Your Digital Variety

(Before we start, my apologies for the previous post. Whenever drunk and requested to write, I am only too happy to oblige - regardless of any necessary sense, reason or structure)
Anyway.

A few years ago, a good friend at university introduced me to a chat site called Omegle. For any among you not aware, this site allows you to chat with complete strangers, remaining anonymous yourself, as well. How much, or how little, you reveal and/or lie is entirely up to you. 

At first, I kept it on 'Shuffle', essentially. Chatted with a girl about Gorillaz one time, discussed American food versus English in another, had an in-depth analysis of 2K's Bioshock (THAT was an excellent one)

This occurred only a few times, scattered throughout university when I was bored/on my laptop anyway/practising my writing skills by being different characters = always fun. But only in more recent times, within the last year or so, I started to use it to chat with people with similar tastes. To put a much finer point on it, people of the same sexuality as myself. To put a lethally fine point on it, other gay guys. The site allows you to do that, by typing in key words before starting a chat. I used to put "video games", "music", "science fiction", etc. Only by putting 'gay' in that little box did the conversations become a little more...erm...eventful.

But in so doing, I also enter what I always call "The Dark Side of the Internet." For those brave or stupid enough to dig down, past the shopping, social media and cat videos, where you will find a civilisation that lays buried for a reason. (Though sometimes, you don't have to dig for very long...) Here you find the sex-talkers, the picture-swappers, the stalkers - I know there are much murkier, much more dangerous levels below these and never venture there. Omegle can be more than enough. It has the type of online person that we're always warned to avoid, but sometimes you just have to find out for yourself. And brother, I have learnt much.

A great number of Omegle users like to use it to swap profiles on social media apps like Kik, Snapchat or Skype. In fact if I had a pound for every new chat that starts with the other person asking "Kik?", I'd had enough to buy a new laptop. If I then got another pound for when they leave after saying "No" I'd have enough to buy a better internet connection.

I did actually get Kik a little while later, and already had Snapchat, to swap details and keep the conversation going. Out of curiosity, or genuine naivety.  But so, so, SO often, I'd be left bitterly disappointed. What started out as a decent chat that could've led to a possible new friendship, turned to their one-sided hormone-driven plea to see what lurks between my legs. I watch, and always decline, as these people beg, grovel or in some cases demand these pictures, videos, poses and action from you. A sense of entitlement, perhaps? Or pure, deep desperation?  
I can only feel sorry for them. Whatever they are - desperate, lonely, sick, twisted - I just pity them. I have been single for a fair few years now, and I know that the resolution sure as hell doesn't lie between a camera lens, a ;) face and the contents of your underpants.
Of this experience, two stand out. One was a guy, who'll remain unnamed, who for a while was actually okay. We'd chat about books, work and general life at our age. Occasionally he'd mention swapping pictures - mentions which became more and more frequent as time went on, until I blocked him two weeks after adding him.
Another was on Kik. We transferred from Omegle to there and his first response was a picture of his nether regions. My first response was the 'Delete Chat' button.

This sort of behaviour led to some rather blunt replies of my own. Now, whenever someone on Omegle asks if I want to add them on an app, I normally ask if they're a pic-swapper, or just sometimes "Sexchat or Regular?" Their answer shapes my own.

That's one experience. Another I've had ,at the other end of the homosexual-rainbow-spectrum, is a type that causes pity in a heartfelt way, not a "Christ, why is he telling me how many guys he'd slept with?" kind of pity. I've had multiple chats along these lines:

Me: Hey
Them: Hi there. Are you gay?
Me: Yeah, why?
Them: I am too. Do you know how I cure myself of being gay?

It's the sort of question that drops a dead weight through your heart and into your stomach. You may or may not be surprised to know that a lot of these come from guys in America. I do hope that the recent marriage legalisation has improved things.
I always do what I can; explain that it's natural, it's nothing to hide and the blame lies with parents/society etc. I played the part which I came to call "Gay Guru" so often. I can't say for sure if I ever helped them. But I tried, and I think that even for a short while, they felt happier, more accepted. I take comfort in that. It's far, far better than nothing. 
(And far, far better than some Indian guy asking what you'd like to do to him *shudders*)

A further, third experience, known as the Deserters. These are actually slightly worse than the sex-driven lunatics. Because these ones actually are good conversations, you're not turned away at the first hurdle. You'll have similarities, understandings, dare I say, a good laugh. Then you'll exchange app details - usually Kik, again - and the chat will go on. It can start to fade at this point, varying between slightly or a lot, but at least they're not showing you their other end. Rather, you may exchange a perfectly natural, innocent, face picture. And then, very often, the conversation at their end dies, no different than if they were chatting with you and then fell down a pit. No matter how enjoyable your chat was, or how your personality came across. If you don't look good on camera, you aren't worth it, apparently. Which, I have to say, is a fantastically powerful kick in the confidence. At least it makes things agonisingly simple - you know that they're not interested and you know that they're not the right prick person for you.

And then, the fourth and final kind that I've come across. The Good Kind. A good chat in an ocean of idiots, a chat you nearly gave up on finding. You'll connect, something about it just clicks, even after the face-pic-swap (and you breath a sigh of relief that you managed to look halfway decent, at the exact point you switched to front-camera.) It doesn't necessarily result in a relationship and to be honest nothing about the whole thing says it even has to. But when you've gone from troll to sex-chat, disappointment to repulsion to reach this new person, the main thing is, you've made it.
A welcoming island in that ocean of insanity. A brand new friendship where there wasn't one beforehand. I've only found one of the Good Kind, so far.

This one's for him =]

-Robert

Wisdom (and Wilson)

(Title courtesy of auto correct. A recurring theme/annoyance of tonight)

You asked for wisdom. I can only hope to deliver; with my mind currently running on several glasses of wine, Pringles and some chicken nuggets which I swear weren't cooked through.

So what would you like to know? My in-depth knowledge of BioShock? My recipe for a Robster (not tricky anyway)?  My deepest secrets?

HAH. Thought you had me there? Ooh, "Uptown Funk" just came on.

(Woo!) 

Because yes, I'm distracted. Because yes, I'm drunk. 6th glass of wine now. Fruity. Flat. Powerful. Typically, completely, essentially, quintessentially wine. These people who have adjectives for booze. It'll get you drunk. Priorities. Focus not on the "imperial implications of a modern vintage" and just decide you suddenly want to DANCE. I always dance when drunk. Me, a bottle of rum and Come and Get Your Love are the best embarrassment mix up since dads learnt how to dance at weddings.

Better than drama at a young primary school age. Ooh, I'm a shepherd in the nativity. Because I know how to wear a headscarf? Out ducking standing.

(I've decided not to swear for the previous 10 seconds)

Fuck.

Moving on.

Hey, you know what would be fun? If I came up with something creative. My writing recently has gone quiet. My reading, however, has been spectacular. "Here", "The Wrong Place" and "The Art of Guardians of the Galaxy." (Did you really think I changed that much?) 

So imagine, if you will, two people of extraordinary omnipresence. They not only see everything, they have already seen it. One wears a long coat and a top hat: the other has 8 mechanical arms. In between them stands me. They go out and live their lives, and I tell their stories because they cannot. I create their lives because they do not exist without me.

So here is my wisdom, Landmine. As requested. (No benefit leaflet. NO BISCUITS)

I am the father of these two men. They live and love only through me. Which is why we need more authors in the world. When the world goes mad and people don't make sense, we make our own. We make our own roles models. Our reasons for living, and for other people to keep carrying on.

We make heroes. People to look up to.   

And some people, like me, need them.

"I have two alter egos, both of which are cooler than me." (Facebook, 1 of 7 facts, 2015.) and they are one of the main reasons I like trekking on (besides the long-coat-striding everywhere). Because their stories just aren't done yet.

SERIOUS BIT OVER

Why is modern music so shit? Discuss.

In the words of animated head of Al Gore:

"PEACE OUT, Y'ALL"

R.

=]
(Can I please have a few point of success for posting this ramble using my iPhone, alone)

Newquay, 2015

Starring:
1. Myself
2. Dan (driver, host of this event)
3. Dan's friend, "Chapman" (first name Tom, often mistakenly referred to by me as 'Ty' because I'm stupid)
4. Dan's other friend, Ty (also invited, but declined)

Saturday 25th April
When it comes to starting a holiday, there's hardly ever a lot of choice. You get up stupidly early, or you don't. That's it. We left, by choice of Dan, at 6:30am. Give him his credit, we didn't hit any traffic during our 3 and a half hour drive. But when your alarm clock has '6' in it, you know it's going to be rough.

Saying that, on the way down, Chapman was the one to fall asleep. Which was impressive, given at that moment, Dan and I had decided to enter a two-man karaoke production of Gorillaz Clint Eastwood. That was one of many recurring themes of our holiday - in the car, I was provider of music. God help us all, I know.

Anyway, during the journey, I phoned ahead to our hotel to find our check in time was 1pm. We arrived in Newquay around 10am and we spent our first bit of time there like men. We bought alcohol, and we gambled. Dan managed to win £5 on a slot machine. As did I, but I then hit 'transfer' instead of 'collect' and lost it all again. Genuis. And there were 2p machines. They are hilariously pointless. You know you're not going to carry around a handful of 2ps for the rest of the day, you know it, the guy running the place knows it, it's all going to go back into the machine it came out. (With one exception, coming up later but this narrative shall be linear). I did win a Despicable Me keying. If I'd won 7 more, I could have traded in for a stuffed minion toy, but...just no.

So between the time of arriving and checking in, we milled around Newquay for a bit, taking in the shops and various restaurants. Of course, we stopped for our first pasty from a place called 'Rowes' and I just had to text my Cornish friend Megan about it. It wasn't particularly hot, but it was good. But we still had time to kill and Dan wanted his own nostalgia moment, so we got back in the car and headed for Hollywell Bay, a small amusement park a little way outside Newquay. It is fairly young-age-based (hence the nostalgia part for Dan), but did include a decent game of mini golf, and some go-karting. Now that was fun. Leaving aside the moment where I looked monumentally stupid because I put my seatbelt on incorrectly, we had so much fun out on the track, we paid to do it twice. It also helped that it started raining. Yes, we got soaked, but as Dan kept mentioning, 'we were happy with the drifting'.

Now looking like drowned rats, we decided it was the perfect time to check into the hotel. Dan drove us back and on arrival we were given our keys, for rooms 27, 28 and 30. At random, I took 30 and brother I picked the longest straw. We all went to do the typical 'room-sweep' in our separate mini abodes, but upon entering my room I was presented by this quite startling view.


Now THAT^, for the attention of all hotels
everywhere, is a "sea view".

With the trees and endless sea, it was almost like being somewhere abroad. In fact it was so good, when Dan came in to visit we sat down to partake in the very grown up, very British past time of just...sitting. And looking at the scenery. (Thus, my room became our central base whenever it was time to pre-drink/drink in general)
After that, we sampled what Trebarwith hotel had to offer. While Chapman had another nap, Dan and I gave the indoor pool a go, then the sauna - new and interesting experience for me - then tidied ourselves up and had a game of snooker and ping pong. (Wiff waff, to avid QI fans like Dan)

Before the evening could begin, I had to find myself a bottle opener. So while Chapman and Dan enjoyed some snooker, I wandered off into town to get some money out and a new utensil. Ended up having to buy a can opener. Living the dream, I was.
(I've also just looked around my room, no idea where that utensil went when I got home and unpacked. Somewhere, in my bedroom, is a can opener. God I love living bizarre.)

We'd decided to start the evening at "Senor Dick's", a Mexican restaurant offering dreams for we lovers of delicacies like burritos and fajitas. (or, as the menu put it, FAH-HEE-TAS). I enjoyed some excellent chicken FAH-HEE-TAS, the filling for which was delivered in a sizzling black dish. As we ate, the restaurant's name did lead to A LOT of jokes, on the night and throughout the holiday. Mostly centred around "eating some dick", "some tasty dicks right there" and so forth. They did some mighty fine cocktails as well (har har) which is where the night out started. We opted for a pub crawl, so after that it was a Wetherspoons (adventurous, I know), then a club called 'Walkabout' which was far too noisy. (For old men like Dan and myself) Then another, equally loud Wetherspoons. And then a pub called 'Sailors' which funnily enough, both Dan and myself had been individually recommended - in my case, by my sister and brother-in-law who live in Plymouth.
Without any doubt, Sailors became not just my favourite bar in Newquay, but ever. Good drinks, great atmosphere, my kind of music - I kid you not, they played the Guardians of the Galaxy soundtrack. The first time Come and Get Your Love comes on, my tune, and I can't dance to it 'cos I'm with the wrong company! Ah well. No offence, you two, if you ending up reading this!
Sailors also led to another, rather unfortunate, running joke. For you see, working in the gent's toilets that night was a very friendly black gentlemen. He gave out hand soap, hand towels and, depending on how well you tipped, gum, cologne and, once in my case, a rap song. All three of us liked him immensely, so much so that it led to the birth of a new metaphor "going to pay the black man" to mean going to the toilet. I liked him so much I went to the loo even when I didn't need to. Gave him £2, got some very nice cologne (and the rap) out of it. 

Besides that, in my drunken state I ended up quoting Pulp Fiction (which became a personal recurring theme for the holiday) and learnt that Chapman doesn't like small talk. I also decided to throw a glass bottle over the side of some nice decking they had outside because, and I quote, "I'd finished with it." We rounded off the night with some more cocktails and headed back to the hotel. Along the way, we encountered a very nice busker with a guitar who played a rather charming number called 'The Wank Song'. He told us stories of all the inappropriate places he'd "relieved" himself (by verse three I'd creased up laughing) and we gave him all the change we hadn't given to the bathroom attendant at Sailors. Didn't come to much!

Trebarwith Hotel's night porter was very charming when we arrived back, at 1am-ish. Opened the door with no fuss or comment. Let us right on in, where we went to bed and ended our first day on holiday.

Sunday 26th April
Ohh, the morning after. The Mexican food and alcohol in our bellies had stirred up something fierce within. It certainly didn't help in my case. My room had an amazing sea view, but incredibly small toilet-slash-cupboard, effectively. Couldn't sit on the toilet without burning your leg on the heated towel rack. Yes, I have the scar to prove it.
In short, we were rather looking forward to our inclusive breakfast. I had bacon, beans, fried mushrooms, tomato, sausage and about three cups of tea. There's no 100% hangover cure, but it doesn't get much better than that.

And what did we decide would be best for our day after the night before? Why visit a cider farm, of course!
No, to be fair, it was an excellent suggestion on Dan's part. It's easily one of the best places I've been and I plan to go again one day. Healey's Cyder Farm. Yes, that's how they spell it. But it's a rustic old farm out in the country, really good surroundings and BEST OF ALL, the free samples. Oh, the free samples. There is a room filled with bottles to buy and along the back wall, a very long bench lined with various ciders to try. We were served by a friendly chap who gave us a mini tankard each and talked us through the various types and flavours. Dan, bless him, the designated driver, couldn't have quite as many. Chapman and I had everything. Apple cider, berry cider, elderflower cider, cider infused with rum, cider infused with whisky, Rattler, Scrumpy, Healey Gold, mixed berry wine and strawberry wine (BY FAR my favourite). Once you've tried them all, the full sized bottles are in the room, waiting to be bought. I came away with a beautiful bottle of strawberry wine and some winter spiced cider, a glass of which I'm enjoying right now.
Delicious.
I honestly urge to give Healey's a go if you get the chance.  http://thecornishcyderfarm.co.uk/
It was so brilliant, I honestly have a new dream of travelling the country to taste all the various ciders and keep a journal of some kind. But, that's a new post for a later time.

After our light marinating in Cornwall's best alcohols, we decided to look into doing some archery at Hendra Holiday Park. (We'd raided the leaflet section in the hotel earlier in the day, you see.) As it turned out, we could only book it for the next day, but we stuck around to play some bowling. Not proper bowling, but on miniature lanes, with pins on strings and bowling balls that you cupped in your hand, rather than with the finger holes. I think Dan won that one - I was more pre-occupied with the sound effects it made if you missed a shot. Sounded like a drunk leprechaun laughing at you.

Seeing as we were coming back, we didn't stick around so instead returned to the hotel and went to explore the Trebarwith hotel's adjoining beach. Earlier in the day, Chapman and Dan had bought some flip-flops in town. At the beach, they quickly worked towards losing them in the waves. In my typical odd/alternative style, I'd opted for holidaying in my caterpillar boots, which actually were a dream when I realised they were more or less waterproof. And they came in handy when I participated in one classic, favourite past time of mine - rock climbing. No harnesses, no safety ropes. Just a massive block of land in the middle of the beach, of which I needed to reach the top. There is something about rock climbing that I find simply brilliant. Perhaps the danger to it, or the rather primal act. Either way, it certainly wasn't the last time I did it on our holiday.

After that, like the right 'hilarious and original' guys we are, we just had to draw a giant cock and balls in the sand. I got us ready as a team; Dan did the head, Chapman the shaft and myself, the balls. And of course as soon as I said '"Go", I promptly forgot what role I was playing and ended up doing the head' at the other end, which had to be transformed into another ball when I suddenly realised what Dan was doing. So a rather deformed phallus stayed on the beach, at least until the tide returned. Dan said he later saw some people on a cliff above, pointing and laughing at our work. Personally, I felt like a small, sad homage to the Top Gear trio.
Turns out we couldn't see it from our hotel rooms anyway!

After Dan and I took another trip to the pool and sauna, and Chapman had another nap, it was time for dinner. We'd found an American-style steakhouse called The Bullpitt earlier in the day and so opted for that. In four words, it was "very meaty and delicious". Also gave me a chance to try two new, and exquisite, ciders. The menu offered the chance to try 'brisket', the only thing I knew about it was The Big Bang Theory's mentions of it. What it is, is beef cooked so tender it literally falls apart if your fork so much as looks at it. For a set price you get a choice of two meats and two sides, so I opted for a steak, brisket, corn on the cob and chips. Dan fell in love with brisket, there's no other way to put it, so I gifted him some of mine. I can't deny, it and the sauce it came with was divine. But we'd had a starter, and I had to finish my steak. Might be a personal guy thing. But if I'm given a steak, I must finish it. He also gave me some of his chicken in return, which was damn good.
And in a joke not quite as good as Senor Dick's, each time Dan mentioned The Bullpitt after our visit, I always heard 'the ball pit' and wondered what the good glorious hell he was on about.

As we'd had such a good night in Sailors, we opted for a quieter night, drinking in the hotel. There I enjoyed yet more cider, and tried to keep awake as we three sank slowly deeper and deeper into the lounge sofas. We went to bed soon after, though not before some shuffling through the Urban Dictionary. We had been discussing some rather odd/disturbing sexual phrases, but my random non-sex-related favourite?
Busier than a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest.
Ah, how we laughed.

Monday 27th April
In another of Dan's requests for nostalgia, we spent most of the day in Perranporth; another costal town not far from Newquay, where Dan had stayed before at a younger age. The beaches and cliff faces it offered weren't just good, they were exceptional.

In the middle of what you could call 'the main beach bit' (effectively the bit you're on as soon as you touch sand, any further out and you have to walk a fair way) there was a small rock island (above) with a Cornish flag on top, which we had to reach. There were also a few jellyfish dotted around, one of which Chapman did poke. Didn't sting him, though, I believe. We looked around a few shops, including a cool African-style shop, full of wood carvings like masks and such, which reminded me of Aku Aku from Crash Bandicoot. Dan did consider get a wooden-carved cock-shaped bottle-holder for his parents, or another with a bottle opener on it, but decided against it.
The rest of our time there involved a long beach walk, and climbing some very heavy-going sand dunes. Hard to get anywhere where each footstep sinks a few inches into very soft, very steep, sand.

After that, we had to head off as it was time for archery! Back to Hendra, and another quick game of mini-bowling as we arrived a little early. Not to brag, but I thrashed the pair of them this time. My 155 to their 42 and 68. (I know, it's not like me to victory-gloat. But when do I win at bowling?!)
Now, archery was a lot of fun. I was, well, not terrible. I'll cling to my bowling victory earlier in the day, though, put it that way. I was more pre-occupied with getting the Skyrim reference in. You know, "I used to be an adventurer like you, then I took an arrow in the knee." Tricky, when a white/black/blue/red/yellow target doesn't have knees. However! We had paid a little extra to have some shots on what we were told would be "3D targets." Earlier in the day, Dan and I had suggested scarecrows and stuff like that, whereas Chapman randomly suggested a dinosaur and how we laughed. How we laughed a lot more, when our archery instructor then did bring out a foam dinosaur to shoot at! There was also a dice, a zombie's head and torso, three small pumpkin heads and some straw bags. Our instructor gave us a scoring system, something like 800 if you hit the dinosaur in the eye, etc.

"I used to be a dinosaur like you,
then I took an arrow in the knee."

Me, I was focused on the knee, wouldn't shut up about getting it in the knee. (So much so I think I 'weirded' out our instructor. Which would be a shame, he was nice, I liked him.) He did end up saying "Alright, we'll let Rob have his...shot at the knee..."
5 arrows. 5 chances.
And I got him, right on the last one.1000points to me, easy (in my mind). Chapman also got a cracking shot on the zombie, directly through the tip of the nose.
We came away happy, elated, having had a damn good time. (Although not 100%, in my case. I didn't admit this to other two, in fact I'm surprised I managed to keep it quiet, it hurt so much. TWICE, upon releasing the arrow and by some means I don't know how, the string pinged back and caught me on the nipple. TWICE. The same nipple, too)

We returned to Newquay and spent some more time in town after that. There was a superb Ben and Jerry's ice-cream shop, where you could either buy the ice-cream or have it turned into a milkshake, Shakeaway style. I combined 'Baked Alaska' and...something with strawberries, it was very good. What made the trip there, though, was the shop attendant kept accidentally swearing. We didn't mind, and we were the only ones in there, so there were no worries of offending anyone. But she'd swear, get really apologetic and we just laughed, enjoying some damn fine milkshakes.
After that, we found another casino/arcade place up by Sailors. But this one was different and by far my favourite of the trip, because it had...wait for it...a classic Pac-Man machine, 20p a go. I spent A LOT of time at that while Chapman and Dan got on with their own thing. I kept thinking I'd get Repetitive Strain Injury from playing, I've no idea just how much time passed with me standing there, but when we came to leave, it turned out to be quite a while. But before that, I must discuss Dan's big win. He'd found another, different Pac-Man related machine, a 2p one that mixed slots with a digital game as well. Finer details aside, he won a considerable plastic-pot-full of 2ps and so went to get them exchanged. Then the arcade owner led us to the back room. Chapman made jokes about Dan getting his legs broken, while I fought back the urge to laugh. Turned out he'd won about £5.40 - which he was dead chuffed with, no doubt about it - but the way we'd been led away from everything, it was like he'd have to accept a cheque or something.

Still, fun over, we returned to the hotel for a while. We sat outside, overlooking the adjoining beach (the sand-cock washed away, by now). I broke into my bottle of strawberry wine and ended up drinking the whole thing because it was GOOD. Also led to a rather funny side story. But first, a different one.
I like to think we gained a bit of a reputation at the hotel in our short stay, we were around quite a lot, having fun, I think the staff recognised us. We also seemed to be some of the youngest people there, excluding kids there with parents. Anyway, around about 5pm, a...what would we call him? Attendant? Porter?...well, a member of staff came to see us while we were drinking outside. As he approached, I think we three shared the same thought: "Ah, damn, it's about the alcohol isn't it?" But no. The guy came up to us and asked if Dan or I planned to use the sauna at all later on - as we had requested to use it twice already during our stay - but we said we probably wouldn't. When we asked why, he said he just thought he'd warn us, as apparently a 60yr old German woman had been in there the day before, from about 6pm onwards, and hadn't been wearing an awful lot. "Just thought I'd warn you." We thought it was just fantastic, thanked him a lot, had a good laugh about it. Funnily enough, I'd brought my notebook - which I'm referring to right now - outside with me to document the day. As the hotel guy walked off, Dan said something to me like "that's got to go in your book!"

My other funny story, only minutes later, regarding the (now empty) bottle of strawberry wine. Dan and Chapman went back to their rooms, while I snuck out into town, with the intention of getting another bottle. Probably didn't help I'd drunk the whole thing, but my mind was going "I must get another one! I text Mum I'd bring a bottle back, I must have one!" At the cider farm, I'd bought it because I thought I'd never see it again, turns out there were bottles in EVERY tourist-based shop in town. However, by this point in the day, they were all shut. "You can get another bottle tomorrow, it'll be fine, NO I CAN'T! IT'S THE LAST BOTTLE EVER, I MUST GET ONE!" Seriously, you want to see determination, get me hammered. I eventually found a liquor shop and from outside I could see a bottle on a shelf, through the open doorway. I kid you not, my arm had raised to pick it up before I had even entered the shop. The till worker probably thought I was...well, drunk. Probably seen it all before, and worse. I'd just looked like I'd failed at using the Force to move it.

Embarrassing story aside! We went for Greek cuisine that night. I wasn't massively blown away by it, each night of dinner had gone in descending order of preference (Senor Dick's was excellent, and to be fair, BullPitt was a very close second). One thing I did learn: Halloumi. Is. AMAZING. If it's that good in a Greek restaurant in England, I want the real thing in Greece. It's like when Mum and I had proper bruschetta in a restaurant in Rome, you cannot beat food in its country of conception.

Then that night in the hotel bar, I tried and loved some excellent strawberry Pimms, while Dan and I returned to our college-favourite card game "Slam". We only played one game, which I won. GOD my hand hurt. I've obviously lost my touch.

Tuesday 28th April
So came another excellent breakfast, so came another day in Perrenporth. Now, I can't say for certain why we decided to go back, but can say for certain, I'm glad we did. The tide had gone out, so we went for a long walk down the beach and started exploring in caves. Hardly any actually went anywhere, one small cave lead to a collection of ropes at the far end. Another, and this will always remain with me, contained a smashed boat, complete with decaying fishing gear and crates. All three of us stood there, taking pictures (quite badly, in the dark, it must be said) quietly taking it in. I loved that moment in particular, it was like a proper boys-only adventure. I honestly felt like 10yrs old again. It was, quite simply, fantastic.
One other cave that will stick with me, was where Dan tried his hand at being Spiderman. From the cave entrance, it split into two directions, one dry, one wet. I first went left, dry way, and couldn't find anything, so we decided to go right. It was quite narrow, but me in my boots just walked through the water, no problems at all, and Chapman took his shoes off. Dan, however, was wearing Converse and would neither get them wet, nor remove them. So he stuck his arms and legs out, pushed against each wall, and edged along. All the while egged on with me singing Spiderman, Spiderman, does whatever... etc. When we did get past the wet bit, into the cave, there wasn't much to see. It was a decent size and merited the use of my iPhone light. That made me laugh; exploring by the light of a mobile phone. Kids of the modern age, eh?

What came next, I won't bore you with. It transpired that a spring on Dan's car had come loose - we did notice a rattling noise every so often as we were going around Cornwall. Rather than attempt the 3 and a half hour journey back the next day, with 1 of 4 wheels looking iffy, Dan drove to a garage to have it fixed. While that was being done, we walked into the nearby town of Redruth. Which was memorable for being utterly not memorable at all. Apart from one street I happened to spot which was LINED with 'Vote Labour' signs. On this side of the election, that worked out well, huh?

Anyway. That little tangent over, we returned to town in Newquay. I bought Stephen King's new book Mr Mercedes for the ride home (which I have since finished, excellent, as ever) and then we visited the Pac-Man arcade again. While the other two gambled, I returned to the classic Pac-Man arcade game. Where, after many, many, many 20ps and the occasional quid, I got the new highest score of 152,170. Oh yeah. Can't say I'm not an achiever! Might well have been beaten already by now, but I did it, and I know I did. It's good enough for me!

As we'd had such a good time there on the first night, we rounded off the Tuesday, and the holiday really, with Senor Dick's again - cue Dan sending his mother some rather iffy "eating dicks again" texts - and then another trip to Sailors. We enjoyed some rather excellent cocktails, Chapman especially. We shared a few sips of each other's drinks, and I'll be honest I'm a tad jealous of what he had in our final round.
There was no toilet attendant this time, which was a bit of a shame. We still used that metaphor though, as we had done throughout the holiday. Seeing as all we ordered were complicated cocktails, we did give the barmaid serving us a pretty good tip as well. Got to be gentlemen sometimes, eh? Even if you're drinking a "Pornstar Martini".......

That's more or less it for my notes on the holiday. I had brought my PS Vita with me, so ended up packing my stuff away with Futurama episode "A Tale of Two Santas" playing from the Vita.

The final note in my book?

"bit drunk atm, tbh"

Says it all for a lad's holidays, doesn't it?

Peace out =]

The Evil Within

The Evil Within
Developers: Tango Gameworks
Director: Shinji Mikami - developer of Resident Evil games and regarded as a king of gaming horror
Publishers: Bethesda Softworks
Known as in Japan: Psycho Break
Platform I played it on: PlayStation 4

“What do you fear, little one?”

Dr Jonathan Crane, meet Elizabeth DeWitt. Heart-pounding tension across multiple dimensions. That’s The Evil Within in a nutshell. If you can keep your sanity and bravery in check for long enough, across the ever shifting planes of twisted realities, you might just be able to understand the storyline and plot. No doubt you’ll die trying.

Booker? Booker DeWitt, is that you?

It begins, as every horror story should, in the rain. Detective Sebastian Casteanos – not Spanish but sure sounds like it – is looking into a series of brutal murders occurring in Crimson City’s mental hospital. Good start. Five, certainly not ten, minutes into the game and you’re met by the main antagonising antagonist. You won’t know his name for some time, you’ll only think he looks like a zombie in Assassin’s Creed clothing. But this zombie is fast. Sebastian watches on the CCTV as Enzio-Zombie kills four policemen in quick succession, looks up at the camera and is suddenly behind him. Then let the horror begin.

By Enzio-Zombie’s power, you are cordially invited into his own personal nightmare. Across fifteen in-game chapters, you will come to know his rage, his fear, his passion, his back stories and his absolutely INFURIATING one-hit move of killing you simply by touch. It’s quite a thing to see, resembling an ultimate-fail high-five. His arm goes up and your legs come off. Everything fades to black, my apologies, red. Because you're in his barb-wired-brain, he rules everything and changes everything. A hospital can turn into an asylum, a church can turn into an underground labyrinth and, for some reason, two crushing walls of giant mannequin heads can end at a cornfield. I don’t know. I’m not mad.

Okay, that mad.



Ruvik. Or as I christened him, 'Stitches'

Fortunately, Enzio-Zombie – from now referred to by his real name Ruvik – doesn’t appear all the time. He leaves the job of killing you horrifically to his inner-demon-minions, known as the Haunted. I can’t fully tell what they are to Ruvik. A cutscene at the start of the game suggests they’re just your usual average Joes and Josephines that have been clawed into Ruvik’s world of sheer dominating thought. The general concept of The Evil Within involves combining the minds of others into one collective mind. As you'd expect, it doesn't quite work out. People don't like to share thoughts and memories, it's understandable that they want to fight back when it feels their brain has fallen into a needle pit. Like all horror genres, the main character is somehow excluded. Something about Sebastian keeps him sane, keeps him away from the glowing eyes, horrendous skin conditions and that general “I wonder how your intestines taste” sort of look. His job is to survive and escape them, or simply kill them. And not just kill them, slaughter them and burn them with his dwindling supply of matches or else they get. Right. Back. Up. Or they lie in waiting for you to walk over them and suddenly you’re without a left shin.

You can also use headshots or explosives to do the job. Tricky to get up when your head and feet are occupying the exact same space.

That’s just the little monsters, the used-to-be-normals. In Ruvik-land, there’s a whole load more nightmares. I’m unsure on names, so I personally fought “the girl from The Ring crossed with Dead Space aliens”, the “Fishermen”, the “Mutant Wolf” (two varieties), “Safehead” and “fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-GET IT AWAY FROM ME!” The latter actually adapted as a name for most in-game enemies. Especially the invisible ones.

You read that correctly. Invisible. For about 90% of the time. They're quite generous, they do become visible just when they're inches from grabbing you. So keep an eye out for moving bottles and doors, or else you'll end up with a lot of tentacles very suddenly in your face.

But all the hell-bent horrors, all the masked, armoured, armed, fat, full of nails, debris, glass and furiously angry, are what contribute so well to the in-game tension. Never in my life have I gripped a PlayStation controller so tightly in such an everlasting state of terror. It's always there, gently chewing on the undersides of my brain and letting your spine go ever so slightly colder. A few chapters in and experience made, your own manic preconceptions are so well integrated that even walking around is scary. You start to mistrust things like...corridors, doorways, floors, the ceiling, basically everything you'd think would be a constant. There's a sneak mode and trust me, you'll use it. The slightest noise, a twitch in shadows and *thwpp*, knees bent, crouched and progressing at a speed that although doesn't get you there fast, it might just get you there alive.

Fortunately, the tension calms (to a point) for the storyline transitions and save points. Leading on from the mentioned shifting realities, behind every cracked mirror is 'The Asylum' which, like it or not, is your save haven. It allows you to exchange green gel collected in game for upgrades, as well as the bitchiest receptionist you'll ever run into. Feel free to make quips every time she asks "whatever is the matter?" (She even asks 'A careful one, aren't you?' if you visit in quick succession) You just fought two mutant dogs that outweigh Cereberus, you don't need that kind blasé crap from anyone. Also enjoy how your save haven starts to turn on you over the course of progression. The Asylum you start in is never The Asylum you leave. It certainly taught me one thing: always listen out for Claire de la Lune. It plays softly behind every splintered cracked mirror and each eerie, yet somewhat soothing, note basically translates as "get in! We've got some down time!" 

You'll also get a chance for a breather with the narrative based cut scenes. Sure, scary stuff can still happen but at least you know there's bugger all you can do to stop it. You'll make the run for your life - the only thing you have left - and then walk calmly into another room to chat with your fellow detectives (who funnily enough drop in and out as frequently as Infinite's Lutece twins), Ruvik's old partner, or Leslie. (For spoiler reasons, you can find out for yourself exactly what Leslie is. All I'll say is, have fun chasing him!) 
It's something that threw me, or made me laugh, every single time. Sebastian will crawl his way out of multiple nightmares, literally claw away from demons and ass-tightening boss battles, and never ever act like it. There's a couple of "what?" or "oh shit" (rather more justified), but for the most part Sebastian plays the calmest horror genre protagonist I've ever seen/played.

(With the exception of Jack from BioShock. But Atlas never said 'Would you kindly speak?' so what're you gonna do?")

I guess it can only be a good thing, we've all seen horror films and games where 80% of the dialogue is screaming and hated it. But I'd have liked a little something, just a smidge more emotion. Especially when he saw the final boss - play it and see.

The Keeper. Agreeable looking chap, isn't he?

At least the weapons show emotion, even if the ammunition is less than limited. There's a pistol, for desperate measures, a shotgun, for head-explodey measures, a sniper, ditto, and the Agony Crossbow. With a name like that, you know it means business. Its ammo is derived from scrounging for tool kits or disarming bombs. They supply you with gear pieces, to create ammo. There's a good eight variations of bolts, but I can guarantee the one you'll return to the most is the Explosive head. Clears a crowd, shortens a boss battle - though if the times comes when you've unloaded three into The Keeper's side and he's still standing, you will swear. Believe me. There's also a basic spear, fun for head shots, and an incendiary bolt. The latter costs a lot of gear pieces, but spouts three plumes of flame for a short time. Loosely translated, get one into the middle of a crowd and brother, you're laughing. Your enemies sure won't be.

As I've mentioned it, be sure to scrounge. Scrounge, scrounge, scrounge like a thief. Not just from an advantage point of view, you will need to. The ammo you require is hidden in cabinets, in forgotten old rooms. Pick up axes, kill with torches, ALWAYS MAKE SURE YOU'VE GOT MEDICINE. etc etc etc.

And while I have this chance? Sebastian, baby...you can't sprint for shit.

Anyway! Now that I've survived it, after 15hrs 25mins and 38secs, and a grand total of 34 deaths, I have this chance to reflect on what it is easily the scariest game I've ever played. And one thought that's been playing on me all throughout: is it scary? Or is it just hard? Does the tension of avoiding enemies actually translate as a desire to miss them and survive? Because every time you die horribly, yes it's not a sight you want to see, but what else does it mean? I means you have to do it all over again. There's a scene around the middle chapters when Ruvik is chasing you, all with his one-hit-kill move. I failed a few times, exploding into death and such. Each attempt following was tense, sure, but was I tense because of the demonic assassin teleporting (yes, teleporting) after me, or simply tense because I couldn't be bothered with a second attempt?

I'm not sure myself. Certainly parts of the game disturbed me and that isn't linked to anger or frustration. I had to perform three different brain experiments on subjects that were still alive. I sure as hell wasn't furious. In fact I was rather British in apologising every time the needle hit memory sections rather than emotions.

But I can say quite definitely that I enjoyed playing The Evil Within, and if that makes me worthy of being admitted into Crimson City's mental hospital well...just loan me a shotgun first. It's been quite a while since I've played something so immersive, so mesmerizingly and hauntingly addictive and, something that's missing from a lot of modern games, so challenging.

Maybe that's my Evil Within. Always a desire to play again.

I'll admit that since buying my PS4 I've yet to find a game that has truly justified my purchase. My fingers are crossed for Arkham Knight. For now, The Evil Within gave it a damn good go.

See the trailer here, you know you want to: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nxlo67zhOWc

Charlie Never Got a Song

Deep in the heart of the factory, there's only one worker left to see,
no energy left for working, no energy left to sing,
his hair is grey, his eyes are white, his voice is all but spent,
but there's enough left in him, for the Oopma Loompa's lament.

...
Charlie Bucket, the one who'll luck it,
and saw it through to the end,
he became our new master, what else was he after?
was he ever truly a friend?

As each child left, he said not a word,
but we saw in his eyes, it's what he preferred,
his competition was gone and the whole thing benign,
the smile said it all, "now everything's mine."

So he saw one get squashed and he saw one inflated,
(we'll admit we all wanted the brat incinerated)
he just stood there in silence, watching the freaks,
soon everything was open to a couple of tweaks.

Then the factory was his, and we'll always know this,
that his expression was one when we knew we should run,
as he spread out his arms and said to us all,
"patronising freaks, I'll see your last fall."
...

The old one takes pause to reflect on the tale,
from a lost time when he wasn't so frail,
but he knows in his bones that his time is near done,
once he's recalled when they tried to run.

...
We ran and we hid and we tried different rooms,
that ultimately turned into personal tombs.
(For years people out there bought the new sweets,
never knowing who, not what, they ate in their treats)
We staff were first under Bucket's domain,
a cultivation out of shattered constrain,
only now do we know what started the pain,
that Charlie didn't want music again.

Old master clapped and smiled for all four of our rounds,
while Charlie was there all silent and frowns,
he hated our lessons, our morals in rhyme,
and plotted revenge, just biding his time.

So this requiem ends with the truth now known,
our twisted tale with all horror shown,
why the apparent "good child", old master's puppet,
had no fifth song, to him, Charlie Bucket.

New Chapter

So the time has finally come. In a few weeks or even days for some of you, the gates to university shall clang shut, with the rest of ‘Real Life’ stretching out before you.

Scared?

Depressed?

Got a parent grabbing each foot trying to drag you back home? 

It’s not a positive time, on the whole. But just because it may feel like an immensely sad moment in life, that doesn’t mean you have it make it into one.

Instead of focusing on what you won’t be doing anymore, try thinking of what you have done; all the events and parties and memories you have experienced. Bear in mind that not everyone gets to go to university. Think how many people from school you remember seeing work in a shop whenever you went home at Christmas and Easter.  

Don’t think of graduating from university as ‘the end’.

Just think of it as a new chapter in your life.   

For one thing, you won’t be in education anymore. Let that sink in for a bit. No more homework. No more exams. No more long nights of revision with no-one for company but a can of energy drink.

The ‘no homework’ thing is certainly something to look forward to. This will vary in whatever profession you may choose, but there will come a time when you can return home, flick on the TV and not have the immediate guilt feeling of “I should be doing work.” Anyone who had a dissertation to do but happened to play video games a lot will know what this feeling is like. 

Don’t forget as well, after you’ve donned the robe and accepted your scroll, that you’re not leaving university into a life of working in a bus station or fast food restaurant. The last three, four or five years of your life will count for something, and provided you don’t wear flip flops to job interviews and actually show like you’re willing and able to work, you’ll land a job doing something that you enjoy.

This is a problem with the word ‘job’: the meanings and reaction tied to it. Some students hear the word “job” and think ‘boring’, ‘time-waster’ and picture themselves wearing a sandwich board. But you’ve got a degree now. If you’ve studied teaching or a science for three years, it’s now time to continue with that subject except you’ll actually be getting paid to do it (Student Loan didn’t count, by the way). Early starts, late finishes or having to commute won’t seem as difficult when you know you’re doing it for a career that you studied hard for, and therefore deserve, and are actually interested in doing. 

If, like me, you graduated with an artistic and/or creative degree, then your options are very much open. It doesn’t matter as much where you work so long as you have enough money to live, while in the background you can write your novel/paint/further your photography and whatever else. Yes, you can get a job in these types of industries, and that would be brilliant.

If you can’t at first, which unfortunately is quite likely because these industries are tough to get into and establish yourself, try not to lose hope. For the last few years, you were studying a topic you love, a freelance talent and hobby that can never be taken away from you. Now it’s time to use that talent, to show the world what you can do and what you are worth.

I’m ready to work in any kind of shop or restaurant, so long as I can write my novel in my spare time. Because who knows, the day may come when my writing income outweighs my employment income. And then the dream shall have been reached. 

For myself and the rest of you, that journey starts right now. To make our time at university worth it, and use all we learned to its full potential.

It’s an all-new chapter, after all.

Left vs. Right

I've been told in the past that I'm intelligent. Maybe that's true; or perhaps maybe it was before I went off for three years to study an art form.

When I started my Creative Writing degree, I knew what I was getting into. I knew that no-one can teach writing creatively; I knew there is no finite, objective way to become a fantastic writer and I knew that - despite people's scepticism - it wouldn't be easy.

It has been very tricky at times. Especially in Second Year, I found myself writing for some of my lecturers instead of myself. Self belief and integrity took a back seat for me to get a decent grade, which lead to a load of resentment and lack of enthusiasm for one class in particular.

But that isn't my chosen topic for today.

Because Creative Writing is an art form and entirely subjective and based on opinion, it is mind-destroyingly difficult to write critical essays. People studying academic subjects like Maths and Sciences have guidelines, there is very likely going to be a right and wrong answer.
Not with Creative Writing. There is an opinion, and there is evidence.

And that's where I fall down.

I have sat in embarrassed shame during many of my classes over the past three years. People around me read pieces of work and analyse it, with so many underlying metaphors and allegories and statements on the zeitgeist and criticisms and I just sit there like "Hmm, good story."

I've been like this since secondary school English Language. For an entire year, we argued exactly what points John Steinbeck was trying to get across in Of Mice and Men and I sat there, almost crying "But what if he didn't?! What if he just wanted to write a story about two men getting a job?"

It drives me insane. Why does everything have to have a second meaning, why can't you just take something and enjoy it? Go and see Shakespeare's The Tempest without constantly wondering what the good glorious fuck it does for modern society.

This also brings me onto a secondary point; and this ties into my lack of intelligence (which by now is probably sky-high and wearing high-visibility clothes). When quoting a text-book/peer-review/critical reading for an essay, why can't these people just use English?
I just found this on a critical reading of The Great Gastby:

"They have assumed skewed worldviews, mistakenly believing their survival lies in stratification and reinforcing social boundaries. They erroneously place their faith..."

Translation: They have poor outlooks on life, depending heavily on social values. They mistakenly put their faith in..." (Source)

(Yes I did have to look up "stratification". And obviously someone used a thesaurus so they wouldn't need 'mistakenly' again)

This way I don't have to re-read the same quote a dozen times with glossy eyes and still come out the other side with nothing sticking in my mind.
Then you go an visit a university lecturer for guidance, and it's incredible. University lecturers have this amazing ability to talk in riddles and use words specifically designed to melt from the mind within twenty minutes of hearing them.
You return home, switch the document with half of your essay on it and will contemplate suicide in the space of five minutes.

*

 

Okay, ranting, over-the-top, exaggerated drivel. But this is what some essays drive me to. I knew what I was getting into with Creative Writing, but I didn't expect this hardship of "Essays on Creative Writing."

 

If I disappear within the next few days I have face-desked myself to the point of concussion.

 

Hope Third Year goes well for the rest of you!

Catching Fire

Starring: Jennifer Lawrence, Josh Hutcherson, Donald Sutherland, Phillip Seymour Hoffman

Duration: 2hrs 26mins

Director: Francis Lawrence

The franchise-universe of a dystopian future, massive oppression and Battle Royale homages returns for part two. The second of Suzanne Collinn's The Hunger Games trilogy has hit the big screen. So how does it compare?

Just when you thought it was "safe" to go back in the arena...

The Hunger Games ended with Katniss and Peeta's "love-fuelled" screw-you to the Capitol, by the two of them surviving the Games (just). From their actions, ideas of a rebellion start to sift through the air of the districts, and Katniss is the first beacon of hope seen in a very long time.

Thus, President Snow and new Game-Maker Plutarch Heavensbee (what a name) set to work on destroying Katniss' image of hope, and failing that, Katniss herself. Their plan starts with Katniss and Peeta's Victory Tour, trying to make Katniss one with the Capitol. Seduce her with enough parties, glamour and interviews, and soon enough the Districts will lose affection.

But Katniss is hardly one to forget her roots, and back home, she continues to stand up to stormtrooper-esque Peace-Keepers and other Capitol representatives. So Team Snow/Heavensbee come up with a darker plan.

Every twenty-five years, the Games get a little "Quarter Quell" special treatment. For the 75th annual Hunger Games, previous victors are to be the competitors. "Wait, isn't Katniss the only female victor in District 12....oh." What better way to destroy a catalyst for rebellion, and still make it seem like an accident? So will Katniss survive her second bout in the arena? You'll have to find out for yourself...unless you've read the books, of course.

On that note, the first Hunger Games finished up with an outstandingly faithful book-to-film adaptation. Catching Fire happily continues this legacy; points to new director Francis Lawrence, successor to Gary Ross. Catching Fire is quite a busy book; one half devoted to destroying Katniss' image, and the second half, her, in the Games. It isn't an equal half-and-half, the arena gets the slightly bigger slice. The film is much of the same, although the 'slicing' is a bit more equal.

This is fine for the first half, the film covered everything necessary in a little, easy to digest package. The second half, however, seemed to shorten time within the arena. Now this actually worked quite well for fast-paced, exciting action scenes; they're just not very spaced out. Twice, a load of competitors die in less than two minutes. To split Catching Fire into two films - as they're doing for part three - would have been absurd, but it could have done with being just a tiny bit longer. Just for some breathing room. Although the Games don't tend to work that way!

Hot couple. No?

Still, fast-paced or not, Jennifer Lawrence still had plenty of time to give another great performance. She's got Katniss covered well; the tough girl with occasional soft spots. She'll slowly have to work 'leading a rebellion' into her character which may perhaps be a challenge for her, but that shall become important later on. For now, she's doing very well with her 'victimised' methods.

Josh Hutcherson, Peeta, was up to his usual standard of 'Good, if sometimes a bit wooden'. He can do a good Peeta, but every few lines or so his emotions seem to falter, and he has an incredibly vacant gaze for times like these. There's something in his eyes as well; he seems like a worthy opponent for a staring contest. But in any case, Hutcherson gave another commemorative performance, none-the-less.

Donald Sutherland, President Snow, is sublime. With only small parts in Hunger Games, it was easy to forget him. In Catching Fire, he plays the power-mad, rebellion-fearing part brilliantly. A very early scene consists of Snow visiting Katniss to warn her of the seriousness of her actions, and to keep within Capitol guidelines on her Victory Tour. Sutherlund's intimidating demeanour makes that scene so delectably tense you may just forget to breathe.

And Phillip Seymour Hoffman spoke for the entire film like he's got syrup in his mouth. Not a lot of syrup, but enunciation's never been his strongest suit. You may notice it the most when he talks quietly. But anyway, another strong performance.

Then finally, the visuals of Francis Lawrence are just as glorious as Gary Ross'. The Victory Tour takes us through a multitude of decaying districts, particularly around the higher numbered. Districts 11 and 12 look strikingly similar though; coincidental, on-purpose or lazy backdrops. Take your pick.

Was Effie 'born this way'?

This does perfectly contrast to the awesome spectacle of Panem's Capitol. Its vast cityscape, almost reminiscent of Star Wars' Coruscant and populated by followers of Lady Gaga's fashion sense - especially Katniss and Peeta's friend Effie Trinket. The Victory Tour party scenes were particularly vibrant, incredible and just a bit bizarre when Effie walks in and squeals "Ooh, curtains!"

Then, the visuals that this author particular awaited, those of the Quarter Quell arena. It was, in essence, another forest - but a forest locked within a force field. Graphics for both were phenomenal, helped along by the director's use of IMAX cameras. And just wait until the extra-spectacular special effect at the end...

It is also worth nothing that Francis Lawrence had different views on the use of shaky-cam. It hasn't completely disappeared, but there is a massive improvement. Lawrence did a great job with Catching Fire, it felt like less of an indie film and more of a blockbuster, which is well deserved, given the franchise's huge popularity now.

Overall, it's definitely a recommendation for those who enjoyed the books and previous film alike. And it's only been out for a week. It's still all there, waiting for you.

For further enticement, here's the theatrical trailer for you: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EAzGXqJSDJ8