It is done. And you may read it here.
Showing posts with label creative. Show all posts
Showing posts with label creative. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Website!
I have built a website from scratch. It is located at sangoart.nfshost.com. The site is a portfolio of my work, so if you are a rich publisher, why don't you take a look and then hire me?
There's something strangely satisfying about doing your own coding. I suppose it's because it's so logical. This is the first time I've used HTML and CSS, and I haven't tested the site on Internet Explorer, so please excuse any hiccups in the site design. If you happen to find any kind of problem, let me know at senbei35(at)gmail(dot)com.
There's something strangely satisfying about doing your own coding. I suppose it's because it's so logical. This is the first time I've used HTML and CSS, and I haven't tested the site on Internet Explorer, so please excuse any hiccups in the site design. If you happen to find any kind of problem, let me know at senbei35(at)gmail(dot)com.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Lookit what I did
I made a webcomic. It's called Comics are Garbage!
It's supposed to be updated everyday!
Supposed to be!
It's supposed to be updated everyday!
Supposed to be!
Friday, June 22, 2007
Seriously, I called it.
http://gamesarefun.com/news.php?newsid=7913
Bioware is making a Sonic RPG on the DS.
Let me reiterate.
Sonic the Hedgehog role-playing game.
Bioware. Making Sonic the Hedgehog role-playing game.
DS. Bioware making Sonic the Hedgehog role-playing game on.
Sonic. RPG. Bioware. DS.
Sonic + DS = sense
Bioware + RPG = sense
Sonic + RPG = something I never thought they'd do
Bioware + DS = huh
Sonic + RPG + Bioware + DS = WTF in its most potent form.
Oddly enough, back when Sonic '06 was coming out for the 360 and PS3, I was thinking about how cool it'd be to play a Sonic RPG. But since I thought it'd never happen I started making my own. I spent about a year or two working on it as a nice little distraction from schoolwork. Actually, I learned a basic understanding of coding by working on it, and used it to get a high school credit for computer skills. I never finished it -- I got the bare bones of about a twentieth of the epic I had planned. Still, I think it looks pretty neat and it was fun to make.
So anyway, Sonic, RPG, Bioware, DS. I have NO idea in what fashion they're going to pull this off. Bioware makes good games, though, so unless SEGA really restricts them from making good decisions, I don't see how this could go bad. Mediocre, maybe, but not bad, and these days mediocre is the best we expect from the spiny blue franchise. I am really excited and curious as to how this is going to play out. I really can't wait to see more.
Bioware is making a Sonic RPG on the DS.
Let me reiterate.
Sonic the Hedgehog role-playing game.
Bioware. Making Sonic the Hedgehog role-playing game.
DS. Bioware making Sonic the Hedgehog role-playing game on.
Sonic. RPG. Bioware. DS.
Sonic + DS = sense
Bioware + RPG = sense
Sonic + RPG = something I never thought they'd do
Bioware + DS = huh
Sonic + RPG + Bioware + DS = WTF in its most potent form.
Oddly enough, back when Sonic '06 was coming out for the 360 and PS3, I was thinking about how cool it'd be to play a Sonic RPG. But since I thought it'd never happen I started making my own. I spent about a year or two working on it as a nice little distraction from schoolwork. Actually, I learned a basic understanding of coding by working on it, and used it to get a high school credit for computer skills. I never finished it -- I got the bare bones of about a twentieth of the epic I had planned. Still, I think it looks pretty neat and it was fun to make.
So anyway, Sonic, RPG, Bioware, DS. I have NO idea in what fashion they're going to pull this off. Bioware makes good games, though, so unless SEGA really restricts them from making good decisions, I don't see how this could go bad. Mediocre, maybe, but not bad, and these days mediocre is the best we expect from the spiny blue franchise. I am really excited and curious as to how this is going to play out. I really can't wait to see more.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Lego Eggmobile
Every once in a while I get an aggressive urge to play with Legos. I get an idea in my head for something that'd be really cool to build, and if I don't build it and finish it I'll feel really bad. This time the idea was to build Eggman's mech walker from Sonic Adventure 2.
I tried to make it as accurate as possible and there are only a couple of things I'm unhappy with: the colors are off in some places, especially the legs, but it couldn't be helped since I didn't have the right colored bricks; and I didn't make the toes on the feet bendable because it would've been hard and might not have looked as good or stood as well. The point, however, is that it was fun and I feel better having gotten it out of my system.
I tried to make it as accurate as possible and there are only a couple of things I'm unhappy with: the colors are off in some places, especially the legs, but it couldn't be helped since I didn't have the right colored bricks; and I didn't make the toes on the feet bendable because it would've been hard and might not have looked as good or stood as well. The point, however, is that it was fun and I feel better having gotten it out of my system.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Not necessarily an encouraging start
I have NOT been making enough money at my job. That's why all this started. I ended up job-hunting, which I hate, for a job that I'd probably hate. Hoping to save myself from the agony of a second retail festival of fun, I came up with the brilliant idea of becoming a caricaturist, which, upon second thought, isn't much of a brilliant idea since I have a notable skill in the respective field and had been considering pursuing such an enterprise for years. It was more common sense than rocket science. Anyhoo, I got the notion that I might be able to take my mad skillz to the streets and charge interested passersby. My mind was filled with the joys and thrills of a having an income that didn't involve working from behind a cash register for a faceless corporation apparently bent on making outrageously stupid decisions that seem to only affect the annoyance level of both their own employees and their own clientele.
Oh ho, but The Man ended up having the last laugh anyway. I got my mommy (yes, my mommy, as I was too ascared to call myself) to contact the two cities that I would be most likely to generate some ca$$$h in and the obligatory hefty licensing fee turned out to be accompanied by a requirement to work on private property with the permission of the owner. So no parks or street corners for this bugger unless I'm willing to find somebody charitable to lend me a few feet of his land. "Fuck that," said I.
Then said mommy, who frequents craft fairs, pointed out that one was coming up soon and that I should apply for it. So I did. For $60. Fun, yes? It gets better.
Given that this was the first time I'd be charging people for my sorry excuse for "art," I became, needless to say, somewhat nervous for the following week. And a good chunk of that week was used in preparation for the Sunday soon approaching when I'd be selling my, er, service. None of this was so bad, however, as the day before the day, a day on which I had been summoned to work at said job at which I don't make enough moolah. This day may very well have been the busiest and most exhausting day I've had the privilege of working at the store. To put things in perspective, the store closes at 9:00pm. We didn't get out until 10:30. And I was supposed to be up at 6:00. Good start.
I get home late and die for 6 hours. My alarm clock goes off and the destined day has arrived. My parents and I head to the fair despite my drowsiness. (My mommy had her own wares to sell there herself and greatly assisted in my first outing as a merchant-artisan.) We set up our booths, erecting tents above our spaces in the outdoor middle school field; we expect it to rain a tad, as this is what the weatherman told us. After many minutes of set-up, the festival officially opens and a few early bird fair-goers shuffle in. My first customer ever is a guy named Tom. Nice fellow, very friendly and open, has a twinkle in his eyes that his middle-aged wrinkles exaggerate; I try to bring out this feature in his caricature and I think that I succeeded. I get two more batches of customers, one little girl and her presumable mom, and two more little girls and their presumable father. Every thing is going well and I'm hoping to at least make my $60 back.
And then Mighty Zeus parted the clouds and let fall upon mankind, not sunshine, but fucking gallons and gallons of water. And with his blessing, all potential customers stayed inside and did not come to an outdoor fair to get fucking soaked.
I made $15 and lost $45 so that I could get up at 6am and sit in the freezing cold for 6 hours. I'm oddly not very upset over it. I think that I was just relieved to be able to come home and lose myself in Bumpy Trot, aka Steambot Chronicles, which, by the way, is an awesome game. Anyone who likes any of the following should buy this game and play it immediately: [the following] sandbox-style games, artwork and fun reminiscent of Studio Ghibli films, steam-powered mechs, the industrial revolution, customization up the ass, several different personalities for your character to take on, dating sims, renting and furnishing your own room, fun gameplay, vibrant and cool visuals, tons of rhythm mini-games, and a shitload of other cool stuff [/the following]. I actually bought this game a while ago and was immediately turned off by the horrid controls for your mech, or your "trotmobile," but I just picked it up again recently, and, having mastered the controls, I'm hooked on the game. It's a lot of fun and so far has drawn me in more than my very little experience with GTAIII. Take that as you will.
What was I talking about again?
Oh ho, but The Man ended up having the last laugh anyway. I got my mommy (yes, my mommy, as I was too ascared to call myself) to contact the two cities that I would be most likely to generate some ca$$$h in and the obligatory hefty licensing fee turned out to be accompanied by a requirement to work on private property with the permission of the owner. So no parks or street corners for this bugger unless I'm willing to find somebody charitable to lend me a few feet of his land. "Fuck that," said I.
Then said mommy, who frequents craft fairs, pointed out that one was coming up soon and that I should apply for it. So I did. For $60. Fun, yes? It gets better.
Given that this was the first time I'd be charging people for my sorry excuse for "art," I became, needless to say, somewhat nervous for the following week. And a good chunk of that week was used in preparation for the Sunday soon approaching when I'd be selling my, er, service. None of this was so bad, however, as the day before the day, a day on which I had been summoned to work at said job at which I don't make enough moolah. This day may very well have been the busiest and most exhausting day I've had the privilege of working at the store. To put things in perspective, the store closes at 9:00pm. We didn't get out until 10:30. And I was supposed to be up at 6:00. Good start.
I get home late and die for 6 hours. My alarm clock goes off and the destined day has arrived. My parents and I head to the fair despite my drowsiness. (My mommy had her own wares to sell there herself and greatly assisted in my first outing as a merchant-artisan.) We set up our booths, erecting tents above our spaces in the outdoor middle school field; we expect it to rain a tad, as this is what the weatherman told us. After many minutes of set-up, the festival officially opens and a few early bird fair-goers shuffle in. My first customer ever is a guy named Tom. Nice fellow, very friendly and open, has a twinkle in his eyes that his middle-aged wrinkles exaggerate; I try to bring out this feature in his caricature and I think that I succeeded. I get two more batches of customers, one little girl and her presumable mom, and two more little girls and their presumable father. Every thing is going well and I'm hoping to at least make my $60 back.
And then Mighty Zeus parted the clouds and let fall upon mankind, not sunshine, but fucking gallons and gallons of water. And with his blessing, all potential customers stayed inside and did not come to an outdoor fair to get fucking soaked.
I made $15 and lost $45 so that I could get up at 6am and sit in the freezing cold for 6 hours. I'm oddly not very upset over it. I think that I was just relieved to be able to come home and lose myself in Bumpy Trot, aka Steambot Chronicles, which, by the way, is an awesome game. Anyone who likes any of the following should buy this game and play it immediately: [the following] sandbox-style games, artwork and fun reminiscent of Studio Ghibli films, steam-powered mechs, the industrial revolution, customization up the ass, several different personalities for your character to take on, dating sims, renting and furnishing your own room, fun gameplay, vibrant and cool visuals, tons of rhythm mini-games, and a shitload of other cool stuff [/the following]. I actually bought this game a while ago and was immediately turned off by the horrid controls for your mech, or your "trotmobile," but I just picked it up again recently, and, having mastered the controls, I'm hooked on the game. It's a lot of fun and so far has drawn me in more than my very little experience with GTAIII. Take that as you will.
What was I talking about again?
Saturday, April 21, 2007
A Very Short Story
One day, Henry decided to go for a walk, so he put on his good shoes and started off down the street. The sun set and rose and set and rose and eventually Henry collapsed and died of exhaustion and hunger by a road many miles from his home. When the police discovered the corpse, they suspected foul play, but never could pin the case to a suspect.
The End
The End
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Vote for me!
I entered a piece for a Sonic-themed best art contest over at the GHZ. So if anybody's reading this, sign up and vote for me! Or vote for whoever you want; there are some artists who are hugely better than I am. In fact, most of the works that were submitted for the contest are pretty great. BUT I WANT THAT FREE SONIC GEMS COLLECTION, SO VOTE FOR ME, DAMMIT.
If you're interested in actually joining to participate in the forum community, please, please, please read the FAQ. Also, refrain from being an idiot and taking anything personally.
If you're interested in actually joining to participate in the forum community, please, please, please read the FAQ. Also, refrain from being an idiot and taking anything personally.
Monday, September 04, 2006
I'm such a good writer
Every once in a while I like to go back and read some of my old high school English projects and whenever I do, I realize just how much of the talent in the field I've lost in the past 1-2 years, rotting my brains with video games and comic books and internets. Yes, somewhere beneath this blog-scribbling exterior lies the soul of a true literary artist, who was tragically avalanched sometime between British Literature and the discovery of Homestar Runner.
Anywhosit, I love Terry Pratchett and I love Star Trek, so when I was given an English assignment that would hopefully remind me (but, considering the general ignorance of kids-these-days, was more likely to introduce me) to the concept of satire, I decided to mix these two loves to create something that was completely unoriginal, but has continued to amuse me every time I reread it. So without much more ado about nothing, I give you the heavily Discworld-influenced satire blatantly titled:
Satire Trek: Yet Another Parody of the Star Trek Universe
===
Imagine time and space. Imagine that the two are woven together, like two materials that together make one thick fabric; a universal fabric. Now imagine a tiny tear appearing in that fabric. Imagine it growing bigger and bigger, ripping longer and longer, until the universe just can’t ignore it. Imagine, now, an omnipotent voice muttering embarrassedly, “Oh damn. I knew these pants were too small.”
Imagine the tear in time and space now being sewn up. Imagine the mended fabric now, appearing as if the rip had never even existed. However, there are still hints that it did; stitches can still be seen if one looks close enough ...
***
Ivan Tore picked himself off the floor and stared flatly at the assembled group of individuals watching him. They were spread across the room, mostly standing before desks and walls that glowed and blinked with hundreds of little lights, looking much like broken disco globes. Dull gray and taupe walls, reminding Ivan of the wallpaper of his late grandmother’s abode, surrounded the sizable room. The large, black monitor that was set in the long, bare wall on one side of the room invoked only one thought into Ivan’s mind: “I bet football’d look awesome on that.”
One of the aforementioned individuals, a man, stepped forward. “Greetings ... Ivan Tore. I am ... Captain James E. Church.”
“Yo,” replied Ivan, and as a perplexed expression flashed across the man’s face, Ivan got a better chance to observe him. The captain wore a tight jumpsuit consisting of black and red. On it was a pin that looked more or less triangular. The man himself had wavy blonde hair and an expression that triggered Ivan’s mind to label him as a supermodel. The overall effect was like a sixties sci-fi creator’s idea of what a spaceman should look like. It was rather sad.
The captain seemed to recover from his surprise and said, “We ... don’twishto-frightenyou. Wewillnot ... harm you.”
Ivan continued to stare at him flatly. “Lemme guess,” he said. “This is a starship.”
The man gave a glance to his companions then turned back to Ivan and replied, “Yes, actually, it is. The starship ... Entrepreneur. I get the feeling, Mr. Tore, that you are not ... assurprisedaswe ... expectedyoutobe.”
“Excuse me, Captain.” Another man, dressed in the same type of uniform and obviously an alien because of his pointy nose, stepped forward. His face was strangely expressionless, like that of a man who has just has diarrhea in a public restroom and is trying not to look suspicious. “During the era that we acquired Mr. Tore from, fiction and media had so many science fictional elements that humans had become accustomed to the idea of space travel and extraterrestrial life. It is probable that this phenomenon has also manifested itself unto our visitor, explaining his lack of astonishment.”
The captain was silent for a moment. Then he said, “I’m afraid, Mr. T’t’ock, that I ... tunedoutafter ... ‘Captain.’”
“I’m not surprised ‘cause I’m used to alien stories,” said Ivan impatiently. “That’s what he said, pretty much. But you also said you got me from an ‘era.’ That mean that this is the future, too?”
“Yes,” said the pointy-nosed T’t’ock. “This is the year 2253 A.D. in your Earth years.”
“Okay, that explains why I just suddenly turned up on your floor.” Ivan was a astoundingly acceptant person. “Now, why me?” He was also the type to get straight to the point.
The captain replied, “We have a situation with the ... somethingorother. Honestly, I‘d forget my own head sometimes. What was the ...” He froze in his erratic pause.
Ivan looked at the alien for an explanation.
“Speech impediment,” T’t’ock said.
Ivan nodded.
They waited a few seconds.
“... problemagain,Mr.T’t’ock?”
“There is something wrong with the gnarl drive in our engine room,” said T’t’ock. “Because of this difficulty, our ship is currently lacking the ability to perform even the most menial mode of movement, whether the slow 1/4 thrust or the standard gnarly speed. We are stranded, and in a remote section of space, no less, too far for assistance to arrive before our provisions are diminished. Thus, we were forced to proceed with the most logical course of action: distort space and time and risk damaging the universe in a dangerous and improbable attempt to bring you here to save our one, unimportant ship from devastation by rebuilding our gnarl core, enabling us to travel back to our space headquarters before we die of starvation.”
“That’s what I meant to say,” said the captain.
“I see,” Ivan replied to T’t’ock. “Too bad that I don’t know what a gnarl drive is or how to build one.”
“What? But you have to! You’re Ivan Tore!” blurted out a human woman sitting at one of the lighted desks. “With your permission, Captain?”
“Aw, come on over here, then,” said the captain and the woman walked over to Ivan. “Mr. Tore, this is . . . ourChiefEngineer, Lieutenant Sol la Tido.”
“Sorry, darling,” said Ivan, “But I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don‘t know about any gnarl drive. At home, I‘m just a mechanic.”
“But you’re my hero,” said la Tido. “Our history records say that you invented the gnarl drive and that you were the first man to travel at the speed of cruelty!”
“Sorry. Don‘t know anything about all that.”
“Perhaps,” said T’t’ock, “we transported a younger version of Ivan Tore, before he had invented the gnarl drive.”
Ivan looked at the alien. “In that case, isn’t it illogical to tell a person what their future holds in case it changes their future?”
T’t’ock shrugged. “Yes. It is also in opposition to our Prime Directive, upon which our entire inter-planetary society has prospered for over one hundred years. But I have learned not to fight human illogicalities. It is too much trouble for too little positive outcome. Moreover, it gives me a headache.”
“Well, if I don’t know how to make this ‘gnarl drive,’ then can I go back to my time now?”
“Um,” said la Tido, “I’m afraid we can’t do that. Y’see, we used up all of our tacky-on particles, which is the name sci-fi script writers came up with for time particles, when we transported you here. We have to get back to base to get more to send you home.”
“What?” exclaimed Ivan. “You mean you brought me hundreds of years into the future without any way of getting me home?”
“Sorry.”
Ivan sighed. “Look, are you sure? Because I’m pretty upset about the lousy way you guys are treating me--”
“He’s going to attack! Everybody down!” screamed the captain. From the holster attached to his belt he pulled a slick, handheld object, aimed it at Ivan, and pressed a button on it. There was a sound like a faucet turning on and a red beam of light emitted from the object and hit Ivan directly in the chest. He stared at his body as it burst into flames. Then it crumbled and he shattered into a pile of ashes. There was silence for a couple of seconds, then the pile made a noise like a hoarse cough and it belched a depressing wisp of smoke that evaporated in the air.
Interstellar crickets chirruped.
Then la Tido said to the captain, “He’s dead, Jim.”
“Um. Are ... yousure?”
“Dammit, Jim, I’m an engineer, not a doctor!” La Tido shifted uneasily as the crew took their eyes off the ashes to stare at her. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that. It just seemed the right thing to say.”
“Captain,” said T’t’ock, calmly. “Why did you incinerate Mr. Tore?”
“I ... I ... didn’tmeanto. It’s a phaser, right? It’s supposed to . . . phasepeople,notkill-them!”
“I believe, Captain, that you are thinking of the word ‘faze,’ as in ‘to startle,’ said T’t’ock with the voice of one teaching a child. “What you are holding in your hand is a phaser, much like a blaster, which, despite having a ‘stun’ setting, is currently on the ‘deep fry’ setting.”
“Oh.”
“This does not, however, explain why you attacked our only means of escape from our current predicament, whether you meant to ready him for his funeral urn or not.”
“I ... thoughthewasgoingtoattackinhis ... madness.”
“With all due respect, sir, I don’t think he was the mad one.”
“With all due respect, sir,” piped up la Tido, “you are an ass.” She earned another stare. “I’m sorry! It just seemed like the right thing again.
“Anyway,” she said, quickly, “now that we’ve killed the inventor of our standard method of travel before he could invent that method, what does that mean is going to happen next?”
“The logical outcome is that history and the universe will unravel and we will cease to exist, or rather, will never have existed in the first place,” said T’t’ock. “It is also possible that we will be thrust into an alternate reality, wherein Earth will have encountered different events in its history without Ivan Tore. I cannot say for sure.”
“Captain,” said one of the other crew members, “there is another starship hailing us.”
“Oh, goodie!” said the captain. “They can sort this all out for us.”
“But, sir, I thought we were too far from any ships to request assistance?” said la Tido.
The captain ignored her. “Put the hail onscreen, please.”
The giant monitor flickered and the face of a bald human man appeared. He wore a uniform extremely similar to that of the captain’s, but in a red plaid. He also wore a red beret. It had a pom-pom on it.
The bald man spoke, “Come een, U.S.S.S. Entrepreneur.”
“Yes, we ... arehere,” said the captain. “MayIaskwhom ... I am talking to?”
“I am Captin Sali-Forth MacCard of le starship U.S.S.S. ...” He seemed especially amused as he said the name of the ship in his thick French accent. “Entrepreneur.”
“The Entrepreneur?” said Captain Church, redundantly. “But that’s our ship!”
“Indeed. Apparentlee, you have traveled to our time from the past, for just as you appeared, our sensors regeestered a great number of tacky-on parteecles.”
“Just a moment,” said T’t’ock to the screen. “You mean to say that we traveled into the future?”
“Oui. Theez eez le year 2346. Our records show that your sheep disappeared during 2253. You have been missing for a century.”
Lieutenant la Tido seemed taken aback, but the news did not seem to shock the captain or T’t’ock. In fact, the captain seemed more intent on his next question: “Why does your ship have the same name as ours?”
“The name eez actually Entrepreneur Gamma,” said MacCard. “It eez a remake of your sheep.”
“But remakes of lost ships are always followed by an English alphabet character, such as A, B, or C, depending on how many ships are lost and how many remakes are created. Why is yours followed by a Greek character?” asked T’t’ock.
MacCard looked embarrassed. “We ran out of English characters a few months ago.”
La Tido didn’t look satisfied. “But, Captain, none of this explains why you are a Scotsman with a French accent, how we were transported into the future, or why Mark Twain and Leonard Nimoy are on the ship with you.”
MacCard smiled while Mark Twain and Leonard Nimoy waved. “Who cares why or how? Theez eez satire!”
***
Imagine another tear appearing in the fabric of time and space. Imagine the omnipotent voice saying, “That’s it, I’ve had enough of this,” and throwing the pants into the garbage bucket.
===
By the way, I got an A-, which is good considering that I spent half a day writing it and my teacher didn't get half the jokes.
Anywhosit, I love Terry Pratchett and I love Star Trek, so when I was given an English assignment that would hopefully remind me (but, considering the general ignorance of kids-these-days, was more likely to introduce me) to the concept of satire, I decided to mix these two loves to create something that was completely unoriginal, but has continued to amuse me every time I reread it. So without much more ado about nothing, I give you the heavily Discworld-influenced satire blatantly titled:
Satire Trek: Yet Another Parody of the Star Trek Universe
===
Imagine time and space. Imagine that the two are woven together, like two materials that together make one thick fabric; a universal fabric. Now imagine a tiny tear appearing in that fabric. Imagine it growing bigger and bigger, ripping longer and longer, until the universe just can’t ignore it. Imagine, now, an omnipotent voice muttering embarrassedly, “Oh damn. I knew these pants were too small.”
Imagine the tear in time and space now being sewn up. Imagine the mended fabric now, appearing as if the rip had never even existed. However, there are still hints that it did; stitches can still be seen if one looks close enough ...
***
Ivan Tore picked himself off the floor and stared flatly at the assembled group of individuals watching him. They were spread across the room, mostly standing before desks and walls that glowed and blinked with hundreds of little lights, looking much like broken disco globes. Dull gray and taupe walls, reminding Ivan of the wallpaper of his late grandmother’s abode, surrounded the sizable room. The large, black monitor that was set in the long, bare wall on one side of the room invoked only one thought into Ivan’s mind: “I bet football’d look awesome on that.”
One of the aforementioned individuals, a man, stepped forward. “Greetings ... Ivan Tore. I am ... Captain James E. Church.”
“Yo,” replied Ivan, and as a perplexed expression flashed across the man’s face, Ivan got a better chance to observe him. The captain wore a tight jumpsuit consisting of black and red. On it was a pin that looked more or less triangular. The man himself had wavy blonde hair and an expression that triggered Ivan’s mind to label him as a supermodel. The overall effect was like a sixties sci-fi creator’s idea of what a spaceman should look like. It was rather sad.
The captain seemed to recover from his surprise and said, “We ... don’twishto-frightenyou. Wewillnot ... harm you.”
Ivan continued to stare at him flatly. “Lemme guess,” he said. “This is a starship.”
The man gave a glance to his companions then turned back to Ivan and replied, “Yes, actually, it is. The starship ... Entrepreneur. I get the feeling, Mr. Tore, that you are not ... assurprisedaswe ... expectedyoutobe.”
“Excuse me, Captain.” Another man, dressed in the same type of uniform and obviously an alien because of his pointy nose, stepped forward. His face was strangely expressionless, like that of a man who has just has diarrhea in a public restroom and is trying not to look suspicious. “During the era that we acquired Mr. Tore from, fiction and media had so many science fictional elements that humans had become accustomed to the idea of space travel and extraterrestrial life. It is probable that this phenomenon has also manifested itself unto our visitor, explaining his lack of astonishment.”
The captain was silent for a moment. Then he said, “I’m afraid, Mr. T’t’ock, that I ... tunedoutafter ... ‘Captain.’”
“I’m not surprised ‘cause I’m used to alien stories,” said Ivan impatiently. “That’s what he said, pretty much. But you also said you got me from an ‘era.’ That mean that this is the future, too?”
“Yes,” said the pointy-nosed T’t’ock. “This is the year 2253 A.D. in your Earth years.”
“Okay, that explains why I just suddenly turned up on your floor.” Ivan was a astoundingly acceptant person. “Now, why me?” He was also the type to get straight to the point.
The captain replied, “We have a situation with the ... somethingorother. Honestly, I‘d forget my own head sometimes. What was the ...” He froze in his erratic pause.
Ivan looked at the alien for an explanation.
“Speech impediment,” T’t’ock said.
Ivan nodded.
They waited a few seconds.
“... problemagain,Mr.T’t’ock?”
“There is something wrong with the gnarl drive in our engine room,” said T’t’ock. “Because of this difficulty, our ship is currently lacking the ability to perform even the most menial mode of movement, whether the slow 1/4 thrust or the standard gnarly speed. We are stranded, and in a remote section of space, no less, too far for assistance to arrive before our provisions are diminished. Thus, we were forced to proceed with the most logical course of action: distort space and time and risk damaging the universe in a dangerous and improbable attempt to bring you here to save our one, unimportant ship from devastation by rebuilding our gnarl core, enabling us to travel back to our space headquarters before we die of starvation.”
“That’s what I meant to say,” said the captain.
“I see,” Ivan replied to T’t’ock. “Too bad that I don’t know what a gnarl drive is or how to build one.”
“What? But you have to! You’re Ivan Tore!” blurted out a human woman sitting at one of the lighted desks. “With your permission, Captain?”
“Aw, come on over here, then,” said the captain and the woman walked over to Ivan. “Mr. Tore, this is . . . ourChiefEngineer, Lieutenant Sol la Tido.”
“Sorry, darling,” said Ivan, “But I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don‘t know about any gnarl drive. At home, I‘m just a mechanic.”
“But you’re my hero,” said la Tido. “Our history records say that you invented the gnarl drive and that you were the first man to travel at the speed of cruelty!”
“Sorry. Don‘t know anything about all that.”
“Perhaps,” said T’t’ock, “we transported a younger version of Ivan Tore, before he had invented the gnarl drive.”
Ivan looked at the alien. “In that case, isn’t it illogical to tell a person what their future holds in case it changes their future?”
T’t’ock shrugged. “Yes. It is also in opposition to our Prime Directive, upon which our entire inter-planetary society has prospered for over one hundred years. But I have learned not to fight human illogicalities. It is too much trouble for too little positive outcome. Moreover, it gives me a headache.”
“Well, if I don’t know how to make this ‘gnarl drive,’ then can I go back to my time now?”
“Um,” said la Tido, “I’m afraid we can’t do that. Y’see, we used up all of our tacky-on particles, which is the name sci-fi script writers came up with for time particles, when we transported you here. We have to get back to base to get more to send you home.”
“What?” exclaimed Ivan. “You mean you brought me hundreds of years into the future without any way of getting me home?”
“Sorry.”
Ivan sighed. “Look, are you sure? Because I’m pretty upset about the lousy way you guys are treating me--”
“He’s going to attack! Everybody down!” screamed the captain. From the holster attached to his belt he pulled a slick, handheld object, aimed it at Ivan, and pressed a button on it. There was a sound like a faucet turning on and a red beam of light emitted from the object and hit Ivan directly in the chest. He stared at his body as it burst into flames. Then it crumbled and he shattered into a pile of ashes. There was silence for a couple of seconds, then the pile made a noise like a hoarse cough and it belched a depressing wisp of smoke that evaporated in the air.
Interstellar crickets chirruped.
Then la Tido said to the captain, “He’s dead, Jim.”
“Um. Are ... yousure?”
“Dammit, Jim, I’m an engineer, not a doctor!” La Tido shifted uneasily as the crew took their eyes off the ashes to stare at her. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that. It just seemed the right thing to say.”
“Captain,” said T’t’ock, calmly. “Why did you incinerate Mr. Tore?”
“I ... I ... didn’tmeanto. It’s a phaser, right? It’s supposed to . . . phasepeople,notkill-them!”
“I believe, Captain, that you are thinking of the word ‘faze,’ as in ‘to startle,’ said T’t’ock with the voice of one teaching a child. “What you are holding in your hand is a phaser, much like a blaster, which, despite having a ‘stun’ setting, is currently on the ‘deep fry’ setting.”
“Oh.”
“This does not, however, explain why you attacked our only means of escape from our current predicament, whether you meant to ready him for his funeral urn or not.”
“I ... thoughthewasgoingtoattackinhis ... madness.”
“With all due respect, sir, I don’t think he was the mad one.”
“With all due respect, sir,” piped up la Tido, “you are an ass.” She earned another stare. “I’m sorry! It just seemed like the right thing again.
“Anyway,” she said, quickly, “now that we’ve killed the inventor of our standard method of travel before he could invent that method, what does that mean is going to happen next?”
“The logical outcome is that history and the universe will unravel and we will cease to exist, or rather, will never have existed in the first place,” said T’t’ock. “It is also possible that we will be thrust into an alternate reality, wherein Earth will have encountered different events in its history without Ivan Tore. I cannot say for sure.”
“Captain,” said one of the other crew members, “there is another starship hailing us.”
“Oh, goodie!” said the captain. “They can sort this all out for us.”
“But, sir, I thought we were too far from any ships to request assistance?” said la Tido.
The captain ignored her. “Put the hail onscreen, please.”
The giant monitor flickered and the face of a bald human man appeared. He wore a uniform extremely similar to that of the captain’s, but in a red plaid. He also wore a red beret. It had a pom-pom on it.
The bald man spoke, “Come een, U.S.S.S. Entrepreneur.”
“Yes, we ... arehere,” said the captain. “MayIaskwhom ... I am talking to?”
“I am Captin Sali-Forth MacCard of le starship U.S.S.S. ...” He seemed especially amused as he said the name of the ship in his thick French accent. “Entrepreneur.”
“The Entrepreneur?” said Captain Church, redundantly. “But that’s our ship!”
“Indeed. Apparentlee, you have traveled to our time from the past, for just as you appeared, our sensors regeestered a great number of tacky-on parteecles.”
“Just a moment,” said T’t’ock to the screen. “You mean to say that we traveled into the future?”
“Oui. Theez eez le year 2346. Our records show that your sheep disappeared during 2253. You have been missing for a century.”
Lieutenant la Tido seemed taken aback, but the news did not seem to shock the captain or T’t’ock. In fact, the captain seemed more intent on his next question: “Why does your ship have the same name as ours?”
“The name eez actually Entrepreneur Gamma,” said MacCard. “It eez a remake of your sheep.”
“But remakes of lost ships are always followed by an English alphabet character, such as A, B, or C, depending on how many ships are lost and how many remakes are created. Why is yours followed by a Greek character?” asked T’t’ock.
MacCard looked embarrassed. “We ran out of English characters a few months ago.”
La Tido didn’t look satisfied. “But, Captain, none of this explains why you are a Scotsman with a French accent, how we were transported into the future, or why Mark Twain and Leonard Nimoy are on the ship with you.”
MacCard smiled while Mark Twain and Leonard Nimoy waved. “Who cares why or how? Theez eez satire!”
***
Imagine another tear appearing in the fabric of time and space. Imagine the omnipotent voice saying, “That’s it, I’ve had enough of this,” and throwing the pants into the garbage bucket.
===
By the way, I got an A-, which is good considering that I spent half a day writing it and my teacher didn't get half the jokes.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
The Other Crowd Surfing
I hate slow moving crowds. I think this statement is self-explanatory. The interesting thing is that after spending three years in the crowded hallways of high school, I’ve come to develop techniques for moving through crowds. Foremost, you’ve always got to be watchful if you don’t want to smash into someone who stops too quickly or who comes around a corner. If you want to move quickly, it helps to keep your eyes open for gaps in the crowd and to stay in the middle of the hallway to avoid the kids digging through their lockers. Sometimes, the best thing to do if you’re moving “upstream” is to find what I like to call a shield -- that is, a person who’s moving in your direction who’s watching where he’s going -- and stick behind that person. That way, he has to worry about crashing into people instead of you.
But even with these tidbits of experience, moving through crowds is still frustrating and slow-going. I remember that as a child I sometimes ran directly through crowds, and because I was so small I could dash around their legs with no problem. And, being a cute little munchkin, I could get away with it. Nowadays, of course, I’m not exactly knee-height, but I can’t help but wish I could still try running through crowds, weaving and jostling through people at high speeds. It’d be wicked fun, I know it would. Sadly, such an activity could never be put into practice without pissing off a good number of crowd-goers, so unless I find myself being chased by the police or the FBI or the mob or one of those groups of people who like to chase other people, I don’t think I’ll ever have an excuse to try it.
So where does one turn when reality isn’t an option? Virtual reality, of course!
Here’s an idea for a video game: a footrace racer. I’d call the game, um, “Footracer” or, if I was feeling clever, “Sprinter Cell” or something like that. Obviously, I’m not thinking along the lines of a jogging sim or anything so mediocre. The image in my mind is of some guys running through a crowded mall, jostling people, leaping over “wet floor” signs, crashing through concession stands… like a Hollywood chase scene with the player controlling the runner. Thinking of all the mechanics that could be implemented, I’ve come up with some cool ideas for a control scheme. On a conventional current-gen controller, the analog stick could be used to accelerate/move forward, slow down/move backwards, and move left and right. Maybe one of the triggers could allow strafing, while another would control jumps. The right thumb buttons, (which I will refer to as A, being down, B, being right, X, being left, and Y, being up) could control dodging and would be used appropriately in different scenarios: if you’re running towards a small sign or rock, you could press Y to hurdle it; if you’re going to crash into a stack of boxes you could press B to dodge it; and if you were running towards an unwary bystander, you could press X or B to jostle him left or right, press Y to vault over him, or hit A to slide through his legs.
Further elements could be implemented, such as whether or not a bystander will resist to being jostled, the consequences of running into a slab of concrete as opposed to a stack of cardboard boxes, and the use of the environment for the setting of traps against other racers (like scattering marbles across the floor to trip up your opponents ala Home Alone-like antics). The condition of the racers themselves could be judged be by speed, weight, and acceleration, similar to conventional car racers, but have the added effects of reflexes (how quickly the dodge buttons respond) and size. If your character is a large fellow, for example, he wouldn’t be able to slide under bystander’s legs, but he’d have no trouble jostling bystanders. Tracks could incorporate anything from crowded hallways, to city streets, to countryside. Then you could throw in some extra gimmicks like rail grinding or hijacking bikes or scooters. Add a cool art direction, a fun, upbeat soundtrack, a number of different race modes, and a shitload of unlockable content and I think you’d have a cool, unique, and fun racing experience. Gee, I should be a video game developer, ‘cause I have awesome ideas that would totally be accepted by leading production companies and would totally sell hundreds of millions of copies of games! Hooray!
(By the way, I hate writing in potential future tense. It just doesn’t feel comfortable.)
But even with these tidbits of experience, moving through crowds is still frustrating and slow-going. I remember that as a child I sometimes ran directly through crowds, and because I was so small I could dash around their legs with no problem. And, being a cute little munchkin, I could get away with it. Nowadays, of course, I’m not exactly knee-height, but I can’t help but wish I could still try running through crowds, weaving and jostling through people at high speeds. It’d be wicked fun, I know it would. Sadly, such an activity could never be put into practice without pissing off a good number of crowd-goers, so unless I find myself being chased by the police or the FBI or the mob or one of those groups of people who like to chase other people, I don’t think I’ll ever have an excuse to try it.
So where does one turn when reality isn’t an option? Virtual reality, of course!
Here’s an idea for a video game: a footrace racer. I’d call the game, um, “Footracer” or, if I was feeling clever, “Sprinter Cell” or something like that. Obviously, I’m not thinking along the lines of a jogging sim or anything so mediocre. The image in my mind is of some guys running through a crowded mall, jostling people, leaping over “wet floor” signs, crashing through concession stands… like a Hollywood chase scene with the player controlling the runner. Thinking of all the mechanics that could be implemented, I’ve come up with some cool ideas for a control scheme. On a conventional current-gen controller, the analog stick could be used to accelerate/move forward, slow down/move backwards, and move left and right. Maybe one of the triggers could allow strafing, while another would control jumps. The right thumb buttons, (which I will refer to as A, being down, B, being right, X, being left, and Y, being up) could control dodging and would be used appropriately in different scenarios: if you’re running towards a small sign or rock, you could press Y to hurdle it; if you’re going to crash into a stack of boxes you could press B to dodge it; and if you were running towards an unwary bystander, you could press X or B to jostle him left or right, press Y to vault over him, or hit A to slide through his legs.
Further elements could be implemented, such as whether or not a bystander will resist to being jostled, the consequences of running into a slab of concrete as opposed to a stack of cardboard boxes, and the use of the environment for the setting of traps against other racers (like scattering marbles across the floor to trip up your opponents ala Home Alone-like antics). The condition of the racers themselves could be judged be by speed, weight, and acceleration, similar to conventional car racers, but have the added effects of reflexes (how quickly the dodge buttons respond) and size. If your character is a large fellow, for example, he wouldn’t be able to slide under bystander’s legs, but he’d have no trouble jostling bystanders. Tracks could incorporate anything from crowded hallways, to city streets, to countryside. Then you could throw in some extra gimmicks like rail grinding or hijacking bikes or scooters. Add a cool art direction, a fun, upbeat soundtrack, a number of different race modes, and a shitload of unlockable content and I think you’d have a cool, unique, and fun racing experience. Gee, I should be a video game developer, ‘cause I have awesome ideas that would totally be accepted by leading production companies and would totally sell hundreds of millions of copies of games! Hooray!
(By the way, I hate writing in potential future tense. It just doesn’t feel comfortable.)
