Greenspeak

A Fan's Notes

2011-12-17T10:08:00.000-08:00

I am not a musician. I am not a musician now, nor have I ever been one, despite having played the trumpet for 10 years and the bass for about 5 years. It's one of the great frustrations/regrets of my entire existence. Because if I could be anything in life, that's what I'd be. Honestly. I'd give up any relative "success" I've achieved in life if I could master an instrument and be part of a band (or orchestra) and contribute in a meaningful way to the creation of music. Instead, I must be content (and I am, happily!) with watching and listening from the sidelines--a perpetual fan. An obsessive listener and collector. An outsider.

My love of music has always been with me. At least partial credit goes to my dad, who instilled a love of early jazz (starting with Fats Waller) in me early on. But, like any teen, I gravitated towards rock on my own, falling in deep starting at around age 14 and never emerging, only expanding. I don't think a month has gone by in over 35 years when I have not bought new music. Probably not even two weeks. The advent of the Internet of course has made it that much worse (or better), and more dangerous (and easier). My interests are all over the map. For the past few months I've been heavily obsessed with New Orleans R&B and jazz. I started with current stuff--Trombone Shorty and Galactic--and have been working my way back in time and falling even more in love. My most recent purchases were a Fats Domino collection, and this glorious box set. Allen Touissant is playing on my laptop right now as I type this.

When I was a miserable, unhappy teen in the San Fernando Valley, and then a miserable, unhappy college kid at Berkeley, music was my refuge and my salvation. That'll be corny to some, but that's okay. Because I know it's true. Music is what got me through. I clung onto the inspirational music of guys like Bruce Springsteen, as well as the nerdy empowerment of Elvis Costello and other "punks" at the time. These days, at age 50, I don't need to self-identify through a musician or anyone else, which I guess we can call progress. But I do still get ALL my inspiration to create, through words or otherwise, from the music I love. Many of my old Greenspeak columns for Computer Gaming World magazine back in the day were written either to the accompaniment of the Beastie Boys, or were at least preceded by a listen to them---because their snarky, immature intelligence was exactly the tone I was going for. When I couldn't handle actually listening to lyrics while writing those columns, I'd switch to Thelonious Monk--another musician who so brilliantly infused his work with humor.

In ten years of playing the trumpet -- from age 7 to 17 -- the best I ever got was that I had a decent, steady tone and could read music well. I could execute. That was good enough to place high in the chair seatings in the school orchestra, and to serve as lead trumpet in the jazz band--but it wasn't the same as being a musician. In the jazz band, it was the second trumpet who did all the solos. I might have carried the melody, but I couldn't improvise for shit. I had no vision or point-of-view, nor the technical skills or knowledge or understanding of music theory to even take a stab at "academic" improvisation. I could play what was in front of me, and play it well, but that's it. And I was jealous as heck (and still am) at anyone who could.

Years later, around age 25, when my friends were forming a punk band, they asked if I'd like to play bass. I had never previously touched a bass. In true punk rock spirit, I of course said yes. It didn't hurt that, growing up, I'd always gravitated to the bass anyway. I was one of those guys who would forget to listen to (or even realize that there was) a guitar solo, because I was grooving on the bass line. I still do that. And because I was already aware of my lack of inspiration and imagination, the bass, as rhythm keeper, appealed to me. I could play away, keeping the beat, letting others do their thing, while still feel like I was contributing. So I did that. I did it for years, as the bass player for "The Uncalled Four." We played a lot of gigs in the Bay Area. The two songwriters were actually damn good. I liked the songs they wrote, a lot, and loved playing their songs. We made one record (a vinyl EP), called "Oakland's Newest Hitmakers," in which we paid homage to the first Who record on the back cover and a Gang of Four record on the front cover. I listened to it again recently, after not hearing it for well over a decade, and it sounded pretty good. Their songwriting holds up.

I had moments as The Uncalled Four bass player that I was proud of. Never on stage though, where I was all frozen nerves, just repeating the same bass line over and over until the song ended. I never found my comfort up there, mostly because I always felt like a poser. A fake bass player who didn't know what he was doing. But there *were* times, when we were practicing and learning new songs, when I would try to go deep within the song, and myself, and find a creative bass line, beyond the rudimentary obvious ones. I didn't usually succeed, but at least a couple times I did. I found a line that came straight from my own head and heart that made the song better. But it was work, and didn't come naturally to me at all. And then once I'd come up with the line, all I could ever do was repeat it, note for note. I had no ability to deviate, to experiment, to play. Whatever that is, I don't have it.

And hey, I'm okay with it. The truth is, I get so much pleasure out of listening to music, that it's enough for me. It's more than enough. It's one of my life's great passions. The best live concerts I've ever been to (Van Morrison in 1987, Talking Heads in 1980, Nusrat Fateh Ali Kahn in the 90s, Springsteen numerous times--just to name a few) have been transcendent, near-religious experiences for me, making me love and appreciate the simple act of being alive.

But I never stop having this kind of dream, in the middle of the night, deep in slumber: I'm on stage with a band (usually jazz). We're all jamming on a song. It's my turn to step up. I adjust the mouthpiece, settle my hands and fingers on the horn, and then let loose with heart, humor, and skill. flowing in and out of the song's melody and the band's backup, telling a story, or a joke, or a tale of heartbreak or redemption, through pure sound. I'm feeling it, the band is feeling it, the audience is feeling it. I'm part of a moment beyond words.

Is that the dream of every writer?

My PAX Prime Schedule

2011-08-22T18:25:00.000-07:00

PAX Prime is almost here, and y'all know what that means: TIME TO STOCK UP ON DEODORANT, YOU SMELLY SLOBS! Err, no. What I meant to say is: It's time for the best gaming convention in the universe, and I can't wait to see you all!

We don't have an official PopCap booth this year, but we will be there in the form of DANCING ZOMBIES who will have free stuff to hand out. So look for 'em! There is also a PopCap party on Sunday afternoon at the show, to which you are all invited, and at which we will have a Bejeweled Blitz tourney with some cool prizes! Note that there are over 60K people attending PAX, and our party venue holds 500. So plan accordingly. The party details can be found on Facebook, right here:

http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=137930262965485

In addition, after taking a break from being a blabbermouth at PAX East in Boston, I am back in full overexposed form at PAX Prime, appearing on 5 panels (and possibly 6, if the Giant Bomb dudes let me crash!) Fortunately, they are all on different topics, so I shouldn't have to repeat myself too much, except for the whole "I'm so old I tell the same stories over and over" thing I've already had going on for years.

Anyway, if you care, here is the full list of all my PAX panel appearances, stolen directly from the official PAX site:

UP Presents: Retronauts vs. Your Fondest Memories

Kraken Theatre
Friday 3:00pm - 4:00pm

Retronauts is all about reliving our fond memories of classic games as we stroll through the medium's history, but sometimes we let our rose-tinted glasses get in the way of objectivity. Well, this episode of 1UP's live podcast is designed to rectify that. For one hour, we'll be asking our reader to name their favorite games ever and clinically (albeit lovingly!) explaining exactly what's wrong with those games. Fair's fair, though; we'll be opening the session by talking about our own personal favorites, so there'll be plenty of time to excoriate our own poor taste. No cow is sacred! Please join us for this cathartic session of objectivity and perspective.

Panelists include: Jeremy Parish [Editor-in-Chief, 1UP], Nich Maragos [Atlus], Chris Kohler [Editor, Wired], Jeff Green [PopCap]

Can Mommy & Daddy Come Over to Play? - The Truth About Being a Gamer Parent

Raven Theatre
Friday 6:00pm - 7:00pm

Can I please play for just a little bit longer?" This is a familiar sentence uttered in households around the country. But what if it's the PARENTS saying that and not the kids? Does having kids REALLY change your life THAT much? And what if video games ARE your job? How do you balance both? Come join our panel of precocious parents as we share our stories of being gamer parents and how we learned that having kids doesn't mean the games have to stop. Being a parent just means we've reached a whole new level of gameplay. (Plus, kids mean we have built-in co-op players!) Our Gamer Parent panel will include: Jeff Green of PopCap Games, Justin Korthof of Robot Entertainment, Jessica Shea of 343i & others with Stephanie Bayer of Microsoft Game Studios moderating.

Panelists include: Jessica Shea [Community Manager, 343i], Justin Korthof [Community Manager, Robot Entertainment], Jeff Green [Director of Editorial & Social Media, PopCap Games], Stephanie Bayer [Customer Engagement Lead, PopCap Games], Jamileh Delcambre [Free Agent of Awesome, Underemployed], Christa Charter [Freelance Marketing/Community Manager]

GameTrailers.com Presents: Hello Fellow Babies! - Pach-Attack! LIVE

Kraken Theatre
Saturday 4:30pm - 5:30pm

Michael Pachter. Yes, he's real. Yes, he's here. And yes, you can ask him your burning questions at this exclusive panel! Pach-Attack! has taken the web by storm, and since it was debuted on GameTrailers.com, the smarmy seer has become a household name, with video views over 5 million. Here at PAX, this is your chance to challenge the analyst's legendary wit and have your game industry questions answered live at this exclusive interactive panel. Plus, what's this about special guests dubbing themselves the "Grumpy Old Men of Gaming"...? Find out! [JEFF SEZ: YEAH GUESS WHO. THAT'S ME AND GARY WHITTA. THERE, I SPOILED IT!]

Panelists include: Michael Pachter [Host, Wedbush Security / GameTrailers]

Weekend Confirmed

Unicorn Theatre
Saturday 8:00pm - 9:00pm

Weekend Confirmed returns to the PAX Prime stage to record a special show in front of the live audience. Join Garnett Lee as he hosts his fifth year of podcasting from PAX with Jeff Cannata, Xav de Matos, and special guests including John Davison, Jeff Green, and other esteemed friends. Get your PAX "confirmed" with a PAX edition of "Whatcha Been Playin?" and bring your questions for an open mic version of the
Warning. Start your Sat night at PAX off in style with Weekend Confirmed.

Panelists include: Jeff Canata, Garnett Lee, Luke Smith, Xav De Matos, Jeff Green, John Davison

Gaming as a Lifestyle

Serpent Theatre
Sunday 4:00pm - 5:00pm

Flying in the face of criticism against video games and their ruination of lives, this panel will address the topic of living a life made richer by playing games. From how to keep your job while supporting a game-playing habit, to making your game-playing habit your job. Graham Stark, Jeff Green, Ian Dorsch and James Portnow will share secrets and personal stories, deflate hype and participate in a detailed Q&A. Moderated by Russ Pitts, Editor-in-Chief of The Escapist.

Panelists include: Russ Pitts [Editor-in-Chief, The Escapist], James Portnow [CEO/Developer, Rainmaker Games], Ian Dorsch [Musician - Zero Punctuation, The Escapist], Jeff Green [Journalist/PR, PopCap], Graham Stark [Writer/Actor, LoadingReadyRun]

Good lord.

Speaking of beer...

2011-07-02T18:38:00.000-07:00

I know a few of you might be waiting for Part 2 of my Dublin Chronicles, but, frankly, here's the truth of the matter: It got kind of boring after that first morning. Well, not boring. Because I loved every minute of my trip. But that was kind of it as far as "amusing anecdotes in which I prove what a clod I am" go. I do want to revisit it, but, on my mind today is...a beer commercial.

Specifically, this one:

I came across this on "the Internet" this morning, randomly, as tends to happen in that crazy place, and it's been on my mind all day long. I'll admit that there's a certain nostalgia factor at work here, as I distinctly remember seeing this as a boy (I was 9 years old at the time), but, man, what a great commercial this is. I don't even mean in a cheesy, ironic way. Though of course it is cheese par excellence. Especially if you watch it a few times in a row and focus on the way some of those white guys are dancing.

But, really, there is something just so wonderfully earnest about this one. I mean, I know they're selling beer, so it's not earnest in the way that, say, Joan Baez was earnest. But still. I like that they're just very sincerely and nicely singing about how great the beer is. Rather than trying to convince us that we're going to score chicks if we drink it, or that we'll be part of the cool crowd, or whatever. It's just a very celebratory ode to the drink itself. The choreography, too, the way they enter a few at a time (just like in Stop Making Sense!), the way the American flag slowly lights, the way they all look at the lead singer when she delivers the big line, it's just...perfect. And of course it all comes packaged with the standard 70s-era semi groovy/hippy/we're-all-in-it-together vibe, complete with a conspicuously self-congratulatory mixed demographic, though back then "mixed" just meant black and white, as there are no other discernible races represented, which is okay because I think there actually were no Asian people back then anyway.

[EDITOR'S NOTE: Thanks to my pal Chris Remo for pointing out to me, after I published this post, that there does, in fact, seem to be an Asian woman in the chorus here. I suspect, however, that she was only recently photoshopped in by the CIA, or something.]

Part of me (the old, curmudgeonly part) wants to say "Boy, I sure wish they made commercials like this today!" But the truth is, there are still some great ones, and some shitty ones, just like back in 1970. This just happens to be one of the great ones from back then.

I sure wish they made commercials like this today.

First morning in Dublin.

2011-06-26T09:12:00.000-07:00

I arrived in Dublin at 7:30 a.m. on a Monday morning. I'd just flown overnight from San Francisco to Boston, and then Boston to Dublin. The Boston-Dublin flight was on the Irish airline, Aer Lingus, where the flight attendants wear green and the beer is not Guinness but Coors and Budweiser and Heineken. A sorry disappointment.

The cab ride from the Dublin Airport to the city itself is a relatively short one--about 20 minutes, max--but it was a 20 minutes well spent on my part, as I discovered the general talkativeness and gregariousness of what seemed like every Irish cabbie I had all week. This guy, in particular, was a trial by fire, because his accent was as thick as mud. It was the thickest, in fact, that I heard all week, though I of course didn't know that at the time. All I knew was that I had to strain forward to try to comprehend and keep up. (I also didn't realize, until I was sitting in his cab, that they drive on the left, with the steering wheels on the right, just like in England. Didn't they have a revolution to separate themselves from the Brits?)

This was also the first time I was to hear the same amusing spiel I'd hear in every cab all week. Both Obama and the Queen had recently visited Dublin, and while both were very well received, Obama won the popularity contest by a landslide for one very particular reason: While the Queen had posed for photos in front of a pint of Guinness, she never even took a sip (apparently a standard custom for royalty), while Obama, man's man that he is, downed the whole damn pint.

I probably heard this story a good six or seven times, and, honestly, it never got old. Not because I liked hearing our president getting praised (though after 8 nightmare years of Bush, it was quite a novelty to hear the praise from an EU country), but because of the pride that these gentlemen had in their national drink, and the significance it held to them in having world leaders approach the drink.

My first Guinness in Dublin was to come less than an hour later, though I didn't know it yet. We arrived just before 8 a.m. at the Clarence Hotel, which is located right along the River Liffey at Wellington Quay, pretty much right in the heart of the Temple Bar district, magnet for all drunken, rowdy foreigners, as I would later discover. The Clarence is owned by Mssrs. Bono and The Edge, but you'd never really know it had that kind of rock star cred from the outside, as it has a remarkably unassuming (but nice) exterior, and a rather quaint boutique feel inside. At the reception desk, I was told what I was dreading: That my room wouldn't be ready for hours, given that it was so early. Despite having the adrenaline that comes with being in a foreign city for the first time, the larger truth was that I was tired as shit. Approaching the age of 50, these 15 hour trips just aren't as easy to shake off as they used to be. I needed sleep. It wasn't the hotel's fault, of course, and I was shown into the adjoining "Tea Room," where I crashed into a large armchair, ordered coffee, and waited for the arrival of my co-worker Keith, who I knew was just about 15 minutes behind me.

Once he arrived, looking equally bedraggled, and with about 3-4 hours to kill, we knew the only real solution was to just get out walking. It helped that it was already sunny and beautiful out. We wobbled out of the hotel with no plan. I had a street map, but we didn't use it, instead just going wherever things looked interesting. After a short while, we ended up at about the best place I could imagine: Hodges Figgis, a great Irish bookstore. I beelined to the section dedicated to Irish writers, and found what I was hoping to find--a bunch of books by Irish noir writer Ken Bruen, who I'd been hearing about but had been unable to find in the US (well, Amazon carries him, but I was trying to buy at local bookstores). Not only did Hodges Figgis have some of his novels, but, in a stroke of luck, he had appeared there recently, so the books were autographed. I picked up two--The Guards and The Killing of the Tinkers, though honestly I could have spent a ton more in that store (and did a few days later).

By 10:00 a.m. Keith and I were even more tired and now famished. We needed to eat. We went out searching for food, but were really too tired to make a coherent decision. Some nice person had tweeted to me a recommendation for a place to eat, but I couldn't find it on the map or in our wandering. Ultimately, we just decided to head into the first pub that looked good, figuring we could get some filling Irish food, and, of course, that first drink. But, it was to our sad fate (well, not really) that the pub we landed in served no food at all. That did not deter us from leaving. I don't think I've ever had a drink before noon, but, ya know, we were in Dublin now. And, besides, if we considered that we were still on Pacific Time, it was 2:00 a.m., a totally legitimate time to be drinking. So a pint each it was for us. And then another one after that.

That first Guinness, Monday a.m. in Dublin.

Now, people who know me know what a total lightweight I am even in the best of conditions. Two pints is really about all I can handle even on a full stomach and a good night's sleep. So it is not much of an exaggeration to say that by the time I finished the second one shortly after 11 a.m., I was hammered. Here was the first sign: As I staggered off the bar stool and out the door, the bartender called to me, because I was about to wander off with my passport lying on the floor. I thanked him, and we made our way back to the Clarence. Keith's room was ready by this point, so he went up to settle and crash, while it was back to the Tea Room for me, where I ordered another coffee just to mess with my confused nervous system even more.

Shortly thereafter, my room was ready and I went upstairs. I'm sorry to report, however, that I don't remember much of what happened at this juncture in time. I do know that I somehow managed to land in bed, because I woke up there a few hours later, totally confused as to where I was and what day it was.

I stumbled out of bed, still fully dressed, and made my way to the bathroom.

I looked in the mirror, at my baggy eyes and jowled face and tousled hair.

I made to turn on the water faucet to wash my face off, but as I looked down, saw something that at first totally confused me, then horrified me, and then made me laugh. There, in the sink, floating in water, was my autographed copy of Ken Bruen's The Guards, now about 4 inches thicker than it was when I bought it.

I still have no idea how my book ended up in the sink. Maybe I thought it was a good idea to wash it. Maybe my drunken self thought it needed a bath. It remains a mystery.

From here, a bit bummed and chagrined, I took a long, hot shower, shaved, changed my clothes, and got ready to meet up to go to PopCap's Dublin office. I unpacked my things and got my things together to take with me, only to discover that I had somehow managed to lose my California driver's license. I remembered the bartender handing me back my passport. My shame and chagrin was now doubled.

I'd been in Dublin for all of 3 hours. In that time I'd managed to get drunk, destroy an autographed book, and lose my ID.

I was off to a brilliant start.

More on The Wise Man's Fear and Other Pop Culture Detritus.

2011-06-12T17:59:00.000-07:00

Happy Sunday!

It has been the best kind of Sunday for yours truly--that is, absolutely no plans whatsoever. With all sorts of travel behind me, and another trip out of the country in a week, I seriously needed a day of downtime, and today I got it.

The best part of my day--or maybe the worst--was finally finishing up Patrick Rothfuss' The Wise Man's Fear. If you read my previous blog entry on this book, and if you cared, you will note that I was supremely disappointed in this followup to one of the great fantasy novels of the best decade or so--The Name of The Wind. I was holding out hope, against all reason, that the last bit of the book would somehow redeem the mess that is the first 2/3. But, nah. No surprise really. This book was just all over the map plotwise, with just atrocious pacing throughout, so even though some individual parts were okay, thanks to Rothfuss' lovely prose and good ear, my overall impression is the same as it was about 800 pages ago: this book needed a serious edit. Ugh.

In happier news today, I plowed through a humongous chunk of Uncharted 2 today on my new PS3. It took me five years to finally get my act together and buy the console, partly because of money (like everyone else), and partly because I felt like my 360 was enough and I don't play that much of that console anyway. What tipped me over the edge was receiving the email from Sony that I was entitled to the two free "welcome back" games on PSN, following their security debacle, thanks to my foresight in registering the one PSP game I've bought in the last five years, Tactics Ogre. Those free games, plus the fact that I knew I had $300 in credit sitting on my card at GameStop, finally pushed me over the edge. And, ya know what? I'm glad. I'm totally digging it.

I have four PS3 games in my possession now: Infamous and Little Big Planet from the "welcome back" deal, Uncharted 2, and Demon's Souls. Uncharted 2 I picked up at the store with the machine, based on remembering everyone and their mom and their mom's mom telling me this was the best game of 2009, back when I didn't give a shit cuz I didn't have the console. And, yeah. It's awesome. What's particularly satisfying to me is the dialog--something I was not prepared for.

Since I'm so utterly LTTP on this, there's no real point in me blabbering on about it, but I'll just say that it's a rare videogame indeed that actually manages to pull of witty, adult banter that isn't just cheesy or groan-inducing or a pale imitation of the sources its mimicking. Clearly we're in Indiana Jones turf here--obviously--but somehow Naughty Dog is able to give Nathan Drake and his pals (and enemies) personalities, and lines to say, that totally hold their own. And if the story isn't particularly original, I still--amazingly--feel emotionally invested in the characters' plight. Gameplay-wise (and I believe I have at most 2 chapters to go), I've loved the variety of the level design (the train was my favorite), and the difficulty (I'm playing on Normal) is just right for me, though I imagine lots of hardcore folks find it too easy. My only complaint? A bit too much shooting, especially near the end here. I'm all for shooters. It's not that. It's just that I like the adventurey/platformy stuff in games like this more. Some of the firefights here just feel a bit too gratuitous, and long. And I seriously could have done without the sniper level (or any sniper level in any game ever again.) Overall, though, I'm loving it. And had I played it at the time, chances are it would have been at the top of my list in 2009 too. Now I just have to go back and play the first one.

More quick pop culture hits:

The Killing on AMC: Still totally hooked on this, as is the wife, but it ain't perfect. For one, there's the issue of the rain. Seriously, it doesn't even rain this much in the fucking rainforest. There isn't this much water in the ocean. We get that it's in Seattle, okay? And we get that you must have read somewhere that it rains in Seattle. But the constant heavy downpour in practically every scene has now moved from distracting to ridiculous. Oh yeah, and, err, it might help to advance the plot a bit now and then, and not devote weeks to plot points that end up being total red herrings. (And also, I can't tell if the Twin Peaks references are deliberate and loving homage, or just straight ripoff. At least they didn't call the casino Two-Eyed Jacks.) But credit the writers, and my love of a good whodunnit, for still tuning in every damn week.

Oz on HBO GO - I've already seen this entire series. And there's other series on HBO that I could/should be watching instead. But there's something about Oz that's compelling me to do a second run-through, and I don't think it's all the male nudity. At least that's what I'll keep telling myself. Mostly I'm loving seeing all the actors who would then go on to The Wire. So many more than I originally thought! Still, I wish I could just get myself to stop watching it already, since I know what happens, and finally get on to Deadwood.

Comic Books: Yeah, I'm back in. Only digitally though. And I'm taking it easy so far. Based on recommendations from Twitterites, I've now gotten myself into Chew, Atomic Robo, Criminal, Invincible, and Morning Glories. All great stuff. I'm totally going to stay away from the Marvel/DC superheroes though, especially with DC's reboot looming. I've lived long enough to see this kind of reboot more than once, and ya know...no thanks. In fact, let's get Hitler to weigh in on this matter, since he says it best:

That's it for today. Not a particularly funny or witty or insightful post, but, hey, maybe none of them are! This was more a Sunday afternoon brain dump, in front of the NBA Finals. And if you made it this far, and have a PS3, and feel like being my pal on PSN, go ahead and add me: JeffAtPopCap. I'm reluctant to send that out to 17,000 people on Twitter, but since only a fraction ever look at this page, and only a fraction of that will make it to this paragraph, why, consider yourself "lucky!"

cheers,
Jeff

On not attending E3 for the first time since 1996

2011-06-05T10:08:00.000-07:00

When I attended my first E3 convention, as a writer/editor for Computer Gaming World magazine in 1996, there was no Web yet. No Kotaku, Joystiq, IGN, GameSpot. No fansites. No liveblogging. No Twitter. There wasn't even a TV presence yet, because, at that point, the mainstream media still didn't really give much of a shit about videogaming. So when it came to the press, the print magazines--the "hobbyist" magazines-- were it.

Walking through the LA Convention Center that first year with Editor-in-Chief Johnny Wilson is still one of my most indelible memories of all 15 E3s I have been to (I missed only the very first one, in 1995). That was as close to an "Omar comin!" moment as I've ever witnessed, as the arrival of Johnny to your E3 booth meant that the King had arrived. I'm barely exaggerating. With the press (and gaming in general) being such a relatively small world at the time, Johnny's blessing, in the PC gaming scene, was about as high a stamp of approval as you could get.

In those days, the pressure for the writers and editors at this show was not nearly what it is for the poor saps covering it today, when even a blog post is now "late," what with everyone livetweeting everything. For us, we just had to make sure to take good enough notes to be able to write our articles for the print magazine when we got back to San Francisco. We still had deadlines, of course, and often they were brutal around E3 (we'd have the whole magazine basically ready to go before the show, and then have to come back and hurriedly write the E3 feature in time to make the printer deadline), but still, compared to today, it was luxurious.

My head is entirely full of E3 today, not just because the show starts tomorrow and almost my entire Twitter feed is full of pre-show chatter, but also because this is going to mark the first time in 15 years that I am not attending, and I'm finding myself to be full of conflicting emotions about it. When you attend something so many years in a row, it becomes part of your life. For me (and most of the folks I know who attend), it ends up being less about whatever may be happening at the show than something of a gigantic reunion, a ritual we all go through together. And within that ritual, our group had its own rituals: the Ziff Davis party at the Figueroa, the Morton's steak dinner, cigars by the Figueroa pool, and, for me personally, my annual breakfast with my dad at the Patio restaurant.

I had the option to go this year. So it wasn't a matter of not being able to go. But my reality, this year, is this: I'm on the road all the time now. I just got back from China, then spent a few weeks in my "regular" PopCap routine of back-and forth to Seattle, and in two weeks I'm flying off to Dublin for 6 days. That's a lot of being away from home, and my family. And this week, this E3 week, is my daughter's finals week. And when I arrived back home from Seattle after my last trip up, she said, as clear and direct as she always is, "Dad, please be home for my finals week." So, ya see, right then and there it was decided. Nothing trumps that. Nothing.

I do have a fair bit of jealousy and of feeling "left out," if I'm being honest. But the truth is, too, that since I left the press in 2008, the show itself isn't the same for me anyway. When it comes to actually seeing things at the show, nothing beats a press pass. And the previous two years, when I attended on behalf of EA, while still awesome from a socializing aspect, were brutal in terms of trying to actually see the stuff (like the Nintendo 3DS) that people were raving about. Suddenly I was waiting in all those lines I'd been able to cut in front of for over a decade--and man did that suck. Now that I'm at PopCap, my "need" to be at this show is even less crucial, at least right now, this year, as what we do isn't necessarily the best fit for a show of this scale. (PAX is much more are speed--and yes I'll be there.) And finally, in regards to my PopCap job itself, I love it, and the things I'll be doing during this E3 week, and then in Dublin, are thoroughly satisfying to me, and really just what my life is about right now. So, I'm trying to be philosophical about it, be happy for my very, very lucky place in life, and know that I will be back to E3 again when it makes more sense and the timing works better.

I could probably write a book (or at least an extremely long blog post) on my E3 experiences, but here are a few random memories from year's past, before I get on with my day:

1997 in Atlanta: Absolutely sweltering, unbearable heat that had all of us even sweatier and smellier and grosser than we already normally were. Having one of the CGW editors say he was taking us to the "best wings place in Atlanta," only to realize, as we approached it, that he was talking about Hooters. Seeing the Foo Fighters at the Sony party on an outdoor rooftop.

1998: Seeing Duke Nukem Forever for the first time. LOL.

1999: Seeing Team Fortress 2 and thinking it was going to be the greatest PC game of all time.

The original look of Team Fortress 2, circa E3 1999

2000: Having the CGW editors literally running up to me telling me I had to go see the new, secret, behind-closed-doors PC game that Bungie was working on: Halo.

2001: Seeing how hard Microsoft was pimping the Xbox and realizing, even back then, that they were going to bail on PC gaming (even if they'll never admit it).

2002-2006 (Exact dates lost to the vagaries of time and memory): One of my then brand-new editors ordering a double Porterhouse for $80 at the annual Morton's dinner and eating the whole thing by himself. Smoking cigars with Bioware's Dr Ray and Greg by the Figueroa pool. Trying to get into every "hot" E3 party at night, and, when succeeding, staying for about 20 minutes because the parties were always too crowded and lame, and it was much nicer and fun and relaxing and satisfying by the Figueroa pool. Getting annoyed with the increasingly bigger crowds at the show, and the TV cameras, and the websites and "bloggers" invading "our" space.

2007: Getting what we wished for by having the oversized, overcrowded convention reduced to a tiny "business summit" in Santa Monica, and then instantly realizing it was a huge mistake as it felt too tiny and marginal and depressing, like a door-to-door encyclopedia salesman convention. We "needed" the giant party that was E3 as much as a celebration of self and gorilla chestbeating than for actual, logical work business reasons.

2009: Attending E3 for the first time ever not as part of the media, but as a representative for the Sims team at EA, and discovering that the only thing harder than rushing from one appointment to another as a member of the press and frantically trying to write everything as fast as possible, was standing in one spot all day long demoing the same shitty-ass Wii game that no one gives a crap about over and over and over until I wanted to shoot myself.

So, yeah. There are more of those. I'll get to 'em someday. Meanwhile, I have a lot to do this week in my current job, but I will, of course be monitoring Twitter and the websites and even the TV to see all the fun stuff coming out of the show. I'll miss all my friends and colleagues. I'll miss the general insanity of the whole thing. And I'll miss breakfast with my dad.

But I'll be home, where I'm needed and where I want to be this week. So have a great show everyone. And don't forget, amidst all the "work," how lucky you all are to be there!

In flight, May 30, Oakland-Seattle

2011-05-30T20:01:00.001-07:00

So here's the deal. I'm on a plane now: Alaska Airlines Flight 345, Oakland to Seattle, pretty much my "regular" flight when I commute to PopCap. I'm typing on my iPad, and using the inflight wifi, confirming that I am, in fact, communicating with you from the future. Huzzah!

The problem with this flight today, other than the 1.5 hour delay (second one in a week), is that I'm flying on Memorial Day, which not only means I'm not home on the holiday like I should be, but also that the plane is full of civilians, as snobby frequent fliers like me like to call you. Rubes and mouth-breathing morons are two other technical terms, though we try to only use those in our secret meetings.

Anyway, so I have a couple with two screaming babies behind me, and a guy next to me who smells like he hasn't bathed since Hee Haw went off the air in the 70s. And the guy two seats down from me keeps snuffling his nose so loudly I can hear it through my noise-canceling headphones.

I know what you may be thinking: Boy, this Jeff Green character is a real curmudgeonly asshole! To which I can only respond: Welcome to my blog! But, look, I fly a lot now, so what little patience I had in humanity is severely tested aboard these flying tin cans, especially when the guy next to me smells like a soggy bag of dog flatulence. It's times like these that I wish the airports had delousing and decontamination chambers at the gates. I've written letters to all the major airline airlines repeatedly now for months, but oddly, I've yet to receive a single reply, despite me adding "READ NOW OR ELSE" on the front of every Yu-Gi-Oh envelope used for this correspondence.

There's nothing you can do about screaming babies on planes. Nothing legal or socially acceptable, anyhoo. And hey, I've been there. Not only did I used to have my own screaming baby on planes back in the day, but just two weeks ago I was screaming myself when the flight attendants ran out of peanuts before it was my turn. I'm tearing up a little even thinking about it now. But, ya know, smelly passengers--that's another thing. It seems like the bare minimum one should do before confining oneself in a closed space with strangers for a couple hours is to make sure beforehand that one is not emanating a rotten, fetid, and/or fecal odor from one's body, but maybe that's just me. Maybe this guy is proud of his stench, or doesn't actually notice the flowers wilting and dogs whimpering and women fainting as he walks by.

The upside of this situation is that it is giving me something tocthink about and share with you on this flight, which you in turn can share with your children, and their children, and so on. As those noted rock emissaries Journey once astutely noted, "the wheel in the sky keeps on turning." As I look out the window of the airplane right now and gaze at the infinite sky, all I can do is say, "yeah, it does."

I hope you have enjoyed my heartfelt ruminations on this flight, as it has made me feel close to each and every one of you. I hope you feel the same. Now I'm going to blast some Beastie Boys into my ears and try to breathe in as little as possible until this flight lands and I can get the heck out of here.

Namaste,
Jeff

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Thoughts on Sons of Anarchy, Season 3

2011-05-28T17:40:00.000-07:00

So I just plowed through Season 3 of Sons of Anarchy, paying $1.99 a pop to watch 'em on my iPad, rather than wait for the DVDs, or reruns on FX, to come out later this summer. It was worth it.

Season 3 has gotten somewhat of a bad rap in some quarters, both for the slower pace (vs the near-nonstop action of the first two seasons), as well as the extended foray over to Belfast, was a decidedly different turn for the show, with all sorts of new characters and subplots, which, for some, detracted from the "main story." Not for me, though. For me, it only deepened the main story--that being the coming of age of Jax Teller and what he is going to do with his father's legacy.

[THERE WILL BE BIGTIME SPOILERS FROM HERE ON OUT. STOP NOW IF YOU HAVEN"T SEEN SEASON 3 YET.]

The key to the theme of this season lies in the names of the opening and finale episodes: "SO" and "NS," respectively. Series creator/writer Kurt Sutter loves his symmetry and cleverly constructed narrative architecture in his show. These two episode names, of course, form the word "sons," which not only are shown physically in the 2 rings that Jax leaves behind on his father's gravestone, but also represent what this entire season was about: Jax searching for his son, and Jax searching for his role as a son. (And the moment that Jax ponders letting his son go was the most devastating scene, emotionally, of the entire season, and maybe even of the series as a whole.)

Even back in Season 1 we knew that the Sons of Anarchy's primary revenue stream came from selling IRA guns, so Ireland has always loomed in the background as central to the show's mythology. What we learned this season was that it goes way beyond the simple gun-running. Jax's father, John Teller, has an entirely different, and somewhat secret, life over in Ireland, complete with a mistress and another child. Until this point in the show, Jax has looked up to his father, and wrestled with his father's belated wishes, expressed in his memoir, to have Jax take the club in a "better direction," away from the violence and outlawism represented by Clay and Gemma.

The tension between Jax and Clay, of course, has been the central conflict of the entire series, and, for all those who know their Hamlet, upon which Sons of Anarchy is explictly based, we know this isn't going to go well. But this discovery, by Jax, that his father, too, was less than a saint, coupled with the present day threats to the club (the white supremacists of Season 2, and his kidnapped son in Season 3), help lead Jax back into the fold with Clay--thus depriving some viewers of what satisfied them most: Jax vs Clay. But the season finale's brilliant final minutes makes it clear that this conflict has merely just been postponed, and, in fact, is only going to get worse.

The final scene is a juxtoposition of the show's two main female characters each reading a letter, and the two letters perfectly, brilliantly make clear just how ironic and tragic Jax's resolution with Clay is. The first is from Jax to his mother, making it clear that he has renounced his father now and is totally with Clay and the club. The "betrayal" she was worried about, that we were worried about, turned out to be a fakeout for a good portion of the season. But if there was any doubt that we, the viewers, were supposed to consider this a good thing, we had Jax's letter juxtaposed with his father's old letter to Maureen in Ireland, now discovered by Tara, in which he reveals his fear that (hello, Hamlet!) that he was going to be killed by Gemma and Clay. So Kurt Sutter, evil bastard that he is, picks the exact moment that Jax has finally given up his father's path towards the "good" to reveal what we knew all along but were waiting to have explicitly revealed: that his father had been murdered by his mother and step-dad. And because Tara now knows, that means it's only a matter of time before Jax finds out, with a path of destruction to follow.

But, ya know, this is also a pulpy action show about a motorcycle gang. One in which we expect (and enjoy) large chunks of violence and badassery (Clay's "I don't recognize your bullshit MC" was my favorite line of the season), and while this season *did* have plenty of that, I can see, if you were watching it one week at a time, rather than in a marathon like I did, how this season's slower pace might have been frustrating. Sutter is always looking at the big picture, setting things up in long arcs with big payoffs. He spins a million plates at once over a variety of characters and story arcs, some of them crossing multiple seasons, and in this season more than the first two he let some individual episodes contain more exposition than action. But, holy crap, the action, when it finally came, was awesome, as two of the show's biggest villains--Stahl and Jimmy O-- finally get their due in the most satisfying possible way. I don't know about you, but I almost let out a vocal cheer when Chibs finally gets his revenge, as brutal as it was. And, hey, after we had to watch Ethan Zoebelle slip away scot-free last season, this was amazingly satisfying.

Of course, a lot of this stuff doesn't really hold up to close scrutiny. Once you really start thinking about Jax's and the club's "The Sting"-like triple cross of Stahl, it kind of falls apart, in how they could possibly have known it would all play out the way it did. Gemma's escape from the hospital seemed totally unrealistic, as did the fact that killing of Stahl and Jimmy wouldn't have raised 1000 red flags that would have backfired on the lot of them, including Unser.

But, hey, it's a pulpy action show about a motorcycle gang. And I love it. I love Kurt Sutter's ambition, the way he digs deep with the characters, the way he so brilliantly orchestrates his plots, while simultaneously reveling in the pulp and violence. It's a highbrow show in a lowbrow form, or maybe a lowbrow show with highbrow ambition. (Or, if you're not a fan, it may be a middlebrow show that thinks it's more clever than it is---but I wouldn't agree with you.)

In any event, I loved Season 3, and recommend, if you watched it at the time and were disappointed, that you watch it again when you can binge on multiple episodes at once. Because I think the story will seem much more tighter and focused and suspenseful if you do. And if you've actually read this far, and are as big a fan as I am, than I know you will at least agree that Season 4 can't start soon enough.

Lament of a formerly skinny guy.

2011-05-25T18:10:00.000-07:00

I spent the first 20 years of my life being rail thin. If you can, in general, divide your geek stereotype into two broad categories--overly fat dudes and rail-thin string beans--I was firmly in the latter camp. ( I also had bright red hair, and glasses, and braces, which put me on the fast track towards Never Having a Date and Listening to Lots of Dr. Demento--but that's a subject for another post.) And while I think it's definitely harder, in terms of social acceptance, to be fat than it is to be skinny, when you are an adolescent the skinniness is still a form of "otherness," of not being "regular"---which is all that most of us ever want at that age. I know I did. I hated being that skinny, and tried everything I could, at certain points, to gain weight. My metabolism just didn't allow for it, nor did my DNA.

Oh, to suffer from that problem now.

I remember at the time lots of older people telling me, "yeah, you just wait," but I never could believe them because I was so skinny for so long that I couldn't possibly see how my body would ever change. But holy double-double with extra cheese were they right. Now I got my "normalcy," all right, and boy do I wish I could get that old metabolism back. Because I've got about 15 pounds of blubber, minimum, that need to be sliced off my body so that I can look in the mirror and not want to point and laugh, or cry.

It totally crept up on me, too. My wife was the first to notice, of course, because that's what spouses do. "Maybe you really don't need to eat that whole pint of New York Super Fudge Chunk tonight, Jeff. I'm just saying." Not the kind of thing a guy really wants to hear, especially when you feel your day was so damn lame that you deserve the full pint of ice cream, and especially when you spent decades of your life being able to eat whatever you damn well pleased and couldn't gain weight even when you tried.

So I was blind to it, at first. It's what we do. I'd look in the mirror and not really see the current reality, but instead the me I was used to seeing, that I'd built my identity around. In junior high, one asshole kid who used to be my friend said I was a "tomato on a stick," the tomato being a reference to my red hair. And that's what I've been in my head for forever. Now I'm kind of more just like a tomato. Or perhaps a cantaloupe. In any case, it's clear, once I take a good look, or stand on a scale, that I can retire that moniker, at least for the near future.

So, yeah. I have to watch my weight, just like everyone else now. In February, PopCap sponsored an internal contest called "Play2Lose", in which participants signed up for a specific amount of weight to lose, and would receive a $50 Amazon gift certificate if they reached their goal. I signed up to lose 10. By the end of the contest period, I had gained 8. I guess the whole "drinking more beer while I'm in Seattle and also see how many cheeseburgers I can eat each week" was not the best possible strategy for this particular competition.

It really sucks. Now I know just how spoiled and easy I had it for so long. And, far, far worse than just feelings of vanity over appearance, of course, is the actual health and fitness aspect to this. Because in addition to eating more, I compounded the problem by exercising less (something also I never needed to do to keep the flubber off). I've made a serious, concerted effort to get on a regular exercise regime now (elliptical/bike/yoga/weights), but good lord do I feel like a fat, sweaty tub of lard every time I do it now, huffing and puffing over an exercise that I used to be able to do with half the effort or exhaustion. It's embarrassing to myself. But it's also good motivation for me to keep at it. There's no way I'll ever be a skinny rail of a guy again. But maybe I can somehow work my way back to feeling "normal" again. Or maybe I'll figure out, after all these decades on the planet, that such a thing might not actually exist.

I'll settle for healthy and happy.

Why I resent The Wise Man's Fear

2011-05-22T17:42:00.000-07:00

I am 750 pages into Patrick Rothfuss' The Wise Man's Fear--over 200 pages to go still--and I can't recall the last time a book has made me more resentful. Why resentful? Because, I am sorry to say, it is boring the crap out of me, and has been doing so for nearly all its 750 pages so far, and yet I can't not finish now. And so it is the obligation that I resent. The obligation to finish a book I am thoroughly not enjoying, and yet have committed so much time to already (in addition to the outstanding first book in the series before this, The Name of the Wind), that to put it down now without finishing would just feel like even more of a waste of my time than its been already. If I'm going to waste my time, in other words, I at least want to be a completist about it.

My reaction to this book is bumming me out. And if it wasn't for reading like-minded reviews elsewhere, I'd wonder if maybe something was wrong with me. Because the first book, The Name of the Wind, was just so damn good--one of the best fantasy books I've read in a long, long time. It was just the story he told, and the way he told it, but the writing itself, which was just so clearly a cut above the standard stuff of this genre. (Though there are some amazing fantasy writers out there---my favorite, which is a cheat, because he's as much a comic writer and satirist as "fantasy writer," is Terry Pratchett, but that's a topic for another post.)

Rothfuss just has a great way with words, and when you marry it, as in the first book, to a great story with great momentum and suspense and mystery, it makes for marvelous entertainment. The saving grace in The Wise Man's Fear is that Rothfuss still writes great sentences. He has a poet's ear for description and cadence, which, when everything else is going wrong, still helps carry me along without wanting to blow my brains out.

Not much of a recommendation, I know. The problem with this book is everything but the individual sentences. I don't even know where to start. Well, okay we can start at the beginning, or more specifically, the book's first 300 pages, which feels to me like nothing but a total, unnecessary rehash of the first book. ( I'm trying to avoid specifics, because I don't want to give away any spoilers, not that I think you need to bother.) It's one thing, in a trilogy, to start off where the previous book concluded. It's another to go on for hundreds of pages without doing anything to advance the plot beyond where we were a few years ago. Yes, we know Kvothe is poor, and brilliant, and in love with Denna, and is awesome at the lute, and is the greatest student at the University in a billion years, but, good god, man, we knew that already and have been waiting for years now for you to tell us something we didn't know.

Once Kvothe does finally move on--which, if I had edited the book, would have happened about 250 pages earlier--it hardly gets better. While the Name of the Wind drives along on the strength of a gripping storyline, Wise Man's Fear feels episodic, and disjointed, with "set pieces" stuck together with masking tape. First he goes here, then he goes here, then he has amazing sex because he's so good at having sex even immortal faerie queens can't believe it, then he goes here, and then he goes here, without ever seeming to get one step closer to the essential mystery that opens the first book: The murder of his parents, for one, and how he becomes the guy we know he is to become in the book's present-time sequences. And when every episodic, barely interesting event seems to have "look how awesome I was!" as its point, it just makes it that much more intolerable. When I finished Name of the Wind, I felt like I could have listened to Kvothe's stories for a number of books. Now I just kinda want to kick his ass.

But, who knows. It's the middle book. The story is not done yet. Maybe, in retrospect, all this rambling braggadocio will mean something in the context of the larger work. Maybe the third book will be so satisfying it will help this book seem better. And, hey, I'm not even done with this yet. Maybe, in the 200 pages I still have to go, Rothfuss will tie all the pieces together in a way that will make me feel ashamed and embarrassed that I ranted here prematurely. (In which case I'll have to post again to apologize.)

And I am ranting because I've so rarely been this disappointed by the followup to a book that I loved. Because I'm a slow reader, I almost never read books twice, but I loved The Name of the Wind so much that this one I did read twice--and enjoyed it even more the second time. But now, I'm counting the pages for every chapter. It feels like being back in college. "Okay, if I just read 10 more pages, then I can reward myself with something fun." And this is why I'm so resentful. This is supposed to be my leisure reading. This is supposed to be fun. But it feels like a slog. I'm looking at the stack of books sitting by my nightstand, waiting to be read, and I am resentful that I can't get to them yet, because of this interminably boring book.

Most of all, I'm resentful because I want to believe. I want to love it. I still think he is fantastic writer for the most part. And I know I'll still be buying the third book on Day One. But, for the love of Gandalf, please let that third book be a better read than this one. I need my entertainment to entertain me, not make me a bitter, ranty blogger.

LA Noire and the "DAY 1!" problem.

2011-05-17T17:23:00.000-07:00

When you are in the videogame press, as I was for about 400 years, you get kinda spoiled. I'm not even talking about the ridiculous wining and dining such as is happening with the "E3 Judges" this week, but really just the day-to-day mundane aspect of getting every single game free. I used to always remind myself, and other editors, to keep in mind that most people actually had to pay, and pay a LOT, for the games we were reviewing, and to never take that for granted--both when writing, and also just in appreciation for how good we had it.

Now that I'm a "civilian, " I'm like everyone I used to talk about. I have to pay for my games. This means I have to pick and choose what I'm going to buy, and when I'm going to buy it. Most of my press friends already have LA Noire, released to the public today, and have played a bunch of it, because they got it for free. Me? I don't have it yet, and I have to decide, like you, whether it's worth spending $60 for, or not.

The old me--and the part that still likes to stay current with everything--wanted to rush out and get it ASAP this morning. It's today's big deal, after all, and I want to chime in with my know-it-all perspective, dammit! But the old me didn't have to think about where this factored in with, ya know, every other fiscal commitment I have. Sixty dollars is a lot of freakin' money. iPhone games or Amazon MP3 deals are one thing. I can justify those impulse buys all the time. A full-price brand new console game is something else entirely.

And then when I really start thinking about it rationally, I remember the huge backlog of games I haven't finished yet--or even started. (Like Dead Space 2, still waiting for me, even though I "needed" that one Day 1 as well. ) My backlog, like many gamers, is ridiculous. I couldn't even tell you--especially because of all those free games the old me got--how many unfinished/unplayed games I have. 50? More? Plus, there's the fact that, at some point, there's going to be a price drop. Because there's always a price drop. I could easily, happily play all the games I haven't played yet (like "Bully," another Rockstar game!) for a long time and just wait for LA Noire to hit a more reasonable price point, at a time when I actually have the time to play it. Totally reasonable, right?

And yet--that DAY ONE impulse remains. You want to be part of the phenomenon, the zeitgeist. You think you have to play it because everyone else is. You get worked up and hyped up, and everyone who participates amps it up a little more, encouraging and validating your own "need" to have the game RIGHT NOW.

But time has told me that if I try to just resist that, I (and my bank account) won't regret it. That first wave of hype only lasts so long, and is usually followed either by an "err, wait, this isn't actually THAT great" buyer's remorse, or, more often, "this is pretty good but I have 1000 other things to do and games to play so maybe I'll put this down for awhile"--after which it gets neglected while the next bright new shiny DAY ONE game grabs everyone's attention, yet again.

That hype machine is, of course, what all the game companies want and need and count on. They NEED you to buy those DAY ONE games on DAY ONE. Their stockholders need you to, too. But, ya know, the games aren't going anywhere, and they'll just get cheaper. And now that I'm a civilian, this matters to me way more than the hype.

Uh oh, I'm thinking about comic books again.

2011-05-15T18:04:00.000-07:00

Like many nerds, I have a bit of a collecting problem. As in: I like to collect things. (Game Freak gets a Genius of the Millennium award for recognizing this problem in us and creating Pokemon, by the way.)

My worst collecting addiction, by far, is with music. I really make no apologies for it. It's just too much a part of who I am, and what gives me joy and meaning in life. I have hundreds of vinyl records and CDs, and, boy, have I spent a lot of time and money over the past four decades thinking about it all and obsessing over them and going down different avenues every time I fixated on a new sound or genre or artist. I'm particularly glad to be living through the digital age now, though, since the *worst* thing, by far, of the collector mentality is the sheer clutter of it all. Being able to buy music (and not have to wait for the store to open, or to hope that the record is in stock) without adding more *stuff* to my house is a godsend. And as much as I love my vinyl records (not so much with CDs), there's no chance I'd ever go back. I'm all digital now, baby.

What I wanted to talk about in this post, however, is comic books--another obsession. This one was never as important to me as music, except for the fact that once I start collecting, I can't help but kind of go all in. Though I read a bunch of Marvel and DC stuff when I was growing up in the late 60s and early 70s, I never developed a habit for it. (What I did collect back then was MAD Magazine, one of my big life influences.)

My comic obsession really started in the mid-80s, when I was already in my 20s. This was the point at which the indies first began to rise, as well as the watershed rebooting of the superhero genre through Alan Moore's Watchmen and Frank Miller's The Dark Knight Returns. Thanks to these guys, as well as comics like Harvey Pekar's American Splendor (my all-time favorite comic book ever), David Boswell's incomparably ridiculous Reid Fleming, World's Toughest Milkman (my all-time second favorite comic book ever) Bob Burden's Flaming Carrot, Peter Bagge's Hate, and Daniel Clowes' Eightball, I discovered comics as an intellectual pursuit, and these alternative books coincided and collided nicely with a lot of my punk/alternative musical obsession at the time. Comic book shops (like the just-departed, legendary Comic Relief in Berkeley, R.I.P.) were added to my shopping rotation along with the record store, where I'd blow an irresponsible amount of whatever disposable income I had at the time, which was not much.

This lasted for awhile, but did not persist. Once I met my now-wife and started actually thinking about things like, say, a career, I tapered off on the comics for a number of years--- until I got a job at Computer Gaming World in 1996. This, for me, was the true moment of doom. Suddenly, from the first week of the job, I found myself surrounded by grown men, at least one of them older than me, who were obsessing over comics and--worst of all--were talking about them at all the time. If you like nerdy things, like I do, and like collecting things, like I do, and suddenly find yourself amongst a group of people all riled up about the Wednesday comic run, and then spending the week dissecting the latest developments in the Marvel and DC worlds, among other things, well, let's just say you'd have to be tougher than I was to resist.

I started out small. And at first I stayed away from the superhero stuff, gravitating instead to indie stuff like Jeff Smith's Bone, Stan Sakai's Usagi Yojimbo, and Mark Crilley's Akiko. But I could only resist the superhero stuff for so long, what with all the chatter around me all the time. I made a couple early choices, to limit myself. Like: Only Batman. But, as any follower of these universes knows, it's almost impossible, once you decide to get involved, to ignore the other books--not entirely. Both DC and Marvel are masters at sucking you in, if you're willing to let them. Crossovers, multi-arc stories, "events," all conspire to make you buy books you could have sworn a week ago you would never, ever buy, no matter what. Like, say, Catwoman.

And once that collector switch flipped in my brain, I was done. I was all in. Suddenly I was buying practically every goddamn book that came out every Wednesday. I had to. I had to have them all. I had to be totally caught up with everything. I started buying magazines about comics, so I'd know what was coming. I'd be at the store as soon as they opened, just to make sure I'd get the books before they sold out. I started buying longboxes to hold them all.

Eventually, it got to the point where I was buying more than I had time to read. I'd bag-and-board them only to have them pile up on my nightstand, in the To Read pile, which, at its worst was literally, seriously, a few feet high. And now the reading of the comics started to feel like homework. I couldn't spend time reading actual books (the kind without pictures), because I felt like if I had any free time, I had to get through some of the comics. Finally, ultimately, I just kind of got disgusted with myself. I was buying comics every week and not reading them. I made a vow to myself: I will not buy one more comic book until I get to the bottom of the To Read pile. And guess what? I never did make it to the bottom. That's how I quit my comic book obsession. Total cold turkey, based on a deal with myself.

It's been years since I've spent even a dime on comics. And I haven't really missed them, to be honest. I realized that I actually could live my life, as a man in my 40s, without necessarily knowing what The Flash was up to, and be just fine. I knew that there was probably a lot of great stuff I was missing out on, but I just had to stay the hell away, and felt good about it. My longboxes? They got covered up by a big blanket to become a de-facto stair for my cat and dog to use to climb up on our bed.

Now, however, I have an iPad. And, like with music, I am confronted with the wonder and magic of the digital age. I can buy comics, and not have them pile up in a To Read pile on my nightstand? I don't have to go to the store on Wednesday and feel bad, like a junkie showing up for my weekly fix? WHERE DO I SIGN UP. I am going to try to be prudent and circumspect about this. I am going to try not to go all-in again. I asked for recommendations on Twitter today of the current cool stuff, and got more than I can handle. As I did previously, I'm going to start with some of the more off-kilter stuff, and avoid superheroes. Chew, Orc Stain, Criminal, Atomic Robo and Locke & Key are the first ones I'm checking out. And maybe (hopefully?) the ONLY ones. (And yes, if you followed me over here from Twitter, I know there were a lot more, and maybe one was one of your favorites, and I promise I have a larger list, so don't be hurt.)

I worry, though. Because I know myself. I know I can say, "I'm only going to do THIS much", but then quickly rationalize it once I get sucked in. I know, for example, that not every book is available digitally. I know, too, that if I read a book and find a writer I love, I'm going to be tempted to seek out his/her other work.

So I need to stay vigilant. I need to keep a lid on it. I need to not have comic books become too important to my life again. I need to enjoy them without obsessing over them.

There may be no hope.

The Busy Signal

2011-05-13T09:40:00.000-07:00

My first real job out of college, in the mid-1980s, was at a computer book publishing company in the Bay Area. You will recall—or, if you’re too young, I guess I will make it clear—that in the mid '80s there was no such thing as “the Internet,” so people tended to get their information from such now archaic forms of communication as print. LOL.

The books that this company made were instructional books on the then popular software and programming languages at the time: Lotus 1-2-3, WordPerfect, dBase, and so on. My job, as a recent graduate of UC Berkeley with a degree in English Literature, was proofreader. I would proofread the galleys (page proofs) for spelling and grammatical errors, and then to paste the galleys on to boards that would get sent to the printer. These were the days of literal “cut-and-paste.” We’d use Xacto knives to physically cut lines of text and paste them onto the boards. So you Ctrl-X/Ctrl-V people? We used to do that, like, for real, okay?

Anyway, my boss at this place was an amiable but utterly absent-minded kinda guy, as well as sort of spineless and cowardly when it came to dealing with the higher-ups. The latter part, unfortunately, pretty much negated the fact that he was amiable, because, in critical work situations, it was clear that when push came to shove, he was always going to side with upper management, rather than his employees, out of fear for his own job. Thus a pattern of distrust was established.

One particular week, the upper management dipshits got it in their heads that the proles were wasting too much company time on private phone calls. A crackdown was ordered.

Our boss returned to our area and informed us of the crackdown. There will be no personal calls on company time, except in emergencies. People were abusing the privilege. To prove his point, he pulled out the most recent company phone bill, with all the itemized calls. As he scanned the bill, he noticed that one particular phone number in our area had a grotesquely large number of long calls.

“Look at this one!” he exclaimed. “Who the hell is this on the phone all the goddamn time!” he said, waving the bill around in the air. “You know what? I’m gonna CALL this number and see who the hell answers it!” He dialed the number, while a few of us watch him. “It’s BUSY!” he yelled. “IT FIGURES!” He slammed down the phone.

A few minutes later, he left his office. A couple of us walked in to peek at the phone bill, and the offending phone number.

It was his phone number.

He had called himself.

"I Should Tweet That!"

2011-05-11T21:57:00.000-07:00

Like many people, I heard of Osama Bin Laden's death on Twitter. Most of the breaking news I get these days comes from Twitter, and it's also a way I talk to many of my friends around the country, often on a daily basis. What at first seemed like (and often still is) a silly tool to empower utterly inane self-obsession and indulgence (I do not exclude myself from such criticism) has in fact evolved into a disruptive, important force in the media, and beyond.

For me personally, I loathed it when it first came out, when I watched other people use it, but then realized that I actually enjoyed the challenge of trying to write in 140-character phrases, and liked bleating out random inanities throughout the day. Sure is easier than blogging! I'd never bother to try to convince anyone who doesn't "get" Twitter why they should, nor would I mount some passionate defense of it or my use of it. If it's not your thing, that's okay. Hey, I've been trying to figure out for 20-something years why people like Julia Roberts, and I still have no clue. We like what we like.

My current concern, however, is the way Twitter has insinuated itself into my personal life, to an extent that is now beginning to bother me, I think. Or rather, it's bothering other people in my family, which made me realize that I needed to think about what I was doing. Specifically, everything in my life is now fodder for Twitter. I mean, I've been kind of living "in public" for a long time, by choice, but now, because of the immediacy of Twitter, I am constantly scanning whatever is happening around me as possible tweet material. Funny sign on a wall? Tweet it. Daughter says something funny? Tweet it. Dog is looking particularly pathetic? Tweet it.

I like doing it because I like sharing the stuff that makes me laugh with others. And I don't think there's anything wrong with that. I'll keep doing that, even after this blog post. The problem is just knowing when to stop, or when to leave things to themselves. I tweeted throughout our family vacation in Hawaii in December. It was fun to do, and I got a lot of funny responses. But by the end of the trip I was honestly feeling kind of bad about it. Why was I still engaging my brain all day long in this activity that was taking me out of the experience of being with my wife and kid? Instead of just enjoying my time with them, I was observing myself enjoying my time with them, and commenting on it. Since I pretty much do that for a living, really, my vacation should have meant not doing that for two weeks, just living in the moment, letting the private moments stay private.

It's not like I'm having massive amounts of regret about it. And I did like that, say, my family back home could keep up with our exploits through my Twitter feed. But I think I want to work on my now-engrained habit of thinking "I should tweet that!" after every funny or memorable thing that ever happens to me. Sometimes, I think, I should just say to myself, "I should just enjoy this."

I'm entitled!

2011-05-10T17:52:00.000-07:00

So I was sitting on the plane this morning, some tens of thousands of feet in the air. That fact alone is a constant miracle that we really don't take enough time to appreciate. We fly across the world in the air, people. Imagine what Fred Flintstone, or the Unfrozen Caveman Lawyer, would have made of that.

But instead of marveling at this modern miracle, I was annoyed. That in itself is not remarkable, since being annoyed while on a plane is pretty much par for the course these days (just like being in a movie theater). What was remarkable was what I found myself annoyed about: the fact that the in-flight wifi was too slow to play Netflix . Can you say "first world problem?"

The very fact that I had Internet access on an airplane at all is still something I should be freaking out about--not taking for granted or being annoyed about. Shit, even if the planes were only equipped with 2400 baud modems, that would still be better than we had for, oh, let's see, how about: ALL OF HUMAN HISTORY UNTIL NOW. I can sit on a plane and IM with my friends, deal with work email, surf the web, goof off on Twitter, and, hey, even update this blog.

At this point, I definitely get annoyed when flights don't have wifi. Because now that we know that it's possible, it seems like there's no reason for any airline not to have it. (On the other hand, flights without wifi suddenly become the perfect excuse to NOT work and just tune out, like in the good old days.)

But to be on a plane with wifi, and then be annoyed because it's not fast enough so I can stream my movie that I shouldn't be watching anyway because I should be working if I have Internet access, feels like the height of absurd entitlement. So I'm posting this just to publicly berate myself, as an act of repentance.

But hopefully it'll work on my next flight. It fucking better!

One Night in Germany, 1984

2011-05-09T16:52:00.000-07:00

In September 1984, at age 23, feeling lost and directionless and brokenhearted over a girl that was all wrong for me, I packed up a bunch of clothes, my cassette Walkman and some tapes, threw them in the old orange backpack I'd had in my possession since Boy Scouts, bought myself a plane ticket to London and a Eurail pass, and bummed around Europe for three and half months. It was one of the greatest things I ever did.

I had many adventures on my solo voyage in Europe, some great, and some utterly stupid. Here is one of the stupider ones.

In late October, I found myself in Heidelberg, Germany. I say "found myself" because I often had no idea where I was going or what I was doing on any given day, until I arrived there. If you've been on the European youth hostel circuit before, you know what I'm talking about. I'd randomly meet people in the hostel of whatever city I was in--equally directionless, drifting 20-somethings--and we'd hop on trains with no particular destination at all, often getting off on a total whim.

At this point in my journey, I was traveling with two sisters from Wisconsin, a big Mormon guy from Salt Lake City, and a gorgeous blonde woman from Sweden named Wiveka. We had all rolled in to Heidelberg--an absolutely gorgeous city in southwestern Germany--on a Saturday afternoon, and had a delicious lunch of bread and cheese in a beautiful forest setting.

Heidelberg, Germany

I have a journal buried somewhere around the house with all the details of the trip, and if I found it it could fill in the blanks of why the next thing happened. All I remember now is that later that evening, a Saturday night, after wandering around the city, I was by myself at around 11 pm and needed to catch a bus back to the youth hostel before they closed for the night. The problem I had throughout my travels, except in England, was that I spoke no second language. Sure lots of people spoke English (always the lazy American attitude) and I could basically get myself through any situation with lots of pointing and facial expressions, but still, there were certain times you really needed to engage in some solid communication. For example: Finding the right bus to take you home late at night in a city you're totally unfamiliar with.

Looking back, I suppose it wouldn't have been hard for me to fully ascertain the proper bus to the youth hostel, between studying the transit map and asking folks at the bus stop. I may just have been too tired, or too weary or embarrassed to play charades with Germans to find out. All I know is that what I did do is just hop on the first bus that looked reasonable, and hope for the best.

I settled inabout 2/3 of the way towards the back of the buss, popped in U2's Unforgettable Fire in my cassette Walkman, and looked out the window looking for reassuring signs that I was heading the right way. There were a fair number of passengers on the bus for this late at night, but, one by one, over the next 20 minutes, as the bus tooled along, they began getting off, until I was alone except for two other people. It was at this point that I began to get worried. Not only was the bus nearly deserted, but, outside, the suburban streets were getting sparser. Out my window to the left it was now pitch black, as all there was was countryside, and no streetlamps. Soon we would out of the city entirely.

Finally, with panic starting to set in, I made my way up to the front of the bus, and asked the bus driver--and old guy with a big, grey, walrusy mustache--the important German word I had learned in the last few days: "Jugenherberger?" ("Youth hostel?" Upon hearing my mangled German, the bus driver assumed an expression of bewilderment, repeated the word even louder and more questioningly that I had said it, and then stopped the bus and opened the bus door. "Go back, very far," he said in English, pointing to the exit.

What choice did I have? I asked if there was another bus coming, but I don't think he understood the question. I got out of the bus.

So now I began walking along the dark, empty street, no idea where I was, all hope of making it back to the youth hostel in time gone, and no idea, in fact, where the youth hostel even was. At this point, the self-pity and self-loathing was in full effect, but there was one more bad thing to come. I was wearing my contact lenses (with no backup pair or backup pair of glasses), without which I approach Mr. Magoo levels of blindness. As I walked along this dark road, cursing myself, my right eye started to get irritated by the lens. I rubbed my eye, in an attempt to readjust the lens and relieve my eyeball, but, in the process, managed to rub the lens right out of my eye. Because it was late at night and my eyes were tired and the lens was dry, I simply could not get it back in my eye. Because I was not carrying a contact case on me (and, recall, too, that this was before the existence of disposable contacts, so this was an expensive lens) , the only thing I could think of to keep the lens from drying out completely and cracking was...to pop it in my mouth.

I found my way back to civilization eventually, and flagged the first cab I saw to take me back to the hostel. And the hostel personnel had mercy on me and let me in for the night. So it was ultimately a happy ending.

But sometimes when I'm having a bad day, or maybe when I'm just thinking about that trip to Europe 27 years ago, this is what I picture: Me, all alone, in the pitch black, totally lost, on a road outside Heidelberg, Germany, with a contact lens in my mouth, cursing myself.

It makes me laugh every time.

The Joy of New Appliances

2011-05-08T17:36:00.001-07:00

So the wife and I just recently upgraded our kitchen appliances. It was a long time coming.

Our dishwasher, which was always something of a loud piece of junk even when it was working, stopped functioning something like 10 years ago, and we never bothered to fix it. For one, we have, like everyone else, plenty of other expenses, not the least of which is our daughter's education, which--while utterly worth it--costs us a crazy chunk of change each year. Second, neither my wife nor I really mind hand-washing dishes, which is what we did for years before we had the dishwasher, and what we've been doing again for the past decade.

And for 20 years, my wife has been cooking on an electric stove, both at this house (the first and only one we've ever owned), as well as in our past couple rentals before that. As those who know her know, my wife is an amazing cook. Some of her meals are legendary. That she's been saddled with an electric stove for so long has been, well, I'm not going to say "tragic," because that would be a bit drama-queeny, but it's been a real bummer for someone, like her, who loves to cook so much.

But it was our refrigerator that was the real problem, and that forced the recent upgrade. First, the freezer slowly stopped, over time, actually freezing things. When that's your one job and you fail at that, well, ya know, you're fired. Making things worse was an increasingly loud buzzing sound that mysteriously began emanating from the fridge. I'm sure it wouldn't be mysterious if you knew how these things worked, but, hey, we don't. All we know is it's supposed to keep the food cold and not buzz so loud we can't even hear airplanes overhead. And once the buzzing reached an alarmingly loud level, to the point where it sounded like it was going to blow up, we realized we had to take action.

It was then that we just decided to upgrade the whole damn kitchen. My wife, who rightfully calls it "her kitchen," did the legwork and the actual buying, with my blessing, and returned home a few weeks ago having purchased brand-new stainless steel fridge, dishwasher, and gas oven.

We had to wait until this past week to get the stuff installed (and to extend our gas line so it could reach our kitchen), but now it's done. And, man, what a difference. When you hand-wash dishes for as many years as we have, you kinda get used to it. It's just part of the day-to-day drudgery you deal with. And, ya know, not that big a deal in the grand scheme of things. So having a functioning dishwasher again--and a state-of-the-art quiet one at that--feels like some kind of royal luxury. Which I suppose it is. Being able to finish our meals and just dump everything in this magic box, rather than have to spend another 20 minutes-1/2 hour every time cleaning up, feels, in this first week of use, like we won the lottery. Meanwhile, my wife is in love with the new gas stove, which has a built-in griddle, and which she tested out yesterday morning with some utterly delicious blueberry pancakes. Being able to fine-tune the control over the flame, something impossible with an electric stove, has her giddy with the possibilities in her cooking again. And given that I am one of the prime beneficiaries of her cooking, I'm all for it.

The other night I was feeling self-conscious and vaguely depressed about being so excited about something so...domestic and boring. Has it really come to this, I wondered? I'm excited about a dishwasher? This is what I have to look forward to now in life? But, hey. Sue me. Our little lives here just got better, and easier. There's way dumber things that people get happy about, like, say, a new episode of Storage Wars, so who's to judge?

Now if someone could just invent a machine that could unload the dishwasher for us, then I think my life would be perfect.

On seeing Mike Watt, April 2011.

2011-05-07T15:52:00.000-07:00

Sure I'm a lucky man
But how I miss you, man
All alone and pulling shore duty
Seems there's always more duty
Maybe that's the beauty.
--"Shore Duty," Mike Watt, 1997

I've written about my love of The Minutemen before on this blog. It's a love that I imagine is inexplicable to those who listen to a song or two and can't believe the racket they're hearing. (Not that I think it's a racket. To me, their short, angular blasts of funk/punk are sharp, sonic shards of beauty.) I suppose it was a matter of time and place, too. I was a young man in my late teens/early 20s in Los Angeles when the punk scene burst, and I was totally ripe for the taking. I loved all those early punk bands, and was as in love with Exene Cervenka as every other kid at the time.

What was weird, though, and I've written about it before, is that I couldn't actually identify with the punk bands, or lots of the punk rockers, themselves. Even amongst the new group of outsiders, I felt like an outsider, because I either couldn't or wouldn't fully commit to the lifestyle--I was always far too self conscious, and far too skeptical about everything, to want to put on a costume to express my identity. So I'd show up at punk shows like I dressed all the time, in flannel shirts (this was pre-grunge, when that suddenly became a thing) and jeans, loving the music and the attitude but still not feeling entirely part of the crowd.

The Minutemen hit such a strong chord with me because that's all these guys were, too. They could hardly have looked more schlumpy or uncool (save for drummer George Hurley, who rocked the blonde surfer dude thing pretty well). And their music was so bewilderingly complex and unique for the scene--more Captain Beefheart than Ramones--that, though they had a strong, loyal cadre of fans, like me, they were always a bit on the outside of things themselves, as far as "cool" punk bands went. Seeing the heavyset d boon and dorky Mike Watt up there, playing the hell out of their instruments, looking like they were having the time of their lives, was so inspirational to a somewhat lost, insecure dork like me that to this day I credit it with helping me survive that dark period in my life. "Our band could be your life," they sang on their most memorable song, "History Lesson, Part II." It's something I've kept to heart every day when I look at the obstacles ahead of me.

When d boon died in a car crash in 1985 at age 27, I was driving alone along Highway 5 from Berkeley to Los Angeles, and had to pull over when I heard it on the radio. So young, so full of promise, the band just on the cusp of breaking through to greater success.

But as devastating as it was to a random fan like me, the toll it took on his best friend and bandmate Mike Watt was inconceivable to imagine. You can see and hear for yourself the heartbreak the man still feels 26 years later on the incomparably heartfelt and moving documentary We Jam Econo. And it's been in the sound of all his solo work since then (every recording he's made all these years has been dedicated to d boon), and on his face in all the live performances I've seen. Mike Watt has done and continues to do brilliant work, but that heartache has always been right there on the surface--often explicitly, as in the song quoted at the top of this blog.

Mike Watt (center) and his current bandmates Tom Watson and Raul Morales.

All of which is a preface to say that his new record, Hyphenated Man, as well as his current tour, which I caught last weekend, shows him, at age 54, finally, at long last, at a place of seeming peace with his past, with The Minutemen legacy, and with what he had to leave behind. Watt had supposedly never listened to The Minutemen at all, all these decades, until he was asked to participate in the We Jam Econo documentary--the memory of d boon too painful to him--but that upon doing so he was able to heal that wound, even if just somewhat. Hyphenated-Man is the closest he's ever come to recreating The Minutemen sound--and it is awesome. He sounds refreshed and alive on this record. Never much of a singer, Watt over time has grown into his growl, bringing depth and gravity to his baritone, again bringing to mind Captain Beefheart, or Tom Waits minus the 8,000 packs of cigarettes.

But as great as the new record is, it was the live show that was the real revelation. Mike Watt, in 2011, looks happier on stage than I've seen him since 1984, back when his best friend was alive on stage with him. He looks confident and serene, playing his heart out with his new bandmates, casting sly grins at the audience, filling up the stage with his presence in a way he never used to do, even in The Minutemen--where d boon, in his gigantic, goofy way, always dominated.

I was at this show with three of my friends, themselves all in their 40s, as was most of the crowd. Really, I don't know what the hook would be for the younger crowd at a show like this. I mean, other than the amazing music. But this felt like some kind of victory tour for all of us. A signifying of the power of music to keep him, and us, hopeful and alive as we hit this second half of our life.

And with The Minutemen, back in the day.

In my early 20s, I looked at The Minutemen to help give me the confidence to pursue my own goals, my own artistic pursuits. "Our band could be your life." Now, with 50 less than 6 months away, I find myself still looking up at the stage, at Mike Watt, as a source of inspiration. Look at him up there, I say to myself. Wailing away on that bass--even with a leg brace on--eating it all up, playing his heart out, laughing, making the most out of the life he now has.

What more could anyone ask for?

The aging process

2010-12-14T17:38:00.000-08:00

At some point I am going to sit down and write a long, cathartic post about what it feels like to be getting older, to see a show on TV called "Men of a Certain Age" that's about a buncha older dudes about to turn 50 and realize that is exactly what I am...but today is not that day.

Instead, I just want to mull over the photographic evidence. On a thread on the Internet today someone posted an old photo of me, and, looking at it just now, it made me realize something: LIFE IS SHORT AND OMG I AM NOT THE GUY I USED TO BE.

Cuz here's that guy:

And here's the same guy about 5 minutes ago:

WTF happened?

A Rant about the Spike VGAs

2010-12-12T14:52:00.000-08:00

I kind of didn't want to write this, first, because it's such a bummer of a topic for an otherwise pleasant Sunday, and, second, because it seems like a fairly pedestrian point to make for anyone unfortunate enough to have seen the show. But, the truth is, if I didn't write this, it'd be sitting in my gut anyway, like a rotten bologna sandwich, and so I'd rather get it out on this blog than in some other more disgusting way.

So here's what I want to say: The Spike 2010 Video Game Awards Show was a fucking disgrace. It was an embarrassment and an insult to the industry it is supposedly saluting. Everyone involved should really take a moment, in the quiet of their own head to think about the kind of message they're sending--to game makers and game players both-- and whether this is really something they feel they should be proud of.

So let's acknowledge one thing first. We can take it as a given that almost every awards show in every medium sucks. The bar is extremely low. People can and do make the same kind of rant after every Oscar telecast, Grammy show, and so on. And I'll say this, too, in defense of the VGAs (and unlike, say, the Emmys, who impossibly never gave The Wire one stinkin' award): A good chunk of the awards handed out hold up to scrutiny. I mean, it's all subjective, of course, but no one is really going to deny that Red Dead Redemption is a credible choice for Game of the Year.

So the embarrassment and disgrace is not with the actual awards. It is with the show. If you've never heard of this event, it takes place on Spike TV. And if you've never heard of Spike TV, it is a television station whose website ("the premier online destination for men!"), at this very moment, has an article on its home page entitled "Denise Richards Discusses Her Boobs With Alex." So that pretty much gives you all the information you need. It's a TV station for guys, and for "guys" they pretty much mean the kind of neanderthal-like fratboy dudebro douchebag lunkhead who thinks a good use of his limited time here on Earth would be to click on an article in which Denise Richards discusses her boobs.

So, really, when you think about it, what else was there to expect? If you're on a TV station dedicated to pandering to every dumb guy's basest, most lowbrow taste, why would your awards show be any different! It's not like Spike TV is going to start showing reruns of "Upstairs, Downstairs" any time soon. One caters to one's own audience.

But here's the problem: The videogame community--those who make them, those who play them--encompasses a much larger, broader base than the Spike TV dudebro douchebag contingent. Really, saying the "videogame community" at this point is all but archaic, anyway. Because it seems that, with FaceBook and Angry Birds and Kinect and every other industry-broadening milestone, everyone is playing games now. There are people who love games, who care about games from all walks of life, both male and female. So when you aim your show at the station's primary demographic, rather than those who love gaming in general, you are alienating and insulting all the rest of us who would like to participate in and enjoy the event too.

I'll say this: It's been worse. And Neil Patrick Harris, slumming as he was, was still the best host I've seen in the times I've watched this. It doesn't hurt that he seems to be functionally incapable of not being completely cool and charming and funny no matter what situation he's in, but, on the other hand, you didn't need to be a psychic to see in his face, at times, embarrassment over some of the drivel he was presiding over, and he even made offhand comments to that extent over the course of the show. As for the rest of the presenters, probably the less said the better, though, as most of them looked like they either didn't want to be or know why they were there, except for Olivia Munn, who knew exactly why she was there, which is to show her boobs, which she did.

But, really, complaining about the lame presenters and even the tone of the show is me mostly missing the point of the entire affair, to those complicit in its making, which is the exclusive game trailers and announcements. Because really, that's what this is: One two-hour commercial for the big game publishers to plug their upcoming games. You can bet your ass that most of the behind-the scenes "editorial" work that goes into the making of this show is the wheeling-and-dealing with the EAs and Ubisofts and Bethesdas and the like to get those exclusive trailers on the show. And the game publishers, still dazzled like the little children they are in the bigger universe of the entertainment industry, get seduced by the idea of being on TV, of the "glamor" and "prestige" of it all. Think of the numbers! Never mind that it's a bottom-feeding station that most people over the age and/or IQ of 12 would never turn to in a million years! We're on TV, bro! Look at all those cameras and lights! We have a red carpet, just like at the Oscars! And, hey, look, over there--it's Nathan Fillion! We got him to show up! That makes us almost celebrities now too...right!? And of course the folks running the show need the trailers, too, because without them they've got about 15 minutes of content, tops, and content that in their hearts they have to know isn't that great or interesting. And by running announcements like Bethesda's new Elder Scrolls game (and, yep, I'm as excited as you guys are for it), they give themselves the veneer of importance simply be serving as the vehicle for a commercial. The publishers get their free ads, the awards show gets its exclusives: Everybody wins! Everybody, that is, except for the poor gamer, who may have naively turned on the show expecting to see something with a modicum of respect and sincerity for the industry it was supposedly saluting. I watched this show by myself and was still embarrassed, and was monitoring the remote control in case my wife or kid came down and saw me watching. And, yeah, I know exactly what that sounds like.

Fortunately, the gaming industry has other awards shows, like the Game Developers Choice Awards and http://www.bafta.org/awards/video-games/, that actually know how to salute the industry without relying entirely on Olivia Munn's boobs and marketing-department-produced TV commercials to do so. But it would be great if, in the coming year, the folks behind the Spike VGAs could look into their hearts, look around at the vast, multigenerational, multicultural, gaming landscape and come up with a show that truly celebrates all of gaming for all gamers, that treats videogames not as things to be laughed at or apologized for, but as the incredibly complex and sophisticated pieces of entertainment they are. Way more sophisticated, at the very least, than the sophomoric, tacky spectacle that you put on to "honor" us.

On Cataclysm Eve, A WoW blog.

2010-12-06T19:20:00.001-08:00

As I write this, it's less than 4 hours to go until World of WarCraft: Cataclysm launches, and, yes, I, a man dangerously close to the age of 50, am actually counting the hours. Some might call this sad--I call it a testament to the power of WoW, six years after its launch.

Think about that for a second. Because, in videogame time, 6 years is an eternity. For reference, the year that WoW launched, 2004, was also the year of Half-Life 2, Ninja Gaiden, and Halo 2--one console generation behind. Even more significant, most MMOs flatten out or just slowly die of attrition after a few years. But WoW, incredibly, just keeps getting bigger.

And, yes, like everyone else, I've had long periods (sometimes over a year at a time) in which I burn out and bail and swear I'm never coming back. And during those periods when I *am* out, I always feel a sense of liberation, because I can *finally* play all those games that WoW prevented me from playing. Because WoW is a cruel and demanding mistress. You can't be heavily into WoW *and* be playing other games, because there is always simply to much to do in WoW once you willingly invest yourself. Playing other games feels like a betrayal, as well as a waste of time, when, really, you should be in WoW working on your gear--or whatever.

But the reason we keep coming back--or at least the reason *I* keep coming back--is just that it's just such a goddamn good game. And, yeah yeah, MMOs might not be yer cuppa joe, and that's all good. If you're not convinced yet, I certainly can't and won't now. I'm mainly talking to the converted here. And yeah, it's gotten easier over the years too, even though, for certain really old-school folks (and I'm not talking about myself, because I lived through the hell that was earlier MMOs) it already started out too easy. But for those of us already in the congregation, you know what I'm talking about. WoW is the Disneyland of MMOs. And some of us happen to love Disneyland. Even when we're pushing 50.

This particular expansion is drawing many of us back (and until a month ago I had been off for about 16 months), because Blizzard's Chris Metzen and gang are fulfilling a promise that they announced years ago, before they had even figured out a way to make it possible: They're fundamentally changing the entire old game world, forever. If you've already patched up the game prior to tonight's launch, you've actually seen a great chunk of it already: Almost all the old zones are redone, revamped, changed forever, thanks to the cataclysmic event of the expansion's title--and changed, of course, with all the things that Blizzard learned about how to make their game better over the course of the past 6 years. As a design decision, it's a simple but brilliant one. I mean, there was no way I was ever going to want to quest again in Wetlands, The Barrens, and, god forbid, Stranglethorn Vale again. But now? I can't wait to see what they've done with it all.

When I first wrote about World of WarCraft way before it first launched, in the first magazine story ever published about it (see what I did there--I'm bragging!), I was marveling at how Blizzard was so smartly rewriting the rules of what an MMO could do by actually making it easy and accessible for its players, with such then-revolutionary and now seemingly banal ideas as the now-ubiquitous question marks over quest givers in-game zone maps. In the old days, ya see, you had to figure all that out for yourself. Even the notion of "quests," while present in some MMOs, was not really fleshed out. Mostly you just logged into the world and, well, good luck to you. Was that fun? Often, yes. Very much so. Some of my experiences in EverQuest, the long-ago former king of MMOs, remain among my fondest gaming memories, exactly because of the kind of hardcore, unforgiving bullshit it put us through. For you players who "grew up" on WoW, EverQuest was---well, I'm not going to say it was our "'Nam", because that would be both moronic and disrespectful, but let's just say it makes WoW look like just the kind of "baby game" its detractors accuse it of being.

But the proof is in the numbers. WoW beat them all back then, and continues to beat them all now. The number of MMOs (many of them dubbed "WoW killers" either by their creators, publishers, or the media) that have come and gone in the 6 years of WoW's unrivaled reign is long and sad. What's amazing is not one of them--including the ones still fumbling along with whatever loyal fanbase they've scrounged together--has ever even come close to competing on WoW's level. And what's even more amazing than that is that WoW has deserved it. Blizzard has kept the game alive and vibrant and fun and funny for six long years, and, with Cataclysm, they're doing it again. It's a dangerous drug, this WoW thing. But, me? I'm lining up with the rest of the addicts, happily waiting for my new fix.

GreenSpeak: The Season Premiere!

2010-12-05T14:23:00.000-08:00

Hey everybody! Welcome back to the Greenspeak blog! It's been a long break since the heart-pounding season finale back in September, and you may recall we left on quite the cliffhanger! I was heading off to the PAX convention in Seattle to attend a bunch of panels, and secretly to interview for a new job, though you couldn't have known it at the time. Well, I mean, I did. But you didn't.

So many questions were left unanswered in that finale! Did I even make it to PAX? How did my panels go? Did I get reamed by EA's lawyers and cadre of PR thought police for saying things I shouldn't? Did any PAX attendees accuse me of being their father?

Well, now. Here we are with a brand new season, and like any truly annoying television show, I'm not even going to begin to answer any of those questions, other than to say that, yes, I made it to PAX, and yes, I *did* get that new job, which, ya know, is the real reason there's been a season break anyway! Funny how that happens! (And I was just kidding about EA. They were just peachy. Ya know. Relatively.)

So I work at PopCap now. My official title is Director of Editorial and Social Media. Though honestly we kind of made that up. I mean, I didn't replace anybody. We created the position 1) so that I could work there and 2) to hopefully add value in areas that PopCap is keen to explore. My love affair with PopCap is a long and very public one. I'd written about them numerous times at Computer Gaming World, and blabbed enthusiastically on various podcasts and video shows about my love of all things Bejeweled, Bookworm, Peggle, and, most recently, Plants Vs Zombies.

So it should come really as no surprise to anyone who's followed my career in either a stalker-like way or even in a casual, disinterested way that I should end up here. Humor-wise, I've always felt a deep affinity for PopCap. There's always been a subversive, wiseass quality about all their games, even if it isn't always readily apparent to some of their core demographic. Clearly those dayglo, Teletubby-like cute animals in Peggle aren't meant to be taken at face value---or are they? And the quality of their games has always spoken for itself. Back when I was still a civilian and had nothing invested in PopCap, career-wise, I argued on the Area 5 show, upon the release of PvZ, that it was time for the gaming industry to start thinking of PopCap like the best of the AAA developers---the Blizzards, Biowares, and Bungies---who consistently deliver quality product each and every time out of the gate. And that it was only PopCap's position as a "casual" game developer that prevented it. But the truth is, at this point, when a new PopCap game comes out, everybody that *I* know who is a gamer gets just as excited--and addicted--as with games that cost 3 times as much to buy and 100 times as much to make.

Anyway, yeah. I'm here now. And if I sound happy about it, well, yeah--you betcha. I am. And really, it's kind of like this: Fucking finally. Finally I'm at a place where I have nothing but respect for the people in charge, and finally I'm at a place where I feel like they "get" me and what I have to offer. Because I'll admit I was gun shy. At the end of the interview/hiring process, they were doing a hard sell on me. Because I was a bit loathe to take another game company job. I had a pretty sweet press job kinda/sorta/almost mine (though we hadn't gotten to a formal offer yet), and for awhile there I definitely thought that's the way I was going to go. "Back where I belong" as lots of folks were telling me. I'll tell you, at the end of my time at EA, I was practically dreaming about being back in the press, I wanted it so bad.

But, as much as I think that press job could have been great (and I guess we'll never know), I think my desire to get back was less about that than about my utter unhappiness amd wretched emotional condition to my then-current status. And I'm not going to start belatedly ragging on EA now, because, well, who cares? It's over. The thing is, it's not necessarily that anyone there did anything "wrong", it's just that, in retrospect, and from the position now of being at a place I actually fit in and like, it's clear how utterly mismatched and out of place I was there. It was just such the wrong environment for me, both on The Sims group and later in the online group, that the real lingering feeling that I have is one of anger at myself for stubbornly trying to make it work for so long. I was there for 2 years but should have bailed, seriously, after 2 months. Because I already knew. I just kept trying to convince myself that if I hung in there long enough, somehow things would turn around for me there. Kids, it really can't be said often and emphatically enough: Your gut is almost always right.

So now I'm at PopCap and I am fucking loving life. As I've said to friends and family, for awhile I kept waiting for a "shoe to drop" after I signed on. Like, okay, they SEEM cool, but, really, there's gotta be a bad side, right? But we're up to 2.5 months and I haven't had one single bad day--or hour, or meeting, or conversation--yet. Everyone is as cool on the inside as their games appear from the outside. This is why their games are cool.
The stress I feel now--and the reason this blog has been on hiatus---is the stress of wanting to give it my all and show them I am worthy of belonging. I've got my hands (and brains) in a dozen different projects, and they're all ones I *want* to be working on, and they're all with people I *want* to work with. Not many people ever get to say that, and lord knows, it's been a long time since I have. Some of these are just now starting to see the light of day, like the live videostreams I started doing, but mostly they're all works in progress still that I can't wait to reveal. But it's been draining--even physically, as I'm commuting weekly from Berkeley to Seattle and back---and it hasn't left me time for much else. I've wanted to give my all to a job that I'm truly thrilled to have.

I still am going to do that. But now that the dust has settled *a little* and I feel a bit more sure of myself (I had been telling my boss and others that I was like a battered dog for awhile, flinching and twitching until I was sure they weren't going to bite my head off every time I, say, posted a tweet), I am ready to cue up the theme music to this here blog o' mine (What is the theme song anyway? The Hustle? Mr Roboto? I'm open to suggestions.) I have a lot on my mind these days and more shit to get off my chest. So I hope you all have had as good a three months as I have since I last said hi here. Welcome to the new season!

Attention stalkers! PAX schedule updated!

2010-09-01T18:36:00.000-07:00

In about 13 hours I will be getting on a plane for Seattle, Washington in order to attend the Penny Arcade Expo (PAX) Prime convention. I like PAX. I am happy to be going. I am especially happy to be going this year as a "free agent," unencumbered with any actual work to do, which means I basically get to be a "fan" like everyone else, and look at and play games as I like. It's practically a vacation. Well, it would be a vacation if I had a job. But since I don't, I guess it's just....more days without work.

Huh. That's kinda depressing.

Err...anyway! Yeah. I just wanted to update my schedule here for friends, stalkers, and the like, in light of the Brodeo reunion cancellation (*sadface*). I'm showing up on a couple other panels now instead, so if you simply can't get enough of me (and, hey, I don't blame you! I can't get enough of me either!) I am providing you with this handy reference sheet. Please feel free to share this, post on bathroom walls, whatever. My bodyguards will keep you rabble away anyway.

Here's the new schedule:

Friday, 2:30 PM - 3:30 PM, Pegasus Theatre
1UP Alumni Impromptu Reunion
We spend a good deal of time sitting around drinking and remembering the good old days of 1UP (you know, way back in the mid-'00s?). A last minute cancellation opened up an hour in the panel schedule and we're ready to fill it...with beer and good times. We're inviting all of PAX to join us for a loving walk down memory lane. Cheers!
Panelists include: Jane Pinckard, Che Chou, Ryan O'Donnell, Andrew Pfister, Patrick Klepek, Karen Chu, Jeff Green, Garnett Lee, Cesar Quintero, Jason Bertrand, and maybe more!

Friday, 8:30 PM - 10:00 PM, Pegasus Theatre
Giant Bombcast Live!

I'll be joining the Bombcast dewds at *some* point for a special lil' segment along with my old pal Gary Whitta and one other GAMING INDUSTRY LUMINARY. This will either be great or a fucking nightmare.

Err, I guess the rest of my schedule hasn't changed. There's this one:

Saturday, 8:00 PM - 9:00 PM, Serpent Theatre
Twittering for the Man: Social Media & Game Publishers
Community managers have long been an asset to game developers -- but spokesgeeks for publishers? That's a fairly new one. Some of the biggest publishers are building direct lines of communication to their biggest fans and harshest critics, so GamePro�s editor-in-chief John Davison will ask some of the most well-known architects -- Microsoft's Larry "Major Nelson" Hryb, Activision's Dan "OneOfSwords" Amrich, EA's Jeff "Greenspeak" Green, and Sony's Jeff "JeffPS" Rubenstein -- to explain their unusual roles, carefully balanced between the fans and The Man. How much freedom do they have under a corporate umbrella? How much are they making it up as they go along? And how come none of them seem to do their jobs the same way? Their answers will Twitter your Facebook off. Or something.
Panelists include: Larry Hryb [Director of Programming for Xbox Live, Microsoft], Dan Amrich [Social Media Manager, Activision], Jeff Rubenstein [Social Media Manager, SCEA], Jeff Green [Editor-in-Chief, ea.com, Electronic Arts], John Davison [Editor-in-Chief, GamePro]

And this one!

Sunday, 12:30 PM - 1:30 PM, Serpent Theatre
Rookie Years: Stories from First Projects
How did you get that gig and what happens after you've landed your dream job? Julian Murdoch (Gamer's with Job's podcast) uncovers the stories of four new developers and their first projects. Developers including Jeff Green (Electronic Arts) and David Heron (Hothead) reveal their shared experiences, misconceptions, successes and failures. Audience questions will be answered.
Panelists include: David Heron [Game Designer, Hothead Games], Julian Murdoch [Founder, Gamer's with Jobs], Jeff Green [Electronic Arts]

Both should be LOLtastic.

See ya there, nerds!

love,
Jeff

A music post.

2010-08-29T19:38:00.000-07:00

Hi! So, over on The Twitter earlier, I mentioned, as I always do, that Amazon is having a sale on MP3s. A whole buncha albums for $5 each. Why do I do this? Is it because Amazon pays me a royalty fee when I pimp there site? Why, no, it's not! I get Jonathan Shit (that's the formal version) for doing it! Really, I just do it because I love music, I love deals on music, and I love sharing those deals with you, The People.

So Amazon has a deal every single day. It's called the Amazon Deal of the Day. They're so clever over there, with the naming and stuff. I guess that's why they got so big. Anyway, today's(Sunday's) daily deal is a group named Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros. I don't know shit about them, other than they look like one of them new breed of faux hippies that seem to be spreading over the indie scene like a bad case of dandruff. Not that I have a problem with hippies. Of course I don't. I live in Berkeley. I'm something of a stealth hippie myself, if you must know the truth. Anyway, I'm not going to buy the record, because it doesn't sound that interesting to me, even though, after watching a YouTube video by them, I've determined that the brunette female singer is totally adorable. But that's something that wouldn't really come through on my iPod, so fuggit. The point is, if you were the type who liked that band, the album is only $2.99. That is ridiculously cheap for an entire album. That's cheaper than they were when I was buying them in the 1970s, back when there were real hippies. So this is why I go to that site every day. Because of deals like this. If you like music, and you like music deals, you should go there too. Here's the link:

http://www.amazon.com/MP3-Music-Download/b/ref=sa_menu_dmusic2?ie=UTF8&node=163856011

Okay, so. In addition to the daily deals, Amazon also has monthly $5 deals. And this month they have 1,000 of them. Ay caramba. That's a lot of deals. I think we can all agree on that. A lot of them are just total no brainers if you don't own them already (like Radiohead's "OK Computer") so I'm not even gonna bother recommending those ones. You certainly don't need me to tell you that you should own OK Computer for $5, do you? Wait--I don't even want to know.

Here's some other no-brainers from that list, okay? Let's just pretend I didn't even bring them up, because I'm assuming you know this already:

Jimmy Hendrix's Band of Gypsys
Belle and Sebastian's If You're Feeling Sinister
Outkast's Stankonia
Air's Moon Safari

You could argue a whole bunch more out of that 1000 belong in the no-brainer category, I suppose. Or you could remove, say, Belle and Sebastian if you don't like twee stuff. Which is fine with me. This is a democracy after all. These are just suggestions.

Anyway, what I really wanted to do was just suggest a few that you may not know or otherwise find. The alt/indie rock and hiphop and electronica is all stuff that you hepcats are all familiar with anyway. I'm late-to-the-party on half that stuff anyway all the time, because I'm old that way. (But okay, get the Black Keys' Rubber Factory and Grizzly Bear's Veckatimest if you don't own 'em yet!)

So here's stuff that an old dude wants to recommend that you may not know. I swear by all of these. And if you buy them and they suck to you? Well, I guess you're out that money, which pretty much sucks for you. That's what you get for listening to the recommendations of a guy you don't even know! HA-ha!

Little Feat's Feats Don't Fail Me Now - Classic 1974 blues/funk/rock from an awesome white-boy blues/funk/rock band, led by Lowell George, who just absolutely killed on the slide guitar, and a rhythm section as tight as The Meters. If you like stuff like early Ry Cooder, you can't go wrong here.

Buzzcock's Singles Going Steady Essential, killer 1979 collection of singles from one of the great first English punk bands. Listening through a 21st century filter, it practically sounds like pop, it's all so catchy. So it's hard to remember that at the time this would have been impossible to hear on the radio because it was considered too "raw." And even though it's a compilations, every song is so damn perfect, and it's all sequenced so well, that it's considered by many to be one of the best punk rock albums ever. Including me.

John Coltrane and Johnny Hartman Coltrane at his most luscious and romantic and accessible, accompanied by the beautiful baritone voice of Hartman. Some may find it "corny," but, if so, I suggest you unsnark yourself from the age of irony and just listen. Coltrane's solos are masterpieces of understatement and control and emotion. When my wife and I got married, this was the first record we played at the wedding. It's music as love, love as music.

Art Blakey & the Jazz Messengers Moanin' It's hard to recommend jazz, mostly because most people don't like it, are unfamiliar with it, or don't know where to start. This is one of those great "starter jazz" albums, but that doesn't make it any less awesome than it is. Smoky, smooth jazz from 1958, Moanin' is quintessential "hard bop," the kind of jazz most people tend to think jazz is, and I'd contend that if you don't like this, you're probably never gonna get jazz at all (which is okay). The title track alone makes the whole damn record worth it--especially Lee Morgan's trumpet solo, which, when I first heard it, convinced me to put down the trumpet forever. And if you don't know what else to do when trying to listen to this record, hang on to Art Blakey's drumming, which drives this whole thing along with amazing force. (There's actually a bunch of great jazz on this list. Others I'd recommend: Grant Green's Idle Moments, Coltrane's The Ultimate Blue Train, Cannonball Adderley's Something Else, Lee Morgan's The Sidewinder.)

Rodrigo Y Gabriela's 11:11 You will not believe that this is just two acoustic guitars. Well, okay, minor exaggeration. You will believe it, you'll just be amazed and delighted that two acoustic guitars can kick this much ass. If you told me a year ago that one of my favorite records of the year would turn out to be from a Mexican flamenco duo, I would have coughed politely and then quietly taken leave of you. Now I try to push this one on everyone who will listen. Catchy, joyous, and technically mind-blowing.

So...that's it. And shit, what the hell do I know? Half my friends know more about music than me. I just make up this stuff as I go along. And I'm still learning and exploring too, and always will be, because music is one of the things I live for, that inspires me and informs everything I do.

Here's hoping some of this stuff does the same for you. Happy listening!

PAX Brodeo Reunion Canceled. Children (and Jeff) Weep.

2010-08-25T20:42:00.000-07:00

Hey guys. Just a semi-quick update for those who follow me but aren't hip to The Twitter: What the headline says. Sadly, we've had to cancel the GFW Radio Reunion panel that was to take place on Saturday night at the PAX expo in Seattle next week. And I promise that no one is more heartbroken over it than those of us in the group.

Unfortunately, it couldn't be helped. We tried. Oh boy did we try. There was an email thread that went on and on with lots of suggestions and sidebars and whining and cajoling. But the sad fact was that no amount of talk was going to change what had, unexpectedly, happened just two days ago: Two key members (and, hey, we're ALL key) of the Brodeo were suddenly not going to be able to attend the conference. For work reasons. Actually, I'm fudging the truth a little. One of them we knew about already. But that we knew months ago, and had a contingency for. So, at that point, the show was still going on. But when the second one dropped the other day, that effectively killed the panel. (And I'm not naming names because it really doesn't matter. It's just internal drama, but we're all still cool with one another. It was just one of those things, and I'd rather no one be the "bad guy." )

We contemplated doing it without those who couldn't attend. We contemplated getting substitutes. But this was my stance, and I was the first one to openly say, "I think we should cancel": My stance was that without all of us there, it's not a "reunion." One maybe, but not two. At that point, it was just going to be a gimped, compromised version of us, because it was the combination of personalities that made it what it was. And I didn't feel like substitutes would work either, because, again, it's a chemistry thing. And it didn't seem like that's what folks who would be standing in line would be thrilled to see. As I said to one of the Brodeo dudes in a private email, I said it would be like this: "Ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together and welcome to the stage Emerson, Lake, and Bernstein!" I decided it would be better to bite the bullet and wait until we could do it RIGHT, with all of us there. We never compromised ourselves when we did the podcast itself. I didn't want to start now.

So, there it is. To those of you who were looking forward to it, and/or who included this in your reasons for attending, you have my sincere apology. It just couldn't be helped. I do promise you we will do this again, hopefully at an upcoming PAX. And of course I'm still going to PAX, still appearing on the other panels mentioned one post down, and am probably going to drop in on a couple others I've now been invited to crash.

Really just a blip of a bummer in the grand scheme of things. Somehow I think we'll all manage to carry on and have a great PAX anyway. (And if you see me, you're required to say hello, ALRIGHT?)

Here's to a Brodeo Reunion 2011! Keep Hope Alive!

My PAX Prime Schedule!

2010-08-19T17:58:00.000-07:00

Okay, so, I'm posting this as much for myself as for anyone reads this. I don't want you think I have such a big head as to think my schedule is of grand interest to humanity at large. But in case you did want to stalk me, consider this a handy reference guide! You're welcome!

I'm appearing on three panels at the convention, which I'll list below. One is the second annual Brodeo reunion, and if you think you are looking forward to it, I'll take your enthusiasm and quadruple it. Cuz I lurv those guys and I miss talking with them. As was the case a year ago, this'll basically be the first time we're all back in the same room again talking. So whatever happens, I think we'll just be happy to be in each other's company again. The other two panels are somewhat related to my now-defunct EA jobs. One is about the whole "game publisher representative" thing that I tried and failed to do--but that others on the panel are doing a fine job of. So I will be there representing the What Not To Do point of view, I suppose. :) Good times. The third panel is with folks who switched from the journalism to development side, and that one should be lots of fun. It won't be a dish-dealing kinda thing, because, as I've already said, I'm not really interested in doing that, but it will be fun to relate some of the lessons I learned while in the Sims group.

More important than my dumb panels, however, is the show itself. Because PAX (both West and East coasts) is now my favorite convention to attend. Why? Because of you: The People. It is three days with the nicest, most enthusiastic horde of nerds you could ever hope to assemble. Being in that convention is like being Home. The one thing that everyone always comments on every PAX is just how dang *friendly* everyone is, despite the long lines and the fact that everything is packed to the gills. There's just a shared sense of camaraderie and belonging there, so much so that everyone takes the logistics and long waits in stride---usually with a Nintendo DS in hand.

This year, I'm looking forward to taking advantage of my newfound freedom to do what I usually never get to do: Walk around the show floor with impunity and play games. Yay! I have no official "work" agenda now other than to show up for my panels, leaving all the rest of the time wide open for me to dork around. And dork around I shall.

So, ya know, if you see me and recognize me, come say hi. I don't bite. MOST OF THE TIME.

Anyhoo, here's the schedule of my appearances, cut and pasted straight from the official PAX website!

Saturday, 8:00 PM - 9:00 PM, Serpent Theatre
Twittering for the Man: Social Media & Game Publishers

Community managers have long been an asset to game developers -- but spokesgeeks for publishers? That's a fairly new one. Some of the biggest publishers are building direct lines of communication to their biggest fans and harshest critics, so GamePro’s editor-in-chief John Davison will ask some of the most well-known architects -- Microsoft's Larry "Major Nelson" Hryb, Activision's Dan "OneOfSwords" Amrich, EA's Jeff "Greenspeak" Green, and Sony's Jeff "JeffPS" Rubenstein -- to explain their unusual roles, carefully balanced between the fans and The Man. How much freedom do they have under a corporate umbrella? How much are they making it up as they go along? And how come none of them seem to do their jobs the same way? Their answers will Twitter your Facebook off. Or something.

Panelists include: Larry Hryb [Director of Programming for Xbox Live, Microsoft], Dan Amrich [Social Media Manager, Activision], Jeff Rubenstein [Social Media Manager, SCEA], Jeff Green [Editor-in-Chief, ea.com, Electronic Arts], John Davison [Editor-in-Chief, GamePro]

Saturday, 9:00 PM - 10:00 PM, Unicorn Theatre
CGW/GFW Radio "The Brodeo" Reunion #2

CGW/GFW Radio "The Brodeo" Reunion #2: Even Eli Knows What That Means At PAX '09, Jeff Green (EA), Shawn Elliott (Irrational Games), Ryan Scott (GameSpy/Geekbox), Sean Molloy (former CGW/GFW editor) and Robert Ashley (alifewellwasted.com) assembled to relive the podcast glory days of CGW/GFW Radio "The Brodeo" in a rollicking (and often hilarious) panel that discussed the demise of Games for Windows: The Official Magazine, how they "stumbled" into writing for a magazine, why some articles never saw the light of day, personal anecdotes of PR gone very wrong, and diapered anime fans. Come see what dark corners of the Internet they explore this year!

Panelists include: Robert Ashley [alifewellwasted.com], Sean Molloy Ryan Scott [GameSpy/Geekbox.net], Shawn Elliott [Irrational Games], Jeff Green [EIC EA.com]

Sunday, 12:30 PM - 1:30 PM, Serpent Theatre
Rookie Years: Stories from First Projects

How did you get that gig and what happens after you've landed your dream job? Julian Murdoch (Gamer's with Job's podcast) uncovers the stories of four new developers and their first projects. Developers including Jeff Green (Electronic Arts) and David Heron (Hothead) reveal their shared experiences, misconceptions, successes and failures. Audience questions will be answered.

Panelists include: David Heron [Game Designer, Hothead Games], Julian Murdoch [Founder, Gamer's with Jobs], Jeff Green [Electronic Arts]

Hope to see ya there!

Where I'm At

2010-08-14T07:36:00.000-07:00

Well, first, I'm sorry it took *this* to get me back to my personal blog after a horrific 3-month absence. However, now that you know, maybe you'll understand *why* there's been a horrific 3-month absence. Because a cloud has been hanging over me for a long time. And it was seriously stifling both my creative instincts as well as my desire to empty my head in a public forum, as I am wont to do. I mean, if I can't speak openly and honestly on this page, then, what's the point? So I've been hibernating.

Anyway, yeah, if you don't follow Twitter--and, hey, I don't blame you, the thing is evil and should die--I've left EA. The details of the hows and whys and wherefores are mostly better left unsaid, for all sorts of reasons. But to get the one thing out of the way that everyone wants to know---did he quit or was he fired---the answer is: Kind of neither. The folks who run the website wanted to change directions. That direction didn't include the creation of original content. So my job description was changed. And since what I do best (well, other than play games, eat pizza, and lay on the couch and do nothing) is create content, it clearly was no longer the best fit for me. So I'm out.

But, again, who did what when and in what order is not necessarily important, and I've left with warm feelings and high regards for a great many of the people at EA that I've been lucky enough to work with. That place is just freaking loaded with talent and big brains at all levels of the company. Definitely some of the smartest and most creative people I've ever met or worked with. And I wish them all nothing but the best.

What I was trying to do at EA was something I truly believed in, and which I think companies are going to continue to do and get better at as this nascent "social media" thing progresses. My pal Dan Amrich over at Activision is already doing a better job than I was able to do, and I think as other companies get on board with the idea of More Transparency and Better Ways to Communicate With Their Audience, we'll see further cool developments and ideas. I had all sorts of bigger plans for ways to entertain from within the rubric of EA, and, hey, maybe those will still happen further down the line. I think I was probably pushing a little too hard for something that wasn't quite ready to happen yet.

So, to use a phrase I absolutely loathe: It is what it is. I'm not gonna slag on EA because they did what makes the best business sense for them right now, and, ya know, that's what it is: A business. And I had to do what's right for me because I am what I am: A doofus.

As for my next move, there's been lots of speculation, and lots of folks thinking I'm holding back on some kind of announcement, but the more mundane truth is that I actually don't fully know yet. I have at least one big pending possibility that I am in love with, and possibly one other after that. In the short run, I have one neat thing happening, which is that I've contracted to help write a (nonfiction) book in the next few months. And beyond that, I've been talking with all of your favorite game websites and magazines and already have more articles assigned than I can handle, and will probably be late on. Just like the old days! Yay! And I'll be doing a big round of podcasts, just to reconnect with that side of me--though if folks are expecting a big round of hate from me on my old employer, I'm going to disappoint. I'd rather just talk about fun stuff and happy stuff and the future.

I'm also going to use this bit of "down time" to do all those things that are hard to do when one is working full time at a big company. Such as: Spend more time with my wife/kid before school starts again. Get back into all my writing projects, which includes both this blog and my Cudgel of Xanthor novel, which is anxiously awaiting its first revision. Get my fat ass up and exercise more. Finish all these games I have sitting around. Spend time with friends again, who I have neglected for far too long.

Like I said when I left Ziff Davis, change is hard. And I'm really bad at it. (Thus my 17 years at Ziff.) Two years was far too little time at EA, and I'm filled with regret that I couldn't really get done what I wanted to do there. But maybe some other time. Because, like I said, I still like them a lot, and would pick up that mission again when we were all ready. In the meantime, all I can really do is look forward, push ahead, and strive for more. I have all sorts of things I still want to accomplish with my life and my talents. And I guess now is as good a time as any to get to it.

--Jeff

London Calling!

2010-05-22T06:47:00.001-07:00

In 1984, I was five years into an undergrad education at UC Berkeley, and still had no degree in sight. I was lost. I was heartbroken over a girl. I had no direction. My GPA was in the gutter and I didn't know why, or what I was doing. So I did what any red-blooded American would do: I ran away. I bought a Eurail pass and took off for Europe with my backpack, some clothes, a journal, and some music tapes for a few months. It was one of the greatest things I ever did.

I arrived in London in September 1984, soon to be 23 years old, and it was the first time I'd ever been out of the country. When I emerged from the Tube station in Piccadilly Circus, it was the first time I'd ever laid eyes on land or buildings or sky that was not part of the U.S. It was intoxicating. So much so, in fact, that I lost my camera right away, on that first day, in that first half hour. Which put all my romantic notions in check and reminded me again what a freakin' doofus I can be. It was just a minor setback.

I bought a new camera right away, and then set about exploring the city. And fell in love. I loved everything about it that was not the U.S. I loved everything about it that was not my life. I loved the accents, the clothes, the architecture, the atmosphere--even the weather. I loved the music in the record stores. I went to my first English pub and ordered a half-pint, only to be told by the bartender that that's not what men do, as he put a full Guinness in front of me. I met an expatriate American waitress in a cafe who said it was easy to get work and I should never go back. I read George Orwell's Down and Out in Paris and London and Henry Miller's Tropic of Cancer and felt more "European" for doing so. I bought a black overcoat and took my picture in front of the factory that's on the cover of Pink Floyd's Animals. I met other lost, excited, bewildered young travelers at the youth hostel for food and drink and random exploring. I met a Canadian woman in line at a phone booth, and she said to come with her and her English boyfriend to a pub, so I did. We played darts and got drunk, and then we piled into their VW bug and drove to Salisbury, where they said I could stay overnight with them at his parents' place. Except his parents didn't approve of them bringing home a drunk American kid, so I spent the night in the VW bug, freezing and drunk, and then had to take a bus back up to London the next morning where all my stuff was. I went to plays and museums and vintage shops and Indian restaurants. I bought U2's Unforgettable Fire on cassette tape and listened to it over and over in my hostel bed and on the buses. I read David Copperfield. I took a day trip to Brighton and sat on the beach and pretended I was a mod in Quadrophenia. It was all so romantic and silly and awesome. I wrote a line in my journal one night that was a direct quote from a David Byrne song: "There is nothing that is stronger than the feeling that you get when your eyes are wide open." It was me, alone, learning how to live.

I'm leaving for London tomorrow, 26 years later, a completely different person. I look back on that kid and I feel kinda bad for him, kinda embarrassed for him, but also with great fondness at the memories. That was just one stop on my four-month trip, but it was the beginning, and in many ways was the beginning of my adulthood and the person I became. It changed everything.

Now I'm a middle-aged dork representing a videogame company, and am traveling with my co-workers to do some filming, podcasting, and writing, in London just for a day, and then to Guildford for the rest of the week. It's so odd to me that for all the traveling I've done over the years, I've never once been back to London, except as a stopover. And though I only get one day in the city, I'm looking forward to coming up the Tube station, just like my earnest and naive and much skinnier younger self did 26 years ago, and marvel at the sights and sounds of London.

O The Books I Haven't Read!

2010-05-07T13:23:00.000-07:00

Hi guys! Wassup? We all know what I haven't been doing, so we won't even go there, sister, but one thing I can tell you that I *have* been doing a lot lately--due to a springtime hibernation mode--is reading. I was reading so much, in fact, that I decided to get hip with the Internet thing and sign up over at Goodreads. Just so I could start tracking stuff, and just be all anal about everything. You know, the way geeks do. And I gave you that link there so you can be friends with me there. Go ahead! Be not shy! I shall accept your friendship, and we shall talk about books, and all shall be good.

So, as I was adding books to my collection, and looking through others, and, while simultaneously looking at books that my kid is reading in school this year, I realized something quite shocking: There are a whole bunch of classics I've never read. Okay, maybe it's not shocking at all. I suppose it's true for a great many of us. Still, I like, in general, to think of myself as "well read," given that I've been steadily reading since, well, I learned how to read. And ya know, I was an English major at UC Berkeley. That was four (okay five) years of reading right there. But once I started making a list of those classics that we've supposedly all read, I realized how many I missed. This is just off the top of my head (there are many more):

Jeff Green's Pile of Shame
Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (now read)
The Catcher in the Rye (reading now)
Moby Dick
The Grapes of Wrath
War And Peace
East of Eden
A Tale of Two Cities
Les Miserables
Most of Hemingway
...and this is not to mention all sorts of old Greek stuff, etc (though I did read the Iliad, Odyssey, and Aeneid.)

Really, this list could go on and on. I think what I've been most bummed about is the American classics I've missed, especially Huckleberry Finn, which is what started this whole "I can't believe I haven't read that" thing in the first place. I've spent a whole lot of time reading humorists and other funny/satirical writers (Flann O'Brien, Bill Bryson, Terry Pratchett, Douglas Adams, etc etc, but to have missed out on this book, and on Mark Twain in general, feels like such a gigantic fail. And now that I've read Huckleberry Finn, the fail is even more confirmed: It's a masterpiece, genuinely laugh-out-loud funny in places and an absolute triumph of a unique, sustained, unreliable narrator voice. Yeah, I agree with the general consensus that the last section with Tom Sawyer gets fairly insufferable, but there is so much that is so good up until that point, that, for me anyway, all is forgiven. That he wrote this over 100 years ago and still is as biting as ever makes it--like Don Quixote, another comic classic--genius in its timeless portrayal of human behavior in all its clueless, hapless indignity.

Interestingly, from here I've gone straight to Catcher in the Rye, and without ever having taken a course on either book or read one hifalutin' academic treatise on the subject, the link between Huck Finn and Holden Caulfield is palpable and obvious. What I wasn't expecting out of this book, since all I knew about it was that it's the bible of teen angst, is how damn funny it is, too.

In fact, though I'm beating myself for not having read these when younger, I think the greater truth is that I'm glad I'm reading them now, in my 40s, when it's a matter of choice, rather than a forced class assignment, with no one telling me how I should think or feel, or Why These Books Are Important. Also, I've just lived a lot more life myself. I can differentiate and appreciate better between what Huck and Holden are saying, and what the authors are saying about what they're saying. Reading reader comments about Catcher in the Rye, I see so many complaints about how unpleasant and screwed up Holden is, how he is not some kind of arbiter of cool teen angst, but all I can see is, well, yes, of course, because Salinger doesn't see him that way either. Is it not clear, from somewhere around page 3, that this kid is writing from some kind of loony bin/retreat, that his life has completely broken down? It's the very definition of an unreliable narrator. So though Holden makes us laugh, though we can cheer on his cutting dismissal of phonies and hot shots, the fact is, he's a mess, he's pathetic, and he's completely in denial of his own misery.

But, hey. Now I'm writing an English paper. Yikes. SCREW THAT. All I wanted to report here was how much I am enjoying my belated foray into the American classics. I've got two sitting on my nightstand coming up next: The Grapes of Wrath, and Faulkner's Light in August. All I've read of Steinbeck is Of Mice and Men. Faulkner, I'm a tad better on, having read a few in college, as well as The Unvanquished a few weeks ago. But I'm looking forward to continuing on.

And don't worry, I'm not forsaking my geeky and/or lowbrow reading! If I can't quite muster up the energy to go straight into Steinbeck, I may sneak in Jim Butcher's first book in the Dresden series, or maybe Naomi Novik's His Majesty's Dragon. I will always be "slumming." Right now, though, I'm enjoying the meatier stuff. It's coinciding well with my hibernation, my feeling of needing to regroup and reassess before going forward with my life.

Now all I need is a desert island, and an endless supply of coffee, and I could just read for the rest of my days.

Randomness.

2010-03-21T11:40:00.000-07:00

Hi! So, guess what? I don't have any overarching theme or anything to lecture you about today. Yay! So you don't have to worry about any righteous moralizing about motorcycling, or any overly self-obsessed navel-gazing. Frankly, I JUST DON'T HAVE TIME FOR THAT TODAY.

1) Birthday party for 20-year old twins (friends of the family) soon.
2) Humongous Cal-Duke game today in NCAA tourney.
3) Desire to finish Dragon Age: Origins so I can move on to Awakenings.
4) Need to start playing still-unfinished new Sims 3 expansion cuz they asked me for feedback.
5) Need to plow through more episodes of Breaking Bad season 2, since season 4 starts tonight.

Good god that is a lot to deal with on a Sunday!

First, just in case I run out of time here, and in case you don't follow me on Twitter, I need to repost a photo I took yesterday at the Berkeley Marina that I am extremely proud of. Maybe it's just me. You may think it's stupid. That's okay. It's still making me laugh. The Berkeley marina is a very popular place for kite flying, and with Spring now fully in effect, the kite fliers were out in force yesterday. Occasionally, you see folks manning these humongoid, balloon-type kites, which are awesome to look at even if there doesn't seem to be much point to them. Oh wait--the point is that they're awesome to look at. Right. Anyway. While rounding the bend along the marina walking path with my little dog, Mila, we came upon one of these humongoid balloon-type kites, which was essentially a giant, floating lookalike to Mila. So, quick-thinking chap that I am, I crouched down to dog level and snapped this shot:

My dog contemplates boarding the mothership.

I just like it. Sue me.

TV UPDATE: Breaking Bad might just be the best show on TV right now. I'm LTTP myself--just catching up on Season 2 on Netflix now, as Season 3 starts tonight--but I am in love with it. Bryan Cranston is an acting powerhouse on this show--pathetic, sad, funny, desperate, angry, sarcastic, bitter, devious, scared--and if you know him only from Malcolm in the Middle, prepare to be blown away. The plot is like a darker version of Weeds : Milquetoast, browbeaten high-school chemistry teacher finds out he has incurable cancer, and, in attempt to earn money for his pregnant wife, and son (w/cerebral palsy), hooks up with a lowlife former student to become...a crystal meth dealer. It's as sad and depressing as that sounds, yes, but it is also very, very funny at times (the creator, Vince Gilligan, said in one interview I saw that you really could see the show as "a comedy"), and is also scary as HELL, quite often. The first few episodes of Season 2, in fact, is some of the most terrifying TV I've seen in years--truly. The wife and I watched every minute in edge-of-the-seat dread. Just the extent to what the writers put this poor guy through, and watching him try to extricate himself, is exhausting and agonizing but extremely entertaining, if you like that kind of thing. And I do. A lot. And on top of everything else, the cinematography of the show, which takes place in New Mexico, is just gorgeous, every episode. I highly recommend it if you haven't watched yet. Just be forewarned, there is some gruesome, awful stuff in this show, both in terms of physical *and* emotional violence. (Also still digging Damages, keeping my hopes up that Lost will deliver, and marveling at how damn funny Ugly Betty has been in its final *sob* episodes).

Books: Finished Kurt Eichenwald's The Informant, which was fascinating--though it's quite amazing how faithful Steven Soderbergh's movie was. I saw the movie first, and wanted to get more insight out of the book, but, actually, the movie covered it all well enough. Now I'm contemplating returning to Patrick Rothfuss' The Name of the Wind, which has been the "it" book of the fantasy genre for awhile now--except I'm a tad fantasy'ed out right now, still. I have something like 30-40 unread books at home that I've bought (a horrible habit of mine--I just buy and buy), so I'm gonna sift through those to see if there's something that grabs me: LeCarre maybe? Not sure. I need something to keep me entertained during the long flight and back to PAX in Boston later this week.

Speaking of which: PAX East! Boston! I'm going to be there! Yay! I'm moderating one panel and speaking on two others, which, as far as I'm concerned, is a bit of overexposure, frankly, but what the heck. I will do my best to entertain, even if it means throwing in a little juggling or soft-shoe dancing. You can find the full schedule here if ya like--the one I'm moderating is the very first one listed. If you happen to be at the show, by all means say hi! I only bite Nazis.

Okay: the bday party beckons. I am off. Hope y'all are having a happy Sunday.

--Jeff

Self-Evaluation

2010-03-14T17:20:00.000-07:00

It's "self-evaluation" time again at Electronic Arts, a formal process undertaken by all employees, no matter where you fall on the org chart, in which you must go over your responsibilities, goals, and effort of the past 12 months, and judge how well you feel you did. You also must solicit the opinion of a number of your peers as well, who will fill out a separate form and submit that as well. Eventually, I guess, the managers do something with all that information--and in the edge cases probably determine raises/promotions....and firings.

So I'm doing mine now--on the last day they're due, of course--and it's an odd one for me. Because in the past 12 months, the first 8 of those were still with The Sims group; only the last 4 have been as editor-in-chief of EA.com. The oddness comes from the fact that it seems like a lot longer than that. Two-thirds of the year in which I'm self-evaluating come from a job I'm no longer at, doing something I no longer do, and am quite likely never to do again. And because this form only really is only for my current manager, those 8 months aren't all that relevant to him either (and that's not just my speculation about the matter--he told me as much.) But, then, if I really only have to consider the previous 4 months....well...that's not a lot to go on. And I'm not sure how thrilled I am with my performance. Yet.

One thing I can say: It's been a tough transition for me out of the press and into this side of the biz. On the whole, I have learned a *ton*, and for that alone this has been an amazing life experience. And I've met all sorts of great people, both in The Sims group and in my new job, that have helped make me feel "at home" in what for me is a totally different world than the one I spent my 20s and 30s (and, heck, over half of my 40s) in. Even though I decided that it wasn't quite working for me with The Sims group, I did have moments of great creative challenge and satisfaction: working on the initial design of SimAnimals Africa, writing up sample puzzles, writing dialog and text for MySims Agents, collaborating with artists and engineers on gameplay features.

All of this and more was fascinating and rewarding in and of itself--it was just that in the grand scheme of things, I felt it was just going to take far, far too long for me to "prove" myself with this group, and to have the self-confidence on my own, to get the kind of responsibility I was hoping for in my head, before I took the job. It was no one's fault, and there are no hard feelings, which is why I'm still pals with the folks in that group. It's just probably something I should have thought of doing 20 years ago. As it was, it wasn't really benefiting anyone--not me, not the Sims group, not EA, not gamers--that I was essentially discarding 17 years of journalism experience to become a junior apprentice designer/producer (and one with no technical training, besides).

I've written about my transition to EA.com before, so there's no real need to rehash it here, other than to say: I pitched this job. It was born of my desire to apply the skills, experience, and talent I had from my days at CGW/GFW/1up to something new at EA, something that made sense for all of us. As soon as it crossed my mind that I could do this stuff for EA--host a podcast, write articles, dream up other content around EA games that the community might dig to read, watch, and listen to--I knew it was the right move, and I was thrilled to make the transition.

I still am. The thing is, it's just hard. Making this transition, and doing this job for the past four months, has turned out not to be the great deus ex machina for me, or The Answer To Everything...but simply another beginning. Doing this self-evaluation now, I realize I have a long, long way to go before I will feel like I've accomplished what I envisioned in my mind. I've put a couple pieces into play now--the EA Podcast, the Mailbag, a "voice" on blogs and Twitter and elsewhere--but this is so just the tip of the iceberg that it's both personally frustrating and disappointing to me that this is all I've done. I know, it's only four months. In the grand scheme of things, that's not a long time. It's just that I can see in my head where I want it to be, and it's just not remotely close yet. (I should be clear, here, I suppose, that I'm not looking for either validation or pity. I'm just putting my feelings into this blog post as a way of coming around to this dang evaluation form I gotta turn in soon. You are drive-by witnesses to my self-reflection.) I'd like to write a sterling evaluation of myself, but all I can see is what I haven't done yet. On the other hand, I *do* know what I *want* to do, and feel confident in my ability to do it. So I'm going to let that count for something.

Honestly, I'm enjoying the challenge of kinda "forging new ground," both for myself and EA, but it's certainly weird ground, too. At the Game Developer's Conference this week, I realized just kind of how in my own No Man's Land I really am. I weaseled my way into getting a press pass, but, that's the thing--I had to weasel my way into getting one. I'm not press anymore. But I'm not a "game maker" anymore, either. Nor am I in PR or marketing, though I suppose those are closer to what I'm doing. But not actually being part of those departments means I'm not part of *that* community either. I have an awesome partner in managing editor and podcast cohost Samantha LaPerre--thank god, or I'd be going insane by now--but it still feels a little like we're in a rowboat, in the middle of the ocean, with nothing but a Bic lighter to help illuminate the way ahead.

But: Forge ahead we shall! I just hope in the year ahead that I can make EA.com, and my job there, somehow equal to the ideas in my head, and worthy of folks' (and EA's) time and attention.

Angstily yours,
Jeff

The Motorcycle Diaries, Pt III: Lanesplitting

2010-03-06T17:40:00.000-08:00

In honor of the great big orange ball in the sky, which finally made an appearance again this week after being stuck behind rainclouds for what feels like months (and, yes I know, I'm in California and have no right to complain about the weather, let's just move on), I am focusing my steely-eyed (okay, no, actually extremely nearsighted) gaze today on the subject of motorcycling.

This is not me, nor my bike, but I kinda wish it was.

Not that I haven't been riding, even given the crappy weather. Because we only have one car, and because my job is 35 miles from my home, and because the public transportation system does not easily accommodate my particular commute, I take the motorcycle pretty much every day, unless the rain is just *so* bad that to do so would just be insane. But I have ridden in the rain quite a bit this winter. As an experience I would rate it someplace on the scale between Pretty Shitty and Remarkably Unpleasant. I mean, even with raingear on, it's just not fun. The roads are slick, I'm even *less* visible than in normal weather, and, ya know, there's no windshield wipers on motorcycle helmets. So the choice, regarding the latter problem, is to either constantly wipe the water away with one of my gloved hands, or to keep the helmet partially open--which then leaves my face exposed to the rain. Overall, though some folks claim to love riding in the rain, I think the sealed metal cage/heater/car stereo of a good ol' car really just trumps the motorcycle in inclement weather. Sorry, hardcore biker dudes! But, hey, I *do* ride in it. In fact, on most rainy days, my bike is guaranteed to be one of the only ones in the EA lot. Everyone else is either a lot smarter, or just has that spare car to use.

But here's how I meant to start off this blog. I just remembered. I was going to start off with this question:

"Are you one of those crazy motorcyclists who zip in and out between lanes all the time? Because that just makes me so mad and seems so dangerous!"

This question, and variations of it, might be the number one question I get when I tell people I ride. And the answer is that, yes, yes I am one of those crazy motorcyclists who do that. Because, really, if you're not doing that, you're missing half the glory (well, when we're talking about urban commutes, anyway) of riding in the first place. We don't have to be stuck in traffic.

CalTrans put these signs up recently. Lanesplitting bikers rejoiced heartily!

The first thing to know about lanesplitting (or lanesharing, which is the now more politically correct term to use, for motorcyclists who are trying to educate the non-riding public on the practice), is that it is perfectly legal in California. This doesn't really matter a whole lot when it comes to the safety issues, which I'll get to in a minute, but it is still important to note, since many drivers just assume that motorcyclists are doing something "wrong" when they're doing it. (In fact, just last night, I lanesplitted right behind a motorcycle cop for about 10 miles). It may annoy you, and seem "unfair" somehow, when you're stuck in gridlock or stop-and-go traffic, and you see a motorcycle coming up between two lanes, but, legally, it's pretty much a Tough Shit situation for ya, my friend. You can get a bike yourself if you want to avoid the traffic.

This is why it makes me laugh whenever I see a car or truck decide, for some idiotic reason, that they want to "block" me as they see me coming from behind between lanes--moving over so I can't pass. I assume that it's some kind of misguided righteousness: "He can wait his turn, like me!" Whatever the reason, that person is in the wrong. And, of course, they're going to lose that battle anyway, because all I have to do is go around the other way, which I do every single time, losing not even 2 seconds in the process.

You may wonder why this motorcycle practice is legal. In fact, the reason is not only sound, but I am grateful for it every day---and yes, from a safety standpoint, not just for the convenience of it. The main reason, as I understand it, is that the California Highway Patrol simply wishes that motorcycles keep moving when on the highway. Think about it. In a crawling, stop-and-go, or completely stopped traffic situation, the chances of rear-end collisions, fender-benders, etc always goes up. And who is going to get it the worst if one occurs? The unprotected sitting duck on the motorized bike, that's who. We are allowed to keep moving so that we don't get hit. It's really as simple as that.

I'll acknowledge what some of you are thinking: There are tons of terrible, assholish, irresponsible lanesplitters on the road. Just as there are with automobile drivers, there are motorcyclists who are just far too aggressive and thoughtless, putting both themselves and everyone else around them on the road in danger. Believe me, I get it. A few of those dudes pass me every day too. (I just move to the inside of the lane and wave them on to pass me). They lanesplit too fast and they cut it too close. When I see these guys (and inevitably, it's guys), all I can think is, "your time will come."

Here's me on my normal daily commute!

I do not know exactly what the law is, if any, regarding the speed that lanesplitters may travel, but I do know that, unofficially, the accepted wisdom is that you go no more than 10-15 mph at most above the current flow of traffic. That means if it's at a dead stop on the freeway, you should be lanesplitting at about 10 MPH. Why? It's obvious. You need enough reaction time when (forget "if") a car in either of the lanes you're splitting doesn't see you and tries to change lanes right into you. How often will something like this happen? Try every day. My bike is big enough and loud enough (with the standard pipes) that most drivers can hear me coming, but that's not even remotely a guarantee of safety. Every day someone will change lanes while I'm splitting, because they don't see me.

Here's the thing though, and this is the key to all successful motorcycle riding: We see you. That's all that a motorcyclist (well, a smart one, anyway) is doing on the road: watching and reacting. When I took the Motorcycle Safety Class way back, we were preached the gospel of the SIPDE system: Scan, Identify, Predict, Decide, Engage. This is what we're doing over and over, every second, while riding. Every second I'm on the bike is spent doing everything I can to stay alive. And to lanesplit without getting bashed means that you have to be going slow enough to be able to hit those brakes if someone a car length ahead starts moving into the lane.

It's not foolproof, of course. The one accident I've had so far, years ago, on a different bike, was for this very thing: A guy (on his cellphone) merging right into me from the right. I had done everything I could in advance. I was in full-on SIPDE mode, too. In Scanning and Identifying, I'd seen the guy on his phone ahead of me. Person on cellphone always = "get away from this person." The Predict phase is, "this asshole won't see me because he's yapping on the phone, and will therefore merge into me." So, that night, at that instant, I Decided and Engaged my split-second decision: Hit the accelerator and get past him, quickly. But I wasn't quick enough. He did, in fact, merge without looking, and his left front bumper hit my right wheel--I'd almost made it. Miraculously, I didn't get hurt or even fall over, but the bike itself was totaled. (And after I got a new bike, I was scared off of lanesplitting for awhile, until I couldn't take it anymore.)

The fact is, if you are on a motorcycle, it is just a glorious thing to be able to do. I save myself an insane amount of time every day by doing it. As I zip through the lanes, past the crawling parking lot of frustrated drivers, I thank Xanthor every day that I have this way out. Even when traffic is moving, the ability to lanesplit will allow me to get past incredibly annoying situations, like, most often, the selfish or obtuse dillweeds going too slow in the fast lane, not moving over to the right, and thereby backing up the highway for miles. This is something else I see nearly every day. I'll be lanesplitting through crawling traffic, wondering if there's an accident ahead, or if it's just a bad, crowded day, only to get to the head of the clump of cars and see a completely open highway, but no one able to go fast because some moron is going 50 in the fast lane. Thankfully, I can zip right around him--but I sure feel sorry for all the drivers stuck behind him. (And it makes me think, every single time, that the CHP oughta ticket those folks sometimes for impeding the flow of traffic.) On the autobahn in Germany, those people would seriously just get run off the road. If there's one thing the Europeans definitely have over Americans, it's the fundamental understanding that the left lane is for passing . And if someone comes up on your ass behind you in that lane, you don't be a dick or righteous Keeper of the Speed Limit---you just move the fuck over.

Fahr'n fahr'n fahr'n auf der Autobahn

So: I love lanesplitting. To keep myself honest and aware of the dangers, though, I've made myself watch some scary, nasty videos. And I make myself read every single news article when yet another rider goes down, often when they were lanesplitting. It's a constant reality check. Another thing I do, which I got inspired from doing on a motorcycle forum I hang out at, is I imagine that there are photos of my wife and kid on my handlebars. This has stopped me more times than I can count from taking that chance, and just being patient instead. Because the temptation is constant. "Can I squeeze between those two trucks? Because if I do, it'll be clear sailing, I can see it.") It's just not worth it. If I just sit back and relax, a better moment will come. There's simply no place for impatience on a motorcycle. I've had it, believe me, and I usually end up regretting it every time. Not because I've hurt myself, or hit anything, or anything physically bad whatsoever, but just because, in the end, I know I've saved myself, what, a couple seconds? But had it not gone my way, well, who knows what horrible consequence could have happened? I'm making literally hundreds of split-second decisions every single time I ride. I'm not happy with every one of them every time, but I do my best to keep in mind that, in the end, getting to where I'm going alive is the one thing that matters most.

Does all this seem stressful to you? It is, but it isn't. Think of it like skiing, if you've done that. 99% of the time you are just having a kickass great time. It's fun, it's a thrill, it makes you happy. At the same time, you are concentrating intently on getting down that mountain without breaking your head open. Even if you're a veteran and it's all second nature to you and you aren't consciously thinking about it, your every microsecond is also spent--while having a grand ol' time--making one decision after another with your body. It's the same thing on a motorcycle. For me, for those who ride, it is just a constant thrill and source of happiness. But with great power....well, you know the rest.

Ride safe,
Jeff

In Which Our Hero Checks In Again. (Also: The Year of Film, Part 2!)

2010-02-28T16:56:00.000-08:00

Wow--I made it at the last minute! Had I not posted today, then the entire month of February would have gone blogless. So sad. When you combine that with no Out of the Game podcasts in months, it would appear that I have gone dark on you people. However, if you do feel that way, then I submit that you haven't been paying attention! Because I have been very busy and prolific, albeit elsewhere than my usual haunts, like this here home of mine on the Internet.

I know that none of us, including me, particularly like blog posts apologizing for not blogging, so, I'm not doing that. However, some acknowledgment is still in order. Why? Because I need to confront a weird demon: For the last few weeks, I've had an outright *aversion* to this page. When I accidentally clicked on it a couple times, I immediately navigated away rather than have to look at it. Baffling. Upon analyzing the situation, though, I realize that while this may have been partly a matter of guilt--my standard emotional response--it, in fact, was maybe more a matter of being stretched too thin lately.

Forget Twitter. That's not the issue. The issue is more that I've been trying to step up my efforts lately in blogging at my workplace, ea.com, as well as spending a lot of my time when not blogging sitting in meetings, composing emails, talking to folks ABOUT issues around blogging, social media, etcetcetc. I spoke at a conference about it a little while ago, and I have two more speaking engagements coming up at PAX East in Boston in a few weeks. The point is: I've been a bit tapped out. While I had been kind of informally blogging here on the weekends, over the last few weekends, I have felt the need to tune out entirely. Just: not write. And not be online much.

This was the third weekend in a row--it's now Sunday evening at 5--in which my time was mostly divided between reading (right now I'm plowing thru Kurt Eichenwald's The Informant, an awesome account of the 1990's ADM price-fixing scandal, which then became last year's movie w/Matt Damon...), playing Dragon Age on the PC, and watching movies, both with the family and on my own on Netflix Watch Instantly. In short, I've been hibernating.

Anyway, there's a lot of shtuff I could yabber on about here--like my recent 12 pound weight loss--but instead, before it gets completely out of hand, I will attempt to catch up, somewhat, on my Year of Film mission, which I am hopelessly behind on documenting. In fact, I know I can't date stamp it anymore, which kinda blows in terms of anality. And I know I'm going to forget a couple here and there. And the writeups are going to be perfunctory. But still. THE HISTORY MUST BE RECORDED.

In no order than what pops into my head, here's what I've seen since last we met:

Harlan County USA - An absolutely riveting documentary on the 1973 coal miner's strike in Kentucky. Maybe one of the best documentaries I've ever seen. And if the topic sounds "boring" to you, I guarantee you it is as suspenseful as any fictional thriller, right down to having one of the creepiest "bad guys" in film history. (You'll know him when you see him--he actually pulls a gun on the filmmaker--a woman.)

Big Fan Not what I expected--but not bad. I was thinking it'd be more funny than sad, since it stars stand-up comic Patton Oswalt and was written/directed by a guy from The Onion, but this story of a grown-up obsessed with the New York Giants, who then gets beaten up by one of the guys on the team, is kinda heavy--reminding me of Frederick Exley's great hilariously pathetic memoir, A Fan's Notes.

Brick -- Very very clever mashup of detective/film noir style/dialog within the confines of a high school story. All the kids sound like they walked right out of a Philip Marlowe novel. I liked it, but didn't fall in love with it like some folks. It never moved beyond feeling more like a stunt than anything else, really. Still, some scenes are just terrific. Like the hardboiled "tough guys" all sitting around the kitchen table, while mom serves them food. Worth seeing on novelty value alone.

Enron: The Smartest Guys in the Room - No-nonsense but thorough and devastating account of the Enron scandal. If you need more reason to hate on wealthy, white corporate execs getting rich of the suffering of others, here's your movie. By the time it ends, you're ready to fry these guys alive. Or dead, in Ken Lay's case.

Crips and Bloods: Made in America - Another documentary, though I was a bit more "meh" on this one, which surprised me, being an LA native. The movie does a good job of tracing the social conditions/racism/economic realities that led to the rise of the gang culture in LA, and the early footage/info on the earliest gangs is interesting stuff. However, I was disappointed that the movie didn't really get much into the rivalry of the two gangs, which itself is so tragic and pointless--and the movie does get a bit bogged down in endlessly repeating the "it's not their fault, they were born into it" mantra. (True or not, it just makes the film feel more defensive than anything else.) Still, some pretty cool archival footage if ya like that kind of thing.

Cool Hand Luke And now for something completely different. My god, what an awesome movie. At the end of it, it led me to tweet, "What happened to all the 'man's man' movies?" Because, seriously, they don't make them like this anymore. Just a great, balls-out adventure story, with beautiful performances by he-men Paul Newman and George Kennedy, as fellow lowlifes on a chain gang, along with great turns by Harry Dean Stanton and Strother Martin and others. Just one classic scene after another, with a great musical score and that now-gone 60s undercurrent of "fuck The Man" anti-establishment vibe that Hollywood was in love with at the time. (The heroes are the crooks on the chain gang; the bad guys are those in authority. See also: Bonnie and Clyde,, Easy Rider, and One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, to which this really has a lot in common..) Overall, though, it's just fantastically entertaining--a suspenseful, funny, poignant, action-filled adult drama that seems impossible to imagine being made today.

A Serious Man - Took me awhile to get to the latest Coen Brothers movie, but OMIGOD, what was I waiting for? Goes way high up on the list for me, along with Big Lebowski (of course), Miller's Crossing, and Fargo. I don't think you had to grow up as a Jew in the 60s to appreciate it, but it sure didn't hurt. As usual for the Coen Bros, the film *looked* beautiful, and every bit of casting, down to the smallest part--like the beleaguered faculty member always leaning in Larry's doorway, and, best of all, the insidious "friend" Sy--was inspired genius. Probably my favorite movie of the year now, after The Hurt Locker.

Speaking of which, I finally saw Avatar--and hey, I didn't hate it! Sorry, I know that in the Geek World I was supposed to see this on opening day and love it, but I could never get past the feeling that it was more tech demo than movie. The fact that most people who saw it early defended it by saying, "well, yeah, sure, the story sucks, but it LOOKS amazing!" only really confirmed that for me. If the story sucks---why do I want to see it exactly? But, hey, I finally succumbed, and did it full on--IMAX 3D--and, yes, it is quite the amazing spectacle. As an amazing spectacle, I was thoroughly entertained. Just like I am when I go on Disneyland rides. And just like on those rides, I know that I'm being manipulated, that it's all technology--but it's manipulation and technology in the service of mass entertainment, and, ya know, I'm okay with that. Truly, it was a marvel to look at. I was never bored. I knew exactly where the story was going and how it would end the entire time, and yet I didn't really care. For the time I was in the theater, I was glad I was there. Will I ever see it again? No. Do I think it will hold up in years to come on a TV screen? No. But as An Event, I was happy to take part in it. And when it wins Best Picture, I still won't think it deserves it, but I'll understand more why it did, and won't begrudge it.

And, to catch me up to last night, the only movie on this list actually watched with my daughter: Hamlet, the 1990 version with Mel Gibson, Glenn Close, and Helena Bonham Carter, cuz the kid is studying the play in school, and, hey, Gibson actually doesn't embarrass himself! Zeffereli doesn't do anything radical with the play, but it's a fine mainstream interpretation, and Gibson handles the soliloquies really nicely. I never did like the Olivier version, just because it's so freakin' reductive of Shakespeare's text ("this is the story of a man who can't make up his mind"= ORLY?), and so was glad we saw this one. Others have since pointed out to me the more complete and faithful Branagh version, as well as the recent BBC one with Patrick Stewart, so, duly noted. It's just too bad Kurosawa never tackled this one, though, because both Throne of Blood and Ran are two of my favorite Shakespeare movies ever. Just think of Toshiru Mifune as Hamlet, with samurai swords! It'd be a better world today if that had happened.

Okay, so we're mostly caught up now. Unless I forgot something. I'll think on it.
And this starts and concludes my blogging for February.

Bring on March!

Tomato On a Stick

2010-01-18T10:28:00.001-08:00

One of the most off-putting questions I ever get as a dad is when someone, upon seeing my daughter, says to me, "Where did she get her red hair?" The question in and of itself is a fair one, and not off-putting at all, on the face of it. But to me it is, personally, because, as long as I've been alive, I have always identified myself as a redhead. So every time I hear the question, part of me can't understand where it's coming from. Until I look in the mirror, and am reminded that the current reality no longer matches what my brain perceives as "the truth."

Hair color is on my mind today for two reasons: One because I just finished Malcolm Gladwell's great essay in What the Dog Saw called "True Colors," which discusses the changing Madison Avenue slogans of women's hair color products as reflective of and contributing to the attitudes and psyches of 20th century women (from "does she or doesn't she?" to "because I'm worth it"). The other reason is because my kid, the flaming redhead, had a bunch of her friends over for a study group today, and three out of five of them were also redheads, which, given the statistics, is just kinda crazy.

But what's on my mind in particular is my own hair color, and how it has changed, and changed my own psyche, over the course of my 40+ years. Because when you have flaming red hair, as I did all the way up until my early 20s, when it mysteriously started to turn brown, it is an identifier (some might call it a stigma, others might call it a blessing) that you are stuck with, that defines, to some extent, who you are. I had the added fun, too, of having a last name that was also a color, so "Red Green" or "Jeff Red" and so on was my particular stoopid cross to bear.

Though I recall getting compliments on it from adult females at the time ("Oh my god I'd pay to have hair that color!"), that didn't really do much to appease my young and adolescent self when all I really wanted to do was fit in and not feel like a freak. I imagine it is probably worse for redheaded boys than girls. Or it was, anyway. I get the feeling now, in the more enlightened 21st century, where kids have all sorts of ever-changing hair color, that maybe it doesn't matter as much now. Or at least here in Berkeley it doesn't. All I know is at the time I hated it. It didn't help, either that I grew up in Los Angeles, where the pale skin that goes with the red hair further separated me from the Tan and Beautiful. "A tomato on a stick" is one of my asshole adolescent "friends" called me at the time--referring to my red hair on my rail-thin body. And the thing is that, whether positive or negative, you hear about it all the time. Daily. It's the way people identify you.

See what I'm talkin' about? This guy is a REDHEAD.

It was only as it started to go away, of course, that I finally began to appreciate it. Even before I had my kid, when I was 32, it had long been turning brown, and so when folks would see my driver's license, which said "red" under hair, or heard me refer to myself as a redhead, they would look oddly at me, or question it to my face. But of course I was a redhead, I'd reply. That was who I was. And when that point was disputed, I realized that I was actually bummed by the new truth. I dunno if it was Stockholm Syndrome or what, but after actually being a redhead for so long, I really didn't want to be anything else. I'd grown into it. I think I actually didn't change the "red" to "brown" on my driver's license until about 8 years ago---right about the time that it really, maybe, should have started to say "grey," simply because I didn't want to believe I wasn't a redhead anymore. Both my dad and my grandmother and my first cousin and now my daughter: all redheads. Redheads in the media and popular fiction, like Ron Weasley: my brethren. This was the club I belonged to. And I wanted it to stay that way.

The brown hair I never really enjoyed too much. It was what it was, to use the past tense of a phrase I hate. Now I'm in a whole different ballgame. Happily, though, I'm already over denying the gray. Hey, it is what it is. I'll admit that it bugged the crap out of me at first, of course, but my period of denial was much shorter this time around. It didn't help that the signals were coming in stronger: The number of times I was being called "sir" multiplied exponentially. I somehow found myself cruising past lines--like airport security lines--that used to seem to take longer. I was in the old white male club! Just like in that classic Eddie Murphy sketch! The turning point, at least in terms of my own denial/awareness, came back at 1up.com, when my friend Dana, after returning from a trip with the 1up gang to the sports bar outside our office, said that the bartender had said to her, "Where's the silver-haired guy who's usually with you guys?" I took it badly at first. "Silver haired guy? Huh?"

But still. Could be worse, right? There's the whole "bald" thing, which, knock on wood, looks like I'm likely to avoid (not that there'd be anything wrong with that). My hair is bozoid thick. Second, if one has to go gray, there are worse ways for it to happen then getting these "wings" I have sprouted. I mean, who doesn't mind looking like these guys:

I get asked all the time now if I'm going to dye my hair. Almost every time I get my hair cut I get asked. But the answer is always the same for me: Why? Who would I be kidding? Anyone who already knows me would know what I did, so that'd just be embarrassing. And anyone who doesn't know me, well, who cares? What do I care what they think? And what would they think, anyway--if they thought about it at all, which is unlikely since they have their own lives to lead and probably aren't wasting a whole lot of brainpower on me, no matter how solipsistic I want to be? "There goes a gray-haired guy!" Well...so what?

That's what I am now. I'm a gray-haired guy. Just like I was a redhead before. Only this time, decades later, I'm going to embrace the hand (or head) I've been dealt. If it's good enough for Paulie Walnuts, it's good enough for me.

Bada Bing!

2010: The Year of Film

2010-01-10T17:41:00.000-08:00

One of the many things I'm grateful to my parents for is a love of and appreciation for movies, which they instilled in me early on. Now I know everyone loves movies, so it's not like some big secret club they invited me to, but, still, what I'm grateful for is that they had good taste, and made sure that I saw not just the obvious popular crap, which, for reasons all its own, I *also* enjoy. I can slum as well as anyone, most of the time, and have a great time doing it. (However, I'm still trying to muster up the energy and conviction to go see Avatar, only because so many people have said, "the effects are amazing but the story is shit" to make me feel that I'm going to a tech demo rather than a movie. And ya know, I kinda *like* good stories with my movies. But, yes yes, I will go. I know it is my Nerd Duty to so, so you don't need to berate me about it.)

My first movie memory (and I'm talking about movie theaters here, as my childhood took place in the Caveman Era before VCRs) is going to Yellow Submarine with my mom--and that's a pretty cool first movie! I don't know (and I kinda doubt) it's the first movie I ever went to, but it's the first one I remember. I would have been about 6 years old at the time. And while I obviously missed a good, what, 3/4 of the references, the crazy pop art and (of course) the soundtrack stayed with me. Years later, when the movie appeared on TV--I was watching on the portable black-and-white set in my room--I sat in bed with my audio tape recorder and taped the whole movie onto a couple cassettes, and then replayed it endlessly. My second movie memory is Patton, believe it or not, also with my mom, for which I must have been about 9 years old. All I can remember about that one is my mom telling my brother and I that one did not clap and cheer when the lights went down like we did in kids movies, and then the big opening scene with George C. Scott in front of American flag using really bad words. I was probably too young for that one.

Most of my best memories as an adolescent (and, okay, there's not much to compete with as far as good memories of that time go) are my dad turning me on to a lot of his faves: The Marx Brothers, Woody Allen (this is pre-sex scandal, and also back when he was funny), the great Ernie Kovacs, and more. Recall, again, that this was pre-VCR, pre rentals, pre NetFlix, pretty much pre-fuckin'-everything: You either went to the movies at the theater, or you waited for stuff to show up on TV, where, unless it was on PBS, it was butchered with commercials. So, ya know, the whole universe of movies was NOT available at your fingertips, like now. Netflix Watch Instantly still blows me away. I mean, you all can stop reading this blog right this second, and within less than a minute can be watching any one of a number of Akira Kurosawa's classic movies. In MY day, once I was old enough to drive, I'd have to watch the repertory movie theater calendars--like the Nuart in Los Angeles--like a hawk, circling the movies I needed to see and planning my evenings in advance to make sure I didn't miss them. Because if you missed The Seven Samurai once, you might not have another chance for a year. And that's a movie that you simply cannot miss. My best memory of watching stuff with my dad came a little later--right about the time I started college--when PBS showed, over a series of nights, Rainer Werner Fassbinder's incredible 15.5-hour Berlin Alexanderplatz, a gargantuan, depressing, hilarious, monster of a movie that totally opened up my mind to movies outside the American mainstream.

Anyhoo, the point of all this, beyond babbly nostalgia, is to report that my kid and I decided, while over in Spain this holiday, that 2010 was going to be our Year of Film. (We thought about calling it Year of Movies, at first, but realized that it sounded more appropriately pretentious as "film.") The decision was made after about the third time that I asked her if she'd seen such-and-such movie, and she declared that she hadn't. I can't remember what the movie in question was--it might have been Casablanca, or possibly The Big Lebowski--but in any case we realized that, despite a pretty damn good start, she had too many holes in her movie education still. And with the clock (gulp) ticking until she herself will be off to college (OH MY GOD), I realized I had to ramp up my brainwashing here.

She *has* been off to a fine start. (And I really should lump in music and books with this, too. The day she came in and told me how awesome the Velvet Underground were was one of those great parental triumphs for me--I think I was doing the Rocky theme in my head for like three days following.) She's got a healthy intellectual curiosity and open-mindedness, as well as a budding English (or film!) major's appreciation for subtext and directorial intent (and manipulation). At almost-16, she can sit in pretty much any movie and I know she's going to probably get as much out of it, if not more so, as any adult. Which means that the entire world of movies is now open to us.

So I think I've decided that I will chronicle, or at least list, the Year of Film in this space. I'm going to include both movies at the theater and movies we watch at home. It's not all gonna be the hifalutin' stuff. You'll see. And also, because I'm anal this way, I'm going to include movies that I watch just on my own, or with my wife. Just as kind of a small sub-project on this site. I may just start a separate sidebar list on the site here, so I don't clutter up the posts. Or maybe I'll include them in blog entries with mini-review/writeups. I dunno. Whaddya guys think?
But to start, here's how the year has begun:

1/2 The Dark Knight. Saw it in Spain w/friends--them for the first time, us for the second. Liked it even more this time around.

1/4 The Informant! - on plane back to the U.S., and I liked it so much I went out and bought the book the very next day. Soderbergh took maybe too goofy of a tone with it, I think, but Matt Damon was great, and Scott Bakula was a freakin' revelation. His facial expressions alone nearly stole the movie.

1/4 State of Play Ugh. I wanted to like this. And with Russell Crowe, Helen Mirren, and a subdued Ben Affleck all trying hard, you'd think it'd be good. And it was, for about 2 hours or so. But the movie utterly collapses in the last 15 minutes, with a twist so ludicrous it basically destroys the rest of the movie. The more you think about it, the less it makes sense.

1/5 Oldboy - Netflix Watch Instantly - hyperviolent 2003 South Korean movie that I saw cuz I noticed it was on a bunch of "Best of the Decade" lists. I think I was still too jetlagged to appreciate it all, but the story (guy is imprisoned for 15 years without knowing why or by whom, gets out and seeks revenge) is fantastic, and the one set piece I remember--an extended, long, one-take fight scene that keeps scrolling horizontally like a sidescroller game--was freakin' amazing. Need to watch this again when more awake.

1/6 Pickpocket Netflix Watch Instantly - 1959 Robert Bresson movie is probably too dated for some, but very cool in that it is a clear, obvious influence on Scorcese's Taxi Driver, and some neat choreography of the crimes themselves.

1/7 The Marriage of Maria Braun - Netflix Watch Instantly - 1979 Fassbinder film starts with a poster of Hitler getting blown up, and then tells the tale of a German woman whose husband doesn't come home from WW2 and has to pick up her life from there. Unpredictable, crazy and decadent as always with Fassbinder. Also, completely "adult"--by which I mean that adults actually act like adults. You watch a movie like this (and so many made in the 1970s, even in the US) and you realize just how many movies now have such an infantile emotional range and tone for the adults they portray, and how easily we've come to accept it.

And if all that sounds too pretentious, let me assure you that the movie I enjoyed the most in the past couple weeks, which didn't make this list only cuz I saw it at the end of '09, was The Hangover. Nothing like a few good dick jokes to trump art house ennui!

Black Out in Madrid!

2010-01-04T01:43:00.000-08:00

Well that was different.

If you are a frequent traveler, like me, you might long, at times, for an "authentic experience" when in a foreign country--something off the beaten path of the normal tourist route. You might even hope to pass as a native, rather than just another slack-jawed, mouth-breathing, Fodor-toting American. This is understandable. But now that I have paved the way on at least one authentic experience in a foreign country, let me publicly state that it's really not all it's cracked up to be. Yes, two days ago I got to take a ride in an ambulance in Madrid and check in to a hospital, after passing out on the floor of the Prado museum, and after enduring all of that, I'm going to go ahead and strongly recommend that you just stick with the tourist tour. Trust me on this one.

In retrospect, it's funny how much the body and brain try to warn you in advance. Why we don't listen, I do not know. But consider it a New Year's Resolution that I will be doing that more in 2010.

New Year's Day in San Lorenzo de El Escorial was spent in much the same way as New Year's Eve was: Eating (a LOT) and drinking (alcohol). On the eating part, there's no two ways around it: I pigged out. As did everyone. The food here is phenomenal--especially if you are a carnivore. So even though I was still full from our New Year's Eve feast, on New Year's Day we had yet another feast, which went on, in true European style, for hours.

This was accompanied, as of course it should be, by booze. I am not a very good drinker. I'm a lightweight, and I honestly don't really enjoy it all that much, other than beer---and even then, if I order a second pint it's a somewhat rare occasion (needing to get on a motorcycle afterwards contributes to this, but even at home, not driving or riding, I'll only ever have one.) I do enjoy wine quite a bit, which is a requisite if you are going to marry a French person, but, I don't know my 50 year old vintage Cabernets from my 2009 Boone's Farm. That's one of those Life Projects I have yet to attend to. And hard liquor? Forget it. It sure looks great in the movies when tough guys pound down shots of whiskey, but, sadly, that is not the lifestyle for me. And yet, it was New Years Day. And we were eating a ton. So, really, the red wine, white wine, champagne, and whatever that hard liquor was at the end did not make any of us actually "drunk". And I poured less, and stopped earlier, than any of the other adults anyway, knowing my limits. Still, there was way more alcohol than usual in my body, and guess how much water it was all accompanied by? Zero. Not one glass, not one drop, either during the meal, or the rest of the night before falling asleep (sober) hours later.

The next morning, we got up to go to the Prado. Whether the subsequent incident was entirely alcohol related is, in fact, not entirely clear. Two other people--our friend Belen, who has been hosting us and cooked the fabulous feast, and her 8-year-old son David---both were feeling queasy, and it's certain that David did not have any booze, at least that we saw. So there's the possibility that there was some kind of virus floating around.

In any event, by the time we were in the car, I clearly was not 100 percent. As we had been doing the entire trip, our party was divided into two cars: The Woman Wagon and The Manmobile (or Der Mensch Machine, in deference to both my and Eric's love of Kraftwerk), due to the large size of our group. The great thing about Der Mensch Machine is that we had the iPod with us, piping through the car stereo speakers. On most drives, this is cranked to something appropriately loud and rockin: Mastodon, Aerosmith, and Primus all were prominent soundtracks to our Spanish voyages. On this morning, however, I asked for something mellow, because I was not feeling too good. Andres Segovia was the music of choice. And because I had woken up feeling a bit queasy, I passed not only on coffee (a true sign that something was wrong with me), but also on any food whatsoever--until The Wife force-fed one lone piece of bread on me.

But we were no more than a few kilometers from home when my brain/body began sending out an urgent message. As we drove out of El Escorial on the highway, I announced to Eric, "Ya know, I'd like to buy a bottle of water before we go to the museum." I personally felt no particular urgency about it--yet--but it definitely was on my mind that I wanted water. Nothing else. Just water. We drove along into Madrid with no further incident, but after parking in the garage near the Prado, I got out of the car and immediately felt lightheaded. I gripped, for a moment, on one of the cement columns in the garage, just to regain my balance. No one noticed, and I didn't comment on it, but at this point I knew something was up and that I needed to do something.

The Woman Wagon arrived moments later, and we walked the two short blocks to the museum, amidst the New Years Day crowd. A gigantic line awaited us at the museum, but being the resourceful, modern humans we are, we had smartly purchased tickets online earlier, and were thus able to go immediately to the Smarter People's Entrance, where there was no waiting. But my situation was rapidly worsening.

It turned out there was a snafu with the online tickets, and so The Wife and I were allowed to enter, while the rest remained outside for a couple minutes while the problem was being cleared up. But no sooner had The Wife and I set foot in the museum (we had been told to "go ahead and get started") than I said I needed to sit down, and that I needed her to find me some water. I sat on a bench, next to some other tourists, and, remembering multiple movie scenes, put my head down almost between my legs, because I vaguely recalled that might help me in some way. It didn't, but it didn't make things worse either.

The Wife came back a few minutes later, with a 7Up, all she could find, and just as the rest of our party was arriving inside. Happy that I had some kind of liquid, at least, I chugged half the can immediately, and got up to join them as we all beelined to Heironymous Bosch's Garden of Earthly Delights, not only one of the most famous masterpieces at the Prado, but also, conveniently, one of the paintings located closest to the entrance. As expected, there was a huge mass of humanity clustered around the painting, and I only survived about 30 seconds in that dogpile before having to bail out, without really getting a look at it, because the heat and crush of people was about the last thing my body could take at that point. Instead, I went solo to a couple paintings that had no one around them, and was trying to enjoy them but was now feeling worse than ever.

So I made a quick decision: I needed to sit down. Or even lie down. I needed to tell everyone else to go ahead. I'd catch up. After the rest of our group emerged from the Boschpile, I announced said plan, but, because they were all heading up one floor and they didn't want me to get lost, they said to come up with them and find a bathroom and/or place to sit down up there. I was feeling like this was a mistake. I wanted to sit down RIGHT NOW and not take another step. But I was outnumbered and was rapidly losing energy.

So we walked to the elevator. It felt, to me, like it was taking hours to arrive. I said to The Wife I need to sit down now, I can't wait for this. The doors opened. A mass of people were already inside. We inched our way in. I put my hand on The Wife's shoulder. My head was swimming. I felt myself leaving the scene, rising somewhere above the elevator. The last thing I remember was hearing her call my name. And that was that.

My next conscious moment was right out a movie or TV show. Now I know why they have scenes like that. From a totally black screen, the camera opens on a shot of a whole mass of faces looking down on me, looking concerned. I had no idea where I was. I had been dreaming. I thought I was back home in bed. I only recognize my wife's face. All the others are unfamiliar to me. I feel someone holding my legs up. I can't keep my eyes open. People are talking to me but it sounds as if I'm underwater. I can't really understand what anyone is saying to me. Then it starts coming through: "Can you hear me Jeff?" my wife is asking. I can. I tell her. Yes. I can hear you. I feel the cold on my back now. I'm on the floor. The mass of faces looking down at me: Oh jeez, I'm at the museum. I'm on the floor at the museum, and there is a crowd around me. I can't keep my eyes open and I am freezing. I'm hearing various English phrases "He's American", "he fell on me in the elevator" accompanied by lots of Spanish I can't understand. I'm trying to talk and keep my eyes open but it's a struggle. I realize that everything is completely blurry out of my right eye, and only find out later that my contact lens had popped out when I fell.

As I start to come to, I feel terrible. I mean, emotionally. It's the first conscious thing I really remember: I've ruined the trip to the museum. I've turned this big outing for two families into a personal emergency. I start telling them to go ahead, I'll be fine. I start apologizing. I keep trying to get up, but I'm being held down, gently, by two women now, both doctors who have arrived on the scene--one employed by the museum, another an Italian tourist who stumbled upon the scene of the collapsed American. Her husband handed me a water bottle. I am alternating between feeling better and wanting to sleep. My hands and feet are freezing. The museum doctor has taken my pulse and blood pressure, and my blood pressure is low, but not alarmingly so. I'm feeling like it's starting to pass. Which it kind of is.
The worst of it is all over.

Sensing no further drama--I'm not going to die, or cough up blood, or go into some sort of raving spasm--the attendees begin to disperse. I'm no longer experiencing life as a second-by-second alienated befuddlement. I can start to joke about it. Even though I'm still feeling pretty crappy.

It's just a few more minutes before a wheelchair arrives for me, and I'm taken down a couple floors to the museum's little medical room. It makes you wonder how many public buildings like this have secret built-in medical facilities, filled with all sorts of equipment and beds and stuff. How did they know? I'm glad, in any case, and lay down with my wife at my side, my daughter (who has been crying and scared to death, though I've already begun to reassure her that I'm fine) and friends right outside the room. The doctor says I can stay here for awhile and rest up. They bring me water. It's at this point that the diagnoses begin, and we start going through what might have happened, and why. And among all the adults, it's the first time we really realize that no water has been drunk, combined with the previous night's alcohol, combined with the possibility of a virus, combined with the crush of people at the Bosch painting. Not a particularly promising combination, ya think?

I want my family and friends to now move on and try to enjoy the museum. I'm going to be fine. My wife dutifully insists that she wants to stay to me, for which I am reminded once again why I married her. And just at the point where we think I can probably get up and move on, I have a small relapse: My head begins swimming again, I tell my wife I need to throw up, we hurry me over to a sink, with the doctor, and I kind of almost do. This actually makes me feel a little better, but the doctor has now seen enough. Her prognosis: It's time for me to go to the hospital.

I really don't want to do this. It feels like overkill to me. And I know it's suddenly going to turn a relatively small incident into an ordeal. But, we understand where she's coming from. She's not being Nurse Ratchet here. She's just doing her job. An ambulance is called, the paramedics come, ask me questions that I am helpless to answer, thanks to craptactular public high school Spanish from which I've only retained one single phrase ("Donde esta la casa de Pepe?") that does me no good here, and then soon I am being wheeled through the museum and into the ambulance, once again a cool new exhibit for the tourists to observe. It's The Collapsed American! Today Only! Take your pictures now!

We cruise through the streets of Madrid. There's no windows in the ambulance, so I can't see any sights. I hear the siren going occasionally, which is cool and makes me feel important. I remember I have my Flip videocamera in my pocket, and instantly realize that filming this might make for a cool YouTube video, but I only get about a minute in before The Wife yanks it away with a kind of "are you kidding me?" remark. But, hey, I was a journalist! It's what we're trained to do!

By the time we get to the hospital, the feeling shared by me, The Wife, and Belen, who has accompanied us in the ambulance to help with translation, is that we are approaching overkill. And Belen's worry, shared by the ambulance driver, is that because we are now entering the largest public hospital in Madrid (socialized medicine--it's free! HEY MAYBE WE SHOULD TRY THAT TOO, AMERICA), it's going to take hours to get me settled in, and that this is liable to only make me feel worse, when what I really outta do is just go lie down somewhere. Unfortunately, the paramedics' hands were tied: They can't defy the museum doctor's orders. And, like I said, we understood why she ordered it. But now we just kinda want to get out of here and get me home.

It only takes about 3 minutes before a doctor approaches me in the wheelchair and looks at my chart, takes my pulse and blood pressure, and says that I seem to be okay now, if a bit cold. Belen explains the situation. The doctor looks around the waiting room, which is full, and then down at me, a clearly recovering dumb American, and pretty much agrees. Get this moron home and into bed. She does, graciously, say she wants to do one thing first before actually releasing me: An electrocardiogram, just to be sure. If anything is up with my heart, I'm staying. But otherwise, I'm free to go, and they'll just not type up anything and forget I ever walked in here. No paperwork for them, no day in the hospital for me. Win win.
I pass the electrocardiogram. Hallelujah. We cab back to the museum. I joke that maybe now we can go back inside and I can see the damn museum at last. But, yeah, no. They drive me home. I fall asleep in the car. We get home, they put me in bed, and other than one 1/2 hour revival, in which I stumbled downstairs to watch a game of Risk begin, I proceed to sleep for the next 16 hours, straight.

And that's pretty much The End! Yesterday, the day after this fun event, I was back up, and we had a completely normal, touristy day in the wonderful, walled town of Avila. The only difference for me? I was now carrying around a humongous bottle of Aquarius, which I believe is the Spanish equivalent of Gatorade. I had chugged two full bottles of it before leaving the house, and will drink this entire tank of it before the day ends.

I could have done with that out-of-body experience. More important, I could have done without scaring my loved ones, who got it worse than me. They had to watch me lose consciousness with my eyes open, talking to me and getting no response, my contact lens flopping out of my eye, my face going bloodless. No one should have to experience that.

So listen to me when I tell you, gang: Drink water. Drink it a lot. Keep your dang selves hydrated, for cryin' out loud. It's just basic survival we're talking about here.

But if you do have to collapse in a foreign country, I can say, as an experienced traveler now, that you may not get any finer care than in the Museo Del Prado in Madrid. Museum experience: Unknown. Medical facilities: 5 stars! Highly recommended!

I'll see y'all back in the US real soon.

Hasta luego,
--Jeff

Editor's Note: Two late edits, one for political correctness by my kid, the other for accuracy. "Girl Wagon" is now "Woman Wagon", and Spanish drink now correctly identified as "Aquarius."

Greetings from Spain!

2009-12-30T07:20:00.000-08:00

Hi everyone! I'm writing from our home base in San Lorenzo de El Escorial, where we're staying with friends here for our 10-day visit in Spain. And yes, I double-checked the name/spelling of the town, because, as Twitterites know, I've been suffering from an affliction over here that is rendering me unable to correctly name Spanish cities. Thus, yesterday's day trip to Segovia somehow became a trip to the mythical land of "Sevonia," which I've since decided is going to be the name of Xanthor's land. This is what you would call a repurposing of one's own lameness.

Speaking of lame, my back continues to be a source of utter misery, I'm sorry to say, pretty much putting a damper--or at least strain--on this entire vacation, both for me and for everyone else. I've been dealing with some form of sciatica for about a year now, but, two days before I left the U.S. I must have done something else to myself, because now, instead of just my lower-right back being occasionally sore, now it's my entire lower back, and it's pretty much constant. Sleeping has been tough, walking is a chore, and steps--forget it. So I've had to skip out on some of the events--like climbing to the top of the castle tower in Segovia--like a gimpy old man, and I've had to have my wife help me hobble along at times. We had a great, full, adventurous day in Segovia, but by the end of it I was utterly exhausted and hurting, and, as a result, couldn't move at all today. Not exactly the memories of Spain I was hoping to have--but whaddya gonna do?

Still, it's vacation, and being out of the U.S., with no work to deal with, with all new sights, and old friends, to see--I can hardly complain. And there's something in particular about being out of the country, in a place that doesn't speak your language, that helps provide a satisfying bit of distance and perspective from one's own life, which I was most decidedly due for after a rather busy 2009. And even with the backache I can appreciate the Old World architectural splendor, the feel of a country that's been around for forever, the absolutely heavenly food (the jamon!) and wine and coffee.

Today's trip to see Picasso's Guernica in Madrid had to be postponed cuz of ye olde back, but we'll probably get to it after New Years, along with a trip to the Museo del Prado. I'm laying low--and flat on my back--for most of today in hopes that I can actually enjoy New Year's Eve tomorrow. My downtime today has been an alternating routine of napping, reading William Gibson's Pattern Recognition (shaping up to be my fave Gibson book since Neuromancer),and playing Might and Magic: Clash of Heroes on my DSi, which is a surprisingly addictive, great little strategy game. I played it so much the other day I wore out the battery twice in a row--first time I've ever done that, I think. Great oddball combination of match-three game and turn-based combat. I can't even imagine how they thought this up, let alone made it so addictive and fun. So thank goodness for friends' recommendations, because I had no plans to ever buy a Might and Magic game again.

This would be the part of the post where I might normally post some photos, but, to do that, I'd have to email them to myself from my iPhone, and then upload them to PhotoBucket, and then link here, which is too much work--SORRY. And anyhoo, the best ones are up on Twitter already. So go there!

Okay, that's enough sitting up for one day. Back to the prone position for me, because tomorrow it's New Year's Eve, and I have a big date with the White Man's Overbite pretty dang soon!

Adios!

Well lookee here! I'm alive!

2009-12-23T12:23:00.001-08:00

On the downside, this is my last blog post of 2009. On the plus side, I'm blogging! On the downside, I haven't been around here much. On the plus side, I wrote a novel! On the downside, I'm now off to Spain for a 10-day vacation with family and friends, so I won't be here again for a bit, most likely, unless I muster up the energy to blog on the road and don't get yelled at by my family. On the plus side, I'm going to Spain! (And on the down side of that, again, my back is freaking killing me, so this flight couldn't be more ill-timed.)

So, to those of you who tend to spend more time here than I do, well: Hi! How've y'all been! I know that I proclaimed "novel writing is hard" way back in my last blog post, but, you know what, it's totally true. It utterly sapped me of creative/writing energy, which was a bit unfortunate not just for this blog but for my new job as well. So thank goodness for vacation, so I can recharge the ol' brain batteries a little.

This is going to be an extremely interesting 2010 for me. The rusty gears at EA.com are just starting to turn a little bit, and once we're all back in January I am hoping you all will start to see what I have in store over there, which is either going to be a great success or flop wildly. Or maybe just die of indifference. See? I need a vacation. Truly, I'm thrilled that, so far, EA is letting me post whatever kind of nonsense I want, though the sad truth is that might just be because they haven't noticed me yet. But what I really hope is this Brave New Venture into, err, "corporate editorial", or whatever you want to call it, will yield true "transparency" for EA, and help set an example for how a bigass company can communicate with folks in this new age of ours, without resorting to layers and layers of BS. Or maybe I'm just naive and stupid! Time will tell.

All I can say, right now, as the year closes out, that I couldn't be happier in the job change. My time with The Sims group was extremely educational to me, and I have no regrets. (Though they probably don't feel the same way about me!) I have a much greater understanding of How Games Are Made than I ever could have on the press side, and this is now informing everything I do at EA.com. And, hey, some of my bestest pals at EA now are in the Sims group. So all is good.

There is an endless amount of topics I need to catch up on here on this page. More motorcycle diaries. My foray into heavy metal, which turned me on to the splendiforous Crack the Skye by Mastodon. My new love affairs with Dexter, Sons of Anarchy, and Glee. The usual random nonsense and ranting. And, oh yeah, some Cudgel of Xanthor excerpts!

And part of what I need to figure out in 2010 is how to do all of this. How to cover my bases on all the public places I find myself communicating: Here, EA.com, Twitter. I'll be writing more over at EA.com, including a column/blog, but those topics should be different than the ones I do here, which should be more personal. Yet I don't want the ease and immediacy of Twitter to suck away the always-more-satisfying blogging I do here.

In any event, I do thank all of you who ever take any of your time to come here and read this dribble. It's always humbling and flattering to think that anyone actually cares about what I have to say. Have a great holiday/New Years y'all. If I don't blog/twitter at you from Spain, I shall return January 5!

Adios for now,
Jeff

Novel writing is hard.

2009-11-08T07:57:00.000-08:00

Hi gang! Not many blog posts from me here as November gets going, but for once I have a good reason! This is NaNoWriMo month, the National Novel Writing Month, and I, your humble blogger, was stupid and crazy enough to participate. Look, you can see me right here! That's me! My own page! It's like I'm famous! Yay!

If you're not familiar with NaNoWriMo, it's a collective bit of organized group insanity, in which tens of thousands of people around the world voluntarily agree to set a personal goal: We will each write a novel, in 30 days. More specifically, we need to write 50,000 words in 30 days. There's no "prize" per se, other than the bragging rights that you did it, kind of like running a marathon.

The beautiful thing about it is that they--the organizers, I mean-- go out of their way to empower you to write crap. Because, obviously, unless you're some kind of insufferable demigodlike prodigy, that's what you're going to write in 30 days. All you are really doing is writing a first draft. Which anyone can do of course, and which many of us writerly types say we are going to do "some day"---but what NaNoWriMo forces you to do is commit, to keep going, to not bog yourself down in blood-from-a-stone word-by-word hyperediting or self-criticism. You can't possibly make the goal that way. And so, you write write write. I'm going to quote directly from the official website:

Valuing enthusiasm and perseverance over painstaking craft, NaNoWriMo is a novel-writing program for everyone who has thought fleetingly about writing a novel but has been scared away by the time and effort involved.

Because of the limited writing window, the ONLY thing that matters in NaNoWriMo is output. It's all about quantity, not quality. The kamikaze approach forces you to lower your expectations, take risks, and write on the fly.

Make no mistake: You will be writing a lot of crap. And that's a good thing. By forcing yourself to write so intensely, you are giving yourself permission to make mistakes. To forgo the endless tweaking and editing and just create. To build without tearing down.

For someone like me, this was just perfect encouragement. Knowing that the official group is giving me permission to suck has given me the strength to just do it. And as I'm seven days and 10,000 words into the writing, I can testify in a court of law: My book sucks! My god, I never knew how hard it was to actually do the things that novelists do. I've written, I'm sure, millions of words for public consumption by now, but never in this form. The closest I've come is the Mankind's Last Hope play/sitcom that I co-wrote with my pal Cecil Vortex, but, ya know, that was 1) a co-writing effort and 2) a script, a different beast entirely.

Two images from the live production of Mankind's Last Hope--also with a character named Xanthor!

Not surprisingly, the part that's coming easiest to me, in the novel, is the dialog writing. Lots of fun and I think I've managed to concoct a few laugh lines. The Xanthor sections, too--the mock high fantasy--have been a blast to write so far. But all the rest of it? The character arcs and scene-setting and pacing and descriptive text? So out of my league here. Kinda wish I'd taken more creative writing classes right about now, which would have helped me get experience in some of the basics here. Essay writing, critiques, confessionals, all that I can do, for the most part. But this? This is like telling me to fly a plane.

Still, I persevere! Why? Because NaNoWriMo has given me permission to suck! As I sit down early every morning to grind out 1600+ words a day, I just do not look back. I have no idea where I'm going, who all these characters are yet, and only the vaguest notion of how it's all going to end. But who cares! What laws am I breaking? The chance that anyone is even going to read this first draft, at all, are slim-to-none (sorry!) But if I can emerge at the end of 30 days with a 50,000 word "finished" clump of garbage, it at least gives me something I can actually do a rewrite or edit of, something I didn't have 30 days earlier, and it, if nothing else, is one of those classic "learning experiences" that are so good for all of us no matter how much they usually blow.

Anyhoo, that's what I'm doing this month! So forgive what's likely to be the even-less-frequent-than-usual blog posts. Maybe I can post the occasional excerpt. Maybe. Oh, and, please keep your comments/criticisms/suggestions about EA.com coming, as I'm still actively reading them all and bringing them up with the staff. Lots and lots of work-in-progress behind the scenes at my day job. It may take awhile to see the fruits of my labor, but hang tight. The Master Plan is in effect.

Happy Sunday, everyone!

My New Gig, Part II: The New Gig

2009-10-30T09:02:00.000-07:00

Okay, so I'm Editor-in-Chief of EA.com. Let me address your initial question, which I assume goes something like this: "What the fuck does THAT mean?" Actually, I'm not going to answer that yet. First I'm going to tell you how this came about.

This is mostly my doing. Meaning: I lobbied for this. It started with the EA Podcast. Over the summer, while I was beginning to feel like I was festering with the Sims group, and being under-utilized,I had lunch with a friend of mine at the company, a dude who also had a long career elsewhere in the game industry before arriving at E(verything's) A(wesome). It was a bitch session on my part, frankly. I was being totally whiny. I may even have simpered a little. The details are foggy. My friend listened patiently, quietly, chewing his food with a small smile on his face, nodding at appropriate moments to my sad, whiny tale.

After I was done, or at least when I paused to take a break, my friend looked me in the eye and said the following: "Why are you waiting for EA to recognize you? Why don't you just suggest something that YOU have to offer them?"

Yeah. Well, that's how smart people think. As soon as he said it, I knew he was right. And, in fact, just about 3 minutes later, while still talking to him, I said out loud, "well, shit, these guys don't have a podcast. I can totally do that." And as soon as I said it out loud, I knew I was going to make it happen. It was, frankly, kinda dumb that EA didn't have one. If *any* company could put together an interesting podcast, it was EA. Think of the wealth of talent in so many different fields, the rich history of games to discuss: Once you start thinking even a little about the content possibilities, it's endless.

I immediately went back to my desk. Did a little research. Did a lot of thinking. Made up a PowerPoint presentation, and spammed it to every EA exec I could think of that might be interested. And, yep, the feedback was great. I got an immediate green light, but only with the caveat that I had to do it pretty much with no budget, as kind of a "rogue" operation. It was at this point that I met my now co-worker and co-conspirator Samantha LaPerre, managing editor of EA.com, who instantly got what I was up to and eagerly jumped aboard. I've been blessed by an amazing series of managing editors over the years: Ken Brown, Dana Jongewaard, Sean Molloy, Ryan Scott, and Samantha is yet another, totally brainy and organized and the perfect complement to my scattershot absentmindedness. Plus, she has a great radio voice!
Samantha helped (and continues to help) with all the logistical details of setting up the podcast, and before we knew it we were recording.

Once I met Samantha and started podcasting, my future became clearer, to both of us. We started talking about EA.com in general, and the fact that there seemed to be so much unrealized potential, again, just like with the podcast. Samantha wears multiple hats--a fate of most managing editors--and has a marketing background, so her ability to actually manage and control "editorial" was constrained. So we brainstormed. And again, as in my earlier conversation over lunch, the answer seemed obvious. I'm coming from 17 years in journalism, 13 of those with a gaming magazine and website. Why was I *not* applying this to my new job?

(Well, we know the answer to that: I wanted to try something new. But it was almost a year now. And circumstances/the economy/whatever we're not favoring me. I was going nowhere. It was going to be a tremendous uphill battle to win any serious cred with this group. And I wanted more than that.)

From there, it just became a matter of lobbying and pitching and waiting. I got the theoretical green light mid-summer, which was fantastic, and great for my morale, but since then it's been a waiting game, just for all sorts of necessary logistical reasons. But now I'm in, finally. And my hopes, and ambition, are high.

I am completely clear on one thing: This is not a return to "journalism" for me. Let's not kid ourselves. I'm the EIC of a corporate website whose primary goal is to sell games. I'm not back in the media. I'm not going to be writing scathing reviews of EA games, or giving high scores to competitors' games, like the amazing Torchlight, which you should all go buy right now here or on Steam.

But that doesn't mean there isn't a ton I can do to make the site cool and interesting to gamers. There is. Think about it. I have 27 years of this company's history to play with and reference. A gigantic motherload of classic games and legendary designers. A thriving campus and all sorts of awesome partners (Bioware, DoubleFine, id) to draw from. It's a goldmine of content possibilities: Interviews, profiles, retrospectives, wikis, panel discussions--and on and on.

I'd be foolish to completely tip my hand here--especially since it's all still percolating right now--but I can tell you that I'm going to do my damnedest to push the boundary as far as I can take it. I may not come out and say "BOY DOES THIS GAME OF OURS SUCK!", but I'm definitely going to find that outer edge. Honestly, I believe that this is what smart companies do. I think this is where things need to be. "Transparency" is a buzzword, but it's also something I believe in. You can't bullshit people. Well, you *can*, but it won't work in the long run. They'll figure it out, and then resent you forever. And, really, why bullshit them? We're just a bunch of people, doing our best to do a good job, just like everyone else. And what people do at EA is super interesting. Not perfect, by a longshot. But always interesting. It's that avenue of things I'm hoping to explore, in an honest and open way, or at least as much as I can without getting fired. But I like that edge. I like the risk. I'm still not sorry I did that MySims Agents video, despite the fact that I pissed off I don't know how many people at EA. I still think it was funny.

Anyway: I'm yammering. And it's time for breakfast. What I'm going to want from You All now is your suggestions and requests and ideas. What would you like to see at EA.com? What don't you want to see? What would convince you that going to a company website would be worth your while? Lay it on me. I won't pay you for your idea. I probably won't even credit you! But you'll be able to sleep more soundly at night, knowing you helped me in my career and in making EA just that much more cooler. As if that were possible!

My New Gig. Part I: My Old Gig.

2009-10-24T08:25:00.000-07:00

Okay, so finally I am allowed to talk about what I'm up to at EA. It's been a long summer in which things have been pitched, talked about, percolating, happening, not happening, on hold, accelerated, and basically driving me mildly insane, as I've never known from week to week, or even day to day, what the future really held for me.

It'd take a book (maybe someday!) rather than a blog post to get into it all, so rather than bore you senseless or make your eyeballs bleed, I'll cut to the chase: I'm no longer with The Sims group. I am now editor-in-chief of EA.com--EA's website. I am super excited about the job, and am going to blabber about it in the post AFTER this one, because first I want to tell you about leaving The Sims, which I am convinced is the right call, but also one I do with mixed emotions.

If you don't want to read this whole post, just watch this instead. This is pretty much my experience on The Sims.

From the start, the great Jeff Green: Game Designer experiment was nothing more than that: an experiment. Kind of a combination of midlife crisis + needing a break from game journalism + nowhere really to go in game journalism + EA being a huge, successful, stable (this was pre-economic collapse!) company that makes many great games that was near my home and seemed like a fine place for a dude in his 40s to land. But even during the interview process, no one on either side (I mean, EA or me) was quite sure what to do with me. Designer? Producer? Writer? I even interviewed, and was considered and pushed, to be the head of the Sims PR.

Unlike many games journalists who hop the fence to the development side, this was not ever my secret dream while in the press. I never harbored any desire to make games instead of write about them. I never considered the job a temporary launching point until I could get over there. In fact, I already had my dream job: Running a magazine and writing columns.

But when the writing was on the wall with Ziff Davis, and I knew that not only it was about to collapse but that I was likely to not survive the purge (making too much $$$, too old, plus I wasn't happy with the editorial direction/leadership at the time anyway), I knew I had to get out. Given the lack of reasonable alternatives for me in the gaming press, it was only natural that I would consider going to a game company, because that's where all my connections were. It was never about wanting to make a game, really. It was about finding a cool job with people I liked and respected, doing something that felt good and made sense for me--preferably something where I could be creative and write.

EA made sense, and The Sims specifically, because I've loved those games going all the way back to SimCity (though I have secret, weird love for SimTower, too), and I felt like their sense of humor fit with mine. So that's where I landed, and some of the rest is already known. In 12 months, I was on 4 different teams and 6 different games. I went from producer to designer to producer. Despite 13 years as the editor of a PC gaming magazine, I ended up on Wii-only games. These aren't complaints, by the way, just the way it was. In all honesty, I had a (mostly) great time, and learned so goddamn much. My perspective was completely upended and enlightened. It's an experience that *every* game journalist ought to go through, at least temporarily, George Plimpton style, just to learn what the hell these people do all day.

But what I ultimately learned is that maybe this isn't for me. And that's okay! Or at least not right now, at this label, at this point in its history and development. The people are all as smart and cool and funny as I imagined. The projects are challenging and interesting. But, it just didn't quite work out. The bouncing around from team to team didn't help. I never got any traction with any one group. I never got to be on a project from its inception to completion. I never got to really show--either to myself or my teammates--what I was capable of given the different experience I was drawing from. As such, I was basically just the old, grey-haired, bonehead coming into already-stressful projects with not much to add unless people took the time they didn't have to train me, plus the added negativity of being one of THOSE guys--the press, the enemy, the flip ignoramuses who casually shit on the stuff they do with ill-thought-out reviews and metacritic scores that dismiss months or years of labor and love with no corresponding skill whatsoever.

It was an uphill battle. And maybe if I was 28 instead of 48, it'd be one worth fighting. But, hey. Whaddya gonna do? Meanwhile, I started realizing just how much I missed what I *was* good at, what people wanted me to do, and what other folks at other parts of EA started clamoring for me to do, too. The EA Podcast was the first step in that direction, and that directly led to where I am today, which, I now believe, is probably what I should have been doing in the first place, right from the start.

I have no regrets, at all. It was an incredible experience. A humbling one, for sure. But totally worth it. I love the friends I made in The Sims group, and I know, without question, that that time will only make my efforts at this new gig that much stronger.

And what is this new gig all about? That will come in the next post. Now, I play Brutal Legend!

The Bob Dylan Post.

2009-10-11T09:35:00.000-07:00

I must be getting predictable. After a few tweets from the Bob Dylan concert at the Greek theater in Berkeley last night, an astute commenter on my previous blog entry here asks, "Does this mean we're getting a blog about it tomorrow?" Well, yes. Dangit. I need to work on my element of surprise around here. [EDITOR'S NOTE: DUE TO TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES (LAZINESS), THIS BLOG POST IS NOW APPEARING ON TUESDAY, RATHER THAN SUNDAY.]

I never want to write about Bob Dylan on this blog, despite the fact that, more than anyone I would consider giving this label to, I would consider him my "hero." That may be why I don't want to write about him. I don't want to diminish, or jinx, the topic. It's a very personal one for me--just as often happens between an artist and fan--which I don't mean in a fawning, worshippy way (honest), but just in a "words can't do it justice" way. Also, Bob Dylan doesn't need my praise or defense. My feeling about Bob Dylan is that if you say you don't like him, or don't get him, then you're not trying hard enough. Or you've heard the wrong stuff. Or your preconceived notions don't match with the truth.

This is not the Bob Dylan you get anymore.

For example, on this latter point: When I say I went to the Bob Dylan concert last night, how many of you already have the image in your head of some old folkie hippy doing boring old folk songs on an acoustic guitar? This is not reality. Reality, as regular Dylanites know, is that Bob Dylan has for many years now been touring with a great, *really loud,* kick-ass band that delivers an unexpectedly tough, angular, rockabilly-blues-country swing set night after night, with pretty much no concession towards meeting audience expectation or fan service. Meaning: After he wallops you over the head with two loud, rocking numbers you don't recognize, he is not going to do the standard concert thang of throwing you a bone with some lovely, acoustic version of one of his (many) classics. It's just not what he and his band are doing these days. What they are doing is a barn-burning road show, a lesson in How To Rock by a bunch of grizzled veterans, with a leader now so comfortable in his own skin, and with his own legacy (at last!) that he actually, finally, looks like he's having fun up there.

Here's who you get now: Vincent Price meets John Waters. And look how happy he looks.

And that was the big deal about Saturday's show. I've seen Dylan numerous times now--maybe 8 or 9? Some of the shows, especially when I first started attending in the 80s, were dismal. And probably more what you might think: Depressing, rote sets by a 60s burnout going through the motions. The amazing thing, when you read his recent, revelatory autobiography, is that Dylan totally, painfully knew that about himself at the time. In fact, at his rejuvenated, inspired concerts now--after he got his shit together again--the offstage voice that announces him to the stage, reciting his decades-long history, makes fun of this era for all to hear.

But even in Dylan's return to form of the last decade, the live shows can be a crap shoot, and require even the biggest of fans (like me) to adjust your thinking and expectations. The guy's voice is shot. It just is. It's a fragile, creaky, broken rasp, allowing him only to bark or whisper out phrases he used to make soar. If you never liked his voice when he could sing, then forget it now. Depending on the night you see him, he may or may not even play guitar, instead sticking behind his keyboard. And then there's the song list, which, like Springsteen, or the Dead, he varies every night, digging deep into his ginormous catalog, sometimes pulling out totally beloved gems, but other times super obscure, odd choices that are guaranteed only to please only a tiny subset of any given audience.

Saturday's show featured the fewest songs I recognized than any Dylan show I've been to, but it was easily in the top 3 I've seen. I read some fan comments on the SF Chronicle's web site, and you can tell the people who haven't seen Dylan either ever or in 10-20 years, because they were utterly disappointed and flabbergasted. Why so loud? What the fuck were these songs? Where was "Blowin' in the Wind?" But for me, and I know, too, for all the ecstatic, hardcore fans around me up in the front (the guy behind me was wielding the previous night's setlist from Portland, for comparison's sake), we knew we were seeing something special. Dylan was in rare form. Easily, by far, the happiest and most playful I've ever seen him live. I don't know if it's because legendary guitarist Charlie Sexton has just rejoined the band, or if this is a new happy phase for him, or if maybe he took an extra dose of antidepressants or something, but, whatever the case, what we got Saturday night was Dylan the song-and-dance man, getting out from behind that damn keyboard at last for some outstanding, confident guitar and harmonica, and even occasionally indulging in some slightly spazzy, cheesy rock star moves that delighted everyone--including his own band--simply because he was doing it. Make no mistake, Dylan is no Freddie Mercury or Springsteen or, well, ANY musician who makes his showmanship and connection with the crowd part of his act. I don't think he said anything to us other than "Thank you!" the entire night. So it's all relative. But if you're used to seeing him live, you knew this was different. You knew what you were seeing was a Bob Dylan who was as happy to be himself, to be playing music at age 68, as we were. It's a subtlety no doubt lost on those not familiar with him, or his live show, and so, yeah, I can see why those with certain expectations would have been lost, or disappointed. But for the rest of us, it was just a great night, and an inspiring one, and one of the reasons he remains my hero: Because he never gives up, never tells himself he's "too old," never stops challenging himself.

Yeah, I know. You hate Dylan. Or you never got him. Or his voice is too annoying. I've heard all that before. But like I said at the start of this post, that just means you haven't tried hard enough. Sometimes the best artists, in any medium, require a bit of work on your part. You have to read the book twice, you have to spend an hour staring at the painting (along with some expert's analysis), you have to take a whole freakin' class, just to see what you were missing. But when you get there, it can change your life. It can expand your mind. It can soothe your soul. I've already overstayed my welcome with this post, so I'll move on. A post about Dylan the poet and lyricist would require boring you for much, much longer. So let me just list, for those of you who care, or might ask, or are willing to take the plunge, the absolute must-have Dylan albums, just for starters. Any order will suffice, though I will say that if it's break-up/brokenhearted/woe-is-me music you like, then get Blood on the Tracks first--the best break-up music of all time.

1. Bringing It All Back Home
2. Highway 61 Revisited
3. Blonde on Blonde
4. Blood on the Tracks

Enjoy your discovery.

Let's Talk TV

2009-10-03T08:09:00.000-07:00

Since my last blog past was, how you say, a rather heavy affair, let's dumb things down a bit to a more acceptable level of nonsense, shall we? Let's talk about television. Actually, I have already tricked you, just one sentence in, because while I do think that most television is nonsense, and will rot your brain out, and will turn you into a slack-jawed, drooling nitwit who can recite 30-year-old TV jingles by heart but can't even name your own state senators, there is plenty of great stuff, too. Living in Berkeley as I do, I occasionally run into one of those pompous, clenched-buttocked snobbier-than-thou types with the "Kill Your Television" bumper sticker, or who proclaim, "I only watch PBS," but, ya know what? It's their loss. Really, the only two words you need to say to folks like that are "The" and "Wire." Because if you haven't watched that show, then you haven't seen one of the great, extended storytelling feats of the past 50 years, in any medium.

So, yeah. I like television. And I'm not sorry. Heck, if you wanted to, you (not me, because I'm too lazy and want to play Batman: Arkham Asylum soon) could probably write a pretty persuasive essay on how television is producing more quality work these days than film (at least in this country.) But actually all I wanted to do here was tell you what I'm watching right now. Which I shall now do, forthwith!

1. Glee. It's not fully formed yet. I think they're still in that freshman season tentative state of trying to find their proper voice (just like Buffy season 1), but there enough moments of greatness and, err, glee, to have high hopes. If nothing else, they have comedy goddess Jane Lynch, who steals every single scene she's in, almost as if she wandered in off another set, and whose presence ensures I'll never miss an episode, as long as she's on.

She's not the only good thing. The premise itself--about this group of high school misfits (HEY WAIT A SECOND!) trying to make good in the Glee Club--is solid enough, but distinguishes itself with its presentation and style, with the show busting out into full-on, joyous musical production numbers 3 or 4 times per episode. If you are even mildly predisposed to like musicals, you just can't not like this show. (I went from "like" to "love" after last week's production of Queen's "Somebody to Love"). Still, there's the tone issue. I'm not sure how hilarious teen pregnancy is, for one, nor am I too thrilled that there doesn't seem to be any female characters--at least so far--who aren't either villains or schemers of some sort. The show has handled the issue of homosexuality with surprising grace, so it's clear the creators don't lack sensitivity. So here's hoping they humanize some of the girls/women as the series progresses.

2. Top Chef and Project Runway. I know what you may be thinking now. "Is Jeff Green gay?" No, I am not, and if you need to immediately see some sign of my hetero/testosterone-driven self, you may skip down to the Sons of Anarchy entry below. I really try hard to limit my intake of reality TV (though, yes, I will slum with the worst of the worst, like, oh, I dunno, C.O.P.S or Tool Academy) if my brain demands such medication), but these shows, for me, distinguish themselves and have a strong attraction for me personally because they are both about the same thing: Creative people being forced to create under pressure.. Yeah, sure, I like all the catty bickering and snarkiness and all that other good stuff too, but at root the reason I can handle these two reality shows rather than most of the rest is because of the respect I have for (most of) the contestants, as well as just the thrill of watching what they come up with under severe time constraints and often ridiculous circumstances. And, yes, I have a crush on Tim Gunn just like everyone else. Which, again, does not make me gay. (Not that there'd be anything wrong with that.)

3. Mad Men For the same reasons that everyone else watches it, and why the critics love it, and why it wins boatloads of Emmys (which, actually have zero credibility for All Eternity anyway since they failed to recognize The Wire). It's brilliantly written and sublimely acted. Some people have been bitching about this season being "slow," or that "nothing is happening," but I submit that if you feel this way, you're either not watching it the right way (patiently) or are conveniently forgetting the first two seasons. This show has always been a slow burn. (Kinda like The Sopranos often was.) The show spends a ton of time setting everything up, letting characters and situations simmer, not having everything HAPPEN right away--just like in real life, hey! I think this show, almost more than any I've seen, really bears repeated viewings, because it's only then that you can see just how much care is going into every aspect of it, how much nuance and playfulness and foreshadowing is going on in the writing. I do know it's the one show I won't watch if I'm at all tired, because I know I'm going to miss too much, waiting for "the action," when, really, the action in Mad Men is all about the inner turmoil of the characters, their struggles to make sense of a world that is changing all around them, a sense of freedom and release for some, and of doom for others. Also, the clothes are awesome.

4. Sons of Anarchy Okay, dudes--happy now? Yes, I love the violent motorcycle gang show. A lot. I missed the first season entirely, but now not only am I on board, but it's the one show that I realized I started actively anticipating and getting impatient for. For me, it's the new Oz: Bad men behaving badly and violently, a super tough soap opera for guys, a fantasy trip about power and dominance, with bursts of yeehaw action and bloodshed for us cheering but harmless plebes in the bleachers. Oh yeah, for the snobs in the house, it's also been explicitly stated by the creator that this is all based on Hamlet , if you must know, but that's just if you want to not feel guilty for watching. It's also not really about the motorcycles,either, which is fine, because even though I ride one, I obviously couldn't identify less with these characters. It's not about a middle-aged Jewish guy commuting to his job in the videogame industry. Ron ("Hellboy") Perlman is great as always, doing that gigantic guy with a heart thing he does so well--but the writers are also clearly muddying things up, as he does some extremely bad things that, like Tony Soprano, would make him a villain in any other story.

Adding even-worse bad guys this season--some despicable white supremacists led by Adam Arkin and former Black Flag lead "singer" Henry Rollins--makes it easier to root for our motorcycle gang heroes, but, again, like The Sopranos, and The Shield, you're constantly being forced to consider just who and what it is you're rooting for. Even though you do hope they kick ass.

So that's my Now Watching list. Mostly. Needless to say, there's still The Daily Show and Colbert Report, though not as daily as they should be. And House, because Hugh Laurie can do no wrong.

Really, though, all this stuff? Just biding time until Lost returns.

Hellmouth Confidential

2009-09-28T12:40:00.000-07:00

I seem to be surrounded by high school these days. And given that that was, by far, the worst experience of my life to date, I'm not sure how thrilled I am about it. However I feel about it, though, the convergence is quite strange.

First, there's my own kid, who's a sophomore right now at an absolutely fantastic private school that I am paying a fortune for but that is worth every damn penny, including the pennies we borrowed to make it happen. This Saturday was a "back to school" day for the parents, in which we actually go through an abbreviated version of our kids' real day, attending all their classes to get a taste of what it's like for them. And what it's like for them is so completely different from what it was like for me that I can't help but be filled with both incredible happiness and pride for my daughter, but also, I admit, a little jealousy at what she's getting that I didn't. Not petty jealousy, just more the wistful kind. And not just at the curriculum or class size either, which are both incredible, but also at the basic fact that it's a "nerd school," in which everyone there is smart and therefore doesn't have to worry about being a dork, or being "uncool". It doesn't hurt, at all, that pop culture itself has done a 180 since my youth and that "nerd" and "cool" are now, incredibly, somewhat synonymous, at least in some circles, but it feels like more than that to me. These kids all look like they're actually comfortable in their own skin--or at least as comfortable as an adolescent is going to get. And sitting in these classrooms where a mere 10-15 of them get first-rate, college-level instruction, makes me feel grateful that I can provide this opportunity for my kid, and angry that we felt forced to go this way, because of the shitty public schools, as well as anger on behalf of the folks who can't afford it. Don't worry, I won't go off on a Berkeley liberal rant--especially when I'm taking the moneyed way out myself--but, man, fuck Proposition 13. It fuckin' ruined this state.

Anyway, while the contrast between my kid's school and my own would be a pronounced and painful one no matter what the year, this year is even worse because I am constantly getting spam reminders now that my 30th high school reunion is just around the corner! Thirty years. And yet a bear every traumatic scar from those years as if it was just last year. Kinda pathetic, really. The words "move on" come to mind. Yet I still have nightmares, real ones, about specific events or people, or the opposite--dreams in which this or that person and I are actually having a nice time together. Which doesn't feel a whole lot better somehow.

We're now almost done with Season 7 of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and being so late to the party on this, I'm a good half-decade behind all the astute analysis done by folks way smarter than me about the obvious, explicit metaphor that Joss Whedon and gang were operating under: that high school is hell. As it turns out, though some of us must battle those demons our entire lives, even decades later, in another city entirely. Some of us need constant reminders that that's all part of the past, that those demons can't get to us now.

I won't be going to my 30th high school reunion, by the way, much like I didn't go to the 5th, 10th, or 20th. Because, though one could argue I could go back in "triumph" (hey look at me now!), I honestly don't feel like I have anything to prove, for one thing, and, for another, the sad, more mundane truth is that I'd probably end up feeling just as left out as I did back in the day, no matter who I may be now or what I've accomplished. I'm happy with my life, and blessed with great family and friends, and a professional career I'm proud of, and, ya know, that's good enough for me. I have zero need to go back for some kind of empty "SEE!" moment, because, really, the only person I ever needed to convince in the first place was myself. No one else actually gave a shit, or maybe even knew anything was wrong.

I spent a little time recently on the web site of our reunion, and there are photos from all the reunions as well as some from our actual high school days in the 1970s. Throughout every decade, it's essentially all the same folks. You wouldn't know we had a class of over 300 (at least, I can't remember the exact count), because most of the photos are of the same cluster of yearbook kids, sports kids, drama kids, etc etc--which I honestly state with far less bitterness than it may sound. Actually, I had a great laugh, because one photo says it all. It's a photo of four kids, three girls and a boy. All of the girls are identified in the caption, but not only is the boy not identified, but it's not even acknowledged that there's an unidentified boy in the photo. It's as if he's not even there.

Yeah, that's right. That's a boy second from the right--blame the 1970s. And that boy is me. But to those who made this website, I'm unknown. I'm invisible. I'm not even worthy of saying I can't be identified. And man does that say it all.

Let's be clear here, however, lest this sound too much like a pity party. I don't believe my high school experience was necessarily any worse than anyone else's. On paper, in fact, and in person, to many of those around me at the time--I may have appeared to be doing fine. Sterling GPA (which got me into Cal Berkeley), 1st trumpet in the jazz band, managing editor of the school paper--typical nerd stuff. The problem, for me, again, was me. I was simply not equipped emotionally, did not have the right level of self-confidence, when the inevitable hazing came. And, hey, when you're a pimply, nearsighted, redheaded beanpole in the 70s, you need to be prepared to get hazed. It didn't help that in my case, the worst hazing of my life, the one that scarred me permanently, came from the boys that until that very moment I had considered my best friends, but, on the other hand, who doesn't have stories like that? My problem was that instead of getting angry at them, I internalized it, took it as truth, believed them, and then spent the next three decades trying to recover, and to realize that maybe I'm not a pathetic loser who doesn't deserve to have friends.. Almost every social situation I am involved in to this day--whether it's a work environment, party, family event, whatever--is still informed by that trauma, as sad and somewhat implausible as that sounds. And, yeah, you don't need to suggest therapy for me--that's been going on for decades, too. Wheee!

Again, let's not tune our tiny violins here. All is good. And, hey, I like my life and even know how to get angry at other people now! My point is that as good as things are now, the reunion has zero appeal to me, because I have nothing I want to reunite with.

Oddly enough, as I have been writing this, I heard, out of the blue, from one of my boyhood friends who I haven't been in touch with in over 30 years, who found me through that very reunion website. Synchronicity, dude! He's a guy who, like me, probably didn't have the greatest time back then. (Who knows--we boys didn't share our feelings.) And this is the kind of reunion I don't mind having. I've thought of this guy now and then over the past number of decades, wondering how he turned out. Did he get it together? Or did he end up as a psycho serial killer, exacting his revenge on those who tormented him? And it turns out he got it together just fine, just like I did, just like most people do. And it made me happy to know this. Not just a little happy, but a lot happy. Maybe those high school demons aren't so powerful after all.

And maybe someday I'll learn to remember that.

The Twitter Conundrum.

2009-09-27T17:47:00.000-07:00

I hate to say it, but it really does seem as though Twitter is a blog-killer. Case in point: Me. While it would certainly be a stretch (well, okay, a lie) to say that I was an active blogger, it's also true that I've been blogging far less since reluctantly jumping on that 140-character bandwagon.

I say "reluctantly" because it's true: I had to have a few folks clamoring at me before I buckled and did it. And my earliest tweets expressed that annoyance and bewilderment with this new trendoid communication tool. To use another fave of the moment: Really? This is how we're gonna talk now? It's seemed both pointless and self-indulgent to me, and if you want to argue that I was right, I'm not going to argue back. Twitter abuse is rampant: Tweeting when you really have absolutely nothing to say, or when you say something that has no context for anyone at all, like: "Huh." This doesn't mean that every tweet needs to be a 140-character mini-masterpiece, but it would help if you at least had some kind of point, however small. Not to put pressure on you, but realize that you are "publishing" your thoughts. Don't clutter up our feeds with "LOL." I'm happy, I guess, that you are laughing out loud about something, but if you're not going to let me in on the joke, too, well, then shut up about it. I end up un-following more people than I follow for this very reason. I don't demand that you entertain me, but if you're just sharing you're just blabbering away all day on Twitter as if you are talking to yourself, well, you can go ahead and do that without me, just to make it official.

Anyway, that's not really my point here. Sorry. My point is more this: That in my brain, I am always walking around, as writers are often wont to do, filtering everything I am seeing and hearing and feeling into something I can write about later. I'm always mentally filing things away. If someone says something stupid--like the co-worker who complained in Cologne a few weeks ago, in utter seriousness, that she was annoyed that the German restaurants all had their menus in German--I immediately flag that as something for future use.

The problem is that Twitter is now a fast, easy, low-maintenance, utterly accessible avenue for these moments that get caught in the net. I no longer have to stockpile them in my brain and then get the time and energy to write a whole blog post around them. Now, in seconds, right on my iPhone, I can blurt it out to you, instantaneously, without having to worry about form or context or writing many, many words. Actually, that's a bit of an oversimplification. Cramming something into 140-characters can be a bit of a challenge, and that's the part of Twitter that I like. It's an interesting exercise, trying to be funny in that little space. And some people (and I'm not including myself) are great at it. The best Twitter feeds, for me, are the ones that take a specific, funny angle, and stick to it, like the now justly famous @shitmydadsays.

But when I step back from it, like I am today, and look at what it's doing to me, it bums me out a little. I like that I can freely tweet throughout the day and hopefully provide a laugh or two, or a recommendation of some sort, or whatever the heck it is I do. But I don't like that it sort of saps my bandwidth, as well as material, that could be better put to use in actual longer-than-one-sentence writing. I'm not gonna get all Luddite about it, and decry it as The End of Everything. But it is an easy way out, and the lure of it, for someone predisposed to be lazy and easily distracted, like me, makes it a bit of a danger.

This entire post came into being, by the way, because I have been binging on Batman: Arkham Asylum the past couple days, and have fallen in love with it. As I kept getting further into this first-rate, thoroughly entertaining action game, starts strong and then gets better, part of me kept thinking, "I'm gonna stop playing for a minute and tweet about this." Actually it was more specific than that. What I wanted to tweet was: "Batman: Arkham Asylum may be the best single-player gaming experience I've had since Half-Life." And in thinking about tweeting that, I realized that that fundamental change had occurred in my brain: I was mentally noting things that I wanted to tweet rather than blog.

Previously, I would have been mentally writing an entire blog post about Batman: Arkham Asylum, in which I would try to justify and backup that statement. Tell you why Arkham Asylum is so great. Because all of those thoughts are in my head, too. But Twitter just lets me send it out there. I don't have to justify shit. And maybe, in some respects, that's cool, too. I get to make a bold statement. You can agree or disagree. If I were still a journalist, and not working at EA, Warner Bros/Eidos could even put that tweet right on the box.

But that's not what I got in this for. That's not what my brain and fingers have worked all these years at doing. It's easy and fun and accessible, but it's no substitute, or solution, for depth. That's not to say that I'm quitting Twitter. Ferget it. I'm still hooked on it. I'm just saying that this was a particular moment of clarity for me, and one that was going to take me way more than 140 characters to explain. So, see, I was forced to blog.

But, oh, while I'm here, I should probably say: Batman:Arkham Asylum may be the best-single player experience I've had since Half-Life. Maybe I'll blog about it sometime!

Together through life.

2009-09-20T08:41:00.000-07:00

It's a pretty good sign that you've been away from your blog too long when spam starts appearing in the comments. Seriously, WTF? You've gotta be getting desperate for attention for whatever you're peddling to think that that's a good marketing strategy.

Anyway, yeah, I've been gone. I know you know. I've had incredibly itchy writing fingers for at least a week, but instead of actually putting them towards writing, I was applying them to the plastic guitar in Beatles: Rock Band, which didn't do anything for my writing skills, but sure was a lot of fun anyway. Oh, and my Sim in The Sims 3 wrote 5 science fiction novels in the time I've been away, too. So at least that guy got some writing done!

It's been a busy, crazy, difficult, and sometimes fun month. The Games Com convention in Germany was exhausting and at times just not even remotely fun (you try sitting in a small room without windows demoing a game to non-English speakers over and over and over for 8 hours!), but I'm still glad I went, if for no other reason that to see another city in another part of the world, which is always worth it no matter what. Cologne was quite pretty--the cathedral is stunning (despite a co-worker's LOL-worthy complaint that, "UGH, it's like there's one of these in every city in Europe!" Yeah, ya think?), looming over the mostly modern city (the original was mostly destroyed in WW2) like some giant, dark Gothic beast. And you can tell when a writer is out of practice when he writes a fucking horrible middle school creative writing sentence like that.

The other lowlight of Cologne was being forced into two dinners the first two nights first at an Indian restaurant, and then at a Japanese restaurant. Yeah, because neither of those cuisines are readily available in the Bay Area. And, hey, who doesn't go to Germany for the sushi! Thankfully, the next two nights were done right, at an outdoor beer garden, with schnitzel and beer and the warm summer air, which was exactly the kind of European experience I was craving, and which often makes me feel like sometime before I croak I really should live over there for awhile. Or maybe I can just buy a beret!

No sooner had I returned from Games Com than I was off again to the Penny Arcade (PAX) convention in Seattle. And, hey, if you're gonna go to another city in the US after a Europe trip, it might as well be Seattle, truly one of the cooler American cities, other than the fact that every third building seems to be a Starbucks. I've said this on more than one occasion now, but, with 13 years of gaming conventions under my belt, I can confidently say that this PAX--the first one I've attended--was the best convention I've ever been to. This is what E3 should be, or wishes it was: A celebration of the industry, a geeky lovefest for what we do and what we play and what we're into, devoid of cynicism and bored obligation. Credit the fans for making it that way--the ones paying to get in, flying in from around the world on their own dime cuz they WANT to be there, reminding those of us who get paid to do it that, hey, ya know, at root this is and always has been about providing people with entertainment.

Showing MySims Agents was an absolute joy this time, because those who came to see it--whether it was because they knew me from my press life or were fans of the franchise and had no idea who I was--stopped by because they were truly interested, not because it was their job to do so. And, hey, not that there's anything wrong with it being "your job to do so," because that was MY job until I came to EA. This isn't about bagging on the press. It's about interacting directly, eye-to-eye, with people who are there ONLY for the love, with no other agenda other than that gaming makes them happy. It may sound corny, but it's just utterly refreshing, and was actually contagious--just like the swine flu I picked up! When folks started lining up to get Tim Schafer's autograph on Brutal Legend posters, I snuck out of my booth and got in line right with them, caught up in an unexpected rush of goofy fanboyism.

Of course, the proverbial icing on the cake was the GFW Radio reunion, which was just an incredible blast, humbling and exciting and satisfying in so many ways--not to mention just being a serious ego boost. Because, hey, let's not be falsely modest: Having hundreds of people lining up, hours ahead of time, to hear you talk, is a fucking surreal and awesome experience, and is easily one of the highlights of my entire professional career to date. And even better was the feeling of being back together with those guys and, even with the obligatory moments of awkwardness, clicking again and finding that groove that made that podcast so fun to do. Because in the old days, all we were doing was trying to please ourselves. We knew no one was listening, and, at first, we didn't really want to be there anyway. So we just did stuff to amuse ourselves, riffing off other podcasts, websites, magazines, talking about the things that drove us crazy at our jobs, that embarrassed us as members of the gaming press, and just talking about all the same kind of random nonsense that we would throughout the day anyway. The fact that it DID ultimately catch on, over time, was a bonus for us--a surprising one at first, but one that we did become proud of, and that we tried to take ownership of, treating it as seriously as we would the magazine. And so when everything went to hell and we all started bailing out of there, it was GFW Radio just as much as GFW the magazine that we ourselves came to miss. Getting the opportunity at PAX to reunite for one more round was an honor and a thrill and went better than I think any of us dared to imagine. So thanks to ALL of you who went, or listened, or tried to get in, or whatever. We all felt, and feel, extremely lucky and grateful for that experience.

Of course, karma kicked in immediately after, as karma likes to do, and whomped me upside the head with the swine flu, which took me out of circulation for over a week. It's only now, really, that I feel fully rested and back to life and ready to contribute to society in a way other than coughing. I realize this blog post is completely meaningless and boring, but this one is more for me than for you. I'm just tryin' to get back on the horse here.

It's been a long summer, with big highs and serious lows. Frankly? I'm ready for Fall.

Alf Wiedersehen

2009-08-15T15:15:00.001-07:00

Okay, I know it's actually "auf" and not "Alf," but if I had said that, then I wouldn't have had any good reason to put this in my post:

So I'm hoping you will forgive me.

Anyhoo, I'm off to Germany tomorrow. Yay? Kind of yay. I mean, I'm looking forward to the GamesCom convention, which I've never attended, and I'm also looking forward to Cologne, which I've never visited, but, hey, travel is exhausting, and I'm going without my family, and I'm going for work anyway, not "fun." Still, it could be worse. I'm staying at the Hilton, for one, and I don't have to share a room with any other probably-smelly EA employee, and the "work" I'm doing is just demoing MySims Agents, which is something I really enjoying doing. BECAUSE THE GAME IS GREAT AND YOU SHOULD ALL BUY IT.

I'm going to be in Cologne from Monday-Saturday, leaving Saturday morning. So if you were planning on seeing me at the convention, don't wait until the weekend! I will already be gone. I'm "behind closed doors" for most of the show, but will also be checking in at the main EA booth on the show floor, and will also be wandering around whenever EA lets me off my leash. (And if you happen to be a member of Kraftwerk, and you're reading this, and you're gonna be in Cologne, please stop by so I can worship you for a moment, because I do: I worship you.)

My favorite German band, rocking out.

Besides stalking Kraftwerk, my other goals on this trip include:
1) Not getting fired
2) Getting in a good walking tour of the city, or at least the highlights.
3) Making significant progress in Chrono Trigger
4) Sampling as many fine German beers as I can. Apparently, the local specialty is something called Kolsch. This sounds good to me, so I will probably have quite a few of these. If you'd like to buy me one, I'll probably accept. I haven't had a beer in 3 weeks in anticipation of this trip, so my beer gut, at this point, has all but totally deflated. In theory, that's a good thing. Well, in reality it is too. But look. I'm not going all the way over there, to what is essentially The Beer Country, and not loading up on the stuff. I may be concerned about my health and appearance, but I'm no moron either. So let's fuckin'drink up!

I will also be doing the requisite tweeting (@greenspeak), and will hopefully get at least one or two blog posts and photos up over at EA.com. I think we're gonna have a hub set up for Cologne, but if not, try here.

I do, as usual, have lots more to say, and have many more blog posts in my head that have not translated to this space yet--my AT&T rant, the next Motorcycle Diary post, my Rock Band dilemma, and more--but sadly, I am a busy man, and must pack and get ready and all that.

So for now I bid you adieu, but I shall be floating around the information superhighway here this coming week, live from Cologne, with important and exciting infotainment for your infotainment pleasure!

Cheers!

A gaming post!

2009-08-08T11:35:00.000-07:00

Hi there! It's a beautiful, sunny late Saturday morning/early afternoon here in Berkeley, California, so what better time to be behind my computer inside my house with the blinds closed.

I've been playing lots of games lately, but haven't yammered about them much, so I figured it was time I did so here. If you visit this blog for reasons other than gaming, you may want to check out now, as this will be a geekapalooza. For all the rest of you: Welcome!

First, let me just say that the pile of games that I have now started and not finished grows ever longer. As much a I'd like to be, in theory, A Guy Who Finishes Games, the sad reality is that I am not. It might be my years as a gaming journalist, in which I was always jumping from one thing to another, to keep current, and only finishing games I was actually reviewing, but even without that excuse any more, I can't stay focused long enough to finish anything. Unless the game happens to be relatively short, like Trine, in which case I do get to bask in that feeling of accomplishment. It's for this reason that I have really come to like shorter games; just a totally selfish desire to finish. Because when faced with epic monstrosities like Fallout 3---which I love dearly, I should say--I just know there's no way in hell I'm ever gonna get through it. I can't even fathom that folks are on to the DLC packs for that game. I'm maybe, I dunno, halfway through the main quest, and it's taken me months to get there, just because I keep getting distracted by other games.

Currently, for example, I am in love with King's Bounty: The Legend, which I downloaded off Steam, and which, within 5 minutes of starting, I knew was going to hook me deeply. The original game and subsequent series off which it was based--the Heroes of Might and Magic series--are some of my favorite strategy games of all time, combining exploration and turn-based combat with a hearty dose of fantasy wankery and droll humor...an irresistible meal for Count Dorkula here. The scary thing is that games like this can take forever , and while it is an awesome forever, it does tend to push everything else to the background--kinda like WoW did for me for a good couple years there. (And let's not even talk about WoW; I still miss it and my PC still won't play it. It's just an open sore I'm trying to ignore.)

The fantasy strategy/RPG itch is also getting satisfied via Chrono Trigger on the Nintendo DS. As a PC gaming dork for most of my life, I largely missed out on the JRPG thang--with the exception of Final Fantasy 4 and 7--and I knew that Chrono Trigger was one of the big ones that I'd get to eventually. Playing the new DS version has been a blast so far, though I'm really not that far in. I'm just past the trial, but that itself was so clever--with all the "evidence" weighed against me being made up of actions I had taken earlier in the game up to then--that I knew I was in good hands. That's the kind of smart and creative design decision that you really rarely ever see, especially these days, when developers and publishers seem to go out of their way, more so every year, not to hold everyone's hand and baby our way through these games. The trial comes as a complete surprise, and there's nothing you can do at that point to undo the actions that led you to it, or that lead to the verdict. The game judges you by what you did, and then responds accordingly. It's just a small little set piece in the game, but it's brilliant.

The DSi, by the way, is fast becoming, well, not quite my "platform of choice," but often the one that I default to, if for no other reason that I can play while lying in bed or on the couch. Because, as mentioned above, I can't ever focus on just one game, I'm also simultaneously making me way through Professor Layton (maddening at times but super entertaining and fun to share with others in the room) and Rhythm Heaven, which is also entertaining, and hilarious at times, but also way harder than I was anticipating. And my sense of rhythm really isn't bad for an old white guy--years of bass playing helped overcome the genetic disposition to not stay on the beat.

And then there's GTA Chinatown Wars , a game I enthusiastically bought because of all the rave reviews, and which I too played the hell out of for awhile, but ultimately put down out of frustration--the driving, to me, was just too hard to manage with the D-pad, and I found myself losing missions repeatedly simply because I was battling the controls, rather than the game. It is impressive what Rockstar managed to cram into this game. And I even liked all the stylus-based minigames. So they get a ton of credit for reimagining this series for this platform as well as they did. Ultimately, it's more about me than the game: I just suck at action games on the DS. Nor do I want to feel that stressed out while paying on that contraption, since I'm usually horizontal while doing so.

Other games? I powered through episode one of the new Tales of Monkey Island from Telltale, and loved it. I'm also replaying the new version of Secret of Monkey Island, but, fortunately or unfortunately, I still remember most of the puzzles--surprisingly hardwired into my brain--so it's less about discovery than it is nostalgia. Still, we're talking about one of the funniest games ever made--by far--and like a classic comedy film, it totally holds up and provides the same laughs, all over again. I miss games like this, frankly. It feels like a bit of a lost art. So here's hoping that Tim Schafer and the gang really bring it back with Brutal Legend. It seems like it simply has to be a Day 1 purchase for me. I want to believe.

Other games? Having a blast so far in my limited experience with Battlefield 1943. My biggest problem is still the old console controller vs. keyboard/mouse thing--the cross to bear for all PC gamers. Fights that I'd easily win on the PC just have embarrassing results with the controller, a problem for me going all the way back to Halo 1. But I've always really dug this series, especially because the ability to garner points via methods other than shooting--like flag-capturing--always ensures I can do well on any given server. I blabbed about this on the last Out of the Game podcast, but it constantly amazes me, and this goes all the way back to the first Battlefield--how many players seem to miss the fundamental goal of the game and get caught up in battles that are totally meaningless. Meanwhile, I can rack up points and contribute to the team's bottom line in my own rogue, solo way, and then do my little superior dance when my name shows up near the top of the leaderboard. Err, when I'm not getting endlessly picked off by snipers, that is.

Finally, this summer has led to a resurgence in boardgaming, thanks to both family members and some of my pals at EA, which in turn has led me to zombie out on XBLA with both Catan and Carcassone, which provide able AI opponents. Actually, let me amend that. At least for Catan. Because they may be "able," but as far as I'm concerned, it fuckin' cheats. There. I said it. Because, without fail, once I establish a lead in that game, it seems that every new die roll is a freakin' miracle. Suddenly the 2s and 12s start pouring out--as long as it benefits the other opponents--as well as the 7s, which invariably lead to me losing all my cards, over and over. Okay, so maybe I'm just a paranoid crybaby. But I definitely get the sense, once I start winning, that the AI stops being three separate opponents with their own agendas, and instead one vengeful computer, like HAL in 2001, doing everything it can to prevent my victory, including spinning the die whichever way it helps it best. However, lest it appear I am insulting the designers, who I have nothing but love for (really!), let me offer an alternative, but equally probable, explanation for what I am experiencing: I just suck at Catan.

The list of unfinished games (Dead Space, Mirror's Edge) grows ever higher, as does the list of games just barely even started (Persona 3), and the chances of me ever finishing them all decreases as the days pass, my hair gets grayer, and my life gets busier. For decades now, I've always imagined this theoretical future when I am going to have nothing but time on my hands, and I will finally get around to all of this wonderful gaming, but, ya know. Sure. Still, it's a nice fantasy to cling to, and helps quell the feeling that I'm in way over my head here with all of this. Such a rough problem to have in life, isn't it? Too many games to play and not enough time. Cry me a freakin' river, I know. But such is the burden of the 21st Century Gamer.

Woe is us.

The Motorycle Diaries, Part II

2009-08-05T18:23:00.000-07:00

I have promised you, The People, another motorcycle blog, and I have been delinquent in delivering. Forgive me. I've been a bit distracted. In addition, my motorcycle has not even been in my possession this week, as I brought it in for a 15,000 mile servicing. This is after skipping the 4,000 and 7,000 and 13,000 mile servicing, for which I am a very bad boy, indeed. The problem is that I ride every single day, 70 miles a day, and so I hate to be without it. Which is about the stupidest possible excuse I could come up with, since the bike will obviously be no good to me if it gets screwed up.

Now, I have done the basic upkeep of the bike--oil, tire pressure, etc--but when it comes to actual mechanics, ferget it. I am beyond incompetent. Well, that's not entirely fair. I'm just unskilled. I lack knowledge. I did not grow up with a father who tinkered in the garage and handed me down his toolkit. I do not, in general, repair items, and the only furniture I've ever assembled successfully comes from Ikea, which doesn't count. It's kind of a crappy thing to have to admit as a guy, and even worse when you ride a motorcycle. Because the expected cultural wisdom is that you fix yer own goddamn bike. It's about being "at one" with your machine, which, in theory, I completely agree with. I just know that in practice, it'd end in catastrophe. So, I just pay the price instead--and in this case it's a heavy one. Like, $1,500 worse. OUCH. The only solace I have is that this is what it would have cost me, apparently, anyway, just as a matter of course---not because I was delinquent on bringing it in. Still, that is a veritable buttload of money, and makes me realize once again how helpless I am in the face of mechanics.

In any event, I promised to say what I ride, and since it's not like it's any big mystery or big deal, I will tell you. I don't know why it has not come up yet. It is a 2009 Kawasaki Vulcan 900 Classic, in black. It looks like this:

I absolutely freakin' love it. Not only is it the first bike I bought brand new, but it is also the biggest and most comfortable. And loudest. Now, you may scoff at that last part, and I am certainly not one of those obnoxious attention-getting a-holes who feels the need to wake the neighborhood or cause babies to scream and dogs to howl as I ride down the road (and really, it's not THAT loud--it's all stock parts), but I promise you that having a bike that motorists can actually HEAR--since no one ever sees us--is a huge safety thing. I can tell, on the freeway, that it's usually the sound of my bike that makes drivers aware BEFORE they see me, and it's a comforting feeling.

The sitting stance on this bike--a cruiser, my first--means that I can basically sit upright, and even lean back a little, which is great if you're a middle-aged dude like me with a bad back. Younger dudes like to point and laugh at cruisers, but my comeback to you is this: Fuck off. Wait till you get to be my age. All I know is I can sit comfortably on this thing for 70 miles every day, and have a nice wide viewing angle in which to watch all the traffic. So you sport bike/rice rocket punks go ahead and rip by me and have a nice day. Old man Green is having a great old time anyway.

I started out small, by the way, on a tiny Ninja 250, and if you are a new and inexperienced rider, I can't recommend this strategy enough. Do not let macho posturing get to you. Do not let your friends laugh at you. Learning the basic techniques, and staying alive while doing it, is your first and only priority when you are starting out, and you do not need, nor really should have, a bigger, more expensive bike to start. It's just stupid. You're gonna drop the thing almost guaranteed at some point (I did, more than once), and, for me anyway, the 250 was just the right (small) size in which I felt like I could be in charge, rather than having the bike overwhelm me. It's also fast as hell, anyway.

I know some folks will probably comment that they started out on bigger bikes and were fine with it, and that's cool. Well, it's cool as long as you survived and didn't feel out of your depth. But I totally recommend starting small and working your way up. Or shit, even just staying small. My previous bike, before this Vulcan, was a Yamaha Seca II, a 600cc that was just beautiful to ride. And if it wasn't for my new, long commute, I would have been happy staying with it. I only upgraded because of the commute. I mean, to be honest about it, I totally would have gotten a bigger, newer bike much earlier than I did, because, ya know, you will always have that itch, but I let practical reasons, like money, trump my base desires. Fortunately, by taking a job with a hellish commute, a new, bigger bike became a practical reason. So yay!

One more thing about this bike. Some folks may be inclined, for better or worse, to say it looks like a Harley. I really have no opinion on Harleys or Harley riders. I'm too concerned with my own riding to judge others. I will, say, however, that I have heard that my bike is referred to, among Harley riders, as a "Hardley." I am amused.

Okay. I have procrastinated enough. I now must brave the horrid Bay Area freeway in my car, for one last evening. I hate it. Even when traffic sucks, when I'm on the motorcycle, well, I'm still on my motorcycle. In the car, I just want to run everyone else off the road and/or stab myself in the head with a pencil. I do promise I will do neither, however. The one thing I can do in the car that I can't on the bike is listen to music. And the first Gorillaz CD sounded so freakin' great on the way in this morning, that I'm going to listen to it again on the way home. But even louder.

Next time: The joys and perils of lanesplitting.

San Diego bound

2009-07-21T17:10:00.000-07:00

Just a quick post to inform you, The People, that I am off to San Diego for a not-Comic Con EA event, happening a day before Comic Con, to which I am not going. I say this with only a mild amount of bitterness. Following the not-Comic Con event, I will then be joining a sizeable chunk of my family for an annual family reunion, also in San Diego. None of us are actually from there, since, as I recently said to my co-workers, Jews aren't legally allowed to settle there. But we are allowed to visit and spend money.

Anyhoo: There could be bloggage from San Diego. There could not be. Only the Heavens know for sure. Meanwhile, I have just been informed that the EA Podcast Episode 4 is now up on ye olde Internet, for your infotainment pleasure! Yay! This one features Ben Bell, the executive producer of The Sims 3, and he was a great sport throughout.

So go listen. Lemme know what you think. I'm happier with this one, personally, but don't let me influence your opinion. Feel free to tell me it blows.

Oh yeah, links for the podcast here and on iTunes

Over and out!

The Motorcycle Diaries, Part 1

2009-07-18T08:06:00.000-07:00

There are many reasons people will give for why they ride motorcycles. But there is only one honest one: Because it is fun. It's really as simple as that. It's the exact same kind of addicting thrill and satisfaction that others get from skiing, surfing, scuba diving, or any similar pastime that never gets old to those who get sucked in.

Yes, you can cite tons of practical reasons why motorcycling can be a good thing. I do all the time. For me, personally, it's the only way I could even imagine working at my current job. my commute to Electronic Arts in Redwood City from my home in Berkeley is 35 miles each way, on some of the most notoriously congested freeway in the entire country. Riding my motorcycle means not only do I save tons of money on gas, and get to cross the bridge without paying toll in the carpool lane, but because it's legal to lanesplit in California, I am essentially immune to the daily traffic mess. I have to ride much slower, yes (the accepted lanesplitting wisdom is to never go faster than 10 mph faster than the flow of traffic), but at least I can keep moving, unlike all the poor saps trapped forever in their cars. My commute takes me about 45 minutes on average on my bike. On those occasions when I'm forced to drive, it takes twice as long, each way. That's 3 hours of commuting a day--and, frankly, I would just go fucking insane if I had to do that every day.

So, see? I can make a good, logical case for it. It's fast, it's cheap, it saves me a huge amount of time that I can otherwise devote to my family and my work. But all of that wouldn't mean a dang thing if the greater truth didn't exist: That I still get a palpable thrill every single time I hop on the bike and ride.

Some people, I think, are just two-wheel types. Before motorcycles--and before I got too lazy--I used to ride my bike all the time. (And, man, I really need to get back into it.) That was, by far, my preferred form of exercise, and my wife and I would ride in Berkeley whenever and wherever we could, rather than take the car. We also used to be pretty good at it--riding way up into the Berkeley and Oakland hills, on inclines that now make me tired just to look at.

Conversely, I've never been a car guy at all. I really just kinda hate cars, and I hate driving them. It's just not me. And it's not because I'm a motorcyclist. My hatred of driving predates my motorcycle riding. I don't know what it is, honestly, but I just find sitting behind the wheel of a car an utter burden. I'd rather walk, or ride a pack mule, or just sit in the dirt and go nowhere. I get tense and frustrated in cars. I get impatient. It brings out a lame side of me: Yelling at other drivers, aggressively passing people who annoy me. George Carlin had a great line about driving: "Have you ever noticed that anybody driving slower than you is an idiot, and anyone going faster than you is a maniac? " That's how I get. It's just too much stress for me.

Maybe it's about control, at least a little bit. On the bike, I feel completely in charge of my own destiny. Barring a total roadblock by emergency vehicles or something, there's nothing I can't get around, there's no way to get stuck on the motorcycle. Whereas in a car, if you're stuck, you're stuck. That's part of it.

But I think the bigger truth is that it's just a particular frame of mind, and state of being, that being on a motorcycle puts you in. Again, it's like skiing. On a motorcycle, you are completely in the moment, always. There is simply no way to ride and not be 100 percent focused on the riding, every moment of the experience. It's all about the journey, in this case--not the destination. Riding requires intense concentration, and thus requires you, for the most part, to bleach your mind of any extraneous noise. This doesn't mean that those thoughts won't invade your mind--because they can't help it. It's like meditation that way. You have to acknowledge they're there, but then gently push them aside and get back to the business of riding. For me, those 70 miles a day are actually a form of meditation. It's 90 minutes out of my day in which what I am doing is riding a motorcycle, and not preoccupying myself with anything else. It's a form of rejuvenation, and even, at times, as ridiculous as it may seem to some, of spiritual uplift.

It focuses my mind and reduces things to one essential, primal goal: Stay alive.

Next time: What I ride, and why.

Motorcycle Diaries: Prologue

2009-07-14T06:56:00.000-07:00

True Fact #1: Riding a motorcycle does not make you cool. But it might make you a bit of a moron.

Forget what anyone tells you, whether they ride or not. Motorcycle riding is an inherently stupid and dangerous activity. And I love it, passionately.

In the past decade of motorcycle riding, let's figure, roughly, that I rode about 325 days out of each year. This accounts for vacation time and rainy days. Every other day, I'd be on the bike. This means that I've had roughly 3,250 close calls, any one of which could have seriously injured me, or worse. It never stops, and it doesn't matter how good and cautious of a rider I am (or you are). Most people are terrible drivers, or at least distracted ones, and even if you're reading this and think you're one of the good ones, I can probably guarantee you that you've narrowly missed motorcycles--because of reaching for your radio dial, or talking on your phone, or chatting with others in the car, or simply from having one half-second of not seeing a bike in a blind spot--more than you realize.

That's okay, though. Because it's the motorcyclist's job to know this about you, and to be constantly, ever vigilant. It also doesn't matter how great a motorcyclist you think you are, either. Yeah, you may have excellent skills, awesome intuition and reflexes, and a healthy dose of cautionary and defensive techniques, and that may all make you relatively safer than your average Darwin-challenged squid, but every single one of us has tales of that unexpected split second where there was simply nothing that could have been done, no matter what. And if you don't have one yet, don't worry--you will.

Squid(n): Motorcyclist lingo for a rider who wears little to no protective gear, rides outside his/her own abilities, and generally makes all the rest of us look bad by being an obnoxious, irresponsible douche.

I've been relatively lucky, overall. Despite all the near misses, I've actually only been hit once. In 2004, I was riding home from my job at CGW in San Francisco, and was just getting off the Bay Bridge. As always, I was constantly scanning ahead for potential problems/hazards/assholes. And I saw one: A guy in a red sports car, blabbing on his cell phone, one lane to the right of me. Knowing I didn't want to be anywhere near the guy, I accelerated to pass him. But just as I was almost clear of him, he did what I was dreading and trying to prevent: He merged into my lane without looking. Because I was almost clear of him, and because I was almost half-expecting it, I actually didn't fall down. I felt the impact of the car (I still remember the metal hitting my leg) as he conked me sideways, but I remained upright. Adrenaline kicked in, which was a good thing, because the guy immediately tried to get away, but because he had almost completely stopped I was able to swerve the bike in front of him and cut him off so he couldn't get away.

The rest is a long, boring tale of insurance companies, but the end result is that my bike was considered totaled, and Red Sportcar Boy ended up buying me a better, cooler bike. Because even though I was spooked and shaken and actually did quit for a month or two afterward, I simply had to get back on a bike. I missed it too damn much.

All of which is just to establish, before I spend some time over the course of future posts rhapsodizing about motorcycle riding, that I am not necessarily recommending it or claiming that doing it makes me cool. If you think it's an idiotic and dangerous pastime, know that I'm right there with you. It's just the idiotic and dangerous pastime that I've chosen to be mine.

Next time: Why I Ride: The Good Stuff

Anvil: The Story of Anvil

2009-07-11T13:28:00.000-07:00

Hi kids! So I'm back from the UK, back at work, back in ye olde Regular Life. Here's to that.

The UK trip was a ton of fun, though quite exhausting, and, I gotta say, a bit disappointing if what I was expecting was "a trip to England." Because, really, I could have been anywhere in the world, for all I actually saw or experienced. I went, quite literally, from Heathrow Airport to the Four Seasons Hotel in Hampshire and then back to the airport, with not one foot set outside of either the entire time. It wasn't for lack of trying, either---but my Lords and Masters at EA UK had me scheduled pretty much the entire time, except for a couple hours here and there when I crawled back to my room for a much needed, jet-lag inspired nap. And anyway, had I wanted to go anywhere, even, as I originally hoped, to a pub--because at the very least I thought I'd at least grab a fine English brew or 10--there was nowhere to go, as the hotel was surrounded by farmland for as far as you could see. We were in the middle of nowhere. A beautiful English countryside version of nowhere, but, still, nowhere. And lest it appear like I am totally complaining, here is a photo of where I was staying:

Yeah. So, ya know: worse places to be "stuck" for three days. Still, you'd think for such a fine establishment, they would at least have some of that aforementioned fine English beer I was craving. But what were my choices? Heineken, Stella, and Corona. WTF?

Anyhoo, my luxurious accommodations continued even after I left the hotel, as I found myself randomly upgraded, in a complete lucky fluke, to business class on British Airways. And oh my god was that a revelation. Seriously, this isn't just a *little* better of a way to fly--it's like an entirely different world. I'm spoiled for life now, especially for a transcontinental flight. Better food, better service, a full open bar and kitchen for the whole flight, and, of course, the leg room. On this airline, anyway, you get a full 6-foot "pod" that is entirely yours, complete with a drawer to put yer stuff in, and a seat that reclines out all the way down to a bed, which they delightfully accompany with a real pillow and blanket. Here's a shot I took on my iphone while reclining:

It doesn't fully do it justice. Let's just say that I practically didn't even want to get off the plane after we landed. I contemplated just staying on, and telling my wife and kid that this plane was now my new address. Of course, being a righteous Berkeley type, I also was filled with indignation, having seen this stuff, and just how crappy people are treated back in Economy, knowing that they *could* get this kind of treatment. Or even 1/4 of this kind of treatment. Rather than being treated like livestock. But, hey, at least I got to live it up once, and laugh and scoff at the lower class losers stuck in steerage! Eat it, peasants!

But perhaps the highlight of the trip is what's referred to in this blog title: The movie that I watched on the plane. I have seen many rock documentaries over the years. Some are okay, some are great (like "Dig"), and some are amazing. Into that latter category I would put, off the top of my head, "Stop Making Sense," "Don't Look Back", and, though it is entirely fictional "This is Spinal Tap." But I now have to add "Anvil: The Story of Anvil", which isn't just a great rock and roll movie, it's a great movie period--one of the finest documentaries I've ever seen and easily one of the best movies I've seen in the past year.

Chronicling the sad fate of 80s Canadian heavy metal band Anvil--a band that I, like most people, probably never heard of---it is truly the "real life Spinal Tap", as others have noted: An un-ironic, true-life tale of a bunch of guys now in their 50s trying to cling on to and recapture their brief fling with rock-and-roll glory. It doesn't matter if you don't like this kind of music, or rock documentaries in general. The beauty of this movie (along with the Spinal Tapian moments of unintentional humor) is the human story: The meditation on aging and ambition and doing what you are passionate about in life--and what happens when things don't entirely go your way. It's inspiring in the most humble and innocent way. For every moment that you may feel, "Wow, these guys are a bit ridiculous and sad," there are two more that will have you cheering them on, or at least admiring them for being so devoted to their passion, and to each other. It's a love story, really, and it's an incredible one. Do yourself a favor and rent it.

Greetings from England + EA Podcast EP 2!

2009-07-01T02:02:00.000-07:00

Allo mates! So, go ahead and ignore all the previous post's stuff about Guildford. It would appear that I am going to be nowhere near that town, nor any other town. In fact, my entire visit to "England" will be within the confines of the Four Seasons Hotel, which means that I really could just be in, say, Missouri, with a bunch of folks with cool accents. Actually, this is quite a nice hotel within a beautiful English countryside setting, so far be it from me to actually grumble. And let's keep things in perspective: It beats sitting in my cubicle.

So I am about one hour away from The Big Show, in which I along with other producers from around EA and its various partners will be demoing our games for "key UK retailers." I ran into the Valve dudes last night, and rumors abound that the Bioware doctors are here too, though I have yet to spot them. Tonight, apparently, is a big "battle of the bands" contest with Rock Band Beatles, and since I was probably the only one alive when the Beatles were still together, look for me to win the whole damn thing. Expect ladies to swoon during my heartbreaking rendition of "I Am the Walrus" (based on my recent experiences with EA Active).

Okay, so anyway: I should head to this thing. I was told to wear "developer chic", which frightened me at first until I received clarification that that just meant jeans and a nice shirt. Anyway, I'm an American. I could probably show up in bermuda shorts, flip flops, and a "BEER: IT'S WHAT'S FOR BREAKFAST" tshirt and no one would think twice.

And now for a commercial! The second EA Podcast is now available. You may grab it here from the RSS feed, or check the iTunes link in my previous post. Apologies in advance for the sound level on my mic--not sure what happened there. Everyone else sounds fine, though, and probably at least 2/3 of what I said was nonsense, so maybe humanity is better off this way. But please, if you're so inspired, leave feedback on iTunes, because The Man is paying attention.

Alright. Time to go do my thing on stage. Here's hoping for a minimum of flop sweating and projectile vomiting. That's all I ask.

To Jollye Olde Englande I go!

2009-06-28T15:19:00.000-07:00

Ande the whole time I'me there I wille be typinge like thise, juste toe annoye everyone! Yaye!

So anyway, yeah: I'm about 25 hours away from boarding a flight to London, England, en route to Guildford, where I will spend the following three days PIMPING PRODUCT FOR THE MAN. I'm excited!

Guildford circa 1893, the year I was born.

The last time I was in the U.K. was in 1984, back when I did the obligatory post-college (well, almost for me) backpack-through-Europe thang. I was young and stupid and fairly oblivious of the world around me until then, and, even all these years later, it ranks as one of The Best Things I Ever Did. I loved the freedom of it all, the ability do go anywhere and do anything (well, on a poor student's budget), and just let things happen, way far away from home and anything I was familiar with. Oh, the stories I could tell! Perhaps I should save it for another blog post. I will, say, however, that there was indeed a Swedish girl at one point, and her name was Wiveka. And I'm not implying that anything particular NC-17 happened (OR DID IT?), I'm just saying that at some point, every young American male should probably meet a Swedish girl named Wiveka.

So I have two work items on my agenda:
1) Be interviewed (in my role as producer) for a cover story on MySims Agents for a U.K. magazine. Should be beaucoup de fun to be on this side of the interview/magazine cover story process. I look forward to being as surly, condescending and uncooperative as I possibly can. (Note to my employers: THAT WAS A JOKE. I will totally not be surly.)

2) Represent MySims Agents and SimAnimals Africa at some kinda big UK retailer event that EA is hosting--meaning I will be up on a stage in front of an audience of (I think) 200ish retailers, doing a short demo on why these games are great and why they should fill their stores with them and put big banners up and stand out in the street yelling in those great accents of theirs why people should come in and buy them.

That's my work agenda. My non-work agenda includes:
1) Sampling as many fine English beers as I can without impairing my ability to take care of the work agenda.

2) Finishing World War Z (at last), and then plowing through any or all of Charlie Huston's Already Dead, Richard Morgan's Altered Carbon, and/or Naomi Novik's His Majesty's Dragon. I know, that's a lot of reading. But, hey I have 20 hours of flying, plus however long any delays might go. I totally won't read all that. I'm just saying that's what I'm bringing.

3)Play Drop7 on my iPhone and Pokemon Pearl (shuddup) on my Nintendo DSi. This is for when I can't sleep or read.

4)Trying to survive the 4-days with minimal jet lag hell. Fortunately, I get back right in time for a 3-day weekend, so I'll have time to sleep it off. It was actually suggested to me that I take some extra time and spend the July 4th weekend in England, for fun, which would have been tempting if I didn't have family and friends to get back to, but, also--what kind of crappy American spends 4th of July visiting THE COUNTRY WE BROKE AWAY FROM. I mean, really. Unless I were just to, say, go down to Big Ben in a full-on, red-white-and blue outfit and start yelling "USA #1!" over and over until one of those London Bobbies with the big goofy hats hauled me away. Then it'd be worth it.

So I'm going to Guildford. I don't know much about it, other than what some Twitterites have told me, as well as random facts dug up on Wikipedia, such as:

* It was the home of the Royal Mint starting in 978 A.D.
* It may or may not be the home of the oldest synagogue in Western Europe.
* Lewis Carroll lived there at some point, as did P.G. Wodehouse, Alan Turing and The
Stranglers!
* Ford Prefect CLAIMED to be from Guildford in Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, but we all know better.

None of this really matters a whole lot, as I will be pretty much going straight from the airport to work, and then have my agenda completely full for the next three days until I'm back on the plane. Still, I like to know where I am and even a little bit about the history, just out of curiosity.

Meanwhile, in terms of my communiques with you, The People, I offer these updates:

1. I plan on at least tweeting text and photos if I can't blog while there. (And to those UKers who have generously and graciously offered to hook up in Guilford, alas, I am really on too tight of a leash to get away, but I do very much appreciate the offered hospitality!)

2. A new Out of the Game podcast was recorded today with Shawn, N'Gai and I--so stay tuned for that to be posted.

3. Episode 2 of The EA Podcast was recorded this past Thursday, and SHOULD be going live on Monday. We don't have a dedicated home page quite yet, but try here, maybe. And it's also now on iTunes--woot! (Search for "The EA Podcast" once in the iTunes store.) I was *much* happier with this second episode than our debut. Along with Samantha LaPerre, my co-host and EA.com's managing editor, we are joined by the fabulous Dana Jongewaard, the editor-in-chief of Greenpixels.com, and special guest Glen Schofield, the GM of EA's Visceral Games, who was just a real hoot--the kind of guest that you just hope you'll get. Hope you have as much fun listening to him as I did.

By the way, here's the iTunes link to the EA Podcast. Woot!

Okay, kids. I must pack and plan and practice my demoing. Cheerio, pip pip, and all that rot, what what!

--Jeff

Me, My Life, and the Official EA Podcast.

2009-06-20T08:56:00.001-07:00

Hello and welcome back to my blog!

Hopefully those interested in following What I Do have found me on Twitter, where I can do those low-rent, easy updates, but I promise you that this blog will always be my *real* home, even if it seems like I'm away traveling a lot of the time.

The truth is, when things are percolating and changing in my life, with a high degree of accompanying stress and confusion--as well as excitement and enthusiasm--it's harder for me to come here and get it all down on "paper." That is to say, I need things to settle down in my head a little before I can share and care. Ya dig?

So, yeah. I've been busy. And I've been in flux. My ongoing "Game Design is Hard" education has continued unabated, and it has continued to be both challenging and fun...and hard. If you ever feel like your life needs a strong dose of humility (and even humiliation!), try changing careers in mid-life. Learning how games really get made has been an endlessly fascinating experience. Certainly there is a great book to be written on the process. But I haven't been studying it as a reporter, I've been doing it as a team member, on a team that needs to actually finish the game in a relatively short period of time. And once a game gets to that point in the process, there really isn't a whole lot of collective time and energy to humor and educate the New Guy.

As a result, I've watched my role and responsibilities on the team get increasingly marginalized, as I basically had to get out of the way so that those who know what they're doing can finish the damn thing. It's understandable--but it's frustrating, especially to a guy used to being part of the upper-level brain trust in his former career. Certainly I've "paid my dues" in my 17 years in journalism--12 of them writing about the game industry--but the problem is that that's a different kind of dues. It doesn't directly translate, or mean a whole lot, in my current reality.

So, whatever I *used* to be, whatever my status might have been, at this point in the game, to my immediate co-workers, I may, in fact, just be, "the old dude who doesn't really know what he's doing and is going too slow and is breaking the build." Which sucks. For them as well as me. No one ever wants to feel like the Office Bonehead (at least I think they don't), and yet at times over the past few months it's been hard not to go there in my head.

So I began thinking. And talking to people. And seeking advice. Not all the answers are in place yet, and my exact, immediate future is not entirely decided, but I did at least come to one conclusion: Whether or not I was going to continue my dues paying with The Sims group, I also wanted to do more at EA *right now* that actually tapped into the things I can truly offer, that I know I'm good at.

The instant, immediate brainstorm, which I put into action as soon as it popped in my head, was an "official" EA podcast. As soon as I thought of it, I knew I had to do it. For a former games journalist to be in the middle of EA with all of this incredible access, it's a "kid in a candy store" thing. The possibilities for guests and topics is practically endless. The more you think about it, the more you realize how cool it can be. The thing is, it has to be real. It can't just be hype and marketing spiel. Even if, of course, it ultimately *is* a commercial for EA, you absolutely cannot just have it be a "we're awesome!" infomercial. Not only will no one listen, but, well, it would just be unbearable to actually make.

So, while, yes, from the perspective of my employers the goal, of course, is to "sell" EA, for me, the goal is to actually have a good show that I can be proud of and that you will want to listen to. I'm trying to liken it into my head to a Letterman/Conan talk show kind of thing--just in terms of the guests, I mean. We all know why a particular actor shows up on Letterman on the day a movie opens. He's just selling the product. But it's Letterman's job to actually make that be funny and interesting despite the "selling" that is the *true* purpose of the whole thing.
So, yes, of course, many weeks I imagine I will have people on plugging their new game or engaging in whatever kind of Up With EA talk, but if I can't actually engage in a good conversation, I'm gonna hate it and be as disappointed as you will.

Further, my hope is that plenty of weeks we won't be "selling" anything at all. Let's get some of the old guard on there, talking about old games. Let's have serious discussions about DRM and piracy and DLC and micropayments. Let's talk about PC gaming. Let's do entire shows dedicated to a retrospective of particularly cool franchises. Let's interview people from all over the EA campus whose jobs you aren't even aware of. Let's bring in some of my journalist pals to help with the interviewing, to open it up to some harder questions. And I haven't even begun to talk about all the possibilities if you throw in all the EA Partners: Bioware, id, Epic, Double Fine, etc etc. It just gets cooler and more exciting the more you think about it.

But let's not get ahead of ourselves. I've recorded one so far, and it was, for all intents and purposes, a "dry run" A test. I had no idea who'd even be in there with me even just an hour before we recorded. I didn't even know where or how we were recording. The result, I believe, is not even close to what I want this podcast to be, not even remotely. It's a very tentative, and not particularly exciting, first effort. It's at about 5 percent, at best, of what it's in my head. I'll need to work on the tone, both of the 'cast itself and even of my own moderating--seeing how far I can take it while still remaining employed. :)

But I do promise you this: I am committed to making this actually GOOD, in a way we all know is good. I have a low threshold for bullshit. I won't be able to tolerate it on our podcast. I'll give it up first, if we can't make a REAL show. I want this to be, ya know, one of those "win win" deals, for all of us.

So let me know what you think. Go here . Give me (and EA) real feedback. They'll see it, as will I. I tricked them into letting me do this--so now help me make it great!

While my blog gently weeps...plus E3

2009-05-30T09:37:00.000-07:00

Hi kids! So, yeah, another two weeks. Ah well. Would it help if I told you that it was two weeks of complete insanity? And that the net result of said insanity is going to be some cool stuff coming up for me, and, by extension, you? Yes, I have been scheming and planning and have some things in the works, none of which are quite official yet, which means I should shut up lest I jinx it all.

So, to get bidness out of the way first, the blog header refers to the fact that THIS blog is going to weep just a little bit longer for the next bunch of days, because the big E3 convention is coming up starting Monday, and I will be there with the proverbial bells on (and nothing else), and doing some blogging there, for employer, Electronic Arts, right here. I have an entry up there already for your infotainment, and, as you can see, I have to be a little better behaved there than I normally am. But only a little! We'll see how much nonsense I can inject into that page while still maintaining employment. Feel free to leave comments there, too! Show them that you're reading it!

I'm super excited about E3, I have to admit. For a good long while there, it looked like I wasn't going to attend. Most game developers, in fact, do NOT go to this show, because they far too busy--as my team is--doing the actual work of getting the games made. E3 is a humongous distraction and mostly irrelevant to the real work that actually matters. It's a media event, mostly, a way for the companies to get their games exposed and publicized before the upcoming holiday season. And while we did have that recent couple-year period of angst, where the usefulness of the convention itself--as well as the resource and cost--was put into question--everyone's finally back where we started: The acknowledgment that it's a "necessary evil," as well as just a spectacular, media-grabbing celebration of the industry as a whole.

So the work for a game company at E3 is that their new games need to be shown and demo'ed to the hordes of media and retailers and other attendees. I've been on the other side of that demo for a whopping 13 E3s in a row now--just crazy--but this year I'm going to be one of those booth monkeys myself, showing MySims Agents over and over again to anyone who comes up to talk to me, for three days in a row, with full knowledge of exactly what is going to be going on in the journalists' heads as I try to hold their attention. (Mostly: "Shit, if this dude hurries up with this fuckin demo, I'll have time to bolt early, grab a brownie in the press room, and then meet my pals for beers!")

But I am honestly looking forward to it, and think it's gonna be a blast. Life is just one long learning experience. My transition to EA has been anything but easy, but I'm still loving all of it because I am getting to experience all sorts of things I never have before--like seeing E3 from the other side of the fence. How many people get to see it from both sides?

So, I'll be blogging about that experience over at EA.com, and on Twitter, but do not worry: This blog remains active and there is hopefully more to come from me as soon as there are any actual beans to spill.

And about Sims 3: It comes out this coming Tuesday, and, yeah, we're all excited at the label. The extra time they took to polish the game was sooo damn important. I can tell you that I was an early critic of what I saw back in October/November, and all indications now are that the final result is fantastic. And I can also tell you, in all honesty, as brownnosing as it may sound given that they pay me, that were I not going to E3, I'd be home playing Sims 3 myself all next week.

Anyhoo: More to come. Meanwhile, while waiting to hear from me again, go buy yourself the new Grizzly Bear and Fever Ray CDs (or be like me and download them--LEGALLY I MEAN). Two of the best records I've heard in a long time.

kisses!

I just put out a fire.

2009-05-16T18:59:00.001-07:00

Yeah, no, really. I just did. I'm hot, and there's still ashes on my palms, and I smell like smoke, and my nerves are still a bit frayed. However, since I may not ever get the chance to be a hero again in anything that's not a videogame, I feel like I should blog about it immediately and bask in the glory of my good deed. I won't brag about it either, because that would be immodest and unseemly. Even though I did kinda just kick ass!

Our story begins with our hero getting booted off the couch--where he had spent the bulk of the afternoon alternating between playing Pokemon on his DSi and napping--so that he could accompany his wife on a walk to the local market, along with the dog, Mila.

The walk to the market went fine, and so we can skip over the details there and jump right to the good part, on the way back, where I get to be awesome. So the wife, dog, and I are rounding the corner about three blocks from our house. As we make the turn, we see an abandoned couch just off the sidewalk...on fire. At this point, the fire is small. Just the very top of it has flames on it. There's no immediate evidence as to what caused it other than that it's scorching hot today. But, anyway, yeah, FIRE.

For one second, the wife and I are frozen. Like, uhhhh...is this our problem? What do we do? There is that microsecond that your brain has something maybe not unlike shock, or just stunned surprise, when you are still processing the event in progress and have yet to make a choice. But the choice usually happens before you even realize you've made it. And such was the case with us, as we both instantly leaped into "HOLY SHIT WE HAVE TO PUT THIS FIRE OUT NOW" mode.

The first thing that happened is that the wife tried covering the flame with a blanket that was sitting on the couch, which worked for about 5 seconds before that in turn went up in flames. And now we had a real fire, as the whole couch lit up. Black smoke began billowing, as both the wife and I immediately started banging on the closest doors to see if anyone had a hose. Meanwhile, another woman passing by on her bike dialed 911. I should mention that one foot away from this flaming couch is a parked car. And about two feet behind the flaming couch is the wooden fence of a home.

Now neighbors are coming out of their doorways, and the first thing I notice is that no one--not one person--comes over to help. As if this wasn't their problem---and that it was my problem, in fact. Even though, ya know, really, this wasn't "my" problem, technically, in that I neither started the fire, nor, in fact, lived on this street. But, okay. I'm here. They see some random couple dealing with it. They probably thought it was our dumb asses that got the couch on fire in the first place.

Still. The experience, with a few of the folks we encountered, was not too heartening. One house where I banged on the door, yelling, "there's a fire next door! Do you have a hose?" was met with silence even though I could see people right there through the window looking. The guy right next door to the house with the couch on fire just looked blankly at my wife, and then at the fire, as if he'd never seen either--a woman or a fire--in his life, and then proceeded to do nothing.

But, again, okay. Whatever. The next door I go to, a guy is coming out of his house just as I'm walking up to the door, and he gets it immediately. His two little boys are fascinated by the flaming couch, of course, but he waves them back as I yell "get your hose!" and he gets it and feeds it to me as I go across the street with it, hoping it will reach.

He turns the water on full blast, and yes, it does reach. Thank god. So, I have at it, going as fast as I can to douse this thing. And even though it's just a couch, it takes awhile to get it under control. It was scary that way. I'd think I had it, but flames would pop up somewhere else. Once at least the main blaze was contained, the guy helping me came over and helped me tip the couch over to get underneath, which was still blazing. The whole thing took probably 7-10 minutes, at which point the fire department arrived, basically just to deal with the aftermath.

They took my name and phone number, one of the firefighters joked "do you want my job?" and we were on our way with the dog back home.

Before this little detour, I had been looking forward to a cup of fresh coffee when we got home. After this, however, I opted for a beer.

Yowsa!

This morning.

2009-05-13T07:30:00.000-07:00

Hi! I've been up since 5:30 a.m., and have been meaning to blog this whole time, but instead did three things:

1) Finished this week's reading of The Brothers Karamazov for the Deathmarch I've been on the past few months. Only two more weeks, and then I can go back to easier books that don't require deathmarches to complete! Yay! Let it be said, however, that Brothers K has turned out to be awesome: A great murder mystery with existential angst/religious torment thrown in. So, really, even though it makes you look and feel good for reading it, it's just more pulp fiction in disguise! Okay, not really. Don't go and get all snooty with me now.

2) Decided to give up on Mario & Luigi Superstar Saga. I'm near the end now, but I'm just getting too frustrated. There's a bit more twitch/action stuff than I was expecting in this game, and I'm afraid my timing is just not that great at this point in my life. BAH. It's been great until now though. Very charming and funny. Now I can't decide what to try next on my NEW NINTENDO DSi: Rhythm Heaven or Chrono Trigger? Or maybe both?

The reason I have the DSi, by the way, is that the EA Store did actually get a batch in. And one of the perks of working at EA is that within your first year (and only your first year, after which the offer expires), you get a $100 discount on a new console system. I have a 360 already, have no desire for a PS3, and use my PSP as a toilet brick. So the new DSi was the clear choice here, especially since I never upgraded to the DS Lite. I used $70 of the $250 gift card I had to pay the difference, so, basically, new DSi for free, and still $180 on the card to blow. Woot. Early verdict: It's ossum! I like the black matte finish on the thing, and the design in general is so much sleeker and less embarrassing then the old purple one, which I'm keeping for GBA games anyhoo.

3) Downloaded and started iMob on the iPhone. An MMO on the iPhone? Sounds fishy. And gimmicky. But, hmmmm, I'm a level 3 Hustler already, I've successfully performed a bunch of purse snatches and home invasions (ATTN FEDERAL AUTHORITIES AND CONCERNED FAMILY MEMBERS: I MEAN IN THE GAME. IT'S A GAME), bought myself a nice land fill, upgraded my weapons, and even retaliated and won a fight against some clown in my (real life) neighborhood who made the mistake of trying to take me out. In short: I think I'm in! At least for now. Will keep you posted on my progress as a burgeoning Mafia don.

Anyway, that's what I did this morning instead of blogging. Now it's time to go to work.

Oh yeah! A few more quick things:
1)I am appearing on the next episode of CO-OP with my old 1UP pals, talking about the awesomeness that is Plants Vs. Zombies, a game that you all should download now if you haven't already. The show will be available I don't know when at their site here.

2) Sometime soon I will be able to talk more about it, but you can at least officially know that the game I've been working on is MySims Agents. There's a few previews up now from your various gaming media sites, which adequately regurgitate the propaganda we threw at them and provide a few screenshots. My contribution, let it be said, has been minimal. I'm busy writing incidental dialog and text for the game, and hopefully it's funny. But I'm coming in at the late end of the project and get no credit for however good (or not!) it ultimately turns out. But I think it's gonna surprise people.

3) Finally, if you want to join my iMob, the handle is "doofaeus." Join me, or be my enemy, punks.

I lose things.

2009-05-04T16:58:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I really hate being me.

Most of the time, I'm okay with it. I feel like I probably could have done worse, in the grand scheme of things, than being me. But one thing I really can't stand is that I am just horrendously absent-minded. No need to blame "old age" here, either--I've been this way for as long as I can remember, even though my memory is kind of crappy from being so absent-minded.

The way my absent-mindedness manifests itself most, and worst, is in my constant losing of things, or forgetting where I put things. Over the years, after much drama and angst, I have devised (mostly) fail-safe systems for certain crucial items, like my keys, which hang on a special key-holder thing by our front door. (This did not stop me, however, from losing the keys to my brand-new motorcycle awhile back.) My wallet, too, is now mostly safe from my dunderheadedness, though the fact that I'm typing this now is probably not a really good idea.

But as my wife and kid can tell you, I am the worst, by far, when it comes to glasses. I don't know what it is. It's like some kind of gypsy curse, or maybe a deep-rooted psychological desire to be blind. My inability to hold on to sunglasses is beyond laughable. At this point in my life, I just go to the 99 cent store, and buy multiple pairs at once, with the full knowledge and acceptance that if I can make four pairs last a month, I'm doing well. That's no exaggeration. I'm just terrible. I can't even tell you where they all are. Probably where all those stranded socks are. In Narnia! I set them down everywhere---apparently. Or maybe there's just some guy following me around all the time with 400 pairs of sunglasses to his name thanks to me. If so, and if you're reading this: You're welcome!

It's less funny, though, by far, when it comes to my prescription glasses.

My eyes, to put it in scientific terms, blow chunks. I'm not just nearsighted like your garden variety nerd. Oh, no. That'd be too easy. Instead, I have some kind of weird, unclassifiable issue that manifests itself in a form of double-vision, and which can at times make me look cross-eyed or lazy-eyed or just kind of stupid-looking. (The drool and coloring books probably don't help.) For better or worse, this is only a problem with my up-close vision: talking to people, reading, using the computer. For distance, I'm your standard near-blind guy with the coke-bottle lenses--always a hit with the ladies.

So here's how I have to deal with things. For distance, I wear regular contact lenses. I used to lose these all the time, too, and drop them and rip them (remind me to tell y'all the story of being lost in the middle of nowhere in Germany in 1984 with only one contact lens, which I then ripped, had to take out of my eye, and then keep wet by carrying in my mouth while walking nearly blind for five miles. Actually I guess I just told you.) But with the advent of disposable lenses, that's not really a problem anymore.

So I wear contacts all day long. But in order to read or use the PC or talk to people without looking like a crosseyed dimwit, I need to wear my "reading glasses", which have big-ass prisms built in to help correct the problem. They are awesome. They are also horrifically expensive. You see where this story is going?

So, yeah. I need to carry around my reading glasses all the time when I'm awake, to put on and take off whenever I need to read something or interact up close with anyone. And for an absent-minded guy like me, this is just a logistical nightmare. For awhile, I was doing the lanyard/braid over my head thing, even though it made me feel and look even older than I already am. And truthfully I should probably go back to that method. But that has its own problems, too, and gets annoying if it's a situation where they need to be off for long periods and I'm out in public and they're kinda flailing around. I don't carry a man-purse or murse or whatever they're called, which might help, but, then, I'd just lose that too. I *do* carry a backpack around a lot of the time, but, then that's not quite convenient enough access when I need to do a quick read of something.

So more often than not, I default to the easiest way out: I stick them in my shirt pocket. Those wondering why I usually wear button-down shirts over t-shirts, this is why. So I have a glasses pocket. Most of the time, this works just fine. It may not be the best for the lenses, but, for the most part, it makes me feel the most secure: they're right there, and I am constantly, semi-consciously patting my pocket all day to make sure they're there. The downside, though, is that they are prone to fall out, if I bend over, or take my sweater off in a haphazard manner....or any other number of scenarios.

And one of these scenarios, or maybe something entirely different--I don't really know-- happened on Friday night, and I am now without my reading glasses once again, glasses that cost $400 and that I just got three weeks ago, replacing the last pair (which I wrecked, but didn't lose.) I've done all the requisite quadruple-checking in every likely place, and these things are apparently gone, gone, gone, baby. Who knows? Maybe they flew out of my pocket on the motorcycle Friday night. Maybe I set them down while grabbing a handful of chips at the Sims TGIF. Maybe they're in Narnia. All I know is, I am without those glasses and am utterly frustrated with myself, again. Seriously, Jeff--again??

I will replace them. And I have cheapo backups that will get me by. And life will go on. And in the grand scheme of things, I guess I do mostly well at this whole "living" thing. But good grief do I get tired of being me sometimes. This is one of those times.

Out of the Game podcast.

2009-05-03T11:02:00.000-07:00

Having been seduced by the evilness of Twitter during my imposed "hibernation," I failed to acknowledge to the vast hordes of non-Twitterites that I had begun podcasting again.
I apologize.

In fact, you should know, if you care, that I am podcasting again. I have joined my fellow former GFW Radio pals Shawn Elliott and Robert Ashley, along with former Legendary Thread pal Luke Smith, and former Newsweek columnist pal N'Gai Croal, for a "non-gaming" podcast that, of course, ends up talking about gaming quite a bit. Since a few of us are now on the proverbial Other Side of the Fence, we are prohibited for professional reasons from discussing certain matters, but we decided not to let that get in the way of just blabbing amongst ourselves in general, with microphones equipped.

Is it interesting or funny or worth your time? I can't really say. I know that I love talking with these guys, all of whom I consider my friends and respect tremendously for their insight and humor.

We just recorded our fourth episode today, and I think it went well. I'll update this blog when it's live. Meanwhile, you can find the first three episodes (of which I was absent on #3) here. There are some sound issues in the first one (especially with my mic), but I think it gets better with the next ones.

Content-quality wise: give us time. :) GFW Radio took awhile to get its legs, too. So did Buffy! Recording a podcast with five of us all in different parts of the country is a challenge, as so much of what can make a podcast great is whatever is happening in the room at the time when all are present. But I think we're slowly figuring it out.

I do miss GFW Radio tremendously, like lots of folks. But I couldn't ask for a better group of guys to be doing this again with now.

Also! If you were considering going to the Penny Arcade Expo this coming September 4-6 in Seattle, be aware, if you hadn't heard already, that there is going to be a "GFW Reunion" live podcast, featuring Shawn, Sean Molloy, Ryan Scott, and myself. We'll be doing a podcast for awhile and then answering questions. Questions like, "who the fuck are you guys again?"

Happy Sunday y'all!

Help me spend $250!

2009-05-02T08:51:00.000-07:00

I'm stressed. Stressed about money.

No, not the kind of real-world stress we're all feeling these days. I have that too, don't worry, though I know I'm luckier than many, many people on that score. I'm stressed because, as those who follow my Twitter feed already know, I suddenly find myself with a $250 AmEx gift card that I had no idea was coming my way.

It turns out that the "professional favor" I did recently (which did not, contrary to scurrilous rumor-mongering, have anything to do with a "male escort service"), was not, in fact, something I was doing for free, like I thought. How cool! Something I thought I was doing just to be a nice guy has now reaped me a reward. It's like some kind of great moral lesson or something!

So here's the thing. As we all know, it's not often that unexpected money comes falling out of the sky. So immediately, I felt a great sense of pressure. HOW DO I SPEND THIS? When's the last time THIS ever happened, and when will it ever happen again? I need to make wise decisions. Decisions I won't regret in a week. I don't want to find myself banging my head on the desk or raising my fist to the sky in existential torment over the fact that I somehow thought it was a good idea to buy $250 worth of Cheetos. (OR IS IT?)

I've already decided, though, that this does not--and, in fact, should not--be spent on something I necessarily need. Screw that. That's what my job is for. This is a windfall. It is my duty to blow this money strictly on something I want, something that in the normal course of life I could never justify buying. The things I need I'll end up buying anyway. This is an opportunity to get something totally unnecessary and indulgent. And, yeah, let me be clear on that point: Indulgence is what I'm after here. I'm working hard these days, I support my family, I make donations to charity--all that. So I'm being selfish. Though some of the Buddhist reading I've been doing talks about "letting go" of such desires, which, in theory, probably makes sense, I guess, it's also true that those Buddhist monks didn't have the new Nintendo DSi to contend with. Let's see how strong they'd be in the face of THAT temptation!

Anyway, so, I need your help. I've made a short list of stupid crap I don't need, but I can't pull the trigger yet because, you know, WHAT IF I MAKE A MISTAKE?? What if it's the wrong crap? Maybe there's crap I haven't even considered yet! Maybe the crap I want actually IS crap! Here's where you come in. Help me decide. Participate in my impulse buying. There's nothing in it for you--not a damn thing, because I'm not sharing--but you'd at least get the satisfaction of knowing you helped another human accomplish something unnecessary and even somewhat shameful, given the state of the world today. But, hey, at least it's not you!! If you start feeling bad about how much you have versus the rest of the world, at least you won't be racked with guilt over money blown on nothing! You can point at me! You can scoff and feel morally superior to that greedy spendthrift Jeff Green! This is my gift to you! Moral superiority!

So here is the short list, with accompanying rationalizations and hesitations.

1) Nintendo DSi. I love my DS. Favorite handheld gaming device evar. However, I have the clunky old first-generation one, with the cruddy small screen. Also, it's purple. It's hard enough to be taken seriously on this planet without carrying around a purple DS. So this free money seems like the perfect excuse to upgrade to the new DSi, which is all cool-looking and thin and not purple. The hitch: If I wait, the DSi will eventually show up at the EA Store, where, as part of the "new employee program", I'll get a $100 discount. So I'm thinking I should use this $250 on something that would actually cost me, ya know, $250.

2) The Wire Complete Box Set. This is honestly my top choice. The Wire is probably my favorite TV show of all time, so the thought of being able to revisit it, and share it with others, is extremely tempting. The thing is: I have come to realize, like many people, that buying DVDs is largely a waste. Those DVDs spend a lot of time, maybe their entire existence, not being watched, but simply hoarded. I already have a hoarding instinct with books and music, and have mostly successfully avoiding doing the same with DVDs. I HAVE picked up some of my all-time favorites: Spinal Tap, Big Lebowski, Seven Samurai, The Godfather, etc--and I have no regrets. Though, again, I don't really watch them. I do like knowing they're there, though. And if any show will not only hold up to repeated viewings but actually reward you with new insights and discoveries, it's The Wire. In fact, the storytelling is so rich and deep and complex--like any great novel-- the first viewing is almost too overwhelming. So, yeah, I want this. It's $180 at Amazon, leaving me $70, which would get me either of the items in #3!

3) Two other TV DVD box sets, both "cult classics" of which I was happily part of the cults: Twin Peaks and The Prisoner. Again, two shows that reward repeated viewings. I just can't decide which I'd be happier to own over the long haul. I think episode-to-episode, The Prisoner is the stronger series, by far, and probably one, like The Wire, that will yield lots of new insight over time. But Twin Peaks is a delicious guilty pleasure that is hard to resist.

(And an aside before getting on to #4: Twitterites have been throwing Star Trek, Battlestar, and other such shows at me. I dig them and appreciate the suggestions, but, nah. Once was enough for me on those. I never was a Trekkie. And BSG was ultimately too erratic for me to suffer through more than once.)

4) A new motherboard or somesuch shit to fix my PC so I can play WoW again.. Not just WoW, but a few other PC games, too, that have been borked ever since I've had this jinxed rig. Computer hardware is boring though. Hard to get worked up about this one. Plus it feels, I dunno, practical. Like I'm fixing something. I'm trying to avoid anything remotely productive here.

5) Nice noise-canceling headphones. Most of my music-listening these days takes place through headphones. I have some decent cheap ones (Koss PortaPro), but I've been coveting the notion of getting some really good ones, ones that would also be useful for plane travel, etc. $250 would go a long way towards getting me a sweet pair that would leave me happily entranced until the day I rolled over them on my office chair and broke them.

6) Rock Band Beatles. Or Rock Band in general since Rock Band Beatles isn't out yet. But the Beatles set is the thing that is kinda pushing me over the edge, especially since my kid is such a big Beatles fan now, too (yay!). The problem, however, is that it's more clutter that we really don't need. Plus, I'm not social enough, or I'm too old, or both, to have people over enough to make this feel worthwhile. I played the first few Guitar Heroes, and loved them, but always played solo. Rock Band solo seems a bit sad. Like I'll end up on the corner as an old man doing the one-man-band thing for spare change. Of course, if that IS in my future, then I suppose this would be good practice. Hmmmm.

7) Random games and books and music. This would be my opportunity to pick up a pile of stuff that will definitely get lots of use. Since I don't get free games anymore (except EA games), I'm like the rest of you rabble on that front. I'm always up for new new books, too, and could even pick up a few that I normally wouldn't cuz of being too expensive. And then there's CD box sets....which I'm a little loathe to do since I'm trying to abandon physical media as far as music goes. Still, all this stuff is the kind of stuff I can buy sporadically throughout the year as long as I'm relatively prudent about it. So it doesn't quite have that "I couldn't normally buy this" vibe than I'm trying to fulfill here.

See what I'm talking about? This is stressful! And, really, there are a million other things I haven't even thought about yet! What about one of them new Flip videocameras? How about some new motorcycle boots? Maybe a box of cigars! I don't smoke, but, what the heck, maybe it's a good time to start! Maybe a cool espresso maker for the house? Shit, if I'm gonna go down that road, there's tons of home appliance type stuff that could be great! How about an elliptical trainer, so I can exercise my fat ass instead of sitting around on it all the time? Or even a new bicycle! Sure they get stolen all the time because I live in Berkeley, which is like the bike thief capital of the world, but, what the heck! It's free anyway! And you know what I haven't had in like forever? A robe! A bigass fluffy robe to wear around the house! That'd be awesome!

Seriously, people: I need help. This gift card is like a 10-ton weight on my shoulders. Relieve my burden. Tell me what to buy. I'm practically incapacitated here. I'm almost sorry I even got the damn thing.

Almost.

In the 14th century...

2009-04-30T07:59:00.000-07:00

...or earlier, or maybe even later, this young man would probably be institutionalized. In the 21st century, we (and by "we" I mean people who appreciate a great beatboxer), can marvel at his l33t skillz:

(Thanks to @ncroal for the heads-up! I share with you non-Twitterites because I love.)

My first 100 days.

2009-04-29T18:08:00.000-07:00

I'm the exact same age as President Obama.

I'm okay with this, but I do admit that ever since I discovered this, I've been in a little bit of a competition with the guy. I don't think he knows about yet, despite my late-night triumphant calls to the White House every time I get a new piece of armor in WoW ("Yeah, and what did YOU do today, punk!"). So now that everyone is making a big deal about HIS first 100 days, I think it's high time that I get credit for MY last 100 days. I'm calling it "first" in the header, by the way, because "My last 100 days" sounds a tad morbid. I could say "My previous 100 days," but that sounds a little wanky. So I'm calling it "my first 100 days" meaning, "my first 100 days since Obama became president." Just so we're all clear.

Anyway, here's what I've done in this time period, which we can all compare and contrast to the "achievements" of our new President:

* Washed my motorcycle twice
* Bought some sunglasses
* Blogged a few times
* Gained 5 pounds
* Read 500+ pages of The Brothers Karamazov
* Took wife out to dinner for anniversary
* Switched teams at work
* Ate approximately 15 burritos
* Took a few naps
* Watched 17 episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer
* Watched a bunch of other TV
* Bought an EA t-shirt
* Returned 2 movies late to EA rental store and got banned for a month
* Hung out with wife and kid
* Started Twitter account
* Went on a hike
* Podcasted a couple times with Shawn, N'Gai, Luke, and Robert
* Shaved my beard
* Bought a couple music CDs
* Got zipper replaced on motorcycle jacket
* Saw play at kid's school
* Hung out with friends
* Started Left 4 Dead, Zelda Link to the Past, and Mario & Luigi Superstar Saga
* Saw Leonard Cohen concert
* Played with dog
* Cleaned up my cabinet full of game crap
* Joined fantasy baseball league
* Ate a lot of pizza
* Saw 1up gang and other game industry compadres at GDC
* Went to gym a few times
* Attended dinner to discuss 100 Years of Solitude
* Watched a few NCAA basketball games
* Got new pens out of EA supply cabinet

I could go on. But I think I've made my point. Look at this list! My accomplishments pretty much go on and on, don't they? It's really rather breathtaking to behold, quite frankly. Even given the high level of achievement I'm used to operating on, what I've accomplished in this last 100 days is something I think all people could and should aspire to. Obama may be all about "hope," which admittedly does have its place in the grand scheme of things, but I, ladies and gentlemen, am about action. Getting things done. Making things happen.

So congratulations on your "accomplishments" Mr. President. But hey, this competition of ours can only have one winner.

Better luck next time.

Post WoW Trauma

2009-04-28T07:14:00.001-07:00

Oh yeah! I used to write about games!

So, a funny thing happened right at the apex of my latest bout of World Of WarCraft addiction: The 3.1 patch killed the game on my PC.

There I was, finally "stepping up my game" and "taking it to the next level" and "wasting my life" by hitting level 80 and joining my fellow Can't Quit You guildies in one Heroic instance after another to get properly geared up for...whatever. I picked up the awesome Sundial of the Exiled, which, besides being awesome, is coated with an extra layer of awesomesauce. My DPS was rising. My Frogger and Safety Dance skills were improving. All I needed now was the new patch to get a dual-spec and join the gang for Ulduar fun and, well, I wouldn't say my life would be "complete," but perhaps just a little more sad! In a good way!

Then the patch came out. And I was, to use the strictly technical term, boned.

I have a tempermental PC. A fussy PC. A problem PC. My PC, to put it another way, is a fucking piece of shit. I feel bad ever complaining about it, because it is a legacy of my days in the press, when I got free stuff and didn't have to worry about money like ordinary civilians. No, we didn't get free PCs from PC-makers--that's an ethical no-no!--but there was a lot of trickle-down and extra machines floating around and occasional review units that never got claimed. In short, there was always a way to upgrade your rig or even score a new one without having to lay any Dead Presidents down, yo.

This machine now sitting in my home, making my life miserable, laughing at me every time I try to fix WoW again, came from the Doctor Of Cool himself, Loyd Case, editor over at ExtremeTech.com and once columnist and tech editor at Computer Gaming World during its early glory days. He gave it to me for free. And, ya know, it doesn't get any better than that. It's a Dell XPS 630i, with an nVidia 8800. It's also running Windows Vista, but, hey, you take the bad with the good. Vista was the price I had to pay for getting a free machine.

Actually, though, it turned out there was another price. I don't know if it's Vista, or Dell, or just Plain Rotten Luck, but for whatever reason, this PC has been nothing but a pain in the arse since I first trucked it home. And, no, don't bother giving me random tech advise (well, okay, you can), but I promise you I've probably tried everything you are going to suggest: I've reinstalled the OS, I've replaced the RAM, I've wiped the drive, I've updated drivers. I feel like I've done it all except completely disassemble the entire dam thing down to the last screws and put it back together again. Net result: Constant crashes. I should say, the WoW troubles are only part of it. I won't take up valuable Internet space droning on about the various other issues I've had. Suffice it to say, this PC hates me.

So, really, it wasn't a horrible surprise that Patch 3.1 failed for me. But fail it did, and now I can't play anymore, after spending 2+ weekends trying to sort it out. Oddly, I did manage to successfully install the patch and log in once, for about 2 minutes, but then never again. I had just enough time to say hi to my guildies and ask how they were enjoying 3.1, but then was booted, never to return. I've spent time on the WoW forums and discovered other hapless Dell 630i losers, which was at least partially reassuring, but nothing suggested on those forums (yes, including updating the firmware) has helped.

Rather than continue to bemoan my fate and feel sorry for myself, however, I did remember a few things, once I just decided to give up. My family, for one. Outside, for another. But once I got over those two things, it was back to gaming again, and, much to my great joy, I discovered a gigantic pile of new games, untouched or barely touched by me, because WoW had--once again--completely taken over my gaming life, pushing everything else aside. See, when you're addicted to WoW, a weird thing happens with other games. Every time you're trying to play a different game, you feel like you're cheating on WoW. You feel like you're "wasting time" that should actually be spent getting more Emblems of Heroism, or getting Fishing achievements. You feel a nagging sense of "missing out", because you're not in there with everyone else busily getting Fishing achievements. So those other games pile up, forgotten, unloved, unplayed.

Now, with no other choice--other than to stop gaming and do something else with my life (HAHAHAHAHAHA)---I have returned to that sad pile. And here is what I discovered: It is not sad at all! It is happy! A happy pile! A happy pile of great games! All they were waiting for was for me to find them again! And I did! Yaaaay!

And so now the great tackling of the unplayed games begins. First up is Left 4 Dead, which I'm currently only playing in the single-player campaign version. I know, you don't have to tell me--I'm missing the entire point. But I need to know what I'm doing first before I play co-op, out of Fear Of Suckitude. Also on my plate: Empire Total War, Fallout 3 (good god, how did I forget this one?), Sacred 2, Dawn of War 2, and more. It's all making me feel like I should have quit WoW voluntarily awhile back.

It's a demanding, jealous bitch, that World Of WarCraft. It doesn't let us see other games, even casually, for coffee. It feels pretty great to be free and dating other games again.

But, hey, if you see her, say hello. She might think I've forgotten her, don't tell her it isn't so.

On Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Leonard Cohen

2009-04-22T10:05:00.000-07:00

I spent a good amount of time (well, okay, about 20 seconds) looking for a good thematic link between the two topics on my mind, but I couldn't come up with anything clever. I know it's doable. If being an English major taught me anything, it's that you can tie any sort of random bullshit together as long as you use semi-proper grammar, and no one, except smartypants dillweeds trying to impress the professor, is really going to call you on it.

Anyway, since this is not an English class essay, I can dispense with theses and themes entirely. Hell, I don't even need proper paragraphs! I can do it in a numbered list! I don't need no education! I don't need no thought control! Yeah! Whoooo!

Without further ado:

1) Buffy the Vampire Slayer is awesome. I know I am seriously LTTP on this one--doy--but hey, a man can't watch everything on TV all the time without falling behind in other important areas of life, like getting geared up for WoW raids. I missed Buffy the first time around probably because of the name, which seemed ridiculously silly, which, of course was the whole point--which whooshed right over my tiny head. My introduction to the wonderful wit and storytelling of Buffy creator Joss Whedon came instead with "Firefly", which I also missed at the time, but caught on DVD a year or so ago and absolutely adored. (Add me to the large group of males with a permanent man-crush on Nathan Fillion).

With my daughter now in high school and with not much good on TV and with only the horrific prospect of books, or, worse, actual conversation, looming before us, the time seemed right for "Buffy." And, yeah, it's what most you all already knew: It rocks. As folks warned me, Season 1 is a bit shaky, with characters still in a primordial state, with overly wooden dialog, but the seeds of greatness are definitely there. (I was sold on the show as soon as the first principal...well, I shouldn't spoil it I guess). We're a bunch of episodes into Season 2 now, though, and the rise in quality is exponential--with the writing just firing on all cylinders now. Super funny stuff with genuine moments of suspense and scares mixed in. Really, though, though it's the dialog I'm in love with, just as in Firefly, with characters gloriously riffing off each other, commenting knowingly and sarcastically on the ongoing ridiculousness of their situation and yet fully living in it, too.

It's not all irony for irony's sake, which is why I think the show is so loved: In between the snark, there is real passion and heartache and drama, giving the show a surprising resonance. So, yeah. I'm hooked. (The one thing that is still annoying, me, though, despite being the funniest guy on the show: Xander is far too good looking to be the show's "nerd"--but that's always a fault of TV casting. Still, the actor's coming timing more than makes up for his lack of nerdiness.)

2) The Leonard Cohen concert that my wife and I attended last week was one of the best concert experiences of my life. I really should devote a whole separate, gigantic post to it, but even that wouldn't do it justice. I've seen tons and tons of great shows, ones that I'll never forget and that ROCKED MIGHTILY, but I've only ever seen a handful that I would characterize as transcendent, or life-changing experiences--where the bond between artist and audience is so electric, with everyone riding a wave of epiphany, that one can say, without either exaggerating or belittling the term, that they were "religious experiences."

Off the top of my head, I can recall three:
1) Van Morrison at the Greek Theater in Berkeley circa 1987. Morrison is a notoriously erratic performer--prone to bad moods and crankiness (I once saw him perform with his back to the audience for a number of songs--and I've seen more bad shows than good ones)--but when he has it together, he can be great, and when he REALLY has it together, it's, well like sitting in a congregation. At least that's how it felt that summer day in Berkeley.

Morrison is the great white soul singer of the last 50+ years, and if you only know him from "Moondance," then you don't know him at all, as the real beauty of him is not the FM radio-friendly "lite jazz," but the growling, searching, restless poet who can sing the same word 30 times in a row and make each time sound different, and vital, and alive. At the Greek Theater that day, for whatever reason, the muse was with him. He was feeling it. He took off on some kind of spiritual voyage with that voice of his, and we were all there with him. It doesn't matter to me now how much he goes through the motions, or sinks further into cranky old man-hood. For that one show alone I'll always be grateful.

2) And speaking of grateful! HAHA! The Grateful Dead at the Greek circa 1983-4. (Sorry anal-retentive Deadheads, can't remember exactly when.) This was my first Dead concert, and I went into it, I'm fully willing to admit, as a hater. I was still in my punk-ish faze. I even wore black, even though it was a hot summer day at an outdoor concert. I was dragged there by my friend Lynne, and was determined not to enjoy myself. I spent the first few songs, in fact, doing just that, making fun of the whole thing to myself, scoffing at the hippies, unable to see what the big deal was about a bunch of old guys noodling around. But after about a half hour, a funny thing happened: It got to me. I started hearing it, and feeling it, despite myself, while simultaneously having an uneasy moment of realization: I was the only asshole in the place. I was the only one in the entire place not having a great time.

As I began to let my guard down, and let my preconceptions go, and started listening to Jerry's guitar the way everyone else was, the way he was exploring and storytelling and singing through that instrument, I started to get it. Then I really got it. I've been on the bus, at least casually, ever since--I saw them about 8 times total, a paltry amount, I know. With time I realized that this first show I happened to see, the one that "converted" me, was indeed a special one, with the entire crowd responding in time with the band as one that day. When I think about the many great moments in my life so far, this one stands out with the best: A sea of happy, smiling people--including me--dancing in the warm California sun, cheering ecstatically with every musical epiphany the band kept reaching.

3) Finally, there was Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan at Zellerbach Hall in Berkeley. Again, another show that I had to be dragged to. And again one that I walked out of transformed. "Indian music"? No thanks. (And, yes, I know now it's actually Pakistani, and, specifically, a style of music known as Qawwali.) My wife got tickets for this, and I couldn't have walked in less enthused. I remained unenthused, too, when the show started, and there on the stage was a really fat dude sitting on the stage floor, surrounded by other dudes also sitting on the floor. Yeah! Let's get this party started!

And, then, much to my surprise: They did. Big time. Like Garcia and Morrison, Nusrat was just simply tapped into something else--"the mystic", in Morrison's words--that has the ability to sweep everyone along who's willing to listen. I won't pretend to know much at all about Qawwali music, but what I heard that day (and ever since on the CDs I bought) changed my life, by opening me up to non-Western music and ideas that influence me to this day. I didn't understand one word he sang that night, but I did understand the sweep of emotion and passion expressed in his unbelievably aching, beautiful voice, and the fervor that such passion aroused in the audience. I actually don't think I've ever seen anything quite like what happened at that show before or since: A crowd sitting respectfully and quietly in their seats, transformed by show's end into some crazy cross between rave party and religious revival. In one night, it completely changed my understanding of what "cool" music was.

Which leads me, in a rather longwinded way(yikes, sorry!), to the Leonard Cohen concert. This one I didn't need to be dragged to. But I was coming more as an admirer than as a passionate fan, like my wife. I loved "I'm Your Man" when it first came out, but I never connected with him even a fraction as much as I did with Bob Dylan. He struck me as more lachrymose, and even dull, lacking the bluesy roots and humor of Dylan. Seeing him at the beautifully restored Paramount Theater in Oakland last week, at the creaky age of 74, I realized, instantly, just how much I have underrated him. Because this was a show for the ages.

For over three hours, Leonard Cohen absolutely owned that stage, and everyone in the building with him. I think many of us in the crowd didn't know what hit us, so strong was the emotional intensity of his performance. A woman one row in front of us at one point burst into tears and got up, which sounds comical and exaggerated now, but I promise you, in that moment, probably all of us around her were thinking, "I hear ya, sister." More than any of the shows described above, this one was probably more of a "you had to be there" thing. Listening to any of his recorded songs, it's still hard to imagine he could pull off this kind of musical and spiritual feat. (Though Jeff Buckley's deservedly famous cover of Cohen's Hallelejah points the way.) But he did. There was something about seeing this somewhat frail, grey-haired, 74-year-old man up there, pouring his heart out so transparently and openly, that was just almost profound. At a few key points in the show, the band stopped playing and he simply recited lyrics like the poems that they are, and it was in those recitations that I realized just how much I *hadn't* been hearing in his lyrics all these years, and now for the life of me can't understand why. All I know is I walked out of that show, like the other great ones in my life, transformed--more alive, more aware, and more grateful than ever for the healing power that music has for me.

Umm, and that's all I have to say today. I think I thought I was gonna write about four sentences. I guess this is what happens when you go into the mystic.