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[ June 2006 ] | |
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TCHS 4O 2000 [4o's nonsense] alvinny [2] - csq - edchong jenming - joseph - law meepok - mingqi - pea pengkian [2] - qwergopot - woof xinghao - zhengyu HCJC 01S60 [understated sixzero] andy - edwin - jack jiaqi - peter - rex serena SAF 21SA khenghui - jiaming - jinrui [2] ritchie - vicknesh - zhenhao Others Lwei [2] - shaowei - website links - Alien Loves Predator BloggerSG Cute Overload! Cyanide and Happiness Daily Bunny Hamleto Hattrick Magic: The Gathering The Onion The Order of the Stick Perry Bible Fellowship PvP Online Soccernet Sluggy Freelance The Students' Sketchpad Talk Rock Talking Cock.com Tom the Dancing Bug Wikipedia Wulffmorgenthaler       |
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bert's blog v1.21 Powered by glolg Programmed with Perl 5.6.1 on Apache/1.3.27 (Red Hat Linux) best viewed at 1024 x 768 resolution on Internet Explorer 6.0+ or Mozilla Firefox 1.5+ today's page views: 595 (83 mobile) all-time page views: 3741533 most viewed entry: 18739 views most commented entry: 14 comments number of entries: 1257 page created Wed Mar 11, 2026 19:52:17 |
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- tagcloud - academics [70] art [8] changelog [49] current events [36] cute stuff [12] gaming [11] music [8] outings [16] philosophy [10] poetry [4] programming [15] rants [5] reviews [8] sport [37] travel [19] work [3] miscellaneous [75] |
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- category tags - academics art changelog current events cute stuff gaming miscellaneous music outings philosophy poetry programming rants reviews sport travel work tags in total: 386 |
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- gaming - After too many minutes wasted waiting for DotA hosts, I decided to delve into the arcane arts of router configuration, and regain the prestige and MSN nudges accorded to the select few able to anchor a multiplayer game. From being a space-age gadget requiring a degree in Computer Engineering and prefably three years' relavant work experience to handle, routers appear a Plug N' Play afterthought nowadays. Sadly, other than hiding you from the big bad world, they also hide you from friendly applications. Hence the sacrifice of three vintage 16MB RAM chips, a faithful 5 1/4 inch floppy disk drive and the usual stack of virginal unwritten CDs on the Altar of Networking L33T-ness, to gain the dark, forbidden workaround which opens one to an eternity of bad public #lancraft games. Ok, it was more of forgetfulness on my part. And it isn't really hard. First off, the Windows Firewall that Microsoft has so generously included for free. Go to Control Panel, then Windows Firewall. It's on? Good for you. Turning it off would certainly work, but is categorically not recommended. Unless, of course, your soon to be ex-computer has aspirations to become a living spyware and virus archive. Instead, click the Exceptions tab. Wonderful things, exceptions (expect in Java). Add Warcraft III to the list, lancraft if you have that nifty program, and as an afterthought add the ports 6110 and 6112. The process should be similar for other commercial firewalls. Most people appear to get the hang of this by themselves, though. It's the router that is more often the problem. Dig out that manual, and locate the ip address that grants you access to the Router Configuration Web Console or its equivalent. Perhaps you see the WAN IP address right off, like here: 
WANna play? Do you? Okay, forget that. It doesn't seem to be important. Instead, run the trusty old DOS command prompt (with cmd), and then type ipconfig. winipcfg may work on some earlier versions of Windows. You should get an IP address here, as shown:  It reads, 192.168.123.128 Back to the Router Configuration Web Console. There should be some option on Forwarding. Select it, and you may see something like this:  Foward, ho! See anything familiar? Hint: The IP address is the same as shown with ipconfig, i.e. your computer. My error leading to me losing the ability to host for a time probably lay in the fact that this IP may change. It was set to ***.***.***.15*, which worked then. Under Special Applications, I set ports 6110 and 6112 to trigger on 6110 or 6112. It seems to help. Finally, try enabling DMZ hosting, again pointing to your IP address. You can try turning it off later and checking if hosting still works fine, if needed. At this time, you'll probably need to reboot your router. So slip on your best soccer wear and give that old foot a workout. Hey, it's the World Cup period after all. The moment of truth. Run Warcraft, set the port under Options->Gameplay to 6112 (if using lancraft), then click Local Area Network and Create Game. Grab your public IP off What Is My IP?, distribute on the IRC #lancraft channel, celebrate once at least one hopeful joins, then kick them all and invite your pals for an inhouse game. Mission accomplished!
- sport - Crazy, crazy game. Just one goal like the yawn-inducing England match, but incomparable in terms of entertainment value. Eat your heart out, Argentina! A six goal thrashing of an inferior team isn't a patch on this. Part of the reason behind the spice was that both competitors were tantalizingly evenly matched. Germany, other than enjoying the advantage of being hosts, had a pedigree far beyond Sweden. Ditto Argentina and Mexico, though Mexico put in a hell of a fight. England, though nowhere near their best, do have the Star of '66 above their crest, and will always be favourites against Ecuador. But Portugal and Holland? They are worthy contenders to the unwanted title of best team never to have won the biggest prize. That Portugal were made such big underdogs - Singapore Pools offered around 3.40 for the win - surprised me. I couldn't have put much more than a razor blade between them. Plenty of attacking going on from the start, then Maniche scores in the 23rd minute. The handbrakes are off, the commentators observe. One team with a precious goal to protect, the other needing to score or go home crying. Cristiano Ronaldo entertains with a totally unnecessary but undeniably beautiful behind-the-leg pass. Misguided confidence, but that's him. A couple of hard tackles, and the Portuguese winger is off. Costinha, already on a caution, barely escapes a second yellow card with five minutes to the interval. Take him off now, I scream to Scolari, thousands of miles away. One substitute is better than one man less, and then a substitute anyway. Costinha was clearly going off the boil. Minutes later, sure enough, Costinha does his best impression of Ricardo as he inexplicably puts his hand out to meet a high ball. Perhaps he played as a goalie in his youth? He wins the prize for Most Incredibly Stupid Act Since Beckham In 1998 by a landslide, and walks off to enjoy the luxurious solitude of the dressing room. Eleven-man Holland against a ten-man Portugal, but with that all-important lead. Costinha making an ass of himself, Buridan's Ass results - I can't see the side with the upper hand. Then Luis Figo, whose captain's armband does not seem to have done anything about the temperature at his forehead, drives that bit of his anatomy (hollow?) into a Holland man - after the referee had given his Portugal a freekick. He is old enough to know better, and old enough that this is certainly his swansong. The average I.Q. on the field, already some distance from triple digits, fell slightly once again. Then Figo let his feet do the thinking, relieving the pressure on his overloaded brain. Out on the flanks, he nipped past a defender in a way that a man his age has no right doing. Boulahrouz gets ahead of him, brushes his elbow past Figo's face, and Figo falls in agony. The fox has done it, Boulahrouz is off, it's even again. The soccer, quite good in fact, receded into the background. Deco, architect of so many brilliant moves, sparked a five-minute flurry of six yellow cards in the 73rd minute. It began with his first, and ended with his second, for being thrown to the ground by Cocu after refusing to give up the ball. Third man off. His first caution though was a consequence of the Dutch seemingly ignoring the referee's instructions at a drop ball, and retaining possession when it was common etiquette to return the ball to the Portuguese. When the stakes are this high, face is nothing. At least it was heartening to see Deco sit and chat with Boulahrouz in the "bad boys' corner", a sign that off the pitch, there are no hard feelings. No such friendly vibes among the 19 men left, though. The Dutch, seeing their trophy hopes sinking into the mists, attacked desperately. Portugal were content with vicious breakaways. Figo, already booked, was taken off. It would have been smart, a lesson taught by Costinha, had their goalkeeper not been flat on the ground in pain at that very moment. If Ricardo got another knock, which was more than likely under the circumstances, Portugal would have to hope that his gloves fit another player well, having used their last replacement. Holland probably knew that there was no way through, that they were gone. Portugal, even with nine men, were more than able to hold the ball with good technique, whiling the seconds away, one by one. But why not set a record, Van Bronckhorst may have thought. He scythed someone down in the 93rd minute to tie the mark for most yellow cards in a game, and sportingly made it nine a side. Six minutes of extra time finally hobbled by on crutches (another commentator's witticism). Portugal, badly battered, were through. England may be the only real winner here, as Portugal are certainly without Deco and Costinha for their quarterfinal match - though the latter may not be that big a loss. C. Ronaldo may be out injured. And if Portugal do somehow make it past England, the sheer number of players already booked may mean the semis have to be abandoned. Portugal were thinking of none of that, however, as they celebrated as though they had won the World Cup itself, and not just made it into the last eight. For the Dutch, there was only despair as they cracked again. The competition will miss the silky, if selfish, skills of Arjen Robben, and more vans than will fill an average multi-storey carpark. The darting van Persie, who made a lightning turn during the game that had two defenders falling the wrong way; van Nistelrooy, who watched with resignation as his teammates surrendered his final chance at true glory; And of course van der Sar, van Bronckhorst, van Bommel, van der Vaart and all the other assorted models and makes. Special mention goes to Jan Vennegoor of Hesselink, whose name filled the back of his jersey to nearly unreadable proportions, and reminded all of an earlier, medieval age. And what of England? They were unconvincing, yet they won again. For all their staleness, they are among the few remaining sides to have scored in every match so far. But they had to rely once more on Beckham, who parlayed his singular gift of getting the ball where he wants, when he wants, into the only goal of the contest. Rooney for me lived up to his hype, as he never looked guardable by a single marker. Too bad he was isolated. A wondrous piece of control on the touchline, followed by a nutmeg so natural that no one saw it coming, should have been good value for an assist. Unfortunately, the man waiting in the middle was Frank "can't miss from two yards out, can he?" Lampard. Frankly, that guy only produces for Chelski.
- sport - Pretty boring game, so let's concentrate on the picks of the tournament so far: "Ecuador are used to playing at high altitude... and that's Peter Crouch, 6 foot 7, also at high altitude..." "And that must be the goal of the tournament there!" (Almost every match in which a half decent long shot goes in) When a player lost one of his boots, an opponent walked up and nonchalently kicked it further away (must see to believe) When the camera showed a referee grinning away crazily in slow motion for ten seconds at a player... then flashing the red card while all the time smiling as though he had won the lottery. "ROFL BB HAVE A NICE DAY!" Smile campaign, anyone?
- sport - Happy days are here. Did a lot of catching up on the World Cup, and was pretty disappointed when all of Asia's representatives went out in the group stages. South Korea looked a decent bet, but succumbed 0-2 to Switzerland. As it was, they needed to win since France beat Togo by two clear goals, so it wasn't even close enough to be heartbreaking. For me, the World Cup does not seem to begin until Brazil play. Had to miss their first two matches, but got to catch their 4-1 mauling of Japan. That their samba will be magic is an expectation - the world expects nothing less of the aristocrats of football. We grant countries canned sobriquets, as though they are individuals. The Germans are efficient and methodical, the Italians defensive in their prison of catenaccio, the Dutch Total Football free-flowing but disharmonious, the South Americans wily and sometimes dirty (depending on which side of the Atlantic you are on), the British direct with long balls to their quintessentially tall, strong English center forward... A casual observer today may not notice such pronounced differences. There is not much to separate the styles of the more impressive teams so far - Argentina, Germany, Brazil for instance. Eliminated sides such as the Czechs and Ivorians have also reached their level in spurts, but just could not keep it up. They all know the patient attack, the frequent interpassing, awaiting the slightest chink in the opposite team's defence. Then they pounce. Okay, England seem to have regressed to pumping clearances to Crouch. Some things never change for long. Like mixed martial arts, proficient sides appear to have gravitated towards well-rounded systems, purging themselves of obvious weaknesses. Top fighters no longer confine themselves to one school, however ancient it may be; Thousands of years of revered tradition, prescribed moves, combinations and katas handed down from generations of masters to disciples, suddenly become less important when the stubborn practitioner has his stuffing knocked out of him. I do feel a twinge of pity for the relatively unschooled Africans, however, whose devil-may-care attitude to running straight for goal was highly refreshing. Unfortunately, they also had a tendency to hold on to the ball a tad too long, in contrast to the sweeping moves of more established teams. Dribbling through two or three players into a dangerous position is no easy matter at the highest levels, unless one is a Maradona. Most often, even if the player drives through, he will be forced to the flanks, a position which could have been achieved with a simple swing of a boot. So it's been a pretty good life after NS - the freedom to do my own stuff through the afternoon, and quality soccer at night and the wee hours. Can't ask for much more. Oh yes, one of my KoL characters got beaten by a Crazy Bastard in a Sleazy Back Alley. Supposedly a million-in-one occurrence, which almost guarantees a 70 million meat Crazy Bastard Sword (to put things into perspective, normal meat income is about 4 million a month with good knowledge of game mechanics - yes, meat, not gold. Go figure). Darn. Got an untradeable Consolation Ribbon out of it, though, so at least I have proof.
Quote of my Disruption Period: "When the time comes, we will go lah." - Malaysian Trade & Industry Minister & Wanita Umno head Rafidah Aziz, advising young party members not to be too eager to replace the older leaders. (Extract from The Straits Times stuck to the top of an office computer) Last Breakfast of my NS: Fragrant Yam Rice and a Tau Sah Pao Random Tip for NS: The Army standard issue singlet makes for a great eyeshade when you want to sleep early and the lights are on.
Last full week of pre-ORD NS life. Filled in as night clerk for Monday night, with the unneeded consolation that they were showing the World Cup at my duty station. Tuesday, had my succulent chicken drumstick, painstakingly saved for last as the climax of a bland lunch, stolen by two enterprising crows. Still, they deserved it for making it to my plate under stealth in the ten seconds it took me to get a drink and return. From where they appeared, I do not know. Furthermore, I don't think they have ever attacked leftovers. Picky tastes there. Putting it into perspective, feeding dogs and feeding crows - what's the big difference? Other than the dogs being nice enough to wag their tails and look expectantly, that is. Hey, if it had been those teeny sparrows instead, I'm sure I wouldn't have minded at all. Outward appearances do matter, however politically correct we try to be. Tuesday night was a partial stand-in while the original personnel was having his range. I'll miss all those nights of using the office internet-enabled computer. Incredibly, some sites seem to load faster there than at home, notably PvP Online. YouTube etc are blocked, unfortunately. Productivity can't be that high without the specialised resources of my home system, so I also whiled away the hours at Terran Legacy, a two-click mindless online game that was all the rage during my secondary school days. I mean, my colleagues entertained themselves with Kitty Kannon. Yes, it is boring there. And when it's not boring, one soon wants the idleness to return. In crude army terms, when the shit comes, it comes in big packages. One can switch from having nothing at all to do, to being crazily overloaded in a second, usually when a phone call comes. No wonder there is a certain reluctance from some guys to pick up the phone unless there is no other alternative. Take for instance Thursday - was tasked to call up a bunch of 2SG and above for an event that night. Many were unreachable, and repeating the same line over and over again gets old quickly, especially when our only line, so often quiet, suddenly was in high demand. That took up the whole afternoon. Then half an hour or so before closing time, a reminder for the department to provide three marshallers tomorrow morning. Okay, my name was not on the list. However one guy had to go for physiotherapy the next day, could I fill in? Okay, I shrugged. Did it once a few weeks back, just stand and wave a flag for awhile. Right? Wrong. First off, it was not your usual morning run. It was a special officers' induction run. And by tomorrow morning, they meant, "be out of bed by 2am" morning. Wtf. In civillian life, I admit that there is not much opportunity to stand around in camo pants at 4am by a deserted railway track, counting the taxis going by. Since we were detailed more out of habit than necessity, as suspected, with the organizing officer very conscientious in guiding the tight running pack anyway, the only happy fellas out there were the mosquitoes, who got a surprise Gilbert takeaway deluxe. Finally got back to topple in bed at 7am. Three more working days.
- sport - The Three Lions have been living too much on their reputations. A day after Germany put four past an admittedly attack-focused Costa Rica, Ye Olde England got a win without any of their players scoring. They do say one of the hallmarks of a good team is the ability to play badly and still win, though. Well, better a poor 1-0 victory than a 5-5 draw. Fortituous scheduling means I should be able to catch their other two group matches, and they should get through to the second round - though how much further is a huge question mark. Have to say soccer is much more fun when watched in a (small) crowd. The Sweden - T&T game at 12pm did England even more favours, though it was generally yawn-inducing for the neutrals. I remarked that it had the nil-nil look about it after twenty minutes went by, and was right on this occasion. In the end it was left for Argentina and Ivory Coast to provide the fireworks. Indeed, Cote d'Ivorie had some of the best direct attacking play of the World Cup so far, and only lousy finishing prevented an upset. Dragged myself home at 5am. Zzz.
Let's see... tried my hand at wrapping dumplings about a week ago. Grab the leaf, make sure the stem-side is outwards, fold the bottom inwards to make a rough conical shape, scoop the rice in, bend the top over and finish off by wrapping the long remainder of the leaf-blade to one side. Sounds easy, but the few I made ended up a bit mutated. Cranking out functional dumplings isn't hard, but the aesthetics just ain't there. Last Saturday and this Sunday (why is Sunday the beginning of the week? It's the seventh day, no?) were mostly burnt on basketball and soccer respectively. Thanks to the 10am scheduling of the latter, I also got sunburnt. Amazingly there was zero sign of the slightest reddening an hour after the game - I was expecting a slight tan at least - and then the pain came. Sometimes, one has to be careful of what one wishes for. Realised that I haven't been as physically active as I would have liked to be. And that stamina is the basis of just about any sport. Need to find a way to multitask. I don't believe no one has hooked an exercise bike up to a TV or PC, or alternatively some modified Uninterruptable Power Supply unit, for even more versatility. Judging on the way I do stuff if it is unavoidable, that would probably whip me into far better shape in good time. Googling that is an exercise left to the reader. 16 days at most to my clearing leave (effectively ORDing), and here I am in camp after office hours, maximizing usage of SAF resources. Ironically about all of my bunkmates have become stayout personnel, leaving a resumed disruptee as keeper of the room. Well, it sure is quiet for a change - no mind-numbing prattle on thoroughly mundane matters - and convenient. And I get some interaction with other, different lifestyles. But of course, I can't wait to recover my pink IC. Also, three days to the World Cup! I have a habit of setting mental checkpoints at such significant events, leaving a hook for my future self to latch on in the (not too) distant future. In 2002, I was still partway through JC2 and wondering how I would be come Germany 06. University appeared so distant, the promised valley after the hump of National Service. Now I know. Perhaps there will be no Korean rampage this time, entertaining as it was to see them humble the Italians and Spanish, and nearly Germany too. Probably England will flatter to deceive, and perhaps another Greece will spring the greatest surprise of all. Sleepless nights ahoy. Maybe just once I should put something down, much as I dislike playing games with negative expectations. True, it is probably not pure luck in the vein of 4D or Toto, but how much can one read into forms and histories? Especially in camp, I have seen too many flawed betting systems and over-optimistic punters, who put hundreds or even thousands down on a single match on a whim. Still, if they can spare the cash, it's their call. Myself, it'll be more the satisfaction of predicting correctly. So, the big question. Who'll it be? The Straits Times proclaims, Argentina to beat Brazil in the final. An experienced friend in my current department concurs - it's Argentina's year. Brazil can never be counted out, and my heart says England. Time to stick my neck out. The head on my neck thinks that there is no way to call it, with as many as ten teams having a realistic chance. The odds are just too tight. So, as often happens, the heart-gut lobby wins. England to emerge from its Crouching, hopefully with 'Wazza' Rooney. So, England 2, Germany 1 come 9 July. A blind guess, but mine is as good as yours here. Game On!
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