Birchbark Achievements Unlocked

We arrived home last night after a week at my wife's family cottage. Even after 20-odd Summers of these trips, my feelings are still conflicted. It's isolated, quiet, and incredibly scenic. A better place for burning through your reading list, I cannot imagine. It's ageing badly, constantly in need of repair, and sports an outhouse. A better recipe for diverting your reading time towards repair chores, you will not find.

This year was different, however. Number One: we were there alone without any other family. Number Two: there were no major chores to tackle. This rare confluence of events meant that we could actually spend a week on Georgian Bay doing we whatever we felt like doing! And when a geek has a free time, a geek will do those things that make him or her a geek:

Reading: I finished all 784 pages of Dan Simmons' DROOD. I'll summarize that: I read DROOD.

Gaming: I finally got around to playing MUNCHKIN. My family - all four of us - learned to play (and love) MUNCHKIN. To satisfy any need for video gaming, I spent a lot of time wrestling Angry Birds out of my daughter's hands.

Watching: We brought a stack of Series 2, 3, and 4 Doctor Who DVDs to watch. Thanks to MUNCHKIN, we never actually got around to watching them.

So while a few of us got the DTs from Internet and Xbox withdrawl, I feel like we probably sustained at least a faint glow of geek. But it's still good to be back in a world where porceline is readily available.

The Filler Post

The Theater (or Theatre) will be closed for the next week or so to afford the staff a well-deserved break from cleaning sticky floors, spooning congealed grease from the popcorn machine, and taping old pieces of film together for cheap matinees. The Manager (that's me) will be heading to the family cottage in Parry Sound, but we'll be traveling there via Sudbury. That's how the Settlers did it and Settlers made this land great!

I won't be counting on Internet access for the next week and I'm bloody ticked that we're going to miss Day One of SCOTT PILGRIM 6 on July 20. But when I get back - if I get back - I'll be ready with a post about a family trip being planned for August that I'm calling 'The Red Dead Redemption Cosplay Tour 2010'. Pretty catchy, huh?

Until then, don't break the Internet.

Shameless Promotion

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There's this young lady I know who, in just a few days time, will be embarking on the adventure of her lifetime (so far!). Nisha - just barely 18 years of age - will be spending the next year of her life in India under the auspices of the Rotary Young Exchange program.

She'll be blogging about her experiences throughout the year to allow us less adventurous types to see India through her eyes. And since Nisha is - in all the ways that matter - part of my family, I'm going to offer up her Nisha In India! bloglink here (and in the sidebar to the right) in case any Theater patrons would like to join the ride.

Remember, Nisha: we're watching!

The Die Was Cast Early

 I recently finished Achtung Schweinehund! - a first-person account of one man's lifelong relationship with table-top wargaming. I won't review the book in this post, but if you're at all curious you can find a semi-literate opinion or two over at All Your Basecast (episode 13, also available on iTunes!).

While I did enjoy reading about Harry Pearson's obsessions, an unexpected consequence was having the dust blown off some long-ago memories of my own experiences with wargaming. It had been years since those memories had lit up my neural pathways, but Pearson's reminisces eventually teased a few mementos out of the quiet corners of my past.

Going back to my teenaged years (somewhere in the late 1970's), my pasty-white friends and I spent countless hours constructing small-scale WW2 tanks and warships. It didn't hurt that my friend's family owned a local hobby shop and were only too willing to extend us the deep discounts we used to amass our armies. Meticulously constructed and painted, our legions of British, American, and German military hardware spent their most useful hours in a friend's garage, where we had constructed an elaborate gaming table - complete with landscaping, beachfront, and the bombed out villages we copied from Kelley's Heroes.

I cannot recall very much about the rules for our campaigns, although I do remember they were furnished and refereed by a friend's older brother. It was all about math: how much a Tiger Tank could move in one turn, how far the Graf Spree could lob 11-inch shells at a 32-degree angle from its watery outpost, and so on. Games would run hours, days, even weeks, with the winner typically chosen by attrition rather than brilliant tactics. Winning was never really the point of it all. It was the 'act' - selecting, building, painting, arguing, and being together with like-minded geeks.

Thinking about all this led me to recall even more ancient geekery from my past. It was a board game my father brought into the house when I was 10 or 11 years old: Richtofen's War. This was not the typical Monopoly or Candyland style of boardgame. This was different.

The point of it all was to simulate WW1 arial battles - all white knuckles on joysticks and canvas stretched over wooden frames. I remember the board being an arial view of some European countryside, with an overlay of honeycombs to guide various pieces of cardboard with pictures of airplanes on them. There were dice involved and a set of rules that seemed to me like 100 pages of inscrutable gibberish. I desperately wanted to make the game 'work', but I could never explain the rules well enough to myself or my friends.

Like I say, I hadn't though about model tanks or cardboard Sopwith Camels in years until Harry Pearson's book came along. Richtofen's boxed set of WW1 has long since passed from my family's hands (probably into a dustbin somewhere along the way). As for my plastic tanks and ships - so lovingly put together all those years ago - they were handed down to my brother when I moved away to attend school in another city. I'm pretty sure they, too, have been consigned to the municipal dump. But these are good things to think about, if only to confirm that I Am Me, and always have been.

I Love Ninja Artists

Why? Because they use the cover of darkness to pretty-up those places I like to stroll during my lunchtime constitutionals.

Behold! Knitwear railings! Safe and colourful!

This Is Not The Post You're Looking For

With not so much as link to a link (the laziest species of blogpost) appearing in this space in 3 weeks, you'd expect something really special to turn up eventually. So here's a spoiler alert: this is not that post.

However, there are a few items of note to talk about, so we're going to 'up' the Awesome Quotient by talking about both of them in one jam-packed missive.

Ready?

School Concert or French Foreign Legion March?

With both of my teen-brats involved in school music programs, we attend a Metric ass-load of concerts. Don't construe this as complaining, because we get to see some really high quality performances around town. One recent example: I had never heard of the Finnish a capella supergroup, Rajaton, until my kids spent a full day in a workshop with these amazing performers. Their combined concert that evening was some of the best live music I've ever seen. That's the good stuff.

Then there are the wonderful-but-dreaded school concerts. The 'wonderful' bits are the music and the commitment from the kids and their teachers to do high-quality stuff. The 'dreaded' aspect is the length of these concerts - always an audacious challenge from every kid in the music program to every parent in the audience to see who blinks first.

But 3 1/2 hours of Spring Music Night this week was about 90 minutes too much. When my knees have gone numb and I fantasize how it must feel to run through a meadow, I know I've been sitting on my ass much too long. Of course I'll listen to every note, check my raffle tickets during intermission, and smile with my eyes when my kid is onstage, but I'll also murmur a little prayer that maybe, just maybe, someone might think to pull a fire alarm sometime before 10pm.

I Gots The Looks for Radio!

Earlier this week I got the phone call that all of us secretly-extroverted blogwhores dream about. It was my friend Sean - one third of the All Your Basecast crew - asking me if I wouldn't mind sitting in on a recording session for their fledgling podcast. I didn't care that I only had a few hours to prepare. The Basecast crew of Sean, Vanessa, and Brian are great folks and I was going to enjoy spending an hour or two chatting with them. That there was going to be a microphone in the room was not going to matter, for it would only serve to feed my Ego and give me a little push towards 'celebrity'.

So we met, we chatted about geeky things, we laughed a lot, and we recorded. In the following days, Vanessa would recite some Editting Spells and, presto!, Episode 8 of Basecast would take it's rightful place in iTunes. In the meantime, I cleared my inbox in anticipation of the deluge of admiring emails to come.

Upon my first nervous listen later that week, I was pleasantly surprised at the results. The Basecast folks were their usual fine selves - Vanessa mixing geek joyfulness with strong opinions, Brian offering true insights and honest admissions, and Sean playing the role of Master geek while drawing out his crewmates' thoughts with an interviewer's touch. And I was pleased to discover that the sound of my recorded words was not too cringeworthy, and that I even had something to say once in awhile!

Upon my second listen later that week, I got self-critical in that way that us glass-half-empty types can be self-critical. My voice was too raspy. My voice was too quiet. I stammered right there! I used too many adjectives in place of actual insights. I couldn't remember that author's name. I paused for too long. I didn't finish that one thought before going on to the next.

What was I doing there?

It might not have been as bad as all that, of course. And I did have a blast (thanks guys!) But I will say that it's harder than it looks to have a casual conversation and make it interesting enough that other folks will want to listen in.

I'd do it again in a New York minute, but first I've got this inbox to clean out...

Blue Light Special

Here's a quick tip: There are good bargains out there for smart shoppers who don't mind that replacement parts might not be readily available. Apparently.

David and Dog Both Begin With 'D'

I heard through an excitedly quivering grapevine that David Sedaris is coming to London in October. I can't say that I'm a rabid fan. There's just too much media Out There and too little time Right Here. But what I've seen, I liked - in the same way I liked Spaulding Gray before he took one last swim to Cambodia.

So I thought maybe my wife and I should go see him when he lands at Centennial Hall on October 1. Off to the Innertubes went I and by pure, dumb luck I found something I had never expected:

Dog The Bounty Hunter - The Mercy Tour 2010 

Tuesday June 22 2010, 8:00 pm Centennial Hall - Auditorium
-------------------------------------------------------
Super VIP - includes Best seats in the house, An exclusive after party with Leland and Duane Lee, Meet N Greet and Picture with Dog, Beth, Leland, and Duane Lee, an Autographed Poster, and a SUPER VIP Commemorative Laminate
-------------------------------------------------------
VIP - includes Best Seats in the house, a Meet N’ Greet & Picture with Dog & Beth, an autographed poster, and a VIP Commemorative Laminate

Balcony Reserved All Seats $47.00
Mezzanine All Seats $47.00
Orchestra All Seats $47.00
VIP All Seats $206.00
Super VIP All Seats $309.0

As you'll imagine, I'm absolutely torn. I cannot decide: is this or is this not a sign of the End Times?

Mean Streets for Gamers

Because I spent some bad-ass formative years EOA, I walk the dangerous parts of the city core without fear. And by dangerous parts I mean I cut through a parking lot near King and Wellington to get into the Convention Centre underground lot. That's where my rusting, beige minivan waits for me while I earn money.

Between the Convention Center and an adjacent building is a sort-of alley. Just big enough for a person to fit into, it is usually strewn with the detritus of whatever the hell goes on downtown when night falls - as you might notice below.

I make a point of peering down that alley on my twice-daily passing. Usually, there's nothing very interesting, save the occasional bad-ass squirrel (the EOA type) scrounging for whatever bad-ass squirrels need. But today I noticed something new: a cracked DVD case laying open with a shiny DVD inside.

You'll notice the handwritten lettering on the home-burned disk. You'll also notice that 'Dragon Age of Empire' is kind of nonsensical. And since you're looking at pictures here, you'll also notice I picked it up and took it home for investigation.

The disk has no viruses or trojans. The handwritten case insert has instructions for installing what appears to be a software crack. While my ageing PC cannot run this game, nor would I steal something like this, see for yourself below what I found.

 

Now I can only wonder how that DVD came to rest in a downtown alley frequented street folks and ne'erdowells. My theory: a stolen backpack - useless items ditched in an secluded place. Still, there's a story there, and I'm guessing the squirrels know something, but ain't talkin'.

I Choose YOU, Pikachu!

The neverending story that my wife Dee refers to as 'Painting a Few Rooms' has, surprisingly, all but come to an end. Today, the Family Room received a final coat of Benjamin Moore and far too many touch-ups before I ceased hostilities with my brush and roller.

My son, JediBoy, strolled by as I admired my handiwork. When asked for an opinion on the choice of colours, he replied without pause, "The room looks like the inside of a Pokeball.". And he's right - it does. So I'd say we're pretty damn pleased that we can now hang out in our very own Pokeball to watch TV or read or whatever it is that Pokemon do when they're not on the clock.

And by the way, the corner of the room shown in both photos will forever hold a special meaning. As I listened to Basecast #5 for painting company, I happened to be running a brush down that very corner when Basecaster Vanessa (at 34:49 into the episode) posed a question for the Ages, "Am I not good enough to masturbate in front of?".

To which my answer must be: Pika! Pika!

Kicking This Old Ass

One of the great questions of our age is whether geekiness can honestly co-exist with sportiness. I think it can and does, of course. While I consider myself pretty geeky in so many ways, I do play a few sports. I generally can't stand to waste time watching sports on TV, but you'll find me playing a bit of pickup hockey, soccer, or baseball when 'tis the season. Lest you think I'm faking it, many of my teammates are the same chaps with whom I've spent countless hours wandering imaginary dungeons or arguing that Madagascar is the key to expanding your armies into Africa.

I like to think that playing these games - often with those unfortunate souls with whom I survived high-school - has been the secret to my relative lack of maturity. Sure, I can hold down a job, wear a tie if I have to, and be passably serious at parent/teacher interviews, but I know in my bones that I'm still a 16 year-old kid with 10 bucks in quarters for the arcade and an old tennis ball perfect for road hockey. I just have never felt old and grown up - at least not before this past weekend.

Almost every Spring my friends and I play in a hockey tournament for charity. It's a lot of fun for a good cause and the food is free. For reasons that don't matter, our team (most of us in our mid-forties or worse) is usually placed in a division where the other players are likely 20 years our junior. We never win very much against those younger legs and quicker hands, but we never embarrass ourselves too much, either.

This year was different. Our skates were caught in molasses. Our sticks were made of rubber. Our lungs became old, cracked leather. Sure we scored some goals and we never quit trying, but we knew from each other's eyes that we were struggling this year. Having a bad game or two doesn't bother us too much. It's just one of those 'on any given day' kind of things.

And then I had this exchange with an opposing player between first and second periods during our last game:

Kid (with a good-natured chuckle): You guys are slowing down! Everything alright? Your bench is quiet!

Me: Ah, we're just pacing ourselves for a kick-ass third period! That what experience teaches you, man!

Kid: Experience?

Me (laughing): Well, you know... most of us have been playing hockey for, like, 30 or 40 years. You learn stuff.

Kid: Holy shit! You must be older than my father!

Me: Well, I guess...

Kid: ... We didn't know! We don't need to be pressing you guys so hard...

And with that - and genuine concern - he reported back to his bench that they were kicking Old Guy Ass. We still lost the game, of course, but they took it easier on us older-than-Dad-guys. My body might have appreciated the break whereas my psyche had no good thoughts for those nice young boys.

Old? Insinuations of feebleness? My roll of quarters and balding tennis ball say, "HA!"

Next year, we'll be ready for them - ready to teach them a life lesson. That is, if my knees hold out.

Because I'm All About Public Service

Definitions are a tricky business. Similar to art, pornography, and Neo-cons, Douchebags are easy to spot, but diffcult to concisely define. In the interest of self-awareness and a desire to leave the World in a better place after I'm dead-and-gone, I offer the following (Beta 1.0) 12-step test that can be used to identify Douchebaggery - male or female, young or old. Only through classification of Douchebags can we offer them the help they need in the internment camps that will keep keep them far away from the rest of us.

Disclaimer: The Innertubes seems to be littered with such quizzes. But I'm having a slow day at the office, so I made my own. Okay?

Instructions: Answer each of the 12 questions honestly - for yourself, someone you know, or someone you want to mock. You can do this silently in your head or do it out loud for the enjoyment of those around you. For each 'true' statement:

• Score 1 point!
• Try your luck at the 2 bonus questions for each question
• Score 1 extra point for each Bonus question you answer 'true'

When you're done, add up your score and see how you rate on the Douchebag Standard Scale.

1. I’ve spent money at a tanning salon.
    a. I have membership.
    b. I use the spray-tan booth.

2. I drive a black SUV that’s large enough to carry 6 adults comfortably.
    a. I have no children.
    b. My spouse drives one, too.

3. I shop for clothes in the same establishments as my teenaged children.
    a. I share clothes with my teenaged children.
    b. They’re not my children.

4. I wear work-out attire to places other than the gym or my home.
    a. I buy my workout attire from lululemon.
    b. I don’t go to the gym.

5. I go to Starbuck’s more than 4 times a week.
    a. I’ve yelled at a ‘barista’ more than once.
    b. The name of my favourite Starbuck’s beverage has more than 4 syllables.

6. I wear a gold chain around my neck.
    a. I like to make sure the chain can be seen at all times.
    b. I bought the chain for myself.

7. I wear golf shirts with the collar turned up.
    a. I use the term ‘popped’ without irony.
    b. I wear more than 1 popped collar at a time.

8. I use some manner of hair gel, paste, etc. regularly.
     a. My hairstyle involves a ‘point’ at the top of my head and/or streaks of alternating colours.
     b. I refer to anything I use on my hair as ‘product’.

9. I actually enjoy having my picture taken while in social situations.
     a. My signature pose includes ‘serious eyes’, pursed lips, and (optionally) some manner of hand signals.
     b. Everyone else in the picture looks like me.

10. Whenever possible and in all situations, I like to wear casual sandals.
    a. When sandals aren’t feasible, I wear Crocs or Uggs.
    b. I own at least one pair of each.

11. All my children are named similarly – e.g. start with the same letter.
    a. I named our purebred Golden Retriever in a similar fashion.
    b. This helps me remember their names since I don’t spend much time with any of them.

12. I live in a big house surrounded by other big houses that look just like mine.
    a. There are no trees within 5km of my house.
    b. There is nothing but the colour beige within 5km of my house.

Douchebag Standard Scale:

0 to 6 - You're a normal, imperfect, self-aware human being. Congrats!

7 to 18 - You have dangerously Douchebag-like tendancies. Substitiute Tim Horton's for Starbuck's for the next 30 days. Ballcaps must not be worn at a jaunty angle any longer.

19 to 26 - You are an acolyte Douchebag and require immediate intervention. The standard course of shock treatment must include a rusted Chevy Cavalier, a Walmart wardrobe makeover, and a punch in the face for every utterance of dude, fo sho, or woot.

27 to 36 - You are a Douchebag - Douchebag. Proceed to the closest Aeropostale for further instructions.

Let Them (Not) Eat Cake

There are two reasons why I seldom write about serious topics here. Number 1: the Innertubes has more than enough people willing to tell you why you've no excuse to smile. Number 2: people who are not capital 'W' Writers (like me!) too often come off like the inside-cover of a 15 year-old Emo kid's notebook.

I'm going to break that tradition for this post because of this Globe and Mail article.

Let me summarize: If you live in Ontario and collect welfare (euphamistically called Ontario Works) or a provincial disability pension (called ODSP to those in-the-know), there is an optional benefit called the Special Diet Allowance (SDA). Got Diabetes? That'll get you an extra $20 a month for fresh produce. Allergic to eggs? You'll get a few bucks a month for egg substitutes. For most folks on OW or ODSP, you could see an extra $50 on top of your standard benefits. The maximum SDA is $250 a month, but you're likely on a first-name basis with the Grim Reaper if you hit that jackpot.

Despite the Province's best plans to keep the SDA a secret, people found about it and used it. According to an audit report, many people abused it, too. There's no surprise there, of course. If you rely on government benefits to survive, you're going to find ways to maximize your income. But that doesn't discount the fact that thousands of Ontarians have a legitimate need for the SDA.

But Dalton & Co. have a different perspective. The SDA costs too much, they say. They claim the program cost has ballooned from $6 million bucks a few years ago to well over $200 million today. This is the same governmental brain trust that finds billions of tax dollars for failing auto manufacturers and guarantees employee pensions for companies that get kicked to the curb in the free-market.

So let's do away with the SDA and replace it with something more manageable, says Dalton. Of course, 'manageable' means that the Province will make damn sure they spend less money on the poor and the disabled. They're an easy target, of course, since they can't scream loud enough or vote often enough to be a problem.

You might wonder why I'm worked up about this? Beyond the simple social injustice, I've been up-close-and-personal with the ODSP racket - and I know how little we do for the needy in the Province of Ontario. A few years back, my mother had a stroke and lost both her physical and financial health. Effectively part of the 'working poor' for many years, she had no private insurance coverage and little in the way of savings when everything in her life changed in August 2006.

Long story short: I spent many months learning the Ins and Outs of the Ontario Disability Support Program in order to find some means of financial support for my mother's 'new life' - a life that would no longer her permit the dignity of working for a living. It's a topic for another post, I suppose, but suffice to say that ODSP is constructed to minimize benefits and built on the tenet that anyone who applies is a crook. As a Systems Analyst by profession, the ODSP labyrinth impresses the Hell out of me. As a human being, it's almost disgusting.

And if you're successful in negotiating the months-long hazing that is the application process, the very best you can expect to receive is about $1,000 a month if you're single. For anyone living on ODSP, that's likely your entire income. Lord help you if you don't have family or friends that can help - but don't tell the Province's ODSP administrators about that (seriously). In short, the ODSP system is the stuff of which Terry Gilliam films are made.

So when you're living on a pittance and Dalton wants to get rid of the SDA, it's a big deal. In my mother's case, this won't matter much. Once she turned 65, the Province took their ODSP and went home - leaving her with a Drug Card and a phone number for the Federal CPP/OAS/GIC hotline (a much more humane world, by the way). But for those not lucky enough (yet) to qualify for an old age pension, Dalton's assault on their disability benefits is a mean-spirited attempt to chip away at Provincial debt on the backs of those who can't afford it and can't fight back. For a Premiere that never met a tax or a user-fee he didn't like, it's disgusting that we cannot afford to take care of a small number of our most vulnerable cititzens.

But, hey, at least we could help out Chrysler, right?

The Old Ways

When I was a kid, there was probably no bigger treat than a trip to the movies. It was rare that we could afford that kind of extravagance, so spending a few hours in a theatre - all velvety and exotic and lacking any kind of practicality - was a bit like a mini-Christmas. It didn't hurt that I loved movies (still do). I never cared what was playing. So long as there was a story in Technicolor, I was engaged.

The idea of the movie theatre, even now, enchants me. I love that you get to sit in the dark, lose yourself up on the screen, and have a shared experience with everyone else in the room. Opening night for the first Lord Of The Rings, a midnight showing of Rocky Horror, a new Disney classic - these are the times for magic.

But I've come to realize that I almost dread going to movie theatres anymore. It's not the expense. It's not the nostalgia for long-gone opulence now replaced with sad pastel neon and carpeted walls. It's not even the parade of commercials that turn my popcorn cold while I wait for Coming Attractions.

It's people - those wretched assholes who are somehow unaware of the most basic of movie-going equations:

Movie.Theater not_equal Living.Room

I'm tired of the idiot with stunted attention span whose cellphone display shines out as a beacon to warn all those around them, "I have important text messages that must be addressed NOW!". I'm tired of the confused couple who cannot fathom what they are seeing on the screen, and simply must deconstruct the plot for the benefit of all around them. I'm tired of the young people who need to claim their row (and mine) for socializing and resting weary feet on whatever seems handy - their rude bravado made more possible by their numbers and the presence of the opposite sex.


I say bring back the Usher. Beat back the cretins using a crimson jacket and a flashlight. Since I'll pay a couple bucks more to see a 3D movie, I'll probably pay a couple bucks more for someone to stand vigilant against the forces of Incivility.

Until then, the magic is tough to find in the dark. And I'll thank my stars for DVDs.

S. Pilgrim: 1 World: 0

The first trailer is here. 

It looks kind of awesome, no?

I Bow Down to the Captain

A Frenchman and his wife take a cruise and it changes his life.

Nope, it's not the opening line for a joke. It was a catalyst for what turned out to be this fellow's life work. I've been following his progress off and on for a few years now. I am in awe and more than a little jealous. See if you don't agree with me.


France
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Are All Gamers Are 'Bi'?

There was a time not long ago when there were two distinct Gamer camps - PC and Console. The PC Gamers - and I was one of them - surveyed the World from high atop their expensive, overclocked, super-cooled tower machines and felt sure theirs was the realm of the 'serious' games. Our PCs had lots of buttons and (almost) infinite upgradability to tackle the biggest, bloatiest, most complicated games out there. Simple interfaces, cartoony colour palettes, and 3-button controllers were the domain of the kiddies in the Valley of Console Gaming.

Likewise, Console Gamers declared theirs was the One True Religion - although I suspect they didn't think about it too much. These were not like the hardware junkies who considered PC-pimping to be part of the gaming experience. They were only too happy to trade 'game complexity' for the joy of popping in a cartridge or disk to just play their damn games in their comfortable living rooms.

Like I said, I identified with the PC Gamer camp. I'd owned consoles forever, but the kind of games I liked back in the day required the kind of horsepower that consoles could not match. Sure, Super Mario 3 was a lot of fun to pick up and play, but a real man played King's Quest V on a PC. And we were sure that the 3D badness that was Wolfenstein 3D would never see the light of day on a puny console.

Somehow between Then and Now, I've changed. There was no epiphany, no audible click. I think I've just grown tired of worrying about my PC. Is my processor fast enough? Do I need a new video card? How about a bigger monitor? Can I play BioShock2 on this thing?

These days, I jones for the XBox360 hooked up to 36 inches of HD goodness. It's a more comfortable experience to pop in a disk or (gasp!) download a game from XBox Live from my comfy sofa. My PC could never match this experience nor could it possible render Arkham Asylum (without become a puddle of molten silicon). And in full turnabout, my PC gaming experience is more and more those cartoony Flash experiences that were once the domain of the 8-bit Famicon system.

So there you have it. I'm a Bi-Gamer, with a predilection for XBox and Wii consoles and totally secure with hitting up the PC when I get the urge. Still, I do miss my mouse and W-S-A-D keys from time to time - especially for first-person shooters. But I'm sure that I just need more time with my new friends to explore my boundaries.

Pure Pwnage

How did I not hear about this? Pure Pwnage is Web video series with a serious cult following among the gaming crowd. Produced in someone's Toronto basement for the past few years, it has recently moved into the mainstream as a Showcase TV series. Episode 1 is already available online.

That I have never heard of it before can only mean that I'm over 40 and out of touch. For shame!

Does This Colour Make Me Look Fat?

Yeah, I changed the look of this place. I'm not sure if I like it, so I'm bound to be tinkering for awhile. But don't let the spiffy layout and 'haute colours' (pronounced: cooloorz) fool you. It's all just lipstick on the same old pig.

Update:

I just knew I should have avoided that awful green colour those VANOC guys have been splashing around at all the Olympic sites. So I've gone back to something closer to the old layout, albeit with a bit of screen-stretching thrown in.

To The Mothership We Went

Visiting my In-Laws is an ordeal. It's not because they're evil (they aren't) or they don't enjoy visitors (they do), but because it's a long, long drive to the little mining town 30 minutes north of Sudbury that they call home. The degree of difficulty is increased since we typically make this trip during the treachous Winter months only.

A good trip is several hours of travelling with only the occasional snowflake making it's way across old highway 69 enroute from Georgian Bay. A not-so-good trip is significantly more than several hours on the road with white-knuckle whiteouts randomized between Barrie and Anywhere North. This year's Family Day weekend excursion was (mercifully) under the watchful eye of St. Christopher, and our only problems were the usual Toronto traffic snarls that kick-off any long weekend.

While I do my usual grousing about making this trip, I'm increasingly aware that this is a respite from the rest of the World. Their little town of 1,200 souls - many of them retired miners - is the stuff of which NFB documentaries are made. There is a sense of community (and community involvement) that seems to revolve around 2 churches, the hockey rink, and a 3-sheet curling rink. Throw in a bank branch, a post office, a beer store, and a couple of variety-come-hardware-come-grocery stores - and it's a wonder that Stuart MacLean hasn't brought his schtick to town.

It's a place removed from the typical frenetic, self-important drumbeat that seems to govern too much of my professional and personal life 'down South'. Everyone takes you at face value. No matter what you look like, how you dress, what hobbies fill your time, what you do for a living - you're accepted with common courtesy. Not that it's particular to small, northern villages, but I like that way of looking at things.

When Winter weather keeps us inside during our visits, it's okay by me. There's a small, little-used  room in my In-Law's basement. It's got a gas fireplace that heats the tiny space too much by a half. There's a misshapen sofa laden with expansive homemade afghans sporting godawful colours and patterns. There's a rocking chair tucked into the corner if you need to get away from the heat. The wall-shelfs sag under the weight of a lifetime's treasures: old hockey trophies, old pictures, Peanuts paperbacks, even a few 8-tracks of old-style country tunes. There's the TV - willing to play any old movie that bests fits your mood. And there's the sound of my father-in-law padding down the hall with a couple of beers or maybe a few glasses of Scotch to share. By any measure, it's a cocoon against anything, anywhere, anyone else.

When Winter weather lets us outside, that's okay, too. Snowy walks are surrounded by valley slopes filled with grey-tinged evergreens. There's real sliding to be enjoyed at the abandoned ski hill a few blocks away (although you can shorten the walk to 3 minutes if you cut through a few neighbour yards - they don't mind). If the place is empty, you're always welcome to throw a few rocks over at the curling rink. If you're so inclined to sit through a church service, there's pretty decent coffee and treats in the basement afterwards. Sometimes, someone might loan you a spare snowmobile for a few hours.

It's age that makes me consider these things, I think. Everyone is getting older and these respites, this cocoon, will fade away in time. So I'll just appreciate them a little more while it's all perfect.