WHY ARE YOU STILL HERE?!

Ladies and gentlemen, children and assorted mutants! The Tales of the Burning West have since moved to Tumblr, where your regularly scheduled rants and tirades continue unabated! Sure, we could maintain both blogs at once, but that would be a time-consuming pain in the ass of an already harried journalist!

SO! If you enjoy reading the same stories over and over again, imagining that we really did cease to exist in 2012, by all means ignore this post and continue to enjoy the (dusty and musty) Tales of the Burning West!

However, if you hunger for new stories, fresh wounds and assaults on the English language, not to mention a healthy supply of poorly-directed discontent, then please proceed to the (new and improved) Tales of the Burning West!

what I'm playing today

RAGE

What the holy fuck is wrong with RAGE? Let me spell it out for you: it is so obvious that RAGE was made for console gaming (and console gaming only) that I really wish it had never been released on the PC. That way, when the release date rolled around, I could idly shrug and chalk it up as yet another game I would get around to playing whenever I finally got a PS3.

As it was, my opening five minutes playing the game were spent staring at the screen in rising frustration, growling “what the fuck is this shit?!” By the time I finally got free of the approximately 5-minute-long opening cinematic and WSAD tutorial, twenty minutes of offensively bland cell-shading had gone by, twitching and semi-instantly shading as my drivers desperately struggled to comply with a failed graphics system. Even now, seven months after the release, I have barely made it into the game simply because the inconsistent loading and insufferable lag make it a chore to play. If I get it into my head that I want to play a mission or two of RAGE, I need to make sure that I have fully prepared my computer by downloading yet another beta for my graphics drivers, have closed all other programs that might distract my system, have a relaxing cup of tea, and the RAGE forums pulled up on my nearby laptop.

I can only assume that RAGE was named more for the response elicited by the act of playing it than any kind of poetic statement about the nature of the story.

The problem, as I see it, comes down to how much time and effort ID put into making RAGE a pretty game. (Which it is, don't get me wrong...as an experiment, I would step away from my computer for twenty minutes at a time, leaving the game running. No matter where I was looking, returning to the computer would treat me to a beautiful image, full of clarity and depth, provided absolutely nothing was moving.) However, with few exceptions, being pretty does not make a game fun to play. “Graphic” does not have the same meaning or connotation as “visceral.” One of the most visceral experiences I ever had was playing an 8-bit Japanese horror game, and my favorite game of all time (Fallout 2) was done almost entirely with sprites.

These are the things that make a game: compelling story, memorable characters, replay value, and a package to carry it all. Graphics and dynamic sound may certainly enhance the package, but they are by no means a substitute for substance. I recognize that RAGE is probably a fine game for console players, where I understand it runs more or less fine. However, the problems I continue to experience have completely drained whatever excitement I may have once had for this title.

***

Brink

I understand that there was a slew of troubles with the initial release of Brink, issues with the SMART system that the game relies on so heavily. Short for “Smooth Motion Across Random Terrain,” the SMART system allowed players to run, vault, and slide over, under, and through obstacles with all the grace and uninterrupted speed of parkour. Unfortunate, considering that the SMART system was the first of its kind, and Splash Damage banked heavily on its promise to revolutionize run-and-gun gaming.

When SMART stumbled at launch, locking up and freezing, players were understandably upset, but Splash Damage and Bethesda responded quickly by releasing a fix and announcing the game’s first DLC, Agents of Change, would be released absolutely free of charge by way of apology for any inconvenience. However, by that time the damage was already done, and there have been no further announcements pertaining to Brink, further DLC, or any updates of any kind since mid-2011. Brink has been abandoned by all but the players.

I never experienced any of these game-killing errors or glitches. For me, Brink was the next step in the evolution of the First Person Shooter, the culmination of a gaming style that first drew me in with Unreal Tournament. Indeed, I still hold that there is a great deal of potential here: a fast-paced FPS that allows an unprecedented level of customization, both in character design and playstyle. The stylized character designs and the seamless handling of the repaired SMART system guarantee that Brink is instantly recognizable, even at a glance.

Team-based combat promoting cooperation, a varied arsenal...the only thing keeping Brink from being an FPS great is the somewhat limited series of maps and missions. Why not something akin to “Capture the Flag” or even a good old-fashioned free-for-all? There are some days that you just want to kill everything that moves, and on days like these, a structured mission is merely a hindrance.

Of course, Splash Damage may have been seeking to correct this. After all, Agents of Change was promoted as the “first” DLC, and it brought a slew of new features, two new maps, a handful of character customization items, and a raise in the level cap. Who knows what other changes might have come along with further expansions?

Sadly, it looks like we’ll never know. For now, Brink remains one of my favorite go-to games, a shining example of what could have been.

***

Borderlands

The first thing I should note about Borderlands is how much it has grown on me. The second is that GameSpy is an unbelievable pain in my ass.

I’ve commented before on how Digital Copyright Managers over-complicate things for honest gamers unnecessarily. GameSpy is just another example where none is needed, initially forcing players to use their services for everything, including online team-play. Not the worst DCM I’ve had experience with, but a headache nonetheless. A bigger headache was that the game was made unable to sync with Steam, an all-purpose gaming program brought to you by the masterminds at Valve, arguably the most important name in PC gaming.

That being said, when Steam offered the Game Of The Year edition for sale last Christmas, I didn’t hesitate.

Borderlands is a fun casual game with a great co-op story, not unlike the Left 4 Dead games. While single-player is always available, the game really shines in the multiplayer. (As I always say, “Why play with yourself when you can play with a friend?) From my own experience, I believe Borderlands was designed for LAN gaming, which is a subtly more social experience than mere online play.

Players far more obsessive and inquisitive than I have talked about the material that was cut from Borderlands, and the drastic changes that were made in visual presentation, character design, and storytelling. I’ve seen these changes for myself out of curiousity, including the earlier development clips that showed the hyper-realistic graphics that so many games today shoot for.

During development, the creative team at Gearbox dropped the graphics and went with a more cell-shaded animated look. In hindsight, this was a brilliant move, giving the game a unique look and allowing the team to work on things that really  mattered, like clipping issues and smooth environments that actually function. (Hope you’re taking notes, RAGE.)

What’s more, Borderlands brought something new to the table. While promoted as a “post-apocalyptic wasteland” (perhaps trying to cash in on the success of Fallout 3, which had been only recently released), Borderlands is in truth a pure-bred sci-fi shooter, dropping players on a newly-colonized planet with a menagerie of opponents including aliens, raiders, robots, zombies, and various other abominations of science, all of which may be reduced to a fine red mist by means of ridiculous variety of weapons (the “bajillion guns” that are the game’s true claim to fame.) Like Rage, the sprawling barren landscape is easily traversed by means of high-speed all-terrain vehicles, and the local populace is colorful, to say the least. The difference lies in the fact that Borderlands did it first.

Add to all of this the impending sequel, which promises so many dizzying improvements that it has cast a new light over the predecessor. This is not an uncommon trend: whenever a highly anticipated title approaches, the titles leading up to it are played to their utmost. It’s almost a period of rebirth for a series, as old favorites are brought down from the shelves to be enjoyed in the experience-enhancing glow of anticipation. 

Borderlands is a fun and fast-paced shooter that does not try to be anything different. If you want to kill a planet full of bandit and alien scum without being too emotionally invested, this is the game for you.  

***

Metro 2033

I've talked before about the unique circumstances surrounding the jaded feelings I once had for Metro 2033. Long story short, I missed the end of the online sale by a mere two minutes, and thus paid twenty dollars more for the game than I intended.

In my bitterness (and perhaps a moment of childishness), I didn't touch Metro for almost a year. When I went back, it was as a curiosity; I had just finished Fallout 3 and the smokey taste of the post-apocalypse lingered. I needed something new to scratch that itch, so I gave Metro a try.

I have been up to my neck in the post-apocalypse since high school, when I took my first faltering steps out of Vault 13 in Fallout. I have been irradiated enough to grow a third testicle, had my bones plated with metal, I have walked days and nights without water or sleep across the virtual wasteland, I have ventilated a giant scorpion wearing a nightgown and experienced stranger situations, and still I was unprepared for the frozen horrors of post-nuclear Russia.

Metro 2033 reaches closer towards realism than any other game I have ever played, and I say this fully aware of the irony as the landscape spews forth gibbering legions of mutated monstrosities. In this ravaged wasteland, bullets of the old world have become rare to the point of being currency. Each bullet, each shell, every resource is precious, as they all are staples keeping you alive for another terror-soaked second. In this world, the very air wants to kill you, and if you cannot ration your filters carefully, you may find yourself falling mere feet from safety, the light failing, your ears filled with the sound of your own flooding lungs.

Adding to the realism is the game's visual presentation, which strips away almost all the intuitive cues and tools I have grown accustomed to. It is the first game I can recall, and certainly the only FPS I have ever played without any kind of Heads-Up Display. Instead, you have to rely on the tools you carry on your person – the watch on your wrist, a lighter, and a notebook – to assist you as you traverse the inhospitable tunnels and the downright lethal remains of the surface world.

Metro 2033 is, for me, an endurance trial. I love it, let there be no misconception, but it has a gift for sweeping you up into the world it has created, leaving you alone and defenseless. At times, I found my breath catching in my chest, sweat threatening the slope of my brow as I very carefully consider whether I should push on or retrace my steps in search of supplies. This is survival horror at its finest, presenting a world that draws you in even as it makes plain its attempts to kill you at every turn.

more fox fearmongering

Really, I do try not to go out of my way to engage Fox News. I find it beneath me, to constantly have to address such inane ideas, the brainstuffs of paranoids and self-righteous geriatrics. Every time I put out a column inspired by Fox-induced outrage, they only respond by moving on to the next item on their agenda, porting out the message they are designed to mass-produce, keeping the great machine churning. Every time, I drop my fists in disbelieving frustration and vow to ignore the bastards.

And yet! They keep coming up with still-worse drivel. Seriously, it's entrapment. Lou Dobbs just announced the “insidious plot” behind two animated movies soon to hit theaters. The Lorax is about a magical creature that speaks for the trees, carrying a strong message about ecology and sustainability. The Secret World of Arrietty is about a family of four-inch people called “Borrowers” who live within the walls of a human home. Both movies are geared towards children, which Lou Dobbs claims is an attempt to “indoctrinate” them into this way of thinking, which he says “demonizes the 1% and espousing the virtues of green energy policies.” He then goes on to attribute this subversive doctrine to the Occupy Wall St. protestors and President Obama for “pitting the makers against the takers” and pushing the socialist agenda of “doing one's fair share.”

Thing is, not only do these things have nothing to do with one another, but the stories predate the Obama administration and Occupy by decades. The Lorax is a Dr. Suess story originally published in 1971, and Arrietty is based on the book The Borrowers, published in 1952.

The Lorax, as it was originally published, was a cautionary tale in rhyme, of how the irresponsible entrepreneur The Once-ler razed an entire forest and left only a desolate wasteland to show for his great work. It was released only a year after the Clean Air Act was passed by Congress, at a time when a consciencious citizen could voice concerns about mankind's impact on the environment without being accused of hating America.

Even then, The Lorax was under fire, by foresters and lumber companies. They claimed the book criminalized the timber industry, and several attempts were made to have the children's book banned. (The timber industry also lobbied and pressured congress into banning hemp, because they feared it would replace wood pulp as our primary source of paper. Not that this means anything, I just offer it for your consideration.)

The Borrowers was the first of a series of novelettes, written for a slightly older crowd, telling of a race of miniscule people living in secret amidst the homes of normal humans, or "Big People." The main character of the series, headstrong teen Arrietty, is prone to impulsive decisions and tends to get herself and her parents into trouble.

While the Lorax may have carried a note of somber warning, the Borrowers is almost purely the stuff of whimsy. The idea of being small is something that has occurred to every child with an inkling of imagination, and the books leap off of this premise admirably, exploring an entire world populated by giants, as seen from four inches off the floor.

When my generation was young, we read the Borrowers, and everything by Dr. Seuss. They are, as they have always been, wonderful books for children. Like all children's books, they carried well-intentioned life lessons, morals to hone our developing sense of ethics. This is not the same as claiming we were "indoctrinated," or brainwashed. We also read about Stuart Little, Ramona Quimby, and the Boxcar Children. We also read Grimm Fairy Tales, which quite frankly are full to bursting with some truly unique barbarism. How might any of these titles warped our sensitive, impressionable minds?!

The fact is, while the stories we grew up with may have had some affect on our developing minds, my generation is most certainly better for it. Fox and their pundits have no real concern for the "damage" being done by these stories; they only act as if they do, to instill fear and panic in the hearts of their dim-witted flock, and to push ratings. It's annoying, it's unethical, and it sure as shit is not journalism.

Oh, and just for the record: Lou Dobbs was born in 1945. That puts him at seven years of age when The Borrowers first went to print. His first child (he has at least five, apparently) was born in 1970, putting him at only a year old when The Lorax came out. My parents read both these books to me when I was young, I'm willing to bet Lou's parents read to him, and if Lou Dobbs is any kind of parent at all, he sure as shit read to his children.

obligatory New Year reflection piece

I suspect we are deep enough into January that most everyone will have returned to normal life, or at least tentatively peeked outside before finally stepping out of the makeshift shelters in which most of us attempted to weather the last couple months of the clusterfuck that was 2011. It was a brutal, unforgiving shitstorm, maybe not the worst in recent memory, but the worst we've seen since the Post-Patriot Act Debacle of '01.

Depending on when they went to ground, there are probably a few survivors refusing to believe that the worst is over, and so they wait like Japanese soldiers, too full of distrust and bitter resentment. My heart goes out to these shell-shocked remnants, in the sense that “there but for the grace of God” and et cetera. I only hope that we can correct some of the damage done while they're gone.

And here we may have our work cut out for us. The GOP have served as a fairly telling barometer for the times: candidates that appeared seductively sane and capable in the turgid months of 2011 revealed their twisted, unstable natures in the dawn of 2012. Three of the little shit-ticks have dropped off, defeated in the first few weeks of the new year, though two are left with their ugly, gnashing little heads still buried deep in their own moronic ideals, trying to suck the life out of the Republican nomination. I'm not a big fan of Ron Paul or Mitt Romney, either.

Meanwhile, Speaker of the house Boehner and his simpering peons spent the last year planting their heels and deliberately undermining progressive legislation in an attempt to protect their corporate masters. Senate Minority Leader Mitch McConnel openly attributed this behavior to their most vital goal of unseating the President, saying that this was the “single most important thing” the GOP wanted to achieve.

2011 is the year the Republicans were willing to default on our national debt, rather than raise taxes on the über rich. It was the year Japan was ravaged by a tsunami, and a handful of scum had the audacity to claim they deserved it. It was the year unarmed students were maced and assaulted by city officials as they peacefully protested economic injustice. Perhaps worst of all, it was the year the President, the same man who rode into office on a wave of “Hope”, signed into law the ability to indefinitely detain American citizens, without trial.

Thankfully, the opening of 2012 has helped us wash away much of the taste of bile and santorum. Between the “defeat” (read: postponement) of SOPA and the Keystone Pipeline, the new year already carries a grudging promise of change.

And of course, there's always the matter of the Apocalypse.

Logically speaking, there is no real reason to think that the world might end this year, regardless of what John Cusack might have taught us. And really, it's not the end of the world that interests us, so much as the end of the world as we know it that makes us feel so fine, the dramatic upheaval that rudely deposits the survivors in a world inherently different than what we once knew. In this sense, it is a promise of drastic change, which would bring about an entirely new world, with new rules for survival and prosperity, appealing to the pioneer spirit within us, that ambition to explore and discover that has quietly stagnated through collective years of public education.

Alternatively, there is the Apocalypse Hollywood has speculated about for years, along with what the days after the end of the world would be like. Heroic survivors pitting their mettle against the roving bandit hordes, the freedom to do as you wish, freed from the mundane shackles of the 9 to 5. This sparks in the mind of the anarchist, the idea of a universal “reset” button, wiping the slate clean and demanding mankind rebuild with complete impunity, where “anything that happened before the Big Bang could not affect what happened after.”

My logical faculties assure me that the ancient Mesoamerican astrologers had other reasons for ending their calendar this year, and I have noted with disdain as the Apocalypse has serenely passed me by twice before. I kept my feet firmly on solid ground as the Rapture came and went, and I doubt this Christmas will be any different.

That being said, I have always considered myself an optimist. In light of this, I will be throwing a grand party between the dates of December 20th and the 22nd. I'll be sure you all get your invitations.

And so it is that I shake the dust of 2011 off my boots and feel thankful to be rid of it. I have a full year to look forward to, and I intend to make the most of it.


* I do recognize that the last year wasn't a complete waste of our time. 2011 also brought us the first synthetic organ transplant, the death of Kim Jong Il, and the defeat of Don't Ask Don't Tell. It was also the year we killed Bin Laden, the Boy King's boogeyman, for whatever that's worth.

Jaded Optimist Votes Change!

Just recently, I received a little pink card in the mail, adorned with the logo of a bunny: a cute (if strange) reminder that I am registered to vote as a Missoula Citizen. Not that it was necessary...I am of a strong democratic mind, and early in life I was infected with a lust for politics, so naturally I vote whenever the opportunity presents itself.

The Missoula City Council has reached the end of it's term, and the old regime finds itself contested. In a vaguely intrigued way I am interested in the election as a whole, but one chair in particular. Ward 4 encompasses the southern half of Higgins, the Lewis and Clark Villages, and Pattee Canyon Road. Most of my poor student friends live in this area, and so it is my sincere hope that Missoula's Ward 4 representative have the best interests of our youth in mind. Sadly, for the past few years, this has not been the case.

Lyn Hellegaard is Missoula's current Ward 4 representative. She is 53 years old, a graduate of Sentinel High School, and executive director of Missoula Ravalli Transportation Management Association. Hellegaard cares strongly about taxes and government spending, and has fought hard for her beliefs. I only wish she would fight so hard for my friends.

In 2007, Hellegaard expressed concern about our community, saying that she felt our wishes had been largely ignored by the City Council. However, in March of 2010, she also expressed concern for the Bigfork community by voting against Missoula's anti-discrimination ordinance, citing concerns that the bill violated the Constitution...that is to say, presumably, that she fears equal rights for everyone might infringe on someone's constitutional rights.

Luckily, Hellegaard is not unopposed. Caitlin Copple is a co-founder of Missoula's celebrated LGBT newspaper, Out Words. Currently 28 years old, she graduated the University of Montana in 2007. She has previously been employed as the marketing and communications coordinator for YWCA Missoula, and the associate director of the Montana Innocence Project. She has also worked extensively with numerous non-profit organizations, and throughout she has promoted the rights of women and the LGBT community at large.

In the clusterfuck legislative session of 2011, Copple stood in defense of Missoula's city council, and in defense of local control. In the face of the petty and bigoted pro-discrimination ordinance, House Bill 516, Copple stood before the Montana State Senate. She spoke on behalf of the LGBT community, and on behalf of Missoula.

“As LGBT Montanans, we are a minority and we lack basic rights at the state level. But Missoula came together and decided to award us some basic rights through the city ordinance, and it sent a message that, regardless of your sexual orientation, gender identity or expression, that you belong in Missoula Montana...That all of you belong, and I belong too, and my relationship belongs...and isn't that what we all want? To be part of a community as equals, and to believe in each others' right to live a life of peace, justice, freedom, and dignity? In Missoula we are little bit closer to that ideal because of this ordinance...please don't take it away from us.”

The young adults of Missoula, especially those of the LGBT community, have finally started coming into their own. We are actively involved with the world in which we live, shaping policy, in spite of the countless voices set against us. At its core, the race for Ward 4 representative has become a simple question between a stagnant consistency in clinging to fading ideals, or optimism through social innovation.

So, do you want to stay the course? Or do you want to change the world?

Sakuracon for the newbie

It's been a long time since I collapsed from exhaustion. I've been drained before, my seemingly limitless stores of psychotic energy quite simply run dry, but never quite like this. I feel wrung out, my vital essence sapped as creative fuel for the greatest, most frantic explosion of excitement and joy that I have ever seen: Sakuracon anime convention.

To the layman, an anime convention is an event in which any number of people, of all ages and walks of life, may come together in celebration of whatever brought them into the fandom. In practice, Sakuracon is just too great and fluid a thing to be so neatly defined, especially while neck-deep in giant-eyed revelry.

I would say the constant barrage of color and surrealism takes some getting used to, but the implication would be that one can grow accustomed and learn to function normally here. This idea is insane. Surrounding yourself with this caliber of person, typically unique and startling in their individuality, is to cast off from the world you knew and surrender to the seas of something greater and as yet unknown. Be cautious: here there be monsters, and they will glomp you.

Any newcomer to anime or manga will most likely be struck by the wild swings of tenor and tone that results in fits of laughter during what would otherwise be a disturbingly dramatic moment, or sharply pulled heartstrings in the subtext of lighthearted antics. This fluidity is characteristic of the medium, and an appreciation for it is what keeps us crawling back.

Reverence of this feeling, and of the source of our appreciation, translates visually into a dream-like fantasy world. Though not the absolute rule, cosplay is in the distinct majority, which only helps to shrug off the restrictive tarp of the expected norm.

The effects of most drugs can be replicated in this fluid environment, the unlikely combinations coming together in ways the most fantastic sci-fi writers could never have foreseen. Robots bump tin-and-plastic elbows with anthropomorphic animals, two-dimensional characters step off the page to share space with video game veterans. Meekly smiling catboys thrill the eyes even as they dart from sight, and ever-present are glimpses of flitting, flirting Panty and Stocking. I am surrounded by a sea of familiar faces in a crowd of folks I've never met before, and the sense of home, of belonging, embraces me always.

We are of all walks of life, together in this place, our different creeds and backgrounds forgotten in favor of the one thing we share in common. Freed of obligations or expectations, we are free to do as we wish, a freedom which proves surprisingly peaceful as we discover ourselves naturally predisposed to coexistence.

This is a level of peace I'm not accustomed to, and I have found it amidst a riot of happy-hardcore jubilation.

I've been home for a week, the dream-state lingering like smoke, sticking like glittering cobwebs, even through the eight hours it took to return from Seattle, even well into the next day, leaving me confused and disappointed when it finally fades. I may have returned, but even a week later I'm still not quite back. I'm hooked now, itching to return to an otaku Narnia, but the next Sakuracon remains resiliently a whole year away.

On the other hand, I've discovered that I'm just in time to sign up for this autumn's Yaoi-con.

a decade in the making

Where were you? What were you doing? We'll be hearing those words a lot in the coming weeks. What were you doing, and what did you do when you heard?

I was with friends, learning how to play backgammon and tossing twisted political humor over pizzas and coffee. I got a call from an old friend, a one-time “partner in crime” telling me something that just refused to register.

“I'm serious, it's playing on every channel!”

Something I could work with. I told our host to turn on the news. NBC came on, framed in an official-looking red globe graphic, and for several seconds it still refused to compute. It certainly could not be real...it was on television, for Christ's sake!

It took some of the fire out of me. I found a repressed nugget of hurt, long-forgotten, cooling and falling away as it lost its target of retribution. It its wake, as stunned silence descended, I did not share in the celebratory chest-bumps and jingoistic revelry. I found myself instead calm, and subtly relieved, and I recognized the sensation as closure. At long last, after almost five years of uncertainty, we had news...not the last, but the last that mattered.

Almost ten years ago, I watched my country go to war at the command of a manchild who would be king. I understood the reasons, and I felt the anguish and dull dread as sharply as anyone, and still I could never justify to myself the necessity of killing. Almost with a sense of vindication I watched as the war dragged us down, stripping us of our moral integrity, exposing us to the horrors of our fellow man. Like a sick Midas, we seemed to spread hurt to all we touched.

At the core of it all, the origin, like a cancer in a beard and attached to dialysis. While the middle-east suffered and bled, we responded to each retaliation by tightening our grip, surrendering our freedom in favor of safety. Now, after almost a decade, we have surgically removed the cancer at its core. The war will go on, blasts of chemo to keep the growth from returning, but at long last we have hope of recovery. We have hope of regaining our freedom and retaining our safety.

I cannot in good conscience celebrate. But consider: it's done. Never mind that ridiculous photo-op aboard the USS Abraham Lincoln...this is our “mission accomplished.”