Wizards and Warriors - Stage One

Here, we see the Golden Knight and his clone-stamped army of garden-utensil headed minions as they puzzle over who spilled the green paint.

His name is Kuros. The blue fellows are undoubtedly evil. I don’t know why he’s gold. He’s very much blunted grey in the game proper. This is made all the more puzzling by the fact the NES’s ridiculously limited colour palette (entirely lacking a shade of yellow) here renders his armour a shade of sickly mustard.

I digress.

This is possibly the worst game ever made for the NES. Well, probably. Okay, maybe not. Its sequel (which I may or may not deal with in due time) had Fabio on the cover art. Regardless, this is one of the most frustratingly stupid games ever created for any system, and for reasons of personal torture, I intend to expound on this in some length.

Welcome to the The Map. The Map is an archipelago of islands located in the Sea Of Black, and features several primary-coloured caves, an ice cream cone castle and an eighteen hole golf course. And two forests. You’ll see a lot of this map. I hate this map.

Lets get to know Kuros — or as I prefer to call him, Kevin — a little better. Here, we see him in a rare moment of rest. Resplendent in his bilious grey armour, Kevin’s headpiece resembles an acorn and his sword, well, a sword. Here, he’s standing in front of Wizards & Warriors idea of a door, a half-oval with a Nazi armband wrapped around it. This is a grey door. You can enter a grey door when it is open without needing a key. It just kinda blinks open and closed, and you’re supposed to make your way through it by jumping at it at the right time.

Actually, most of Wizards & Warriors can be summed up by “you’re supposed to do it by jumping at the right time”. Generally speaking, there’s nothing wrong with jumping puzzles. It’s a platform game. That’s rather the point.

Kevin, however, is retarded when it comes to jumping. Jump duration is controlled by the length of the initial press (fairly standard), and jump direction can be controlled mid-jump for some precision. Upon reaching a certain length of arc, however, Kevin lapses into “holy crap I’m falling” mode, and flails about. While he flails, your control of his movement is reduced to some pitiful percentage. This means you’ll spend the entire height of a tree in free-fall, inching ever so slowly closer to a branch to land on, but being able to move only a few millimetres over the entire span of the trunk. This is frustrating. And we haven’t even entered a tree yet.

Here, we see Kevin at the forest floor. You can stand on each of those little tree trunks, and you’ll make your way upward (and downward, and upward, and downward, and upward) over those. Kevin is stabbing a dayglo blue were bear, because it questioned the authenticity of his acorn. Mid-screen at the top is a Fucking Bee. Fucking Bees can move in any direction, and generally attack Kevin in pairs. They come in multiple colours, and multiple difficulty levels. They are infuriating inside the tree.

Kevin attempts to reach the blue door. The pink ball is some kind of mutant gumball that leaps about.

Inside the tree. The pink chest cannot be opened without the pink key, or the Boots of Force. The spiders aren’t too bad, generally speaking. The infuriating part of navigating any vertical space is Kevin’s inability to attack effectively while jumping. You have to sort of spear enemies with his sword, which he holds static as he leaps. Kevin is down to three pellets of energy by this point, so the game is regaling me with the most infuriatingly annoying “you’re dying - do something about it” music ever, four notes repeated ad nauseum until you either find meat (which restores approximately bugger all of your energy) or die (which does not).

Exiting the blue door tree, Kevin wanders straight into the pink key, held captive in a bird’s nest.

A few branches above the pink key nest, we find this jerk. Red Kevin guards the entrance to the Bee Tree, and won’t let you in without a hundred gems. If it were up to me, I’d tell him where he can stick his gems and his bee tree, but alas, distressed damsels await.

Below Red Kevin, Regular Kevin hath discovered cutlery. The Dagger of Throwing is basically a knife that acts like a boomerang, and if nothing else, makes leaping about in the presence of bees a bit less treacherous. It’s still a lottery as to whether you hit them or they hit you, but at least you have knives flinging about the screen.

To the left, across the top path, Kevin discovers Boots of Force in a pink chest (we have the pink key, remember). An unmatched pair in baby blue corduroy and navy blue texturelessness, these will come in handy to obtain the hundred gems to shut Red Kevin up. Down to one pellet of life, now. Save state ahoy.

In order to obtain more gems, we have to go into the grey door tree..

..to be killed by Fucking Bees. There are many of them. Here, two swarm around Kevin’s corpse.

The best strategy is to fall. You can’t steer, but you can freefall through the entire tree and hopefully reduce your odds of hitting any Fucking Bees. At the bottom, riches await.

Here, Kevin attempts to fart at a Fucking Bee.

Having stolen the treasure from the bottom of the grey door tree, one gets the hell out of that tree and returns to the forest canopy via the blue door tree, and its much less formidable array of pink spiders.

And we fall through the Bee Tree. The Bee Tree is armed with wasp nests and yellow bees, which - as you’ve come to expect from bees of new colours - are ridiculously annoying. In particular, the bottom of the tree has an indestructable hive alongside a near-impossible jump, with a constant stream of yellow bees crossing the space between. After some tedium, Kevin makes it through.

Kevin then defeats the boss by failing to screenshot it correctly. The boss was a huge blue skull that hurls tiny pellets of death at you. While jumping, Kevin’s shield deflects the pellets. While standing it does not. Clearly Kevin’s shield undergoes some kind of molecular transformation when vertical g-forces are applied to it. Jump at the skull, throw a knife at the skull, repeat. While attempting to screenshot the skull, bear in mind that NES video flicker will inevitably render you four blank screengrabs, and one final one of “5000″ hanging in mid-air. Be glad there’s anything at all, bar Kevin, a grey door, and a wall made of melted Toblerone.

Kevin debates whether to rescue the unnervingly pink damsel from the unnervingly purple cave.

Realising there’s five grand in it, he decides cutting a rope isn’t that hard a task. Lucinda crumples to a pile of indistinguishable pink pixels.

Thus endeth level one. I may or may not continue with this. I suspect I shall not be arsed.

StumbleUpon is to Internet as Electrical Plug is to Bare Foot In The Dark

Here’s fifteen minutes of Stumbling Upon, summarised by click. This may or may not be a slight exaggeration. It’s also not an indication of my taste or selections, as choosing any given category gives you all manner of other things by default.

- A picture of a cat.

- A picture of a half-naked woman, presumably spawned from the “photography” category.

- A semi-literate dissertation on Creationism.

- A picture of a cat.

- A Flash game from a website that requires you to make an account.

- A picture of a cat.

- A Cyanide And Happiness comic, not hosted on explosm.net.

- A Wikipedia article about an obscure scientific priniciple.

- An entire page devoted to an urban legend so stupid it does not require a visit to Snopes.com to debunk; it’s doubtful Snopes would even stoop to it.

- A picture of a cat.

- The Wikipedia homepage. Why, thank you. I would never have accidentally discovered it without you having added it to StumbleUpon, you genius, you.

- A YouTube video of George W. Bush stammering and saying stupid things.

- A website about an awesome model train layout. (Finally, something I actually wanted to see.)

- A picture of a cat.

- An illustrated essay sincerely advocating the wearing of aluminium foil helmets to protect all and sundry from the secret evil rays of the Antichrist.

- A picture of a cat.

- An animated .gif weighing in at around 7MB, that begins with some Japanese text. I don’t know what it ends with, I couldn’t be bothered.

- An intermediate page of an article. If you’re going to Stumble something, Stumble the first page of it, not the fourth page of twenty

- A picture of a cat.

- An enormous screengrab of an imageboard thread originating with a picture of a cat.

- A vaguely interesting personal homepage with a nice Flash interface and soothing piano music.

- A picture of a cat.

So. I conclude. StumbleUpon is pretty crap. Out of all of that, I was happy to see the model railroad, and was impressed by a personal homepage with a Flash intro and piano music.

And I never want to see a cat again.

Exotic Beverage Review: Pulse Live

As you may or may not be aware, I have many an energy drink. In fact, I have in excess of 40 in my collection that I’ve not yet sampled.

Thanks to recent ridiculously hot weather, several of my stored cans have decided to rupture, so I figure it’d be best if I get a review or two out of the way before I have nothing to review. (And ants. Many ants.)

So, here we have Pulse Live. As you can probably tell from the picture, Pulse Live is colourless. I’ve not yet seen a truly colourless energy drink, so this should be interesting. The bottle art is quite impressive, it’s printed on a clear label and depicts a scifi-looking grid with a pulse graphic.

Before I sample this drink, it’s worth pointing out that it was “best before” August 2008. It’s now February 2009. So it’s entirely possible that it may taste like crap for reasons unrelated to the fact it tastes like crap.

Regardless, I soldier on.

Okay, I’ve opened the bottle. It’s alarmingly fizzy. This, surely, cannot be a bad thing.

It’s still transparent, and colourless.

It smells like candy. And a little bit like lemonade. Lemonade and candy.

It tastes…nice. I’m disappointed. I was hoping I could stretch out a lengthy review about how vile it tastes, and how it could be better used degreasing airplane engines. Sigh.

I believe this drink checks all the boxes: spiffy bottle, nice label design, unique colourlessness, tastes surprisingly decent even though it’s six months past its “best before” date.

I’m sure there’ll be more to come. I have a crateful of these things.

Digital camera experimentation.

This is kind of a tutorial, and kind of an experiment. It’s not step-by-step, and it’s of dubious usefulness.

I love shooting in RAW. One of the reasons I like shooting in RAW is because a RAW image file contains the complete gamut of white balance possibilities for any given shot, and allows you to reposition the white point of the image, changing the white balance with much more range and precision than any of the default camera options.

My previous camera didn’t have the option to shoot in RAW. While I was laying in bed trying to sleep, I started to wonder, and developed an experiment that I thought would be worth sharing. I realise it’s fundamentally flawed, and probably rather stupid, but the question I set out to answer is this:

Can the RAW function on a camera be used to correct the white balance in pictures taken on a camera without RAW as a shooting option, or decent white balance settings?

Okay, so the question got more long-winded the more I thought about it. I was wondering if I could use my new camera to correct dodgy white balance in photos taken with my older camera, and ideally save some time and trouble using Photoshop to fix the pictures.

I needed a picture with bad white balance. I didn’t have one handy. In place of a decent donor picture, I deliberately ruined the white balance settings on my Olympus E-500, and took a photo of a room of my house lit with fluourescent lights at a WB setting of 2,000K, the extreme blue end of my camera’s capabilities. Here’s the picture.

As you can see, it’s insanely blue. This is my mock “badly taken photograph with a cheap camera”.

My plan was to photograph this photograph, then apply the changes that RAW makes available to the photograph-of-a-photograph. I downloaded the photo to my computer, displayed it on the screen, and shot a picture of it. Here it is, as it came from the camera:

Picture-of-a-picture. It’s still very blue. But, as this (well, not the picture above, which is a jpeg, but the actual file) is a RAW file, it contains a lot more colour information than is displayed here. I loaded this into my RAW development program and chose a white point. Everything outside the picture went violently red, and the picture attained a vague sense of normality.

The spot I chose as a white balance reference is marked with a yellow dot. I cropped the red edges from the picture itself, and used this picture as a reference file to match color (image > adjustments > match color) with the original picture. This, in effect, takes the colours of this picture and applies them to their nearest values in the original image, re-colouring it to match. The result is:

Not bad, I guess. But not ideal. It’s quite skewed towards the red/orange/pink end of the spectrum, and there’s some awful red auras around the highlights. Here’re some comparison pictures:

Original:

Adjusted via RAW photo-of-a-photo, then match color:

Here’s the same original image using Photoshop’s auto levels adjustment using the same point as a grey point:

And as a final comparison image, here’s the original image properly developed in RAW using the same point as a grey point:

All of the images tend to have a slightly reddish cast, so it’s entirely possible the experimental photo-of-a-photo RAW development wasn’t as inaccurate as I’d originally thought.

Anyway.

Conclusion ahoy.

Was this a waste of time? Probably. Is it useful? Probably not. Am I satisfied? I think so. I’d like to experiment with this technique on some genuine photographs taken with non-RAW capable cameras that are very clearly skewed in the white balance department. I’ll hunt through my older photos and see if there’s anything I can find to play with. Meanwhile, comments are appreciated, bearing in mind that I knew full well before I started this that it’s impossible for RAW to invent colours that don’t already exist. At best, I hoped this would be an easier way to correct the colours in a badly shot photograph, rather than messing about with levels and curves.

Anyway. Enough about this.

Enjoy.

For smooth and light unevenly bottoms.

After renovating the back room of my house, I bought a rubber weather seal for the back door, to prevent drafts and dust from coming in. The packaging is spectacular.

“For smooth and light unevenly bottoms”; “nudity for rubber till 13mm”.

Clearly a quality product.

Why Comedy Slapdown is balls.

Comedy Slapdown is a new production from Australia’s Comedy Channel, the channel that’s brought you such other quality productions as basically nothing. With the possible exception of Hahn Ice Headliners, which started and finished about a decade ago and is largely responsible for the fame of Rove McManus, the bald guy from The New Inventors and the host of The Einstein Factor.

So, Comedy Slapdown is balls. It’s balls because it’s a rip-off of Whose Line Is It Anyway?, one of my favourite television shows of all time. It’s balls because it takes a formula that’s so insanely simple that it cannot possibly fail, and fucks around with it until it fails so miserably the failboat won’t even sail past to rescue it.

Allow me to summarise the selling points of Whose Line Is It Anyway?, and discuss how Comedy Slapdown destroys them.

1. The points don’t matter.

Both Drew Carey and Clive Anderson made great humour of the fact that the “points” awarded to “contestants” on WLIIA are essentially just a plot device to move the show along. It’s not a competition, the focus is entirely on the improvised humour. Comedy Slapdown takes this to new extremes by providing a panel of judges (all comedians) who score each round in a fairly serious fashion, which is utterly pointless and wastes time that could be better spent, gee, I don’t know, being funny.

2. Half an hour is all you need.

An entire hour of forced improv interspersed with unamusing scoring sequences and game titles trying so very hard not to infringe on WLIIA’s game titles is tedious. Half an hour of quality comedy was not.

3. You don’t need ten comedians, five is just peachy.

Comedy Slapdown has a cast of ten plus. Three contestants per team, one host, three judging panelists and a guest star of some kind. This is a lot of people to get to know, and this process is made even more difficult by the tendency of most of them to be about as amusing as a damp sock. A great deal of the joviality in Whose Line Is It Anyway? stemmed from running jokes between the contestants, with a cast of five, this kind of humour can flourish happily. With ten, the chances of running jokes developing and actually being amusing drops phenomenally.

4. Don’t camp it up.

Is there really a need to set the program in an arena and stage everything as if it’s a battle? Surely just a stage would have sufficed. Again, this seems to me to be a method of avoiding instant recognition of the production as a WLIIA knock-off, but I think that was inevitable, so why bother?

I’m annoyed. A while ago, I suggested that an Australian version of Whose Line Is It Anyway would be a good idea, and I still believe it would be. The comedians would need to be cleverly chosen, and the formula religiously followed. Comedy Slapdown is a poor, poor substitute so far, and I hold little hope for it improving.

But hey, anything’s possible.

Rumours of my death have been greatly exaggerated.

I haven’t been around for a while. I’m sorry about this. I’ve been remiss in posting here, on forums, and everywhere else that would suggest I’m alive. (With the possible exception of Facebook, I’m able to take the time to craft cunningly witty one-line status comments, but that’s about all.)

Allow me to expound on what I’ve been doing. In no particular order.

1. I’ve been watching Buffy The Vampire Slayer.

This is, obviously, not a huge consumer of my time, but this list is presented (as mentioned about four seconds ago) in no particular order, and watching Buffy is indeed something that I’ve been doing. I’m up to season 5, now, and it’s going swimmingly.

2. I’ve been renovating my house.

With the help of my girlfriend and Shaun, and assorted others. After my elderly dog passed away, I speedily ripped the carpet out of the entire rear half of my house (where the dog fancied, ahem, making messes), and replaced it with less malodorous and much more stylish wood panel effect linoleum. This has taken the better part of six weeks due to a fantabulous miscommunication with the linoleum supplier which dragged the arrival of the fume-laden roll of rubber out from one week to one month.

3. I’ve been building websites.

I’ve recently put a lot of work into the website for the Australian Opal Centre, a world-class museum to be built in my home town, ultimately featuring exhibitions and permanent displays of opal, opalised fossils and other wonderful bits and prehistoric pieces.

4. Photographing storms and messing about with ridgelightning.

It’s storm season again, so I’m out every other night trying to take photographs of lightning and not get killed in the process. I’ve also been working on framing prints and renovating the gallery so it can re-open before Christmas, finally.

So I’ve been busy!

Perhaps I’ll post more, now.

Bill Bryson: What the hell?

I’ve just finished reading Bill Bryson’s “Mother Tongue”, a reasonably amusing edutainment book exploring the history, complexity and potential future of the English language. All in all, it’s a suitably entertaining read, but I find it’s somewhat flawed by the small issue that factually, it’s probably wildly innacurate. I base this assumption on the various passages devoted to the Australian dialect of the English language, most of which are fundamentally, well, wrong.

While I’d like nothing less than to simply reproduce these passages verbatim for your own edification, I have a moral aversion to plagiarism, and shall instead address the various “examples” of Australian speech/grammar/spelling, and then we’ll discuss whether or not anyone ever actually uses them.

Another temptation I shall avoid is the urge to address Mr. Bryson’s quoting from “Lets Talk Strine”, a comedic parody of a book written in 1965 by this bloke, and not representing anything realistic whatsoever about the way anyone did, does, or likely ever will speak.

Anyhow, the actual examples that annoy me:

“Tucker”. This word means “food”. It’s commonly used as part of the term “bush tucker”, and by Australia’s version of rednecks. It’s very quickly disappearing from the language. (And good riddance, say I.)

“Slygrogging.” I have never ever heard this word spoken, nor have I read it prior to seeing it in this book. Apparently (and somewhat evidently, I admit), it defines the act of sneaking out to have a drink. Where I come from, we call that “sneaking out to have a drink”.

“Nong.” A nong is an idiot. No one has used this word since 1987.

“Don’t come the raw prawn with me.” Oh, god. How I both love and loathe this phrase. This alleged common element of Australian parlance, along with various others (”technicolour yawn” for vomit, as cited in this very book is another) survive thrivingly on tea towels and in useless Australian language phrase books. No one ever says them.

Furthermore, the next paragraph in the book proposes a few additional facts that are entirely debatable:

“In Australia, people eat cookies, not biscuits.” No, we don’t. We eat biscuits. Americans eat cookies. If you want to be thoroughly pedantic, we eat cookies when we buy them from Subway.

“They spell many words the American way - labor rather than labour, for instance.” To hell we do. If I’d have spelled the word “labor” in school, I’d have been sorely reprimanded for it, and rightly so. The Australian Labor Party is a vestige of some idiot’s idea of modernising the image of the political party (well, as modernised as it could get in 1912), and is the only time we spell the word without the “u”. As a rule, we follow British spelling conventions, not American conventions. No “-ize” endings, no “-or” endings. And no fucking nukular.

It’s inconsistencies like these that make me doubt the other “facts” presented in the book, particularly when I’m unable to verify them myself and am forced to take them at face value.

I also dislike the easy-to-digest approach when it’s used to present incorrect information, because, frankly, people are more likely to remember rubbish when it’s presented in an amusing format.

I’ve had my whinge. You can all go home now.

Colonpipe Database Of Dodgy DVD Movies, Part I

“Time Under Fire”

Starring: Jeff Fahey, Richard Tyson, and absolutely no one else of any significance

Plot: A nuclear submarine cruising around the Bermuda Triangle is inexplicably drawn into a luminescent undersea vagina that throws it into the future. In this bizarre alternate timeline, the captain of the submarine encounters himself as a militant rebel leader, and must fight his way through a thoroughly confusing series of events involving another, bigger, and spectacularly unexplained submarine, Richard Tyson with no neck performing the worst Jimmy Stewart impression since Jimmy Stewart, and Emperor Palpatine if he was from Alabama.

Worth watching for: Some of the worst split-screening actor duplication ever, and easily the most horrific sex scene since Titanic. Also, two relative non-sequitirs clearly included to pad out the film’s clearly waning budget surplus: Emperor Palpatine the redneck, and random goo-oozing robots.

Overall: It’s extremely shit. It appears to have been filmed on a budget of about sixty cents and a licorice strap, and the plot is so thoroughly confusing even the most basic elements of it fail to make any sense. The special effects are decent. However, it would have been an adequate movie if more time had been spent ironing out the spectacularly convoluted storyline, rather than spent trying to find a way to crow-bar in some exploding cloned robots with green paint on.
Also, if anyone can explain to me how the evil submarine can at one moment be randomly hovering in a vacuous black space inside a warehouse, and the next moment be submerged at the deepest depths of the ocean, you’ve won yourself a gold star.

Another stash of drinks.

Hello.

I’ve obtained some new energy drinks.

They are as follows:

Hemp Gold (left)

It’s in a green bottle with a gold label. It’s “gold leaf quality”. Funny!

Hemp (top middle)

I assume this is standard Hemp in a can. I could be wrong, though. It’s been some time since I last sampled Hemp.

Hemp Black Label (bottom middle)

It’s black label, it’s the strongest blend, it’s all new to me.

V Lemon (top right)

It’s yellow, it’s lemon, it’s V, it tastes like sherbet. What more can you ask for?

Mother (bottom right)

I’d like to think I had some part in the reformulation of Mother, as it clearly was not a hit with the tastebuds of humanity. Rather than taste like ginger beer filtered through old socks, this one tastes exactly like Red Bull, and comes in a can large enough to drown ninjas in. They’ve edged away from the “all natural” angle the original Mother took, and are now wedged squarely within the population of energy drinks that simply taste like Red Bull and have no redeeming or original qualities whatsoever.

I had an odd respect for the original Mother. It tasted like ass, but at least it was different.

More to come. Perhaps.