So now I can emerge from my cave…

It would seem that my good friend Barry Obama has the Democratic nomination all wrapped up!  That’s good, I was running low on beans in my apocalypse shelter.

This whole ordeal, just the ordeal of nominating, mind you, has been the greatest circus I have ever seen in my twenty years of inside-the-beltway life.  Well, technically I’m about half a mile outside the beltway but I think that should still count, the psychosis rate is the same (100%).

Who ever would have thought, that in one year, the battle for the nomination of the Democratic Party, and likely next President of the United States of America, would be a bitterly-fought war between a charismatic, first term black senator, and a brilliant, shrewd woman with enough balls to start her own sports shop.  Do we live in the bizzaro world?  Did this good spaceship Earth fall through the titular chaos fold itself sometime last fall?

The experience, for me, has been so harrowing that I’ve suffered no fewer than two politically-induced panic attacks, and those usually don’t begin until the general election season!

For my part, I’m still a fan of the Clintons, especially Bill, I mean, the man is one of the few personal heroes of mine who is still alive.  The man just loves a good fight is all.

And blowjobs.  Can’t forget blowjobs, but if you run the country as well as he did, I think you’re entitled to a little executive head on the side, or under the desk as the case may be.  George Bush on the other hand, well, lets just say he needs to head down to the Man Bureau and turn in his cock once this is over.  And then walk home.

Come to think of it, its probably a good thing Hillary won’t get the nomination.  If she became President, she’d have to sit in the same desk, in the same seat, as the one her husband got blown on.  She couldn’t go for a pen without thinking “That’s where she was… right there…”

She’d be taking the 3 AM phone calls on the same phone her husband used while America’s Favorite Intern dutifully fellated him!  She’d never be able to get anything done.  Poor girl.

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REVIEW – Iron Man

BRAAANNNNUNNNNG…. I… AM… IRON… MAN… BRAAAANNNUNNNNG…

When Marvel took over their own filmmaking business from the various studios they’d been contracting with, I had my doubts.  When it comes to story, they’ve hardly been at the top of their game in recent years, with ham-fisted political euphemism and dumbass decisions (Spider-Man’s still alive?  Let’s kill him again and give him dildo arms!) clouding their work.

My doubts were unfounded.  Either this is the best move Marvel has ever made, or Robert Downey Jr. is a motherfucking sorcerer, his arcane magics making everything he touches awesome.

As Tony Stark, the titular Iron Man, Downey and director Jon Favreau focus on the human, as opposed to the superhuman.  The film is at heart, a character drama that happens to involve superheroes, heated battles, and evil masterminds.  Stark is a hard-living man’s man.  At once a peerless businessman, intellectual, and cocksman, he’s the ultimate playboy and pusher.  Speaking of Playboy, watch out for Stan Lee in his greatest cameo appearance ever.  Following the explosive opening scene, however, Tony Stark begins a transformation from philandering arms magnate to the ass-kicking, name-taking, shit-stomping one-man-army that the media can only coin Iron Man.

The film’s focus never shifts away from Tony Stark, and those around him, including Gwyneth Paltrow in her most endearing role in years as Stark’s faithful assistant Pepper Potts.  The spectacle comes not as an excuse for, but rather a consequence of the powerful wills and personalities at work. And what would a superhero film be without a hefty dose of spectacle.  From Stark’s initial capture at the hands of a nefarious non-denominational-taliban-surrogate group in Afghanistan, following a test of an impressively destructive missile called the Jericho, the fireworks don’t disappoint.  Jeff Bridges lends an utterly sinister feel to every word, motion, and action of Obadiah Stane, Tony’s partner at the reins of Stark Enterprises.  Sporting a shaved head and strongman’s beard, Bridges comes across as the corporate world’s very own Lucifer, a deceiving double-dealer who shakes your hand while stabbing you in the back.  The climactic showdown between the two titans in their metal monstrosities feels less like an effects showpiece than it does an inevitable confrontation between two men, larger than life, and there’s only room enough for one.

In the end, Iron Man lights a fire underneath its competitors in the increasingly-stale summer-superhero genre.  Robert Downey Jr. is no tortured Bruce Wayne, no awkward Peter Parker, he’s goddamn Iron Man, in the suit and out.

How to Beat World of Warcraft

Every week I hear a new studio talking about how Licensed MMO X will topple World of Warcraft and ascend to the throne of MMO supremacy.

They’re all fucking morons and 100% wrong. They know it, too. Most of these people will be ecstatic should they breach 1 million subscribers.

World of Warcraft is far from an unassailable tower, provided you hit it from the proper direction. So far, studios have lined up to make Generic Fantasy Mummorpurgers before the gates of Mordor, marching proudly with their gleaming swords and armor, only to toss all that crap aside at release and ritualistically disembowel themselves, gut-shitting a final product of intestines and bodily fluids into retail (see: Vanguard).

Here’s a simple guide to would-be developers as to how to unseat the King, or at least become one yourself.

  1. Do not make games based on nothing. This should be obvious. World of Warcraft built upon the storyline of the Warcraft RTS games, which themselves stole liberally from Games Workshop, who stole liberally from fantasy writers X, Y, and Z. No one gives two shits about Everquest Lady and with good reason. Have something to build on.
  2. Do not make licensed MMOs. Same problem in the opposite direction. Here you are trying to build your empire in the middle of someone else’s larger, more profitable empire. No doubt you’ll be forced to put Han and Chewie into the starting area just to appease the suits. This is one of the reasons Age of Conan and Warhammer Online will fail: They’ve got too much baggage. Warcraft had three successful games plus expansions.
  3. For fuck’s sake don’t make a fantasy game. It’s been done. They own fantasy. Make a fantasy game and you’re setting yourself up for failure. Everyone who wants to play a fantasy MMO is playing World of Warcraft or one of the stragglers around the periphery that hasn’t been crushed by Blizzard’s massive dick.
  4. Limit yourself to blatantly stealing only one thing from WoW at a time. I suggest the interface, they did it about as well as you can do it, and left the community to fill in the gaps. The interface is accessible and functional up until the final levels, when they’ve already got you smoking their crack. At that point, you’re hardcore enough to go out and customize it on your own. For many interface customization in WoW is a meta-game, try to make the sleekest interface, so you can post it on forums to enhance your e-peen.
  5. Make a Sci-Fi MMO. This is the only strong point from which you can take on Blizzard, and believe me this window won’t be open for long. Blizzard is no doubt already making plans for a Starcraft MMO. There are many properties in gaming that would be conducive to a sci-fi MMO. Halo. Get to work, Microsoft.
  6. Failing that, don’t make it an RPG. MMOFPS has been attempted, albeit ham-fistedly. With a compelling enough storyline an MMOFPS could work. MMORTS is far dicier, given the non-personal nature of RTS units versus player-characters.
  7. Make it for consoles and not PC!  It’s a gambit but one that will work out some time.
  8. Above all else: Stop saying that you are making a “WoW Killer”.  Its like a “Halo Killer” or an “iPod Killer”.  You can’t beat a product that has ascended into the cultural lexicon so completely that it becomes the measure for success.  You can beat a product, you can’t beat culture, unless you’re the Chinese Government.

You’re welcome, game designers.  Now I gotta go farm primals to pay for my epic flyer.

Don’t Call It A Comeback

The past few weeks I’ve been dealing with a lot.  Lot of bullshit.  I’ve gone into turtle mode, really, and because of it my writing has suffered.  Anyway, I’m going to try to make the effort to write some more here, maybe pump a bit more life into this dead husk of a blag.  I’ve got some thoughts percolating on modern medicine, the political ramifications of the Sino-American partnership, the Olympics, Grand Theft Auto IV, and life itself.

Here’s a preview:

Doctors increasingly don’t know what they’re doing, and yet they increasingly think they know what they’re doing.  I’m not anti-science by any stretch, but the mind and its processes are the one thing that modern medicine is nowhere close to mastery over.  The increasing cultural drive to paint sadness as a medical condition that must be cured is doing more harm than good, especially on Prozac Kids like me.  In a month, it will be the first time since I was eight years old that my brain has not been addled by psychiatric drugs.

China and the United States have found a brilliant way to wage a weaponless cold war.  China, by and large seen as a nascent superpower, will host the Olympics, an irrelevant exercise by all definitions, but by doing so they are drawing massive protest from all corners of the globe, except of course Washington D.C.  America has sold itself to China in exchange for cheap consumer goods, and China has sold itself to America in exchange for a means of rapid industrialization and economic growth.  If one leaves the partnership, both fall apart.  The economic form of Mutually Assured Destruction, and the most brilliant political accident in history.

Grand Theft Auto IV is amazing, and I have been no fan of the series nor its creators.  More on that once I actually beat it.

And life?  Well, this seems to be the time of revitalization in all forms of life.  Mating season for the mammals, trees and flowers bloom, kids flock into the parks and streets to play.  But how does that vitality reach one so inneured in The Matrix, as it were?  The answer is chemical, and the response is a full-frontal assault against my drive to mate.  More at 11.

Til’ next time, this is Andrew Zimmer, not dead yet.