One of the downsides of living in an apartment building just across the road from a large, public park is — unfortunately — the tendency for incomprehensible gatherings of crew-cut youths clad in bright colours and their beer-gut-and-Budweiser parents in tow, two screaming babies in a pram and another in the oven. Yes, I’m referring to the unfortunate but inevitable occurrences of football games — soccer, as the Americans call it — which in itself would not be a big problem, if not for the fact that it both attracts and largely consists of club-headed neanderthals who appear to display a worrying lack of self-control, leading to what I can only describe as some of the most hoarse, vehement shouting forcing its way out of their Lambert & Butler tar-coated throats.

It’s not just this, though, but any occurrence of this inexplicably dull sport which seems to evoke the most primive and violent natures from these already low-brow plebians. Going anywhere near a public place before, during, or after any kind of match which seems to hold some ridiculous significance to these simians is practically a death sentence, due to their unfortunate nature to riot furiously and violently if “their” team loses the game, a haze of bloodlust hanging over them like a cloud. Similarly, if the team they “support” — and I use that word in the loosest manner possible — wins a game, they seem equally overcome with primal fury, destroying and fighting everything in their path as their uncontrollable wrath leaves broken windows and empty beer cans in its wake. This, perhaps, is the most bizarre aspect of the whole experience, as if every fan is simply a ticking time-bomb, waiting for the moment to explode in bestial anger regardless of the game’s outcome!

I can’t even begin to understand why sports of most kinds tend to bring out the worst, most primal and aggressive natures of ordinarily air-brained yet harmless peons — though it mostly seems to focus around the more physical of sports, ones that involve a lot of running, since I’ve rarely heard of a chess riot, or police being called in to deal with enraged snooker fans.

Truth be told, though, that’d be quite hilarious to observe.

(Image courtesy of my blogging compadre, Gorse.)

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Quick energy shot review that I really shouldn’t be writing at all because I’m late for meeting people in town, GO!

Sporting a “mere” 80mg of caffeine — I think the Monster Energy Shot has spoiled me in that regard — and the usual mix of bizarre and incomprehensible chemical compounds (taurine, glucuronolactone, inositol, niacin, pantothenic acid, vitamins B6 and B12), Red Bull seems pretty middle-of-the-road and tediously average as far as ingredients are concerned. While I’m sure I’m going to be stepping on a few toes by saying this, however, I’d go so far as to say the same could be said for the ordinary, canned version of the energy drink. It might  “give you wings”, but it’s about as unique as a grain of sand in a desert.

Let’s crack this thing open and oh dear god I once had to take a urine sample for some medical test, and both the vial provided and the end result looked a whole lot like what I’m staring at right now, except perhaps for the garish label. Thankfully, the odour bears no similarity; it smells like a sweeter version of the regular canned Red Bull, almost bordering on Monster’s turf in that regard.

A timid, cursory sip reveals a surprising similarity — the brackish flavour is largely masked by the fairly light, sweet, Monster-esque flavour which bears little resemblance to standard Red Bull. The rest soon follows down my throat with surprising ease; while I hate to use a phrase like “for an energy shot”, it seems like the only way to go — it’s not exactly stellar, but for an energy shot it’s remarkably pleasant and manages to result in a surprising dearth of aftertaste, aside from a vague lingering.

So before I put on my boots and run out of the door like a whirling dervish, I’ll conclude by saying that I’m pleasantly surprised, with Red Bull taking its place alongside Monster and LSV as an energy shot which is actually fairly pleasant, and doesn’t cause self-mutilating urges. Two thumbs up, Red Bull!

Phase one: Remove main control chip, sever connections to secondary control chips, then simultaneously marvel at how deep and precise the cuts from the Dremel are while realizing that you probably woke up the neighbors at six in the morning.

And there it is, after countless hours of boredom and frustration, after trawling mindlessly through mountains of outdated content I cared little about, at last the reward — and with it a new title, Loremaster Squick, a way to show the world that I truly have nothing better to do with my life than sink hours into tedium and repetition for the hopes of a hollow reward of coloured pixels. Despite that, I don’t regret a moment of it.

That’s what got me thinking about gaming as a whole, and the bizarre system of effort and reward that we as gamers seem to impose upon ourselves. Of course achievements in games like World of Warcraft or on systems such as the Xbox 360 and Steam — or a rose by any other name, such as “trophies” on the PlayStation 3 — are the perfect example of this mentality in action, I feel it’s only a relatively new coat of paint on the surface of something much older. Remember when you were a kid hanging out in the video-game arcades of the 80′s and 90′s, marvelling at the high-score tables populated and dominated by those elite few with the seemingly unattainable skills needed to occupy such a throne? Or as a more domestic example, something every gamer should be familiar with: The urge to beat the level, defeat the boss, to press onward and explore new territory, or simply to beat a score and achieve some measure of satisfaction from the knowledge that your skill and dedication could be quantified by digits glowing on a phosphor screen.

This, I feel, is something endemic and intrinsic to the gamer mindset, and yet the intangible appeal fails to make any logical sense in my mind. We push ourselves to incredible lengths for the sake of achievement and improvement in an artificial system which exists solely for the sake of providing challenge where there would otherwise be none. An extreme case of this would be the Korean gamer who quite literally killed himself by playing too much StarCraft; more common examples can be seen all around us. Who out there wearing the moniker of “gamer” can honestly say they haven’t spent a weekend or more shut away in a darkened room, hunched over a screen, thoroughly absorbed in one of these faux-simulacra?

Is it simply human nature to constantly push ourselves further, so desperate for self-improvement and so eager for accolade that we are inherently drawn to such a medium? The overwhelming popularity of gaming as a whole on a worldwide scale would seem to imply a certain truth in this logic, though I can’t help but feel as though something is missing. Can it really be that simple? In the end, are we still just a bunch of apes who’ll push a button all day long if it means we’ll get a bunch of bananas and a pat on the head?

Just a quick post to mention that Remnant Core is no longer hosted on this site. I’ve created a separate site for my current and future programming projects, so my rambling doesn’t have to get mixed up with code nerdery and vice-versa. For current and future information about Remnant Core and other endeavours, check out my project site at BitLoaf.