After a little bit of waiting, the Mass Effect 3 extended cut ending has been sent out for our viewing. What's the verdict? Well, the best word I can think of is 'meh'. Spoilers abound, kiddies.
Because it was never going to change anything. Developers Bioware said they weren't going to change the ending per se, which was fair enough. In the final reckoning, it's their game and their ending to fuck up. After all, I don't send my copy for Abbey Road to the surviving Beatles with a note saying "Her Majesty as the last song in your career? Fuck off and do a proper song!". If we are to accept video games as art, as we should, we have to put off with not liking everything we get.
So, there's still the three endings we had before (as well, apparently, as an option to ignore them all, which I haven't tried out) but with added bonus between the choice and Buzz Aldrin talking to some little kid. Now, we get a few minutes of narration from a character to whom the choice relates over pictures relating to how you got on. I went with how I went first time originally, so had EDI praising my sacrifice and how the future was all looking rosy while we saw Zaeed relaxing on the beach, Rex with his baby and everyone looking very happy. Not animations, mind, just pictures, which seems a little bit cheap.
All the same, it's an improvement on what we got but the conspiracy theorist in me thinks these were always meant to be there, but they ran out of time before the release date. I mean, would they really spend the money to get the voice actors back in the studio to record the dialogue? Lance Henriksen isn't that cheap, surely? If they did, however, then major kudos.
However, I still would have liked to see some reaction from Tali, who was the other half in the romance sub-plot I went down. In the ending, EDI seemed more upset that I'd thrown a seven than my supposed girlfriend. Maybe she just using me. Bah. Or perhaps there's further DLC to come where Shepard says just before the big battle "yeah, I think we should take a break from dating a while..."
More seriously, though this DLC kills off some bugbears, it hasn't made me want to go play Mass Effect 3 again in a hurry. There still didn't seem to be any real satisfactory conclusions from my actions to make me want to play through with different consequences. Perhaps further content with go down that road.
Friday, 29 June 2012
Tuesday, 26 June 2012
The World Is Your Oyster, The Future Your Clam
You'd think as the sickening passing of time goes on, I'd become more and more resentful towards young people. What with their youth, energy and ability to go on 12 hour benders without needing a whole week afterwards to recover.
But not so much these days. In fact, I'm pretty glad I'm not 21 in 2012, just leaving university and looking for a job. It was hard enough when I did that back in 2002. Now, it must be a nightmare trying to find a half-decent job that pays more than minimum wage. It's not getting any easier, either - not when the government has decided to stack the deck more against you.
Even children are taking it in the neck. Your exams are too easy! With this in mind, Education bod Michael Gove made plans to revolutionise the system by, err, reverting it all back to how it was over 20 years ago. Whether he gets his way is another matter, but that such a stupid idea should gain the approval of certain media figures shows the trouble we might be getting into.
Nye Bevan once noted that the Tories always need a bogey and it seems as if young people could be the new one. Obviously, as the line seems to be, they're all scrounging bastards - how dare working class children aspire to go into further education! Best to get rid of the cap on tuition fees. How dare they need help paying the rent! I'll scrap housing benefits for them so they'll have to return to their parents, says our Prime Minister, if we vote for him in the next election.
Of course, the last one there is a complete nothing of a policy designed purely to grab media interest. After all, most people on housing benefits aren't unemployed (though you'd think differently from the newspapers), nor is everyone aged 18-25 capable of moving back home. They might live on the other side of the country, might not be on good terms with them or, sadly, not have living parents. What happens in the latter case? "Well, Billy, you have a elderly Aunt living in Bangor. She'll put you up."
Perhaps the Tories have done some kind of cost/benefit analysis on this. Young people are less likely to vote, ergo it's fine to disregard them. Edwina Currie obviously thinks so: challenged on Twitter that "under 25s and futureless youth" will make her old party pay, she responded that "no they won't. They have the vote, don't use it and have no economic power. Not till they start working, pay taxes, learn sense".
Of course, this is a woman who chose to have sex with John Major, so her judgement may well be off the scale here as well. All the same, it gives an insight into the mindset of the kind of people running the country: "economic power" is key. Put everything into the system, only to find out it's one that is so fucked that you get nothing out of it in return. "Call me Dave" may well be turning "Call me 'Sir', you peasant scum".
But not so much these days. In fact, I'm pretty glad I'm not 21 in 2012, just leaving university and looking for a job. It was hard enough when I did that back in 2002. Now, it must be a nightmare trying to find a half-decent job that pays more than minimum wage. It's not getting any easier, either - not when the government has decided to stack the deck more against you.
Even children are taking it in the neck. Your exams are too easy! With this in mind, Education bod Michael Gove made plans to revolutionise the system by, err, reverting it all back to how it was over 20 years ago. Whether he gets his way is another matter, but that such a stupid idea should gain the approval of certain media figures shows the trouble we might be getting into.
Nye Bevan once noted that the Tories always need a bogey and it seems as if young people could be the new one. Obviously, as the line seems to be, they're all scrounging bastards - how dare working class children aspire to go into further education! Best to get rid of the cap on tuition fees. How dare they need help paying the rent! I'll scrap housing benefits for them so they'll have to return to their parents, says our Prime Minister, if we vote for him in the next election.
Of course, the last one there is a complete nothing of a policy designed purely to grab media interest. After all, most people on housing benefits aren't unemployed (though you'd think differently from the newspapers), nor is everyone aged 18-25 capable of moving back home. They might live on the other side of the country, might not be on good terms with them or, sadly, not have living parents. What happens in the latter case? "Well, Billy, you have a elderly Aunt living in Bangor. She'll put you up."
Perhaps the Tories have done some kind of cost/benefit analysis on this. Young people are less likely to vote, ergo it's fine to disregard them. Edwina Currie obviously thinks so: challenged on Twitter that "under 25s and futureless youth" will make her old party pay, she responded that "no they won't. They have the vote, don't use it and have no economic power. Not till they start working, pay taxes, learn sense".
Of course, this is a woman who chose to have sex with John Major, so her judgement may well be off the scale here as well. All the same, it gives an insight into the mindset of the kind of people running the country: "economic power" is key. Put everything into the system, only to find out it's one that is so fucked that you get nothing out of it in return. "Call me Dave" may well be turning "Call me 'Sir', you peasant scum".
Sunday, 24 June 2012
Quick Talking
As any linguist, cunning or otherwise (fnarr), will tell you, language is never inert. It develops to suit the times and the needs of those who speak it. Tutting Daily Mail readers who today bemoan youngsters speaking like they're extras from The Wire are the same as their grandparents grumbling about kids in the 1950s using words like "cool" and "hip".
All this is why we thankfully don't speak like we're in some boring Shakespeare play, but it occasionally bites you on the arse and makes you look a bit of a right old duffer before your time.
The scene: work, lunchtime. I'm off out to the shop to get something to drink.
"Anyone need anything from the shop?" I ask. "I'm just off to get a can of pop."
Everyone laughs at my use of the word "pop". What? Has that word really fallen out of use so quickly? OK, as said in my previous post, I admit I come from a town where you could film an episode of Doctor Who set in 1970 and not need to spend much money on clothes for extras, but surely calling some soft drink "pop" hasn't fallen out of common use so quickly?
It would seem so, and I was left thinking I should have completed the picture by putting on me flat cap and saying I needed the drink to help wash down the bread and dripping I would be having.
Which reminds me of something else that may make it look like I grew up in the 1950s, rather than 80s: on a summer's day, a guy in a van would come round flogging bottles of cola, lemonade and dandelion and burdock made by a company called Dent, in nearby Cleator Moor. I was never that comfortable drinking the lemonade, as it was the same colour as piss, but the cola was fine. Just as well, as in true clichéd Northern mother style, the only time she'd stump up for "proper" cola was when it was on offer in Presto.
All this being said, it doesn't stop me rolling my eyes and thinking "bloody kids" when I'm on the bus next to some baggy jeaned gobshite. But at least it's not because of what they're speaking - no, it's because of the complete tinny crap passing for music coming out of their phones.
All this is why we thankfully don't speak like we're in some boring Shakespeare play, but it occasionally bites you on the arse and makes you look a bit of a right old duffer before your time.
The scene: work, lunchtime. I'm off out to the shop to get something to drink.
"Anyone need anything from the shop?" I ask. "I'm just off to get a can of pop."
Everyone laughs at my use of the word "pop". What? Has that word really fallen out of use so quickly? OK, as said in my previous post, I admit I come from a town where you could film an episode of Doctor Who set in 1970 and not need to spend much money on clothes for extras, but surely calling some soft drink "pop" hasn't fallen out of common use so quickly?
It would seem so, and I was left thinking I should have completed the picture by putting on me flat cap and saying I needed the drink to help wash down the bread and dripping I would be having.
Which reminds me of something else that may make it look like I grew up in the 1950s, rather than 80s: on a summer's day, a guy in a van would come round flogging bottles of cola, lemonade and dandelion and burdock made by a company called Dent, in nearby Cleator Moor. I was never that comfortable drinking the lemonade, as it was the same colour as piss, but the cola was fine. Just as well, as in true clichéd Northern mother style, the only time she'd stump up for "proper" cola was when it was on offer in Presto.
All this being said, it doesn't stop me rolling my eyes and thinking "bloody kids" when I'm on the bus next to some baggy jeaned gobshite. But at least it's not because of what they're speaking - no, it's because of the complete tinny crap passing for music coming out of their phones.
Wednesday, 20 June 2012
Shading It
Style, so I'm led to believe, is something you either have or don't. I'm firmly in the latter camp - I doubt even the best designer could put me in an outfit that would make me look good. Instead, I just stick to wearing black 501s and black Converse whenever possible, dreading the oncoming day I'll be too old to get away with it.
One area I've particularly struggled with in the past is sunglasses. I don't know if it's the shape of my head, the size of my eyes or my big nose, but something always guarantees that when I put on a pair of shades, I look like a complete div. But they're handy to have when the weather is bright and sunny, like now, as spending all your time outdoors squinting gets a bit painful after a while.
However, I think I may recently have solved my eye-related sartorial problem. Whilst back in my hometown last month, my good lady and I passed a shop that had just opened, selling vintage clothes. A while ago, I would have made a joke that a place selling clothes from the 1960s in Whitehaven would just be keeping up with current trends in the town. But not now, oh no. In a curious twist, the place also turned out to be run by somebody I went to school with, which made me feel (as a lot of things do these days) a bit old - to think people my age are now running small businesses. Clearly she paid a lot more attention during our Business Studies 'A' level classes.
Inside, I found a pair of shades that actually looked half decent on me - and for only £4! I was half considering spunking a huge amount on some Ray Bans, so this was a much more satisfactory outcome.
As a result, I now no longer fear the sun as I used to and as an added bonus, I reckon they make me look a little bit like Don Draper.
That's in the same way the planet Jupiter looks a little like a bag of spanners.
One area I've particularly struggled with in the past is sunglasses. I don't know if it's the shape of my head, the size of my eyes or my big nose, but something always guarantees that when I put on a pair of shades, I look like a complete div. But they're handy to have when the weather is bright and sunny, like now, as spending all your time outdoors squinting gets a bit painful after a while.
However, I think I may recently have solved my eye-related sartorial problem. Whilst back in my hometown last month, my good lady and I passed a shop that had just opened, selling vintage clothes. A while ago, I would have made a joke that a place selling clothes from the 1960s in Whitehaven would just be keeping up with current trends in the town. But not now, oh no. In a curious twist, the place also turned out to be run by somebody I went to school with, which made me feel (as a lot of things do these days) a bit old - to think people my age are now running small businesses. Clearly she paid a lot more attention during our Business Studies 'A' level classes.
Inside, I found a pair of shades that actually looked half decent on me - and for only £4! I was half considering spunking a huge amount on some Ray Bans, so this was a much more satisfactory outcome.
As a result, I now no longer fear the sun as I used to and as an added bonus, I reckon they make me look a little bit like Don Draper.
 |
| Cool Fucker |
Monday, 18 June 2012
Go West, Young Man (Part Two)
If you come from a small town miles from anywhere, it's hard to shake the wide-eyed look you get when you visit a big city. Growing up, Carlisle seemed pretty cosmopolitan to someone like me: after all, it had a Our Price and a Virgin Records. Back home, we had the top 40 and some dodgy compilation albums in Woolworths.
London was naturally a whole different ball game, obviously, but I've never felt I got a handle on how big it is. Visits there limited themselves to the city centre, the suburbs only passing by in a blur on train journeys. Even the city itself was covered underground, oblivious to all above.
So when the plane approached LAX, the scene outside the plane window - luckily it was a clear day - was mind-blowing. Urban sprawl as far as I could see, a city on a scope beyond anything I'd seen before. Typical of the States, I guess, everything just having to be bigger.
Including my friend's apartment, which seemed huge to me. At the time, I was working as a journalist and living in a bedsit that could be best described as "a box" or "a complete shitheap", depending on your point of view. My host, who worked as a clerk in the DVD section of a record store, lived in a very spacious gaff with it's own underground parking space just off Hollywood Boulevard.
My first full day, we drove down to Santa Monica for my big moment. Going through Beverley Hills and Bel Air - it's perhaps naff to say, but it was such a thrill seeing places I'd only seen on TV. When we finally made it to the coast, I ran down to the waters edge and stared out over the Pacific Ocean. For some lanky gobshite from Whitehaven, it seemed I'd come a hell of a long way.
There's something about the Pacific that's hard to explain unless you've been there. A scene in Mad Men has Don Draper wade in its waters and emerge determined to be a new man, and when I saw that years after I'd been there myself, the scene resonated deeply. At the time, I looked out and thought "there's nothing out there but thousands of miles of blue until you hit Asia".
Then we went and had cocktails in Malibu.
After that, for the main part, I was left alone to do my own thing. My friend would head off to work in the morning and I'd leave and just head in some random direction, seeing what was around. Bumming round the middle of LA, checking out the art gallery. Wasting half a day gawping at the guitars in this huge music store on Santa Monica Boulevard.
It was there, I think, that I realised that American Culture was at heart, corrupt. In the middle of Hollywood, one of the major world centres for entertainment and people rich beyond my imagination would be people holding up signs begging not for money, but a job. I thought of that guy a lot, about how the system that was supposed to be best left so many on the scrapheap.
I also remember on my first wander walking down Hollywood and looking around with what must have been the look of an obvious tourist. A voice came from the ground next to me.
"LA, baby, LA!"
Some homeless dude beamed up on me. He must have seen hundreds, thousands of people like me, looking around with wonder. Films like Mullholland Drive make more sense once you've been there - the city is full of people out to try to make something of their lives. My friend knew plenty of time: aspiring musicians, actors and writers. Some of them seemed to be getting somewhere - a band who'd got a song on the soundtrack to some fairly big film, someone who'd got a book deal for their children's books.
They were encouraging when I mentioned I was trying to get a band together and even if they were just being friendly, it was nice to hear. When I was growing up, if you showed any kind of artistic slant, the reaction was usually "think yer fucken' special, eh?" followed by repeated accusations that my sexual preferences might be more in favour of males.
Going back to the whole American = big aspect.You ask for a bowl of chips (alright, fries) with your beer while watching a game, you get a huge plate of the things.
That action also brought one, umm, uncomfortable moment. On being delivered a burger and fries in some diner place with my friend and some of her colleagues, I proceeded to grab the vinegar to drown those spuds as is my ilk. Sadly, it wasn't what I thought it was and instead a load of syrup glooped on my food. Odd looks were abound, naturally, but for some reason I decided I couldn't look stupid and instead, smiling, ate my somewhat sweetened fries, much to the bafflement of everyone else.
In a flash, it was all over and I was back at LAX, drinking crap beer and seeing England beat the USA at football. The return flight was a slog and I learnt an important fact: jet lag fucks you up.
London was naturally a whole different ball game, obviously, but I've never felt I got a handle on how big it is. Visits there limited themselves to the city centre, the suburbs only passing by in a blur on train journeys. Even the city itself was covered underground, oblivious to all above.
So when the plane approached LAX, the scene outside the plane window - luckily it was a clear day - was mind-blowing. Urban sprawl as far as I could see, a city on a scope beyond anything I'd seen before. Typical of the States, I guess, everything just having to be bigger.
Including my friend's apartment, which seemed huge to me. At the time, I was working as a journalist and living in a bedsit that could be best described as "a box" or "a complete shitheap", depending on your point of view. My host, who worked as a clerk in the DVD section of a record store, lived in a very spacious gaff with it's own underground parking space just off Hollywood Boulevard.
My first full day, we drove down to Santa Monica for my big moment. Going through Beverley Hills and Bel Air - it's perhaps naff to say, but it was such a thrill seeing places I'd only seen on TV. When we finally made it to the coast, I ran down to the waters edge and stared out over the Pacific Ocean. For some lanky gobshite from Whitehaven, it seemed I'd come a hell of a long way.
There's something about the Pacific that's hard to explain unless you've been there. A scene in Mad Men has Don Draper wade in its waters and emerge determined to be a new man, and when I saw that years after I'd been there myself, the scene resonated deeply. At the time, I looked out and thought "there's nothing out there but thousands of miles of blue until you hit Asia".
Then we went and had cocktails in Malibu.
After that, for the main part, I was left alone to do my own thing. My friend would head off to work in the morning and I'd leave and just head in some random direction, seeing what was around. Bumming round the middle of LA, checking out the art gallery. Wasting half a day gawping at the guitars in this huge music store on Santa Monica Boulevard.
It was there, I think, that I realised that American Culture was at heart, corrupt. In the middle of Hollywood, one of the major world centres for entertainment and people rich beyond my imagination would be people holding up signs begging not for money, but a job. I thought of that guy a lot, about how the system that was supposed to be best left so many on the scrapheap.
I also remember on my first wander walking down Hollywood and looking around with what must have been the look of an obvious tourist. A voice came from the ground next to me.
"LA, baby, LA!"
Some homeless dude beamed up on me. He must have seen hundreds, thousands of people like me, looking around with wonder. Films like Mullholland Drive make more sense once you've been there - the city is full of people out to try to make something of their lives. My friend knew plenty of time: aspiring musicians, actors and writers. Some of them seemed to be getting somewhere - a band who'd got a song on the soundtrack to some fairly big film, someone who'd got a book deal for their children's books.
They were encouraging when I mentioned I was trying to get a band together and even if they were just being friendly, it was nice to hear. When I was growing up, if you showed any kind of artistic slant, the reaction was usually "think yer fucken' special, eh?" followed by repeated accusations that my sexual preferences might be more in favour of males.
Going back to the whole American = big aspect.You ask for a bowl of chips (alright, fries) with your beer while watching a game, you get a huge plate of the things.
That action also brought one, umm, uncomfortable moment. On being delivered a burger and fries in some diner place with my friend and some of her colleagues, I proceeded to grab the vinegar to drown those spuds as is my ilk. Sadly, it wasn't what I thought it was and instead a load of syrup glooped on my food. Odd looks were abound, naturally, but for some reason I decided I couldn't look stupid and instead, smiling, ate my somewhat sweetened fries, much to the bafflement of everyone else.
In a flash, it was all over and I was back at LAX, drinking crap beer and seeing England beat the USA at football. The return flight was a slog and I learnt an important fact: jet lag fucks you up.
Thursday, 14 June 2012
Go West, Young Man (Part One)
When I came to Manchester in the summer of 2004, I remember I had three ambitions:
a) Form a band, play a gig
b) Get a job as a journalist
c) See the Pacific Ocean
The first one took a while, but come February 2007, I'd done it. The second one I achieved first, my first day in that occupation being my 24th birthday, then a few months later I found myself zooming over the Atlantic Ocean to Los Angeles. How did that come about?
The first factor making it possible was that I had a friend living in Hollywood. We'd met online when I was a young neer-do-well wasting time in some music chat room. We got talking: she was 12 years older than I and I think she felt sorry for the huge gaps in my musical knowledge. From henceforth came a steady stream of bands to check out - the Jesus and Mary Chain, Mazzy Star, Ride, Galaxie 500, the House of Love and so on. She'd seen all these bands, too, and compared to mine, her life seemed incredibly glamorous. In any case, she said if I ever wanted to visit LA, I'd be welcome to crash in her apartment.
In terms of raising the cash to get there, a few months after moving to Manchester I'd managed to snare a three month position doing admin for a big company. I'd put a bit aside, but the main boost was that when April came around, I worked out I was due several hundred pounds back in tax. Enough to pay for a ticket. Arrangements were made and so it was that seven years ago, I finally made first use of a passport I'd gotten six years previously.
People who know me well will tell you I hate travelling. As someone who on a bad day can have a panic attack about getting on a bus, this should have been a big deal. But somehow the incredible excitement of the whole affair overcome any nerves - on the flight, I was joyous to get a window seat, which paid off big time as it was a clear day seemingly across my entire flightpath.
There was also free drinks, and within 30 minutes of being airborne, I had my first Jack Daniels and Coke in hand while enjoying Spongebob Squarepants: The Movie for the first of three times. I also timed one of my frequent walks well enough to see the frozen Greenland out the other side of the plane. Then there were the glaciers of Northern Canada! The badlands of the States - flat deserts with Roman-straight roads, on which I could just make out tiny trucks on their lonely drives. My mind, as they say, was blown.
The journey was nine hours or so, but it seemed much shorter. The massive urban sprawl of LA was soon below me and despite the amount of alcohol I'd knocked back, I was perfectly clear headed enough to still be buzzing with excitement despite having not slept in over a day. In the airport, I'd been warned of ultra-tight security, but it seemed like I was outside with my bags in about 30 minutes.
Then, panic. I couldn't find my friend. Though we'd not met, I knew what she looked like and in any case, I'm pretty hard to miss. Wandering round for a minute, some beefy guy stops me.
"Hey, hey, been looking for ya."
I look back, blankly. I suddenly feel like I'm six years old again, lost from my mother.
"Was told to meet some tall white guy..." He adds.
I'm getting close to terrified now. Then he bursts into warm laughter.
"Just messin' with ya, man."
Turns out he's collecting for some charity, taking any spare currency travellers might have. I have about £2.50 in loose change which I hand over. He's impressed (for some reason) that I'm English, shakes my hand and leaves. I feel like my knees will give way and my whole body screams relief when my friend shows up.
In her car, we ease out of the airport and onto the Interstate 101, heading North to Hollywood. She turns on the radio and Crash by the Primitives blasts out. We both sing along and I know it's going to be the best two weeks of my life coming up.
a) Form a band, play a gig
b) Get a job as a journalist
c) See the Pacific Ocean
The first one took a while, but come February 2007, I'd done it. The second one I achieved first, my first day in that occupation being my 24th birthday, then a few months later I found myself zooming over the Atlantic Ocean to Los Angeles. How did that come about?
The first factor making it possible was that I had a friend living in Hollywood. We'd met online when I was a young neer-do-well wasting time in some music chat room. We got talking: she was 12 years older than I and I think she felt sorry for the huge gaps in my musical knowledge. From henceforth came a steady stream of bands to check out - the Jesus and Mary Chain, Mazzy Star, Ride, Galaxie 500, the House of Love and so on. She'd seen all these bands, too, and compared to mine, her life seemed incredibly glamorous. In any case, she said if I ever wanted to visit LA, I'd be welcome to crash in her apartment.
In terms of raising the cash to get there, a few months after moving to Manchester I'd managed to snare a three month position doing admin for a big company. I'd put a bit aside, but the main boost was that when April came around, I worked out I was due several hundred pounds back in tax. Enough to pay for a ticket. Arrangements were made and so it was that seven years ago, I finally made first use of a passport I'd gotten six years previously.
People who know me well will tell you I hate travelling. As someone who on a bad day can have a panic attack about getting on a bus, this should have been a big deal. But somehow the incredible excitement of the whole affair overcome any nerves - on the flight, I was joyous to get a window seat, which paid off big time as it was a clear day seemingly across my entire flightpath.
There was also free drinks, and within 30 minutes of being airborne, I had my first Jack Daniels and Coke in hand while enjoying Spongebob Squarepants: The Movie for the first of three times. I also timed one of my frequent walks well enough to see the frozen Greenland out the other side of the plane. Then there were the glaciers of Northern Canada! The badlands of the States - flat deserts with Roman-straight roads, on which I could just make out tiny trucks on their lonely drives. My mind, as they say, was blown.
The journey was nine hours or so, but it seemed much shorter. The massive urban sprawl of LA was soon below me and despite the amount of alcohol I'd knocked back, I was perfectly clear headed enough to still be buzzing with excitement despite having not slept in over a day. In the airport, I'd been warned of ultra-tight security, but it seemed like I was outside with my bags in about 30 minutes.
Then, panic. I couldn't find my friend. Though we'd not met, I knew what she looked like and in any case, I'm pretty hard to miss. Wandering round for a minute, some beefy guy stops me.
"Hey, hey, been looking for ya."
I look back, blankly. I suddenly feel like I'm six years old again, lost from my mother.
"Was told to meet some tall white guy..." He adds.
I'm getting close to terrified now. Then he bursts into warm laughter.
"Just messin' with ya, man."
Turns out he's collecting for some charity, taking any spare currency travellers might have. I have about £2.50 in loose change which I hand over. He's impressed (for some reason) that I'm English, shakes my hand and leaves. I feel like my knees will give way and my whole body screams relief when my friend shows up.
In her car, we ease out of the airport and onto the Interstate 101, heading North to Hollywood. She turns on the radio and Crash by the Primitives blasts out. We both sing along and I know it's going to be the best two weeks of my life coming up.
Monday, 11 June 2012
Watching the Detectives
I wrote about the US TV show Psych back in December. Back then, I'd just finished watching the first series, yesterday I just wrapped up series five. Is it still holding up?
Well, yes, it is actually, which is a surprise. For one thing, I rarely have the patience for such long running shows. I lost interest in both House and Heroes after a couple of series. Like House, Psych is predictably formulaic but keeps working as a comedy drama principally on the relationships between the characters and how they've developed over 50+ episodes.
Of course, there's the continual "will they or won't they" between main character Shawn and young police detective Juliet. On a different level, there's also the issue of whether Shawn and his dad will ever come to some kind of understanding, especially since they began having to work together.
But most of all, there's the "best friends forever" relationship between Shawn and Gus. From watching it, I assume that James Roday and Dule Hill must be good friends off camera, such is the fantastic chemistry between them. Despite the fact that Shawn always seems to take advantage of his friend's trusting nature, there's a touching moment in series five that when facing what seems imminent death, Gus tells Shawn that he has no regrets and he wouldn't have changed anything.
Something that they finally address in this run is Shawn's more dickhead-ish tendencies. He finally feels a pang of guilt and tells his friend and long-time rival Detective Lassiter how important they are in his work. It's a nice touch, and hopefully lays down a path of development for the character for the future.
I can only assume that the show is doing pretty well in the States, as the number of guest stars seems to have gone up: Freddie Prinze Jnr, Mena Suvari and Ralph Macchio all crop up (the latter, of course, having the line "don't wax on" said to him) as well as Carl Weathers and Curt Smith from Tears for Fears.
Best of all, there's the episode Dual Spires, a wonderful parody of Twin Peaks that has plenty of actors from the latter guest starring and more in-jokes and references than I could possibly count, from the opening line of Shawn reading a newspaper report of someone inventing silent curtain runners... Basically, one of the best episodes of anything, ever.
Throughout the whole series, there's also the slightly worrying issue of Gus' attempts of wooing the ladies. By the time we get to the end of the series and the introduction of Lassiter's younger sister, he's pretty much verging on the creepy.
I'm envious of those in America who have already seen series six, and I wish it was shown in this country so more people could get into it. Psych is a rare show that I feel some kind of emotional involvement in. I want more of it, albeit with the catch that they can continue to maintain the standards.
Well, yes, it is actually, which is a surprise. For one thing, I rarely have the patience for such long running shows. I lost interest in both House and Heroes after a couple of series. Like House, Psych is predictably formulaic but keeps working as a comedy drama principally on the relationships between the characters and how they've developed over 50+ episodes.
Of course, there's the continual "will they or won't they" between main character Shawn and young police detective Juliet. On a different level, there's also the issue of whether Shawn and his dad will ever come to some kind of understanding, especially since they began having to work together.
But most of all, there's the "best friends forever" relationship between Shawn and Gus. From watching it, I assume that James Roday and Dule Hill must be good friends off camera, such is the fantastic chemistry between them. Despite the fact that Shawn always seems to take advantage of his friend's trusting nature, there's a touching moment in series five that when facing what seems imminent death, Gus tells Shawn that he has no regrets and he wouldn't have changed anything.
Something that they finally address in this run is Shawn's more dickhead-ish tendencies. He finally feels a pang of guilt and tells his friend and long-time rival Detective Lassiter how important they are in his work. It's a nice touch, and hopefully lays down a path of development for the character for the future.
I can only assume that the show is doing pretty well in the States, as the number of guest stars seems to have gone up: Freddie Prinze Jnr, Mena Suvari and Ralph Macchio all crop up (the latter, of course, having the line "don't wax on" said to him) as well as Carl Weathers and Curt Smith from Tears for Fears.
Best of all, there's the episode Dual Spires, a wonderful parody of Twin Peaks that has plenty of actors from the latter guest starring and more in-jokes and references than I could possibly count, from the opening line of Shawn reading a newspaper report of someone inventing silent curtain runners... Basically, one of the best episodes of anything, ever.
Throughout the whole series, there's also the slightly worrying issue of Gus' attempts of wooing the ladies. By the time we get to the end of the series and the introduction of Lassiter's younger sister, he's pretty much verging on the creepy.
I'm envious of those in America who have already seen series six, and I wish it was shown in this country so more people could get into it. Psych is a rare show that I feel some kind of emotional involvement in. I want more of it, albeit with the catch that they can continue to maintain the standards.
Thursday, 7 June 2012
Euromen Cometh
Much to my joy, the European Championships start tomorrow. I do love a good tournament, especially in this instance where all the games are on in the evening after I finish work - with luck, I shouldn't miss a single game.
I've always preferred the Euros to the World Cup, too. Sure, the latter is considered the apex of achievement for a footballer, but there can often be some games involving some pretty crap teams, even if the antics of New Zealand two years ago showed the gap isn't that far these days. But the Euros rarely have filler teams that never stand a chance of winning a game: Ireland may be considered the weakest team out of the 16, and even they have proven international quality players like Shay Given and Robbie Keane, as well as being led by one of the most respected coaches in the game.
Plus you get the occasional huge shock winner, like Denmark in 1992 and Greece in 2004. Alright, so the Greek team played in a style so mind-numbingly negative it would have made George Graham proud, but you take your surprises where you can get them in football and a team who had never been a real threat at that level before suddenly being champions of Europe on the back of sheer willpower and organisation made for a decent story.
If I had to back a team, though, I'd have to plump for the Germans. They looked very strong in qualifying and you can generally rely on them to be amongst the chasers. Given my own brief flirtation with the England national team ended when Graham Taylor dropped Chris Waddle and Peter Beardsley, then gave more caps to Carlton Palmer than Matt Le Tissier, I won't be giving much backing to them. Indeed, I'll be surprised if they escape from the group stage.
Mind, even if they do, they'll probably have to face either Spain or Italy in the next round. Given those teams have won the last World Cups, it again shows the level of competition in the tournament.
What I will be hoping for is that the lunkheads that the BBC reported on the other week are kept well under the cosh by the local authorities. The idea of a footballer being the target of racist abuse at such an event in the 21st century is grotesque. Cliché and trite as it may sound, but football is the Beautiful Game and groups of extremist bell-ends should be kept out by all means necessary. Call your centre-half a useless bag of shite when he punts one into his own net - fine - but bringing such irrelevant details as his skin colour into it is just a sign of idiocy and a lack of intelligence in being unable to think of a decent insult. UEFA have made noises about taking a hard line if such abuse is heard - I can only hope they follow through with it if need be.
The main concern for me on a personal level, however, is that with so much footy on TV over a short space of time, the amount of beer and crisps I might get through may ensure I'll soon have a belly big enough to rest my pint glass on...
I've always preferred the Euros to the World Cup, too. Sure, the latter is considered the apex of achievement for a footballer, but there can often be some games involving some pretty crap teams, even if the antics of New Zealand two years ago showed the gap isn't that far these days. But the Euros rarely have filler teams that never stand a chance of winning a game: Ireland may be considered the weakest team out of the 16, and even they have proven international quality players like Shay Given and Robbie Keane, as well as being led by one of the most respected coaches in the game.
Plus you get the occasional huge shock winner, like Denmark in 1992 and Greece in 2004. Alright, so the Greek team played in a style so mind-numbingly negative it would have made George Graham proud, but you take your surprises where you can get them in football and a team who had never been a real threat at that level before suddenly being champions of Europe on the back of sheer willpower and organisation made for a decent story.
If I had to back a team, though, I'd have to plump for the Germans. They looked very strong in qualifying and you can generally rely on them to be amongst the chasers. Given my own brief flirtation with the England national team ended when Graham Taylor dropped Chris Waddle and Peter Beardsley, then gave more caps to Carlton Palmer than Matt Le Tissier, I won't be giving much backing to them. Indeed, I'll be surprised if they escape from the group stage.
Mind, even if they do, they'll probably have to face either Spain or Italy in the next round. Given those teams have won the last World Cups, it again shows the level of competition in the tournament.
What I will be hoping for is that the lunkheads that the BBC reported on the other week are kept well under the cosh by the local authorities. The idea of a footballer being the target of racist abuse at such an event in the 21st century is grotesque. Cliché and trite as it may sound, but football is the Beautiful Game and groups of extremist bell-ends should be kept out by all means necessary. Call your centre-half a useless bag of shite when he punts one into his own net - fine - but bringing such irrelevant details as his skin colour into it is just a sign of idiocy and a lack of intelligence in being unable to think of a decent insult. UEFA have made noises about taking a hard line if such abuse is heard - I can only hope they follow through with it if need be.
The main concern for me on a personal level, however, is that with so much footy on TV over a short space of time, the amount of beer and crisps I might get through may ensure I'll soon have a belly big enough to rest my pint glass on...
Tuesday, 5 June 2012
Ink Spots
In order to escape the huge amount of crap everywhere about that old lady being Queen for 60 years, I suggested to my better half that we venture out to rent a film for the night.
Naturally, it took about 20 minutes to come to any kind of vague consensus on what to choose, which got me wondering how many couples break up in the aisles of DVD rental shops. It's easy to get to a point where you just shout "well, pick what you fucking want then!" and storm out in a strop.
Mercifully, this didn't happen to us and I finally agreed to take out The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo. I hadn't read the books, crime fiction not being my thing, and the amount of hype around them doubly put me off. As for the film? Well, it didn't do a lot to convince me to investigate further.
Not that it's a bad film. It certainly looks the part, with some nice contrasts between urban and rural Sweden, the rustic house the male lead inhabits with the clean lines of the modern house of another character.
The problems start with the characters, none of whom are particularly likeable. Daniel Craig as a disgraced journalist is requested by a wealthy industrialist to investigate the disappearance of his niece decades earlier. Thing is, the character is such a complete drip at times, and a total "anything with a pulse" shagger the next that it's hard to root for him in solving the mystery.
Then, of course, there's Oscar-nominee Rooney Mara as Lisbeth, the titular character and one made up of so many clichés it's amazing. Troubled past? Check. Socially awkward genius? Check. Just once, it'd be nice to see one of these characters who doesn't have a whole lot of dark shit in their past. It's almost like a game where writers try to come up with the worst horrors possible. To Mara's credit, she does a good job with what she's given to work with.
None of which might matter if the central story held up. But it's full of some major plot holes that lead up to a final twist that if you're paying enough attention you should see coming from a country mile off. Part of the problem is that it feels like the whole story would be best strapped to a TV mini-series, as at two-and-a-half hours, it takes too much time getting started but also doesn't have enough time to develop the details. As in, was the big cheese really waiting all those years just for some discredited hack to roll up? How did the owner of the torture chamber keep it a secret for years?
On the plus side, the vast majority of it is acted really well: Christopher Plummer and Steven Berkoff do their usual fine work as the man needing answers about his long-lost niece and the lawyer who gets Daniel Craig the job. Weirdly, Jim Robinson from Neighbours rocks up in a small role, which makes you wonder why they didn't hire more Swedish people for the parts, rather than getting others to do slightly dodgy accents.
It's a not a crap film, not by any measure. It's so average that I doubt I'll remember any of it in six months.
Naturally, it took about 20 minutes to come to any kind of vague consensus on what to choose, which got me wondering how many couples break up in the aisles of DVD rental shops. It's easy to get to a point where you just shout "well, pick what you fucking want then!" and storm out in a strop.
Mercifully, this didn't happen to us and I finally agreed to take out The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo. I hadn't read the books, crime fiction not being my thing, and the amount of hype around them doubly put me off. As for the film? Well, it didn't do a lot to convince me to investigate further.
Not that it's a bad film. It certainly looks the part, with some nice contrasts between urban and rural Sweden, the rustic house the male lead inhabits with the clean lines of the modern house of another character.
The problems start with the characters, none of whom are particularly likeable. Daniel Craig as a disgraced journalist is requested by a wealthy industrialist to investigate the disappearance of his niece decades earlier. Thing is, the character is such a complete drip at times, and a total "anything with a pulse" shagger the next that it's hard to root for him in solving the mystery.
Then, of course, there's Oscar-nominee Rooney Mara as Lisbeth, the titular character and one made up of so many clichés it's amazing. Troubled past? Check. Socially awkward genius? Check. Just once, it'd be nice to see one of these characters who doesn't have a whole lot of dark shit in their past. It's almost like a game where writers try to come up with the worst horrors possible. To Mara's credit, she does a good job with what she's given to work with.
None of which might matter if the central story held up. But it's full of some major plot holes that lead up to a final twist that if you're paying enough attention you should see coming from a country mile off. Part of the problem is that it feels like the whole story would be best strapped to a TV mini-series, as at two-and-a-half hours, it takes too much time getting started but also doesn't have enough time to develop the details. As in, was the big cheese really waiting all those years just for some discredited hack to roll up? How did the owner of the torture chamber keep it a secret for years?
On the plus side, the vast majority of it is acted really well: Christopher Plummer and Steven Berkoff do their usual fine work as the man needing answers about his long-lost niece and the lawyer who gets Daniel Craig the job. Weirdly, Jim Robinson from Neighbours rocks up in a small role, which makes you wonder why they didn't hire more Swedish people for the parts, rather than getting others to do slightly dodgy accents.
It's a not a crap film, not by any measure. It's so average that I doubt I'll remember any of it in six months.
Saturday, 2 June 2012
Four Days to Play
A long weekend for all us British types, then. Except those working on shifts, of course. But for the rest of us, four days off due to Her Maj's jubilee.
As someone with no respect for the royal family, it'd be easy for me to dismiss it all with a "I don't give a toss". But... I do give a toss as the idea of there being a group of people perceived to be my betters by chance of birth. It makes me very, very fucking angry.
Angry in that why in the year 2012 there is still a monarchy in this country baffles me. The arguments for them never cut any ice. Tourists would come regardless of whether anyone was living in the big houses - maybe more so if they were open throughout the year so our friends from Japan, America and the rest of the world can gawp at the place whenever they like.
As for the whole "who would you rather have? President Blair???" (and why is he always used as the example?) approach - well, yeah, not good, but at least we could vote any gobshite President out. Although I'm yet to have it explained to me why we'd need a Prez. What's wrong with having an elected Parliament and perhaps an elected House of Lords? The point is, having a bunch of idiots you can get rid of without waiting for Big Grim to get on the job.
Instead, we have some old lady who goes around the world waving and whose role in the running of the country seems to be signing any old shite laws put in front of her. As a person, she seems harmless enough, I grant you. When I think of her, I think of my paternal grandpop, as they were born in the same year. Her witless offspring, on the other hand... I guess we can blame that on the father.
Not to say that I suggest we follow the French or Russian solution to dissolving a monarchy. No. Instead, I think the Sue Townsend solution is the best: move them all into some council houses on an estate in Liverpool and let them make their own way in the world. Then we can finally get rid of the world's worst national anthem, the title alone - I'd rather we had a tune called Spaghetti Monster, Look Over Old Mrs Johnson From Across the Road.
Extra day off work is good, though.
As someone with no respect for the royal family, it'd be easy for me to dismiss it all with a "I don't give a toss". But... I do give a toss as the idea of there being a group of people perceived to be my betters by chance of birth. It makes me very, very fucking angry.
Angry in that why in the year 2012 there is still a monarchy in this country baffles me. The arguments for them never cut any ice. Tourists would come regardless of whether anyone was living in the big houses - maybe more so if they were open throughout the year so our friends from Japan, America and the rest of the world can gawp at the place whenever they like.
As for the whole "who would you rather have? President Blair???" (and why is he always used as the example?) approach - well, yeah, not good, but at least we could vote any gobshite President out. Although I'm yet to have it explained to me why we'd need a Prez. What's wrong with having an elected Parliament and perhaps an elected House of Lords? The point is, having a bunch of idiots you can get rid of without waiting for Big Grim to get on the job.
Instead, we have some old lady who goes around the world waving and whose role in the running of the country seems to be signing any old shite laws put in front of her. As a person, she seems harmless enough, I grant you. When I think of her, I think of my paternal grandpop, as they were born in the same year. Her witless offspring, on the other hand... I guess we can blame that on the father.
Not to say that I suggest we follow the French or Russian solution to dissolving a monarchy. No. Instead, I think the Sue Townsend solution is the best: move them all into some council houses on an estate in Liverpool and let them make their own way in the world. Then we can finally get rid of the world's worst national anthem, the title alone - I'd rather we had a tune called Spaghetti Monster, Look Over Old Mrs Johnson From Across the Road.
Extra day off work is good, though.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
