Spotfrights


Few roles in a play let you feel as close to divinity as fiddling around with the lighting. And I'm not talking about fiddling with a set of tiny switches backstage while you tell yourself that truly, this is as close as you get to divinity. I'm talking about sitting in the control room, pompously or not, depending on your choice, and getting what is perhaps the most authoratative view in the entire theatre and then deciding who gets to be visible on-stage. Believe me when I say that power trips are equally likely to happen with the director and the elevated elite in the control room.

At least, that's the impression you get of the job at first, until you're tasked with something requiring about three hands and fingers of lengths that would anger any pianist into attacking you. The moment you enter the control room in your (well, my, actually) hazey power trip, you are greeted with a panaroma of knobs and switches that would look suspiciously familiar to anyone who's been to one of those open houses showcasing cockpit interiors.

There's what can only be described as an absolute spread of switches in the control room, and that's for lighting alone. There are fill light switches for nine sections of the stage, individual spotlights for each of those nine sections, then an additional larger spotlight for each of those nine sections again. Then there's additional switches for adjusting the color of the cyclorama (A funky screen that would have appealed greatly to the Beatles. Basically a screen disguised as a wall at the back of the stage that can change color in the most psychedellic manners.), and finally two random switches for side stage spotlights. I think that covers about three quarters of the switches. There's an additional (a very trendy word by this point) quarter somewhere that probably requires the synchronized turning of two keys or something along those lines.

Anyway, it's this mind boggling number of switches that really makes the lighting job very difficult. The nice lady that was kind enough not to leave us floundering (mostly out of concern for the equipment) drew us a reference diagram of sorts for the different numbers of the lights and which portions of the stages they corresponded to. It really did make things a lot simpler so all me and Damien were left with was frustration. Since the diagram wasn't divided into a table with labels like A3 or B4 or anything that would help you visualize positions, and so the switches weren't labelled in that manner, we ended up having to constantly refer to the tiny table scrawled (very kindly) in blue ink under the pseudo-illumination of the small lamp that you're allowed during the operation of the lighting, since the control room is apparently tasked with the role of housing the invisible machinations that run the show from behind.

So we did a rather shoddy job of allowing the hypothetical audience to see the faces of our undoubtedly nervous, and therefore grateful actors. But something rather surprising happened halfway through the last run.

We started improvising a bit. As opposed to referring to the terribly written (by us, I should add) set of lighting cues based on the script, we started improvising. We knew what was going to happen when and where, so we started referring to the diagram (not written by us, I should add again) and turning up whatever lights we thought were necessary. All this in very angry whispers in the dark.

I suppose as you do this again and again the numbers corresponding to the different lights become a vital part of your anatomy, and that would explain the labelling deficiency, and clearly we've yet to achieve that.

But regardless, it was fun, and it really was the sort of thing that's going to keep me from throwing my arms up and yelling at the people in the control room "How hard can it be to get some damned lights on?"

Footnotes while on the Run

Hello there.

A bit of brief writing before I return to bed from whence I crawled.

I was just in the process of rushing an application for the purposes of entering the mystical NRP, or Nanyang Research Programme, if you're pedantic about that sort of thing or if you're giving a speech and you have to let the nice ladies and gentlemen know precisely what they're attending the speech for.

The whole process of signing up for the project was a bit finicky, but I suppose that's all part of the process of being incredibly complicated. Well, not really. I can't really complain, though a terrible misintepretation about the concepts of am and pm led to my submission of the form being about ten hours late, which somehow seems more erroneous than one day when you write it down.

There hasn't really been much time for writing over the last two days, and the barrage of tests will finally descend into rancid waters while waving their neatly typed tentacles in the air and making all manner of screeching noises, then it'll probably take about a week or so for them to reemerge the very badly damaged (though still freshly shiny) reactor of a long-sunken nuclear submarine that was previously unaccounted for.

Quite honestly I'll be quite glad once this whole test period is over.

I mean, life's about doing the other work, isn't it?

Of Knee Jerks and Explosives


It was not a few weeks ago that I sat rather dismayed in the school canteen, and was bracing myself for the increasingly threatening AP Chemistry class looming on the horizon, its view denied to me by the school (compound). After a while I gave up trying to stare through opaque concrete and look like whatever organs in my body were responsible for generating hope had been extracted by way of liposuction, I attempted to proceed up the stairs when I was stopped by the principal in this particular course of action.

Well, I wasn't really stopped by the principal. Not directly at least, though he did hint that he would appreciate if I wasn't in my class by making an announcement calling for a gathering in the school hall, a gathering that was to be attended by a good amount of everyone.

So about five nerve wracking, nostril assaulting minutes later I found myself seated in the hall next to an entire row (or column, depending on whether you were viewing everything from a bird's eye view, which if you weren't, would mean that that particular group of students would be standing on seated one each other's shoulders) of people with bags of kimchi that were digging away at the side of their Ziploc bags with spoons they managed to sneak out of the compound's cafeteria.

This continued for a good twenty minutes or so, during which we were continuously reminded to contact anyone that wasn't here to make sure that they weren't in danger of being harmed by whatever was in the school compound (or not), not that there was necessarily any danger since that hadn't been announced yet, but it was absolutely vital that anyone missing was to be accounted for, lest they... not be here.

And after what seemed analogous to a nervous, tie-wearing, thick spectacled acountant finally getting down on his knees beside a gorgeous woman that he's known for about twenty minutes and popping the question, the administration finally called upon the superintendant from the nearby police station to give us a bit of an exposition as to why there was no reason to panic.
The reason why there was no reason to panic was that a "war relic" had been discovered in a construction site not far off from the school, and while there wasn't any danger to anyone in the school, our rather convenient distance from the war relic made us a candidate (and winner) for being a base of operations for the getting-rid-of-war-relic procedures.

And it was at that point that a good amount of atmospheric murmuring (rather loud murmuring, as the sound of over a thousand people speaking in hushed voices tends to be) was heard, though the superintendant did say that wasn't anything to be worried about and that the disposal and school hijacking procedures were completely safe to anyone that wasn't the kind of person that wanders into construction sites for no reason.

Dr Hang then concluded with the stirring instruction that we all bugger off for the rest of the day to ensure that we didn't annoy the nice policemen, save for those staying in the hostel, of course, who buggered off across the field to wander about the structural integrity of its foundations.
So that was a rather eventful episode, but what was particularly interesting was the reactions of the school population.

Before the news was broken, there was a ridiculous amount of frantic speculation, and a good number of people looking very grim and staring into the distant clouds, commenting that if the administration was doing its best to account for every single person in the school then there was sure to be a proper reason for such measures, and that reason was probably almost as grim as they were.

There was also an observable population that was rather prophetic, insisting that they had heard from credible sources that could not be named that it was most definitely a bomb that they had discovered nearby.

There was a good number of people annoyed at the twenty minute wait, and there was at least one individual that was annoyed by the nearby scent of kimchi.

The varying degree of responses to the single event of an assembly that not yet justified is interesting, and to a certain degree, amusing.

This amusement is further fed by the crowd's reactions after the reason for the assembly was revealed. Some immediately started looking for nearby exit signs while others evangelized the truth of the "war relic" being explosives. There seemed to be a recurring theme of either "the police aren't telling us the truth of what the relic is" or "the police aren't telling us that we're not actually safe". And to the latter response, you have to ask the question: Why?

Why wouldn't the authorities (a more faceless, authoritarian term for "police" here) reveal that we were in danger, and proceed to evacuate us if we were? While there existed the possiblity that they wanted to keep panicking to a minimum, there wouldn't have been much possiblity of it spontaneously detonating after it was discovered and the authorities were alerted, and there wouldn't have been any chance that they would have started working on sending it on its merry, explodey way till everyone was safely evacuated. The suspicion that the authorities or the government is hiding vital information from the people it is meant to protect/ the country's citizens is a knee jerk reaction that could potentially make someone walk funny if we aren't careful.

But maybe these suspicions are vital to maintaining the integrity of our national system. If we enquire, we open the possiblity of ignorance. But all that considered, surely we could have done that in a manner that didn't involve flailing our arms to make references to Hindu mythology.
And the twitch reaction aside, there was the rather paradoxical reaction of cheering after Dr Hang declared the rest of the day to be absolutely nothing. It was a rather impressive leap from people construction conspiracy theories and fearing for their lives to overall cheerfulness at the prospect of a break for the rest of the day.

That was nowhere near the leap of witnessing my entire cluster gather in a single room and cheering at the aftermath of the bomb actually being disposed off in a completely un-subtle fashion. And as I stood there trying to get a glimpse of the disappointingly, not-very-devastated construction site, I thought to myself, we sure have strange selection of responses to the prospect of adversity.

Dear Diary

Hello there WordPad. There's been something I've been meaning to discuss with you lately, and it's about the whole concept of people talking to inanimate objects. No, no one needs any help of any sort. I'm talking about something that's fairly commonplace and that people don't really take issue to much. I'm talking (for about the second time now) about the topic of diaries.

No one really seems to be bothered by the fact that when someone writes in a diary, they're not recording the events of their day for the purposes of tabulation, or to maximize their door opening efficiency. What people that write diaries are really doing is talking to an inanimate object. They tell their tiny little books about things that happened today at work that are responsible for the creases on the back cover of the very same book, and that they're very sorry about creasing it, but they just need to get this all out so that they feel much better.

Diaries become a form of very submissive, accomodating, and in all aspects, incapacitated confidants. They can't really argue back about how compromise would have been a great thing in that situation or that the writer really is that much of a hindrance to the mental processes of others. In fact, when you think about, they can't really agree with anyone either.

Or maybe some people don't use a diary for the purposes of ranting. Some uses them to record thoughts and ideas and fantasies and the sort of things that would get them funny looks and would most probably end up having their daily actions recorded by someone else.

What diaries offer is something that human beings simply aren't capable of offering, and that also means that neither is a substitute for the other. Diaries are an entirely different market in terms of social interaction. They provide a neither agreeing, nor disagreeing companion, that doesn't say a word till you're done, and in fact, doesn't say a word once you're done anyway. What they offer is something that you can talk to without ever having your unique or strange ideas and perspective shot down before you've had a chance to fully get them out. Diaries are essentially psychological vaccum cleaners.

Wouldn't you agree?

Things that Rooms Say

One of the greatest frustrations I've experienced when it comes to writing is that when I set out to do it, I usually don't get very much done at all. The creative process usually involves me sitting at my desk, tapping the table as if trying to extract whatever ideas might be burrowing under its nonchalant woody surface, and often shifting over to lean on the hand I'm not leaning on, possibly under the assumption that if the screen in front of me is viewed at a particular angle, magical glowing words will emerged from the sparkling ruins of the screen and present me with an idea.

Another of the greatest frustrations I've experienced when it comes to writing is that I just can't seem to do it in a word processor. This doesn't make much sense at the first thought given my legal history with handwriting, but what I mean here is that I can never seem to write an article or blog entry when I'm trying to do it in a word processor, yet ideas gush out at a rate envied by Asian floods whenever I talk to somebody on Windows Live Messenger. It's the most infuriating sensation to have had a wonderful conversation (Misnomer really. The person on the other end usually just sits there and blinks, and coughs up a one word response like "okay".) with someone, and then to sit and stare at what you've written over the last five minutes only to realize that it would have been a lot more beneficial to your literary ego had you done all of that in a word processor, as opposed to chucking the lot at some bewildered person who really just wants to get on with reading sappy fanfiction.

And the exact thing happened to me not too long ago when I had a conversation with Kylie about rooms. The subject of the conversation was initially how barren and depressed her room looked like after she had taken all of her postcards, posters, poems and alliterations down to accomodate her brother whom she was letting to move in because she was "nice". The subject then shifted to what her brother had in his room and how the very same room that she thought looked dejected would be troubled and deranged given a month's time. And then I commenced my solliloquy regarding rooms.

Rooms seem to say things, and while this is the sort of thing that could very well earn me a jacket with comically long sleeves I don't mean this in the literal sense. Rooms are mostly mute, but a quality they do seem to possess is the ability to convey a certain message based on the things in them.

Even an empty room says something, usually something something along the lines of "Hello, I'm empty. I don't really like this."
A room painted a eye-eviscerating pink would probably convey the message that it desires is the state's recognition of its freedom, while a room painted a relaxing coffee colour with patterned lampshades, a somewhat obese looking sofa possibly responsible for the obesity of people, and with all floral curtains drawn urges you in a reserved, butlery sort of voice to "let me take your hat and jacket for you sir, just sit down and I'll fetch you your loungue jacket." Rooms, as a whole including the things that are in them, seem to tell you precisely what their purpose is.

My hostel room, for instance, seems to constantly remind me in a mental voice befitting of humorless public relations officer that I am currently residing in an institution, and that I should probably take a rest so that I may resume my studies the next day and achieve great things and possibly break a few ethics along the way. The overall demeanour of the room tells me that I'm in a building built for the purposes of educational accomodation, and that I can't deny it. But precisely what it is that gives me that impression, I can't quite say. Perhaps it's the stock-like feeling off the room, so much that you can imagine thousands of the same room being churned out in automated factories in China and shipped over in plastic packages, but overall it does say "Sleep here so you can study later."

My hostel room also occasionally tells me it's probably time for the 10:35 role call, though it's a while later that I find out that that room happens to have actually come from China, and enjoys sleeping with nothing but striped underwear on. About a minute later I find out that that was my roommate, and not really much of a room at all.

And amidst all this imaginary conversations with accomodation I'm not quite sure why rooms seem to say anything at all. Maybe it's the accumulated features of the room by way of our contribution that speak of our personalities (or hygeine standards), which end up conveying a message, or in the case of an empty room, the lack of it. Perhaps a room is the best example of the accumulated visible effects of things that we leave behind, slowly piling together in corners the location of which you can't explain, though you're pretty sure you once knew why those things were there.

I'm not really sure how to conclude this, but I'm going to anyway by stopping right here, and might possibly hit the sack (no other word for this blast door of a mattress), and be reminded its quality.

Byestreet 21


I'm sitting in my room right now, and just for the purposes of context here, I'd like to point out that I really am sitting in my room. My room, as opposed to the room that was assigned to me that faces the highway, spouting up copious amounts of exhaust and soot, as if the drivers are trying to convey their mutual hate for me and my luxury of sleeping at that hour while they are condemned to slogging it down the highway in their comfortably air conditioned vehicles. But anyway, I really am sitting in the room belonging to me, the one facing the rather large field that spews out colonies of exotic insects that asail my room light while I express my envy at the lady who sells drinks at our school, who happens to own a bug zapper shaped like a tennis racket, with a rather intimidating lightning-bolt in the center of it. Truly, that device is the closet you will ever get to reliving Greek mythology.

Back to the topic of me being in my room: I love it. I've never quite appreciated my room, with its dastardly pink cupboards, constantly declaring their pride in their lifestyle choices, the gaudy shade of green that plagues the walls, verging on breaking into the chorus of "Give Peace a Chance", and the haphazard combination of pillows on my bed, with pillow cases of such random variety that they emulate a family with siblings of stupidly different age groups. One has clothed bears on it, apparently going through some sort of species identity crisis, while another seems to be channelling its desire to be a kaleidoscope. But while they're all so terribly gaudy they're an essential part of the monstrosity that is my room. And I've never really been very fond of it until the point where seeing the same room appear in every single door on nearly every single floor got slightly monotonous at times. The rooms in the hostel differ only in terms of which tired, homesick people they contain, so it's refreshing to be blinded by the psychedelic qualities of my room again.

But it wasn't so much my room that I thought about after returning from a fairly gruelling day of setting people on fire and pushing back carts filled with explosives that could possibly set people on fire. I had a brief exchange with the wonderful Irsyad (this here being just for him) on what we would first do upon getting home (our respective ones), and I did so reply that the first thing I would do would be to get a pot, pour some water into it and set fire to that water, then once that water had enough I would proceed to unload a good chunk of noodles, an egg, and a few frozen wantons into the mixture, then let it burn a bit more just to make a point. The point being that I would probably be really hungry by then, and that I couldn't remember the last time I cooked noodles for supper in the whimsically described "wee hours" of the night (possibly morning based on the general wee-ness of the day/night at that point), though I can remember that it definitely wasn't in the last three weeks.

So while I was actually doing that, I stood around and admired the semi-sheen that the kitchen floor had. I wasn't used to it, since over the last three weeks I had been more accustomed to admiring how much of the floor I could see. There were a few specks of dirt near the stove, but drastically different compared to the few specks of stove in the hostel pantry.

At that point the contents of the pot aimed to change that and it occurred to me that I should probably adhere to the Geneva Convention and just eat the damn thing.

It was very tasty. Very much tastier than I had remembered it being. But then again, maybe it wasn't so much the actual food that was tasty, which I thought was the only possible case till this point. Maybe it was the clean chairs that contributed to the tastiness of the noodles, hopefully through indirect means. Maybe it was the fact that I could finally cook that bowl of noodles that made it so much tastier. Maybe it was everything but the food that made it so good.

I remember, this sentence adding at least twenty years to my age just by writing it, that there used to be a restaurant called Baystreet 21 at IMM. It had a very conservative, leathery sort of colour scheme to it, and there were dim hanging lights that exhumed photoscopic veils onto the tables. There was also this big wooden board with a ship relief carved onto it. Soft lounge music would play in the background while you carved into your Dory, making the lounge music an impromptu hymn, but that's killing my point here. My point is that it was cozy. It felt sophisticated and comfortable. The food may not be as good as I remembered, but the actual place definitely was.

Now, the place has been renovated into a diner's about as organized as my pillows, with very large tomatoes and lettuce covering the walls of the place, some of which were provided by customers leaving in disgust. The whole place looks like a McDonald's branch, and the only thing missing here is a Reminiscence meal of some kind. The food isn't even that good anymore. But then again, maybe the food just as good as it used to be. Maybe it's not the actual food that's declined, but the overall restaurant. But then again, maybe what I remembered it to be simply appears so perfect because of nostalgia or some other vague poetic term. Maybe that warm, pleasant Baystreet 21 never really was that toasty and enjoyable, but I still miss it all the same.

The Hostel California

Well it's been a gruelling two weeks so far, which tend to be slightly better on Mondays, when they actually serve porridge, which isn't all that bad, and in actual fact I can't really complain about the whole concept of staying at the hostel during the weekdays and jumping onto a number 198 bus and having to trek home on the weekends while carrying a laptop that would have rather stayed at the hostel and plugged itself into the morbidly, sky blue colored LAN cable dangling from the LAN port next to my bed that I was too lazy to remove from, and proceed to wistfully watch Fry and Laurie videos till 2am in the morning.

People have taken a lot of different approaches to having to stay in the hostel. Some people squeal with delight every time the friendly, charming hostel biometric scanners beep twice and beam an approving green, while others (I might be mistaken here) attempt to poke out that stupid little bastard's eye out with their fingernails after having been rejected for the fifth time in a row. Others remember that they should be going up to do their laundry and come down to the library just in time to study, but I'm sure that we can all describe these studious, dilligent students as negligible. Well, not so much, actually, or rather, many. Lots of people find that it's a lot easier for them to get work doen when they are stringently enforced to do so, which is something that equally unenthusiastic classmates can never really contribute to much, so it's nice to see people experienced in totalalitarianism take up the matter into their own cold, leather gloved hands.

But what I've noticed (the party's over, is it?) is the drastic difference in responses to hostel life from various people, and while that might have happened with other issues in the past, it's never been something that's been so evident, especially when the effects of their enthuasiasm/hemlock are clearly visible for two weeks. It's at the end of those two weeks when the stances that people take to the same conditions really start to show, and I'm wondering if they might eventually even out in a few months time, and we might all start reverting back to normality, at least until we all have to go home at the end of the year and have trouble trying to find the biometric scanners on our apartment doors.

The Abandonwagon

Every night when I sleep in the comfort of my warm, soft, and on nights when I feel particularly lonely, a little bit damp, pullout bed, I stare at the ceiling wondering about how long I can possibly keep putting things into to the massive cupboard on my left before it decides to publicly remind me of what it had in it, mostly old worksheets collected over the years that I've simply been too lazy to throw out. The worrying is often compounded by the fact that the cupboard is located on my right and a few metres up, which isn't so much of a problem if it stays a few metres up, but further assessments of the structural integrity of wood have forced me to dart quickly to the side everytime I open the cupboard.

The strange thing is that even though these old worksheets pose a potential threat to my ability to impress the citizens of Flatland, I simply don't have the motivation to clear them out, which isn't much of a problem anyway since I'm able to quite easily and conveniently rationalize that they are there for the purposes of book-keeping, and that the administration of the school might one day call upon me to resubmit work for exhibition and demonstration purposes, thus allowing me to contribute to the fullest to any Green Week events and so on. But the truth is, I've never had any reason to touch any of the old worksheets that still sit grumpily in the top of the cupboard while investing in the acquisition of exotic fungi. It's been years since I've even looked through any of the documents that I put up there. But the thing is, all these worksheets are the (unwanted) results of late night toiling and contributions to the coffee business, and it just seems terribly wasteful to allocate them into the black void of the rubbish chute. I just want to keep them for absolutely no reason.

Now let's just assume for the sake of linking this to the topic I'm about to discuss that someone wants my old worksheets for reference purposes. Ignoring the obvious integrity violations that come with that, let's just say that I refuse to give it to them on the grounds that they are my worksheets and I have the right to not give it to them. They might argue that I'm simply not using them anymore, so why not let them have it?

And let's just assume, for the sake of the argument that I haven't even told you about here, that someone else had already photocopied my worksheets in the past, and for the reason that I wouldn't give anyone else my worksheets, started making copies of that worksheet and distributing it to those who wanted it. I might get very angry, and possibly make that person stand in front of my cupboard of worksheets while I open it. Here's the question: Is that really fair?

Alright, alright. All that was a rather flimsy and clumsy buildup to the topic of Abandonware, but I just wanted to be able to mention my worksheets. But on to the actual topic of Abandonware.

Abandonware is basically the business (not really, actually) of taking old games or software that aren't being sold anymore and distributing them for free o'er the mossy swamp that is the Internet, and this is usually done by everyone except the companies responsible for the creation of the released software/games. The rationale behind the whole process of distributing old software (which is not actually legal, despite common belief) that isn't being sold anymore is that since the company or companies that created these pieces of old software aren't selling them anymore, and aren't making any sort of profit from them, then surely it stands to reason to simply allow the general public to use the aforementioned software for free, since it simply isn't of any use to these companies anymore.

The creators of the software have responded to this by saying they didn't say that anyone could do that yet, and that while the old software may be old it's still theirs, and that if anyone were to distribute it for free it would be them. Very few software developers actually release old games for free anyway, and so the general public have taken matters into their own hands and simply started distributing old software by themselves anyway, which the creators have labelled as piracy since they didn't have permission to do so. The whole debate then degenerates in the same way that most alcohol based marriages do, with both parties going off into their respective haunts and doing what they were doing, while muttering about how the other party can't see reason. Meanwhile the children are left sobbing in their rooms, or blasting heavy metal.

And the whole thing really is understandable (dropping the analogy). While I take the relatively pubescent stance that Abandonware distributed by third parties without the permission of its creators is still illegal regardless of how much your teeth shine and your love for the American Dream, because the decision of whether to release the old software in question still lies with the software's creators. The problem here is that more often than not, the begging of the public for such software is often met with results of the Oliver Twist variety, and since the software isn't being produced anymore and isn't available on store shelves (or even bins, for that matter), those who want it don't even have the option of purchasing the software. In this case, there is simply no way of obtaining the old software, even if you are willing to pay for it.

And at this point the owners of old software have two options: They can either release the old software for free download and be bathed in rose petals and confetti and never have to worry about fall injuries because of the good amount of people constantly following them around ready to perform a trust fall catch, or they can do what Valve has done for years now, which is distribute their old software online.

Not for free, of course, seeing as how that's the alternative and the point of an alternative is to not be the same as the non- alternative (which is actually an alternative to the alternative anyway, but heigh-ho). But online distribution gets rid of the unfeasibility of having to reproduce old software for distribution via stores, and so provides people with the option of obtaining that old software legally and for a small profit, assuming that the owners of old software charge much less than they originally did, which seems reasonable considering the software's abundance of medical problems by this point.

And Valve have done this amazingly well with Steam (No, I don't get any sort of commission for this. The correct ethical question should in fact be: Why not?). All their games, from the very first Half Life, are available for online purchase and download via Steam, and they also seem to have grasped the concept of making old software very affordable, as seen by their move of making the original Half Life (released in 1998) cost under five US dollars, which makes sense. Valve still gets profit from their old software and the consumers (It seems I've turned American by the end of this article) have the option of purchasing the old software for an affordable price.

And this does several things to the argument that old software should be released for free. Once old software is made available for purchase via online distribution, the argument that old software no longer earn their developers any profit is given good slap on the head, as is the argument that they are no longer available for purchase. From that point, it's up to the owners of the software whether they want to release it for free, but at least the dream of being able to obtain the software is made thoroughly obsolete, and can be replaced by dreams more appealing and affordable.

The only problem that would arise from this solution is what arises from all good ideas (I've yet to patent it as a result of my unbearable humility). That is, once someone does it, just about everyone does it. While that might not be a problem for all ideas, the problem here is that Valve distributes their software by way of Steam, an online client, that must be installed on the user's computer and you have to make an account for it before you start digging around and the whole process is actually quite an ordeal from my previous experiences. The thing is that if every software company were to start doing this, how many clients would you have to install on your computer before you run out of space for the actual software?

So what solutions might there be to this? A single, new, universal client that can access each company's "marketplace", or services like Direct2Drive that pride themselves on online distribution for all sorts of media? What will the online marketplace look like once many companies, not just software or game developers, jump onto the bandwagon? Will their jumping on shift the cart forward by way of momentum or will they break it? Who knows? Meanwhile, all we can do is sit and reminisce about the old software and games that we miss so dearly.

Of Jetpacks and Skis

Being the sort of person that the mass media point to every once in a while while on the topic of violent games and go "He's what we're talking about!", a few days ago I was looking for something to soothe, or rather cater to, the savage beast within me, and so started hunting for first person shooter demos that would dispense the necessary amount of adrenaline to satisfy the fix that I so badly needed. And after a bit of hunting I rediscovered the Tribes Vengeance demos.

Also being the sort of person that people point to and say "He's what we're talking about!" while on the topic of nerds, I promptly started reading about the Tribes series as a whole after playing through and thoroughly finishing the two single player demos. And it was then that I discovered that according to the collective wisdom of Wikipedia that fans of the original Tribes games considered themselves to be playing the only true 3D first person shooter.

Also being the sort of person that can be entertained for a good amount of time by a Word Processor, this got me thinking about subject that I just spent an entire paragraph talking about earlier. But just so I don't alienate everyone else that isn't essentially a scholar when it comes to the Tribes series, I should probably just give a quick introduction to it (That was probably a bit of a stretch, really. I'm really not well versed in the Tribes mythos so I should probably stop talking like I am one.)

While there's a colossal amount of galactic history behind the Tribes series, all you have to know is this. There are jetpacks. These jetpacks are attached to people and this makes the aforementioned people fly. The aforementioned people, also aforementioned twice before, now having the aforementioned jetpacks attached to their aforementioned backs, decide that, quite logically, the thing to do would be to shoot other people with similar jetpacks while flying around (both of the groups of aforementioned people are doing so) while stealing the flags of the other group of aforemntioned people. But grammatical purity aside, the point of the Tribes series is team based objective driven games that also introduce one very important element: mobility.

Everyone in the game has a jetpack and, from Tribes 2 onwards, a set of skis that can be magically summoned to their feet by the touch of a button, though the characters in game don't seem to have to do anything at all, so we can only assume that the skis are in fact clairvoyant, and both are used to traverse massive, sprawling environments that usually consist of many very conveniently smooth hills and mountains. Jetpacks allow the player to gain altitude, while the skis allow players to take advantage of their gravitational potential energy by skiing down hills once they have ascended to the necessary altitude.

This, as you really shouldn't be imagining instead of actually doing so, is immensely fun. About half the fun (correct to about as many decimal points as is really needed) comes from traversing terrain, while the other half can be attributed to everything else. In other words, without jetpacks and skis, an incredibly bizarre combination that has never really been brought together in anything else other than in conversations that end in "that would be awesome" before this series, Tribes simply wouldn't be Tribes. It might still be called Tribes, but there would be a lot less jetpacks and skis, which really isn't the point of the game that would have existed. Never mind, forget that. The point is, the jetpacks and skis contribute a lot to the fun.

And seeing as how hardly any other games have really truly adknowledged the y-axis in game environments at all, one (I'm assuming that this is the current population of people reading this, sadly inclusive of me) has to conceded, at least to a certain degree, that the bold proclaimation made by Tribes fans is somewhat justified. While just about every game that comes out these days (Specifically which isn't really important, since the phrase "these days" seems to be completely acceptable even though the actual amount of days that is meant isn't specified at all. People just seem to understand what you mean and nod their heads in agreement.) don't really focus on vertical movement as much as Tribes did, despite the fact that a good amount of y-axis' are available for use. The 3D aspect of most games seems to be limited to where you aim, but the sensation of being able to move up and down has pretty much just been limited to jumping, usually to a meagre height that would warrant exasperation from the protagonist of Narbacular Drop. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Narbacular_Drop) The technology of 3D environments seems to have taken a somewhat passive role in actual gameplay.

Which raises the topic of technology and gameplay. Why aren't technological advances, such as the physics engines of today's games, being more heavily implemented into gameplay? While the common expectation that something must move the moment it is hit in a game exists, this doesn't seem to have much of an effect in gameplay, other than the fact that it simply feels unusual and morally incorrect if a cardboard box refuses to yield a shower of bullets that would otherwise invoke a good and healthy amount of screaming from any enemy. It seems to be a practice that is done in game development simply to establish the fact that the game in question is clearly a next-gen game. But what if this technology was implemented into gameplay as a core element?

Portal, for instance, that probably doesn't need anymore polish from me on its critically acclaimed nails than it already has, took advantage of 3D environments and physics as a core part of its gameplay. Momentum, velocity, perspective were all elements of a brilliant game that could only have been done on an 3D engine with proper physics. Call of Duty 4 is another, with a proprietary physics engine with bullet penetration physics and a lot of other things that sound very impressive built into the game, that had an actual impact in gameplay. Cover was no longer something that you could simply loungue behind for very long because of its tendency to disappear after a while.

Physics engines are taking on a the role of an Edwardian chimney sweeper, poor and unnoticed and simply begging for more. We've all spoken of the fabled cone headshot incident in Halo 3 in hushed voices, something that wouldn't have been possible without today's physics engines, and while Bungie, in its intellectual torpor, hasn't had the good sense to take advantage of that IP, why not someone else? A game that implemented launching grabbing and tossing things at people would be very welcome at this point, and the fun derived from using the Gravity Gun from Half Life 2 is a testament to that. Physics engines are there to be made of use of, and we can't possibly pass by our duty to do so, can we?

Liebraries

Hello there

I like libraries. I like them a lot. I like the feeling of being in a place where everyone simply wants to be left alone to drown in whatever novels or textbooks that they happen to be reading, and will react with great adversity the moment they are disturbed in the very slightest because they know that the majority of people in the building are on their side. I like the idea of a place that is put aside for the sole purpose of being able to be left alone, something that I'm not able to find even in my own room at times, so it's nice to be able to sit down and write completely pointless articles on Wordpad (my previous flame used to be Notepad, but we fell out of with each other after I realized that she gave absolutely no regard towards formatting). So I go to libraries a lot, but not, as one would expect, for the sake of the actual resources and books. Goodness no, I find all of that on the Internet. I come here simply because I like the atmosphere's wetness, probably due to the fountain on the ground floor of the library that has no doubt been exhaled and inhaled thoroughly by countless other people who also come here for the atmosphere.

And there do seem to be a lot of people who don't actually come to the libraries for the books. Many of the people sitting at the tables next to the very bright windows that outshine whatever might be on your computer's screen thus making the tables the exact place that you shouldn't sit if you're going to use a laptop, which is also where all the powerpoints are which makes the tables an okay-ish sort of place to use your laptops, have, not suprisingly at all by this point, laptops with them. They are also open and they (the people) seem to be using them a lot.

Maybe they're here because of the environment or for something else, perhaps the free wi-fi. In any case, they don't actually seem to be here for what libraries exist for: books.

The wonderful and late Douglas Adams wrote an article about this that I found in the Salmon of Doubt (which by the way, Gan, you should read once you emerge from the beneath the waves of programming that you seem to be diving into a lot lately). He basically wrote about how some things have features or components added to them that essentially make something else in those things redundant, and thus need to be removed. For instance, advertisments in magazines. Now that many magazines are online, advertisments no longer need to take up more space than the actual articles in the magazines because of links, which only need to be so large to get your attention, and can lead you to an entirely new page with plenty of detailed information about whatever the ad is about. The idea that advertisments need to be intrusive is removed. Online magazines also remove a lot of dead wood from magazines. Some things become redundant along the way, and should be removed.

But we still see magazines that you can actually hold in your hand. Papery ones as well. Which is puzzling seeing as how almost all of us possess some sort of device capable of accessing the internet. But it really isn't as puzzling as it sounds. Magazines still have the advantage of not running out battery, seeing as how they don't have any battery. People still favour the convenience of being able to take out a magazine and read without having to connect to a wireless hotspot, type in the URL of the magazine and so on and so forth. And in actual fact, we've really just subsitutted dead wood for burning already dead things that have become fossil fuels. We haven't actually removed anything overall.

I've got nowhere to go with this, really. Anything random comments on the tagboard, please.