Wednesday, March 15, 2006

For all the italicized excitement you may have detected yesterday, with Oblivion’s release just shy of a week, the truth is I won’t play the game any time soon, nor is the desire to do so truly there. Don’t get me wrong, I bought it–bought the shit out of it–and I sprung for the fancy edition on principle, complete with two DVD’s, a book, a coin, and what I expect to be a real dwarf tucked under the cellophane.

But it’s the prospect of playing that’s more exciting than actually playing it, I think, and additionally there are real-world deterrents to firing up the game. My computer is, more than ever, indistinguishable from a box of bent nails, yet I don’t plan on upgrading it. Obsolescence has become a treat and a badge of honor, equal parts sweet and a source of pride, and it will require a purifying fire, specifically an inextinguishable fire, for me to build a new one.

The series has always been known for freedom, expansive worlds filled with things to do, which by definition requires a brutal investment of time. Do I really want to spend 13 hours on a quest to acquire the Argonian Trousers of Wandering with +5 Fire Resistance? Only if I punch in the initial 11 hours required to find the Mithril Sweater of Longing because, you know, set bonus.

Oblivion is essentially the offline version of Everquest, the latter of which has spawned a rich canon of horror stories. Divorce. Suicide. Expulsion. Malnutrition. Exhaustion. Parental neglect. Didn’t a dude in Shanghai kill someone over an in-game item? I don’t think it was Everquest, but you get the idea. You’re right, though. These are extreme examples. I’ve also heard, however, some people will forsake showering to play these games. We’re talking smelly people who think they’re elves. Cheeto stains. Greasy Nerds of Unwashing. See, I happen to like shampoo.

Tuesday, March 14, 2006

Guys. Guys.

Monday, March 13, 2006

Moments before unconsciousness took me yesterday night, the Fairy Blogmother appeared in a shower of light, filled to bursting with wisdom and good advice.

“You know,” she admonished, “you could type Monday’s conversation on Sunday night.”

I nodded and pretended to listen.

“That way you’d be ahead, and come Friday you’d have something prepared.”

I chuckled and fell asleep. I think she was still talking.

The quest to stop biting my nails has taken a strange turn, in that I’ve been clipping them devoutly to ensure I’ve nothing to bite. The irony isn’t lost on me, of course, and I blame it on the Berenstain Bears. Yes, them. For some reason, during my Lent gone awry, I recalled a volume wherein Sister Bear overcame her nailbiting habit in a few dozen pages.

Those bastards. The only Berenstain lesson I’ve retained, after all these years, is any problem can be easily overcome in a neat, packaged way, usually in 30 to 40 pages. All you need is a positive attitude. There are other culprits, to be sure, and you know them. The Very Hungry Caterpillar? He was essentially hungover, and it worked out pretty damn well for him in the end. Goodnight Moon? I need to count the beige tiles in my bathroom and touch every corner in my apartment twice before going to bed.

Green eggs and ham, did those books do a number on the ol’ biscuit. But as far as the Berenstain Bears go, the obvious solution is to produce gritty, multi-volume works tailored to this generation. Ideas:

The Berenstain Bears: The Trouble with Lap Dances

The Berenstain Bears: Mama Bear Still Calls Me a Dumbfuck

The Berenstain Bears: Caught Papa Bear with a Grizzly Bear Who Definitely Wasn’t Mama Bear