tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22887104909091930032024-03-05T06:58:35.690+02:00The Chronicles of NandrewPaisley - Waistcoat - ButterRodain Jouberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07769839932061596214noreply@blogger.comBlogger111125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2288710490909193003.post-28598889867382149602014-05-08T11:43:00.003+02:002014-05-08T11:43:57.669+02:00Pigeons Are Rude<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>The one up front must think he's hot shit or something.</i></div>
<br />It offends me when people take advantage of courtesy to feel
dominant – as if a small step to the side when walking past another human being
is the outcome of a minor social skirmish instead of everyday politesse.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As frustrating as this may be, however, it barely holds a
candle to the rudeness of the average inner city pigeon, on whom social
niceties are utterly wasted. They’re boors to the very core. Their gait isn’t
so much a forward strut as it is an aimless hybrid of crabwalking and drunken
swagger, predictability thrown out of the window in favour of being constantly underfoot
and (occasionally) all a-flap in one’s face when they believe a misstep
threatens them.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This would be bad enough were it not for the complete lack
of acknowledgement for the other party’s good social graces. And no, I would
never be so idealistic as to expect an actual “thank you” or “sorry” from a
Cape Town pigeon – no matter how far out of line they’re acting, or how patient
I’ve been in dealing with them. But is it too much to hope for a nod, a knowing
eye or some acknowledgement of my existence as they stumble about in their
gin-soaked-birdseed haze? Has the co-habitation of human/bird existence been
taken for granted to the extent where I could walk through Greenmarket Square
daily and get not so much as a “coo!” when I pause to let one of these
ungrateful wastrels slouch across my path?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I understand that my social graces leave something to be
desired from time to time, but I take responsibility when I can. I also understand
that, to a certain extent, I’m trespassing upon ground where these pigeons have
set up their entire lives. I apologise when my inattentiveness causes a
collision. I even refrain from pooping on them. But it feels like an empty,
hollow venture when I cannot expect even the lowest degree of respect in turn,
like slamming my fists on an iron-barred door of social indifference.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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To hell with pigeons. I don’t know why I even bother.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
Rodain Jouberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07769839932061596214noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2288710490909193003.post-12837801178778093322013-01-21T22:33:00.000+02:002013-12-18T23:54:06.779+02:00Lake Lyndhurst"Should we sit outside or inside?" Friend A asks.<br />
<br />
"It's getting cold and wet," I say. "There's no view because of the mist and I forgot to bring a jacket."<br />
<br />
"Let's sit outside. I like outside."<br />
<br />
I scowl. "When we get to the cottage, I hope the axe murderer takes you first."<br />
<br />
It's December, and I'm on a road trip with two old friends (one of them, Friend B, is Australian, but otherwise a pretty cool guy). We've stopped for an eisbein at the famous Bierfassl in Nottingham Road, a pub bar thing on the way to Friend A's holiday cottage thing somewhere in the Kwa-Zulu Natal escarpments. The establishment is well known for serving particularly tasty animal corpses and home-brewed beer.<br />
<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Those little cups are adorable.</i></div>
<br />
I've already been warned that our travel plan will involve staying in a gas-powered residence, which sounds awesome at first because it brings to mind a quaint sort of steampunk house overgrown with brass pipes and monocles. But it actually just means that there's no way to charge a laptop, while getting the fridge to work requires a degree in engineering and the combined effort of six carefully co-ordinated technicians. Of course, that's the price you pay if you want to escape from civilisation once in a while.<br />
<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>I'm getting quite addicted.</i></div>
<br />
"How much longer until we reach our own little Cabin in the Woods?" I ask.<br />
<br />
"It's not in the woods, it's by a lake. And I know you're setting this up for another axe murderer joke. Please stop talking about axe murderers." This from a man who insists on cracking bomb quips at an airport (I've been through American customs, okay? <i>I've seen things</i>).<br />
<br />
A little while later, we leave the pub and hit the road. I'm quite merrily drunk while my friends are lame and sober. The next hour is spent on a bumpy dirt track filled with rocks and cow shit and I briefly wonder what I'm doing with my life.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Shit machines.</i></div>
<br />
We arrive at the cottage, though it turns out to be more of a full-blown house. In fact, it's at least ten times larger than my Cape Town apartment, which leaves me feeling oddly weirded out. What do I do with all of this spare floorspace? I don't have enough dirty laundry to cover it up properly. This will have to be a team effort.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>I didn't bring enough spare corsets for this.</i></div>
<br />
We begin unpacking the food (including -- but not limited to -- some leftover eisbein, a pre-made lasagne and about two kilograms of chocolate chip yoghurt). There's a bunch of matches lying around to set fire to various devices around the house. We start with the fridge.<br />
<br />
"Fuck the fridge," I suggest, after half an hour of futile striking and knob-twiddling. Following on from that, we proceed to fuck the geyser and stove too. We manage to get the lights working, so that's a small success. I'm officially a man now.<br />
<br />
A charming local by the name of Sipho stops on by. He lives just down the path and generally keeps things maintained around here. Much to our relief, he's quite adept at fridge magic and helps us get the house running properly. With a smile and a nod, he leaves soon after. We have a heated debate among ourselves regarding whether or not we should have tipped him. I don't want to go back home knowing that someone on a remote KZN farmland is judging me.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Oh, also found this earlier.</i></div>
<br />
Early evening approaches, and Friend A suggests that we play a game. "How about 30 Seconds?"<br />
<br />
I slam this concept on the grounds that we only have three players and 30 Seconds is a laughable excuse for gaming.<br />
<br />
"What about Cluedo?"<br />
<br />
We set up a game and Friend A brings out the whiskey. Friend B spends most of the time looking politely confused. At some point, I crack a joke about axe murderers and make Friend A laugh so hard that he throws up all over Professor Plum.<br />
<br />
At some point, my buddies go outside to look at the stars. I grudgingly follow, annoyed at having to appreciate the universe in its full glory. It's good out here, though. Fact: if you live in a city (or even a small town, for that matter) you miss out on about 90% of what the real night sky is about. Townsfolk who stay in all night and play videogames instead of stargazing kinda have a point because the stars themselves were heavily nerfed in the Urban Society patch and can't really be leveraged for much else than occasionally pointing out Orion's Belt to someone of the desirable sex.*<br />
<br />
Another joke about axe murderers. I successfully ruin the moment.<br />
<br />
We round up the evening by watching some show that Friend B brought on his iPad. Neither Friend A nor I feel particularly riveted, but Friend B is Australian so we take pity on him. Then it's time for bed.<br />
<br />
When I wake up, Friend B is already done with his daily fitness routine. I feel grossly inadequate until I reason that I could totally have done that if I wanted to but, y'know, just didn't feel like it today. I'm not a slave to such base impulses. Better than that.<br />
<br />
We hang out for a while, munching on leftover eisbein and chocolate chip yoghurt (not at the same time, though I later regret not trying this). We ask ourselves the inevitable question: when is Friend A going to wake up?<br />
<br />
We knock on Friend A's bedroom door and discover that he's barricaded himself inside using a mattress and some spare furniture. We also find out that he's armed with the daisy rifle.<br />
<br />
"Axe murderer?" I call.<br />
<br />
"There were lights and stuff last night," he explains.<br />
<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>...</i></div>
<br />
We cancel our interrogation and ask him to dismantle the fortifications.<br />
<br />
An hour later, we're hiking through the grasslands. Lake Lyndhurst is part of a great big cattle farm, which is in turn part of a local farm cluster (itself, presumably, one member of a farming supercluster). In a nutshell, the area is huge and one can occasionally find endangered wildlife to ogle and act all concerned about.<br />
<br />
We've got a litre of water and two Black Label quarts between us. The beer is mine. "I still don't think that's a good idea," Friend A tells me, in his pretentious I've-never-died-of-dehydration voice.<br />
<br />
"Listen dude, I live next to a mountain, okay?" I take a deep breath, as though for a moment I actually plan on explaining myself, then take another sip of beer. "Goddamn, I've worked up quite a thirst."<br />
<br />
We make our way along the dirt track, through green grasslands and rolling hills. It's all jolly pretty.<br />
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<br />
We walk for about an hour before finding a stream. "The water is very fresh up here," Friend A says. "Like, real spring water. Not that bottled crap. Maybe we can empty our water bottle and fill up with this instead?"<br />
<br />
"Nah, dude, what if it actually tastes like dying kittens? Here." I hand him an empty quart. Moral of the story: always bring beer to a hike. No exceptions.<br />
<br />
"Thanks," he says. He fills the bottle, then sips. "Oh wow, this is amazing! You wanna try?"<br />
<br />
"Keep that fucking poison away from me." I take a swig from my remaining Black Label.<br />
<br />
A little later, we're back at the house. Only half an hour before, it was a beautifully warm, cloudless day. Now, it's pissing crickets and a weird Silent Hill-esque mist has rolled in. The lake is a shrouded smear of grey and nobody can see more than a few metres into the fog. "Axe murderer!" I bellow. I feel unusually tired and have a horrific headache. Need more Black Label, maybe.<br />
<br />
"Hey, did you wear any sun lotion?" Friend B asks. Bits of me are bright red.<br />
<br />
"You know," I say, gazing into the can't-see-shit downpour, "having sunburn in this weather just feels fucking embarrassing."<br />
<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>A rough portrayal of the transformation.</i></div>
<br />
We debate for a time about whether or not we want to spend another night in the cottage: we have enough supplies for it, but the weather has turned awful, Friend A is paranoid about wandering lights and legends of murder around Lyndhurst, I'm starting to get withdrawal shakes and Friend B is, well, still Australian.<br />
<br />
That said, the experience is irreplaceable: perhaps the only time in my life that I'll be going up to Lyndhurst, while our Australian friend is visiting South Africa for the first time in four years. And ninety-nine percent of our lives are spent in situations that are absolutely nothing like this. So why not?<br />
<br />
"Maybe we should stretch this out a little longer."<br />
<br />
Then we realise how awesome it would be to watch the latest South Park episodes. We go home.<br />
<br />
The end.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<i><b>*If you know your constellations, you come across as intelligent and thoughtful and probably improve your chances of getting laid. Bonus points if you're wielding a guitar.</b></i>Rodain Jouberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07769839932061596214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2288710490909193003.post-59015356976698268062013-01-07T21:49:00.003+02:002013-12-18T23:59:41.616+02:00The green stuffSometime in the first half of last year, I resolved to maintain a pseudo-strict, pseudo-vegetarian lifestyle in my apartment. The good news: it technically worked. The bad news: it eventually devolved into eating almost nothing but bread, popcorn and muesli for a couple of months (low-GI varieties: I wouldn't want a horrifically imbalanced diet to be <i>bad</i> for me, after all).<br />
<br />
To be fair, this wasn't solely for lack of trying, though I probably could've gotten my arse together for a few more cooked meals. Towards the end of last year, I was faced with the dilemma of accounting for some rather sudden and severe personal expenses, forcing the rest of my paycheck to choose between maintaining an active social lifestyle and taking care of basic dietary needs.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Craft beer is just, you know, really good.</i></div>
<br />
Over the December break, I spent some time in Durban with friends and family. There, I was introduced to the beautiful world of salad creation by a friend who's trying out one of those fancy low-carb diets. And now I think I'm in love.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw1b-FtLNQ1s-9L-g5TPWcQq1vYPbtwRLL8DRhy9PIv-t98g_UaOnerYGHMfbvgM-wI8b_4VXqpJSQYUwMhFWu_nZWJ5Wl1RNY_NuamvCSqQspg_AR-Y637rVKpDhETFA7SyLaVq2VhXce/s1600/menkiss_400.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw1b-FtLNQ1s-9L-g5TPWcQq1vYPbtwRLL8DRhy9PIv-t98g_UaOnerYGHMfbvgM-wI8b_4VXqpJSQYUwMhFWu_nZWJ5Wl1RNY_NuamvCSqQspg_AR-Y637rVKpDhETFA7SyLaVq2VhXce/s320/menkiss_400.png" width="212" /></a></div>
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<i>With salads, not the friend. Gross.</i></div>
<br />
I never really grew up doing the salad thing. It was cooking or bust. I didn't see the point of eating anything that didn't get roasted, fried, nuked or otherwise uncomfortably heated at some point in its life before entering my face. As it turns out, however, salads are that beautiful medium between the world of cooking and the world (or deformed planetoid) of smearing paste on a sandwich and shoving it down the old esophagus.<br />
<br />
So I've resolved to go a little more towards the green again -- nothing to do with New Years, la la la can't hear you, et cetera. Right now the idea is summarised as "make one of your meals today a fucking salad". Thus far it feels easier, more varied and profoundly more rewarding than putting something on the stove and waiting for it to catch fire in just the right way.<br />
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For interested parties, here is my recipe for the perfect salad based on my immediate and irrefutable impressions of this comestible medium:<br />
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1) Put a bunch of green stuff in a bowl. Lettuce is usually good. In fact, I'm pretty sure that it should be illegal to call something a salad without at least a little bit of green leafy stuff showing. People who try that should be ashamed of themselves. Other leafy greens like spinach, herbs and rocket are cool. I mention rocket specifically because it's just such a badass name for a plant.<br />
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2) With your base established, consider the supporting actors. Tomatoes are always a solid addition. I suggest cutting them up into tiny little pieces, though, because fuck tomatoes. Seriously, fuck them.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxkg4BUcH5B6q91s3toq2n4R5PlmF1nzTlfCrWVhcI3k98vSrNCuq9y3KxWMXjstICUCeR4QThanMfZzEvJUwOkL2-DJJfe86ljwnpj3H2jG036Ou9GLrJpUS5HvEDCrsWLwmlrBW6-L-U/s1600/yousaytomato.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxkg4BUcH5B6q91s3toq2n4R5PlmF1nzTlfCrWVhcI3k98vSrNCuq9y3KxWMXjstICUCeR4QThanMfZzEvJUwOkL2-DJJfe86ljwnpj3H2jG036Ou9GLrJpUS5HvEDCrsWLwmlrBW6-L-U/s320/yousaytomato.jpg" width="250" /></a></div>
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<i>Damn right.</i></div>
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3) Onions should exist in everything, while cucumber is your loyal friend and would probably take a bullet for you. Other perennial visitors (adjust to your tastes) may include green pepper, sprouts, avocado, chopped up Victorian era hookers and perhaps some bean stuff.<br />
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4)Your salad, intended to be taken as a meal in and of itself, should be wrapped up with something relatively chunky and substantial to help your brain understand that you're actually eating food and not just accidentally chewing on a hive of Chappies wrappers. Croutons and apples are handy, but there's absolutely no shame in going for the meat if you're inclined. I often use vegan replacements, or allow myself some tuna because enough people have agreed that fish don't have feelings like the rest of us -- they just spend all their time farting in the sea and getting eaten by sharks. They don't care.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6CuV3nIgZ1pZrmC5iEkB8pwYHfL-3YrBku36oHT3UM2zcpenUeWFiLGmuPMfbPqe16nX6IiZL9NZYD1wZpD0XDNo9TqaeeVcGBZisEVtGfL6EvfwrP3Nl1ykO13AUL0zozUCtPCWguRGe/s1600/tuna_400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6CuV3nIgZ1pZrmC5iEkB8pwYHfL-3YrBku36oHT3UM2zcpenUeWFiLGmuPMfbPqe16nX6IiZL9NZYD1wZpD0XDNo9TqaeeVcGBZisEVtGfL6EvfwrP3Nl1ykO13AUL0zozUCtPCWguRGe/s320/tuna_400.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>Tuna are basically the honey badgers of the ocean.</i></div>
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5) For the final, triumphant addition, get yourself a bucket (yes, a motherfucking bucket) of feta. Add a generous amount.<br />
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6) No, more than that.<br />
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7) Okay, just a little more than that. Seriously, you'll love it. Feta is a damn awesome food product, the finest invention the cheese gods have ever bestowed upon us and is usually made from the breastmilk of the virgin Mary herself. Keep adding more.<br />
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8) Go. More. You want this. You <i>need</i> this. Feta is the single glorious reason that any salad even exists. Preparing a salad without feta is like going to an orgy and realising that everyone's genitals <i>have spontaneously vanished</i>.<br />
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9) Really, man. Just go nuts with that feta! You'd kick your great-grandmother in the face -- on reality television if necessary -- if it meant you could have more.<br />
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10) Feta is your existence. Your meaning. It wriggles its way into your head and consumes you, leaving you a shallow husk of a person whose sole desire in life is to find and eat more. It latches onto the deepest, darkest part of you -- that place which no other human being has ever touched or understood, a carbon copy of the tiny psyche that inhabited you at the moment of your birth -- and fixates you so thoroughly that when the day comes for the light to finally die behind your eyes, you'll think of feta first and your loved ones <i>second</i>.<br />
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11) KEEP. ADDING. FETA.<br />
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12) Right, that's enough.<br />
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13) Add appropriate salad dressing and enjoy.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi32FdHEUQgmUkIPlWWhYD6Ot3EEaTGXBzqXHAh5FAW5E9TYHbo8HhHUjxAqNhElJv4wZrBhXu2y2UWuV0bVk25ga9KxG4yCzz-WOHKs_k-CgbJbedJc9hmzRwkRcY-_9CBKDjDz48XsHAU/s1600/salad1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi32FdHEUQgmUkIPlWWhYD6Ot3EEaTGXBzqXHAh5FAW5E9TYHbo8HhHUjxAqNhElJv4wZrBhXu2y2UWuV0bVk25ga9KxG4yCzz-WOHKs_k-CgbJbedJc9hmzRwkRcY-_9CBKDjDz48XsHAU/s320/salad1.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaScZL8RrqfRHaJsJ8ZKTRVFDhdIzlQBablaKOpt-VRhLxKoIwCBwZhoNsepHD8_DjoQeHkcwgdBqbcQxYPU2TDBzLNodd5iH7Kx5Onb56dNmAOBi3C55XDBhv-4xylsE6dlp4amz76yWd/s1600/salad2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaScZL8RrqfRHaJsJ8ZKTRVFDhdIzlQBablaKOpt-VRhLxKoIwCBwZhoNsepHD8_DjoQeHkcwgdBqbcQxYPU2TDBzLNodd5iH7Kx5Onb56dNmAOBi3C55XDBhv-4xylsE6dlp4amz76yWd/s320/salad2.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPRz17DS7Tobl7-TMeNKfOECojkfyg5uH8b7ZPCuNG_09LisWt9rBZPQhsXWyY8nUN3If_r2IA-KaFAcNP-zW4Hr5VpfNz3QsJZZAw3obJbRupu3hwvWrKleXfC3cRionXWa-BN0fsp2gb/s1600/salad3.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPRz17DS7Tobl7-TMeNKfOECojkfyg5uH8b7ZPCuNG_09LisWt9rBZPQhsXWyY8nUN3If_r2IA-KaFAcNP-zW4Hr5VpfNz3QsJZZAw3obJbRupu3hwvWrKleXfC3cRionXWa-BN0fsp2gb/s320/salad3.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM9QR4sPTjGwF9HbEVqyv3BXWdtkOpHKEttmEIiyGp4bl88PsFYojNogrPJMq7cdHgH_49V9exg_KeojM2IJ48kkUJ81eH6WxzrpCk7g8ykYnra1cwEY40ei9Lm2Kd51-0MBjQX23WDLid/s1600/salad4.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM9QR4sPTjGwF9HbEVqyv3BXWdtkOpHKEttmEIiyGp4bl88PsFYojNogrPJMq7cdHgH_49V9exg_KeojM2IJ48kkUJ81eH6WxzrpCk7g8ykYnra1cwEY40ei9Lm2Kd51-0MBjQX23WDLid/s320/salad4.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNQ8gnWzMRYyxm4pbRdUOREH4dDoI0dG83K0DZMZwFAs5qTtekxpNtw2UCWsgRCZUzjtPiv9fDP76nm9O9V_MHVPYki3Xe8oIEc60xTJJF5aJA79OTq3bA1BzSsPO-gZ-4n4Qwy8byMpqc/s1600/salad5.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNQ8gnWzMRYyxm4pbRdUOREH4dDoI0dG83K0DZMZwFAs5qTtekxpNtw2UCWsgRCZUzjtPiv9fDP76nm9O9V_MHVPYki3Xe8oIEc60xTJJF5aJA79OTq3bA1BzSsPO-gZ-4n4Qwy8byMpqc/s320/salad5.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaH098OFq0HTI8WQDIUqaFd1n-rv3t6T8IG-UczWzCa3q7-aOaZYykFyLpUyhm5eX59VqtpeDjefztiCWdb-bXj0sXJ4qZ_AR7O_NjirPvJ4ZmGPUF8xioC9QWPY6EVk3VXPWmXPste1MC/s1600/salad6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaH098OFq0HTI8WQDIUqaFd1n-rv3t6T8IG-UczWzCa3q7-aOaZYykFyLpUyhm5eX59VqtpeDjefztiCWdb-bXj0sXJ4qZ_AR7O_NjirPvJ4ZmGPUF8xioC9QWPY6EVk3VXPWmXPste1MC/s320/salad6.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>You're welcome.</i></div>
Rodain Jouberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07769839932061596214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2288710490909193003.post-73467623629436239862013-01-05T14:11:00.001+02:002013-01-20T12:54:15.327+02:00On being the first to arriveI approach the entrance with the graceful swagger of a man who is extremely self-aware of his graceful Friday night swagger, the straightening of the back and the loping gate that says he's totally not overcompensating for some crazy social anxiety (though the glass of wine before I left my apartment certainly helps).<br />
<br />
The nightclub bouncer is waiting for me. Personally. I'm pretty sure of it.<br />
<br />
"Hello, Mister Bouncer," I say. <i>Mister Bouncer? What the fuck, brain?</i> "How much is it to get in?"<br />
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"It's open now," comes the reply. Helpful response to the wrong question.<br />
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"Oh, right, no, I was asking-"<br />
<br />
The bouncer waves me in. Since failing to obey the every word and gesture of nightclub muscle means almost certain death, I step through and pay at the table inside. Stamp on the wrist.<br />
<br />
Wait, was that supposed to be the left wrist or the right one? She's looking at me funny, did I stroke one of her fingers by accident or something? Oh dear god, she thinks I'm a freak. I've creeped out the door lady.<br />
<br />
I shuffle up a flight of stairs and skitter over to the bar. Then it hits me. They've just started accepting customers. I'm the first dude in the nightclub. Out of all the drunk, sweaty bodies gracing this establishment over the course of the evening, mine will be the first.<br />
<br />
<i>Panic stations.</i><br />
<br />
What do we know about making a standard nightclub entrance? Keep your eyes on the bar, grab yourself a Hunters and for the love of god, <i>don't</i> be seen without a drink in your hand. Nightclubs are awkward enough when fully-equipped, but there's a definite sense of nakedness without something occupying the hands and mouth -- beverage, conversation or another human body, in order from most to least awkward.<br />
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Right, bar. This should be easy. I'll have the tender's full attention and don't need to worry about messing up my drink order by shouting over everyone else. Two wins right there. Getting in first at the nightclub is fun!<br />
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R20 down on the bar, and one I'm-not-awkward smile. "Hi! I'd like to start with a Black Label please." I'm drinking beer tonight. Because I'm a man. A sexy, shoeless god of clubbing. Such a wild party animal, I'm first in line at all the fucking clubs. Look at me -- outta control.<br />
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Bartender asks, "You the set DJ?"<br />
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Horror. Meltdown. Oh Jesus, what kind of fucking question is that? I wasn't warned about this. In all my bar interactions ever ever, I was never ever ever given any warning about this situation cropping up. What do I say?<br />
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The other bartender pipes up, "Yo<whatever 1="1" bartender="bartender" is="is" name="name" s="s">, we're open now. Serving customers."</whatever><br />
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"Right," Bartender 1 turns back to me. I'm still making fishfaces at the complexity of his question. "So that's a Black Label, right?"<br />
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"Uh, yeah." Goddamn, he's so much more handsome than me. I need to work out more. I've been eating a lot of salads recently, so that counts for something, right?<br />
<br />
Drink acquired and tip awarded (two rand off sixteen, I hope he doesn't think I'm a cheapskate). Next problem is figuring out where to go.<br />
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The club is still empty. I'm the only one there. I refuse, on principle, to go to the dancefloor by myself. It will only further convince the bronze Adonis behind the bar that I'm quite socially challenged. He'll tell every single person he serves about that weird guy in the black T-shirt. "Yeah. Him. Dances when there's no one around."<br />
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I also don't want to go upstairs. I mean, I think I just saw one or two people go up there, but were they employees or just the next customers of the night? Is this like an antechamber to the true potential and glory of the club, and I'm just hopelessly missing out (under the judgemental watch of Adonis)? Or does that staircase lead to some sort of staff room instead. If I find myself accidentally trespassing, will I be arrested?<br />
<br />
No, best not to go upstairs.<br />
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I see some doors to an outside balcony area, but is that an actual inhabitable bar space? What if I try to open the door and it's locked and then everybody sees the twerp who thought people could go onto the balcony? Death from embarrassment.<br />
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Clearest course of action: stay at the bar. Stay at the bar and hope against all odds that the very next people walking through will be the friends you're waiting for.<br />
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I avoid eye contact with the barman. I don't want him to think I hitting on him. I mean, not to say that I think he's gay, but what if he thinks that <i>I'm</i> gay? People tend to think I'm gay. What if I have to explain to him that I'm not, and then break someone's heart somewhere along the line? The emotional burden is too much.<br />
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Am I standing too stiffly against the bar? More people are coming in, and I'm one of the first things they'll see. They'll judge my posture. What's the right one? Legs together, stand straight? No, no, of course not, I'm not in a fucking office. Legs spread? ... sounds dodgy. How about: stick out butt, hand on hip, half leaning on bar. Does that make me look sophisticated / gay / just weird?<br />
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More people arrive. I've finished my Black Label. The bar area is filling up. I wonder if I should order another one. But if you have two drinks before talking to anyone, haven't you officially Failed The Evening?<br />
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I decide to stay on the safe side and keep the empty beer bottle with me instead. So now I have a hand prop that I hope nobody inspects too closely. The only thing more embarrassing than no bottle is an empty bottle. I mean, you can bluff for a while and say that you've just finished it an are totally going to put the container down now, but that can only hold out for a little while, at best.<br />
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I've observed people successfully moving through the balcony doorway, and take it as a sign that the going is safe -- unless there's a VIP party out on the balcony, meaning I'll stumble in uninvited. And get arrested.<br />
<br />
Outside. Beautiful warm evening air. Cape Town's Long Street is really quite lovely when you're standing on the balcony of a local night spot. You can look all along the street and see nothing but a bustle of cars, party-goers and decorative lights. You can also wave <i>across</i> the street, towards balconies of revellers enjoying the night at some other hotspot. All in all, it's the holy grail of good vibes. There aren't many other places I've been to where the entire street of a CBD lights up and celebrates the evening so vividly (though I suppose I'm just taking my perspective from the Durban point of view -- the CBD <i>there</i> is scary as hell).<br />
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I'd like to do this more in the coming year -- going out and enjoying the vitality that surrounds these sort of evenings. I just, er, need to sweat the small stuff a little less.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpM_H5o1jX49m_3oQcwxL90abDrxwn-zDfLIW834VJ62hSVYqYtvwj1kyOTxQz31YKK91jXkFUfz5WTFWoA4hU81OFnc7qAPND6tA86FsM7yMLMEO9C-XsCTvLOuAyAGsOWxyFA8-csg-m/s1600/long_street_night_IMG_8893.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpM_H5o1jX49m_3oQcwxL90abDrxwn-zDfLIW834VJ62hSVYqYtvwj1kyOTxQz31YKK91jXkFUfz5WTFWoA4hU81OFnc7qAPND6tA86FsM7yMLMEO9C-XsCTvLOuAyAGsOWxyFA8-csg-m/s400/long_street_night_IMG_8893.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>Pic found on this <a href="http://www.capetowndailyphoto.com/blog/2010/03/a-busy-long-street-at-night/">pretty cool blog</a></i></div>
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Speaking of which: I've maximised my time on the balcony. People are probably going to think that I'm on drugs if I just keep staring out at the city like this. I need to find a new distraction before things get awkward.<br />
<br />
And right there it is, my last hope and saviour: a moderately secluded couch on the far end of the balcony. Electronic sanctuary within my grasp, I whip out my cell, flop onto the couch and spend the next 30 minutes pretending it's as fascinating as an iPhone.<br />
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Friends arrive. Fifty-percent relief.Rodain Jouberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07769839932061596214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2288710490909193003.post-51396804459589605472013-01-01T23:08:00.000+02:002013-01-01T23:08:37.315+02:00My horror story<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Because chatting about the New Year and all of its associated topical hilarity right now would be about as cliche as the average Instagram lunch photo, I've decided to fly in the face of convention and declare this a Halloween Blog Post.</div>
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Several of my friends deem me an excellent writer of erotic stories (thanks to a particularly steamy piece of Harry Potter fan fiction involving the entirety of Hogwarts and Lord Voldemort's army, set during the climatic battle scene of the final book*), so I've decided to spread my wings beyond the confines of absolutely tasteless sex writing and into the blood-stained skies of absolutely tasteless horror writing.</div>
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I occasionally read what's known as "<a href="http://knowyourmeme.com/memes/creepypasta">creepypasta</a>" on the wherever parts of the Internet. Some of it works really well. Most of it doesn't -- but then again, composing a good creepypasta requires enormous amounts of writing skill, storytelling ability and subtlety. Short on any of those? Boom, sorry, you've lost the emotional impact.</div>
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Here's a creepypasta I just wrote. Enjoy.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkFQdGckdBfAbBCtkKDt_zqpfiYeETMQ9M3HtolllOCv8kO3kK4t2slSmW0z7M6K6b1HRtfaUS7pjZPROc22EOVc8wcOF59A6mJVca5EPml1STvJjo-uzWHuftd6Gt-KF65H6vPXJjhovA/s1600/alien.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkFQdGckdBfAbBCtkKDt_zqpfiYeETMQ9M3HtolllOCv8kO3kK4t2slSmW0z7M6K6b1HRtfaUS7pjZPROc22EOVc8wcOF59A6mJVca5EPml1STvJjo-uzWHuftd6Gt-KF65H6vPXJjhovA/s1600/alien.jpg" /></a></div>
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<i>Your brain is about to get kicked square in the nuts. For real.</i></div>
<br />
<b>Dear diary,</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>I shall start from the beginning. I was in bed earlier this evening. My room was dark so I was scared -- I thought that Slenderman would come out at any moment.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>But instead of Slenderman ... it was a motherfucking alien.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>It did not know that I was there ... but then a moment later, it did. As those big black eyes met mine, I felt a sudden incomprehensible sense of being dismantled, my brain falling apart like a kitten with fast-onset leprosy.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>"NOOOOOO!" I said, and started to run. But it was too late. The alien had locked the door. I jumped out of the window instead.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>I ran to the local park where I found the alien again. But he/she was dead because a zombie had eaten him/her. The eyes this time were filled only with horror. "There is no god," the creature said.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>I shall never forget that night.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>*<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>*<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>*<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>*<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>*</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>This diary was later found by recovery workers. It was next to a pile of blood. The blood was screaming.</b><br />
<br />
Enjoy feeling creeped out. Toodles and Happy New Year.<br />
<br />
* Spoiler alert<br />
Rodain Jouberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07769839932061596214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2288710490909193003.post-44270777972904705632012-09-06T11:01:00.000+02:002012-09-06T16:17:42.528+02:00Adventures in Johannesburg<span style="text-align: left;">I recently went on a work-ish trip to Johannesburg in Gauteng for something known as the A MAZE. Interact Festival (weird punctuation and all). The event describes itself as the meeting point for games and art in South Africa -- before attending, I had absolutely no idea what the hell that meant. Presumably, though, it was of interest to folks like me, and at the very least I could make myself useful around the Desktop Dungeons exhibit that my company had organised.</span>
<br />
<span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span>
I'm rather jittery about travelling nowadays, the short story being that I've had quite enough movement and adventure in recent years and would much rather spend enough time in one place to grow some desperately-needed moss. Furthermore, it's well-known in my humble backwater hamlet of Cape Town that Johannesburg is the single most dangerous place in the known universe, marginally more perilous than the core of a star going nova and about as imposing and inevitable as the eventual heat death of the universe.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Johannesburg.</i></div>
<br />
That said, I had a few friends in the area that I was desperately anxious to visit. Furthermore, attending the expo was an important way to personally touch base with the local game development community after several years of relative isolation. So I decided that one little trip in my home country wasn't going to utterly destroy me, and reckoned that keeping a diary of my experiences would be a great way to maintain sanity.<br />
<br />
To ease my pre-travel jitters, I swallowed half a bottle of StressAway pills and drank a small can of Monster Energy. After further consideration, I took several lines of Ritalin and dropped a tablet of LSD for good measure. Washing it down with a small cocktail of PCP and Captain Morgan's (and chewing on several grams of what may or may not have been hallucinogenic mushrooms) I waved goodbye to Cape Town and clambered aboard my ride to the airport.<br />
<br />
<b>Friday</b><br />
<br />
Pieced together my memory today starting at OR Tambo. Realised that I'd been fined approximately R600 for a "series of minor disturbances" aboard my Kulula flight. Spent an additional five hundred thousand rand on a ten-minute Gautrain ride to Sandton. Emerged in the heart of Joburg feeling optimistic and only slightly dehydrated. Unable to stop grinding my teeth, remained vigilant of potential attackers until my cousin arrived to pick me up. A suspicious man arrived trying to sell me wire animals, but I threatened to kick him in the face, so he left.<br />
<br />
Cousin arrived in a typical Joburg vehicle: sufficiently armoured to withstand most small arms fire, yet still light and manouverable enough to run red lights or break speed limits whenever necessary or desired. Hoisted my massive bag of luggage, fondly known as Titanus the Destroyer, into the boot of her car before jumping at the sound of fresh gunfire coming from nowhere in particular. My dear cousin swore before urging me into the vehicle. Vaguely recall her explanation that rush hour was "totally the worst". Her head momentarily turned into Fur Elise by Beethoven. I was moved by its beauty.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Titanus. Contains a few t-shirts, a change of underwear and an extra large packet of Safari peanuts.</i></div>
<br />
Scrambled for my seatbelt to ensure responsibility and safety, and she asked me where my combat helmet was. Stared blankly at her for approximately forty-five seconds (counted out loud). Cousin swore again, muttered that I could buy one if we made it to the next Engen station, then drove me off for a quiet and relaxing evening at her home.<br />
<br />
<b>Saturday</b><br />
<br />
Found it difficult to sleep last night. May have been withdrawal, may have been the constant whipcracks of neighbourhood gunfire. Cousin kindly offered some nondescript tablets, advised to take two and wait half an hour. Suspicious, I downed the whole bottle and raided her medicine cabinet for some cough syrup. Felt good.<br />
<br />
Still have a couple of days before the festival starts, so I'm able to experience the city. Followed my cousin to a film school where she taught film school stuff. Asked her why she taught on a Saturday, and was also curious about the presence of the disco ball (reckoned it would probably screw around with the green screen). Cousin told me to stop asking so many fucking questions. Pills kicked in.<br />
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<br />
At some indeterminate point, I found myself outside, standing next to some guy's car. Referred to himself only as Q. Guy asked me if I wanted to drive back to his place and play Rayman Origins. Saw no downside to this plan.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg01VYyNymneSbgdl79Z2PM9Tmdpk63J7BzGDnGQqbNteW8Dgh7N6jUFV2v9jj_ccr-M1IHcO9brXxwtzGgZXdUD6E-SxwjULOsze61O8iLF_22z-BR-w7LtGlwEdQYx1KBf8NyYwrTmdNG/s1600/250_rayman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg01VYyNymneSbgdl79Z2PM9Tmdpk63J7BzGDnGQqbNteW8Dgh7N6jUFV2v9jj_ccr-M1IHcO9brXxwtzGgZXdUD6E-SxwjULOsze61O8iLF_22z-BR-w7LtGlwEdQYx1KBf8NyYwrTmdNG/s1600/250_rayman.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Fuck you if you don't like this game.</i></div>
<br />
Started trembling horribly. Asked Q if he had any tik. Settled for meth instead.<br />
<br />
Firing up Xbox now and singing along to "We Like Them Girls" by Your Favorite Martian. Bonding.<br />
<br />
<b>Sunday</b><br />
<br />
JESUS FUCKING CHRIST RAYMAN ORIGINS IS AN AMAZING GAME. JESUS FUCKING CHRIST. Q IS OUT AT CHURCH, CAN'T WAIT FOR HIM TO GET BACK. WE LIKE THEM GIRRRRLS.<br />
<br />
<b>Monday</b><br />
<br />
Woke up at Q's this afternoon. Head splitting open, ears keep ringing. Helped myself to something from the lab. TV feed pointed at his front gate revealed some intruders posing as his grandparents. Took initiative and dealt with them.<br />
<br />
Remembered with a sudden panic that I was supposed to be in Sandton. Persuaded Q to give me a lift, avoided talking about the misunderstanding with the grandparents. Some belligerent taxis attempted to ram us off the highway and I briefly manned the machine gun at the back of Q's vehicle. Q was busy screaming something at me the whole way but I couldn't make out what he was saying. He later explained that he was just upset about the new e-toll system on the Johannesburg highways -- I understand this completely.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>WE LIKE THEM GIRRRRLS!</i></div>
<br />
Arrive at a casino city. Patted down by a concerned-looking security force, though had no concealed weapons ("Except my penis," I quipped. Confiscated). Ate at Spur with a friend and was offered some clove cigarettes. Delicious. Ate them all. Vomiting commenced half an hour later for unrelated reasons.<br />
<br />
<b>Tuesday</b><br />
<br />
Woke up in Braamfontein at about 3am, sprawled across Titanus. Man in an elephant mask attempted to steal my slippers, so I kicked him in the face with my energy legs until he went away. Buzzing and enthused, my lips have gone strangely numb.<br />
<br />
Vaguely aware of weaving through some Joburg ganglands, got caught in mortar crossfire. Phoned cousin in a panic, got told that I probably wasn't going to run into any cops. Relieved. Checked in at my hotel, which seemed to have suffered heavily from the recent fighting.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtZtctO4wUFl0Oa-IxibsPZ63xfQfWP5MHj-IIF3J3LhlAnsP8olV3xCMj5M5aXOBCeMLJsjL04scWVYKIZ2CY5MfqiUJoavkX269Dxhcgj1Ps617Z5J_AKNMOIgJvMtvTo3-U5vBroBrT/s1600/500_hotel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtZtctO4wUFl0Oa-IxibsPZ63xfQfWP5MHj-IIF3J3LhlAnsP8olV3xCMj5M5aXOBCeMLJsjL04scWVYKIZ2CY5MfqiUJoavkX269Dxhcgj1Ps617Z5J_AKNMOIgJvMtvTo3-U5vBroBrT/s320/500_hotel.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>The view from my bed.</i></div>
<br />
Introduced to two roomies who promptly asked me if I wanted any cat. I fucking love cats.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuuRxe49iP3PBfRzcpGTco6gudBQ848T16Zncvogu1Zs6I48krdrMrkU03xftuspxfrSC8Y-JKzs5Hl4vJV6Y5alyag3ajRzE8731sx1KjlVb5vfOmjKtwhoQzq-49e6HVFckj896mWYR3/s1600/500_forJonny.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuuRxe49iP3PBfRzcpGTco6gudBQ848T16Zncvogu1Zs6I48krdrMrkU03xftuspxfrSC8Y-JKzs5Hl4vJV6Y5alyag3ajRzE8731sx1KjlVb5vfOmjKtwhoQzq-49e6HVFckj896mWYR3/s320/500_forJonny.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Cat!</i></div>
<br />
Preparing for A MAZE. Festival opening this evening. Should be good.<br />
<br />
<b>Wednesday</b><br />
<br />
I now have a new nickname: the Non-Stop Nyan Cat. I gave it to myself and I'm proud of it. Festival opening was a little screwed up. People kept talking with horribly fake German accents, then suddenly everything was in French and we got shown a movie about gnomes in spaceships and kickboxing gangs fighting over turtles. Briefly considered whether I should just take it easy on the drugs. The light-painting afterwards was pretty cool though, and the buffet was awesome until an army of Johannesburg beggars stormed into the event, devoured everything in sight and then turned on us. Huddled together on the high ground and fought them off with Playstation Move controllers.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>I really want this game.</i></div>
<br />
Found a small corner shop this morning selling some strange herbal cigarettes from Cuba. Illegal because there were no ingredients listed on the box, but only R50 a carton. Score.<br />
<br />
Attended the first AGM for the new South African game developer's association. Meeting held amidst the smoking ruins of last night's fest opening -- some beggars were still sleeping around the wreckage and we had to chase them off.<br />
<br />
The group decided to name its new association Make Games SA, rejecting my proposal of The Hand of NOD. Applied for position of chairman, treasurer, committee member and undercommittee member. Failed first three, told the fourth didn't exist. Fascists.<br />
<br />
Have to stop writing now, internal organs trying to perform mitosis.<br />
<br />
<b>Thursday</b><br />
<br />
Spent most of today guarding the Desktop Dungeons exhibition stand. It's hidden in a basement to avoid the worst of the Johannesburg violence. Entering the expo involves a five-step navigational process and a full bio-scan to ensure that only dedicated attendees make it through security.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Delicious!</i></div>
<br />
Decided to unwind this evening with some light jazz, accompanied by my cousin and a fellow game developer. No idea where, cousin told me it's a demilitarised Green Zone in Joburg. The ceasefire has been in force for almost a week. Very relaxing. Started with one Hunter's Dry, three tequila shots, a double cane and cream soda, two black labels, some sort of brandy lime thing and a deep-fried baby elephant served with a side of chips.<br />
<br />
After half an hour at the jazz lounge, we moved on to a nearby club (accidentally left my Cuban cigarettes behind, they will be mourned). Ran into a biker gang that turned out to be an indie rock group instead. Asked them if they were Desktop Dungeons fans. Replied with "FUCK YES" and gave me double high-fives for a solid hour. Both arms hurt but it was worth it. Gifted one of them with my Desktop Dungeons-branded t-shirt. Kicked out of the club a few minutes later because I apparently wasn't wearing a t-shirt. Fascists.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Official DD fanboys.</i></div>
<br />
It's about 8am now and we're hiding in a shack at the end of some property that Biker Gang recently torched. Just asked them if they've got any weed, settling for cocaine instead. Never tried this stuff before, but I once snorted two kilograms of Omo washing powder with few ill effects. Seeing no downside to this plan.<br />
<br />
<b>Friday</b><br />
<br />
ASFASGHIJDFG okay I am SERIOUSLY pissed off right now. Attended a series of talks at A MAZE. this evening after stumbling back into Braamfontein, and one of the speakers delivered a LITERALLY UNINTELLIGIBLE speech. I got so angry that I threw a fucking chair at her head.<br />
<br />
Promptly escorted out of the venue. On the way, bit twelve men, three women, two teenagers and a pole (the architecture not the nationality). Kinda peeved, my mouth tastes like construction material. And why are the Johannesburg lights so fucking bright all the time? Don't they understand that's what the fucking <i>sun</i> is for?<br />
<br />
Going to cool off with the other guys in my hotel room this evening. We've fired up a muted copy of Conan the Destroyer, accompanying it with "You Spin Me Right Round" set on repeat. Good times.<br />
<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>I could watch <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k9uqYbcMHVk">this video</a> forever.</i></div>
<br />
Apparently had some work to do, so I punched my laptop until the code compiled. I forsee no problems.<br />
<br />
<b>Saturday</b><br />
<br />
There were problems with work, got me feeling so low that I had to chow down my other half-bottle of StressAway. Feel a little better now.<br />
<br />
Went to a game developer's workshop where we learned about the beauty and creative potential of chalk. Accidentally ate half a box because nobody warned me that it wasn't hard candy. Fascists. Designed an amazing sidewalk game that involved balance, poise, and trying to touch other people's arms a little too much. Ended up defacing half of Johannesburg (not game-related, just really enthusiastic with chalk).<br />
<br />
Spending this evening at a friend's place. Have to be extremely careful about everything I touch, and I'm not allowed on the furniture (crazy roommate rules, I thought she knew me better than that). Retaliating with a plan to shed hair everywhere and urinate on the rug.<br />
<br />
Ordered two kilograms of pork ribs from the Yanky's in Melville. Offered a menthol cigarette, but initially declined because I hear those things are fucked up. Contemplating trying them out though, I'm feeling pretty adventurous tonight.<br />
<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Difficulty tier: Vicious.</i></div>
<br />
<b>Sunday</b><br />
<br />
oh god kharrak what the fuck is wrong with your dog that creature is not natural its legs and eyes and the way its moving its mouth jesus christ its staring into my soul kharrak its staring into my soul and burning everything away<br />
<br />
help me im in hell<br />
<br />
<b>Monday</b><br />
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fuck airportsRodain Jouberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07769839932061596214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2288710490909193003.post-16246864063305217782012-08-08T21:07:00.000+02:002012-08-08T21:28:25.388+02:00I may be a horrible neighbourOkay, so let's drop <i>Cracked-</i>inspired presentation for a moment and play about with <i>Thought Catalog</i> (even though it's sometimes a little <i>too</i> whiny as a whole which doesn't stop me reading it so whatever).<br />
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After a recent weekend party effort involving an impressive routine of sport watching, pre-drinking and night-on-the-towning, I came to the realisation that I'm a rather paranoid host, or maybe just a horrible neighbour (actually, yes, definitely the latter).<br />
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As it so happens, I worry about a lot of things related to hosting and living alone in a complex and stuff like that, especially since some sections of society may consider me a little weird. I mean, being weird is okay, I suppose, you just don't want to be both weird <i>and</i> inconsiderate. You know.<br />
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<b>I had a moderately robust house party.</b> I can imagine my neighbours hating on me somehow because my recent predrinking expedition had about seven guests inside my little studio apartment and I had the doors and windows open and we were playing noisy videogames and such. As a matter of fact, I (just barely) recall a point where we were drinking shots over round of Soul Calibur, and I was winning so hard that I was on the verge of alcohol poisoning. Also my one friend laughed really loud at one point because three people died at once in Spelunky and I was worried that the neighbours weren't Spelunky fans and perhaps assuming that we were laughing at <i>them</i>, which wouldn't do at all. So, granted, it was a Saturday evening. It was ten-thirty. And my lease technically states that noise hours last until 11pm on every day of the week. But sometimes, even now, the guilt keeps me awake at night.<br />
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<b>Animals bark at me.</b> Or rather, dogs bark at me. Occasionally cats. The big thing is not usually the barking itself (though again, cats), but rather the countless mutts which have absolutely no beef with mankind in general that cheerfully decide to bark at me and me alone with full gusto, often late at night, often while I happen to be dressed like a serial killer. And my neighbours probably just shake their heads and sigh whenever the dogs sound off, thinking, "I bet it's that creepy serial killer dude again, man I <i>hate</i> that guy." Sometimes, even now, the guilt keeps me awake at night.<br />
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<b>I burn strong incense.</b> I have this really effing powerful incense that my dear mum gave to me when I visited her over Christmas, but I'm scared of lighting more than the occasional stick because, hey, what if my landlord hates that? I mean, I've read and reread the lease agreement and everything seems straight and it doesn't seem to mention smoke or anything and <i>oh god what if I burn down the entire suburb</i>? I mean, Dragon's Blood is powerful stuff: I burn a quarter stick of it and feel like a damn Targaryen. Sometimes, even now, the guilt keeps me awake at night.<br />
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<b>I chew too loudly.</b> I have a rather awkward tendency to completely wolf food due to a childhood involving something the family affectionately termed as "Sibling Survival Dinners"*. That's not to say that I'm such a barbarian as to consume my meals in some slack-jawed, open-mouthed, social faux pas, but it does get uncomfortably loud because I basically attack food with something akin to actual, honest-to-goodness animal lust otherwise. I truly fear that the sound of my chewing has, on some occasions, robbed my entire complex of sleep. Forever. Sometimes, even now, the guilt keeps me awake at night.<br />
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<b>I screamed at the top of my voice once, at about 2am.</b> It was a Monday evening. I'd just died in Spelunky. You know, just as I was on the cusp of handing the Gold Mine Key to the Tunnel Man. So we all get that feeling, right? I cut off my shriek rather quickly, but I'm pretty sure I woke up at least a million babies in the neighbourhood. And, of course, 200% of all the damn dogs. And a few barking cats.<br />
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<b>You should follow Rodain Joubert on Twitter <a href="http://twitter.com/RodainJoubert">here</a>.</b><br />
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*Involved a home-made fighting pit, a single slab of meat, several sharpened rocks and sometimes a knifeRodain Jouberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07769839932061596214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2288710490909193003.post-88831370514207009292012-07-19T21:09:00.004+02:002013-12-19T06:58:43.100+02:00Squirrelocalypse<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="background-color: white;">Isn't that just an awesome title for a blog post? With something so badass, how can this entire entry </span><i style="background-color: white;">not</i><span style="background-color: white;"> be 98% hyper-concentrated coolness?</span><br />
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So, this blog post is about squirrels. Hell fucking yeah! To kick it off, I'm quickly gonna grab some squirrel images off google and -- oh, wait, I won't, because <i>I already live in fucking Squirreltopia</i>.<br />
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<i>From top to bottom: squirrel, squirrel, sentry squirrel, squirrel and leg, another fucking squirrel, Squirrels 2: Electric Boogaloo</i></div>
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I think I hinted at this in a previous blog post*, but I basically exist in the realm of permanent squirrels. Every time some halfwit Ned Stark wannabe puts a lacklustre "Winter is coming" remix on the Internet, a squirrel pops into existence somewhere in my neighbourhood. And that's a lot of fucking squirrels.<br />
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<i>Made for a friend. Don't even ask.</i></div>
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Okay, well, I'm not absolutely drowning in squirrel the moment I set foot outside my front door (though <i>oh god</i> that would be awesome). Still, there's an occasional rascal scuttling about the area -- and for a guaranteed Squirrel Central experience during even the most frigid Sunday afternoon, I can stroll on down to Government Avenue.<br />
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Wedged pretty much in the middle of Cape Town, this road is a very long and very straight walkway through the Company's Garden -- basically the biggest and prettiest park in the area (and there are loads of those buggers scattered around my neighbourhood). It's a really great place to go through if you're running or on your way to town, leading to a startling diversity of distractions: an art gallery, some war memorials, flower gardens and even a holocaust museum.<br />
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Here's just a couple of pictures:<br />
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<i>... OMIGOD PIGEON!</i></div>
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It would take a much longer blog post and approximately 63 cellphone pictures to do justice to all of the cool stuff in this area, but I'm pretty sure that I'll never find a word count adequate to describe the sheer squeelicious joy of the local squirrel population. Whenever I've skipped on through this place, it hasn't been unusual to find at least half a dozen squirrels doing awesome squirrelly stuff on or next to the avenue. Everything about the existence of these creatures suggests that a mouse and a cat got it on once and the offspring just kept the most mind-meltingly killer traits from both parents because <i>fuck yeah genetics</i>. Squirrels are awesome, man.<br />
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Oh, wish you could touch one? Don't just wish, <i>believe</i>.<br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><i>The glare is being emitted from a choir of radiant angels singing just off-camera.</i></span></div>
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This isn't a lucky or painstaking shot. When you head along Government Avenue, squirrels don't scamper out of your way, they scamper <i>towards</i> you -- and a swarm of three or four fluffy little pumpkins all eagerly hopping out of the undergrowth and bounding over to you is more than enough to overload your cute glands and send you into complete brainheart meltdown of candy canes and love.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil7ihPDFS-hBOqY4cWRXrFE2FpvW91_Jq2ySGQupLTn6V4NyHInJ2njmsNXkqeyeAwvoeMnONJHK-ME9HG9uUedF-BTlPKb7Pom_IwTnRcgXqOHMt96wtvLIC-Zmbqu8b2ZMY-zlRT2uSu/s1600/happy-cuteness-overload.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil7ihPDFS-hBOqY4cWRXrFE2FpvW91_Jq2ySGQupLTn6V4NyHInJ2njmsNXkqeyeAwvoeMnONJHK-ME9HG9uUedF-BTlPKb7Pom_IwTnRcgXqOHMt96wtvLIC-Zmbqu8b2ZMY-zlRT2uSu/s320/happy-cuteness-overload.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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Of course, they're just being greedy little shits -- as soon as the pictured squirrel realised that I *didn't* have any food in my hand, it promptly lost interest and fucked right off again. But man, these poof-tailed fellas are adorable as hell anyway, so I forgive them. It beats the total snubbing I get from some of the local cats, anyway.<br />
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<i>... which, in turn, STILL beats the luck that I have with some women.</i></div>
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Anyway, that's a heavily abridged and extraordinarily rodent-focused view of the Company's Garden in Cape Town. I originally meant to go on a full town expedition and write about all that (took the photos and everything), but I realised that would be waaay too much content for a decent bite-sized blog post thing and the squirrels really deserved as much attention as humanly possible. So I'll write more about Cape Town central in posts to come. Or forget about the idea entirely. We'll see.<br />
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At least I remembered the squirrels.<br />
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*... as opposed to a future one, duh.Rodain Jouberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07769839932061596214noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2288710490909193003.post-53795623725934540522012-06-25T12:52:00.002+02:002012-06-26T10:39:26.558+02:00The neighbourhood dogs: a rating system<span style="background-color: white;">When doing runs around the local suburbs, there are only a few things I invariably stop running for. One of those things is obviously traffic (duh). Another is house alarms. If I hear an alarm go off in my proximity, I freak the fuck out and immediately stop running for fear that (a) some authority will see me running and assume that I'm an escaping criminal and (b) actually, no really, that's about it.</span><br />
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Then there's dogs. Dogs give me the same fear that house alarms do, except in this case the dogs are both the alarm <i>and</i> the authority <i>and</i> they probably spend many restless nights in their kennels thinking of new ways to afford me an excruciatingly painful death.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpakWgLK_dllbAXxv6LnQwoZoPP7Ujlly-auI7rWndD75YS0mkA52ZO5j65uYfsJXzjS6sLMAYYGA7aYogI7FYbXDRx43UgD6yhWanXCOzvQLVkQfuSfMtW-LQahCUNDObnwoLl8fXX7Rr/s1600/Small+Dog1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpakWgLK_dllbAXxv6LnQwoZoPP7Ujlly-auI7rWndD75YS0mkA52ZO5j65uYfsJXzjS6sLMAYYGA7aYogI7FYbXDRx43UgD6yhWanXCOzvQLVkQfuSfMtW-LQahCUNDObnwoLl8fXX7Rr/s320/Small+Dog1.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
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<i>Presented without comment.</i></div>
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I am not a dog person. That's not saying that I have an unusual fear of dogs or anything. I'm just wary of the ones that leap up at you and pound against the fence in a 50kg blur of <span style="background-color: white;">toothy </span><span style="background-color: white;">froth and fury, spit and blood flying at you in menacing globs as they bellow out a string of barks so forceful and so </span><i style="background-color: white;">murderous</i><span style="background-color: white;"> that you cannot help but think (in your final moments of pain and terror) that the three-headed hell hound of legend begat some mortal offspring just so that these creatures could one day meet you and drag you back to hell with them, kicking and screaming and drowning in your own blood.</span><br />
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So I decided to rate some of the dog encounters I've had in my City Bowl meanderings. I'm not going to talk specifics, since I fully believe that half of my reader base are hardened criminals. Instead, I'll remain suitably vague, and draft in the first images I find off Google searches. Each dog will also come with a rating of 1-10, where 10 is hell-squared levels of crazy and 1 is a miserable yapping puffball that just pissed itself barking at your ankles.<br />
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This should be cool.<br />
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<b>Case study #1: The German Shepherd</b><br />
<i>Image search: "german shepherd"</i><br />
<i>Scariness rating: 8</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAept1lyih9eAzdbJUFB3tVBIe2Pnzpw8KXXRyWaE_00Zi6NUoox4dbNrES1WesQ0uSbrMv3I64USjeXM1tZs370dCclU5nBjBvgLb4LIrx19A61qT5ShG6L5CzJ1R-tTQkaIdokxCxtYG/s1600/220px-Dog_attack_(USAF).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAept1lyih9eAzdbJUFB3tVBIe2Pnzpw8KXXRyWaE_00Zi6NUoox4dbNrES1WesQ0uSbrMv3I64USjeXM1tZs370dCclU5nBjBvgLb4LIrx19A61qT5ShG6L5CzJ1R-tTQkaIdokxCxtYG/s1600/220px-Dog_attack_(USAF).jpg" /></a></div>
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It's quite apt that this is the first image Google brings up, because this is the most common view I have of the one I know. I'm sure that there's a face hiding behind the jaws somewhere, but I've never been able to confirm it.<br />
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The first time I saw this dog, it was quite peacefully minding its own business on the pavement just outside the house while its owners were unloading something or another from their car. I walked past unmolested, only to be shocked when, approximately 0.068 seconds later, the dog's entire general attitude shifted from amiable mutt to <i>get the fuck off my lawn</i> levels of slathering toothy fury. Fortunately, this swing only happened after it was locked behind a gate.<br />
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Now on the one hand: the dog didn't attack me while outside. So hey, maybe not that scary. But on the other: wow, mood swing of the century. And there's always the simple, horrifying possibility that the dog hadn't noticed me until just then. Shudder.<br />
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<b>Case study #2: Roof Dog</b><br />
<i>Image search: "roof dog"</i><br />
<i>Scariness rating: 6</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9JVIFWXVz_JgN-01ohq3L1Ln1edBlpp5_BT-y6S-PuOshP6UvU2yAk0SfTrpzMviXMuehFXVgXknmd8VT-ZesDTCLImvR35-dOEkUOTMda_ixh28ehFwE7MthIfy5RI8pL3pTma0dQ4bv/s1600/Roof+dog+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9JVIFWXVz_JgN-01ohq3L1Ln1edBlpp5_BT-y6S-PuOshP6UvU2yAk0SfTrpzMviXMuehFXVgXknmd8VT-ZesDTCLImvR35-dOEkUOTMda_ixh28ehFwE7MthIfy5RI8pL3pTma0dQ4bv/s320/Roof+dog+.jpg" width="272" /></a></div>
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I cannot remember offhand what breed Roof Dog was. It wasn't a big dog, to be sure, and it seemed docile enough to allow safe passage on the sidewalk. That said, how safe can you ever actually feel when there's a mutt looking <i>down</i> on you from the perfect murder perch just a few metres away? No barriers, either. At any moment, that brute could choose to launch itself at my head like some Alien-style facehugger (albeit with less extraterrestrial wang and more angry canine teeth), which is a slightly unsettling prospect.<br />
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And now you will permanently associate that thought with the image of alien wang, so you're welcome.<br />
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Quick google-related fact: the search that led me to this picture revealed that "roof dogs" are actually <a href="http://cookjmex.blogspot.com/2008/09/guanajuato-part-4-el-pipila-and-random.html">a pretty common thing in Mexico</a>, where they often serve as sentinels in crowded living spaces. There's no front or back yards attached to the houses, so the (often flat) roofs serve as home. <span style="background-color: white;">Yep, my blog is </span><i style="background-color: white;">educational</i><span style="background-color: white;">.</span><br />
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<b>Case study #3: Fuck Yeah, Border Collies!</b><br />
<i>Image search: "fuck yeah border collies"</i><br />
<i>Scariness rating: 4</i><br />
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Upon googling this image, I was delighted to find that there was already a Tumblr called <a href="http://fuckyeahbordercollies.tumblr.com/">Fuck Yeah Border Collies</a>. I think this little discovery just made my entire week.<br />
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There's a couple of border collies in one of the houses who bark at me rather vehemently whenever I see them. They certainly look like they mean business, but they always remind me of the lovely, gentle border collie I had as a kid. His name was Badger -- an odd-one-out in the litter with some weird reverse colouring and a playful attitude. Sweetest animal ever. Could chase a mean tennisball back in his day, too.<br />
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Border collies are hands-down the loveliest dogs around. And while I'm sure that this particular pack would cheerfully tear me apart and feast upon my innards if I even set so much as a foot inside the property, I like to think that I would die with a happy, half-knowing smile on my face.<br />
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<b>Case study #4: The Yorkshire Terriers</b><br />
<i>Image search: "yapping little rat yorkshire"</i><br />
<i>Scariness rating: AAAHAHAHAHA</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqBJHBV8u6-oGFkeIIZSDB3deUZ5W5oSL9lg77qaGfLRZ2WOUfa0-pdZ951ZRETTZj6LUi7_W-pU5ym_3j2LAQgRR3inEZhqBJ1S1-eYRsHQwci6hSMsI31ZMbAHmHYM_hkUt2-tTZ1Vvh/s1600/yorkshire-terrier.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqBJHBV8u6-oGFkeIIZSDB3deUZ5W5oSL9lg77qaGfLRZ2WOUfa0-pdZ951ZRETTZj6LUi7_W-pU5ym_3j2LAQgRR3inEZhqBJ1S1-eYRsHQwci6hSMsI31ZMbAHmHYM_hkUt2-tTZ1Vvh/s320/yorkshire-terrier.gif" width="320" /></a></div>
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I really do have to suppress laughter every time I see these fluffy little shits in action. Despite the fact that their most radical security feature involves being loud and obnoxious to no end, they still have the nerve to crowd up against their gate in a heartwarming attempt to frighten me off, like a bunch of wannabe bouncers protecting the annual meeting of the Especially Harmless Knitting Club.<br />
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In a post which has admittedly described canine violence more often than the rest of this blog put together, I am relieved to say that I fear nothing of these walking toilet brushes. Well, aside from the very real and ever-present terror that I'll accidentally step on one some day. That would be horrible, messy and awkward to explain.<br />
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<b>Case study #5: The Ghost Dog</b><br />
<i>Image search: "ghost dog"</i><br />
<i>Scariness rating: ???</i><br />
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First of all: wow, yeah, so apparently Ghost Dog is a movie about ... well, jeez, just check out the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ghost_Dog:_The_Way_of_the_Samurai">Wikipedia entry</a>. Weird stuff.<br />
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So I have a special phantom canine in my neighbourhood. I say this because I have never seen it, but I know it's there. I guess that means it's the closest thing I have to a god right now. Ghost Dog exists somewhere behind a thick green hedge that I often walk past while doing the whole work commute thing.<br />
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This one is quite subtly the most sinister of the whole bunch. Nine times out of ten, walking past the hedge goes without ceremony. But on the tenth pass (often at night, usually as close to the witching hour as possible), the neighbourhood will, for no good reason, spontaneously exchange its eerie quiet for a sudden, somehow directionless bark, always at the precise moment when you are most off-guard. A second or two will pass, followed by a brief but terrifying eruption of deafening dog noises -- just long enough to shoot ice-cold daggers of terror into your soul.<br />
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Then the night returns to silence just as quickly, and through the hedges you think you may -- or may not -- hear the rustling of some large creature stalking you. But you'll never know for certain, and you'll never see it. Not until it gets you. Ghost Dog exists to take you by surprise, to remain threatening but unseen ... a valuable reminder that there are always things in life, great and dark and terrible, which even science could not hope to fathom or explain.<br />
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Beware of Ghost Dog.<br />
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<b>In summary:</b><br />
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Cats and goats, people. The only animals you'll ever need. <span style="background-color: white;">Dogs are entertaining and diverse creatures, but for the most part I encounter them as noisy, angry creatures who do their damned best to tell me to fuck off whenever I'm around. Not someone I'd be likely to hire after a job interview, though admittedly interviewing a dog is kinda weird in the first place.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">In contrast, neighbourhood cats are great at two things: (1) looking adorable and elusive and (2) occasionally extending enough friendliness to come out and rub themselves on your legs or roll onto their tummies. It's a rare and heartwarming experience to come across a local cat, and such occasions are invariably cherished.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">I do not see many goats in my neighbourhood, but I'd be pleasantly surprised to come across one some day. If you find any, let me know.</span>Rodain Jouberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07769839932061596214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2288710490909193003.post-55604006957819379882012-06-18T12:33:00.001+02:002012-06-18T12:33:24.120+02:00The Daily Walk<span style="background-color: white;">I mentioned recently that I've moved to my own place in Vredehoek. It's really nice and stuff. Of course, now that I no longer live in my office, the work commute takes a little longer than rolling off the mattress and crawling to my PC every morning (or afternoon, whatever).</span><br />
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Although I'm occasionally working from home, I still walk/bus a regular route that takes me approximately 1 hour and 40 minutes door-to-door (got it down to a science, naturally). That's about two-and-a-half Scooters pizza deliveries, if that's your primary method of measuring time for some reason.<br />
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It's surprisingly neat, actually. Living alone has thus far had its fair share of ups and downs, but I really do enjoy the merry little expedition to my job. I decided to record one of my commutes to give you a better idea of what's involved.<br />
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<i>Fuck yeah, rainbow!</i></div>
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The first thing I do is leave my living quarters and start winding through my suburb. Vredehoek is basically wedged up the side of Table Mountain, so there's a lot of hills and pain and stuff. Good training for runners. The peak in the above picture is Lion's Head -- it looks like a slightly skew nipple.<br />
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<i>Fuck yeah, nipples!</i></div>
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It takes me approximately 15-20 minutes to get to the bus stop -- speed generally depending on how likely it is that I'll miss the next ride. I go downhill most of the way (not so much luck on the return journey) and generally stay in suburban paradise for quite a while. There's even a pretty section with trees and cobblestones and stuff. If you're lucky, you might even see a squirrel -- which is <i>awesome</i>*.<br />
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<i>Fuck yeah ... er, cobblestones.</i></div>
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If you can tell by the picture -- it spontaneously began raining about halfway to the bus on this particular day. Weather is a rather tricky customer on the side of the mountain: sometimes, you'll wake up in the middle of a low-lying cloud and stumble through the Silent Hill-style world until you hit the bottom of the slope and emerge in a day of almost completely clear skies. On other mornings, you'll start your expedition in the bright blue and get hit by a mild storm ten minutes later because one sneaky little bugger of a cloud was hiding behind the mountain all along. Though to make up for it, the mountain gods tend to throw up rainbows faster than a unicorn eating a box of crayons.<br />
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<i>Fuck yeah, DOUBLE RAINBOW!</i></div>
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The above shot marks the end point of my initial stretch. If you squint really closely, you'll see a little bluish blob far down the street. That's my bus stop, with a bus occupying it. This is a rather harrowing part of the expedition and I'm never quite sure how it goes. You know that thing with Heisenberg's uncertainty principle in quantum physics? Yeah, I'm not saying the bus system is like that, I'm just asking you to get your head around a freakish scientific concept before you even <i>try</i> understanding the rules for the MyCiti bus routes. The bus waiting at the stop way over there can mean one of any number of things: I may be five minutes early, yet have mere seconds to haul ass down to the stop before it disappears. Or maybe I'm five minutes late, yet somehow have the time to amble over in good time and plonk myself onto public transport.<br />
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<i>MyCiti bus innards. Note the douchebag up front wearing tight red pants.</i></div>
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On this day, I was rather lucky. After the most maddening bus sprint imaginable (minus a few moments of careful picture-taking), I managed to clamber on board. I spent roughly five minutes feeling a little stupid as the bus continued to wait at the stop, though I'm pretty sure none of the other passengers noticed me panting, sweating, fussing and crying. Maybe.<br />
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MyCiti is a fairly modern bus system. Heck, it's only been around for just over a year now. The ticket system is one of those fancy swipey-electro-bus-ATM things with the magnetic card magic (science!). It costs me R5 to get a quick trip to the Civic Centre stop, taking me through the Cape Town CBD.<br />
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<i>You can practically taste the corporation!</i></div>
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Cape Town actually has one of the nicest business centrals in existence, and I should really have taken more shots of it (problem being bus window glare, et cetera). You don't feel like you're walking through some cold and imposing urbania at all -- it's a living, breathing collection of colourful, interesting and not-depressing-at-all people and places. Also, being one of the oldest settlements in South Africa affords it a lot of really old and pretty buildings that I didn't take pictures of. Pretty spacious, too.<br />
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<i>Fuck yeah, bus central!</i></div>
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At Civic Centre, I typically hop onto a new bus and -- depending on how the transport gods feel -- wait between thirty seconds and ten minutes for my bus to depart to Table View -- a journey that will take just over half an hour. <span style="background-color: white;">This day turned out to be a long wait, so I whipped out my latest reading material.</span><br />
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<i>Fuck yeah, Game of Thrones / Song of Ice and Fire! Note the tight red pants.</i></div>
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In a rather weird way, this is what I appreciate most about bus trips. In recent years, I've not been reading too many good books -- if I'm inclined to dive into written stuff, I usually go on a Wikipedia safari or read online articles. But as I own neither a smart phone, tablet gadget or random whodingummy that you kids love using nowadays, basically the only thing I'm armed with as a pastime is a good book. It's great: I tear through one of these every two weeks and actually have a little discipline regime in place to make sure that I don't read too much outside of bus trips (hey, two to three new books a month can be expensive!).<br />
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<i>Office stop!</i></div>
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This is a picture taken just before my bus stop in Table View, outside the Bayside Mall. It's the end of the line, which is a relief because bus employees seem to be quite mindful of people who -- nose in book -- will occasionally forget to haul themselves off the bus.<br />
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When getting off at Table View, one thing to note is that it's pretty fucking flat -- one gets the terrible feeling that this will be the <i>first</i> place to go when the sea god's terrible wrath is unleashed some day. <span style="background-color: white;">Back when I first started running and stuff, I would train in the neighbourhood around Table View. There's one pisspoor hill in the middle of it all, and I remember how much hell it used to give me.</span><br />
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<i>Just look at that monster! That's a slight upward incline, I promise.</i></div>
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Table View is everything that Vredehoek isn't, so it's a nice daily contrast. And the view is arguably excellent, which is good because there's a damn "View" just in the name and it would be a massive disappointment if there wasn't much to look at.
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<i>Faint mountain in the distance? I totally live there.</i></div>
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To get to my place of work, I go past a large lake wetland thingy. I'm often stumbling into some local wildlife, and it feels really weird chasing the occasional guineafowl out of the way while walking along a major road. Not quite as omigod-squee!-inducing as the squirrels in Vredehoek, but the sightings are much more common.<br />
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After a day of work, I'll do everything in reverse and clamber off at the Gardens Centre bus stop again.<br />
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<i>Fuck yeah, malls!</i></div>
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If I get back to home turf before 7pm (which I usually strive for nowadays), this is where I do my evening grocery shopping before hoofing it back up the mountain. There's less visual appeal at this point. I usually walk home in the dark -- especially given the new winter hours -- and I'm often walking as fast as I can without taking stupid ol' blog pictures because (1) my cellphone camera shows nothing but black smears at this point and (2) holy crap it's getting cold.<br />
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<i>Seen at the local Pick 'n Pay. Guess they're Game of Thrones fans as well.</i></div>
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So that's my weekday ritual. Hopefully, with a little bit of bravery and dedication, I'm gonna start <i>running</i> this route because I'm training up for a half-marathon later this year. More likely, however, I'm gonna start running this route because I woke up half an hour late and <i>oh crap is that the bus leaving already?</i><br />
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Good times.<br />
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*I'll actually try dedicate an entire blog post to the neighbourhood squirrels sometime, they're a bunch of fluffy-tailed little badasses.Rodain Jouberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07769839932061596214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2288710490909193003.post-64896085113948911012012-06-04T15:09:00.001+02:002012-06-04T15:43:17.556+02:00Facts about mountains, pt 2Recently, a running buddy and I decided to hike up Table Mountain. In a show of fitness, bravado and general I'm-better-than-you exercise initiatives, this hike was also going to involve <i>jogging</i>. My previous mountaineering post mostly drew from a walk that I took up Lion's Head at the time, but Table Mountain and its surrounding environs offer so many more important and fascinating mountain facts that I couldn't pass up the opportunity to relate a few:<br />
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<b>Fact 1: Never, ever, ever jog up a mountain</b><br />
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Holy crap, I have never regretted any decision more in my life, and that includes the time I bought a packet of wasabi-coated peanuts thinking that they'd actually be delicious (even during my end-of-month scrimp 'n starve period, <i>I still threw them away</i> rather than eating them). Jogging uphill in the local neighbourhood seems to be somewhat less taxing than hoofing it up mother nature's back acne.<br />
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<i>A less romantic way to describe the view, but it'll do.</i></div>
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Being the sort of guy who's been training (poorly) for his first half-marathon race, I reckoned that it would be safe enough for me to jog short distances at a time whenever the path was flat and wide enough. Turns out that I didn't consider just how much my body would hate me for doing a walking recovery while continuing uphill. Even the Constantia Nek jeep track -- one of the gentler paths up the mountain -- was murderous enough at anything more than a brisk trot.<br />
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The top of the mountain doesn't get much better, despite the fact that it LOOKS flat enough from the outside. Most approaches to the mountain's high point involve a pretty consistent uphill march, with occasional false hope presented in temporary dips and flats. If this mountain really is comparable to a table, somebody did a horrific job of sanding down its surface.<br />
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The trails on the top are as varied as the ones on the way up -- some are broad, flattish, well-defined paths while others tend to be almost invisible and go through the more adventurous region. It takes a good while to explore them all.<br />
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<b>Fact 2: If you ARE jogging, never slow down around others</b><br />
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If you're running along a trail and you've just about to hit blinking red on your stamina bar, there is literally nothing worse to see around the next bend than a happy family taking a mountain stroll. Further horror if you meet older runners who are going faster than you. At that point, I'd rather take a faceslap from a roaming mountain bear* than take a break while I'm in the field of view.<br />
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<i>The unyielding gaze of contempt.</i></div>
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Stopping to rest where other mountain explorers can see you spells almost certain doom. If you do not consistently present the view of a fit and healthy jogger, they will remember your show of weakness. The children will chortle about you while eating picnic sandwiches, old people will hit you with their shame-rays and most responsible adults will call the police and have you arrested (as they rightly <i>should</i>).<br />
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<b>Fact 3: Don't start forest fires</b><br />
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On lower mountain trails around the Constantia area, you'll occasionally find some fire extinguishers helpfully nailed to nearby trees. Don't be fooled! On further inspection, you'll notice that they're actually just painted lumps of wood. Really.<br />
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<i>I forgot to take a picture, so I drew this one.</i></div>
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I had to have someone else point out to me that these were fakes. They're part of an awareness campaign about fire hazards in the area, which is a super helpful reminder even to people who may somehow believe that they're real. I don't know what's scarier: the fact that I'm so easily fooled, or how badly I'd have been screwed if I ran into an actual fire.<br />
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<b>Fact 4: Once you reach the top, the mountain has no power over you</b><br />
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This is true. You are immune to fire, fall damage, dassie attacks** and Negative Energy. You may safely rest at the top, then descend the mountain while ignoring all important warnings.<br />
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<i>Celebratory Conquest Egg Sandwich</i></div>
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Maclear's Beacon is a pile o' rocks marking the highest point on Table Mountain: 1085m up. So that's about a kilometre closer to outer space when you think about it. And the silence at the top is absolutely astounding. If you're not plagued by rain or pesky tourists, you can sit at the base of that rockpile and occasionally get an earful of absolutely nothing. What's quite astounding -- particularly when you spend enough time living in the city <i>around</i> the mountain -- is realising how rare such a deep silence actually is.<br />
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<i>This is my victory face. The beard started growing as soon as I sat down.</i></div>
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It's a lovely little landmark and a great halfway resting point. It's reassuring to think that the hardest part is over with by this point.<br />
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<b>Fact 5: HAHA, WRONG</b><br />
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So, you got a fair bit of exercise while going up those hills, and now you reckon you'll just slide down Skeleton Gorge and enjoy the smooth sailing of a mountain descent.<br />
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<i>No kidding, "Skeleton Gorge" is an actual trail name.</i></div>
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But if your legs are sufficiently tired, you're gonna get the shakes in 'em before too long. And if you're navigating sufficiently steep/uncertain terrain, you're going to have some epically powerful joint impact stuff happening to you (insert whatever science necessary over here). It's actually this part of the journey that's going to verifiably rob you of basic leg functions for a week. Say goodbye to stairs, raised platforms and slightly uneven floorboards.<br />
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Taking the path down Skeleton Gorge *at all* can be risky under the wrong conditions (if the hint wasn't in the damn name already). The gorge sports a rather lovely mountain river that's a trickle in some parts of the year and a torrent in others. There's some amusing sections involving ladder climbing for particularly steep bits, but ultimately you're following a little stream pretty closely for a good chunk of the gorge descent and occasionally even crossing it -- and if Ghostbusters has taught us anything, it's that crossing streams is always an overwhelmingly dangerous idea. In this case, it makes for some ferociously slippery rocks and awkward splashy situations. Compound that with shoogly, exhausted leggies and you have a recipe for Uh Oh.<br />
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Get to the bottom, however, and you'll feel like a champion.<br />
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<b>Fact 6: Instalamb!</b><br />
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Instalamb! It's like Instagram, but with more lamb. Who wants to make this a thing? It'll be awesome, I swear.<br />
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Anyway, enough mountain stuff for now. Peace out.<br />
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* Table Mountain admittedly has no bears. And surprisingly few sharks.<br />
** Sadly, though more plausible than bears, one rarely sees dassies anymore. And never enough to form a decent attack formation.Rodain Jouberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07769839932061596214noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2288710490909193003.post-28909749421429808112012-04-30T10:33:00.000+02:002012-04-30T10:33:40.760+02:00My Avengers Film Review<br />
<i>After a long buildup spanning several movies, all of our favourite Marvel heroes finally teamed up to star in The Avengers. I know a lot of film reviewers and they seem to have fun with their jobs, so I am going to try review this film too. Heavy spoilers follow, take care.</i><br />
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<br />
The action wastes no time in commencing as we're treated to the opening scene of New York being flattened by a nuclear explosion. Thousands of refugees flee to Stark Island, protected from the radiation and fallout by the island's arc reactor shields.<br />
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Iron Man, Captain America and Scarlett Johansson meet in Stark's office to discuss the source of the explosion when Thor teleports in. He explains that Loki was responsible, using a special nuclear bomb powered by a magical substance known as "iridium". A fight breaks out between Thor and Captain America and several acres of Stark Island are destroyed. The two eventually reconcile and learn what it means to be a team.<br />
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Meanwhile, Loki approaches Nick Fury with an offer of ultimate power, promising that he can be his right hand man once he's subjugated the whole of America. Fury wrestles with his doubts before finally turning Loki down, and Loki punishes him by locking him in a jail cell. The Hulk hears of this plan, however, and breaks Fury out while Loki isn't looking. Valuable information on Loki's plans are brought to SHIELD.<br />
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A fight breaks out between Scarlett Johansson and Iron Man. Fury stops the fight by reminding them why they are there, "to avenge the Earth, not themselves". The feuding heroes put down their weapons, reconcile and learn what it means to be a team. Fury delivers an emotional speech about how he lost his eye, galvanising the squad.<br />
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New York suffers another nuclear strike from Loki, and The Avengers realise that they urgently need to stop him before it is too late. The Hulk suspects that Loki deliberately fed the wrong plans to Nick Fury and that the whole thing is an elaborate trap, but nobody believes him so he leaves before he gets too angry. Hawkeye tries to stop him, but he just looks at him and says, "Don't make me angry. You won't like me when I'm angry," so Hawkeye lets him go.<br />
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<i>Captain America and Thor look on in horror as New York gets nuked.</i></div>
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A fight breaks out between Iron Man and Captain America. Loki's frost giants attack the ruins of New York, and Fury sends a nuclear missile to stop them. Iron Man tries to stop Fury, causing a fight to break out between Iron Man, Fury and Scarlett Johansson. Scarlett Johansson stops fighting and tearfully announces that she's pregnant. A fight breaks out between Hawkeye and Captain America. They eventually reconcile and learn what it means to be a team.<br />
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New York is in chaos. Iron Man sends a nuclear missile to destroy the frost giant invasion while Loki watches from the edge of the city, surrounded by hundreds of human slaves who now know him as "King of America". He laughs and tells his advisors of his real plans, but unknown to him a fight breaks out between him and the Hulk. After beating Loki, the Hulk tries to go to warn the others but while his back is turned Loki freezes him in a time field.<br />
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Thor has a theory that he can make missiles with his own substance, "thorium", to combat Loki's. A fight breaks out between Thor and Iron Man. New York is in chaos. They reconcile and learn what it means to be a team. A fight breaks out between Captain and America. Nick Fury puts a stop to it by announcing that Scarlett Johansson wasn't pregnant after all, and that they are there "to avenge the Earth, not themselves".<br />
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A fight breaks out between Hawkeye and New York. They explode and learn what it means to be a team.<br />
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The frost giants reconcile with Iron Man and share the secrets of thorium. Thor imbues his hammer with its power. Everybody asks "where is the Hulk?" but nobody knows where he is and they are interrupted by a sudden explosion. They are on a team.<br />
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The remaining Avengers stand in a circle and shoot Loki's army. Hawkeye shoots using arrows. Iron Man says, "Winter is coming" and also shoots. Scarlett Johansson confesses to Thor that she isn't pregnant. Thor smiles and whispers "I know" and kisses her. Loki enters the field of battle and tries to talk them into surrendering. They refuse, saying they are there "to avenge the Earth, not themselves". Fury is proud of them. Captain America gives a battlecry and they all charge into battle, defeating Loki's army and advisors.<br />
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<i>Scarlett Johansson learns what it means to be a team.</i></div>
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Just when it looks like they've won, Loki pulls out a gun and shoots Captain America. Instead, the Hulk appears at the last minute and takes the bullet for Captain America. As the Hulk lies dying, Captain America goes to him and the Hulk changes back to Bruce Banner for the first time. He smiles and says "Thank you my friend." Then the Hulk dies. Captain America kisses his dead forehead and weeps.<br />
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A fight breaks out between Hawkeye and Iron Man. They reconcile and learn what it means to explosion.<br />
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Scarlett Johansson appeals to Loki's good side and reminds him of the power of love. Loki is overcome by grief and remorse and drops his gun and goes to hug his brother, Thor. Reconciled at last, Thor and Loki return to Asgard with the blessing of the other heroes, except for Captain America who is still bitter about the Hulk's death.<br />
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In the final scene of the movie, the remaining Avengers are seen waving off the Asgardian brothers while New York explodes softly in the background.<br />
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Credits roll, and those who are patient enough for the post-credit sequence get to see Captain America donning a new black uniform. The star on his shield is also black. He looks at the camera and says, "I am Evil Captain America now." Scene fades.<br />
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A fight breaks out between Thor and Iron Man.<br />
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<i>I give the film a 4 out of 5. Good fight scenes, great acting, though there could have been more explosions. Nice job, Marvel.</i><br />Rodain Jouberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07769839932061596214noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2288710490909193003.post-3379865944785074872012-04-28T22:29:00.002+02:002012-04-28T22:29:31.917+02:00Emo stuff<br />
Okay -- beware, friends. I usually talk a complete mountain of irreverent bullshit on this blog, but there's a bit of a tone swap in this post. I'm afraid you'll have to get your herpderp fix somewhere else if you decide to carry on. There's not enough derp to herp around right now -- what follows is a 9.3 on the self-indulgence scale, so you have been warned.<br />
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Two years ago yesterday, my father passed away. It was a sudden, merciful and non-violent death, which is probably better than can be said for many people.<br />
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My relationship with him was heavily strained and arguably quite bitter. He'd said and done a lot of stuff that I'd considered wholly unforgivable. By the time I was out of university and living my own life away from the family, it was my mission to never see the man again. I guess I got my wish.<br />
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I was thinking of waxing lyrical here about all the little switches that his death flipped in my head -- my seemingly permanent loss of core inspiration for game design, an overwhelming obsession with finding a partner to get close to, that still-lingering inability to get an unbroken night's sleep short of blackout drunkenness, the general change in my perception of existence and people and all that other stuff ... but I think what screws with me the most is the growing realisation that I'm very, very much like my dad, no matter how much I hated him at one point, and that often means far more to me than I'm comfortable with.<br />
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He wasn't the perfect human being, and he made a lot of mistakes which I hope to avoid emulating, but I feel a real stab whenever I sit down and let myself imagine how he must have dealt with life. He was a spot-on representation of my own character in countless ways -- the perks AND the flaws -- and if he didn't have a 30-year head start on me I may have realised that sooner.<br />
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He was confused and confident and insecure and weak and happy and sad in so many of the same ways I find myself to be. And I'm pretty sure that as much as he loved people, he found it monstrously difficult to relate to them as deeply as he wanted to. But there I was, genuinely one of the few human beings out there with the experience, personality and capacity to truly *get* him, and I'd deliberately isolated myself from him for a number of years.<br />
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It feels cliche, but there are so many things I want to say to him now. I want to tell him that I forgive him and understand him. I want to share bonding experiences with him that I didn't ever get to do before because I was just so damn angry and so damn stubborn and he was just so damn stupid. God. But most of all, I really just wish I'd been a better son towards the end.<br />
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After his death, I asked about his last year with my mom. He'd gotten better, she said. Set his life in order. He was happier. My mother and brother were getting close to him again. He'd cut out all the crap and finally returned to the self we'd all well and truly missed -- someone I hadn't known since childhood.<br />
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And in this emergence, he never stopped telling people how proud he was of me, of all the things that I was achieving out there (Desktop Dungeons had just taken off massively, too). He was sorry about his mistakes. He was sorry that I'd been chased off. He was sorry about everything. He wanted things to get better between us, he wanted to earn my trust back, have me open up to him again. He wanted us to get along and smile and relax and be happy together. But he didn't know how to make that happen, so he waited and hoped that I would forgive him one day, come back and let the wounds start healing.<br />
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In the end, none of that happened. When he died, I didn't even return in time for his cremation. I'd made no offer of reconciliation, relief or understanding -- that's just how things had ended between me and my father. It was the closing point of one of the most important relationships that will ever exist in my life, and there will never be a second take.<br />
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And, well, a part of me dies whenever I think about that. <i>Sigh</i>.<br />
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I miss you, dad. I miss your guitar, your music, your easygoing nature, your pride, your passion, your compassion, your patience, your little mannerisms (pretty much ALL of which I've found myself adopting, by the way) your strength, your vulnerability, your abnormality, your smoky study room, your awesome office chair, your equally awesome leather jacket, your weird obsession with collecting small change (again, guilty here too), your laugh, your sneeze, your road trips to Pretoria, your unparalleled pap 'n vleis recipe -- hell, I even miss the infuriating way you'd stare at me for half a minute before answering my questions because you knew just how to piss me off. There's a lot that I miss about you, and I only got around to thinking about most of it after your death. It all feels kinda weird now.<br />
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I love you, dad. And I wish I'd told you that in time. Rest in peace.<br />Rodain Jouberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07769839932061596214noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2288710490909193003.post-72354246429596710162012-04-25T17:30:00.001+02:002012-04-25T17:35:23.828+02:00Facts about mountainsIn Cape Town, people basically do two things: get super drunk on local wine and climb mountains. Not at the same time, of course*, but these two resources share the convenience of being close and abundant.<br />
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The tracks of Table Mountain and its surrounding environs afford budding hikers / climbers endless entertainment, and if you haven't yet sampled the joys of walking uphill for several hours followed by walking downhill for several hours, here's a few interesting factoids about our rocky friends.<br />
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<b>Fact 1: Mountains are not your rocky friends. Mountains are trying to kill you.</b><br />
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Mountains are dangerous and awful things which actually come equipped with a startling number of hazards. Injuries and even deaths from falling are disturbingly common in the Cape area, while other nasty effects like dehydration and general exposure are always legitimate concerns. A mountain would probably break into your home and steal your TV right now if it was small enough to get through your door and smart enough to know what a TV was.<br />
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<i>Thankfully, mountains are dumb.</i></div>
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I tend to overprepare for just about any trip nowadays, mainly because my first hike up Table Mountain saw me and two unfortunate friends getting very, very lost and very, very thirsty for a good couple of hours before stumbling across the cable car station and buying grossly overpriced Powerade because we hadn't brought enough water along.<br />
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Fucking around with mountains can lead to injury, death and getting ripped off by station vendors. Remember this and be careful out there.<br />
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<b>Fact 2: Mountains are taller than other things.</b><br />
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Since ancient times, society has been built around people trying to put themselves in positions where they can look down on other people. Mountains are pretty much the epitome of looking-down-on-ness. Even humble climbs such as Lion's Head tend to provide some pretty nice views of the surrounding environs.<br />
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<i>Camps Bay on one side.</i></div>
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<i>City Bowl, Gardens/Vredehoek area. You may have noticed my house there.</i></div>
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<i>Signal Hill.</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7v42eWkLOwdkofVX4NPI7V5o7bv3DXmUoD56mINeovfu7JWqVyRXkzJdS4XZFlAntohAIEx3zotezKp6-FTP95zFhoKmlNUjL59F1XtbBgCYavbTb12h2lXQvxgL8PnGEqVGqEoEWcfef/s1600/dudeHead.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7v42eWkLOwdkofVX4NPI7V5o7bv3DXmUoD56mINeovfu7JWqVyRXkzJdS4XZFlAntohAIEx3zotezKp6-FTP95zFhoKmlNUjL59F1XtbBgCYavbTb12h2lXQvxgL8PnGEqVGqEoEWcfef/s320/dudeHead.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>Some dude's head.</i></div>
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It's all a lot nicer-looking with a decent camera, but capturing any sort of picture is ultimately awkward and half-hearted compared to seeing the real thing as a real person.<br />
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Lion's Head in particular is a popular hiking choice due to its relative ease, the fact that the track circles all the way around the peak, and the almost guaranteed safety from shark attacks. But this also means that the narrow route can get pretty crowded from time to time, particularly if you're climbing at sunset or during a full moon -- the evening sky looks REALLY pretty from up top, and it gives you a brilliant view of the astounding floodlights that illuminate the side of Table Mountain later on.<br />
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<b>Fact 3: People's butts.</b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZNpB7v3iTZXDeoXBfCbQ3f8SIr7fHADav3vwXJtKQuq7H6jqPEaaxlHIWxv24vPkj0UDHiLzO4vusrMnC6ip3jQ9y9Vl1MZsszKm8PqBMZq7y4vimW0hYd1_9OaYGGBg7AF_hfA_2MfFw/s1600/butts.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZNpB7v3iTZXDeoXBfCbQ3f8SIr7fHADav3vwXJtKQuq7H6jqPEaaxlHIWxv24vPkj0UDHiLzO4vusrMnC6ip3jQ9y9Vl1MZsszKm8PqBMZq7y4vimW0hYd1_9OaYGGBg7AF_hfA_2MfFw/s320/butts.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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This isn't really a fact, per se, just something I thought I'd share. This isn't even the best butt picture -- some other dude took a picture where one person's butt was, like, in another person's face and stuff. It was hilarious.<br />
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This is a small section of the aforementioned Lion's Head climb that uses a bunch of neat little chains and footholds and stuff to help you get up. It's not absolutely necessary to go up this way, but the other way around is longer and much more humiliating because all the cool kids are going ahead and using the chains and taking butt pictures and you're totally missing out.<br />
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<b>Fact 4: Mountains have a top.</b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjz3YNTWyD0hkqN_4LkqgGpHHTBYadyj23O7QYbwdUnWt_z4JBsVi2QmsnLRxTRhJR5kLYH1hOTZjMTxcASFI398r28uQQ4MtVh50AbJfW0d4i4FXbT6t2Lth-ykneXJwF-RmomiQdrOSC/s1600/mountainTop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjz3YNTWyD0hkqN_4LkqgGpHHTBYadyj23O7QYbwdUnWt_z4JBsVi2QmsnLRxTRhJR5kLYH1hOTZjMTxcASFI398r28uQQ4MtVh50AbJfW0d4i4FXbT6t2Lth-ykneXJwF-RmomiQdrOSC/s320/mountainTop.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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One of the things that I really do love about hikes is that with a reasonably-sized group, you have yourself a perfect activity to take your own social pace with, complete with a massive payoff at the top that involves snacks and chatter and basking. If you're anything like me, you'll find that there's times in any social engagement where you kinda just want to drift off and absorb the world without talking much or taking butt pictures, and mountain climbing presents just that opportunity: if you're not immediately engaged in conversation, you're concentrating on your movement, taking in the lovely views and generally just feeling "alive".<br />
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And if you REALLY want annoying talky-talky social people to sod off for a few minutes, just start sweating and panting profusely. Sneeze / fart on them for good measure. It'll be disgusting but understandable in context, causing people to leave you alone without feeling like they were deliberately chased off. I've never actually had this problem, mind you, but I'm pretty sure my solution would work if I ever had to use it.<br />
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<b>Fact 5: You cannot zorb down a mountain.</b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipbI7oDfFqrDhhvSgytzS6prD34N6kH0-AZPMGxExdn3AGvsgM9bMq2egN7tVPRXCI8KhSTDt7JQQYuArFNHSekjzUilundrzbisg_gRkzJVGIzZ0LWmo4HGM2m1vou11tPKcL8a2Qeb1a/s1600/zorb_0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipbI7oDfFqrDhhvSgytzS6prD34N6kH0-AZPMGxExdn3AGvsgM9bMq2egN7tVPRXCI8KhSTDt7JQQYuArFNHSekjzUilundrzbisg_gRkzJVGIzZ0LWmo4HGM2m1vou11tPKcL8a2Qeb1a/s1600/zorb_0.jpg" /></a></div>
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My friends have told me this, repeatedly and insistently. A part of me still believes that it could be done with enough padding.<br />
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* Actually, a lie. I have a rather interesting story to tell about thatRodain Jouberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07769839932061596214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2288710490909193003.post-8871455445659223012012-04-09T13:36:00.005+02:002012-04-09T14:13:36.296+02:00Newly Bachelorated<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; font-style: normal; ">The last few weeks have been astounding. I mean jaw-droppingly crazy and interesting, though also kinda harrowing. Change is good and exciting and all, but there have been waaaay too many things going on in every single life sphere right now, making things a bit of a cluster-screw* overall.<br /><br />At least in all of this I've kept my health -- though the gums near one of my back teeth </span><i style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">are</i><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;"> a little sensitive due to overambitious brushing, and I got a headache from reading </span></span><i style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">Game of Thrones</i><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;"> in poor light yesterday.</span></span><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaeXjJF35co3TLmwFUcbgiyV3PQEhyphenhyphenFQOgjy-B-VJCtzEa8dHCTKPZCylDCDcbp_h-hnvnyrSCHZ2orIzs7n6ofcnKzvlvrJJF1WMe9yuGmHoy-SLx5NQF4lMgenT7iF4N06nrBSaXcwq1/s1600/tombstone_400.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 382px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaeXjJF35co3TLmwFUcbgiyV3PQEhyphenhyphenFQOgjy-B-VJCtzEa8dHCTKPZCylDCDcbp_h-hnvnyrSCHZ2orIzs7n6ofcnKzvlvrJJF1WMe9yuGmHoy-SLx5NQF4lMgenT7iF4N06nrBSaXcwq1/s400/tombstone_400.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729367315228519906" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><i style="font-size: 100%; ">Okay, so this is what you get when you type "anything except tombstones" into image search. Damnit, google, you're not even </i><span style="font-size: 100%; ">trying</span><i style="font-size: 100%; ">.</i></div><br />Cluster-screw or not, I'm being 100% serious when I say that I'm pretty stoked at all of the exciting stuff going on. I'm wibbling between absolute wreckage and utter ecstacy, and while I can't really sustain that sort of swinging tempo for any sensibly long duration, it is providing me with lots of things to remark upon that I really should've taken the time to sit down and write about.<br /><br />So here's the biggest one. Behold my new house place:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSflWshb8rjcdqLS99sjKaosnunlaOxu3dRkZ0FS5bGXBFdsXgbnI8c5ld1COXK1jGv4hvBiECuBQO0JtMbpKVeSvf9I9tp9oDmqqhDH6dQytzNJnqU7kh0bw_C0CxYqJAB1GBeYKF-MFH/s1600/house_1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSflWshb8rjcdqLS99sjKaosnunlaOxu3dRkZ0FS5bGXBFdsXgbnI8c5ld1COXK1jGv4hvBiECuBQO0JtMbpKVeSvf9I9tp9oDmqqhDH6dQytzNJnqU7kh0bw_C0CxYqJAB1GBeYKF-MFH/s400/house_1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729367314246477490" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8QVNVL8_aSkVjIJnOtyO5UIhgs9WLEfiBumnp0rb4yJ2wUI0x6eo0X-Fx5faj1VFZJyoG22VnYP9dVpHILnQ2UQGzWgurHNaPqKGcoleIndcGqNx2wzZwmD3Qdr_G7SIxevp9U7J0VAxJ/s1600/house_2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8QVNVL8_aSkVjIJnOtyO5UIhgs9WLEfiBumnp0rb4yJ2wUI0x6eo0X-Fx5faj1VFZJyoG22VnYP9dVpHILnQ2UQGzWgurHNaPqKGcoleIndcGqNx2wzZwmD3Qdr_G7SIxevp9U7J0VAxJ/s400/house_2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729367321153268370" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><i style="font-size: 100%; ">Yeah, just realised I took portrait pics instead of landscape. Facepalm.</i></div><br />It's a lovely little studio pad in Vredehoek within walking distance of Cape Town's city centre (well, a <i>considerable</i> walk, but I've got a bus nearby too). I'm quite stupidly excited about it, because for the very first time ever ever EVER I've got a place all to my selfsome. And don't let the inept photography fool you, it's pretty respectable in size.<br /><br />I've been on my own fairly often before, but not in any sort of situation which provided the complete nesting opportunity presented here. Aromatherapy candles, alphabetically arranged kitchenware, walls smeared with fecal matter ... it becomes whatever I want and the possibilities of bachelordom are giddying.</div><div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqlqs7YEHqtr_NJXxKdFPMRqmEhp2GwGH4R5nwiRzvEDcyWrnQj5NR9BhVHFrNFxxMh6cHiZCM8_jN-fAGPSDcxkNXVJmfDtiVzfxhNDfxEIaWAta8FxnuuOqKEwGCP0ndf26QTzcV9iGz/s1600/bathroom_1.jpg" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqlqs7YEHqtr_NJXxKdFPMRqmEhp2GwGH4R5nwiRzvEDcyWrnQj5NR9BhVHFrNFxxMh6cHiZCM8_jN-fAGPSDcxkNXVJmfDtiVzfxhNDfxEIaWAta8FxnuuOqKEwGCP0ndf26QTzcV9iGz/s400/bathroom_1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729368472550518114" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span ><i>Toilet on right, though I think I'm technically allowed to pee anywhere I want. What are the bachelor rules, again?</i></span></div><br /><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">Of course, I just need to stop being dirt poor, first. There's been a lot of startup expenses involved in this whole moving-into-my-own-place thing, even with the studio itself being fully furnished. I'll be spending the next month living in an amazing home in an amazing neighbourhood eating amazingly artificial survival rations. And I <i>obviously</i> had to secure myself some mobile internet on top of it all, despite the fact that it reduced my grocery budget from "passable adult intake" to "wouldn't satiate an anorexic fieldmouse".</span></span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaeXjJF35co3TLmwFUcbgiyV3PQEhyphenhyphenFQOgjy-B-VJCtzEa8dHCTKPZCylDCDcbp_h-hnvnyrSCHZ2orIzs7n6ofcnKzvlvrJJF1WMe9yuGmHoy-SLx5NQF4lMgenT7iF4N06nrBSaXcwq1/s1600/tombstone_400.jpg" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 382px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaeXjJF35co3TLmwFUcbgiyV3PQEhyphenhyphenFQOgjy-B-VJCtzEa8dHCTKPZCylDCDcbp_h-hnvnyrSCHZ2orIzs7n6ofcnKzvlvrJJF1WMe9yuGmHoy-SLx5NQF4lMgenT7iF4N06nrBSaXcwq1/s400/tombstone_400.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729367315228519906" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 100%; font-family: Georgia, serif; "><i>"Starved to death, but at least his connection was reliable"</i></span></div><br /><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">April's gonna be a belt-tightening month, and I'll have to exercise my polite-invitation-turndown muscles quite regularly until I get my finances in order. Fortunately, lots of the healthier activities out there are kinda on the cheap side, so maybe I'll be more inspired to hike or run or occasionally entertain friends with the cheapest beer possible. Stuff like that. Oh, and blogging. I have a data bundle and a computer to write on, so I may as well keep myself busy with that.</span></span><br /><br /><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">I'll write more things about more specific stuff soon -- it's surprisingly hard to focus fire on any single thing that's happening in my life at the moment. I may be inclined to write an essay about my new washing machine, though, because <i>that</i> bugger has definitely given me a run for my money so far.</span></span><br /><br /><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">* Trying not to write "fuck"** on the blog.</span></span><br /><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">** Oops, fuck.</span></span></div>Rodain Jouberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07769839932061596214noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2288710490909193003.post-60644885830214239942012-03-15T21:14:00.007+02:002012-03-15T21:43:11.403+02:00Bowling for beginnersBowling is known to many nowadays as a fun and novel offshoot of the popular Wii Sports title. Like LARPing, it has attempted to bring a social and imaginative activity into the "real world" through the use of special equipment and as few rule adjustments as possible. Its remarkable level of success is due in part to its notable inclusion in <i>The Big Lebowski</i> (still considered by many critics to be the <i>Citizen Kane</i> of 20th century film) that caused the game's popularity to skyrocket in the mid-70s.<br /><br />As a player who regularly cracks at least a hundred bowl-wickets per session (often in as little as 20 balls), I thought it would be nice to introduce beginners to this fascinating modern ballgame. Here's a few pointers that everyone would do well to learn:<br /><br />- One of the most frequent problems that beginners face is the matter of ball selection. There's a wide range available and it can take a while to figure out which one you'll be most comfortable with, but a general rule of thumb is matching the ball's Rolling Value (RV) to your shoe size. The RV should be prominently displayed on the ball's surface, though the occasional Mystery Ball is manufactured without this number displayed. This is the bowling corporation's way of keeping players on their toes and you can usually find at least one of them in every pack.<br /><br />- Don't make the mistake of using your thumbs for the bowl itself. More experienced players will see this as a sign of weakness and attempt to attack your pins earlier than usual, sometimes even during your own turn.<br /><br />- As a beginner, you should also take care when YOU decide to attack an opponent's pins -- it can backfire easily and most decent players are quick to punish any mistakes you make. It's generally best to play defensively until you get a little more comfortable with your own bowling ability.<div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh058W5Sa335Hi0eciYz5L1OdJQli3xHMgRXg4ydrpvB0OwlATWK3rh8ywdlwBvNkghu2RPVzha3dGBZCrUEVMNvnVDoZ3W04NOGNtbYeCtxYWAEcNnu-CFty5efKyOiQWSg_qpOOlJRLLa/s1600/bowlingDiagram.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh058W5Sa335Hi0eciYz5L1OdJQli3xHMgRXg4ydrpvB0OwlATWK3rh8ywdlwBvNkghu2RPVzha3dGBZCrUEVMNvnVDoZ3W04NOGNtbYeCtxYWAEcNnu-CFty5efKyOiQWSg_qpOOlJRLLa/s400/bowlingDiagram.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5720206369832095634" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Diagram of typical bowling lane. Markers (a) and (b) denote pin and player positions respectively, (c) is an attacker's slip-lane and (d) is the Lagrangian Point. Nobody knows what (e) is.</i></div><br />- Approximately 20% of a bowler's success lies in how they place their toss, while the rest is down to manipulating the ball's path through emotive gestures and fluid dance techniques. the art of post-throw influence is deep and nuanced, but professional bowl-swingers generally agree that the most important modifiers are your shoulder positions, hip swings and overall sexiness (<i>The Big Lebowski</i> was able to subvert this through extensive use of facial hair, but its value in actual high-level play is questionable at best).<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVCNNC9zG9Lv5o59xxxOUBDhFHgqSdcrDeX7nsx4gKqYhdM9rHcUFVq2tEtjfEFLCDfJL8NnfQniIsOja8InIdTb_X4H15-FE2D4N5pZkxN0G8iau-SXL42TrqIOpJ8v_5n9fg2K8GiySO/s1600/butt.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 321px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVCNNC9zG9Lv5o59xxxOUBDhFHgqSdcrDeX7nsx4gKqYhdM9rHcUFVq2tEtjfEFLCDfJL8NnfQniIsOja8InIdTb_X4H15-FE2D4N5pZkxN0G8iau-SXL42TrqIOpJ8v_5n9fg2K8GiySO/s400/butt.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5720206353303658354" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Having a nice butt helps.</i></div><br />- It should be noted that the above is a good reason to secure a decent pair of bowling shoes. Flexibility, support and low friction for the more advanced dance manoeuvers are all essential. Bear in mind that you want to preserve the aforementioned match of shoe to ball RV -- if you find that such a pairing isn't possible, consider temporarily changing your shoe size.<br /><br />- If you want to bowl a straight ball for the middle pin, make sure that your throw is fluid, leading into a graceful release pose that can be maintained for at least three seconds (five if you bowl a slow ball, seven if someone is attempting to take a picture). If the middle pin is the only one left and you know how to moonwalk, you may opt to try that instead. Be mindful of other bowlers behind you, as a disrupted moonwalk can spell disaster for your long-term strategy.<br /><br />- Dealing with split pins is a simple matter of bowling a curve ball with your off hand, aiming for the most laterally inverted pin first. As soon as the ball leaves your hand, begin the process of bending your body in the direction of the second target -- and don't forget those hips! From here, it's all about moving at the correct pace: bend too quickly, and you'll waste your empathic energy before the ball has enough chance to curve. Bend too slowly, and you may wind up in the Alligator Grotto. Tread the line carefully.<br /><br />- Gutterballs are a tactically important but emotionally draining technique used by players of all levels to get ahead. If you plan on making these a significant component of your strategy, make sure that someone in your group has a kitten. Its soft fur and gentle eyes will offer you the support, comfort and resolve needed to face the challenges ahead.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz3yvML0UAkEDhvenIdDxKB0iG92nTyCMso_7nRBZiju16AfuQdXrxOUtRuXYkOT3Jm0AOF8pDKQ00l_jrq-pYg1Fe8k9NOff0EjKD9XYCmUQBQn30PShv9cV8h3wk-b7ZY4noAcII93Lp/s1600/kittenBall.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 254px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz3yvML0UAkEDhvenIdDxKB0iG92nTyCMso_7nRBZiju16AfuQdXrxOUtRuXYkOT3Jm0AOF8pDKQ00l_jrq-pYg1Fe8k9NOff0EjKD9XYCmUQBQn30PShv9cV8h3wk-b7ZY4noAcII93Lp/s400/kittenBall.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5720206358431839442" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Do not bowl the kitten</i>.</div><br />- Throwing the ball, turning away and putting on sunglasses like you're an action hero walking away from an explosion will not earn you any extra points in standard tournament play. It will, however, look absolutely amazing in the event of any real explosions in your bowling lane.<br /><br />That should be enough to get you started. Sally forth to your nearest bowling ring and try these techniques for yourself -- though far from perfect, they'll get you going in the right direction and you'll have oodles of fun in the process.<br /><br />Happy pin running!</div>Rodain Jouberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07769839932061596214noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2288710490909193003.post-1403154133283483232012-03-09T02:42:00.006+02:002012-03-09T03:49:34.133+02:00GDC: A guide to caffeine satisfaction<span><span style="font-size: 100%; ">The annual <a href="http://www.gdconf.com/">Game Developer's Conference</a> (or GDC) is a bitchin' yearly event in San Francisco which has people like me flying halfway across the world to experience a unique and uncomfortable blend of jet lag, American culture and industry peer engagement -- often without the assistance of even the most rudimentary illegal narcotics.</span><br /><span style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHht92ke4I9NdYTSUlOjBq_plTU5VY4iBwsnIxzkI5QBpxc5cUTTlQyHImAqE7vwnA_afG_dWfYpPmsI8R4spAJFV9ZdtU8GIs-vM27dGePk1luTQ3K5D8dI27XKf5-KyBbOXnS8ar1vaZ/s1600/gloves_1.jpg" style="font-style: normal; font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 291px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHht92ke4I9NdYTSUlOjBq_plTU5VY4iBwsnIxzkI5QBpxc5cUTTlQyHImAqE7vwnA_afG_dWfYpPmsI8R4spAJFV9ZdtU8GIs-vM27dGePk1luTQ3K5D8dI27XKf5-KyBbOXnS8ar1vaZ/s400/gloves_1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717692686048415890" /></a><div style="text-align: center; "><span style="font-size: 100%; "><i>Didn't get violated by US security on the way in, but there's always hope for the journey back.</i></span></div><br />For many, this will be a simultaneously exciting and draining experience. And if you're not psyched enough to fight off the despair and/or Thai food poisoning, you're going to get doubly fucked over. Techniques for beating back the madness differ from person to person -- a little "time out" here and there, an extra hour of sleep per night or maybe just a simple hotel bathtub filled with custard and/or rabbit blood.</span></span><div><span><span style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br />But let me tell you this right now, dear reader: if the mere thought of caffeine deprivation has you in tears faster than watching </span><i style="font-size: 100%; ">The Descendants</i><span><span style="font-size: 100%;"> on a (hypothetical) booze-soaked international Emirates flight, then don't make the mistake of coming to San Fran unprepared.</span></span></span><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span><br /></span></div><span><span><span style="font-size: 100%;">Until approximately three hours before writing this, I hadn't touched coffee in a week. I regretted this decision more than the time I punched that kid in seventh grade. I was on a miserable anti-binge of socially disastrous proportions, and the GDC Moscone Center provided me with just the fucking remedy for that:</span></span><br /><br /><span><span style="font-size: 100%;">Bottomless. Motherfucking. Coffee.</span></span></span></div><div><span><br /></span><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit73lYzfmTNRd6BsHD0zHZjo3ZuuWvkzhT3cg-QyqEEhnlkcswaMKmhKoV2AjiTA15QE23O6bsGWn8WLLcEI9Mj5KQolMRyJSqI5XnyCuPw2HCJN4SDzkYmxow20vH_MyzeEccuXMa3P_H/s400/coffee_2.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717692666006076258" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 100%; font-family: georgia; text-align: left; "><i>Look at that shit. LOOK AT IT.</i></span></div><span><br /><span><span style="font-size: 100%;">And this isn't just some whiny, bitch-ass "yeah I'll spinelessly sit down at some restaurant forever and be happy with it" bottomless coffee. No, we're talking about a smooth $12 flask that bags you a right to refill it forever.</span></span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5bMT066QezzC_gb3ZAPYvEjxorXJntMpZCfMr70l6GXNtBJG6kMm_O6Is-EQ-BO7PVDCulpwUVu6uQDOvBLDjfVXypYVQ6WgB_Ah9B_VZ8eKypDUUPLGdkkoAe1x8ut3Iq0BGuV8Tabk6/s1600/coffee_3.png" style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5bMT066QezzC_gb3ZAPYvEjxorXJntMpZCfMr70l6GXNtBJG6kMm_O6Is-EQ-BO7PVDCulpwUVu6uQDOvBLDjfVXypYVQ6WgB_Ah9B_VZ8eKypDUUPLGdkkoAe1x8ut3Iq0BGuV8Tabk6/s400/coffee_3.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717692669198364530" /></a><span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 100%; "><i>FOR-FUCKING-EVER</i>.</span></div></span><br /><span><span style="font-size: 100%;">As long as you're packing one of these metallic-finished tickets to heaven, you can haul ass to one of several stations that exist throughout the conference, shove your face under the taps and begin chugging your way to a medically irresponsible oblivion of caffeine intoxication.</span></span> I have seen it with my own eyes, brothers and sisters: Jesus has returned, and he's baptising kittens in the fucking Cafe Mocha river.<br /><br /><span><span style="font-size: 100%;">Now, you may just be thinking right about now: hey, that sounds pretty nice dude, but it's not as if I'm saving enough money to snort coke off a hooker's ass or anything. And you can just shut your brain the fuck up right now because IT IS WRONG.</span></span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMVNJgNliLidW35iH8hQ_uXXoJgB8KCAVr62aUjCK1G-9dBtK63B2UpWjo1KXQdsp0mTjEf40d8RRJhgO5XEDuyE3uvIJN-AfmqlDqw5NBF6NswB4jx8i2rmay7TVCzq6MJbdz_39GbaeK/s1600/coffee_4.png" style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMVNJgNliLidW35iH8hQ_uXXoJgB8KCAVr62aUjCK1G-9dBtK63B2UpWjo1KXQdsp0mTjEf40d8RRJhgO5XEDuyE3uvIJN-AfmqlDqw5NBF6NswB4jx8i2rmay7TVCzq6MJbdz_39GbaeK/s400/coffee_4.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717692672561990626" /></a><span><div style="text-align: center;"><i style="font-size: 100%; ">SHUT IT.</i></div></span><br /><span><span style="font-size: 100%;">So you're nice and cocky, and you think that you can get by on, say, a single cup of Starbucks magic per day. Just spend a little bit here and there and that'll do you, right? Yeah, good luck with that -- especially if you're swinging over from a place like South Africa. A single drink from Ye Olde Coffee Shoppe can cost up to ten US dollars -- in SA money, that's approximately seven hundred thousand million BILLION Rand. This is bullshit, and you should get that damn bottomless coffee already because it will also turn you into a fucking viking.</span></span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXEp8foCELEOVel0faCUuMnqfNuLrgVN2hwQ7kCj0rqMUm_Wfx54P604JUVQvXO8OFscw8GhPjSsvIKu-kZ6fXYbXwz_IbicrVPuky3CMUvRVGwYuT6pHPFCmcnUdi7nBPMh38WIOOa-Tz/s1600/viking.jpg" style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXEp8foCELEOVel0faCUuMnqfNuLrgVN2hwQ7kCj0rqMUm_Wfx54P604JUVQvXO8OFscw8GhPjSsvIKu-kZ6fXYbXwz_IbicrVPuky3CMUvRVGwYuT6pHPFCmcnUdi7nBPMh38WIOOa-Tz/s400/viking.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717692690029311890" /></a><span><div style="text-align: center;"><i style="font-size: 100%; ">It turned me into a fucking viking too. Look at that damn hair.</i></div></span><br /><span><span style="font-size: 100%;">If I don't start seeing more of these glorious orange-and-metal flasks doing the rounds at GDC tomorrow, I will *officially* declare the whole conference a failure and do my best to single-handedly ensure that the entire industry collapses upon itself out of sheer shame.</span></span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwYRiCW5fa4oc2FdgFJpDlOb1KoYmZjN6eOw1H5xQ7D1Y_WdMOWVq7heVCfJtS5Hb-kCJ0ytsGcby-eDlEQcABj2d0PeUytz8zzOeCcdt4RmmX1QRqrJ_cFnfPqILJB3kBfMdpnnlG22Yy/s1600/gloves_2.jpg" style="font-size: 100%; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 225px; height: 220px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwYRiCW5fa4oc2FdgFJpDlOb1KoYmZjN6eOw1H5xQ7D1Y_WdMOWVq7heVCfJtS5Hb-kCJ0ytsGcby-eDlEQcABj2d0PeUytz8zzOeCcdt4RmmX1QRqrJ_cFnfPqILJB3kBfMdpnnlG22Yy/s400/gloves_2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717692821564645170" /></a><span><div style="text-align: center;"><i style="font-size: 100%; ">Developers, I am coming for you.</i></div></span><br /><span><span style="font-size: 100%;">These damn flasks were formed from the steel-coated titty hairs of Odin himself, and have been single-handedly responsible for bringing the light back into my life. Thank you, GDC 2012, for definitively showing me the true joy of being a game developer.</span></span></span></div></div>Rodain Jouberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07769839932061596214noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2288710490909193003.post-77579637336603075672009-12-29T14:51:00.005+02:002009-12-29T15:04:07.376+02:00ArGeeBee: ready to play<div>If you're keen for something different and rather experimental, I've just finished work on my Game.Dev <a href="http://forums.tidemedia.co.za/nag/showthread.php?t=12799">Comp 24</a> entry, <a href="http://forums.tidemedia.co.za/nag/showthread.php?t=12905">ArGeeBee</a>. It's basically a mashup of platforming, top-down RPG and match-3 puzzle goodness. Or something like that. You basically need to get three very different little characters to work together to finish a variety of head-scratchy puzzles.</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihJy2qqPv-0FGqzs8YQrQvUnbTWfNh88845whqFAZ7jINBupODMkyWatwYMQy5Hg_pxL3RUFpBGm1TWyitnr2g-y0fFGYd5IOAJ_1CFrQa4STMsHnBrhmn7TKVkNf0rm_3-VI-pbYYP5Go/s1600-h/screen1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihJy2qqPv-0FGqzs8YQrQvUnbTWfNh88845whqFAZ7jINBupODMkyWatwYMQy5Hg_pxL3RUFpBGm1TWyitnr2g-y0fFGYd5IOAJ_1CFrQa4STMsHnBrhmn7TKVkNf0rm_3-VI-pbYYP5Go/s320/screen1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420641781590770882" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Control three separate avatars in a unicorn-puking array of colour contrasts!</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div>Is it brilliant? I dunno. It was very difficult and maybe a bit awkward for me to develop, but it was stacks of fun too. <a href="http://forums.tidemedia.co.za/nag/showthread.php?t=12905">Give it a shot</a> if you have a few minutes to spare, and maybe (<i>juuuuuust maaaaybe!</i>) you'll have some fun while you're at it. You know, if you're a cool person and all.</div><div><br /></div><div>In the meantime, I'll probably be returning to my other love in life:</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLPRoDFxhvCrC1qfROnzF0tReN2nC4DRPlO1wTAHppU-1747tQMTQqfTnpLsGPd8H4gCamm31k0Jh52NtGRuzPLWXTQU5wszHfUL_M4I86fmHtrfizIbnUu7fHiO03WEkwSZIh46tN-L7_/s1600-h/game-borderland-235x300.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 235px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLPRoDFxhvCrC1qfROnzF0tReN2nC4DRPlO1wTAHppU-1747tQMTQqfTnpLsGPd8H4gCamm31k0Jh52NtGRuzPLWXTQU5wszHfUL_M4I86fmHtrfizIbnUu7fHiO03WEkwSZIh46tN-L7_/s320/game-borderland-235x300.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420642278358017954" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.borderlandsthegame.com/">Borderlands</a>. Oh hell yeah. That creepy fat Christmas man has been very kind this year.</div>Rodain Jouberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07769839932061596214noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2288710490909193003.post-75622405148630387272009-12-21T23:52:00.008+02:002009-12-22T00:36:03.447+02:00Foley for people who suck at soundOh look, a blog post! Gosh, it's been a while. Must have something to do with me changing this to an Official Dev Blog (TM) and then not doing any significant game creation for a good two months. Holy crap, I've been a naughty boy.<br /><br />So anyway, I've been working on a little something called <a href="http://forums.tidemedia.co.za/nag/showthread.php?t=12905">ArGeeBee</a> for Game.Dev's comp 24. It's nothing much, but I'm quite proud of the ad-hoc sound effects that I've made for it. Why? Well, because I'm about as amateur as one gets when it comes to working with audio. I've taken a radio course and done my own fiddling about, sure, but aside from knowing how to hold a microphone and pressing the "record" button, I can't exactly say that I'm an experienced sound engineer.<br /><br />Fortunately, one doesn't need to be a pro to make a delightful range of sound effects for videogames -- I do it all the time using a technique known as <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Foley_artist">foley</a>.<br /><br />Foley is better known as the art of grabbing everyday objects and banging them near the microphone. It's used by professionals all over the world in a variety of fields, but few people realise that it's pretty easy to do at an amateur level too. Here's a few examples of how I made some pretty exotic sounds with some very rudimentary techniques and household objects. The results aren't studio quality, but they're a damn fine alternative to relying on your "1001 Free Sound Effects" CD.<br /><br />Don't forget to <a href="http://forums.tidemedia.co.za/nag/showthread.php?t=12905">grab my game</a> if you wanna hear these noises in action. Because hearing them would be half the point, duh. Oh, and I edited most of my sounds using the basic options in <a href="http://audacity.sourceforge.net/">Audacity</a>. You should get it and learn to use it. You can still get quite far without knowing any funny sound jargon.<div><br /><div>Now, on to some examples:<br /><br /><b>1) If you want to sound like something, grab that something</b><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixS5pwFE-XrMkBqhAeMMIcOZc0lSr2BEqV9iVfJ0j8ZO17pLHdM3vGzrUeEAS7tYIOwRtq50iPAMMdL4ig9NP2OMy16N5rweVBxILoXxMZyajAol72TekX6XQAKUjuz9QmoObtAqmzaP6J/s1600-h/foley1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 225px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixS5pwFE-XrMkBqhAeMMIcOZc0lSr2BEqV9iVfJ0j8ZO17pLHdM3vGzrUeEAS7tYIOwRtq50iPAMMdL4ig9NP2OMy16N5rweVBxILoXxMZyajAol72TekX6XQAKUjuz9QmoObtAqmzaP6J/s320/foley1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417811298938159650" /></a><i><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Enough ice to choke a polar bear.</span></div></i><br />One of the characters in my game has the ability to lay mines that can trap enemies in ice. I think the resulting sound is still my favourite effect in the project because, well, it was so damn simple. I needed a crackling-icy-freezy noise, so I looked inside my fridge, found a bag of ice and played about with it near the microphone. Afterwards, I cropped the recording to the bit that I wanted and with no further editing had a sound effect ready to inject into my game. Totally freaking awesome, right?<br /><br /><b>2) If you don't have something, grab something else</b><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBZYosqrBqEntHTnhXjxUplizaoo5Udjb6dqTAemWo-_2r6YoHlvJiV2uZpxIEm7Pe13m-n6HZ3OGUUV0SH9yPIZKjAr-HkFFfiAhhSBx9eOzaEDBvww9EUAGnLLHCLHmC_RxIT1YewEMV/s1600-h/foley2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 270px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBZYosqrBqEntHTnhXjxUplizaoo5Udjb6dqTAemWo-_2r6YoHlvJiV2uZpxIEm7Pe13m-n6HZ3OGUUV0SH9yPIZKjAr-HkFFfiAhhSBx9eOzaEDBvww9EUAGnLLHCLHmC_RxIT1YewEMV/s320/foley2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417811300649556642" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; ">I don't own a Zippo, but I thought it would make for a sexy picture.</span></div><br />In situations where you need to use a jetpack, but don't happen to have one lying around (where do all those jetpacks go, anyway? They're like lost socks in the wash), there's still hope. Instead of going to the bother of borrowing a friend's jetpack for the weekend, I simply consider what else sounds like a small combustion chamber and throw that in instead. And that's how I turned to the jetpack's humble little brother: the humble lighter. A nice one, mind you -- mini-blowtorch style. In what's probably a very irresponsible move (kids, don't try this at home) I used one to light a coal by my (cheap) PC mic and got a pretty acceptable burst of "jet noise". After a bit of editing to make it sound sci-fi (just flanging the hell out of it, really), it was ready for game use.<br /><br />Of course, I could also have simulated the noise using something else:<br /><br /><b>3) Blah blah blah ...</b><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLV607S4KnQf7Er5UqQquhE3aXmO0ck5nTfp1enxlfRR-kx1Xk-gCPXllZUS0e-3WPz-AQ5WItXoAhRjgh9wFb580hrlmKu6xQN1xAKWg6cZL7qgiPZc1RkOTBuSZ2amvTBpiDMMb8hBWX/s1600-h/foley3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 238px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLV607S4KnQf7Er5UqQquhE3aXmO0ck5nTfp1enxlfRR-kx1Xk-gCPXllZUS0e-3WPz-AQ5WItXoAhRjgh9wFb580hrlmKu6xQN1xAKWg6cZL7qgiPZc1RkOTBuSZ2amvTBpiDMMb8hBWX/s320/foley3.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417811303633670130" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">DISCLAIMER: Not my mouth</span></i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">.</span></i></div><br />Pretty much every other sound effect that you'll hear in ArGeeBee emerged as a product of Tongues 'n Teeth Incorporated: home-brewed and packed with lots of love, squirrels and other fluffy things. Those high-pitched voice clips are obvious enough (DISCLAIMER 2: Not my original voice), but everything else I got across just by making an approximation with my mouth and then fiddling with (literally) random filters until I got a sound I liked.<br /><br />Given all of the above situations, I now ask myself three questions.<br /><br /><b>How was my expertise?</b> Laughable.<br /><b>How satisfactory were the results?</b> Passable.<br /><b>How fun was it making my own sounds compared to picking through a minefield of free sound libraries? </b>Dear reader, it was enough fun to kill a whale.<br /><br /><br /><i>On a final note: I'm not a professional foley artist. Heck, I'm not a professional when it comes to any form of audio. As a matter of fact, I probably even got the definition for foley wrong. But, you know, doing stuff this way is still pretty damn fun. If you're hopeless with sound like me, give this easier stuff a whirl to whet your appetite, even if you initially make someone's ears bleed.</i></div></div>Rodain Jouberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07769839932061596214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2288710490909193003.post-21742722633595172852009-09-28T17:03:00.004+02:002009-09-28T17:10:15.769+02:00Game update, travel updateOh man, it's a busy Monday. I've just released a game patch for <a href="http://forums.tidemedia.co.za/nag/showthread.php?t=11460">Onslaught of the Electric Zombies</a>, have tried in vain to pay proper attention to various writing commitments, and am now preparing for an overnight bus trip to the noisy ol' province of Gauteng. While I'm no stranger to such journeys (heck, I got <a href="http://nandrew-chronicles.blogspot.com/2009/02/night-bus-reflections.html">pretty deep</a> about them once), I still can't say that I'm looking forward to it.<br /><br />I obviously need to train up more and get a taste for travel again. Being lame and nest-ish in Grahamstown has its perks, but I'm steadily losing my vagabond mentality. A pity. Maybe hitting the <a href="http://www.rageexpo.co.za/">rAge expo</a> this weekend will do something for me.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1CWSRUnGpjSoG4O9FuVjzD4YcYkS_a-6ltTMH4US8bstnkpNF9p57PDk9DCSQabMWK__LDEe0KcklNzsYlMwlh6Rno46tsDZzSrwEYbVFASlN6EwTXO2EcpW_AZoqV9wzMuS3xV-Qc063/s1600-h/rageLAN_300.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1CWSRUnGpjSoG4O9FuVjzD4YcYkS_a-6ltTMH4US8bstnkpNF9p57PDk9DCSQabMWK__LDEe0KcklNzsYlMwlh6Rno46tsDZzSrwEYbVFASlN6EwTXO2EcpW_AZoqV9wzMuS3xV-Qc063/s320/rageLAN_300.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386535271859006066" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Hawright!</span><br /></span></div><br />For those of you who aren't familiar with rAge: well, it's a bloody big game/tech expo -- at least by South African standards. Fancy overseas buggers may be taking a freaking slice out of the moon to hold their own showfloors, but I don't really care as long as I'm surrounded with bright lights, loud noises and lots of like-minded people. Which kinda describes the average student party except for the fact that people aren't, you know, fall-on-your-face drunk. It's quite novel in that respect.<br /><br />I'll try write a bit more about rAge if I have the time: it's starting this Friday and lasts for three days, so I'm quite sure that something newsworthy can come out of it. At the very least, I'll have an opportunity to flog my- OH YES, GAME UPDATE BY THE WAY! ONSLAUGHT OF THE ELECTRIC ZOMBIES NOW HAS A GLOBAL LEADERBOARD! <a href="http://forums.tidemedia.co.za/nag/showthread.php?t=11460">Check it out now</a> and upload your scores: if you get to the top of the leaderboard, everybody will think you're totally awesome and stuff.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTfrBXQWXwbFOKgpxbFOLyK6yaCV7QvDoUs4A6_HD5R2HFRw0jAH43EWVAAmn1rp08L3hxu0_cYpDcVZlViCDBdjzeBWt18lqVl3ucu31UtDI2T9rVemOgEr3rR67aIfSI-eNIBbN__NXX/s1600-h/blackstar_300.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 219px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTfrBXQWXwbFOKgpxbFOLyK6yaCV7QvDoUs4A6_HD5R2HFRw0jAH43EWVAAmn1rp08L3hxu0_cYpDcVZlViCDBdjzeBWt18lqVl3ucu31UtDI2T9rVemOgEr3rR67aIfSI-eNIBbN__NXX/s320/blackstar_300.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386535265892574594" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">This guy is riding a freaking dragon, and even he isn't as awesome as you are.</span><br /></span></div><br />Unfortunately, that's all I can afford to write for now: my remaining time in Grahamstown is ticking down, and I don't really think that I'll be able to get everything done in time if I spend too long on this blog post.<br /><br />Cheers for now. And <a href="http://forums.tidemedia.co.za/nag/showthread.php?t=11460">try my game</a> if you haven't done so already.Rodain Jouberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07769839932061596214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2288710490909193003.post-86530884646457047022009-09-24T21:45:00.006+02:002009-09-24T21:51:25.576+02:00Liberation!See this? This is the INTERNET:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC2hBqV01zz3Amt5osKR7jrSZgrQ8fqRtK8wtpk-1D3hmoIBZCSqrNruZThkS_YuKjzAMQy1QkTDhfNqOeMzzlxu3LQjZTcubogTdeIQH-OwSwe0eMcvonBNUOI2fcF1RNWLR56Nn-Y0yi/s1600-h/INTERNET.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 246px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC2hBqV01zz3Amt5osKR7jrSZgrQ8fqRtK8wtpk-1D3hmoIBZCSqrNruZThkS_YuKjzAMQy1QkTDhfNqOeMzzlxu3LQjZTcubogTdeIQH-OwSwe0eMcvonBNUOI2fcF1RNWLR56Nn-Y0yi/s320/INTERNET.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5385123497302572466" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Sneaky advertising, free of charge.</span></span><br /></div><br />The reason why I find this so special is because one of my regular Grahamstown haunts, <a href="http://nandrew-chronicles.blogspot.com/2009/03/cow-moon-theory-hubbly-den.html">Cow Moon Theory</a>, has just gotten itself some sexy wireless access, meaning that I don't have to rely on my bloody unreliable cellphone to get basic chores done. Makes a nice change.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ_C_Gw0iXJ4i9Q5GCO5wpSlq_YX9jxowgYa11DFJPdSFGPp0okUYTSoJVKJ0PGXXc9VFJgaCkmPJ17dphllx5J5b0DNkrvFyO2pEuC1FBMkYEIjzFyeITuI9MPRh5nsQksGehzJp8jiKp/s1600-h/cellphone_300.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 247px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ_C_Gw0iXJ4i9Q5GCO5wpSlq_YX9jxowgYa11DFJPdSFGPp0okUYTSoJVKJ0PGXXc9VFJgaCkmPJ17dphllx5J5b0DNkrvFyO2pEuC1FBMkYEIjzFyeITuI9MPRh5nsQksGehzJp8jiKp/s320/cellphone_300.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5385123507358926242" border="0" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Sorry, Mr Cellphone.</span><br /></span></div><br />No longer do I have to crumple my face when somebody sends me a paltry 5 megabyte file. No longer am I doomed to turning down Gtalk links just because they happen to be made of videofailure. No longer am I forced to wake up horrifically early (read: pre-noon) every single Tuesday just so that I can make sure a tiny article submission gets uploaded to my editors over at <a href="http://nag.tidemedia.co.za/">NAG Online</a> without the file mysteriously breaking down and flipping me the bird halfway through.<br /><br />Seriously, that damn process has taken HOURS sometimes.<br /><br />Of course, there's a flipside: if I screw up from now on, I probably won't be allowed to blame my cellphone connection. A pity, but it's a sacrifice that I'm willing to make in interest of totally sweet Internetlands.<br /><br />Kinda hoping that this new development sticks. It's pretty novel being allowed to enable browser pictures again ...Rodain Jouberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07769839932061596214noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2288710490909193003.post-19001214495167766702009-09-21T17:16:00.004+02:002009-09-21T17:27:29.971+02:00Onslaught of the Electric Zombies: RELEASED!Hey, remember that post I made a few weeks ago before disappearing? It had something to do with zombies and videogames and crap, and I was muttering a bunch of excited things about finishing it off and updating my blog more often and stuff.<br /><br />Well, hey, I wasn't lying:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyD3Y9xle9KVhztsGNCZJN7G4CNvg2vYN-7lI_3k61K7dRSK9d4CwHXTMMRNxcphOoQFHB5tdZlTKL4j1pjrS7EPVLLQecLLESg3XxFha2NmZMnZOgeT6sL-2S7jpHNKGDokGnhzypNY02/s1600-h/promoName.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 98px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyD3Y9xle9KVhztsGNCZJN7G4CNvg2vYN-7lI_3k61K7dRSK9d4CwHXTMMRNxcphOoQFHB5tdZlTKL4j1pjrS7EPVLLQecLLESg3XxFha2NmZMnZOgeT6sL-2S7jpHNKGDokGnhzypNY02/s320/promoName.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5383941569309142066" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">My artist pushes this sort of thing pixel by pixel. He's clinically insane.</span><br /></span></div><br />So yeah. The game's out of the door, and due to certain marketing obligations, I pretty much HAVE to update this blog regularly again. A good excuse to get into writing again: I've been in a bit of a work rut these past few weeks. Cool game project aside, of course.<br /><br />For those of you not in the loop: Onslaught of the Electric Zombies is a bit of a cross between Roguelikes and Minesweeper. A typical game session consists of a randomly generated 'dungeon' (16 levels deep) which you have to navigate in the same way that one would typically solve a Minesweeper board. The difference here is that you actually have to fight monsters, manage health, pick up items and level up skills in good ol' RPG fashion.<br /><br />It's really fun. You should try it.<br /><br />Head on over to <a href="http://forums.tidemedia.co.za/nag/showthread.php?t=11460">this page</a> for the game download. I hope y'all find it fun: I <span style="font-style: italic;">also</span> hope that you decide to go off and show it to all your friends (though not me, because I kinda already know about it and stuff).<br /><br />Post some high scores if you want: I'm keen to hear what people think of this little bugger!<br /><br />Also: this is my 100th blog post! This calls for a celebration.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW6N4FV1xV3kjDxAPmgmtm5TCP3niGI7aNikemcdekN66E9_0ighffAYP8YpmTWEUuj-JBvYCaW7xNu0v49-ntY0GQaeLK5rEP68j_gHt0I6s_qIaFvetR2DL26xC7dugn95zT22sdHgSc/s1600-h/togaparty_300.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW6N4FV1xV3kjDxAPmgmtm5TCP3niGI7aNikemcdekN66E9_0ighffAYP8YpmTWEUuj-JBvYCaW7xNu0v49-ntY0GQaeLK5rEP68j_gHt0I6s_qIaFvetR2DL26xC7dugn95zT22sdHgSc/s320/togaparty_300.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5383941564300547026" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">TOGA PARTY!</span><br /></span></div><br />I'm off to find a pizza and eat it. Laters, fellow people!Rodain Jouberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07769839932061596214noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2288710490909193003.post-78715071029605064362009-08-26T23:42:00.002+02:002009-08-26T23:51:04.578+02:00WIP: Onslaught of the Electric ZombiesHey all, I'd like to introduce you to something I've been working on recently:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQsuja4j9uspg6OilTfI84JQti8KP2DhLnqdIx1x23Nhi1Cyy_SGvKeUlwc0g_Nfz6doP6Z0SF288zmU1JddTHWXE6ivTlu31PKehcNpBRfqGfUUm-rem-lhwFeiwZA4-kHX4hzUTbFYrv/s1600-h/headbig.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 198px; height: 198px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQsuja4j9uspg6OilTfI84JQti8KP2DhLnqdIx1x23Nhi1Cyy_SGvKeUlwc0g_Nfz6doP6Z0SF288zmU1JddTHWXE6ivTlu31PKehcNpBRfqGfUUm-rem-lhwFeiwZA4-kHX4hzUTbFYrv/s320/headbig.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374392159712566818" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Hey thar!</span><br /></span></div><br />So after a couple years of designing (hopefully) fun little games and occasionally embarking on more ambitious projects (<a href="http://nandrew-chronicles.blogspot.com/2009/05/variance-prototype-is-out.html">Variance</a> is still in a sort of long-term development thingie, for those who are wondering), I've decided to finally settle down and actually make something properly. Not something to just show my friends, not a proof of concept, not a 48-hour prototyping proggie: I mean a complete and marketable game from beginning to end, giving myself a dev time of roughly two months.<br /><br />Meet Onslaught of the Electric Zombies, a work in progress.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtFOkPLkvmJ5_7o_40Gvo0R9x6iN2STv3tfMLWLPYiH3-skmii2oLdMjmRIsC6pYnbvsp9nr6aF3RMIeFSt5qTABo_2yg-oKCtAOQBnscycTTUhdWB_TnjtWMLC-PemwZay7pwhzNDnJjS/s1600-h/screen_v02.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtFOkPLkvmJ5_7o_40Gvo0R9x6iN2STv3tfMLWLPYiH3-skmii2oLdMjmRIsC6pYnbvsp9nr6aF3RMIeFSt5qTABo_2yg-oKCtAOQBnscycTTUhdWB_TnjtWMLC-PemwZay7pwhzNDnJjS/s320/screen_v02.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374392148924335090" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Flashier than most of my projects, thanks to actually having an artist on board.</span><br /></span></div><br />This game means a few things for me. First of all, it's going to serve as proof that I can make a complete and polished product to show to the masses. Goodness knows that I've heard derisive comments about gaming journalists before (usually from those who don't really understand what good journalism actually entails) so I'm kinda keen to show people that I'm more than happy to walk the walk.<br /><br />Secondly, I've recently been snagged by the gnarly roots of the "serious" game development mindset. While it's certainly useful from a professional standpoint, I really don't want to lose touch with the simple hobbyist joy of creating something fun for people to play. It's for this reason that the project is small and will most likely be distributed as freeware.<br /><br />Because, well, screw it -- I've never really wanted game development to be a job. I've always just wanted to make fun shit for people to play. And this shit is going to be fun. Or maybe just shitty. I don't know which one yet.<br /><br />Of course, that's where you step in, oh Hero of the Internets. If you like the idea of combining Minesweeper with RPG dungeon-crawly elements and have decided to ignore the recently called-for moratorium on all zombie-themed games for the next two years (seriously, it's about as cliché as you can get), then do me a huge favour: <a href="http://www.box.net/shared/huipsrpysq">download this itty-bitty bugger</a>, give it some play time and leave me your comments. It's still a work in progress and rather malleable at this point, so feedback is going to be pretty damn useful and I may just reward you all with icecream.<br /><br />Maybe.<br /><br />Give it a shot and let me know what you think. I'm already trying to harvest some developer input from the <a href="http://forums.tidemedia.co.za/nag/showthread.php?t=11460">NAG Online/Game.Dev forum</a> and will probably be slapping this in a few other places afterwards. I just think that, being my personal blog, this would be a great place to put up a game that all of my buddies can have a gander at.<br /><br />Peace out, and don't let the electric zombies eat your brains. Or batteries. What the hell does a creature like that usually go for anyway?Rodain Jouberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07769839932061596214noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2288710490909193003.post-11465252938555809272009-08-18T23:40:00.005+02:002009-08-18T23:50:26.940+02:00Blog rebootAvid readers may have noticed my lack of activity recently. The reason for this is simple:<br /><br />I've stopped travelling.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN0775V7vYSYtYfl26-zgD1VERxhp1hMjPFqU_JbfUQPwqCukL01kq-Ke9ZSIQ3xi0Jm9Tyxq2zgOBbxXxAX3Nke1e7bUwYcn3hlU6Pde9RQLMukqEl_mpCimb3rLKSFOcfnzzP7gMBk6v/s1600-h/woman_screaming.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 297px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN0775V7vYSYtYfl26-zgD1VERxhp1hMjPFqU_JbfUQPwqCukL01kq-Ke9ZSIQ3xi0Jm9Tyxq2zgOBbxXxAX3Nke1e7bUwYcn3hlU6Pde9RQLMukqEl_mpCimb3rLKSFOcfnzzP7gMBk6v/s320/woman_screaming.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371422313705193714" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">"No, Nandrew! What have you done?" cry the fans.</span><br /></span></div><br />Yeah, I know. This trip was originally going to be a year long, but various circumstances have urged me to settle down, grow some moss and be more constructive in other avenues. In particular, I need to focus more on my career in journalism and game development (also known as <a href="http://www.devmag.org.za/">"that crap I write"</a> and <a href="http://forums.tidemedia.co.za/nag/forumdisplay.php?f=9">"that random shit I code"</a>).<br /><br />This new development DOESN'T mean two things:<br /><br />(1) This doesn't mean that I want to stop travelling entirely. Oh ho, no. I may be settling in good ol', hippie-infested <a href="http://nandrew-chronicles.blogspot.com/search/label/Grahamstown">Grahamstown</a> now, but I still have a trip or two planned this year. And I plan on making them interesting. Even if I have to take a picture of myself running naked through the highveld.<br /><br />(2) This doesn't mean that the blog is going to die. It's just going to undergo a bit of a refocus, and I'll probably be talking about geeky things in as accessible and appealing a way as I can muster. This will be interspersed with my regular musings about <a href="http://nandrew-chronicles.blogspot.com/2009/03/baz-bus-and-bungyyyyyy.html">nubile young Germans</a> and the noble <a href="http://nandrew-chronicles.blogspot.com/2009/04/giant-chickens-and-giant-holes-in.html">Giant Chicken</a>.<br /><br />So yeah. If you want to stick around, be my guest. In fact, I encourage you to, because most of you are my friends and stuff and I don't get to see you often enough. This blog is still going to be about my life. It's just that work is an important part of said life -- it's tied in with my hopes, dreams and aspirations, after all.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJNtuf7QqFzsfljXs_MojmbvpVOuxqZ1y35YywoNqNWe6T_8O8zxm5W9VjbUpmZbVd58bmJSotP1xsI8j_vjq-AF9xSgmUWZXf9Yg3B40LPwggZu0OwmWcCWzFVj-w8yaM_2OyD1-5m4Mh/s1600-h/cubicle_300.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 195px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJNtuf7QqFzsfljXs_MojmbvpVOuxqZ1y35YywoNqNWe6T_8O8zxm5W9VjbUpmZbVd58bmJSotP1xsI8j_vjq-AF9xSgmUWZXf9Yg3B40LPwggZu0OwmWcCWzFVj-w8yaM_2OyD1-5m4Mh/s320/cubicle_300.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371422305734081490" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Hold on, maybe not.</span><br /></span></div><br />I suggest you check on this blog over the next few weeks. I'm going to try get the ball rolling again and resume my noble quest of sending all of my little ramblings to <span style="font-style: italic;">you</span>: the dearly beloved and delightfully insane audience.<br /><br />Peace out, and let's see where this bugger goes.Rodain Jouberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07769839932061596214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2288710490909193003.post-89802582113765253972009-07-24T15:23:00.003+02:002009-07-24T15:28:18.071+02:00Metallica!So, my cellphone hates me.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjru5pnKkrg1A_1f61_JaP3EuDw6jFsv9KA5-9fI__aepIfkDpxIMfeT_9YLxiaDQ529ZagDwkguKu4uz6cZgsJcg6U15M_I5qnhIklmugwtOazb16wveDNKodIszY9QNgHPURBxwvs2lyC/s1600-h/cellphone_300.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 247px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjru5pnKkrg1A_1f61_JaP3EuDw6jFsv9KA5-9fI__aepIfkDpxIMfeT_9YLxiaDQ529ZagDwkguKu4uz6cZgsJcg6U15M_I5qnhIklmugwtOazb16wveDNKodIszY9QNgHPURBxwvs2lyC/s320/cellphone_300.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362016974527213922" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Actual photo of my cellphone. With an angry face drawn on it.</span><br /></span></div><br />I must admit that I've not been terribly vigilant with my Internet activity over the past week, but even when I have logged on (using the cell as a modem, of course), this device has been fighting me every step of the way. No identifiable reason, really: often, it just refuses to co-operate with my computer until I perform a reboot. Sometimes it freezes my system entirely. Invariably, it will try some sort of cleverdickery just to piss me off. And it will do so at a time when I have a gazillionty-one Firefox tabs open that need my attention. And at least three of those tabs will have nothing to do with that ever-present drain of time and productivity, <a href="http://tvtropes.org/">TVTropes</a>.<br /><br />Its not been all bad, of course. For a start, I got myself <a href="http://www.guitarherometallica.com/index_en.html">Guitar Hero: Metallica</a>.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSFX-02KrxgqJGfowGUrbVWbrDspFLD6hR-PmOlSrAcV-FuLsqxPyBgytBEbVVFKnynDnTf6HBJwLnmAvkdLMRT9-JJs3sCekqMq0e_FAvytVmveIQvkbJQRmbit2kS0vjitGYmlGo0w42/s1600-h/metallica_300.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSFX-02KrxgqJGfowGUrbVWbrDspFLD6hR-PmOlSrAcV-FuLsqxPyBgytBEbVVFKnynDnTf6HBJwLnmAvkdLMRT9-JJs3sCekqMq0e_FAvytVmveIQvkbJQRmbit2kS0vjitGYmlGo0w42/s320/metallica_300.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362016974916858210" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Actual photo of me looking rather pleased with myself.</span><br /></span></div><br />This game is, to say the least, pretty damn cool. Not only has it given me access to my ultra sing-song powers (with the help of an Xbox headset), but as far as Guitar Hero games go, this one is actually pretty gosh-darn good. The reviews have been <a href="http://www.gamespot.com/xbox360/puzzle/guitarherometallica/review.html">pretty good</a> and judging from the highly-polished gameplay (and my own inherent Metallica bias, of course), I say that this game gets a solid nine out of ten. Could have done with more TVTropes references.<br /><br />Enhancing the game experience itself is a little something that I like to call the most badass setup ever. Of course, this is a horrific exaggeration, but after spending most of my game time on a standard-definition, CRT television, it's pretty cool to upgrade to HD and throw a hi-fi into the mix.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPKWGnP5MirXhsu1uwEMA2NfDMXMbCx4okBPvgnf_RiZzDmdDdfaCKJRwlR-Uc1EX1SbmtJUuvDcNmEMwvPA7rG2Eb0nKmsODSetyOlm-bI_qdycauumt6NBlJcliA-j_G7hJR4gApM_rZ/s1600-h/hifi_300.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPKWGnP5MirXhsu1uwEMA2NfDMXMbCx4okBPvgnf_RiZzDmdDdfaCKJRwlR-Uc1EX1SbmtJUuvDcNmEMwvPA7rG2Eb0nKmsODSetyOlm-bI_qdycauumt6NBlJcliA-j_G7hJR4gApM_rZ/s320/hifi_300.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362016970739792722" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Actual photo of my current setup. With a smiley face drawn on it.</span><br /></span></div><br />So basically, I've just spent my week playing hard, working (reasonably) hard and neglecting any duties which require me to show face on the Internet for more than, say, twenty minutes at a time, or however long it takes for my cellphone to realise that I'm being productive and cut my escapades short.<br /><br />Damn annoying cellphone. I'll figure it out one day.Rodain Jouberthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07769839932061596214noreply@blogger.com1