Ode to the Commodore 64

My first hands-on encounter with a computer was in 1987 when I got a pre-owned Commodore 64. The 8-bit C64 was basically a fat keyboard that looked like a breadbox. It featured 64 kilobytes of RAM with sound/graphics performance that was superior to most IBM-compatible computers of that time and rivaled only the Atari 8-bit family computers. The C-64 had a built-in RF modulator and thus you have an option of plugging it into a television set (instead of a specialized monitor-- which was quite expensive at that time). I plugged my C-64 to an old black-and-white Philips TV (The first television I bought. I bought it in 1980 for P999.00 and came with a free clothes iron).

The C64, being pre-owned (-- there's that scary word again), didn't come with a User Manual so I had to figure out by myself most of what the C64 was all about. The C64 did come with a Datassette-- a tape cassette recorder/player with which you could save and upload programs. Like most home computers from the late 1970s and 1980s, the C64 came with an on-board (ROM) version of a stripped down/simplified version of the BASIC programming language (-- yup, that's Bill Gate's Beginner's All-purpose Symbolic Instruction Code. Jack Tramiel of Commodore International-- maker of C64 was said to have paid US$25,000 to Bill Gates for a perpetual license for it and thus did not see the need to acknowledge Bill Gates, but typing "WAIT 6502, 1" would invoke an embedded easter egg that would make "Microsoft!" appear on the monitor screen). There was no so-called "operating system" then; the kernel was accessed via BASIC commands. The interface, unlike what is usually expected from computers nowadays, is an austere and unwelcoming blank screen with a blinking cursor on the upper left of the screen. I spent a lot of late nights punishing my poor eyes as I stared on the contrasty B&W television screen. Unlike nowadays where everything could be downloaded from the internet, documentation then was hard to come by. It took some work to figure out the C64 Basic Language and for a long time all I could do with it was to use it as a calculator and as a synthesizer.

It was by mere chance that I came upon a sixth copy of a photocopy of a copy of the User Manual (-- which, praise God, included a glossary of BASIC commands and a short tutorial on BASIC programming) in an obscure shop in Greenhills. And after much anguish, I came out with my first program-- a crude clone of the virtual ping pong game. From the same shop I got the MIKRO assembler-- which curiously came in a Game Boy-like cartridge (-- there is a slot behind the C64 console that accepts cartridges), and which integrated seamlessly with the standard BASIC screen editor. I also explored third party BASIC compilers. Then I discovered the SEUCK (Shoot'Em-Up Construction Kit) development suite which allowed wannabe-programmers like me to create original, professional-looking shooting games.

The C64 introduced me to Unix (-- initially via the Unix-like LUnix), and encouraged me to explore scripting via Python (-- and later AppleScript) and object programming via SmallTalk-80 (via its quirky dialect, Squeak), to look and think beyond the GUI that present day operating systems have forced down our throats-- and to confront the CLI. It taught me perseverance, patience, to think logically and not to trust what I see.

Gēmu Otaku San

Gunpei Yokoi (横井 軍平) is said to have hit upon the idea of the Game & Watch when, while traveling on a train, he saw a bored businessman pressing the buttons of a calculator to kill time. The Game & Watch triggered the evolution of mobile gaming and it wasn't just to "kill time" anymore, it had become a lifestyle. The Game & Watch also led to the mass production of Chinese bootlegged game consoles and culminated, in the 1980s, with the Brick Game craze when just about everybody lugged a Chinese bootlegged version of the game console; and for a time offered Filipinos a virtual respite from their miserable lives.

Mobile gaming was so-so and mainly served as virtual baby-sitters for dorky kids until the Portable Sony PlayStation (PSP) came around. Maybe more as a marketing strategy rather than anything else, game developers began to target serious gamers by porting the most popular PC and PS games into the PSP. This allowed hard core gamers (-- as against those who are casual gamers who only played simple arcade style games to "kill time") to be Solid Snake (-- and Gabe Logan in the Syphon Filter series; and Kratos in God of War; and Sam Fisher in the Splinter Cell series) even when they're on the road. I'm a Metal Gear Solid (MGS) fan and I've beaten every MGS reiteration on the Sony PlayStation (PS1/2) and now the PSP had snipped the umbilical cord that attached me to the PS. Although I was a bit disappointed with the first MGS on the PSP: Metal Gear ACID (Active Command Intelligence Duel), because the action-based game I enjoyed so much in the PS had morphed into a card trading/collectible turn-based system where you either draw a card or play your hand to control the character’s movements and actions, I still played it because I haven't played MGS for maybe three years and I missed it. Although Metal Gear ACID is not canonical, it retained the original MGS look. In the game, Solid Snake must retrieve the "Pythagoras" from the Lobito Physics & Research Laboratory. In the end, he will face the latest model of Metal Gear-- the Metal Gear KODOQUE.

The sequel, Metal Gear Acid 2, the protagonist is a clone created from tissue samples of Solid Snake. The game had become totally unrecognizable, gone are the gray and green theme of the original MGS series, instead the in-game models are rendered in stylized anime graphical style that looked more like colorful, clearly-inked concept art. It was disappointing.

Metal Gear Solid: Portable Ops is the first canonical outing of the MGS series for the PSP. It again featured Naked Snake (introduced in MGS1 as "Big Boss", Solid Snake's C.O. in FOXHOUND and who is later revealed as the source of Solid Snake's cloned genes and that of Liquid Snake as well; and who was also Solid Snake's main antagonist in Metal Gear 2: Solid Snake). It also went back to the series' action-based game play from previous PS1/2 console iterations, but instead of Naked Snake doing solo missions, the game has a squad-based approach, with Naked Snake having to recruit allies and form a team. It is set in 1970 in South America, six years after the events of MGS3:Snake Eater. It is nowhere near previous PS reiterations, but it was way closer than the ACID series.

Snake has yet again returned in Metal Gear Solid: Peace Walker. The first MGS title for the PSP directed by the series' creator Hideo Kojima. I look forward to beating it; as eagerly as I look forward to finally getting a PS3 so I could beat “Metal Gear Solid 4: Guns of the Patriots”--which features an aged Snake clone (The only other MGS game I haven't yet beaten).

In the meantime, I alternate between "New Super Mario Brothers" on my Nintendo DSi and "Splinter Cell: Essentials" on my PSP2000 (and my trusty Sony Reader PRS300:-- repository of my "walk-throughs" and e-books).

A well meaning friend once told me to get a life.

"Hey, I don’t need a life....

... I’m a gamer. I have lots of lives!"

Ang Huling Tikbalang

Chapter 5: Omas

"Kung iyong ipahihintulot ay gagamitin kong kasangkapan ang bertud upang ako ay magkaroon muli ng pag-asa na makabalik sa aking mundo”

I willed myself to think. Within me is some kind of Bezoar stone-- a stony concretion that have been embedded, cultured and somehow passed down through generations in our bloodline; that this Mutya or Hiyas or Bertud-- or whatever it is called, is now “ripe” for harvest; and to "harvest" it is to surgically extract it?

He desperately needs it for something really important; but, he’s not forcing it. He could have ripped me apart to get it. But, somehow he didn't. It seems he can’t force it. That’s it. I have to “give” it to him-- or, at least, to acquiesce in to a surgery.

Folklore has it that deception and lies are second nature to his ilk. Deception is the game we are playing right now, but how much is deception and how much is the truth I could not sieve through. Everybody lies. It is not so much as telling an absolute lie as not telling all that is true. Truth is that which is true or in accordance with facts or reality, but sometimes the facts or reality could be unacceptable or incredible to us and for which reason even the truth is rejected and that which is untrue is embraced. The truth, I guess, is what we would like to believe in. Facts and reality are solid rocks we could anchor unto and walk upon, but we need faith to fly.

Humans are generally assumed to tell the truth in their dealings with other humans, but lie at every opportunity that would benefit them. His kind generally lie; does that mean he tells the truth for the same reasons and motivations we tell lies?

I need more time and a calmer place to think. But, all things considered what do I have to loose? Other than a few drops of blood and a wound that would eventually heal-- not much; in fact, nothing.

And so, I let him do what he had to do.

He told me to take the contents of one of the vial first, which I did. I felt slightly lightheaded. Then he deftly made a small incision on my chest. I felt pain. I felt blood oozing from the wound. It felt warm. But, it was over in minutes. Something like a sneer quivered over his gaunt features as he held up the bertud. He held it up in the air like a priest consecrating the Eucharist. Then he unceremoniously took one vial from my hand and poured its entire contents over the wound. It felt cold on my skin and in a minute a gel had formed over the wound. He said I should drink the contents of the last vial only if I experience pain.

"Para sa iyo..."

He tossed over what looked like a cylinder made of interlocking gold mesh; and as with most of his gadgets, it is studded with precious stones. It looks like a small telescope. I could grasp it in my hand with just a little of it sticking out of my fist. I looked into the eye hole. It’s a kaleidoscope of some kind. I rotated the tube and the rubies, diamonds and other precious stones within the tube interacted with the mirror-like surface inside the tube. It seems to do the reverse of what a kaleidoscope normally does. Instead of seeing changing patterns when the tube is rotated; it puts the Tikbalang in sharp focus. Through the eye hole I could clearly see the Tikbalang-- even with his camouflage turned on.

Then he tossed over a mechanical contraption with a jumble of miniature dials, gears, knobs and levers. It's face is a cross between a bejeweled clock and an intricately designed compass but with several dials. It looks like some kind of a multifunctional steam punk analog computer cum navigational instrument on steroids. The device looks remarkable for its level of miniaturization and for the complexity of its parts and is comparable to that of 19th-century clocks. It has more than 30 gears with teeth formed through equilateral triangles. The Tikbalang flicked a hidden lever and it revealed a dial resembling a clock with a round dial with symbols rather than numbers on them, it has only one hand and it's pointing directly at him. An analog GPS? Cool.

“Kakailanganin mo mga iyan kung nanaisin mo muli akong makaharap. Hindi na kita muli matutunton ngayong natanggal na ang bertud sa iyong dibdib.”

I stuffed them into my pocket with the Zippo.

It seems that the thing inside me is also some kind of beacon that he tunes into to track me. That is how he locates me. Without it, he cannot track me. And now he would want me to be able to track him?

Suddenly, he cocked his head slightly to one side as if he had heard a muffled or a distant sound-- a sound not unlike that made by a intruder in the night as he stumbled on furniture, and he is now straining to confirm it.

What happened next was a blur: he strapped a leather and metal contraption around my waist and torso; then he connected what looked like a cable unto it. He grasped me by my shoulders, looked into my eyes and said:

“Ako si Omas. Sa muling pagkikita.”

Then, without warning, he pushed me out of the door. Instinctively, I grabbed on to him-- I caught a leather pouch that hang on a string around his neck. A blast of white powder sprayed forth onto his face as I my hold tightened on the leather pouch. Anguish and confusion flooded his face.

The sight, smell and sound of the night enveloped me once more. I felt a rush of air. I could see the ground rushing up to me.

I'm falling...


itutuloy...

Death of the Tiger Moth

I stopped flying RC planes sometime in 2004. I wasn't exactly sure why-- considering that flying RC planes is one weekend activity I truly enjoy more than anything else. The Tiger Moth had since been a wall adornment.

For six years the Tiger Moth hanged on my wall. In February 2010, I took it down and noticed a crack on the Tiger Moth's cowl. Somehow I felt compelled to repair it though I was not sure what I'd do after fixing it. Stripping the Tiger Moth of its landing gear and wings brought back good memories. I gutted the fuselage of its electronic innards; filled in the crack with epoxy; and touched up the yellow paint.

The Tiger Moth's lower wing had been broken three times in three crashes and had been glued together from what was left of the original and later from a discarded half of a wing I've salvaged from the garage of a fellow RC flier; the upper wing, on the other hand, had been broken two times. The nose had survived two major surgeries: one involving the replacement of the motor mount and the other from a crack brought about by a hard landing. The Tiger Moth is now a Frankenstein monster with lots of character.

After the nose job, I oiled up the motor and fired it up. Interestingly, it whirred to life. Smelling the hot oil and hearing the little geared motor gave me a thrill. Can it fly still? Something stirred within me.

I could feel the thrill of the build and the joy of flight sucking me in again-- now I felt even more compelled to see the Tiger Moth fly again. That's the thing with this hobby. You could scratch build anything that resembles a plane, balance it, trim it and make it fly. The fun to fly your plane a thousand feet away then make it come back and land it on your feet is as fun as the challenge of building (or re-building) a monstrosity from scraps that defy the forces of gravity. Or, building and flying an accurate scaled replica of your dream plane.

Early the next morning I went to a vacant lot; plugged in the Li-Poly battery pack onto the Tiger Moth and fired up my old trusty TX (-- a Hitec Flash 5 System X at FM 72.250/channel 23). I gave the motor a full throttle. Nothing. I checked. Fired it up again. Still nothing. I checked it one last time. Nothing. The motor had died*. It was a noble death for the Tiger Moth-- it died on a flying field.

I hanged the Tiger Moth on my wall again and looked at it as I sip on a cup of coffee. It really looked good on the wall.


Later in the evening, I felt an itch coming on...


* The kit motor for the Tiger Moth is no longer available; upgrading to a "brush-less" motor equivalent would entail nose "foam surgery" to replace the motor mount and an upgrade of the ESC as well.

The Adventure of the Missing Pocket Dictionaries

I look back to it as a defining moment-- a demarcation line, a sort of scorched wasteland, between childhood innocence and street smarts.
I was probably ten-- a year older than most of my classmates in the 3rd Grade. I was a year late going to the 3rd Grade because I was made to stop going to school-- barely a month into the school year, and had spent the rest of the year, because there was nothing better to do, hunting dragonflies on an open sewer canal that ran in front of our apartment complex. I went back to school in the year that followed, but had to carry the label of a “drop-out” and consequently must “repeat” 2nd Grade. My return to the educational system, however, was marked by a recognition for academic excellence-- a Gold Medal. And because of this I was upgraded to the "Honor Class" for the 3rd Grade and transferred to the “Morning session” where the pupils, I was made to understand, were supposedly "smarter" than the “Afternoon session”.
And so there I was: the “Afternoon session” upstart diving into the big pond to swim with the big fishes. But, it was more like swimming with fish fries and shrimps for all my classmates were smaller-- not only in height, but in overall body mass; maybe waking up early in the morning had stunted their growth. To make matters worse I was tall for my age; and so I stood out even more-- all for the wrong reasons. They referred to me as the “Transferee” but they make it sound like it was some kind of a contagious disease. But, after the “second grading period” I was no longer seen as a threat. I did poorly in Arithmetic; worse in Music; even worst in P.E. Though I was good enough in anything that involved the American English language, I was no longer in the running for the Honor Roll. By sheer lack of aptitude for numbers (as well as lack of musical and athletic ability) I was condemned rather than helped; but, being in the shadows was liberating. Nobody was watching me anymore.
It was a time when teachers could still whack a pupil’s butt for being a “bad” boy (or girl); it was also okay to torture a child by making him stand or kneel for hours. Aside from emotionally scarring a child for life, it was also a deterrent for bad behavior; and it was certainly at the back of everybody’s mind whenever mischief is contemplated. It worked, too; well, most of the time. But it also worked, I think, the other way around-- it encouraged innocent little boys and girls to do whatever should be done to save their butts.
It was certainly on my mind one night as I sat on our dining table staring at a copy of Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary. It was huge. It was hard bound with what appeared as rough cloth and it was so thick I couldn’t grasp it with one hand. I stared at it for a long time. Our English teacher required the class to bring a dictionary in school the next day; and so I sat there while I consider bringing the behemoth to school if only it could fit in my bag-- it didn’t; it was actually bigger than my bag and I doubt I could carry it for more than ten paces.
And so, the next day I went to school sans a dictionary. Our class was buzzing that day. Everybody is into some kind of gag, scuffle, joke, or shoving match on top the excitement over the assignment for that day. Everyone around me were flashing their spanking new pocket dictionaries though English class would still be after recess. Noticeably, most the dictionaries looked the same; obviously published by the same printer and even bought from the same store. A germ of an idea flitted through my mind. And, without really meaning to, I took a mental note of where my seat mates were stashing their dictionaries.
The three morning classes breezed by then the bell for recess sounded shortly; class was dismissed and the usual rush for the door followed. I lingered; and as soon as I was alone, I fished out five similar pocket dictionaries from my classmates’ bags; made sure that indeed they were copies from the same publisher; and that they did not bear any name or mark; shuffled them; threw two copies over unto the top of the cabinet-cum-blackboard; switched the other two with two more dictionaries randomly picked from two other bags; the last one I tucked under my waist band. That done, I ran down to join my classmates for recess. Made sure I was seen then went straight for the restrooms and locked myself inside a cubicle. Alone once again, I pulled out the dictionary.
The bell rang once again signaling the end of recess. I ran up the stairs and managed to be the first inside the classroom. I pulled out the dictionary from my waist band and dropped it unto yet another classmate’s bag. Even before our English teacher came, there was already a bit of a commotion around me.
The teacher eventually restored order and to sort the matter out, asked that all the dictionaries on our row:-- two pupils seated together, eight deep, sixteen pupils in all-- be passed and stacked on her table. Only the boys were involved and while there are girls in the class, there is a wide aisle in the middle to separate the boys and the girls. She examined them and looked for identifying marks; then, she held up the dictionaries one at a time and asked the owner to come up and claim them.
Finally, she held up the last three unclaimed dictionaries and asked those who were still missing theirs to examine them. Five stood up. As they walked up to the front of the class, I raised my hand and the teacher motioned me to come up as well. We were asked to examine the three copies left. One was claimed by a classmate who explained that his had a tear on a page just like the tear on one of the two copies left; the ownership of the other was settled by a bookmark. One copy was left-- with four claimants. I stared at the lone unclaimed dictionary and contemplated my options. Then something like a sneer or a smirk uncontrollably quivered on my lips. I covered my mouth with a hand fearing I would break out with an uncontrollable laughter. At this point, all is good. It would not be right to "punish" all four of us; after all, we were victims. And the culprit is yet to be caught. So, no harm done. I've saved my butt and after a few days everything will be sorted out. It could have stopped right there.

Then a classmate grabbed the dictionary on the table and declared that it was his. I heard screams inside my head: Liar! Opportunistic thief!

There was silence for a second or two. A second more would have cemented his claim.

And so I spoke, rather sheepishly, requesting that if they would be kind enough to check page 57 of the dictionary, they should find certain letters had been encircled with pencil-- the letters should spell out my name.


"When a true genius appears in the world, you may know him by this sign, that the dunces are all in confederacy against him."
--Jonathan Swift, Thoughts on Various Subjects, Moral & Diverting

Ang Huling Tikbalang

Chapter 4: Ang Bertud

He turned to the wall of vials and ran his forefinger through the rows and rows of vari-colored phials; momentarily lingering on one before moving on to another; finally, he extricated three dusty vials. He then stepped back to the console and pulled out his itak from its slot. Then he turned to face me as he tapped on a combination of jewels on the itak’s handle to release and separate a thin scalpel like knife from the itak’s blade. He handed me the vials.

“Nagkakamali ka. Wala akong alam sa pananambal...”, I said.

"Hindi na ako magpapaliguy-ligoy pa." His manner now more deliberate, he no longer circle about a topic or double back to restate a previous sentence; I even detect a hint of urgency in his voice.

"Ang pinakamahalagang nagawa para sa akin ng iyong ninuno ay ang pagtago at pagpapayabong ng isang bertud-- isang butil ng pag-asa para sa akin, sa isang lugar na walang makakakuha."

He laid his forefinger on my chest and tapped.

"Nandito...!"


Itutuloy...