Double Whammy

First, it was losing Kynt and Vyxsyn last night on The Amazing Race. Okay, so it was more losing Vyxsyn...oh hell, I can't type Goth...Vixen. All because her stupid eyebrow -less boyfriend can't U-turn the right team. Argh.

Still in mourning, I then discover that Vulcan Ninja won the Football Pool this week. This after I managed to end up last in the pool, to the point where I had to give the picks to her since my inability was approaching the legendary. Now she's won.

I am not a man. I can't pick football, and I've lost my one reason to watch The Amazing Race. These are dark days. Dark days indeed.

The Redefinition of Awesome

I've Always Wanted To Say That

Another Christmas, another enjoyable Doctor Who Christmas special. The Voyage of The Damned really should have been a car-wreck--bringing in the Titanic (kinda), and having a pop star as a guest star. Then again, bringing in a pop star seemed to work last time around, didn't it? Yes, Kylie Minogue does a fine job as Astrid, the story itself was exciting and fun (the idea that London now evacuates at Christmastime because of events there over the last two years--that is, the last two Christmas specials--was genius)and Tennant gives another fine performance as the Doctor. Nice final image of the TARDIS in a night time snowfall--I always love those sorts of scenes.

So Christmas is now over and done with. I gave Vulcan Ninja Puzzle Quest for a gift, and she hasn't resurfaced since. An RPG crossed with Bejewelled is crack, apparently. She in turn gifted me with an World of Warcraft Atlas, which has already saved me minutes of frustration trying to find vendors in the major cities. You don't know the frustration until you've experienced it. My dear mother, fearing that I may actually be productive in 2008, also gave me Dragon Quest VIII. So far, I like that in order to save your game, you have to enter a church and 'confess your sins'. Couple this with having started Tales of Symphonia, I think I may actually write one paragraph in the coming year.

Looking Back At The Comic Pile 2007 Part One

Well, I can't really say that 2007 was a banner year. Once again, both DC and Marvel whored after readers with the old Crossover Trick, saying with one mouth that they want to give value to their loyal customers yet shouting with another mouth that fans have to read *every* World War Hulk/Civil War/Countdown/Sinestro Corps tie-in to get the beloved 'whole' picture. That snake oil approach to comics is great when you're 14, and you feel like you're really entering a brand new world. Not so much when you're 42, and it sounds as sincere as a promise of performance from a used car salesman in a plaid jacket.

It would be easy to pile onto the disaster that was Countdown. In my humble opinion, it was classic example of when Marketing sees a market ( a weekly comic)and Editorial has to scramble to come up with a story. Granted, Countdown should have worked--Paul Dini is a genius, and a storyline involving the New Gods under his guidance should have been fun. But something went horribly wrong. I see DC trying to salvage this now--Countdown to Final Crisis, indeed--but there has been too much blood lost. And for fans, too much cash.

I didn't really follow World War Hulk, so I can't judge on that.

But it wasn't all flim flam from the Big Two. Of these two staggering giants, here are a few books I've come to appreciate:

Blue Beetle: A recipe that works when both writer and artist understand it: the young teenage hero initiated into the super hero bidness. It reminds me of the Seventies Spider-Man--the newbie hero meeting up with his own heroes, often feeling way, way out of his depth. (DC)

The Order: This was the year I came to appreciate Matt Fraction. The Order--a group of government funded heroes, recruited by none other than Tony Stark--are given super powers *for one year*, and have to both fight evil and maintain a clean pop image. Fraction makes Tony Stark into such a complete asshole, that alone would merit applause. But the tension that comes from not knowing who will survive, who will melt down, and that most important ingredient of comics--*the need to know what will happen next*--makes this a must read. (Marvel)

Iron Fist: Fraction and Brubaker give us the most intelligent chop-socky movie that will never be made. Ludicrous and awesome. (Marvel)

Fantastic Four: After surviving the horrors of the JMS years, I thought writer Dwayne McDuffie really turned this book around, making the cosmic seem very Kirbyesque, as filtered through today's sensibilities. Leave the recipe alone: a family that adventures into the stars and other dimensions, with gadgets and scientific explanations that sound only vaguely probable. McDuffie understood this, and understood that the major draw to this book is the concept of family. These characters love one another, and what better way to see the stars? (Marvel)

Punisher War Journal: Again, Fraction makes this most ridiculous of characters even moreso. The Punisher sees a racist wear Captain America's logo? Within seconds he's stealing a car to go 'shoot him in the face'. Really, what more character motivation do you need? The current storyline has seen the Punisher off handedly execute a bank robber, and even tried to murder the Rhino. Of course we know Spider-Man (or some other hero) will stop him before he does--and of course it happens. The Punisher's frustration at this paid for the book that month. (Marvel)

Nova: It's Dan Abnett and Andy Lanning. If you're ever bored on a Saturday night, pick up a Dan Abnett book. Be it a Torchwood novel or a Warhammer gun-a-thon, you will be entertained. He's the best pulp writer working today. And he shows it here yet again with perhaps the best book Marvel is putting on the stands. Sure, the Nova Corps is just Marvel's way of aping the Green Lantern Corps, but that doesn't take away from the fact that under Abnett,it's miles better. As well, this book has had some of the best covers out this year.

Wow. A lot of Marvel there. Pull up your socks, DC!

Whoosh!

"I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by." --Douglas Adams.

I hate deadlines. In fact, I will go as far as to say I fucking hate them. Yes. I went there. I went with the fucking, because I'm that sort of hardcore writer. You want edge, you've come to the right place.

This week's New Scientist has an interesting article on procrastination, which isn't really my problem with deadlines, but since it took my mind off mine, I read it. The end result? We shouldn't procrastinate. Once again, my subscription to that magazine just paid for itself.

I often admire other writers who seem to handle their deadlines with this air of gentle nobility. I've never once read Neil Gaiman write that he's ready to chuck it all in and raise goats. Tad Williams has never once complained to me about a deadline. Bob Pegg never complains about anything. Which is why I love Adams, because he took it to an artform: laying in bed all day instead of writing, sitting in the bath--it got so bad his editor more or less moved in with him and made him write. I'm not sure if chains were used, but I'm sure they were in the offing.

So back to it. My first big deadline is Christmas Eve, and I'm three thousand words away from it. It looms, high as Everest.

So I watched this to cheer myself up, because it never fails to make me smile, even twenty years on.

X-Play Games Of The Year 2007

Let me just say: Morgan Webb is a goddess.

Okay, now that that is out of the way, I watched the annual X-Play awards show today. As usual, X-Play's choices seemed well thought out and considered, and when compared to the orgiastic mess that is the Spike Video Game Awards, X-Play looks like the sole class act reviewing games on television today. (Outside of Electronic Playground, that is--but I often think EP is too soft on games and developers, even though I understand why this might be. EP is a small independent show, and if Victor Lucas pisses off too many people, slam go the doors.)

What struck me as I watched, though, was how little console games I've played in the last year. I've loved my Wii, and Super Mario Galaxy, but when I do have some spare time, I'm either playing World of Warcraft or EVE Online. I found myself missing my consoles in a way only a geek can understand. Games like Mass Effect and Bioshock just look so good. Argh. Gamer angst.

But X-Play should have given Game of the Year to Super Mario Galaxy. And only because it's the only one of the nominees I've played. Sigh.

Merry Christmas From My Girl

In between all the backstabbing, thieving, and general mayhem Mordrena causes, she does take time to appreciate the season. This was taken in Silvermoon, where 'Winter Veil' celebrations are in full swing.

In the Undercity, the undead are wearing Santa hats. I passed one tonight that said, "Winter Veil doesn't feel the way it used to, but I still go through the motions."

I'm Not Alone

It's funny--the only thing stopping me from seeing I AM LEGEND (not at the theatre--do you think I'm nuts?--but renting it in four months)was the dog. I cannot/will not see a film where an animal is 'hurt' or 'dies'. It's the only reason why I won't go see THE GOLDEN COMPASS--even though I loved the books, I know I'd be a mess in certain scenes.

So I cheat and Google to see if the dog dies in LEGEND. And what do I see? Post upon post in several forums with people asking the exact same question. 'If the dog dies, then I'm not going' is the general consensus.

Movie executives take note: if an animal dies, a significant number of your audience will not go.

The dog's name, by the way, is Abby. She was apparently such a doll during filming that Will Smith offered to buy her from her trainer, but had to make do with weekend visits. I'm not kidding.

You Lost Your Cool, Buddy

One of the joys of having an extensive OCD collection of CDs and LPs is that you tend to forget what musical gems you may have, hidden away in the IKEA shelves. Sure, for every Tears For Fears CD you know you'll never play again but just can't bring yourself to throw out (along with the China Crisis), there is a Nerf Herder just waiting to be re-discovered. With songs like this and this, this boring rainy ass Tuesday suddenly cheered up for me.

Of course, geeks know (or should--if you don't, perhaps you're too cool to be reading this blog) that Nerf Herder did the theme to Buffy The Vampire Slayer. (And if you don't know where they got their name, hie thee to a sports site immediatement. Go! Shoo! Go!). But they're a fun band on their own--crunchy giggly pop guitar, smartass lyrics, and a deep love for the Eighties. (Their rant on Sammy Hagar in Van Halen speaks for my generation.) Sure, they'll never fill Wembley Stadium, but they do play birthday parties. Which is something Led Zeppelin will never say, and that's why Robert Plant isn't in my Dungeons and Dragons group.

Onward For Space Victory

So I've signed to do some writing for a game company. I'll let you know who the company is a)when I've finished the work and b)they accept it and c) don't send a kill team of elven ninjas around to make sure I never write for them again. I'm alternating between being very happy and cowering like Paul McGann from Withnail and I--"You're giving me the fear. Gimme a downer, Danny. My brain's capsizing. I've gone and fucked my brain."

But still I can read comics. Which brings us to Dan Dare.



I really don't know anything about Dan Dare, other than a few references Southwell has made over the aeons of our friendship. So when I see it on the shelves, with a Bryan Talbot cover and Garth Ennis writing, how can any sane man resist? You can't. So that's why I read it this morning, Marmalade sticking his backside up against my chest as he slept.

The book is like the glorious reunion tour of a band you've only heard about. Which isn't to say it isn't very good, because it is--it's Garth Ennis, after all. What you think might be an homage to old tyme British science fiction--right ho,the stars!-- delivers us right back to the dark heart that is Albion today. It's good stuff, even if Dan Dare might mean as much to you as Buck Rogers. I look forward to hearing the inevitable Southwell rant/approval over the series--although I'm sure it will contain the words 'bastard' 'Richard Branson' and 'wanker'.

I've also been catching up on 2000 ADs. The last few months have been very good in the Galaxy's Greatest Comic. ABC Warriors has the most beautiful artistic carnage I have ever seen, and the current Judge Dredd series is showing that (gasp!) Dredd might actually beginning to question his beloved Law. It's a pain to find 2000 AD here, but it's worth the effort.

Oh, also read The Order #5. Still the best team book out there. It's one of those books that is so enjoyable you know it won't last a year.

Right. Back to work.

Living The Life--For Four Hours!

So I ended up doing a beta-test for an upcoming video game on Saturday. Finally! I was going to go behind the mirror! I was going to actually get inside a video game company! Surely my life would finally begin! The next thing I know, I'd have Morgan Webb on my shiny new iphone, I'd be having meetings with Blizzard and White Wolf, and would be vacationing in Switzerland. Here I go!!!!

Only, not.

I went down to the company Saturday morning, to find about eight other lost gaming souls waiting in the lobby. Only one was female, which I thought was fairly representative of gaming in general. After all of us standing there in near Asperger's silence, I asked the man beside me--a blonde Southwestern Ontario surfer looking guy--what games he was playing.

Ping! Pop go the doors. Turns out he's a big World of Warcraft fan. Then an older guy (but not as old as me--I was the geriatric there) starts fanboying about WoW, and suddenly we were all friends.

The president of the company arrived, then left us as he went upstairs to the office. Probably chaining the security wolves, I thought. After ten minutes, he came back down, and we elevatored up the Test Lounge.

That's right: a Test Lounge.

There were two banks of XBox 360s there, and we were asked to all take a seat. I snagged a cool high def flat screen. To our left there was the confidentiality agreement we had to sign (which is why I can't say what the game is, or give anything away--I'm sure I'm the only one who is honouring it). After scribbling away my rights (which I'm used to, having worked for the London Free Press ), the president told us to have a go at the Single Player game.

So for the next hour or so, I bungled my way through the game. Behind me, a young guy with curly hair did his best to be friendly to us, but it seemed an effort for him. I have no idea who he was, since no one actually introduced themselves outside of the company president. At one point, I had no idea what to do in the game. Curly Joe bounced over and explained what I had to do--which I kind of thought kicked any game design in the nuts. Maybe this guy came with every game, I wondered, to stand behind you and tell you what you had to do. When my character was about to die (which happened a lot), he swore at me. "You're gonna fucking die!"

Charming.

After we'd played for a bit, the president called us away from our screens, and we all settled around a video camera. We were then asked things like: "What did you like? What would you change? What did you really hate?" All of this was videotaped, and will probably appear on YouTube as Lonely Geeks Talking Passionately. He actually seemed interested in what we had to say. I suggested a cut scene at one point, and wasn't slapped, so I felt pretty good about that.

After a lunch of pizza and pop, we shifted over to the Multi-Player version of the game. It really opened up then. The game really became fun , and we actually started talking to one another, shouting out congratulations at nice kills, and laughing together. After working through all of the game-maps, we had another chat session under the camera, giving suggestions, saying what we loved and what we hated.

And then it was over. I headed out, the mirror closing behind me.

The sky was grey, the wind cold. I bundled my coat tighter around me, noticing that my cat had left dirty pawprints on the shoulders, and headed to find a coffee.

There was no sign of Morgan Webb, or a contract floating down from the heavens. Just a forty two year old man, quietly reflecting on achieving a small bit of a dream.