Like the break of drought, social gaming has once again staked its claim in my free time in a big way, consuming my nights in virtual hails of gunfire exchanged with Russians and other aliens. It’s been a while. You may recall how social gaming took a backseat for most of the year. In the last week or so, though, the pastime has reverted from secret shame to shared enterprise, with fresh insights.
I can’t pinpoint why exactly we stopped. A few factors were likely to blame, including a large-scale migration to PC gaming, which I continue to resist willfully. There were also a string of titles that didn’t really lend themselves to congress. Or maybe, like any dialogue, our give-and-take had reached its natural conclusion. In any case, we’re back at it, albeit with a few key differences. For one thing, we’ve been sticking to a responsible timetable, where we collectively throw in the towel around midnight.
I’ve also been keenly aware of the context–of the playing itself. Online gaming is a veritable petri dish of sociological curiosities: how the Xbox acts as a kind of de facto babysitter, for instance, with children and tweens playing the most violent games with strangers, or how people yearn for validation in these makeshift worlds. Why the ability to accurately place an on-screen reticle should have any bearing on masculinity is anybody’s guess. Who am I to judge, though? At the end of the day, we’re all engaged in digital murder. My virtual bodycount numbers, what, in the thousands? Hundreds of thousands? We are like the warmongers of antiquity, deficient only in muscle mass, honor, and killer instinct.
The end of the calendar year usually brings with it a time of quiet reflection and earnest vows to improve body and mind. I say “usually” because you’ll find none of that here. In continuing an experiment from last January, we are steering clear of resolutions. Indeed, we may be pioneering a new tradition, where turns of season may commence unburdened, free of pledges with truncated shelf lives.
I mean, “I’ll work out more?” Please. I spent last Christmas Eve in the goddamn ER, IV shoved into my arm as I recovered from whatever virus du jour was making its rounds through Charlotte. If I’m able to avoid this scenario in the next few weeks, I will consider it a corporeal victory. Now, what about pledges made well before the New Year? Those, well, those are still on the table.
Progress on the game continues, though work has slowed. It was never meant to be the next Angry Birds. Heck, I don’t think we even identified an endpoint. The collaboration itself was worthwhile, however, for all that we learned. Now, it’s time to turn to other things, including a fun foray into self-publishing and the beginnings of a business plan. There is the pleasure of creating stuff, to be sure. But there is also a stark ulterior motive: to escape the endless cycle of bouncing from one 9-5 to another. I want to search for greatness, rather than wait for it.
Soon, in naught but a week, my odyssey of oats will draw to a close. Four packets left in the box. Four. I will be a free man, technically, but the bitter truth is I will be equal parts bewildered and unshackled, when that box finally hits the recycling bin. I’ve forgotten the taste of liberty, 956 packets later, and it’s highly likely I will drive to Target to procure one (one!) box of Apples & Cinnamon. Oatmeal is all I know now. I see him when I close my eyes–the Quaker Oats man, smug motherfucker with his smug smile and his smug hat.
If I sound incensed here, it is because I’m thinking about golf right now. Weather’s supposed to be gorgeous this weekend, which means–according to normal human custom–I will need to shuffle my pale corporeal form into the sunlight, away from the protective cover of masonry and glass. Going for a jog or playing tennis would be much more sensible, but sensibility has been firmly vetoed by a deep, abiding need to wield these clubs competently.
My last trip to the range was disastrous, highlighted by a complete evacuation of skill. There are no guarantees that this weekend will be any better, though I’ve been mentally prepping myself with my golf memoirs. In a way, I’ve drawn hope from my grueling–hey-o!–meditation on oatmeal: eat enough shit, and you may just find comfort at the bottom of your bowl.