Wii are not amused.
Seriously, Nintendo. What the hell is wrong with you? You had a winner with "Revolution" as the name of your next console. It does revolutionary things, namely in the controller with its gyroscope sensor and ability to track itself in three-dimensional space. Hell, the Madden game EA announced earlier today was damn revolutionary, what with the ability to use the controller as a proxy football. Sports games are a turn-off for me, but if I could pretend I'm the quarterback with moving around the living room floor and simulating a 50-yard bomb, I'm there on release day.
And then there's the whole Virtual Console aspect, where gamers can purchase from a 20-year catalog of Nintendo games, titles that revived an near-dead industry in the 80s. Youngin's will get the chance to play classics from the 8-bit era all the way up to today. Imagine a games version of Apple's Music Store and you get the idea. Feel like playing an old Zelda title? Go online, drop a couple bucks and it'll be downloaded to you. No more plugging in old consoles for those classic titles. It's all under one sleek, sexy, Applerotic hood. Add to this one more super secret feature that N was going to reveal at the upcoming E3 event in Los Angeles, and Nintendo, you mad-crazy darling, you looked ready to kick serious butt in the next-gen console war, showing the graphic addicts at Sony and Microsoft how gaming should be done. Again.
But no. That was too easy. That was too simple. Instead, you decide that Revolution wasn't expressive enough, didn't fit the bill. So, you came up with..
Wii.
Wii? As in We?
That's not a name, it's what you have left in your Scrabble rack after a boring turn. It's not even a word. It's the crude approximation of a word that already exists. It's not unique enough to be a Google or an iPod. It's not evocative enough to be a Lush or a Black Phoenix or even a Toys in Babeland. It's not fun to say like Yahoo or Mini Cooper. And it's not exotic like Revolution. Instead of giving their next console a number, like an awful, cookie-cutter Hollywood sequel, Nintendo's Revolution would be swirling, exciting event where gamers could plunk their money down and feel like "Yeah, this is different. This is the future."
It's so bad that I almost feel bad for Nintendo's PR team at this moment. Their jobs can't be easy ones, what with gaming message boards in an uproar over this. Maybe they knew that this was a terrible name, and so with a couple days head start they went to their meme workshops and built the best face possible.
Consider Pierre Kaplan, Vice President of Marketing and Corporate Affairs for Nintendo of America. In an interview today with CNN Money, she opts for a "learning curve" type of defense.
"I think people have to look back and let it settle in," she said. "I'm sure people felt the same way when Google was named – or the iPod. Napster. Yahoo. There's a whole host of unusual names that have become a part of everyday conversation and I think they're viewed now as unique."
Um, lady, that's not the point. You had a perfect name to start with. You talked about Revolution as "Revolution" for a year before Wii. We liked Revolution a lot because it fit. It'd be like Lucas going "you know Star Wars doesn't convey the film. I'll name it Wisdom Celestial Adventure. Yeah, that'll work." No, it'd be a disaster, and if you have go about and explain what "Wii" means then it's not a great name. iPod works because its unexplainable. Google? It just is. It's a curiosity, but it draws people in. Plus, Google sounds like giggle. It's fun to say. It makes you smile, but everyone knows it, uses it, loves it. Wii? That sounds like what you leave in the urinal.
It's a terrible name, and I hope that some force here in the states gets a petition together to have Nintendo of America change the American version of the product. It's not uncommon for products to have difference names in different markets around the world. Here, it makes sense. Bring back Revolution, Nintendo, or you might find yourself on the business end of one.
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Attacked Massively
Last night, I got to cross one of my life's goals off that invisible to-do list. After an eight-year absence, trip-hop pioneers Massive Attack came back to America, came to Seattle, came to remind everyone of their elegant urban aural sculptures that court nightmares and love, riding techno and reggae backbones like it was no big deal.
I never thought I'd see MA in the states. Delays, side projects, long departures from the studios, they all kept the Bristol band from touring beyond European confines. The closest I got was my iPod crammed with everything the band ever did. To me, they were a studio entity, generating lusty shadows and haunting listeners with packs of animals that fed on alternative waves of dread or mad love. To have them on a stage, crafting their lush orchestrations, I wasn't sure it was possible.
My wife and I made it in to The Paramount and huddled on the main floor, about five layers of humanity away from the stage barrier, close enough to see the whites of the singers' eyes, close to enough to worry about performers sweating on us. We waited through an awkward hour of a guest DJ, spinning teched-out reggae tracks to a crowd who operated on the same Borg channel: It's been eight years. Get off the stage. One long hour passed, and the DJ bowed in thanks to relieved applause. His kit was broken down, and MA's stage-set (two drum kits, one bass, one guitar, five mikes upfront lined up like chess pawns) were groomed by roadies. We waited, we cat-called, we hollered.
Darkness. And then the first notes of "False Flags" hit the air. The wall of lights from the back of the stage shimmered as flags waving in electronic breezes. Lush and moody, intentional intense without posing. It was my iPod exploding and wrapping around me in light and sonic assault. I fell back to 1992, when I first heard "Unfinished Sympathy" while waking up on Houston morning. MA stepped forward out of the darkness, bringing their own audio humidity with them, filling the theater with something dark and haunting, powerful, wonderful. Yeah, this was it.
A good show all around, but it was plagued by mic problems from the start. The singers, five in total (including reggae legend Horace Andy and Cocteau Twins goddess Elizabeth Fraser), all looked off their game, awkward from either technical problems or from trying to shake the rust off their haunches after nearly three years of not being Massive Attack. The band itself was tight, fierce but coordinated, capable of making themselves impressively loud on showstoppers like "Safe from Harm" and "Group Four." I imagine once they get a couple more live shows down, they'll be fantastic. Seattle was the first show of its world tour, and I can only think that this was that one awkward show where all the kinks come out, a stumble, a trip, then a soaring. Rumor has it they'll be back through the states (they are only making three American stops this time around) in September. I don't know if I'm going again. I'm awestruck that I this close to MA. I was within 10 yards of the people behind "Unfinished Sympathy," "Teardrop" and "Future Proof." Flaws aside, drunk pushy twits forgotten, it was amazing, even a little life affirming as Fraser whispered the opening lines of "Teardrop" to a main floor crowd who sung along with tears and smiles.
One more thing, Massive Attack is touring pretty much for themselves at this point. There's a new album due out next year, but nothing was revealed from it last night. MA has a greatest hits album, which just hit stores. Wonderful, except I'd wager the crowd in attendance had everything the band ever did. Which leaves the realization that MA came out late night to be themselves, and we were there to celebrate, to cheer, to say thank you in the ways fans do, but raised hands (or lit cellphones) in praise. I got to hear "Teardrop" from Fraser's own lips. Heaven.
Last night, I got to cross one of my life's goals off that invisible to-do list. After an eight-year absence, trip-hop pioneers Massive Attack came back to America, came to Seattle, came to remind everyone of their elegant urban aural sculptures that court nightmares and love, riding techno and reggae backbones like it was no big deal.
I never thought I'd see MA in the states. Delays, side projects, long departures from the studios, they all kept the Bristol band from touring beyond European confines. The closest I got was my iPod crammed with everything the band ever did. To me, they were a studio entity, generating lusty shadows and haunting listeners with packs of animals that fed on alternative waves of dread or mad love. To have them on a stage, crafting their lush orchestrations, I wasn't sure it was possible.
My wife and I made it in to The Paramount and huddled on the main floor, about five layers of humanity away from the stage barrier, close enough to see the whites of the singers' eyes, close to enough to worry about performers sweating on us. We waited through an awkward hour of a guest DJ, spinning teched-out reggae tracks to a crowd who operated on the same Borg channel: It's been eight years. Get off the stage. One long hour passed, and the DJ bowed in thanks to relieved applause. His kit was broken down, and MA's stage-set (two drum kits, one bass, one guitar, five mikes upfront lined up like chess pawns) were groomed by roadies. We waited, we cat-called, we hollered.
Darkness. And then the first notes of "False Flags" hit the air. The wall of lights from the back of the stage shimmered as flags waving in electronic breezes. Lush and moody, intentional intense without posing. It was my iPod exploding and wrapping around me in light and sonic assault. I fell back to 1992, when I first heard "Unfinished Sympathy" while waking up on Houston morning. MA stepped forward out of the darkness, bringing their own audio humidity with them, filling the theater with something dark and haunting, powerful, wonderful. Yeah, this was it.
A good show all around, but it was plagued by mic problems from the start. The singers, five in total (including reggae legend Horace Andy and Cocteau Twins goddess Elizabeth Fraser), all looked off their game, awkward from either technical problems or from trying to shake the rust off their haunches after nearly three years of not being Massive Attack. The band itself was tight, fierce but coordinated, capable of making themselves impressively loud on showstoppers like "Safe from Harm" and "Group Four." I imagine once they get a couple more live shows down, they'll be fantastic. Seattle was the first show of its world tour, and I can only think that this was that one awkward show where all the kinks come out, a stumble, a trip, then a soaring. Rumor has it they'll be back through the states (they are only making three American stops this time around) in September. I don't know if I'm going again. I'm awestruck that I this close to MA. I was within 10 yards of the people behind "Unfinished Sympathy," "Teardrop" and "Future Proof." Flaws aside, drunk pushy twits forgotten, it was amazing, even a little life affirming as Fraser whispered the opening lines of "Teardrop" to a main floor crowd who sung along with tears and smiles.
One more thing, Massive Attack is touring pretty much for themselves at this point. There's a new album due out next year, but nothing was revealed from it last night. MA has a greatest hits album, which just hit stores. Wonderful, except I'd wager the crowd in attendance had everything the band ever did. Which leaves the realization that MA came out late night to be themselves, and we were there to celebrate, to cheer, to say thank you in the ways fans do, but raised hands (or lit cellphones) in praise. I got to hear "Teardrop" from Fraser's own lips. Heaven.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
82
Today is the 82nd month that my lovely wife and I have been married, and since Blogger is finally acting properly, I can now step up and let my wonderful, kind, sexy, smart, and infinitely patient wife that I'm lucky to have found her. I know this might come out wrong, but with all the work we have done behind-the-scenes in regard to our wills and life insurance, I got a little more mature and childish at the same time with both roads leading to a newfound love for my one and only. When you write a will and set up a life insurance policy, it's a step where you say, "That's it. I'm ready to die. My spouse will be taken care of. That's all that matters." After my wife did her will, I dropped into a fear state, imagining her gone and me puttering around in my house living half of a life. After my funk, I went through a small renaissance, understanding how much I love her, how much she changed my life. It's strange that with six billion people roaming around how just one can affect you so deeply.
We are both in our early 30s, and barring something catastrophic, we'll be alive for a long time. We won't need to worry about who has to bury whom, and what to do with all the belongings that no longer have an owner. We can go about our modern lives, being who we are and enjoying ourselves, eventually retreating back along that dissonant line of thinking we will be around forever and all major worries are in some gray distant horizon. For me, there came a definite liberation when I signed my will. I don't need to worry. Everything will be taken care of. I kept it modest; I don't think I could legally get Radiohead to play at my memorial service if I just wrote it in the document. But the cats will have owners if we both die. My wife's jewelry will find a home. A couple of charities will be getting post-mortem donations. Writing a will gives you a feeling that you can still be a force for good, even if you aren't around. I reckon I'm rationalizing, but it makes death seem not that bad.
A bit of trivia: Microsoft Word for Mac has a Will template.
So, today my wife and I will have our little monthly celebration, rest assured that we're a little older and far too responsible, but we are still, always, immutably, in love.
I love you. Happy 82 months.
Today is the 82nd month that my lovely wife and I have been married, and since Blogger is finally acting properly, I can now step up and let my wonderful, kind, sexy, smart, and infinitely patient wife that I'm lucky to have found her. I know this might come out wrong, but with all the work we have done behind-the-scenes in regard to our wills and life insurance, I got a little more mature and childish at the same time with both roads leading to a newfound love for my one and only. When you write a will and set up a life insurance policy, it's a step where you say, "That's it. I'm ready to die. My spouse will be taken care of. That's all that matters." After my wife did her will, I dropped into a fear state, imagining her gone and me puttering around in my house living half of a life. After my funk, I went through a small renaissance, understanding how much I love her, how much she changed my life. It's strange that with six billion people roaming around how just one can affect you so deeply.
We are both in our early 30s, and barring something catastrophic, we'll be alive for a long time. We won't need to worry about who has to bury whom, and what to do with all the belongings that no longer have an owner. We can go about our modern lives, being who we are and enjoying ourselves, eventually retreating back along that dissonant line of thinking we will be around forever and all major worries are in some gray distant horizon. For me, there came a definite liberation when I signed my will. I don't need to worry. Everything will be taken care of. I kept it modest; I don't think I could legally get Radiohead to play at my memorial service if I just wrote it in the document. But the cats will have owners if we both die. My wife's jewelry will find a home. A couple of charities will be getting post-mortem donations. Writing a will gives you a feeling that you can still be a force for good, even if you aren't around. I reckon I'm rationalizing, but it makes death seem not that bad.
A bit of trivia: Microsoft Word for Mac has a Will template.
So, today my wife and I will have our little monthly celebration, rest assured that we're a little older and far too responsible, but we are still, always, immutably, in love.
I love you. Happy 82 months.
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Two Women
Today is my grandmother's birthday. 89. All things considered, she's doing well. Yes, her eyesight is approaching nil, and she battled back after a near-fatal heart attack last July, but she's a tough specimen, defiant to the last in that modest, quiet way that has seen her through the death of her husband more than 40 years hence, the loss of a son in childbirth, the raising of another son and a daughter, being a working mom before such critters were acknowledged as a voting bloc by campaign consultants, a landlady, and a faithful Catholic of the old-school Chicago "I don't care if it's snowing, I'm walking to Church" stripe. She says on the phone this morning that she misses me as I wish her a happy birthday. She is living with my mom and step-dad in Chicago, and being in Seattle I miss her. I know I'll see her in October, when my wife and I attend my mom's 60th. And should my grandmother keep her spirits and health up for another year, I know I will be there as she laughs at a 90th birthday cake coming her way.
I know she doesn't get into the whole Internet thing, or can even read this, but I love you Grandma. Happy birthday, and may you know how much you are loved and thanked for all your help, kindness, and support you gave me when I was young.
Seeing your family extend into, and likely beyond, the octogenarian range, you can't help think about where you are going to end up on that invisible timeline that stretches out before you to some undisclosed horizon. As the man says, no one gets out of life alive. Add to that tiramisu a layer of newfound maturity when you hit your mid-30s, and you find yourself writing another rough draft as you write your novels. This time, it's a will.
My wife drafted up hers yesterday, and I have to admit I wasn't prepared for seeing my wife's post-mortem wishes in black and white, nestled in the sterile landscape of a Microsoft Word document. Even though I felt her next to me, even though I could smell her perfume and hear her voice, I suddenly felt as if she was gone, taken by some unseen force. And there was me, in the kitchen and alone, holding her wishes in my hands, just trying to find the courage to hand away her belongings to friends and relatives. A preview of grief as I projected myself to a future point on that timeline where I remain and she has gone ahead. Days and nights alone, and the house is deathly quiet, her life gone and mine reduced to a half-portion.
I held her later that night on the couch, asking her for something not rational, something primal and reassuring. I didn't want her to go. I don't want her to be absent, and I'm terrified that if she goes and I survive the shock, will I start to forget her in time. Will pieces of her vanish from me as I give her jewelry to friends and family, as I donate her clothes to charity? In Kevin Brockmeier's new novel "The Brief History of the Dead," the newly deceased, who occupy a sort of urban limbo, come to understand that they continue on in their spectral state because someone in the living world remembers them, and as a plague reduces the population in the living world, the strands get severed and the memories of the specters cannot be sustained. And it makes me wonder, in a depressive pallor, if the same can be said for her possessions. Once gone, will a complete picture of my wife remain? Will little bits of her exist in the necklace, in the shoes, in the perfume she collects? How long will her scent last on the bedding? What remains and for how long?
This weekend, I make my will. I'm not looking forward to it.
Today is my grandmother's birthday. 89. All things considered, she's doing well. Yes, her eyesight is approaching nil, and she battled back after a near-fatal heart attack last July, but she's a tough specimen, defiant to the last in that modest, quiet way that has seen her through the death of her husband more than 40 years hence, the loss of a son in childbirth, the raising of another son and a daughter, being a working mom before such critters were acknowledged as a voting bloc by campaign consultants, a landlady, and a faithful Catholic of the old-school Chicago "I don't care if it's snowing, I'm walking to Church" stripe. She says on the phone this morning that she misses me as I wish her a happy birthday. She is living with my mom and step-dad in Chicago, and being in Seattle I miss her. I know I'll see her in October, when my wife and I attend my mom's 60th. And should my grandmother keep her spirits and health up for another year, I know I will be there as she laughs at a 90th birthday cake coming her way.
I know she doesn't get into the whole Internet thing, or can even read this, but I love you Grandma. Happy birthday, and may you know how much you are loved and thanked for all your help, kindness, and support you gave me when I was young.
Seeing your family extend into, and likely beyond, the octogenarian range, you can't help think about where you are going to end up on that invisible timeline that stretches out before you to some undisclosed horizon. As the man says, no one gets out of life alive. Add to that tiramisu a layer of newfound maturity when you hit your mid-30s, and you find yourself writing another rough draft as you write your novels. This time, it's a will.
My wife drafted up hers yesterday, and I have to admit I wasn't prepared for seeing my wife's post-mortem wishes in black and white, nestled in the sterile landscape of a Microsoft Word document. Even though I felt her next to me, even though I could smell her perfume and hear her voice, I suddenly felt as if she was gone, taken by some unseen force. And there was me, in the kitchen and alone, holding her wishes in my hands, just trying to find the courage to hand away her belongings to friends and relatives. A preview of grief as I projected myself to a future point on that timeline where I remain and she has gone ahead. Days and nights alone, and the house is deathly quiet, her life gone and mine reduced to a half-portion.
I held her later that night on the couch, asking her for something not rational, something primal and reassuring. I didn't want her to go. I don't want her to be absent, and I'm terrified that if she goes and I survive the shock, will I start to forget her in time. Will pieces of her vanish from me as I give her jewelry to friends and family, as I donate her clothes to charity? In Kevin Brockmeier's new novel "The Brief History of the Dead," the newly deceased, who occupy a sort of urban limbo, come to understand that they continue on in their spectral state because someone in the living world remembers them, and as a plague reduces the population in the living world, the strands get severed and the memories of the specters cannot be sustained. And it makes me wonder, in a depressive pallor, if the same can be said for her possessions. Once gone, will a complete picture of my wife remain? Will little bits of her exist in the necklace, in the shoes, in the perfume she collects? How long will her scent last on the bedding? What remains and for how long?
This weekend, I make my will. I'm not looking forward to it.
Monday, April 10, 2006
thirty-four
Just a short note. Today's my birthday, and I don't know exactly what to feel. When I was younger, I thought a birthday was akin to New Year's Day, where everything starts over again with you, a year older and this magical new coat of paint you get applied every 365 days. I desperately wanted to feel that sense of rejuvenation, that sense of everything is new once more. I suppose if I believed it enough I'd feel it.
However, I know (in that creeping adult sense of rationality) that it's just another day. I'm staying home from work, taking it easy. My lovely wife is making a cake. Going to get a haircut at long last. And, as usual, write another thousand words. To me, it's just like any other day, but with cake.
There is nothing special I want to do today, and I don't know if that's good or bad. I'm lucky enough to be not enough of a materialist to think I need gifts or a lot of attention on this one. My surprise party for my 30th, bookended with having my 31st in Paris, was probably as good as it's going to get, and I'm in the mood where I need to be thankful more often. I'm lucky. I have everything I really need in this life. I have a great wife, a nice cozy home, good friends (a couple of whom made a donation in my name to the ACLU), time to write, Massive Attack tickets, and a pair of cats who (as of this writing) haven't pooed in any of my shoes. I'm a king among men. And I'm getting cake.
Finally, a thank you for everyone who drops by to this little blog. I'm grateful you take a little time out of your day to read me.
Just a short note. Today's my birthday, and I don't know exactly what to feel. When I was younger, I thought a birthday was akin to New Year's Day, where everything starts over again with you, a year older and this magical new coat of paint you get applied every 365 days. I desperately wanted to feel that sense of rejuvenation, that sense of everything is new once more. I suppose if I believed it enough I'd feel it.
However, I know (in that creeping adult sense of rationality) that it's just another day. I'm staying home from work, taking it easy. My lovely wife is making a cake. Going to get a haircut at long last. And, as usual, write another thousand words. To me, it's just like any other day, but with cake.
There is nothing special I want to do today, and I don't know if that's good or bad. I'm lucky enough to be not enough of a materialist to think I need gifts or a lot of attention on this one. My surprise party for my 30th, bookended with having my 31st in Paris, was probably as good as it's going to get, and I'm in the mood where I need to be thankful more often. I'm lucky. I have everything I really need in this life. I have a great wife, a nice cozy home, good friends (a couple of whom made a donation in my name to the ACLU), time to write, Massive Attack tickets, and a pair of cats who (as of this writing) haven't pooed in any of my shoes. I'm a king among men. And I'm getting cake.
Finally, a thank you for everyone who drops by to this little blog. I'm grateful you take a little time out of your day to read me.
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