An Ode to Retro Gaming

I love Elite.

Elite is an outer space trading simulator for the powerhouse of graphics and sound, the Atari ST, in which you travel the galaxy buying low and selling high by assessing the needs and wants of each individual planet’s system of government and level of technological advancement. Occasionally enemies with bounties on their head will appear around violent planets and hunt you down rather than vice versa, you can mine asteroids for ore, or fly into the sun, but for the most part it is a lot of flying through uninhabited space killing time by trying to remember the keypad controls for your ship’s numerous gadgets. That is it. That is all there is to it. No revenge schemes, kidnapped princesses, quests for atonement, recovery from amnesia, or plot. Just you, space, a galaxy unified by an exceptional loathing of sitcoms, and a cargo hold full of slaves, illegal firearms, and Arcturian mega weed.

There are “sandbox games,” such as the famed Grand theft Auto series, in which the player is given a large area of play and the freedom to ignore the game’s missions in favor of frolicking to your hearts content, but they give you the luxury of missions, side missions, and occasional mini games to fall back on when your imagination fails. Elite is all about “dirt gameplay.” There is nothing there except for what you make of it, leaving your imagination to fill in the blanks about your character and motivations as you sit drifting through space to the local port in an almost zen-like trance, interrupted now and then by the threatening presence of blinking lights on your radar and lasers being fired from a distance that erode your shields at a terrifying rate. I for instance decided that I would be an honest vendor of medical supplies and would bring them to poor colonies in need. Then I chanced upon a drifting cargo canister containing two tons of narcotics and proceeded to run from local authorities until I could find a place to fence them. Not long after that I stumbled across an unmarked canister of human slaves and gave up on the idea of being an angel of mercy.

The low-polygon ship models are stark, but thankfully there few instances in the heat of combat where you get a good long look at your enemy from your first-person cockpit view. When I was eight years old the graphics didn’t matter, and in my giddy nostalgic bliss I find that they matter even less. As I sit in the aforementioned zen-like space trance I’m given a moment’s pause to consider how easily such a low-tech game manages to remain so appealing in this the seventh generation of gaming consoles.

Modern titles have enormous polygon counts per object, enhanced lighting effects, and even the occasional orchestral soundtrack, but as good as a game is these days, unless it has an online multiplayer feature it gets shelved minutes after the credits roll and either collects dust or is traded in for another game that will undergo the same cycle. Whether it was God of War for PS2, or Bioshock for Xbox 360, games get one play through on average and could potentially spend the rest of their days without ever setting foot in another disk tray, but Super Mario never dies. Super Mario Bros. for the Nintendo Entertainment System has been around for over 25 years, and people still play it, whether on an emulator, as a Wii Virtual Console Title, or if they’re fortunate, an old NES or new generic console. Mario never dies. Even with controls simplified to two buttons and a d-pad, the game continues to be compelling and addicting to everyone from die-hard gaming veterans to kids teething on the Wii. It is simple, eternal, and iconic.

In “Understanding Comics: the Invisible Art” by Scott McCloud, the author goes into great detail explaining the nature of the icon. Simple lines and shape that take on meaning in our minds, and the way images are interpreted in our minds mean the same thing as the object the image represents. He also discusses something very subtle in the artform of comics that is very difficult to explain in words. The more “realistic” an image is, the harder it is for the audience to relate to it. Highly detailed artwork occasionally appears static on a page. The images do not link in the audiences mind easily from one to the other, which is key to the artform of comics. Will Conrad's artwork in “Serenity: Better Days” based on the television series “Firefly” is made to look close to the actors as it represents, giving it a quality difficult to quantify in the minds of readers. It’s as if the audience’s mind confuses itself while trying to register on a subconscious level images that closely resemble but are clearly not the physical objects they represent that it cannot easily translate the comic book into a series of images in a sequence, and views each image as a separate entity. Meanwhile, more “iconic” art styles such as Rob Guillory's work on “Chew”, Charles Shultz's "Peanuts," or the extremely iconic work of most Japanese manga artists are easy on the eyes and easy on the brain, making it easier to interpret the sequence of images and words as the artfrom known as comics, and easier to hold onto the reader's attention.

I believe video games work much the same way.

Not on the same subconscious psychological level where the games are easier to comprehend if the graphics are of lower quality, but in terms of simplicity being somehow more acceptable, eternal, and addicting as hell. For some older games affect people’s nostalgia, and is the reason Nintendo released Ocarina of Time for the 3Ds, and why every good Star Fox game is an enhanced version of the original Star Fox for Super Nintendo. Humans are programmed to expect newer shiner objects to be dangled in from of them. It makes for competitive entertainment and software industries that have to push the limits of technology because that is what time has dictated sells. More and more when it comes to gaming, retro has been taking over the market. At E3 2010, Nintendo’s press conference was dominated by nostalgia. Kirby, Donkey Kong Country, NBA Jam, and even Goldeneye were catered directly to older audiences who would respond with, “Holy crap! I remember that! That’s awesome!” and making the impressionable gaming youth go, “Yeah, well, I want that too then.” Iconic eight and sixteen bit two-dimensional graphics have also made an alarming return in the form of Retro Game Challenge, Super Meat Boy, Scott Pilgrim Vs The World, Holy Invasion of Privacy, Badman! What Did I Do to Deserve This?, Geometry Wars, Mega Man 9 and 10, and hundreds of independently developed games. Games are returning to an era where everything was simple, iconic, and eternal. I am in full support of this necessary revolution.

With the economy crashing down, more and more industries are focusing on what sells, and what’s cheap to make. This is the reason Capcom continues to make updates for Street Fighter IV and Marvel Vs Capcom 3, rather than risk making a sequel to a franchise that hasn’t been around since the days of the original PlayStation despite enormous fan outcry. It is also the reason developers need to focus more on form and less on substance. I’ve discussed before the decline of the Final Fantasy franchise. As hardware allows for more advanced software development, developers focus more and more on creating high definition graphics. Time and funds are spent on high polygon models and detailed texture mapping. The advanced graphics soak up valuable storage space on the disks the games are published on. Quality of objects and environments rendered overshadows the number of objects and environments, leaving very pretty but very short games. What once was a series containing deep character development and hours of exploration has become a series of films about characters walking through a hallway. Other sequels have suffered from technological advances, such as God of War 3 and Ratchet and Clank Future. They’re still great games by any definition, but they’re noticeably shorter than their previous installments and come with a larger price tag. Other developers manage to find balance between graphics and open worlds filled with activities for the gamer such as Ubisoft’s Assassin’s Creed II and Rocksteady’s upcoming Batman: Arkham City. Graphics have their place as long as they compliment the gameplay, such as Okami’s watercolor style, Bayonetta's over-the-top madness, and El Shaddai's… EVERYTHING… but at the end of the day, video games are games, and games must be fun to be enjoyable, and “iconic” to remain relevant.

I have been hard at work editing a short video project, and every so often in order to take a break without straying far from my computer and potentially discovering some other distraction, I load a window running Minesweeper. There is a reason it has come standard with Windows operating systems for 21 years.

Pathos and good will,

Lord Veltha

PS: Make Mega Man Legends 3, Crapcom. Do it. I don't need to tell you what will happen to your families if you don't.

PPS: “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles IV: Turtles in Time” is a game I am really upset I didn’t mention in the blog because it suits my “icon” point perfectly. The game is a classic side-scrolling beat ‘em up, and the best of its kind. All you do is walk to the right and fight waves of enemies by button mashing. It is simple and compelling and pure elegance therein. What they did is try to capitalize on the nostalgia years later by remaking it with 3D graphics. It is by all means the exact same game. It is reproduced perfectly. Yet for some mysterious reason it is not fun. It’s as if the style of the game with its 16-bit sprites (or 32 in the arcade) was what made the game entertaining. By all means there is no reason for the 3D remake to not be as fun, but it isn’t. It even comes packaged with the original version of the game, so you can experience the difference. It’s the most bewildering thing, and the basis of my argument for more “iconic” games.

Captain America Vs Nazi Aliens

Let me make this perfectly clear: In order to be a successful super villain you must learn to understand, accept, and even appreciate super heroes. In order to become a successful movie producer you must learn to undermine, exploit, and degrade the hero until they are a meaningless husk. Many villains get the roles of villain and movie producer mixed up, and that is where they fail. Arrogance has led to the downfall of many a villain, when that hubris should be channeled into a positive strength. Look at yourself as you prepare to face your foe in combat and ask yourself, "Would my armada of chainsaw-wielding bears and death beam that fires the souls of dragons be enough to stop me?" If the answer is the resounding laughter of hubris, then perhaps it's time to re-assess your situation. Meanwhile, by emotionally reducing characters to one trait a piece, and adding explosions and lasers where applicable, movie producers are expanding their audience thousand-fold. That's the sort of thing America has come to expect from movies, and what is expected to attract American movie-goers. I myself am not against stupid awesomeness for the sake of stupid awesomeness. I enjoy things that are hilariously bad, and the comedic juxtaposition of things that modern society has come to refer to as "awesome."

I went to the midnight opening of Captain America... the FIRST Avenger. Let it be known that I was really looking forward to this movie. My enthusiasm may have been bolstered by fantastic merchandising, including the simple yet elegant Frisbee with an elastic strap, and quite possibly my favorite action figure ever: Winter Combat Captain America.

I'm going to write up the description on the back of the box for those of you too lazy to click on the above link, and even for those who DID click on the link because it bares repeating.

"CAPTAIN AMERICA will brave the harshest blizzard in order to protect the virtues of justice and truth. With only his snowboard and rocket launcher, CAPTAIN AMERICA is ready to shred down the mountain and destroy any villain that threatens the peace and well-being of his homeland."

I went to the movie with this description in mind as the entire premise of the film. Who wouldn't want to see Cap snowboarding down "the" mountain with a rocket launcher, blowing up Nazis, and launching off a ramp into an indy cab 1080° double-cork, and punching Hitler at the bottom of the slope? You may think my expectations were unrealistic. This is after all the "Concept Series" of action figures I was basing them on, but the scene depicted on this magnificently awe-inspiring figurine would not have out of place in this movie that went in every direction it could find.And yet it would, because that scene would have been good.

I may be a little too critical. It was late, I was underslept, and bad fashion choices were made, but this movie was all over the place. It tried to be too many things, and the thing it succeeded at most was a musical. This is a movie based on a comic book about an art student from Brooklyn who gets juiced up by American steroid scientists in order to fight Nazis. HOW COULD IT GO WRONG!?

It tried really hard to get me to like it, and there were times it succeeded. Stanley Tucci was easily the most likable German steroid developer I've ever seen, and Tommy Lee Jones charmingly did his darndest to not give a single f#$* throughout the entire movie. I also appreciated the semi-campy tone it had while trying to be a 1940's movie serial. The brief cameo by the original Human Torch was probably the highlight of the entire movie for me. Everything else was predictable, hammy, and musical. It even started out predictably with modern ice spelunkers discovering Cap in ice, and the entire rest of the movie was a flashback. Iron Man started in real time and went to a flashback to explain how much of a douche Tony Stark was, Thor started out in real time and then went to a flashback to explain how much of a douche Thor was, and predictably Cap did the same thing, only substituting douchebaggory for pure super-imposed scrawny-assedness.

I am going to stop right here and get the SPOILER WARNING out of the way since I have not already mentioned that I am going to intentionally try to ruin this movie for you like it ruined me. If you have any desire to see this movie, I wouldn't want to deprive anyone of the shock and arg.

The movie was a blatant tie-in with Thor, and seemed to exist purely to set up the plot of The Avengers, which I still hold out hopes for. The Cosmic Cube in this movie is an Asgardian artifact called the Tesseract, presumably because the director happened to have a geometry book open and thought it was a cooler name for the ultimate plot device. It was being sought by Nazi scientist, Agent Smith, Elven Anarchist Drag Queen of the Decepticons, for the purpose of fulfilling a God complex. Agent Smith is the leader of Hyrda, a Nazi splinter division that specializes in being unrealistically technologically advanced. This brings me to my first question about the movie.

WHY WEREN'T THE NAZI'S ALIENS!?

This is Earth 1943. The Hydra base would have put the Death Star to shame in terms of immaculately clean evil space decor. Even the Hydra uniforms, the ones that WEREN'T robot suits, look completely out of place when put side by side with good ol' American fatigues. Their evil mountain fortress and most of its contents were all made before they acquired the ultimate plot device. With all of the ridiculousness going on in the movie, and the fact that nothing was believable, suggesting the Nazis were really shape-shifting aliens from another planet in order to explain why they were so technologically advanced would have been okay with everyone in the audience. The Nazi's in The Ultimates were assisted by aliens, and we all know how badass Ultimate Captain America was. Instead it's explained that everything was created by this guy. Sorry, hold on... THIS guy, who is clearly NOT a television, and like the Nazi aliens, COULD have been. Why? Well, why the hell not? Frankly, I was surprised that they weren't aliens, and I am dead certain that someone somewhere who had never read a comic book in their lives was leaving the theater asking themselves why the Nazis had not been aliens.

I mentioned before that Captain America: The FIRST Avenger tried really hard to be a 1940's super hero movie serial. This was achieved through hokey acting and dialog, which is strangely acceptable on it's own without being juxtaposed by the SPACE NAZI LAIR scenes. The thing that completely severed the cables supporting the suspension bridge of disbelief was the montage of the Agent Smith doing violent evil things against a fiery backdrop during the expository monologue explaining that he was the villain of the movie. They could not set up a believable world, and then once they pumped Cap full of thawed blue raspberry Otter Pops it got worse.

A Nazi spy killed the creator of the Super Soldier Serum, who apparently refused to write anything down, thus making it impossible to replicate the miracle that is Chris Evans. In the comics he tweaked one last thing right before the procedure that actually made the Serum work, but in this adaptation they just forgot to make back-ups of all the documentation and everything was lost until The Incredible Hulk needed someone to punch who was not a lake. Then, since the military was only able to produce one super soldier, they decided that rather than actually put him to work stomping Nazis as a costumed badass they would take the thousands of dollars they invested in one man's abs and turn him into a dog-and-pony show.
Then suddenly, without warning... the movie became a musical about war bonds.

Using Captain America as a poster boy to bolster support for troops during WWII is not something I have a problem with. It's the fact that that's all the military has intended to use him for. This is a guy that could lift a car, or at least wrestle one while attached to a wire harness, and rather than train him to stomp Nazis, they put him in a cloth costume in front of a punch of pin-up girls and had him punch a caricature of Adolf Hitler, which should have been as cool as it sounds, and might have been had they not drug it out for three minutes. The point is that it made no sense. Stanley Tucci was shot, and everyone just said, "Oh well! So much for creating the perfect man to fight a tyrant bent on creating the perfect race" and walked away from the perfect man they just created, leaving Cap to travel America and tell the American people to give the government more money to waste on things they won't use to stomp Nazis. Finally, after embarrassing himself and everyone who saw the movie, Cap decides to go off and stomp some Nazis against the will of the Army, and free The Howling Commandos in order to attempt to make the movie not suck by including The Howling Commandos in it.

Sargent Fury and His Howling Commandos were created by the biggest asshole in comics, Stan Lee, when his editor said that the reason his comics sold so well had nothing to do with his writing, and everything to do with the cool titles. Stan, who had been trying to get fired for years, decided to come up with a war comic during the age of hippy peace-lovers with the longest most cumbersome name he could come up with just to win a bet that he could make it sell like hotcakes no matter the odds, and thus the Howling Commandos were born. Their inclusion in the movie was a fantastic nod to hard-core losers who knew who the hell they were. There was absolutely no character development for them, and they didn't need it, because all the audience needed to know was that they were the best part of the movie. Thank goodness the director had succeeded in that endeavor where he had fallen flat everywhere else. He couldn't even keep a joke about Howard Stark's overly complicated shield designs from falling flat. He even tried to put some conflict in a relationship that was hardly there between Cap and the only female character. The only thing that made the movie entertaining was its use of source material. For that reason, I am going to continue to insist that the Nazis had been aliens.

The next quarter of the movie consisted of action montages that made Team America: World police look like Mein Kamph with puppets, including scenes of Captain America on a motorcycle for the sake of having Captain America on a motorcycle. Cyber Nazis are punished, Cap prevents the launching of several BOMBS WITH COCKPITS THAT ARE LABELED WITH THE MAILING ADDRESS OF EVERY MAJOR CITY IN AMERICA SO THE SPACE NAZIS DON'T FORGET WERE TO FLY THEM... and then Neo leaps out of the Cosmic Cube and makes Agent Smith explode because I suppose the writers couldn't figure out how to make Captain America win a fist fight, and Cap crash lands a plane in the arctic because the autopilot is engaged and the controls will only allow him to steer up or down, and I officially can no longer even pretend to care about this movie or this blog.

If it had tried to be a straight up 1940's movie serial, or if it had tried to go for broke and have robot Nazi aliens riding dinosaurs on the moon and included more of the source material that had made the movie at least tolerable, it would have been a good movie. It just needed to pick something and movie on. Instead all we were given a heap of attempted films that added up to nothing. Film producers are the real villains. I think we can all learn something from them.

- Lord Veltha

Overlord Overview #2

It is the year 0079 of the Universal Century. A half-century has passed since I, Lord Veltha, last posted a blog entry about my epic struggles to gain control over my small little world. A new home for mankind where people are born, and raised, and actually try to make a point to accomplish something. Seven months ago the Velthan Empire declared war on Clark Community College's financial aid administration. Initial fighting lasted over three months and saw both sides lose half their respective populations. People were horrified by the indescribable atrocities that had been committed in the name of independence.

However, due to the long-lasting stalemate, treaties of peace have since been signed and now I am enrolled as part-time student. Though, hold on... I seem to have skipped ahead a bit.

Amidst the struggles for academic supremacy, I had been participating in secret on a reality television (read: YouTube) series while cleverly disguised as a dumbass. Each episode was filmed semi-weekly at Hazel Dell Lanes, and featured a variety of challenges for me to quite entirely suck at. While it can be assumed that having not bowled for three years prior to the filming of this show would mean a distinctive lack of skill, talent, and fabulousness in my play-style, the shifting challenges did nothing to help me gain the experience I needed to improve. Chronic insomnia is also a difficult adversity to overcome in bowling. As is clearly depicted in episode 3, the circumstances of going without sleep for three to four weeks affects a person in such a manner that when forced to bowl for a reality television competition, the person will alternately have a big pansy-ass baby breakdown right there in front of everyone and sing Tom Lehrer songs. Incidentally, I was also later voted the favorite contestant of the season, which just goes to show that the key to victory in television, as in life, is to openly show no sign of skill while being the biggest asshole you can possibly be. Hate is love. The upshot is, my overwhelming popularity (by vote of maybe six people out of the eleven who have watched the show) was enough to land me the position as host of season 2.

My hostly duties were self-summarized as follows:

- Say whatever the director tells you to say, but better

- Be yourself and say whatever the hell you want to say

- You have no overall impact on the show so don't try to usurp us. We are Legion.

- Don't suck as much as the last host (Ha! That... that was a joke... in case my boss is reading this.)

Four episodes have been filmed already, and I'm beginning to get in the groove. The key is to demand my own cameraman. After all, to be myself is to be amazing, and how can I be amazing without someone constantly watching me? If David Blaine seals himself in a block of ice for a year in the forest and no one is around to tell him he's stupid, does he get any real satisfaction from the frostbite? I am doing my best to go above and beyond the duties of sitting around waiting for the crappy bowling to end. I'm actually getting in people's faces and asking the questions people want to know, such as "Do you hate your grandma?" and "Have you ever peed in the shower?" I nominate myself for best host ever, and ride my landslide victory into a big steaming heap of your gratitude for the service I have done for entertainment. You're welcome.

I have missed most of one episode though. I've been sick, but I'm driven to achieve by the fine actors I hear about on DVD commentary who go to work hungover from Sudafed and with mild concussions. If Jon Hamm can get his head split open on the set of Mad Men by the most mortified rigger in the history of television and come back from the hospital to finish to gorram scene against everyone's advice, then the least I can do is show up at a parking lot in a seedy area of town with a cold to tell people to bowl in a very impractical manner. I only have a couple more days to get completely better though, because I cannot miss the next day of filming. It's the Halloween episode. Fear my white-trash costuming skills.

I'm still no closer to getting a job; or a car; I haven't written anything, drawn anything, edited TAD, or spoken to anyone about voice acting in months; and yet I feel more content than I have in quite a while. I have structure now and see my friends on an almost daily basis. Things are fine now, but I'm still concerned for my future. There's so much more that I want to accomplish and I've done nothing. I had intended to speak with the director of Rolloff about a series I wanted to pitch him, but got distracted away from that, and now I feel that opportunity has been lost.

On the bright side: I am Spider-Man.

Part of the bargain I struck with Clark College in order to get my mother off their backs about all of the shit they were putting us through was that they would allow me to attend an acting class. I have no desire to act on stage, and grow increasingly disillusioned with film, but if I can learn how to suck less as a voice actor then I will be academically satisfied.

Part of my success as an overlord with manic depression is that I avoid going on stage unless I have a teleprompter reminding me of the words to "A Boy Named Sue." A monologue, going up on stage in front of everyone and hallucinating that you're somewhere else talking to a person that doesn't exist, is the hardest thing an actor has to deal with aside from the very real possibility that you suck as an actor (which, as previously discussed, isn't that big of a deal if you're a sufficient enough asshole as most actors are.) Our teacher instructed us that our monologue selection should be something we relate to, connect with, and isn't Shakespeare. My first thought was Spider-Man. True, I look up to the greats such as Dr. Doom, Lex Luthor, The Shredder, and Gargamel, but when it comes to real emotional connection to story-telling, quite frankly that's what Spider-Man is known for. Most dedicated Spider-Man followers will tell you that the reason they read Spider-Man is because he's a loser like them. Spider-Man was my first instinct, and I should have gone with it.

Instead I chose a re-written monologue from a play called "Fishing" by Micheal Weller, who, thankfully, is a playwright from the 1970's who writes stories about youthful and energetic partakers of the magic cookie bush. The dialog is witty and often nonsensical. It's perfect for me. The particular monologue I chose was not.

I was having an infamously bad morning. My depression led me to believe that I would be ridiculed for picking a monologue out of Ultimate Spider-Man. I was terrified that I would be looked upon as lazy and uncaring. I decided to look through the teacher's books one more time. I stumbled over the monologue, about a guy who was on the brink of killing himself and decided he really wanted to live, and figured it sounded an awful lot like my morning. At the time it seemed like the perfect choice. If I was in a good mood it could be read with a sense of irony, and if I was in a bad mood it could be read well. I immediately went to Powell's to buy the play it was from, because I wanted to make the effort. I'm always to determined to prove how hard I can work. I hate hearing teachers give the class crap about how lazy they are and feeling like they're speaking to me too. I had to do everything I could to prove myself, and I pushed myself as hard as I could. The day I read it was the kind of morning where you wake up feeling alright, but then start mumbling "I want to carve my heart out with a knife" while you're scrambling eggs and suddenly everything goes downhill. After my monologue I ran out of the classroom screaming f-bombs and hid in the trees somewhere. The horrible thing about the Clark College campus is that there is no place to hide and be alone. By the time I got home I was fairly certain I was going to hurt myself. I kept screaming things about wanting to break off my fingers. This lasted a few hours and subsided.

This is an important thing to note, because a hero is not measured by his victories, but by his failures. (I say hero in the Campbellian sense of the term. You must also realize that with the original Greek concept of a hero, what made a deed heroic was the amazement factor, not whether or not the deed itself was good. If you could bring down a building with your bare hands and crush everyone inside you were called a hero. Greeks also believed throwing babies in the fire gave them immortality.) I also realize that Blogger doesn't have the nifty hiding feature that Live Journal has.

This failure taught me many things:

1) Manic depressives shouldn't spend so much time working on memorizing/feeling things about death.

2) Taquitos are magical wish-granting foods that can help you memorize things in the knick of time.*

3) THERE IS NO PLACE YOU CAN HIDE AT CLARK COLLEGE. Plan escape routes accordingly and hide in your girlfriend's car.

4) Orcas get off on rubbing against the smooth rocks along the shores of British Columbia. (Source missing.)

After that fiasco I decided it was in everyone's best interest that I read comic books. In issue 21 of Ultimate Spider-Man, after his second win out of six fights, Spidey is given a chance to explain to the press who he is and why he runs around in tights punching people with robot arms and reality television hosts. If you crop it up right, it becomes a very nice monologue. There are many monologues in Ultimate Spider-Man. Brian Michael Bendis really likes to hear himself write. There's one monologue that spans three issues during the Venom story arc. Three issues of Peter's dad talking about cancer, bureaucracy, and how he has no idea that he's going to die in a plane crash. However, I chose to do what I know: talk about how I just want to do my thing and not care about what people think.

When I delivered the monologue I was still sick. I also had to leave the class once because when I was critiquing another actor I forgot to lead in with what I liked and a girl sitting behind me smacked me with the script she was holding. Granted, if I wasn't already terrified and on edge about what happened last time I went on stage the playful thwap wouldn't have sent me reeling, but I am not master over circumstances. I was able to head back fairly soon, and it wasn't long before it was my turn. Even with little preparation time given my illness and other responsibilities I seemed to do very well.

I will tell you right now that I have missed applause. I don't have the opportunity to receive genuine applause often. In a classroom environment like that applause is obligatory, and you can tell the difference between obligatory applause and genuine applause. For one thing, the teacher was reeling back in his seat laughing and asking me what my monologue was from. Here I was terrified I would be ridiculed for choosing something out of a comic book, and he was actually commending me fore it and was in awe of how creative I was in choosing such unusual material. Most of the class didn't catch on that it was Spider-Man until the end, if at all. People reacted most positively to how I wasn't trying to be a super hero, and that I was just some dorky guy, which was entirely the point of the monologue. The biggest complaint was my exit because I didn't jump up and pretend to swing away. Once people clicked that I was Spider-Man that's what they were expecting. And the teacher gave me the best compliment I have ever received. Even better than "[Veltha] you are the sanest person I know. Which is weird, because you're the only person I know who is certifiably IN-sane."

"I used to read Spider-Man when it first started. And that was a looong time ago. To me, you are how I imagine Peter Parker."

I've been fortunate lately. I finally have a daily routine. I get to see my friends almost every day. I may or may not be acquiring a skill I can use someday if I keep fighting for it. I'm on my way to becoming a local internet sensation. I have an amazing girlfriend. But it was in that moment on stage that I finally felt victory. That was the praise I've been struggling so hard for.

Anyway, there's that. At the time of this posting it is past noon, and I have yet to ingest any meals. I should have had three by now. My metabolism is a mighty force to be reckoned with. My failure to take care of my health will not go unpunished I'm sure. What I need is a warm bowl of soup, followed by a hot shower and a comfy couch. Then... THE WORLD!

Pathos and good will,

Lord Veltha

*Lord Veltha's Guide to Monologue Memorization (because there aren't enough lists in this post):

1) Re-write the monologue in your own handwriting, complete with the subtext of what the character is really thinking written in the margins with a different color of writing utensil.

2) Eat taquitos. LOTS of taquitos.

3) You know what, cook up some french fries while you're at it.

4) Spend a couple hours half-heartedly struggling in vein trying to memorize the lines. Read it until you really don't want to work anymore but really should because it's important. Then throw the guilt away and come to a complete stop.

5) Curl up with a cat on the couch and watch TV or DVDs.

6) Play video games until you fall asleep.

7) In the morning when you wake up you will know the monologue from top to bottom without any difficulty.

Yes, this is my method for memorization, and yes it worked. Twice.

Lord Veltha Vs "Scott Pilgrim Vs The World"

Warning: This article isn't actually about the movie itself, but the importance of the role the audience plays in artwork. Please ignore it. I'm ranting. Anything worth saying on the subject has already been said here and there, but it's time Lord Veltha put his two cents in. It's not the intention of this blog to write on subjects aside from myself, but as this is a matter of projected personal importance I need to speak my superior mind.

Scott Pilgrim Vs The World was not meant to appeal to everyone. It was specifically designed to cater to the aesthetic of the counterculture youth who grew up in the eighties and early nineties; the people with Batman posters on their walls and Legend of Zelda music on their iPods, the people who follow webcomics and/or have one of their own, the people seeking to balance the freedom of childhood with the responsibility of adulthood, and it punches their counterculture aesthetic in the balls with a fist of awesome.

If you did not laugh at that sentence, then Scott Pilgrim is not for you, and that's okay! You're not the audience for this film, and you don't have to be. This is the thing many reviewers neglect to take into consideration. Art is not meant to appeal to everyone, and that's good because it never will. This something I too forget when I explain my dislike towards the Twilight franchise. Obviously the Twilight series appeals to many on a core emotional level. These people are generally not worth my time as I'm lead to believe their core is a shriveled husk of ignorance, but I accept that and move on. I've never read the series or seen the movies, and have only heard tales of terror and disgust from like-personalitied individuals. The few clips I had seen of Eclipse were enough to make me cringe based on the camera work alone. The camera work. Not necessarily something I notice right away when watching other films. Obviously, I am not the intended audience for this series, and I should keep my snarky mouth shut. After all, the experience of the individual in regards to art is what matters. If a man paints a portrait of himself in his own blood in the middle of the woods and then dies so no one is ever able to see it, is it still art?

In school we were made to write a paper that would accompany our artwork called an "Audience Paper." The intention of this paper was to explain to our teachers the importance of our artwork to ourselves and the specific group in society that the implications of the work were intended towards on the off chance the teacher just didn't get it, so that they could understand what we were doing was in fact amazing and they just couldn't see it, so they would base their grades on whether or not our piece did appeal to those whom our projects were aimed at. This was the general theory, but like most papers the purpose of it was never adequately explained to a group of hyperactive teenagers, and so the meaning was lost until those who continued to pursue careers in their art-form just sort of clicked and swore under their breath upon the realization that the teachers they hated were right all along.

Scott Pilgrim Vs The World widely appeals to its intended audience IN ABUNDANCE! That cannot be said for all movies (*Cough* SuperMarioBrothersStreetFighter:TheLegendOfChun-LiSteelBatman&RobinDaredevilLauraCroft:TombRaiderSupermanIVCatwoman

BatmanForeverMortalKombatAnnihilationHowardTheDuckDoubleDragonMaxPayne *COUGH*) so the fact that it serves as a very niche movie that appeases the intended audience is applaudable. That alone is enough to warrant it a pass. The film is noticeably more entertaining amidst a crowd of people who get the movie than with a theater of mothers taking their children to see it (though it is often hilarious to watch the reactions of people who have no idea what they're seeing) and when the energy is high it's harder to notice some of the forced performances near the end when it almost feels like a public service announcement on conflict mediation and how not to be a douche-bag. Unfortunately, reviewers generally write based on personal interest and experience, which is fine so long as they clarify that and accept that their own opinion is no more than an opinion and not the definitive word. I've seen old classics, pretentious French films, and a little of everything else. Everything appeals to someone. My audience is an important thing to consider as I continue my work. I know who they are, and I am certain I do well by them. Now all I need is a way to reach them.

In regards to this blog being a record of my accomplishments, I assure you that I'm running behind on updating and I haven't been slacking off on my duties as an aspiring overlord. I have some very interesting news regarding bowling that ought to be shared, but haven't because of a long-time expired unwritten confidentiality agreement, and I have sold several copies of The Astonishing Dude on CD, but somehow this took precedence.

Pathos and good will,

Lord Veltha

Lord Veltha Vs THE SPACE CARNIES! (Preliminary Match)

It's that cosmic time in the universe when people go out in the blistering heat to eat food that is terrible for them and engage in activities that clearly served as the inspiration behind the SAW movies. Yes underlings, I'm referring of course to the Clark County Fair.

The fine individuals responsible for Scream at the Beach are slapping together a little shindig called "The Day The Fair Stood Still," which will hopefully not feature Keanu Reeves, but you never can tell what these people are thinking. This event was was discovered via Craigslist ad for aspiring alien invaders whilst on the look out for possible revenue acquiring activities to support my filthy habits. It requested that all interested parties sign up on their website for the meeting that would take place at Captain Henry's Pirate Store at the Lloyd Center Mall. It was this magical combination of aliens, pirates, gang violence and carnies that inspired me to recruit two of my closest comrades in arms to accompany me on this adventure.

The back room of the pirate store is made surprisingly dangerous by the presence of one of most ill-conceived tables ever devised by man. Most tables are built with what physicists often refer to as "legs," but the craftsmen responsible for this table decided to opt for the "cardboard on a tower of coffee cans" approach. This is the table that the kid who was only invited to your birthday party because your parents felt bad for him would sit, and naturally the table my allies and I chose to observe from.

Right off the bat they took our photographs for identification, as per state law requiring all carnies to file under the carny registration act put in place by Tony Stark for our own safety. It is then we sat at our table and watched the others enter. The group was of course made up entirely of volunteers. Some of these individuals had been going at this for four years, and I wondered how many of them were on social security. They were, without a doubt, carnies, with a few aspiring actors thrown into the mix. Our gracious host put on a laptop assisted show for us as an introduction that seemed oddly irrelevant and out of place. It was a scene straight from War of the Worlds (the radio show turned hilarious misunderstanding) with him interviewing his improvisational guests and adding pitch-shifting voice modulation to the microphone. I do not believe this was intended to set the mood for the rest of the day. I believe this was intended to get all of the awkward discomfort out of the way before we began discussing the matters at hand.

Once he began describing the haunted house/space ship/tunnel of darkness and tight spaces the afternoon grew more appealing. The haunted house will be set in "town square," where various activities will be available for fair-goers to get more acquainted with the culture of the newly arrived alien guests. These activities include computer graphic face changing to make people look more like traditional alien cliches, a theremin to learn alien music, and of course the annoying voice modulation device to learn alien language. The space ship will be billed as a friendly tour of an alien space ship, but keep in mind this party is being thrown by our good friends at Scream At The Beach, who have warned us newcomers that people occasionally show fear through their fists.

Each participant was given a list of role that needed to be filled, with key roles highlighted in red. These roles were necessary roles for the fun house, and monitoring the other activities. We were permitted the audition for any role we chose by following very vague guidelines up on stage. I had originally auditioned to be an MIB style security guard, but my interpretation of being possessed by cosmic forces garnered me a role inside the fun-house as an alien where I will be doing my darnedest to get people to relieve their bladders in fear for a $20 bonus. Given that I have landed one of the highlighted key roles I will already be receiving $20 a day for my dedication, but this will of course be going straight into the bellies and gas tanks of the henchmen I have enlisted to join me, so the only way to fund my diabolical schemes will be to cause urine to manifest in the pants of the 15,000 some odd people who will go through the haunted house.

Do the math with me: $20 X 15,000 pairs of piss-stained pants. If this plan doesn't reek of evil (and... well... excrement...) then I don't know what does.

So, if you have waaaaaaaaaaaay too much free time on your hands from August 6th to the 15th, particularly from 10am to 6pm, drink LOTS of water and come by the Clark County Fairgrounds. We'll be waiting.

Pathos and good will,

Lord Veltha

Lord Veltha REBORN!

BEHOOOOOOOOOLD! I, the infamous LORD VELTHA, having freed myself from my emo bonds have declared all out WAR upon my inhibitions and once again begin my quest for TOTAL DOMINATION with complete confidence that I, LORD VELTHA, am the rightful ruler of the thoughts, perceptions and mental fabrications of reality that make up the universe around me. My true colors have been REVEALED, and my imperial banner soars high as an indication to my foes that they are about to be severely punched in the face by the FIST of my righteous and steadfast determination to be what I was always meant to be: unfathomably AWESOME.

In my quest for ullllllllltimate DOMINANCE, I have been pursuing a part-time job to fuel my outlandish schemes, and while I have staked out many an opportunity for employment I have wisely chosen to focus my sheer tenacity upon one PRIME job location as I am a firm believer that anything worth doing is worth doing WITH THE BURNING PASSION OF A THOUSAND EXPLODING SUNS! Some may regard me as a fool for placing all of my eggs in one basket, until they realize the eggs are really HAND GRENADES of UNWAVERING CONVICTION in a basket WEAVED FROM MY ALL-CONSUMING AND DELIGHTFUL CHARM! AND! ELEGANCE! While I still have yet to receive confirmation that the fruits of my labor are juicy and rich in vitamin C, I believe there is promise that I, LORD VELTHA, will receive notification of my first ever job interview in a matter of days. Victory! Is! AT HAND! And yet even if some horrible clerical error determines I do not meet the requirements for the position, I continue to spread my web of intrigue beyond the local bus route in the firm belief that word will spread through the underground of my UNDYING DETERMINATION TO ACHIEVE and that will be enough to solidify another promising job opportunity. Eventually, store managers will be BEGGING me to fill their vacant entry-level positions.

And to any non-believers out there who believe that I have completely forsaken my ART in order to pursue these lesser goals, and to the naysayers who claim I’m demoting myself to “wage slave,” FEAR NOT, for though technology is determined to fail me at every turn it is no MATCH for the combined force of my SUPERIOR INTELLECT and DUCT TAPE! I continue to audition for amateur voice acting roles in hopes of being discovered and to gain experience while I seek information that could lead me to a profession in the field. The Astonishing Dude Episode 3 is underway, with only a few roles in need of recasting, no real promise as of yet that we’ll get the show back online, and we are once more in want of a recording space to finish one last scene and record actors that are finally free now that school is out, but we’re limping along, and we limp with PURPOSE!

Also, with my allies free from school and available to provide me with much needed camaraderie on a more frequent basis, I believe it may be time to return to writing in earnest. Writing is what I do best, but it is a lonely art. I desire to write scripts for theater, film and comics. Many of my allies sail under other banners as they seek their fortune across the horizon. As an overlord I am nothing without minions, but I WILL persevere in my endeavors.

MOST IMPORTANT is my newfound resolve to return to the ULTIMATE BATTLEFIELD! Never again will I hide in shame before succumbing to my own insecurities. I will triumph! I will succeed! I asked a girl out! I am terrified! She’s going to say, “no!” She’s going to say, “yes!” I’m going to be stood up! I’m going to unintentionally stand her up! We’re going to be having a nice time and then WHAM! Nosebleed into the sushi! I’m going to be alone forever! I’m going to be stuck with a psycho forever! I’m going to take very deep breaths in the corner until I calm the hell down!

I AM LORD VELTHA! THE WORLD IS MINE!

PATHOS! AND GOOD! WILL!

Sincerely,
Lord V. <3

PS: I still haven't discussed medication with my physician.

Lord Veltha VS Medication

Criminal insanity is a term commonly thrown around by experts to describe voluntary or involuntary aversion to social regulations while adhering to a costumed or gimmicky aesthetic. Villains are typically perceived as power hungry tyrants, those who violently seek retribution for past wrongs, or people simply lashing out for attention. For the most part my goals to conquer my world in order to prove to myself that I can places me well inside the lines of super villainy, with my beauty being one of the few attributes separating me from my counterparts. I have recently been challenged to find a male super villain from American comic literature who was physically attractive, and frankly I am at a loss as the one possible exception was created by an Englishman.

In my quest to gain control over my life I have succeeded in weening myself off of medication, a process that took several years with many side effects, believing I was trained well enough that I could take the full brunt of my emotions without having them dampened by drugs. Anti-depression/anti-anxiety medications not only reduce the impact of negativity, but positive feelings as well, finding an even balance akin to a vegetative state, particularly when doses were often increased without regard for balance. The term "chemical imbalance" is an interesting analogy that some psychologists fail to recognize. If an imbalance is caused by a lack of dopamine and/or serotonin, then naturally increasing those will eventually restore balance, but too much will throw the scale out of whack again. (Disclaimer: I have not slept in two days, so what little psychiatric understanding I have is thusly reduced. I have a better understanding of behavior and emotion because my empathy levels are higher than my scientific vocabulary, and most psychobabble sounds to me an awful lot like psychobabble. My powers are purely analytical, and as such my "understanding" of the brains physical workings should not be taken into consideration when making your own life-altering decisions.)

I have been functioning without medication for approximately two to three years, and in that time I have managed to keep myself upright with few setbacks. However, in recent months my self-regulatory ability has begun to wane. If left unattended for prolonged periods of time, I am plagued by irrational fears and daymares that not only weaken my spirit, but my body as well. Many of my fears are brought about by my conviction that no matter what I do I will never succeed in my plans to build a sustainable future for myself. The climb is steep, and my ability to grip reality is being eroded away by sharp jagged fail.

I am losing my ability to trust myself alone. I am fine so long as I am in the company of those I resonate best with, and I have not gone weeks without a good night's sleep. I know that if I met my goals, or at least felt like I was making some actual headway in achieving them, that the need for medication would be negated. It's my lack of purpose and personal fulfillment that's driving me deeper into depression. Even TAD is feeling more like a hobby than it originally did a year ago. I am a dedicated worker, and a firm believer that if something's worth doing it's worth doing to the best of my ability, yet that seems to be difficult to get across in my job applications.

It took a lot of time and effort to come off medication, and I fear that if I start taking it again I'll be attached to it for the rest of my life. There shouldn't be any downside if it works, but I don't want to be dependent on chemical substances because I enjoy who I am when I'm happy, and that degree of happiness could be an unfortunate casualty I do not wish to risk. Medication is an option, and one that will be considered further in coming weeks, but I am of the utmost certainty that there would be no need for it so long as I can re-integrate self-regulatory mental processes into my daily life again, just long enough to achieve my goals.

The three driving goals I have are:

1) Obtaining a job.

This will not only provide me with a sense of purpose, and thus a reason to continue fighting, but much needed financial assistance to acquire and maintain the other two goals.

Adversity: Poor networking, limited job supply, no "practical" work experience, though I hold fast to the fact that directing and producing TAD, even at an amateur level, is great leadership and organisational experience.

2) Owning and having the legal authority to operate a vehicle.

Reducing my reliance on public transportation and chauffeurs.

Adversity: Goal one must be met. Testing difficulties.

3) Having a palace of my very own, rather than "borrowing" one.

My evil citadel is something of a time-share at the moment.

Adversity: Goals one and two must be met. Possible need to compensate for increased income requirement by acquiring a room-mate.

It is with these things that I will achieve a state of semi-independence (As expressed in prior entries, I do not wish to be wholly self-reliant. After all, social and emotional reliance on others is essential to a healthy mind. Plus I need minions to do my bidding.) and thus establish a sense of self-confidence that is lacking at best, and ill-placed at worse. Once all three conditions have been met, it is then, and only then, that I will have the confidence to achieve my fourth goal, and the true motivation behind my desire to better myself. After all, with my living situation as it is I can be sustained for many years to come, but it is from this fourth goal that most of my pain and desire arises. This recent revelation has put much in perspective, including the possibility that even after achieving my three primary goals I may not be able to achieve my fourth.

As a stoic and mysterious master of darkness, it is not in my nature to open up about my feelings, but my need to do so has leaked out into this blog, transforming what was once a catalog of my major accomplishments to a series of angst filled declarations of my personal weakness. I should be writing things such as, "BEHOLD! I, the infamous LORD VELTHA, master of narrative, have at last achieved victory over the internet by staking claim over my own territory where I will be granting the droll and trivial masses to bask in the glow of my masterful works of triumph!" or even "After initial YouTube success, my greatest works are now being adapted for syndication by a television network enthralled by my sheer BRILLIANCE, and understand that my ingenious stories could influence future generations to stop watching all of the other bull-dookie that is currently airing on other networks and create a world of fresh and exciting art!" by now instead of this paltry, "I just want to be loved" crap.

My outlets for communication, much like my opportunities for success, are limited by my own unfathomable intellect/neurosis. They exist and can be found everywhere, yet something inside holds me back. There are things I do not openly discuss, yet are frequently pondered upon. Things that have also influenced my need to prove myself to myself, if only to prove to myself that They were wrong. Emotional invalidation is of great concern to me. There are few things I appreciate less than being heard but not felt or understood. I have reason to fear people not getting me, or worse still telling me that what I feel is wrong. I am not a trusting person, and without trusting others then no one can trust me, and thus my fourth and most important goal will never come to fruition because even with fame and fortune under my belt I will still be an asshole. I'm trying though. I am learning to show people I care.

I will continue to fight for now. I have checkpoints established in my timeline. Checkpoints do not reflect the time-limit I have to reach my goals, but operate in a fashion similar to check-points in arcade racing games. In my eternal need to convey my unparalleled perceptual superiority in a fashion the layman can understand, I turn to video game analogies.

In arcade racing games there is a set time limit for how long you are able to compete in the race. Checkpoints set up along the route from point A to point B add seconds to the timer when reached, allowing you to continue on in the hopes of crossing the finish line first. In some games, if you're very fortunate, you can still cross a checkpoint while coasting to a stop and still be awarded additional time to continue. My checkpoints are landmarks in time pertaining to events I feel are worth struggling onwards towards, often pertaining to new releases in entertainment media such as film, video games, or comic books, because experiences through art are often more relevant and achievable life experiences than those in reality. Studies show that actions or media perceived influence the brain. The same neurons in the brain are stimulated when you perform an action as when you're observing someone else performing the same action. (This is where my failure to actually save and catalog information I reference so that I can share it with others comes to bite me. The MLA gods would smite me for such frequent citation offenses.) Art works the same way. By reading Scott Pilgrim... I AM Scott Pilgrim. By playing Sonic The Hedgehog... I AM Sonic The Hedgehog. In fact, the psychology towards my absolute hatred of the werehog levels in Sonic Unleashed is an interesting subject for study. By hating the game I am playing... I am hating MYSELF. Video games are designed to provide the consumer with a sense of accomplishment. Everyone loves to level up. It keeps me going.

Returning to my analogy, if I go too long without reaching a checkpoint I can feel myself start to coast. Checkpoints must be pre-established, and if I do not set one within an acceptable amount of time I begin to succumb to depression, but can convince myself to fight on in the hope that eventually I will discover a new closer checkpoint. Gamers can relate to the sensation of panic as the timer ends mere virtual feet away from a checkpoint, and understand the pain of barely making checkpoint after checkpoint as the timer runs out time and time again, wondering whether you'll make it or if you'll get a game over. It is not a happy sensation in gaming, and it is even less so in reality when your life is on the line.

To stick with car analogies, but for non-gamers; imagine your car breaking down approximately every two minutes on your way to some place important you have to be in exactly an hour, and each time not knowing whether or not the car will start back up. Welcome to life with manic depression and anxiety!

This seems to me like an unnecessarily long post. That's saying something, you know, for me. I must make a sandwich and walk across the horizon. I cannot trust myself to remain stationary today.

Pathos and good will,

Lord Veltha