As in most RPGs, in Dragon Age (which is shit), you can decide what your character and his followers wear. This leads most gamers to see what their characters look like naked (ie. in underwear) at least once per game, and sometimes walk around in their medieval briefs.

Thus, a scene from Jonathan’s epic adventure. I particularly like the lad looking guiltily at the camera from the bushes.

It’s nice to see the problems of the current gaming industry get mainstream press coverage:

One of the world’s leading video game developers fired a warning shot over the multi-billion-dollar gaming industry yesterday, saying the sector must deliver products beyond shoot-’em-up adventures and sports hits if it wants to avoid being marginalized.

“We’ve got to stop limiting ourselves to adolescent male power fantasies,” said [Warren] Spector [credited on Ultima, Wing Commander and Deus Ex].

This was in the opening keynote of this week’s Montreal Games Summit, and I remember thinking Spector had painted a very grim picture indeed of our medium and its future if we don’t change our ways. It set a strange tone for the conference, after which I felt a little odd talking about how to create snow that sparkles realistically, with this elephant in the room.

Via Becca.

In my final year of university, I took part in an exchange program and studied in Lund, Sweden for a while. Going to Sweden was for me the realization of a lifelong dream. I’d always been crazy about Scandinavia, and wanted to live there. I’d learned Swedish before even setting foot once in that country. When I was here, Swedish was like a secret language that only I and a select few could speak. Landing in Stockholm and being immersed in it felt like I was surrounded with family.

Six months down the line, although I was still completely jazzed simply with the idea of being on Swedish soil, I found I was quite lonely. It was harder to make friends there than anywhere else I’d ever been, despite many efforts by the university to organize events for us internationals to socialize. After all my longing to integrate into Swedish culture, I found my best friends were Canadian. I’m not the friendliest person in general, but compared to the average Swede, most French Canadians are extremely warm. One Swede was shocked when I told him about the two-cheek kiss, and how often we use it and think nothing of it. Although that difference was at first interesting, it soon became a source of discomfort.

Anyway, it’s now four years later and I’ve let a lot of my Swedish slip. Looking for something to do, and for a way to expand my social circle, I recently found the Montreal Swedish club, and decided to attend their filmkväll (film night) tonight. I really wonder what that’s going to be like. Am I insinuating myself on an exclusive circle? Will I come off like a blubbering idiot after all that time without practice? Should I care? Oh well, here goes nothing…

I know this will only interest me, but I’ll indulge in a little nostalgia. Today is Saint Lucy’s day, a Swedish holiday. The eldest daughter of each household wears a white gown and a crown of lit candles, symbolizing Saint Lucy. She brings in the light, hopeful time of the holidays after the dreary, dark month of November. Songs are sung, special saffron buns and glögg are served.

When I was in Lund, we celebrated this at the town’s medieval stone cathedral after nightfall. We sat in the pitch dark until Lucy and her following entered, singing and illuminating the place with their crowns of candles.

It’s days like these I wish I worked for Ericsson or Ikea. I dag saknar jag Sverige.

So this is why I gained ten pounds in sweden…

(I have no idea what that means).

Francis Strand’s Swedish word of the day a while ago was att olla, a verb meaning “to touch with the tip of one’s penis”. Don’t you love Swedish? He asks.

Made me think about how Swedish is such a great language indeed. Everything is so literal. Take the following examples:

Bröstvårta – (literally “breast wart”), means nipple.
Dammsugare (”dust sucker”), means vacuum cleaner.
Tvättbjörn – (”washing bear”), means raccoon.
Bältdjur – (”belt(ed) animal”), means armadillo.
Sköldpadda – (”shield(ed) toad”), means turtle.
Smekmånad (”caress month”), means honeymoon.

(I’m rusty and have probably made tons of mistakes here, but you get the idea…)

Sitting in the airport a minute ago, I thought I saw someone I had known in Sweden, with whom I once had a bad date. Now that I think about it, I realize all my dates in Sweden were pretty bad ones.

I met this particular bad date at my roommate Anders’ 18th birthday party. We spoke for a few minutes in the stairs as I was leaving for another party. A few days later I’m flying out of the house in a hurry to get to class, and there he is, barking out “vill du gå på bio?” at me (want to go to a movie?).

I didn’t even recognize the guy at first. Like a deer caught in the headlights, I freeze and hear myself say Ja, okey. About fifteen seconds later, I’m thinking “what am I crazy? I need to get out of this”. It’s like I was too embarrassed and surprised to flatly reject him. I plan on getting out of it, but the next day he calls, saying he’s bought the tickets (in Sweden, going to the movies is a much bigger deal than here; there’s assigned seating, and you usually buy tickets days in advance, and it’s about 20$ a person). So I’m stuck going.

He picks me up and in the air between us, there’s that embarrassing “date feeling” that you sometimes get on an outing-with-a-member-of-the-opposite-sex-that-you-don’t-want-to-date (this most often seems to happen on business trips when you’re looking for a place to have dinner with a colleague, and end up somewhere uncomfortably romantic). As we drive to the theater he tells me he doesn’t work, isn’t looking for work, doesn’t go to school, doesn’t plan on it, he just lifts weights all day. Accordingly, we’re going to see an Arnold movie. In Swedish, of course. I so want this night to be over, right now.

We get there and to my great amusement, I notice that the two last rows in the theater are made up of two-person loveseats (with no armrest in between). Ah, you gotta love those crazy Swedes… But my amusement comes to a screeching halt when I realize that our tickets are in those rows. I want. To die.

I spend two hours in the dark, scrunched into my side of the way-too-small make-out seat. I have never - never - tried so hard not to touch someone next to me, as I did that night. When we came out, he mentioned his age, 17. It was 1999 and I was 27 at the time, but I lied and said I was about to be 30, thinking this would turn him off. It did. After a very hurried stop at Booger King (believe it), he dropped me off without ceremony and I never saw him again.

I had totally forgetten about him (and undoubtedly him about me), until I thought I saw him today.