Here it is. After about an hour of rendering and uploading. And a newfound hatred of iMovie and its' limitations. I'm a wreck, as you'll see, and can't wait to (hopefully) knock out on my flight to Japan. Thanks to Philly (love this place), thanks to my friends (you are all so amazing), thanks to soul searching silence (hours of revelations) and thanks to Pepto Bismol.
By the way? New, redesigned blog coming soon. Maybe tomorrow actually.
Bluetards and Toothbags: It's The Law!I'm a little tired of people claiming BT-Headset laws are making the roads safer...
These single-take rants are fun, but I would have liked to clean up some of the ideas and maybe add some kitten-filled school bus accident noises. Also, I could have corrected the "New York" assertion. Hands-free laws are PRIMARY there, not secondary enforcement. Oregon, Maryland and a handful of other intelligent states using secondary enforcement can be found here.
Maybe next time I'll bite the bullet and edit in Final Cut. Then I could avoid the inevitable, "in the video he said NY. Whatta tard!" flamebait trollings to come. Oh well, hope you enjoy the whining regardless!
Steve hooked me up with an invite key for the Xbox360 beta of Red Faction. I like it. The powerups are great fun; from Jetpacks to a "Rhino" pack that lets you bulldoze your way through enemies and entire structures. The maps are easy to learn, the game modes are solid, the graphics are serviceable and at times Keanu "whoa" inducing. The weapons need a bit more "oomph" and better hit-feedback would be nice. Overall, I'm sure the retail game will be fun, but I worry it won't have the legs to be worth a sixty-dollar investment. And, if I may, I know it's a beta... I'm sure the netcode will get more tweaking before it goes gold... but I'm SO sick and tired of lag during online games! Figure it out already. QuakeWorld could handle 32 players with relative ease over ten years ago. It's frustrating, especially when I'm PAYING for Xbox Live. I love ya, I TRULY do, but Microsoft: HOST SOME DAMN DEDICATED SERVERS ALREADY!
Braid:
Who cares if it's a bit pretentious, I finally beat Braid today and thoroughly enjoyed every minute of it; including the minutes spent staring at a particular puzzle and cursing my television because I was too stupid to get it instantly. Puzzle solving fun a la Portal in terms of unique challenges and fun mechanics. It should be ten bucks, instead of fifteen, but it's still gorgeous and recommended even at that price-point. One of the best Live Arcade games to date, despite some terrible sound effect choices. I'm sorry, those feral cat screeching bunnies were ear piercingly out of place (even if the audible clash was intended, it still sucks), and the constant drone of cannon-fire during some puzzles made me mute the television. Still, an 'A' game for certain.
PixelJunk Eden:
I LOVE Q-Games. Love, love, love 'em. Calling me a fanboy is the greatest understatement since the dawn of man. PixelJunk Eden is no exception. Granted, I'm passing judgement and I've only completed the first garden, but damn is this good trippy fun. Great soundtrack, fluid controls, typical Q-goodness. Swinging from plant to plant feels poetic at times. Although, I wish developers would just let go of the Six Axis crap already. I have yet to find one good implication of the PS3's motion sensing abilities. Having to thrust the controller during this game to force the character to drop instantly feels violently out of place. Minor gripe. I'm about to go back and crush Garden 2!
If you've got a spare second or two, I'd love for you to read this blog post (WS) over at Gawker and let me know what you think. I truly love reading all of your comments on the site, and hearing your perspective on things; and this post intrigues me for multiple reasons.
Thanks in advance for taking the time, if you choose to do so.
And thanks for reading.
UPDATE:
(There have been some fantastic responses so far. I'm debating whether or not a discussion like this belongs on AOTS in any way; perhaps as a Loop. It may be too serious, too off the show's traditionally beaten path; but I think that's half of the appeal at the moment. Hmm...)
Attack of the Show has just wrapped two days prior to my Jamaica departure. I was reaching for my badge and car keys when word traveled through the stale studio air that mushrooms were legal on the island. Instantaneously, with fiendishly Pavlovian flair, my already outstretched arm craned toward a keyboard to the side of me seeking answers. My thumb, middle finger and pinky simultaneously lowered with the precision and poise of a jazz-handed ballerina into "Windows Log-In Position"; without looking, I mashed the required keys, logged in, and pleaded for the almighty Google to confirm the shroomy-rumor still swirling about my ear canal.
According to "Internet", if I dared to combine the thought of legal fungi and Rastafari, I was probably going to be locked in a cramped pet-porter kennel and poked with sticks of sugar cane for the rest of my miserable existence. Psilocybin was illegal, an outright island "no-no", and I simply had to resist any and all temptation to seek it out.
"Fine. Fair enough. You know what, it's probably for the better!" I thought. Hell, the last time I dabbled with anything remotely psychedelic I ended up proclaiming I was made of liquid, calling friends to ask if I was still in my apartment, and burning my hand while trying to figure out if candles really emit light or if they "are the mathematical inverse, and actually devour the darkness that truly surrounds us."
Side note: I'm an idiot.
Just so we're all on the same page.
Cue two days later, a Sun-sunny-Sunday in Jamaica, when I hear that not only are mushrooms legal on the island, but we're actually visiting a world-famous Mushroom Tea shop for our "420 Special"! My eyes rolled in their sockets like reels on a clunky mechanical slot-machine; triple shrooms, JACKPOT! Like a shamanistic Toucan-Sam, I spent the next day floating around, nose first; excitedly following our production van to a ramshackle shoebox-of-a-shack on the side of a bustling windy road.
The "World Famous Ms Brown's", read the faded, sun-scared paint on the pockmarked wood paneling.
When my feet touched the scorched earth outside the entrance, I leapt into the air several times. I tried to play it off as half leg-stretch and half energy triggering mechanism, but it was simply a childishly outward expression of the juvenile joy surging through my brain. Here I was, meters away, from legally procuring what I hoped would lead to a tale-and-a-half; precious memories of "that time I shroomed" the white sandy beaches of Jamaica.
Olivia paced softly rehearsing her lines for the Tea House package while our crew buzzed about, setting up lights and shooting signage.
I stepped inside.
And found nothing.
The place was four walls, three barstools and a mini-fridge with some Pepsi bottles that had their safety-seals cracked. The only points of interest inside the joint came in the form of a wall full of dull, poorly framed photos and a wooden bead-curtain (which actually provided minutes of entertainment).
After my initial disappointment, I was greeted by the shops proprietor Bernard, who wore the warm weathered face of a man who had been sampling his own product for well over thirty years. His cheeks buckled and bounced under the strain of his mile-wide grin, his pores slowly bled thick beads of sweat that he wiped occasionally with a white handkerchief, and the thick red-veins in his milky eyes branched and darted sharply in multiple directions like a bloodshot New York subway map. He giggled in-between breaths and offered "Ya Mon's" in the same way a sixteen year old valley girl infuses sentences with "like" and "uhm".
I guess like, you could say, I like, uhm... liked Bernard?
Yes, despite the surroundings, I trusted him immediately. He spoke openly and honestly about his little shroomy grow farm. He explained the different types of mushrooms sold on-site and their effects. He showed us how he actually brews the mushroom tea in an undoubtedly tetanus-infested steel pot, and described his daily dosage (two cups of "2X strength" every evening).
The shoot eventually wrapped and thanks to a tight schedule, there was only time to lend my designer-knockoff sunglasses to a curious local boy, teach him to "work it" and snap a quick photo. We had to get back to the hotel. I reluctantly waddled back to the shuttle, kicking rocks along the way. I felt like a child being dragged out of Disneyland by his parents. I wanted to ride Space Mountain damnit! At least give me a Churro or some Dipp'n Dots as a souvenir!
<Darth> "Nooooooooooo!" </Vader>
I cried out for one of our producers (a long-time buddy of mine) to, "take care of me". I assured him I'd pay him back at the hotel. He nodded and minutes later I restlessly waded into the salty waters behind our hotel to await his return.
I tossed a flowery mini-football with friends to pass the time. I watched the sun sink closer to the sea as the horizon began to extinguish its' fiery gaze. Then, from a distance, a dusk-lit-figure approached with a black plastic bag in hand and hailed me towards the shore. My producer buddy had returned from his trip and was Baywatch-trotting in slow motion toward the water's edge like a tank-topped lifeguard. Only his little orange life saving ring had miraculously morphed into two bottles of "Double Strength Tea" and a handful of "on the house" dried stems and caps.
I raced from the beach and stashed the goods into the beat-up mini-fridge in my room. Because I'm somewhat professional and refuse to party on school-nights (save for one or three admitted lapses in judgment throughout my six years on camera) I knew I would have to wait a minimum of three days before partaking in any mind altering madness.
That day finally arrived, and is an entirely different tale for another time. But assuming you're interested in the Cliff's Notes, they read something like this:
About an hour had passed and I found myself relaxed, fully reclined upon a fluffy blue cotton beach towel; the golden tendrils of the mid-day sun pierced effortlessly through my skin, warming and massaging each individual cell in my energized body. I surveyed the sky, taking notice of the thick layers of black, parallax scrolling, brooding clouds rolling dutifully across the sky. I knew they signaled an impending and severe change in weather, yet I was firmly entrenched. Bonded molecule by molecule between a melting chaise lounge and the Earth itself. This was my experience. I giggled. Come hell or high water I was not moving. And come they did.
The sun battled valiantly, yet was quickly swallowed by the storm. The sky tore in half. Buckets of tropical golf-ball-sized rain poured from the heavens and sent beach dwellers scrambling madly for shelter. Palms buckled, violently slapping the rooftops under the pressure of gale force winds. Individual grains of sand blasted relentlessly into the side of my body and I felt an icy trickle of water penetrate the seal between headphone and ear.
I removed a pair of sunglasses from my bag, gave each ear bud a firm press into their respective canal, adjusted the volume accordingly, and smiled.
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.
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…
Sep 1, 2008
