Category: Uncategorized

No, I’m far less worried about internet streaming video than I am by this sort of thing. If Star Wars Galaxies had actually been any good…

Incidentally, two or three years ago I (fairly) seriously suggested making a documentary on the development process of Star Wars Galaxies. Partly because, like everyone else, I guessed it might be when massively-multiplayer gaming ‘crossed over’ from geekdom into the mainstream (it wasn’t, but not by much) – but also because, when something finally does, I think there’s a market for in-game journalism. And being around during the dev process struck me as a likely way of putting oneself in the right place at the right time.

More recently I played Eve:Online for a while. It’s stunning in many ways – not least the banging-head-against-wall feeling of ‘how could they have released it in this state?’ And in the patched evolution of now, of course, the barrier to entry is massively high, and you’d have to play full-time for about a month for it to get fun again. Thanks, but no.

Sometime, somebody’s going to get this stuff right. In Korea, they already did.

Geeky notes on low-cost streaming video, linked here for my own future reference.

It’s curious that streaming video to a desktop computer, despite tiny, grainy frames, compression artefacts, badly-synced video and all the other baggage, is a wholly miraculous viewing experience. Now compare broadcast television, which does the same thing only with much better pictures (yes, despite PAL and NTSC being horrible – SECAM too if you happen to be French), minimal latency, multi-channel sound and a rock-solid frame rate, wirelessly.

Every now and then the idea of doing simultaneous net streams crops up at work, in connection with some mooted project or other. Every time, I find myself asking the producer/development researcher/exec/marketing bod/technology guru/whoever why we, a television company, would want to pay hundreds to thousands of pounds to allow dozens to hundreds of viewers to watch our output. We measure audiences in tens of thousands, not hundreds!

Not that I think streaming media is a bad thing. Far from it, I think it’s a terrific tool, and I greatly admire the sort of thing Clive James is doing with it (though that’s off-air at the moment, sadly). Also, there are several projects on the horizon where I can see myself rigging streaming into the format. A year ago, giving a presenter or actor a handheld pad-type prop which showed live streaming video would have been a nasty post-production effects job. Now, it’s quite cheap. In fact, the only link in the chain I don’t already own is the TabletPC, which – if they continue to sell so badly they’re dumped as clearance stock – wouldn’t be expensive.

No, streaming media really is cool, both as tech and as a concept. The problem is, TV has been doing it for decades already, and another transmission system doesn’t much help us at this point. There are two implications: for now, streaming is a fascinating little niche, and I expect to see all manner of clever projects taking advantage of it, but I don’t expect them to be commercial projects. Secondly, when bandwidth costs fall by – oh, say two orders of magnitude – the above analysis becomes entirely void.

We’ve already seen this with non-streaming video: early QuickTime was miraculous but utter rubbish, we all said as much. Ten years on, we’re emailing lashed-together iMovies of our loved ones.

ADSL is up and running, via a moderately hideous USB modem, some genuinely shudder-worthy shenanigans with WinXP Internet Connection Sharing, more network tricks than I knew I knew, and so many layers of firewalls and intrusion detection systems, I really don’t know if I’ll be able to find them all myself if I ever want to turn them off again.

I have 196 unread messages, 1456 junk mails (barring a few false positives that have doubtless sneaked in), 1034 unread headlines in NetNewsWire, and hosting requests totalling three blogs and one photo gallery.

Much more importantly, I have a kitchen with a wonderful walk-in fridge, a lounge (a lounge!) with sofas and my first non-crap TV, curtains in the bedroom, a blind in the study, and very very little stuff still in other peoples’ flats.

Mind you, I also have a mountain of cardboard that’s substantially bigger than my car.

Normal service and so on and so forth.

Old Farsley proverb say: ‘The wise man checks carefully the ground beneath his Transit van, lest there be fox shit amongst the gravel.’

Sorry, Richard, and thanks heaps for helping with the washing machine.

?> look

You stand in the hallway of your flat, your shoes
leaving curiously-shaped marks on the dark-stained
wooden floorboards. The walls, in a contrasting
scheme of matte plum and gloss dark purple, are
less alarming than seems reasonable. A single
hanging bulb fights to impose its influence on the
light streaming through open doors to the sides.
To the south are tastefully built-in display shelves.
On the middle shelf, spot-lit from above, is a plastic
teaspoon. It matches the walls.

?> exits

North: A leaded-glass door leads to the stairwell.
South: an open doorway reveals the kitchen, all
shining white units and careful underlighting. A bin
bag lurks on the floor, part-filled. On the counter,
a scattering of official-looking paperwork, and a
range of cleaning products. On the hob is a small
and precariously-balanced espresso pot.
South-West: The dark-stained floorboards continue
into the lounge, ending at a large angled bay window
overlooking the road outside. Happily, the plum/purple
walls are not continued, the lounge walls being a
more restrained oatmeal colour. There is a picture rail,
and a large old fireplace, suitable for leaning on while
quaffing port. On the mantlepiece ticks a clock with two
faces, one labelled 'Jonathan time,' the other 'real time.'
The only other object in the lounge is a director's chair
with 'Mr Hitchcock' stencilled on the back.
North-West: A bedroom or study, carpeted in pale
beige and with the same oatmeal walls as the lounge.
A surprisingly small window looks out onto the street.
The only object within is a bright yellow bicycle pump,
placed upright dead-centre in the room. Perhaps it's
an art installation?
North-East: A long, very narrow bathroom, with pine
that's tasteful in the same way the purple hall isn't
alarming. A huge mirror backs the sink, a part-wall
backing the shower and bath and almost blocking the
snickelway to the toilet. A variety of bleaches, soaps
and cleaning products are placed carefully.
South-East: the master bedroom, carpeted like the
other (or is that a study?). Oddly-shaped, thanks to
a defunct chimney breast, a cupboard that, on
inspection, contains a combi boiler with initially
indecipherable controls, and a bite taken out to
accommodate the kitchen. The bedroom is empty.

?> inventory

You have:
- A set of keys.
- A receipt for a gigantic fridge-freezer,
to be delivered on Tuesday.
- A Post-It note on which is scribbled:
  - A British Telecom account number.
  - A job number for ADSL activation from Pipex.
  - Meter readings from when you moved in.
  - A phone number for a shadowy government
quango who may be able to tell you who to give
the meter readings to.

They don’t call me ‘Jonny Three-Flats’ for nothing. Renting in Leeds, lodgings in Glasgow, and now – my own pad in Glasgow. Fan-bleedin’-tastic. And it is the one I thought it was, which is reassuring.

All this, on the day the Daily Express’s top story was headlined ‘Mortgage Rates to Rise – Decade of Misery for Homeowners.’ Oh, well, too late now.

Twelve hours from now, I shall be in debt for the next twenty-five years.

Rock on.

Further to Mark’s vending machine catastrophe:

At my workplace we have a close cousin of the non-vending machine, in the form of a deceptively posh coffee dispenser. In goes the money clink-clink-clink-oh, it’s gone up again-clink. Press the button for ‘coffee,’ and the little flap thing elegantly servos open. Select coffee from baffling array of choice, taking care to avoid the hazelnut-laced obscenity that surely, any day now, will be impounded by the UN Chemical Weapons Inspectorate. Place chosen pouch of hopeful brew in flap thing, carefully position cup below nozzle… final checks, discretionary clearance from the tower, flaps closed… and we’re away.

Glugging. Pressure builds. Steam vents. Inside the flap thing a gentle tearing sound presages a thunderous rupture. Coffee sprays from the flap thing in a scalding torrent, the run-off trickling neatly down the side of the cup. The outside.

When the steam and smoke and grounds and terror dissipate, with luck, the cup contains a scant mouthful of oily richness. Which tastes of burnt sugar and… is that?… yes! A faint hint of hazelnut.

I’ll try again tomorrow.