tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-40924637602862315192024-03-19T03:41:56.416-04:00The Jones ReportTall. Dark. Round-headed.Scott C. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14584082553675139762noreply@blogger.comBlogger86125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4092463760286231519.post-18923501422440910802011-12-14T12:05:00.001-05:002011-12-14T12:05:13.131-05:00The Jones Report = Game Over, ManI've decided to pull the plug on The Jones Report.<div>
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Now, before you get all weepy-eyed and start rending your garments, go to this website:</div>
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http://scottcjones.com/</div>
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Bookmark it.</div>
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Happy now?</div>
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And as always, thanks for reading.</div>
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-jones</div>Scott C. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14584082553675139762noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4092463760286231519.post-15058633993270878792011-11-24T17:07:00.001-05:002011-12-02T22:48:15.762-05:00This Is How Many Movies I Saw in 2011<div style="text-align: left;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Each entry on the list you are about to read/skim represents an instance of 2011 movie-going for me. Kids: Unless your last name is "Ebert," don't try this at home:</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">SEASON OF THE WITCH</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">BARNEY’S VERSION</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">THE DILEMMA</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">THE GREEN HORNET</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">NO STRINGS ATTACHED </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">BEASTLY</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">THE MECHANIC</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">THE RITE</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">THE ROOMMATE</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">SANCTUM 3D</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">CEDAR RAPIDS</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">JUST GO WITH IT</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">I AM NUMBER FOUR</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">HALL PASS</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">DRIVE ANGRY</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">RANGO </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">LIMITLESS</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">PAUL</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">THE ADJUSTMENT BUREAU</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">BATTLE LOS ANGELES</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">MARS NEEDS MOMS</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">RED RIDING HOOD</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">SUCKER PUNCH</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">INSIDIOUS</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">SUPER</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">YOUR HIGHNESS</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">RIO</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">SCREAM 4</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">FAST FIVE</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">HOBO WITH A SHOTGUN</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">THOR</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">BRIDESMAIDS </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">PRIEST</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN: ON STRANGER TIDES</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">X-MEN: FIRST CLASS</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">SUPER 8</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">GREEN LANTERN</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">BAD TEACHER</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">MIDNIGHT IN PARIS</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">TREE OF LIFE</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">CARS 2</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">ARTHUR</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">SOURCE CODE</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">HANNA</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">THE HANGOVER 2</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">HORRIBLE BOSSES</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">HARRY POTTER AND THE DEATHLY HALLOWS: PART 2</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">CAPTAIN AMERICA: THE FIRST AVENGER</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">ATTACK THE BLOCK</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">COWBOYS & ALIENS</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">CRAZY, STUPID LOVE</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">THE GUARD</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">THE CHANGE-UP</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">KUNG-FU PANDA 2</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">RISE OF THE PLANET OF THE APES</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">30 MINUTES OR LESS</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">FINAL DESTINATION 5 </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">FRIGHT NIGHT</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">CONAN THE BARBARIAN</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">OUR IDIOT BROTHER</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">WARRIOR</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">RED STATE</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">CONTAGION</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">DRIVE</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">KILLER ELITE</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">50/50</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; letter-spacing: 0px;">THE IDES OF MARCH</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">That's 80 movies in total, which is simultaneously impressive and depressing. And the list doesn't take into account the movies I saw on Blu-ray and Apple TV, or the movies that I took my girlfriend to see. Last night she and I went to see <i>My Week With Marilyn.</i> A few weeks before that, we saw Pedro Almodovar's <i>The</i> <i>Skin I Live In. </i>Pro tip: If you want to sound sophisticated at your holiday office party this year, inform everyone within earshot that you've just seen "Almodovar's latest." Everybody will be all like, "Wow, that guy in [INSERT YOUR DEPT. NAME HERE] is pretty sophisticated."</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Now, here is some math that is probably wrong: Assuming an average runtime of 90 minutes per movie, that's 7,200 minutes--or 120 hours--of theater-going. There are 168 hours in a week (24 hours per day multiplied by seven days), which means that I spent the equivalent of five back-to-back 24-hour days watching movies.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">I was going to do even more math for you, breaking all of this into fractals, perhaps even work out a pie chart for your enjoyment. Then I remembered that I am a product of the U.S. public school system, and that my math skills, after several decades in hibernation, have degenerated to the point where I can no longer perform such feats. What those math feats would have displayed was this: I spent a not-insignificant chunk of this year sitting in the dark.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Because Vancouver receives more than its fair share of rain, I usually take a daily vitamin D supplement. Since I started reviewing movies, I've doubled my dosage, lest I find myself on a downward spiral of misery and popcorn.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">I do not look forward to the movie screenings. Not because I dread seeing all of these terrible movies, an act which I'm certain is eroding my terrible math skills even further. I dread the screenings because of the people. Put a bunch of people together, lower the lights, and bad behaviors inevitably occur.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Once, in New York, I found a seat in a packed West Village theater, only to realize, when the lights went down, that the man sitting next to me had trojan horsed a dozen hot wings into the theater with him. He noisily began eating them in the dark, gristle taking flight all around him, the pungent smell of Frank's Hot Sauce searing my nostrils. Beside myself with fury, I moved to the only remaining seat in the theater--which was in the front row, of course--where I sat quietly fuming (and, worse still: craving hot wings) for the rest of the movie. I couldn't tell you the name of the movie that I saw that night. But, for as long as I live, I will never forget that a-hole and his hot wings.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">My biggest peeve these days is the phone-checker. I do not understand for the life of me why one would spend $12.50 on a movie ticket, then choose to text throughout said experience. And no matter how discrete these people think they are being, no matter how skillful they are at constructing elaborate jacket caves in their laps, the light always seeps out at some point, searing the faces off the skulls a la<i> Raiders of the Lost Ark</i> of myself and everyone else in the vicinity. Number of times in 2011 that I asked phone checkers to cool it: 16. Number of times they actually cooled it: 16. Because they know, even before I give them the shoulder tap and the would-you-mind whisper in my nun voice, that what they are doing is rude and wrong. Today's life lesson: people will do all kinds of rude and wrong things until they are caught and/or someone tells them not to. See: Herman Cain.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Another story: During a recent early morning screening of <i>The Three Musketeers</i> (I know) at the Tinseltown Theater, a man with a Bluetooth earpiece blinking in his ear and a military-style haircut sat in front of me cracking and gobbling pistachios that he had smuggled into the theater with him. He really wolfed them down too, eating with wild abandon. People always eat with wild abandon in movie theaters, myself included. (Side note: The only time that I wish I had a third hand is when I eat popcorn. Well, there is one other time when I wish that I had a third hand, but I won't be going into it here.) As this guy cracked and gobbled away, I seethed and seethed. I no longer watched the movie. Instead, I tried, in vain, to think up some stern but gentle words that I could whisper to him post shoulder-tap. "Sir, would you mind not cracking those pistachios so loudly?" "Excuse me, but could you eat your nuts a little more quietly?" Everything I came up with sounded plain ridiculous. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">In the end, I did nothing. I glared and fumed and seethed at Dr. Pistachio, which is what I had dubbed the man (I imagined him as a small-time Batman villain for some reason), wishing with all my might that his pistachio-eating head would explode.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">After the movie, the lights came up. Dr. Pistachio, when he rose from his seat, turned out to be far shorter than I expected him to be. And he had two teenaged boys with him--obviously his sons--who, by the number of eye rolls-per-second they delivered in his direction, no doubt gave Dr. Pistachio hell early and often in his days. In the darkness, the man was a nut-hoovering fiend who gleefully destroyed my movie-going experience; in the dark, he had become larger than life. But in the post-movie light, I realized that the man was simply a beleaguered dad wearing an old jacket with a hole in the sleeve who was out with his kids to see a free movie on a Saturday morning. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Dr. Pistachio, if you're out there reading this, I am sorry for seething and fuming at you that day.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">My most memorable movie-going experience of this year happened in late March, on a brisk, clear morning. My colleague and movie-going partner Victor Lucas and I hustled over to the Park Theater on Cambie Street for a 10 a.m. screening of <i>Insidious</i>. Of the four venues we typically see movies in, the Park Theater is by far the oldest, creakiest, and most cavernous. It's a throw-back theater that shows--how quaint--only one movie at a time. The <i>Insidious</i> screening was press-only, which meant that the movie was being shown inside this airplane hangar-sized theater to six shivering writers, Vic and me. Pro tip: If you attend an early-morning screening at The Park, wear an extra sweater. It's cold in there.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">This was also one of those rare screenings when I knew almost nothing about the movie I was about to see. This is the ideal way to see a movie. The less I know, the more surprise I get. All I knew was that <i>Insidious</i> was a horror movie, a genre which makes me prone to writing phrases like "laughably terrible" in my notebook. That's not to say that I don't like horror movies. I do like them. But the number of good horror movies out there, the ones that are not laughably terrible, the ones that give me, as I say, a "good creep," can be counted on two hands (while my third, fictional hand busily shovels popcorn into my mouth).</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">So the lights went down inside the Park, the <i>Psycho</i>-like violin shrieks--WEET, WEET, WEET--began coming from the Park's old, blown out speakers, and the word INSIDIOUS appeared on the screen in 11,000-point font. "Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!" I said, elbowing Vic who was shivering next to me and sipping his tea. "Look how laughably terrible this is!"</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Then I stopped laughing and elbowing. And then I started quietly cursing at the screen, which is what I do whenever I experience a good creep. There is a five minute stretch of this movie that was so difficult for me to watch that I briefly considered leaving the theater altogether. No kidding. If you're wondering what stretch I'm referring to, here's a hint: It begins with a late-night knock at the front door. You're right, the last act of <i>Insidious</i> goes to hell--in more ways than one--but the first two-thirds of the movie got under my skin, where it continues to reside to this day.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Getting under my skin is no small achievement. Of the 80 movies I saw in 2011, only about 10 managed to really get under my skin: </span><i style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Bridesmaids, Rango, Insidious, X-Men: First Class, Source Code, Hanna, Rise of the Planet of the Apes, Drive, Moneyball, Real Steel, J. Edgar.</i><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">OK, so that's 11 movies. Of those 11, four would probably qualify as drop-everything-and-go-see-it events: </span><i style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Bridesmaids, Rango, Drive, Hanna.</i><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> And of those four, the only movie that I would whole-heartedly recommend, the only movie that doesn't require any caveats or disclaimers from me, is <i>Bridesmaids</i>. Boy, did I ever enjoy that.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Did I nod off a few times? Sure I did. Hey, you try and sit through <i>Cowboys & Aliens</i>, or <i>Mars Needs Moms</i>. But what surprises me the most when I look back over this list is how little I experienced in the way of real feeling when I saw these damn things. There isn't much in the way of bona fide escapism here. Nothing really moved me much, or captivated me. Hell, most of these movies barely held my attention. Most of these movies left me feeling empty and numb. They went into my eyes, and my ears, but they sure didn't stay for long. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Now that I think about it, maybe people are building those jacket caves and buzzing through bags of pistachios for a reason.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">I've got a few more movies to see before I can wind down for the year: <i>Mission: Impossible--Ghost Protocol, </i>the new <i>Sherlock Holmes, Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy, The Adventures of Tintin, </i>David Fincher's <i>The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo</i>. So my work isn't quite finished, not yet anyway. Sure, I'll do it all again in 2012. I'll spend another five or six of the ensuing 365 days sitting in the dark. Here's hoping I feel more--much more--in the coming year.</span></div>
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</div>Scott C. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14584082553675139762noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4092463760286231519.post-83535823347167862672011-11-17T13:01:00.001-05:002011-11-27T16:33:04.092-05:00Zelda: Still Crazy After All These YearsOver the past week I have hurled myself at the <i>The Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword</i> the same way that the 747 hurled itself into the island on <i>Lost</i> or Chris Farley hurled his stomach at coffee tables. I have spent more time "living" in the game's fictional world lately than I have in the real world.<br />
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My sincerest apologies to friends, family, girlfriend, and cats.<br />
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How intense was my <i>Skyward Sword</i> obsession? While walking by a brick wall in the stairwell of my building on Beatty Street a few days ago, I noticed a suspicious-looking crack and, no kidding, thought, <i>I'd better get a bomb on that</i>.<br />
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<i>Skyward Sword</i> is one of those rare, borderline-unhealthy, personal-responsibilities-shirking experiences that a person has maybe only four or five times in his or her lifetime. (You can read my <i>A.V. Club</i> review <a href="http://www.avclub.com/articles/the-legend-of-zelda-skyward-sword,65422/">here</a>. And the <i>Reviews on the Run</i> review aired last Monday on G4 and City TV. Check your local listings, Canada.)<br />
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At the start of the game I was 100-percent certain that I'd outgrown the Zelda series. 2003's <i>Wind Waker</i> bored me to tears and was a struggle to finish. I made two runs at 2006's <i>Twilight Princess</i>, and wound up abandoning the game both times at the same juncture. (That juncture: when you meet the man/lady person dressed in the robes/housecoat who lives in the hut with the kids at the base of the Goron-inhabited mountain.) And the DS games, <i>Phantom Hourglass</i> and <i>Spirit Tracks</i>? They didn't jazz me much.<br />
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When I dutifully reported to the Nintendo booth last June at E3 for my demo of <i>Skyward Sword</i>, I dreaded having to fly a pet bird, or play a harp, or sample the one-to-one Wii MotionPlus Master Sword controls. I thought: <i>Who on earth could possibly still be into this baloney except for the people who sh*t themselves blind whenever Nintendo announces dumb things like </i>Luigi's Mansion 2<i>? </i>When the well-groomed public relations person (note: Nintendo's PR people are always extremely well-groomed) bestowed upon me a Wii remote for my demo, he did so with dramatic reverence, as if he was allowing me to sip from the Holy Grail itself rather than letting me play a couple minutes of what appeared to be <i>Ocarina of Time 9: Now With Harps</i>. During the demo I flicked the Wii remote at the TV screen with the same brand of zoned-out disinterest that I typically reserve for flicking something I don't want off my index finger. And, yes, the thing that I don't want in question would be a booger.<br />
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Flash forward to early November. One rainy afternoon <i>Skyward Sword</i> arrived via Fed Ex. The game and I, not surprisingly, did not get off to a good start. The first 10 hours--yes, I said "the first 10 hours"--were almost all uphill for me. What follows are actual texts that I sent to my colleague, Victor Lucas, during that 10 hour stretch:<br />
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"Four solid hours into Zelda and I am delivering soup to some f***ing guy. Goddamn it all."<br />
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"Now I'm being told that I need to purchase a bug net. A BUG NET. Four hours in."<br />
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"No, I'm not even in a dungeon yet."<br />
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"Honestly, I think Nintendo has been smelling their own farts for too long."<br />
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"Six and a half hours in, still have only gotten through ONE DUNGEON in Z."<br />
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While still struggling through those initial 10 hours, I'd leave work each afternoon, informing Vic that I was going home to enjoy my daily "Zelda nap." I wasn't kidding. Every afternoon I'd fall sound asleep on the couch while the Zelda-branded gold controller, sitting in my lap, quietly lost communication with the Wii.<br />
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Then <i>Skyward Sword</i> came howling to life. From that point forward, I experienced more jaw-dropping awe in every 15 minute interval of <i>Skyward Sword</i> than I did in <i>Uncharted 3</i> in its entirety. And I'm comparing the two, partly because doing so will further aggravate <i>Uncharted 3's </i>staunchest fans, and partly because both games, if you really think about it, have similar goals.<br />
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1. Both games set out to tell the story of an everyman hero on a quest.<br />
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2. Both aim to evoke a sense of curiosity and wonder.<br />
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3. Both send their heroes into the darkest, most dangerous places in the name of acquiring shiny treasure.<br />
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Despite their thematic similarities, one game is a masterpiece of design, an elegant marriage of form and function, and a legitimate work of art, while the other is a middling series of noisy set-pieces interspersed with quippy cutscenes. In summary: One game I lived; the other I observed from afar.<br />
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No, <i>Skyward Sword</i> isn't perfect. Things go to hell at times. What you've heard about the Wii MotionPlus controls is true: they really do malign the game. Sometimes the controls stand between you and your enjoyment, which is borderline unforgivable. No, they're not insurmountable by any means, but during any sword-centric boss battle--and there are plenty--many gamers will want to quit in frustration. Pro tip: Don't quit. Pro tip number two: Purchase the best shield in the game--the one that repairs itself during battle--as early as you can, and get accustomed to using it. This will probably shave about 10 hours off your playthrough. I didn't appreciate the importance of the shield until the very end. And when I say "the very end," I mean "the final battle." Instead of using the shield I went with a lock-on-and-jump-around-a lot approach. What a dummy I am sometimes. Pro tip number three: Don't fool with the wood or iron shields. They are rubbish. I've been finished with <i>Skyward Sword</i> since last Saturday and I still have an unused iron shield collecting dust in the Item Check at the Skyloft bazaar in the center of town.<br />
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Here's a text that I sent to Vic during my final 10 hours of <i>Skyward Sword</i>:<br />
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"I had about 500 dungeon orgasms today. No kidding. This is the most fun, most satisfaction that I've gotten from a game in years."<br />
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And my final text:<br />
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"It's over. :("<br />
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What an utterly stunning turn of events. If you came to me three months ago and told me that <i>Skyward Sword</i> was going to completely blow my toupee off, I would have backed away from you slowly while scanning my surroundings for an object I might be able to use to deliver a blow to your head. What amazes me most is that this truly beautiful game, easily one of the most artful games of 2011, comes to us courtesy of the now-dead Wii, the kick-sand-in-its-face puniest of the recent generation of consoles. A bit of perspective: the Wii has even less horsepower than the 3DS does.<br />
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Boy, is this game ever a thumb in the eye to every developer and publisher out there who practically trips over himself to make boasts about their cutting-edge tech. For the last time, people, tech does not matter. I'm so sick of hearing about how your new game uses the Bink Video (no way!), or what the 4.2 version of your engine (codename: Pterodactyl v. 4.2) can do, or how many mega-polygons were used to build such and such character's dumb hat. We spend far too much time in this industry talking about tech. New Year's resolution, everyone: Let's try to talk about tech less in 2012.<br />
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As we stare down the barrel of the new console launches in 2012--and the rumor is that Microsoft will reveal their new Xbox thing at the Consumer Electronics Show in Las Vegas in a few short weeks--as we find ourselves tempted to celebrate the "specs" of this console or that upcoming game, remember to center yourself by recalling 2011's <i>Skyward Sword</i>, i.e. a game that is most definitely not in high-definition (not even remotely); a game that is so far behind the damn times tech-wise that it's practically archaic (it looks like a game that the characters in <i>Modern Warfare 3</i> would point and laugh at); a game that, despite these woeful shortcomings, features as much heart as, if not more heart, than any game released this year.<br />
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So find a way to play it. Find a way to cope with the control scheme. Find a way to get through those opening 10 hours, even if you have to hire a neighbor kid to do it for you. Because there are things in this game, bona fide wonders, that every gamer has to see.Scott C. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14584082553675139762noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4092463760286231519.post-25528276834402715392011-11-04T11:58:00.004-04:002011-11-09T11:16:23.581-05:00Dear Games: Please Stop Trying To Be Movies. Your Friend, Scott<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Last Thursday afternoon I sat on a panel at the Merging Media conference here in Vancouver titled, "A Tale of Two Worlds: When Film/TV-Game Worlds Collide." Fellow panelists included the current narrative director for the Halo franchise (Armando Troisi); the script writer for Steven Spielberg's Big, Vague, Not-Boomblox Videogame Project from a couple years back (Adam Sigel); the writer for the <i>Avatar </i>and <i>Lost </i>videogame adaptations (John Meadows); a guy who is currently making an MMO based on the Family Guy series (Ian Verchere); and a woman from New York who specializes in something called "transmedia" (Caitlin Burns). "Transmedia" was only the second most overused buzzword at the conference. "Gamification" was the first.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Talking with these fine people got me thinking about the role that stories play in videogames these days. Though more energy, effort and money is being spent on professional writers, producers, and motion-capture/facial-capture technology than at any point in videogame history, the stories that games tell, or at least are attempting to tell, somehow seem to matter less all the time. Case in point: put a gun to my head and ask me to recount the plot points for the following three titles and here's what I would likely tell you:</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>Gears of War 3</i>: I killed a bunch of guys, then more guys showed up. These new guys were glowing, and I killed them, too. Then Baird said something stupid. Then Marcus takes off his doo-rag and reveals that he is, in fact, not balding at all. Then he stares remorsefully out at the ocean, apparently reflecting on all the Regular Guys and Glowing Guys that he killed. THE END.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>Battlefield 3</i>: I went to some vague Middle Eastern country/hot zone and killed a bunch of bad guys, then I went someplace else. I flew in a jet, and there were some nuclear weapons involved at one point. I had a few side objectives now and then, but for the most part I shot at the people who were shooting at me and/or wearing ski masks--anyone wearing a ski mask must be killed on sight!--and I continued to shoot at them until they stopped shooting at me. THE END.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>Uncharted 3: Drake's Deception</i>: Nathan Drake and his elderly, cologne-wearing gentleman companion go on a globe-trotting adventure to find treasures, and along the way, villains show up, because they want the treasures, too. Then Chloe, the sexy one with the dark hair, blue eyes and man's voice from the last game, shows up, which makes the game interesting for awhile. But then she goes away, which is sad. Then that milquetoast Elena shows up. Goddamn it, Elena, go back to buying old issues of Good Housekeeping off eBay or whatever it is that you do when you're not starring in/ruining an Uncharted game. Then I ran away from the same skittering spider horde about 42 times. I shot a bunch of bad guys, and near the end some Special Bad Guys with fire instead of heads (!) show up, and I shot them too. THE END.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The narrative thread common to all three games is this: I shot a bunch of bad guys. Which, after fifty years, is somehow the one story that videogames can tell really, really well. In fact, someone should make a game titled, <i>I Shot A Bunch of Bad Guys</i>. That might move the needle a bit. Digression: I also would like someone to make games called <i>Exploding Barrels</i> (self-explanatory), <i>Cutscene</i> (nothing but cutscenes), and <i>H.U.D.</i> (the head's-up display is so intrusive that it occupies no less than 100-percent of the screen at all times). Because the only way that we're ever going to get past these crutches is by exploding them. Digression two: <i>Exploding Crutches</i> would be a terrific name for an iPhone game. Someone please make it.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">A cutscene was once revered as a rare, hard-earned treat. It was the apple pie at the end of the steak dinner, served to gamers for putting in the time and for playing well. I remember sinking entire nights into <i>Street Fighter II</i> (SNES) in my tiny apartment in Chicago in the early '90's, all in the name of achieving the game's "perfect ending." (See it <a href="http://www.streetfighter2.net/watch.php?v=twBQIap7VV0&feature=youtube_gdata_player&st=Street+Fighter+2">here</a>, along with an incredibly tense final two rounds between Ryu and M. Bison.) In order to achieve this ending, one had to finish the game on level eight--the greatest level of them all--without losing a single round. No small task, I assure you. Yet I did it. My reward? A static group snapshot of the game's roster of characters peering out at me from my 19-inch TV screen. Sprawled across the screen was the word "CONGRATULATIONS" followed by an exclamation point, which appeared to have been typed out by a bleary-eyed programmer only seconds before the game shipped.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">No doubt I shuddered with jizz-blowing joy when I finally saw this screen. I probably envisioned myself among that group of elite fighters, thinking, <i>Yes, friends, we have waged many battles since Thursday, or perhaps Wednesday. But in the end, once a champion has emerged (me), after everything is said and done, we shall always respect one another as warriors....</i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It's funny to me now to remember a time when I would have worked so damn hard for a photo of a bunch of characters, a word, and a piece of punctuation. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But I did.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Not all that long ago--maybe two, three years ago--whenever I would trigger a cutscene in a game, I would put down the controller, sit back, and really soak it in. I would think, <i>So that's what happened after I shot all those guys. I ran that way and exchanged lines of terrible/inane dialogue with a non-playable character. Ha, ha!</i> I once chastised a fellow gamer after he confessed to being a chronic cutscene-skipper. "Without the story, without context, you're not doing anything other than pressing some buttons!" I said excitedly, waving my arms in his direction like a crazy person. He wasn't convinced.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Yet now, every cutscene in every game has somehow become little more than an opportunity for me to check email or scan Twitter. It's true. No matter how brief or pithy it is, no matter how many best-selling science fiction writers were hired to punch up the dialogue, or how cutting-edge the facial-capture technology is (<i>Heavy Rain</i> featured a record 7.6 different kinds of frowns), watching a cutscene almost always results in me waking up on my couch half an hour later feeling as if Dexter Morgan has chloroformed me. Even the cutscenes in <i>Uncharted 3: Drake's Deception</i>, which purports to be the ultimate realization of cinematic videogame experiences (remember <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kaVsmnpEtE0">these commercials</a>?), seem to somehow matter less--far less--than the cutscenes did in <i>Uncharted 2</i>.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So what has changed over the last couple years? Why is it so damn easy for me to ignore this stuff?</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Maybe I'm playing too many games these days. Which is a possibility, because right now I am consuming an almost inhuman amount of content each week. Or, maybe I'm simply tired of having my supposedly interactive experiences abruptly turned into one-way streets. Or, maybe it's the superfluous nature of cutscenes, i.e. watching Marcus Fenix stare out at the ocean matters less, or feels less purposeful, than shooting at the Glowing Guys. No matter what it is, relying on cutscenes to do the heavy lifting when it comes to telling your game's story feels old and lazy to me. Games--and I talked about this during the panel last week--need to stop trying so damn hard to ape film and television all the time. The goal should not be to make a game look or feel more like a movie; the goal should be to figure out what games can do that no other medium can.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Games have gotten into the habit of telling us things instead of showing us things. They explain away whatever mystery they might have had. Nothing is ever subtle, or left to the imagination anymore. Every game tries to out-cutscene the game that came before it--we need more dialogue! more motion-capture! someone turn the money hose back on!--and the result is a kind of cutscene arms race which can only lead to a wasteland populated by legions of blank-eyed, Twitter-checking gamers.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Gamers are among the smartest, most imaginative people I know. All we ask for, all we need is a little narrative nudge. We can fill in the blanks for ourselves. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Trust me, Game Developers, we can handle it. W</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">e're glad to do it.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I recently played a game titled <i>Kirby's Return to Dreamland</i> for the Wii. One particularly memorable moment involved me defeating an enemy by--get this--sucking a second enemy into my mouth (press the 1 button) <i>and blowing him at said enemy</i>. (I know!) After doing this, a star-shaped hole suddenly opened up in the center of the screen for no apparent reason. I thought, <i>Why not?</i> and I jumped into the hole.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The star-shaped suck-hole (another great name for an iPhone game: <i>Star-shaped Suck-hole</i>) transported me to another "land" where an encroaching purple cloud threatened to kill me. Question: How did I know that the cloud would kill me? Answer: It was a particularly evil shade of purple. I ran/waddled away from the purple cloud, navigating obstacles and using my suck-blow attacks on enemies as quickly as I could, attempting to always stay a few steps ahead of what I was sure would be my doom.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">No, none of this makes any sense whatsoever. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Yet there is a self-evident logic inherent to the experience. The game creates its own unique visual language; it has its own set of surrealist rules (example: purple clouds are bad). It has a tangible sense of discovery and wonder. Best of all, it evokes a specific feeling--the feeling one gets when something shouldn't make sense, and yet, against all odds, somehow does--that is, to my mind, far more powerful and exciting than even the mightiest of mo-capped Hollywood-grade cutscenes.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So exactly what kind of narrative is this? </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I'll tell you what kind: it's the kind of narrative that games can do, and should do, more often.</span></div>
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</div>Scott C. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14584082553675139762noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4092463760286231519.post-32516576636654268652011-10-14T12:44:00.002-04:002011-10-19T15:14:04.305-04:00The Last Time I Will Ever Write About Star Wars. (Ever.)Two weeks ago I consumed all six Star Wars movies--the prequels, the tampered-with originals, the special features--in the span of 48 hours. Not by choice or because I'd temporarily lost my mind, but because I was reviewing the new Blu-rays for the show. I locked the doors, lowered the lights, and kept a pillow nearby in case I needed something to rain blows down upon and/or cry into. I pressed PLAY.<br />
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And so it began.<br />
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Along the way, I located an old friend who I'd presumed lost forever: the Star Wars fan within me. In the 10 years since I'd last seen him, he'd grown pale and gaunt. More animal than human now, he no longer wore clothes, or made attempts to cover his genitals or butt areas. He'd written the words "HAN SHOT FIRST" in poop on a nearby wall.<br />
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He peered at me out of the darkness. I peered at him. Then, to my surprise, he spoke. "Friend?" he croaked.</div>
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I decided I'd better finish watching the movies before I gave him my answer.</div>
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EPISODE I: THE PHANTOM MENACE<br />
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*Naboo = the most boring fictional place ever invented.<br />
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*Worst line of the movie Mace Windu: "I do not believe the Sith could return without us knowing." Doesn't look too bad on paper? Try saying it out loud. See? Terrible.<br />
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*OK, new worst line just in: Yoda (to Anakin who is being assessed by the Jedi Counsel): "How feel you?"<br />
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*Anakin/Jake Lloyd driving his pod during the seemingly nine hours-long pod race = looks like he's playing with a bunch of cheap-looking props.<br />
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*Ewan McGregor's ponytail = creepy.<br />
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*There's a petty cockiness to the whole thing. This movie is less about expanding a universe or telling any kind of a story, and more about Star Wars taking a victory lap--hooray for Star Wars, everyone! hooray!--while George passes the hat.<br />
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*More shit.<br />
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*Line that made me put my belt in my mouth and bite down like a cowboy does in movies when he is having a bullet removed from his leg by another cowboy who is using a rusty knife as his surgical instrument: Anakin says these words while flying in space and inadvertently destroying an entire battle station: "This is tense." I'm pretty sure the expression on my face in this moment could be described as woe. This is the moment, I think, when my Star Wars pilot light blew out.<br />
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*There is a Forrest Gump mentality to the whole thing: Simply having pluck--not skill or intelligence--is enough to destroy entire battle stations. Another example: at one point Jar Jar Binks gets the arm of a Clone droid, still wielding a blaster, stuck to his foot. As he tries to shake the arm off, he inadvertently shoots at least three other Clone droids. More appropriate title for this movie: Star Wars Episode I: The Inadvertent Menace.<br />
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*On their death beds, the staunchest of Star Wars fans will still utter the words, "But...Darth...Maul...was...cool." The truth is this: Darth Maul is not a real character. He is a man wearing scary makeup and devil horns who enjoys doing lightsaber dances with the Jedi. That's it.<br />
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EPISODE II: ATTACK OF THE LIGHTSABER DANCE PARTIES<br />
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*Side note: Before the movie debuted, Harry Knowles "leaked" his review of Attack of the Clones, stating that Episode II would right all the wrongs of Phantom. (No Jar Jar, less Senate machinations, more action, etc.) Harry lied to me, and ever since I've discounted his opinion, and Ain't It Cool's opinions, to $0.000001.<br />
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*Ewan McGregor grows an impressive beard.<br />
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*Watching this movie is like watching the world's most powerful money hose spray at full bore for two and a half hours.<br />
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*More dog shit.<br />
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*Anakin's ponytail = looks like the back of his head is shitting.<br />
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*Everything feels small and inauthentic. Every vista feels plastic and manufactured, probably because every vista was created in the George Lucas Synthetic Vistas Lab. Why bother going to Tunisia when you can recreate a digital version of whatever you want with computers on your ranch in the woods?<br />
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*Mace Windu gets another terrible line: He shows up at Count Dooku's arena and says, "This party's over." (Yes, someone got served.)<br />
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*Another terrible Yoda line: While hovering in a ship above the gladiator arena, Yoda says, "Around the survivors a perimeter create."<br />
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*More lightsaber dance parties.<br />
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*Shit explosion.<br />
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*Boba Fett = now ruined forever. Both Phantom and Attack seem hellbent on stripping the Star Wars universe of every bit of mystique it once had.<br />
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*Yoda gets into a lightsaber fight. Now I'd been imagining this moment for more than 30 years. And it's so boring. He bounces all over the place like one of the Flea Men from the Castlevania games. That's his move: bounce, bounce, bounce, etc. What kind of bullshit fighting is that? I actually feel bad for Dooku in this fight because he must be so annoyed.<br />
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*These CG creatures all look like crappy toys I'd put underneath the wheels of my mom's car to see what they'd look like after she'd back over them on her way to work in the morning.<br />
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*Anakin and Padme's romance is the most bloodless relationship ever captured on film. Have two people ever been more neutered or had less chemistry? Man, you could practically see the erections on Luke, Han, and Chewie whenever Leia was around. Seriously, the erections were there; George later had them erased in his Synthetic Erection Erasing Lab. At the other end of the spectrum, when Anakin and Padme kiss, it practically creates a rift in time and space in which every love story ever written, including Romeo and Juliet and The Notebook and Love Story, gets sucked into, never to be seen again.<br />
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EPISODE III: REVENGE OF THE OLD WOMAN LIPS<br />
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*Everyone is clenched in these damn movies. Ewan McGregor = clenched. Samuel Jackson = clenched. Natalie Portman = clenched. Hayden Christensen = so clenched. The only person not clenched is Ian McDiarmid as Senator Palpatine/The Emperor. He and his old woman lips scowl and whoop like he just finished his shift as the host of "Monster Movie Matinee" before reporting to the Star Wars set. He seems to be the only person who had any fun at all while making these movies.<br />
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*Mace Windu's death = shit.<br />
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*George Lucas was once a student of life, but he is no longer. [Side note: I wrote this down while watching the movies, though now I'm not exactly sure what I meant by it at the time.]<br />
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*More lightsaber dances.<br />
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*More shit.<br />
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*Hayden Christensen is supposed to look angry and evil throughout the movie--he's the personification of the struggle between the Light and Dark Sides--but instead he always looks like a varsity quarterback who is vaguely bitter about losing "the big game."<br />
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*Darth Vader operating scene: Do they not have access to morphine at Darth Vader Transformation General Hospital?<br />
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*Also: Why is Darth Vader so short? He towers over everyone in the old movies--except for Chewbacca, of course--but here he looks like a kid wearing his dad's Darth Vader outfit. The proportions are completely off. Not for one second do I believe that the real Darth Vader is inside that suit.<br />
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*It's over. And all I can think is this: what a wasteful enterprise. Even when I was a kid in the 70's and 80's I understood <i>why</i> someone might be tempted by the dark side, how a person could be potentially be corrupted. When Vader reveals that he's Luke's dad in Empire, part of me, even as a child, thought, "Jesus, Luke, just go be with your dad! Go rule the galaxy together. It might be fun. Plus, you'll be with your dad."<br />
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But then George has to go and give us eight more hours of movie explaining how one might be tempted, to show us in the most painstakingly banal and condescending way imaginable the good/bad duality that we're all born with. The prequels presume that the audience members, adults and kids alike, are all mush-brained simpletons; that we've never lived a day.<br />
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Because how could we possibly understand anything unless George spends eight hours and millions of dollars explaining it to us? "George," of course, being a man who has lived like Howard Hughes--minus the pee jars--in his secret woodland retreat for the past 25 years? Surely he knows everything about life and has plenty of wisdom to share with us? Yes? [Note: That's sarcasm.] [Note 2: I'm pretty sure it's this exact thought that resulted in me writing the "George was once a student of life" note from earlier.]<br />
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EPISODE IV: HOLY SHIT THOSE ARE THE SKELETONS OF UNCLE OWEN AND AUNT BERU<br />
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*I'm tired of everyone always heaping praise on Empire at the expense of Star Wars. Empire is a lot of fun, but Star Wars is the better, more human, more complete movie.<br />
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It's true.<br />
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EPISODE V: WHAT? WE ALL HAVE TO WAIT FOR THREE F***ING YEARS TO FIND OUT WHAT HAPPENS TO EVERYONE?<br />
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*While Star Wars ends in a satisfying fashion, Empire leaves everyone and everything in jeopardy. One: Han is trapped in carbonite. Two: Luke learns that Vader is his father. Three: Luke now has two ghosts--Yoda and Obi-wan--in his ghost collection. True to its title, the Empire really did strike back in this movie.<br />
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*Now that I think about it, it's that three year wait between Empire and Jedi that probably turned so many of us into fans/nerds. I had three years, which at that point was approximately one third of my lifespan, to ponder the fate of these characters. Three years to go to bed at night thinking about them; three years to dream about them. That kind of intense wondering, that kind of extrapolation, especially for a kid, does something to a brain that can't easily be undone.<br />
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EPISODE VI: HA, HA, HA, WE'RE ALL MOVIE STARS NOW<br />
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*Yes, there's plenty of mugging and hey-now moments in Return of the Jedi. Yes, everyone was probably drunk and going to orgies at night and doing drugs while filming the movie, because they were all incredibly rich and famous at this point. But I don't care. I still love Jedi. The scenes between Luke and Vader are about as exciting as anything I've ever seen. And I've never understood all the hate for the Ewoks. They're in the movie for about 20 minutes. And they're not that bad. The only truly unforgivable moment for me is the inversion of the "I love you" moment. (Han says it to Leia in Jedi.) Otherwise, Jedi does an admirable job of wrapping up the storyline in a credible, exciting fashion.<br />
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And it's over.<br />
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Two more things before I wind this down.<br />
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One.<br />
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I remember the night in 1977 when my Uncle Jack--now dead for several years--took my brother and me to see Star Wars. (My father, never one for flights of fancy, wasn't interested in this kind of "horse shit.") We lived in the country at the time, on a damp acre of rural property, surrounded by miles of pine trees. Uncle Jack drove us to the nearby city of Rome in his El Camino--not unlike the way Obi-wan takes Luke to Mos Eisley--and showed us something that would, unbeknownst to me at the time, forever change who I was.<br />
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When he dropped us off later that night after the movie, I remember the image of my mother standing in the glow of the porch light in her white nightgown. She was waiting for my brother and me to come indoors. I remember walking towards her, towards the porch light, somehow knowing even then that, like Luke, I wouldn't always live here.<br />
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Two.<br />
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For months my brother and I coveted the two-album John Williams score for Star Wars with all our hearts. Each time we'd visit the local Western Auto--a chain of auto parts stores that also carried housewares, sporting goods, and, yes, records--we'd fondle the shrink wrapped album until the sales clerk would ask us to kindly cease doing so.<br />
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One October afternoon we came home from school to find our grandparents' car sitting in the driveway. When I walked into the house, I knew right away that something was different, that something was happening. The Star Wars theme was coming from the stereo speakers. A closer inspection of the stereo revealed that album one of the two-album set was indeed playing. Our grandparents--like Uncle Jack, also now dead for several years--had brought it to us as a gift.<br />
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My brother and I practically began shitting ourselves with joy. Which was an actual danger for me, as I had literally shit myself with excitement on Christmas morning only a year earlier.<br />
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Man. Sometimes I really miss that kid--the one who once could get so worked up about something that shit would involuntarily come out of him.<br />
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After my recent 48-hour Star Wars digression, to my surprise, the old pilot light flickered back to life again. What's surprising to me is how much time I've spent thinking about Star Wars since. I've had hours of conversations about the movies with friends and co-workers. For years now I've operated as if the Star Wars universe is no longer relevant to me. For better or worse, that's not entirely true.<br />
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Since revisiting the movies, I've located the untampered-with original trilogy on DVD. (It's the 2008 box set. I found it on Amazon. It wasn't cheap.) And, after acquiring said box set, I saw Han shoot first for the first time in about 20 years. It's absolutely cathartic seeing this footage again. And it's also oddly pornographic, as if you're watching something taboo, something that you're no longer supposed to be able to see.<br />
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I've also since purchased an action figure--a Darth Vader--from a terrific store called Toy Traders in Langley, BC. Vader joins the modest collection of Star Wars action figures that I currently keep in my guest bathroom in my apartment. There's a Luke, a Han, an Emperor, a C3PO, an Obi-wan, and even a vintage Boba Fett circa 1979.<br />
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All of which, I suppose, is my way of saying to the revolting, pathetic, poop-flinging Star Wars fan who still lives in me:<br />
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"Yes, old buddy. Friend."Scott C. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14584082553675139762noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4092463760286231519.post-65427027702038507962011-09-16T12:16:00.000-04:002011-09-16T13:31:36.817-04:00Ode To That Crying Guy on the Subway PlatformI had an idea of how my life was going to turn out. I had a plan.<br />
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My plan was this: I was going to be a teacher. Preferably a college professor. Or, failing that, an instructor at a tony private school in the New England states, not unlike the one that Robin Williams teaches at in the movie Dead Poets Society. I would have my summers off, during which I would sip tea and tinker with my thousand-page novel in the afternoons and kiss my cute wife in the evenings. Each fall I'd select a turtleneck from my collection of turtlenecks--all shades of blues and blacks--and return to the campus where I'd resume my place in my creaking office chair while gazing profoundly out the window at the impossibly red leaves on the old maple tree in the Quad.<br />
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It was a good plan. Even now I get a little excited just thinking about it.<br />
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That plan obviously never came about for me.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK6abwWLz_KwrmtNf0CMyDFQ_v5TQBgKYPiFPANdWqfod8CBUVj-inE7cxWU1XMz1lB5ZqH9Z-CJo0y3dXLlFayvpLRCI4AQxc9BCN7mJmO47ByGKz8RGeUlAKr6Tlq-lO29PB7cItAd9J/s1600/3_-dead-poets-society-1989_imagelarge.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="131" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK6abwWLz_KwrmtNf0CMyDFQ_v5TQBgKYPiFPANdWqfod8CBUVj-inE7cxWU1XMz1lB5ZqH9Z-CJo0y3dXLlFayvpLRCI4AQxc9BCN7mJmO47ByGKz8RGeUlAKr6Tlq-lO29PB7cItAd9J/s200/3_-dead-poets-society-1989_imagelarge.jpeg" width="200" /></a></div>
I did go to graduate school, which was the first step in my plan. I mingled with other writers. I taught classes. I shopped for turtlenecks.<br />
<br />
But three years later, when it was time for me to graduate, it dawned on me one day that I'd endured a dramatic change of heart. I no longer wanted to teach. I no longer had any romantic notions about colleges and universities.<br />
<br />
So I let go of my creaking office chair and my maple tree on the Quad. I would still keep my Latin textbooks on my bookshelves for a few more years, thinking that I still might go back, that I still might get a PhD in this or that eventually, that I still might wind up teaching Antigone to teenagers after all. But what I wound up actually doing was this: I moved to New York.<br />
<br />
Which, I now realize, is what people do when they don't know what else to do with their lives.<br />
<br />
I thought that in New York, no matter what happened to me--good or bad--at least I'd still be in New York, home of Papaya King, David Letterman, and The Place Where John Lennon Was Shot. I thought, <i>If any place in the world can tell me what I'm made of, it's this place.</i><br />
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So my Latin textbooks, my turtlenecks and I moved to New York.<br />
<br />
What followed, of course, were many years of abject despair. I lived in crummy apartments. I worked lousy jobs. I fell in love with the wrong girls.<br />
<br />
Then I went through some medical woes in the late '90's. I suffered through things that I wouldn't wish on anyone. In the name of trying to at least slow the rapid downward spiral I was on, I saw a therapist a few times a week. It was Woody Allen-type therapy--me, on the couch, with the therapist, who bore a striking resemblance to Sigmund Freud, sitting in a nearby chair and quietly writing in his notebook.<br />
<br />
After my original career had gone out the window--or, at this point, had flown out a series of windows, then fell to the street below where it lay in a mangled heap and then a large piano had fallen on top of it--I decided that I would be part of a new generation who didn't have traditional careers. Those people with careers? Like my college classmates who had taken jobs with Lehman Brothers and would be there until the end of time (or so they no doubt thought)? They were the suckers. They were the clueless.<br />
<br />
Me? I'd be like the guy in that old Dion song, "The Wanderer."<br />
<br />
"Oh well, I roam from town to town." (I would.) "I go through life without a care." (That's me.) "And I'm happy as a clown." (That sounds fun, right?) "With my two fists of iron and I'm going nowhere." (I have no idea what that last line means.)<br />
<br />
Anyway, I distinctly remember one afternoon sitting in my office at the terrible magazine where I worked. I opened a dark red envelope from Fannie Mae, the student loan people. I'd recently missed a series of student loan payments. As Fannie Mae realized this, they began to send me color coded envelopes. At first the envelopes were, in retrospect, a concerned yellow. But when I ignored them, they turned orange. And now, I was up to red. I was pretty sure that the next envelope I received from Fannie Mae would be an extremely angry purple.<br />
<br />
I opened the envelope. Though I was fully aware of what was coming, it never failed to completely shock me. I found a bill for more than thirty thousand dollars. I sat there, trying to breathe, wondering how in the world I would ever pay off this monstrous debt. Beyond that, I wondered if I'd heal, if I'd get better. And beyond that, I wondered if I'd ever get out of the terrible, miserable office where I was working at the time.<br />
<br />
"You can always come home," my mother said to me over the phone when I told her what was going on. "New York isn't for everybody."<br />
<br />
After work that night, I remember standing on the subway platform at the 36th Street and Sixth Avenue station. It was rush hour. People were so crammed on the platform that they were in danger of falling onto the tracks. My train, an uptown B, pulled into the station. It was filled to capacity.<br />
<br />
The doors opened. No one got on and no one got off. The doors closed.<br />
<br />
The next train was even more full than the previous train. Doors opened. Doors closed. No movement.<br />
<br />
A third train was so full that it did not even bother to stop. It simply rolled straight on through the station--something that trains sometimes did during rush hour--with hundreds of bodies pressed against the windows.<br />
<br />
I did my best to steel myself. I told myself, <i>This is the universe testing you, seeing what you're made of. </i>I thought, <i>This is the best you've got, Universe? Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. I am laughing at you, Universe. Because you have a stupid look on your face right now, Universe. Well, you do.</i><br />
<br />
But 10 minutes later, which equals approximately 100 years in subway time, when another train entered and left the station without stopping--this time without so much as even a tapping of brakes from the train operator--whatever steeling I'd done to myself, whatever bravado I'd been able to muster, was completely gone. Before I could do anything about it, I felt tears coming out of my eyes.<br />
<br />
I could feel them running down my face. I couldn't believe it. I was standing on a subway platform in New York City and weeping like Ryan O'Neal does at the end of the classic 1970 movie, Love Story.<br />
<br />
I was certain in this moment that nothing good would ever happen to me. I was sure--100-percent sure--that my life would be nothing but debt, and terrible jobs, and ruin, and a series of subway trains that wouldn't ever stop for me. What I didn't know that day is that I would eventually turn everything around.<br />
<br />
Everything.<br />
<br />
I would, in time--and it wasn't easy--get myself out of that mire. Oh, there would be other mires, and I'd get out of them, as well. (Fact: The mires never end, really.) Earlier this week I realized that I have been doing what I currently do for 10 full years now. And I realized, to my complete surprise, that though I never wanted one, I somehow, someway wound up with a career anyway. I wound up doing something that I'm proud of, something that I love to do. I'm not sure how this happened. But it did.<br />
<br />
I've done things, and seen things, and gone places that the crying man on the subway platform couldn't even imagine.<br />
<br /></div>
If only I could go back to that time, back to that platform, and talk to that guy. I'd slip an arm around him, and say, "Hey, buddy. It's all going to turn out OK. I know it doesn't feel like it right now, but it is. Trust me. <i>It is</i>."Scott C. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14584082553675139762noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4092463760286231519.post-21308425752850254042011-08-31T12:46:00.013-04:002011-09-05T12:34:23.842-04:00The Pablum Era<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeKLUT1d0UluQoJ-x4KKSLHzDvcUOoZYrFUn6jKMLAhPzF_UxeORX5q6koEbYdTuBz-3cvMjfm_VpFLw2AQQgGhrtlFXfl4S4C_ajK3bU05FT7wTcNxs9PoAbjU07EeqFkC-uhObdzbAvt/s1600/images.jpeg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 201px; height: 251px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeKLUT1d0UluQoJ-x4KKSLHzDvcUOoZYrFUn6jKMLAhPzF_UxeORX5q6koEbYdTuBz-3cvMjfm_VpFLw2AQQgGhrtlFXfl4S4C_ajK3bU05FT7wTcNxs9PoAbjU07EeqFkC-uhObdzbAvt/s320/images.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5647806685800566402" /></span></a><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">These days videogames tend to be fun, breezy little experiences. They are grin-inducing diversions that leave you feeling like a winner. Do the slightest thing, however banal, and suddenly the game is beeping and booping all over the place and raining virtual confetti down upon your laurel leaf-crowned head. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">"Well, now! Look at you!" games seem to say. "What a spectacularly gifted human being you are! I know that you and I barely know each other, but I'm going to go out on a limb here and make a guess that you, Handsome Face--is it OK if I call you Handsome Face?--are something of a gaming savant. Aren't you? Come, now--no need to be humble. Now, go ahead and accept this oversized check made out in your name. And enjoy another four or five happy little ditties along with all these glorious rainbows shooting all over the f---ing place! IT'S ALL FOR YOU, CHOSEN ONE!!!!!!!!!!!!!"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">But there was a time, not all that long ago, when games weren't afraid to be cruel exercises in dark agony (Cruel Exercises in Dark Agony = the title of my grad school poetry thesis); when they'd ask you to perform impossible task after impossible task and, upon completing said tasks, after dozens upon dozens of game-over screens, you'd be given the most meager of rewards for your effort. Games once said to us: "Hey, guess what? After all that bullshit you just went through, it turns out that the princess is actually in another castle. Oh man, if only you could see the dumb expression on your face right now. This is what you look like: 'Dur, dur, dur, dur, dur.' " Games said: "Every doubt you've ever had about yourself? About you sucking at everything and being a huge loser? <i>All of that shit is absolutely f---ing true</i>."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">The reward-to-effort ratio these days is, by my far-from-scientific estimates, around ten to one. In other words, gamers typically get around 10 cutscenes, 10 door-opening keys, 10 Achievements Unlocked or 10 variations on a confetti shower for every sole bit of effort that they invest into a game. During the '80's and '90's, the opposite was true. Gamers had to invest 10 times the effort and time into a game in order to squeeze out the smallest, stalest bread crumb of encouragement. (Stale Bread Crumbs of Encouragement = Another solid title for a graduate school poetry thesis.)</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">To be clear, I'm not waxing poetic for a golden age of thumb-busting gaming here. I'm not saying that one is better or worse. All I'm saying is that most of us are walking the earth thinking that we are better gamers--and, perhaps by extension better people--than we actually are.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">Over the last five years or so, games have gone from being a niche hobby to having mass appeal. Part of the reason that the medium has achieved this kind of commercial success is that game makers have become incredibly savvy when it comes to making everyone--including your mom, a.k.a. the very person who once chastised you for playing games--feel like winners. In other words, if you build it, and you create a cleverly designed feedback loop that makes them feel awesome, they will come.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">Exhibit A: Game Over screens are an endangered species these days. Think about it--when was the last time you saw a Game Over or You're Dead, or in the case of Bayonetta, the "Witch Hunts Are Over" screen?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">Imagine if you could pleasure a lover--a complicated task, as most of us can attest--simply by touching her on the very tip of her nose. One little tiny tap--boop!--and suddenly she is in the throes of passion. Seeing the results of your tap-boop, you would no doubt think, <i>Surely I must be counted among the world's most skilled and gifted lovers. </i>Or, imagine if you merely wrote your name at the top of your SAT only to have an entire marching band suddenly enter the testing hall along with a bald man in jacket and tie offering you a full scholarship to any university--any school in the world--that you'd like go to. Or, imagine if you invested a mere $10 in the stock market only to have--well, you get the idea.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">If these things actually happened, the direct result would be an over-developed and undeserved sense of confidence in one's self. Egos would be inflated to Macy's Thanksgiving Parade-balloon size. People would walk the streets thinking,<i> I'm hot shit</i>, even when they are in fact not even remotely close to being hot shit.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">That's what's happening in videogames these days.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">One of the first games with mass appeal was 1984's Tetris. Blocks would descend from the top of the screen, Russian MIDI music would play, and everyone--even casual gamers--had a high old time. It's interesting to note that there was never any sort of "winning" in Tetris; all you could do effectively in Tetris was stave off inevitable failure. Because no matter how skilled you were, every Tetris player on the planet is eventually overwhelmed by the bricks. If anyone technically wins in Tetris, it's not the player; it's the bricks.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">Compare Tetris with 2007's Peggle, which requires minimal, if any, skill, and is nothing but winning. Fire a tiny ball into a row of dots, watch it bounce from dot to dot, then bask in the glow of the message "EXTREME FEVER!" appearing onscreen while Beethoven's "Ode to Joy" blares in the background. If you're feeling a little low today, take in a couple of quick games of Peggle. Peggle can turn your day around right quick.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">Peggle marks the beginning of the Pablum Era in gaming. The bulk of what's offered to gamers these days, with rare exceptions, is sugar-coated and dumbed down and already chewed. Few games, if any, dare pose a bona fide challenge for fear that someone might find the game too challenging and stop playing. Games are inherently insecure entities. They show up in our lives all smiley and smelling good, hoping with all their hearts that we really, really like them. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">Whenever a game does come along that's not afraid to make a gamer question his or her self-worth--examples include From Software's Demon's Souls, Retro's Donkey Kong Country Returns, and Tecmo's Ninja Gaiden games--said game garners a reputation as a "hard" game, or as a game that would appeal exclusively to "old school" or "retro" gamers.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">I'm not against games that make people feel good about themselves. As I've said many times through the years, I play videogames to feel like a winner and a hero; I play games because I want to see things and do things and experience things that I can't see/do/experience in my regular litter box-scooping, bill-paying, laundry-doing life. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">But when I play something like the acclaimed Jetpack Joyride, which everyone on the planet seems to be playing today, a game which requires me only to tap repeatedly on the iPad's touchscreen--no, it does not even matter where I tap; just tap anywhere--only to receive glorious explosions, spinning slot machines, and more coin-jangling sound effects than an Atlantic City casino for my "efforts," it's difficult sometimes not to feel like Pavlov's dopiest dog.</span></div>Scott C. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14584082553675139762noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4092463760286231519.post-9637518073462172542011-08-28T06:29:00.004-04:002011-08-28T09:03:29.671-04:00The Artwork of Toronto Hotel Rooms, Part 3<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLqxhoT8kdagO38-6r-vXjPk8wtRIzEc4ZjD7NsW4dgczMF-iEjgGetSi4FTNxuWagj08_Z9T5g_cmssdy605LSWDxqvmIrSuLc3Cszi8YogrY4EfW0nsgDTGaztjgcZobkOgGbETWwWbe/s1600/photo.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 239px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLqxhoT8kdagO38-6r-vXjPk8wtRIzEc4ZjD7NsW4dgczMF-iEjgGetSi4FTNxuWagj08_Z9T5g_cmssdy605LSWDxqvmIrSuLc3Cszi8YogrY4EfW0nsgDTGaztjgcZobkOgGbETWwWbe/s320/photo.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5645885841370417890" /></a>It's my last day in Toronto. There's still plenty to do before I can head to the airport--one more G4 booth hang-out (10 a.m. to noon), one more panel--yet I already I feel that vague it's-all-over melancholy that's an inevitable part of any trip. Make no mistake, going home will be great--it always is (hint: there are cats there)--but part of me wouldn't exactly be devastated if I had to stay put for another day or two.</span><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">Maybe that's because this is the closest I ever get to taking a proper vacation. I've never been very good at vacations. I've never mastered the art of rest and relaxation. People who have will tell you that, yes, it truly is an art. I have no desire to sink my toes into a white-sand beach in Bermuda and quaff a rum-based drink while saying something like, "Now this is the life!" I've been to the European Union a few times. I've looked at their old-time buildings and sipped their strong coffee. They're doing some good things over there. But I do not have a try-and-stop-me need to return. If I go back, fine. If not: also fine.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">A few years ago, when I was still going out on a lot of dates, the first or second thing a date would often say to describe herself would be this: "I just love to travel!!!!!!!!!!" And I would always think, <i>Well, I don't</i>, while using all of my powers of concentration--and I mean all of my powers--to mitigate the frown that was attempting to unfold across the lower half of my face. (Yes, I was a joy to go out on dates with, ladies.)</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">Whenever someone shows me photos of their travels--"Here's Linda and me outside the Louvre!!!!!"--or worse still, when he or she shows me the glossy brochures and/or websites of the places that they intend to travel to, I immediately start banging pots and pans together hoping that the din will eventually drive this person away.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">Part of the problem is that I've traveled an awful lot over the last 10 years. At one point I logged enough frequent flier miles to routinely qualify for first-class seats on American Airlines. I also recently relocated from one city to another (and, to go a step further, one country to another), which makes me still feel a bit like a vacationer in my new city. Fact: I need a passport to get into, and out of, my new country. Also: I lived in New York for 15 years, which is so massive and diverse that I always felt a bit like a tourist there. Even after 15 years, I could still get lost there, could still find myself wandering around and scratching my head, could still discover streets and even entire neighbourhoods that I'd never seen before. You can live in New York City for your entire life and never quite take in the scope of the whole damn thing.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">The second part of the problem, which isn't really a problem at all, is that I enjoy what I do for a living. I love my job and the people who I work with to such an extreme degree that I never really feel any desire to take a time-out from it or from them. I have no desire to stick pins into a voodoo doll that looks like my boss; I don't spend a lot of time saying things like: "Barry in Accounts is just about the biggest asshole I've ever met in my life." For me, work days turn into weeks, weeks turn into months, and suddenly it seems like it's always January and we're doing it all over again.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">Also: as is evident from the last few days in Toronto, there is never a shortage of hotels or airports in my life. So there's always the feeling that I'm perpetually on vacation, even when, technically speaking, I'm not.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">A few places I wouldn't mind being dragged to: the <a href="http://www.mohonk.com/">Mohonk Mountain House</a> in the Catskills, because it's a big, shambling Overlook-like hotel, which is equal parts beautiful and creepy; Bruges, Belgium, mostly because I liked <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0780536/">the Martin McDonagh movie</a> an awful lot; and Copenhagen, Denmark because I was there once in the mid '90's and, of the few places I visited in Europe, Copenhagen is the one I want to return to, namely because 1. it was a bit mysterious, 2. it was filled with tall people, 3. <a href="http://www.tivoli.dk/composite-3351.htm">Tivoli Gardens</a> is the closest I will ever come to actually being inside Willy Wonka's chocolate factory.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">Now before you start banging pots and pans in my direction, which you have every right to do after the hypocritical nature of the previous paragraph, here's today's selection of artwork, carefully selected from the gallery that is room 2011 here at the Marriott Residence Inn in downtown Toronto.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">TODAY'S ARTWORK: A tall, skinny photograph of a rocky mountaintop piercing skeins of cloud cover. This rather tasteful black-and-white photo--which seems even more tasteful when juxtaposed with <a href="http://reportthejones.blogspot.com/2011/08/artwork-of-toronto-hotel-rooms-part-2.html">yesterday's completely hideous "Jazz Jambalaya" painting</a>--hangs directly above the toilet in my room. Each time I have used the toilet this weekend, I have studied the photograph. I have two observations to share: </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">1. This looks like a place that The Lord of the Rings Gang would pass through on their way to Minas Tirith. Or,</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">2. Kratos might shop for real estate here. (PRIVATE, WIND-BLOWN MOUNTAIN-TOP ABODE COMPLETE WITH MENACING ROCK FORMATIONS IDEAL FOR BBQ-ING & ENTERTAINING/HURLING THE CORPSES AND LIMBS OF YOUR ENEMIES FROM/ENJOYING THREESOMES WITH WANTON MAIDENS. MINUTES TO PUBLIC TRANSPORTATION. PETS WELCOME.)</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">Artwork score: 6 out of 10.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">Artist: Unknown.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">Can I remove said artwork from hotel room wall? Answer: This one came off the wall quite easily.</span></div></div>Scott C. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14584082553675139762noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4092463760286231519.post-77048900840766785002011-08-27T07:31:00.007-04:002011-08-28T06:29:26.872-04:00The Artwork of Toronto Hotel Rooms, Part 2<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEmerVywCNHCqATrnEXBb7VZHiT0h51Kf2hoeEBgPx1i1v-LnFl1bJbhkGNICLV52Ld_6A864ZYzwiHj07cbBwYsGHJCdC696YSF4nPlMx1DMYooE5scd88HBsRb7e5IA2he1H0vPog-cD/s1600/photo.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 239px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEmerVywCNHCqATrnEXBb7VZHiT0h51Kf2hoeEBgPx1i1v-LnFl1bJbhkGNICLV52Ld_6A864ZYzwiHj07cbBwYsGHJCdC696YSF4nPlMx1DMYooE5scd88HBsRb7e5IA2he1H0vPog-cD/s320/photo.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5645515989500928722" /></a>I got up early this morning and went for a brisk walk around the block. The air was cool and damp. Surprise: it's another gray morning here in Toronto. Gray mornings seem to be a Toronto specialty.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">While I was sleeping, a heavy fog was busy blowing in. It's out there now, even as I type this, blanketing the city. It's winding its way between the buildings, coiling around the CN Tower, pressing up against the side of my Marriott, kissing the window of my room.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">Side note: Toronto Fog = OK name for a high school jazz quintet.
<br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">I love getting up early in strange cities and walking about while the streets are still quiet and vacant. Traffic lights change then change again without any cars around to heed them. Early on, before everyone else wakes up and starts moving about and making their noise? That's the best time of day to get to know a city.</span></div></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">I usually snap a few random photos of the empty streets, thinking that maybe years from now, when I'm in my dotage, in the landfill of god-awful photos that my iPhone seems to naturally accrue, I'll discover these particular photos and think, <i>Remember that one time I got up really early in Toronto and went for a walk? Man. (Pause...) That was kind of a weird time.</i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">A few years ago, when I was traveling more often, back when game publishers were still flying writers all over the place on silly, unnecessary trips, I had the idea that I would take a photo of every hotel room I had stayed in. When I had accumulated a few dozen of those photos, I would arrange them into a collage, have it framed, and give it a pretentious title like "Vacancy/No Vacancy," or "Loneliness #2," or "Tiny Free Soaps."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">Side note: Tiny Free Soaps = also an OK name for a high school jazz quintet.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">Who knows. I still might wind up doing that.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">Another remarkable thing about my Toronto hotel room: There is no phone in the toilet. In fact, this has to be one of the first hotels I've ever stayed in that does not have the <i>de rigueur</i> telephone located in the can. I've never understood the toilet phone as a concept. Who makes calls on those things? If I need to order room service or extra towels, am I going to use the toilet phone to ring the front desk? Answer: I'm not. I'm going to choose the regular phone which, considering the limited square footage of the hotel rooms I have stayed in, is usually only an additional three or four steps away from the toilet phone. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">One more thing: Considering the location of the toilet phone, i.e. the toilet, I'm not sure I'd be terribly anxious to make calls from a phone that previous guests, who were all presumably seated on the bowl at the time of their calls, have also used. Then again, anyone interested in using a toilet phone is not exactly obsessed with good hygiene.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">The world, once again, can be divided into two kinds of people: those who are for toilet phones, a.k.a. THE ABSOLUTE PINNACLE OF MODERN LIVING, and those who are against them. The eHarmony people should probably query singles if they've ever used a toilet phone--check YES or NO--and save hundreds, maybe thousands of people from unnecessary heartbreak and ruin.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">Imagine this: you are on a romantic getaway to a mountain lodge with someone for the first time. Suddenly you overhear this person, who you think has at least a modicum of potential to be the love of your life (no one goes to a mountain lodge unless there is a modicum of potential), <i>placing a call from the toilet.</i> "Hey Tim? It's Fred. How are you? Yep, I'm at the mountain lodge." Etc. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">No one--no, not even terrible people--should have to discover this about a possible mate in this fashion.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">Anyway, I'd better get to today's painting.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">TODAY'S PAINTING: This one looks like a famished, loin-cloth-wearing giant put an entire jazz quintet--saxophone, clarinet, guitar, trumpet and piano--in his giant mouth, gave the quintet a couple of chews with his back molars, then spit the whole mess out on the ground where a terrible painter was standing by with an easel and oil paints ready to record the whole thing for posterity and/or Bed, Bath & Beyonds everywhere.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">Painting Score: 2 out of 10.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">Artist: The work is, not surprisingly, unsigned.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">Can I remove the painting from the room wall? Answer: I cannot. (Though, I confess, I didn't try terribly hard to jigger this one loose.)</span></div></div>Scott C. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14584082553675139762noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4092463760286231519.post-15173947394308190162011-08-24T13:38:00.010-04:002011-08-26T10:33:16.924-04:00The Artwork of Toronto Hotel Rooms, Part 1<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkck6pZx4T22pvaa2elAqm6XVLS8iJwFuWQxeGw4cE60AZjaGk3U0CFHG9UFZB4c87FgUZEHerokL9TyeG1-h4IbeY6fRXMo5G41TNdpf6mGdaDHL9DiBNdASqta2pMqAWHJ0SCUcOGsRD/s1600/photo.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 239px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkck6pZx4T22pvaa2elAqm6XVLS8iJwFuWQxeGw4cE60AZjaGk3U0CFHG9UFZB4c87FgUZEHerokL9TyeG1-h4IbeY6fRXMo5G41TNdpf6mGdaDHL9DiBNdASqta2pMqAWHJ0SCUcOGsRD/s320/photo.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5645167724573579458" /></span></a><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">I woke up this morning in a hotel room on Wellington Street in Toronto. There are several nice things about my room. One: I have a view of the CN Tower. Two: Free Wi-fi. Three: Firm mattress. Four: One extra pillow on the bed.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">While waking, I noticed a painting on the far wall of my room. This painting shows a man and a European-style bicycle. (How can I tell that it is a European bicycle? Because the seat is very small and is located at the very back of the bicycle.) The man, interestingly, is not riding the bicycle. Instead, he seems to be walking the bicycle. Maybe he has just finished a long ride and is tired. Maybe he stopped for a moment to take in the scenery. Or maybe his lover, only moments ago, ended their love affair, and now he is too sad to ride his bicycle. Regardless, his head is extremely thin, far more thin than a normal head would be, which is an example of the artist exercising his or her "Artistic License."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">The man and his bicycle appear to be passing through an old fishing village of some kind. I say "old" namely because the painting is rendered in a range of sepia tones. Whenever I see a sepia tone, or even see the word "sepia," boom, I inevitably think "old" and sometimes even start hearing faint clarinet music like the type that is played in fake old-time ice cream parlors.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">The tide is clearly out at the moment in the painting. Three boats--two regular boats and a sailboat--are currently parked on the shore. Did the fishermen, who are absent in the painting, pull the boats ashore? If so, where are they now? Are they perhaps lunching inside the small, thin building on the lefthand side of the painting? Perhaps they are smoking cigarettes and telling one another off-color jokes about the bicyclist's lover who has jilted him. Jokes that include phrasings and words like "openings," "24-7," and "that laundromat sign that says 'Last load: 8 p.m.' "</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">Other points of interest in the piece: the angry-looking rock-formation jetty extending into the harbor, which threatens to cleave the painting in two, and the palm-tree frond which hangs down from the top left corner. At least, I think it is a palm tree frond. Because it looks strange for a frond.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">At the horizon, the sepia tones are identical to the sepia tones of the earth beneath the tires of the thin-headed man's European bicycle. This implies that earth and sky are one, and perhaps thematically, that whatever we find here on earth is just as appealing as anything we might long for, or envy over the horizon.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">Score for this painting: 4 out of 10.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">Artist: The work is unsigned.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">Can I remove the painting from the room wall? Answer: No, I cannot.</span></div>Scott C. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14584082553675139762noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4092463760286231519.post-14334349350749911862011-08-09T11:44:00.024-04:002011-08-17T14:03:10.551-04:00I Don't Know If I'm an Alcoholic (But I Quit Drinking Anyway)<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSFFvl285asQTIXrcKWYxDSrW6r9_PefRSslH_4yI2eC-cS1GdsCfeIBp1HY39F2VwdESv734nlNlX4KZAuz0hcOv1ftu_voBSyT2ewd85mXUfIM67n0ZSr-Mesxq1h0F-gW8YQq84szll/s1600/images.jpeg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 189px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSFFvl285asQTIXrcKWYxDSrW6r9_PefRSslH_4yI2eC-cS1GdsCfeIBp1HY39F2VwdESv734nlNlX4KZAuz0hcOv1ftu_voBSyT2ewd85mXUfIM67n0ZSr-Mesxq1h0F-gW8YQq84szll/s320/images.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5641460550547237410" /></a>If you know me, even a little, then you know that I've had my struggles with booze over the years. I never drank every day, or doctored my coffee with schnapps in the mornings, or kept a flask on my person. I never loitered in barrooms often enough to qualify as a barfly. That said, whenever I did drink--typically anywhere from two to five nights a week depending on the kind of week I was having--I always did so to an extreme, with a sense of great purpose. <span class="Apple-style-span">I always drank with the desire to arrive somewhere else, someplace far away from myself.</span></span><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">Those times are over now. At least, I hope they are. As of this Sunday, it'll be 63 days since I've had a drink.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">Nearly every day on my walk home from the office, I pass the sun-flooded patio of Chill Winston in Gastown and observe people sipping from what appear to be the tallest, coldest, most spectacularly golden glasses of beer I have ever seen. I always think the same thing: <i>Why can't I have one?</i> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">The reason why you can't have one, I patiently explain to my dumb self, is because you could never stop at one. My thinking was always this: <i>Why have one when you can have six? Or ten? Or fifteen?</i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">My appetite for beer has been insatiable since college. Whenever I shopped for beer, I'd always think of this line from <i>True Romance</i>: "It's better to have a gun and not need it than to need a gun and not have it." Only I'd replace the word "gun" with "beer." This was my way of giving myself permission to purchase an extra six-pack or a spare tallboy, you know, just in case I needed it later. And if I didn't drink it tonight? It would be there tomorrow night, waiting for me.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">When I moved to British Columbia in the summer of 2009, I dropped off my luggage at my furniture-less apartment then headed to the nearby 7-11 to buy beer. After a thorough investigation of the store's cooler sections and a brief interrogation of the cashier, I learned that convenience stores in B.C. do not carry alcohol of any kind. <span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ">Over the next few days, I cased the neighborhood for liquor stores, only to deduce that there were none. The closest booze seller was a good sweat-inducing 15-minute walk away. I thought, <i>Fine. This is the universe telling me that it's time to establish better habits, to start fresh here in this city. I hear you, Universe. </i>And for a while, I was marginally booze-free and feeling pretty good about that.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">Then three months later a beer and wine store opened its doors not more than a hundred steps from my apartment building. I anxiously peered through the front windows of the store wondering what, exactly, the universe was telling me now. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">I became one of the store's first and no doubt best customers. I knew the owners of the store, and knew all the cashiers by name. And the money I spent there! A 12-pack of Alexander Keith's, which is pretty good beer, costs nearly $30. Six-packs range from $14 to $17 dollars for anything of quality. Trying to be a drunk in this province is no small investment.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">It pains me now to do the math, thinking of all the cash I spent there. The store has only gotten fancier over the last two years. I can't help but think that some of the nicer additions, like the dimly lit wine alley on the far side of the store, wouldn't have been possible without my generous donations.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">Though the amount of cash I've spent on beer is extraordinary, what galls me further, and makes me despair further, is the amount of time and energy I spent thinking about drinking, planning my drinking, and beyond that, being hungover from drinking. It's a truly staggering amount of time. I could have done plenty of other things with that time. I could have finished writing a book or two, could have gotten married and had a family, could have gotten married a second time and had a second family, could have been a better friend to my friends. I could have finally finished Fallout: New Vegas. I could have written more Jones Report entries, could have done more loads of laundry. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ">I could have learned to play the goddamn French horn. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ">I could have called my mother more often. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">Make no mistake: my life is fine. In some ways, considering all the self-destruction I've engaged in over the past two decades, it's borderline miraculous that things have turned out as well as they have for me. Still, it's hard not to wonder sometimes what I could have done, what path I might have taken, if I hadn't devoted so much time and energy to drinking.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">At the back of my mind I suppose I've always fantasized what my life might be like if I really tried, you know, to be the best I could be, day in and day out. I've always wondered what I might be capable of, what fortune, glory or sense of self-satisfaction, if any at all, would come my way. <span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ">Part of me has always been afraid to learn the answer to that question. I mean, what if I actually tried my best, tried to find out what I'm truly capable of, what I'm worth, only to learn that it's not really all that much? </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">That's a really shitty thing to learn about yourself. <span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ">That said, I also know that if I don't at least attempt to learn the answer to that question, if I don't at least make a whole-hearted run at it, I'll never be able to forgive myself.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">I went to a couple of AA meetings. It's an excellent organization, and it obviously works for a lot of people, but it's not for me. Maybe I'm being naive here, but I have a hard time accepting the I'm-helpless-in-the-face-of-this and addiction-as-disease approach. I believe you have a pretty clear choice when it comes to addiction: You choose to do it or choose not to do it. And that's it. <span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ">(<a href="http://www2.macleans.ca/2009/05/26/addiction-new-research-suggests-its-a-choice/">This article</a> in Macleans deconstructs the addiction-as-disease way of thinking far more eloquently than I ever could.) (And if you're in the mood for one more booze-y click, it should be <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2010/04/18/magazine/18lives-t.html">John Bowe's terrific story</a> from the Lives section of the NY Times Magazine.)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">So am I an alcoholic? Man, I don't know. A diagnosis really isn't even relevant anymore. All I know is this: I no longer liked the role that alcohol was playing in my life. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 20px; ">That's all.</span></span></div></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">Sixty-plus days in, I'll confess: there's a pretty big hole in my life, and in my personality, that beer had occupied for decades. I've realized that I don't know who I am, or what I'm going to look like, or feel like, without beer in my life. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;">But I'm figuring that out now as fast as I can. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 20px; ">In the meantime, I'll put in another load of laundry, then telephone my mom, then get busy attempting to realize my full potential.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 20px; font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 20px; font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">Oh, beer-free life: I haven't completely figured out your appeal yet. But I will.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 20px; font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">
<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 20px; font-family:'times new roman';font-size:130%;">I will.</span></div>Scott C. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14584082553675139762noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4092463760286231519.post-2205953986814837572011-07-21T09:13:00.005-04:002011-07-21T09:58:06.999-04:00The Joys of Life at 35,000 Feet<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjqPd5I8zbQkehET8Z7e_qMcLSnLpqS-3zr20T9xo0XJsTg0IhwQIB02d_Id5Og8PQF-QNfTVpt9FjSZ0e1z6bq2wuQLhi5HzPISogWpbU9Ikvp9fO-k7aDJcoO9QV9BYfTzszTLhGtIaQ/s1600/images.jpeg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 252px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjqPd5I8zbQkehET8Z7e_qMcLSnLpqS-3zr20T9xo0XJsTg0IhwQIB02d_Id5Og8PQF-QNfTVpt9FjSZ0e1z6bq2wuQLhi5HzPISogWpbU9Ikvp9fO-k7aDJcoO9QV9BYfTzszTLhGtIaQ/s320/images.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5631798860198013074" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I'm away for the next week or so, in Upstate New York visiting my parents and my brother's family for a few days before heading south to New York City to see some friends there and tend to some business.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Yes, there's a plane involved--two of them, in fact--and a train (Amtrak between Utica and New York Penn Station, and at least one automobile (my parents will pick me up at the airport tonight, in Syracuse, as usual later tonight). Pictured above: the actual plane that will take me from Chicago to Syracuse later on today. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I also understand that I'm flying into what appears to be a sinister, world-class heat wave. If you happen to see a man sweating--and I mean dripping-from-the-tip-of-his-nose sweating--in an airport or train station over the next few days, chances are good that it's me. The heat and I are old enemies.</span></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Packing this morning, as usual, I realize that I'm carrying an absurd amount of game machines. Here's what will pass through customs with me this morning: x1 3DS, x1 second generation DS (I can't live without the GBA cartridge slot), x1 PSP go (Pixeljunk Monsters: you are coming with me), x1 iPhone, and x1 iPad. No one, and I mean no one travels with more gaming opportunities on his person at any given moment that I do. (Except for maybe Victor Lucas. He carries around this amount gaming hardware <i>practically </i></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">every day</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">, not just on travel days.) (Vic: You're weird.) (And I heart you.) (And Vic's also at the airport this morning, only he's enroute to Comic Con in San Diego. Godspeed, my friend.)</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I especially love the moment--or rather, The Moment--when the plane finally levels off after its initial ascent, and the rotund fellow in the seat next to me starts to doze, and all my worries, anxieties, qualms, etc. are left behind me, back there, on the ground, and I reach into my duffel for the first time, as excited as an 8 year old on Christmas morning, trying to decide what system and what game to play first.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Man, I'm getting giddy over here just thinking about it.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I have plans to chime in and write while traveling. But the truth is, I'll likely be M.I.A. for a bit. Try not to miss me too much.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Happy Thursday.</span></div></div>Scott C. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14584082553675139762noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4092463760286231519.post-22142308250146600562011-07-12T10:31:00.013-04:002011-07-16T11:42:33.976-04:00The Offline Lifestyle<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgczavZzolSAxAdxOIL2tjg8L1vQ81RTV1Jfgdc3Jxi01C5yDxD8zuWIiIn7H5qZ-qZOz1NCtRMkrGc_54Fq0MA8cdleNPT3onpV3pCQtlGiOMtRBWXJckPUMkKzWTukMIstNL0S5lBC_la/s1600/images.jpeg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 183px; height: 276px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgczavZzolSAxAdxOIL2tjg8L1vQ81RTV1Jfgdc3Jxi01C5yDxD8zuWIiIn7H5qZ-qZOz1NCtRMkrGc_54Fq0MA8cdleNPT3onpV3pCQtlGiOMtRBWXJckPUMkKzWTukMIstNL0S5lBC_la/s320/images.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5628875749070962818" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">As you know, Xbox 360's have failed me for the last time more often than Admirals failed Darth Vader in the Star Wars movies. Most recently, after m</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">y Xbox 360 Slim gave up its ghost making it the fourth 360 (and counting) to fail me, I tried to suss out a way to</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> transfer my data from the hard drive of my busted Slim to my older model Elite 360. </span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Realizing that this process was both complex and risky, I decided to plug in the old Elite and simply start a brand new Xbox Live profile from scratch on the Elite's wiped hard drive. W</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">ith my Gamer Score set all the way back to zero, no friends on my My Friends list, and that dopey golden retriever picture as my default gamer tag photo, I finally--finally--got back to gaming.</span></span></div><div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I thought: "I have to remember to let people know that I'm over here, temporarily at least, at this new Xbox Live handle."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">But I didn't. Instead, I eased into a few races in Midnight Club: Los Angeles, starting the entire game over again from the beginning. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The next night, I powered on the Elite again--man, this damn thing wheezes and gasps at start-up like an emphysema patient--to play Ms. Splosion Man, again planning to friend a few people. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">But I didn't. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Nearly a week has passed now. A</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">nd I still have yet to friend anyone.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">It's oddly refreshing to look at my Gamer Profile and observe that I have exactly zero points. I had no idea the degree to which I was using my Gamer Score as a measure of personal self-worth. Like a Stockholm Syndrome survivor, I puzzled over how I ever got seduced into thinking of it as some kind of important metric in my life.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">But an even bigger part of the appeal of my new XBL profile is the hermetically sealed isolation of it all. The most indelible gaming memories that I have from the last three decades aren't centered around that one time I pulled off a headshot on Crazzzy8888s1989 in a Wager match on the Silo map in Black Ops. My fondest memories historically involve long, drawn-out single-player games like Shadow of the Colossus, BioShock, and Grand Theft Auto: Vice City. My favorite games have always been very quiet, private, and personal journeys away from the sturm and drang of the rest of my life.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I've never been a fan of turning games into social, people-oriented experiences. Exhibit A: the multiplayer in BioShock 2. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Games, of course, can be a conduit for social experiences, like the aforementioned headshot moment on Crazzzy8888s1989. But when I game, I'm not looking for way to connect with other people--I already do enough of that throughout my workday.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> What I want to do, more than anything, is to connect with the people who created the game.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Same way that I enjoy locking psyches with an author when I read a book, when I play BioShock my greatest desire is to connect with the very people who made BioShock. I want to understand how their brains work, what their aesthetic values are, and what their sense of logic is. (Or, in the case of Resident Evil 4, another terrific and completely isolating experience, the developer's complete disregard for logic. Exhibit B: killing a snake leaves an egg behind which you can eat for a health boost.)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">In the old days, whenever I would power up the 360, which has been in my life since launch in late 2005, I was in the habit of doing two things: 1. I'd check to see who was online at the moment, and 2. I'd then check to see what those people were doing or playing. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I'd study the row of dancing, preening (or, in most cases, napping) avatars. I'd notice things like this: my friend Steve who lives in New York, which is two time zones away from me, is still awake at 3 a.m. playing Trenched. I'd sit on my couch here on the West Coast, thinking to myself, "Huh. I wonder why Steve is awake at 3 a.m.? Did he wake up to feed the baby, then wander into the living room and decide to play Trenched? Is he fighting with Margo again? Maybe she made him sleep on the couch. They have been fighting a lot these days. Man, I hope he's not drinking. He really shouldn't be drinking anymore..."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">At this point I inevitably have two further thoughts: 1. I hope that my friend Steve is OK, and 2. why must I go down this sort of digression hole every goddamn time I look at the dancing, preening row of avatars? How did real life and all of its concerns and complications and brow-furrowing and messiness and crying babies and fights with Margo get jungled up with my gaming? </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Often I'd observe still other online friends who were, like good gamers should, consuming quality content that I should probably also be consuming. Friends always seem to be playing literate, artful offerings like Fallout: New Vegas, Dragon Age II, and Red Dead Redemption night after night after night. And I'd experience hot-faced shame knowing that they'd be able to see whatever lowbrow tripe I had selected to play for the evening, like Bayonetta (again), or The Bigs 2 (again), or Vanquish (again). </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">"Good for you and your terrific taste, everyone</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">,</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">"</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I'd think bitterly.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I have actually received messages via Xbox Live from online friends--or rather, "friends"--asking me, "Why on earth are you playing THAT shitty game again?" Which only makes me want to bellow the following three words directly into my TV screen: </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">LEAVE ME ALONE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">But with my new, completely anonymous profile, which no one, no, not even Victor Lucas, shall know the name of, I can now game again in complete, people-free privacy, with no worry whatsoever that I'll be interrupted mid-game to be informed that, yes, glory be, "Crazzzzy8888's1989 is now online." </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Worse still, whenever Crazzzzy8888's1989 loads up a game in need of a programming update or patch, Crazzzzy8888's1989 will be booted offline for the update, then ushered back online once said update takes, which means that I'll get a second, even less welcome notice that, yes, Crazzzzy8888's1989 is online, at which point I will usually once again bellow at the TV screen one of the following three things: </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">1. "I KNOW!" or, </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">2. "GOOD FOR YOU!" or, </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">3. "F*** YOU, CRAZZZZY8888S1989. I RUE THE F***ING DAY THAT I EVER ACCEPTED YOUR XBOX LIVE FRIENDSHIP REQUEST." (By the way, Crazzzzy8888s1989 is Steve.) (Hi, Steve.)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">My other least-favorite Xbox Live moment is whenever I receive notifications that "friends are playing this game." This can actually sully a game for me before I have even started to play it. Suddenly, this "friend" (Steve) is showing up in my leaderboards. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Suddenly, I'm simply doing something that Steve already did last night at 3 a.m., and who, according to the extremely helpful leaderboard, apparently did it 8.2 seconds faster than I did it.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> It's akin to finding a lost, lonely cave that you assumed was unexplored and that you briefly considered naming Scott's Cave for all of posterity, only to realize that someone has already opened up one of those weird KFC/Taco Bell hybrid counters inside. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Whatever mystery, and more importantly whatever anticipation of mystery, there might have been for me has already been drained out of the experience.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Another thing: Why must I be informed that other people are using Netflix whenever I'm using Netflix? (Exhibit C: Friends using this App.) How is this helpful or useful information? If I'm in the middle of watching a blurry stream of David Cronenberg's The Fly, why is *that* designated as a fine time to notify me, usually mid Brundlefly transformation, that Crazzzzy8888's1989 is online yet again? (F*** you, Steve. Try playing less Xbox and kissing your baby and talking to Margo more. Seriously, man.)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Yes, I am fully aware of the fact that I can switch off all notifications. But Microsoft clearly does not want me to do this, as navigating the murky fathoms of menus and sub-menus is a very long way from being as transparent as it could, or should be.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Right now, it's really quiet where I am. The blinds are drawn. The outside world is where it belongs: outside. I'm gaming these days with a new-found sense of focus and passion that I haven't felt in ages. When I click over to the My Friends section of Xbox Live, I see nothing but that non-dancing, non-preening, grayed out ghost friend thing with the plus sign on its right shoulder. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">And I'm feeling pretty good about that.</span></span></div></div></div>Scott C. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14584082553675139762noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4092463760286231519.post-4160109984702958142011-07-09T12:24:00.004-04:002011-07-09T12:55:03.976-04:00Red-ringing: Part 2<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ0v_GPxhIYMGZ_jor_1K2Y74YkP5afif-gQ8RnE8q5hzmzSzQip8yJwLJDVgrJL7QtodEKHQZkuqyxkuy8j5oxDGVadhDTRSNjD9MsYPN-__V2m5fjgzG86YbY77Iopj3dRHv8NFIW1jJ/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 115px; height: 115px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ0v_GPxhIYMGZ_jor_1K2Y74YkP5afif-gQ8RnE8q5hzmzSzQip8yJwLJDVgrJL7QtodEKHQZkuqyxkuy8j5oxDGVadhDTRSNjD9MsYPN-__V2m5fjgzG86YbY77Iopj3dRHv8NFIW1jJ/s320/Unknown.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5627396759048084626" /></a><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">My friend, John Teti, who is a very passionate and very lovely man (see for yourself </span></span><a href="http://johnteti.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">here</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">), apparently tapped out an ambitious comment that expounded on the reasons why we remain faithful to the 360 despite its tendency have more breakdowns than Liza Minnelli. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Unfortunately, Blogger, in all of its unstable glory, decided to jettison the comment into the void where all ambitious comments seem to go. (Blogger has jettisoned more than a few of my ambitious comments in my lifetime.) (Why it does this, we may never know.)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Anyway, John somehow found the time and energy to recreate the comment. He emailed it to me privately, because, to quote him, "I don't care to have my time FUCKING WASTED all over again."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So, without further pomp or circumstance, here's the recreated comment, in all of its uncensored, passionate glory:</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"The reason we always go back to the 360 is that we semi-consciously anthropomorphize consoles, and the Xbox 360 is a friendly sort.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"What do you see when you turn on the 360? A bright, colorful screen that says 'Welcome.' A smiling, dancing cartoon version of yourself, maybe playing with a pet. A seemingly endless, verdant tableau of games, video, and other fun stretching off the right side of the screen into eternity.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"What do you see when you turn on the PS3? A gloomy background occupied by a tiny strip of bland icons. About a million features you will never use, each with their own barely readable text label. Perhaps an advertisement fades into the screen, reminding you to buy some Sony film from the Sony PSN Store brought to you by Sony. (Don't just stand there, kid; buy something.) Everything is so goddamn corporate, like you are clocking into work instead of getting ready to play a game.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"But all of that is relatively tolerable. What really makes the PS3 so irritating is the attitude.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"I have a spare Xbox 360 hooked up to my computer that I use for video capture. Last week I started it up for the first time in a year. I knew I would have to update the system software, and install the requisite updates to the game that I was playing (L.A. Noire.) Do you know how long it took me to get up and running? THREE MINUTES. That's it. That's the 360: 'Hey, buddy, happy to see you!' It's almost embarrassed that it has to tidy up a little bit before the two of you can get down to FUN!</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Meanwhile, the PS3's attitude is 'Where the hell have YOU been?' Can you imagine what this experience would have been like if this were my spare PS3? I think we all know: it would be an ALL-CONSUMING INFERNO OF BOREDOM. The PS3 fucking PUNISHES you if you ignore it for even a couple of weeks. 'What's that, you want to play that new downloadable game you heard about on the TV? How about you sit there and FUCKING WAIT while I update my firmware; I have to delete some of my features because Sony thinks you don't deserve them, and you know what? I THINK THEY'RE RIGHT!!!'</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"So you sit there while it updates or upgrades or installs or whatever the fuck this umpteenth progress bar is supposed to be doing -- you don't even know what the progress bar MEANS anymore; by this point the very concept of a progress bar has lost all ability to signify -- and the PS3 is just loving every minute of your misery. Because it's like an insanely possessive friend whom you can never, ever please. 'This is what you get when you don't pay attention to my every need! How DARE you do anything but play with your PlayStation? DON'T YOU LOVE ME?????'</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"No, I don't love you at all. I hate turning on my PS3. I'm not talking about the games. The games for the console are great, every bit as good as those on the Xbox 360 (since they are mostly the same games, after all). Gaming on the PS3 is, though, like eating at a restaurant where the food is fantastic but the manager is a total prick. You know you'll enjoy yourself in the end, but the guy running the show has such a bad attitude, you don't want to give him the satisfaction.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"As for the Wii, who gives a shit.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"So yes, of course we keep going back to the 360. He may be a sickly little guy, prone to keel over at a moment's notice. But dadgum it, he's always been our friend, greeting us with an easy, natural smile every time we drop by for a visit. And when you have friends like that, you stick by them."</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Thanks, John.</span></span></div>Scott C. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14584082553675139762noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4092463760286231519.post-57503336835997507702011-06-29T12:02:00.012-04:002011-07-06T11:17:13.843-04:00"Red-ring, Mrs. Torrance."<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3hGlO3hqV9WJ90-ii_ilINwcHwgmF-R4-G90lniN1pMLCbx3Hda9moOFlFpaCUzR5dlDpuc5KiDtbtOknHhgtakJnYZ_hiKVlXpEBRoEAx7h9dZ-XNFV-RcZ6neZe7xCi5NU9MsXwHhOK/s1600/RRoDeath_Star.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 319px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3hGlO3hqV9WJ90-ii_ilINwcHwgmF-R4-G90lniN1pMLCbx3Hda9moOFlFpaCUzR5dlDpuc5KiDtbtOknHhgtakJnYZ_hiKVlXpEBRoEAx7h9dZ-XNFV-RcZ6neZe7xCi5NU9MsXwHhOK/s320/RRoDeath_Star.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625552665260099506" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhE0fxSS9GX2LoT4ZX6RbQ8l7JWTLHb1CuV0sewP0vHnaEWZf4C-XCiPePCE5q8Ogmxyp7_7qJmQUkH6SfuzvFkVFU1cNsNcFqVEc9OnPlT6VOLyBn8Nv4emcMaBv0Tj8dcEu9D7p5uQEj/s1600/images-1.jpeg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a>About three weeks ago my otherwise solid, completely reliable, quietly humming Xbox 360 Slim began acting up. First sign of trouble: the machine occasionally struggled to load games from discs. The word "Opening," followed by a repeating tail of ellipses, would hang up the screen for minutes at a time. The tiny green light in the center of the Slim's silver circle winked at me in this cadence:</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><i>winkwinkwinkwinkwinkwink</i></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">After that, the Slim began to behave as if it was haunted by the demon from </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Insidious</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">. Games would begin to load up only to abruptly quit, booting me all the way back to the dashboard for no discernible reason. And once, near the conclusion of a particularly trying quest in </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Oblivion</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">, the Slim just shut down completely, as if someone--the demon maybe?--had yanked the power cord from the wall at the worst possible moment.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The Slim's hiccups became such a handicap that trying to load </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">F.E.A.R. 3</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> for review purposes a few weeks back required approximately between 10 and 12 load-up do-overs before the game would finally "take." </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">F.E.A.R. 3</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> is not a great game. But having to endure hardware issues, while on deadline, certainly did not bolster my opinion of it.<br /></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I spent 45 minutes on the phone last Friday morning with a peppy, warm-voiced man named Wade. Wade works at Microsoft headquarters where he apparently fields calls from people like me on a daily basis. Wade walked me through a few troubleshooting routines over the phone. He had me remove the hard drive from the Slim--pop open the bottom; yank the drive out by its cloth cord, voila, etc.--his theory being that perhaps corrupted data on the drive was causing games to load improperly. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Yet, even sans hard drive, discs struggled to load. The green light on the front of the Slim feverishly winked at me like an insane asylum patient.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Wade was quiet when I informed him that the problem was persisting. I knew that he was gathering himself--I could feel it--getting ready to deliver THE NEWS--information that he no doubt had delivered to possibly hundreds of 360 owners before me, and would deliver again to many other 360 owners after I hung up the phone.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Unfortunately, there's no other choice here," he said. "<i>You'll have to send the 360 in for repair.</i>"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">As Wade described the next steps in the repair process to me--an email would be sent to me which would contain shipping labels, which I will have to print out; the turnaround for the 360 would be two to four weeks, etc.--my anger bubbled to the surface.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"I'm sorry, Wade, so please don't take this personally, but this is the fourth f***ing time I've had a 360 fail on me," I said. "I'm beyond f***ing frustrated at this point. You know, as a consumer, I should hate the 360 as a console and Microsoft as a brand at this point. But the funny thing is, I don't. I don't, Wade. And I don't f***ing know why."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Wade cleared his throat, but otherwise remained silent, allowing me to continue with my diatribe.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"You know, maybe you guys worked some sort of voodoo on me. Maybe you people hypnotized me somehow. Whatever it is, despite the number of times I've been screwed over by Microsoft and its faulty hardware, the thought of having to live without my 360 for two to four weeks sends me plummeting downward into a panic spiral. No kidding. My chest tightens up just thinking about the weeks--weeks!--I'll spend without my 360, not to mention the fact that I also evaluate games as my job, which means that doing my job for the next two to four weeks will be a huge pain in the ass for me. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"If my PS3 or Wii should go down--which they never, ever have, for the record--I think I would be mostly OK with it. But I need the 360, Wade. <i>I need it</i>."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Wade, to his great credit, let me get it all off my chest. Who knows what he was doing on the other end of the line while I was gassing on? Maybe he was listening intently and feeling genuine empathy for me. Or, more likely, Wade had locked eyes with one of his fellow call center mates and was making mock jag-off motions in the air. (If I was Wade, that's definitely what I would have been doing.)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I did a little math this morning. Since the 360 launch in 2005 I've spent an unbelievable two to four months, in total, waiting for various incarnations of 360s to be either repaired or replaced. And here I am, seven motherf***ing years into the machine's lifecycle, and I'm doing it once again. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Another sad 360 story: I once purchased a 360 for a friend of mine a few years back. (He was about to get married, and I wanted him to play BioShock while he still had the time to do so.) While visiting him, the machine red-ringed right in front of us. Mortified, and not wanting to leave my friend 360-less or have him go through the whole Wade process, I simply went to the nearest Target and bought him a new 360 and personally ate the $400 cost.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">And yet, after all of this, after all the failure and betrayal and disappointment, the 360 remains my console of choice, and I don't understand why anymore. Wouldn't a group of sane people, two or three hardware failures ago, decide to forego all Microsoft products altogether? If you buy a Chevy and it shits out on you every 75 miles, the next time you go to buy a car chances are most people wouldn't say, "Well, I'm interested in buying another Chevy, since the last one turned out to be such a huge piece of goat shit."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">But gamers are a strange lot. We're very, very forgiving. We have an incredibly high tolerance for bullshit. Case in point: By the time Jack Tretton got around to apologizing at Sony's E3 press conference this year, you could feel the tidal shift of goodwill coming from the crowd, as if we were collectively saying, "Aw, come on, Jack. Pshaw. We forgive you for the security breach that may or may not have resulted in the pilfering of our personal banking information! Now show us Uncharted 3, you scamp! Woo!"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">And so I sit, brow furrowed, gazing at the gaping hole which my Slim once occupied beneath my television, trying like hell to convince myself that Microsoft f***ing sucks, that the 360 sucks, that the stupid Master Chief eats bags of cocks, etc. and not even coming remotely close to succeeding.</span></span></div></div></div></div>Scott C. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14584082553675139762noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4092463760286231519.post-73060629272241095542011-06-24T11:04:00.011-04:002011-06-24T13:25:31.003-04:00The Notebook<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiBW0Aw8rPxJH0tQpsUGM-HzNRyKDvDYBiUCqxKWWHNHEbSkJ0IVscZPLiiyUISfrhRU4Q7qXhyphenhyphenoh18pFmXJwiMfjwHirSvSk2iWEN6MIBl2y9swTrCKJNd4tX1KxI_7isGKKYZpt0MnAE/s1600/photo.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 239px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiBW0Aw8rPxJH0tQpsUGM-HzNRyKDvDYBiUCqxKWWHNHEbSkJ0IVscZPLiiyUISfrhRU4Q7qXhyphenhyphenoh18pFmXJwiMfjwHirSvSk2iWEN6MIBl2y9swTrCKJNd4tX1KxI_7isGKKYZpt0MnAE/s320/photo.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621822443550686098" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">In the mid 1990's my friend John Galvin and I made frequent pilgrimages to one another's city--me to visit him in Boston; he to New York to visit me--to partake in 72-hour--and sometimes longer--gaming marathons. This is how the visits would go: early on a Friday morning, I would board the Fung-Wah Transport, known informally as the Chinatown shuttle--by far the most frugal way to travel between Boston and New York (tickets were usually in the $10 range), and settle in with the incongruous crowd of horny college students and aged Chinese people, who for some reason always seemed to be carrying a million plastic bags filled with beets.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Once I arrived, John and I would gather supplies--groceries, beer, more beer, etc.--then stop at the game store and rent a stack of videogames. Then we'd go home, bolt the door, draw the blinds, and not emerge until we'd exhausted our supplies, ourselves, or both.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">At the time, I was still trying to resist the gravity of videogames, still trying to become a serious writer, and still trying to be an adult member of society. </span><a href="http://twitter.com/#!/johnmgalvin"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">John</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">, bless his heart, was the one who made it OK for me to openly love videogames, if only for those 72-hour time periods. In fact, it was from the primordial ooze of those indulgent weekends--the escape from my then semi-hellish existence (bad jobs, broken hearts, many hours spent staring at blank sheets of paper, etc.)--that the current me would eventually emerge.</span></span></div></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Ah, Current Me. You are so vastly superior to Original Me.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">During one particular visit to New York, John noticed a heap of scrap papers that had gathered next to my TV. He began to leaf through the scraps. What he saw looked something like this:</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">B. BEAN 3RD 2:22</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">B. BEAN 1ST 1:14</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">B. BEAN 6TH 2:52</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">B. BEAN 4TH 0:49</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">What John was looking at, as I'm sure you've deduced, were notes I had taken while gaming. I was playing Knockout Kings at the time on the original PlayStation--EA's boxing franchise that pre-dated the Fight Night series--and I was keeping careful records of my progress. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">"B. BEAN," of course, is Butter Bean, the rotund novelty opponent who was featured prominently in the game. As you can see from my notes, I was obsessed with knocking out Butter Bean. After each bout, with Butter Bean's mountainous body prone on the virtual canvas, I'd pick up a pencil, and with my hand quivering with my victory adrenaline, I'd scratch down the round I knocked him out in, and the time that had elapsed in that round.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I was in the habit of taking copious notes while gaming back then. I always had a pencil and pad of paper nearby. I'd write down everything--the location of power-ups, inscrutable clues from NPC's, secrets, etc. Sometimes I'd even draw up crude maps of DOOM levels, complete with the locations of monsters and when and where I could expect that pair of Hell Barons to appear. I'd create a narrative in my head for these moments, something along the lines of this: "Approximately 15 Imps will attack from the West"--draw arrow towards center--"but ignore them for the time being and deal with the flaming, flying skulls that float up out of the well at the center of the room. After the skulls have been eliminated, that's the cue for the Hell Barons to appear from the large descending platform in the East. Try to get the group of Imps to inadvertently strike the Hell Barons with their fireballs. The Imps and Hell Barons will ostensibly fight, tearing the asses out of one another. Whoever remains after this battle--Imps or Hell Barons--will be severely weakened. Go in with the chain gun and mop up the mess. Everyone clear? Alright, let's get out there, people. Stay sharp."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">A bit of note-taking was absolutely necessary back then. Ten years ago, games didn't have the same obsessive-compulsive level of stat-tracking features that we now take for granted as gamers. Example: the image at the top of this post features actual notes that I scratched down while trying to puzzle my way through The Legend of Zelda: Majora's Mask a few months back. Getting through that game without notes? It's borderline impossible.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Other note-taking, like the maps and enemy locations for DOOM that I drew up, while not always necessary, were an effective way to let a game bleed over into the rest of my life. Making these maps gave me cause to think about it, and consider it, and feed my obsession for it--and boy, was DOOM an obsession--during the few non-DOOM-ing hours each day when I had to deal with less-compelling issues like paying bills, or working at my terrible waitering job at that terrible restaurant, or wondering why some cute girl didn't phone me back. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">While my B. BEAN notes are gone now, lost during one of the four apartment changes I've endured since then, I can still recall John's reaction to discovering them: 1. hysterical laughter for several minutes, 2. ten year's worth of playful insults. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">To this day, without fail, John will make a reference to the B. BEAN Incident almost every time I see him.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I don't resent John's insults in the least. He's right to poke fun at me. Those notes are a physical manifestation of my love, passion, and yes, oftentimes outright obsession for videogames. These papers are the smoking gun; they are tangible proof--Exhibit A--in the court trial convicting me on no less than six counts of unbridled nerdery.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">And while I might have been red-faced at first--I snatched the notes out of John's hands and tried to futilely deny what they were for a few minutes--I realized that beyond the gentle ribbing he was giving me over the B. BEAN notes, there was also acceptance and understanding. W</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">hat John was also saying to me was this:</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> I see you for exactly what you are. </span></i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I'm certain that I experienced a cosmic sense of relief in that moment. I learned that though there might be ribbing involved, there's almost always love and real understanding on the far side of that ribbing. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Our 72-hour gaming binges? They're a thing of the past now. John's married with a child and a good career. I live on the west coast now, and I can't drink like I used to. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">But he and I, of course, remain the most excellent of friends.</span></span></div>Scott C. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14584082553675139762noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4092463760286231519.post-47922921517692371852011-06-09T10:47:00.010-04:002011-06-16T12:35:55.802-04:00E3 2011: The B.O. Report<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi17NpiiElZdCWJOrK-jpMiQG7lae9tlGvOKsbVIxl2Smvcis-JF8NRoGt4N5HilfeivUBHw-UJuZRLcUj6id1g9xS6xVH96w7BM-dvxtyTs60jXk9-63FKvYXlppMxzFVF75j5EXaA5dcJ/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 275px; height: 183px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi17NpiiElZdCWJOrK-jpMiQG7lae9tlGvOKsbVIxl2Smvcis-JF8NRoGt4N5HilfeivUBHw-UJuZRLcUj6id1g9xS6xVH96w7BM-dvxtyTs60jXk9-63FKvYXlppMxzFVF75j5EXaA5dcJ/s320/Unknown.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5618489774524626450" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The plug was finally pulled on E3 2011 late in the day last Thursday afternoon. As thousands of attendees either sped to the airport to catch early evening flights or else retired to hotel lounges for much deserved drinks at the bar, the overproduced, overheated booths--including that daunting dragon looming above the Bethesda booth--was all being dismantled. Digression: Where do all the trappings of the booths go? Is there a landfill that gets stuffed with these things? Does the 50-foot TV in the Sony booth get shipped to Jack Tretton's house? Can the dragon be recycled?</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">E3 always has a mirage quality about it. For a few short days each year, it suddenly appears in in the shimmering heat of downtown Los Angeles, rising in the place where there previously was nothing (convention centers are always vacant, anonymous spaces waiting to be filled), sucking vast amounts of electricity from the power grid, and becoming a physical manifestation of a medium that becomes more ephemeral with each passing year. As games lose their status as physical objects, as game stores become less necessary--love them or hate them, it's only a matter of time before the GameStops of the world are forever shuttered--gamers have fewer real-world destinations to travel to and gather in. And, despite the old saw that gamers are antisocial nerds, I believe that we actually like to gather. We need to gather. We need to physically see one another, and have actual conversations--not comment-thread conversations; not message board posts, or curt twitter exchanges. We need to hug, to tell each other how happy we are to see one another, and to sometimes, on occasion, even discuss things other than videogames.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">That's why, more than ever, we need PAX. We need Fan Expo in Toronto and Comic Con and the Game Developers Conference. We need regular excuses to sit across from one another, if only for a little while. One of the favorite topics of conversation at E3 this year, and every year, is the poor hygiene of our fellow gamers. Fact: body odor runs rampant through E3. We pretend to all complain about it--approximately 20-percent of all E3 conversations are centered around gripes about body odor and/or bad breath. Yet, in some strange way, I think that we secretly like the odors. Not simply because they give us common conversation ground, uniting people in an us-versus-them dynamic (we smell good, they smell bad), but because the odors somehow work to make the silly, ephemeral experience of E3 that much more tangible and real.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Because there is nothing more human than B.O. and bad breath.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">On my way home on Thursday night, I boarded the plane and discovered that I was to be seated next to a man who honestly could not have smelled any worse. I was initially furious with the situation, and with this man. He was quiet. He didn't take up much space. He read the in-flight magazine and dozed. But his B.O. was not of this earth. I privately begged the stewardess to find another seat for me. "I'm sorry, sir, but the flight is sold out," she explained.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">As the plane leveled off at a cruising altitude of 35,000 feet, as the man napped next to me, I suddenly made the executive decision to stop breathing through my mouth. I decided to embrace the man's B.O. I took it in. Jesus, it was strong. But, really, after a few whiffs, it wasn't that bad. The poor guy was probably a developer who'd just finished a 14-hour shift on the show floor. Who knew what he was leaving behind in L.A.? Who knew what he was headed home to? He was probably a sweet man. He probably had simply forgotten to pack his deodorant. He probably owned a dog, or maybe even a couple of cats. He probably loved videogames as much as, if not more, than I do.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">When our plane finally landed later that night, I hustled through the sleepy airport, past the dark Hudson Newsstands, past the beverage refrigerators humming away in the shadows, leaving behind E3 2011, this man, and his wild, piquant B.O. once and for all.</span></div><div> </div>Scott C. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14584082553675139762noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4092463760286231519.post-84106104659872252232011-06-08T11:36:00.001-04:002011-06-08T11:38:11.355-04:00E3 2011: Day 3<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7qElmBOH3-Cm1liAFlI-JohBubfB1sz6SLfeEnZAV5BGSPmbi-pLk8K9nLiahRes69GRsfQF0R47fona_7dPY7Y87o0wtJpPTUhLbKnzGORvSCSgS083xzbt-Z1HRz4yrtslJSbTP4Lq0/s1600/photo.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7qElmBOH3-Cm1liAFlI-JohBubfB1sz6SLfeEnZAV5BGSPmbi-pLk8K9nLiahRes69GRsfQF0R47fona_7dPY7Y87o0wtJpPTUhLbKnzGORvSCSgS083xzbt-Z1HRz4yrtslJSbTP4Lq0/s320/photo.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5615873594712089026" /></a><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I'm staying at the Wilshire Grand this year, which is only a few long blocks--all the blocks are long in L.A.; you might describe this as a long-blocked city--from the Los Angeles Convention Center. It's pretty great here. My room is quiet, and small, and fairly clean, and only smells slightly of the hundreds, if not thousands, of bodies who slept here prior to my arrival on Sunday afternoon.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Yesterday when I was out convention-ing, someone came in and made up my room. In addition to performing the expected duties of collecting towels and sorting the bed, the house keeper also saw fit to affix some sort of transparent advertisement thing to my bathroom mirror.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Now I've seen some pretty insidious ways of trying to get messages under my radar at E3 before--room keys being branded, "protests" being orchestrated in front of the Convention Center, etc. But looking at my face in the mirror and seeing it literally surrounded by a message--ironically it was from Microsoft, and yes, it was regarding the Kinect--caused me to physically recoil from the mirror, cringe, and reel about dramatically like Fred Sanford having a fake heart attack.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I laughed a little--jesus, this was really something, putting shit in my room to get me to pay attention to it. Then I got angry. I thought, </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Goddamn it all, Microsoft. This is my goddamn room--my miniature fortress of solitude, my sole sanctuary away from the hammer and tongs of the show floor. Would you kindly stay the hell out of it?</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I also discovered yesterday that the Wilshire Grand's days are numbered. The place is scheduled to be demolished soon, erased from the earth right down to the foundations, and that a new, more modern version of the Wilshire Grand will rise in its place. For some reason this makes me genuinely sad. I feel like I'm staying in the old ghost of a hotel. I'm looking out the window on the 14th floor even as I type this, peering down at the traffic on 7th Street and all the convention goers scurrying down the sidewalk, and I'm experiencing a twinge of vertigo, thinking about the fact that pretty soon everything around me--the walls, the floor, the ceiling; the weird toilet with the game show-buzzer flush button on the wall--will be gone.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Completely gone.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I think of all the E3 attendees who have stayed at the Wilshire Grand through the years, all the men--it's still unfortunately predominantly men here--who found some way to get to L.A., who found a hotel room (no small feat each year; my advice: book in January), and who found a bona fide reason to be here, and to be a part of this glorious medium.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I think of all the stories filed since E3's inception in 1995, back when newspapers and magazines were still viable places of employment, and all the blog posts and Tweets and Facebook updates and hands-ons impressions, etc. that are currently being tap, tap, tapped out in the rooms around me as I type this.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I think of all the showers and shits that people have taken here, all the hangovers that people have had to white knuckle their way through, and all the sad, lonely jolts of jism--hundreds of gallons of the stuff, no doubt--that have been spilled in these rooms after horny gamers have had to wait in lines all day while being surrounded by the cute girls in hot pants who have been hired by game publishers from L.A.'s seemingly never ending supply of attractive women who are very gifted at being attractive.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Oh, E3...<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">A bit of advice to the management of the Wilshire: Be sure to salt the earth after the old hotel is destroyed, or else the new Wilshire will likely be haunted by legions of typing, masturbating, hungover ghosts.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I'm off to the show floor. More soon.</span></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Scott C. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14584082553675139762noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4092463760286231519.post-2780156521145645042011-06-07T08:53:00.008-04:002011-06-08T12:51:52.104-04:00E3 2011: Day 2<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWL5w0Up4Rt38mc9cqJoUw9ormV0Z37BBAgXuF8ozONDsC-CWanlv8kq7rCgHkXXEqxdDfhfBmCwb1CfFPVw_1Y9fnDIXb510NNJY03wjyM-Qmk6oaC7n060y5FOPVSRAZui7qjMBI6XE5/s1600/images.jpeg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 168px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWL5w0Up4Rt38mc9cqJoUw9ormV0Z37BBAgXuF8ozONDsC-CWanlv8kq7rCgHkXXEqxdDfhfBmCwb1CfFPVw_1Y9fnDIXb510NNJY03wjyM-Qmk6oaC7n060y5FOPVSRAZui7qjMBI6XE5/s320/images.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5615482815055644610" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I went to the nearby Carl's Jr. yesterday morning to quietly enjoy a Breakfast Burger, which is one of my favorite things about E3. (The Breakfast Burger is a regular hamburger, but with an egg and some hash browns thrown on top. It's more enjoyable than it sounds. Better still, eating the B. B. is akin to a python eating goat; once you eat one, you don't need to eat again for several days, which is useful while at E3, where food is expensive, terrible, and extremely scarce.)</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Unfortunately, Carl's Jr. didn't open until 6:30, so I headed for the nearby Starbucks and ordered one of those taste-free Ciabatta breakfast sandwiches, which I believe contains the following ingredients: sawdust, fur, air, and dreams.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">After breakfast, I caught the shuttle bus downstairs in front of my hotel, which whisked me away in pee-smelling ambience to the Microsoft press conference. Things started off OK with an exciting showing of Modern Warfare 3--looks to me like Infinity Ward is doing fine after all the upheaval from earlier this year--but then took a turn when the whole thing devolved into a Kinect fiesta.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I don't love my Kinect. I don't even really know where it is at this moment. My living room is too small to use it. In order to use it, I have to upend my couch, standing it upright and completely out of the way, just so that I can convulse in front of my TV and be informed that the Kinect sensor is not currently registering my convulsions.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Trotting out people like Ubisoft's Yves Guillemot and Lionhead's Peter Molyneux so they could announce nothing less than ringing endorsements of Kinect was really where the train left the tracks for me. Subtext of these endorsement: </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">See everyone? Even these guys just love Kinect!</span></i></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I'm not buying it. I get the creeping feeling that many developers and publishers have been strong-armed into shoe-horning some kind of awkward, obtuse, superfluous Kinect functionality into their otherwise perfectly fine Kinect-free games. You could practically see the cashiers checks poking from Yves's and Peter's pockets, the gulp motions in their throats, and the the barrel marks on their temples from where the gun was held.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I understand that Microsoft has hitched its wagon to the soaring star known as Kinect. Or, maybe a better metaphor is that Microsoft married a beautiful woman who turned out to be a crack whore. But in order to save face, it now has no choice but to 1. feed her habit, and 2. pretend that everything is perfectly normal.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Well, it's not normal, Microsoft. It's pretty fucking far from normal.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">To make matters worse, Microsoft then had to trot out child actors who were pretending to be gamers, so that they could demonstrate how much fun all of their newly announced Kinect games are. No one in the audience thought for one second that those kids were real. In fact, most of us worried that a bus en route to the town where the demon children from Children of the Corn reside had broken down out front, and that these hell-spawn had wandered in looking for souls to eat.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The only true innovation from the Microsoft press conference was something that I am currently calling "Kinect Demo Face." It is a serious condition that all persons who demonstrate a Kinect game on stage at E3 apparently suffer from. Symptoms include glowering, brow furrowing, dramatic exhalations, exaggerated movements, constipation, self-satisfied expressions, and the appearance that you are having far more fun than you actually are. If you are experiencing any of these symptoms, seek medical attention immediately.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The new Tomb Raider game looked interesting, but something about it left me feeling vaguely unsettled and sad. There was something so cruel, and maybe something even a bit misogynist about the demo. If you haven't seen it, Lara Croft has the sh*t completely beaten out of her for three minutes. While sitting in an auditorium predominantly populated by men, something about watching this woman being borderline tortured on a gigantic screen in high definition was disturbing for me.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So thank the gods for Gears of War 3, the sole saving grace of the whole unpleasant debacle. I love how completely cheese-ball and backwoods and out of touch Gears is. Epic doesn't pretend that it's high art, or great storytelling, or furthering the medium, or that Marcus Fenix is a great character, etc. etc. It sets out to deliver a good, mostly sensical time, and that's all Gears 3 appears to be. Dear Cliffy B.: I like you. And in my dreams, you and Ice-T are actually friends in real life...</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">After Microsoft's Kinect-centric showing, the E3 playing field already seemed to tilt in favor of Sony, who moved their press conference from late Tuesday mornings to late in the afternoon on Monday this year. Our pee-scented shuttle got stuck in late afternoon L.A. traffic, and by the time we finally arrived at the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum, the only seats left were in the nosebleed region.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">We were all here for The Great Apology of 2011--sorry for the security breach, sorry PSN was down, sorry all of your credit cards were compromised, etc. Though I believe we were--everyone in the place--was already more than ready to forgive Sony and move on. Jack Tretton delivered the mea culpa with the right amount of sincerity and irreverence. I've hapred on Jack every year since he took over for Phil Harrison. But you know what? He's actually pretty good. And his Ridge Racer zing directed Kaz Hirai was really the only truly spontaneous, funny, and human highlight of the press conference.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I don't know what it is about Sony press conferences, but year in and year out they always feel like grim, grave endeavors, as if we're all on a great, arduous march towards Mount Doom. The place always feels dark, and shadowy. The music is always a little too loud, with a little too much bass, making it feel like we've wandered into the world's largest S & M club. And Sony always tries so damn hard, always feeding us food before, and feeding us food after, and making sure that everyone stays nice and lubricated thanks to their ubiquitous open bars.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Things got off to a terrific start with Uncharted 3. Jesus, was that ever fun to watch. Seeing Nathan Drake navigate a sinking, abandoned ocean liner was genuinely thrilling. Honestly, at this point, Naughty Dog just seems to be showing off. Their grasp of the PS3 hardware is absolutely unrivaled.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">But was that ever a tough act to follow. Poor Insomniac had to try with Resistance 3. It did not succeed. It seemed so muted, and small, and so completely unsurprising and expected. Honestly, haven't I played this game, where guys run at me and I shoot them, countless times before over the last 10 years?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">While Microsoft has its crack-whore wife in the form of Kinect, Sony has its crack-whore wife in the form of 3D. Why Sony is so bloody certain that this is The Future, at a time when the box office returns for 3D movies are already on the decline, is a mystery for the ages. Wherever Sony has buried "Home"--probably in a New Jersey marshland next to Jimmy Hoffa--they should also bury their borderline obsessive endorsement of 3D. Sony: It is never going to work.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The big news was the NGP, or rather Vita announcement. The hardware looks interesting, but so did the original PSP when it first shipped, complete with the now-absurd-seeming UMD format. If anything, the Vita seems too busy--it does THIS! and THIS! and THIS TOO!--and features too many bells, whistles, and more bells. There's something inherently insecure in this approach, when you just throw tech at a problem. The PS3 is also guilty of doing that--I have no idea what a fraction of the abilities are on the PS3, nor do I have any use for them.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">But Sony's greatest sin, as it is every year, is that it never, ever quits while it is ahead. Instead, what they deliver is two hours worth of news--talking, not showing--which could have been delivered in a far more exciting, teasing fashion in one short, compact, and efficient hour. You could literally feel the wind go out of the sails of the whole thing. At one point, during an especially long pause, someone kicked over an empty Corona bottle, which clanged and echoed through out the Coliseum. The whole place went silent, and suddenly, it felt less like a jazzy, cutting edge press conference from one of the world's strongest hardware makers and game publishers, and more like a tedious school assembly on fire safety.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Oh, and one more thing: Please, Capcom, for the love of god, take Cole Macgrath out of the Street Fighter-Tekken Vita game. That shit is fine for other games and series, but there's always been a purity about the Street Fighter games that should be maintained at all costs. I'm telling you, you open the door for this kind of thing, next thing you know Murray the Hippo and Ronald McDonald will be the final bosses in Street Fighter 6.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Last but not least: It was painful to see 2K's Ken Levine trotted out to deliver the de rigueur apology for not being completely on board with every piece of Sony tech. (Gabe Newell played the part at last year's E3.) Like Peter and Yves at Microsoft, Levine, check in his pocket, lump in throat, and fresh barrel-marks on his right temple, apologized for being skeptical about the PS3 Move, and that BioShock: Infinite will--surprise, everyone--suddenly, and inexplicably, feature Move functionality.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I understand these people have companies to run, and mouths to feed, and wives who need their crack, but will the last person who is not for sale in this industry please stand up?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">[Insert sound of toe tapping HERE.]</span></div></div>Scott C. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14584082553675139762noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4092463760286231519.post-56422725681264102722011-06-06T09:19:00.007-04:002011-06-07T08:53:50.411-04:00E3 2011: Day 1<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZsJoV6bSFgzFJuNSYMGHIJ16L2djr7VN4axS2xehNNSh0UYp7Bi1aTJoSYzp9cjZXANkqbcRPUalt-Ukewghs-QnncWg8LSZURZ70ICUCmuk5X7ReTOvLJhQIfWDOgRyjwdHX8x9AJCT_/s1600/IMG_0822.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZsJoV6bSFgzFJuNSYMGHIJ16L2djr7VN4axS2xehNNSh0UYp7Bi1aTJoSYzp9cjZXANkqbcRPUalt-Ukewghs-QnncWg8LSZURZ70ICUCmuk5X7ReTOvLJhQIfWDOgRyjwdHX8x9AJCT_/s320/IMG_0822.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5615100426262732690" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">It's early here in downtown Los Angeles. Pre-dawn still. No one wakes up earlier during E3 week than I do. No, not even Reggie Fils-Amie, who may or may not be a kind of robot.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I'm up early because I always get up early. Man, do I ever enjoy that hour or two of quiet and peace--before the phone can ring, before the deluge of texts and emails and tweets and random, pointless information starts spraying all over the place--that only really happens in the early mornings. And that hour or two is especially important this week, during E3, when things start off loud and obnoxious--the Microsoft press conference, at the Galen Center on the USC campus, begins in less than three hours--and only get more so from there.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I'm here to see, and touch, all the newest games, the latest technology, etc. But to be honest, all I really want to do is play the games that I already have in my possession. At E3 every year, without fail, I have countless moments when I wish that I could, like Dorothy, click my heels and magically transport myself back to my couch on Beatty Street where I will continue trying to get all five of the lights in that one particularly hairy race in Blur. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I can't do that, of course. What I can do is bring a ridiculous amount of games to E3 with me. I have the PSP go, 3DS, iPhone, and iPad all with me. I do this every year. I think a lot of us do this. I decided on the plane down from Vancouver yesterday that Dead or Alive: Dimensions was going to be my obsession for the week. And if it should fail me at all at any point, Super Stickman Golf, Coin Drop and Pixeljunk Monsters--damn you, Dylan Cuthbert--are all right there to pick up any slack.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I'm also carrying Pilotwings Resort, Advance Wars: Days of Ruin, Mario Kart DS, LEGO Star Wars III 3DS, GTA: Chinatown Wars (DS version), and for some inexplicable reason Dragon Quest IX: Sentinels of the Starry Skies.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I know. Embarrassing.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I remember once saying to Vic that we should do some kind of cooking show for gamers. You know, how to cook something healthy and delicious in the time it takes for DCU Online to update, etc. He asked me if I loved cooking. "Of course I don't love cooking," I said. "I hate cooking. And I'm terrible at it."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">He said, "All I know is if you want to make a TV show about something, you'd better love it. Because you have to deal with it every single day, no matter if you're in the mood to or not."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So I'm heading out into my day, slouching towards the lumbering beast of E3 2011, with no less than three gaming systems on my person, with game cartridges stuffed into practically every opening in my pants, while dealing with the completely irrational fear that somehow, some way all my systems </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">will suddenly lose their charges simultaneously</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">, rendering me game-less in the midst of the one place on earth where there could not possibly be a higher games per square foot ratio.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">If that's not love, I don't know what is.</span></div>Scott C. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14584082553675139762noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4092463760286231519.post-21125104833809191412011-06-03T12:24:00.004-04:002011-06-03T12:31:41.014-04:00Where the Hell Am I...?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCKWs3hPi-xflYi9-ziHPVuyzC4EkGtEh89OUAxQQyYWHvNmjBxDOGLldxoQlnnUlQ3P-o8Mrii4EP1cCIlw2c3DSEjj-JgU9AtpTRo_wTPH45aOM9aGzgtWbcXED3C2KESymI9uB6DZRu/s1600/images.jpeg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 275px; height: 183px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCKWs3hPi-xflYi9-ziHPVuyzC4EkGtEh89OUAxQQyYWHvNmjBxDOGLldxoQlnnUlQ3P-o8Mrii4EP1cCIlw2c3DSEjj-JgU9AtpTRo_wTPH45aOM9aGzgtWbcXED3C2KESymI9uB6DZRu/s320/images.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5614031840255765906" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Dear Fine People: I apologize for being so damn lax with my posts and updates lately. Suffice to say that there have been many reasons for this, not the least of which is the annual E3 convention, which is looming large on the horizon. (I arrive in L.A. on Sunday.)</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I currently have several posts in the old writing crock pot, which are almost flavorful enough to deserve spots here. Stay tuned for those.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">And I'll no doubt be in a writing mood next week in L.A. So there's also that to look forward to.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">What I'm trying to say is this: keep the porch light on for me. Because I'm coming home soon.</span></div>Scott C. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14584082553675139762noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4092463760286231519.post-63421610206972045892011-04-26T09:39:00.023-04:002011-04-27T11:06:37.215-04:00The Slow, Painful Death of the Instruction Book<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIbYkTaM-_uvsDr5mYiiK9x4WGAnbLhglZrUDM_X9gh2htXFaBPvNRYGEiowBbFyc4fju2wNmAvGeTgWYXsOcTcDGBqKcH1g_ih5clE_MvQ1Oyr-Tahm7zIlm5jqxsOOqgtcBHFYFSpnqU/s1600/photo.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIbYkTaM-_uvsDr5mYiiK9x4WGAnbLhglZrUDM_X9gh2htXFaBPvNRYGEiowBbFyc4fju2wNmAvGeTgWYXsOcTcDGBqKcH1g_ih5clE_MvQ1Oyr-Tahm7zIlm5jqxsOOqgtcBHFYFSpnqU/s320/photo.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599926629406036210" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><i><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; display: inline !important; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">As a younger man, before videogames came into my life, I played a great many board games. I was obsessed with three board games in particular: Mouse Trap, Master Mind, and a game with a cheery exterior but a vengeful, dry heart called Sorry!.</span></span></span></p></i></span><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Georgia; min-height: 19.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Georgia"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">My brother was the more creative soul of the two of us. He was perfectly fine with inventing his own rules for board games. But I would not tolerate such anarchy. So, by default, I became the Official Instruction Book Reader of our household. (Another one of my part-time jobs: </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">TV Guide</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> Reader. I enjoyed the crossword puzzles, the profiles of James Garner, and scrutinizing the program listings for other nearby cities, which were surprisingly robust compared to the anemic, three-fuzzy-channels programming our middle-of-nowhere town had to offer. Example: I would note in </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">TV Guide</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> that </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Son of Godzilla</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> was airing at 2 p.m. in Utica, a city located about an hour's drive away from us. Then I'd stare at the clock and watch 2 p.m. come and go while I was treated to </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Bowling for Dollars </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">on our local station, followed by an edge-of-my-seat episode of </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Meet the Press</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">. In fact, now that I think about it, I'm fairly certain that the reason why I have chosen to reside in cities for most of my adult life can be traced back to my childhood </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">TV Guide</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> obsession: I live here largely because </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Son of Godzilla</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> is broadcast here. Also: I would eventually grow up to see </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Son of Godzilla</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">. All I will say is: What a movie.)</span></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Georgia; min-height: 19.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Georgia"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Instructions for board games were always of an amazingly low quality. They were usually either posted on the inside of the box cover, or were printed on tissue-thin paper in a tiny font known as Inscrutabilica.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> Regardless, I studied these documents with the dedication and curiosity of a scholar translating the Dead Sea Scrolls from Hebrew, sometimes even employing the small magnifying glass that my mother kept in her sewing basket.</span></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Georgia; min-height: 19.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Georgia"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Once videogames came along--in the form of an Atari 2600 which my Uncle Bobby owned, who still lived at home with his mother (my grandmother) and would not marry and/or move out for another decade; also, he was a prodigious farter, which partially explains why he would not marry until late in life--I naturally became the Instruction Book Reader for all videogames.</span></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Georgia; min-height: 19.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Georgia"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The quality of the instruction books for videogames was tangibly higher than it was for board games. These books were actual books, printed in full color on heavy paper stock. And, unlike the board game books, they were often written with style, humor, and a touch of attitude. A fine ex</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><i></i></i></span></i></span></i></span></i></span></i></span></p><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><i><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; display: inline !important; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">ample: the cover of the instruction book for </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Kaboom!</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> included the following sentences: "You're about to face the world's most unpredictable and relentless 'Mad Bomber.' He hates losing as much as you love winning."</span></span></span></p></i></i></span></i></span></i></span></i></span></i><p></p></span></i><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; display: inline !important; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></p></span></i></span></span></i></span></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><i><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; display: inline !important; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"></span></span></span></p></i></i></span></i></span></i></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; display: inline !important; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I remember reading this, then chuckling to myself while thinking, "</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Mad Bomber, you have met your match in me. You are in for it now."</span></span></span></p></span></i></span></span></i></span></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; display: inline !important; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></p></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; display: inline !important; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"></span></span></span></p></span></i></span></span></i></span></span></i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; display: inline !important; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">On the next page, I studied the game's point system. It seemed straight-forward enough. Group 8, the highest group possible in the game, featured 150 bombs--wow!!!!!!!--with a point value of eight points per bomb, bringing the total point value of the group of 1,200. Underneath this explanation was this message: "Once you reach this level, all bombs that follow will fall at the same rate of speed and are worth the same points as bombs in Group 8 (unless you miss a bomb--see next page)."</span></span></span></p></span></i><div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Georgia; min-height: 19.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Georgia"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I was anxious turning the page, bracing myself for the consequences of missing a bomb. Would it be wrack? Ruin? Both? "When you miss a bomb," the next page explained, "all bombs explode and you lose a bucket. Lose all three buckets and the game is over." This was indeed the sort of wrack and ruin I had been fearing. I'm not kidding. Though it might not seem so by today's high-definition standards, words like "bombs," "explode," "lose" and "game over" carried a lot more weight in the minds of gamers in 1981.</span></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Georgia; min-height: 19.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Georgia"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Other interesting facts that the </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Kaboom!</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> instruction book informed me of: for every 1,000 points I scored, I'd be awarded a new bucket. T</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">hat sounded pretty fair to me</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">.</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> The book also had a section titled "Getting the Feel of </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Kaboom!</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">" ("Try to get a feeling for the bomb patterns that develop") and a section called "Join the Activision Bucket Brigade!" which explained that if one could achieve a score of 3,000 points or higher, one could mail--with stamps and everything--a photograph of your television screen to Activision, and they would send you a special membership patch which one could have sewn onto one's jacket and which would no doubt ensure that one would wind up living at home with one's mother for a large part of one's adult life.</span></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Georgia; min-height: 19.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Georgia"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"If you ever reach the maximum 999,999 points," the book said, teasing me to the brink of madness, "please send us a photo! Such a remarkable achievement must be recognized."</span></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Georgia; min-height: 19.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"></span><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Georgia"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">But recognized how? The </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Kaboom!</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> book, unfortunately, would not say. I imagined parades. I imagined oversized checks like the ones they gave away on </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Bowling For Dollars</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">. The ambiguity, the nuances of that sentence--note the exclamation point after the word "photo"--fascinated me for days.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i> </i></span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"></span></i></span></i></span></span></i></span></i></span></i></span></p><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; display: inline !important; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">For me, reading the </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Kaboom!</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> instruction book was gripping stuff, far more personally affecting than </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">A Separate Peace</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> by John Knowles, a long, boring novel which my seventh teacher practically had to use a buggy whip to get me through.</span></span></span></p></span></i></span></i></span></span></i></span></i></span></i><p></p></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; display: inline !important; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></p></span></i></span></i></span></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; display: inline !important; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"></span></span></span></p></span></i></span></i></span></span></i></span></i></span></i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; display: inline !important; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Finally, at the very back of the book was a section titled "How To Become a Master at </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Kaboom!</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">" which included a grainy, black-and-white photograph of a smiling, bearded man named Larry Kaplan. Larry was described as one of </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Kaboom!'s </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">designers. At the time, I had a hard time fathoming where videogames came from. I still do, to some extent. (All I know is that a bunch of people go into a building and two years later a game comes out the other side. What happens in between remains a mystery to me.) Yet here was a person, here was a man, who had worked on a videogame. I was looking at his </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">face</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">.</span></span></span></p></span></i></span></i></span></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; display: inline !important; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></p></span></i></span></i></span></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; display: inline !important; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"></span></span></span></p></span></i></span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; display: inline !important; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Here is a sample tip from game-maker Larry Kaplan: "If you hit the 10,000 point level, that really impresses the 'Mad Bomber,' and he'll show his appreciation. Watch for it." I was thrilled by the coyness of the phrase "he'll show his appreciation." I could not wait to find out exactly what Larry Kaplan, a.k.a. the newly crowned master of understatement, was referring to here.</span></span></span></p></span></i></span></i></span></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; display: inline !important; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></p></span></i></span></i></span></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; display: inline !important; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"></span></span></span></p></span></i></span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; display: inline !important; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Finally, at the end of his tips section, Larry Kaplan closed with this sentence: "Please take time out from your bomb chasing to drop me a line. It would be great to hear from you." This personal statement was followed by his signature--</span></span><a href="http://www.digitpress.com/library/interviews/interview_larry_kaplan.html"><span style="text-decoration: underline ; letter-spacing: 0.0px color:#1324a7;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Larry Kaplan</span></span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">--in a tight, cramped script.</span></span></span></p></span></i></span></i></span></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; display: inline !important; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></p></span></i></span></i></span></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; display: inline !important; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"></span></span></span></p></span></i></span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; display: inline !important; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The entire book ends with the Activision company address--3255-2 Scott Blvd., Santa Clara, CA 950551--which is where you could write to Larry and mail in your photographs of your </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Kaboom!</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> achievements. (Note: woe to the Fotomat employees who had to develop those photos.) In an age when game companies are now usually equipped with more security than Sydney Bristow's SD-6, when even trying to find the location of game developer can be a challenge, this sort of transparency, this personableness, seems charming and quaint.</span></span></span></p></span></i></span></i></span></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; display: inline !important; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></p></span></i></span></i></span></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; display: inline !important; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"></span></span></span></p></span></i></span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; display: inline !important; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">For me, the event that would come to be known as The Reading of the Instruction Book has always been almost as important as the event known as The Playing of the Game. More than merely relaying information about a control scheme or giving me tips on how to handle certain enemies, I learned to count on instruction books to give me clues about the kind of experience I was about to have and to give me some insights--to tell me something tangible--about the people who created these experiences.</span></span></span></p></span></i></span></i></span></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; display: inline !important; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></p></span></i></span></i></span></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; display: inline !important; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"></span></span></span></p></span></i></span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; display: inline !important; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">True story: after purchasing a copy of </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The Legend of Zelda: A Link to the Past</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> from a game store on Michigan Avenue in Chicago in the early '90's, I boarded an overcrowded uptown bus headed back to my apartment. Despite my very public surroundings--there were at least two attractive girls in my vicinity at the given moment--I was so beside myself with anticipation for the game that I thought, "Protocol be damned," and I broke it out its shrink wrap and began reading the instruction book </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">right there in front of god and everyone including two attractive girls</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">. </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"></span></span></i></span></p><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; display: inline !important; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"></span></span></i></span></p><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; display: inline !important; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Forty minutes later, I looked up and realized that I'd missed my stop.</span></span></p></span></i></span></i></span></i></span></i></span></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; display: inline !important; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></p></span></i></span></i></span></i></span></i></span></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; min-height: 19px; display: inline !important; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"></span></span></p></span></i></span></i></span></i></span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; display: inline !important; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">For years now--and this is going to sound very strange, so you should probably sit down for this one--I've been in the habit of taking videogame instruction books to bed with me at night. It's true. If I am enjoying a game, but I'm too tired to continue playing, I'll get into bed and--that's right--I'll peruse the instruction book for awhile before falling asleep. For example, I remember doing this many nights in a row with the hefty instruction book for </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Super Mario 64</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">. Just before dozing off, I would read a sentence like, "Not all courses are entered from the paintings on the walls. Some entrances are found in unexpected places, so search everywhere." Then I'd drift off to sleep, my brain soaring through the game world, half-searching for, and half-dreaming of, all of the unexpected places I would find the next day.</span></span></span></p></span></i></span></i></span></i></span></i></span></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; display: inline !important; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></p></span></i></span></i></span></i></span></i></span></i></span></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; display: inline !important; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"></span></span></span></p></span></i></span></i></span></i></span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; display: inline !important; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Beyond pathetic, I know. But those were not unhappy dreams. </span></span></span></p></span></i></span></i></span></i></span></i></span></i></span></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; display: inline !important; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></p></span></i></span></i></span></i></span></i></span></i></span></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; display: inline !important; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"></span></span></span></p></span></i></span></i></span></i></span></i></span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; display: inline !important; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">One of the game-related stories that I've been pitching for years--and it's one that always gets rejected by editors, for the obvious reason that it would be completely boring to read for 99-percent of all readers--is a story that traces the slow, inevitable demise of the videogame instruction book. In the name of cutting costs and corners, and as games transition from being tangible objects to virtual objects, those books have became booklets. The downward, death spiral has been going on for decades now.</span></span></span></p></span></i></span></i></span></i></span></i></span></i></span></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><i><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; display: inline !important; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></p></i></i></span></i></span></i></span></i></span></i></span></i></span></i></span></i></span></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; display: inline !important; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"></span></span></span></p></span></i></span></i></span></i></span></i></span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><i><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; display: inline !important; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">With the April 19th release of </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Mortal Kombat</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">, the instruction booklet finally reached one-page/pamphlet status. At the top of this post, what you're looking at is a photo of the actual instruction booklet/pamphlet that comes packaged with game. Yes, people: that's it.</span></span></span></p></i></i></span></i></span></i></span></i></span></i></span></i></span></i></span></i></span></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><i><i><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; display: inline !important; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></p></i></i></i></span></i></span></i></span></i></span></i></span></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><i><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; display: inline !important; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"></span></span></span></p></i></i></span></i></span></i></span></i></span></i></span></i></span></i></span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><i><i><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; display: inline !important; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Attitude? Gone. Panache? Gone. Dream-inducing sentences? Long gone. Gone also are the photographs of bearded, glasses-wearing men and the addresses of game publishers. What remains is small-print legalese, a bunch of technical jargon, and don't-sue-us warnings about seizures. It's a sad, sad day, people. </span></span></span></p></i></i></i></span></i></span></i></span></i></span></i></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; display: inline !important; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><i></i></span></i></i></span></i></span></p><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><i><i><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; display: inline !important; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"></span></span></i></span></i></span></i></span></span></span></p><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; display: inline !important; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I can no longer merely stand idly by and watch these instruction books waste away before my eyes. If</span></span></span></p></span></i></span></i></span></i></span></span></i></i></i></span></i></span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><i><i><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; display: inline !important; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> instruction books were terminally ill patients, this is the moment--right here, right now--when we'd be doing the right thing by pulling the plug.</span></span></span></p></i></i></i></span></i></span></i></span></span></i></span></i></span></i></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; display: inline !important; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></p></span></i></span></i></span></i></span></i></span></span></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><i><i><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; display: inline !important; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"></span></span></span></p></i></i></i></span></i></span></i></span></span></i></span></i></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Georgia; display: inline !important; "><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Despite Larry Kaplan's tips and a great many hours of dedication on my part, I never did achieve the 10,000-point mark in </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Kaboom!.</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> I never impressed the Mad Bomber. I never discovered how, once impressed, he would show his appreciation. I did, however, reach the 3,000 point threshold.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> I badgered my flatulent uncle into snapping a blurry picture of the TV with his camera. My mother mailed it off to Activision. I'm still waiting for a response.</span></span></span></p></span></i></span></i></span></i></span></i></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><p></p></span></span></i><p></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Georgia"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"></span></span></i></p><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><p></p></span></span></i><p></p></span></span></i></div></div></div>Scott C. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14584082553675139762noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4092463760286231519.post-76622659846488405612011-04-12T10:56:00.009-04:002011-04-15T10:52:22.433-04:00My Tokyo Massage<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeFF-saMGDFLfrUGiEe06OYUvFFCf4myIN_UA8cSLBP-9Dh3TGGTNMN6TQVY4gbw_cuOL7iNNlGzDBj8PByJnX6kNyjKp2CvNwMcvDR9hPFAch27ROklWipiYMuPvUjgNCAUAYOUqFUGE6/s1600/images.jpeg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 199px; height: 253px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeFF-saMGDFLfrUGiEe06OYUvFFCf4myIN_UA8cSLBP-9Dh3TGGTNMN6TQVY4gbw_cuOL7iNNlGzDBj8PByJnX6kNyjKp2CvNwMcvDR9hPFAch27ROklWipiYMuPvUjgNCAUAYOUqFUGE6/s320/images.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5594719733047517282" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">[A couple things before we get started here: 1. If you've been with me since the Crispy Gamer days, you're likely familiar with this story already. 2. Game writers have two core fantasies when they get into this business. One is to go to E3 in L.A. The second, somewhat more far fetched fantasy is to one day travel to Japan for the Tokyo Game Show. I've been fortunate enough to go to Tokyo--pre-devastation--three times for the show over the last few years. Each time, without fail, I returned to North America wondering if I really went to Japan or if I dreamed the whole wonderful, terrible, surreal episode. What follows is an account of one of those moments that, I am relatively certain, actually happened to me. Enjoy.]</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><!--StartFragment--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">While waiting for colleague </span><a href="http://johnteti.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">John Teti</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> to arrive in Tokyo for our Tokyo Game Show Adventure, I had a day all to myself in Shinjuku. I decided to sleep, eat, drink lots of water, read, monkey with my computer, play GeoDefense Swarm on the iPhone, and generally attempt to recover from the 10-plus cruel and unusual hours I spent yesterday folded into that coach seat on my JAL flight from Vancouver to Narita. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I'm single, as the entire world knows by now. Without a wife or a girlfriend to chase after me with her rolling pin or make me sleep on the couch tonight, I have no one to answer to these days. I can do what I want and not have to fuss over messy guilt or hurt feelings on the far side of it. That being the case, I believe it's a universal law that if you're single and your hotel room telephone has a button with the word MASSAGE embossed on it, one must press said button and see what happens. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So I pressed it. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Ring. Riiiiinnnng. </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">A nice-sounding Japanese girl answered on the other end. Her English was terrible, but she understood what I was asking for. I wanted a one-hour massage. I have enjoyed my fair share of massages in my life, enough so that I'm no longer confused by the underwear-on-underwear-off question. (Answer: Always underwear-off.) I wrapped one of my room's postage-stamp sized towels around my naked waist, then put on the hotel's complimentary paper-thin robe which made my shoulders itch. I was fairly confident that this was an appropriate outfit for an in-room massage. I also cued up Leonard Cohen at a very low volume on my MacBook, as I imagine the silence during a massage could be rather oppressive. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Then I waited. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">While waiting for the massage person to arrive, I attempted to calculate the sleaze factor involved here. According to the little card in my room, massages begin daily at noon; and the last massage is at 3:00 a.m. Who offers massages until 3 a.m.? That did seem a bit sleazy to me. I sat on the tiny bed, nervously looking at the clock--my massage-ist was due to arrive at 1 p.m.--and pacing in my paper robe. I thought, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Maybe she will be a cute Japanese girl. She would scratch my back with her long finger nails and say things to me that I couldn't understand--I love the sound of Japanese being spoken, even though I don't understand a word of it--and maybe she would like me a little, and I would like her, and she wouldn't steal any of my valuables (I had put my PSP and my new camera in the in-room safe, just in case) and she would give me a chaste kiss at the end of my back-scratch/massage, and perhaps later on I would meet her out for some udon and sake. </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I have a very active imagination. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">One o'clock, the doorbell rings (note: all hotel rooms in Tokyo have doorbells FYI). I open the door to find a 4-foot-tall, 55-year-old homunculous of a woman wearing a double-breasted white lab coat thing that makes her appear as if she'd only seconds earlier vacated her subterranean laboratory after shouting the words, "IT'S ALIVE." The woman speaks no English. None. I start to remove my robe. She panics. She blushes and turns away. She clearly wants me to keep my robe on. "OK, OK, I get it, robe on, yes, yes. Ha, ha." Suddenly, the Leonard Cohen song playing in the background--"I'm Your Man"--sounds impossibly suggestive. Understatement of the day: This is not going well.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I'm nervous. The woman is nervous. Nervousness, I realizes, is a universal language. She motions for me to lie down on the bed on my side, saying words to me in Japanese that I do not understand. I try to relax, try to breath. She is poking at me, hurrying from limb to limb, working quickly. It feels like obese squirrells are crawling over me. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">In seven minutes, she is basically done with the entire massage. I imagine this is what it would probably be like to get a massage from my Accountant: rushed and mechanical and cold and somewhat resentful. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">With 53 minutes remaining of our time together, she proceeds to repeat what she has already done a second time. And when she is done with that, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">she repeats it a third time</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">. I try to breathe through it all--inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale--wondering if I should go ahead and ask her/motion for her to leave. But then parts of the seven-minute routine are actually kind of therapeutic, so I let her continue. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">She then decides that she wants me to do something different, but because of the language barrier, she has no choice but to act out what she wants. She lies down next to me in my tiny hotel room bed, stomach down, head on the pillow. I notice that she has her shoes off at this point. She is wearing small, black socks.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I make an "Ah-ha!" sound, which I'm certain, like nervousness, must transcend all languages, and I get into the position she has demonstrated for me. She works her hands into hard little hammer shapes and begins pounding me on top of the head. She wails away. It hurts a little, but it also feels good. Then she uses her hammer hands to pound away at my back. Again, it hurts, but some of it feels good, maybe 10-percent of it, so I endure. I notice at this point that she has a smell about her--she smells like dried wax and cold hot dogs. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Then, with her shoes off, she begins to walk on my legs. She's surprisingly light. Her weight barely registers. I can't believe what is happening here, that I am in a tiny hotel room in Tokyo with a four foot-tall woman walking back and forth across my back. This is too much. It's like some sort of joke-y, inverted, surrealist version of Godzilla. I start to laugh a little as she walks on me, stomping back and forth, working her toes into my back. She stops walking and peers down at me. She pauses, apparently waiting for me to stop laughing. I stop laughing. Then she continues walking. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Once the time is mercifully up, she climbs down and puts on her shoes. It's hard to tell which one of the two of us is more relieved that this is over. Her breathing is labored. Her breath smells like medicine. I sign a slip of paper confirming that, yes, I have just received a one-hour massage for 6,300 yen (about $60). </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">After she's gone, I look into the bathroom mirror and start laughing again. Moral of the story: Just because your hotel room phone has a MASSAGE button does not mean that one should always press it. Also, if you haven't already, go to the </span><a href="http://www.gamersheartjapan.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Gamers Heart Japan</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> website, watch the documentary, then make a donation. You'll be glad you did.</span></p> <!--EndFragment--> </span><p></p> <!--EndFragment-->Scott C. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14584082553675139762noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4092463760286231519.post-74971240451596435162011-04-04T10:10:00.021-04:002011-04-15T10:52:14.349-04:00The 100 Things That I Just Love List Is On Final Approach/Cleared for Landing<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiymmW4nuvN0sOMaVoI5mKeOUmH7PreZnZsIUVJFP2pvLxhlH20W1QweB6giso_FxIONu0hcaBSdWrqdSTUL2mG6-ntAfki8uYRTLGrV8cj2Qn6ig3ZMtcInMzWt2J2ccpyrRcbAfNkAtLZ/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 274px; height: 184px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiymmW4nuvN0sOMaVoI5mKeOUmH7PreZnZsIUVJFP2pvLxhlH20W1QweB6giso_FxIONu0hcaBSdWrqdSTUL2mG6-ntAfki8uYRTLGrV8cj2Qn6ig3ZMtcInMzWt2J2ccpyrRcbAfNkAtLZ/s320/Unknown.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591752381976271410" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';color:#262626;"><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">One especially gloomy January morning a few months back, on the ropes after the holiday season and vexed by the milk-gray skies above Vancouver, I decided on a whim to make a list of one hundred things--places, books, stories, games, albums, etc.--that I love in the world. (Because this blog is the equivalent of a New Jersey Turnpike filling station, here are links to </span></span><a href="http://reportthejones.blogspot.com/2011/01/january-got-you-by-short-hairs-read.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Part 1</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">, </span></span><a href="http://reportthejones.blogspot.com/2011/02/more-100-things-that-i-just-love-so.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Part 2</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">, and </span></span><a href="http://reportthejones.blogspot.com/2011/02/my-100-things-list-blares-its-air-horn.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Part 3</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> of the 100-Things posts.)</span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Now that it's over--you'll find entries 40 thru one below--I'm pronouncing my experiment an unmitigated success. Proof of said success: I'm smiling 60-percent more often these days. And, as you well know, I am not a natural smiler, not by a long shot. My face usually doesn't work this way. (Vic's face does. Mine doesn't.)</span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">So exactly why did it work, and work so well? I think it had everything to do with the way that my "research" figured into my day to day life. Is the Spicy Miso Ramen at Motomachi on Denman Street list-worthy? I went back to the restaurant on a recent Sunday afternoon to find out. (Answer: It is.) Did Warren Zevon's "Tenderness on the Block" merit a place on the list? Well, I figured I'd best give it a few listens, to make sure. (Answer: It's great.) Does Chris Smith's </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">American Movie</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> hold up a decade after its release? Better dig out the DVD and give it a watch. (Answer: Sure does.) For three months straight, I was eating food that I loved, listening to music that I hadn't listened to in years, re-watching great films, re-playing great video games, re-reading great stories and novels--all in the name of cutting-pasting together my 100-Things list. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Every entry on this list, I came to realize, taught me a little bit about the world, and more importantly, who I am in that world.</span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Though the list is officially complete now--I actually finished it late last week--I'm still discovering things on an almost daily basis that are probably deserving of spots. (Example: The three fights that Micky Ward and Arturo Gatti fought in 2002 and 2003.) (Example: David Foster Wallace's great Harper's article, Shipping Out.) Indeed, the 100-Things list seems to have achieved a kind of critical mass, and now appears to have an oddball gravity all its own, perpetually attracting </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">even more</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> positive thoughts and feelings (as well as novels, games, documentaries, etc.) in its direction.</span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Because a good part of my daily life as a writer and a critic involves consuming bad movies and bad games--some days, it honestly feels as if I have a sewer pipe connected to my face--that an experiencing, or rather a re-experiencing, of these quality entertainments--entertainments with soul, and depth; entertainments with intelligence and heart--not only worked to hose out my sullied palette; it also helped me to remember, a hundred times over, why ever I got involved in this whole damn writer-critic business in the first place. </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Finally, to quote every character in </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Killzone 3</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> who says this particular phrase at least once in the game's final three-hour stretch: </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Let's finish this.</span></span></i></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">40. </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Rome</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">, the HBO series, in its entirety.</span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">39. The Advance Wars series on Game Boy and DS.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">38. Danny Boyle's 2002 film </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">28 Days Later</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">. Zombie greatness, rivaled only by [see: number six].</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">37. Sudoku puzzles. Which I loathe and love in equal parts.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">36. Settling into a five hour-plus plane trip surrounded by an inexhaustible supply of games, books, and movies. Sometimes I honestly think, </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I hope this plane never lands...</span></span></i></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">35. "Random Rules" by Silver Jews, which features this opening line: "In 1984 I was hospitalized for approaching perfection..."</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">34. </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Jarhead</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">, Anthony Swofford's terrific memoir about the Gulf War. Pair it with Tobia Wolff's </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">In Pharoah's Army</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> and voila, you've got a nice, war-y double-feature.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">33. Tom Waits' "Postcard From a Hooker in Minneapolis."</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">32. Spielberg's 1981 movie </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Raiders of the Lost Ark</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">. I was so completely knocked out by this movie that a few hours after seeing, I recounted it scene for scene and line for line from start to finish, to a neighbor kid. That remains the sole instance I've ever done that in my life. Also: What a complete dork I am.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">31. Kubrick's </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Dr. Strangelove</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">.</span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">30. </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Tetris</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">, any version. Recently started playing this on the DSi--Tetris Party Live, which you can pick up for about $5--and my come-on-long-skinny-one obsession began all over again.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">29. "Going For The Gold" by Bright Eyes. </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">28. </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Pixeljunk Monsters</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">, Dylan Cuthbert's masterpiece.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">27. One Story, a Brooklyn-based magazine which publishes one short story every couple of weeks and sends it to you through snail mail. (Though, from what I understand, they now have an e-reader-friendly version, too.)</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">26. Alfonso Cuaron's great 2006 film, </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Children of Men</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">25. The Mountain Goats' terrific song, "No Children." ("I hope I cut myself shaving tomorrow/I hope it bleeds all day long.") </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">24. Sergio Leone's "Man With No Name" trilogy.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">23. Valve's Half-Life series.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">22. </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">George Sprott 1894-1975</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> by the cartoonist Seth.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">21. Capcom's Dead Rising series.</span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">20. "You Don't Need" by Jane Siberry. One of the few songs that can always leave me kind of misty eyed by the end.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">19. Alec Baldwin in </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Glengarry Glenross</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">. "You see this watch? This watch costs more than your car."</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">18. id's </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Doom</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">, which did two things to me: 1. It nearly made me fail out of graduate school, because I was playing it obsessively; 2. It was the first game that I would see on the insides of my eyelids when I'd go to sleep at night.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">17. The Evil Dead Trilogy. Sam Raimi would go on to make many bland, large-scale entertainments, but this no- to low-budget trio of zombie movies are his finest--and B.C.'s finest--work.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">16. The Devil May Cry series. Numbers two and four were awful, but one and three are two of my favorite games of all time. Thus, the DMC Rule: Even-numbered games are terrible; odd-numbered games are great.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">15. </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">When We Were Kings</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">, Leon Gast's 1997 documentary about Ali and Foreman's 1974 bout in Zaire. Ali: "I'm young, I'm handsome, I'm fast, I'm pretty, I can't possibly be beat."</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">14. The first three quarters of </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Goodfellas</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">. It sort of goes to hell in the home-stretch, but at that point, what has come before that was so good that I'm almost always in a forgiving mood.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">13. Paul Verhoeven's masterpiece </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Starship Troopers</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">12. </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Strange Brew (1983),</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> a movie that introduced the word "hoser" to the U.S. public school that I attended.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">11. Peter Jackson's </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Dead Alive</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">. I saw this in a theater in Chicago with a girlfriend. She's no longer my girlfriend. And not because I took her to this movie. Well, maybe part of it is because I took her to this movie. (Sorry, Amy.)</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; min-height: 15.0pxcolor:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">10. Merle Haggard's "Misery and Gin," the single greatest song about self-pity ever written.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">9. </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Catcher in the Rye</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> by J.D. Salinger. I read it about once a year. It's great, and it makes me miss New York (and wish that I'd gone to a prep school), and it's proof that John Hinckley has good taste in books.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">8. 2006's </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Casino Royale</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">. I was in the middle of a life transition a few years back when I popped this DVD into my laptop late one night. I stayed up until dawn watching it. What a movie.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">7. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The Punch-Out!! series. Even as I type this, I can still hear the theme from the NES version. (Doooo-de-doot-doot-</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">doo-doot</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">/dooooo-dooooot/dooooooo-doooot, etc. etc.)</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">6. </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Dawn of the Dead</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">, George Romero's 1978 masterpiece.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">5. The fourth quarter of the New York Giants' win over the New England Patriots in Super Bowl XLII in 2008.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">4. </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Let It Be</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">, the 1984 album by The Replacements, in its entirety.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">3. Egg sandwiches from any deli in New York. </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'; color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">2. Any </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Seinfeld</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> re-run.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span style="color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">1. Mad Magazine. I'll let Robert Boyd speak for me, because I could not say this any better than he does: "</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">[Mad Magazine] instilled in me a habit of mind, a way of thinking about a world rife with false fronts, small print, deceptive ads, booby traps, treacherous language, double standards, half truths, subliminal pitches and product placements; it warned me that I was often merely the target of people who claimed to be my friend; it prompted me to mistrust authority, to read between the lines, to take nothing at face value, to see patterns in the often shoddy construction of movies and TV shows; and it got me to think critically in a way that few actual humans charged with my care ever bothered to."</span></span><span style="color:#333233;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> [Well said, sir.]</span></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Cue the medal ceremony music from </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Star Wars, </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">as well as two, maybe three beatific smiles from Princess Leia.</span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px 'Times New Roman'"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Roll credits.</span></span></p><p></p><p></p> <!--EndFragment--> <p></p> <!--EndFragment--> <p></p> <!--EndFragment--> </span><p></p> <!--EndFragment-->Scott C. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14584082553675139762noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4092463760286231519.post-81196170374889930172011-03-10T09:40:00.014-05:002011-04-15T10:51:47.955-04:00Little House Syndrome<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCkkc5bF9PbhUURwK5N7KQYd79r93GPUkJEWoahiCf3doBR9SHwyblsvHmti3XJ2-7L3-_J4lkUiUzteyLFMnS0xpNdFvuYFadN1XXo3xc6p7ESU8UVdJQ8HtzjBUxQYu4HSGsAcItLOZj/s1600/images.jpeg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 203px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCkkc5bF9PbhUURwK5N7KQYd79r93GPUkJEWoahiCf3doBR9SHwyblsvHmti3XJ2-7L3-_J4lkUiUzteyLFMnS0xpNdFvuYFadN1XXo3xc6p7ESU8UVdJQ8HtzjBUxQYu4HSGsAcItLOZj/s320/images.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5582835384280273874" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">I got a call from my real estate agent yesterday--a pleasant woman named Shelly--letting me know that an apartment I'd been interested in a few months ago was back on the market and that the seller was now, in her words, "very motivated."<br /></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">As with all real estate fantasies, I'd enjoyed a brief, torrid affair with the apartment in my mind, but had since moved on to other fantasy apartments and concerns. Or, had I?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">I woke up this morning thinking about the apartment, obsessing over it, wondering if I would be happy there. I thought about the cats. What would they make of the place? I wondered if the kitchen would need to be renovated before I moved in. Were there smokers in the building? Particularly on the lower floors? I'd once lived above a smoker in Brooklyn, which led to a conflict, which led to several months of misery. I certainly didn't want a repeat of that episode. I wouldn't wish that on anyone.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">I also thought about the future. Could I invite people over for dinner? If my parents visited, would they be comfortable sleeping in the downstairs area? And, if I ever did meet someone who could love me and, by extension, my rich and varied eccentricities, could we possibly co-habitate there together?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Yet, what I wondered most was this: Could I play videogames there?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Let me clarify: One can ostensibly play videogames anywhere. Upstairs, downstairs, inside, outside, etc. But some spaces are better suited for gaming than others. For example, the apartment I currently live in receives an abundance of sunlight in the summer months between the hours of 3 p.m. and 9 p.m. And when I say "abundance," I mean that it feels as if the sun itself pulls up outside my building and parks in front of my windows for six straight hours like the Eye of Sauron. And, since the apartment I live in, in another instance of real-estate jargon, is "open concept" (translation: it features the fewest amount of walls possible), any chance of either watching anything on TV or playing games is erased by that blinding, angry glare.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Which is all very nice, if you enjoy the sun. Which I do. Mostly. But it's far from nice if you've got a 20-hour survival-horror game set in an underground network of pitch-black caves to get through before the morning. How I've cursed the sun in these moments. I.M. Pei could not have designed and built more impressive structures out of couch cushions and afghans and throw pillows than I have, all in the name of creating a small patch of shade and, therefore, being able to glimpse even a fraction of what is happening onscreen in </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Cave Horror Party 4: Still Caving</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Of course, you're no doubt thinking, "Jesus, Jones, just go out and buy some curtains." Fact 1: I have blinds. Fact 2: Unfortunately, they are the sort of blinds that are sheer, and allow in light, but prevent people from seeing any of the untoward things I might do while nude (eating Pringles, using my fitness ball, watching </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Footloose</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> on cable, sewing my woman suit out of human skin, etc. etc.). In Vancouver, where, for eight months out of the year the sun peeks over the horizon each morning only to say, "Oh, the hell with this," before going down again, curtains/blinds are not something anyone here wants to invest in.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">But the apartment I woke up fantasizing about this morning? It's not the usual wall-of-glass condo-type apartment typically found in Vancouver. This place is all brick and wood beams. The windows are small (well, small-ish). Direct sunlight is so limited that the average houseplant wouldn't last more than three weeks in that place. In other words, the apartment would make for an ideal gaming space.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Probably the most ideal game-friendly dwelling I've ever seen is the house that Bilbo lives in in </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">The Fellowship of the Ring</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">. Look at those low ceilings, the alcoves, the little nooks. Every gaming space should be outfitted with at least two (x2) alcoves and four or five (x4-x5) nooks. I also love the sense of warmth that the place has, and the feeling that the cupboards are forever stocked with delicious food items.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Another great gaming space, and one that I still think of often for reasons that have never entirely been clear to me, is the tiny house where Rudolph, Yukon Cornelius, and Hermie spend the night at the start of their long journey in the 1964 stop-motion holiday special, </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">. I particularly remember the fabric of the curtains hanging in the house's diminutive window. Snow is falling outside, the Abominable Snowman is roaring in the distance, and the camera pulls out to show the impossibly small house--which is really no bigger than the period at the end of this sentence--lost in the center of a sprawling, snowbound landscape. Despite the surreal, enjoyable journey that the three wind up going on together, part of me always wished at that point in the story that they would have simply stayed in that house. Namely, because I think that's what I probably would have done: stayed there, where it was safe and warm, with those tiny curtains drawn against the dangers ahead.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">True story: After graduating from college, I was enduring a couple of restless months living back at home with my parents--for those who are regular readers, yes, this is the time when I was working as the mall Santa Claus--when a friend phoned and asked if I'd be interested in housesitting for him for six weeks or so while he was away. My friend lived in a renovated one-room school house on a couple of spare, wind-blown acres in the hills outside of town. It was a chance to enjoy some privacy--the first true privacy I'd had in my entire life. Of course, I couldn't say the word "yes" fast enough.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">I saw the six weeks, and the privacy, as an opportunity to do some serious writing. I was trying to be a serious writer, and this is what serious writers did: they went to the woods and wrote in solitude great works of literature. My plan was to produce an entire novel in six weeks. I'd be crowned der wunderkind of the literary world. I imagined how I'd be introduced at the 92nd Street Y before my first reading: "Here is a brave man who holed up in a one-room schoolhouse located on a couple of spare, wind-blown acres in Upstate New York and wrote his first novel in a mere six weeks. Would you please welcome to the stage der wunderkind... WRITER SCOTT JONES." </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">But after a few miserable days of trying to write--honestly, is there anything worse than the trying-to-write state?--I gave up and drove to a local department store and purchased a Super Nintendo for $199. My second order of business: drive to a porno store a few towns over called ADULT WORLD--which was a window-less barn--and purchase the first pornographic movie I ever owned: a $29.95 VHS copy of </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Andrew Blake's Night Trips</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">, starring Tori Welles. Tori would go on to star in other films such as </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Shaved and Dangerous</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">, </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Breast to Breast</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">, and </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Butts Motel 2</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">I steeped myself in </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Super Mario World</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">--the SNES's terrific pack-in cartridge--playing the game with a level of obsession and drive rivaled only by my obsession/drive for Tori Welles and </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Andrew Blake's</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Night Trips</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">. I gamed with zeal, with passion. I believe this was the first real gaming--and by real gaming, I don't mean just fooling around with a game; I mean engaging the game in a see-saw battle of dexterity and patience and tenacity and wonderment--that I'd ever done in my life.</span></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">And when I wasn't gaming, I was watching my new porno movie and masturbating with wild abandon, blowing huge, copious loads all over that one-room schoolhouse.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">If I'm going to be honest with myself, I wouldn't exactly say that I was happy during this period. But I wasn't unhappy, either. I was mostly somewhat disappointed in myself, I guess--which, little did I know back then, would be the state I'd basically stay in for the rest of my life. I was out on my own for the first time (college didn't count; there were chaperones and roommates and dining halls, and a medical clinic). I couldn't blame anyone but myself for not writing, and for not becoming the person who I wanted to be. Here was a chance--my first real chance--to do something truly constructive with myself and my life, and what did I do? I jacked off like an escaped zoo chimpanzee, played </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Super Mario World</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> until dawn, and did not write a single word.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">One night, exhausted from gaming and self-pleasure, I climbed up into the sleep loft in the schoolhouse and covered myself with a great many quilts. The temperature had dropped severely over the last few hours. Snow had been falling since the afternoon. It was still falling, accumulating on the eave of the tiny, octagonal window in the sleep loft.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">On the verge of sleep, I heard a sound outside the house. I recognized it as a car engine, rumbling by. It was strange to hear a car out here, out this far, at that hour. In all my time at the schoolhouse, only a half dozen cars had ever passed this way. People rarely came out that way. The only reason to come out that way was if you lived out there.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">The car engine faded in the distance. I reshuffled the quilts and was on the verge of drifting off again when the car, to my surprise, returned. This time, it slowed and stopped outside of the schoolhouse, its wheels crunching in the snow. The engine idled steadily. I peered over the edge of the sleep loft. I could see, through the schoolhouse's side windows, the red glow of the car's taillights. I thought, </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">I am alone here in the middle of the night.</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> I thought, </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Did I remember to lock the door?</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> I thought, </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Maybe if I remain quiet and keep still whoever is out there will go away.</span></span></i></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">The car idled on. I held my breath in the dark. I could feel my heart pounding in the tips of my ears. An chill spread through my abdomen and down through my hips. I was as afraid as I've ever been in my life. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">I began to chastise myself. </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Why did you come out here? </span></span></i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Why the hell didn't you stay at home, where it was safe? </span></span></i></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Where there was food in the cupboards. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Where my parents were snoring in their room down the hall. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Where my father built the fire in the wood stove each morning.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">I listened to the car. I watched the taillights. I waited. A few minutes later--it's difficult to say how much time had elapsed--the car finally drove off. It didn't return. I never learned who it was, or why they'd stopped there, outside an old schoolhouse in the middle of a snowy night on a remote backroad. It was probably just some kids drinking, or maybe a randy couple looking for a place to make out. Whoever it was, and whatever their reason for stopping, that moment has always stayed with me.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">After that, the spell of the schoolhouse--the head-spinning pornography and gaming and privacy and safety and free time--was broken. My fantasy of staying there, right there, forever--though I knew that, realistically, I could not (my friend would be returning and reclaiming his house soon)--left that night along with that strange, idling car.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">I've done a lot of brave things in my life. And I've done a lot of cowardly things, too. No matter what I was doing, I kept playing games, and kept trying to find safe, small, comfortable dwellings to live--and game--in. I realized--after a recent conversation with fellow writer, Chris Plante--that what I'm doing, what I've always done, is I'm trying to somehow get back to the safe, small, comfortable places of my childhood. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Of course, I can't get back there, not literally, not anymore. The house I grew up in has been sold, and, as I learned on my last trip home, sold again. What I can do is create--or recreate--approximations of those places in my adult life.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Recently, on a rare, snowy afternoon in Vancouver, I sat on my couch playing a videogame. My cat, Bee, had climbed up into my lap, where she likes to curl up and fall asleep. I paused the game and sat there feeling Bee's small cat breaths--in, out; in, out--and listening to air whistle through her small nose, while looking out the windows at the falling snow. It was really starting to come down now. A hush was coming over the city. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">I don't remember what I was playing. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">BioShock 2</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">? </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Demon's Souls</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">? What I do remember is feeling about as happy as I ever feel in my life.</span></span></div>Scott C. Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14584082553675139762noreply@blogger.com7