#oneaday Day 110: Private Hysteria

Earlier today, a story broke which caused a fresh round of privacy concerns, as it was revealed that the iPhone is, in fact, recording where you’ve been and storing that information in its backup file that it transfers to your computer every time you sync it. Here’s the story from the Telegraph’s “Technolgoy Consultant” (a typo which doesn’t immediately inspire me with confidence) — judge for yourself.

Here’s my take, and I understand completely you may not feel the same way: I don’t give a damn. Why should I? What possible use could that information serve? What could people find out that I haven’t already made abundantly clear via other means of social media? That I like to drive to Southampton a lot? That I tend to prefer Costa Coffee as my coffee outlet of choice? That I have been known to drive to Tesco in the dead of night for groceries and snacks?

“But, privacy,” people bleat, without really explaining what they mean. Well, what about privacy? The minute you connect a device to the Internet, you’re putting yourself on display. The minute you use your GPS-enabled phone to find out where the hell you are and where you should be going, someone knows where you are. The minute you search “oily lesbian midgets” on Google, someone knows what a complete pervert you are. If you’re that concerned about privacy, you should reconsider your decision to carry around a constantly Internet-connected device with satellite tracking in your pocket. Or at least turn the fucking thing off.

Most of the time, though, the hysteria over privacy seems to be worry for the sake of worry. Take the app Color which came out a while back, for example. Color is, in theory, a clever way for people in the same place to collect the candid mobile photos they snap of an event — and possibly meet new people. It does this through a variety of means — GPS tracking if possible, then Wi-Fi identifications, mobile phone base stations and even recording the background noise when you take the photo and comparing it to the noise print taken when other people take photos. My first reaction on hearing how it worked was “Jesus Christ, that’s clever,” followed by “but ultimately unnecessary as most people I know with iPhones will just immediately upload their photos to Facebook anyway.” My immediate reaction was not “Shit! My iPhone is recording me without telling me! Bastards!” — which was the reaction of a few people I spoke to about it.

Why, though? Why the panic? It’s just sound. Are you a secret agent? Probably not. And if you were, it’s unlikely you’d be using social media to share photos on your iPhone. Again, what possible sinister use could the recording of background noise have? Could advertisers figure out that you like hanging out in noisy places and start providing you with targeted AdSense ads for earplugs and ear drops? Perhaps. But again: so what?

The main objection seems to be that the device is doing this without the user’s knowledge. But I even can’t see the problem with this, really. If you’re going somewhere you shouldn’t be or doing something/one you shouldn’t be, then don’t take an Internet-connected GPS-enabled device with you that — shock horror — might know where you are. And for fuck’s sake, don’t check in on Foursquare while you’re at your bit on the side’s house. It’s always your choice. If you want to be part of the digital revolution, then you have to get used to the fact that your information is out there for as long as you’re connected to the Internet.

Potential spoilarz for Don’t Take It Personally, Babe, It Just Ain’t Your Story ahead.

If you’ve played Christine Love’s Don’t Take It Personally, Babe, It Just Ain’t Your Story, you’ll know that the culmination of the plot deals with this very issue — the supposed “erosion of privacy”. The young characters in the game have grown up with this attitude to data, and as such are not surprised to know that other people are looking at their theoretically “private” information — and indeed take full advantage of this fact. I’m starting to feel like I can understand their attitude somewhat. I’m not sure if I should be pleased about that, or if I should be more worried than I am that my iPhone knows how many times I’ve been to public toilets in the last year.

Ah well. Can always turn it off. At least until The Machines take over.

#oneaday Day 109: Selfish Gawper

The TV is one of the most ubiquitous items of consumer electronics, but it’s also one of the ones I use for its originally-intended function least frequently. Oh, sure, I watch DVDs and use my consoles on it pretty much every day. But watching actual, proper TV on it? No.

There are plenty of reasons for this. The first is the fact that there’s just not a lot of stuff on TV that I’m that interested in watching. Related to this is the fact that of the stuff I am vaguely interested in on TV, I feel a bit of resentment towards being tied towards the arbitrary schedule of the TV channel. I of course don’t have to worry about it, as most of the stuff I am interested in watching is available either on iPlayer or the awesome YouTube Shows. And for lengthy series, I’ll tend to wait until the DVDs are available and then watch the whole lot as it suits me.

This is very much a symptom of the modern age. People want what they want, and they want it when they want, dammit. It’s a wonder the Tube hasn’t yet been replaced by individual passenger carts that you call by pressing a button on the platform when you’re quite ready to leave. (Actually, that’d be kind of cool, if terribly impractical.) It’s pretty much only travel where we have to be tied down to someone else’s schedule these days—and even then, if you’ve got money to burn, that isn’t an issue.

The trouble with this, of course, is that it indirectly makes people more selfish. People get used to being able to have what they want when they want, and when they are put into a situation where they might have to wait their turn for something, some people get a bit stroppy about it.

Let me use one establishment in which I used to work as an example. Said establishment worked on an appointment system for technical support, and with good reason. Several hundred angry customers with broken computers or generic multimedia playback devices (some of which incorporate telephony features) all bearing down on the desk at the same time would have been completely unworkable, so customers had to book appointments. I lost count of the number of times people got in a strop over this, however you positioned it to them. They just didn’t seem to understand the fact that they weren’t the only person in the store (not by a long shot) and that there were—shock—other people who’d got there before them.

Perhaps, then, everyone would do well to tie themselves to the TV schedules once in a while, just to remember what it’s like. And if you live in an area which hasn’t had the digital switchover yet, spend a couple of days getting your news via Ceefax instead of the Internet. People actually used to live with, you know, waiting around and having to be in the right place at the right time. And they did all right.

So take the time to think of other people once in a while. The world doesn’t just revolve around you, though the world of social media and the Internet might make it seem that way sometimes. Be a bit less selfish. And if you say you’ll be there at 8, be there at 8.

#oneaday Day 108: Fun with Portals

So everyone’s going mental about Portal 2‘s imminent release. And with good reason—Portal was awesome, after all, and evidence that a good quality game that tells an interesting story doesn’t have to be long and drawn out. Many called it a “gaming short story” and no-one seemed to mind the fact that it was maybe just 3 or 4 hours long.

The fact that it used the first-person perspective to make something that didn’t involve killing things was perhaps the best thing. It was a genuine bona fide puzzle game that used some creative game mechanics to get you thinking about things in ways that you probably hadn’t done since the days of Spectrum games where you fell off the bottom of the screen and reappeared at the top.

I thought I wasn’t that interested in the sequel, but everything Valve’s been doing with their ARG and the Potato Sack Pack nonsense has got me pretty fired up about the whole thing. So I guess their marketing works. Kudos to them for both being clever, and double kudos to them for highlighting the great work of today’s indie developers as part of the marketing effort. The fact that I apparently accidentally set my phone alarm to be Still Alive from Portal probably hasn’t helped matters. Have I been viral-marketing myself? Apparently so.

Trouble is, of course, that Portal 2 is a new game and, as you know, I have an enormous backlog to get through that wasn’t helped by the fact that Dragon Age II proved to be just a little bit too much to resist. But then Portal 2 is short. And it has co-op, so it’s sociable. Also, it is Portal, which despite being from one of the most successful developers in the universe has the feeling of an indie title about it and therefore feels like it should be supported whenever possible.

Dilemmas.

Also, my birthday is coming up. It’s on the 29th. I will be turning 30. If anyone is looking for inspiration for exciting presents to buy me to celebrate the survival of three decades, I certainly wouldn’t object to a copy of Portal 2 on PS3. Just tell me if you’re doing that, though, so I don’t feel the inexorable draw towards my nearest game retail establishment to procure my own copy in the next few days.

In the meantime, I will be sitting here listening to Jonathan Coulton music and singing along. And possibly replaying Portal. Several times. And each time wishing that I was actually playing Portal 2.

I’m really not helping myself here. GLaDOS is in my brain. Singing.

Day 456

#oneaday Day 107: The Box

There was no comic when this post was written due to the fact my Mac’s power lead is 120 miles away from where I am, so I’m currently writing this on my phone. Due to the WordPress app’s lack of word count facility, this may also be a bit shorter than usual. But I’m sure you’ll survive.

I could, of course, use another kettle lead to run my Mac off until mine comes back from its little holiday that it’s currently having. But that would involve delving into the Box of Cables.

The Box of Cables is a phenomenon that has grown somewhat over the course of the last twenty years or so. As consumer electronics has become more and more sophisticated, thus has the need for cables increased by a factor of approximately one bajillion. (Interestingly, my iPhone wanted to correct that to “bakillion”, which is presumably bigger than a bajillion.) Ironic, really, considering we supposedly live in some sort of wireless age. My phone doesn’t have any wires attached to it right now as I write this, but it sure as hell needs wires every night to charge itself, not to mention to transfer stuff to and from the computer. (The computer which is currently sleeping thanks to the absence of a power cable. Not that I’m bitter.)

But anyway; the Box of Cables. Everyone has one, but gentlemen who are prone to gadget-hoarding are particularly prone to developing fine specimens. In an ideal world, the Box of Cables would simply contain cables that you might actually need. In practice, however, you’ll find it provides an interesting history of your own computing habits.

In my Box of Cables I have a serial-port sync cradle for a Palm III organiser. The colour Palm I got later used a cable, not a cradle. And the Palm Tungsten I got even later used a USB cable, which made the whole sync process rather quicker. I still have all three Palms, incidentally, though I have no idea how to charge any of them any more.

I also have a wide selection of audio cables, some of which are for an amp setup I don’t own any more. Audio cables are the one kind of cable you’re likely to have about fifteen of and only one will work. You’ll swear every time that you’ll clean them out but you never will. And thus every time you come to need one, the same profanities emerge from betwixt your lips, and you wish you’d take your own advice.

Old games consoles video cables are also a perennial favourite. With the widespread adoption of HDMI by many devices, however, proprietary cables are thankfully a thing of the past. I do, however, still have an N64 SCART cable, PS2 stereo SCART cable, Xbox composite cable, Xbox Advanced SCART cable with optical out, Xbox 360 VGA cable, Xbox 360 component cable and all manner of other crap. That I don’t need.

Can I find a spare kettle lead to run my computer off until mine comes back though? Can I bollocks. Looks like I’m working on my netbook for the next few days!

[EDIT: As you can see from the presence of the comic, I have now found a power lead. Yay.]

#oneaday Day 106: A Wealth of Useless Knowledge

The above comic isn’t actually that far from the truth. (I remembered the code from Another World but had to look up the Ultima Underworld II spell. I at least remembered that “ylem” was one of the runes, however.) All this leads me to the conclusion that our brains are clearly wired up all wrong, and we need some sort of GMail Labs-style multiple inbox feature in order to appropriately prioritise the things that enter our brain and the things that we can safely delete when there’s something very important to remember, such as girlfriends’ birthdays. (November 19. I sacrificed the cheat code for Sonic 2 to make way for this information.)

I’m not sure if everyone else’s brain works in this way or if it’s just a side-effect of being a massive nerd. But most people have something that they’re extremely interested in, and will remember all sorts of useless facts about to bore their friends with down the pub. If you’re lucky, you’ll be friends with people who also know useless facts. If you’re unlucky, you’ll have all this knowledge squirrelled away with no-one to share it with—which is why the Internet exists, of course. And if you’re particularly unlucky, you’ll be friends with someone who’s an even bigger nerd than you and is fond of correcting you every time you slightly misquote Ghostbusters. (Seriously. Fuck that guy.)

But I don’t think it’s necessarily a bad thing. Imagine how dull life would be if the only things wedged into your long term memory were your unique taxpayer reference number, your national insurance number, every password you’ve ever used and the sites they work for, and those arbitrary user IDs online banks insist on you using rather than allowing you to pick your own ID that you might be able to remember. And, of course, your car’s MOT expiration date. (Sometime in August. I think.)

No. I’d much rather have cool stuff lodged in my brain that I can surprise and delight people with. (I have nerdy friends who find the fact I can remember Lester Chaykin’s keycode from Another World immensely amusing… possibly at my expense, but I don’t care at this point. Embrace who you are, I say.) Cool stuff in your brain allows you to become An Authority on a subject. And being An Authority is fun, because it means people come and ask you stuff about things you’re interested in. It’s like having people respect you and your opinions.

And sure, not everyone necessarily understands why you’re so obsessive about Buffy the Vampire Slayer/Final Fantasy/Dungeons and Dragons/the collected interactive works of Jane Jensen/Minecraft/Twilight/Formula 1/porn stars of the 1980s/the board game Agricola. But it’s important to you, and it gives you something to explore when you haven’t got anything better to do—and something with which to bond with like-minded people via the Internet (or even real life if you’re very, very lucky.)

It must be kind of sad to not have anything to obsess over. Do those people have any fun?

#oneaday Day 105: Newbie

It’s an incontrovertible and irritating fact that the more means you have to enjoy new and exciting things, the less time you’ll have to do them in. As you get older, the days seem to get shorter—or at least fuller—and the weeks seem to fly by. Before you know it, you’re dead.

Well, okay, that’s an exaggeration. But it’s certainly true once you, say, get out of university and start work. I remember the first couple of weeks at university. It was a whirlwind of new shit. Not literally, that would be disgusting. But a bunch of us decided that if there was ever a time to try out some new things, the first few weeks of university was it.

So we did. Shortly after arriving and introducing ourselves to each other (memorably, most of my flatmates’ first experience of me was witnessing me cooking a bacon sandwich whilst wearing a lop-sided dressing gown, as I’d been there a few days prior to them) we decided that we’d go along to the various taster sessions that the university clubs offered. Most of them would likely be things we wouldn’t want to continue with, we decided, but we might as well give them a go.

So it was that several of us found ourselves lying on the dirty floor of what was basically a big shed clutching large rifles and feeling extremely nervous about what the nice man had said about making sure you don’t accidentally shoot it at the floor because it will probably kill you. But then we got into the whole “shooting holes in bits of paper” thing and it all became a lot more interesting. Sure, none of us went back after that, but the fact I can say I’ve fired an actual real rifle is pretty cool.

And so it was that we found ourselves attending a ninjutsu class, learning the best way to deal with a knife-clutching attacker who is attempting to bum you or just kill you from behind. (Stick your bum out to knock him back, grab his arm, twist it in a smooth but convoluted manner, whip the knife up his arm, shaving all his skin off and causing considerable pain, pull him down to the ground, bash his elbow on the floor to break it in a manner which is difficult to heal and finally kick him in the face. Possibly. I forget.) One of us went back and learned quite a lot about various ways to ninj other people to death. (What? “Ninj” is absolutely the verb to describe what ninjas do. They ninj people. You ninj. I ninj. They ninj. He/she/it ninjes. No? Shut up.) The rest of us didn’t.

That didn’t stop us trying out the other Ninjutsu club, where most of the session felt like Ninjas’ Playtime, as the entire class did forward roll after forward roll back and forth up and down a padded room. It was fun, but unlikely to kill anyone.

And so it was we found ourselves trying out the fencing club and discovering that people who have been fencing for a long time not only are much better than complete beginners, but they’re awfully smug about it. And epees somehow aren’t quite as satisfying as big, proper, actual swords. But then they’d probably be a bit more fatal. Unless everyone got to wear armour, and then you’d kind of be going into Knight Club territory, rather than fencing.

We continued this pattern for a while. Some of us stuck with the Karate-do-Shotokai club for a while, others (including myself) drifted off. Now, as most of us are pushing 30, you have to wonder if we’ll ever have the opportunity to get involved in such a diverse array of new things ever again.

Day 453

#oneaday Day 104: Acrid Black Smoke

Earlier today, a story broke that divided opinions somewhat. The point and content of the story at this stage isn’t especially important or relevant to what I’m particularly interested in right now, but the gist of the arguments that people are having is that it was a report based on anonymous sources that sounded like “just another rumour”.

And perhaps it was. Or perhaps it wasn’t. Anonymous sources aren’t the most convincing sources of information to some people, thanks mostly to their anonymity. But these are people who would likely be immediately fired if their names were attached to things which are—presumably—supposed to stay secret for now.

Again, not the point I’m trying to make.

The point I am trying to make is the surprising amount of negativity the story in question attracted, and the subsequent high-school clique-style bitching and sniping that ensued on Twitter between high-profile members of the industry for the next few hours. People laugh and joke about passive-aggressive status updates from people who want to bitch about someone without naming them—”I wish SOMEONE would stop being such a jackass!”—but this was taking it to a whole new level, with, in some cases, high profile representatives of respected publications taking the passive-aggressive approach and arguing with thin air, presumably to try and make some kind of point.

I’m not going to name and shame anyone because there’s no point in doing that and it wouldn’t achieve anything. All I am going to say is that any time something like this erupts, I’m surprised and disappointed in people. Perhaps the story in question will turn out to be nothing—or perhaps it will turn out to be something big. Regardless, it was a rumour, and an interesting one at that, and people will want to know it. The original article made it very clear that it was a rumour based on things that anonymous sources had said. People can make their own minds up whether or not to believe it, but there’s really no need for all the bitching and sniping.

It is, sadly, a hallmark of the Internet, though; comment sections were described on a radio show earlier today as “the bottom half of the Internet” due to their relentless negativity—a fact which made Charlie Brooker sit up and take notice, unsurprisingly. But why? Why the hate? Why the behaving like teenage girls?

Perhaps I’m just too much of a nice guy. I don’t hate anyone, and I respect the work of others. I’ll slag something off if it’s genuinely bad, but I don’t hate things for the sake of hating them like some people seem to. And whatever the reason for people’s reactions to the story which broke earlier (still not getting into it!) there’s certainly no reason for the ugly and thinly-disguised jealousy which has been evident this evening.

If people could just be a bit nicer to each other and a bit less negative about everything, the whole world would be a much more pleasant place.

It’s nice to want things.

Day 452

#oneaday Day 103: I Hear the Ticking of a Clock

Certain things are just naturally irritating or set your teeth on edge. That horrible sound polystyrene packing makes when you take it out of a cardboard box. That accent chavs do when it’s clear they very much want to be black gangstas but instead are pasty, skinny white dudes from Portsmouth. The sight of the “roadworks ahead” sign on the motorway.

Or having several mechanical clocks in your room, all of which are slightly out of sync with each other.

It’s the kind of thing you tend not to notice until you either 1) suffer from insomnia and find yourself fixating on every tiny little sound or 2) have it pointed out to you and consequently find it impossible not to notice.

Regardless, it’s a little bit irritating. And sometimes not entirely understandable either, because surely a clock’s a clock and should tick at the same rate. But I had two clocks in my room that ticked unevenly and managed to somehow drift apart from one another, then slightly back in sync, then back out again. This is arguably beyond the laws of physics until I tell you that one of these two clocks has a minute hand which is affected by gravity and thus is not the most useful timepiece in existence when stood upright.

Needless to say, I removed the batteries from one of the two clocks (the not-terribly-useful one) and now have no trouble sleeping through the night.

Actually, that’s a complete lie. Mis-ticking clocks weren’t enough to keep me awake at night—my brain does an excellent job of that itself. But unevenly-ticking clocks are a genuine annoyance and a public menace that would surely be enough to drive lesser men to distraction and/or violent acts involving hammers.

Although if you live with it for a while, you eventually find yourself getting used to it, the semi-predictable rhythm of the misaligned clocks becoming something comfortable and familiar, the sign that you’re “home”. If you get to this stage, then suddenly upsetting the status quo by removing one of the clocks could completely throw off the balance of the universe and ruin everything in your life.

All right, it probably won’t ruin your life. But when you’re presented with something as familiar and regular as the ticking of a clock and suddenly that’s not there any more, it changes the whole feel of a room. What once had a comfortable familiarity about it becomes something altogether different—and this is where the context becomes important.

It’s particularly noticeable if, say, someone close to you has died, and they were in possession of ticking clocks—particularly misaligned ticking clocks. When that person’s gone and the sad business of dealing with their possessions comes up, taking the clocks away is like taking the “pulse” of their room away—it’s a sign that they’re finally gone, and that room is going to find a new purpose, a new future without them.

Of course, whatever songs like Grandfather’s Clock that we learn as children try and tell us, people dying doesn’t automatically stop clocks or anything—but those sounds that we hear and take for granted or get annoyed by every day? You’ll notice them as soon as they’re not there any more.

Hmm. That drifted in an altogether more melancholy direction than I intended. I’m very tired, so on that note, it’s off to bed with me!

Day 451

#oneaday Day 102: A Hundred and Two

I Googled the number 102. The results might surprise you. If you’re really bored and easily surprised.

The first page of results appears to be largely radio stations. Top hit for Googling 102 is Capital FM in Manchester, claiming to be Manchester’s Number 1 Hit Music Station and conveniently ignoring the fact that Manchester is not the capital of the UK.

The second result is the Wikipedia entry for the number 102. I wasn’t even aware Wikipedia had entries for individual numbers, but here it is—proof. Apparently 102 is special because it’s an abundant number, a semiperfect number (its mother must be so proud) and a sphenic number. It is also the sum of four consecutive prime numbers, the sum of Euler’s totient function, the third base 10 polydivisible number and a Harshad number. I do not know what any of those things mean and I’m sure that 98% of you don’t either.

Wikipedia also tells us that the number 102 is the emergency telephone number for police in Ukraine and Belarus, the emergency number for fire in Israel and the emergency telephone number for ambulance in parts of India. And, of course, everyone knows that the Empire State Building has 102 floors, right?

Having clicked on a few links on that Wikipedia page, I’m genuinely astonished that there does indeed seem to be an individual entry for every single number. At least, every single number in the immediate vicinity of 102. Isn’t the collected knowledge of the human race fascinating?

Well, actually, if you are the sort of person who despises maths, such as my 15-year old self (who regularly genuinely got angry at maths homework, despite the fact it was essentially inanimate and couldn’t fight back) you probably don’t find the fact that you can look up numbers on Wikipedia that interesting.

So for those people, back to Google it is.

Other radio stations that feature 102 include the stunningly boring-sounding “Town 102” from Ipswich, Wave 102 from Dundee (presumably not quite as good as Southampton’s Wave 103), Warwickshire’s saucy-sounding 102 Touch FM and Salisbury’s Spire FM 102.

Google also brings up the IMDb listing for 102 Dalmatians, which has 2 stars or a rating of 4.4 out of 10 from 7,812 users. Because it’s a movie and not a video game, we can assume that this means it is, in fact, slightly below average and not OMG CRAP. The title of that movie always struck me as incredibly dumb, however, because it should surely be “101 Dalmatians 2” if you are Disney and you are making an ill-advised sequel to your ill-advised live-action remake of your beloved animated movie. I guess they thought they were being clever. Perhaps they were.

Anyhow. I hope I’ve educated and informed you about the number 102. I promise I won’t stoop to finding out fascinating fact about a number ever again. Unless I get really stuck for ideas.

Day 450

#oneaday Day 101: Endless Punning

Oh, Twitter. You know I love you. But there are times when being with you is like being stuck in a convention of Dads. And then being stuck in a time-slowing-down machine. For several days, in many cases.

I am, of course, referring to the endless streams of puntastic hashtag humour. Now don’t get me wrong, some of these collections of nonsense are genuinely amusing—but the fact they seem to go on interminably until they have outstayed their welcome by a considerable margin is something which… I don’t know that it “bothers” me as such, but let’s just say it sometimes makes me glad of the “mute” function in Twitter apps such as Echofon.

Take today. Someone—I couldn’t say who—started a #gamejournalistpickuplines hashtag and proceeded to post a few witty innuendoes themed around the common things games journalists are accused of, issues they have to deal with regularly and things that they often say. Funny—assuming you’re in the know. And if you’re following game journalists on Twitter, chances are you are at least a little bit “in the know”.

Hmm… is “funny” quite accurate? Well, yes. At least until it gets to 10pm in the evening and it’s still going, and all the Americans who have now woken up have started making the same jokes that all the Europeans made six hours ago. It’s an occupational hazard of dealing with a worldwide service such as Twitter, of course, but it does mean you tend to get bombarded with the same shite hour after hour after hour.

But now wait a minute. Back up a sec, take a moment to look at this from a distance. As woeful as some of the puns and innuendoes might be, it’s actually kind of cool to see people from such disparate parts of the world coming together—even if it’s just to make a few lame jokes. There have been people from all over the globe contributing to the hashtag—and it’s the same every time something equally inane, childish and briefly amusing (such as #replacegamenamewithboner) comes up. Funny for a bit, relatively easily ignored (unless certain people who shall remain nameless are online) and interminable.

I guess, then, we all have to get used to the fact that one joke can indeed be strung out for hours, days, weeks, months thanks to the power of social media. Don’t even get me started on the “fake” Twitter accounts for various celebrities, video games, industry figures.

Or, you know, perhaps I should stop being such a curmudgeon.

(Clarification for anyone about to make an indignant comment about their right to indulge in hashtag humour: I don’t mind it really. I just find myself tending to observe such things from the outside and not joining in. Largely because I’m awful at coming up with puns and jokes on the spot. You knock yourself out, and if replacing parts of game names with “boner” makes you happy, then you just keep on truckin’.)

Day 449