Friday, December 22, 2006

THE GAME, PART I

I am a recovering vidiot. I was so hooked on video games in my youth that I must have poured the equivalent of a down payment on a nice house into such games as Missile Command, Stargate and Joust. (And, yes, I realize I am dating myself.) I got hooked on the games because they were killfests. They were two dimensional arenas in which I was a death-dealing hero and defeat only cost me another quarter. So I missed out on the suburban bliss of equity. What is that compared to the awesome body count of Robotron: 2084?

In time, I was able to walk away from video games. Mortal Kombat took things to unreachable heights in terms of violence, plot and profit-taking (the only ways to get better were to buy the instructional book or pump a treasury's worth of money into the machines), and I decided to start wasting money on my great plan to sell tanning products to Eskimos.

But I was never able to completely shake the urge. One of the first things I did after getting my first home computer was load in Myst. One of the next things I did was quit playing Myst, once I realized it demanded monkish servitude just to figure out how to get off the damn island.

For the next 10 years or so, I had little to do with computer games. I would see commercials for the next great, must-have game and shrug. I was a noncombatant in the XBox and Playstation revolution. A reformed man, I instead spent my computer time gazing at pornography.

Yet I broke down again this month and bought Medieval II - Total War. It's a different kettle of fish from what I'm used to, because it demands strategic thinking as well as bloodlust. Its packaging is graced with a scowling knight wearing a crown and a fur-trimmed mantle, so I'm guessing Sega is going for a warrior-king thing here. It's a nice try, but the this battle-hardened sovereign has not a noble mark upon him. There's no hauteur, no chivalry. Mostly, he just looks like a litigator who has been told he's going to have to start his day with decaf.

As befitting a strategy game, there is an exhaustive booklet of instructions about how to play the game. It begins "Hail Commander! Welcome to Medieval II: Total War!" That's nice, but I was hoping for something more along the lines of Genghis Khan: "The greatest happiness is to scatter your enemy, to drive him before you, to see his cities reduced to ashes, to see those who love him shrouded in tears, and to gather into your bosom his wives and daughters.” And then to have a cold brew with the guys afterward. Or something like that. But "Hail Commander!" is sufficiently flattering and it puts me in a lordly frame of mind.

And what sort of lord and battle leader shall I be? I am told that I can go in one of two directions: I can be a chivalrous (let prisoners go free, be brave in battle, abstain from levying harsh taxes) or dreadful (execute prisoners, exterminate large numbers of people, rule oppressively, force my unfortunate subjects to dress as deer during hunting season). Y'know, maybe I should ... ah, who am I kidding? I'll opt for Curtain No. 2.

It's not that I am by nature a cruel man. It's just that I am a man who would completely trash his principles to get even a whiff of power. I am told that my subjects might rebel if I resort too much to the mailed fist. Well, too bad, ye villains! As I see it, I am their divinely chosen ruler ... OK, maybe just licensed by Sega, but the point is that an entity greater than me has decided that I should rule, and any hint of regicide shall be brutally stamped out until my subjects repent of their crimes or until 24 comes on TV. Our royal person must not be threatened.

This might run counter to the counsel of Lady Gwendolyn, one of two digital advisers included in the game. Lady Gwendolyn's task is to tell me how I should best rule my dominions. I sense a lot of compassionate, huggy sort of suggestions. Lady Gwendolyn is probably going to be a pain in the ass. But I'll bet she has no idea whom she is up against, and I wonder whether her personality will adjust to my excesses. For instance, is she going to pop up at some point thoroughly exasperated and say, "Look, your majesty, I can only say this so many times: It's one thing to behead 'em; it's another to have the headsman sing I Ain't Got Nobody when he displays the heads to the crowd."

(Actually, the game is sort of hard on women. The two main female roles seem to be those of princess and witch. I'll leave it to others to dwell on the psychology behind that dichotomy. Witches stir up trouble in the realm, and princesses are married off to gain allies and so strengthen my holdings. But that also adds to my duties. I am not just general and ruler -- I am also pimp as well. Methinks I should give a certain flava to my battle steed. Y'know, maybe some chrome-plated armor, neon ground effects and a set of grillz for the horse's teeth.)

I'm thinking my first move will be to declare war on a far stronger adversary in hopes of getting a ton of aid under some sort of Marshall Plan. Failing that, I shall send assassins to kill the pope, hoping the audacity gets me somewhere.

But after installing the game, I eagerly tried to begin ... and a dialogue box told me I have to upgrade the graphics card in the computer. So I'll have to get someone from the Geek Squad out here to do my bidding.

And a headsman in case said geek displeases us.

Thursday, December 14, 2006

JUST TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT

It's only during the Christmas season that I think of killing my family, mostly because getting a gift list from them is about as easy as doing a root canal on a crocodile. A few years ago, I put my frustration down on paper. It is the following:

One of the joys of Christmas is exchanging gifts with loved ones and seeing the happiness that comes from a thoughtful present. That is, if we haven't already strangled our loved ones in trying to get them to tell us what they want.

We are driven to such extremes in part because we care. On one hand, we want our gifts to be glowingly special, and damn the expense. On the other hand, we don't want people giving us presents to go to much trouble. Naturally, the upshot of such thoughtfulness is exasperation, usually triggered by somebody saying such things as "oh, anything you get me is fine," "oh, I have everything I need and want" or "you don't want that."

Those statements, no matter who says them, are utter lies. You say you have everything you want? Fine, then merge with Vishnu or whatever and get off my gift list. Everybody needs and wants something, unless they're dead set on being a pain in the rear. Karma won't punish you for asking for a new sweater or a pair of mittens. (It might, however, punish you for asking for a collection of Pauly Shore movies.) But friends and family will punish you if you deflect their gift inquiries with transcendent explanations and bovine serenity.

People who say that whatever we give them is fine deserve everything they get, like a neurotic spider monkey. Let's face it, a lot of what we get is not fine at all. Otherwise, no one would have ever thought of the Island of Lost Toys. Otherwise, there would be no exchange policies in department stores. Otherwise, our closets and attics would be less crowded. Keeping quiet about that may spare the feelings of family and friends, but it ensures you a never-ending supply of terra cotta Elvis statues.

Maybe shame and insecurity lead people to tell us that anything we give them will be fine. Maybe they fear subjecting their tastes and desires to the judgment of family and friends. For instance, when a little girl asks for a Barbie set, it's no big deal. When a 55-year-old man does so, it's cause for alarm and dismay.

But remember, your family and friends will stick with you through thick and thin and unseemly attachments ot Mattel toys. And because they are your family and friends, they will sneer at you only when you are out of sight and earshot allowing you to keep your self-esteem.

People who presume to dictate our gifts to us may be the most irritating about gift-giving. You say you want a new coat for Christmas. They say, "A new coat? Oh, you don't want that! If you're cold, you want a trip to the Grand Caymans! I'll just call my travel agent and arrange everything!" You say you want new golf balls; they give you a chrome and neon, battery-powered sculpture that looks like a dancing garbage can. You must be firm with these people or get used to running fake obituaries during the Christmas season in order to deflect their generosity. (The fake obit thing only works a couple of times.)

How then does one make sure that the joy of giving during Christmas doesn't lead to felony assault? It was my mother who gave me the answer. Years ago, I asked her to make a list of things she wanted for Christmas. Instead, she pulled out a catalog, pointed to an item — I believe it was a purse — made sure I committed the stock number to memory, and told me to get it with the same fervor that Spartan mothers would tell their sons to return from battle either with their shield or upon it. But, I asked, wouldn't it be better to give me a list so I could surprise her on Christmas morning? She narrowed her eyes, slumped her shoulders and cast the sort of gaze upon me that implied that she was looking at Parnell intellect in its twilight. "John," she said, "I'm 57, and I've had plenty of surprises in my life. I don't need another one on Christmas. I need that purse." She got the purse.

Does such directness take something out of exchanging gifts? Maybe. But it sure beats chasing a spider monkey around the house.

Friday, December 01, 2006

FATHER KNOWS BEST

I like to tell people that my father taught me to swim by taking me a few miles offshore into the Gulf of Mexico, tying a piece of bloody steak around my neck and throwing me in the water. It's not that I hate Dad and am trying to cobble together a vengeful mob against him. It's just that that kind of parenting appeals to me.

So it's probably a good thing that I have no children. I mean, would a good father read his children Edgar Allen Poe bedtime stories, such as The Telltale Heart? And then stand outside their bedroom doors making heartbeat sounds?

Sure, I might go for more traditional bedtime fare, such as Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, just to show that I can be the Mike Brady kind of a dad. But I've always wanted to tell a different version of the tale. Let's say that the wicked stepmother's poisoned apple really does the trick and kills Snow White but leaves her body in an uncorrupted state. The dwarves aren't too put out by this because they hated Snow White's singing and New Agey sermons about not polluting their bodies with meat, tobacco and alcohol. But they figure if millions go to look at Lenin in a glass coffin, they might make a buck or two, and so they follow the commies' example. Well, lo and behold, one day the prince, whom the dwarves despise because of his frat boy taunts and sense of entitlement, shows up and is ensnared by Snow White's beauty. The dwarves, who know full well that Snow White is dead because they use her as a scarecrow when tourism is slow, tell the prince that she is "in an enchanted sleep, and only love's kiss will awaken her." So the prince kisses her. Nothing happens. He kisses her again. Still nothing. Then one of the dwarves says, "You know, your highness, I guess a kiss just won't do it. I guess you're going to have to REALLY wake her up, if you know what I mean. I guess you're going to have to ... " and here the dwarf whispers into the prince's ear and the prince registers complete shock. But his desire for Snow White gets the better of him, and so he climbs on top of her and begins to vigorously express his love for Snow White. Meanwhile, the dwarves are hooting encouragement and videotaping the disturbing spectacle. When at the end of it Snow White is still dead, the dwarves triumphantly tell the prince that he is now on video as a necrophiliac. The disgraced prince kills himself and the dwarves sell the tape for millions and live happily everafter. The End.

And, of course, there would be fun father-child outings. Let's say I have two kids, one 6 years old and one 4. I could teach one how to steer a car and one how to work the pedals. That way when I take them to a strip bar and get too drunk to drive, they could do so instead. And they would probably thrive from taking on such trust and responsibility at an early age.

Should the children prove adept at chauffeuring, I would move them on to more demanding tasks. Let's face it, we all have people in our lives that we want to get rid of, but we don't want to risk getting convicted of murder. But suppose from a young age, children are trained to be ninja assassins. And suppose that some forward-thinking father plays an audio tape for the children while they sleep that says, "A good child kills his daddy's enemies" over and over. Sure, their mother may object to the live-fire exercises in the back yard, but she'll do nothing that would put her on the enemies list. And then by the time they are 14 or so, they will be more than ready to avenge any insults to dear, old dad. No beer at your house when I come a-calling? The kids would like to talk to you, pal.

Does this seem a little extreme? Well, parenting has gone a little over the top lately, making everything about nurturing the kids. That's pretty much a one-way street. My way allows kids to give back to their parents, directly and indirectly. It prepares them for a strange and difficult world. And it makes sure that I never go beerless at friends' homes. I call that a win-win.