In which my blog gets Rule 34ed

I’d like to make it known that I have just received a hit from a Google search for the phrase “fucking at Burger King.”

I’m not certain why you would look for that. But you’ll find a link to this post on the second page if you do.

TERRIBLE DECISIONS: NOT DEAD YET

1503320_10152055397933926_293884714_nAlllllrightythen.  Phase one:  DESTROY BULKHEAD is complete.  That last board back there is being left in place on account of there are nails going both ways and I suspect pulling it is going to destroy the drywall, so we’re going to leave it until we actually need to destroy the drywall.  The broken piece of DW on the right there is coming down on that same day.  Either today (probably not) or tomorrow my father-in-law is coming over; the new bathroom fan is getting installed right about where that pipe for the old one is coming down.  That’s attic work and electrical work; I can destroy by myself– I need help for that part.  After that’s done, we start taking out the walls.

Total elapsed time:  Two hours, maybe, start to finish, and it’s even all clean already, except for that little bit in the back corner yet that I haven’t pulled down.  Bathing the boy tonight shouldn’t be a problem.

Injury report:  Minor scrape to knuckles, incurred after all work was done and while bagging up the trash.  I didn’t feel a damn thing; turns out broken tile is razor-sharp and maybe you keep the work gloves on even when you’re not technically doing what you think of as work anymore.

Trepidation report:  incredibly high; this was the second thing in a row that was Way Too Goddamn Easy.  There’s gonna be a tarrasque living in the walls, I just know it.

 

TERRIBLE DECISIONS: PHASE ONE IN PROGRESS

1527033_10152055231538926_2050451363_nHELLFUCKYEAH

Yeah, that’s right.  HELL to the power of FUCK YEAH.

Haven’t even electrocuted myself yet.

Gimme an hour.

In which kids ruin everything

TheLastofUsMankindParenthood changes you; everybody says that.  Prolly ‘cuz it’s true, and pretty self-evidently so at that.  What isn’t always obvious is the ways in which parenting messes with what was probably a perfectly good personality and lifestyle prior to having kids.  I was expecting having a kid to cut into my video game time, right?  I wasn’t expecting having a kid to change the way I related to playing video games, and that’s kinda fascinating to me.

Maybe not to you; I dunno.  Hey: my blog.  Shuddup.

You might remember I got myself a PS3 and The Last of Us around Thanksgiving.  I’ve owned an Xbox 360 (several, actually) since launch; it took until the launch of the PS3’s successor for a game to come out that finally flipped the switch and made me pull the trigger and mix some metaphors up and buy one.

A warning, the only warning you get:  hella spoilers.  If there is any chance at all that you’re ever going to play this thing, first, go do it now— it’s easily worth the price of the system all by itself– and second, don’t read this post until you’ve beaten the game.  I’ll see you in a month or so, if you’ve got my schedule.  Go forth.

A short plot synopsis:  The game starts in present day.  You’re a single dad with a fourteen-ish-year-old daughter.  The zombie apocalypse starts, except these are fungus zombies, which are neater and more frighteningly real than the regular kind.

Within fifteen minutes of the start of the game, your daughter is gunned down in your arms.

It’s… difficult.  As scenes go.  It really fucking sucks.  Badly.

Jump forward twenty years.  Joel (“you”) is still alive; society, not so much.  For various reasons you get tasked with escorting a fourteen-year-old girl, Ellie, across the country.  Ellie, as it turns out, is immune.  Your job is to get her to some sciency folks alive.  

And we’re off to the races.

Folks, The Last of Us is probably the best game I’ve played in years; certainly the best game of 2013.  There’s no real doubt about that.  But what’s most amazing about it is the way it creates this relationship between Joel and Ellie, and pulls you along with it.  You’re tasked with protecting her for much of the game, although (thank God, because otherwise a game-long escort mission would have gone badly wrong) she does a good job of staying out of trouble and eventually is able to actually pitch in and fight alongside you.  But I really don’t think you can properly put yourself inside Joel’s head unless you’re a parent– and lemme tell you something, if you’ve got kids The Last of Us is gonna fuck you up.

There’s a point fairly late in the game where Joel abruptly gets quite badly injured.  The game throws a curveball at you by making you take over as Ellie for a while, trying to pull together enough food and medicine to get Joel through a Colorado winter alive.  There is, of course, one major zombie attack during this sequence, and to me at least it was one of the hardest points in the game– not just because it was, legitimately, a difficult gaming challenge to get through successfully, but because watching Ellie, this little kid who has been depending on you for, by this time, ten to twelve hours of gaming or so, get repeatedly killed was fucking gut-wrenching.  I had to turn the game off, not out of a frustration ragequit (although that was part of it, I’ll admit) but because I literally couldn’t watch Ellie get killed again.

(What did I do then?  Like an idiot, I tried to start the first chapter of the new Walking Dead game– which provided me with a refreshing tonal shift by making me play as 10-year-old Clementine from the first series.  That didn’t work very well either; I still haven’t finished the first section, for much the same reasons.  Plus there’s a thing with a dog and goddammit enough emotional bullshit from games tonight thank you.)

Anyway.  As I said, the main plot point driving the entire game is that Ellie was bitten by one of these things (off-camera, before you ever meet her) and she never succumbed.  She’s immune, and you’re trying to get her to this organization that Joel thinks can help to figure out why she’s so special and possibly find a cure for the Cordyceps fungus.  And then you get there.  And you’re separated from Ellie for a while.  And then you discover that the doctors do think that they can figure out what’s wrong with her– but that the fungus has invaded her brain structure and that it’s going to require risky brain surgery to be able to do anything about it.

It’s worth pointing out that at no point do they say “the surgery is going to kill her.”  They say “we have to do brain surgery” and Joel puts everything else together from there.

And Joel.  Goes.  Nuts.  Previously in the game you’ve either been fighting bandits (generally poorly armed and rarely protected by anything) or zombies (dangerous as hell, but generally lacking distance weapons.)  The last sequence throws you up against dozens of trained commandos with fucking body armor and machine guns.  Now, it’s become painfully apparent by this point in the game that Joel is a bit of a monster– the game isn’t really interested in letting you forget the fact that you’re killing people for part of it, even if those people can be broadly classed as Bad People a fair amount of the time.  It’s visceral.  It gets to you, after a while– and this was clearly a deliberate design decision on the part of the designers.  Joel gets more and more frantic about reaching Ellie before anything can happen to her– and, fascinatingly, so did I– I’m generally a hoarder in games like this, keeping everything in reserve In Case I Need It.  By the time you get to the last bit of the game where you know there’s not much more than a hallway between you and Ellie, I was playing with no quarter given for anyone— you’re behind a corner?  I’m not waiting for you to come out.  Molotov cocktail.  I shot at you once and missed?  Throwing a bomb.  Four of you back there?  Smoke grenade, followed by a Molotov, then breaking the neck of the guy who I missed.  Brutal shit.

And then you burst into the surgical suite.  Ellie’s on the table, unconscious.  There are three doctors in the room, unarmed.  They see the crazy man with the flamethrower (yup) and the machine gun burst into the room… and they cower.

I was expecting, at this point, to be presented with some sort of choice.  No.  Why not?  Because the game has gone to great pains to set up Joel’s character by this point, and isn’t terribly concerned with what you want to happen.  And there is no way in sweet shrieking Hell that Joel is letting anyone stick a knife in Ellie’s brain.  None.  Period.

Your only option is to gun down the (unarmed, hiding) doctors and pick up Ellie and run– which brings you right back to the beginning of the game, where you’ve got a defenseless kid in your arms, and because you’re carrying her you can’t get to your guns and shoot back, and your only option is to run like hell or you’re both going to die.  Because as it turns out the guards do not suddenly get less pissed at you once you’ve killed the doctors and taken Ellie back.

And you know how the game handled this the first time it happened, too.  She died.  And Joel didn’t.

And just to make sure this is clear: I had an Atari, people.  I’ve been a gamer for a very long time; I’m part of the first generation of people who can say honestly that they’ve been gamers for their entire lives.  And I have never once played a game where the main character was given the chance to save the world and chose not to.  Because if the choices are save the world, or save your kid?  Fuck the world.

Like I said:  if you’re a parent, this shit’s gonna fuck with your head.  Because, as contrived as it sounds, that’s not a choice that I could make and expect to keep my sanity.

Amazing, amazing stuff; everyone involved with the game should be proud of themselves.  And you should have played it by now.  Go forth and game.

WARNING: NERD CONTENT CRITICAL

There’s a weird kind of freedom in today and tomorrow’s posts, because judging from the traffic yesterday and what I’ve gotten so far today, I can say with a fairly high degree of certainty that absolutely no one is going to read anything I write for the next two days.  So: nerd post.  Huge nerd post.  Unforgivable nerd post.

Let’s talk about what would happen if Hulk fought Superman.

Yes, that’s really what I’m writing about.  Feel free to tune out right now.  Or not, because you need to watch these first.  I just discovered these videos yesterday, since the most recent bit has just been released, but an animator by the name of Mike Habjan has apparently spent a good chunk of the last three years of his life putting these little CGI videos together.  Part one, I’ll admit, is not going to blow you away.  The next three, though?  They become progressively more and more awesome each time.

So, watch some videos and then I’m going to geek out:

Literally my only gripe is that Superman isn’t bleeding after the ass-kicking he gets in Part 3. It’s obvious that he’s in a hell of a lot of pain but there ought to be some visible wounds– although maybe that’s too much modification to the model or something; I don’t know– it still looks fantastic. What’s awesome about these fights is that they go exactly how you’d think they might– Superman uses his heat vision and speed a lot, and Hulk just sort of sits back and waits for Superman to screw up enough for Hulk to grab him, which results in the tremendous ass-kicking that Superman catches at the beginning of Part 3.  Superman, it should be noted, isn’t going to be terribly used to getting hurt— he’s got one, maybe two other villains who can challenge him on the level that Hulk does.  Hulk, on the other hand, you can hurt– it just doesn’t matter, because it’s going to heal anyway and because being hurt just makes him angrier, and that’s always a bad idea.

There’s two ways for Superman to win this fight, at this point, since “End it as quickly as humanly possible” is no longer an option:  1) Get Hulk out into orbit, where the sun’s rays are rejuvenating Superman constantly and Hulk doesn’t have any leverage to counteract Superman’s speed and eventually strand him on the moon or toss him into the Sun or something; and 2) play possum, and just hope he can survive the beating until Hulk loses interest.  Note that if you survive a fight with the Hulk?  You won.

The longer it goes on punch-for-punch, the angrier Hulk gets, and the more impossible it becomes for Superman to win the fight.  You cannot outlast the Hulk.  Superman’s reserves aren’t literally unlimited the way Hulk’s are.

Actually, one more gripe, but I’ve had this gripe with every incarnation of the Hulk ever because it may actually just be my idea– I’ve always thought that if we’re going to stick with this angry = strong idea for the Hulk, he should get bigger as he gets angrier.  His size has always been inconsistent; let’s actually use that.

Can’t wait for Part V.  🙂

In which fa la la la la

Image

Having a busier day than I expected– I was out all afternoon with an old friend who is in town for Christmas, and now that I’m home I need to start dinner, oh, fifteen minutes ago to have it ready for the people who are coming over tonight.  So, yeah.  Minimal posting for the time being.  I hope your shopping’s done; I didn’t do any so I’m finished.  Which is the right way to do Christmas, if you’re curious.  Which I know you are.

Hopefully more later, but don’t hold your breath.  I have more of my bathroom to wreck after dinner.

In which that was unexpected (Terrible Decisions, part XIV)

This is Mr. Bulkhead:

photo 1Mr. Bulkhead lives in my bathroom, above my tub.  He holds my shower fan and is covered with tile on his lower side.  Until this evening, I thought he was full of blown-in insulation from the attic.  Then I dremeled my way into him to see what I was in for when I demolished him later this week.

I was a bit startled with what I found.

photo 2If you were to poke your face directly into the hole up there, this is what you would see– a perfectly clean and dry space (any dust you see is from cutting through the drywall– not so much as a spiderweb despite the hole back there,) seriously over studded on the bottom (I assume to carry the weight of the tile?) and featuring unexpected and currently (that’s a pun) inexplicable electrical wires.  I think that the one on the left runs to a power switch in the hallway– or maybe to the power switch in the bathroom itself, if it turns toward the camera and goes through a bunch of studs along the way.  The other one is a bit of a mystery, because it’s not coming from the attic like all the other power lines in the house– I’m guessing there’s a junction box buried in the wall somewhere(*).  Best guess is that it feeds a power outlet in the entryway to the house, although it seems like it’s in a weird place for that.  Note the drywall along the back wall; that drywall has the bathtub surround tile on it once it gets south of the box.

Here’s the fan:

photo 3

 

I cannot believe that that rinkydink summamabitch has been keeping my bathroom dry all these years; that tape should have dissolved somewhere in the eighties.  The new fan is considerably larger and more powerful; we got the best one we had available to us.

Hooking it up is gonna be interesting.  I had the idea that we’d be pushing away a bunch of insulation around it, moving the ceiling up, and tying it into the existing vent pipe however that might be done;  the nice clean box we have is now calling that plan into question– like, maybe we keep the damn thing now that we know what it looks like?  I dunno.  We’d still have to redrywall at least the “floor” of the thing since the ceiling tile still has to come down.  That electrical line in the back has me concerned, too; to keep that in the wall we’d have to notch out the studs back there or something.  Doable, obviously, but I wasn’t planning on moving electrical lines even if it’s easy.

On the plus side, the wallpaper removal has been the easiest thing in the world.  I’m honestly not sure right now if this new discovery has made this job more or less of a pain in the ass. As always, I’ll keep y’all updated.  Especially if I hurt myself.

Suggestions and advice are welcome, obviously.

(* It’s my understanding that you’re not supposed to do that?  Although maybe that wasn’t code when the house was built?  I dunno; right now I don’t even know what it’s back there for, so speculating about whether the possibly-nonexistent junction box is up to code or not seems kinda pointless.)

 

 

In which I’m talking about sandwiches again and also fuck Burger King

Hands-free-Whopper-holder-introduced-by-Burger-KingI don’t eat at Burger King very often– maybe once every three or four months, and generally only when I either have no other options or am sick to death of all other available food options.  Given that the side of town I live on has a multitude of places to eat, this just doesn’t happen very often.  I don’t dislike their food, mind you, but over the last few years the company has sort of taken on this air like they’re padding around in circles and looking for a place to die– the menu has always changed massively every time I go there, they’ve renamed things, added a bunch of food that I don’t recognize, and always, always changed their fries from the last time I was in there.

Luckily, one of the very few things that they haven’t fucked with is the chicken sandwich, or, as they’re calling it now, the Original Chicken Sandwich, perhaps to drive home the whole hey, look, this is actually the same as the last time you came in here back in 2005 thing.  I had a craving tonight, and since I was at OtherJob all day I knew I was on my own for dinner, so I stopped at Burger King on the way home.

(Sidenote:  Subway’s Big Hot Pastrami Melt, on flatbread, with provolone cheese, pickles, and dijon.  Delicious.  This is my new shit.  I love pastrami but unfortunately I live in Indiana and it’s much more difficult than you might imagine to get ahold of– even the couple of delis near my house rarely have it available, so Subway introducing a pastrami sandwich was seriously the good news of the week.  Unfortunately, the Subway on my side of town is a big pain in the ass, or I’d have just had two of these today, one on the way to work and one on the way home.)

Anyway.  Back to Burger King.  (I swear I don’t usually have fast food twice in a day, but Saturdays are annoying for eating right.)  I pulled into the drive thru and rolled down my window.  The aggravation starts immediately, because Burger King is now using some sort of canned introductory message in the drive thru now; some sort of hypercorporatebullshit  robotic cheery “HI HOW MAY I MAKE YOUR LIFE BETTER BY SERVING YOU WITH MY SERVING AND YOUR FOOD AND MY SERVICE” thing.

I do not require service from anyone.  I want you to make me some food and I want to pay you for it.  You are literally serving it to me in the sense that you are handing it to me, but that does not make you my servant.  You are not going to serve me today.  You’re gonna sell me some damn food.  I don’t know why that word bugs me so much but it does.  Also, it would be nice if it was a person talking to me and not a damn robot.  Can we not trust our employees to say “Hi, welcome to Burger King, can I take your order?” anymore?

So there’s that, but it’s a common annoyance so I ignore it.  I request my chicken sandwich and then all hell breaks loose.

“May we have your first name for the receipt, please?”

I was literally shocked into silence for a second.  I seriously couldn’t process what the hell I’d just been asked.  You want my what?  Why the fuck– what–

WHAT?

I lie.  Reflexively, damn near instantly.  Make up the first first name that comes into my head; it’s not my damn name.  Why the fuck do you want my fucking name?  For the RECEIPT?  Why the fuck does the receipt need my goddamn what-the-fuck name?  This isn’t fucking Starbucks, you assholes, I’m in a goddamn drive thru.

I seriously wish I had just refused; I regularly refuse to give my ZIP code or phone number during transactions– it just took me by surprise too much and threw me off my game.  If the drive-thru in question hadn’t been one of the type where there’s no escape once you’re in it I seriously might have left.

And then they’d printed my goddamn name on the receipt, which is a piece of paper I’m never looking at again.  Except it wasn’t my name.  I paid with cash, by the way, entirely on purpose because fuck if I’m giving you assholes any more information about me at all at this point.  I don’t know why this bugs me so damn much but I’ll be damned if I’m handing over any personal information about me of any kind to buy a fucking three dollar sandwich in a drive thru.  In fact, I won’t be handing them three dollars anymore, either; it ain’t like I like Burger King enough to overlook the fact that they’re deliberately freaking me the fuck out in the drive thru now.

Fuck.