a teenage prodigy, said album was released when he was 19, in 1983. He already had a deal at 16. i can't think of anything significant I did at 16. The only assumption I can make that wouldn't be a total shot in the dark is that whatever happened involved a lot of masturbation. And yet it still stands up. because it plays to the strength's of the medium. "High Land..." was the sound of New Scotland once upon a time and it remains so. The flat sound lends it to this time of year (nowhere time, no longer winter, not yet spring). The fact that the record was written here, in my world makes it far involving. The already complex relationship between the record, place and person is even more intertwined. And its that relationship that allows "High Land..." to transcend. Take Frame's most recent effort "Surf". "Surf" is the sound of a newly middle aged man at the arse end of a relationship in a place of fading grandeur. I can only like it at a surface level. I can't relate to it. No relationship between us can grow. Despite its merits it is no different to that colourless, stretched out jazz they play in Starbucks the world over. And thats the reason why I can never truly love video games. There can never be that revelatory meeting of you (all of you, including your context) and the art. Its a distinctly one way system. You press the buttons and move the stick and something happens on screen. Your buttons aren't being pushed. Not by the graphics and certainly not by the vibrating pad (Rez accepted ladies). The most cross polination that can occur is that the phone will ring, the screen will be obscured by daylight getting through the curtains or (as on one occasion) my anciet chair gave up the ghost. You can strain all you want to find meaning. But anything you take from the Legend Of Zelda or Silent Hill 2 will be more down to you than it will be to the game. You'll join the dots, you'll make the connections between game, player and developer. It's forced, strained. I have had this demonstrated to me on many occasions. I can remember a few years ago I crashed at a (now dead) friends house. We played Perfect Dark until four in the morning. But the night is only memorable for when we turned off the console, he had a sneaky fag (cigarette for all you Americans) out the window and we had one of those gloriously fleeting, stilted conversations that reveal all to much about the speakers. Or another all nighter. Staying up for 36 hours, playing four player Super Monkey Ball for the last 6 of them. It's was only when I found my self ramblinh home at six in the morning, bleary eyed and painless, listening to the second side of "Low" that the night garned any importance. The events up until then had been throwaway: cheated victories in Monkey Fight, regretted phone calls, cheap cider. But at that moment everything converged. It was a minor moment of glory. Recently I was forced to justify myself. When I was asked exactly why I play video games I could only offer up one answer: "To waste time" to myself or anyone else. I don't gain anything, that stealth camo or high score isn't going to make me a better person. It's never going to give me a defining moment (at least not that kind of defining moment). The NGJ "movement" has been mourning the loss of lynchpin/guilty party/messiah Tim Rogers.I don't know his reasons. But for me his decision to stop writing about games makes sense. Rogers writing is all about defining moments (real or fabricated) they've never been about video games. They're a limited medium and they're a limited source of inspiration. It's no coincedence that the truly hardcore (they who spend all their time playing Everquest or Counterstrike) have been fundamentally ruined. They have nothing else and are nothing else. Previous generations would be decemated by war or disease: ours by level grinding. NGJ is doomed to fail for such reasons. Its not the questionable value of the writing that undermines it so. Its the questionable value of the inspiration. Does "Bow Nigger" have anything real to offer? Aside from truisms and anecdotes of cunts (not that kind) on the internet. Now I realise that this ramble/rant has been overwhelmingly negative. I wan tto make it clear that I do enjoy playing games, some of them I love playing. It's just that the whole thing can be suffocating. The industry has become a snake eating its own tail. The form has become a scavenger, scrapping by on movie scores, narritive and its own faeces. Recently at the GDC some pluky chap declared that publishers are killing the industry. While he has a point his comment still reeks of hand washing. Its all well and good decrying the capitalist demon while you muck out the shovelware. Aztec Camera were a product of their time. The Indie boom suddenly empowering all the unhip young guitar slingers in the black and white towns. The Smiths set out to write songs to save my life. They did so when the independant scene was dying on its arse.They succedded because the medium in which they dealt allowed them to throw out a rubber ring. Has a videogame ever saved my life? Shenmue II may be my all time favourite (come home yu suzuki) but its context (and remember that that is the important thing) was me sitting in my room by myself during the Christmas holidays. Videogames then. Even the term is undermining. Gamers? For a term some seem determined to define them selves by it seems to be an insult. It implies immaturity, it suggests burying your head in the sand. I mean: if the Princess is indeed in another castle then what was the point? (7 Comments |Comment on this)
Saturday, March 19th, 2005
12:53 pm	This post will contain rambling emo, soft drinks and new games journalism So it's come to my attention recently that I'm stuck in a rut. I was walking home at 2 in the morning and as I neared the main street I instinctively turned off down a side road. This adds twenty minutes to my journey but significantly reduces the prospect of recieving a kicking. Now I've done the same thing for perhaps the last four years. The only change is its a different generation of fourteen year olds roaming the streets. This lack of progress has filled me with disgust. I do the same things with the same people. And yet I am horribly alone. No one understands me!!!!!!!!!!!!!! And its not just that. Its my own ineptitude when faced with the prospect of new opportunities. Recently I went out for a drink with a girl from one of my tutorials. This is after a lng period of laughing at the awkward silences said tutorials degenerate into. It went well. I mean shit we bonded over where we used togo drinking when we were in school: me a castle (mysterious), her a ski lift (cosmopolitan). It was not until after I'd walked her home and then missed my chance to get her number that it all went wrong. As usual upon the return journey I was forced to dwell on all the crap moments of said drink. And thats another thing, drink, is such a nebulous term. At least with the american "date" you know where you stand. But the final blow is that I know that what I'm feeling is a load of shite. I can't even be emo properly. I really should be past all this nonsense. So I have a three week holiday and no plans. I can either play Pokemon Silver (my rival is called Toups) and listen to Big Star's Thirteen and weep for my lost innocence. Or I could get over the fact that I'm in a satellite town of a second tier city (according to Amazon.com). If the weathers nice I'll sit outside drink glass bottles of Irn Bru (it tastes best like this) listen to the Band and study or something. And shit do you remember that time that you first played Card Fighters Clash? It was at that hot girl who you never really noticed's house, in the early summer evening, after going to church with a Korean family. That was gorgeous. You ate vegetarian ramen. Disclaimer: I might have made all of this up. Particularly all the hot Japanese sex. (6 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, February 25th, 2005
3:26 am	Internet Boyfriend http://hell.oddwebsite.com/viewtopic.php?t=1059 So I finished KOTOR II within 5 days, much like its predecessor. I predict I will nver play it again. I found it to be far superior in its execution, direction, acting and scripting. The characters (some of them) were interesting and it had acompelling villan, miles away from the likes of Malak and Sephiroth. I think Toups should play it but he got Galleon as I suggested and didn't enjoy it. There has also been much listening to music after about a year of dead tim spent play ing the Dreamcast and crying into my pillow about Sega. currently I'm enjoying Talk Talk's "Spirit Of Eden", The Band's "Music From Big Pink" and The La's "The La's" and various other albums which make me sound full of pish. I'm having a fairly uneventful time of late. The weathers bad so i spend many days in bed with my feet on the radiator reading. Hard Boiled Wonderland And The End Of the World is good, I'm reading because Tim Rogers told me to and not because I found a copy for a fiver and had an hour to kill before a lecture. (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Monday, January 31st, 2005
5:27 pm	A Failed Lampoon I bought Catch! Touch! Yoshi! today and I was going to write a long winded Tim Rogers style diatribe about it as a form of literary masturbation. I didn't however for a number of reasons. Firstly I don't know, pretend to know or stalk any japanese game developers. This obviously hinders my writing. Secondly the purchase of said game was a non-event there were no "interesting encounters" with Japanese people or Spanish Zombies (sorry LegalStep). Lastly and most importantly I just couldn't be arsed. My continuing attempts to regain my passion for music are continuing. Robert Johnson is currently doing the rounds inside my head. i origionally bought his box set in San Fransisco for $10. Like most of mine(and your) purchases it was more for the benefit of the like minded music obsessive I'm destined to never meet outside my head. the guitar playing gives me a headache. I'm sure his songs were recorded as is but it sounds like 3 guitars are playing at the same time. http://www.brandonbird.com/walken/deer_hunter.jpg This is from Hell (it is a forum). In my honest opinion Hell is an example to forums everywhere. For some unknown reason Hell has been recieving lots of new members. Nobody likes new members because they stink up the place. To solve this problem Hells admin adopted a radical policy. Anyone who was deemed to have a stupid username was instantly banned, anyone who talked about how "wacky" the place was was ostracized for breaking the fourth wall. There are lessons to be learned from Hell. (they have a hentai button, don't tell Rya) (4 Comments |Comment on this)
Thursday, January 27th, 2005
2:47 pm	For LegalStep For I am the person you all shall fear My words are the last that you shall hear In the midst of battle I stand there alone Surrounded by nothing but dead flesh and bone My brothers and sisters have all died by your hands And I will not rest until I have clensed these lands In these times of darkness in these times of grief Your dead bodies are my only relief One day we shall live safe and be once again free But until then stay the FVCK AWAY FROM ME My wounds, they sting, my bones, they ache I can not rest, no time for a break With their hopes on my shoulders there is too much at stake.. For me to lose for the sake of a break This fight is nearly over, there is one final stand For your death and destruction lies in my right hand My rifle is my only trusted friend Together, we will make your pathetic lives end This has all gone too far, talk will not end this pointless war This is a fight to the death and at the end , it will be you , who will exist no more We have too much to lose, so much love to fight for You fight for your religion and that's little reason to fight at all And may god have mercy on you all Because i will fight for my people 'til the day I fall Here is some Halo inspired poetry from RLLMUK. Personally I feel that the over reliance on rhyming couplets, the lack of a standard metre and the general lack of punctuation lets it down. I had an akward moment today when I became over enthusiastic about RE4. Apparently my constant film comparisons reflect poorly on the game. The discussion then devolved into an arguement about Shenmue. Forklifts were repeatedly referenced. Then the lecturer started talking about Russia and i tried to liste. I've been playing a lot of Feel The Magic/I Would Die For You/Project Rub. I find my desire to unlock all of the clothes in Maniac mode to be worrying. I suspect Yuji Naka is trying to tell me something. The man is after all a daft racist. The fact that his game debuted in America seems to indicate that he hates all of you. iPod status: dried out but headphone socket smelling of Fanta. Shuffle selection: poor. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Thursday, January 20th, 2005
3:33 pm	So I have a Livejournal now. More later Possibly. (1 Comment |Comment on this)