Shutting off the laptop now. Its airy drone's penetrating my defenses and I sense myself getting crabbier by the second. Time to stop and sleep before my heart rate rises to the point where slumber becomes a I missed opportunity. That'd be bad. The Kyle of tomorrow would hate the Kyle of today.

Can't let that happen...

I need a beer. Or a perception-altering equivalent. This shit’s unbearable…cramped spaces, I mean.

Riding in a plane sucks. Flying? That’s probably incomparably freeing. But no in-air six dollar movie (with brightness controls!) or extra-thick seat padding can derail passengers’ thoughts from the head-splitting drone of the engines, the smells of people, and the ball-crushing cramped space. Jesus. In my head I’m bouncing around the plane interior, laughing maniacally. Yeah, Roger Rabbit’s always been a hero of mine.

Turbulence. This is the worst I’ve experienced. No one’s panicking. I’m chewing on the notion of this, like most things, being both good and bad. Do the saps remain calm because they’re confident in the safety afforded by electronic doohickeys and Major Strongchin Redhair pilot? Or do they all subconsciously accept death, and prefer to go down reading the weather section of their favorite rag? Let’s go with the former, only because I don’t want to live in a world where the elemental schedule’s more important than conversation and fucking.

A baby’s crying. Little shit won’t shut up. Might be an audio clip played over the speakers. That’s a good idea. Unwitting passengers pay out the ass to travel in a tin can AND they’re part of a controlled study. Its purpose escapes me, but I’d donate my time to count and collect all the sneering looks. Scratch that, fuckers can pay me. My time’s valuable.

To my right, a window. To my left, an open seat….kinda wish I had someone to talk to. Maybe discuss the Oscars, my new favorite band The XX, or what a beautiful day it is at XXXXX number of feet above the clouds. Or maybe it’s best that I’m mostly alone. I can feel and hear my stomach’s best men laying tracks for the gasline express. Maybe I can slip one out no one will notice…

Middle-aged lady across the row’s reading a trashy romance novel. One of the types that paid for Fabio’s bleach jobs, and maybe blow jobs. Lady’s holding the bottom of the book with her right hand, thumb rested on the book’s inside spine. Her left elbows locked at her left side, forearm’s sticking straight up, and her hand’s level with the floor, with her index and middle fingers delicately touching the space between between her collarbone and heart. She has short red hair, thick black=rimmed glasses, and is wearing brisk-weather clothes from some big box retailer. The faded pink shirt under her cheaply-made velvety hoodie isn’t doing her any favors. But she looks happy, and sometimes sad. The book’s taking her on a ride through a plethora of emotions, most notably one that inspired lip-wetting. Cool. I wish her well in Denver.

I love people, and I love observing them. But I’ll not stare at this woman any longer, for fear of crushing this moment of escapism. We only get so many, it’s a shame to waste a single one.

This feels good. Writing. Like a warm shit, as Bukowski so eloquently explained once.  I’ve been backed up for months. Had I been backed up this bad with real shit, and not my “word on the page” drivel, I’d’ve at least four weeks and six days ago (the date’s inconsequential, if you’re wondering). Maybe I DID die, creatively. I wasn’t myself when I couldn’t write. To continue the metaphor, we’re never really right when we’re turtle-heading a monster and the nearest porcelain palace remains unknown.

And there’s Denver. Only halfway to Cali. Boo.

Hi Kyle;

 

Thank you for your comments on our recent film presentation in Auditorium No.1. I'm sorry to hear that your film experience didn't meet your expectations. Our service technician is currently looking into this, to find out what the issue is. I will contact you back as soon as he gets to the bottom of this situation.

 

Thanks again,

Auditorium No. 1? Let's hope Bob made a silly typo.

Anyway, today I received a follow-up email.

Hello again;

 

I do apologize for the problems you recently experienced here. You will be pleased to note that our projection technician has replaced the high frequency driver in the front right channel speaker, which was causing the difficulty.

 

Once again, I apologize, and I hope your next visit will be more enjoyable than the last.

 

Thanks,

- Bob Strong

"If you're going to try, go all the way. Otherwise, don't even start. This could mean losing girlfriends, wives, relatives and maybe even your mind. It could mean not eating for three or four days. It could mean freezing on a park bench. It could mean jail. It could mean derision. It could mean mockery--isolation. Isolation is the gift. All the others are a test of your endurance, of how much you really want to do it. And, you'll do it, despite rejection and the worst odds. And it will be better than anything else you can imagine. If you're going to try, go all the way. There is no other feeling like that. You will be alone with the gods, and the nights will flame with fire. You will ride life straight to perfect laughter. It's the only good fight there is."
— Charles Bukowski

No sound emanates  from the front-right speaker in theater 15 at Minneapolis, Minnesota's downtown Block E.  Left-center seems fine, and the center channel's more than present, but the front-right's noticeably absent, cutting the soundtrack volume in half and possibly withholding positional sound effects. This is a problem.

When I first told management of the situation on June 19 during my viewing of Transformers 2, I began our conversation with a brief description of my background in audio engineering, production and mixing. After I revealed from which theater I left, guilt filled their faces in milliseconds. It wasn't the response I expected, and I briefly wondered if I had instead spoken some sort of code, revealing to each individual a long-buried secret from his or her past.

After communicating my problem, they immediately apologetically replied with "Yeah....we're sorry about that." I waited for a follow-up response but didn't receive one. I guess it was my turn to talk, so I preached a beautiful sermon on the art of films and the role audio plays, but the congregation didn't care for my gospel. They offered no refund, and I returned to the movie. Normally I would've left, but Ebert's informed opinion, one with which I usually agree, led me to believe making a special trip to another theater would give the film and its provider too much money and attention. Two hours later I agreed with Ebert. Bad sound or good sound, that's a terrible movie.

I battled management a second time in late July when I saw Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince in the same theater.

During the film's previews, I noticed the front-right speaker still emanated no audio. I stormed out of the theater and demanded a refund from the same people I spoke to a month earlier. They offered an alternative, and suggested viewing the film in another theater. Since my girlfriend and I were excited to watch the latest shenanigans of Mr. Potter and friends, and had made a day of going out and seeing a movie, I accepted. What happened next insulted my love for cinema and indicated management's attitude towards this obvious problem: manager lady asked me if I wanted to see the last half hour in an adjacent theater and then watch the rest during the next showing.

I won't explain why this is fundamentally wrong. A cuttlefish could grasp the importance of seeing a film from start to finish.

I didn't accept this solution and demanded another. For the next hour my girlfriend and I sat in the theater lobby waiting for the next showing. When it was time, we walked in, saw the movie, and walked out - the way it should be.

Tonight I visited Block E, sat in theater 15, and left fifteen minutes later. The front-right speaker still didn't work. I would've left immediately, but my brother, his girlfriend, and my girlfriend were with me. I weighed viewing the movie under these conditions with my friends and family versus my respect for Mr. Scorcese, Mr. Dicaprio, and everyone else involved in Shutter Island. Mr. Scorcese and company obviously won the battle.

This time I got my money back, all nine dollars and fifty cents, but I will never have the experience of seeing this film with these people for the first time, and that's why I go to the theater with other people. It's all about the communal experience. 

Management's actions speak for the company and the people who run it. They don't care for films beyond pieces of throwaway entertainment, and they really don't care about the viewing experiences of customers a.k.a. job providers a.k.a. the people you fucking take care of. At Kerasotes Block E theater, I didn't feel taken care of, and I definitely don't believe they give a damn about film artistry. If they did, this problem wouldn't have persisted eight months later.

If you've visited this theater between June 2009 and February 2010, please keep in mind that Kerasotes either didn't think you'd notice or didn't think you'd notice enough to complain. You were ripped off, and paid full price for a broken theater. How's that feel? Even more, if you're running a film company or making films, how does it feel to have your work shown in a theater like this one?

Goodbye, Kerasotes. I hope AMC buys you out ASAP.

Edit: I didn't look for it, but oh how I would've loved to see a THX logo outside the theater wall...

Disclaimer: I originally finished writing this on Friday, 22 January 2010 at 5:01 AM, but left it unpublished for reasons that escape me.

I'm not an ass any more than you. I'm simply guilty of conveying only one small piece of my personality through social media. For that, I apologize. I intensely care for the videogame industry, and seeing it drunkenly stagger towards seedy avenues of self-destruction pains me. Instinctively, and without knowing it, I formed an online presence around the idea that if we demand change we just might get it.

This is obviously very personal for me. I once believed this young medium possessed the beautiful potential to positively inspire and shape humanity in ways more profound than all other media combined, and I still do (kind of), but the naive simplicity of a path without obstructions is far, far gone. Reality, that uncaring bitch, refuses to rescind her constant bombardment of sequels, juvenile subject matter, and creativity-neutering decisions from a certain CEO whose name sounds like Kobby Botick.

But, naturally, the antithesis exists; freedom fighters who, brick by brick, are shaping the industry's path into one on which we'll all want to travel.

This is about them.

And this is from the heart.

I was having a bad morning, yesterday. Well, maybe not bad. That word's probably best suited for those whose cars spontaneously sputter and die on a crowded interstate only five minutes away from the driver's place of employment and 20 minutes past the scheduled clock-in time. Or the temp, two weeks at her position and one week away from drawing unemployment once again, who's about to play ringmaster to Another Company Presentation when she realizes her USB drive containing the entire show is sitting on the kitchen countertop at home - the exact spot she placed it before cooking breakfast for her three kids and helping them get ready for school.

But I digress. Nothing abnormal happened yesterday morning. I got up, ate breakfast (the bark-like Kashi cereal, in case you're wondering), and walked 1.7 miles in a not-very-balmy 20 degree environment to teach keyboarding/typing. The temperature didn't bother me, nor did the distance of my travel, and in no way did I feel annoyed having to teach at 9:00AM. I adore my role as an educator, regardless of class content or size. (Note: I'm a professional. Separating my personal state from my teaching abilities is what I do. So please, don't suggest otherwise.)

The morning turned depressing immediately after I woke up. The night before, new developments combined with old to break through my normally impenetrable psyche, and I felt crushingly underappreciated and undervalued. I'd rather not reveal the specifics, but I'm more than comfortable divulging the old. Some of you have heard all this before. Maybe even two or three times.

A certain developer and publisher I was employed by didn't care about me or my well being. I worked hundreds of hours month after month as a tester, and then later as a technical requirements group member, canceled plans with family and friends, and refused to make new ones in fear of having to work. It was maddening and monotonous work, but it felt good finally working in the videogame industry. But management, at any level, never thanked us. And they never said any of us were doing a good job.

It didn't take long for the atmosphere to turn sour. People started slacking off to greater and greater degrees, but still I remained vigilant. I grew up in a small town in Northwest Minnesota, just being here working on videogames was something I never thought could happen. I worked my ass off on every title I tested. I did well, too, especially when I was entrusted with being the sole person looking over a few PlayStation 2 titles. Very rarely did those games return from being submitted to Sony, and when they did, contained few bugs. But still, my managers never said "job well done" or anything of the sort. In fact, they heavily criticized me for reading game news on my computer sometimes during loading screens. Hypocrites...

During the last few weeks of my employment at this...place, I received extensive training in additional technical requirements areas, and was led to believe I'd receive a salary offer after my seasonal work ended. No one called.

Worse yet, at various points during my time at this facility, the out-of-touch salaried  producers and game designers asked me to come up with dozens of possible titles and pitch them. On one occasion I had only one day to do this. On another, I was given two hours to come up with 12. Each time I was told some were good and some were bad. "Sure," I thought, "you live and you learn." The criticism didn't bother me, and I wasn't bothered when they said none of my ideas would turn into games.

To this day the company develops sequels on multiple platforms for my favorite pitch. And I still haven't heard a single word from a member of the company. I'm not even mentioned in the credits.

But I've moved on. I'm living another dream of mine.

I'm a teacher now. Well "adjunct faculty member," to be more precise. And I get to teach a class on the videogame industry, among others.

Here's something you might not realize if you've only spent time in a classroom as a student: teaching's a rewarding timesink. I care very deeply for my students, and I always want to provide them with the best education within my means. Sometimes I get so carried away my actions may appropriately be classified as self-destructive.

Losing sleep to planning class aside, I've done some pretty strange things in my pursuit of catering to the students, most of which involving time and money. On many occasions, I've minimized my food purchases and delayed paying bills just to buy a particular game and use it in class or during the weekly videogame-themed get togethers I host (appropriately called Game Night). With money low, and parking meters requiring quarters, I've hauled multiple systems and dozens of games on foot down the 1.7 mile stretch from my residence to the school. Sometimes we only play one game on one system, and I'm fine with that. But I prefer to bring more just in case one student arrives and wants to play something different. My pack mule-ish efforts are even more rewarding when I can open someone's eyes to the wonders of videogames.

Most of the student body will never know about any of this. They'll never know how I walked the distance with sub-zero temperatures biting at my face while I carry what feels like hundreds of pounds of technology. And, like I said earlier, I'm fine with that. They don't need to know. Playing with them each week's rewarding enough.

I could go on and on about how I've written for various companies who, when they actually decide to pay you, feed you peanuts for T-bone steak work. And I could comment on the various friends, family, and friends of friends who've called my living room "home" for extended periods of time while they "work things out," and how I rarely receive any kind of compensation for my harboring. But I won't, mainly because this is what I do. If I work hard, stay passionate, and treat people with love and respect good things will happen, right?

Sometimes, though, I have a moment of weakness. And I guess it sometimes lingers, too. But true to the previously mentioned way of life, a hand appeared and lifted me up.

I've respected former videogame industry journalist, and now Irrational Games employee, Shawn Elliott for years. In many ways, he's the intelligent prankster consumed with information intake that I aspire to be, but...you know...in my own way. I'm me, of course.

Anyway, yesterday I linked him an article I wrote months ago regarding (mostly) videogame-themed Twitter accounts. He saw it, linked to it on his Twitter, and said "Thank you." Instantly after seeing this my day started to get better.

I know how silly it seems. Believe me. But it was exactly what I needed, and I'm thankful for it. A simple "thank you" from anyone would've helped, but it held deeper significance coming from someone I respect and didn't expect to hear from.

Very late that same day, James Mielke of Q Entertainment, another person I've looked up to with great respect these last five+ years, did the same. By then, the words "thank you" lost none of their significance.

Earlier that day, I linked a music playlist on my Twitter thinking maybe one or two people would listen. Turns out, my good friend, and Street Fighter enthusiast pro, Mike Ross took a peek. A little bit later he had this to say: "Carl E. Seashore once said "as is the intelligence of a man, so is his music". You clearly are on genius level kyle :)."

I was flabbergasted and thankful; very very thankful. Much respect, Mike.

Please forgive me if I sound whiney. I don't mean to. I'm not looking for sympathy. I just wanted to put this shocking turn of events on (virtual?) paper and highlight the kindness of friends and strangers. They genuinely uplifted my spirits through some very simple means that are far too rare these days.

Oh, and I also wanted to say that I'm working on shaping my online presence to better reflect my inherent playfulness. I wish you could see me as my girlfriend Nikki sees me, as a real-life Roger Rabbit.

We've discussed this topic before; many times, actually. I've always understood what she's said, but the older I get the more I feel it. And it feels good. Roots are important, just like a warm hug from someone you love who loves you back. The cost may be great for digging these roots deep, but that's a part of having a family. You make sacrifices.

My parents sacrificed a life of much greater luxury in Southern California to raise my brother and I in Northwestern Minnesota. To them, I owe my deepest love and respect. I love my Minnesota roots. I loved my life growing up in a small town of 250 people. I loved living in the house my parents built. And I love the idea of returning to the house in which I grew up. Some things I wouldn't trade for any amount of gold and silver. This is one.

So to them, here are a few relevant songs.

Bob Dylan - The Ballad of Frankie Lee and Judas Priest

"Well, Frankie Lee, he panicked,

He dropped ev'rything and ran

Until he came up to the spot

Where Judas Priest did stand.

"What kind of house is this," he said,

"Where I have come to roam?"

"It's not a house," said Judas Priest,

"It's not a house . . . it's a home."

Tom Waits - House Where Nobody Lives

What makes a house grand
Ain't the roof or the doors
If there's love in a house
It's a palace for sure
Without love...
It ain't nothin but a house
A house where nobody lives
Without love it ain't nothin
But a house, a house where
Nobody lives.

Capcom announced minutes ago Super Street Fighter IV's North American release date of April 27, 2010.

Here's the full release:

Super Street Fighter® IV will be coming to the Xbox 360®video game and entertainment system from Microsoft® and PS3 system on April 27, 2010 in North America and April 30, 2010 in Europe. The follow-up to the critically acclaimed Street Fighter IV will further redefine the 2-D fighting genre with a host of new features including new characters, new ultra combos, new online modes, the return of the famed bonus stages and retuned online and offline gameplay. Super Street Fighter IV’s new characters include Street Fighter’s first Tae Kwon Do-styled fighter - the deadly female fighter Juri - classic Street Fighters such as Cody, Guy, T. Hawk, Dee Jay, Adon and more to complement the full roster of returning fighters from Street Fighter IV. Featuring all new user-selectable Ultra Combos and advancements to the online gameplay and matchmaking, Super Street Fighter IV is the ultimate vision of Street Fighter. 

A little later than I expected. Oh well, it's probably for the best. I have a stack of RPGs to play before I become consumed by Street Fighter again.

In case you're wondering what I think about this revision/remix/whatever, here are a few articles I've pieced together over the last few months.

Old Idea: Super Street Fighter IV. Better Idea: League of Legends

Capcom remains undecided over Super Street Fighter IV rape price.