Back. In the states. Home of drug-sniffing bloodhounds and Wifi!I spent four days shooting a special "420 Edition" of Attack of the Show (read: pretending I don't smoke pot or know the difference between Sativa and Indica); and when shooting wrapped in Negril, we headed to Montego Bay for a "chillaxing" good time at the Half Moon resort (read: three days of six-dollar waters and shady weed offerings while red-eyed and stumbling "rum-punched" around the beach).
I have a ton of pictures, a ton of video and a ton of tales to share. And I'm making it a goal to do just that. Starting tomorrow, daily updates right here on the 'ol KevinPereira.com -- so set your webbernet-enabled-Tivos and tell your friends (and your WoW Guild). Seriously, it'll be worth missing a raid for. You'll see photos of my pasty, exposed rear! Wait. You hear that? That's the sound of this site being bookmarked across the country.With a promise like that (daily updates and man-ass) how could I not get twelve hits this week!
Look out Google, my Jamaica updates are coming for ya! That's all for now. Thanks Atlanta-airport Wifi, and thank you, America.
Back in January I was racing around Santa Monica blasting Coheed and Cambria at obscene decibel levels, mostly to drown out the screams of the bicyclists and transients trapped under the front end of my Subaru. I was slapping my hands percussively against the steering wheel, when on came the track "Welcome Home". I giggled like a Japanese schoolgirl as dreams of performing with the group live, on stage, crowd-surfed through my mind.
"Hey, wait a minute!" I thought, "I could hop on eBay, bid on an inoperable brain tumor or twelve, and phone the Make a Wish Foundation!" But then I started worrying about auction snipers, overnight shipping and the hassles of dealing with PayPal. I quickly acquiesced to defeat. I swerved to avoid missing a cross-walking hobo when a magic mind-missile struck me right between the eyes: "I host a cable television show!" I shouted at the hungry, bearded, screaming old man pressed against my windshield. "There's got to be a way I can exploit the network and get them to make my childlike fantasy a reality!"
I went into work the following day, looked up some Coheed tour dates, wrote up a half-baked pitch about "using Rock Band to teach you how to play the drums" and fired it off into the void. I expected that nothing would come of it, despite hearing word that G4 was trying to license the song for air; there were just no way it was going to happen. Cue a random elevator ride on an unassuming Friday in March, when Laurie from G4's talent department casually mentioned my "drumming thing" was "probably going to happen... in a few days."
The sound of my jaw slamming against the floor was masked by the ding of the elevator. The doors opened, I exited, and a few drops of urine squeaked out onto my designer jeans. (Reminder, send apology post-it to the wardrobe department.) Fear gripped me. I hadn't touched a drum kit in ages! The little hamster on the wheel in my head began racing as I actively searched for excuses to bow out. I would be rusty, at best. My January delusions of rock-grandeur were completely shattered as blindingly painful self-doubt surged through every square inch of my body. I wanted call the whole thing off right then and there, but I sheepishly slipped on some wolf's clothing, thanked Laurie, and trembled back to my cubicle. I was going to have to fake my way through this one... I "confidently" shot my arms into the air and announced to the office I would be performing with Coheed and Cambria. I needed practice. I wanted to vomit.
I was going out of town that weekend, and thanks to a scheduling issues, I would only have Monday night to dust off any remaining percussive abilities. I booked a small rehearsal studio, plugged my iPhone into a mixer and literally drummed my hands into a nightmarish mess of sweat and blood. On the way home, I thought my phone was busted when I firmly mashed it against my ear, yet was unable to hear anything from the speaker. It was then I took a deep breath and realized I had just spent an hour, using two splintery wooden sticks, to pound tinnitus right into my temporal lobe. I was damn near deaf. And thankful that my television had closed captioning that evening.
The next day I awoke to the faint whisper of an alarm, fighting valiantly against the ringing in my ears to rise me for work. I hosted Attack, unable to hear the cues in my earpiece. I went home. I didn't sleep. At all. The noise-and-nerves cocktail that was my head simply rejected the notion of rest.
Hours later, I found myself on the stage of the Pontiac Garage behind the Jimmy Kimmel theatre. Before I knew what hit me, the cameras were rolling and I was trying to antiquate myself to an unfamiliar drum kit. I felt like like a cartoon octopus at a control panel, my arms sloppily flailed around. I attempted some double bass, but came up with a left-foot full of hi-hat. I mustered the confidence to attack the cymbal-bell, but my sticks amateurishly collided with the wing nuts holding the cymbal on the stand. My mind sputtered out of control. I immediately sank into a deep depression. My breathing intensified. Frustration consumed me.
A lifetime of seconds passed, and I peered over the drum kit and surveyed the landscape before me. To my left, two gorgeously black-clad backup singers were expertly crooning. To my right, Travis Stever was tapping his foot and crunching out guitar chords. And right in front of me Claudio Sanchez was swaying manically, belting out the chorus to "Welcome Home", with the most gentle and reassuring smile I have ever been blessed to witness. I was playing the drums with Coheed and Cambria. No, wait... I WAS FUCKING PLAYING THE DRUMS WITH COHEED AND CAMBRIA!
Dream achieved. I smiled.
I know I'm supposed to wait until I'm holding a tiny golden statue, but that's never going to happen. So, with that said: Many, MANY thanks to everyone at for making this silly idea a reality. The countless folks at G4 -- Mike, Laurie, John, Gavin, Neal, Anne, Mike and Joesh. Thanks to The Jimmy Kimmel show and crew for being so gracious and accommodating. And of course, to Coheed and Cambria, for being the best of sports and truly inspirational artists. Thank you, all.
Luis invited me on a late night motorcycle ride, destination unknown. Actually, the destination was known, Rob was going to help him with his taxes. Riveting, right? Exactly. So I tossed my MacBook Air into my messenger bag (+10 to metro) and hoped it would provide some entertainment while waiting for the proverbial W2-Paint to dry.
Yesterday I found myself at Borders, spinning in manic circles as I imagined a not-so-distant reality transforming around me. Gone, were the endless isles of paper and gloss. Gone, were the heavy wooden cases straining under the weight of multiple copies of self-help vegan-lifestyle guides and phonebook thick biographies. Gone, were the plastic nametag wearing “bookistas”, the finger-grease streaked product location kiosks, the bestseller cardboard stand-ups and the dusty puff painted bookmark carousels. The few thousand square feet of obsolete nineteenth century clutter dreamily dissolved right before my eyes. In five or ten a;years, I convinced myself, this would all be wiped clean and replaced by an E-Reader only product-pushing pagoda. Or better yet, a monolithic vending machine, because in my “not-so-distant-future” of a fantasy world I’m far too baked off legalized cannabis to coherently interact with other humans at a point of sale purchase. But I digress…
This delusion was about the future of “print”. This delusion was about the wonders of E-Ink, E-Books and E-commerce. This delusion, turns out, was about twenty-four hours before my Amazon Kindle displayed a Black Screen of Death on the tarmac at LAX.
I’m an early adopter, always have been. I enjoy championing and fanatically campaigning for burgeoning technologies. Often, I’ll endure a little bloodletting as a calculated expense of playing with the cutting edge, and the Kindle is certainly no exception.
To the uninitiated, the Amazon Kindle is an E-Book reader that uses E-Ink technology. To paraphrase for simplicity, and to drastically understate the capabilities of the device, you can purchase digital copies of newspapers or novels and read for days without needing to recharge the battery.
The most amazing aspect of the Kindle, however, is the ability to wirelessly access the Internet to browse the web or purchase a book from Amazon’s astonishingly vast library. Ditching WiFi in favor of Sprint’s cellular (EVDO) network, or “WhisperNet” as Amazon likes to call it, the Kindle can instantly hop online free of charge almost anywhere you get cell phone reception. Want to read today’s Times or grab a copy of the book your friend just recommended? Simply fire up the Amazon store, click to purchase, and you’re digitally-dog-earing pages in seconds.
Over the past few weeks I have simply fallen in love with my Kindle. I’ve had the ability to easily access a library of hundreds of thousands of books from a tiny handheld device that reads just like a paperback; and as such, I had no problem imagining the complete deconstruction of brick and mortar outlets, libraries and magazine stands. The adrenaline like rush of elitism that comes with early adoption has been surging through my veins with each and every digital “page turn”. I’ve purchased books from the bedroom, at a stoplight and from the beach. I’ve smugly adjusted my posture while passing bookstores in malls and airports, as though the Kindle miraculously unencumbered my being and allowed me to finally walk upright.
You know those evolutionary timeline drawings that show primitive man evolving from apes, walking on all fours and eventually upright? Well add a new figure to the far right; one with impossibly perfect posture, a Cheshire-cat grin, and a small tablet in hand. That’s me, and yes, that’s my Kindle.
Just twenty minutes ago I was eyeing the woman on the plane next to me with sadness as she unloaded several large murder-mystery novels onto her tray table, which should have been upright and locked for takeoff, mind you. For a moment I considered purchasing the first book she picked up as an experiment in sparking conversation, and also to assert my technological dominance. And not just dominance over little miss printed-page in seat 3B, but the entire flight! Pour souls all around me. Pour finger-licking, page-fumbling, hardback-lugging souls. I clenched a power-drunk fist in my mind’s eye and laughed maniacally.
My, how things change. Apparently today’s in-flight meal included humble pie, and I saved lots of room for desert!
I fired up the Kindle and prepared to polish off a few novels. I stared patiently at the spinach colored screen and waited for the Amazon logo to flicker to life. I stared with less patience. I stared in disillusionment. I stared the cold and calculated stare of a check-out-line mother with a screaming four year old who really wants a Blow Pop. I shot daggers and assailed the device with ocular laser beams of pure red hate. Nothing.
I flicked the power switch on and off repeatedly. I changed my tact. I caressed the Kindle, lovingly squishing its’ sides and rubbing the cool screen as if administering digital CPR. Nothing, again.
I popped off the plastic plate on the backside of the device and fumbled with the battery before noticing a diminutive crevice with “Reset” cryptically embossed next to it. I pondered, then scoured my person for an object with a sharp enough point to fit. With the battery dangling by a handful of red and black wires, I jabbed at the Kindle with car keys and headphone jacks, surely arousing the suspicion of an undercover air-marshal or twelve. I borrowed the nametag of a kind flight attendant and poked again. The screen flickered momentarily and I instinctively threw my hands up in the air with the enchantment of a pommel horse gymnast who just stuck the dismount. I handed Janice back her gold-plated American Airline’s issued E-Reader-Reseter and waited for my books to appear. Nothing, still.
It was full-blown panic time. Reaching for my wallet, my plan was to make a Kindle-shiv capable of resetting the device once more, thereby magically kick starting the screen to life. I removed an old business card, tore off a portion, and began twisting with a McGuyver like tenacity. The sense of urgency was unbearable; 3B was already several pages into some Sci-Fi murder-mystery-romance looking novel where (I’m sure) a Roomba kills then rapes a police officer, in that order. Flustered, yet determined, I crammed the now cone-shaped card into the reset port and prayed to the Amazonian lords for in-flight mercy. The Kindle belched black pixels of desperation. I shook it like a struggling meth-fueled etch-a-sketch artist. The Kindle screamed in silent protest. I mashed entire sections of buttons, called for clear, applied the electronic paddles and shocked the device repeatedly. Nothing, finally.
Acquiesced to defeat, I slipped the hunk of plastic back into my bag, along with my utopian vision for the future. E-ink is neat, E-readers are fun, and E-commerce is convenient; but they now paled in comparison to the ancient versatility of the printed pages around me. Nobody else on the flight had to break a nerd-sweat trying to reboot their books. They would go on to experience hours of uninterrupted reading while I would write about my lack of experience, set to the soundtrack of their scratchy pages rubbing together.
Which brings us to, now:
Alvin and the Chipmunks is my in-flight “entertainment”. My laptop battery is minutes from empty. And I have an entire, fully charged library of unreadable information and amusement at my feet. Needless to say, I’ll be swinging by Barnes and Noble on the way to my hotel.
I’ve by no means given up on the E-ink or E-Readers in general, yet I’m probably giving up on the Kindle in its’ current incarnation. Ergonomically speaking the device is nothing short of a disaster, a shortcoming I was willing to overlook while evangelizing the power of online access to the Amazon bookstore. Hardware aside, further improvements need to be made, as Amazon currently charges subscription fees for the same blogs you can manually browse to or pull up from any web-enabled mobile device for free.
I’d like to see Amazon open the Amazon Store (WhisperNet) to third-party developers. Let’s face it Amazon you’re no Apple, let alone an iRiver or Sony; grant real manufacturers and user interface designers access to your incredible network. Give the E-Reader industry the shot in the arm it’s desperately needed for years now as companies compete to make the best hardware to access your services.
Then, dearest Amazon, charge a flat five to ten dollars a month for “all you can eat” emails, blogs and newspapers. Then kick a little back to the most subscribed to feeds in a show of good faith, and stop gouging customers on a per-email, per-feed basis.
As I type this, I know the Kindle is still near impossible to get for most and Amazon is surely making a decent profit off of the device; so there’s little incentive to listen to little old me ramble about “the day my Kindle died” or how I would run their operation. But there’s officially one less mouthpiece preaching the Gospel according to Kindle, reading E-books through rose-colored glasses. No sir. After today, given the choice of paper or plastic, I’d shed a single Indian tear for the rain forests, then reach for a puff-painted bookmark.
Until next time, probably five or ten years from now, and from inside a Borders bookstore…
Enjoy this clip from a film nominated for an Academy Award in the best picture category: There Will Be Blood.
Coincidentally, the movie is also nominated for best performance by an actor in a leading role. What were the odds, right!? Apparently, pretty high, with top-shelf 'stache like that!
I've been enjoying the hell out of a DigiPen birthed, Indie Games 2008 Finalist, Synaesthete. It's a free, music-driven shooter for the PC that borrows from the likes of Mizuguchi and Harmonix; think Amplitude meets Rez, but isometric. You know what? Don't think that at all, instead, enjoy this blurb about the title from the official website:
Synaesthete creates a harmony between player actions and in-game music, in a way that each influences the other. The rhythm and flow of the music is expressed in every detail of the game, so that the visual and audio are not two experiences, but one.
On second thought, don't think that either. Crap. Just download the game and give it a whirl. If you've understood anything stated above, you're going to relish the generous helping of substance this game marinates in Technicolor-style. And if you find yourself enjoying the soundtrack as much as the gameplay, I'm pleased to inform you it's available for download as well.
To the four-man team responsible for this delightful download, I thank you. And to everyone else, enjoy!
And yet another night of restlessness drags on. I thought I'd update everyone on the lack of updates, it's mono! Yup, that's what I got for Christmas, how about you? I know, I know, you just saw me hop around hosting an hour of live television today; hell, I even shattered a Big-Wheel-distance-jumping record! But, sadly, I'm still playing hurt. No, I'm not exactly in shambles, but mono is one hell of an affliction. I'm weaker than weak, down almost fifteen pounds from April, and still blowing through entire boxes of Kleenex nightly. Which reminds me to remind you, don't get sinus surgery and follow it up with a neck injury and a "kissing disease"; the resulting time-out of the gym and off of a proper protein rich diet will turn you into Nicole Ritchie (sans baby bump).
So, hopefully that's a decent explanation (I know it's nowhere near an excuse) for my lack of "Wordpressian Will" as of late. I plan on slowly returning to a healthy fitness and dietary routine sometime after CES, and adding a dose of daily blogging to the mix. For now, it's off to the land of Zicam for placebo'ed dreams of a healthier tomorrow!
By the way, my parents held a sweet Dora the Explorer 25th birthday party for me over the break. I'll post a metric ton of videos and photos one of these days. It was A-Dora-ble!!
Guess what happens when your week long itinerary is far more ambitious than your immune system? You get a 103 degree fever, soaring blood pressure, throat and respiratory infections, a stack of prescriptions, and you get to change your clothes six times throughout the evening because despite the fact you're trembling from the "cold", you're sweating threw layers of fabric.
I knew the schedule was going to be a bit on the hectic side, but with the stress of polishing up each of the live hits and the lack of time built in for sleep, my body through in the towel.
Apr 6, 2008;)