More often than not I use this blog as a means to tear Eric down off his pedestal, or at the very least make petty insults about him. But today I find myself applauding Eric's efforts, since in this case he has shown himself to be selfish, childish, and unreasonable; shown himself, in fact, to be human, more so than he has in a long long time.
I've never known Eric to be much of a whiner, but given the natural tone and cadence of his speaking voice, I can only imagine that when he does whine it is well-near unbearable. So I could forgive his wife and friends and family for caving to Eric's demands to move his date of birth further from Christmas, as apparently all the love and adoration and material wealth he gained from his birthday and Christmas being so close together was not enough to sate his desire for acceptance and monetary manifestations of love. After all, surely it is easier to fork over the dough for a bloated DVD set of fantasy-film goodness than to listen to Eric gripe about it for hours on end.
But as much as I understand, or pretend to understand, his loved ones' plight, I am on Eric's side in this matter. As far as the subject of birthdays is concerned, I have long been opposed to their clockwork tyranny. Once a year, every year, the date never changing; as if we are not men of independent thought and free will, but slaves to the machinations of the Gregorian calendar. Fie, I say, Pope Gregory XIII, and to you as well, Aloysius Lilius! You spent your time devising and decreeing a restrictive, oppressive calendar system while the Incident at Honno-Ji was occurring? Have you no shame?
But I digress. Eric's fight against the might of birth-celebration convention is a worthy one indeed. I can't claim to have the same feelings about birthdays as Eric does--he being of the liking variety, while I find them to be inconsequential and overrated exercises in self-affirmation--but I fully support him and his second birthday, even though I won't actually celebrate it or send him presents or, for that matter, even really think about him. Even though we are enemies, there is no reason for our differences to impede our march towards a better world, a world where we are not slaves to the actual date of our vaginal expulsion.
I realize that perhaps some of you found that previous sentence offensive, and for that I apologize. I did not in any way intend to demean or ignore those of you who were born via Cesarean, or via test-tube; just because you weren't ripped from your mother's womb through her cervix and labia, with placenta and birth fluid dripping off you like gravy, doesn't mean you are any less of a person, though I am rather surprised at your ability to read this.
That said, I applaud Eric and give him kudos; although I would much rather see the practice of celebrating birthdays abolished altogether, simply changing the dates arbitrarily and even adding second or third birthdays is a great leap forward in the quest to undermine and devalue this absurd tradition. For the moment, Eric, we are brothers-in-arms.
And the card I bought for you must have been lost in the mail. Probably eaten by dingos. Curse the wild beasts of the Willamette Valley!
Monday, August 11, 2008
In Which Eric Plays a Shitload of Tetris
So Eric played a bunch of fucking Tetris recently. He seems to think this is a really big deal. Meanwhile, a panda ate a whole bunch of fucking bamboo and some douchebag said a bunch of ignorant douchey things.
Also, Russia invaded Georgia...wait a minute....
Eric, are you controlling Russia's army with your Tetris!? You must stop! Or at the very least Allison you must improve because that means you're Georgia and all those deaths are on your hands! Your hands!
Actually, it turns out that Eric simply played a shitload of Tetris. Whooptee-goddamn-do.
Also, Russia invaded Georgia...wait a minute....
Eric, are you controlling Russia's army with your Tetris!? You must stop! Or at the very least Allison you must improve because that means you're Georgia and all those deaths are on your hands! Your hands!
Actually, it turns out that Eric simply played a shitload of Tetris. Whooptee-goddamn-do.
In Which Eric Sucks All the Joy Out of Everything
Do you love to play board games?
Neither do I. But Eric Walkingshaw does, and he has done for as long as I can remember. Back in those halcyon days, before he turned against his own race in support of the covert robot plot against us, Eric would often try and get his friends together for a bit of Risk, or maybe some Skip-Bo, or even try and lure us into his family's lair and spend the evening boring ourselves to tears with Settlers. So enthralled with tabletop gaming was Eric that he didn't even realize Skip-Bo was more of a card game than a board game, and when he finally did learn that distinction he plunged headfirst into that sordid, quadruple-suited world, wasting his teenage years sitting by campfires and playing pinochle and canasta and all manner of other games that sound like sexually transmitted viruses, often in the company of unsavory fellows like this one.
I will admit that I did engage in such chicanery from time to time, usually when the Risk train rolled into town and derailed my dreams of having everyone gather and discuss our favorite Tupperware products. But unlike dear Eric, I played to lose. The game itself was of little fun to me; the only enjoyment I got out of it was the backstabbing and frustration that boiled to the surface as friends and sometimes siblings took their dice rolls a tad too seriously. Also there was one time when someone started goose-stepping around the table. But Eric proved rather adept of this game of mostly chance, a fact he wasted much breath reminding us all about, gleefully celebrating his prowess with the kind of bravado and swagger normally reserved for American football players.
So I suppose I should have seen this board game post of his coming. All the signs were there from an early age that he'd get involved in some kind of maniacal boondoggle such as this. Also, there were his constant verbal affirmations that yes, he loved board games, and in fact liked to analyze them and figure out why he enjoyed them so much, and intended to write about them on his blog. And also the first post of said blog, where he mentions specifically that he'll probably write about board games at some point. Still, when I opened up my Microsoft-developed (and perfected, I might add) web browser (Go Microsoft!), and saw that long treatise explaining his pseudo-scientific process for evaluating his own enjoyment of board games, I was stunned. Eric Walkingshaw is many things, but one thing I did not take him for, despite his pro-robot leanings and disturbing sexual inclinations, was a soul-crushingly antiseptic stick-in-the-mud.
Although I hold many grudges and differences of opinion with Mr. Walkingshaw, I've never once denied that he is a man who enjoys things. From his glee at beating arch-nemesis Stallings the Elder at Risk or NBA Jam or Tip-21 or Goose-Hatchling-Smashing, to his enthusiastic love for the gastronomically-challenging eatery Izzy's, Eric's shit-eating grin is a common sight for his friends/wives/accused-but-never-officially-charged-stalkers. But as it turns out, behind that grin--a grin that could melt the face off the most innocent baby--is nothing but the turning gears and dull, mechanical musings of a killjoy.
Rather than just embrace board games--the games he loves, not I--for what they are (to him, as I hate them, you understand); rather than simply accept the magic and wonder that fills his heart as he claims a hexagonal piece of grassland or whatever the hell it is that he does; rather than give in to the moment and let his heart be captured by the character cards and the 16-sided die and the muted smell of Doritos and ginger ale; rather than do that, Eric has instead gone all scientific, ripping the heart out of the pastime he so adores and replacing it with analytic nonsense and introspective tomfoolery.
So Eric can talk about "compelling decisions" and weigh them against the importance of "creative play," can analyze and try to quantify the push-pull relationship that exists between the two concepts, and can aspire to devise a formula that will help create the "perfect" game according to his arbitrary standards. He is free to do so. But I wonder if perhaps the little boy that lives inside of him--that lives inside all of us, especially those of us who have mental handicaps, not that I'm saying that there's anything wrong with that or that I'm somehow unaccepting of such people--I wonder if that little boy is gasping for air, feebly wasting away as Eric's scientific endeavors draw the life from his frail little body, as his inquiries and computations stamp out the last remnants of imagination and wonder that linger in his soul. I've known for quite a long time now that Eric was losing his way--choosing computers over the arts, siding with robots over humans, refusing to admit that The Princess Bride is not nearly as good a movie as he protests it is--but I've never known, until now, how perilously close he was to abandoning the simple pleasures of ignorant, uneducated joy. Will he never again watch a butterfly float on the wind and giggle? Will he never again be surprised by an erection in the bath? Has he already forgotten the excitement of biting into a Mr. Sketch marker, believing it would taste exactly how it smelled?
If so, then the Eric Walkingshaw I once knew and somewhat tolerated is no more. If board games can do no more than elicit a curious, analytical response in him, then all hope is lost. It is only fortunate that when the day of reckoning finally comes, I will feel no remorse when I reprogram his robot bride to attack instead of seduce him, although in all honesty Eric could have made it a lot more difficult by not putting those two switches so near each other, and labeling them so clearly.
Neither do I. But Eric Walkingshaw does, and he has done for as long as I can remember. Back in those halcyon days, before he turned against his own race in support of the covert robot plot against us, Eric would often try and get his friends together for a bit of Risk, or maybe some Skip-Bo, or even try and lure us into his family's lair and spend the evening boring ourselves to tears with Settlers. So enthralled with tabletop gaming was Eric that he didn't even realize Skip-Bo was more of a card game than a board game, and when he finally did learn that distinction he plunged headfirst into that sordid, quadruple-suited world, wasting his teenage years sitting by campfires and playing pinochle and canasta and all manner of other games that sound like sexually transmitted viruses, often in the company of unsavory fellows like this one.
I will admit that I did engage in such chicanery from time to time, usually when the Risk train rolled into town and derailed my dreams of having everyone gather and discuss our favorite Tupperware products. But unlike dear Eric, I played to lose. The game itself was of little fun to me; the only enjoyment I got out of it was the backstabbing and frustration that boiled to the surface as friends and sometimes siblings took their dice rolls a tad too seriously. Also there was one time when someone started goose-stepping around the table. But Eric proved rather adept of this game of mostly chance, a fact he wasted much breath reminding us all about, gleefully celebrating his prowess with the kind of bravado and swagger normally reserved for American football players.
So I suppose I should have seen this board game post of his coming. All the signs were there from an early age that he'd get involved in some kind of maniacal boondoggle such as this. Also, there were his constant verbal affirmations that yes, he loved board games, and in fact liked to analyze them and figure out why he enjoyed them so much, and intended to write about them on his blog. And also the first post of said blog, where he mentions specifically that he'll probably write about board games at some point. Still, when I opened up my Microsoft-developed (and perfected, I might add) web browser (Go Microsoft!), and saw that long treatise explaining his pseudo-scientific process for evaluating his own enjoyment of board games, I was stunned. Eric Walkingshaw is many things, but one thing I did not take him for, despite his pro-robot leanings and disturbing sexual inclinations, was a soul-crushingly antiseptic stick-in-the-mud.
Although I hold many grudges and differences of opinion with Mr. Walkingshaw, I've never once denied that he is a man who enjoys things. From his glee at beating arch-nemesis Stallings the Elder at Risk or NBA Jam or Tip-21 or Goose-Hatchling-Smashing, to his enthusiastic love for the gastronomically-challenging eatery Izzy's, Eric's shit-eating grin is a common sight for his friends/wives/accused-but-never-officially-charged-stalkers. But as it turns out, behind that grin--a grin that could melt the face off the most innocent baby--is nothing but the turning gears and dull, mechanical musings of a killjoy.
Rather than just embrace board games--the games he loves, not I--for what they are (to him, as I hate them, you understand); rather than simply accept the magic and wonder that fills his heart as he claims a hexagonal piece of grassland or whatever the hell it is that he does; rather than give in to the moment and let his heart be captured by the character cards and the 16-sided die and the muted smell of Doritos and ginger ale; rather than do that, Eric has instead gone all scientific, ripping the heart out of the pastime he so adores and replacing it with analytic nonsense and introspective tomfoolery.
So Eric can talk about "compelling decisions" and weigh them against the importance of "creative play," can analyze and try to quantify the push-pull relationship that exists between the two concepts, and can aspire to devise a formula that will help create the "perfect" game according to his arbitrary standards. He is free to do so. But I wonder if perhaps the little boy that lives inside of him--that lives inside all of us, especially those of us who have mental handicaps, not that I'm saying that there's anything wrong with that or that I'm somehow unaccepting of such people--I wonder if that little boy is gasping for air, feebly wasting away as Eric's scientific endeavors draw the life from his frail little body, as his inquiries and computations stamp out the last remnants of imagination and wonder that linger in his soul. I've known for quite a long time now that Eric was losing his way--choosing computers over the arts, siding with robots over humans, refusing to admit that The Princess Bride is not nearly as good a movie as he protests it is--but I've never known, until now, how perilously close he was to abandoning the simple pleasures of ignorant, uneducated joy. Will he never again watch a butterfly float on the wind and giggle? Will he never again be surprised by an erection in the bath? Has he already forgotten the excitement of biting into a Mr. Sketch marker, believing it would taste exactly how it smelled?
If so, then the Eric Walkingshaw I once knew and somewhat tolerated is no more. If board games can do no more than elicit a curious, analytical response in him, then all hope is lost. It is only fortunate that when the day of reckoning finally comes, I will feel no remorse when I reprogram his robot bride to attack instead of seduce him, although in all honesty Eric could have made it a lot more difficult by not putting those two switches so near each other, and labeling them so clearly.
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