Sunday, October 21, 2012

on specialising.

at first there was none.

and then you came, the little upstart, who would completely change the world with your perspectives, techniques, worldview, and philosophy. the one who would capture the human spirit (what'd they call it? humanism?) in a bottle, and then display it proudly on a shelf. something that you could turn around, like inverting mirror, to shine on people themselves. to show them their laughable, wretched relationships with the world, with people people, with the air molecules surrounding them, with light, colour, position, sight, sounds, the five senses bar none, and then the actual endeavour of what it means to be living. you are the conduit to that divine philosophical understanding, who would open their eyes, ears, touch to a greater truth - some truth that only you (wish people) knew.

but no one would take it, kindly; to them, it's a trick mirror, not the ones magicians employ, but rather the overused, tired fun-house type that was so covered with slobbering fat men and children who were so prone to indulging their own random kinaesthetic desires that it wasn't polished anymore. we all know what that means, because shiny means good and new and the opposite is uncool. that was the initial phrase, the tough phrase. you were the straggler, the last of the bunch, the one people will up-turn their nose on whenever they knew your profession. the one voted "most likely to rule the world" based on a whim, and we all love losers, don't we? because they just won't win.

and then drip by drip, it was improved, perfected, developed. every brush, stroke, swipe, and dab. and people stood up, took notice. not that it was good, not at all. because people never had an idea of what was good. good was you becoming, but never you being. their eyes never saw you. they saw the beginning of something new, exciting, interesting. something they can get kudos about if only they'd share it on Facebook, Twitter, or the like and get the like vindication, or comments. yes, even better with comments, because someone would care, would say that they have a good eye, or better still, ask them something unrelated so that they can take the conversation offline and then finally be out of their pathetic isolated shells that they've so kindly shut and plugged themselves into.

so it's nothing about you. not at all. you're just the monkey wrench for wrenches and the lubricant for a well-oiled chat.

then things gather steam, as likes and shares pile onto the cindering oven. then people start doing the same thing as you. a similar poise, point-toes, split, spread-eagle double-double. but it's okay; they attribute. they get together with you and form a village. something like the men of ymca, minus the dowdy chats and poses that people do on wednesday night mamboes. instead, form tales of heroic sacrifice, self-imposed melodramedy that bards (you'll wish) would yodel even ages after you're gone. Vindication, we all desire it. so when it becomes vicious and circular, you become us.

but the winds keep blowing, not signalling change, but more of the same. and with the same, and with a populous following, it is necessary to cull. population control. quality control. to differentiate, to divide between sects, to legitimately call each other names like in playground play gone bad. so faiths are implemented to sieve the blasphemous from the devout, the ones who pay no heed to those commandments, those who would dabble in the occult, heresy, black arts, and then pervert the practice in unorthodox ways. for those, a special punishment awaits. cast out, not by stones, but as sell-outs, has-beens, marginal radicals, vigilantes. different. not like us.

all the while as the narrow church begins its ascendancy. a little higher, a little better, until it dwarfs the surrounding villages and overlooks them. 'no, we'll teach you ways of looking,' we say, 'we are the enlightened, and you unwashed masses will have to learn - slowly.' We'll invent new ways of speak if there was none, or coin our own if there was one. Simple rules and laws. Submit to the jurisdiction of this profession, or we will throw tantrums, lawsuits, and the kitchen sink. We're the specialists, the forerunners of our fields, and amateurs like you need not apply. For the ones who don't get it, well, just trust us. On (and use) our terms. We have the Eye. and for the blind, just follow.

if humility is lost forever, then what connection?

Wednesday, August 22, 2012

Exclusivity Bites Back? Battlefield 3 Razer Blackshark 2.0 Gaming Headset Review

Firstly, thanks are in order for Techgoondu, from whom I won the prize in its online contest. And now that I have my interests out in the open...

Product co-branding has always been a marketing strategy for companies who see the synergy between different brands. In its basic form, brands create products out of another franchise. Lego, for example, manufacture bricks that assemble into Death Stars. Fast food franchises jump on the latest movie craze by offering themed toys with Kid's Meals.

In another iteration, brands stylise their products after others, hoping to garner the unique fan following between the brands' overlaps. Razer is the exemplar in the gaming peripheral industry, having already dished out its offerings in Transformers, Dragon Age, and Mass Effect themed gear. The Razer Blackshark marks the inroads Razer is making into the Battlefield 3 arena (which it has already dominated with mice and keyboards). However, is the trick becoming too old? Will such stylised products turn off the common gamer who want (or has) nothing to do with the game itself, or are they welcome icing on the cake? Does the licensing of game-themed gear pass on a completely avoidable cost to the gamer? Read on to find out!

First: Even though Razer mice is known for having low, middle, and top-tier ends, the Blackshark screams premium right out of the box. And yes, us gamers are always suckers for packaging and unboxing. The headset and accessories sit snugly inside black cushioning (so comfortably that I was almost afraid to damage the cushioning pulling them out).

The Battlefield 3 theme is also pretty evident, from the helicopter pilot-ish headset, the trademark orange-and-black styling, and the bold title emblazoned across the headband (not sure if that's a good thing, actually. What if you're playing something else?). The earcups are not soft and spongy like cheap headsets, but instead feel like they can withstand torrents of abuse from getting constantly fragged cheaply (which does happen). And they feel like what a real aviator would use, with a detachable and extendable microphone to communicate with comrades. You just can't wait to get started.

Unfortunately, while the cushioning around the headset and earcups feel quality enough, the plastic glossy cover for the cans break the illusion. Plastic feels cheap, no matter what. Plastic ruined the Samsung Galaxy 3, and in here, it's not much different. The saving grace is that the black gloss is of a dark nature, which minimises the sweaty smudges that you're bound to have in drawn-out Battlefield 3 skirmishes.

In real world usage, you would likely be forgiving of the exterior because you can't see it anyway. And unlike other headsets that I've used before, the Blackshark feels comfortable enough even for extended periods. This is possibly due to the leather lining of the ear cups and its nice weight and balance, which makes users feel the headset's weight, but not dramatically so.

Its noise isolation is also superb. With the headset on, even the fan blowing half a metre away is barely audible. The likelier problem would be missing out on your spouse's or family's conversations (which, again, could be a good thing). Heat is also a problem that manifests frequently for closed isolated headsets, but again, it's the leather to the rescue. There is adequate ventilation and it doesn't trap heat around your ears that much.

Sound reproduction is pretty right on in-game. The headset is made for gaming, and thus cinema fans and bassheads can also apply as the Blackshark leans pretty heavy on the low end of the spectrum. Every round fired, clip pulled off a grenade, and footstep can be heard clearly. The sound also reverbs very well within the cans, which lends a dramatic flair to games while retaining them for films. One thing of note is that the headset is stereo and not 5 or 7 channel. While it can reproduce distance and direction well enough, it will still be a pretender to the real thing.

Accessories are also well thought out (for the price, they'd better be). The Blackshark comes with a 3.5mm splitter for left/right channels output should you so desire. When you're not busy shouting orders to your team-mates, Razer has also included a cover for the microphone input when you remove the microphone, so you can look less ridiculous when enjoying your music.

However, premium has its drawback. For a specialised gear, the headset seems a tad too expensive for the mainstream crowd, at USD 129.99 from Razerstore. I suspect some of that cost goes towards the Battlefield 3 branding.

Chances are, even though you will take a second, or even third look at this alluring gear, it just isn't practical enough for the rest of us.Even though Razer has made a concession of me-too! by suggesting that it can be paired with other audio devices, the Blackshark is obviously a gaming headset. The Battlefield styling makes the headset stand out even more than the once-popular Beats cans. Using it outside is akin to wearing your pyjamas to a fancy cocktail party because "it's a shirt and pants anyway". Yes it is. And it isn't.

The Blackshark will not convert any discerning audiophiles either. The headset's over-emphasis on lows and its muddy mids are evident on jazz tunes as Lisa Ono and Olivia Ong's vocals frequently get drowned out by the bass. Mainstream pop music, however, is serviceable. Again, for the price, there are better cans to be had, but you're not exactly auditioning a pair that can serve gaming, home theatre, and music, right?

Even true-blue Battlefield 3 fans might feel hard-done by the deal, as the exclusive content commonly available in such license product is just an in-game Serpent dogtag. Yeah, you got that right. A dogtag. That's it, they took peripheral too literally. Previous products such as the Mass Effect themed ones got the player extra in-game items. While I'm not suggesting that Razer break the game, more significant exclusives such as an entire skin would be rewarding for loyal customers.

The bottom line: Blackshark is a top-of-line product from Razer, no questions asked. The only thing in doubt is whether you're as hardcore a shooter fan, or even a Battlefield 3 fan, to shell out the dough for this. Razer has obviously primed it towards a certain target market with the deliberate branding. Add in the licensing, and the market has shrunk even further. Can Razer maintain this deliberate strategy? Only time will tell.

The Good
Premium built-to-last quality
Delivers on all the gaming headset notches
So cool, if only your friends could see it

The Bad
Pricey
Lacking audio quality for music
So cool, if only your friends can see it

Saturday, February 25, 2012

anecdotes.

anecdotes don't make more than just one mere data point, but often it's the understated that claim tyrannical significance. it never is about the person, but how do you ignore the assault on principles that one would have held as categorical imperatives, only for clauses and circumstances to exclude them as imperfect duties? there is no greater denial of existence, than dispelling the very ideas that one would stand for. there ought come a point when enough time has been spent in purgatory, deeming every punishment as divine justice. no, I will not lie in wilful submission when my thesis is trampled upon.


- researcher notes, before being judged by the scales of censure

Wednesday, February 1, 2012

prosaic.

I haven't written for a long time. The truth is, social networks kill writing and the ability to think cogently for more than 1xx number of characters. It teaches, at most, another style. The style of murdering your words, letter by letter, just so that you get your point across in a creative manner. In a 'I'm-not-whoring-but-I'm-intelligent', 'oh-please-anyone-but-me' fashion. That's trending now. Add a hashtag, and it fragments your thoughts to the point where you get disciplined into thinking about something. And then, nothing.

Writing requires discipline, I suppose. Which I don't have. Because to me, writing seems to be just a release, where emotions are so caught up in the moment and you just seek that very outlet to vent your feelings on. An empty abyss, where you look upon sometime later and find out it's has filled with a strange clarity of thought. Some welling up of nostalgia, like you almost knew the guy. Unfortunately, I procrastinate.

But not today. With that rich gamut of emotions filled up, I ran, jogged, and then walked briskly. A pyrrhic victory in the end, since that very inspiration emptied itself out en-route. But to write anyway, to at least hope that that half-hour of genius did not go to waste, to eulogise that fleeting moment in paragraphs that meant nothing. Nothing but trash, perhaps, looking back. But genuine, and one can never beat reality.

So how does one lose everything and anything, and start with that blank slate of mind when a lit screen of mostly white stares back at him? it is unblinking, except for that damned cursor, that dares one to write. Except for the disclaimer that one needs to input, at the very start, writing at length but not compensating for brilliance, that this is free-flow, unorthodox, ill-disciplined writing that is all spur-of-the-moment. Yet writing a specific form of writing, is exactly that. Conformity. Writing is not a talent or breaking down of barriers or an act of defiance against the norms of the world. It simply is. Is? Is what? What do you expect from 'it simply is?' Nothing. It just is not, not that it is. Since writing that it is something requires you to substantiate some feeling of the moment, flavour of the month, that ultimately is, of course, what it is. Ridiculous fleeting thoughts, twisted, wrung, dried and then pieced, jigsawed and rearranged into your very own 360-piece argument.

I had hoped that this could wait. That the blog would wait until my other trivial travails  have passed, so I can really really begin to write. I begged to defer, yet somehow you can't keep the tide from flowing back in, dammit. You just had to stem it, build a dam, divert some flow and hope it turns out something good from a churning turbine of machinery. It's not looking at all either, and I'll be ashamed to call it my own. Some bastard child that ought never to be. Someone that I can't bear writing a letter to. Like a Foster Wallace, only uglier and dirtier. Someone doomed to the unemployment line, queuing in soup kitchens, getting handouts, forever stuck to the lowest 10th percentile.

But so it is. Life is never fair. And things, people exist just to remind you of it. I loved to write, once. I hope I will like it, someday, again, and again. Discipline makes a good writer when one can really get down to write. But discipline also killed the writer in his sleep, but ensuring that all fun is sucked out of whatever he produced. That everything is necessarily judged, first by ego, then by applause. But it cannot be. Feeling, events, people, things, they need an outlet to be validated. Just by writing them into permanence. Into a concrete existence that one day I can point to, and say that I felt.

So here it is, to the joy of writing. I hope I return to these roots. Again.

Friday, January 20, 2012

certain seating plans on the MRT

I take the same train everyday
the 06.57, housing three 1-year-old institutions to voyeur
the 40-something housewife clutching a basket empty
the short-skirted teen with self-esteem made from fleeting glances
and the straight-laced male executive wedged in between
conjoined triplets craving
what little acknowledgement of their existence
beyond the beeps of their punch cards
 on society’s gantries

the auntie is charity’s druggie
enacting a daily habit
of dominating thrones, only to abdicate
to the most wretched case she sees
and then mistaking gratitude for willingness
to listen to life stories
when everyone would rather eavesdrop
on everyone’s iphone
or not at all.

I know where the guy stands, ramrod straight
the way he looks at the opposite window
without excuse
a brazen criminal after the tunnels of Tiong Bahru
to memorise every minute detail
whereupon in the evenings after work
he would pore over photos on facebook, half-naked
and finding none, settle for someone else instead.

the girl likes to stand at raffles place
after a generous 7-minute display of her thighs
to offer an additional serving of the rear
even while she endures incessant droning and a warm fuzzy feeling
pretending to use her phone
she celebrates others’ lives online
everyday’s 23-minute ride
starring weird auntie and stalker uncle
where likes and comments and cattle prods
become vindication of one’s worth.

people play-pretend isolation
when in fact, they desire to touch
more than just plastic hand-grips or cool metal bars.

Wednesday, January 18, 2012

palliative care

silent foetus -
when you went, it was head first
severing the cord only made you grow more
at life they hunger, they beg, they claw
with refreshed firmware, just plug-and-play
like you saying through a Zeitgeist, hey, I'm ok

stillborn child-
silver-haired, but frothing the same bile
no longer the jaundiced yellow-skin, but forever blue
only green waves, breaking the humming plateau
how they crash, never to return
only foaming waste in grey machine, churn

alone I wait, here in the wings
until the most frequented went rare, and then ceased to being
ever-patient, with permanent room-and-board
one becomes just a number that they jot
so here’s to you, my last ode
then let my hands rest down on your throat
unspoken rest, ten years late
asphyxiate, asphyxiate.

an addict’s morning

auntie downs a cup of drugs
to which her lips smacks simultaneously, in their
caffeined agreement and
an experienced tongue follows, consuming every
last bit of excitement
forking her way around each hollow
like a lover’s appendage
in another
-                 - she can only fantasise

and then to conclude her daily routine with a
240-volt smile
powered by the three-pin socket
on the back of her palm-sized mirror
a spotlight that demands immediate fall-in
from her new plastic recruits
satisfied, the drill sergeant inspects her tanned veterans
at flimsy attention on stamped soil
and commands them to henta-taki twice
before pulling out a shoe brush laced with white kiwi
to flush all traces of today, tomorrow, and every other day’s high
down the porcelain sink of her forgotten youth.