HALO 3.

Sadly, or maybe not sadly, I have stopped playing video games. I'm not even sure if "playing video games" is the correct way to say it anymore. I still own a PS2 and have,in fact, purchased two video games in the last six month. Neither has ever been in the machine, but it felt good to buy them.

Over the last month I've been exposed to what I can only call "brilliant advertising" for Halo 3. It has moved me from a point of "what's Halo?" to the brink of purchasing Halo 3, which would require me to buy an Xbox 360 if I wanted to actually play it.

So here is a sample of the campaign that is making me rethink my abandonment of the gaming experience:

I love the simple piano music and the details of the model. It's brilliant that they actually built a gigantic diorama of the battle. For me, it makes the game feel like more than a video game; it makes it feel like a toy. It reminds me of when I was a kid. I used to set up and play out giant battles with GI Joe figures and Transformers on a an alien couch landscape or in the branches of a Christmas tree.

On the Halo 3 website, you can tour the diorama, zooming in and out of sections, watching videos, seeing little descriptions of characters or weapons and taking screen shots of the battle.

Check it out: HALO 3 SITE And here's a mock documentary about the building of the set.

In the end, I'm not buying Xbox or Halo 3. No matter how much I think I want it now, I know if I got it I would play it for about an hour, get frustrated and quit. At best, I'd sit and watch my friends play it for a few hours. I think the experience of owning the game would ruin my love for the advertising.

I suck at video games.

WHERE DO NINJAS VACATION?

Coming back from Myrtle Beach today I was standing in the longest security line in America (what airport only opens one security line?), which gave me ample time to observe this sign.



My phone took a crappy picture, but the basic message was, "These Common Items Are Prohibited." I found it strange that they considered the following to be common items: butterfly knives, switchblades, brass knuckles and chinese throwing stars. Chinese throwing stars!? I guess a lot of ninjas fly in and out of Myrtle Beach. I didn't even notice.

LOST PANTS WORTH $65 MILLION.

I read a blurb about this in the paper this morning and really didn't believe that it could be true. A man sued a local laundry mat for $65 million over a pair of lost pants. Of course, when I got to work I had to google this and find out more. Turns out the guy suing is a JUDGE. Not only that, but the found his pants. After the case was taken to court, the judge declined settlement offers of up to $12,000.

Now, to be fair, I understand that when you feel wronged by a business you want some justice. But this is ridiculous. Write a letter. Boycott that business. Spread the word. Or accept one of their settlement offers. You have to be a little reasonable.

I really can't say anything more about this. My parents own a not-so-lucrative small business so things like this bring out the fury. And you don't want me to bring out the fury, do you? No. You don't.

Judge Sues Cleaner for $65M Over Pants

MEGATRON AND BUMBLEBEE.

If you don't know, I love sports. I love football. Which unfortunately means I also love the Lions. About a month ago, for work I got to go to Pasadena to work with some NFL players. One of them was Detroit Lions #1 draft pick CALVIN JOHNSON. It was pretty great, although the nervousness prior to that day gave me the inability to eat food sickness.

Anyways, here's me and Calvin, hanging out.


The best quote I've heard so far about Calvin Johnson comes from Detroit WR Roy Williams:

"He's a good athlete, he's big as hell, he's Megatron."


Hence the new nickname: Megatron and Bumblebee.

The Art of Feedback.

Another brilliant seminar offered by my company. Here's the long and short of it, as advertised in an e-mail entitled, "The Art of Feedback":

"Company University will be hosting a class on 'The Art of Feedback' on Thursday September 19th from 10-1 in the Screening Room Conference Room

Self awareness is at the heart of effectiveness. To become aware of how our behavior affects others in the workplace, feedback is critical. This gift of feedback can help us become more effective if we let it. This workshop introduces specific techniques to prepare participants for receiving feedback constructively and willingly, allowing participants to grow and develop within their position and ultimately within the organization.

This session is open to all employees; we will conduct another session later on in the year on giving feedback which will be open to managers only.

Space is limited so please RSVP to this email if you are interested in attending. Breakfast will be provided."

At first I thought it was a seminar on how to tactfully provide feedback to others, but NO, that's a seminar reserved for management. This seminar is to teach you how to receive feedback. The title is really misleading. It should be titled, "How To Do What The Fuck We Tell You And Like It."

I'm offering an alternative seminar in The Art of Feedback. It's much shorter. Here are the notes:

If it's positive-

Daaamn right. You're just as good as you thought you were. Feel free to buy yourself a beer or maybe some new DVDs (or shoes for the ladies) to celebrate someone recognizing brilliance.

If it's negative-

First, try not to pay to much attention to what they're saying. Look like you care and nod your head as if you agree with him/her. In the meanwhile, you should already be thinking about the e-mail you'll send them when you're THEIR boss.

When you're free of whatever asshole was talking down to you, immediately find someone who likes you and talk shit about the person who criticized you. If it's really bad feedback, I suggest going off site to a pub and having a beer while you badmouth the supervisor who didn't appreciate your hard work.

When you get back to the office, you should update your resume and track down your Monster password so you can post it. Once you have given your job hunt a little kick-start, feel free to return to whatever work you apparently weren't doing right. However, you should only work about 60% as hard as you were working before. If they want something to criticize, give it to them.

Please note:

At my seminar there would be no free breakfast.

DAMNIT DR. PEPPER

Dear Dr. Pepper,

I love you. Your cool, sharp flavor is something I think about whenever I'm thirsty. Your thick brown goodness is almost a meal in itself. But your ads, your ads are terrible. It would be better if you didn't do any at all.

Today I saw the new one, where you have a fat football player do some sort of dance on the field. It's embarrassing. The fact that it's just plain awful isn't even what bothers me. The part of your marketing program that bothers me is your claim to have "23 favors."

23 completely indistinguishable flavors.

When I went to your website to see what these 23 flavors are, you informed me that it was "proprietary information." Why make a claim of 23 flavors if you can't tell me what they are? It almost makes me nervous. Who mixes together 23 things and drinks it? I think the only other place you find 23 flavors is in the water that leaks out of trash bags. And then there's Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper. Is that 25 flavors? Or is it 23 flavors, from which we can deduce that cherry and vanilla are amongst the original 23 ingredients?

The truth is, I don't give a rat's ass how many flavors are in it, I like the Dr. Pepper flavor. Why not claim to be one flavor: Dr. Pepper flavor.

Thanks for your time and deliciousness.

THE SPIRIT OF CAMPING.

Last weekend I went camping with my friend, Tom. It was a last minute effort to get out of the city on a holiday weekend. Not very well planned. His family lives in Connecticut, so he went out there early to see his mom and reserve a campsite at a nearby state park. Once the reservation was confirmed (you actually have to drive out to the campground or reserve by mail two weeks in advance), I got on the train and went to CT. After a stop at the grocery and liquor store we made our way to the park. Lush, rolling hills. Fields of knee-high grass, perfect weather.

The view from the Leatherman's Loop Peak

Tom went in to pay for the site and get our permit and came out looking dejected. It seems that in the time between when he had reserved the site that morning and the present they had given away our site. Why? Rick, the camp-master, apparently thought our reservation had been voided. Even though it was sitting right on the counter, lacking the word void or any relative thereof.

As we watched Rick operate it became clear that although he looked slightly like Albert Einstein, he was not in the same ballpark mentally. After about a half hour of sorting through stacks of reservation papers, he decided that since it was 4pm and a family with children hadn't shown up we could have their site. The logic? They have kids, why would they wait until so late in the day to show up? I can only think of 1000 reasons.

The campsite we ended up getting.

Regardless, the matter seemed settled, so we went to the site. It was not the hike-in site we had reserved, so now that we didn't have to carry our supplies a mile through the hills we felt foolish for not bringing beers, ice or anything besides a jug of water, six hot-dogs, some trail mix and a fifth of Makers. We set up camp, gathered a little firewood and took a hike. It was a great day for hiking; hot in the sun, cool in the shade of the woods. The trails we took had many exaggerated "points of interest" to visit. If you ever make it up there, I recommend skipping the "magic stairs" and the "CCC Camp." Do, however, check out the view from the Leatherman's Loop peak and the wigwam. And if you're feeling daring, but not too daring, check out the Leatherman's Cave. You'll feel slightly cheated.

Tom exiting the wigwam or hut of some sort.

The hike ate up a few hours of the day and was a good outing. We saw a rabbit while speaking to a Hell's Angel and his large breasted girlfriend. That sort of made us all friends. At least he couldn't stab us after seeing that little rabbit. At the end of our hike we were tired and hungry. Approaching our site we could see that the family had turned up after all. Their tents were set up and they had been so kind as to throw our possessions on the ground next to our tents. Thank you very much. That's exactly what I would want done with the items I had set on the picnic table. Yep, just toss 'em right there in the dirt. It was a passive-aggressive way of saying "get the fuck off our site."

This is where the spirit of camping comes in. Or rather, the complete disregard for the spirit of camping. The spirit of camping is one of camaraderie, of sharing, of trust. You can feel free to leave your stuff on your picnic table or in your tent. Other campers won't fuck with it. It's an unwritten law. If someone is camping nearby and they forgot to bring hot dogs, you share yours. You offer a beer to a passerby. You strike up conversation and invite neighbors to join you at your campfire. You help when you can and get help when you need it.

Not this family. Apparently this was their first time camping. That, or they were complete assholes. They returned from their hike as we were packing up our stuff. The wife managed to make minimal small talk, during which we explained how our site had been given away, which led to theirs being given away to us. She said, "Sorry." And walked away as Tom added, "I guess we'll just drive back to New York City." The husband passed by with just a nod of his inconsiderate jackass head.

But the spirit of camping was watching. It wouldn't let us drive back to the city, not after we had come all that way. As we were putting our tents in the car a woman walked by with her kid and mentioned she had heard about the situation. She was pretty sure her friends would let us throw up our tents at their site and join their group. So that we did. Not only did they let us join them, they offered up fresh corn on the cob, some slices of a roast, beers, and glow-in-the-dark necklaces. We cooked our pathetic hot dogs on their grill; we shared their campfire, talked, laughed, got reasonably drunk and did what campers do. I can only describe them as well-prepared, blue-collar, salt-of-the-earth, generous folks. I'd welcome them to my campsite any time.

A special thanks to Jim, Tom (yes, two of them had the same names as us), Big Walt, Jimbo's super old father, George and their families. The spirit of camping is alive and well.

And if you ever want to take a group of people rock climbing, talk to me. Camping Jim leads climbing expeditions in the NY-CT area.