Friday, November 30, 2001

I don't even know why it is, but for some reason, I find this song so indescribably beautiful. It's nothing much in the grand scheme of things, really it's not, just four minutes or so of harmony about nothing really important but it's just so right anyway...
... and it's beautiful, it really is, from beginning to end, but right in the middle there's this one part where the tenor hits this high note and the others set up this gentle rhythm beneath it and I swear my mind just expands, every single little blocked pathway opens and everything starts to work, and words pour from my fingers and idea flow from my brain and my eyes open wide as it hits like a rush of... well, not like adrenalin, more like adrenalin's sweeter younger sister that loves me dearly...
And all the rest of the song is a gentle and lovely reminder of that one transcendent moment, so I just put the mp3 on infinite loop and listen to it over and over and over again, for over fourteen hours since I first downloaded the song, and all I want to do is say thank you, thank you, thank you for introducing this to me, even though I'm sure you're getting tired of hearing that.
And maybe my neck hurts and my thigh hurts but I don't care, don't care at all, because the simple human voices of the song have woken the celestial choir that lives in my mind, and they sing along, and I am beatified, I am awakened, I am enlightened. In no way that anyone else would recognize but me, and doesn't that just make it sweeter?
I want to sing along, to raise my own shaky unpleasant tenor in harmony, to somehow become a part of that song, and sometimes I do; and even though my voice is so little compared to the song and the choir, even that doesn't distract me, because I am lost, I am lost in the song, and I have, for the moment, become part of it. I'll hit that transcendent note and be carried along, to a place in my mind where I can find what I'm missing. And maybe, maybe if I'm very lucky, I can bring it back with me; but even if I can't, at least I can visit.
Pure joy flowing from the speakers of my computer. How lovely is that?

And I listen to the song, letting it bathe me like something softer than water and sweeter than air, surrounded by my friends, who either love me or pretend that they love me so well that it really makes no difference, not right now anyway.
Finally, grudgingly, I must go to bed, so I turn off the mp3, and it is this quality of the song that endears it to me even more: it makes even the silence beautiful, because that high note still echoes in my brain and washes down my spine, making me float when I walk. The celestial choir sings on, alone now, reminding me that there was beauty in my life tonight.

I float up the stairs and turn off the light, and on the landing of the topmost floor I stop, because it's raining, rivers of rain racing and running on the roof. I can hear the wind blowing the rain gently, I can hear the cars swishing by on their way to work, and the rain taps lightly above my head like an old friend waiting to be let in, and all I can do is turn my head to the ceiling and smile, smile as wide as I can because if I were to cry out my joy right this moment I might startle the choir and their accompaniment.
And I stand there, letting myself be bathed in waves of pure contentment. If there is a divine, maybe I've touched it now. I feel transcendent. I feel joy.

All that from a simple little mp3. And perhaps I'm the only person who hears what I hear in that song. I'm ashamed to tell you which song it was. What if you didn't find in it what I found? What if you didn't like it at all?
But right now, that's all right. To each their own joy. This is mine.

Finally I have to move. I can't stand out here all night, and anyway the rain is dying down. And I get into bed, and my mind speaks the following against the gentle singing of the choir:
For all the arguments there are about the purpose of the arts, right now I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that

the arts exist to bring us Joy, and to help us find Joy in the rest of our lives.

Normally that's not quite what I believe, but right now I've never been so certain of anything in my life.

And I'll miss that certainty when it's gone.

Pieces.
Mooncalf

Posted by Mie Tsukikoushi @ 05:29 AM EST
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Wednesday, November 28, 2001

You know, I'm not much for flowers, really. I like them, but I never buy them for myself or pick them; occasionally someone will send me a bouquet for one reason or another, and I'll enjoy it, and then it'll get all wilted and gross and I'll have to throw it out.

But recently I've started saving and drying roses. One of these days I ought to paint a still life of the scene to the left of my computer: atop a beautiful little Chinese rosewood chest with rolled edges sits a nubbly blue Bawls bottle with a single dried dark red rose in it. At the foot of the bottle is an antique Japanese ivory netsuke shaped like a human skull. For some reason, I find this all terribly symbolic in a vaguely Goth way. 'The fate of this rose awaits thee, my Serenae, my love; pray only that you may leave a corpse as beautiful and sweet-scented'. Ahem. Anyway. Pardon me whilst I put the bad Goth poet back in her cabinet.
And on the bulletin board that's behind the rosewood chest, I have two white roses hung up to dry; they're tied together with a length of olive-green silk cord that is strung with a single amber bead and a bronze Chinese coin, and they hang head down from one corner, and they also feel vaguely symbolic. Of what, I have no idea.

Funny, I don't even like roses that much, technically. They're beautiful flowers, but they feel like such a cliche'... but I guess, maybe, the things that I do with dried roses are my own effort to remove the cliche' from the rose. And, of course, tripping and falling face-first into Goth cliche'. Gah. Forget it, I'm being all symbolic and crap again.

Anyway, if you'll pardon me, I must go cling to Boyfriend's leg and demand that we go get coffee. A good mood like this one deserves caffeine, wouldn't you say?
Joy!

Posted by Mie Tsukikoushi @ 04:53 PM EST
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Sunday, November 25, 2001

WARNING: Pissy and editorial in nature.

Dear Mister Shaven-Headed White Boy In Tank Top:
I am glad that you take such delight in your oversized black car and its overpowered engine. However, when you insist on taking every corner with screeching wheels, or constantly and repetitively gun your engine and screech ahead for about ten feet before braking, do you know what happens?

Those of us in nearby cars are LAUGHING AT YOU.

Oh, not the poor guy in the car directly ahead of yours. You know, the car your car kept nearly sodomizing in your quest to prove your manliness. But the rest of us? We were laughing at your lousy driving skills. We were glancing at each other out of the corners of our eyes and making comments about the miniscule dick you must be compensating for. We were shaking our heads and saying things about 'testosterone poisoning', 'congenital immaturity', and 'subnormal IQ'.

We were not impressed with your machismo.
We were not frightened by the puffing of your feathers.
We were not convinced that you were a sex machine. Quite the opposite; nothing says 'I have not gotten laid in years' like squealing tires.

We were LAUGHING at you. LAUGHING.
And we were laughing at the TINY WHITE BOY DICK we now know you HAVE.

I don't think that's the effect you were aiming for.
Learn to drive. While you're at it, learn to act like a human being instead of a testosterone victim. Maybe you'd get laid more.

Pieces,
Mooncalf.

Posted by Mie Tsukikoushi @ 03:27 PM EST
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Saturday, November 24, 2001

WARNING: I have had far too much sleep, caffeine, and sugar, and I'm really in a lousy mood. Take this entry seriously at your own risk.

Sometimes in here I ramble
Sometimes I make no sense
Sometimes I say the wrong damn thing
But, in my own defense:

I'm not your Tori Amos.
I'm not your guiding light.
I'm not in it to be helpful.
So remember that, all right?

I'm just a human being!
Well, okay, perhaps a cow.
Sometimes I fuck up BIGTIME.
Ho boy, oh yeah, and HOW.

I'm not your Tori Amos.
I'm not your guiding light.
I'm not in it to be helpful.
So remember that, all right?

I don't write words to live by
I don't give good advice.
I just say what comes to mind.
Hell, I'm not really very nice.

I'm not your Tori Amos.
I'm not your guiding light.
I'm not in it to be helpful.
So remember that, all right?

Maybe if I had something to say
I'd learn to play guitar.
But all I have is snideness.
And sarcasm. There you are.

So I'm not your Tori Amos.
I'm not your guiding light.
I'm not in this to be helpful.
Please remember that, all right?

Posted by Mie Tsukikoushi @ 11:52 PM EST
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Thursday, November 22, 2001

On Thanksgiving:
[@begin sincere]
I am thankful for the delicious sushi dinner that Boyfriend and I shared today, because it reminds me that America is a nation with enough diversity to support such an unorthodox celebration of a national holiday.
I am thankful for my family, because I love them and they love me, and they understood when I said that no, I wouldn't be coming home for Thanksgiving because air travel even at the best of times is a sickening experience.
I am thankful for my online friends, who are mostly present even though today is a national holiday, and who are, in essence, the Other Half of my family. And I love them and they love me, which is always something to be thankful for.
I am thankful for the fact that I still have a vaguely functional country to live in, crazed or not.

[@begin mildly sarcastic]
I am thankful that I live in a nation that is based on freedom of religion, and as such graciously allows me the opportunity to be any kind of Christian I want.
I am thankful that I live in a nation that is based on freedom of speech, as long as I don't say anything that could be construed as unpatriotic or dangerous.
I am thankful that despite everything, I still have a reasonably uncastrated Internet.
I am thankful that despite everything, I have not yet suffered unduly for my crime of being a woman.

[@begin extremely sarcastic]
I am SO thankful that I live in one nation, under God, with liberty and justice for all.

Posted by Mie Tsukikoushi @ 09:52 PM EST
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I went to the grocery store yesterday, and eventually found myself staring at their rather limited selection of 'energy drinks', which I love for their unabashed worship of caffeine (so much like my own -- oh caffeine, how I venerate thee).

And now I have proof: Americans are dingbats.

Here's the proof:
Most new products get test-marketed and surveyed to death, right? Well, when this kind of energy drink was being introduced, someone probably wrote a survey question much like the following:
I would like the name of my energy drink to remind me of:
a). Sun, exercise, sports (Hi-Power, NRG, Smash)
b). Powerful animals (Red Bull, Black Dog)
c). Danger, excitement, energy (red alert, XTZ, Blackwater, Jolt)
d). Nothing relevant, really (Bawls, Water Joe, Penguin)
e). An incredibly lethal fluid that can kill an adult human in seconds (Venom)

And there were enough dingbat Americans who answered that question with 'e', because I found a can of energy drink named 'Venom' at the grocery store today.

Of course I bought some. You think I could pass up an opportunity like that? I guess at heart I'm a dingbat too...

(About half the names in the 'question' above are from real energy and otherwise high-caffeine drinks. About half of them, I made up. Just so you know.)

Posted by Mie Tsukikoushi @ 01:29 AM EST
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Tuesday, November 20, 2001

So, a friend and I were enjoying one of our favorite pastimes tonight: making fun of the users of fanfiction.net. FF.net is, really, a very nifty website, I have an account there, and I love the place; but it also serves as living proof that some people just should not be allowed to play with the English language. Or any other language, for that matter.
Anyway, she showed me this Utena fanfic that she'd found... amusing in its ineptness. After reading the fanfic, I agreed. And working together, we developed the following theory:
Some fanfic writers who write in English are native-born English speakers.
Some fanfic writers who write in English are not native-born English speakers.
And some fanfic writers who write in English obviously have, as their native tongue, the Grunt and Whistle language.

No, seriously. If I were to sum up this Utena fanfic in the writer's native tongue, it would read like this:
Grunt, whistle, bang stones together, clap hands, Utena!
or, to be more faithful to the tone of the original fic:
gruntwhistlebangstonestogetherclaphandsUtena!

Not having seen Utena, I will admit that I don't know how faithful said adaptation is to the original series. Perhaps she should have slapped her forehead instead of clapping her hands, to adequately portray inner torment.
But what do I know? I only took one year of Grunt and Whistle in college.

Posted by Mie Tsukikoushi @ 12:44 AM EST
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Monday, November 19, 2001

In the early nineties, when I was in college, my mother worked for the executive department of a Certain Regional Bakery. (The name of which I will obscure, because of that whole eyeball-sucking lawsuit thing.) It was the case that all the executives of this certain bakery used Macintoshes, back in the days of System 6 and 7, and all was well; their computers worked easily with each other and did everything that was required of them. And since my mother and I have owned Macintoshes since approximately the 1984 Commercial, she was happy and productive, and any time she had a question, I could usually answer it for her. If I couldn't, the computer science majors down the hall always could.

Enter the bane of my mother's existence: the BIS. Which didn't actually stand for Bakery Information Services, but was close.

To this day I'm still not sure what the BIS' problem was. Either they were staffed with drooling morons (quite possible; what computer science graduate would choose to work for a bakery? Especially during the tech boom?) or they were all inveterate PC users that were merely deigning to work with the executive's Macs. Possibly both.

Every month or so, I would get a phone call from my mother. Who would very very calmly get me to walk her through removing the latest BIS iniquity from her computer. It was invariably some esoteric and unclever addition that would prevent at least half of her applications from running.
And then I would talk her through removing the BIS iniquity from every other computer in the executive wing.
And life was good; there was the BIS, and myself, the antiBIS, and my mother and her coworkers caught in between.
I suppose it might have made a reasonably typical fantasy novel, in some alternate dimension, with a little editing... but that would have made me Gandalf, and I doubt I could raise a decent beard. Anyway.

Every once in a while, the BIS would perpetrate an iniquity so earthshakingly mindnumbingly ridiculous that I couldn't talk my mother through removing it over the phone. So, leaping on my trusty steed (well, getting into my trusty Geo Metro) I would travel to her office, bearing sheaves of magical floppy disks, and pit my wits against the BIS' latest threat. It might take hours, but eventually, I would break their evil spell, and the clarity of the computers would be restored. And the elves would dance and the dwarves would drink ale and... no.

It was at the bakery that I first saw and heard the terror that is the Sad Mac with tones: a little dead Macintosh icon, with two lines of hex underneath it, and a funereal organ riff. In essence, this means 'this computer is too screwed up to even recognize its startup protocol and cannot be booted'. Amazingly enough, it was only indirectly the BIS' fault.
You see, the woman in question had gotten so sick of losing access to her data that she had started keeping it on a floppy disk. This was generally adequate protection against the depredations of the BIS. So when she went to boot up her computer the next time, she pushed in the floppy, and... Sad Mac. I was called.
Battling my way through hordes of evil twisted monsters (no) I made my way to the holy grove (no!) and attempted to diagnose the problem with the magic at my command (dammit, no). Sure enough, the same thing happened. But when I pulled out the floppy disk and rebooted, everything was fine.
Carefully prodding at the floppy disk, I discovered foul magic most dire (no dammit!). Hidden in a folder deep in the bowels of the diskette was: System and Finder 1.2.
So this poor Mac II would hit those at startup and try to boot from THEM instead of the nice System7 it was supposed to use, and go BLAAAAARGH all over her desk.
Easy enough to fix, and it added to my reputation as a fearsome wizard nicely. (I really will stop that eventually.)

Eventually my mother moved on from the bakery, and I moved on as well, leaving the rest of them in the clutches of the BIS; once the Prophesied Hero arrives in our Realm, we shall gallop forth and free them! The time is nigh!

... no dammit.

Posted by Mie Tsukikoushi @ 08:35 PM EST
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Thursday, November 15, 2001

Boyfriend brought home some kind of low-level disease from work, which means that we've both spent the last few days draped over various bits of furniture aching, drowsing, and grousing at each other. This is not really conducive to writing blog entries, I find. So, instead of anything with, you know, real merit, I thought I'd produce my Anything By list.

Basically, this is a list of authors. And I will read Anything By said authors. I will go to used bookstores and search out their older works, I will actually cave in and buy their work in hardback, I will reread their works endlessly, and I can tell you right now that there must be at least three authors I left off the list because, well, my brain is squeeze-cheese right now.
Please note that the list only contains authors of normal-type books; there are a fair number of comic-strip and comic-book authors who technically fit the requirements, but, well, I'm lazy. Plus the squeeze-cheese thing.

Mooncalf's Anything By List:
Stephen King
Peter Straub
Kurt Vonnegut
Salman Rushdie
Tom Robbins
Charles de Lint
Steven Brust
Emma Bull
Will Shetterly
Guy Gavriel Kay
Dave Barry
Cynthia Heimel
Jack Vance
Lindsay Davis
Ed McBain
Lawrence Sanders
Sue Grafton
Sara Paretsky
Iain Pears
Tanith Lee
Robert E. Howard
Clark Ashton Smith
Jan Harold Brunvand
Cecil Adams

Posted by Mie Tsukikoushi @ 10:49 PM EST
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Tuesday, November 13, 2001

Okay, so apparently, the events in Star Ocean: Blue Sphere happen two years after the end of Star Ocean: The Second Story, and star the same characters. And apparently, in Blue Sphere, we discover that Bowman Jean has spawned a rugrat in those two years. (I assume with his wife Nineh, but given that it's Bowman, I guess I won't know until I play the game.)

And tonight at dinner, my brain delivered this unto me:
So Bowman discovers his wife is pregnant, and he's really happy, so he writes to let everyone know. And eventually, in a pile of other congratulatory messages, Bowman discovers a telegram from Noel Chandler, the resident crusty-but-friendly professor of biology:

To BOWMAN and NINEH JEAN:
CONGRATULATIONS! YOU HAVE SUCCESSFULLY PASSED YOUR JEANS ON TO THE NEXT GENERATION!

Noel? I didn't know you had a sense of humor!

Posted by Mie Tsukikoushi @ 03:02 PM EST
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Amanuensis. Potato. If that's a cork then who am I? Baked goods, hippopotamus. Regurgitate! Alpha male! Alpha male! Blue hair? No, alpha male. Yes.

The meaning of life is not bacon unless, of course, you're thirty-seven or it's Thursday. Carmine scarlet vermilion crimson. Afghanistan was once Yugoslavia but now they're in disguise. Scotch tape, English tape, Irish tape! Wrongful death! Rightful cherry blossoms! Heihachi Mishima!

Lard? Lard! Lard lard lard LARD! Rendered from the very best redwoods! Random Word HELL is not Mikey but he likes it anyway. Sushi flambe'. Bonzo Dog Band? Plaid shoes, diapers, fake nose, chocolate meringue. Be afraid... be very USB hub.

The Lady, or the Fox? I'll take both for $500, Alex. Bluescreen of death, Sad Mac with tones. Canopic jar.

Green glass blue? Snide aside! Time is gasoline, and Ashlea's gay is not straight. Eleven words are the times that try women's souls. Is that an Ashton in my brain or am I just happy to see you? I reiterate: potato! Potato, damn you! Potato potato potato HASH GODDAMN BROWNS. Life is an onion except when it isn't. l337.

I asked someone to marry me today. She said 'NO CARRIER'. I think that means Wolfwood.

DF likes the porno sites, porno sites, porno sites. DF likes the porno sites - why don't you look surprised? Some days you smut the pirate, some days the pirate smuts you. Ragtime, cucumber, caffeinated mint. Yo-Yo is not Yoo-Hoo. Except in 1983.
Gray's Anatomy. No, really. Would I lie to you? Don't answer that. Fishtank. Absurd. Suddenly j-rock!

Frisket gasket Triscuit Bob. That shit ain't left. Masturbation is not capitalized except at the beginning of this sentence. Reductio ad absurdum, syllogism, Silly Putty. Fangirl? Fangrrrrrl. Fargaia. Fanboys happen. This might be a love letter if you read between the sheets.

There is no such thing as Jell-O unless I'm wrong.

Pieces.

Posted by Mie Tsukikoushi @ 04:26 AM EST
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Monday, November 12, 2001

On the cover of the newest Cosmopolitan, to either side of the scantily-clad model bimbo:

Article teaser on the top of the left-hand column:
HOW TO RAPE-PROOF YOUR LIFE

Article teaser in the middle of the right-hand column:
SEXIFY YOURSELF!

...

Any commentary I could make here would just be extraneous...

Posted by Mie Tsukikoushi @ 05:21 PM EST
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Thursday, November 8, 2001

I am not a girl.
I don't give a damn about boys, the color pink, makeup, the color pink, fashion, the color pink, jewelry, the color pink, dolls, the color pink, or Mary Kate and Ashley. Those hooker-in-training toys that give prepubescent girls electric blue eyelids or colorful bejeweled plastic talons do not appeal to me. I do not want to make my own Barbie lip gloss, develop crushes on boyband members, or learn to simper and squeal with Britney.
No matter what Toys Backwards R Us may think.

Furthermore, I am not a woman.
I still don't give a damn about makeup, fashion, or jewelry. Or, indeed, the color pink. Nor do I give a damn about plastic surgery, diets, Brad Pitt, or useless bibelots. Maybe I do give a damn about men, but only in their proper context. Those hooker-in-all-but-name habits that make aging women hang out in bars or learn to speak football do not appeal to me. I do not want to pay $22 for a lipstick, develop crushes on men twice my age, or learn to simper and squeal with Cameron Diaz.
No matter what Cosmopolitan may think.

That being said, however, it is reasonably obvious that I am a person of the female gender, having all the correct organs, glands, and inny bits. Therefore: seeing as how I am a person of the female gender, but I am not a girl nor a woman: what, indeed, am I?

Say hello to the third and uniquely Western gender: Geek.

Gender: Geek is not an accident of birth, but a reasoned choice; Geeks were once both male and female. Uncomfortable with the choices presented to us, we rejected what was offered and became Geek.

We were once women who cared more about our character's stats in Diablo 2 than our weight.
We were once men who cared more about women who could argue with us about King of Fighters than women who had been injected with silicone.
We were once women who purchased brightly colored pencils only to color on paper, not to tint our faces.
We were once men who could name every villain in every Final Fantasy game, but who would look at you blankly if you mentioned Dennis Rodman.
We were once women who knew more about HTML than white sauce.
We were once men who knew more about Grand Theft Auto than about the carburetor.
We were once women who spent $250 on a PS2 without blinking, but thought that spending more than $30 on a shirt was ridiculous.
We were once men who found the smell of a used bookstore more exciting than any expensive perfume.
We were once women who preferred comics to Cosmo.
We were once men who preferred Dragon Magazine to Sports Illustrated.
We were once women who owned one skirt, hidden away in case of emergency family weddings and funerals, who wore flannel and jeans every day, who regarded makeup askance and hairspray as laughable.
We were once men who understood the workings of a sewing machine enough to make cosplay outfits, who considered crossplaying at least once in their lives, who have unabashedly gone shopping for wigs to complete the costume.

Now, we are Geek.

As the third gender, we may sleep with whoever catches our fancy. There is no such thing as hetero or homo when one considers the existence of three genders. But why bother with Male or Female, when Geek-Geek love is so much more fulfilling?
Imagine a legally-sanctioned marriage in which both participants are interested in the exact same things.
Imagine a partnership based around things that brought you both joy, as opposed to continually compromising and giving in to your partner's wishes.
Imagine being excited about going home from work to play six hours of networked Starcraft with your wife and call each other terrible names.
Imagine getting into heated arguments about Michael Moorcock in a crowded restaurant, and pulling out the book to settle that argument as soon as you got home.
Imagine a relationship in which you could share everything: books, games, music, movies, videos, clothes, shampoo. A relationship in which there was no makeup and no sports, except possibly Tony Hawk Pro Skater 3.
Imagine a relationship in which you never had to wonder if your mate was only humoring your interests, or listen slack-jawed to a litany about something that bored you to tears.

I am Geek. I have given up my second X chromosome, just as my once-male Geek friends have given up their Y. And instead, we shall replace it with a G, for 'Geek'. We are Geek: XG.

And all Geeks know what that really stands for.

Xenogears.

Posted by Mie Tsukikoushi @ 05:08 PM EST
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Wednesday, November 7, 2001

1. On the way to dinner, we drove past a store whose sign proclaimed them to be Caldera Spas.
Yes, I so want my hot-tubbing experience to be reminiscent of sitting in the cone of an active volcano.

2. Five years ago, I got so mad at my favorite Italian restaurant for removing the chicken parmigiana from their menu that I actually wrote them a letter of complaint. And then I moved out of state, and didn't go there again.
Today, we went there again. And the chicken parmigiana was back on the menu.
I feel like I made a difference! Not much of one. But hey, we must take our moments of empowerment where we find them, right?

3. Monsters Inc. is a very, very cool movie.

4. They showed us a preview for Episode II before it. Even though I suspect that Episode II will be on a par with Episode I quality-wise, this in no way stopped me from gaping at the trailer slackjawed and going "Oooooooooooh" like a fanboy. I don't care if it sucks. I'm going to see it. Ooooooooooooh.

5. I get the feeling that I'm really, really, really going to hate the movie 'Shallow Hal'. Even though it does star one of the members of Tenacious D, whom I love. Either that, or it will surprise me by not being a movie about fat-bashing. Guess we'll see.

6. They're rereleasing 'ET' onto the big screen this spring, with new footage and remastered this and digitally enhanced that. I got all excited. I remember going to see that movie when I was nine; my dad took me to see it. I even remember how my mother hadn't wanted him to take me to see it, because she thought it was a horror movie like Alien. I remember having a great time and loving the movie to pieces.
And then they mentioned that the rerelease was to celebrate the movie's twentieth anniversary.
FUCK, I'm old.

7. The movie theater was absolutely, totally deserted. The entire time we were there, I saw exactly one other person, the quiet guy who sold us our tickets at the concession stand. The brightly painted and neon-lit theater, meant to hold hundreds of people, held... three.
I walked down that huge, long, deserted green-and-purple hallway with the striped doors and the creepily echoing noises and the flickering neon light and thought to myself: my god, I'm in a survival horror game. I found myself checking the walls for fire extinguishers and axes and shotguns and stuff, so that I could take out the zombies when they lurched out.
No dice, though. If I had been set upon by zombies, I would have had to beat them to death with a child's booster seat. Plus I was there with my boyfriend, which means that he would have automatically been the hero and I would have been the girlfriend who gets tragically ripped to death in the opening act in order to inspire him to heroism. Just my luck!

Posted by Mie Tsukikoushi @ 02:10 AM EST
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Monday, November 5, 2001

If you happen to have a PS2, I'd like to recommend two totally different games that you must play. Said games being Ico, and Okage: Shadow King.

Ico is a masterpiece of design. And oddly, of character, despite the fact that there are only three characters, one of them doesn't speak any language that you can understand, and the other two barely ever say anything. Nevertheless, you will love them as if they were real.
The setting is what Vagrant Story's should have been, perfect, non-pixelated, awe-inspiring. The animation of everything is beautiful and seamless. Without dialogue, without anything but gameplay, the game manages to create both mood and emotion, and it will blow you away. I cried.
Ico is mostly a puzzle game, although there's some fighting involved; the puzzles are complicated without being impossible. There's no inventory, no healing items, no hit points or damage or mana points... and it's just so cool.
The only flaw I can think of is that Ico is short (ten hours or so of gameplay) and doesn't have much replay value. Oh, the pain. Wah.

And then, on the other hand, we have Okage: Shadow King.
This is one of those peculiarly Japanese games: falling-out-of-chair funny, meant to be funny, and yet it has an amazing amount of depth if you just look for it.
The art is very obviously inspired by Tim Burton films like Nightmare Before Christmas and James and the Giant Peach. The people are strange mutant things, the architecture is swooping and full of weird angles and corners, the world is just so wrong. I've never played any game that looked more 3D. Seriously. I kept thinking I could put my hand through the TV and touch the little buildings. The people are terribly unrealistic and oddly animated, but that's more or less right for the style.
The characters aren't very deep... or are they? Plus the final boss makes more sense than any other final boss I've ever seen. He has a legitimate reason for what he's doing! A good one! One that I can sympathize with!
Some people complain that the game slows down, and it's true that the final dungeon is a grouchy-making maze and the combat is a little repetitive. But the plot is amazingly cool, and it'll actually make you think. It's the kind of game that you'll finish playing and spend the next three hours having little realizations about. I didn't cry, but I said 'awwwww' and 'eeeee!' a lot.

So cool. Just so damn cool. I only have one thing to say: Ompwa?

Posted by Mie Tsukikoushi @ 08:01 PM EST
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Friday, November 2, 2001

Okay, here's a paradox that never fails to either amuse or depress me. Why do we consider violence to be perfectly okay television fare for children, and sex to be the Great Evil?
Therefore, introducing children to the ultimate expression of love is bad, and introducing children to the ultimate expression of hate is good. Ah, okay, my bad, I must have been confused.

I could rant here about how Puritan-based America is really fucked-up about sex, and mean every single double entendre inherent in that statement. In fact, I had a couple of paragraphs written, but I got rid of them. Because that's not quite the answer, I think. It's the truth, but it's not the answer.

See, violence is easy to understand. Sex is not.

Every five-year-old out there can tell you that if someone does something you don't like, you can hit them, and they'll stop. Ask the same five-year-old about using sex to get someone to stop doing something you don't like. I dare you.
Well, okay, you'll probably get arrested and sued. Because, of course, we're weird about sex. But even if you didn't, I don't think the kid would have a clue.
Sure, they'd probably know what sex was; it's 200-and-freaking-1. Some five-year-olds would be able to tell you about seeing animals having sex, probably. But whether it was initially or whether we just made it so, sex is complicated. And most kids aren't deep enough to understand the possible ramifications. (My goodness, doesn't that sound dirty.)
So, if we were in some alternate universe somewhere where we wouldn't get arrested, we could show kids a show full of sexual politics, and they'd get bored or confused. It's just not something children are capable of comprehending or appreciating yet. That requires a certain amount of maturity.

Plus, of course, kids like violence. Violence is power!
Kids have a very good grasp of power, you see. In that they don't have any, except the power to hit another kid and make them cry. I think that's part of why kids are such vicious, nasty, tribal savages: their acute awareness of how little power they actually have over their lives. We all crave power, and there are two basic responses when we're very young: sublimate or bully. That's it.
Violence is the only form of power easily available to little children. Sure, tantrums and crying may work on their parents, and some other adults, but on their peers? No. I'm making this one hell of a lot simpler than it really is, but if a larger child hits a smaller one, the smaller one is likely to do whatever the larger child wants, in order to not get hit again. Power. Over something. At last.
(And of course, later, words and the concept of emotional violence replace physical violence, especially for girls. Whole different rant. La.)

Ironic, isn't it? As children, we are embraced by violence and shielded from sex, both potent forms of power over another. But as we grow, the violence is legislated away from us; and in the end, it is the power game of sex that remains free and unpunished to us. In other words, we've been thrown into a new arena without the comfortable weapons we grew up with. (And generally, through America's insistance on female beauty, women seem to be a lot more comfortable with sex appeal as power. Ha ha, we win. By losing. Again, whole different rant. La.)
Maybe if we saw more sex as children, we'd be more able to deal with each other as adults. But I doubt it.

Boy, this rant started one place and ended up miles away, and didn't ever get very cohesive, did it? Oh well. Now, to make it even less cohesive!
Sex and violence are the human race's oldest tricks, and tricks we share with every other animal out there.
And we're so fucked up about both of them. Hell, human beings are just fucked up in general. I think the best we can do is stumble along and try not to hurt each other too much, with our violence and our sex and our power... not that this will ever happen, mind you. We still crave our little displays of power, whether it's power through position, through money, through sex, or finally at the bottom of the chain, through violence.
We're just animals. Complicated animals, but animals. Me? I'm a cow. Mwuu.

Posted by Mie Tsukikoushi @ 08:49 PM EST
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