This one is for…
…all those late nights I spent, drinking, with people willing to stay up with me and just talk. Asking questions and wondering out loud, playing music and drinking in the still mid-summer night air that seemed to be just cold enough for comfort. This one is for all of the misunderstood excused and the apologies that came to late. This is for the things you did right, oh so right on accident. This one is for the reader, the writer and the chance taker.
And everyone in between…
Letter from the Editor
My mother passed away on October 25 2013. In the hours, days and weeks that followed I lived my worst nightmare. Speechless I walked through life attempting to sum up a woman that lit my world. For a time everything seemed meaningless, empty and dark and then I remembered her and found that the light she brought to my world wasn’t gone, just dimmer and it was up to me to carry it now. So I gave it life, breathing easily into it and decided that she would never want me to live for her but because I live because of her I now know what I want to do.
I spoke my peace at her funeral and did what I always knew I would. But like most passing’s her’s was too soon. If I decide to write about her one day, and share what I have written then I will. Know that I am dealing with this, taking it the best way I know how: one day at a time. I love her and will never forget her. Time and time again in her life she pulled off the impossible, that’s what heroes do. She was my hero and I will do what she would have done: carried on holding her light, my light as high as I can.
I love bewbs!
…Err…well its true. I do. My mother had me pegged as a breast man long before I realized it myself. And I make no apologies for it. Regardless of how I feel I find myself surrounded by them. Not just on the internet, movies or TV. Boobs seem to be the safest, most undeniable, example of human sexuality. The vagina has been shown in mainstream movies, and to a much lesser extend so has the penis, but breast and cleavage are just everywhere. Especially in video games.
Think about it. I have seen so many bouncing cleavage in video games I thought it was its own sub-genere. There is a popular fighting franchise called Dead of Alive and they are famous for their female characters that just bounce, jiggle and giggle in the most hyper-femine over sexualized way. Women who stand at 5’2 have easyly triple-D boobs and they kick, spin and flip with an impossible grace. With all due respect to the Japanese culture (the culture that this game in particular came from), a culture that almost writes the punch lines for you, I just can’t understand. I haven’t seen a game made by your countrymen that didn’t seem to feature breasts as the main character. When I first noticed this I felt ashamed, clearly I was the narrow minded American and I hadn’t noticed anything else of substance. Clearly the objectification of women, in the Japanese culture, that I saw was carefully tailored to the American audience. In short they had used video games as a satirical mirror to chastise the American audience that themselves were obsessed with boobs. Then I did the research and found games being sold in Japan so lewd that I grew uncomfortable3. Not just games, I’m sorry a whole sub-genre of an aggressive dating simulation where the women are impossibly busty, cheerful to the point of vomiting and eyes as wide as satellite dishes.
I know video games are a power fantasy. I know that the chances of me coaching or being the general manager of an NFL team aren’t good, I won’t save the universe from an ancient galactic evil or dress in black from head to toe and fight my way through America’s enemies. I revel in these fantasies. As I grew up I have gone from being turned on by these ridiculously busty women to being sort of discussed on a intellectual level. My complaining about it won’t change anything and I am not looking to win brownie points from my friends. I also don’t think these games are the cause of any social devaluation of women merely an expression of something deeply rooted in a culture that basically chews up young women.
As I sit and think about all of this I come to a startling conclusion: I’m the worst offender. I am a college educated, relatively worldly and smart man who knows they the objectification of women is a problem in the world, a huge, ancient and persistent problem. I know this and often speak up when it come to the issues of women but my Macbook Pro has this shift background that is easily 80-85 percent women with huge boobs and round butts and a look on their faces their your mother wouldn’t approve of.
Confront with my own brand of hypocrisy I am not sure what to do, if I am willing to do anything at all. I am heterosexual and I like this type of woman. Its my laptop and I will do what I want. I have checked women out before, maybe even looked longer than was polite. I know this doesn’t make me a bad person and I am not apologizing either its…
I have no idea what I should do. I know there is a problem and I can see it and while I don’t do anything to directly support it, and from time to time even speak or write about it, but left to my own devices I support a culture that is destructive to women.
Hm…I still love bewbs though.
I wrote about video games once before but I found something amazing. I got a Playstation 3 for my birthday and finally signed up for the PlayStation Network. I got the idea in my head to search for old PlayStation games I used to play when I was younger. Specifically a handful of games that I spent WAY to long playing when I was younger.
The first game I downloaded the Command & Conquer, it is a real time strategy game that pits the Global Defense Initiative (G.D.I) a multinational militarized version of the United Nations against the Brotherhood of Nod, a quazi-religious terrorist organization. With a simple rock-paper-scissors mechanic you build fighting units and do battle, top down overlooking a really simple map. This isn’t all together different from Red Alert: Retaliation. The same principles apply but now you are the Allies, noble and swift, vs the brutal Soviet Union. Units that I could create in MS-paint right now.
I would spend HOURS playing through missions as the Allies or GDI (the “good-guys” in both games). What was really strange was that Real Time Strategies are not designed to be played on PlayStation. It was hard and a little clumsy to control units with the joy-stick and a few buttons but that never stopped me from having the mount of fun that I had. I would waste hours playing the same games, doing the same missions time and time again. I can’t explain why it was all so much fun.
As it has become cheaper to move data from one point to another and as the art of video games has gotten older there is now a market for video game nostalgia. Now I can go on to PlayStation Network or Xbox live I can revisit all of the best games I was obsessed with as a child. Ninja Turtles IV: Turtles in Time. Operation Winback. The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time (which for my money is like the Citizen Kane of video games).
Its funny/awesome that technology has allowed the games of my youth to be enjoyed again.
I generally get along with children. I like their honesty and chubby little faces. What I hate, or I am starting to hate are parents. Raising a child is hard, a 24/7/12/365 job. If you become a parent you are never not a parent again. I don’t know what it is like to be a parent. I don’t. If I do know one thing its that parenting is not easy. I know that. What I DO know is that it is your little brat running around shouting and you are sitting there just ignoring it. Worse than ignoring it is your smiling it away and saying “Oh isn’t he precious?”
Nope. Your paste eating, loud, little jerk is nothing more than a brat. He is a tiny asshole. I’m not talking about the crying infant or the child in pain. I am talking about the toddler who is shouting, running through people’s legs at the store or throwing things in the waiting room. That child. That asshole. You need to grab him and control him. You’re tired? Long day at work? Tired of shouting at him? Don’t think you can do it anymore?
You decided to have children.
I find myself getting more and more annoyed with things. I have reached my crotchety old man phase at the tender age of 27. I am constantly annoyed with humanity. “Why is this ASSHOLE DOING 60 in the fast lane?” or “For fuck’s sake lady why don’t you just stand in my way the entire time?” or any other slight that I overreact to. Looking back nothing any of these people did was that bad, either a little inconsiderate or an accident I respond with my brand of venom. I am sure that people aren’t supposed to be perpetually annoyed. I think there is something wrong with me. Sometimes I am jokingly respond to someone with an insult and everyone who heard me just sits there in a sort of hushed confusion. I never mean to be cruel but I come off an some sort of misanthropic sociopath.
I suppose it could be worse…I could be short.
I have an incredibly hard time choosing my favorite anything. I don’t have a favorite food. Not even bacon. Or hot wings. Or steak. I thin those would people’s first choice for my favorite food. But If I sit and think I can’t choose. I do have a favorite meal, that’s breakfast. I love bacon (SHOCKING) and scrambled eggs and pancakes but I don’t think I could eat anyone of those things all day. I would put bacon on everything but I would grow tired of if by the middle of the day. There is a bacon festival on the east coast that I WILL go to it.
If I don’t work for the NSA or CIA when I get out of the Navy, immediately, I think I will go to Burning man. I listened to a podcast and a guy with just the right blend of social anxiety, cynism, humor and sarcasm, talk about his adventures in the post modern hippie utopia. It sounded like a blast, it sounded like something I needed to do. But I think if I went by myself I would come out in 3 days and have a new name (“Moon-Moon”, “Angry Bear”, “Captain Screams alot” or whatever the hippies decide to name me) and be so soaked in THC and cocaine that touching me would give you a contact high.
I can’t sing. I can’t dance. Only thing about me is the way I walk. Well no. I just love that line from a Phil Collins song but I seriously can’t do the first two things. I wish I could dance. Someone once told me “Dancing is the true expression of ourselves and a celebration of our humanity.” Well in response to that I can only say “God only wanted women to dance thats why he gave them parts that jiggle.” Also when I dance people go through 6 stages.
1) Confusion – “What the hell is Adam doing?”
2) Anger – “Seriously what the fuck is Adam doing?”
3) Amusement – “Wow he is trying to dance…is that what he thinks dancing is?”
4) Depression – “I hope Adam is ok. The last time I saw a person do that it was my uncle Ricky and he was 5 minutes into his 2nd stroke.”
5) Back to Amusement – “Man he sucks at this! Lets all point and laugh”
6) Acceptance – “We should dance next to him so we look good.”
I posted an article on my twitter and facebook a few months back and got a very visceral reaction from my friends. Having never seen an article like this before I didn’t know it was the trend to beat up on the newest economically powerful generation. I did my research and found more articles than I expected basically telling me that I was a shitty underachiever and that there was something wrong with me because I wasn’t overjoyed to be working at a “Starbucks” or “flipping burgers”. What I never understood is that my parents and grandparents worked years for me never to have to do a job like that, worked for years to send me to good schools and to college and after generations of focused effort I am supposed to be excited to work a job that can’t support my existence. As I delved more deeply into this I realized the entire “Fuck Generation Y” trend was powered by a collective remembered history that couldn’t be more baseless, self-aggrandizing and inaccurate if it tried. I do think that skinny jeans are stupid and if my generation is to blame for than then I’m sorry but I’m pretty sure that skinny jeans were invented by someone else. Maybe even Nazis.
~ Adam Milton