Technology

I would have loved to blog about the parade, the MVP trophy, and all the festivities in Boston as they were happening, but my computer decided to break. It's still broken, actually.

I have a Toshiba Satellite L305D-S5893. It was purchased on Black Friday, November 2008. I didn't use it until August 2009. From the beginning, I've had hard drive crashes, which sometimes bring the computer to an unusable crawl, but must be endured in order to get past the block and run normally. The screen is completely shot; I'm currently running on an external monitor trying to back up all my data, including over a hundred gig of torrented videos.

The computer was $480. For that much money, one would think it would last a little longer. Actually, being RGB dependent isn't so bad. Problem would be in obtaining what I need to set up full time, since I'm using a friend's screen right now. And now I have to talk to people about what I should do. My parents think I should buy a new laptop. I don't really want a new one. I've hardly gotten anything near my money's worth out of this one. It was broken half of last school year, it seems. I'm always having to find ways around things. I usually do my work in the labs, but how do I explain that to my parents, who bought me this for my education?

*Groan* This is why I prefer desktops.

The Final Countdown

Game seven on the road. Lord Stanley's Cup is in the house. The end of the second intermission. The Boston Bruins are ahead 3-0. Cue the music.

Twenty minutes remain. I wait, scarcely breathing, drool sometimes dribbling out, because my entire being is so invested in the game that I can't remember to swallow. And yet I spend the intermission updating my fledgling blog. Go figure.

Hockey. Bruins pennant. Bruins watch. Bruins t-shirt. Bruins charm strung up with my Saints medals. Bruins backpack. Bruins baseball cap. And of course, Glen Murray #27 Bruins jersey.

Update: 22:45 BOSTON BRUINS WIN THE 2011 STANLEY CUP!

Canta, Mi Chitarra

I just bought some stuff for my guitar. Slowly, slowly, I've been developing what I have for my guitar playing. I learned on my dad's guitars, an Aria twelve-string acoustic and a Harmony hollow-bodied electric. Last summer one of my co-workers was selling one of his guitars to raise money for his wedding. I'd wanted a guitar of my own for a while, so I bought his electric, an Epiphone SG Special. Came with a distortion pedal, but that's all. I took some picks from home, got a friend's spare amp this school year, and now I'll finally have a strap. That and another capo. My first capo sorta blew apart in my hands. That's the problem with paying only three dollars. Another thing I'm doing is trying some heavier strings. My dad always uses D'aggio ultra lights, but he never tunes down. Then again, a capo with heavy strings is a recipe for some broken strings.

Well, we'll see. I'm hoping this will be a good move. I've waited. I enjoy playing, and I want to sound a little better when I cover Three Days Grace. And my picking might sound a little better if the strings are a little tighter, though solos might be a bit harder to play. I'll find out soon.

In Pursuit of Lord Stanley's Cup

So tonight was game two of the Stanley Cup Finals, the Boston Bruins versus the Vancouver Canucks, and Vancouver took the game eleven seconds into overtime.

I screamed. Again. I think the neighbors will pick up on the pattern soon, from the amount of Bruins paraphernalia I have everywhere from my dorm's door to my backpack to my jersey to my watch! At the end of game one, I screamed "Nooooo!" in a way to do Luke Skywalker and Simba proud. Tonight, I moaned as one who is in deepest mourning in between despairing cries of "What the eff was that?!? What the effing hell was that?!! Why him of all people?!?!" For lo and behold, who should score the game winner and have two goals and an assist, besides Burrows?

Burrows should have been suspended, hands down. He bit Bergeron, for crying out loud! But there he was, unpunished, inviting Lapierre to be his usual self and take the high road, rubbing it in Bergeron's face with the relish of a grade schooler sticking someone's head in the toilet. Glad to know that when Vancouver fans start to deride the Bruins for what happened in the last series against Tampa, they truly have the higher moral ground.

Has my sarcasm dripped off your screen yet? Because this is less than thinly veiled. This is what I hate most, when someone does something wrong and gets rewarded, not just in hockey, but everywhere else as well. And so for my hockey team to be getting burned by like this, is like taking some road rash, rubbing it with sand paper, dumping on some salt, and then pouring on lemon juice for good measure. However, it could still get worse. And so long as it can get worse, it can get better.

Two games at home up ahead! Here we go, Bruins! Here we go!

By the way, whoever decided the home games of the finals should be on Versus should be locked in a roomful of Bruins fans stuck with only basic cable at game time. That is all.

Just One Story

My grandfather is dying of cancer. His children have gathered around him at the ancestral home of my clan. From the eleventh to the thirteenth, the generations surround him of those who consider Cape Cod a sort of origin. I'm stuck at my job, waiting. It was impossible to alter my schedule in order to be there this weekend with everyone else, but I called my aunt and so was able to talk to them. I was uncharacteristically emotional, far more so than when my grandmother actually died, though I was far closer to her than I am to him.

The reason I'm so upset is because I don't have any stories to pass on. With my grandmother, she was moving away to Florida and leaving Massachusetts, where she was related to half the dirt and grass, behind. I took my mother's advice and asked Grandma to tell me a story of when she was young. And I heard many stories, about my great-grandmother, who was crazy, but free-spirited and loved to travel; about the divorce proceedings, and the pain of choosing her father over her mother; about the hurricane, and walking to a cottage on the Cape in the middle of the storm; of all her teeth falling out at eighteen; about Aunt Betty Mason, the millionaire's wife, of the Mason-Dixon Line fame; about saving Grandpa's life after he was stung by some bees; about out-shooting Grandpa with a .22 and earning her official marksmenship certification; about playing pool and badminton with Grandpa and fueling their rivalry; about her various cats and their backgrounds; about studying abroad in England; about teaching special-ed; about pursuing psychology; about raising five kids; about my dad as a child; about her favorite poets; about medieval studies.

I asked, and so I received a wealth of stories, to add to my own experiences of Grandma. And so, with the tradition of stories, I'll be able to pass these memories on, and the generations will not be forgotten. As for Grandpa -- he's a member of this, that, and the other committee, a retired USAF major, a volunteer plow-driver, a former EMT for the fire department, a school board member, and local politician. His hobbies include traveling, genealogies, the weather, and his cat, Emily. I know a lot about Grandpa. We didn't talk or write often, but it's not like we never communicated at all. And yet, all I know is a list of facts, some more interesting and some less. I can tell you he hunts squirrels, but that's a far cry from relaying a story about my other grandfather chasing a squirrel with a shovel after his BB gun backfired. You see the difference?

It's through stories I remember my great-grandmothers, who passed on before I entered kindergarten. I only have a handful of memories about them, yet I know who they are through the stories left behind. I never met great-great-Grandma Mary, but she's one of the people who I really long to meet in the afterlife, if things should so work out. I feel like I can hear her voice saying "the angeli are a-coming" when her great-grandchildren flock into the room. Great-great-Uncle Tom never really talked so much about his past as much as he made up silly stories on the spot and dropped distilled wisdom into the mix (at the end, maybe five or six times consecutively!). As for Grandpa, though, I have no stories I tell of him, other than what I can pull from the facts. I've never heard him tell a story, even if it's just about his part in the Memorial Day parade. Facts. Facts don't make memories. He's just going to be forgotten, unless his kids suddenly radically change and start telling stories about him. Because, y'know, even if I ask, his kids have nothing to say.

That's my fear: to be forgotten. Then I'd know that I really did leave no impact. My faith is weak. I don't really fully trust that there's anything after this life: this life is my story, and it's end is my end. If it isn't passed on, it's like I cease to exist. Is that all that's in store for Grandpa? Even if his family has gathered around, isn't that the loneliest thing? I kept meaning to ask him directly, "Please tell me a story," but tonight, I talked to him on the phone, and there's no way; even if he's still alive, he doesn't have the strength. What I wouldn't give for just one story!

Manga Mania Part I

While I work my summer job, I am distanced from my local library. Since I can't cover a thousand miles every three weeks, I've been limited to what my school library has for reading material, and academic libraries don't carry a lot of manga or murder mysteries. However, I have a friend who returns home frequently and can get books back and forth.

RIght now, he has out the first eight volumes of the manga adaptation of The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya. This prompted us to search the light novel series, since he was wondering if the series was completed. Turns out the limited editions of books ten and eleven came out back on May 25th, and the regular editions are coming out the 15th of this month. The books are really one two-part release, The Secret of Haruhi Suzumiya, and end the series. Haruhi Suzumiya has been a bit of a phenomenon, one of those series any otaku worth their salt at least has heard of. This is admittedly my first time reading the series. I'm very interested in the ending, particularly because my friend pointed out how everything really could be caused by Kyon, not Haruhi. It's a good theory, with a lot of merit.

1) Kyon is the one who makes the speech at the beginning about the ordinariness of life. When Haruhi brings up the possibilities of aliens, time travelers, sliders, and espers, Kyon doesn't know what sliders are, but one of each of the other three gather around.

2) When Haruhi gets into a funk, Kyon is the one who pulls her out. He may not realize it, but he loves her, and wants her happy. Maybe his mutual displeasure opens the "closed spaces"?

3) Haruhi always misses out on seeing all of the supernatural, unusual things she's causing, but Kyon witnesses them all.

4) Things usually work out in order to make Haruhi happy. Couldn't this just be more of Kyon acting on her behalf? She's also never aware of anything strange happening, the same as all of the ordinary students in the class.

5) If Kyon is God, it wouldn't be that hard for Haruhi, as the catalyst for his powers, to act as a sort of middle man for the energy transmission.

Again, that's my friend's theory, and I personally think the writing won't prove that complicated, but it's not impossible for a light novel. I'm looking forward to the time when the English translation comes around, though I may have to wait for the manga adaptation instead.

Objection!

I just finished playing Apollo Justice: Ace Attorney for the Nintendo DS. I'm considering cosplaying as one of the game's characters when I go to Otakon in July. There are a few more options for brown-haired people in this installment than in the original trilogy, after all, but the outfits are a tad elaborate for my sewing skills (and lack of a sewing machine).

I'm generally an RPG person, not that I really play that many games. Outside of the Ace Attorney series, I have Pokémon Black, Chrono Trigger, Golden Sun: Dark Dawn, and The World Ends With You for my personal library (though I've traded around for other games). The size of my library proves a bit revealing of how little I tend to spend. I'd much rather trade around the games I have with friends.

But back on topic: Apollo Justice: Ace Attorney is the fourth installment of the Ace Attorney series of video games. The games are Capcom products and were a popular import from Japan for a while, hence the amount of fanfiction and fanart floating around the internet that uses the Japanese names. Originally, the series was a trilogy of games released for the Game Boy Advance. They starred Naruhodou Ryuuichi (or Ryuuichi Naruhodou in Western name order), better known as Phoenix Wright. Naruhodou is a phrase meaning "I see," which works the same in Japanese as it does in English. Ryuuichi means "Dragon no. 1," so "Phoenix" sort of preserves the mystical animal thing. Interestingly enough, Ho-oh the sacred fire bird and Shenlong the dragon god are the partners in the flow of yin and yang in Taoism, but I don't think the choice of a phoenix was necessarily that deep.

Anyway, the GBA games did well, and became popular English-patched ROMs and imports. Later, the series was re-released for the Nintendo DS, and finally given an official localization. Then, taking gameplay elements and even characters from the special DS-only bonus case of the first game, the fourth game was made, set seven years after the original trilogy. The new hero is Apollo Justice, or Odoroki Housuke (which is something confusing like "king mired in the mud rejoicing mediator of law"). Phoenix has become a bit of a bum, and yet he is now the veteran mastermind orchestrating the events of the game. His love interests, both of them, have disappeared without explanation (exactly how much prison time did Iris get, anyways?). And the big supernatural mechanic is gone without a trace until one special part of the fourth case, at which point that trace is just kind of there. Another, far more tedious gameplay / plot element is introduced instead. And the third case is quite possibly the worst courtroom segment in the series. How many times can YOU watch the same 32 bit partially 3D synthesized singing music video?

The game was simplified quite a bit. No more presenting character profiles, which means that if you want someone to think of a certain character, you either need a photograph or some kind of item that ties them together. No more psyche-locks, at least until the second-to-last segment of the last case. None of the cases go three days, meaning they're rather short, on the whole. What to present tends to be a lot more obvious, though there was still one point where I just found myself presenting everything (this game's equivalent of button-mashing). But these are things I have to say as someone who has played the rest of the series. The sound is good, really, always keeping me immersed in the mood (Lamiroir's theme song and Klavier's guitar solo are particularly note-worthy), despite my mixed feelings towards "The Guitar's Serenade." Having the recycled GBA sounds and backgrounds in the flashback courtroom segment really shows the differences between the platforms, when I see Phoenix's character sprite and hear his voice.

Trucy Wright is an enjoyable sidekick, though I think they should have cut out the Easter eggs. I know that seems a bit weird, since those are generally there to reward loyal fans, but the whole step-ladder routine...isn't tired, but it was Maya's thing with Phoenix. Reusing it with Apollo and Trucy just makes them feel like substitutes. A lot of Apollo's lines are exactly lifted from Phoenix's, such as when presenting the wrong evidence. For the judge, that's fine, since he's the same character, but Phoenix and Apollo? Not so much so. I wish Maya had at least made a cameo. And Phoenix doesn't feel like the same person in this game. Meanwhile, what happened to Gumshoe? Did he finally get fired? Where's Edgeworth? Was law no longer worth it without his rival? Von Karma? Ema Skye was easily one of my favorite characters, but when compared to her original appearance in the bonus case of the first game, doesn't it seem like a let-down that she never became a forensic investigator?

Don't get me wrong: I love this game. I've loved every one of the games in this series, which is why I continue to buy them instead of a flashcart and a miniSD card. Now I just have to get Ace Attorney Investigations: Miles Edgeworth and pray that its sequel gets localized. That and wait for the crossover with Professor Layton that's coming out for the 3DS eventually.

Swing

Today I went to the swing-set. About six minutes walking from where I live is a childcare center for the children of my college's faculty. Since I live on campus year-round, it's not all that hard to head on over when the place is abandoned.

Swings are always so melancholy. Even on TV, they're the place people go to when they're upset or depressed. My Aniki uses the swings still, bellowing Death Cab for Cutie lyrics at the top of his lungs. Today, I went and bellowed Breaking Benjamin's album Phobia. I left because of the incoming thunderstorm (something about a metal swing-set and lightning seemed like a bad idea).

When I'm on a swing, I close my eyes and remember all the times before, when I would sit there, head titled up, watching the sky and trees overhead come closer, into focus, then fall away. I remember laughing with friends, then feeling isolated, because they didn't look up, because it didn't matter. They were laughing and smiling because it was fun. I just wanted to fly, to soar, to let go and catch the wind beneath me. On the swing, I could fly faster, farther, higher than anyone else. And so often, I would realize that only I was "flying." I had to choose, between playing with my friends or flying alone. The choice made me sad, and isolated.

"Hitori". Alone.

With my siblings, it was different, at least with Aniki. My youngest brother -- not so much. He's never been much for imagination, unless it was stock cars or slapstick. But Aniki could soar like an eagle, higher than the rest, farther, longer. It was my job to keep up, but gravity forever would pull me back in. A racing, deep desire to break free would overwhelm me. But Aniki would forever pull away, like the eagle flying ahead of Spirit in Spirit: Stallion of the Cimmaron. Not that I particularly recommend this series, but it very much so recalls the yearning of the C ranked team of corporate salarymen Kogarasumaru faces off against in Air Gear: "You will soar to the highest heaven, but we Wolves will run to the ends of the world!" If I cannot fly, I'll run!

That's how my dreams have always been: I dreamed about flight, over and over, until it finally hit me that I cannot fly. And ever since then, I have been running, pursued, to the ends of the world. If I hit flight, it is an epiphany, from which I invariably awaken or fall.

Farther, higher, faster, yet ultimately alone.

The Naming Ceremony

Here I am, naming what is quite possibly a public journal of sorts, and the best I can do for a name is to rephrase the name of one of my old journals from junior high. I can't decide if this is a good thing or an omen of ill portent...

They say the one who names a thing has power over it. I think I first encountered the idea in Eragon. The thing is, we tend to define ourselves by our names. You walk up to someone and say, "In the most fundamental sense, who are you?" and most of them will say "Um, Alex?" "I'm...Chelsea?" "My name is Adam, if that's what you're looking for." Or if they're religious, "I'm a Christian." "I'm a Jew." I wave that off and tell them, "Those are only definitions. That's not who you are. You are yourself." But then I remember these things for later. It's fascinating how what I consider an absolute, others argue is baseless.

Names aren't absolute. People can change their names. When women get married, they take on their husbands' family names (usually, but not always). My mom changed her first name. I think Tolkien's essay on Elvish naming customs (which I believe is in volume XII of the Histories of Middle Earth) has the best approach to it: names are prophecies. The mother-name is the prophecy, the father-name the fact.

That's one of the sorrier aspects of European names: because they are so mutated from the root words, knowing the meanings of our names is a matter of possessing some esoteric knowledge that may or may not have been considered by our parents. My grandparents weren't paying all that much attention when they strung together for my mother "Bitter Avenger"! They were naming their daughter after Mary, Mother of God, and Maria, a relative. None of them knew a lick of Hebrew to say, "Oh, that means bitter," nor do I think it would matter, judging by the number of Mary's down through the years.

The name of this blog, "Follow the Wind," has a deep meaning. But I think I'll leave that for another time.