"Noel, noel, noel, noel,
Born is the King of Israel!"
-- The First Noel
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
OMS and Airborne
It seems Muslims the world over are picking the strangest things to get upset over. When a kid names a teddy bear Muhammad (after himself, even) the Sudanese mullahs take it as an insult to their prophet. Like their god can’t take an allusion of an allusion, or they just want something to stir the masses up and make them forget, just for a while, trifling issues like economic failure, starvation, and corrupt officials who filch whatever they can.
(Watch out; one of these extremists may take offense at my use of “allusion” twice, just from what it sounds like.)
Which is why thepeoplescube.com have prepared a list of symptoms, case studies and medical data for sufferers of “Offended Muslim Syndrome” that should, if you’re mentally healthy in any way, raise a few chuckles at the very least. If you DON’T, then you’ve bigger problems than one website putting up content that riles your selfish little heart.
(Watch out; one of these extremists may take offense at my use of “allusion” twice, just from what it sounds like.)
Which is why thepeoplescube.com have prepared a list of symptoms, case studies and medical data for sufferers of “Offended Muslim Syndrome” that should, if you’re mentally healthy in any way, raise a few chuckles at the very least. If you DON’T, then you’ve bigger problems than one website putting up content that riles your selfish little heart.
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Seriously though. If anyone from the Media Development Authority or any Singaporean sees this page and calls for it to be banned, he'd be on the same level as the damned Grinch. At least he repents and returns Christmas, which I hope can be said for you. And I take no responsibility other than the fact I thought it was funny and worth sharing with anyone, Muslim or non; it’s a sad sign of the times that I must declare I mean NO disrespect to mainstream Islam or any other faith. I’ve no patience for people who see Web content and think just because it offends THEM no one in the entire country should read it. That’s selfishness at best, and thought-policing at worst.
Satire is one thing, sedition quite another. Get them straight.
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OK, so games are now in furious competition with my exams, sleep and writing stuff like this for the 24 piddling hours a day I have. Which is why when I pick a game off the shelf and pay good, hard cash (hear that, you NETS fee-hiking clowns?) for it I expect it to be worth the price stuck on the cover.
I’m sure you know the feeling: “Money well-spent” ideally shouldn’t even enter your head, but at worst you feel like marching into the developers’ office and demanding all that hard-earned money back that you traded for software worth barely more than the DVD it comes on.
So I was slaving away on my new gaming rig (Core 2 Duo E6750, Asus Striker Extreme motherboard, 3 GB RAM, Nvidia GeForce 8800 GT, blah blah—sorry, couldn’t resist) when I wondered just what titles I’d dump in when everything was up and running. Must-buys like Medal of Honor: Airborne, perhaps, or the genre-shaking Bioshock?
Okay, so my standards of a game are different from a professional reviewer’s, seeing that I actually paid for the right to do my review rather than the other way round So here are my opinions of the shooter duo. Bear in mind I’ll diverge a fair bit from other online reviews, so please don’t quote me this person or that, or tell me I’m some freak of nature if I don’t think this game or that is the very best and anyone who says otherwise is crazy or lying. I can only speak for myself, that’s all—and if I’m either crazy or lying, may lightning strike me.
That said, introducing the HONOUR system:
H – Honesty. Don’t you just hate it when deus ex machina solutions pop up from the writers’ collective minds and announce “We’re too lazy to think of something that makes more sense! Take it or leave it!” or when crucial information to a game’s storyline is left out till the writers can pull it out with a flourish? Or worst of all, if a game has plotholes you can drive an elephant, an SUV and a monster truck through, side-by-side?
Writing a good story AND sticking it in a player-action game instead of a book or movie isn’t easy by any standard. Game developers who know their storytelling and do it well, however little of it there might be, deserve our praise.
But what is it about game designers that they cannot seem to write proper endings?
O – Originality. There’s something to be said for brave new ideas that may or may not score with the gaming populace. (Think Assassin’s Creed, for instance.) Even if, say, a shooter consists of nothing more than chopping up one wave of baddies after another, what does the game do that hasn’t been done before? And was that even a good idea to start with?
Now many good games are decidedly un-original, preferring to stay on the safe side. That’s great—but at some point you have to applaud designers willing to take an untested new idea to sea.
N – N-joyment. What good’s the newest idea on the block if it’s a drag to play? Face it, a game can muck up its storytelling and just be a clone of the one before it, but so long as players care and love enough to invest those bursts of time, energy and nerve to enjoy what you’ve laid out, great. If I can have fun, I’m more or less sold—or at least I would be if games weren’t so freaking expensive.
But if only “the game sucked” and “I spent more time fighting the developers than the enemy” were good enough excuses and actually counted as technical problems.
O – Overhype. In the Mr. Men cartoon Mr. Dizzy Promises the Moon, the fat, absent-minded brown um… blob with limbs tells (human) children he will get the moon from the sky for them. Of course, he fails… and the other characters have to cut out a cardboard moon and trick him into thinking it’s the real one.
Guess what, developers—we’re smarter than those kids in the cartoon. The more expectation you build up, the more you set yourself up for a fall. It’s like which seat Jesus said you should take at a function. Would you rather be told “Sit over there at my feet” or “Friend, move up to a higher place”?
U – User-friendliness. Because we only have a limited amount of memory space and dexterity. When the control scheme requires way too much finger contortion and examination of diagrams and charts and whatnot that bloody make me feel like I’m back in school… that’s a big ouch. (A good control scheme in a hardcore flight sim, and I can forgive the back-to-school part. If and when I decide to pick one up.)
R – Revisitability. Whether it’s the Whack da Ratz mini-game in Sam and Max: The Mole, The Mob and the Meatball or fighting for Guadalcanal’s Henderson Field in Medal of Honor: Pacific Assault, the sentiment is the same: Max’s cry of “Let’s do it again and again!”
Bang for your buck, multiple times over. If a game has this intangible charm, thanks. You’ve just extended the pleasure of this normally-grumpy cynic.
That said, on to Airborne, a.k.a. The Subject Of My Narrative Studies Term Paper.
MEDAL OF HONOR: AIRBORNE
Nazis? Thompsons? M1 Garands? Shooting Thompsons and M1 Garands at Nazis? Yawn. Been there, done that. At eight years old, the Medal of Honor franchise is showing its age. So Airborne, its latest progeny, needs something to differentiate it from the glut of WW2 shooters and save it from just being a by-the-numbers Nazi kill-fest. So you’re a paratrooper. And what do paratroopers do?
They parachute. Parachutes are steerable. Bingo! someone says. Why don’t we do a game where the player drops onto the battlefield and he can literally land anywhere he wishes?
Of course, real-life paratroopers didn’t have that luxury; drop zones were littered with hazards like machine-gun nests, trees where your ‘chute could get caught and leave you at the mercy of Krauts patrolling below, and flooded canals you could (and often did) drown in. And this is where Airborne’s oddly-twisted sense of realism comes into play.
You see, Airborne isn’t a hardcore squad shooter like Brothers in Arms, nor an arcadish romp through tons and tons of Germans like the Call of Duty games. I’ve really no idea what to call a game with great and realistic-sounding weapons and breathtaking jump sequences, in the same package as invulnerability, weapon upgrades that spawn in mid-air, and guns that magically prop themselves right-way up as they fall from the cold, dead hands of their late owners. I suppose Airborne’s biggest problem is that in its attempt to cater to as many different players as possible it strengthens the gameplay with one hand and weakens it with the other.
Come on, EA! Would it kill you to write a story and characters like the Pacific Assault team did? I don’t know who was behind the mission-oriented structure of the game narrative, but apart from the blank-slate player character PFC Boyd Travers (who, for all the game’s character development, could be named Major Aladdin Muckraker the Seventh) there is ABSOLUTELY NO characterization to be found. It doesn’t help that Airborne takes what made the Medal of Honor series so historically accurate and throws it right out the window.
No historical figures. No wartime footage. No heroic Medal of Honor-worthy feats you actually had to read up to appreciate (for an example, see the level where you defend Guadalcanal’s Henderson Field with anti-aircraft guns alongside Lt. Colonel Merritt Edson in Pacific Assault.)
D-Day’s Operation Neptune wraps in just 20 minutes of game-time, Market Garden in 30. Now I don’t know about time-dilation and don’t think it was possible even in the Nazis’ most ambitious plans, but the historical record shows these battles took much, much longer than that.
And I really can’t think of anything nice to say about the game’s “affordance” AI system. Put simply, this means characters (I use ‘character’ as in non-player-character, not in the narrative sense of human-like entities in story) will seek the best place to take cover depending on player position and how the opposite side is advancing or retreating. Sounds good on paper, but clichéd as it sounds, the system in practice seems to fall apart.
For one thing, I think it’s a safe bet no paratrooper unit in real life has fought or will ever fight like this—absolutely no attempt has been made to model actual infantry tactics or adjust it in any way given changing circumstances. I was more than a little surprised when I landed on a church steeple in Njimegen during the Market Garden mission, pulled out my Springfield sniper rifle and proceeded to snipe one enemy—only to have another prop himself right where his comrade had fallen a few seconds previous.
One more thing. I’ve seen Allied paratroopers and Nazi soldiers stand ten metres apart, and instead of firing they mutually agree to a melee joust and rush at each other. Usually this results in a quick death for one of the participants when the loser could just have shot his opponent dead. How this slipped past the QA team I’ve no idea.
But… but… in spite of all its flaws and design gaffes too numerous to list here, Airborne is actually fun, immensely replayable and, in my opinion, the most worth-it game I’ve played recently (except for Crysis, which I haven’t got yet and I think is cheaper and better). I’ve no idea why. Fun is just what Airborne is.
I’d just hate to see EA making another title like this. One mindless kill-fest is enough for me; now it’s out of the way, I hope they go back to making games that actually make you think, feel and, just once in a while, cry.
You know… like Men of Valor.
(Ironically, the developers of MoV are none other than MoH: Allied Assault developers 2015. And some of its staff left to form Call of Duty creators Infinity Ward. Small world.)
H – Gas-mask, chain-gun-wielding Nazis who need whole magazines of Thompson ammo to bring down. Stupid.
Dumb, supposedly “next-generation” AI. Stupider.
Complete jettisoning of historical accuracy. Stupidest of all.
(Honesty rating: 2/10. At least it stays consistent.)
I’m sure you know the feeling: “Money well-spent” ideally shouldn’t even enter your head, but at worst you feel like marching into the developers’ office and demanding all that hard-earned money back that you traded for software worth barely more than the DVD it comes on.
So I was slaving away on my new gaming rig (Core 2 Duo E6750, Asus Striker Extreme motherboard, 3 GB RAM, Nvidia GeForce 8800 GT, blah blah—sorry, couldn’t resist) when I wondered just what titles I’d dump in when everything was up and running. Must-buys like Medal of Honor: Airborne, perhaps, or the genre-shaking Bioshock?
Okay, so my standards of a game are different from a professional reviewer’s, seeing that I actually paid for the right to do my review rather than the other way round
That said, introducing the HONOUR system:
H – Honesty. Don’t you just hate it when deus ex machina solutions pop up from the writers’ collective minds and announce “We’re too lazy to think of something that makes more sense! Take it or leave it!” or when crucial information to a game’s storyline is left out till the writers can pull it out with a flourish? Or worst of all, if a game has plotholes you can drive an elephant, an SUV and a monster truck through, side-by-side?
Writing a good story AND sticking it in a player-action game instead of a book or movie isn’t easy by any standard. Game developers who know their storytelling and do it well, however little of it there might be, deserve our praise.
But what is it about game designers that they cannot seem to write proper endings?
O – Originality. There’s something to be said for brave new ideas that may or may not score with the gaming populace. (Think Assassin’s Creed, for instance.) Even if, say, a shooter consists of nothing more than chopping up one wave of baddies after another, what does the game do that hasn’t been done before? And was that even a good idea to start with?
Now many good games are decidedly un-original, preferring to stay on the safe side. That’s great—but at some point you have to applaud designers willing to take an untested new idea to sea.
N – N-joyment. What good’s the newest idea on the block if it’s a drag to play? Face it, a game can muck up its storytelling and just be a clone of the one before it, but so long as players care and love enough to invest those bursts of time, energy and nerve to enjoy what you’ve laid out, great. If I can have fun, I’m more or less sold—or at least I would be if games weren’t so freaking expensive.
But if only “the game sucked” and “I spent more time fighting the developers than the enemy” were good enough excuses and actually counted as technical problems.
O – Overhype. In the Mr. Men cartoon Mr. Dizzy Promises the Moon, the fat, absent-minded brown um… blob with limbs tells (human) children he will get the moon from the sky for them. Of course, he fails… and the other characters have to cut out a cardboard moon and trick him into thinking it’s the real one.
Guess what, developers—we’re smarter than those kids in the cartoon. The more expectation you build up, the more you set yourself up for a fall. It’s like which seat Jesus said you should take at a function. Would you rather be told “Sit over there at my feet” or “Friend, move up to a higher place”?
U – User-friendliness. Because we only have a limited amount of memory space and dexterity. When the control scheme requires way too much finger contortion and examination of diagrams and charts and whatnot that bloody make me feel like I’m back in school… that’s a big ouch. (A good control scheme in a hardcore flight sim, and I can forgive the back-to-school part. If and when I decide to pick one up.)
R – Revisitability. Whether it’s the Whack da Ratz mini-game in Sam and Max: The Mole, The Mob and the Meatball or fighting for Guadalcanal’s Henderson Field in Medal of Honor: Pacific Assault, the sentiment is the same: Max’s cry of “Let’s do it again and again!”
Bang for your buck, multiple times over. If a game has this intangible charm, thanks. You’ve just extended the pleasure of this normally-grumpy cynic.
That said, on to Airborne, a.k.a. The Subject Of My Narrative Studies Term Paper.
MEDAL OF HONOR: AIRBORNE
Nazis? Thompsons? M1 Garands? Shooting Thompsons and M1 Garands at Nazis? Yawn. Been there, done that. At eight years old, the Medal of Honor franchise is showing its age. So Airborne, its latest progeny, needs something to differentiate it from the glut of WW2 shooters and save it from just being a by-the-numbers Nazi kill-fest. So you’re a paratrooper. And what do paratroopers do?
They parachute. Parachutes are steerable. Bingo! someone says. Why don’t we do a game where the player drops onto the battlefield and he can literally land anywhere he wishes?
Of course, real-life paratroopers didn’t have that luxury; drop zones were littered with hazards like machine-gun nests, trees where your ‘chute could get caught and leave you at the mercy of Krauts patrolling below, and flooded canals you could (and often did) drown in. And this is where Airborne’s oddly-twisted sense of realism comes into play.
You see, Airborne isn’t a hardcore squad shooter like Brothers in Arms, nor an arcadish romp through tons and tons of Germans like the Call of Duty games. I’ve really no idea what to call a game with great and realistic-sounding weapons and breathtaking jump sequences, in the same package as invulnerability, weapon upgrades that spawn in mid-air, and guns that magically prop themselves right-way up as they fall from the cold, dead hands of their late owners. I suppose Airborne’s biggest problem is that in its attempt to cater to as many different players as possible it strengthens the gameplay with one hand and weakens it with the other.
Come on, EA! Would it kill you to write a story and characters like the Pacific Assault team did? I don’t know who was behind the mission-oriented structure of the game narrative, but apart from the blank-slate player character PFC Boyd Travers (who, for all the game’s character development, could be named Major Aladdin Muckraker the Seventh) there is ABSOLUTELY NO characterization to be found. It doesn’t help that Airborne takes what made the Medal of Honor series so historically accurate and throws it right out the window.
No historical figures. No wartime footage. No heroic Medal of Honor-worthy feats you actually had to read up to appreciate (for an example, see the level where you defend Guadalcanal’s Henderson Field with anti-aircraft guns alongside Lt. Colonel Merritt Edson in Pacific Assault.)
D-Day’s Operation Neptune wraps in just 20 minutes of game-time, Market Garden in 30. Now I don’t know about time-dilation and don’t think it was possible even in the Nazis’ most ambitious plans, but the historical record shows these battles took much, much longer than that.
And I really can’t think of anything nice to say about the game’s “affordance” AI system. Put simply, this means characters (I use ‘character’ as in non-player-character, not in the narrative sense of human-like entities in story) will seek the best place to take cover depending on player position and how the opposite side is advancing or retreating. Sounds good on paper, but clichéd as it sounds, the system in practice seems to fall apart.
For one thing, I think it’s a safe bet no paratrooper unit in real life has fought or will ever fight like this—absolutely no attempt has been made to model actual infantry tactics or adjust it in any way given changing circumstances. I was more than a little surprised when I landed on a church steeple in Njimegen during the Market Garden mission, pulled out my Springfield sniper rifle and proceeded to snipe one enemy—only to have another prop himself right where his comrade had fallen a few seconds previous.
One more thing. I’ve seen Allied paratroopers and Nazi soldiers stand ten metres apart, and instead of firing they mutually agree to a melee joust and rush at each other. Usually this results in a quick death for one of the participants when the loser could just have shot his opponent dead. How this slipped past the QA team I’ve no idea.
But… but… in spite of all its flaws and design gaffes too numerous to list here, Airborne is actually fun, immensely replayable and, in my opinion, the most worth-it game I’ve played recently (except for Crysis, which I haven’t got yet and I think is cheaper and better). I’ve no idea why. Fun is just what Airborne is.
I’d just hate to see EA making another title like this. One mindless kill-fest is enough for me; now it’s out of the way, I hope they go back to making games that actually make you think, feel and, just once in a while, cry.
You know… like Men of Valor.
(Ironically, the developers of MoV are none other than MoH: Allied Assault developers 2015. And some of its staff left to form Call of Duty creators Infinity Ward. Small world.)
H – Gas-mask, chain-gun-wielding Nazis who need whole magazines of Thompson ammo to bring down. Stupid.
Dumb, supposedly “next-generation” AI. Stupider.
Complete jettisoning of historical accuracy. Stupidest of all.
(Honesty rating: 2/10. At least it stays consistent.)
O – Original land-anywhere idea that unfortunately drags the rest of the game down. Otherwise, no different from any other run-n-gun shooter. Good health system. (5/10)
N – It’s fun killing Nazis in the myriad of ways Airborne opens up for you; a Springfield headshot has never been more satisfying, nor giving the nearest Kraut a faceful of buckshot. Not too many games these days appreciate the value of a shotgun. And weapons both look and sound (unfortunately they don’t act) like the powerful beasts they are. (9/10)
O – I was led to believe the AI would actually be smart, and each level would have the corresponding historical depth the MoH series is known for. How wrong I was. Boo! (3/10)
U – Control scheme and cover system takes a little getting used to, but it works well. Excellent production values save somewhat a game crippled by poor design choices. (7/10)
R – Even after a flood of WW2 shooters I could still snipe Nazis all day. (9/10)
OVERALL RATING: 6.5 (out of 10)
OVERALL RATING: 6.5 (out of 10)
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Monday, December 03, 2007
Joyeux Noel
"I don't sing in the name of Jesus because someone said this is a marketing decision to sing about Jesus. I sing about Jesus because there's nothing greater to sing about."
-- Ray Boltz, The Concert of a Lifetime
I love Josh Groban's music--I've three of his albums, and frankly the way he does songs in Spanish or some language I don't know makes me want to hunt down a translation pronto. Whether he's handsome or not is not for me to discuss (he does look better than most, though) but the far, far more crucial matter is whether he really believes what he sings this Christmastime.
Praise of God is not something to be taken lightly, and in his latest album Noel, a collection of Christmas songs there's plenty of it. Much as I love the music I can't help but wonder at the spirituality behind these performances; with what we call "Christian" ignored by virtually the entire celebrity world today, there's no denying its celebration is one heck of a catalyst for the American and world economy.
Including artistes' performances of Christmas songs and hymns. C'mon, can a single month's spirituality override 11 of secular tunes and (in many cases) values? Do they even mean the words they record for millions of listeners every year?
For their sake, I hope so. "But to the wicked God says, 'What right have you to tell of My statutes, and to take My covenant in your mouth?'" (Psalm 50:16)
So let's have a statement of faith--if they want to put their hearts where their music is. And no artiste who refuses should ever be allowed to lead worship in a Christian church (see http://www.carm.org/questions/unbelievers_worship.htm). Worship is just too holy a thing to be left to unbelievers.
If I've time to expand this post, I will. But I'll leave it as is for now...
And have a very merry Christmas and a blessed New Year. Forget the grinches who replace it with "happy holidays" out of fear of offending the imaginary (or otherwise) demons in their politically-correct heads.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Sick f***s
Some news is just so appalling you've got to see it for yourself, particularly when both women and the Saudi courts are involved. The day the Saudis reform their judicial system may come before the Second Coming, but I'm not taking any bets.
http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,312372,00.html
http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,312372,00.html
Monday, November 12, 2007
11/11
“In their sorrow, these families need to know — and families all across our nation of the fallen — need to know that your loved ones served a cause that is good and just and noble. And as their commander in chief, I make you this promise: Their sacrifice will not be in vain.”
-- President George W. Bush
It's Veterans' Day; thank God for such men who through the years have fought against the darkness of the world to keep our freedom. I don't have to be American; just a citizen of a country that owes its prosperity and freedom from tyranny to, among other things, American blood.
And a great thank you to them. Like God has done for us, they have given what I can never repay--except to thankfully and sincerely remember their sacrifice as we enjoy the liberty it paid for.
In short, thanks be to the Lord and warriors He raises up, past, present and future.
-- President George W. Bush
It's Veterans' Day; thank God for such men who through the years have fought against the darkness of the world to keep our freedom. I don't have to be American; just a citizen of a country that owes its prosperity and freedom from tyranny to, among other things, American blood.
And a great thank you to them. Like God has done for us, they have given what I can never repay--except to thankfully and sincerely remember their sacrifice as we enjoy the liberty it paid for.
In short, thanks be to the Lord and warriors He raises up, past, present and future.
Now I know why console players laugh at us.
Putting together a new PC on our parents' dime. It still only crashes once every 5 minutes, with any one of a *censored* multitude of errors.
My Programming lecturer said we "speak" to our computers in programming language... and more often swear-words. So true :(
My Programming lecturer said we "speak" to our computers in programming language... and more often swear-words. So true :(
Friday, November 09, 2007
Church, Spartans and Odin
I had a nasty feeling in church today. Maybe it was the liturgy that grated on my nerves after a rough week—I’ve nothing against it, love it even for putting in words what my conscious mind is too lethargic to express.
But I was thinking What the hell difference does it make? until I realized even heroes of the faith thought that one way or another. Christians have been dealing with that one since the birth of the church, and it’s not a question likely to go away anytime soon.
Perhaps one day we’ll have an answer for it. Sorry if this bit sounds too melancholy, but at least God isn’t treating us as He did Job. Not yet.
But I was thinking What the hell difference does it make? until I realized even heroes of the faith thought that one way or another. Christians have been dealing with that one since the birth of the church, and it’s not a question likely to go away anytime soon.
Perhaps one day we’ll have an answer for it. Sorry if this bit sounds too melancholy, but at least God isn’t treating us as He did Job. Not yet.
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I’ll admit this—I admire Frank Miller like I’d go nuts reading Orson Scott Card, James A. Gardner or any one of quite a few writers whose names don’t immediately come to mind. After watching the movie adaptation of his comic book (sorry, graphic novel) 300 I want to run down to the library and dig out a copy of the book. The “you’ve seen the movie, now read the book!” syndrome gets me nearly every time, and I had to fight not to blow money on novelizations of Serenity or the Resident Evil flicks. (I was not tempted to buy the Doom one.)
But what’s to love about 300 the movie? Granted I’m a little late and the hype as dead as the multitude of Persians on the Hot Gates—seeing it now I can’t say I’m overwhelmed. What, exactly, has 300 got going for it that makes me want to see it again and again, till I can quote the film backwards if need be?
It’s quite impossible to understand this film without describing the key character King Leonidas (Gerard Butler) in some way; it’s kind of paradoxical for a good ruler to have such a brutal upbringing and such men to bond when in the agoge they’re encourage to battle both the harsh training and each other. Miller takes considerable liberty with his Spartans—paring their character down to pure warriors ready with shield, spear and quip, and reducing their clothing from tunics and miniskirts to underwear and capes.
Then there’s the matter of the wildly exaggerated Persians, of course… especially a seven foot-tall bejeweled Xerxes (Rodrigo Santorio)?
Violence and gore? Natch. There’s plenty of blood as heads and limbs fly—in keeping with the sepia-drenched tone of Miller’s original work, swords rip through flesh in slo-mo and the black/dark red stuff arcs through the air… but never stains the ground. There’s violence in spades as the Spartans carve up wave after wave of Persians invaders, but the film is short enough not to get overly gory or repetitive. I’ve seen bloodier movies, though.
300 is shallow, and depth can be found elsewhere; the beauty of the film is that it never requires it. Miller never intended it to be historically accurate, and it never pretends to be—but it more than makes up for that in posturing, great battle choreography, and some rah-rah lines that stay with you for the years to come.
Xerxes: “What chance do you have, when I would kill any of my own men for victory?”
Leonidas: “And I would die for any of mine.”
And like Miller was inspired to write 300 by a Cold War-era film entitled The 300 Spartans, I’m happy to say I’ve got a similar inspiration. To write about a different battle, to be sure. But there are plenty of parallels!
More soon. If and when that gets written.
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Another admission; I actually read a kids’ novel. For girls, I suspect, though it’s never confirmed as such.
I can be forgiven, can’t I? Because it’s just so darned good. “Children’s book” doesn’t do it justice—come to think of it, can anyone today seriously dismiss the Harry Potter books as “children’s literature”? And face it, university students rarely have time for anything longer than a quick, thrilling read that’s over soon enough… but for the story and language that keep singing in your head for a long time afterward.
I’m talking about Susan Price’s novel Odin’s Voice. The plot is simple enough; in a distant future where the old Norse and Greek gods are worshipped once more (don’t ask me why), the rich and “Free” are genetically modified while slavery exists again in the form of “bondership”, chillingly like how maids and other domestic servants in society today are used. It’s sort of a rich girl-poor girl plotbunny, but characters are so deep and believable you’ll forget they’re often simply plot-advancers.
(Which is not in itself a bad thing, by the way.)
But the thrill comes from the main characters, Kylie and Affie—their ascent to and fall from grace respectively, the chain of events that binds them together. It’s ascribed throughout to the “Will of Odin”—and there’s one beautiful scene where Affie is told she is loved and welcomed by the followers of Odin.
I wish the real-life followers of Jehovah did that more.
(But remember what I said about the books maybe being for girls? The sequel, Odin’s Queen, had a bright pink back cover. Martian surface, or marketing for the ladies? Oh, no.)
But hey, I’m taking something out of this kid’s book, something I haven’t from a more adult-ey book in a long time. S’too bad about the girley marketing and the impression it creates—male characters are also pretty strong and reliable thriller-calibre men.
Yes, there’s nudity and sex. Price doesn’t pretend this future world is politically-correct—but these scenes do add to the plot, and wonderfully. Just remember this isn’t a book how to govern, or to act. Please.
Thursday, November 01, 2007
There are days that go crappily.
Boy, do I feel dumb. Hate to say this, but the following does make me feel better.
Screw physics.
Screw homework.
I'm going to bed :(
Screw physics.
Screw homework.
I'm going to bed :(
Monday, October 29, 2007
Wasted ideas and the games that could have been
Several game publishers just saved me a load of money... but that's NOT a good thing. In fact as far as my gaming standards are concerned, it's downright horrible.
Ideas are a dime a dozen; some good, some cliched, some awful. At most the more original, untried and yet workable the idea, the more potential such a game would have to--you know, stand out. Be noticed. Be fun.
And then it all falls to a crashing disappointment.
Case in point: Call of Duty 4.
Don't get me wrong; I loved the original Call of Duty and the way its sheer intensity kept me hooked to the PC for hours and hours. Brutally difficult, visceral and by virtue of the fact you died a lot but still kept coming back for more, developer Infinity Ward had a winner.
Such a winner they made Call of Duty 2. Better polished, better shooter mechanics, crisper graphics. Would that make a better game, surpassing the original CoD? I naively hoped so... but on trying the demo it turned out to be another run-n-gun German kill-fest. True, there was fun to be had--but the liberties the designers took with the WW2 setting left something to be desired. We ended up buying CoD2, but only after prices went down. Fun, but our $50 could've been better spent.
Fine, I thought. Give them another chance.
Which brings me to the core idea behind Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare. Set in the contemporary War on Terror, CoD4 serves up a new story-driven campaign about American and British efforts to stop a power-mad Russian nationalist who enlists Middle Eastern terrorist factions to do his bidding. You shoot baddies up with M4 assault rifles instead of Garands, Javelin AT missiles instead of Panzershrecks.
Intriguing? Yes. Fun? Yes... for a while. As long as it takes the free demo to run.
Come on, Infinity Ward--I know you can portray the US Marines better than that--the player is supposedly a Sergeant in Force Recon, but where is his squad? Why must Lt. Vasquez personally assign troops to cover the player when squad control should be up to player action? Why does every friendly rifle have a targeting laser?
And why oh why does the Javelin go so high in top-down attack mode? (I won't even go into the player's ability to carry an unlimited number of missiles, something only possible with the cartoon concept of "Hammerspace".) Basically the design decisions in the game are so stupid it's laughable--but sadly, the only laughter will be by IW all the way to the bank. And unless something happens they will come away thinking this game succeeded and make more of the same.
I loved Call of Duty and frankly still do--in fact I wanted CoD4 to be compelling, realistic and make sense. It may be the first, but it sure isn't the second and third... and until they can show they've done research into how Force Recon works and added a player command ability I'm not showing them the money. I'm not a hardcore military nut by any standard, but I know fakery when I see it so blatantly placed in a game I want to love but can't.
Good idea, bad execution. Good point on releasing the demo, though--I now know to wait till this game lands in the bargain lot.
And don't get me started on World in Conflict; the demo of this glowingly-reviewed (and creative, I admit) RTS left an awful taste in my mouth. Even Company of Heroes featured more advanced squad mechanics and off-map support than this alternate-history game. Set during a Soviet invasion of Europe and America in 1989 and featuring a great story and whiz-bang action, the following found their way in:
-- the need to wait 10-20 seconds for artillery and airstrikes (compared to five in CoH)
-- the inability to update co-ordinates
-- the need for units to precisely line up or they won't move; a fat lot of use in a firefight
Another great idea, long on promise but short on execution. And those are, to me, the worst gaming letdowns of all :(
Next time I'll talk about cliched and in some cases unoriginal or inherently boring ideas that actually worked. You know... can you say Company of Heroes?
Ideas are a dime a dozen; some good, some cliched, some awful. At most the more original, untried and yet workable the idea, the more potential such a game would have to--you know, stand out. Be noticed. Be fun.
And then it all falls to a crashing disappointment.
Case in point: Call of Duty 4.
Don't get me wrong; I loved the original Call of Duty and the way its sheer intensity kept me hooked to the PC for hours and hours. Brutally difficult, visceral and by virtue of the fact you died a lot but still kept coming back for more, developer Infinity Ward had a winner.
Such a winner they made Call of Duty 2. Better polished, better shooter mechanics, crisper graphics. Would that make a better game, surpassing the original CoD? I naively hoped so... but on trying the demo it turned out to be another run-n-gun German kill-fest. True, there was fun to be had--but the liberties the designers took with the WW2 setting left something to be desired. We ended up buying CoD2, but only after prices went down. Fun, but our $50 could've been better spent.
Fine, I thought. Give them another chance.
Which brings me to the core idea behind Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare. Set in the contemporary War on Terror, CoD4 serves up a new story-driven campaign about American and British efforts to stop a power-mad Russian nationalist who enlists Middle Eastern terrorist factions to do his bidding. You shoot baddies up with M4 assault rifles instead of Garands, Javelin AT missiles instead of Panzershrecks.
Intriguing? Yes. Fun? Yes... for a while. As long as it takes the free demo to run.
Come on, Infinity Ward--I know you can portray the US Marines better than that--the player is supposedly a Sergeant in Force Recon, but where is his squad? Why must Lt. Vasquez personally assign troops to cover the player when squad control should be up to player action? Why does every friendly rifle have a targeting laser?
And why oh why does the Javelin go so high in top-down attack mode? (I won't even go into the player's ability to carry an unlimited number of missiles, something only possible with the cartoon concept of "Hammerspace".) Basically the design decisions in the game are so stupid it's laughable--but sadly, the only laughter will be by IW all the way to the bank. And unless something happens they will come away thinking this game succeeded and make more of the same.
I loved Call of Duty and frankly still do--in fact I wanted CoD4 to be compelling, realistic and make sense. It may be the first, but it sure isn't the second and third... and until they can show they've done research into how Force Recon works and added a player command ability I'm not showing them the money. I'm not a hardcore military nut by any standard, but I know fakery when I see it so blatantly placed in a game I want to love but can't.
Good idea, bad execution. Good point on releasing the demo, though--I now know to wait till this game lands in the bargain lot.
And don't get me started on World in Conflict; the demo of this glowingly-reviewed (and creative, I admit) RTS left an awful taste in my mouth. Even Company of Heroes featured more advanced squad mechanics and off-map support than this alternate-history game. Set during a Soviet invasion of Europe and America in 1989 and featuring a great story and whiz-bang action, the following found their way in:
-- the need to wait 10-20 seconds for artillery and airstrikes (compared to five in CoH)
-- the inability to update co-ordinates
-- the need for units to precisely line up or they won't move; a fat lot of use in a firefight
Another great idea, long on promise but short on execution. And those are, to me, the worst gaming letdowns of all :(
Next time I'll talk about cliched and in some cases unoriginal or inherently boring ideas that actually worked. You know... can you say Company of Heroes?
(One) cure for jadedness...
... is to find things to thank God for--His grace, providence, mercy and continued love for people like us.
- Clean air to breathe
- Good food and the continued ability to afford it
- Friends who actually know what lecturers and tutors are talking about
- Dare I say a soulmate?
- A cross to leave my burdens at--not very comforting at first glance, but that's the way things are
- Parents who provide love, reliable shelter, a mission field and a well-functioning home all at once
- Some One to ask the tough questions that I may not want to hear answers for right away
- And the presence of a future in His service, however uncertain, however murky it may be to me.
"Come unto Me, all you who labour and heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am meek and lowly in heart; and you shall find rest for your souls. For My yoke is easy and My burden is light."
-- Matthew 11:28-30
- Clean air to breathe
- Good food and the continued ability to afford it
- Friends who actually know what lecturers and tutors are talking about
- Dare I say a soulmate?
- A cross to leave my burdens at--not very comforting at first glance, but that's the way things are
- Parents who provide love, reliable shelter, a mission field and a well-functioning home all at once
- Some One to ask the tough questions that I may not want to hear answers for right away
- And the presence of a future in His service, however uncertain, however murky it may be to me.
"Come unto Me, all you who labour and heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am meek and lowly in heart; and you shall find rest for your souls. For My yoke is easy and My burden is light."
-- Matthew 11:28-30
Friday, October 26, 2007
Dying blogs
Sorry for letting the blog go this whole week; trying to get anything but studying done is turning into the very definition of useless :( I am working on a longer post--a mini-essay in itself--which should be up soon enough.
And ZP, this is yourself. Remember to write about wasted games.
And ZP, this is yourself. Remember to write about wasted games.
The "Peace" Prize, Net Filth, and Friends
Gimme a break. Much as he's done to improve our knowledge of environmental issues, Albert A. Gore doesn't deserve anything approaching a "peace" prize; I always thought environmental work and awareness raising belonged to another category altogether.
(Nor does social work--in my opinion, Mother Teresa shouldn't have won it either. The Peace Prize stands for just that--peaceful solutions to conflict. I admire her courage and years spent helping the poor and destitute... but "peace" simply isn't the category for her.) Check out
http://www.americanthinker.com/2007/10/the_nobel_prize_curse.html
Dictionary.com defines peace thus:
–noun
1.
the normal, nonwarring condition of a nation, group of nations, or the world.
2.
(often initial capital letter) an agreement or treaty between warring or antagonistic nations, groups, etc., to end hostilities and abstain from further fighting or antagonism: the Peace of Ryswick.
3.
a state of mutual harmony between people or groups, esp. in personal relations: Try to live in peace with your neighbors.
4.
the normal freedom from civil commotion and violence of a community; public order and security: He was arrested for being drunk and disturbing the peace.
Nowhere in that does the IPCC or Gore's work fall, nor Mother Teresa's for that matter.
(And giving 1994's to Yasser Arafat? PLEASE!)
(Nor does social work--in my opinion, Mother Teresa shouldn't have won it either. The Peace Prize stands for just that--peaceful solutions to conflict. I admire her courage and years spent helping the poor and destitute... but "peace" simply isn't the category for her.) Check out
http://www.americanthinker.com/2007/10/the_nobel_prize_curse.html
Dictionary.com defines peace thus:
–noun
1.
the normal, nonwarring condition of a nation, group of nations, or the world.
2.
(often initial capital letter) an agreement or treaty between warring or antagonistic nations, groups, etc., to end hostilities and abstain from further fighting or antagonism: the Peace of Ryswick.
3.
a state of mutual harmony between people or groups, esp. in personal relations: Try to live in peace with your neighbors.
4.
the normal freedom from civil commotion and violence of a community; public order and security: He was arrested for being drunk and disturbing the peace.
Nowhere in that does the IPCC or Gore's work fall, nor Mother Teresa's for that matter.
(And giving 1994's to Yasser Arafat? PLEASE!)
#
Aren't Internet trolls just deadly? I've never doubted the ability of a blog or forum post to smear just about anything and everything; but Korean netizens are officially now pissing me off.
Even the Straits Times ran it on the cover recently; celebrities forced into hiding (one registered for an English class only to become the victim of a rumour she was... no, I won't repeat the story here. I'm not gonna join the rumour mill.),
Another girl failed to clean up after her dog on the subway--and vitriol was all over the web the next day. And netizens actually thought they were doing the right thing smearing reputations left, right and centre!
I don't think they've simply forgotten they're referring to real human beings--their hiding behind the Internet is a sign they've forgotten any semblance of basic human decency. Find the facts first, then shoot your mouth off--though if you even want to in the first place...
Sheesh.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Eternity is a long time to be wrong
"We apologise for the victims, but only the Muslims. The infidels will go to hell anyway."
"Why would we be scared of death? Even now we are not scared to be executed. Bush and his allies, you all will go to hell but me and all my friends in the world will go to heaven."
-- Convicted Bali bomber Imam Samudra
Wanna bet?
"Why would we be scared of death? Even now we are not scared to be executed. Bush and his allies, you all will go to hell but me and all my friends in the world will go to heaven."
-- Convicted Bali bomber Imam Samudra
Wanna bet?
Monday, October 15, 2007
Dedication -- Abide With Me
Abide with me; fast falls the eventide;
the darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide.
When other helpers fail and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, O abide with me.
Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day;
earth's joys grow dim; its glories pass away;
change and decay in all around I see;
O thou who changest not, abide with me.
I need thy presence every passing hour.
What but thy grace can foil the tempter's power?
Who, like thyself, my guide and stay can be?
Through cloud and sunshine, Lord, abide with me.
I fear no foe, with thee at hand to bless;
ills have no weight, and tears not bitterness.
Where is death's sting? Where, grave, thy victory?
I triumph still, if thou abide with me.
Hold thou thy cross before my closing eyes;
shine through the gloom and point me to the skies.
Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee;
in life, in death, O Lord, abide with me.
-- Henry M. Lyte
Lyte wrote the above hymn in 1847, while dying of tuberculosis; yet he was able to see a magnificent hope many of us sadly cannot but is there nevertheless.
This magnificent hymn of hope is dedicated to my church, whom I truly, truly hope get to singing hymns like it again soon. And all who are wounded in mind, body or spirit--for our Lord is the Hope of the hopeless.
the darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide.
When other helpers fail and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, O abide with me.
Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day;
earth's joys grow dim; its glories pass away;
change and decay in all around I see;
O thou who changest not, abide with me.
I need thy presence every passing hour.
What but thy grace can foil the tempter's power?
Who, like thyself, my guide and stay can be?
Through cloud and sunshine, Lord, abide with me.
I fear no foe, with thee at hand to bless;
ills have no weight, and tears not bitterness.
Where is death's sting? Where, grave, thy victory?
I triumph still, if thou abide with me.
Hold thou thy cross before my closing eyes;
shine through the gloom and point me to the skies.
Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee;
in life, in death, O Lord, abide with me.
-- Henry M. Lyte
Lyte wrote the above hymn in 1847, while dying of tuberculosis; yet he was able to see a magnificent hope many of us sadly cannot but is there nevertheless.
This magnificent hymn of hope is dedicated to my church, whom I truly, truly hope get to singing hymns like it again soon. And all who are wounded in mind, body or spirit--for our Lord is the Hope of the hopeless.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Tolong!!!
I just finished my mid-term tests, and boy am I f***ed.
I'd say more, but I'm in crisis mode now and mugging like crazy over such esoterics as 3-D math, rotational dynamics and magnetic properties of materials.
So yeah, f***ed's the right word. (Don't go telling me I used a bad word. I know it all too well.)
I'd say more, but I'm in crisis mode now and mugging like crazy over such esoterics as 3-D math, rotational dynamics and magnetic properties of materials.
So yeah, f***ed's the right word. (Don't go telling me I used a bad word. I know it all too well.)
Monday, October 01, 2007
What a Friend We Have in Jesus
What a friend we have in Jesus, all our sins and griefs to bear!
What a privilege to carry everything to God in prayer!
O what peace we often forfeit, O what needless pain we bear,
All because we do not carry everything to God in prayer.
Have we trials and temptations? Is there trouble anywhere?
We should never be discouraged; take it to the Lord in prayer.
Can we find a friend so faithful who will all our sorrows share?
Jesus knows our every weakness; take it to the Lord in prayer.
Are we weak and heavy laden, cumbered with a load of care?
Precious Savior, still our refuge, take it to the Lord in prayer.
Do your friends despise, forsake you? Take it to the Lord in prayer!
In His arms He’ll take and shield you; you will find a solace there.
Blessed Savior, Thou hast promised Thou wilt all our burdens bear
May we ever, Lord, be bringing all to Thee in earnest prayer.
Soon in glory bright unclouded there will be no need for prayer
Rapture, praise and endless worship will be our sweet portion there.
-- Joseph M. Scriven
What a privilege to carry everything to God in prayer!
O what peace we often forfeit, O what needless pain we bear,
All because we do not carry everything to God in prayer.
Have we trials and temptations? Is there trouble anywhere?
We should never be discouraged; take it to the Lord in prayer.
Can we find a friend so faithful who will all our sorrows share?
Jesus knows our every weakness; take it to the Lord in prayer.
Are we weak and heavy laden, cumbered with a load of care?
Precious Savior, still our refuge, take it to the Lord in prayer.
Do your friends despise, forsake you? Take it to the Lord in prayer!
In His arms He’ll take and shield you; you will find a solace there.
Blessed Savior, Thou hast promised Thou wilt all our burdens bear
May we ever, Lord, be bringing all to Thee in earnest prayer.
Soon in glory bright unclouded there will be no need for prayer
Rapture, praise and endless worship will be our sweet portion there.
-- Joseph M. Scriven
An Open Letter to Christians in Allied military forces
I’m sorry, America and your coalition allies.
I’m sorry, soldiers, sailors, airmen and Marines—for not keeping you in prayer as I should have. The strain of combat and loss of life, limb or mental acuity is a burden I do not wish on anyone, and I fear my prayers for mental and physical strength, lethality and compassion may not have come in time.
But I’m pretty sure God has His own timetable, and He does not need to be asked so much as we have to approach Him.
So I urge you to claim for yourselves the missions from your commanders, the bond with your brothers in arms, and the words of the prophet Isaiah:
“Is not this the fast that I choose: to loose the bonds of wickedness, to undo the straps of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free, and to break every yoke? Is it not to share your bread with the hungry and bring the homeless poor into your house; when you see the naked, to cover him, and not to hide yourself from your own flesh? Then shall your light break forth like the dawn, and your healing shall spring up speedily; your righteousness shall go before you; the glory of the LORD shall be your rear guard. Then you shall call, and the LORD will answer; you shall cry, and he will say, 'Here I am.' If you take away the yoke from your midst, the pointing of the finger, and speaking wickedness, if you pour yourself out for the hungry and satisfy the desire of the afflicted, then shall your light rise in the darkness and your gloom be as the noonday. And the LORD will guide you continually and satisfy your desire in scorched places and make your bones strong; and you shall be like a watered garden, like a spring of water, whose waters do not fail.”
(Isaiah 58:6-11 ESV)
I know sometimes it doesn’t feel like it—fighting door-to-door against an enemy with practically infinite resupply, manpower and hate-drenched ideology, and facing opposition from politicians in Congress with little regard for the enormous sacrifices you have made in getting Iraq and Afghanistan to where they are today. Enemies appear both before and behind you, and saddened as I am at the fragmented state of the War on Terror today, I pray your chaplains, commanders and fellow fighting men remind you what makes it all worthwhile.
A line from the film Windtalkers captures it well: “They want to send us home. But so long as there’s a Hitler and a Tojo out there, we can’t go home.”
Take the advice of C. S. Lewis—fight the enemy not out of hate but love, as if they are suffering from a disease that you hope one day they will be cured of. As Sam tells Frodo in The Two Towers, the good in this world is worth fighting for, whether with gentleness and longsuffering, or force of arms. Remember you are the good guys, and act accordingly. Christ reminds us His Two Commandments still hold: Love the Lord your God with all your heart, all your strength, all your soul and all your mind—and your neighbour as yourself. Each of you must answer the young lawyer’s question: “Who is my neighbour?”
The casualty of terrorist bombing.
The wounded fellow soldier who just needs to hang on.
The civilian someone’s shot and your medical crew are fighting to save.
Or the Iraqi fighter you’ve taken prisoner, who tells you the militia are threatening to kill his family if he doesn’t kill Americans.
In all things keep your head, your mission and your faith. No matter where you yourself stand on the war, you have my gratitude and thanks for fighting it and doing your duty on behalf of freedom-loving people everywhere—like in the invasion and liberation of France, our hopes and prayers march with you. And when you return, victorious, certainly not unscathed but strengthened, I hope to join Christians of the free world in welcoming you home. No matter where you stand in the war you fight, a big thank you for doing your duty, and risking your lives so millions of others need not.
Even back in America or your home countries, safe with your families and friends, you will not be home yet—for your home, like mine, is in heaven itself. And if He sees it fit to save more of the people of Iraq and turn their hearts away from darkness… I know that will be an added blessing.
General Petraeus and Ambassador Crocker have my prayers and admiration; they stay on an arduous but splendidly-done job, despite the accusations leveled at them from a Congress determined to see the war effort fail, and terrorists like bin Laden vindicated in the process. Pray that Congress and the Democratic Party itself have spine and heart enough to show courage turned towards the well-being of America, and that God show these leaders His continued grace despite the sin that continues to plague your great nation as it does all over this fallen world.
And to the brave men and women who hold the Lord Jesus’s word in their hearts, God bless you. You have faced down the enemy with courage, honour and humility, freed Iraq and Afghanistan from the stranglehold of fear and oppression, and defend our freedoms day by day.
As a Christian and fellow-worker, I will ever be glad to count myself your brother.
I’m sorry, soldiers, sailors, airmen and Marines—for not keeping you in prayer as I should have. The strain of combat and loss of life, limb or mental acuity is a burden I do not wish on anyone, and I fear my prayers for mental and physical strength, lethality and compassion may not have come in time.
But I’m pretty sure God has His own timetable, and He does not need to be asked so much as we have to approach Him.
So I urge you to claim for yourselves the missions from your commanders, the bond with your brothers in arms, and the words of the prophet Isaiah:
“Is not this the fast that I choose: to loose the bonds of wickedness, to undo the straps of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free, and to break every yoke? Is it not to share your bread with the hungry and bring the homeless poor into your house; when you see the naked, to cover him, and not to hide yourself from your own flesh? Then shall your light break forth like the dawn, and your healing shall spring up speedily; your righteousness shall go before you; the glory of the LORD shall be your rear guard. Then you shall call, and the LORD will answer; you shall cry, and he will say, 'Here I am.' If you take away the yoke from your midst, the pointing of the finger, and speaking wickedness, if you pour yourself out for the hungry and satisfy the desire of the afflicted, then shall your light rise in the darkness and your gloom be as the noonday. And the LORD will guide you continually and satisfy your desire in scorched places and make your bones strong; and you shall be like a watered garden, like a spring of water, whose waters do not fail.”
(Isaiah 58:6-11 ESV)
I know sometimes it doesn’t feel like it—fighting door-to-door against an enemy with practically infinite resupply, manpower and hate-drenched ideology, and facing opposition from politicians in Congress with little regard for the enormous sacrifices you have made in getting Iraq and Afghanistan to where they are today. Enemies appear both before and behind you, and saddened as I am at the fragmented state of the War on Terror today, I pray your chaplains, commanders and fellow fighting men remind you what makes it all worthwhile.
A line from the film Windtalkers captures it well: “They want to send us home. But so long as there’s a Hitler and a Tojo out there, we can’t go home.”
Take the advice of C. S. Lewis—fight the enemy not out of hate but love, as if they are suffering from a disease that you hope one day they will be cured of. As Sam tells Frodo in The Two Towers, the good in this world is worth fighting for, whether with gentleness and longsuffering, or force of arms. Remember you are the good guys, and act accordingly. Christ reminds us His Two Commandments still hold: Love the Lord your God with all your heart, all your strength, all your soul and all your mind—and your neighbour as yourself. Each of you must answer the young lawyer’s question: “Who is my neighbour?”
The casualty of terrorist bombing.
The wounded fellow soldier who just needs to hang on.
The civilian someone’s shot and your medical crew are fighting to save.
Or the Iraqi fighter you’ve taken prisoner, who tells you the militia are threatening to kill his family if he doesn’t kill Americans.
In all things keep your head, your mission and your faith. No matter where you yourself stand on the war, you have my gratitude and thanks for fighting it and doing your duty on behalf of freedom-loving people everywhere—like in the invasion and liberation of France, our hopes and prayers march with you. And when you return, victorious, certainly not unscathed but strengthened, I hope to join Christians of the free world in welcoming you home. No matter where you stand in the war you fight, a big thank you for doing your duty, and risking your lives so millions of others need not.
Even back in America or your home countries, safe with your families and friends, you will not be home yet—for your home, like mine, is in heaven itself. And if He sees it fit to save more of the people of Iraq and turn their hearts away from darkness… I know that will be an added blessing.
General Petraeus and Ambassador Crocker have my prayers and admiration; they stay on an arduous but splendidly-done job, despite the accusations leveled at them from a Congress determined to see the war effort fail, and terrorists like bin Laden vindicated in the process. Pray that Congress and the Democratic Party itself have spine and heart enough to show courage turned towards the well-being of America, and that God show these leaders His continued grace despite the sin that continues to plague your great nation as it does all over this fallen world.
And to the brave men and women who hold the Lord Jesus’s word in their hearts, God bless you. You have faced down the enemy with courage, honour and humility, freed Iraq and Afghanistan from the stranglehold of fear and oppression, and defend our freedoms day by day.
As a Christian and fellow-worker, I will ever be glad to count myself your brother.
Monday, September 24, 2007
An Open Letter to Christians in Iraq
“What are we holding on to, Sam?”
“That there’s some good in this world, Mr. Frodo, and it’s worth fighting for.”
-- J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers
To the churches that are in Baghdad, Anbar, Fallujah and all in the nation of Iraq, greetings.
I ask that the Lord we all worship bless you in every way He will; keep your faith strong, your spirits high, and your hope secure, that in your country’s time of trial and tribulation you may work to bring peace, joy and stability to a region that so desperately needs it. And join me in thanking Him for every blessing in your life, every reminder that He is there, He is sovereign, and history ultimately marches toward His plan of redemption for every tribe, nation and tongue.
Over here in Singapore I fear most of us cannot empathize with your sufferings, and for this I beg your forgiveness. We will probably not know what it is like to live in fear for your life, fear of militants roaming the streets and setting up stations of death and bloodshed all through your cities and streets to take the lives of fellow image-bearers of the Lord. But in closing his epistle to the Galatians, St. Paul said we should bear one another’s burdens, and I hope in this address to you we fellow Christians may keep you in our burden of prayer and, I hope one day, brotherhood in the kingdom of God.
Before the Americans came you enjoyed a period of relative freedom from persecution by Saddam Hussein—he preferred to conduct campaigns of terror against his Shi’ite rivals and the Kurdish minority to the north. Now he is gone, but his programs of bloody hatred live on; in the al-Qaeda occupiers and Iranian Revolutionary Guard units that continue to spill the blood of American and Iraqi alike.
These terrorists, no matter what name they may go by, are the true occupiers of your land, eager to throw you under the same blanket of terror you endured under Saddam and his Ba’athist believers in Syria, but worse—sharia law as interpreted by bin Laden and his ilk, a horror to rival the persecution of our forefathers and brothers in China, Burma and elsewhere. Maybe worse—the Chinese and Burmese governments have no desire to repress faith outside their own borders, while the Islamists readily export the carnage whenever they have the chance. Have any Americans discussed this with you, in whatever times you can safely share matters of faith and politics?
And bear in mind that with Saddam’s departure, your freedom to speak of such matters is assured; under him you would never have had so much of a whisper. Now, you have freedom to choose what government you want over yourselves. This gift is America’s to you—they come not as conquerors but liberators from Saddam’s regime, and that you may create a future that tells al-Qaeda in no uncertain terms that you will join the battle against the poison of their ideology. Plus, that the God whom they reject now stands as their forgiver… but in the future as their Judge.
Don’t hold it against America either; as every nation will, one day her people will stand before His judgement seat. Contrary to the propaganda of your aspiring masters, God will not find them the Great Satan; He will most certainly not find them angelic paragons of virtue either, so many are their own errors and strengths, their lapses in moral judgement and their righteousness, their sin and rot, honour and courage.
You know; like people. We like sheep have gone astray—and even when the Shepherd calls us we do not always follow. But continue, in His strength, to love us, love one another, and love whatever is good, honourable, righteous and holy.
And extend that love to your enemies, as Jesus Himself commanded. Speaking of which, here I want to share a weapon with you; a weapon that, when wielded with faith in God and trust in His word, will go a long way in breaking down the walls of hatred that divide your people. I’m not a sociologist, but as a fellow-labourer I urge you to pray.
And I don’t just mean privately. I don’t just mean in the confines of your own church, or wherever you meet for a time of prayer that isn’t likely to draw the attention of the militant thugs to you. I want there to be a day and/or night of prayer, where thousands dedicate the future of their nation to God. Christ said as a city on a hill cannot be hidden, neither can His people pretend their actions have no consequence on the lives of others around them.
What do we have that the thugs do not, and how can we make the eternal love and value of every human life in heaven known to the average Iraqi? I’m afraid I’m going to be rather short on specifics, but I feel a prompting to suggest:
Be more visible.
We want to hear you denouncing and actively rejecting the seeds of communal discord bin Laden wants to plant among the soil of men’s hearts. Jesus used the analogy of ideas as seed, sown according to the farmer’s wishes in this soil—some of it is rock- hard and unyielding to the Word, other areas are poor soil that take it in but never let it germinate and grow into the strong plant it was meant to be. Still others let it grow into a nourishing tree.
(I’d like to add another category. Some take poisons deep within the soil, and with the evil one’s help infect the seed and corrupt it into growing thorns and strangler figs. An eyesore and a deadly hazard to any plant nearby.)
I am sure the call is clear; resist and help expose the strangler figs for what they are. Rather than throwing out the American “conquerors” they have only shown their desire to rule over you, no matter how much innocent blood they must shed in the meantime. One of the things the Lord hates is “feet quick to take innocent blood”. Are these, you people of Iraq, the kind of rulers you want?
Still upon the subject of prayer, why not hold a rally? You have seen the Islamists do this, loudly roaming the streets and chanting against the Americans under the charms of clerics like Moqtada al-Sadr. Men like him know they have magnetism, visibility and all the trappings of charisma—and they use this power for destruction of their fellow Iraqis. How much more can these qualities do, when wielded for the side of good? Show them we have a Lord who was dead and is alive again, and who stands ready to forgive rather than judge? “I tell you the truth,” He told the thief hanging beside Him on the cross, “today you will be with me in Paradise.”
(The Islamists are frankly like the other thief, who see salvation in plain sight but still insult—worse, reject—it.)
Book a stadium, or an aid station—anywhere you can gather in numbers enough to send the message of a united front—and launch into a time of corporate prayer for your country. Have your pastors meet, commiserate, and share plans to reach out to the needy, the weak, and yes—the enemy. It doesn’t matter how small a percentage of population you make up, for God can work mightily with one man or a thousand, so long as your lives are consecrated to Him. Learn from great revivals of the past, like Ireland in the 1920s or Cali, Columbia in the nineties—when His people unite, God can and has accomplished great things even in a world as sin-darkened as this. Iraq will do His will; but remember He is a merciful God above a vengeful one, and takes no pleasure in the death of the wicked. “If my people,” he promises, “who are called by my name humble themselves, and pray and seek my face and turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven and will forgive their sin and heal their land.” (2 Chronicles 7:14)
Do not fear the extremists, or anyone who can only harm the body but do nothing to the soul. Easier said than done, but God has placed His angels where we least expect them—and for your pain and loss I will grieve with you. Why He did not prevent these disasters I have no answer but this--that their sacrifice will not have been in vain if your country can, with His blessing and aid, maintain the freedom so much has been given for.
And I can point you to the words of Christ Himself, who says it all better than I can:
“Fear none of those things which thou shalt suffer: behold, the devil shall cast some of you into prison, that ye may be tried; and ye shall have tribulation ten days; be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life.”
(Revelation 2:10, KJV)
“That there’s some good in this world, Mr. Frodo, and it’s worth fighting for.”
-- J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers
To the churches that are in Baghdad, Anbar, Fallujah and all in the nation of Iraq, greetings.
I ask that the Lord we all worship bless you in every way He will; keep your faith strong, your spirits high, and your hope secure, that in your country’s time of trial and tribulation you may work to bring peace, joy and stability to a region that so desperately needs it. And join me in thanking Him for every blessing in your life, every reminder that He is there, He is sovereign, and history ultimately marches toward His plan of redemption for every tribe, nation and tongue.
Over here in Singapore I fear most of us cannot empathize with your sufferings, and for this I beg your forgiveness. We will probably not know what it is like to live in fear for your life, fear of militants roaming the streets and setting up stations of death and bloodshed all through your cities and streets to take the lives of fellow image-bearers of the Lord. But in closing his epistle to the Galatians, St. Paul said we should bear one another’s burdens, and I hope in this address to you we fellow Christians may keep you in our burden of prayer and, I hope one day, brotherhood in the kingdom of God.
Before the Americans came you enjoyed a period of relative freedom from persecution by Saddam Hussein—he preferred to conduct campaigns of terror against his Shi’ite rivals and the Kurdish minority to the north. Now he is gone, but his programs of bloody hatred live on; in the al-Qaeda occupiers and Iranian Revolutionary Guard units that continue to spill the blood of American and Iraqi alike.
These terrorists, no matter what name they may go by, are the true occupiers of your land, eager to throw you under the same blanket of terror you endured under Saddam and his Ba’athist believers in Syria, but worse—sharia law as interpreted by bin Laden and his ilk, a horror to rival the persecution of our forefathers and brothers in China, Burma and elsewhere. Maybe worse—the Chinese and Burmese governments have no desire to repress faith outside their own borders, while the Islamists readily export the carnage whenever they have the chance. Have any Americans discussed this with you, in whatever times you can safely share matters of faith and politics?
And bear in mind that with Saddam’s departure, your freedom to speak of such matters is assured; under him you would never have had so much of a whisper. Now, you have freedom to choose what government you want over yourselves. This gift is America’s to you—they come not as conquerors but liberators from Saddam’s regime, and that you may create a future that tells al-Qaeda in no uncertain terms that you will join the battle against the poison of their ideology. Plus, that the God whom they reject now stands as their forgiver… but in the future as their Judge.
Don’t hold it against America either; as every nation will, one day her people will stand before His judgement seat. Contrary to the propaganda of your aspiring masters, God will not find them the Great Satan; He will most certainly not find them angelic paragons of virtue either, so many are their own errors and strengths, their lapses in moral judgement and their righteousness, their sin and rot, honour and courage.
You know; like people. We like sheep have gone astray—and even when the Shepherd calls us we do not always follow. But continue, in His strength, to love us, love one another, and love whatever is good, honourable, righteous and holy.
And extend that love to your enemies, as Jesus Himself commanded. Speaking of which, here I want to share a weapon with you; a weapon that, when wielded with faith in God and trust in His word, will go a long way in breaking down the walls of hatred that divide your people. I’m not a sociologist, but as a fellow-labourer I urge you to pray.
And I don’t just mean privately. I don’t just mean in the confines of your own church, or wherever you meet for a time of prayer that isn’t likely to draw the attention of the militant thugs to you. I want there to be a day and/or night of prayer, where thousands dedicate the future of their nation to God. Christ said as a city on a hill cannot be hidden, neither can His people pretend their actions have no consequence on the lives of others around them.
What do we have that the thugs do not, and how can we make the eternal love and value of every human life in heaven known to the average Iraqi? I’m afraid I’m going to be rather short on specifics, but I feel a prompting to suggest:
Be more visible.
We want to hear you denouncing and actively rejecting the seeds of communal discord bin Laden wants to plant among the soil of men’s hearts. Jesus used the analogy of ideas as seed, sown according to the farmer’s wishes in this soil—some of it is rock- hard and unyielding to the Word, other areas are poor soil that take it in but never let it germinate and grow into the strong plant it was meant to be. Still others let it grow into a nourishing tree.
(I’d like to add another category. Some take poisons deep within the soil, and with the evil one’s help infect the seed and corrupt it into growing thorns and strangler figs. An eyesore and a deadly hazard to any plant nearby.)
I am sure the call is clear; resist and help expose the strangler figs for what they are. Rather than throwing out the American “conquerors” they have only shown their desire to rule over you, no matter how much innocent blood they must shed in the meantime. One of the things the Lord hates is “feet quick to take innocent blood”. Are these, you people of Iraq, the kind of rulers you want?
Still upon the subject of prayer, why not hold a rally? You have seen the Islamists do this, loudly roaming the streets and chanting against the Americans under the charms of clerics like Moqtada al-Sadr. Men like him know they have magnetism, visibility and all the trappings of charisma—and they use this power for destruction of their fellow Iraqis. How much more can these qualities do, when wielded for the side of good? Show them we have a Lord who was dead and is alive again, and who stands ready to forgive rather than judge? “I tell you the truth,” He told the thief hanging beside Him on the cross, “today you will be with me in Paradise.”
(The Islamists are frankly like the other thief, who see salvation in plain sight but still insult—worse, reject—it.)
Book a stadium, or an aid station—anywhere you can gather in numbers enough to send the message of a united front—and launch into a time of corporate prayer for your country. Have your pastors meet, commiserate, and share plans to reach out to the needy, the weak, and yes—the enemy. It doesn’t matter how small a percentage of population you make up, for God can work mightily with one man or a thousand, so long as your lives are consecrated to Him. Learn from great revivals of the past, like Ireland in the 1920s or Cali, Columbia in the nineties—when His people unite, God can and has accomplished great things even in a world as sin-darkened as this. Iraq will do His will; but remember He is a merciful God above a vengeful one, and takes no pleasure in the death of the wicked. “If my people,” he promises, “who are called by my name humble themselves, and pray and seek my face and turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven and will forgive their sin and heal their land.” (2 Chronicles 7:14)
Do not fear the extremists, or anyone who can only harm the body but do nothing to the soul. Easier said than done, but God has placed His angels where we least expect them—and for your pain and loss I will grieve with you. Why He did not prevent these disasters I have no answer but this--that their sacrifice will not have been in vain if your country can, with His blessing and aid, maintain the freedom so much has been given for.
And I can point you to the words of Christ Himself, who says it all better than I can:
“Fear none of those things which thou shalt suffer: behold, the devil shall cast some of you into prison, that ye may be tried; and ye shall have tribulation ten days; be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life.”
(Revelation 2:10, KJV)
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Huxley, faith and Super Kim
There are people who take Christianity on faith--I do too, but I must admit in a twisted Huxleyan way.
Let me tell you a little about Aldous Huxley. He's well known as the writer of Brave New World, the faux-utopia story about genetic engineering and eugenics that was so far ahead of its time, Singapore was cited as a GE centre way back when it was written in 1932.
But I digress. Huxley fired questions at evolutionary theory, attacking it with every problem he could find; not because he disagreed with it, but that he so desperately wanted it to be true.
I can't help doing the same with Christian belief. In university life, stuff happens--I'd use the cruder version, but I've used my bad word quota for the day. Now if only I had some inkling of the "peace of God, which passes all understanding." Sigh...
(Yeah, I'm not alone. The prophet Jeremiah felt the same way--in far, far worse circumstances.)
In keeping with the melancholy atmosphere, here's a video that's funny, telling, and sad. All at the same time.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fiJRcLtsuq4
Let me tell you a little about Aldous Huxley. He's well known as the writer of Brave New World, the faux-utopia story about genetic engineering and eugenics that was so far ahead of its time, Singapore was cited as a GE centre way back when it was written in 1932.
But I digress. Huxley fired questions at evolutionary theory, attacking it with every problem he could find; not because he disagreed with it, but that he so desperately wanted it to be true.
I can't help doing the same with Christian belief. In university life, stuff happens--I'd use the cruder version, but I've used my bad word quota for the day. Now if only I had some inkling of the "peace of God, which passes all understanding." Sigh...
(Yeah, I'm not alone. The prophet Jeremiah felt the same way--in far, far worse circumstances.)
#
In keeping with the melancholy atmosphere, here's a video that's funny, telling, and sad. All at the same time.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fiJRcLtsuq4
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
bin Laden on our beliefs
So bin Laden suggests we (as in anyone who doesn't embrace his murderous interpretation of Islam) convert and lay down our beliefs. In the Christian faith or any other, and the system of democracy.
I've four immortal words for him: COME AND TAKE THEM.
I've four immortal words for him: COME AND TAKE THEM.
Sunday, September 09, 2007
It feels so empty...
... to be praying for discipline, surfing the Net, and sitting in a Maths lecture all at the same time :(
I'm still so bummed.
I'm still so bummed.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Great writing and a not-so-great parade
I usually get my books at the library; no more bookstores for me, my house is so packed. But every now and then I allow myself to pick up a book—it’s my money, after all.
Some books I buy because the library doesn’t have them and I simply must read them, the subject matter is so pressing. Others… well, I may not care that much for the subject matter, but the book could be so darned good, I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t own a copy. A copy to read and enjoy over and over again—the real thing, be it fiction or non-fiction, that I can repeatedly devour. C. S. Lewis was able to read and reread his favourite books and still find something new each time; and in the last such book I bought I’m finding the very same thing. (This doesn’t happen as often as I’d like. I wish it does, so the compulsion for new books won’t be so darned strong.)
It’s… drumroll… Orson Scott Card’s Ender’s Game.
Sure, Game may be old as heck, Card having written it in longhand during the days before computers… but like the great works of science fiction, the story of Andrew “Ender” Wiggin and his destiny is timeless, never losing relevance (or readability!) in the 30 years since its copyright year of 1977.
(For an example of science fiction becoming embarrassingly dated, check out the film version of Arthur C. Clarke’s 2001: A Space Odyssey. Nice show, but for the magnetic tapes drives that are so 1970s.)
A gamer like me might compare it to oldies-but-greaties we remember only with fondness as hardware and realism march on—the X-wings, the Red Alerts, and the King’s Quests we knew, loved and painfully moved on from as Windows 95 and the days of the 256-colour, 640x480 display faded into the past. Ender’s Game is like such a treasure of gaming—but a printed book can last far, far longer than a computer program’s technical requirements.
Game is a bildungsroman at its heart, a story with the oft-used (I dare say clichéd) plot of the childhood and education of a hero. A hero who grows up in a hard life (Harry Potter’s Dursley guardians, Ender’s cruel brother, etc.), is whisked away to military academy or wherever heroes of speculative fiction learn to be Supreme Commanders or wizards… and eventually, after (insert Many, Many Trials here) defeats the bad guys and Saves The World.
Don’t laugh. This very plot shot J. K. Rowling to fame, and a well-deserved billion-dollar fortune.
But even before Harry came onto the scene, Ender Wiggin was occupying one controversial place on bookshelves and minds. It’s set in a future where mankind has been invaded by vicious insectoid aliens twice before, and were only able to survive thanks to the presence of a brilliant military commander in charge of one of its fleets. Now the next generation must fight off an impending Third Invasion—due to relativistic effects, humanity has almost a century to develop new war machines, prepare new commanders. Enter a family with three children so insightful into human behaviour they catch the eye of instructors at the Battle School. The first prodigy, Peter, is deemed too cruel, the second, Valentine, too empathetic. The youngest, Ender, is deemed “just right”… and by the time he’s done with training, we’ve followed him on his bloodstained, tortured path to military command. This is as spoiler-free a summary as I can give—if you’ve already read it, by all means know how inadequate it is. If you haven’t, do yourself a favour.
Read this book. I did; in three hours the very evening I borrowed it from the NUS library. I went and bought the co-op bookstore’s last copy… then lingered. Should I burn another 10 bucks and three hours on its companion novel, Ender’s Shadow?
But I had my module exam to worry about… and walked away. Sigh. Bye, Ender… for now.
Like Harry Potter, Ender Wiggin will likely outlive his creator by decades. Sure, he didn’t make Card into a billionaire… but then he doesn’t have to. “Think of it,” Card urges in his introduction, “not as something I wrote, but as something you and I made together.”
#
Card didn’t begin there, and he didn’t stop there, either. Seems fitting the first book of his I read was Empire, his latest novel. From the far future to seemingly less than a decade from now, from Command School on Eros to an America divided along partisan lines.
And from good story to disappointment.
Don’t get me wrong—I’ve read and mostly agree with Card’s essays on the War on Terror and numerous other issues that go deeper into the American psyche than many are comfortable with, but frankly I’ve spent more time blown away by his writing than ever before. Apparently they’re archived online after appearing in print in his city’s free newspaper The Rhinoceros Times (a rough analogue would be our Today or Epoch Times).
Card has ability, intelligence and courage, a rare combination I’m still fumbling to develop.
Which was why I so desperately wanted to find a good political thriller on these very themes after the book’s awful, totally irrelevant front cover. It has to be seen to be believed—it won my family’s Chris Ryan Award for Poor Cover Design (named for the SAS man’s novel Stand By, Stand By which had a picture of jumping paratroopers on its front cover. No such jump occurs anywhere in the novel.)
Ahem… back to Empire. The cover boasts a scene worthy of Harry Turtledove, the famed alternate-history writer—futuristic tanks and attack helicopters firing laser weapons, infantry wearing World War II-era uniforms, the US Capitol building in the background.
Nonsense! And I mean it. In the worst of Chris Ryan cover tradition, no such battle occurs in the book.
What does occur in Empire, though, starts off pretty promisingly—after a successful assignment in an unnamed Middle Eastern country, US Army Captain Reuben Malich is promoted to Major and assigned to carry out a study detailing how terrorists might possibly attack the White House. Along the way he’s sent to Princeton University and put in a history programme under a professor with an odd obsession: the fall of the Roman republic and its transformation into an empire. Soon the attack Malich predicted does take place, killing the President and throwing America into a new civil war between red and blue.
And then it all falls apart—the story, not the American republic. It’s a little sad when the most you remember are devices that strain credibility, machines so bizarre they’d be more at home in a spoof than alternate history, future SF or otherwise, and so many weird plot twists I had to double-check the name on the cover. (Said machines are only one-time obstacles for the heroes through the whole novel, by the way.) Surely this poor excuse for a thriller wasn’t by the short-story writer, essayist and playwright I admired so much?
It was. Inside, though, only the first chapter and the concluding essay that ends the book actually sound like they were written by an Orson Scott Card. Everything in between looks put together by someone who can’t plot, throws weird new technologies in simply because they Look Cool… and has no idea how they would fit into the story.
In short, someone who doesn’t know how to write a thriller. More than once I was tempted to give up reading, but I pressed on in the hope of finding explanations that never came.
So, Mr. Card, I’ll have to take you in for self-libel; writing a book masquerading as a fast-paced, Tom Clancy-esque work. Empire isn’t the worst book I’ve read, but I think the author of the best book I’ve read could’ve done much, much better.
Just a quick note: my admiration for Card has not been dented—I followed his essays for a year before picking up Empire. I only discovered Card’s full storytelling power when I read Ender’s Game… which explains which one I eventually bought.
Please, let the next Card thriller be worthy of him. Oh please oh please oh please…
#
My school library has a book on Card’s work up to 2003—Edith S. Tyson’s Orson Scott Card: Writer of the Terrible Choice. It largely dwells on his series work (Homecoming, the Ender and Shadow books, and the alluring Alvin Maker fantasy books) but points out gems from among his short fiction. Tyson does a great job of conveying Card’s life and its influence on his writing… but no information appears in the book that can’t be gleaned from reading Card himself or the website he maintains.
Except, of course, his poem O Hurried Guest, about the birth and almost immediate death of their youngest daughter. By the end I was ready to give it the title of First Poem to Make Me Cry.
Still, Writer makes fascinating reading—we get glimpses into Card’s early life and works we normally would never be able to relate to. When I borrowed his collection The Folk of the Fringe, I never managed to “get” the stories of Mormon pioneers migrating across a nuclear-devastated future America. I’m sure thankful for Tyson’s very concise (and spoiler-free) summaries.
I’ve barely nicked the surface of Card’s impressive body of work. I can’t say much for some of his books in my opinion, or his theology in my faith, but he’s a great guy, and I plan on reading him for many years to come.
#
So our nation is one year older, and (we hope) one year wiser. I won’t go into more detail why the operative word is “hope” but if this year’s National Day Parade is any indication…
Our first NDP-on-a-surfboard is a pretty nifty touch if a tad unnecessary in my opinion, but sadly nothing rivals the main character for sheer un-necessity. He makes the whole floating platform look nothing short of critical as he skates about in his fish costume and spouting weird, New-Agey lines about unity with Ground, Sky, Water and I forget what… lines that would make a primary school kid cringe and even a New Age practitioner go “purify” himself after listening to this travesty.
Sure the entire proceeding would have been better off without the fish entirely, but the actor playing him does an okay—sometimes even spirited—job despite all the awful nonsense he’s forced to say. The very fact somebody OK’d the script is truly, truly troubling, and I don’t really have the time to try and figure it out… and I’m not even sure I want to. Enough trouble already exists in my world without that adding to it.
To sum up this NDP had plenty of effort going into it, but the end result, sadly, felt like yesterday’s news even before it was over. Except perhaps the ministers putting on the Singa caps in the parade goodie bag—very kewt!
#
I’ll end with another oldie-but-goodie: Lawrence Block’s writing guide Telling Lies for Fun and Profit: a How-to Guide for Fiction Writers. For concise, candid yet empathetic answers to every question I’ve ever seen written about (and then some) Block has no equal.
Never mind I only read one other book of his, a Matthew Scudder novel I never finished.
Because the bad guy got away.
But TLfF&P lays out some of the most unpleasant truths (and not-so-unpleasant ones) in the writing life. Now if I ever find a bookstore that carries it…
Some books I buy because the library doesn’t have them and I simply must read them, the subject matter is so pressing. Others… well, I may not care that much for the subject matter, but the book could be so darned good, I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t own a copy. A copy to read and enjoy over and over again—the real thing, be it fiction or non-fiction, that I can repeatedly devour. C. S. Lewis was able to read and reread his favourite books and still find something new each time; and in the last such book I bought I’m finding the very same thing. (This doesn’t happen as often as I’d like. I wish it does, so the compulsion for new books won’t be so darned strong.)
It’s… drumroll… Orson Scott Card’s Ender’s Game.
Sure, Game may be old as heck, Card having written it in longhand during the days before computers… but like the great works of science fiction, the story of Andrew “Ender” Wiggin and his destiny is timeless, never losing relevance (or readability!) in the 30 years since its copyright year of 1977.
(For an example of science fiction becoming embarrassingly dated, check out the film version of Arthur C. Clarke’s 2001: A Space Odyssey. Nice show, but for the magnetic tapes drives that are so 1970s.)
A gamer like me might compare it to oldies-but-greaties we remember only with fondness as hardware and realism march on—the X-wings, the Red Alerts, and the King’s Quests we knew, loved and painfully moved on from as Windows 95 and the days of the 256-colour, 640x480 display faded into the past. Ender’s Game is like such a treasure of gaming—but a printed book can last far, far longer than a computer program’s technical requirements.
Game is a bildungsroman at its heart, a story with the oft-used (I dare say clichéd) plot of the childhood and education of a hero. A hero who grows up in a hard life (Harry Potter’s Dursley guardians, Ender’s cruel brother, etc.), is whisked away to military academy or wherever heroes of speculative fiction learn to be Supreme Commanders or wizards… and eventually, after (insert Many, Many Trials here) defeats the bad guys and Saves The World.
Don’t laugh. This very plot shot J. K. Rowling to fame, and a well-deserved billion-dollar fortune.
But even before Harry came onto the scene, Ender Wiggin was occupying one controversial place on bookshelves and minds. It’s set in a future where mankind has been invaded by vicious insectoid aliens twice before, and were only able to survive thanks to the presence of a brilliant military commander in charge of one of its fleets. Now the next generation must fight off an impending Third Invasion—due to relativistic effects, humanity has almost a century to develop new war machines, prepare new commanders. Enter a family with three children so insightful into human behaviour they catch the eye of instructors at the Battle School. The first prodigy, Peter, is deemed too cruel, the second, Valentine, too empathetic. The youngest, Ender, is deemed “just right”… and by the time he’s done with training, we’ve followed him on his bloodstained, tortured path to military command. This is as spoiler-free a summary as I can give—if you’ve already read it, by all means know how inadequate it is. If you haven’t, do yourself a favour.
Read this book. I did; in three hours the very evening I borrowed it from the NUS library. I went and bought the co-op bookstore’s last copy… then lingered. Should I burn another 10 bucks and three hours on its companion novel, Ender’s Shadow?
But I had my module exam to worry about… and walked away. Sigh. Bye, Ender… for now.
Like Harry Potter, Ender Wiggin will likely outlive his creator by decades. Sure, he didn’t make Card into a billionaire… but then he doesn’t have to. “Think of it,” Card urges in his introduction, “not as something I wrote, but as something you and I made together.”
#
And from good story to disappointment.
Don’t get me wrong—I’ve read and mostly agree with Card’s essays on the War on Terror and numerous other issues that go deeper into the American psyche than many are comfortable with, but frankly I’ve spent more time blown away by his writing than ever before. Apparently they’re archived online after appearing in print in his city’s free newspaper The Rhinoceros Times (a rough analogue would be our Today or Epoch Times).
Card has ability, intelligence and courage, a rare combination I’m still fumbling to develop.
Which was why I so desperately wanted to find a good political thriller on these very themes after the book’s awful, totally irrelevant front cover. It has to be seen to be believed—it won my family’s Chris Ryan Award for Poor Cover Design (named for the SAS man’s novel Stand By, Stand By which had a picture of jumping paratroopers on its front cover. No such jump occurs anywhere in the novel.)
Ahem… back to Empire. The cover boasts a scene worthy of Harry Turtledove, the famed alternate-history writer—futuristic tanks and attack helicopters firing laser weapons, infantry wearing World War II-era uniforms, the US Capitol building in the background.
Nonsense! And I mean it. In the worst of Chris Ryan cover tradition, no such battle occurs in the book.
What does occur in Empire, though, starts off pretty promisingly—after a successful assignment in an unnamed Middle Eastern country, US Army Captain Reuben Malich is promoted to Major and assigned to carry out a study detailing how terrorists might possibly attack the White House. Along the way he’s sent to Princeton University and put in a history programme under a professor with an odd obsession: the fall of the Roman republic and its transformation into an empire. Soon the attack Malich predicted does take place, killing the President and throwing America into a new civil war between red and blue.
And then it all falls apart—the story, not the American republic. It’s a little sad when the most you remember are devices that strain credibility, machines so bizarre they’d be more at home in a spoof than alternate history, future SF or otherwise, and so many weird plot twists I had to double-check the name on the cover. (Said machines are only one-time obstacles for the heroes through the whole novel, by the way.) Surely this poor excuse for a thriller wasn’t by the short-story writer, essayist and playwright I admired so much?
It was. Inside, though, only the first chapter and the concluding essay that ends the book actually sound like they were written by an Orson Scott Card. Everything in between looks put together by someone who can’t plot, throws weird new technologies in simply because they Look Cool… and has no idea how they would fit into the story.
In short, someone who doesn’t know how to write a thriller. More than once I was tempted to give up reading, but I pressed on in the hope of finding explanations that never came.
So, Mr. Card, I’ll have to take you in for self-libel; writing a book masquerading as a fast-paced, Tom Clancy-esque work. Empire isn’t the worst book I’ve read, but I think the author of the best book I’ve read could’ve done much, much better.
Just a quick note: my admiration for Card has not been dented—I followed his essays for a year before picking up Empire. I only discovered Card’s full storytelling power when I read Ender’s Game… which explains which one I eventually bought.
Please, let the next Card thriller be worthy of him. Oh please oh please oh please…
#
My school library has a book on Card’s work up to 2003—Edith S. Tyson’s Orson Scott Card: Writer of the Terrible Choice. It largely dwells on his series work (Homecoming, the Ender and Shadow books, and the alluring Alvin Maker fantasy books) but points out gems from among his short fiction. Tyson does a great job of conveying Card’s life and its influence on his writing… but no information appears in the book that can’t be gleaned from reading Card himself or the website he maintains.
Except, of course, his poem O Hurried Guest, about the birth and almost immediate death of their youngest daughter. By the end I was ready to give it the title of First Poem to Make Me Cry.
Still, Writer makes fascinating reading—we get glimpses into Card’s early life and works we normally would never be able to relate to. When I borrowed his collection The Folk of the Fringe, I never managed to “get” the stories of Mormon pioneers migrating across a nuclear-devastated future America. I’m sure thankful for Tyson’s very concise (and spoiler-free) summaries.
I’ve barely nicked the surface of Card’s impressive body of work. I can’t say much for some of his books in my opinion, or his theology in my faith, but he’s a great guy, and I plan on reading him for many years to come.
#
So our nation is one year older, and (we hope) one year wiser. I won’t go into more detail why the operative word is “hope” but if this year’s National Day Parade is any indication…
Our first NDP-on-a-surfboard is a pretty nifty touch if a tad unnecessary in my opinion, but sadly nothing rivals the main character for sheer un-necessity. He makes the whole floating platform look nothing short of critical as he skates about in his fish costume and spouting weird, New-Agey lines about unity with Ground, Sky, Water and I forget what… lines that would make a primary school kid cringe and even a New Age practitioner go “purify” himself after listening to this travesty.
Sure the entire proceeding would have been better off without the fish entirely, but the actor playing him does an okay—sometimes even spirited—job despite all the awful nonsense he’s forced to say. The very fact somebody OK’d the script is truly, truly troubling, and I don’t really have the time to try and figure it out… and I’m not even sure I want to. Enough trouble already exists in my world without that adding to it.
To sum up this NDP had plenty of effort going into it, but the end result, sadly, felt like yesterday’s news even before it was over. Except perhaps the ministers putting on the Singa caps in the parade goodie bag—very kewt!
#
I’ll end with another oldie-but-goodie: Lawrence Block’s writing guide Telling Lies for Fun and Profit: a How-to Guide for Fiction Writers. For concise, candid yet empathetic answers to every question I’ve ever seen written about (and then some) Block has no equal.
Never mind I only read one other book of his, a Matthew Scudder novel I never finished.
Because the bad guy got away.
But TLfF&P lays out some of the most unpleasant truths (and not-so-unpleasant ones) in the writing life. Now if I ever find a bookstore that carries it…
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Please, please SingNet...
... put a manual in the box you send your modems in. Trial and error's no fun :(
'Course, we followed the instructions on the Internet (what if the customer doesn't have a prior connection? Kinda tough.) and still couldn't do it--necessitating a call to tech support on an otherwise lovely Sunday morning.
Surely with those huge profits you can afford to put A Manual In Every Box? That's part and parcel of A Computer In Every Home.
'Course, we followed the instructions on the Internet (what if the customer doesn't have a prior connection? Kinda tough.) and still couldn't do it--necessitating a call to tech support on an otherwise lovely Sunday morning.
Surely with those huge profits you can afford to put A Manual In Every Box? That's part and parcel of A Computer In Every Home.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Simpsons, Bean and the big screen
It seemed just a few years ago I was laughing my head off (not literally) at Mr. Bean’s antics—the Brit “formal bum” and the comedian playing him (Rowan Atkinson) need no introduction. I’ve never forgotten how he reacted when he pulled the wrong exam paper from his envelope, tried to pop a sweet in church… and even went swimming and got his trunks lifted (you’ll never believe how). I could go on, but I’ll get to the point—do five-minute comedy sketches make for a good ninety-minute movie?
I thought the answer was yes when I saw 2002’s Bean: the Ultimate Disaster Movie, in which Mr. Bean is picked to go to Los Angeles by the museum that hires him as a security guard; they want him to pose as an art expert in the unveiling of Whistler’s Mother.
Cue laughs. Cue Bean cluelessly walking into the shower while his American host is inside—and while he tries to push Bean out the phone rings. Picking it up, Bean replies to the caller, “David? Yes, he’s in the shower with me.” And Bean desperately trying to save the painting after smudging ink on it (Watch it on DVD! Just watch it!).
Yep, I loved Mr. Bean’s first outing. So when Mr. Bean’s Holiday came out this year I grabbed my brother, cousins and five tickets to see it. After all, this is supposedly Atkinson’s last outing as Bean. After all, there’s already been a great first movie. Surely in Atkinson’s and writer Richard Curtis’s expert hands, Bean 2 will give us more of the Bean-formula. Right? Would it rise above the curse of sequel-itis, it having been five years?
Wrong. Never in my life had I felt so tempted to walk out of a movie.
Because, Mr. Curtis, we’re supposed to believe situations like the one Bean finds himself in can actually happen. What made the first film work so well was the knowledge that Bean is such a horrible worker his employers at the art gallery would really plot to get rid of him, and the comedy that results when Bean just will not take things lying down. Even the scene where Bean saves a wounded policeman is entirely in character for him—situations, characters, and solutions all make a weird, Mr. Bean-esque sense. We sympathise with him, for all the right reasons.
Bean 2 throws it all away. The storyline opens promisingly enough, with Bean taking a camcorder with him on a holiday to France. When he asks a man on the Channel train platform to film him boarding it, he takes so long the train moves off without the stranger. Unknown to Bean, the man’s son is on board… and it turns out he’s a director, and the family is on their way to the Cannes Film Festival. Bean knows big-scale public trouble, and I was thrilled… for all of five minutes.
Then comes the scene where he leaves his passport behind on a public phone. I felt like going to the toilet and never coming back; aren’t there services on French railways that deal with such an eventuality? And the storyline contortions the writers had to throw in to keep the jokes flowing were just too much for me to digest.
Bean’s bus ticket to Cannes blowing out of his mouth, and getting caught on the keg of a chicken he has to chase through the French countryside. (Couldn’t he have explained things to the driver who was right in front of him, and bought another?)
Not a very good exit for a character I grew up knowing and watching every chance I got.
But why am I bringing this up? Because the same thing is happening with The Simpsons.
Now Channel 5 seems to have an on-again, off-again relationship with the yellow-skinned characters who, again, need no introduction. I only ever saw a very few episodes, and the Powers That Be seemed to take great delight in putting the show on Sunday evenings, a timeslot they could hijack with movies, event coverage like Powerboat racing in Marina Bay (I’m not kidding) and whatever caught their fancy.
In short, The Simpsons isn’t a very Singapore-friendly show, and the feeling was mutual.
But the MDA seems to have relaxed a bit (I hope) and allowed The Simpsons Movie in, which I’ll watch tonight with a heart of eager hope. Will it be any good? Seems reviews have all been positive, and I really, really hope I won’t be disappointed this time. Bean 2 left an awful taste in my mouth; hopefully Homer, Marge, Bart, Lisa and Maggie will wash it out and replace it with the radioactively-cool sweetness that can only come from watching Homer get pummeled over and over again.
I thought the answer was yes when I saw 2002’s Bean: the Ultimate Disaster Movie, in which Mr. Bean is picked to go to Los Angeles by the museum that hires him as a security guard; they want him to pose as an art expert in the unveiling of Whistler’s Mother.
Cue laughs. Cue Bean cluelessly walking into the shower while his American host is inside—and while he tries to push Bean out the phone rings. Picking it up, Bean replies to the caller, “David? Yes, he’s in the shower with me.” And Bean desperately trying to save the painting after smudging ink on it (Watch it on DVD! Just watch it!).
Yep, I loved Mr. Bean’s first outing. So when Mr. Bean’s Holiday came out this year I grabbed my brother, cousins and five tickets to see it. After all, this is supposedly Atkinson’s last outing as Bean. After all, there’s already been a great first movie. Surely in Atkinson’s and writer Richard Curtis’s expert hands, Bean 2 will give us more of the Bean-formula. Right? Would it rise above the curse of sequel-itis, it having been five years?
Wrong. Never in my life had I felt so tempted to walk out of a movie.
Because, Mr. Curtis, we’re supposed to believe situations like the one Bean finds himself in can actually happen. What made the first film work so well was the knowledge that Bean is such a horrible worker his employers at the art gallery would really plot to get rid of him, and the comedy that results when Bean just will not take things lying down. Even the scene where Bean saves a wounded policeman is entirely in character for him—situations, characters, and solutions all make a weird, Mr. Bean-esque sense. We sympathise with him, for all the right reasons.
Bean 2 throws it all away. The storyline opens promisingly enough, with Bean taking a camcorder with him on a holiday to France. When he asks a man on the Channel train platform to film him boarding it, he takes so long the train moves off without the stranger. Unknown to Bean, the man’s son is on board… and it turns out he’s a director, and the family is on their way to the Cannes Film Festival. Bean knows big-scale public trouble, and I was thrilled… for all of five minutes.
Then comes the scene where he leaves his passport behind on a public phone. I felt like going to the toilet and never coming back; aren’t there services on French railways that deal with such an eventuality? And the storyline contortions the writers had to throw in to keep the jokes flowing were just too much for me to digest.
Bean’s bus ticket to Cannes blowing out of his mouth, and getting caught on the keg of a chicken he has to chase through the French countryside. (Couldn’t he have explained things to the driver who was right in front of him, and bought another?)
Not a very good exit for a character I grew up knowing and watching every chance I got.
But why am I bringing this up? Because the same thing is happening with The Simpsons.
Now Channel 5 seems to have an on-again, off-again relationship with the yellow-skinned characters who, again, need no introduction. I only ever saw a very few episodes, and the Powers That Be seemed to take great delight in putting the show on Sunday evenings, a timeslot they could hijack with movies, event coverage like Powerboat racing in Marina Bay (I’m not kidding) and whatever caught their fancy.
In short, The Simpsons isn’t a very Singapore-friendly show, and the feeling was mutual.
But the MDA seems to have relaxed a bit (I hope) and allowed The Simpsons Movie in, which I’ll watch tonight with a heart of eager hope. Will it be any good? Seems reviews have all been positive, and I really, really hope I won’t be disappointed this time. Bean 2 left an awful taste in my mouth; hopefully Homer, Marge, Bart, Lisa and Maggie will wash it out and replace it with the radioactively-cool sweetness that can only come from watching Homer get pummeled over and over again.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
War books, condemnation, update
God has the heart of an infantryman.
Don’t believe me? If you believe the Bible to be the Word of God, read on. If you think someone conjured up the stories in it, do go on to the next book I review—that’s strictly secular. Because this is a Christian book, from the viewpoint of a follower of God wherever He may lead. Into the US Marine Corps, into war with Iraqi insurgents, and into the brutal firefight on the night of April 10th, 2003.
But for those who pray and hope daily for God’s continued protection over American and other coalition forces currently fighting terrorism wherever it lurks, there’s Lieutenant Carey H. Cash’s A Table in the Presence. Which is the sort of thing that reminds us of the horrifying necessity of war… and the ability of God to protect, guide and border on the miraculous.
Note the Lieutenant part; Cash is no stranger to combat. He writes his experiences of the first month spent at war in Iraq, as chaplain of the First Battalion, Fifth Marine Regiment. It’s a fun read; but not in the sense of a thriller novel, or a beginning-to-end treatise. It’s the insights of a man on the ground who knows what he’s talking about; as a chaplain, I guess you grow quickly when the injured, dying and dead begin to come in.
(Indeed, I can’t remember the last war memoir I actually read cover to cover. The best way, I’ve found out, is to read the first chapter, then the last, and flip over everything in between for incidents that shock, incidents that catch your eye and stand out amid the lines and lines of narrative. They reward multiple readthroughs—a war memoir is a lot of things, and I’ve often got more by skimming time and again rather than digesting right from the start. The former is fun and allows more focus on people rather than figures and dates… precisely the intent of the writers who set out to chronicle the struggles, cheers, victories and devastations of men in combat.)
I have a deep respect for the United States Marines, and this book takes pains to show the religious dimension of the men who fight, kill and (sometimes) die to take down Saddam Hussein’s government and the continued insurgency. It isn’t often you find a Christian book like Cash has written, a book that gets down and dirty and shows a side to the gospel beyond the current state of American Christianity—a gospel for men who go to war, who get down and dirty with sand, blood and rifle oil… and may not come back alive. Cash relates at length the worship services he led with the unit, and the Marines who came to him for spiritual guidance and help with their faith. For God can and does work even on battlefields, laying a table in His presence. Note that warriors didn’t—and still don’t—have time to prepare a table before meals. The act of laying a table before me in the presence of my enemies is simply impossible with men… but Cash never tires of pointing out it is quite possible with God.
We read about the Marine who walked nearly a kilometre along possible enemy-patrolled territory to reach Cash for a Saturday worship service.
We read about the captain, his driver and assistants who shared a green leather Bible that fell off their vehicle, then lay there on a road exposed to a murderous sandstorm, armoured troop carriers driving all over it, and a freezing Iraqi night… only to be found, unscathed, by the very man who lost it.
The mysterious, unmarked assault vehicles that appeared on an overpass, shielding the Marines from even worse incoming fire… and the fact the unit’s operations officer tried, to no avail, to identify them after the battle of April 10th.
God protects His people, but at the same time Cash pauses to reflect on losses. Where was this protection for the Marines grievously injured, and the men who succumbed or were outright killed? “If [a simple answer] existed, we would probably not want to hear it,” he admits.
To Christians: you won’t find a more honest, reflective yet unflinching look at the war in Iraq than this book. Cash doesn’t shy away from difficult questions—he faced them every day, more than the people who ask them. For a Christian perspective on the war and the men who fight it, go read it. Now.
To unbelievers: no matter where you may be on the faith spectrum, the miraculous can and does happen, as a Marine battalion found out in the face of the enemy. That’s all you have to know—you may not agree with Cash’s conclusions, but something happened that night that, as Josh McDowell titled his book, forms evidence that demands a verdict.
#
To the amazon.com reviewer who panned this book—yes, the one-star reviewer who titled his opinion piece A plumb line to Jesus, I’m talking to you—Cash believes in a God who realises that evil exists, and is good enough to empower human beings to defeat it. I’ll quote a small section of the review:
He does not, however, address the obvious question -- where was his enemies' god while Cash's god was thumpin' the snot outa them? Even if we assume that the 1st Battalion was fighting non-religious Iraqi regulars that day, many battles have since ensued involving devout Muslims (terrorists and non-terrorists alike) fighting against American forces. So where IS their god? Is Allah a lesser god? A weaker god? Or, shall we follow Cash to his logical conclusion and assume Allah could not be a "real" god at all because the "real" god is out there supporting the USA?
This is the old evil-exists-so-there-can’t-be-a-good-God argument, an empirically very powerful one I must say. But is this reviewer arguing for atheism or Islam?
And Cash doesn’t make a “logical” conclusion—the book simply takes the Christian God’s existence for granted, and works from there. Kinda like the Bible... and the Bible also tells of a God who takes sides and punishes evil. He has used other nations to do this and judge His people Israel. So why not the USA today?
Americans don’t suicide bomb.
Americans don’t ram airliners into two of the tallest buildings of other countries.
And they sure don’t riot in the streets over mere cartoons. Given this, which side would the God of the Bible stand with? Read Isaiah. Read the Proverbs. And the words of Jesus Himself.
Plus, plus, plus... THEY WERE ATTACKED. It’s only natural Cash will bring his Christian thought into examining the situation—do you really expect him to say what you want him to, that the Islamists have as much of a god as he does? I doubt he could have made any other point.
I haven’t even touched on the intellectual arguments yet... so the aforementioned reviewer would do well to rein that, um... intolerance in.
#
“No, no, no—watch his hand!”
-- Last words of Corporal Jason L. Dunham, USMC
My brother finally found, in the sometimes maddening labyrinth they call the Central Lending Library, Michael M. Phillips’s book The Gift of Valor.
Valor isn’t so much a memoir as it is a memorial, and its cover shows that much; an M16 rifle stuck barrel first in the ground, a helmet resting on its stock. On April 14, 2004, Congressional Medal of Honor (Posthumous) winner Corporal Jason L. Dunham cupped his helmet over an Iraqi grenade and lay down on it as it went off. Two nearby Marines were seriously injured, but lived.
Dunham didn’t die instantly. His skull was smashed open by grenade fragments, and he quickly lapsed into a coma from which he never awoke. His parents made the decision to take him off life support eight days later.
Valor may revolve around Dunham and his heroism, but that’s only a small part of its account—we read of the actions of Dunham’s unit, the Marine leadership, and the reactions of Dunham’s fellow townspeople in Scio, New York. Fellow soldiers and casualties are touched over throughout the narrative, and Phillips doesn’t mince words. The man was a hero, but no Marine fights alone.
It’s not a Historical Work nor a thesis. It’s the story of Dunham, his unit, his family, and the aftermath of April 14. It doesn’t matter whether you’re for or against the Iraqi campaign—the focus here is not on issues, but on people. My kind of war writer, my kind of book. The type that should get you on your knees in prayer.
I’ll quote Norman Vincent Peale—he said this on Hitler Came for Niemoeller, but it sure applies here: “If a man can read this and not be stirred to his depths, it is because he has no depths.”
#
So there's going to be a sequel to Condemned, aka. The Game With a Protagonist Who Cannot Even Crouch. I'm not holding my breath—much the only horror in the first game was how shoddily it played. (See my extended review earlier in this blog.)
#
Andrew’s hourly updates have stopped coming... because he’s made great recovery progress. He’s out of danger, conscious again, and off his anaesthesia. Praise God!
Don’t believe me? If you believe the Bible to be the Word of God, read on. If you think someone conjured up the stories in it, do go on to the next book I review—that’s strictly secular. Because this is a Christian book, from the viewpoint of a follower of God wherever He may lead. Into the US Marine Corps, into war with Iraqi insurgents, and into the brutal firefight on the night of April 10th, 2003.
But for those who pray and hope daily for God’s continued protection over American and other coalition forces currently fighting terrorism wherever it lurks, there’s Lieutenant Carey H. Cash’s A Table in the Presence. Which is the sort of thing that reminds us of the horrifying necessity of war… and the ability of God to protect, guide and border on the miraculous.
Note the Lieutenant part; Cash is no stranger to combat. He writes his experiences of the first month spent at war in Iraq, as chaplain of the First Battalion, Fifth Marine Regiment. It’s a fun read; but not in the sense of a thriller novel, or a beginning-to-end treatise. It’s the insights of a man on the ground who knows what he’s talking about; as a chaplain, I guess you grow quickly when the injured, dying and dead begin to come in.
(Indeed, I can’t remember the last war memoir I actually read cover to cover. The best way, I’ve found out, is to read the first chapter, then the last, and flip over everything in between for incidents that shock, incidents that catch your eye and stand out amid the lines and lines of narrative. They reward multiple readthroughs—a war memoir is a lot of things, and I’ve often got more by skimming time and again rather than digesting right from the start. The former is fun and allows more focus on people rather than figures and dates… precisely the intent of the writers who set out to chronicle the struggles, cheers, victories and devastations of men in combat.)
I have a deep respect for the United States Marines, and this book takes pains to show the religious dimension of the men who fight, kill and (sometimes) die to take down Saddam Hussein’s government and the continued insurgency. It isn’t often you find a Christian book like Cash has written, a book that gets down and dirty and shows a side to the gospel beyond the current state of American Christianity—a gospel for men who go to war, who get down and dirty with sand, blood and rifle oil… and may not come back alive. Cash relates at length the worship services he led with the unit, and the Marines who came to him for spiritual guidance and help with their faith. For God can and does work even on battlefields, laying a table in His presence. Note that warriors didn’t—and still don’t—have time to prepare a table before meals. The act of laying a table before me in the presence of my enemies is simply impossible with men… but Cash never tires of pointing out it is quite possible with God.
We read about the Marine who walked nearly a kilometre along possible enemy-patrolled territory to reach Cash for a Saturday worship service.
We read about the captain, his driver and assistants who shared a green leather Bible that fell off their vehicle, then lay there on a road exposed to a murderous sandstorm, armoured troop carriers driving all over it, and a freezing Iraqi night… only to be found, unscathed, by the very man who lost it.
The mysterious, unmarked assault vehicles that appeared on an overpass, shielding the Marines from even worse incoming fire… and the fact the unit’s operations officer tried, to no avail, to identify them after the battle of April 10th.
God protects His people, but at the same time Cash pauses to reflect on losses. Where was this protection for the Marines grievously injured, and the men who succumbed or were outright killed? “If [a simple answer] existed, we would probably not want to hear it,” he admits.
To Christians: you won’t find a more honest, reflective yet unflinching look at the war in Iraq than this book. Cash doesn’t shy away from difficult questions—he faced them every day, more than the people who ask them. For a Christian perspective on the war and the men who fight it, go read it. Now.
To unbelievers: no matter where you may be on the faith spectrum, the miraculous can and does happen, as a Marine battalion found out in the face of the enemy. That’s all you have to know—you may not agree with Cash’s conclusions, but something happened that night that, as Josh McDowell titled his book, forms evidence that demands a verdict.
#
To the amazon.com reviewer who panned this book—yes, the one-star reviewer who titled his opinion piece A plumb line to Jesus, I’m talking to you—Cash believes in a God who realises that evil exists, and is good enough to empower human beings to defeat it. I’ll quote a small section of the review:
He does not, however, address the obvious question -- where was his enemies' god while Cash's god was thumpin' the snot outa them? Even if we assume that the 1st Battalion was fighting non-religious Iraqi regulars that day, many battles have since ensued involving devout Muslims (terrorists and non-terrorists alike) fighting against American forces. So where IS their god? Is Allah a lesser god? A weaker god? Or, shall we follow Cash to his logical conclusion and assume Allah could not be a "real" god at all because the "real" god is out there supporting the USA?
This is the old evil-exists-so-there-can’t-be-a-good-God argument, an empirically very powerful one I must say. But is this reviewer arguing for atheism or Islam?
And Cash doesn’t make a “logical” conclusion—the book simply takes the Christian God’s existence for granted, and works from there. Kinda like the Bible... and the Bible also tells of a God who takes sides and punishes evil. He has used other nations to do this and judge His people Israel. So why not the USA today?
Americans don’t suicide bomb.
Americans don’t ram airliners into two of the tallest buildings of other countries.
And they sure don’t riot in the streets over mere cartoons. Given this, which side would the God of the Bible stand with? Read Isaiah. Read the Proverbs. And the words of Jesus Himself.
Plus, plus, plus... THEY WERE ATTACKED. It’s only natural Cash will bring his Christian thought into examining the situation—do you really expect him to say what you want him to, that the Islamists have as much of a god as he does? I doubt he could have made any other point.
I haven’t even touched on the intellectual arguments yet... so the aforementioned reviewer would do well to rein that, um... intolerance in.
#
“No, no, no—watch his hand!”
-- Last words of Corporal Jason L. Dunham, USMC
My brother finally found, in the sometimes maddening labyrinth they call the Central Lending Library, Michael M. Phillips’s book The Gift of Valor.
Valor isn’t so much a memoir as it is a memorial, and its cover shows that much; an M16 rifle stuck barrel first in the ground, a helmet resting on its stock. On April 14, 2004, Congressional Medal of Honor (Posthumous) winner Corporal Jason L. Dunham cupped his helmet over an Iraqi grenade and lay down on it as it went off. Two nearby Marines were seriously injured, but lived.
Dunham didn’t die instantly. His skull was smashed open by grenade fragments, and he quickly lapsed into a coma from which he never awoke. His parents made the decision to take him off life support eight days later.
Valor may revolve around Dunham and his heroism, but that’s only a small part of its account—we read of the actions of Dunham’s unit, the Marine leadership, and the reactions of Dunham’s fellow townspeople in Scio, New York. Fellow soldiers and casualties are touched over throughout the narrative, and Phillips doesn’t mince words. The man was a hero, but no Marine fights alone.
It’s not a Historical Work nor a thesis. It’s the story of Dunham, his unit, his family, and the aftermath of April 14. It doesn’t matter whether you’re for or against the Iraqi campaign—the focus here is not on issues, but on people. My kind of war writer, my kind of book. The type that should get you on your knees in prayer.
I’ll quote Norman Vincent Peale—he said this on Hitler Came for Niemoeller, but it sure applies here: “If a man can read this and not be stirred to his depths, it is because he has no depths.”
#
So there's going to be a sequel to Condemned, aka. The Game With a Protagonist Who Cannot Even Crouch. I'm not holding my breath—much the only horror in the first game was how shoddily it played. (See my extended review earlier in this blog.)
#
Andrew’s hourly updates have stopped coming... because he’s made great recovery progress. He’s out of danger, conscious again, and off his anaesthesia. Praise God!
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Aww, poor widdle PAS...
... did those nasty proselytisers hurt you?
No?
Then why do I see in the Today paper there'll be stiffened penalties like whippings, jail terms and fines for them? As if the PAS is afraid Islam is not true enough to compete with other religions for the minds and hearts of its believers. Even the Koran admits in Sura 2:11, "there shall be no compulsion of religion..."
Another reason moderates shouldn't believe everything the higher-ups say... but c'mon, why is the only outcry over religious freedom (or the lack thereof) from non-Muslims? Frankly, if there was a moderate Islamic stand on the Lina Joy case a few months back I think I missed it.
It's been time for them to speak out long, long before 9/11. Singapore's own community can only do so much from across the causeway...
So here's what I propose. I've no problem with Islam remaining the state religion--as long as it recognises the right of individual people to choose which faith they wish to belong to. Orson Scott Card's essay on the concept says much more than I can on the subject... but Muslim moderates who know the way forward... I can't hear you!
No?
Then why do I see in the Today paper there'll be stiffened penalties like whippings, jail terms and fines for them? As if the PAS is afraid Islam is not true enough to compete with other religions for the minds and hearts of its believers. Even the Koran admits in Sura 2:11, "there shall be no compulsion of religion..."
Another reason moderates shouldn't believe everything the higher-ups say... but c'mon, why is the only outcry over religious freedom (or the lack thereof) from non-Muslims? Frankly, if there was a moderate Islamic stand on the Lina Joy case a few months back I think I missed it.
It's been time for them to speak out long, long before 9/11. Singapore's own community can only do so much from across the causeway...
So here's what I propose. I've no problem with Islam remaining the state religion--as long as it recognises the right of individual people to choose which faith they wish to belong to. Orson Scott Card's essay on the concept says much more than I can on the subject... but Muslim moderates who know the way forward... I can't hear you!
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
The Stooopidity of it all...
I hope Singapore is far, far behind what some Americans are capable of.
http://truthorfiction.com/rumors/a/abc-jesus.htm
http://truthorfiction.com/rumors/a/abc-practice.htm
On a side note, a friend of mine who worked for a GLC (shh) told me about the seedier side of call centres--if a customer is kept waiting for long enough, eventually NOBODY will pick up the call.Why not? He's bound to be pissed off. And no call centre temp would want to speak to a pissed-off person, would they?
I needn't say more. So much for "customer service"... what the heck. And these are the companies we trust our electronic lifeblood to?
http://truthorfiction.com/rumors/a/abc-jesus.htm
http://truthorfiction.com/rumors/a/abc-practice.htm
On a side note, a friend of mine who worked for a GLC (shh) told me about the seedier side of call centres--if a customer is kept waiting for long enough, eventually NOBODY will pick up the call.Why not? He's bound to be pissed off. And no call centre temp would want to speak to a pissed-off person, would they?
I needn't say more. So much for "customer service"... what the heck. And these are the companies we trust our electronic lifeblood to?
For a friend...
Dear Lord,
I’m praying for Andrew. I’ll keep it short—I don’t know details, I don’t know much about his condition—but here’s what I know, and what I want to say for now.
You made it pretty clear to Job we’re not qualified to ask for explanations, go to a Court of Appeal, or say, “If I were in charge, I’d have...”
But seriously. Your servant, Lord, has spent less than 2 decades in this life—less than I have, and certainly had a long future ahead of him—serving You, worshipping with his brothers and sisters, growing to be the salt and light of the world as You call those who follow You to be. Is this the destiny You have for him, Father? I sure hope not...
You may know what happened, but I don’t and the cell hasn’t told me yet. The details are sketchy, the future uncertain (for those of us yet to find it out), the operations dicey. I hear the chances are 50-50, and I’ve just felt my hp vibrate again. Another update. I’m going to take it, and when I finish... anyway, Lord, it’s a balance that can go either way. Remind us, Father in heaven, that You hold the entire darned scale in Your hands.
And I ask You to tip it our way.
The way of Andrew’s recovery. The way of hope. The way of someday.
Someday, your servant looking back on this day as the dawn of another chance, not the end but the beginning of the rest of his life. For You are good, O Lord, and in Your presence is correction and righteousness and fullness of joy.
That’s why the language is from my heart, as fervently as I can type this on a shaky lecture-desk in NUS, (for now) minus editing, minus polish. A little irreverent... but Lord, as long as it’s You correcting me, You healing our brother, and Your hand guiding us as we go along—that’s more than enough.
These paragraphs may be disjointed, they may ramble, they may not have the urgency or lyrical beauty of Job haranguing with his friends. But Father, let these prayers form a request—a request that Your healing power come upon Andrew, body and soul, brain and mind. For if anyone can help, if anyone can comfort and heal at this point in time, it is You alone.
Guide him that he not lose heart, not lose sight of you, and remember you are behind him in the battle for life. Have his brain cells heal, the swelling fade, his blood replenish, his heart beat for You once more... as You have done before and will do again.
Guide his family in their time of uncertainty and anguish—that brothers and sisters in You can come alongside them and carry their burden. Guide them that they not lose sight of You as the One who loves, touches and heals, an everlasting help in time of trouble... if I might presume to bring to mind one of the psalms in Your Word.
[Of course, 75% of the psalms are complaints and lamentations. So maybe we’re not so alone after all.]
I don’t know the depths of their pain and uncertainty over the future, and I pray I never will... but Your healing hand and size ever bigger than our problems are needed more than ever before.
Guide the doctors and surgeons, who labour daily to monitor and bring Your power to heal into his body. May their hands move under Your will, their minds focused and sharpened, the saving complete so we and they may rejoice together one day.
And guide us, Andrew’s family in Your service, on what to do to bring Your light to them. May Your direction be clear, Your orders followed, Your name praised in all we do. Apart from You, O Lord, we have nothing.
In short...
HEAVENLY FATHER, PLEASE, PLEASE HEAL OUR BROTHER. Amen.
I’m praying for Andrew. I’ll keep it short—I don’t know details, I don’t know much about his condition—but here’s what I know, and what I want to say for now.
You made it pretty clear to Job we’re not qualified to ask for explanations, go to a Court of Appeal, or say, “If I were in charge, I’d have...”
But seriously. Your servant, Lord, has spent less than 2 decades in this life—less than I have, and certainly had a long future ahead of him—serving You, worshipping with his brothers and sisters, growing to be the salt and light of the world as You call those who follow You to be. Is this the destiny You have for him, Father? I sure hope not...
You may know what happened, but I don’t and the cell hasn’t told me yet. The details are sketchy, the future uncertain (for those of us yet to find it out), the operations dicey. I hear the chances are 50-50, and I’ve just felt my hp vibrate again. Another update. I’m going to take it, and when I finish... anyway, Lord, it’s a balance that can go either way. Remind us, Father in heaven, that You hold the entire darned scale in Your hands.
And I ask You to tip it our way.
The way of Andrew’s recovery. The way of hope. The way of someday.
Someday, your servant looking back on this day as the dawn of another chance, not the end but the beginning of the rest of his life. For You are good, O Lord, and in Your presence is correction and righteousness and fullness of joy.
That’s why the language is from my heart, as fervently as I can type this on a shaky lecture-desk in NUS, (for now) minus editing, minus polish. A little irreverent... but Lord, as long as it’s You correcting me, You healing our brother, and Your hand guiding us as we go along—that’s more than enough.
These paragraphs may be disjointed, they may ramble, they may not have the urgency or lyrical beauty of Job haranguing with his friends. But Father, let these prayers form a request—a request that Your healing power come upon Andrew, body and soul, brain and mind. For if anyone can help, if anyone can comfort and heal at this point in time, it is You alone.
Guide him that he not lose heart, not lose sight of you, and remember you are behind him in the battle for life. Have his brain cells heal, the swelling fade, his blood replenish, his heart beat for You once more... as You have done before and will do again.
Guide his family in their time of uncertainty and anguish—that brothers and sisters in You can come alongside them and carry their burden. Guide them that they not lose sight of You as the One who loves, touches and heals, an everlasting help in time of trouble... if I might presume to bring to mind one of the psalms in Your Word.
[Of course, 75% of the psalms are complaints and lamentations. So maybe we’re not so alone after all.]
I don’t know the depths of their pain and uncertainty over the future, and I pray I never will... but Your healing hand and size ever bigger than our problems are needed more than ever before.
Guide the doctors and surgeons, who labour daily to monitor and bring Your power to heal into his body. May their hands move under Your will, their minds focused and sharpened, the saving complete so we and they may rejoice together one day.
And guide us, Andrew’s family in Your service, on what to do to bring Your light to them. May Your direction be clear, Your orders followed, Your name praised in all we do. Apart from You, O Lord, we have nothing.
In short...
HEAVENLY FATHER, PLEASE, PLEASE HEAL OUR BROTHER. Amen.
Friday, June 15, 2007
Restaurants and more Reilly books
“Then the night grew deathly quiet, his face lost all expression
He said, ‘if you’re gonna play the game boy, you gotta learn to play it right.’”
-- Kenny Rogers, The Gambler
I am in mourning—my favourite chicken restaurant is dying. Of attempted (I hope) suicide.
Attempted and committed are not the same thing. Committed means the act succeeded.
I remember back when I was a kid of fifteen, and I’d go with the youth group to the Kenny Rogers’ Roasters outlet at Century Square. Later I went with my mom and bro, and get rotisserie-roasted chicken with meat cooked to perfection. Nutritionists say the skin has twice as much fat as the meat, but it was so well-done I didn’t care.
If nutrition has ever mentioned exceptions to the “tastes good, bad for you, tastes bad, good for you” rule, I’d love to hear them. (Just kidding; don’t write in with them.)
But am I the only one who remembers you could get a quarter-chicken set with two side dishes (chicken-diced whipped potato beside salty, creamy macaroni and cheese, mmm), warm soup and a cool drink for 12 bucks? We’d go there week after week, listening to Rogers’ rasp and reading menus and faces in the half-darkness.
Then the Century Square outlet closed, and I learned once again that change is the only constant in life. I swallowed it and moved on.
Fast-forward 6 years—I’m 21 for a moment, to paraphrase Five for Fighting—and looking for a new laptop at Suntec City when lo and behold, a Roasters outlet showed up at the basement. I decided I’d splurge and indulge in some good ol’ memories… but I realized something was wrong when my meal ended up costing SGD16.30.
What? What?!? But I handed the money over, and wondered if it was my imagination telling me the Kenny’s Famous Corn Muffin was smaller than I remembered.
Then a month later I brought my brother. It’s a LONG walk to Suntec from City Hall, and we were grumbling at the crowd when we found the place was under renovation. That didn’t help.
Now it seems they’ve just opened, and I fear they’ve not only stuck a carving knife into their chests, but twisted it.
Let me start with the décor. It wasn’t the Kenny Rogers experience I’m used to, with rough bricks, jade walls, and neon-lit song titles above our heads in dim lighting your eyes have to adjust to but makes the plate before you look oh-so-delicious. That, brothers and sisters, is DEAD. In its place was generic whitewashed wall, harsh fluorescence, and packets of some unknown brand of cereal in recesses on the wall.
And the ordering process is a pain if I ever felt one. We ordered a chicken-wing set only to have the staff mistake it for the lunch menu. Then the order of the lady before me got a little mixed up, as if the staff themselves didn’t know much more than we did. When everything got straightened out we ran into another bottleneck, the stupidest of all.
The cutlery was placed vertically downward.
Here’s a quick geometry refresher—a cylindrical container necessitates placing items vertically. But when said container is opaque, plus customers fresh from handing over their Yusof Ishaks… now they have to lean over and peer in to see if the sticks of metal visible to the eye end in skewer points, a scoop, or a blade.
Yeah, I know it takes a few seconds. But why not save them when you can?
I haven’t even got to the food, and I’m sad to report the renovation made the Kenny Rogers lunch worse, not better. Until the chain gets its act together, I’m saving my money. The chicken isn’t so tender anymore, and the side dishes come in annoying little bowls starched white like every other nook and cranny of the restaurant. Urrgh. I’ve never been able to conceive of rotisserie chicken separated from thick, gooey cheese—but now I can.
Great move, Roasters. I’ll still give your other outlets a chance—but let’s not push that knife in any further, shall we?
#
Fads and fashions must someday end, their slaves rushing to embrace new masters every turn of a very, very fickle cycle somebody with The Power decides on. We then rush to feed Them with money, money and more money.
I say this because I am extremely jealous of Matthew Reilly.
As in Australian thriller writer Matthew Reilly.
Why oh why can’t I write like that? His first novel, Contest, was spotted by executives at Pan Macmillian after self-publication... and soon he had hit the big time, churning out the most outlandish thrillers I’ve had the misfortune to pick up.
I read Contest. And now I am hooked. A writer-friend of mine took one read, and came away with a one-word review.
Woah...
Contest never lets up the action with its tale of a young doctor and his daughter trapped in the New York State Library, which for just one night will serve as the venue of a battle-to-the-death match between seven people... and our MD has been chosen to take part. I finished the entire book in three hours—it was so tight, so focused, so how-are-we-going-to-get-out-of-this I got very little swimming done the day I brought it to the pool.
Make no mistake—this was a young writer of great power, drive and the ability to tell a genuinely terrifying, edge-of-your-seat story of adventure and survival.
(Did I mention it was science fiction?)
Then I tried Ice Station, in which Reilly tells us all about his new hero, Lieutenant Shane M. “Scarecrow” Schofield... the man who made me use was in my review of Contest. Reilly’s “Scarecrow Trilogy”, Ice Station, Area 7 and finally Scarecrow packs more impossible, James Bond-worthy escapades into each book than most writers do in their lifetimes. Supposedly it’s set in our world, and as such Reilly doesn’t feel bound by the “one impossible thing at a time” rule in—you know—science fiction.
SF these works are not. The writer of Contest now plays fast and loose with the very fabric of possibility, throwing in crossbow-wielding French commandoes, a spaceship hidden under the Antarctic ice, and (literally) killer whales swimming in the water under the besieged Wilkes Ice Station. All the while I couldn’t stop taking in the stupidity of it all. A lesser writer would have made me toss the book aside.
But I couldn’t.
You see, Reilly doesn’t just throw in mindless whiz-bang action for its own sake—it’s mindless whiz-bang action for a higher goal.
He said, ‘if you’re gonna play the game boy, you gotta learn to play it right.’”
-- Kenny Rogers, The Gambler
I am in mourning—my favourite chicken restaurant is dying. Of attempted (I hope) suicide.
Attempted and committed are not the same thing. Committed means the act succeeded.
I remember back when I was a kid of fifteen, and I’d go with the youth group to the Kenny Rogers’ Roasters outlet at Century Square. Later I went with my mom and bro, and get rotisserie-roasted chicken with meat cooked to perfection. Nutritionists say the skin has twice as much fat as the meat, but it was so well-done I didn’t care.
If nutrition has ever mentioned exceptions to the “tastes good, bad for you, tastes bad, good for you” rule, I’d love to hear them. (Just kidding; don’t write in with them.)
But am I the only one who remembers you could get a quarter-chicken set with two side dishes (chicken-diced whipped potato beside salty, creamy macaroni and cheese, mmm), warm soup and a cool drink for 12 bucks? We’d go there week after week, listening to Rogers’ rasp and reading menus and faces in the half-darkness.
Then the Century Square outlet closed, and I learned once again that change is the only constant in life. I swallowed it and moved on.
Fast-forward 6 years—I’m 21 for a moment, to paraphrase Five for Fighting—and looking for a new laptop at Suntec City when lo and behold, a Roasters outlet showed up at the basement. I decided I’d splurge and indulge in some good ol’ memories… but I realized something was wrong when my meal ended up costing SGD16.30.
What? What?!? But I handed the money over, and wondered if it was my imagination telling me the Kenny’s Famous Corn Muffin was smaller than I remembered.
Then a month later I brought my brother. It’s a LONG walk to Suntec from City Hall, and we were grumbling at the crowd when we found the place was under renovation. That didn’t help.
Now it seems they’ve just opened, and I fear they’ve not only stuck a carving knife into their chests, but twisted it.
Let me start with the décor. It wasn’t the Kenny Rogers experience I’m used to, with rough bricks, jade walls, and neon-lit song titles above our heads in dim lighting your eyes have to adjust to but makes the plate before you look oh-so-delicious. That, brothers and sisters, is DEAD. In its place was generic whitewashed wall, harsh fluorescence, and packets of some unknown brand of cereal in recesses on the wall.
And the ordering process is a pain if I ever felt one. We ordered a chicken-wing set only to have the staff mistake it for the lunch menu. Then the order of the lady before me got a little mixed up, as if the staff themselves didn’t know much more than we did. When everything got straightened out we ran into another bottleneck, the stupidest of all.
The cutlery was placed vertically downward.
Here’s a quick geometry refresher—a cylindrical container necessitates placing items vertically. But when said container is opaque, plus customers fresh from handing over their Yusof Ishaks… now they have to lean over and peer in to see if the sticks of metal visible to the eye end in skewer points, a scoop, or a blade.
Yeah, I know it takes a few seconds. But why not save them when you can?
I haven’t even got to the food, and I’m sad to report the renovation made the Kenny Rogers lunch worse, not better. Until the chain gets its act together, I’m saving my money. The chicken isn’t so tender anymore, and the side dishes come in annoying little bowls starched white like every other nook and cranny of the restaurant. Urrgh. I’ve never been able to conceive of rotisserie chicken separated from thick, gooey cheese—but now I can.
Great move, Roasters. I’ll still give your other outlets a chance—but let’s not push that knife in any further, shall we?
#
Fads and fashions must someday end, their slaves rushing to embrace new masters every turn of a very, very fickle cycle somebody with The Power decides on. We then rush to feed Them with money, money and more money.
I say this because I am extremely jealous of Matthew Reilly.
As in Australian thriller writer Matthew Reilly.
Why oh why can’t I write like that? His first novel, Contest, was spotted by executives at Pan Macmillian after self-publication... and soon he had hit the big time, churning out the most outlandish thrillers I’ve had the misfortune to pick up.
I read Contest. And now I am hooked. A writer-friend of mine took one read, and came away with a one-word review.
Woah...
Contest never lets up the action with its tale of a young doctor and his daughter trapped in the New York State Library, which for just one night will serve as the venue of a battle-to-the-death match between seven people... and our MD has been chosen to take part. I finished the entire book in three hours—it was so tight, so focused, so how-are-we-going-to-get-out-of-this I got very little swimming done the day I brought it to the pool.
Make no mistake—this was a young writer of great power, drive and the ability to tell a genuinely terrifying, edge-of-your-seat story of adventure and survival.
(Did I mention it was science fiction?)
Then I tried Ice Station, in which Reilly tells us all about his new hero, Lieutenant Shane M. “Scarecrow” Schofield... the man who made me use was in my review of Contest. Reilly’s “Scarecrow Trilogy”, Ice Station, Area 7 and finally Scarecrow packs more impossible, James Bond-worthy escapades into each book than most writers do in their lifetimes. Supposedly it’s set in our world, and as such Reilly doesn’t feel bound by the “one impossible thing at a time” rule in—you know—science fiction.
SF these works are not. The writer of Contest now plays fast and loose with the very fabric of possibility, throwing in crossbow-wielding French commandoes, a spaceship hidden under the Antarctic ice, and (literally) killer whales swimming in the water under the besieged Wilkes Ice Station. All the while I couldn’t stop taking in the stupidity of it all. A lesser writer would have made me toss the book aside.
But I couldn’t.
You see, Reilly doesn’t just throw in mindless whiz-bang action for its own sake—it’s mindless whiz-bang action for a higher goal.
Monday, June 04, 2007
Letter to Mr. Policeman, liberal-smashing, and my new camera
“We are a force for the nation, ensuring the security, survival and success of Singapore, and helping to build it into our best home. We are a police force that inspires the world.
We are united with the community. We care for and serve the community that we work in and with.”
-- The Shared Vision of the Singapore Police Force
Dear Mr. Policeman,
I never thought I’d treat this salutation as more than the title of my Sec 2 Moral Ed textbooks, but I’m so sorry.
I’m sorry the ability to keep our citizens safe has been taken away from you. I’m sorry the violent people who prowl our streets have the ability to attack with impunity, so long as “life” not be in danger (by the terribly shaky definition of “grievous hurt” lawyers have such a great time arguing over). I’m sorry they can now spit phlegm and vomit on the image of individual and community safety, and defile with their actions the harmony our leaders have so carefully built up.
If the ordinary man-in-the-street can lose four teeth to an assailant without you being able to do anything about it, I worry.
I worry for the superiors the force sees fit to place over you. Don’t they realise crime is more than white-collar embezzlement, more than walking about naked in one’s own home? Yet when there are assaults leading to permanent hurt, and spousal abuse under the guise of “family discipline” every night, and you have to walk away because your superiors have determined for you what is a seizable event and what isn’t... it isn’t only my safety I worry about.
It’s the country’s.
I’m not here to speculate on what could cause a policewoman to give away her service pistol to a cheat whose story stinks to high heaven, or a thug to gain the ability to attack innocents with impunity... but I simply want to make a statement with my stupid, non-elite head.
The Singapore Police Force exists to protect Singaporeans. Full stop.
My non-elite thinking leads me to operate under the assumption that ordinary citizens like me are the ones the SPF was created specifically to protect, to ensure I can move about, eat, work and sleep without fear of somebody harassing me, breaking into my house, or threatening my safety—and if they do, that justice be seen to be done and the offenders taken to face whatever music they deserve under our law. The scholarship holders they put over you, Mr. Policeman, don’t patrol the streets themselves, and don’t get their hands dirty and see the violence men can do to each other. Are these the kind of people the Singapore Police Force puts above field officers like you? If so, don’t let their petty distinction between offences stop you from investigating—as the ones on the scene, your power to stop and protect is the most immediately seen.
I don’t have the money for a lawyer. I don’t have hours and hours free to find out for myself what I should be being told outright. And I'm sure I join the average Singaporean in not caring a s**tabout the difference between a police report, a magistrate’s complaint, or somebody taking the law into their own hands. (If the law isn’t in your hands, Mr. Policeman’s, it’s in somebody’s. And if that somebody has no compunction about harming people who annoy him in the slightest...) And I highly doubt any victim of a crime will be in a much of a frame of mind to listen to some half-wit exposition of the differences between a police report and a magistrate’s complaint. Not everyone has a degree in law—or the patience to do a filing clerk’s work for him. Why not simply classify reports into magistrates’ complaints and those requiring further investigation at the station proper? To us, a police report is a police report is a police report. Please, Mr. Policeman, remind your superiors of this.
And if it were a foreigner—say, a Caucasian visitor on business—who made a police report? I’m not sure he’d be told to make a “magistrate’s complaint”, whatever in the world that is.
That’s right, I’m bringing out the old “colonialist” card. But it’s something I hope to stand corrected on.
I may not know as much as the Cornell grad in your HQ’s HQ’s HQ, but I do know this—a fist in the face hurts, but what hurts a helluva lot worse is being abandoned and the attacker set free by the very people I entrust my life and safety to every day.
So, Mr. Policeman... it’s your authority on the “offence” scene. Not the lawmakers’, not Parliament’s, not the rapidly-promoted scholarship holders who see so little action they think the entire world conforms to the laws they stuff into their heads.
So let us (“us” including Singaporean and foreigner alike) see you using it, and giving us citizens the safety and peace of mind your posters and mission promise. The country—non-elites included—will thank you for it.
#
Somebody will always take you to task if you speak from the gut. That’s why rhetoric like you find on http://takeastandagainstliberals.blogspot.com/ is so refreshing—it says for me what I have the civic-mindedness not to.
Its author is Jenn, a lady with decidedly anti-Democrat views and who’s not afraid to come out swinging, and heaven help anyone in her way. Singaporeans may find it irreverent, inspiring or anywhere in between, but she at least stands up and yells “Wrong!” Check out especially the post “Tokyo Rose”, in which celebrities today eerily echo the seductive Japanese propagandist of World War II.
In short, Jenn is like a conservative version of Christian Internet evangelist Jack T. Chick—extreme, unyielding, sometimes taking liberties with the record... but inspiring nevertheless. Now I don’t agree with all she says—some of her reported events are dubious at best, the action she supports sometimes downright offensive—but she is coming from the right place, with logic and rationality and a colourful flair for the English language to boot. Not to mention graciously exposing the hypocrisy right under our noses, such as when moderate Muslims in America somehow don’t denounce the oppression of other faiths by radicals who will stop at nothing short of utter Islamisation—by their very unpleasant definition.
(Yes, I faithfully read Chick’s material for a few years before the MDA banned his website. C’mon, it’s for Singaporean parents to teach their children to decide for themselves what they can or can’t read, not the MDA’s to stuff down EVERYONE’s throats.)
Those who are easily offended can either go elsewhere... or sit down and READ. Just don’t expect to leave without a thicker skin.
#
I love my new Samsung NV3 digital camera, even though I’ve never used some of its more... let’s say, unusual functions. “I need a camera that plays music,” comments one reviewer on GearAxis Unwired, “like I need a toaster that also vacuums the carpet.”
I didn’t know I’d bought a mag carrying a review before I bought the camera, but it doesn’t matter now—its pics are razor-sharp, and I’ve never looked better in shots. (If you know me and are reading this, please don’t correct me.) It’s so small it takes up almost no space in my bag, and a sleek purple-black design means it’ll go well with the dark colours I invariably end up wearing.
We are united with the community. We care for and serve the community that we work in and with.”
-- The Shared Vision of the Singapore Police Force
Dear Mr. Policeman,
I never thought I’d treat this salutation as more than the title of my Sec 2 Moral Ed textbooks, but I’m so sorry.
I’m sorry the ability to keep our citizens safe has been taken away from you. I’m sorry the violent people who prowl our streets have the ability to attack with impunity, so long as “life” not be in danger (by the terribly shaky definition of “grievous hurt” lawyers have such a great time arguing over). I’m sorry they can now spit phlegm and vomit on the image of individual and community safety, and defile with their actions the harmony our leaders have so carefully built up.
If the ordinary man-in-the-street can lose four teeth to an assailant without you being able to do anything about it, I worry.
I worry for the superiors the force sees fit to place over you. Don’t they realise crime is more than white-collar embezzlement, more than walking about naked in one’s own home? Yet when there are assaults leading to permanent hurt, and spousal abuse under the guise of “family discipline” every night, and you have to walk away because your superiors have determined for you what is a seizable event and what isn’t... it isn’t only my safety I worry about.
It’s the country’s.
I’m not here to speculate on what could cause a policewoman to give away her service pistol to a cheat whose story stinks to high heaven, or a thug to gain the ability to attack innocents with impunity... but I simply want to make a statement with my stupid, non-elite head.
The Singapore Police Force exists to protect Singaporeans. Full stop.
My non-elite thinking leads me to operate under the assumption that ordinary citizens like me are the ones the SPF was created specifically to protect, to ensure I can move about, eat, work and sleep without fear of somebody harassing me, breaking into my house, or threatening my safety—and if they do, that justice be seen to be done and the offenders taken to face whatever music they deserve under our law. The scholarship holders they put over you, Mr. Policeman, don’t patrol the streets themselves, and don’t get their hands dirty and see the violence men can do to each other. Are these the kind of people the Singapore Police Force puts above field officers like you? If so, don’t let their petty distinction between offences stop you from investigating—as the ones on the scene, your power to stop and protect is the most immediately seen.
I don’t have the money for a lawyer. I don’t have hours and hours free to find out for myself what I should be being told outright. And I'm sure I join the average Singaporean in not caring a s**t
And if it were a foreigner—say, a Caucasian visitor on business—who made a police report? I’m not sure he’d be told to make a “magistrate’s complaint”, whatever in the world that is.
That’s right, I’m bringing out the old “colonialist” card. But it’s something I hope to stand corrected on.
I may not know as much as the Cornell grad in your HQ’s HQ’s HQ, but I do know this—a fist in the face hurts, but what hurts a helluva lot worse is being abandoned and the attacker set free by the very people I entrust my life and safety to every day.
So, Mr. Policeman... it’s your authority on the “offence” scene. Not the lawmakers’, not Parliament’s, not the rapidly-promoted scholarship holders who see so little action they think the entire world conforms to the laws they stuff into their heads.
So let us (“us” including Singaporean and foreigner alike) see you using it, and giving us citizens the safety and peace of mind your posters and mission promise. The country—non-elites included—will thank you for it.
#
Somebody will always take you to task if you speak from the gut. That’s why rhetoric like you find on http://takeastandagainstliberals.blogspot.com/ is so refreshing—it says for me what I have the civic-mindedness not to.
Its author is Jenn, a lady with decidedly anti-Democrat views and who’s not afraid to come out swinging, and heaven help anyone in her way. Singaporeans may find it irreverent, inspiring or anywhere in between, but she at least stands up and yells “Wrong!” Check out especially the post “Tokyo Rose”, in which celebrities today eerily echo the seductive Japanese propagandist of World War II.
In short, Jenn is like a conservative version of Christian Internet evangelist Jack T. Chick—extreme, unyielding, sometimes taking liberties with the record... but inspiring nevertheless. Now I don’t agree with all she says—some of her reported events are dubious at best, the action she supports sometimes downright offensive—but she is coming from the right place, with logic and rationality and a colourful flair for the English language to boot. Not to mention graciously exposing the hypocrisy right under our noses, such as when moderate Muslims in America somehow don’t denounce the oppression of other faiths by radicals who will stop at nothing short of utter Islamisation—by their very unpleasant definition.
(Yes, I faithfully read Chick’s material for a few years before the MDA banned his website. C’mon, it’s for Singaporean parents to teach their children to decide for themselves what they can or can’t read, not the MDA’s to stuff down EVERYONE’s throats.)
Those who are easily offended can either go elsewhere... or sit down and READ. Just don’t expect to leave without a thicker skin.
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I love my new Samsung NV3 digital camera, even though I’ve never used some of its more... let’s say, unusual functions. “I need a camera that plays music,” comments one reviewer on GearAxis Unwired, “like I need a toaster that also vacuums the carpet.”
I didn’t know I’d bought a mag carrying a review before I bought the camera, but it doesn’t matter now—its pics are razor-sharp, and I’ve never looked better in shots. (If you know me and are reading this, please don’t correct me.) It’s so small it takes up almost no space in my bag, and a sleek purple-black design means it’ll go well with the dark colours I invariably end up wearing.
Monday, May 28, 2007
Stalkers and the VC
I’d make a lousy prophet. In the Old Testament even a 99% success rate warranted the death penalty.
I bought the FPS Vietcong: Purple Haze with high hopes that were very quickly dashed... when the game failed to even start. A supposedly great storyline and one of the best Vietnam shooters of all time bit the dust to a bug I never realised was even there.
I bought the FPS Vietcong: Purple Haze with high hopes that were very quickly dashed... when the game failed to even start. A supposedly great storyline and one of the best Vietnam shooters of all time bit the dust to a bug I never realised was even there.
Like a VC pun-ji trap. Yuck.
Here’s a piece of advice, 2K Games—as long as there are copies of your product out there in circulation, you’d better keep it up to date with users of Windows XP SP2 or whatever it is the majority of your customers use. Years and years of creativity, development slogging and testing don’t mean squat if a player’s computer cannot run the end product in the first place.
But you’ll still get my money—I own Mafia: City of Lost Heaven, for goodness’s sake, and believe all the hype enough to cough up money for Bioshock at the end of the year. Sad, isn’t it? You publish enough good, and the bad simply gets flushed away. So long as the money keeps rolling in, everyone’s happy...
Except those who want to see what life in the game sphere of 2003 was like and THINK they have a great game that conveys it, or for that matter the green hell of 1967 ‘Nam. Now I think I’ll just go back to reading Mekong: First Light, We Were Soldiers Once... and Young or some other book instead—to paraphrase General “E-tool” Smith, a book doesn’t crash. (The General’s something of a legend; as a US Army captain he led his company in taking a VC-held town. When his rifle jammed he drew his entrenching tool and hacked at the enemy—some accounts say he killed a machine-gun team that way. “An e-tool,” he said later, “doesn’t jam.”)
#
At any rate, I was dying to check out THQ and GSC Gameworld’s Seven-Years-in-Development FPS-cum-adventure S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Shadow of Chernobyl (pronounced ess-tee-ay-el-kay-ee-ar). So I popped the DVD in, installed the game, and adjusted the graphics so my two-year-old PC could run it without the frame rate dropping below thir. Ty. Fram. Es. Per. Sec. Ond.
So now the graphics look like crap. Then what?
I was prepared to give gameplay and storyline a chance—after all, a good story is hard to come by, and even harder to buy these days I loaded up the game, got GSC’s exposition, and off we were.
In this post-apocalyptic game, it seems that after the first Chernobyl nuclear accident in 1986, a second explosion followed in 1996... and now in 2012 the Exclusion Zone has spawned a vast new industry of exploration. Radiation is the least of your dangers—the Zone is now a hotbed of treasure-seekers known as stalkers, soldiers keeping order (not always peacefully), and science teams wondering what the hell is going on. Anomalies, disruptions in space-time that burn, electrocute, and maim from empty air are everywhere. (I don’t yet have a video card that can handle the game on full graphical settings, even from my VERY LOW-quality pictures I’ve to stop and admire the poisoned, bleak landscape where little thrives, and nothing prospers. Trees droop. Mutants lurk. Even the birds have an eerily erratic flight path—or maybe that’s my imagination.) Into it all you come, a Stalker who wakes up with a convenient case of amnesia with only one link to your past—a PDA inscribed with the words “KILL THE STRELOK”.
But it won’t be easily finding him in the first place. This game is buggy as hell, with one of the largest modding communities I’ve seen. Seems that on top of adjusting game code to make it more, well, fun to play through, it seems they’re finishing the developers’ jobs for them. Make no mistake—this game is incomplete and crashes as often as anything. Why, GSC, why??? Are seven years not enough for you?
Don’t let that, or a two-year-old computer, stop you from exploring the Zone, though. Just remember to grab an assault rifle ASAP, and plenty of ammo.
#
Sad fact of life: in these days of hyperinflated budgets, delayed games, and code in the billions and billions of lines, bugs and crashes will become MORE common, not less. First day patches, anyone?
And I’m sick and tired of games simply winking to black and dumping me at my desktop. Every time now I can exit a game with a click on EXIT TO WINDOWS I remember to breathe a sigh of relief.
And best of all, I’ve found a great software place where the prices are decent, the service great, and changes easily and sympathetically made :-) Check out the e2000 Shop on the fifth floor of Funan the IT Mall. I have its sales staff to thank for the reviews above.
Here’s a piece of advice, 2K Games—as long as there are copies of your product out there in circulation, you’d better keep it up to date with users of Windows XP SP2 or whatever it is the majority of your customers use. Years and years of creativity, development slogging and testing don’t mean squat if a player’s computer cannot run the end product in the first place.
But you’ll still get my money—I own Mafia: City of Lost Heaven, for goodness’s sake, and believe all the hype enough to cough up money for Bioshock at the end of the year. Sad, isn’t it? You publish enough good, and the bad simply gets flushed away. So long as the money keeps rolling in, everyone’s happy...
Except those who want to see what life in the game sphere of 2003 was like and THINK they have a great game that conveys it, or for that matter the green hell of 1967 ‘Nam. Now I think I’ll just go back to reading Mekong: First Light, We Were Soldiers Once... and Young or some other book instead—to paraphrase General “E-tool” Smith, a book doesn’t crash. (The General’s something of a legend; as a US Army captain he led his company in taking a VC-held town. When his rifle jammed he drew his entrenching tool and hacked at the enemy—some accounts say he killed a machine-gun team that way. “An e-tool,” he said later, “doesn’t jam.”)
#
At any rate, I was dying to check out THQ and GSC Gameworld’s Seven-Years-in-Development FPS-cum-adventure S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Shadow of Chernobyl (pronounced ess-tee-ay-el-kay-ee-ar). So I popped the DVD in, installed the game, and adjusted the graphics so my two-year-old PC could run it without the frame rate dropping below thir. Ty. Fram. Es. Per. Sec. Ond.
So now the graphics look like crap. Then what?
I was prepared to give gameplay and storyline a chance—after all, a good story is hard to come by, and even harder to buy these days
In this post-apocalyptic game, it seems that after the first Chernobyl nuclear accident in 1986, a second explosion followed in 1996... and now in 2012 the Exclusion Zone has spawned a vast new industry of exploration. Radiation is the least of your dangers—the Zone is now a hotbed of treasure-seekers known as stalkers, soldiers keeping order (not always peacefully), and science teams wondering what the hell is going on. Anomalies, disruptions in space-time that burn, electrocute, and maim from empty air are everywhere. (I don’t yet have a video card that can handle the game on full graphical settings, even from my VERY LOW-quality pictures I’ve to stop and admire the poisoned, bleak landscape where little thrives, and nothing prospers. Trees droop. Mutants lurk. Even the birds have an eerily erratic flight path—or maybe that’s my imagination.) Into it all you come, a Stalker who wakes up with a convenient case of amnesia with only one link to your past—a PDA inscribed with the words “KILL THE STRELOK”.
But it won’t be easily finding him in the first place. This game is buggy as hell, with one of the largest modding communities I’ve seen. Seems that on top of adjusting game code to make it more, well, fun to play through, it seems they’re finishing the developers’ jobs for them. Make no mistake—this game is incomplete and crashes as often as anything. Why, GSC, why??? Are seven years not enough for you?
Don’t let that, or a two-year-old computer, stop you from exploring the Zone, though. Just remember to grab an assault rifle ASAP, and plenty of ammo.
#
Sad fact of life: in these days of hyperinflated budgets, delayed games, and code in the billions and billions of lines, bugs and crashes will become MORE common, not less. First day patches, anyone?
And I’m sick and tired of games simply winking to black and dumping me at my desktop. Every time now I can exit a game with a click on EXIT TO WINDOWS I remember to breathe a sigh of relief.
And best of all, I’ve found a great software place where the prices are decent, the service great, and changes easily and sympathetically made :-) Check out the e2000 Shop on the fifth floor of Funan the IT Mall. I have its sales staff to thank for the reviews above
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