So here it is, the future of games consoles; The PS4 Pro! A marginally more improved variation on what we already own. Ta-da! Observed by world media in a dimly lite convention centre, remarked upon with mild curiosity and audible gasps of feigned indifference for Sony’s largely superfluous reveal. “Please, hold you’re applause. Oh, you are?” But wait it has sharper resolution, more intuitive and frankly convenient interface, purely for the specific accessibility of VR attachment, as well as additional functionality that eclipses the current range of PS4’s available to customers. But to me it’s just a slightly improved PS4. It’s Malibu Stacy, but with a new hat. The PS4.5 if you will. Now I maybe wrong here and this is exactly what consumers are crying out for, but it’s just nothing I’m tremendously excited for. I guess the intention is to consolidate Sony’s already impressive hardware sales with the pertinent streamlined iterations, by reducing the internal components into a more “Slim” exterior, that has been a staple of every generation of Sony consoles. And the fact that it’s an improved variation on what we already have actually makes it a more illustrious contingent, but still fundamentally floored. I just don’t get the point of it?! It’s primary existence, other than retaining further residuals from eager investors, is merely for the purpose of offering greater functionality to the currently vestigial VR auxiliary. Personally I think this has been announced two years too soon. Much of the venerated features seem like applications that gamer’s will be more likely acquainted with in the next couple of years. When more of us own VR headsets and 4k televisions.
I would still require a 4k television if I were to fully appreciate the additional implementations utilised in the PS4.5. And believe me I’d have as much luck convincing my girlfriend that a 4k television was a necessity absent from our lives as much as could entice Kat Dennings to sleep with me just by waving my penis in her face like a windmill. *Apologies to anyone offended by the rather descriptive yet vulgar analogy* I’m not saying that people shouldn’t consider buying the vaguely improved device, but besides superficial augmentation and the prospective innovation of VR there seems little point in owning one. “It’s like a PS4, but shinier” appears to be the incentive. But considering that my PS4 still works fine, I’m not sure how enticing a new hat really is?
What do you think of the PS4.5? Sorry, PS4 Pro? Let me know in the comments below. Cheers.
I’ve never really considered gaming a particular sociable affair. Sure you indulge in rare social gatherings where friends participate in virtual altercations, pursuing personal satisfaction from vanquishing you, further alienating themselves from any future invitations. But I’ve always believed it to be an activity pursued independent of friends, family or any living organism that isn’t forming on the discarded remains of the chicken korma that’s resting on you’re Call of duty t-shirt that you’ve been wearing for 4 days. I realise that this is an often exaggerated perception but one that’s still an accurate portrayal of modern gamers, even if we don’t care to admit it. Of course now at the behest of corporate oppression where complete games have been compartmentalised into episodic formats or DLC and dispensed into individual subsidise’s like toys in cereal box’s, we’re encouraged to partake in communicative activities where being “on-line” and “interaction” with other people is a necessity. Having a required router to play a game is such a nuisance to begin with. Sure most gamers have access to on-line functionality, but it isn’t always reliable. It only takes one error to completely eradicate 45 mins worth of progress. For games not to produce dedicated areas for social abstinence such as myself creates undue limitations when you’d think games would function more efficiently when offline? An absurd notion I’m sure you’ll agree, but even with uninterrupted broadband connection you’re still be left to deal with real people.
Let’s be honest, valour, chivalry and honour are reserved for the brazen and foolish when it comes to on-line allegiances, which are all scheduled around other people’s agendas. These interim comrades, most likely some irritating twerp that sleeps in a bunk bed shaped like a car will sever all association with you if it means there own self-centred hide is safe and thereby rewarded with money, experience, dancing in you’re blood or other resources. And it’s these disreputable ingrates I’m supposed to be sharing the simple pleasures of gaming with? I receive enough abuse from a moderately difficult single player game let alone a system populated by hate filled teens that apparently enjoy fornication with my mother! No, no the essence of gaming is the purity of solitary interaction. To immerse yourself in fantasy realms deprived of reality, not real people discussing what they want for dinner before they settle down to watch the Voice! Ugh, how can you pretend to imitate the role of a daring space commander if some whiny little snot nosed, mucus swigging numb-nut, is being chastised by his mother for not studying for his arithmetic exam tomorrow?! With single player campaigns you don’t necessarily have to be good, talented or even remotely competent to progress and enjoy yourself. Being on-line requires a concerted effort to master the controls, study the environments, acquire a persistent resolve to perfect every facet of your abilities, to become a functional utility in a team and ensure a fragment of success. If you have the required time to dedicate the requisite hours to succeed in on-line campaigns then I applaud you’re tenacity and misanthropic segregation. Seriously I commend you! Me, I barely have time to sneeze without my girlfriend wondering where I am.
I’m sorry, I’m a little more emotionally unsettled than I normally am. I haven’t slept very well and I’m fairly sure I’ve already written a tirade identical to this one before? I guess when it all comes down to it, when you really put things into perspective, people are annoying. Simply……annoying. That is all.
Do you prefer the pleasures of single player or the more sociable form of interaction? Let me know in the comments below. Cheers.
Pregnancy. I’d like to convey the experience with articulate nuance. To detail the natural poignancy and embellished wonderment of birth. So let me regale you with a sample of captivating excerpts that humbly expressed my inner monologue, accurately depicts my feelings at the time. Clears throat
“Ehh! It’s all gooey and sticky!
Jesus, what the hell is that?!
Blah! Look at all that faecal matter! It looks like someone’s dropped a nuclear missile into a sewage refinery!
Is that supposed to be there?
Oh god doctor, what are you doing down there?!
Ugh, it looks like that gooey testicle sack in DmC!”
Did I praise her dependable bravery. Commend her resiliency under such intense emotional strain? No the first comment I made was this: “you’re now a milf!” But of course things are never straight forward. As of writing my girlfriend has spent 5 nights induced, in labour, having a caesarean, recovering from complications caused by said caesarean and resting. Lots and lots of resting. From the excruciating pain suffered through inducement to the placenta fluid discharging like an elephants water feature, there’s been no end of fun. I kept a solitary vigil, monitoring her development through the exasperated groans of pain and listless sleep. It’s hard to be so powerless under such intense emotional scrutiny. She’s vulnerable, scared and overwhelmingly frustrated of progression evidenced in her sigh of resignation. Your sole purpose during these horrific proceedings is providing services that on the surface alleviate the negative atmosphere resonating around the entire situation. Of course there are variously assigned midwives providing supportive guidance through her enduring exertions, dispensing medication and pain relief to soothe an already troubled mind. But when more and more invasive procedures are implemented, with cannula’s, catheter’s and various other tubes and valves inserted all across her body it’s difficult not to survey your surroundings as if you’re viewing a horror movie. Like the entire event is merely a fictional representation of real events embellished and recorded for the purposes of entertainment. It all feels so surreal.
My participation in the birth was purely circumstantial, providing attentive calm as opposed to any medical assistance. It’s heartbreaking to see her in such a pain. Even worse when after 4 days of induction, labour and intense pain you discover that you’re spouse will have to undergo a caesarean section anyway. I have never been as terrified as I was in that moment, having to fake a perception of confidence to reassure my girlfriend that everything will be fine. But I scrubbed up none the less determined to be the pillar of strength she required. It’s fascinating just how jovial surgeon’s are. They act as though cutting babies from a mother’s womb is a trivial as florist arranging a bouquet for an elderly lady? My suspicion of their ability was immediately raised however when one of the many tubes inserted into my girlfriends arms were leaking, something that had escaped their attention. I can tell you now that I have never been so doubtful of someone’s capabilities to ensure very basic skills to their work. I’ll spare you the rest of the gory details and confirm that despite some minor complications my girlfriend and daughter are healthy. Though in typical fashion there were of course post operative complications where my girlfriends lungs were partially filled with fluid causing repository difficulties that resulted in constant monitoring, reliance on a ventilator and total abstinence from her new born daughter. On the whole it’s been….hmm? An experience.
But let’s not stand on ceremony and allow me to introduce our baby daughter Rose, Violet Weller.
Oh wait. Hang on….
Now before you ask we didn’t decide on the names because of a brief trip to a florist. Rose is named after Emily Rose, the voice actor of Nathan Drakes muse Elena Fisher. (Though don’t tell my girlfriend that!) And Violet was the name of my aunt who sadly passed away too soon when I was just a kid. She was an endearing influence on me and her contribution to my growth as a human being cannot be overstated. And I know she’d be proud of both Rose and my girlfriend, whom is just as important in my life along with my mother.
I realise that the long gestating period of pregnancy has become a routine subject of much ubiquity on this site, over powering a gaming site that hasn’t directly referenced games in a two week period and hopefully normal service will resume once I find an hour or two to actively engage in some game time. I just need time to settle and adjust because there’s a moment, fleeting as it is where you question yourself. Have we made the right decision? How will we cope? Will we be good parents? It’s a natural reaction, one that’s difficult to define. There’s no certainty. But when you place that wiggling little bundle in you’re girlfriends arms and watch as Rose stops whimpering and embraces her mother’s warming hug you realise that this was always the right decision.
Special thanks goes to Pembury hospital for their support, hard-work and tireless dedication to patient care.
I’ve always been sentimental and tender of heart. No, really. I once buried a dead bee and held a modest ceremony for it. Even constructing a small, ornamental cross fabricated from twigs. I nickname my Pokemon after deceased family pets. And I spend more time reflecting on memories than I do firmly concentrated on the future, a mistake I’m looking to amend. The one thing I’ve always resented though is the implication that making the most of my youth entailed drinking excessively and spending much of my weekends in states of self inflicted unconsciousness. That always seemed contrary to the utilisation of youthful vitality. I guess one could argue that gaming was a careless use of resources but let’s not argue semantics. I’m glad however that this was a lesson I’d learned at a relatively young age and maintained a group of friends equally fastidious with their drinking habits. There was only ever one reason I continued such nocturnal proclivities and that was to meet a girl. Not just any girl. I wasn’t one of those guys that would/could attract women for one night liaisons. In my romantic mind I wanted to meet a girl I could eventually settle down with. So I was doubly lucky to have met my girlfriend at such a modest age. You see in the UK the vast consumption of alcohol is a culturally accepted prelude to marriage. You’re solemnly obligated by the writ of these nocturnal transgressions as a sort of biographical heritage to adolescent infamy and stupidity. A time when you were made of magic and elastic. When the whims of sordid nonchalance can be experienced and imparted to you’re children when they eventually continue with the traditional family heritage.
It was around this time that I neglected gaming, just stopped altogether. Instead focusing on being incredibly sociable. Actually talking, conversing and laughing with real people colloquially known as “friends”. It was a strange time in my life I’ll admit. I’d get home from work, have a quick shower, get changed, if time permitted line my stomach with whatever dinner my mother had prepared and head straight to the pub. At that time of partial independence, when I could come and go as I pleased without protestations from my mother, just as long as I was respectful of the neighbours, money was an expendable commodity. I could purchase consoles without hesitation, and did! I bought a GameCube with my first pay-check with enough games and accessories to make an Asian teenager blush! Now of course I have to consider the financial implications of such frivolous activities. I didn’t spend any time playing my newly acquired utility though, oh no. I was too busy engaging in all night drinking sessions that often ended with me collapsed outside a kebab shop covered in discarded salad. Thursday through to, well Thursday was our time to drink, play pool and make terrible attempts at wooing the fairer sex, with my idea of courting attractive young ladies involved avoiding any form of contact and instead relying on the mental clairvoyance I shared with them. It wasn’t that successful.
I never had a plan, hell I never wanted one! I thought spontaneity would evoke some kind of direction in my life. That Mufasa would beseech me from the heavens and instruct me on how to proceed. And in a way I guess that’s how it was, just minus the ethereal Lion emerging from the clouds! That entire year (of being 18) was a perpetual thrift of excessive drinking, partying and headaches. It was fun, but I’m glad I got it out of my system early. I met my girlfriend when I was 19, enjoyed further evenings of alcoholic consumption, just not in the same devastating way I used to. I also reconciled with gaming, making use of my additional funds to buy any game I desired and play until my thumbs seized into entropy. And I haven’t stopped since. I look around at people my age who persist in these arcane routines when maturity should have developed, plying themselves with liqueurs while you’re walking the dogs with you’re wife and kids in the park. And you realise that gaming isn’t the most childish thing you could be doing.
What are you glad you learned early? Let me know in the comments below. Cheers.
WARNING: SPOILERS AHEAD. If you haven’t seen or plan on watching “Whiplash” then be warned I will be discussing pivotal elements of the movie. Viewer discretion is advised.
There’s something so ruefully captivating about a character whose professional volatility purposely averse their own inert human decency. An acerbic mentor with obscenities and a rigid vocabulary devised as a means of motivation for eager ears. Whose stature as a human being registers in only fleeting glances, hinged on otherwise adjunctive aggression. Essentially a cantankerous old goat deprived of emotional solidarity, mere syllables adrift of dysfunction that any moment could spark an ignition of hostility with profoundly visceral fluency. Nothing illustrates this point better than Terence Fletcher. Portrayed emphatically by J K Simmons, a role which subsequently secured him numerous accolades including an academy award- Terence Fletcher is an abusive music instructor teaching at the prestigious Shaffer Conservatory for the performing arts. A college featuring a repugnant hue of some of the most repellent, cretinous, overly ambitious and sanctimonious snobs outside of Cambridge. You follow Andrew Neiman an ambitious jazz student looking to become one of the most successful drummers in jazz. Beyond the alluring pomposity, Fletcher possess all the distinguishing characteristics that could be perceived as human, without a solitary redeeming feature nor capacity for leniency, complacency or heavens forfend mediocrity. The idea of students their mandatory tasks without severe encumbrances or challenges rankles Fletcher, as he considers pushing people beyond what is expected a necessity. He’s crass, offensive, he’s belligerent to the point of being desperate. His methodology in motivating potentially talented students is undeniably malicious particularly when compared to his faculty. He is cautiously measured in his approach to identifying an individual’s pressure points, by lulling new pupils with cordial enquiries into their background and using any sensitive or potentially traumatic events as a means of vicious encouragement. Opening loosely healed wounds with precise incisions for abrasive emotional torture, or failing that flinging chairs or musical instruments at students, berating their weight, sexual persuasions, parents separation or heritage! Unsettle the orchestral melody and prepare to receive severe slaps to your face. Yet does such resilient antipathy really encourage someone to become better?
Were you dragging or were you rushing?!
Throughout Whiplash Terrence’s vindictive prejudices against performers that are marginally out of time, or in one horrific case dismissing one student for not knowing whether he was out of time or not, is continually vindicated by him, suggesting that the next big name wouldn’t be discouraged. I personally find that hard to believe? If a talented musician is being physically and mentally abused how could you not feel…… suicidal?! The maleficence is inflicted with such intimate severity and rationalised as if his rancour was somehow a beneficial exhortation to promote pupils innate capabilities. With no thread of human decency or sincerity attributed to his guidance, such malignancy could surely only expedite hatred towards a mentor? With someone in such a position of authority it seems callous to continue such potentially dangerous practices, particularly as it eventually leads to the death of a former pupil. This tragic event sparks a rare interlude of remorse for Fletcher, with succinct glimpses of civility expressed for his departed pupil as he openly grieves for his untimely passing. He soon recedes behind the permissive and the veiled contradictions of such platitudes, now shrewdly absent when he steps back into the classroom. That brief congenial recognition for empathy reflects a man who is capable of feeling guilt, yet observes such instances as a necessary risk for musical perfection, epitomised by sublime recordings left by the deceased student, that later transpires his death was no accident, but self inflicted. With Fletcher’s aggressive tutelage the influencing architect of his demise. Is that the cost of meeting Fletcher’s standards? Yet in spite of his sneering antipathy and general contempt for human life, his methods do kind of make sense.
The folder is your fucking responsibility, Tanner. Why would you give it to Neiman? Right? You give a calculator to a fucking retard he’s gonna try to turn on a TV with it. Now get your sticks and get your ass on stage!
OK, perhaps not to the same devastating extreme, but his labouring disdain for adequacy is reflective of someone who wants the best from his pupils. Sometimes the nuanced paucity indicative of a tutors coaxial support of inherent abilities, slowly cultivating and harnessing their talents isn’t going to generate the appropriate vigour from a potential musical genius. Exposing the less talented members is not likely to yield the same effect if it’s done via the cathartic stupor evoked by general congeniality that merely mediates the necessary applications, without enforcing there importance. The coddled refrain of vapid simpering is a regressive teaching method, one you could argue will only utilise a fragment of dormant talent. How much can you really know about yourself if your not challenged? How can you improve if your mistakes are mitigated by pampered censure? Fletcher’s ruefully conducted veracity is intentionally designed to root out the weak, arresting rhythmic frailties with violent displays that are temperaments bred through frustration. The strategic dismantling of his pupils weaknesses is proficient in demeaning their confidence and is difficult to condone such an elaborate dispersal of both vocal and physical humiliation. His volatile lecturing techniques are deserving of scrutiny, which eventually leads to his dismissal, yet enforcing a stilted capacity for empathy is in essence a hostile projection of his passion. Someone of such scintillating hubris, an adamantly repugnant egocentric with a speciously conceived teaching methodology actually proves (in the end) that he was right!
And here comes mister gay pride of the Upper West Side himself. Unfortunately, this is not a Bette Midler concert, we will not be serving Cosmopolitans and Baked Alaska, so just play faster than you give fucking hand jobs, will you please?
During the movies final act, Andrew, one of Fletcher’s most vilified and tormented apprentices encounters his now dismissed mentor performing jazz at a local bar. (Having privately testified at Fletcher’s hearing to hasten his expulsion after provoking him into suffering with mental deterioration and other exertions, sought restitution penance for his abuse, which also culminated in a violent skirmish with Fletcher while on stage.) During their discursive reconciliation at the bar Fletcher, in a moment of contemplative humility asserts that he was harsh to Andrew, but only because he wanted him to excel. Fletcher then offers Andrew the chance to drum at recital Fletcher would be conducting, to which Andrew agrees. Upon arrival at the venue, seated and eager to demonstrate his musical prowess having established that he would be playing the titular song Whiplash, Fletcher, mere seconds before they are to perform reveals that he knows it was him that got him fired. And then there’s the startling realisation that he has deliberately given Andrew the wrong song sheet. He won’t be performing Whiplash, but another song he is unfamiliar with! Stuttering his way through the performance Andrew leaves the stage totally humiliated by Fletcher’s treacherous omission. Such a publicly abhorrent indignity would be suitable cause to diminish, but motivated by his mentors duplicitous scheme Andrew returns, interrupting Fletcher’s speech with an impromptu rendition of Whiplash. Though ostensibly antagonised by Andrews brazen return, Fletcher soon recognises his determination, even beginning to encourage him. At this point there is no Orchestra, no audience, no ambient distractions. Just teacher and pupil in perfect, academic harmony.
That is not your boyfriend’s dick, so don’t come too early.
There’s a knowing smile reciprocated near the end that suggests a tender parity between them, a sanctioned truce between student and teacher. That despite all that’s proceeded them they are now friends. To me I think it was an acceptance from the pupil admitting that Fletcher was right, that the gruelling teaching procedures adopted by Fletcher results in Andrew’s ultimate progression from adequate percussionist to fledgling star! Something that Andrew had desired. Was Fletcher intentionally provoking a reaction from Andrew? Or was it simply a case of revenge? Though the latter is perhaps the more compatible narrative, with Andrews stubbornness to capitulate more of a convenient outcome. But I’d like to believe the former, because at least then there is a slight yet critical distinction you can derive from Fletcher’s proponent aggressions. All I know for sure is that Fletcher is not the kind of tutor I’d want teaching me to drive at the moment!
Have you seen Whiplash? Do you think Fletcher’s harsh treatment of his students can be advocated? Let me hear your thoughts in the comments below. Cheers.
Gaming, for me at least is the exalted totality of my work day, allowing the formalities of the day to recede into remission, facilitated by a refreshing beverage and a comfortable sofa. It signifies my ascent into the vicarious assimilation into the realms that besmirch the repetitious conforming of another languid day. Essentially I love being lazy, which is mutually beneficial for a hobby such a gaming. Sure, if properly motivated I could you know, do…stuff and….things? But who has time for such laborious tasks? Who needs personal distension when you have that moment where you recline on the sofa, lifting your weighted legs and just uuggghhh……stretch. Being comfortable is the anointed edifice of the industrious gamer, but isn’t necessarily as easy as lethargy would suggest. Comfort is a very individual singularity, ordinarily necessitating numerous postural re-calculations . There’s no authoritative category that accurately defines what comfort is and gaming can be just as suggestive. Of course most people generally gravitate towards the traditional percept of sitting. Whether it’s a chair, a sofa, a bed or even a bean bag, the coordinated positioning of ones derrière is remarkably important.
Your perfunctory inertia is regulated by so many intricate estimations. It could be the ambient temperature, the overall luminous of the room, the reverberating noise from your neighbours television and not just how receptive your rear cheeks are to amenity. For those of you unaware of my own domestic residency, I currently occupy the spare room or “man cave”. Well its more like man “vestige” really, garrisoned by corrugated remnants of possessions which we have no place else to store. My seating arrangement is composed of a cushioned mattress with pronounced crescent-shaped divots and permanent ass indentations. My TV, adjusted slightly and tilted to the left to abate any environmental reflections is the primary focal point in the room. Its auspicious visibility means that whether sitting or slouched, expedient gaming is an accessible viability from almost any position (obviously not facing the wall). If your anything like me then comfort is influenced by emotive fluidity, shifting constantly from an admissible posture of geniality, to being perched in a tenable position on the very edge of the bed, to then reclined motionless wishing that I could tilt the TV 90 degrees so I can amiably play games while lying down. During the bitter autumnal months I find the duvet is a prerequisite, consolidating the errant body heat into conserving insulation. The convenience of wireless controllers also bestows further redeeming relief for my enigmatic predilections, the overtures of which are exhibited through various reclining dispositions until suitable comfort and visual awareness can be attained.
Of course food consumption is a subservient proclivity when in such a relaxed state, which invariably leads to questionable sanitation, as you brush crumbs from the matted crevices of the bed sheets. Of course comfort is temporary, mitigated by the domesticity and other logistical encumbrances. Have you ever tried explaining to your spouse that you neglected the washing up to “relax”? Yeah, it’s not generally received favourably. Now I get that some people enjoy lounging in the bathtub, soaking in bath salts and surrounded by scented candles, all in an attempt to ease those fastened muscles from the strains of the day. And this conduct is just as applicable to gaming. If you’re fidgeting, you’re not concentrating, if you’re not concentrating your losing, if your losing your me! And not at all relaxed. So sit back, lay down, stand up if you like, just get comfortable.
How do you relax when gaming? Do you have a preferred means of relaxing when gaming? Let me know.