Anyone heard of Chrono Trigger? A little game released back in 1995 for the SNES? I realize it's obscure and all but I expect you pinnacles of geekery, you princes of Maine, might have heard of it at some point in your exhaustive games-centric research. Chris informs me (between Chrono Trigger induced pants-wetting sessions) that the original SNES version of Chrono Trigger is "one of the rarest SNES games you can find".
Well, come this holiday season, a version of Chrono Trigger that isn't a complete and total clusterfuck like the PS1 port will be coming to the DS. Excited yet? The mere mention of a port to the DS is enough to cause spasms of delight in even the most stoic of geeks. So I hope you're sitting down, as the DS port will add wireless multiplayer and a new dungeon to explore with your friends. In the palm of your hand. On Chrono Trigger.
Every time I begin to doubt that it's the future something like this happens. Screw flying cars and pill-food, I'll take Chrono Trigger on a device the size of my hands thank you very much.
The Weekly Geek is less a blog and more a podcast, this much is true. I completely admit that my little rants here and there on this site are the equivalent of the Tom Jones that's playing over the speakers at the grocery store. You're not there to listen to Tom Jones, you're there to buy rutabagas. Why are you buying rutabagas? I don't know. What's a rutabaga, anyway? I don't know. I don't know a damn thing about rutabagas. It's just a fun word to type.
Rutabaga, rutabaga, rutabaga.
So, ultimately, as far as the Weekly Geek's blog goes, it's here for your convenience while you wait for the podcast to download. A crunchy, sesame flecked breadstick before the Baloney Alfredo that is Mack and Caspian. Would madame prefer some FRESHLY CRACKED PEPPER? Would sir enjoy FRESHLY GRATED PARMESAN? Would Her Majesty gasp wistfully at some FRESHLY BUTTERED HAGFISH CUBES?
While the Weekly Geek's Blog is just a side dish, there are, believe it or not, blogs that exist solely for the pleasure of blogging alone. Self-induced bloggery is a disease and a scourge upon the urban landscape, somewhere between prostitution and those embroidered jeans with pseudo-Victorian motifs on them. Blogs like Perez Hilton and Ain't It Cool News are essentially shill-magnification zones, the rebirth of the Payola Scandals of the 1950s.
If you aren't aware of the Payola Scandals, they worked a bit like this: Record Company A would come to Radio Show Host B, and offer Radio Show Host B several hundred dollars to play one of Record Company A's records over and over again until the public had no choice but to accept it as a required purchase on their next record buying trip. This was, of course, the days before iPods and mp3s, so if a record was being pushed heavily by the record company, your Montgomery Wards or J.C. Penney's or Wilburson-Cockshit-on-Cam's would stock it by dearth of knowing that it was being played so often on the radio.
The Payola system explains why Buddy Holly became famous. I know I'm going to get hundreds (well, maybe one) of hate mails about this, but Buddy Holly was, and still is, the worst singer/songwriter of all time. Buddy Holly is to singing/songwriting what leprosy is to a Fourth of July Barbecue. Thank GOD he died in that plane crash. He fucking deserved it. As he currently burns in Hell for his crimes against humanity, we can all be thankful that Congress took the Payola problem into their own enormously chubby and checkered hands, and outlawed it.
Still, the Payola system lives on, in the so-called NEW MEDIA. NEW MEDIA must always be capitalized, because NEW MEDIA is here to stay. Basically, in the NEW MEDIA Payola, the Payola is even easier than it ever was, because bloggers are generally amateurs who have day jobs, and therefore, no dignity. Whereas before the NEW MEDIA, people who reviewed media were called "critics" and generally had doctorates or war correspondent credentials or very large hats, "critics" these days are rarely actually critical of anything at all, and hopelessly fawning over whatever they're given for free.
A few years ago, the decision was made that E-3 would restrict it's invite-only system to make it much more difficult for bloggers to attend, and the bloggers threw an unholy fit about it. I find it interesting that E-3 has to restrict attendance, whereas the Adult Industry Convention in Las Vegas actually SELLS tickets, and people who are otherwise completely passively associated with the "adult industry" (i.e. they've certainly been on a few covers, and interior pages, if you know what I mean) have no problem getting in. E-3, however, is different, and exceedingly exclusive, and this works to the favor of the gaming companies, because a ticket to E-3 is the blogging equivalent of a Golden Ticket to Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory. Bloggers will do literally anything to attend, going so far as to give Will Wright a complete pass on his child molestation rumors. Now, I'm not saying Will Wright is a child molestor, but I'm not saying he isn't, and you're free to read between the lines on that, IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.
And now, the Weekly Geek will never again be invited to E-3.
Will Wright's supposed tendency toward underage pederasty aside, there are a few tricks and tactics to being a successful Indie Blogger Cock and, thus, scoring as many freebies as possible.
1. DRESS AS ECCENTRICALLY AS POSSIBLE
Nothing says "NEW MEDIA" like dressing like an explosion at a K-Mart. Harry J. Knowles, who makes Two Ton Torres look like Karen Carpenter, seems to have started this tendency, although Matt Drudge's "Lemony Snicket" affectations certainly didn't stop that ball from rolling any further than it needed to. Perez Hilton, who otherwise looks like a total cuddlebug, personally keeps Manic Panic in business, and Ana Marie Cox, "Wonkette", tries to buck the trend by presenting herself as a fashionable Barbera Bush style proto-matron, but ends up looking like Cruella de Ville on a chubby day.
I, personally, admit to a certain predilection toward velvet and leather in my wardrobe, and I own a pair of trendy black nerd glasses. Of course, unlike the pretenders, I have spent time in a mental institution, so "eccentricity" is not my goal, it's just the polite way of describing it.
2. PICK A SUBJECT AND NEVER DEVIATE FROM IT.
If your blog's subject is "film", for instance, pick A film, preferably a sci-fi trilogy of some sort, and yammer on and on about it endlessly, comparing every new film you see unfavorably to the brilliance that is your particular hobbyhorse. If your blog is political in nature, pick a hilariously offensive nickname for the leader of your party's opposition ("Black Insane Obama" is a good one, "John McGain" is a slightly more subtle equivalent) and refuse to call that person by their real name. If your blog is about fashion or celebrities, obsess over one certain person ad absurdam.
Remember: Blogging isn't journalism. You're not supposed to be objective. You are to be slavishly one-sided and utterly devoted to your pointless "insider" position.
3. DEMAND AS MUCH FREE SWAG AS POSSIBLE, AS OFTEN AS POSSIBLE, AND TO AS MANY PLACES AS POSSIBLE.
And don't be afraid to threaten to throw back the thinly woven curtain of deceit surrounding the pedophilic tendencies of your quarry, either. Please give me free Spore stuff.
Again, the Weekly Geek is guilty of this one, although I am, admittedly, not a recipient of as much largesse as others. The worst I get is emails offering me "sneak previews" of shitty web cartoons. And while my particular sickness gets off on cultural fecalphilia, I should, by all rights, be demanding much, much more. I should be demanding paid junkets to the Lucas Ranch for hookers and blow and handjobs from Robert Rodriguez. I not only demand these trinkets, but I also demand to be put on VH1 as an "I Heart the ________" talker. I heart the ________ more than you do, and I can prove it, because I have a blog.
Incidentally, Michael Ian Black* the penultimate hearter of the ________, opened his blog a scant few weeks ago, to coincide with his book of essays about his van customization service. 90% of it is him (charmingly) attempting to start an East/West Rap style feud with David Sedaris. Good for him! My dream is to be a heart-er of something, preferably the 80s, maybe the 90s, but I'll settle for the Oughts in due time.
The Free Swag situation is a problem, sadly, especially in the geekier parts of the blogospheroidmatron. The comic conventions, which have long basically just been an excuse to throw free shit at increasingly desperate nerds, excel (saga) at this tactic. Nerds will love anything they get free shit for, which explains why Iron Man somehow became this century's version of Citizen Kane overnight.
On the video gaming front, from Nintendo, I was given a plastic mannequin hand for my DS. X-Box once gave me a foam rubber brain shaped stress ball and a LANYARD(!), and Sony gave me a keychain shaped like a tomato, in one of the great non-sequiters of all time. Of the three, Nintendo's was the best, thus tainting my opinion of Nintendo for decades to come. Still, I sigh longingly whenever I see that LANYARD(!) and think of my close personal friends at Microsoft (especially Ted in Accounting, KEEP AIMING FOR THAT STAR, YOU CRAZY DIAMOND!). As for Sony, they can choke on their own vomit, so far as I care.
APPENDIX: WEBCOMIC BLOGGING
This one is tricky, and, admittedly, a salvo for the few brave souls who have webcomics AND blogs. Your webcomic must be understood by reading your blog, and your blog must be completely unreadable without first reading the webcomic. This cyclical system is required, and cannot be broken, lest the whole balance of the Chi be thrown off.
Your webcomic explains your blog, and your blog explains your webcomic. Break the circle at your own peril. Penny Arcade once broke this rule, and the next day, Tycho got fat. I know, man. I KNOW, MAN.
*I harbo(u)r a personal lust for Mr. Black that few would ever understand. You think I'm joking. Ha ha. I'm his own personal Mark David Chapman. I'm right behind you, Bright Eyes.
I've been beaten to the punch on this by just about every music enthusiast with a blog, but I won't let that stop me.
Girl Talk, stage name for master mash bandit Gregg Gillis, just released Feed the Animals (some of which was featured in the last podcast) online. Plainly stated, it's art by juxtaposition. Effortlessly he blends samples from a 3+ decade, genre-hopping selection. With little to no reverence, but with an uncanny rhythmic intuition, artists like Busta Rhymes & The Police merge with dramatically awesome results.
This video delves into Gillis' creative process (however glancingly), and shows him butchering Elvis Costello to bits and using him as a small tile in a larger mosaic.
The most telling quote Gillis makes is the last; perhaps letting on that mashing isn't as simple as this short YouTube clip makes it seem: "If you spend a few hours or years doing that you can kinda go places with it."
It is prophesied that in the End Times, a dark force will be born in the East, carried on wings of ill-advised marketing and deliberate product placement, that the Anticomedy, the one force of evil so hellaciously non-comedic, will arise. The Anticomedy, upon coming to power, will bring the Laffageddon upon us, and many millions will perish in his wrath.
Ladies and gentlemen, Mike Myers (not to be confused with Michael Myers, our favorite babysitter-killing sociopath in a William Shatner mask) is, undoubtedly, the Anticomedy. I can confirm this with numerology, I can verify this with Biblical texts, I can point to specific texts in the Secret Vatican Library that point to the Dark One's ineffable plan to obliterate the righteous power of comedy once and for all. That would take time, of course.
The Love Guru is a film about, well, a love guru. In a parody of Dr. Phil crossed with Deepak Chopra, Mike Myers piddles around in his THIRD bad rendition of a Peter Sellers character (Dieter, the host of Sprockets being Dr. Strangelove, Austin Powers being Sellers' turn at James Bond in Casino Royale, and the Love Guru, whose actual name I have forgotten less than 24 hours after viewing it, based on Hrundi V. Bakshi from The Party), using his trademark scatological ha-has and even a urine soaked mop fight to attempt to sell us on the idea of the Love Guru being another film franchise.
What's always confused me about Myers is why he is the one with multimillion dollar puff-piece extravaganzas and Dana Carvey, his ally in the Wayne's World movies, seemingly completely incapable of getting anything made. Sure, The Master of Disguise was a bad movie, but not nearly as bad as The Love Guru, both of which are plotless sketch comedies thinly packed around a broadly based costumed character. Pistachio Disguisey at least gave us the cultural meme "TURTLE, TURTLE, TURTLE." To make it even more insulting, Myers steals practically wholesale the same gimmick, premise and follow-through as Sasha Cohen's brilliant Borat, only without any sense of satire or gravitas that Borat actually brought to the table.
Borat was a broad comic character, yes. The conceit that he was interviewing Americans about American foibles, especially during a time of war and bad political policies, actually made Borat a very timely, very powerful character. Mike Myers, as Guru Pitka, is neither based in a satirical reality nor fantastic enough to be cinematic. Even Austin Powers, a character that was tired 3/4s of the way through the first movie, at least had a plot to keep us busy.
The Love Guru also stars Justin Timberlake as a character named Jacque "Le Coq". Yes. Oh, and the "funny" names only get more obvious. A classic Kids in the Hall sketch, featuring Kevin McDonald and Dave Foley as themselves in a writer's meeting, touches on the rules of "funny" names, ruling that just putting two words together and hoping they sound funny and then attaching a "Mister" ahead of it is rarely funny.
Again, one character is named "Dick Pants".
Oy. Fucking. Vey.
Ultimately, this is one of the classic unfunny comedies, up there with Dan Ackroyd's career killer, Nothing But Trouble. It's tasteless, it's baseless, it's just lame.
Final Judgement: ONLY THE EXORCIST CAN SAVE US NOW.
posted by Chris on June 30, 2008 6:44 PM in Podcast
Dear Sir or Madam,
Enclosed you will find a special extra-long edition of The Weekly Geek with such personalities as Qais, Chris, Jinny and Ross discussing issues pertinent to your life. Have you ever wondered how Rock Band 2 might compete in this growing market of music games? Now you can know! Have you ever dreamed about Diablo III? Well dream no more! Do you believe that the record industry is crazy, and did you find this out from the magical talking cat in your closet? I, uhh... no actually that's weird. Enjoy these subjects, your questions answered on air (read with optional funny voices) and a bonus secret word section in this week's fabulous (did I mention free?) podcast.
Well, it's safe to say that the power of animated character is not only made incredibly apparent but thrown right into the face of those who fear it most, as Wall•E takes the metaphorical ball and metaphorically runs with it. Despite positive reviews from just about everybody, a few hold outs are doing what the Internet does best (factionalizing ad infinitum) and the conserva-prigs at Free Republic are hilariously fuming at the film. Whatever it takes to keep the headlines off this douche, right guys?
It looks like Republicans are hating this movie, just because Fred Willard's character drops the "Stay the course" line. Why, yes. Yes it is anti-Republican. It shows us exactly what the world would look like 800 years after a third Bush presidency. The earth will be full of garbage and devoid of human life, and the rare few who somehow manage to escape will be fantastically wealthy and their society will be built on the remnants of whatever and whoever they stepped over to get there.
They didn't complain one bit when Grade-A Crank Brad Bird's looney Randroid screed, The Incredibles, told their audience that some people are born "special" and are therefore criminally suppressed by the rest of society, who should be thankful just to have them around. Republicans LOVED that one, because it reinforced their deep seated paradigm notion that there are, indeed, certain people deserving of much more than others. Brad Bird, you're a cock. Choke somebody on you.
Fat people are now, apparently, a political base of their own, now. I guess I should start getting my membership card pretty shortly, I could use that 10% off at KFC and the Enema Bag Emporium. Being a man who could stand to lose weight, but not a man whose weight has lost him the ability to stand, I have not yet lost touch with the reality of satire. The ultimate animated "Americans are fat" movie, The Triplets of Belleville, to which Pixar owes a great deal in the comedic style and pacing of Wall•E, was never given a broad release by Sony because the fat "lobby" was so offended by it. The "Fat Lobby" sounds like a really smelly place.
But then, of course, fat people are more than welcome to head over to Kung Fu Panda, a film tailor made to their purposes. I believe they just wheel in the Happy Meals by the cart now. It's got everything that Wall•E doesn't... a happy-go-lucky (yet insipid) main character, dozens of well known (yet insipid) A-list voice actors, and more pop (yet insipid) cultural references than you can shake your enormous, enormous booty at. Let them have it, I guess. It's all there, and by the truckload.
If I seem to be commenting frequently on the H.G. Wells characters, the Morlocks and the Eloi, Wall•E seems to reinforce my suspicions that the distinction is happening faster than we think. The film doesn't answer everything, and that's really great. A truly good film won't prechew thought for you like the food the Hoverchair family in this film has to slurp down.
All is not so bleak, I suppose. The truth is that Pixar is a proven quality, and not a single one of their films has ever lost a dime. Parents will bring their kids to Wall•E, young adults will go to Wall•E, post-ironic hipsters such as myself will go to Wall•E. If, perchance, it makes people think about the ramifications of a McCain presidency, so much the better.
Too often when we play games from our childhoods do we experience the "rose colored glasses" effect. Our memories of these games are marred by the gaps - when encountered with the original product after so many years, we often end up disappointed. Lucky for us Capcom has remastered Street Fighter II in order to match our memories. The HD remix remarkably manages to be just like you remember Street Fighter II. No crappy port to 3d. No gimmicky control scheme. Just pure concentrated childhood. Thank you Capcom for your surprising amount of restraint.
I sometimes think that maybe I'm the one who is living in Bizarro World. In the real, non-Bizarro world, George W. Bush is an Austin news weatherman, the dollar is worth the same as a Soviet ruble, and the evolutionary distinction between the Eloi and the Morlocks still had several thousand years before it really kicked in. Unfortunately, here in Bizarro World, everything is the complete opposite. Therefore, instead of heckling the current situation, I think I should just accept it like the good White Male Consumer 25-33 like I am.
Still, there's one Bizarro thing that I know is Bizarro and is going to stay Bizarro: I am not wealthy enough to even comprehend renting a villa in Italy. In fact, I have never actually paused to think to myself, "Self: We should really think about that villa in Italy, what with all this spare time and all of these millions of gold coins we have in the Money Bin, maybe we should get a little place in Tuscany instead of swimming around in all of this obscene monetary excess," that is, of course, before Facebook decided to tell it's advertisers that I am.
Now, every single time I check my Facebook profile, there it is.
The Villa.
It sounds a bit like an M. Night Shyalaman film, doesn't it? "The Villa". The obligatory twist at the end? It's full of BATS. It would be just like The Birds, only, you know, with bats. Even worse yet, it's full of ITALIANATE bats. Bats with names like "Manny" and "Guido". Bats with really great shoes. Bats that own fish markets on the South Side and mysteriously get Christmas cards from Sammy Davis Jr. Bats that have Steve Buscemi on speed dial for blow. Those kind of bats.
Only Facebook isn't trying to rent me a house full of adorable winged mafiosa with echolocation, no. Heavens to Mergatroyd, no! Facebook is trying to honestly convince me, and their respective advertisers at Invitation To Tuscany, that I am in the mood to rent a villa in Italy, and, conversely, that Invitation To Tuscany is not throwing away their hard earned Euros in advertising to riff-raff like me. I'm the kind of jerk that throws financial caution to the wind to splurge from time to time on a Grilld Stuft Burrito at Taco Bell, a place that is so inexpensive they can't even afford to put certain vowels in the names of their products. Even in this time of global kicking up of heels and international high spirits, when people like Henry Kissinger are doing the Charleston with glee since there's just so damn much money around, renting a villa in Italy is just a tad bit pricy for the likes of me.
It's not like I'm blaming Invitation To Tuscany, they're probably owned by a senile necromancer, and their call center is staffed by the zombies of old people, typing very slowly and growling with rotting, pallid lips into those teeny little earpiece/microphones that every office has these days. Nor am I placing the blame on Facebook. No, I'm placing the blame on Hanna-Barbera, because ever since Jabberjaw, the increase in natural disasters, childhood obesity and lupus has increased exponentially.
They call him Jab-Jab-Jab-Jab-Jabberjaw, the most demonic Faustian manipulator you ever saw.
So, Facebook, I know you're trying to build a successful business model and not end up like that shmuck Tom over at MySpace. I can rid you of the influence of Jabberjaw, trust me. It'll be a long, hard process. Lucky for you, I'm a trained professional Life Coach. Just leave all your problems to me. That mean ol' Jabberjaw won't get you.
Your advertisers need to be relevant to the audience, stores like Target or Borders, possibly. Then, once you've got a good, steady set of appropriate advertisers, start slowly picking off Facebook members at random. I can think of a few already, personally. Nothing TOO violent, of course. Just a quick injection of bleach in the buttock, or maybe a nice, quiet strangulation with a necktie. Guns would be a bit messy, yes, but maybe that would be a good idea too. Snipe them in public.
Once you've got a few random Facebook murders under your belt, things will slowly become evident. I've provided you with a business model, Facebook.
1) Ramp up your advertising to be relevant to the audience. Low-to-middle market retailers, bookstores, convenience foods, florists, funeral homes, manufacturers of black textiles, taxidermists, that sort of thing.
2) As you slowly start to pick off Facebookers, one by one, your advertisers will suddenly experience a spike in return clicks.
3) Reign of terror, followed by profit. Reinvestment in Facebook branded cemetaries and the new "WHO'S DEAD YET?" application.
To be honest, I'm not entirely sure that Facebook hasn't already started this new campaign. That would explain the sudden rise in advertisements for FTD.
I found out about Art of Noise today, just moments ago. After watching this video, they remind me of a cross between The Knife and Justice. It's hard to believe that this song was originally released in 1987. When I realized Trevor Horn was involved, my disbelief was suspended somewhat, but I'm still inclined to agree with my friend John, who introduced me to the song, that they were creating music way ahead of their time. As for the video, I have no clue as to why they are hacking at a grand piano with chainsaws, electric sanders, and what appears to be a lamp stand, among other things, but it seems to go with the song somehow. Perhaps the piano was too grand to exist?
Anyone heard of Chrono Trigger? A little game released back in 1995 for the SNES? I realize it's obscure and all but I expect you pinnacles of geekery, you princes of Maine, might have heard of it at some point in your exhaustive games-centric research. Chris informs me (between Chrono Trigger induced pants-wetting sessions) that the original SNES version of Chrono Trigger is "one of the rarest SNES games you can find".
