Cartoon Conundrum

I recently started watching Seraph of The End, a fairly decent anime about fighting vampires in the post-apocalypse. Sounds good, right? Like, Road Warrior, but with obnoxiously oversized weapons, and pacts with demons in exchange for their power!

I won’t lie – I actually do like it, despite itself.

What I mean by that, is the characters follow the same cookie cutter tropes that many (well, most) series do. You’ve got the main hero (Yuichiro), who wields a sword (of course, because it’s always a sword), and has lost his family to vampires. He’s also your atypical brash asshole. He spends the first 8 episodes bitching about how he doesn’t need to make friends, and how people just need to stay out of his way while he kills every vampire in existence single-handedly.  Even after the whole “you can’t join the vampire slayers till you make friends” is explained to him (one, the weapons they use contain powerful demons that feed on negative emotions, and as such, feelings of loyalty and love for comrades will keep them at bay; two, they fight in fucking formation, and there are a few times when people fucking die because formation was broken), he still continues to huff his own farts, and charges in without thought. Yuichiro is, without a doubt, some of the worst characteristics of male protagonists rolled into one (in fairness, I’m only 12 episodes in – there’s still hope).

Shinoa, his first comrade and commander (sort of), isn’t much better. She is introduced as essentially a spy for the military, who’s keeping an eye on Yuichiro, and making sure he doesn’t do anything (too) stupid. Well, and make friends, despite his constantly bellowed assurances that he don’t need no stinkin’ friends. Unfortunately, she falls into the character of “supreme bitch” – Shinoa immediately begins harassing Yuichiro about the fact he doesn’t have any friends, which, as an introvert, made me twitch. I tend to keep to myself, unless I’m in a situation (at work, or a party or something) that really requires me to speak. Seeing someone, even if it’s just an anime character, being shoved around and essentially told to “go make friends, loser-dick”, will always put me on edge, because fuck you, why should he? Yes, there ends up being a reason for it, but holy hell, some people honestly just enjoy being by themselves.  I know this is just my own issues here, but her needlessly bitchy, condescending attitude regarding socialization reminded me a bit too much of a lot of (hopefully) well-meaning folk.

A little off topic, really, but I’ve had books taken out of my hands, and had my share of “Why don’t you talk to people?” That’s not even touching on crap like forced group projects, ice-breakers, etc, etc. If someone was to come up to me, especially now, and start harassing me to hang out with them… Well, I am pretty busy with Hulu and its wide selection of anime and 9/11 conspiracy movies (seriously, there’s just….so many).

Yoichi, however, really takes the cake. Though he’s definitely the character most like me (a bit shy, and overly emotional, with a preference for ranged fighting), that’s were the similarities end, and my irritation begins. First off, he’s the character who keeps going on about how he’s not worth anything, but he’ll try his hardest, and oh for the protection of his friends, and that’s all fine and dandy, but he seems to be distilled down to that literally being his only personality trait. That, and would it kill them to not have a character supposedly driven by his devotion to his friends be so damn dumb?

When the characters choose their weapons, they all have to face the demon that lies within, and fight it for control of their bodies, and blades. The first two make it with flying colors (it probably helps that the demons’ tactics amount to looking like someone’s dead family member, and using thinly veiled metaphors to politely ask for possession of the body, and then they politely give up when rebuked), but of course Yoichi has a weak spirit, and ends up being taken over. The thing is, the demons are clearly demons taking forms of loved ones – they fucking admit it to whomever they’re talking to, and then continue on like “oh, the thirst for revenge will clearly make them give in!”

Um…no. No, because everyone was specifically warned that the demons would do this, and would take their bodies, and turn them into man-eating monsters. And the demons admit it! That’s like if someone tells you “Hey, if you go talk to that dude by the bar, he’s gonna fucking put a bar stool across you face,” and you’re all “Alright, I hear ya’,” and then you go over, and you’re all “Hi!”, and the other dude is all “Hi! So, if you stay in front of me, I’m going to assume you want me to slap you with this here barstool.”

That’s the level of guile and wit the demons use against these idiots.

So, fast-forward, after Yoichi has been yanked out of his stupidity, and has his weapon – a greatbow, with limitless ammo, that appears when he draws it, and is explosive. Rockin’ tits, amirite?

Well, maybe in someone else’s hands.

Despite being the only one in the group with ranged capabilities, there are way too many scenes where he’s just sorta…standing around. Like, with vampires surrounding them, and his comrades (who only have melee weapons) are all freaking out about how they’re all fucked, and the fucking archer just stands there doing nothing!

Seriously! He shouldn’t be able to hear his allies over the sound of his thrumming bowstring. Any anime scene with an archer who has a magic bow should be like this:

SwordGuy: Oh shit! Vampires! We’re surr –
*Is inturrupted by the sound of arrows flying, and vampires going poof*
BowGuy:  *adjust glasses* Clear.

Of course, that’s really only the tip of the iceberg. There’s, as usual, the fact that the two women of the group (Shinoa and Mitsuba, who wield a giant scythe, and massive ax, respectively)  are both nursing crushes on Yuichiro, because of course no female would ever grow close to a main guy character without wanting to bone him. It’s still early in the series, so thankfully I haven’t had to sit through that much of it (yet – at some point I can see this becoming a guilty pleasure).

In the end, this is just one more anime in a very long list that starts with episode one, and ends with me two weeks later asking myself “Why the fuck did I watch that?  …Why am I still watching it?”

Werewolves – There-wolves!

In this week’s exciting entry of “What I Think About While Preparing Bagels at Work”, yours truly will help you avoid attacks from a variety of lycanthropic aggressors. From slavering monsters that bound through the woods to prey on innocent (well, somewhat, at least) campers, to lycan-bros who stun their meals with washboard-abs, you too will know freedom while traipsing about the woods on a full moon.

1) Location, Location, Location

Though this is a bit obvious, the first step in any survival attempt is to figure out exactly where you are to maximize your strengths. Though it may seem counter-intuitive, brightly-lit buildings are honestly your best chance. If you can, find someplace with lots of miscellaneous bins and/or displays laying about, preferably one you know has at least one back exit. Some grocery/department stores can fulfill this, if you’re careful. Though the tile floors will play hell with a wolf’s traction, the lack of dodging room could easily spell a quick end for anyone who gawks just a little too long. If there is a pack, forget it entirely, as the layout of any such place will make it easy for them to cut you off at every turn.

Places like gyms (especially those with basketball courts) are actually a fairly good choice. Yes, they have their own “kill-isles”, same as most places, but gym equipment often has enough space between each machine for the nimble to duck through. Also, if things turn hairy (hairier , anyways), you can always look to the free-weights, or dumbbells (provided they’re the kind with slide-off weights). While it is rather unlikely for your run-of-the-mill gym to have silver-plated weights, even the toughest wolf will react poorly to a steel rod whipped across their mouth. Note: be sure to run like mad after this, because a drawn-out melee with a weapon that will only serve to make it irritable is not advised. 

School buildings are actually prime real estate for running.  It does require you to be fairly aware of your pursuer’s presence, so be cautious if it seems you’ve lost it. Schools are fairly simple to navigate, and combined with superior senses, your best chance relies on keeping it on your heels. Be aware that the school should not be your final hiding place – only enter the building if you have a path in mind, and aim to run it like you’re escaping for Summer vacation. Most doors will be locked, though if you can find a way inside, the first thing you should do is make for either a classroom with a window, or the second floor, if it’s low enough to drop down from. You’ll have to know this ahead of time, as the second it stops chasing you, it begins to hunt you, and that is something a human will never survive. If you’re truly desperate, the roof is always an option, as long as you acknowledge the fact that you will be trapped up there till the morning. Sleep in shifts, stay away from the edges, and for the love of everyone be fucking quiet.

Keep away from open fields, and forests at all costs. This includes parking lots, malls, or any other large, wide-open space. Forests get a mention because most of you will A) not be used to running desperately for your lives through an unfamiliar area you can’t really see, and B) what part of “you can’t really see” didn’t you get? You may have to chance these areas at some point anyway, but keep from running as long as you can. The average wolf will be much better at long-distance running than you, and is a damn hunter, where you are noisier than the average suburban deer (seriously; they are not stealthy). All whimpering should be kept to a minimum, all phones should be turned to silent (no, vibrate does not count, Allen), and you should step very, very carefully, until it is absolutely morning, and not a fucking second sooner.

2) Fangs vs. Fire – Choose Your Weapons

Now that you’ve established the area you’ll be fleeing and/or hiding in, it’s time to pick your weapon. I know many would probably gravitate towards firearms, and I will tell you right now, that’s a terrible idea. Unless you have actual training, don’t even bother, as you’ll just end up pissing it off. Also, even if you have training, it’s unlikely that it’s actually for something that can run at 40 mph, and a taste for your flesh. This goes for….well, most all weapons, really. Without training, you’ll just be swinging wildly, and desperately hoping something will work.

Not that I’m knocking that. By all means, if 400 lbs of slavering wolf-beast has your cornered, do everything up to and including shitting and spewing vomit down its throat to get it the holy fuck away from you. Seriously – you may shake your heads now, but when you wind up and hit it in the fucking eye with a hunk of sharp cheddar, you’ll realize fuck this hit it with everything you can reach. History doesn’t care if you get away via sick ninja moves, or because you spat a mouthful of chipotle mayo into its eyes.

On that note, chemical weapons are your best friend. They’re not touched on a whole lot, but think about how sensitive a wolf’s nose is. Now think about how bad cheap perfume and cologne smells you a human nose. Now imagine how distracted a werewolf would be if, say, you threw a bottle of Calvin Klein into its face. Or hell, fill a pump-action squirt gun with sriracha, and let ‘er rip!  In a pinch, Axe Body Spray will work wonders. Foul enough to have even the strongest alpha collapsing and begging for sweet, sweet death, it’s (unfortunately) popular enough to be stocked in pretty much every store.

High-pitched noises shouldn’t be ignored either. I don’t mean loud, necessarily – high pitched. This isn’t advice to scream shrilling in its face, mind you, as it will simply, well, eat you to stop the noise. Dog whistles can distract it, but again, are more likely to send it into murder-spasms. If large speakers were attached to a music player that had a great deal of violin, or squealing, that would easily distract it long enough for you to make your escape. Though I warning against it before, if you can find something loud enough – say, outdoor concert speakers – that would work as well. I don’t care what movies say or show, I’m half fucking deaf as is, and if I’m too close to a speaker, I start feeling nauseous, to the point I may fall to my feet, or be forced to flee.

Cars are also another underrated weapon. They should primarily be used to get the hell out of Dodge (or Ford, Chevy, etc), but should you be lucky enough, don’t be afraid to run it the fuck over. Always wear your seat belt, and only use this when you can keep driving should you miss. If you hit it, immediately stop, reverse, and continue to run it over until it has been thoroughly discouraged. If/when you miss, take off for the nearest fucking highway. Avoid country highways at all costs – if anything happens on one at night, you are completely fucked. An interstate, however, tends to have more pit stops along the road, as well as a greater average speed limit.

A note on the above: keep your friends with you on this one. It’s considered bad form to leave your soon-to-be-late friends at 90 mph.

3) Allies

Aside from your average friends, family, and that drifter with the suspiciously blase attitude to the fact someone sprouted fur and nine-inch nails. there are a few possible companions you can turn to in your fight for survival.

Vampires are a cliche, but to be fair, they should have a vested interest in making sure their food source stays around for a while longer. Wolves are terribly messy eaters, and tend to gorge, rather than sipping delicately. Vampires tend to also have massive egos you can appeal to – pretend to be in awe of their chalky skin, and envious of their pointless ennui after existing for centuries. Simply nod whenever they drone on, and try not to fall asleep when they attempt to “enrapture you” with husky voices, and stares that would make anyone reach for their mace. Once the wolf (or wolves) has/have come into the area, the vampires’ natural pretention will force them to attack the larger, far superior monster in a vain attempt to establish dominance. You’ll have to move quickly, as a werewolf averages 6-10 vampires per minute. Kiss ass, then make for the back exit.

Other werewolves might not seem to the best choice, but there are some benefits. Mostly, they will find the existence of a man-eater in their territory to either be gauche, or at least poaching. Wolf-honor dictates they find and dispatch the rogue wolf immediately. Whether or not your friend or food will have to be discovered in the thick of it. Either way, you shouldn’t plan on staying for too long. Seriously – get the cats, and move to a city known for its lack of places large, canine creatures can lope about and murder unchallenged. Try Vegas.

Probably among the most useful, the government is absolutely your friend in this case – depending. If you have anyone you care about who has been bit, either convince the nice agents that they’re just having serious heartburn, or think long and hard how much you would really miss them taking the last piece of good turkey at Thanksgiving (Terry). In the short-term, they’re good for getting a breather, and having a large bunch of alternate targets close by just in case. The most important thing they can offer, however, is transportation the fuck out of there, for fucking real. No matter what, let the agents enter any area before you, and should they start dropping, do your best to remain calm. The wolf will be, ah…distracted. Move swiftly, but with purpose, far, far away. If possible, rest at a friend’s house till morning. Try Mike’s house. Mike’s usually have killer futons, and are pretty chill dudes.  Don’t let him know what’s going on though. Just bring a pizza, and throw in some DVDs.

And sleep in shifts. Just in case.

Gods and Monsters

In a world where Zod is Superman’s biological father, Batman is a vampire, and Wonder Woman is from…whatever the opposite of Apokalips is,  we find a Justice League that…really has no goddamn compunction about killing whatsoever.

Seriously. In the opening scenes, we see the heroic trio absolutely slaughter a group of terrorists. Batman tickles their ribs by pulling out their insides, Wonder Woman cuts them all down to size, and Superman just lights people on fire. The only one who seems to get an upper hand is against Batman, and makes the unfortunate mistake of trying to crush the vampire in a giant bear hug.

Batman then eats him for his foolishness.

Right after we’re treated to Steve, the government soldier/liaison who chides them for brutally murdering everyone in the warehouse out of, essentially, boredom. They respond with the kind of attitude that makes you think that they react to a forgotten side of fries by pulling out a cashier’s spine, and whipping the cook with it, then buy everyone a round at the bar, and laugh it up.

At first I was worried that it was going to be yet another “edgy” take on supers – the same kind of edgy that had Captain American screaming “motherfucker”, and bitching about the French; or anything that happened in “The Boys” comics. …Or The Authority. Or the Ultimates. Or Ultimate X-Men. Bottom line, the fake edgy that acts like they’re not the 20th group of writers in the last decade to think “Oh man, what if, like, superheroes were really violent? And killed people?”

To be honest, it really wasn’t. Yes, they were all much grittier, and much more murder-happy, but surprisingly they all seemed to actually be friends. I mean, yeah, they’re all supposed to be fairly tight in the original Justice League (most of my interaction has been through the cartoons, or the more recent comics), but they never really seemed like buddies. It always came off like they just sort of tolerated each other to the bare minimum, until they forgot why they bothered each other so much. Like, Superman would bring over cookies, and then Batman would think he’s gone rogue again, and throw vials of kryponite acid in his face, and then Superman would spend 10 issues wondering what his place in the world is, and Batman will whine about how it’s really hard to be a billionaire with nothing better to do but hunt down the mentally ill and hurt them. Then a different writer would take over the series, and suddenly Batman and Superman are having coffee the next day, and Batman punches someone and its all good.

In Gods and Monsters, they actually seem like a team who’s been together for a while. Superman teases Wonder Woman about a guy she’s slept with in the past, but not mean, or jealous. It’s more like a buddy who’s all “hurr hurr, you banged that dude, sex-vagina innuendo”, and then high-fives the woman because she actually enjoys having a fun romp. There’s no “Oh Superman’s always wanted to super-dick Wonder Woman!” Nope. Just a smile, and “go have fun jumping on his penis, also please ask him if he knows why we’re being framed.” In another scene, Batman mentions how he and Superman met: with Batman feeding on rats. He remarks he doesn’t know why Superman took him in, to which Superman cheerily responds “You were hungry.”

It’s a simple line, near the end of the movie, but it still speaks volumes. Even in a movie devoted mostly to “what if Superman had no issue with flossing with people’s tendons?”, it still touches on the overall theme of Superman – that (love him or leave him) he’s supposed to be a beacon of hope. He sees a near-feral vampire, and rather than ripping his head off (and let’s be honest, no one would blame him for that one), he’s all “man, that dude looks like he could use some food – and a friend.”

Wonder Woman gets her own expository backstory scene as well, as it’s just as clumsily thrust into the narrative. Despite that, the scene with her betrothed was surprisingly touching. Though they did a wonderful job of drawing him as the most Capt. Creeper McFuckmook, he actually ends up showing a sweet side. Basically, he explains that he can’t always be around to defend her if shit gets real, so he gives her a neigh-unbreakable sword from his people’s best smith, with a Mother Box (portable teleport-box) that can take her anywhere she wants, as a wedding present. 

Now, I was really ready to hate this dude, but c’mon: how can you not love someone being all “Hey babe, just in case you get into trouble, here’s a giant goddamn sword to fuck shit up with”? Given that many would make some speech about never leaving their side (creepy), or allude to imprisoning them (ultra-creepy), a groom who not only admits his lover is capable with a weapon, but truly supports her ability to kick ass and make a fucker step back is honestly refreshing.

There’s some awkward scenes that seem like they were taken from a 1950’s movie – Batman, back when he was a mild-mannered grad student, being harassed by his almost identical colleague to go to a party and get drunk, despite the fact he’s in fucking grad school, and is on the cusp of some vaguely-explained discovery.  But no. No, let’s go get shitfaced. Oh, hey there clumsy attempt by D-bag to get a handy from his girlfriend. Nope, don’t be concerned that pre-Batman has passed out after drinking heavily, and seems to be sick. You’re the “designated girlfriend” (a line so bad my elbows puked), and by God it is your sacred duty to come in the other room and give my drunk ass some sweet, tender lovin’!

Also, I have to admit, as picky as it is (and I know that voice acting is tough), some of the voice actors really should’ve given some more oomph to their lines. Lois Land pretty much sleepwalks through her delivery, despite her character flush with scorn for the League; Wonder Woman delivers lines that should be roared with barely restrained passion as though she just really wanted you to know how she felt about deep dish pizza, and even Superman seems decidedly underwhelmed by revelations that should honestly be fucking titanic.  Not surprisingly, Batman really seems to be the only one where his deadpan delivery actually fits, both as, well, fucking Batman, and also as a vampire. What didn’t help was the mostly abysmal animation – everyone acted as though Vulcans were the target audience, or at least in the focus group, and that they were being charged by the emotion.

Despite my complaints, it’s a good, solid, story. The twist at the end was a fine change from the usual, if I do say so, and one I didn’t seem coming at all. For what it’s worth, grab pizza, and queue it up on your rental of choice. It’ll make for a fun evening, and if you think that’s faint praise, you haven’t been paying attention to the tripe that’s been “gracing” the rentals these days.
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If you like this, take a peek at some of my other writing at Amazon and Wattpad!

Attack of the Wild Imagination!!!!

Has anyone ever been someplace, and just…started thinking about how to avoid a dinosaur attack there?

So, just sitting at a restaurant, and you glance up, and notice the windows are all really big, and the idle thought just pops up: what should I do if utahraptors just smashed through the glass?

Well, to answer your unasked question:

1. What’s the set-up of the establishment?

If there are a bunch of tables scattered around the dining area, like any self-respecting chain eatery, how are they arranged? Can they be hopped over (in which case, don’t bother with them)? Are they long enough you can roll yourself under them (thus buying crucial moments as they stupidly try to follow your direct route)? Are there booths you can duck behind? Is the floor tile (most are, and as such, clawed anachronisms will have difficulty finding purchase – use sharp turns and good shoes to your advantage)?

Never in any circumstances should you rush for the exit blindly. Utahraptors are smart, like most of their kind, and will have their kind laying in wait in bushes, and atop roofs. An interesting fact – if no appropriate hiding place is available, the utahraptor can enter a state of temporal-ironic flux, where, when someone utters “I think we lost them”, “It’s alright, we’re safe now”, or something to that nature, between one and four utahraptors will appear in the location most suited for immediate dismemberment of the offending party.

Should there be a “back of the house” area, that will be your best bet. It’s a gamble unless you work there, and thus know the layout, but there will usually be plenty of closets, coolers, and offices in which to hide. Should someone already be hiding someplace, do not waste time trying to fit inside with them – simply grab the front of their shirt, and heave backward with all your strength. Now the hiding place is free for you to scramble in to. If all else fails, try for the back exit. If you do this, however, don’t run out blindly – look through the peephole, and assure someone else that it’s perfectly safe. Which brings me to the next part.

2. Who’s around you?

Most likely your will find yourself surrounded by throngs of panicking, faceless customers, who will be screaming, pushing each other aside, and generally impeding your escape. Don’t be afraid to trip, or “accidentally” fall into them in the first few seconds of chaos. Just remember to look mournfully in a random direction when remembering how you could’ve been a hero, but just didn’t. It’s a sure-fire way to get sympathy from anyone you’re traveling with, and excuse further acts of douchebaggery, as you’ve been changed by the horrors you have seen. If anyone attempts to confront you, simply look as though you’re worried about finding a bathroom in time, and have just smelled your own farts. It will throw your aggressors off, as they will be overcome by sympathy, and feelings that you’re a good person who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Be wary of those who claim to know what you’ve experienced, as they too have read this guide, and must be dealt with accordingly.

If you see any children, judge their age carefully. The younger a child is, the more powerful and unconscious their ability to teleport themselves into dangerous situations is. They will remain completely safe, until you realize they are no longer in your field of view, and have somehow turned a trip to the bathroom into a trek across an open parking lot with no cover, and only the noisiest debris, because they were bored. As a secondary survival trait, whenever you find them will be right as a dozen raptors have decided to search that exact section of the parking lot, and at least one to three other people will be nearby, to prompt you into foolish heroism.

If there is a family, ignore them entirely. They most likely have interpersonal issues that require extreme counseling, which will be administered via extreme danger for the next several days. No matter how well you fit in at first, you’ll be the first to die, and knowing that the sight of you being messily hacked and torn to pieces will fix their marriage is a cold, cold comfort.

The best age is that of a teen to mid-20’s. Uncomfortable with their own lot in life, they will quickly flock to your pretend wisdom, and permanent 5 o’clock shadow (note: have a 5 o’clock shadow tattooed on your face). Seen as a parent figure, they will either look up to you, or attempt to rebel against you at the first chance they get. This is not a bad thing – either way, you have an extra body around for the raptors, and if you save them, they will slavishly obey your words until they rejoin with their “real” family.

Babies, though immobile, can be helpful, as saving one will immediately mark you as a hero. This can be bad though, as now more are around to witness any abnormal behavior. Your best bet is to judge the situation carefully, and use the baby’s natural football-like body as an air born distraction. For full effect, tear your shirt in several places (and skin if there’s something sharp around), and look as though you’ve been through a harrowing fight.

3. Leaving the Restaurant.

If you are in an establishment without a wait-staff, be sure and give your table a courtesy-wipe after gathering your garbage, and disposing of it in the proper bins. There’ll be enough for the night shift to clean up as is. Should there be waiters and servers, a 20-25% gratuity is considered appropriate, as they tend to not be paid even minimum wage (though there are some exceptions, it’s always polite to tip, especially if one “fell” as you sprang from the table.

Keep a sharp ear out. Just because you can’t hear them doesn’t mean there aren’t still raptors around. Approach the doors with caution, but not enough to seem worried. A casual, though cautious, pace will do adequately. Try not to saunter, or swagger, as while your hips certainly won’t lie about your joy to be alive, the arrogance may trigger the raptors’ flux-state, and render you devoured in short order. If you think of it, switch the sign on the door to “CLOSED” and simply stride off without a bat eye, like this is every Saturday in this town.

And there, folks, you have it.

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If you like this, take a peek at some of my other writing at Amazon and Wattpad!

Voices In My Head

Ugh.

The past few weeks, I’ve been trying my hand at cake decorating with things like gumpaste, and fondant.

The results…weren’t as pretty as I’d hoped.

Oh, they were certainly learning experiences, don’t get me wrong, just… I’m not exactly an accomplished sculptor, so making gumpaste Dungeons and Dragons items didn’t turn out as well as I hoped. With the fondant, I didn’t slice the top of the cake even enough, so there ended up being some dips and rolls, despite it, and the decorations (which I’d hoped to be a few of the various Lantern Corps symbols) ended up being way more of a pain that I expected.

The worst part is, when I make a mistake, I have an overwhelming impulse to, in essence, start grinding (in RPGs, when one does many, many tasks/quests all at once in order to advance in some way quickly) for the foreseeable future. Unfortunately, that would result in far more mistakes than I would want to eat (or make my friends eat), and only serve to add to my frustration.

Now for the fun part.

Faced with what is, in all honesty, a couple of bumps in a very ongoing, winding road that is comprised of something I choose to do for no other reason than I want to, phase two of my brain’s totally rational and in no way fucking ridiculous overreaction kicks in, and I want to do nothing but simply quit baking for pleasure altogether for the rest of my days. Which is about as reasonable as a kid not being able to tour de France after three days with their training wheels off, and then heaving their bike over Niagara Falls while screaming bloody murder after it. I have to say though, that the most fun is when I try to argue with my brain.

Me: Ah, hell. That didn’t go as planned…

Brain: Right. Go do it again 50 more times in a row till it’s perfect.

Me: No, I don’t really have time for that. Maybe next week –

Brain: Quit.

Me: …What?

Brain: Quit. Quit forever. Never bake for pleasure again.

Me: *sigh* Why?

Brain: Because you’re a miserable fuckup who’s wasted their chance and no one will ever love you.

Me: …Ok, I’m gonna try biscotti next week.

Brain: No! No trying anything else! All will fail in the blackness of your inexperience!

Me: I haven’t done cheesecake in a while either.

But yeah, that’s generally how it goes, until I relax a little bit. Is it disappointing? Yeah, it is, but on the flip side, whenever I watch “How-to” vids, I’m  watching people who’ve had decades of experience, or at the very least, some sort of education, whether it’s academic, or otherwise. As my wife’s pointed out, people take years to do this – as much as I want to be able to fart and have a perfectly-decorated cake just appear from the clouds, it’ll take time. For better or worse, I can’t just set myself to “training montage” for a weekend.

…Still, it’s gonna be a while till I do fondant again.

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For something a bit less of a downer, take a peek at some of my other writing at Amazon and Wattpad!

Winter Is Coming

The temperature is dropping – finally.

That I’m unusual is hardly news to anyone with even a passing knowledge of me, but I promise, there are reasons for this particular quirk.

Growing up in upstate NY, the fall/winter seasons were always a time of new beginnings, and fresh starts. I loved shopping for school supplies (notebooks I’d never use, pencils that would inevitably be lost, and so much loose-leaf paper you could hear the lamentations of the nearby forests), and when I started getting older, the summer was less fun-filled, and more filled with the rigors of prison (also known as YMCA day camp). School, though just as oppressive, was at least a place where I would see my friends again.

Fun note, if you spend most of the summer doing very little, and not interacting with anyone, you may be an introvert. Please sign up at your local chapter, and your membership card will arrive in 3-5 business days. Meetings are on the 15th of every month, and we have cookies.

Of course, the best part of all that were the holidays, planned or otherwise. Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, Faculty Days – I fucking swear, half the year was planned for us to be anywhere but school. Not to mention snow days (oh, glorious snow!). Every morning when it snowed more than a few centimeters, I’d be glued to the radio until my morning alarm went off. Probably not really how I should’ve been getting ready for the day, but hey, at least I was thinking of school. Not that I did anything when the snow would fall – usually, once my dad left for work, I’d shovel the walkway, and fall into a daytime-TV-induced coma, moving only to shovel food into my face-hole. Sometimes I’d walk up to the Wilson Farms (now a 7-Eleven) down the road, or if I was feeling especially motivated, the supermarket a couple miles away.

I guess what I really enjoyed about this time of the year was all the freedom. Freedom to do jack shit, but freedom nonetheless.

When I finally burst free from high school to land in the unbelievably cold and snowy town of Oswego, NY for college, colder days had similar associations, but also with them, a feeling of invulnerable excitement (well, after my freshman year festering shithole of misery). Not only was I back with my friends (many of whom brought out the best and truest in me, and introduced me to things I didn’t even know were fun, and challenged me to grow, and talk, and explore), but after the first week, parents were a rarity. Though most didn’t share my love of the cold, those months were still filled with Halloween dances (I’d never danced before), weekends spent inside playing games and hanging with friends as we fought off the chill.

Bonfires would roar next to the lake (though not too high, or the cops would come and make sure we weren’t on fire, or setting someone on fire), and amidst the smoke and (only sometimes, and more so when we became legal) alcohol, we reveled in simply being us.

I remember early nights that seemed electric every single time, even when the most exciting thing I had planned was sitting on a couch while other people played video games.

Weekend mornings I huddled with my supply of smuggled dining hall food, and listened to the wind howl off Lake Ontario.

Sometimes I’d just stand outside, and listen to the world in the distance. The snow would fall, and my skin would freeze, but I was both immersed in life, and comfortably separate from it. There was an odd peace when I would wake up at 3 or 4 a.m., and think “I want a bagel”, and just… go.

My closest and dearest friends were found those months. Though we’re hardly all neighbors now, they’re still a part of my life, and the day in August when I would hear that they were back on campus was always joyous.

Yes, Spring, and to some extent Summer, had those days and nights as well (though usually we were trying to sit as close to the fan as we could, and not die of heat stroke. That, and once the birds started to sing again, it was a painful countdown to another three months before I would see my new family again…

Now that I’m an adult, I (for better or worse) do have to have an adult mindset to the turning of the seasons. Though I truly enjoy wearing layers (casual suits – that’s all), when the roads freeze, my face pinches. Many sidewalks in the area are only given a gentle caress, as though they are a lover that the homeowner dare not wake after a night of frenzied love-making – leaving me to slog ankle-deep or more through the piles of caked ice and snow. That half the goddamn city seems to love driving in the middle of snowstorms without their lights on is always a pleasure as well. Even the closest of tasks now requires a car (or bus, but even in the snow, I still walk faster than their meandering paths), and each adventure pits me against people who think I need to go mach 4  with 10 feet of visibility, even when they wouldn’t be going any faster were they ahead anyway.

Still.

There is a part of me that, I suspect, will never truly die out. My wife bought me a heavy (and I mean heavy) leather coat from a thrift store in Oswego as an impromptu birthday gift. It’s bulky, and it’s thick, and she put a brass button under the stiff collar, so when the wind hits, I can close off my neck. The pockets are large enough for gloves, cell phone chargers, cold meds, scarves, and other what-have-yous; when fully closed, I don’t feel the cold.

When the sky turns black, and I can smell the leaves and rain, I want to grab my friends and charge through the night. When I come home, I want to shed my work clothes, and cuddle under the blankets and drink hot chocolate until I cannot hold any more in my bladder.

I met my wife in November. We stayed up “waiting for Santa”, our first Christmas together.

If you ask, chances are the best stories I tell will be in the Fall and Winter.

That, and that alone, is enough for me to say let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.

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If you like this, take a peek at some of my other writing at Amazon and Wattpad!

A Hero’s Journey

As gamers, we’re expected to, at least somewhat, put ourselves into the shoes of our lovingly-rendered protagonist. We’re not just supposed to play them, we’re supposed to be them – their choices, their struggles, failures and triumph, ours and theirs, one and the same. Bioware is especially fond of this, and I’ve spent many a day and night immersing myself as Shepherd, or the Inquisitor, or Hawk, or the Warden.

A friend of mine recently started playing through the Dragon Age series, and, surprising no one, ended with me longing for another romp through the third title, Inquisition. I was delighted to find that my computer monitor was good enough that I could actually, ya’ know, read the text (an issue shared by thousands, even those with PS4s and far better TVs than I), and decided it was fate propelling me forward.

However, after I’d made my Inquisitor (an elven rogue with twin daggers, specializing in stealth), and fought my way through the introductory portion of the game (suffering through the same goddamn tips and tactics as usual, because no, clearly I need to be told how to use my damn attacks, what the fresh hell this is only the third fucking game in the series, I think I’ll fucking figure it out, it’s not like it went from “hit R2” to “interpretative dance representing the ultimately fruitless attempts of man to conquer himself), I felt…bored.

I could argue that it’s because Inquisition relies, in my opinion, far too heavily on fetch-quests, and sprawling maps that seem to go on endlessly with little to fill them, but no, that wasn’t quite it…

The reason this was so odd to me, is because I’d just finished yet another playthrough of Mass Effect 3 (and before that, Mass Effect 2, because I didn’t realize they’d come out with a save game creator for 3 as well, so much for those 18 hours…), bringing the number of times I’d played it to…well, only to two, but the number of Shephards I’d made (the protagonist) to probably five. Immediately after, I started a new game, albeit with a different class, but literally not even sitting through the credits, I started a new game (currently I’m an engineer for the second time, and remembering why I love spawning drones and turrets as a strategy).

Now, while both Mass Effect 3 and Inquisition were both damn fine games (aside from their respective endings), Inquisition had a huge focus on replay, and just the overwhelming amount of stuff you can do (although it’s limited for me, as they’ve stopped supporting the PS3 version for DLC, because fuck your nose-hole if you don’t wanna spend around a grand buying a new console and a decent TV that can actually show off the shininess). Also, I really did enjoy the family of companions and advisers you meet on your journey, but…

The thing is, Inquisition is the culmination of a very long issue, one they laid the groundwork for back in the first Dragon Age – the imprisionment and subsequent abuse of mages by Templars and the Chantry (a militant branch of the main religious order you come into contact with). In DA, mages can become possessed by demons, or tempted, which leads them to become horrid monsters, capable of brutal, terrifying evils. They are, in fact, responsible (as far as we know, at least) for the creation of the Blight, a horrid disease that corrupts the living races into legions of monsters that ravage the land. In the first game you see some proof of how bad mages can be, when one of the Circles (think Hogwarts, only they murder the absolute shit out of you at the drop of a hat, and you are never allowed to see your family again, and instead of invitations, they will completely steal you from your family simply because you have magic, and teach you to fear and loathe yourself) falls to swarms of corrupted mages. The second game has this in the forefront, where the Circle of Kirkwall is well-known for its abuse of the mages, to terrifying extremes (in addition to every abuse you can think of, and the constant threat of death, mages will tell you the Templars there will make them Tranquil – cut them off from their magic, which results in the vast portion of their personality and emotion to be destroyed, leaving them little more than servants – for no reason), and as the years pass, the violence escalates until full-out war – which is where you find yourself in Inquisition.

While it’s obviously an issue that has two very strong sides, and I’ve personally had discussions for hours on how to properly go about mage relations without resulting in a giant civil war, the writing is…lacking. A huge complaint among many players (and myself) is that the writing presents it as a black and white thing – there’s so many ways that compromises could be reached, but the game hamstrings you into following a set-in-stone narrative. You see everything crumbling and exploding around you, and all the while all you can think is “OK, but, what if we didn’t steal children from their parents and call them monsters and beat them? Do…do we have to take what could be a legitimate institution of learning and growth and turn it into a series of fucking prison camps?”

It doesn’t help that every single game you have a new character, and new companions. Some may have appearances from game to game, but overall, no matter what the player knows, you’re a completely different person each time.

Mass Effect.

All three games focus on genocidal space-bots (Reapers) that want to wipe out all organic life. We don’t know why till the third, and no one believes they’re coming until the third game, when (spoiler) the Reapers start wiping out all organic life. As Shephard, you spend the first game gathering a crew to fight a corrupted specter (think space super-double secret agent), and at the end, find out that there was a whole other entity puppeteering the specter the whole time and holy shit guys this is way bigger than we thought. The second game you work alongside a pro-human organization (Cerberus, a terrorist group) to gather a crew (including some of the folk from the first) to fight the machinations of the Reapers. The third…well, one more verse, same as the first, only this time shit is coming down around your ears.

I think why I’m so much more ready to replay Mass Effect is…honestly, I’m tired of forced gray areas. I’m tired of people taking an issue that could easily be solved with some rational thought, and just going NO SEE YOU HAVE TO SEE BOTH SIDES, while one side is beating and oppressing the other while using cheap fear tactics to justify it. Mass Effect is: hey, these fucking fuckers want to kill everything, get your friends, get a ship, save the world. There’s no worrying you might be doing the wrong thing. You are fighting for all of fucking existence, to end a cycle of genocide that happens every 50,000 years on the dime and has been going on for eons. Yes there are good and bad choices you can make, but bottom line, you make them while struggling against an unknown, unseen foe that most don’t even believe exists.

Not just that, but you’re you in every single game. You’re the same Shephard in 1 as you are in 3, cannon-wise. You fight and run and struggle shoulder-to-shoulder with companions who have their own lives, and change and grow with you, and each game after the first, I can’t tell you how it felt to see your friends again. You see these people walk onto screen, and it’s like…Your friends are back. The people you laid down your life for last time are OK, and here they are and they still have your back.

“Shephard? ” – When Tali sees you with Cerberus in Me2. (“Keelah Se’lai, Shepherd…”

” Shepherd . ” – Garrus, weary from fighting, and seeing you alive and well again. (” I’m Garrus Vakarian, and this is my favorite place on the citadel! “)

” Shepherd ! *elbows another krogan aside * My friend! ” – Wrex, on Tuchanka in Me2. (” From this day forward, Shepherd will mean ‘hero’! “)

By the time the third game rolled out, there were…scenes (I’m not going into detail because I JUST HAVE DUST IN MY EYES WHY IS THIS ROOM SO FUCKING DUSTY oh man the floor is so comfy I’m just going to lie here with my dusty eyes SO DUSTY) where you can’t help but feel like your world is being torn apart. You’ve lost friends, family. You know them all so well, and after three games, you see some go, and it tears you up inside because you know, you know, sometimes there really isn’t any other way.

In the end, depending on who you bring on the last fight, you may very well have to lie to your lover – knowing damn well its a lie, but you can’t not, because you’re the only one, and Jesus fuck so much dust on my keyboard you guys, so much dust…

In Dragon Age, from game to game, you might see old friends, but they’re strangers. They don’t know you – they’re used for the most part as a cheap wink, like “Oh, remember when you guys were friends? Wasn’t that fun? Oh yeah, they’ll be over here, and you’ll never interact with them in the same way again.” In Dragon Age, you have friends, but it’s…rushed. You’ve a world to grow in, but every game someone hits the reset button, and someone else takes over. It’s not even like Doctor Who, because even though he’s a different person each time, everyone still knows it’s the damn Doctor in there. It feels like there’s too much emphasis on making this huge world, with all these characters who have such potential, but their potential just fucking ends the moment the game does. Honestly, many of the companions have some pretty big character flaws, but there’s literally no opportunity to see them grow, to see if they really become better people in any meaningful way.

I guess, to sum it up, in Dragon Age, after the first game, you accomplish almost nothing, you have to make new friends every damn game and never see your old ones again (character-wise, I mean), and most of your time is spent in the middle of petty bullshit that shouldn’t have even happened.

In Mass Effect you fight for the galaxy. You spend three whole games building friendships with these characters, till by the end you’re ready to throw the controller at the screen, and when it ends, there’s a sense of finality, that yes, it’s OK, it’s alright – it’s done. Everyone is safe, and it’s done, and you can rest now…

Its the difference between playing a game, and truly falling into the world.

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If you like this, take a peek at some of my other writing at Amazon and Wattpad!

A Noble Steed

It’s quite amazing how often horses fart. Frankly,  they fart so much that I suspect there’s a dedicated team of editors to remove said flatulence from any movies that require horses. 

So,  my wife and I are taking this week to ourselves to celebrate our two-year wedding anniversary.  As part of it,  we planned out a bunch of things we normally wouldn’t have a chance to do –  case in point,  horseback riding. 

This particular activity was broached weeks prior when my wife asked about my time at horse riding camp,  when I was 15. I proceeded to recount that fateful week,  where I found out how terrifyingly large horses are,  and my education was mostly repeated warnings about how if I do any of a dozen different things,  the horse would,  in fact,  leap up and kick my skull into a fine pink mush.  I assured her that wouldn’t keep me from attempting to master the world of beasts one last time, and off we went! Well,  as of last Friday,  off we went.  It’d be sorta weird to just take off at 8 at night at the last second. 

We got to the ranch, and everything was fine –  up until I actually got on the horse.

Immediately gripped by primal fear, I clung desperately to the saddle horn as Jem (who was not really as outrageous as you might think) did everything she could to shove her face up the horse’s ass who was in front of her.  Clearly she was a bit antsy,  and as soon as we got on the path,  it became a but easier to deal with.  In all honesty, Jem was exceptionally well-trained for her reins,  and I barely had to do anything to get her to stay with the group. 

The path was nice and even for probably the first mile of white-knuckling through horseback,  until we hit the forest.  The first part grew full,  and lush… And mostly on 85 degree hills, up and down (yes, at the same time,  much to my confusion).  In addition to a series of points where Jem had to lightly step through the mud,  and gently away from the precipice that would see us both hurtling through the tree-filled void, everytime she trode downhill, it became a desperate struggle against panic. The faith I had in my quadrupedal companion was tested fiercely as a verdant death loomed closer and closer.

Much to everyone’s relief, Jem was more than able to navigate her way through the trail with nary a misstep. A few angry nudges, and more than once I thought she was trying to buck me (as it turned out, she was simply raising herself up to fart), but no huge issues.

There was the brush with a speeding, bumpy death when Jem saw her own shadow, and went from “saunter” to “Mach Holyballs” in “Holy fuck” seconds. Luckily, I was able to remain seated, if just all of the awake. Thankfully, the most excitement after that were seeing baby turkeys (which I honestly had never realized had legit babies – I guess I just always assumed they were born pre-packaged and sleeping in the frozen food department), and a rather aggressive line of thirsty horses.

Now that the happy memories are put to page, let’s talk about farts.

I’ve… never seen anything fart as much as a horse. Not even when drinking the strongest, blackest of coffee, or eating the greasiest of foods have I ever farted that much. I swear 90% of their body mass is simply unpassed gas. And the peeing! Holy crap it was like a frothing hose! And it wasn’t like the other horses liked it any more – each one daintily stepped around the newly-made river like they weren’t already hoof-deep in muck.

All in all, it really is something I wouldn’t mind doing again. After I got used to it, it was fairly relaxing, and I really could see why people got into it for pleasure.

It did, however, make me re-think my childhood desire to ride a horse everywhere…

The Lowtown Novels

The Low Town Series, by Daniel Polansky, is a frightfully good trilogy, about a fucking astoundingly horrible man. (SPOILERS below, for those who care)

Yet when I’d finished the last chapter of the final book, I wept.

No, that doesn’t quite do it justice, not really.

I held the book in my hands, re-reading the last paragraphs until it dropped my from fingers; I sank against the cushions, and stared emptily at the wall. Minutes passed before emotion once again filled me, and then, and only then, did I weep.

Warden is a brutish man, who we see run Lowtown with an iron fist. It’s described by various characters (himself included) as a filthy, rotten piece of the city, that no one in their right mind would want anything to do with. For those of you familiar with Star Wars, think of Mos Eisley – a hive of scum and villainy.

Indeed, some of the every-day scenes we join Warden in have him running a drug trade, extorting those who have the misfortune of crossing his worse side, and beating or outright killing those who challenge him. Violence and cruelty are not his bread and butter – they are what he breathes, and he doles out both as easily as you might brush a stray hair from your face. Even prior to his ownership of the filthy streets, it was shown he worked for the Black House – the city’s secret police – and found favor with its mad leader.

However – and this is not something I truly appreciated until the end – there is a second story hidden within the first, should you look for it.

In the first book (the aptly-named Low Town, linked above), Warden takes in a street urchin who wants to prove himself – Wren. He doesn’t necessarily want to, but the boy is hardly one to leave after a backhand. As time goes on, Wren does prove useful for Warden, who adopts him, in a manner of speaking. When the boy begins to show a talent for magic (something that, it’s implied, will either burn out your mind, or see you taken and forged into a weapon), Warden (after being pushed by Adeline, his best friend’s wife) finds him a teacher. One who is quite off the beaten path, but a teacher nonetheless.

By the end of the series, Warden sees Wren well on his way to being a good man, despite everything. He even speaks of how proud he is, that he had something to do with his upbringing, and goes to lengths to make sure Wren doesn’t follow in his footsteps.

Adolphous is Warden’s best friend, and a comrade from the war against the Dren. He is the co-owner of a bar with Warden, and is described mostly in varying degrees of “big and frightening”. That’s certainly true, though he usually is content to run the bar alongside his wife, and offer only the occasional, verbal, support. In the second book, their time together in the trenches plays a grand role, and it’s revealed that Adolphous is considered a war hero. This is much to the disgust of Warden, who alludes to the truth several times, before it being revealed in a flashback – that Warden had been the one who’d held the line against the Dren, all by himself, when everyone had retreated. What was worse, was he called out for help from Adolphous, who turned, saw his plight – and continued to flee.

Warden remarks in the same book that no one is a hero all the time; sometimes even the bravest soul flees. He doesn’t hold that against Adolphous in the least.

When Adolphous is killed in the final story, Warden uses magic that drains decades off his life to slaughter an entire building of agents of the Black House in revenge. He uses what remains of his money to send Adeline (whom he lies to about Adolphous’s death, saying that he would meet them across the sea) and Wren away from the city to start over.

Tomorow, the Killing revolves around the death of a general’s daughter who was looking into her brother’s death. It becomes clear very quickly that she was silenced, and Warden goes to a great deal of trouble to find her murderer, and extract vengeance.

Though once held in high esteem in the Black House, he is dismissed, violently, when he fails to capture his own lover, who is revealed to be a Dren spy.

There are certainly other examples – I suspect I could fill a day, if I wanted to seriously organize my thoughts – but we’ll stop here, and look.

I called Warden a horrible man (and he is), and that is certainly most of him. But the pieces in each story, the shattered fragments of his life that flicker and sputter in the dark narration – that’s where we see a different part of him. He was certainly never the best of men, but still:

He cares for a child who has nothing, and helps give him a home, and a family. Though it would certainly be easier, Warden makes sure that Wren sees as little of his real work as possible; doesn’t use him as a weapon, does everything to make sure he’ll go far in life. When Adolphous is murdered, he cares for the living first, before raining destruction on those who dared hurt his family. He shows an almost sad compassion, knowing what it will cost him, when he lets his beloved run off after her betrayal, and even at the end of the series, still can’t bring himself to see her dead. When a woman he hardly knows is slain in “his” town, he spends weeks doggedly pursuing those who ordered it.

When Warden died, he was planning to flee on a boat, and join Wren and Adeline in a new life. His last thoughts were not of anger, or regret, but simply of his family – of them all laughing, and loving life.

His last actions as a character are of vengeance, protection, and love.

I wept at his death, because to me, Warden represents a very powerful idea in much of our media and culture – that you protect people, even if you aren’t always on the side of the Angels. That when it comes to your loved ones, you lift them up, and care for them, and when the world leaves them on their knees, you show the world why that will not be.

Warden is a protector. Only for those he deems worthy, but a protector, a guardian still, and he has no compunctions about using darkness and deception  to further his ends.

Obviously this is not something I long for. I don’t sit in front of a dozen computer monitors in a basement after sundown, surrounded by dubstep and close-up shots of my Serious Face while quipping something like “Now we wait for the pieces to fall” before ACTION STEVE: MAN OF ACTION FALL 2018 flashes over the screen. I vehemently believe that there have to be limits to what you do in regards to others – the avenging dark knight has always been a cool archetype, but many times they become twisted by the violence they struggle against – and that no, it doesn’t matter how kick-ass you look in leather and a cape, “collateral damage” isn’t acceptable.

That being said…

I am not a tall, not particularly strong man. I never have been, topping out at 5’8 nowadays, with shoes, and a face that is more home to smiles and goofy faces than iron-jawed grimaces of Manly Determination. I work out, sporadically, but if Mars Attacks, I’m not going to suddenly dodge-roll across the hood of a car, punch one out, headbutt another, take both their weapons, and lead a heroic charge across the Wegmans parking lot.

So I’ll admit, that when I see a character, however unrealistic, or however poorly it’d fit into society, that has that cinematic strength of body and mind to do whatever is necessary to protect their families, their loved ones, that does speak to me.

Am I going to don black leather and leap from rooftops while hunting down the injustice done to my friends? No, because my kickass cost is brown, firstly, and secondly, I don’t like heights. Also, there’s the whole thing where the police probably wouldn’t like me attempting to take the law into my own hands and all that junk.

But in the end, the fact that I am short, a little on the scrawny side (OK, a lot), is why I – and I suspect many others – find characters like Warden so enviable, in a strange way. They’re the strength we hope we have when we’re tested; the ferocity we are afraid we’ll lack at a pivotal moment.

And in the end, that is what Warden did: he saved his family.

And that is why, despite his brutality, his apathy, his instinctive violence and bleak outlook on the world, I wept.

Mortality

The effects of mortality are an odd concept,  and something I’ve been mulling over the past couple days.  

Sir Ben Kingsley was on the Nerdist podcast recently,  and during,  he mentioned that he thought that mortality is beautiful – that we have so many,  many things in the world that were done solely to leave a mark beyond one’s existence,  to do something grand with the short time we are allotted.  

I have to admit,  I have….mixed thoughts about this.

There is a sort of romance to a limited time.  So much of our culture has someone struggling towards their magnum opus, or a world-changing event.  Many times they’re sick,  or leaving the area right as the sunset fades across the city, and they just barely manage to accomplish their herculean task.  So yes – there is beauty in the satisfaction of a life well fought, of things made and done.  Kingsley flat-out admits he believes that if he was immortal, (or at the very least,  had a far longer lifespan) a great deal of his drive to succeed,  to push ahead as hard as he has,  would’ve been lost.  

And I can understand that.  Appreciate it.  

However,  I prefer the opposite line of thought – to have an extended,  if not truly unending, life would be preferable.

Take standardized tests.  There’s much to be said for those who can bust out a perfect test in 45 minutes, but what about those who need (or simply want) more time? More time to double-check,  more time to study,  to relax and stop thinking about how delicious the pizza place across from your school is.  

… Sorry, I got distracted.

But the point remains – if you had the time, why hurry? Why not take 30, 40 years to truly master something? To try a hundred,  a thousand things before settling down in your true passion? For those who do so much regardless, I would argue that instead of a lack of drive,  they would blast through their lives to new heights.  Mistakes that would be crippling would be delegated to minor bumps –  an off century or so – that you could just shake off once you found your feet.  Decisions would not only be far-reaching, by necessity,  but you would actually see the outcome.

I will admit to being just the biggest fan of technology.  The idea that I would be able to live long enough to not just see the first steps (3D-printed prosthetics,  for example, or augment reality), but to see them grow and change and come to be the things that sci-fi is based on (cybernetic limbs,  bionic implants).

Take it one step further.  When I was a young freshman at SUNY Oswego, I took an astronomy course.  A few days in,  the professor showed us the deep field photo from the Hubble telescope.  I remember seeing a multitude of colored spheres,  and in such number as to fill the projector.  The professor then told us that each orb was a super galaxy,  filled with galaxies, each of those filled with solar systems,  and stars,  oh fucking shit the stars!  

I saw that,  and my first thought was that I wanted to visit every single one.  I wanted to leap into the void,  to flit from star to planet to nebula; to see all the different kinds of life that could spawn in every single part of creation.

Even if we had neigh-instant travel,  I wouldn’t be able to accomplish that (though I assure you,  my education and math ability are totally up to speed to be an astronaut otherwise).  

In the end, I don’t think it’s a fear of death for me (though I’m certain my tune will change as I age),  but more… Disappointment.  There’s so much happening right-fucking-now that is astounding.  What I’ve seen evolve and change just in my own lifetime so far is, frankly,  amazing,  and I don’t want it to end –  there’s just too much left to do.  

So,  just sayin’,  if anyone has any cyber bodies that need testing…