Thursday, May 23, 2013
Secondhand Rants will return on Tuesday, May 28.
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
One evening, in an era marked by a different job, different economy, different president, I bought an Xbox on a spur of the moment. That’s not entirely true, I suppose, because I had wanted one for a good long while, but resisted the impulse, fortifying my mental parapets with rationalization after rationalization. And here, six years, untold dollars, and countless hours later, I’m positively giddy with excitement after the unveiling of the next Xbox.
But it’s not for any of the reasons you might suspect. The press blitz today was designed to pump up prospective buyers about the next generation of gaming hardware. Instead of looking for sizzle reels, however, I eagery scanned coverage for two features: whether the new Xbox would require an online connection, and how it would treat secondhand media. The answers–“yes” and “poorly”–were precisely what I wanted, because these would be bonafide nonstarters for me.
When I drop $60 on a game, I expect to exert complete ownership over a shiny disc. I want the right to jam it into the machine, see what story it has to tell, and then decide what to do with it afterward. Perhaps I’ll sell it on eBay. Keep it as a family heirloom. Use it as a coaster. Set it on fire. With the new Xbox, I’d relinquish this ownership. Discs are mere formalities–install the content onto your hard drive, then eject them permanently–and the kicker is they’re non-transferrable. If I give a game to a buddy, he’s going to have to shell out another $60 for a license to play it, basically. On top of this, the hardware will apparently need to communicate with the mothership at least once every 24 hours.
It’s iTunes without the iTunes pricing, which is patently offensive. Am I letting an old-school mindset bar me from digital delights I couldn’t possibly fathom? Perhaps. But that ancient copy of Super Mario Bros. still works to this day, and it’s really and truly mine. I’ve also got a veritable stockpile of games to tide me over, well into retirement. It’s a relief to be able to opt out of the next decade of gaming–to step off the train and into an embarrassment of reclaimed time and disposable income. I have gazed upon the face of obsolescence, and I am made free.
Thursday, May 16, 2013
In a feat as unprecedented as it was perverse, I subjected myself to exercise and sunlight on back-to-back days, which is to say one day right after, like, the other. Is this what able-bodied people normally do, I wonder? I’m just shy of a month into my new, healthier lifestyle, and it’s settled into a very doable routine–three, four hours of tennis in a typical week, five or six in an atypical one. Today, for the first time, I felt fully in control of my limbs. It was revelatory.
This may sound ridiculous to the naturally athletic, but it’s a question of expectations. Normally, when presented with a sport, I know what I’d like to do, but willing my husk of flesh to comply is a different matter. Not so today, when the clay beheld some of my best service ever. I finally got the toss down–not too low, not too high–and as long as I snapped my racquet head at the apex and followed through, I delivered. Point, inhale, crack. There is a moment when the ball is on its way down, right before the moment of impact, when you feel like you are obligated to go apeshit. You want to let roar a primal scream, the exultation of a wild man.
It’s a fantastic feeling. I’ve mentioned before that lung capacity has expanded, and breathing is a pleasure, strangely enough. Sleep has been deep, with a higher level of alertness during the day. The only recent drawback: my left pec has been hurting since yesterday. That’s right. I can talk about pecs now. You’d better fuckin’ believe it.