EDVGT II

(cont. from An Exploratory Dialogue on Video Game Theory)

It's a Choose-Your-Own-Dialogue! To have your character begin playing a game at the LAN Center, click here (just as soon as I've written that part). To get up and purchase a drink from the LAN Center, continue reading!

This terrible, fantastical nonsense won't do at all. I require caffeine to function, and I'm willing to sell my soul to Coke for it...I feel dirty buying energy drinks at a LAN Center, especially when the games industry loves to partner with the beverage industry to insert "BAWLS Guarranaxx" as a cornerstone of the Liberated Nerd's identity...

"Excuse me, but don't I know you?"

It was a vaguely familiar face asking me the question, tentatively probing just as I racked my brain for a name. I was going to suggest "Valerie," but she beat me to recognition.

"Haven't we had a philosophy class together," she realized. "It was PHL 555, I think, 'How To Be a Living Embodiment of a Philosophical Point of View?' And I think your name is Joan?"

"That's right," I nodded, taking a bottle out of the fridge. "I remember your name, too, I think...Balere, isn't it? I didn't know you played video games."

Balere was a woman about my age, a lanky, pale woman with black hair and clear Spanish ancestry. "Play?" she asked. "I don't just play them, I study them."

We re-introduced ourselves as I paid for my drink, the way students do outside of classes. It can only be said to have to do with a kind of deception that goes on between students and teachers, or maybe only some students - or maybe between students and students, instead. She was actually a major in video game theory, which naturally I had never heard of. I was in the kind of stupor where one doesn't remember whether caffeine, alcohol, and/or sleep deprivation are the biological culprits, and at first I was a little bit confused.

"Wait, you study game theory? And what, come here to LAN centers to apply it or something?"

"No no," she said impatiently. "Nothing like that. I actually study video games themselves, and what they mean as a medium, with all the possible implications of that." As she said this, she paid for her own couple of energy drinks, a pair of absurdly massive "Monsters." I cringed a little, but then of course I was drinking the same crap...

An Exploratory Dialogue on Video Game Theory

3:00 AM. I had left the mirthless yellow light of the LAN Center's basement lobby, and was currently in a black booth in front of a computer. Somewhere in-between there must have been something about me walking in, or attempting to, but I don't remember any of it.

These places are terrible. You get the vile sense that maybe there's something else at work - yes, of course. It all makes sense now. That morbid buzzing light in the lobby sucks us in like a work of Kafka...and inside the shadowy basement, there are comfortable chairs, video games, the soft sounds of wanna-be soldiers lulling one softly to sleep over headsets...why of course, you can come play video games on credit, no need for cash up front...and if your liver is missing in the morning, it shows what a hardcore gamer you are...

TBC

They're Stealing Our Gigs

Now Serving The Most Metal Thing to Come Out of Mexico Since Diego Rivera

Next thing you know, Mexico will have musical-genre-oriented political parties. There will be genre discrimination...the "metal fountain" and the "emo fountain" (one will have blood instead of water, but I'm not sure which)...now, where are the Indie Mexicans in all of this? Will they be inspired to take up arms against lovers of commercial music?

With any luck, this will spread up north. It would be a great way to get people into politics! No one gives a rat's ass about which of two slimebags they vote for, but they're willing to kill over taste in music!

And in the grand scheme of things, what's really important? Let the Master swipe our rights and property from under our noses, so long as we don't have any emo kids representing our culture's music. At least history will remember us as suckers with good taste.

O Little Traveler

Now Serving Corruptea, the Official Tea of Rod Paige

Throughout all of today - which, incidentally, was a Tuesday - I was walking around with a very small glass shard in my sock.

I'm looking at it right now, on an envelope from my mom. The original Mental Health Association return address, printed on the envelope, has been stickered-over twice, once to correct the office address, and again for our home address.

I dimly remember a time when I don't think there was anything so hodge-podge or crudely re-used in my life, but maybe that's just me. I also dimly remember my mom relating a story about a friend of hers whose son had died after stepping on broken glass, thinking it was no big deal. The sad thing is that it took me a College Education to suppose that the story might have been exaggerated.

That's assuming my memory to be true, which is a bold enough assumption on its own.

Holy shit - this just in - Laurie Brown has broken the story on CBC's Radio 2, Easter has been turned into a gift-holiday. With her characteristic subtlety, she asked: "When did that happen?" Similarly, my mouse's battery-light is flashing red.

Now, having enough money to buy batteries, why do I feel like it's the end of the line?

So my foot feels fine, and I haven't seen any blood yet. I should probably check it...yes, it's fine. I'm a regular Johnny Appleseed...if only I could somehow prove that I've pulled off this amazing feat...oh, that juicy pun is tempting me...I could do it again tomorrow, this time with witnesses. Yes. Wait. No.

What a savage little fucker. It's still there on the envelope, looking very shiny and pointy. It makes my toes tingle to think about what I did all day, like another memory of my mom involving me, an outlet, a screw-driver, and slow parental uptake.

Not so slow that I fried myself, mind you. The electricity might have been off anyway, who knows...alright, people in the dorm room, and I tossed the glass shard. Mom would have wanted me to bag it...note to self, ask someone about glass in the trash compactor...

I Like It

Now Serving A Slice of My Identity

I have no idea who runs this site, but $10 says they're white. (That's a lie, I'm not willing to fork up ten bucks if I'm wrong. I'm probably right, though.)

I'm also willing to bet that the authors could add their site as an entry. After all, it is a blog, and that in itself is very white...

Some Minutes of "The Signal"

Now Serving The Signal

If your fourteen kids were slaughtered because you belittled a God for having less, at least you know you got under a God's skin. If your grief hardened you so much that you became a rock, at least you don't doubt the legitimacy of your grief. If your fate is to revisit that loss with every rainfall, weeping intermittently for the rest of time, at least know you care Enough.

Priests grow up to be poets and philosophers.

Movement is what the eye holds on to, and gripping movement is how we know genius when we see it. Everyone stops, so they won't distract themselves.

There's the discovery and the watching someone else make one, to discover what was unique to you. An inclination to smugness can make this pleasant, to make up for the unpleasantness it brought you to before.

Running in place makes for resentful muscles.

"Crazy, right?"

Now Serving Cognitive Dissonance

MSU to its students: You don't drink! The community loves you! Isn't that great? Hehehehehehehehehehe! You don't drink! I'm not going to lose my job! Isn't that great? The community loves you! Hehehehehehehehehe! Haha, hoho you don't loves you! The community drink! Isn't that my job? Where is it going? Wait - no! GET YOUR HANDS OFF OF ME! NO! OUR PROGRAM IS SUCCESSFUL, IT'S BEING COPIED AROUND THE COUNTRY! WHERE ARE YOU TAKING ME NOOOOOOOOOOOOO *slam*

In other news, Comcast has stated clearly once again that they hate you.

Relational Art, Dungeons & Dragons

I'm starting a project, and I need people to join me.

Below is a copy of a recruitment message I sent to all of the ROIAL Players, reprinted here so that interested parties will have easy access to the information. To be clear, this is not a ROIAL-only or RCAH-only project, and I welcome basically anyone that knows me to come learn about it this Friday (3.14), when I'm holding an informational meeting.

The exact time and place are TBA (when I have a better idea of who's coming, I'll be able to set that down). It will almost certainly be somewhere in Snyder-Phillips.

Also, the most relevant piece of information: I expect this will be a 2-hour-a-week group, for the rest of the semester.

- - - -

I'm forming a crew of 5-6 people to join me in an ambitious art class project: a game of Dungeons and Dragons that will be art.

For those who don't know, D&D is a game where players sit at a table and roleplay fictional characters with pencils, paper, and dice. It's a fancy way to "play pretend." In our case it'll be "relational art," made so by changing the rules and practice of the game.

Here's the relevant info:

) The crew doesn't have to be all-ROIAL or all-RCAH.

) You don't have to know a thing about D&D.

) We'll perform this publicly in some form or another, and record parts on video for my class.

) Our deadline to "finish" will be the end of the semester.

) We'll all have to read an article about relational art. I'm not going to lie: it's dense, but also fascinating, and it will get us all on the same page.

) For this to work, we'll have to view ourselves as artists. You don't need to be an art major, but we'll be designing parts of the project as a group, and that means I need people with opinions: able not just to make ideas, but to criticize other ideas.

) This will take commitment. It'll be challenging, and we'll need to meet regularly to flesh out our "artistic D&D" system. I also promise that I will be committed to this - this isn't a flighty idea I'll abandon in a week. I am ready to stick with this through setbacks and difficulties, and I say this because of my admittedly-deserved reputation for slacking off.

My e-mail* is the address for details and questions. I won't be able to answer some, because some won't have answers until the crew's assembled and ready to rock, but I'll try my best.

So, why should you do this? Because it will be fresh, funny, delightfully awkward, and carry us deep into uncharted waters. Consider this the classifieds ad in an 1800s newspaper placed by an ambitious explorer, for indeed I seek all who would dare call themselves artistic pioneers and courageous social revelators. I can promise little other than the opportunity for improvised acting, fantastical story-weaving, sociological revelations, the thrill of truly challenging creation, and free tea.

And, you know, we'll try to have fun. I'm sure that won't be hard with ROIAL Players on-board.

- - - -

*I'm not posting my address publicly, but I'll post my IM screenname ("Hamsterebel") publicly.

While Analagous, There Are No Implications

Trolls are responsible for the inordinate number of typographical errors in this recollection.

---

Here in the decrepit, lurid jungles of debauchery, the mongoose pauses to recollect.

These jungles are twisted, polluted, but on the other hand mostly benign. Like many of the world's deepest plunges of morass, this expansive world of undergrowth and foliage presents the identity through a different lens than normal land. That is to say, people change.

Dr. Mongoose noted a heightened sense of emotional suggestion, trying to apply objective science to the phenomenon - the expedition was mad!

Absolutely rollicking mad! Aside from other ills, sanity in the jungle is protection from the greatest enemy of all:

"ZORGONS!"

And there they were - the Zorgons, specters of the very essence of the jungles overpowering darkness, had suddenly born down upon the expedition. Thinking quickly, Dr. Mongoose called upon the expedition's native guide, Jah'chwa Out-Meanders Brooks, to calm the panicking crew with his knowledge of prior expeditionary experience.

Yes. They would get out of this, together - they always did.

And lo, The Zorgons were vanquished in a bitter struggle of loudness, but their powers had overwhelmed Captain Bandana, who lethargically came to realize his own feverish heat. The expedition's two heat-related experts - Dr. Emmalyn Vicatin Precarious III, expeditionary physician; and the most prestigious fashion consultant in the land, Sir Imaginary Representation of an Unknown Entity, Esquire.

"I dunno," queried Irue (as his many male friends called him), "ith he like, Heath Ledger hot, or Captain Bandana hot, because the Captain ithn't very hot, mm-mmm, no."

At this point, Dr. Emmalyn snapped. Dr. Mongoose supposed that was why they called her "Precarious," but then he realized that was just her last name. Perhaps she was tired of Irue's constant depreciation of the urgency of situations like this, where Captain Bandana clearly was dangerously hot, and in danger of descending into feverish delerium. Dr. Mongoose could see the battle raging in his body: only the most stubborn final bits of finger holding on to the ledge of consciousness, refusing to submit to the wily Zorgons' assault upon his immune system. A soldier to the core!

To Irue snapped the Doctor, "Oh, thanks bitch!" and with a battle cry lunged for her throat. Desperately grappling at Dr. Emmalyn's icy hands, Irue desperately wheedled "Oh, no offense, I kind of just insulted myself too! I swear!"

Now, dear reader, you may wonder how there was even enough time for that sentence to progress, for surely by now the other expedition members would have intervened and attempted to restore Dr. Emmalyn to sanity. But they didn't. Maybe it was the will of the jungle, its powers seducing us into inaction. Perhaps it was because it was commonly agreed, after all, that Irue was generally a worthless piece of shit not suitable to lick a real person's boots.

Captain Bandana came to doubt that he was truly ill. "Maybe I'm...I'm fine, I'm - "

"YOU'RE VERY HOT!" shouted the Doctor, desperately. It seemed to her that no one was grasping the gravity of the situation!

But even in these desperate moments - or perhaps because of them - the Captain was joking.
"I hope you like it, because it's all that you're getting!"

Dr. Emmalyn sighed and shook her head. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to confiscate your gun for that one."

"Oh...shit...I'm too delirious to resist..."

Now you see, dear reader, how the Jungle can draw into its mysterious depths even parts of wholes, as our expedition rapidly fell apart. The expedition's guide, a native named "Jah'chwa Out-Meanders Brooks," was called upon by the Doctor to guide her and Captain Bandana to a spot where they culd operate. The three of them were never seen by civilized eyes ever again.

Senator Republidan, in the meanwhile, took advantage of the commotion to escape with the expeditionary hardware quartermaster, Sketchan BadCritic - whose powers of literary criticism, I should add, matched that of a stoned gnat, although she was handy with wrenches and automobiles and other assorted non-literary things.

And further along that tangent, it should not be assumed, dear reader, that this implies a lack of cognitive ability, for truly I suspect that the many working classes of Englishmen whose logical capacities we depend upon for many of our modern society's mechanical workings. Even Dr. Mongoose, the eccentric explorer of uncharted creative territory, who had discovered the beauty and magnificence of things he pulled out of his ass.

Anyway, where was I? The shorter years bring longer tangents, I'm afraid, but there you have it, such is life, and so on and so forth and onwards back to the story. Republidan and Sketchan disappeared somewhere into the labyrinth of undergrowth, presumably eloping, although perhaps one kidnapped the other for some bizarre experiment involving either politics or hardware.

This left only Dr. Mongoose and Professor Grantley, the master grant-applicant. His own field was actually Japanese Furniture Studies, but his skills in procuring grants for research were renowned throughout the land, and Dr. Mongoose felt that he was a vital part of the expedition.

Unfortunately, he too was absorbed by the jungle with a final attack of Brazilian Flying Wombat-Monkeys. Dr. Mongoose suddenly realized - too late - that Sketchan BadCritic's skills were not limited to industrial metallic objects, but also to genetic engineering! It was she who had created these monsters, which promptly ate Professor Grantley and took all of his money.

These are the last thoughts of Dr. Mongoose, patiently waiting for the jungle, finally, to claim him as well. Perhaps someday, these pennings will be found by some curious explorer of the future, and perhaps, I hope, he might be inspired by my wicked tale to explore himself - to explore his soul - and question whether there are truly no limits to the exploration of man; whether no place cannot be conquered by our ingenuity. For ingenuity is the servant not just of hope but of despair, as well, and *eaten by a troll*

Niche-Hunting

1) I can't tell if Muse is brilliant or obnoxiously cliche.

2) I was thinking that it would be a real nice poetic metaphor to compare potholes to continents, but then I realized that would be misread as Pothole Complaining.

3) I sometimes try to steal without stealing.

4) Harper's leaves in awe even my oldest, wonder-numbed self. Mostly it's the writing.

5) There are too many good stories I can't tell.

6) They say drunk words are sober thoughts, and that sober thoughts are funny words.

7) I can't tell if Ted Leo is brilliant or obnoxiously didactic, but only in track 07 of this album.

8) My columns make me feel like I did at the start of events in track and field. It's terrifying.

9) After reading some real Hunter S. Thompson, I can only be more impressed with Johnny Depp's depiction. It's more than just Unconventional Capitalizations and drugs. There's his

a. unconventional but articulate use of adjectives
b. colorful, strange metaphors
c. obsession with weirdness itself
d. novel generalizations ("When a man quits drugs, he wants big fires in the hearth...")
e. frantic, flighty mind that races from one subject to the next, forming an organic structure of argument (and more amazingly, one that's usually still strong)
f. complete merging of personal and political - Kurt Vonnegut praised him as "vulnerable"
g. delightful style of insult (e.g. "dingbat," or just plain "scum")
h. subtle sarcasm
i. football references
j. bitter political nostalgia that many relate to

Depp didn't cover all of those, but he got enough that when I first started reading Thompson, I kept thinking I'd seen him in a movie. What's more, he did it (mostly) within the limits of what's acceptable in a motion picture!