Game of Thrones: Season 1

Just watched the first episode last night. I haven't read a single book because I have alot of books in my reading list, and there's a television series that people think is good. Some thoughts:

1. You get a dire wolf! You get a dire wolf! EVERYONE GETS A DIRE WOLF.

2. The wife: "Yes but they're cute little dire wolf pups with their fuzzy and they're probably played by dogs anyways and I want one."

3. So... incest is code for "bad person", right? That seems edgy for the sake of edgy, and too... too... easy. The Lannisters and the Baraethons Thargaryens (sp., obv.) would be more interesting, complex antagonists without it. It's just shorthand for villain, basically.

4. Foreshadowing is nice. I liked the omen that none of the Starks noticed was an omen, the dead family animal parent with still living offspring fighting to survive.

5. Hey, show. Hit me with the sledgehammer again about how Jon Snow is a bastard. Because it's only been one episode, and I already figured out his parents are the king and Ned's dead sister.

6. Well, someone in production likes boobs. He likes boobs alot. No complaints here. Just observations.


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Video Games and Writing

I love video games. I think the level of interactivity they provide to a narrative gives them a unique opportunity to involve the player emotionally in that narrative.

It's mostly used as a crutch, though. Video game dialogue was charming, but reading it aloud, or having a voice actor act it out... that shit is embarrassing. Whenever my wife walks in on me playing video games it's always an embarrassingly-written cutscene. And she cannot for the life of her see the appeal.

Part of the problem is, I know, that Japanese games need better translators. But another problem is that the industry needs better writers.

It has writers. But they're also coding, repro-ing bugs, and focusing on the gameplay. Increasingly, though, I see the need for better writing in the medium.

Tista Games CEO Aunim Hossain (via GalleyCat) says as much. He sees a future where game companies pay writers for content.

I'd love to see a world where a writer can collaborate with a game studio, make a game. Hopefully a writer who GETS games, and doesn't overload them with cutscene chapters strung together by battles (cough, cough, Final Fantasy XIII, and Lord of the Rings: The Third Age).

Die Easy

It's Friday. I want an easy post.

So, you guys heard about Die Hard V: A Good Day to Die Hard, right?

Well, I got some more.

Die Hard 6: We Who Are About To Die Hard


Die Hard 7: An Appointment in Samarra


Die Hard 8: Get Busy Living, Or Get Busy Dying... Hard


Die Hard 9: Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Die Hard


Die Hard 10: Everyone Dies Hard Alone


Die Hard 11: The Die Hard Has Been Cast


Die Hard 12: Making the Other Poor Bastard Die Hard


Die Hard 13: Die Hardest


OK, I'm done. I'd say expect this to be a recurring thing, but I think I'm going to let it die (hard) here.

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Bully, the MPAA, and the Comic Code

So. The Weinstein Company made a documentary about bullies and bullying. Due to the strong language of the antagonists in the documentary, the MPAA has placed an R rating on Bully. TWC has decided to release the documentary unrated.

In response, the National Association of Theater Owners says that they'll urge their members to treat Bully like any other NR movie... that is, like an NC-17 movie (source: Alyssa).

This reminds me of a story. Gather around.

Flash Fiction: Always Something There To Remind Me

Latest Wendig flash fiction challenge is another song shuffle one. And... Pandora says...

Seriously? Well, that sounds like some similar themes to my last song shuffle challenge. But we'll go with it.

I'm rubbing my scar again. A little girl stares at me. I remove my arm from my shoulder. I wish it throbbed. Something. The smooth hill of scar tissue feels like it glosses over that night. The bus recites the stops. They come up fast. I keep my hands in my lap. But I'm thinking I want to rub it again.

It's been five years and I still miss him. More than that, I miss Dallas. It's a place full of hate and lies, but it's home. L.A. for all its acceptance... isn't.

It was night. We were sitting in front of the Book Depository, of all the damned places. We were shoulder to shoulder. My head rested on his shoulder. His hand, on my other side, grabbed playfully at my pecs. Five years had softened and sagged them to man boobs, but I still had my looks.

I get off the bus. I am no longer in the South, I remind myself. I'm in the People's Republic of California, and I'm out, and I'm proud. I wish my scar hurt more. It should throb in pain at the slightest awkwardness when the maitre dee realizes there's a sausage party for two. My shoulder should burn in agony every time I take home a man who isn't Robby. Who can never be Robby.

Robby liked the museum there. He was too young to remember that day... we both were. It gave him some perverse delight to be sitting so close to a turning point for the country.

"Hey fags!" someone shouted. I looked up. Robby's face creased in a nervous wrinkle. It was a well-worn wrinkle that his face fell into often.

"Mister Gunderson," he said. "Surprised to see you out of shop."

The goon laughed. He pulled out a knife.

Robby's gone. But the scar will always remind me of him. Of Dallas. Of the pain that isn't there. That should be there.

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