Blue Badger IRL

Just a random déja vu thing that happened to me during our recent trip to Japan - twice. I like a certain series of handheld video games about cartoon lawyers. A typical case will revolve around bringing to light, through a long process of investigation and examining evidence, that the accused is left-handed when the murder weapon was a right-handed golf club. Or whatever.

Sounds stupid, and often is, but the gameplay is very similar to old-school point-and-click adventure games, and the dialogue can be surprisingly funny. The games are clearly set in Japan but, at least in the English translation, take place in fictional locations.

I’ve played through four games in this series now, and a couple of them make jokes about the police department having a silly-looking mascot - the “Blue Badger”. Here he is, in front of the police building, in the background from one of the games.


Well, the other week in Ginza I strolled past what seemed to be the police museum (fun for the whole family, right?), and it... er... just look:

Not hard to see where the video game designers’ grand inspiration came from. Here’s that pantsless police creature’s website, complete with theme song. Ah, Japan.

Then the same thing happened the next day. Strange-looking stadium from the game:


Real stadium:


Now, I have no illusions that I’ve discovered something new here. I’m sure that Pipo-kun the haunting police beast and that strenuously architecture-y stadium are as familiar to Japanese people as an igloo to an Eskimo, and that’s why they were parodied in these games. It just makes me wonder how many other caricatured landmarks, celebrities, myths etc. from foreign cultures I’ve been exposed to for years without having the slightest clue. And somehow I feel slightly let down that the Blue Badger turned out to be biting real-world satire and not just a strange, random figment of someone’s imagination.

I guess most works of art are like that - you can always deepen your understanding of them by studying more about the context they were created in, but that knowledge can end up tainting your enthusiasm for the artwork in the first place.

Like how taking a good, close look at Jon Voight’s face explains so, so much about Angelina Jolie, but also utterly destroys her hotness.

An American Nerd in Tokyo

So: I’m not one of those guys who loves everything from Japan just because it’s from Japan. I wasn’t in an anime club in high school. I don’t own any plastic figurines of megacephalic schoolgirls striving unsuccessfully to conceal their undergarments. I don’t always know the appropriate Pokémon to deploy in any given combat situation. I think sushi is gross.

Nevertheless, I have in my own sad way been preparing for our recent trip to Japan for about 25 years now. It all began in August, 1984, when I read G.I. Joe comic book issue number 26. This was my first encounter with ninjas. Ninjas are totally awesome. I don’t think I need to say anything more on the subject.

We got our first Nintendo Entertainment System soon afterwards. An utter failure at old-school twitch games like Pac-Man, I was obsessed by Zelda and Metroid, where I didn’t die every ten seconds and where exploration was more important than getting a high score.

I could probably go on for thousands of words about the various things from Japan I encountered over the intervening decades and how they warped me into the magnificent specimen I am today, but let’s fast forward to early April, 2009. As we headed from Bangkok to Japan for my first trip there, I had only one goal in mind:


1) Buy the fanciest Shogi set.

In spite of being possibly the world’s worst chess player I’m very interested in regional variants of chess, and Shogi not only seemed like an intriguing mutation of the game (captured pieces can be put back into play by the capturer), but a great aesthetic creation, combining carved wood and evocative calligraphy in that special Japanese way.

Technically speaking I already owned two Shogi sets, but one was an embarrassingly cheap Chinese crapfest I’d bought in Malaysia and partially ruined by varnishing it with Dr. Sloan’s Liniment, while the other was a plastic pocket set I’d bought in Singapore. So I decided that whatever else happened during our vacation, I would try my damnedest to get a nice set as a souvenir.

After an abortive attempt to enlist the services of our hotel concierge in researching the surviving time-honored, family-run Shogi workshops of Olde Nippon for me, I reverted to my suburban American shopping instincts and resigned myself to buying whatever crap I could find in big stores downtown. I snatched up a box of pieces and a board (sold separately) in Takashimaya in Kyoto, but the set of pieces cost the equivalent of ten bucks and was barely a step up from my rough-hewn Chinese abomination, so I was still on the hunt.

As soon as I had a free morning in Tokyo, I lurched off up and down the chilly avenues of Ginza with great vigor.

Here’s me setting sail on my grand adventure. Note the traditional Shogi hunter’s cap.

Turns out a lot of the stores don’t open until 11:00, so I did a lot of standing around and drinking free tea in vestibules while my vigor slowly curdled. I finally found a set of pieces for around 3,500 yen in a big toy store, and almost bought it, but the paint job seemed slapdash and I kept looking.

Here’s me out and about in Ginza. My stern expression indicates dedication to the quest. (Actually, the picture was taken after the quest was over, and my expression was meant to convey immense, uncontrolled excitement and pride. I guess I have to work on my expressions.)

I’m glad I waited, because later in a department store called Matsuya I found a much sharper-looking set for only 2,500 yen or so. The characters were actually stamped or carved into the wood, not just painted on. I found it the most handsome set I’d yet seen, and at a price that wouldn’t force us to survive on ramen flavoring packets for the rest of the trip.

Elated, I wasted no time in sauntering back to my hotel room and fixing the moment of my grand triumph forever in time by taking the lavish photo spread you see here.




Shogi aficionados will note the unusual characters on the pawns. Instead of the normal “soldier” character that I recognize from Chinese chess, it’s a bunch of horizontal lines. I still don’t know what the deal is with that.

I also found a set of playing cards, an old game called hanafuda. Adorably (to a sucker for calendrical symbology like me), its 12 suits are based on the 12 months - on plants which blossom in Japan throughout the year and the animals which frolic amidst them. To my delight I saw that the set was actually made by Nintendo, and later research showed that it was the company’s original product back in 1889.


So why have I told you all this? Read on just a bit more, dear reader, to read for yourself the surprising punchline to this rambling tale of lusty Asian shopping:

Upon my return to Bangkok, while doing some more research into the rules of hanafuda, I found Nintendo’s page about their vestigial card-game division. Something about looking at this page, and considering my hanafuda cards, made me curious about the Nintendo logo. If the company had been around for over a century, surely its logo wasn’t always the English word “Nintendo” in a snazzy red font?

What was Japanese, so to speak, for “Nintendo”? Funny how I’d never thought of that before. A short search later I found the Kanji characters, matched them up to some characters on the hanafuda card box, and realized they looked rather familiar. Where had I seen that logo before?

Oh.

I had, utterly without knowing it and completely by chance, bought and brought back home with me both a Shogi board and a set of Shogi pieces MANUFACTURED BY NINTENDO. The circle of my life was complete. I had traveled the world only to find that what I was searching for had been with me all along. Nintendo Shogi turned out to be the twist on the Moebius strip, the final/first sentence of Finnegans Wake. To paraphrase Borges:

Others will dream that I am mad, and I [will dream] of Mario. When all men on earth think day and night of Mario, which one will be a dream and which a reality, the earth or the Mushroom Kingdom?

The Smartening and The Artening

I just wanted to quickly point out that in Japan, the best-selling video game for the last two weeks running has been the latest in the series of Professor Layton games. In the UK, a recent release of an older Professor Layton game has also apparently been a great success.

I am cheered by this news because these games are little more than compilations of old math and logic questions, spruced up with beautiful hand-drawn backgrounds and old-fashioned animated characters.
When you play a Professor Layton game, the experience typically goes as follows: you wander through a lovingly drawn area reminiscent of the LucasArts-heyday backgrounds on Curse of Monkey Island, click on a quirky character who looks like a reject from The Triplets of Belleville, and he or she says something like “I will give you this shiny gold coin if you can help me, young man. I have a rowboat, a fox, a chicken, and a bag of feed...”

Each game has over a hundred hard-core logic puzzles, disguised by an atmospheric point-and-click adventure interface. I’m usually turned off by games that lean heavily on reheated old puzzles, like the infuriating “Tower of Bozbar” and “Peggleboz” from Zork Zero, but Layton’s design somehow makes the old logic chestnuts addictive and charming.

The fact that these adorable games are so popular shows that there’s an enormous audience out there for creative video games which are both highly artistic and educational. Of course, people have been similarly excited about the success of Brain Age for a couple of years because it’s educational, but to me the Professor Layton games are much more interesting because I have to assume that they appeal to a younger crowd than Brain Age. Some of those nearly half-million Japanese people who’re already playing the newest game must be children, and it’s nice to think of their little brains stretching to figure out how to row that fox and chicken across the river. (hm - note how that phrase I just wrote, “how to row that fox” is like a tongue twister or something. Four different vowel sounds from “o” as the second letter in a word. English spelling must be so annoying for learners).

Also, nothing against 3D backgrounds or animation, but the fact that these are hand-drawn 2D is a tiding of great joy to me, both for nostalgic reasons and because I think it’s an eye-pleasing use of the small DS screen, where 3D environments can look like a blocky mess. There’s clearly still a place in the gaming industry for people who can draw and paint old-fashioned backgrounds, and that’s a nice thought.

In conclusion, everyone who has ever complained about how video games are violent or detrimental to children should please, please just shut up forever. This possibly includes, with all due respect, our next president.

Virtually Finished

I’ve been working off and on the last couple of weeks on a model of the Pantheon in SketchUp, and after a six-hour push today I’m happy to announce that I think I’ve captured the basic dimensions and rough color scheme of the structure.

During the course of the modelling I learned a lot about how to more efficiently use the program, particularly about how to use groups and components, so I have a feeling that my next models will go a lot more smoothly. I have a long way to go - for example the column capitals aren’t even sculpted into any semblance of their real shape - but compared to my earlier buildings I feel as if I’ve graduated from fingerpainting in my own fetid waste to using a pencil, ruler and compass.

I’ve celebrated this virtual apodemitheosis by exporting a brief video showing a hypothetical person walking into my simulated Pantheon and looking around. I briefly flirted with adding music, then I remembered that every time I’ve looked at a YouTube tutorial video with random sh*tty techno music added, I’ve hit “mute” as fast as I possibly could.

The best Zelda level ever

Meet Yeto. He is a yeti who wears a horse’s saddle for a hat. I don’t know why he thinks that is an appropriate hat, but that’s Yeto for you. He lives in the mountainous northern province of Hyrule, and when he’s not foraging for reekfish, he’s hanging out inside my favorite Zelda level ever, so far: Snowpeak Ruins from Twilight Princess.

I’ve been playing Zelda games for something like 23 years now, and slogging through standard dungeons like, for example, the water dungeon where you pull levers to turn on the water to different levels to make things happen, or the fire dungeon where you leap from rock to rock above a pool of lava, has gotten quite tedious. Even playing from inside a giant fish or tree doesn’t quite do it for me any more. A level I recently played involving magnetic boots and enormous swivelling electromagnetic cranes, which probably would have made my jaw drop as a kid, scarcely evoked an arched eyebrow of mild interest. I mean, that’s not even the first time that Link has walked on the ceiling, for Pete’s sake. I felt like I’d seen it all.

Then the other day I played this level, and my heart surged with game-playing joy.
I’ve always been partial to snowy levels, but what I particularly like about this one is that unlike most Zelda dungeons, it’s a “real” building: an above-ground building on a recognizably human scale, i.e., with furniture and walls, rather than a collection of vast polyhedral underground caverns. This real-building feel was also more or less the case with my previous favorite level, the Forest Temple from Ocarina of Time.

Snowpeak Ruins is a European-style chateau that’s fallen into disrepair, inhabited by two friendly abominable snowpeople who hang out making tasty soup in the kitchen and warming themselves on a divan in the foyer.
While Mario for some reason visits haunted houses, hotels and asteroids all the time, I don’t think there’s been a major level of a Zelda game before that was just a haunted house rather than an abandoned temple/dungeon/cave, and it’s quite charming to see the two yetis hanging out in their dilapidated home.

The atmospheric details of the level are terrific - almost every room’s rafters have holes in them that snow’s drifting through, and the snowy stone courtyard reminded me of being in the Festung Hohensalzburg. I also like the way that you approach it, which is after a fun but not too difficult snowboarding ride across a snowy mountain.
The whole thing - the restrainedly realistic (for a Zelda game) architectural design of the chateau, the fact that the level is not an evil ancient ruin but a friendly couple’s house, the snowy setting, the very cool weapon you get halfway through - I love it all.

I’m not done with the game yet, but I doubt that the upcoming levels will be as charming or memorable. I’m already kind of ticked off by the Temple of Time level, which combines three of the most tedious and frustrating Zelda level design chestnuts: The remote-controlled stone statue, the escort mission, and the time-worn technique of “backtracking through the exact same rooms all over again only with a new item so that some things are slightly different”. Bah. Snowpeak Ruins has very little cliché about it, except for an icy sliding-block puzzle and the fact that the enormous swivelling cannons you see mounted at several points throughout the castle are not, as it turns out, entirely decorative.

While I have great warmth in my heart for Yeto, I should mention that his beloved matryoshka-shaped wife, Yeta, is also a congenial host, although she has some issues with memory loss and susceptibility to evil magic. But I forgive her.

Dammed Yangtzes

For some reason the last month or so vanished before I noticed it was gone. Whoops!

Here’s a random selection of the things I’ve done over the last few weeks, so they’re not forever lost in the muck and silt of the alluvial delta of time’s majestic Yangtze. No, it’s not a very good metaphor. Anyway, last month I:

-Failed to make any progress in learning Thai.

-Failed to quite write enough for National Novel Writing Month. However, I did get more written than during the average month, so I’m counting it as an overall success.

-Failed to complete my grand Sketchup model of the Cathedral of Freising (see below). Modeling essentially complete but project abandoned due to lack of photographs to use as textures.


-Failed to complete my grand Sketchup model of the crypt of Freising Cathedral. Project reluctantly abandoned because of lack of accurate information about the crypt’s layout.


-Failed to complete my grand Sketchup model of the Mausoleum of Galla Placidia, which is more or less finished but still needs all the textures added. I am determined to get this done, but putting textures on something turns out to be pretty damn tedious, and I don’t quite have all the photographic reference material I need. I thought by picking this that I’d be doing myself a favor, since it’s on the UNESCO list and I assumed that surely I’d be able to find pictures of it from every angle. Nope!


-Hunted down and bought a portable, magnetic Shogi set in Takashimaya in Singapore. This was the highlight of a delightful trip to the most charming quasi-Fascist city-state I’ve ever visited. I especially like the box the Shogi set came in, which says “LET’S ENJOY THE SHOGI GAME”. I will. Oh, I will.


-Found and purchased a bunch of Nintendo DS games at extremely low prices in downtown Bangkok. I’ve been playing some very entertaining games I’d been missing out on, including Phoenix Wright, Nintendogs and Rune Factory. I have also been playing Super Mario Galaxy, which I think is the first video game in my 25-year career of playing video games that’s repeatedly made me stand up and burst into loud, gleeful laughter while playing it. Something about jumping Mario not from platform to platform but from little orbiting moon to freakin’ moon like a non-gay version of Le Petit Prince fills my heart with inexpressible joy.


-Visited some great parts of Bangkok that I’d never even been anywhere near before, including the Little India district, which was probably the filthiest, most surreally hellish ghetto I’ve ever seen in my life. The center of the ghetto is a burnt-out rubbish pile with a gleaming 10-story Sikh temple looming over it. My brain had trouble processing the image. What is wrong with humans that gilding the dome of an enormous and immaculate temple clearly has priority over hiring a f*cking garbageman? Given the number of people in that disgusting slum who must die of cholera every week, I guess it’s a good thing they have a gargantuan whitewashed temple to mourn them in.


This is the grand, fanciful mega-temple which rises above the slums of Bangkok’s Little India district. Below is an image from Google Earth showing the burnt-out shell of the building next to it, which is the centerpiece of the neighborhood and which has clearly been used as a communal dump and unspeakably filthy sewer for several years. Way to go, ghetto dwellaz! Keep on praying!


-Celebrated Loy Krathong, although we launched our magical wishing bargelets a little early in the evening, before it looked like the picture below.


-Hanging out with my pal Elliette.

-Finally visited the famous Jatujak market, and spending a horrid few hours in that godforsaken maze failing to find carved wooden chess sets. I found a nice set which looked sort of like the picture below, but the guy claimed that it was a valuable museum piece he wouldn’t part with for less than 3000 baht. Kim put the kibosh on that.


-Enjoying winter in Bangkok. It’s quite cool and breezy. I’m serious. I had no idea the seasons changed here, but I guess they do. Right now it’s like a cool early fall day in Munich, i.e., Biergartenwetter.

Mysteries of the Third Dimension

I love to draw, but I usually just doodle in pencil, and unless you count a few failed attempts to jazz up my résumé with fancy formatting, the last straight line I successfully drew on the computer involved the Logo turtle and an Apple II. However, I just completed my first 3-D building model in a program called Google SketchUp, which is the program used to insert 3D buildings into Google Earth, and which purports to make this sort of thing easy. It does. I just downloaded the program like an hour ago, and I’ve already made my own clumsy Romanesque chapel type thing. I normally hate online training videos, but the beginner tutorials they’ve got for this program were pretty helpful - at least the first few. After that, they went a little over my head and it was like that Troy McClure home improvement video on the Simpsons: “First, patch the cracks in the slab using a latex patching compound and a patching trowel... Now parge the lath!” Anyway, it seems like it’d be an ideal tool to create an entire Gormenghast of twisted castle architecture, but I’ll probably be lucky to end up drawing anything more complicated than a bunch of stacked crates. We’ll see.

Text Wins

Unexpectedly and to my utter delight, a recent New York Times editorial by Daniel Radosh - in the course of a critical look at the new, super-modern game Halo 3 - claims that text games from the 1980s were the pinnacle of video games’ artistic achievement:

The formula followed by virtually all games is a steady progression toward victory: you accomplish tasks until you win. Halo 3, for all its flawless polish, does not aspire to anything more. It does not succeed as a work of art because it does not even try.
...
There is no reason that gorgeous graphics can’t play a role in this task, but the games with the deepest narratives were the text adventures that were developed for personal computers in the 1980s. Using only words, these “interactive fictions” gave players the experience of genuinely living inside a story.... Today’s game designers should study this history as a starting point for an artistic revolution of the future.

This is precisely how I feel, and it’s why I haven’t been that excited about the last few generations of extremely popular console games: first-person shooters, car racing games, and sports games. I don’t care how realistic a shooting or racing game looks. I could run through hallways and shoot people, or drive a car quickly, or play football, in the real world. I look to video games for something different.

I recently read an entire Wired cover story on Halo 3, about the psychotic lengths of ultra-monitored playtesting that Microsoft was going to to ensure that players wouldn’t be challenged too much by the game, and would be funneled through the levels one after another, never spending more than five seconds in any room.

Reading this article, it seemed to me that the designers had missed the point entirely. They weren’t making a game, they were making an interactive movie or digitized theme park ride. What’s fun about playing a game that’s had all the moments of confusion or perplexity streamlined by hundreds of hours of group-focus testing sessions? I want a person with some interesting ideas to invite me to explore an interesting world, not a group-tested simulation of what stimulates the average teenage boy. I’d much rather play Pikmin than Halo.

This is why I feel that a lot of the most exciting games of the last five years were purposefully developed for the “limitations” of handheld systems. I find that an excellent Gameboy Advance or Nintendo DS game, Advance Wars for example, is usually ten times as fun as the latest Doom-type game where you run around dark hallways in circles emptying shotgun blasts into peoples’ heads. (Not that that isn’t fun, mind you, but I got tired of it in, oh, 1995 or so.) And this is why I still return again and again to play Infocom games from the ’80s, and to their excellent successors by passionate amateur writers such as Nelson or Plotkin.

Given this huge thumbs-up for text games from no less than the Gray Lady herself, this seems as good a time as any to complete my earlier story about how I put Zork and a bunch of other old games on my new cell phone.

---

I had no earthly reason to believe that my new cell phone would play Zork, aside from a vague idea that I’d seen something somewhere online about old text games being playable on Palm Pilots. But I didn’t have a Palm Pilot, I just had a phone. This idea was a complete shot in the dark. But what’s Zork? let me back up briefly.

Zork is a text game that I first played on my friend Michael’s computer when I was about 8 or 9, so in 1983 or so. It looked more or less like this.


I played it for several hours, and all I did was read somebody’s mail, find a bird’s nest and fruitlessly yank at a grating hidden beneath a pile of leaves in a forest. Most of the things I typed were met with responses like “You can’t see that here” or “You can’t do that”. But I was hooked.

A year or two later I somehow got (I can’t remember how exactly I acquired things back then... birthday present? saved up allowance? spontaneous gift from easily hornswoggled grandparent?) my own copy of Zork I for our Mac Plus, along with, later, Hitchhiker’s, Spellbreaker, a copy of The Lurking Horror, and a couple others. These games were incredible, but they were extremely difficult to beat without carefully scanning the packaging inserts, paying for hints and/or hearing solutions from other kids, and they scarred me for life. In a good way. But around this very same time, we got our first Nintendo system, and I started to see text games as somewhat old-fashioned. The golden age of the text adventure was drawing to a close.

Several spasmic waves of roughly biennial nostalgia have since prompted me to play through these old games on every computer I’ve owned, and I have even attempted to program a couple things myself in a modern, freeware text adventure creation language called Inform. I currently play this sort of thing on my MacBook using this program, where games look like this:

So, having been playing Zork since 1983 or so, I grasped my spanking new Razr, plugged its USB cable into my computer, and set out to force it to play Zork with me. This rite of passage would take several days of arduous work, eventually shaving years off both the phone’s and my life, but it was a success. I figured out that the phone could play small Java games, and that somebody had made this program, a scaled-down version of this program, for playing old Infocom games on cell phones in Java.

Only trouble is, the only game that the scaled-down program could play was a demo version of Zork 1, in the now-beyond-extremely-obsolete Z3 story file format. It took me a couple of days’ tinkering to figure out how to get multiple copies of the mini Java application uploaded onto my phone, each loading a different story file. But I did it. This is what Zork looks like on my mobile phone.

Being able to carry around in my palm a childhood treasure which, at the time I first played it, required a humming beige box and monitor which together were larger than I was, almost reduced me to tears, and I began playing it immediately. I just beat it a few hours ago.

Never mind that the applet only has one save slot, and that I have to type everything in thumb-punishing SMS style. I now love my new phone, not only because it plays Zork - but that’s a big part of it. Anything that can play Zork is my friend. Is not dirty. Is not fighting me. Is very nice.

(Those last remarks were in the Bengali-Thai-English pigin I’ve been using to communicate with one of my students this week. But that’s an whole other story.)

Unfrozen Newhandythal Man

I am notoriously (if one can be notorious among a circle of acquaintances which totals eight or so people) crotchety about getting new personal accessories. I have purchased probably five pairs of shoes in my adult life, one watch, one wallet - which is now gradually disintegrating from the punishing condition known as chronic tropical swampass - and most of my electronic equipment has been battered hand-me-downs from my much earliery-adoptery wife.

Why do I hang on to stuff for so long? While most people seem to be thrust into effervescent spasms of ecstasy by the act of buying a new car or cell phone every other year, for some reason, there’s something about buying new stuff that actually disturbs me.

I think it’s partly because no matter what you buy, they keep making better, cheaper ones every six months, and partly because I hate to admit that my old whatever-it-was is not good enough any more. If I have to get a new whatever-it-is every couple of years, then doesn’t that make me an idiot for buying the old one? Shouldn’t I have chosen better in the first place? Agh.

Anyway, for whatever reason, I am the polar opposite of an early adopter. Late adopter doesn’t begin to cover it. I am such a late adopter that by the time I adopt something, it’s old enough to be cool again in a retro kind of way. I am a T-800 grappling my way clumsily through a world of T-1000s, still rocking the same clothes, boots and bike I took off the first guy I met. So imagine my pleasure (mixed with vague uneasiness) upon my wife’s getting me a brand-spanking-new cell phone for my birthday. A gleaming, sleek metal phone with a camera and a sort of Tricordery flippy part and God knows what else.

Actually, my new phone was purchased slightly used, and the model has been out for a couple of years, but compared to most of my possessions it was if this thing was an example of some unimaginably refined future technology that had just been beamed down from an alien spacecraft. I hadn’t the slightest idea what to make of it, but excitement definitely had the upper hand over technophobia. For, within minutes of being presented with the phone, I had an idea for personalizing it, alien gadget that it was.

I decided I would force it to play Zork.
More later.

You Had Me At “Makruk”

Just a short post to say: We’re in Bangkok and things are going great.

I’m looking forward to absorbing Thailand’s ancient and noble Buddhist culture and shedding my sinful attachments to the meaningless material things of this plane of existence, but in the meantime... hey look at the cool crap I just bought!

We’re still jet-lagged and we’ve only been to the store twice in this country, once to an expensive local grocery store full of European imports, and once to good old Carrefour, but somehow I’ve managed to buy three or four toys already. Two of them are mysterious Japanese Super Mario items promoting the recent DS game “New Super Mario Bros.”. In both cases I had no idea what to expect once I opened the package, which added to the fun.

One was a tin case about the size of a pack of cards, which contained some Mario stickers and about ten tiny pieces of tic-tac size candy. The second one was a box containing little Mario and Goomba figurines, as well as some more diminutive Japanese candy. I will probably get some more similar things as I come across them. For some reason we didn’t get quite this kind of random Japanese item in Malaysia. I guess I’ve moved slightly north.

My other main purchase so far has been a Thai chess (a.k.a. Makruk) set. I’ve already chronicled my feverish desire to possess one of these sets, and I’m still a bit in shock at the contrast between the difficulty I had finding one downtown, and the ready availability of the blasted thing in Carrefour, which, let’s face it, is French Wal*Mart. Anyway, I am pretty excited about finally having my hands on a set of these unique, elegant, vaguely Buddhist-temple-looking pieces, and I’m looking forward to playing against some Thais. Who am I kidding? I’m looking forward to playing against myself and pretending I know some Thai people when in reality I only know this oddly chubby horse, and I’m pretty sure that he hates me.

Gameboy Publishing

Well, I'm writing from my graduate school classroom. On my Nintendo DS. I'm not usually into handheld internet things, but my computer wasn't working, so I got this thing online. It's agonizingly slow. This is really just a test, and I can't picture doing it except as a novelty. But I'm amazed that what's basically a gameboy can go online. Web-ready toasters and soapdishes can't be far off.

Note: As originally published, this had weird line breaks and some stupid ad for MSN or something on the bottom, because I sent the post via e-mail. I cleaned it up a little. Web browsing on the DS is pretty crappy - it’s slow and seems to disconnect a lot - but it allowed me to get online for one entire day last week when my computer wasn’t working, so I think it was worth it.

Shogi no Densetsu

As we all know, the most disgusting type of person on the planet is an American nerd who likes Japanese things. You might know the type. The sort of pale, basement-dwelling loser who is so socially, emotionally and aesthetically retarded that he (or she?) dreams about anime schoolgirls, and who furiously studies Japanese in the hopes of one day going there and sleeping with Asian chicks who don’t know what a slovenly dweeb he is. The type of person who collects Final Fantasy action figures, dresses up in Dragonball Z costumes, and will get into epic battles on message boards about the sexual habits of Pikachu.

I do not want to be this type of person.

However, I hereby confess that I am very interested in Japan and always have been. My only excuse is that the whole thing started at least 20 years ago, way before I knew what I was getting into. It began with the following formative experiences: 1) ca. 1983, the G.I. Joe comic books introduced me to ninjas (namely, Storm Shadow and Snake Eyes) and I learned how to make an origami throwing star, 2) ca. 1986, the Nintendo Entertainment System let me play Super Mario Brothers, Zelda and Castlevania while the Sony Walkman I got for my birthday let me blast the Back to the Future soundtrack, and 3) ca. 1987, I read James Clavell’s Shogun. It’s been all downhill since. Domo ari-frigging-gato.

Why am I publicly baring my shameful Nipponophilia this particular week? One word: Shogi.

My regular reader (hi Kim!) will recall that I have been learning that the game of chess is not just a boring European game with several fruity pieces (bishops? a queen? sentient stone towers?) but a gritty war simulator and worldwide sensation that swept the globe starting from around 700 AD. The prototypical battle game still exists in various mutated forms throughout all of Europe and Asia.

The original lineup, of the reconstructed Indian game Chaturanga, was supposed to represent an army: Foot soldiers (pawns), chariots (rooks), cavalry (knights), elephants (bishops), advisor/ bodyguard (queen), and general (king). The genius of the game was, and is, that each type of military unit moves in a different, characteristic way. All of the existing variations of chess maintain these six ancient army units, albeit with mutated names and some additions. Chinese chess enlarged the board, took the weird step of placing the pieces not inside the squares but on the board’s gridlines, added a fearsome catapult/cannon aptly called the pao, and introduced geographic features on the actual board - a river and two fortresses. European chess kept the ancient Indian board and piece count but sped up the game by greatly augmenting the powers of some of the pieces - which formerly could only move a square or two at a time - and gave them new identities in keeping with medieval European society, where queens, bishops, and castle towers were far more prevalent than viziers, elephants or chariots.

I’ve more or less discussed all this before, after I saw dozens of men on streetcorners playing Chinese chess in Vietnam, and people playing the primitive Thai chess, makruk, in Bangkok. But now I’m trying to learn what is clearly the most idiosyncratic and fiendishly complicated chess mutation of them all: Japanese chess, or Shogi.

Shogi is chess gone completely Japanese, by which I mean it is refined, complex, subtle, and damn near inscrutable to outsiders. Why haven’t you heard of it before? For one thing, you almost have to be Japanese just to distinguish the pieces. It’s played on an unpainted wooden board with unpainted wooden pieces marked on both sides with obscure characters. Why characters on both sides of the piece? All forms of chess have some type of unit promotion once certain pieces reach the far side of the board, in order to let those pieces continue moving. In European chess, the familiar promotion is when a pawn makes it across the board and becomes a queen. But Shogi takes this to the extreme, and when most of the pieces reach any of the far three rows, they power up, leap into the air and flip over, revealing their supercharged identities. A pawn turns into a gold general, a rook turns into a dragon, and so on - all with new moves. A further complication is that where Chinese chess uses a single character to identify each piece, Shogi uses at least two, and the names are odd: for example, the corner pieces are called “fragrant chariots” and the enemy king is the “jade general”.

Confused yet? I haven’t even gotten to Shogi’s most unique feature. Captured enemy pieces, apparently brainwashed or bribed to fight for your side, can be re-deployed, ninja style, almost anywhere on the board, at any time. This ronin feature is not found in any other version of chess, and turns the game’s tactics upside down. This is another reason why the pieces are all the same color - they might belong to the other side a few turns down the road.

In spite of all these obstacles and oddities, I learned how the pieces move and their various characters pretty quickly, and I just beat a Shogi Gameboy game, Minna no Shogi, on my second try, despite the fact that the pieces are too small to distinguish on the Gameboy screen. There’s probably a difficulty setting somewhere (I hope) that’s currently set on “wicked easy”, because as confidence-boosting as my Shogi victory was, if I bought a European chess game and beat it immediately, I’d want my money back. I have a second Gameboy Shogi game, Morita Shogi, and I’m hoping that’s tougher. The whole thing has also reminded me how chess-like my recent favorite games Advance Wars and Fire Emblem are.

Moving from the virtual world to the actual one, I already bought a Shogi set months ago in a toy store at the mall here in KL, a cheap Chinese production that consists of pieces that look like reject wood chips with writing on them, and a roll-up board that’s like a ’70s dinner placemat, but hopefully I will one day go to Japan and get the chance to buy a slightly fancier set. I have always been very impressed with the wood-revering Japanese aesthetic, and I like the unpainted, calligraphic look of the Shogi pieces. The tragedy is, of course, that I am not outgoing enough to play board games and will probably never play against anyone. Maybe someday I’ll have children I can force to play chess with me.

What’s my point here? Just that I was fascinated to find out that there’s Japanese chess, a strange evolutionary cousin to European chess. And I think the subject of what each variety of chess might say about the society that developed it is intriguing. For example, I recently read somewhere that asymmetry is a key feature of a lot of Japanese art and design - and Shogi is the only type of chess with asymmetrical layout of the bishop and rook. Could there be a connection between Japanese military or religious philosophy and the unique Shogi rules of re-deploying captured pieces? You tell me. And my Western brethren - if you like chess and know any Chinese, Korean, or Japanese people, ask them about their version.

Note: The title of this post, “Shogi no Densetsu” is what I believe to be “The Legend of Shogi” in Japanese. If you know better, by all means disabuse me of this notion per comment posthaste.