GeekCaster

2007-12-03T10:13:00.000-08:00

GeekCaster Resurrection

Well, it was inevitable that this blog would lapse into silence mere months after its inception: it is, after all, the blog of an individual with serious attention problems and a complete lack of ambition.

BUT NEVER FEAR! GEEKCASTER RESURRECTION IS HERE!

I would like to kick off this new incarnation of the GeekCast with the latest in a series of humorous spoof songs that I have written (album title: "Spoof Songs I Have Written"). For the holiday season--and for the benefit of anyone who hasn't bought me a Christmas present yet--I have composed an alternate version of "Santa Baby" with a geek twist.

Yes, it's basically just a slobber-list of toys that are hot this year for the tech-y crowd, but the rhymes are pretty good, and you can hum along. Here it is, six-people-who-read-this-blog, from me to you, with love:

Santa Baby

Santa Baby, slip some gadgets under the tree for me;
I’m really jonesing for gear, Santa Baby,
So hurry down the chimney tonight.

Santa Baby, a dual-core machine with a screen so big
You’ll have to turn at the door, Santa Baby,
So hurry down the chimney tonight.

Think of all the noobs I’ve dissed,
And think of all the girls that I could have kissed—
But I stayed home, exercising my dome,
And getting sore bums, sore thumbs, sore wrists (from Xbox…)

Santa Baby, I wouldn’t turn my back on a Wii—plus three (or four)
Nunchuck controllers and games, Santa Baby,
And hurry down the chimney tonight.

Santa Baby, a DVR—and just for the kicks: Netflix.
I gotta see all my shows, Santa Baby,
So hurry down the chimney tonight!

Come and fill my messenger bag
With leftover Gizmodo and Engadget swag!
I really do believe in you—
Like Rudolph and Frosty,
And Fake Steve Jobs, too!

Santa Baby, just one more and I’ll leave you alone: iPhone.
I’d even go for a clone, Santa Baby,
And hurry down the chimney tonight!
Hurry down the chimney tonight!
Hurry … Tonight!

People who know the secret password can e-mail me with requests for the entire "album" (basically just a print version of all the songs); people that don't know the secret password will just have to come back here for future posts in which I highlight some (BUT NOT ALL) of the other songs.

Enjoy, peeps!

Geek out.

2006-09-08T13:02:00.000-07:00

Split Personality

None of what you are going to read from here on out will make any sense unless you are informed, by me, that I have a split personality--an alter-ego, if you will. Ha! As though I needed any more ego, right? Am I right? Who's with me? High five!

Here's the thing: Ever since I first got onto the intarweb, I have used the name Philip Nolan on just about everything I have filled out: surveys, registrations, forums, and so forth. It is a privacy thing. I want to know before I open any e-mail or regular mail whether the person sending it has any idea who I REALLY am. When I see a letter for Philip Nolan, I know that it was generated by either a computer or a salesperson--or a computer salesperson, I suppose. Or a sales-computer...son.

Anyway, now I have begun to refer to Phil as a real person. In fact, I have imbued Phil with most of my creative personality. If I do a drawing that is particularly awesome, I say that Phil did it, and even though I sign it with my real initials, I still refer to it as Phil's.

That's creepy enough, but lately I have had the insane notion that Phil and I make a great team: a writer and an artist. I thought of having us review webcomics, or create a comicbook together, or some other type of creative endeavor.

I have only recently come to my senses and realized that I need expensive psychological help.

So, it is with a mixture of sadness and pride that I introduce you to Phil: the next few posts on this site will be artwork by Phil, and I hope that you are entertained. Furthermore, I have changed the link on the right to direct you to "Phil's" artwork page instead of the aborted blog "ScribCrib" (in case you weep for its demise). Also, if you want to send me money to get my head examined (or Phil's), I will start a jar on my desk called "The Bellevue Fund" and post periodic updates on how the money has been spent to un-addle my brains.

I'm feeling the love already.

2006-05-16T09:20:00.000-07:00

Road-Geekery?! Is It a Hobby? Then That’s Okay.

Geeky hobbies, a-hoy! Today, we’re talking about the word “hobby,” which is almost synonymous (in usage, though not origin or derivation) with “geekery,” making it a fine topic, I think, for a column called GeekCast.

Furthermore, I would like to hear from people who have fascinating hobbies that they feel could or should be added to the following list. I chose these based on their absurdity and/or level of personal interest I felt for them while researching popular (perhaps even “geeky”) hobbies on the intarweb. Ready? Let’s go:

Beekeeping (“I like my women like I like my coffee—covered in bees!”)
Dog Breeding (One of those things the filmstrip at school said not to try at home.)
Crochet/Knitting/Embroidery (The only activities involving needles that one may SAFELY pursue.)
Origami (“It’s a pterodactyl—KRRAW! KRRAW!”)
Painting
Pottery
Woodworking
Collecting—or Antiquing if you’re sensitive about it—lunch boxes, books, rocks, bottle caps, playing cards, Pez dispensers, comic books, Zippo lighters, etc.
Building Model Airplanes or Dollhouses
Computer Animation
Modding or Hacking Computers (It’s got a nice “illegal” feel to it; we’ll talk about that later.)
Ham Radio
Writing (Anything from epic novels to steamy fanfiction!)
Gaming (Anything from card games to board games to RPGs to MMORPGs to LARPing—I’m talking to you, Civil War Re-enactment buffs!)
Micro-brewing
Geocaching
Languages
Astronomy
Rock Climbing (Motto: “Because it’s there.”)
Photography
Sculpture
Caricature (“Oh yeah? One time I drew a nose that was THIS big!”)
Sports and Sports Fanaticism
And last, but not least—wait for it, people—RoadGeeking.

I know you want to know about RoadGeeking RIGHT NOW—BEFORE WE GO ANY FURTHER, which is why I listed it last. It’s a new word, it sounds obscure enough that it can’t possibly be anything mainstream (which doesn’t necessarily make it indie, but there’s an alluring chance), and plus I listed it last, so it’s stuck in your head. Get it out! Get it out!

Relax, people. It’s basically road-tripping. However, RoadGeekers are more interested in the trip (the “getting there, man”) than in the destination. A RoadGeek is like a Buddhist monk of the road, always questing for that ultimate spiritual journey: the road-trip to nowhere. (Actually, I think that probably makes Jack Kerouac the godfather of that particular hobby.) I imagine possible RoadGeekers as people who slave away in cubicles like mine pulling ten- or twelve-hour shifts during the week so that they can hit the road early on Friday and spend the weekend seeing the countryside.

And what a hobby! Can you imagine the clubs? The dues? The meetings?

The Roadgeek Convention? Where would they hold it?

“Right, we’re gonna meet in Partridge Grove, Connecticut on Tuesday; then we’ll meet in San Caleo, California on Saturday—no rush, we’re not commuters here, people! After that, it’s up to Boseman, Montana on Wednesday, and we’ll finish up the convention in Gerkitwake—you remember that little village we hit in ’96—up near Whitehorse, Yukon Territory, Canada. First one there’s a real weenie.”

I want a T-Shirt already, and I haven’t even read everything I can find on the subject. I have so many questions—I’m like a RoadGeek Padawan.

For example: Is it road-geeking if you just get lost for a few days because you refuse to stop and ask directions? I think the time I navigated an inadvertent road-trip to North Carolina should count, especially if these RoadGeeks tally their miles. I don’t want to brag, but I’ve been known to turn a three-hour trip into a six-hour trip—and that’s when I’m not even trying.

Also: Is it road-geeking if you just sit at home and plan out trips that you never take? If so, I could count hours and hours spent planning out a looping, drunken course across “these United States” that would take me through Texas (Shawn, April, Kristin), Utah (Dave, Adam, Jeremiah), Nevada (Cameron, Jueneta, Will), California (Sarah, Rich, Scott H.), Oregon (Leticia, Scott B.), Washington (Mike, Desiree), and Idaho (Nolan, Barbara & Co.), not to mention a few other states where I don’t know anyone at all—will I ever see the Twin Cities, Chicago, or Boston?! At this point in my life, nothing is certain.

And another question: What if you’re not actually going ANYWHERE AT ALL!? Perhaps RoadGeek Boot Camp goes something like this:

“For the next week, we’re just going to circle the city—everybody hop on 295 and just Ring-Around-the-Rosie until you get sick. Last one off wins! We’re allowed one pit-stop every six revolutions, and a two-hour dinner each evening at a location chosen by the lead vehicle. Monday’s lead vehicle is Jim in the Nissan supercab, so you can probably count on those guys picking Chili’s again. Radio in when you’re stopping so we can time you—if it takes you more than one revolution to catch up, you’re drinking too many fluids!”

If RoadGeeking just sounds like endless driving to you, then you’re missing the bigger picture, I think!

Think of the comforts these people must bring along. You can’t just take off in your Yugo with a hoody sweatshirt and a bottled water—this isn’t a nature walk! RoadGeeking requires preparation, and by preparation I mean snacks! (Not too many; we’re not trying to turn this into the week-long search for every rest stop in the tri-state area.) Where do you strike the perfect balance of energy, nutrition, and fiber? How much lemon in your drink is TOO much—enough to slake the thirst, but not so much that you need a belly full of water to undo the after-taste? I’m sure these are questions to ponder ... for a RoadGeek.

What about the vehicle? A mini-van can seat more people comfortably, but it guzzles gas and would require more stopping; a Geo Metro gets great gas mileage, but it would fold you up like a taco all day, and that means cramping not only legs but stomach muscles—oh, the indigestion!

Do RoadGeeks enjoy the sights along the way—or are they too centered on the transitory experience? Would a RoadGeek make a detour to see the World’s Largest Ball of Twine? Would a RoadGeek pull over at the Grand Canyon to take the inevitable picture of someone pretending to pee off the edge? (We hope he is pretending.) Or would the ultimate RoadGeek simply thrill to the feel of the asphalt thrumming away beneath the tires? Would he become a connoisseur of road conditions, gushing over the stretches of highway in Kansas that disappear perfectly straight all the way to the horizon, musing exasperatedly—yet lovingly—on the swerving, plunging Colorado passage through the mountains?

Are you a RoadGeek? Maybe you are, and you just don’t know it. Jeff Foxworthy says—and he is not exactly the voice of one who cries in the desert, but he spoke true at least once by my count—that it is every man’s dream to walk into the house after a long road trip and declare, “Made it in five hours, eighteen minutes!” as though declaring an Olympic Moment in History. I feel this thrill when the trip from our porch to Grandma’s porch takes less than two hours, fifty-eight minutes—our personal best. “Lay thou the ancient laurels upon me, for I have bested that which was the best!” (It’s iambic, people; you can check.)

If all this rambling has a point, I am afraid that I have run out of time today to tell it. Therefore I declare this to be ...

THE FIRST-EVER TWO-PART GEEKCAST!

Stay tuned for more Hobby-Geekery on this channel.

2006-05-12T07:50:00.000-07:00

Political Geekery: When Geeks Attack

It’s about the wire-tapping, people. Skip it if you want. I’m no pundit; in fact, I may just be getting in way over my head here, but ... here goes.

I feel like I have nothing to fear from the government reading my e-mails or listening on my phone—and what makes me feel even more secure is the ridiculousness of the notion that the government would ever monitor MY communications. “Mark that; that’s four calls from his wife in one day—this guy is hen-pecked. He’s our terrorist-in-the-making, alright.” (That's a joke, honey.)

Does anyone really believe in this daffy chimpanzee-at-the-wheel that we've made Bush out to be? Does anyone really see their congress-person as some kind of cartoonish super-villain, making secret plans in a secret lab to undermine their citizenship and rights? Oh, don't get me wrong; I'm irked that these guys make decisions about Social Security but don't have to live on it like the rest of us, but do I think they're acting completely heedless of their constituency? Do I believe the President of the United States is spending his time in the White House trying to bring the whole country down around our ears?

I know it'll get me stoned—probably right here, right now—but I have faith in the officials we elected. And we DID elect them. I don’t care WHAT the ballot was shaped like—butterflies, clowns, tentacled aliens—a vote is a vote, so look a little closer in 2008, people.

I think the underlying fear here—paranoia, really—comes from the fact that we have a government that is designed to be run by the people but is actually NOT being run by the people. We've got a low voter-turn-out, poor attendance at community government meetings, disinterest in the real news (only stuff that bleeds or dies for me, okay? no local issues or budget run-downs!), and a tendency to spend what precious time we dedicate to debating government policy ... on character-smearing the current guy in office.

This wire-tapping issue is a great example. I would like to know how people would feel about a society where every message you send, every phone call you make, every letter you write, and every forum post like this had to contain—or link to—your name, age, gender, race, weight, political affiliation, work history, voting record, criminal record, and favorite color. Imagine the controversy there! Whole forums where "people who like the color green" are not welcome because they can't be trusted!

Maybe we just have this innate need to believe that this information is more important than it actually is. It’s like the guy who refuses to tell you what he does for a living so that he can persist in the illusion that his work is top-secret. We taught ourselves to fear this kind of 'intrusion' by the government.

Intrusion? Do you know how easy it is to go read someone’s e-mail? About as easy as reading someone’s blog—you send your mail out over the INTERNET, people. Gosh, wouldn't it be embarrassing if someone were reading this post right now, hearing me sound like a total political lightweight? I can picture them now, shaking their heads and making a mental check-mark next to "doesn't have anything useful to say."

So, that’s my point, I guess: isn't our privacy just sort of an illusion anyway? We feel like we are sheltered and protected—or we feel like we are anonymous and distanced—when in reality we may be living next door to a terrorist, or we may be the victims of identity theft right now and not know it ... or we may be mouthing off in a blog or a forum to someone who turns out to be our eighth grade gym teacher.

Mr. Chowns, is that you?

Anyway, what I meant to say is that it doesn't bother me to know (or suspect) that someone is reading my mail when I'm actually more worried about someone hijacking my credit cards ... or bombing my church. And maybe by letting some shades-sporting-suit read my mail (and my creepy neighbor's) I might escape both of those fates. Answer me a couple of questions, people:

1. I thought the Right to Privacy--that has been debated recently in the courts—turned out to be an interpretative fallacy of some sort; I am reading up on it right now, but I thought I would throw it out there. Does the Constitution ever actually guarantee a Right to Privacy?

2. And I was led to believe—perhaps erroneously—that e-mail surveillance was done by computers scanning for word combinations rather than a team of people sitting around and sifting through e-mails one-by-one. Isn't that a little different than having someone actually looking over your shoulder when you type?

I know I'm not the only one who feels this way about the level of privacy I should expect from the government.

I think about elementary school—teachers are expected to look through children's backpacks to find notes from parents or homework or lunch money because the kids are just six years old; and then in middle school and high school we are told that we don't have any expectation of privacy in our lockers because the school owns them and we should expect to have them searched in the event of a drug investigation or a bomb scare; and then once we get to college, we just sort of expect to graduate to complete independence and anonymity. No one should ever check up on us again, right?

Well, brace yourselves for some pretty radical thought here, people: I think there should be more than an AGE requirement for rights like that. We require people to list criminal convictions on job applications, we take a medical history before admitting a patient, we do background checks for government jobs and firearm permits, and we "Google" ... well, we Google just about anyone for any reason—or no reason at all—why?

I mean, why do we do these things if we value privacy so much?

I think it's because we know that just because someone has survived to adulthood doesn't mean that they are responsible enough to carry a firearm. And just because the kid is eighteen doesn't mean that he has given careful consideration to the vote he's about to cast. And just because he passed a driving test doesn’t mean he knows when he’s had enough to drink. And just because he's married with two kids and goes to soccer games doesn't mean that he's not spending evenings and early mornings assembling bombs in his basement.

I believe in allowing people freedoms—but I don’t believe in allowing everyone every freedom all the time. We need to earn certain freedoms; that means monitoring the level of personal responsibility until we can be reasonably sure that a person can be trusted. And if the freedom is abused, it can be taken away. We do it with drivers’ licenses—not enough of the time, but somewhat—but we can’t do it with e-mail privacy? (Besides, if you really have something that personal and private to say, shouldn’t you be saying it in person, big boy? Get a room!)

Is the government also opening snail-mail? Not that I’ve heard, but I don’t have my ear to the ground in any real sense. Try writing words on a page next time you’re feeling oh-so-secretive—oh, but I guess your mail might get sniffed by a dog somewhere, you know, in case there are drugs or a bomb in there. Is that an invasion of privacy, too? I have to admit that most of the time I’m sniffed by dogs I feel as though I have been invaded. Better write your congress-person to let them know of your displeasure with the idea of your mail being sniffed by a police dog.

I just don’t get it. That’s all. I just don’t see what the big deal is. Read this, government snooping-software: I am no terrorist. I don’t care if you read my blog, my phone records, my mail or anyone else’s. Do what you think is reasonably necessary to find the next “holy vigilante” planning to rock my world in the name of his deity.

As soon as I say something like that, someone is picturing a communist state, people living in poverty, police beating citizens and imprisoning them for months or years with little or no cause or provocation, information being rationed, filtered, or outright fabricated for us. Why? Is this the extreme to which we think this will come? Have we become so engorged on information, so self-important with our limited knowledge of these events that we can trace a direct path from cause to effect and predict the future?

I believe the pendulum swings. I believe that this wire-tapping crap is a shock and a hot-button for people now, but I believe that in a few years—or in a few minutes—either their attention will be diverted to some Hollywood incident (summer blockbusters, here we come!) or they will simply lose interest during the next presidential election campaigns—so much easier to rave about something when it’s up-to-the-minute: you’re guaranteed to find a cozy spot online with a dozen or a hundred other hotheads where you can breed ideologies all day.

You know what might happen? They might discover that a cell of terrorists in Wisconsin (no offense, cheeseheads) was ferreted out by a piece of obscure mail-reading software ... and then the guy who lives next door to one of the zealots—the same guy who has spent hours each day touting the mysterious Right to Privacy—will likely not spare one kind word or begrudging bit of gratitude for his safety. He’ll go on saying that he “would have rather died a horrible death than endanger our beloved Constitution” and so forth. It’s always easier to say once the guy is behind bars.

You know what’s easier to do BEFORE the guy is behind bars? Tell yourself that you’re safe, and stagnate in your complacency. Try it! It’s pretty easy on the stomach!

Maybe the best thing to come out of this wire-tapping nonsense is heightened public awareness—if you can call it that. I’d better stop before I start making fun of people who go foaming at the mouth over something before they have all the facts—because that hits a little too close to home for me.

2006-05-04T05:47:00.000-07:00

Metal Arms: Glitch In The System

For fans of the first-person-shooter--read "Halo groupies"--there is an underrated game out there that you're missing. When I say that you're missing it, I really mean: you don't know what you're missing.

Ignorance really is bliss, and so I should probably not even tell you about this game, if only to spare you the anxiety of deciding whether to risk your hard-earned cash on it, followed by the solid week of torment it will take you to conquer the game. Picture yourself, a once-proud Master Chief already having tamed scores of Elites and Brutes--to say nothing of the floods of Flood--and fresh from visiting destruction on your friends in a wild array of multi-player match-ups. You are a demi-god of tactical weaponry, a sly crack-shot and a wisecracker. You fear nothing.

Now picture yourself approximately one-hundred-and-sixty-eight hours later, spittle flying from your mouth at the TV screen as you struggle for some explanation as to why you are coming in second place--again--to Vlax the Speedy (outrunning you through the ruins and holding the key to your destruction in his hands), or to the JunkBot King (the wheezing incarnation of industrial offal), or to General Corrosive (the dreadnought of the end-game) himself. It's not a pretty sight. Doubtless there are those of you out there who whisper inwardly, "He's exaggerating; anyone who has beaten Halo on Legendary as many times as I have will have no trouble dispatching these cartoonish morons he describes."

To these infidels, I say, "You know nothing of hell."

I know, I know, just get to the game already, right? Before I do, let me just say that I will confine my remarks here to the single-player experience; however, if you buy this game I will come to YOU to play the multi-player, which is worth another whole article.

First, a brief plot:

On planet Iron Star, a planet inhabited entirely by robots, a scientist named Dr. Exavolt is experimenting with super-robots: large, powerful, and apparently unstoppable. Inevitably, one gets out of control, and Dr. Exavolt goes missing, his lab in ruins. The super-robot he was working on--Corrosive--declares himself General Corrosive, and the battle for control of the planet begins.

Running out of robots to fuel the front lines of this planetary war, a colonel and his rag-tag forces stumble upon a scrapped robot, re-boot him, label him "Glitch," and enlist him in the battle close to home: Droid Town. Mils, the military robots under the command of Corrosive, are everywhere, destroying any resistance robot that surfaces. As Glitch, you are primarily concerned--at first--with exterminating enough of these trigger-happy trolls to keep Droid Town on the map.

In both games, the player learns to perform certain functions faster--such as switching guns or reloading--and both games force the player to use different tactics or tools to approach each new setting. Another similarity is the stepping-up of weapons and vehicles throughout the game. You're not handed everything at once.

"Yeah, so how is it different from Halo?" Good question.

Metal Arms vs. Halo

In Halo, there is little actual thinking involved; it is chiefly a game of reflexes, speed, and accuracy. Halo can be played mindlessly, shooting everything that moves. You are not even given a map because the landscape requires you to move from point A to point B in a particular pattern in order to encounter each wave of Covenant forces. Oh, don't misunderstand me: there's nothing WRONG with that!

However, while self-defense remains a priority throughout both games, there is a strong element of problem-solving in Metal Arms that is absent from Halo. Metal Arms requires you to pay attention; several moments in the game will stump you--literally halting your progress until you figure out what you missed. There are switches and doors, hidden items to acquire, and carefully planned moments of extreme vulnerability--no stock-piling ammunition in this game, at least not for the first twenty levels. (Oh yeah, there are over fifty levels.) I could tell you some stories about Metal Arms--but they'd be real spoilers, folks.

The problem-solving could be a turn-off for some. After all, it's hard to think while manipulating TWO weapons and just TWO types of grenades! Why, that's FOUR things you have to keep up with--and now someone's going to ask you to think? In Metal Arms, you have half-a-dozen types of grenades, a dozen or more weapons (that you can carry with you instead of choosing which one to put down everytime you pick one up), and on top of the usual amount of indecision--which weapon is gonna really demolish this scumbag--they ask you to examine the landscape, make decisions before you act, and figure out problems that may send you all the way back to the beginning of a level.

"Yeah, yeah, we get it, the game requires a brain. Tell us about the GUNS."

Hold on a sec. This isn't just some shooter. Think outside the Halo, here, people.

Not only does Metal Arms boast more weapon-types than Halo, the weapons UPGRADE as you go. Each new level guarantees an almost RPG-like improvement on your little robot and his sidearms. Here are just a few examples:

Upgrades

More batteries: As you fight, your battery winds down and must be recharged; but as you journey through the levels you find additional batteries! Not just additional energy--additional batteries! So, although you start with one battery and have to recharge it over and over, by the end of the game you acquire six batteries and need recharging less frequently.

More weapons: Obviously the mining laser they give you at the beginning of the game is a piece of stuff, so you acquire some brilliantly conceived weaponry as you go. My favorite: the rivet gun. So sweet. Distant seconds: the rocket launcher, the flame-thrower, the SPEW (don't ask), and the slingshot. Oh, yes. There's a slingshot. But, what do you sling? Grenades. (Just stop reading and go buy it, people.)

Weapon upgrades: Even the first-level rivet gun is tight, to be sure. But when you get to that third-level gun with the super-scope and the ability to time the explosion of the bolts ... it almost brings a tear to your eye. Upgrading the weapons means three things: the power or calibre of the amunition, the distance and accuracy (including the scope), and the amount of amunition that can be carried with it.

Gears: Your robot, Glitch, can have gears added to him that allow him to move faster, switch weapons faster, and so forth. Your own reflexes will do this job well enough, I'm sure, but think of the gears as well-deserved recognition.

Shopping: You know what else is missing from Halo? The opportunistic Covenant guy who hides out with a bunch of stolen stuff and sells it to the highest bidder. Well, Metal Arms didn't miss out on this action! Two guys named Shady and Mister Pockets have an arsenal of weapons, upgrades, and other useful items to sell, and they pop up a dozen times throughout the game. You can hear their boom-box playing sometimes, and if you're hard up for bullets or computer chips--or if you just want to see if you can turn your mining laser into an explosive cannon of dismemberment--you follow the sound of the boom-box until you find them hanging out behind a bunker or in a tunnel. Pockets sets up his table and you buy what you need.

What do you use for cash?

Washers. Basically the harvested remains of the legions of lugnuts you have recently dispatched. Pick them up along the way--or find a cheat code online--and you can buy almost anything you need from those two bottom-feeders. Anyone getting a really strong Thenardier-vibe from that?

Triggers

Another big difference between Metal Arms and Halo is the way that weapons are controlled by the triggers. Your right trigger is your primary weapon, your left trigger is your secondary weapon; that much the two games have in common. In Metal Arms, however, you have a much wider selection of weapons (mostly grenades, yes, but wait for it) devoted to that left trigger; also, the way in which you can scroll through and match up your primary and secondary weapons in Metal Arms leaves Halo in the cold. Not only can you pair up your weaponry choices before going around that corner, but get this: you can program your preferences and dual-switch on the fly!

Let me repeat that: you can program your weapon selections and switch them on the fly--both at the same time--in the heat of battle. If I need rocket-launcher-plus-cleaners for one room, but I will need SPEWs-plus-EMP-grenades for the next room (and you will ... you will) I can stand in the hall, pair up the first set, program my flat-pad for one-touch switching, pair up the next set, program the flat-pad, and then do TWO MORE sets. Here are my typical settings:

Up: SPEW-plus-coring-charges
Right: Scatter-blaster-plus-EMPs
Down: Rivet-gun-plus-super-scope*
Left: Rocket-launcher-plus-cleaners
*The super-scope in this game is a left-hand weapon that you can add to MOST of your weapons, turning them into deadly-accurate tools instead of just sprays of ineffectual ammo (cough) ASSAULT RIFLE (cough).

I can be heavily engaged with a squad of Mils on the ground using my SPEW, one-tap to rockets to take out the giant-flying-thing that I'm not even going to explain in this article, one-tap to rivets for disarming the sentries at a distance, and then back to SPEWs all in a few seconds (no complicated scrolling or button-combinations), and I don't even need to stop shooting! In some levels, the variety of enemy robots you face requires this much planning. Like I said, it's not Halo--but like Halo, when you need a particular weapon, someone drops it or gives it to you. Or you just pry it out of their cold, dead hands. (These are robots, people. Their hands are always cold.)

Weapons

And, oh, the weapons that they give you. Just the highlights, people, or we'll be here all day--and then there would be no glorious surprises in the game:

Rivet Gun: This is like the pistol from the original Halo. It's accurate up-close and from a distance, can be used with the scope, and in the final stage of its upgrade ... its ammunition becomes remotely controlled explosive devices. Open up a can of that.

Slingshot: Another innovation that Halo didn't have--although rocket launchers was apparently good enough for most of us--was a grenade launcher. The slingshot in MA is for accurately launching grenades across great distances. It is pivotal for at least one level of the game--but for the rest of the game it is just fun! I might even go as far as to say ... super-fun!

Scatter Blaster: No game is complete without a shotgun. Halo taught us that. In fact, for the group I play with, it becomes the coveted weapon all too quickly. That is what the Scatter Blaster is for MA. Ah, but what can you NOT do in Halo? You can't turn that shotgun into an automatic! On the third upgrade, not only is the Scatter Blaster the most powerful punch you can deliver ... it also repeats at three blasts per second, delivering a veritable air-quake of lead to your enemies. Hey, you're gonna need it when you reach the JunkBot King.

And the weapon that's the clincher ...

The Tether: On your side in this war is a guy named Crunk who is a foul-mouthed mechanic--don't worry, they bleep him--and Crunk has designed a weapon called The Tether that allows you to "hack" into another robot. You sneak up on a robot, shoot this "tether" into his D-port (an interface usually located high on their shoulder or neck), and suddenly you are INSIDE the robot, running it by remote control. The best part of some of these levels is hacking into robot after robot--the bad guys--and then using them as cannon fodder for breaking down the enemy lines--their own lines! Enemy robots keep coming up to you and saying, "Where are you going? What are your orders? You're breaking ranks!" And just about the time they figure it out, you open fire! It's like toasting marshmallows.

Grenades

Just the variety of grenades--that alone--should be enough to entice you away from Halo. If there was one thing I would change about Halo, it would be the boring choices of grenades. One bounces off stuff, the other sticks. Great. Take a lesson from Metal Arms, Bungie!

Here are (again, just the highlights) a few of the grenades available in MA:

EMP grenades: How useful would these be in Halo?! They shut down anything electrical in a certain radius. To me, that means we'd all be defenseless--no shields--but guess what? Only my gun would be working--that beautiful antique Sulu described as "lead pellets fired from a chemical explosion"--and you know what that means? Pistol party!

Magma grenades: Sort of like a Molotov cocktail. Let your imagination run wild on that for a minute.

Cleaners: These are actually small, flying robots that deliver (on your instructions) targeted missiles to one or two of your adversaries while you remain safely hidden, perhaps laughing and imagining the look on his face. All you have to do is get one tiny glimpse of the guy you want obliterated in order to target him; then you get back in cover and toss the cleaner out--in any direction--and it homes in on the guy, flies up above him a little in the air and then delivers your "message" like a pigeon delivers its tidings to a statue. Fun is had all around.

And last, but not least ... wait for it ...

Recruiter grenades: In order to keep the game from becoming a slice of pie, these only work on certain types of robots. What do they do? They put every robot in a certain radius on YOUR side indefinitely. Toss one near a Titan--the juggernaut of the game for about the first ten levels, until you reach the really BIG robots--and suddenly everyone's screaming and running away from your new best friend. (I think I'll name him "Smashy!")

The Morbots

I don't want to ruin this game for you completely, but there is also a mysterious element to Metal Arms--which they never dispel--and that is the origin of Glitch himself. He is different from the other robots, and he has markings on him that suggest he belongs to a race of robots called the Morbots, who live deep in the planet. When you journey underground to the land of the Morbots, the scenery alone will impress you just as much as Halo's does.

Okay, that's enough of my yap. This game took me longer to play, gave me more to talk about, and engaged my mind more than Halo. I think the only reason it's a sleeper hit is that Halo launched in a package with the XBox--everyone got hooked. If Metal Arms had been packaged with the original XBox, I think we would all be waiting around for Metal Arms III right now.

Go find this game and thank me when you surface from it.

2006-04-28T05:05:00.000-07:00

"What is LOVE?! Baby, don't HURT me--don't HURT me--NO more!"

Warning: This post is not very geeky--in fact, it's pretty much just a big ball of sissy today. (Just like that love letter to my wife I made you read last time.) If you're a real man, scroll to the bottom of the page right now--or duck--because this post is going to get a little touchy-feely.

This post wasn't inspired by the Haddaway song quoted above--a song that will now forever more be associated with Will Ferrell and Chris Kattan bopping their heads at the Roxbury--BUT THAT'S NOT WHAT'S IMPORTANT HERE, PEOPLE! (Although, if you haven't seen the Will Ferrell movie Anchorman, now is a good time to just stop reading and go rent it. I forgive you.)

What's important here, people, is that a lesson is learned, and a heart ... just might be saved. Maybe yours. I don't know. We'll just have to see. (I don't need this kind of pressure.)

On my way to work I heard (on the radio) the poignant tale of a teenager who expressed her love to her steady date--I just can't bring myself to use the word 'boyfriend' even though that's what she called him, because of what comes next--she actually said to him the words, "I love you," and what did he say in return?

Nothing. "Really? He didn't say anything?" Nope. Nothing. "Did he do anything?" Just sat there. "Really!" Really.

Oh, the pain! Oh, the humiliation! Did he have an aneurysm? Did he just freeze? Did his brain lose the connection to his mouth for a full minute?

Apparently, yes. That is what happened. This boy--who had been seeing this girl socially for some time now, who had been partaking of her affections, who had probably been TELLING HIS FRIENDS THAT THEY DID "IT" (when in fact neither of them, according to her, has ever done "it"--thank goodness)--this boy could not think of ANYTHING to say to her.

For those of you still in the dating pool, perhaps a list of possible responses would be helpful:

1. "Thanks."
2. "That's really nice."
3. "Wow! Sweet!"
4. "ZOMGWTHROTFLMAO!" (Totally.)
5. "I love U2!" (It doesn't mean what she thinks it means, but AT LEAST IT FILLS A MOMENT, YOU INSENSATE BLOB OF DUMB! Also, Joshua Tree still rules. Woot!)

"Wait, what about the poor girl? Does she still date him?" No, they have broken up recently. "Was that the night that ended things?" No, although apparently it was--according to the girl--a "big sign" that something was wrong. ('Yes,' I was thinking in my car, 'sort of like the old shut-down screen that said "It is now safe to turn off your computer." That kind of sign.' I suppose it was like looking at him and seeing written in his eyes the words, "It is now safe to see other people.")

At the end of this radio-phone-call-confession-story, I was moved by two things:

1. The offhand way in which the girl told the story ("I will survive! I will survive!" she was singing inside, I imagined); and

2. The dawning realization that there were hundreds--nay, thousands--of other girls out there listening to this brave soul talk about her experience. What did they think? What were they learning? What did they go away with?

I asked myself--not as a girl, though sometimes I have to admit I feel pretty, oh so pretty, I feel pretty and witty and ... where was I?

No, I asked myself, "If I were a teenager again, what would this caller be teaching me?"

Is it a warning? [Don't put yourself out there, because more than likely she'll just pull the rug right out from under you. Remember GREASE? The Drive-In?!]

Is it a commiseration? [We've all been there, soldier. Scared, alone, a handful of bullets between you and grisly death--but you just KEEP AT IT! When you need it, the courage will come.]

Is it an indictment? [The next time you look at someone of the opposite sex, you remember this: Men are from Mars, and Women are from Venus--and right now they are PLANETS AT WAR!]

It sounded like she had grown a little aloof, a little guarded after this experience. Is that how it sounded to other girls? So, maybe the next girl, like Tina Turner, goes all cynical and surgically removes emotion from the equation altogether--after all, what DOES "love" have to do with it? Who really needs a heart ... when a heart can be broken?

Well, I'm with Tina--by which, of course, I mean I WISH I was with Tina. Oh, Tina. Leggy, leggy Tina. Mmm. What was I saying?

Oh, yeah--I'm with Tina on this one! Telling someone you love them is just like handing them a weapon that they can use against you! It's no wonder people are nervous about their love being returned! I know if I gave someone a gun, I'd want to make sure I got it back--and not just the bullets!

So, here comes adolescence with all its pitfalls, foibles, and fairy tales. What do we do? We play-act at being adults in every social interaction, pretending to a sophistication and self-confidence that is a delicate facade covering innocence and vulnerability. Inevitably the day comes when we are confronted with a very scripted situation--straight out of the movies or off of TV--where her line is, "I love you," and our line (your line, my line) is to say, "I love you, too."

What are you supposed to do? Do what is expected of you?

Perhaps this boy--this jerk who put the callous on that poor girl's heart--perhaps he should be COMMENDED for his actions. Inactions. Inaction. Whatever.

Maybe we should just be glad that he DIDN'T say, "I love you, too." Isn't that called honesty? In a situation like that, isn't honesty the lesser of two evils--one being his utter silence and the other being something, I don't know, like the dread lord of darkness rising amid the howling winds, surrounded by his flapping minions and cloaked in the icy half-light of a waning moon--

Lost my place again. Sorry. But seriously, didn't you feel angry at the boy in the story at first? Didn't you sympathize with the girl? Didn't you really FEEL the words to that Haddaway song? But you can see where this guy was trapped, right? Personally, I think it's amazing he DIDN'T try to play this scene out, looking for some kind of pay-off for mouthing words he wasn't really feeling. Boys are all perverts, aren't they? It's no wonder there are girls out there who really believe that every guy who says "I love you" is just after one thing. You know what I mean. (I mean sex.)

So, I've had a change of heart. Maybe the best thing that schmuck could possibly have said ... was nothing at all. Maybe it hurt for a while; maybe it never stops hurting. At least they moved on with their lives, found other love, and earned a little hope for better things in the future. Possibly the most valuable thing to come out of all this is the knowledge that there IS life after love. Sing it, Cher.

Whoo! Finished. Okay, back to manly crap like guns and drills. (I swear, one of these days they'll rename this the GayCast.)

2006-03-30T06:29:00.000-08:00

Chocolate Milk...Sweet, Sweet Chocolate Milk

You can’t know me without knowing how much I love chocolate milk. I love milk on its own in a whole different way, but chocolate milk…just matters to me, somehow. It’s almost a religious devotion for me—which is blasphemy, I'm sure—and it probably means that I am psychologically dependent on it, but I don't care! I swear that I LOVE chocolate milk!

I like chocolate. M&Ms, kisses, chocolate chips—they’re great, don’t get me wrong.

But I LOVE chocolate milk. (I am going somewhere with this.)

I have tried many different kinds; I have experimented with different food-and-chocolate-milk combinations; and I have scientifically proportioned the amount of chocolate syrup to milk in each of the types of glasses in my home so that when I pick a glass I pour the perfect amount of milk and squeeze the perfect amount of chocolate syrup to create the perfect glass of sweet chocolate milk every time.

By the way, always spring for the real deal: Hershey’s, not store brand. Try as they might, stores make an inferior product. And unless you are five years old, it’s time to graduate from Nestle Quik, honey. Those of you out there who scoff and say that Hershey’s ruined chocolate for Americans can die a horrible death and rot. You…know…nothing. I’m not going to get on a rant about European chocolate, because that’s not what I started talking about.

Ready for the clincher, the point, the thrust of this article?

If I gave up chocolate milk, I would lose thirty pounds. Think about that. All I would have to do is drink a glass of water every time I normally drink a glass of chocolate milk. Tells you how often I imbibe, doesn’t it?

Try picking up a thirty-pound weight, or strapping it around your waist, and carrying it around with you all the time. I think you would tire of it long before you became accustomed to it. It is thirty pounds! It’s like being pregnant with twins! Imagine that this thirty pounds is the price now for whatever activity you really enjoy. If you put it down, that’s it: no more books, or no more internet, or no more video gaming. There is not much that you do on a daily basis which is so important to you that you would be willing to carry that thirty-pound weight with you ALL THE TIME, even when you are not actually engaged in your chosen activity.

Yet that is what I have chosen to do. I will not (WILL NOT) lose the weight—which I carry twenty-four hours a day—because I choose to engage in a few minutes of chocolate milk consumption each day. A little in the morning, a little in the evening. (Okay a lot in the morning, a little in the evening.)

I challenge anyone to try it! Take something that you really enjoy, and try giving it up completely (cold turkey) for an extended stretch; and every time you indulge, you have to take up the weight again. No fair sneaking a bit here or there and telling yourself it doesn’t count, ladies! Try swearing off the internet for a week, if that’s your thing. Place a canvas bag next to the computer, full of dumbbells. If you so much as log on, you have to carry the dumbbells for the rest of the week! You’ll either stay off the computer,…or you’ll cheat.

I have analyzed it six ways from Sunday (mmm…chocolate sundae), and I have arrived at the conclusion that I. Will. Never. Be. Thin. Again. I will never be thin again. And why? Because I love chocolate milk more than I love being thin.

This is not a “Feel Great While Looking Fat” article. I don’t feel great about being thirty pounds overweight. It’s tiresome and embarrassing.

This isn’t a “Conquer Your Inner Demons” essay either. I don’t expect anyone out there to believe I am on the verge of quitting chocolate milk anytime soon. Creamery coupons welcome and appreciated, people! I also accept bouquets and baskets of Hershey's syrup, bottles of creamery chocolate milk, and anything else chocolate-milk-y you can find! (My birthday is in February, but don't stand on convention!)

Consider this more of a “Know Thyself” column. I have come to terms with the fact that I have forever sacrificed the skinny guy I once was for the mini-van model I’m sporting nowadays—all for the love of chocolate milk. And I have no regrets.

I’m tempting fate now by revealing this weakness! I know it! If this were a gripping movie, chocolate milk would kill my brother or my wife somehow, and I would hunt down every last drop of it to destroy it, once and for all! I would wear some ironic symbol, and I'd pass people in malt shops sipping away at chocolate milk...and I'd give them "the stare of justice"...right before bombing the place back to the stone age!

If this were a comic book, chocolate milk would somehow cause my downfall! I’d be caught, crippled by those extra pounds, in a trap so diabolical that the readers would light up the interweb with fan-fictions! T-shirts would sport both pro-chocolate milk and anti-chocolate milk slogans! Chocolate milk villains would fight bottled-water-superheroes in online role-playing games! "H2O powers--soak 'em!" "CACAO POW!"

If this were a television event, I would discover that I was lactose intolerant or diabetic or a (gasp!) CHOCOHOLIC! There would be an intervention, and the end of the movie would feature a painfully slow shot of me walking past the display of chocolate milk at the grocery store. A single tear would make its way down my face. I’d win an Emmy or something, and I’d end my acceptance speech with the poignant words, “Chocolate milk-free for one year as of today.” The stars of Hollywood would leap to their feet, applauding, little brown-and-white striped ribbons on their lapels in support of Chocolate Milk Addiction Awareness.

Whew! Thank goodness this is real life. I gotta go. There’s a fridge calling me.

It’s saying, “You're thirsty.”

2006-03-15T06:46:00.000-08:00

Thirty Things I Love About Heidi

This was supposed to be for Heidi's birthday--this year she turned twenty-nine for the SECOND time--but as I kept writing and writing it grew way beyond a list. Now it's practically a thesis on why I hit the lottery marrying her--and why the rest of you can just cry into your pillows because there will never be another one like her!

I'm about to just start talking and talking here, folks, so I suggest taking the phone off the hook, putting your feet up, and otherwise getting comfortable. The first one to whine, "Are we there yet?" gets a smack.

Part One: Family (See!? I even had to divide it up!)

1. Our first son, Jack. Future Robotic Engineer.
2. Our first daughter, Abby. Future Drama Queen.
3. Our second son, Joshua. Future Heartbreaker.

On 1 through 3: It's not just that we wouldn't have these three children if Heidi weren't such a courageous and determined mother; these children each bring joy to our lives because of the way they have been raised by Heidi. While I am away—feebly trying to win "the bread"—Heidi is tirelessly training up our two youngest (the oldest is in first grade now) in the disciplines of potty-training, manners, nutrition, first aid, and so forth. I come home and read one story to them, and suddenly I'm some sort of hero, but Heidi is there twenty-four-seven. Wow! Which brings us to...

4. Baby on the Way: No, this isn’t an announcement. It’s more like a foregone conclusion. Everybody knows—or will know now—that we don’t plan to stop having children, especially when our kids just get cuter and cuter! In fact, maybe I should just announce numbers 5, 6, and 7 while I’m at it, huh?

5. Patience: Nine years, people; ten if you count the year we dated. There ought to be a medal awarded by the President of the United States himself. I'm not saying it's difficult being married to me, but I wouldn't marry me--not if I knew back then what I know now!

6. Boundless Love: Knowing that three kids and umpteen fish and plants weren’t enough to use up all the love and patience Heidi has, we got a dog last year. Woof!

7. Forgiveness: Did I mention we got a dog last year? Woof.

8. Understanding: Sometimes Heidi gives me that look that says, “I don’t know what is the matter with you, and I’m not sure I want to know.” That’s a good thing to me, because understanding someone sometimes means not needing an explanation.

9. Consideration: I can’t explain this one; see number eight. It's mainly that she goes out of her way to be understanding about some things even BEFORE the fact--like she's somehow sensing the possibility of tension in the future, and avoiding it.

10. Commiseration: Sometimes you just need to know that someone is—or has been—as miserable as you are. I know Heidi feels my pain—nine years, people!

A special note about 5 through 10: I think that when a relationship falls apart, it falls apart for the lack of one or more of these qualities; I witnessed these qualities in Heidi before we were married, and I've seen her exhibit them countless times since. She's going to make a wonderful mother to more than just the three children we currently have--if she didn't possess these qualities, I don't think we would have had these three, let alone more.

Part Two: Home

11. Our Home: With characteristic modesty, she will say that she does not do as good a job as she would like to do taking care of our home. Well, I think she's doing a great job. No need to rehash here all the jobs a stay-at-home mother does; suffice it to say that Heidi does them all and does them well.

12. Our Dreams: It's an important distinction to say that Heidi's dreams are "our dreams" instead of just "her plans for our family." We have always wanted the same things, and we work hard together to make those things happen.

13. Creativity: You should see this girl scrapbook--or teach children--or build an art center and library for our children in the basement! Wow. Just...wow.

14. Work Ethic: I feel sad for all those couples out there who argue about who does how much more than the other; Heidi just sees something that needs to be done, so she does it. (She didn't learn that from me. My technique is to say, "Hey, Jack! You want to be 'in charge' of something?")

15. Lasagna: I know; lasagna is not a quality. Let’s just say that Heidi brought a lot more to the table (pun intended, ouch) than I did—when we married—in terms of palatable foods. Just the fact that she helped me graduate to meals involving more than three-step preparation will help keep me alive during those soon-to-come days when she kicks my lazy butt out for good. Oops! I’ve said too much!

Part Three: Work

16. Ambition and daring: Online entrepreneur, small business consultant, professional care provider, soccer mom. She's got it all. (And she's mine!)

17. Business sense: Thank goodness one of us has some.

18. Faith (In Me): It's one thing to dream big and go for it; it's another thing to fall and get back up again. It's not Heidi's falls that I'm talking about either--she has been there for me through career changes, moves, loss of family, and anything else that has knocked me down. Thanks to her, I got back up again.

Part Four: Fun

19. Those eyes, that smile, that walk, that voice: 'Nuff said, I think. Actually, no. Not enough said. I won't get into it here, but Heidi possesses certain "qualities" that have always attracted me to women; they're not the reasons that I asked her to marry me, but they sure do sweeten the deal. There. Now maybe I've embarrassed her enough.

20. Competitive spirit: Sure, we trade snippy comments when we play games; it's because we both have this competitive side. On the other hand, who wants to play Rook with a sissy?

21. Good taste in TV: You may think this shouldn't rank too high, but think about this: if you like the same shows, a one-hour TV show at the very least is one-hour spent sitting together, talking. If you don't like the same shows, a one-hour show is another hour separated from each other. Okay, so I have to put up with HGTV and Lifetime movies—as long as she doesn’t turn on that one channel(shudder).

...

Hey, people, come on! Are you still reading? I figured by this point, you'd have given up!

Single guys have stopped reading, because they're bored. "Ho-hum, some guy yakking about his wife, he's whipped, where are the cartoons?" Don't lie. You're thinking it; just go.

Single girls aren't buying even one third of this. "What a load of crap; he's after only one thing, and if I were her I'd check up on him! Any guy who sweet talks this much has something to hide, if you ask me!" Oh yeah? Well I DO have something to hide! I ... am a librarian!

Married men don't blog, so ... ahem.

Married women read about the first ten points and then printed this and threw it in their spouse's face, then stormed out of the house to give him time to try to figure out why he's in trouble.

If you don't fit into one of these categories ("Don't pigeonhole me!") then I'm sorry to tell you: this blog is over. I know, the title says "Thirty Things I Love About Heidi," but:

A. I can think of ten things I love about Heidi that can't go on any list anywhere, just out of sheer decency.

B. If you just can't live until you read the rest of the list, you're either OCD or reeeeeally desperate. Get a life.

C. I've been trying to post this thing for six weeks now--and as the great authors say: "Sometimes it ain't finished, but by golly it's done!" I ought to be hung for the twin crimes of missing my deadline and flat-out NOT POSTING for four weeks!

So, to make a long story short ("Too late!") I'm through here. Heidi, I love you.

Okay! Let's go to the presses, here, people! These papers don't deliver themselves!

2006-03-13T08:21:00.000-08:00

The Next Top Ten Webcomics According to Me

Yes, it's time for another edition of "WebComics I Want You to Read," otherwise entitled "People I Wish I Was If I Was A Cartoon Character." You didn't think there were only ten, did you? You did? Come on! I had to give you those other ten just to see if you were serious--this is the REAL top ten!

1. Wapsi Square by Paul "Pablo" Taylor

Monica Villareal works in a museum and has no love life--at first. Then she not only meets her boyfriend through her work, but she also inherits some mysterious beings from another era (why doesn't this ever happen to me in museums) who become her responsibility in the "real world"--one of whom is the Aztec God of Alcohol. I started reading this for the zany antics of Monica and her friends, but I stay for the next blow-you-away plot twist involving the past life of the planet we inhabit. Cute...and cursed. It's love at first click, people!

2. Saturday Morning Breakfast Cereal by Zach Weiner

Zach Weiner, I knight thee Sir Comedy-By-Misdirection! SMBC is a one-panel strip. In that one panel, you will be caught off guard by something funny. Then the caption will turn things around so fast you'll just be spinning and laughing like a drunk college student on Spring Break. Don't drink milk while reading this comic. Or do. But call us first. (Favorite strip: "Congratulations! It's a boy!" "What? You said you were getting an eye exam!" "Tee hee!")

3. Penny and Aggie by Gisele Lagace and T. Campbell

Don't have time to watch hours of teen drama unfold on the tube in the evenings? Try thirty seconds' worth unfolding on your monitor three times a week. It's good therapy for those of us still nursing the wounds from high school.

The two main characters are high school girls, and get ready, because here come the stereotypes: Penny is popular for her good looks; Aggie is popular for her mouth--which frequently runs away with her. If "one" is going to write about characters already so well defined by our teen culture, then "one" had better have original and insightful things to say. "One" does. That would be T. Campbell, who writes the strip and gives the characters depth.

Ms. Lagace draws, and does an equally brilliant job at that--one of the best drawn comics out there, in fact. Anyone can draw a geek or a gamer, but who can draw preppy chicks and cheerleaders--besides the "Archie" guy? Warning: this is a serial comic, and you will get hooked by a storyline. Just give in and bookmark it--you'll be back.

4. You'll Have That by Wes Molebash

Young married couples, take note: your lives are being recorded. That's what I thought when I started reading this comic. Sometimes Andy and Katie play something out that sounds cribbed from your own life--and that is why people read, right? ("We read to know we're not alone." Reference, anyone?) I think this one just plays along all the usual jokes about relationships and living with each other, but what's wrong with that? Lynn Johnston ("For Better or For Worse") has been doing it for years, and no one's after her with torches and pitchforks.

Andy and Katie are the married couple, and Steve and Emaline are the obligatory dating-couple-friends-of-the-married-couple. This is a casual comic for casual readers, but the art has a distinctive style and the jokes are at least a notch above bland. Would I steer you wrong?

5. 9 Chickweed Lane by Brooke McEldowney
6. Pibgorn by Brooke McEldowney

Those of you who read the first "top ten" list I put out will remember that there was an artist who snagged two spots there, also. You have to work extra hard to earn two spots, and Brooke McEldowney does. This guy can blow you away just by drawing a line. Just a line! Or by not drawing it! (No explanation here; you'll have to read a few of his Sunday strips to see what I mean. Oh, that Bill Watterson thinks he's so cool--show him how it's done, Brooke!)

He (that's right, "he", Brooke is a dude) draws the whimsical, romantic comedy "9 Chickweed Lane" about three generations of women in strange relationships, ranging in action from the surreal to the sublime. That's no exaggeration: there are stretches of unreality followed by heart-rending scenes of realism and dialogue, and sometimes you just--oh, you'll just have to read a week's worth, or a month's worth. Unfortunately, a month's worth is all you'll get unless you subscribe to it (for free!) because of the penny-pinching syndicate. On the other hand, if you're lucky enough to live in a state where it's still in the papers, well...bully for you!

"Pibgorn" is different. And that's an understatement. It's all about fairies and magical creatures, with some crossover characters from "Chickweed" thrown in. The original story followed a fairy named Pibgorn (pronounced pibe-gorn) as she fell in love with a mortal and got in some trouble with a succubus and...well, it's complicated. More recently, time was snapped in two and Mozart switched places with a twentieth-century piano teacher. There was also the time when the army captured Pibgorn and this mad scientist opened a hole in space--um...well, it's hard to explain.

This month--hurry over and see--McEldowney is remaking "A Midsummer Night's Dream" with the characters from both strips appearing in Pibgorn. The downside? He has switched to only posting Pibgorn on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. (Tiny tear.) Give it a look. McEldowney will amaze and astound.

7. Girls With Slingshots by Danielle Corsetto

Hazel writes a column for a magazine on the college-after-hours-twenty-something beat; her friend Jamie...does something I can't remember. And Hazel has a talking cactus. Man, I love comics like this! I don't think anyone reading this list is looking for a light of religious awakening to lead them out of darkness...and that's good, because besides being afflicted with "the demon drink" this comic also espouses the twin virtues of staying out late and cross-dressing.

This comic hasn't been around for long, so I suggest you read the whole thing from the beginning--it makes more sense that way, anyway. Warning: Hazel gets drunk, and a slingshot is NOT a slingshot. Also, the cactus wears a sombrero, but he talks with an Irish accent. If you can handle that, then proceed with all speed to Corsetto's site.

8. Full Frontal Nerdity by Aaron Williams

Completely unconcerned with being "cool" now that "geek" has become mainstream, Aaron Williams unveils the gamers at their best--or worst: around the actual gaming table. I'm not bothering with the specifics here: there are four of them, and they are not exactly Hemingway heroes. In fact, one of them isn't even really in the comic: he participates via webcam, and Williams never shows his face.

The motley crew plays Dungeons and Dragons mostly, although there are other games and trips to gaming conventions--and the odd holiday nod to keep in touch with the "real" world. Williams has some other webcomic credits, but either you know them already or you don't care. THIS comic is funny ONLY if you understand some of the references. If you understand ALL of the references, it's not funny at all. It's Mecca.

9. Pirate and Alien by Tyson Smith

Brand new strip catapulted into the top twenty by its brilliant dialogue.

Just kidding, it's all the pirate-y talk: shiver me timbers, walk the plank, and so forth. I don't know how he does it, but he does it; Tyson Smith made another endearing comic strip about an odd couple. Short version: when a pirate captain's crew mutinies and forces him to walk the plank, he is rescued from the open sea by a UFO, and he becomes the guest of an octopus-resembling space creature. The parrot is priceless. Read them all--there aren't that many. You'll laugh. (Free joke: What be a pirate's favorite letter, matey?)

10. "heart shaped skull" by Aaron Alexovich

Once again, rounding out the top ten is a comic on the edge. It can only be read from the beginning, and it will take a while, but you will be entertained, and here's why.

First of all, it starts out as a journal being kept by a juvenile delinquent witch with a small fanbase. As the story progresses, we start to see things from a third-person perspective, and we are introduced to Ms. Serenity Rose (the aformentioned witch) as well as her friends and fans (an important distinction, as she disdains the attention she gets from her "abilities"). The story-telling, in short, is apt.

Second, the artwork is distinctive--to say the least. It is at once childish and sophisticated. There is style and substance, broken up by pictures so silly and deliberately "drawn" that the whole thing stays just this side of an art project. In cave-speak: Me like art. Art good.

Third, although the whole comic seems darkly done, it rounds out (at the end of each of three episodes) with an ending that wouldn't keep a six-year-old awake at night. I don't know how to explain it any other way. It's creepy, but it stops short of evil: it's Nickelodeon Does Halloween.

Eh. Try it, don't try it, reply to this, don't reply to this. They're not payin' me anything.

P. S. Coming soon: The SECRET Top Ten--the ones I'm keeping from you. You're not ready yet, Skywalker. (Seriously.)

2006-03-10T06:26:00.000-08:00

“I’m thinking it over. Can I call you back?”

Hey, folks. Devil here. I’ve got a deal for you.

I’ve got a billion dollars burning a hole in my pocket. Happens every day. I’m like that guy on Brewster’s Millions; I’ve gotta use it or lose it. The trouble is…I run out of ways to spend it. Oh, sure, I could spread it around and do some good with it—

But that’s not my style. I think you know that.

No, my style is a bit more flamboyant these days. Spend it all in one place, that’s me! If I can find the right person, I can make dreams come true for everyone! (Including me.)

So…here’s the situation: there’s a billion dollars to be made today by someone—maybe you—if the price is right. The only question is, “What would you be willing to do for a billion dollars?”
Come on, people, let’s get creative here. I haven’t got all day. (Okay, I do, but why put it off, right?) What’ll it be? Sell your soul? Ha! I’m kidding, we don’t really do that anymore—at least, not up front.

Let’s try something a little more subtle. Would you…embezzle from your own company? Maybe. Cheat on your spouse? I know some people who would, but I should have known you wouldn’t do anything like that. You’re too devoted and faithful to fall for that one, right? Hey—

—would you kill someone?

Maybe not.

Would you…sell drugs to kids? (I’m just tossing ideas out here, people.) Sell a false passport to a terrorist? Make a few species of animals and plants extinct? (There’s too many of them anyway. Am I right?)

Still ‘no,’ huh?

How about putting your name on a CD that’s so foul-mouthed and filthy most stores wouldn’t sell it? Just your name, that’s all—maybe your picture, too. How about this: in exchange for a billion dollars, I’ll make you into a pop superstar, and all you have to do is live an immoral lifestyle and promote drugs and sex among teenagers and small children? (They’re gonna learn it somewhere, right?) Interested?

Wow! I can see you’re a tough case. (Obi Wan has trained you well.)

Okay, here’s my final offer: I’ll give you a billion dollars if you promise me that the money will drive a wedge between you and your family, alienating you from them forever, and if you further promise to do nothing with the money that will bring anyone happiness but yourself. (It’s yours after all—why waste it?)

You ought to live the easy life after the years of sweat and toil you’ve endured. Buy a big house on an enormous piece of land, hire a full-time staff, fill the garage—no, the garages—with foreign cars, cram every inch of the house with the latest modern conveniences, hire guards to protect it all, build a huge underground bomb shelter with a lifetime supply of everything, and then lock yourself up in that womb of pampering and indulgence for the rest of your days. You’re rich—and you’re free! At last!

No? Hmm, that one always works.

Well, I just don’t understand you. Don’t you need a billion dollars? Don’t you even want it? It’s right here for the taking!

Believe me when I tell you that if you don’t take the money then someone else will. I’ve got them lined up around the block already, waiting to make a deal. I just thought I’d offer it to you first—after all, you deserve it more. These other people—they all have shady secrets in their pasts, evil deeds they did when they thought no one was looking. They’re despicable. Any one of them would jump at this money—in fact, they’d run out on the highway for it! (Hmm, maybe I’ll try that next.) That is, if you don’t want it.

Okay, you drive a hard bargain.

I’ll give you the billion dollars, and you can give it away to other people—whoever you want, friends, family, charity, church—and all you have to do is accept one of my other offers. What do you want to do: kill someone, corrupt some kids, ruin some lives?

It’s hardly an indecent proposal; look at how forgiving the public is these days! You could be a complete and total jerk to everyone you know for years, and all it would take to get back in their good graces is a few well-placed dollars and a photo op with some foreign children. (Trust me.)

Hey, how about this: you could take the money and bequeath it all to your family, and all you have to do is agree to never see them again. Ever. And I mean NEVER. Now, I don’t think you can afford to pass that one up. Do you realize what this money would mean to them? We’re talking about financial security for your loved ones—in a crazy world like this, where anything could happen, they’ll thank you for making this deal. Or, at least, they would if they ever spoke to you again—of course, that would be strictly against the rules.

Well NOW I think you’re just being selfish. So many people could benefit from your benevolence—but you’re withholding those blessings from them. You have the power to do so much good, and for the price of so little evil—evil, I might add, which already exists in the world anyway. Who would blame you for giving in just a little?

Come on! I get people to do these things all the time—and for a lot less than a billion dollars, pal! You’re really getting on my nerves with all this “holier than thou” shtick. Haven’t you ever heard of feeding the hungry? Bringing aid to the sick and the afflicted? Don’t you want to be a part of that? I could make it so easy for you.

All you have to do is sign on the dotted line.

Tell you what: you think it over. I’ll be back—maybe. But maybe tomorrow I can think of what to do with a billion dollars all by myself. And if I can’t, I’m sure I can find someone who’s an easier sell than you.

Come on, buddy, this is your last chance: what’s it gonna be?

2006-03-06T12:53:00.000-08:00

Geek Cred

See that guy—the too-smart looking one with the prominent glasses and the in-the-ear hands-free device for his phone-slash-mp3-player? See him effortlessly switch from phone conversation to casual listening preferences with the touch of a button? See him slip another obscure device out of his pocket, check a screen, make some fast adjustment and pocket it all in the time it takes you to think, “What’s th—?” See him use his phone to snap a picture of pigeons canoodling—a picture to which he can add some text, for a truly geeky “thinking of you” pop-up card on his girlfriend’s phone? See how he is so wrapped up in his own world that you have to shout his name to get his attention?

What a geek.

You might think a look like that is easy to pull off, but it’s not. And you should try talking to the guy. “Hello,” you might say, reeking of social graces. In less than a picosecond, he steers the conversation to territorial waters—for him, computers, of course. “I’ve got a triple processor pulling simultaneous multi-threading, but it can’t keep up with the SDR necessary to run the code I compiled—I’ll just have to upgrade again.”

Guess so…geek.

Sure, he’s smart and savvy, in a Jimmy Neutron kind of way. Sure, he probably gets paid way too much just to make people feel inadequate while he’s making minor adjustments to their office PCs. Sure, he dresses like an eighth grader.

He’s got…geek cred.

It’s that quality that can’t be quantified—that “Je ne sais quois” that you feel when you want to say, “Je ne sais quois you’re talking about…geek.”

You’ve probably asked yourself, “How can I gain some geek cred?” It’s not as easy as downgrading your wardrobe and buying up half of Circuit City, preppie boy! Back in good old 1985, there were some easy in-roads to geek cred:

1. Learn the long name for your computer. (It’s not a Tandy—it’s a Tandy 82000LT BusCom with an 8-inch floppy-drive and easy-on-the-eyes amber-lit screen…geek.)

2. Reel off a seven-digit high score on fill-in-the-blank pop computer game—even if you’ve really only played it once. (Yeah, I got ten-million on Centipede, but then the counter flipped, so it says the high score is six-thousand. Beat that…geek.)

3. Clearasil.

Well, those days are over. This is the information age, geek. There’s only one way to get the goods on the geeky scene. I’ll bet you want me to tell you what it is. Forget it.

Jus’ kidding. That was me being ironic. Why? Because the key to geek cred is being a know-it-all on some obscure topic!

Better make it extra obscure though! You might think no one out there has examined all the similarities between the current Eastern Bloc political climate and the intergalactic politics on the hit Sci-Fi channel revival of “Dragonfly Battlestar Station 9.” You’d be wrong, though. (And don’t get me started.)

It could be as easy as checking out the right book in the library—preferably the one book no one else on the planet has read, such as “Mug Art: A Buyer’s Guide”. Research the subject carefully—find out everything you can about “vaccuu-forming plastics”! Every not-quite-useless topic has a geek out there waiting to embrace it—and then dreaming of making “Hair Knitting for Fun and Profit” an Olympic Sport in which he or she alone will excel! (They said you were mad. Fools. You’ll destroy them all.) There are bird call geeks, car upholstery geeks, cable collecting geeks, weird law geeks, vegetarian geeks, and even geekiness geeks—yes, that’s right! Imagine: an expert at “geek.”

He’s probably out there, somewhere, like a gunslinger, practicing away, nervously imagining the day someone comes along looking and talking better geek than he does. I can see him now, typing away in his little cubicle, the fluorescent lights making him pasty and pale, his smudged glasses perched askew on his nose, oblivious to the folly of life around him, pursuing his dream…utter geek.

That’s right! I am cementing my geek cred with this very article detailing “How To Obtain Geek Cred”! That probably blows your mind, right?

Whatever,…geek.

2006-02-28T07:00:00.000-08:00

If you link to the comic to the right of this column you will find the jumping-off point for this post. I highly recommend reading it before continuing through this post.

All set? Then let's proceed.

First of all, I entirely agree with the premise that limitations play an important role in art form--why else would we categorize artists? The term "expressionist" does not apply to every artist; it can't. Expressionist artists apply a different set of rules to their creative process. Likewise, impressionists, realists, imagists, cubists, surrealists, and dadaists--whether they subscribe to the definitions imposed by these terms or not--recognize that their work differs fundamentally from expressionists.

That a time limit or a page limit or a word limit can be said to be a "feature" of written expression is just as valid. Take haiku, for example: seventeen syllables of imagery, specifically limited in order to distill that image--and distinguish the poetic form from all of the wandering devices of the lyric and free verse genres of poetry.

What of the time limitation on movies? Some would argue that a few directors ignoring this rule means that the rule is meaningless--if millions of fans will sit through a three-hour film, then there is no set time-limit on films. I disagree; rather the fact that even die-hard fans of these directors notice the extreme length of epic films SUPPORTS the argument that a recognized limitation exists.

In other artisitic forms, the limitations are heralded: sixty-second films; single-panel comics or three-panel comics; pencil carving, which would be easier and far more profitable if performed in a larger and more visible medium, but would then no longer BE pencil carving; thirty-minute and sixty-minute television shows--and the fact that longer versions of these shows are forecasted well in advance ("Be sure to tune in for the special two-hour event!") is once again a SUPPORT for the importance of the time-limit rather than a refute.

I'm not trying to say that limitation is everything. Sculpture in a single medium (marble, clay, wood, etc.) is somehow more impressive to me than mixed-media. On the other hand, cartooning involves layer after layer of application, and each layer is a different tool, a different effect.

However, the limitations are what force the creative expression. For those of you who feel you cannot relate to all this talk of creative expression just because you don't doodle or play with play-dough, think about the last time you stayed up late writing a term paper or a proposal against a deadline. The limitation forced the creativity then, didn't it?

Another example that I LOVE is board games. When you play a board game, the rules ARE the game. One could cheat and win--switching cards or deliberately miscounting spaces, etc.--but one might just as well move their playing piece to the finish line right at the start of the game and declare "victory", since the entire object of the game is subverted anyway: to win within the limitations imposed by the rules.

Any sport makes a good analogy, too. How easy would it be to win basketball if you stopped dribbling and just ran over people like in football? How about football involving kung fu and small weapons? Why not allow chainsaws in Ultimate Fighting--what's the point of calling it "Ultimate" if both guys walk away from it anyway, right?

Unfortunately, the creator of Cat and Girl (that comic up at the top of this post) has a little angst and cynicism--don't we all--or maybe she was poking fun at angsty comics, and the punchline left me a little deflated. Why?

I happen to believe that the shortness of life (no, I am not having my midlife crisis yet) demands that we be creative participants rather than bland viewers or spectators. We live eighty years--oh, wait, maybe only fifty--oh, wait, maybe only thirty--oh, wait, maybe only a few years, and not only do we have (as limitations) our frail physical bodies, our touchy psyches, and the obligations we take upon ourselves for every relationship we form, but we also have this instinctive (and I mean instinctive, innate, not-learned) desire to produce something that shows our influence, our powers, our personality remains imprinted in the world.

I know: some people create children, some create art, some create business solutions, and some create weapons of mass destruction. I can't judge what people choose to create--and by that I mean both that I should not judge and that I am not qualified to judge--in the sense that I may criticize a comic like this one for failing to see its premise through (Sorry, Dorothy!) but I am forced to qualify that criticism with the remark, "But she sure does have a style and a wit to her art, doesn't she?"

I would welcome the comments of anyone who has catalogued this effect in another form: maybe you've seen someone like MacGyver take the few items at his disposal and, in the few seconds remaining, has created something that--under other circumstances--no one ever would have invented. (MacGyver, of course, falls under that sitcom time-limit rule, too, but who's counting?) Maybe you've witnessed true genius in a card game--where there are only so many cards, so many hands, and so many mistakes to be made.

I believe, as I've said before, that when something like this is true, it can be universally observed. In fact, as I sit here in my little (7' by 7') cubicle, I observe it in myself: although I have demands on my time, I find time to write; and although I am shut in like a cricket in a box, my cricket-y clicking (on my little SP keyboard) surpasses my cubicle and sounds in your ears! My limitations are stimulating my creativity! Take that, corporate bigwigs! Aha!

Sound off, people.

2006-02-16T08:09:00.000-08:00

GEEK TOYS--a few things that make me act geeky...

Let’s face it people: geeks need toys. A nerd like me just doesn’t feel like a man unless he’s wired to several devices simultaneously. I need the phone, the camera, the iPod, the palm pilot and the GPS just to go to the bathroom—you never know what might happen in there, right? And what if I need to print something—I’d better ask for Bluetooth for my birthday!

Sure, my wife will say, “You don’t NEED that.” But if that’s true then we NEED to redefine the word NEED here, people! Remember that book about how girls are from Jupiter and guys are from Uranus? Well, I’m no PhD, but here’s a little psychology for those women out there scoffing at their nerdy significant other just because he’s wearing more electronics than RoboCop!

____________________________________
What He Wants:

8 Megapixel Super-zoom Wi-Fi digital camera with RXR, special Blu-reduction lens, IR remote, and a cool cranking tripod

What She Sees:

Camera—what’s wrong with your 35mm box camera again?

What He Sees:

The camera that will make him look like a yuppie billionaire on a yacht; a combination of “Money is no object” meets “Mine is bigger than yours”—oh, the sweet sweet envy.
____________________________________
What He Wants:

Garmin GPS for both cars with self-updating map software and walkie talkie

What She Sees:

Noisy map/TV—just get the fold-y one out of the glove compartment, honey.

What He Sees:

Okay, first of all: never have to ask someone for directions again—the daddy-driving nightmare of emasculation.
Second: a radar-like device that turns his car into a cross between Knight Rider and the USS Dallas from Hunt for Red October.
____________________________________
What He Wants:

Motorola RAZR phone with camera, internet, voice-activation, text-messaging and a wild array of ringtones that will annoy everyone but him…including you

What She Sees:

Cell phone—we’ve got one, we share it, we don’t need two, and that’s the end of the “discussion”.

What He Sees:

This phone does everything that 007’s gadgets did except allow him to breathe underwater—and it disappears in his pocket like a business card—plus, he’ll get a tiny rush answering it—even if it’s just you calling with a grocery list.
____________________________________
What He Wants:

Tungsten/Treo/Blackberry or some other high-profile palm pilot device, preferably with several other devices integrated into it—such as the aforementioned GPS or digital camera

What She Sees:

Pocket calendar—for two bucks, you can get one with bunnies on it at WalMart. Come on, honey, everyone knows you like bunnies.

What He Sees:

A device that will remind him (weeks in advance) of things like your birthday and anniversary; chirp precociously in his pocket like a personal secretary; give him an excuse to walk away from boring conversations; and amuse him in the line at the bank.
____________________________________
What He Wants:

60-gigabyte video iPod with laser-engraved cartoon character on the back

What She Sees:

Walkman—what the heck did we buy all those CDs for?

What He Sees:

This will make up for high school. (Now people can wish they were him instead of vice versa.)
____________________________________

Alright, I’m kidding—but only a little! Technology is really convenience; that’s the bottom line. If we were all more frugal with our time, if we all devoted the energy instead of the money, if we just tried a little harder, we wouldn’t need the geeky gadgets. Right? I mean, what does any gadget (or home appliance, ladies) do but trade money for time? Why should I give up my two-hundred-dollar palm pilot if "we" get to keep the six-hundred dollar clothes dryer and the four-hundred-dollar dishwasher? (I'm not even going to broach the subject of the electrical appliances in the bathroom--we reached detente on that subject years ago, and far be it from me to jeopardize the peace.)

I kid. It's what I do.

So I bought a palm pilot a few years ago (a hundred bucks), and then a year later I upgraded (another two hundred bucks). Why? Because it worked! A palm pilot is like a little fanboy running around keeping track of your stuff for you.

“Mr. M, your meeting’s in five minutes!” “Mr. M, your anniversary is in two weeks!” “Mr. M, your daughter’s dance class is in one hour!” “Mr. M, your shopping list!” “Mr. M, here’s your brother-in-law’s mailing address!” “Mr. M, you’ve got the rest of the day free!” “Mr. M, let’s go over your Christmas shopping—here’s what you got for your nephew, your mother-in-law, your best friend, and your dog; here’s a list of people you still need to shop for; here’s your budget; and here’s the wishlist of stuff you’ve been making all year for yourself!”

There's a reason people call them 'personal assistants'--mine even has a name. Allan.

For me, the most useful thing about Allan is the ability to convert forty thousand little slips of paper into one sleek digital filing system/persona that reminds me when and where to do, send, buy or find all those appointments, purchases, events, and people. I write down “Take out the garbage!” one time, and Allan reminds me every Monday night for the rest of it’s tiny life—one less thing for my wife to do, eh, honey? I write down “Give the baby his medicine!” and every morning and night Allan reminds me; and at the end of two weeks, it stops, right when I’m supposed to stop giving the baby the prescription.

Can I remember to do these things myself? Yes. Oh, wait--NO! Get real, people. If you don’t have any trouble remembering everything YOU have to do every day, then you’re either A) single or B) dead. In fact, if you're single and you can still remember everything you have to do every day, you must sleep a lot. (Hey, my blog, my opinion; get your own.)

When your brain reaches the “watershed” point—where every time you are asked to remember one more thing, something has to be deleted to make room—then you will either buy a palm pilot or create your own complicated system for remembering to do “stuff”, but I recommend the palm pilot. Just spend the money and get it over with.

Don’t get me started on the iPod—portable storage alone has made it easier for me to carry 80 megabytes worth of work materials back and forth from one job to the next and then home if I want. So, instead of a jumpdrive, I wanted something that would play music, too. [Here's where I thank my family for my iPod, which does all that and then some! Woo-hoo!] I could spend all day talking about podcasting—and maybe someday I will. But today I will just tell you one cool story.

A month back, I was sitting at home and watching cartoons (you know, using my time wisely, Allan wasn't calling me for any important meetings) when without any warning the power went out. Did the cartoons turn off? No.

I was watching them on my iPod. (Keentoons in my pocket, hallelujah! Can I get an "amen", geeks?!)