Over-thinking

I'll take a brief departure from my usual material to give you a glimpse inside my mind.  I'm the kind of guy that over-thinks small things.  If you're ever trying to have a conversation, and I seem distant, chances are I'm just thinking about something really stupid.  This week's blog is an example of the stupid stuff I think about.  Listen to this song:

You've probably heard this song.  I heard it again, as I have many times, while driving home at night from a friends' house.  I got stuck on the lyrics of the chorus:

It's only in my dreams

That I can Change the worldI would be the sunlight in your universeYou would think my love was really something goodBaby, if i could change the world

So the question for me became, why is it only in his dreams?  There's basically two options here:

• The artist's love is not good enough.  The artist has the rapt attention of his intended lover, but he's just not quite good enough of a man.  Perhaps he's inattentive, or he doesn't have the means to provide for her, or maybe he's got demons he needs to work out.  Regardless, he wishes his love were good enough to satisfy his lover, but it isn't.  This is supported by the second verse of the song;

If I could be king, even for a day
I'd take you as my queen
I'd have it no other way
And our love would rule
this kingdom we have made
Til' then i'll be a fool
Wishing for the day

The imagery of him being a king highlights the idea that he needs something else in order to get his way.  He needs an outside source of empowerment, and once that happens, he can finally satisfy the woman he would make queen.  Until then, he becomes a fool.  He doesn't become lonely, he just becomes a fool.

• The artist has the love he needs, but he doesn't have the girl yet.  He knows he could get the job done if he just had the chance, but the girl either doesn't know him, or more likely, doesn't think of him "that way."  I've grown up surrounded by emotional boyhood songs lamenting these dreaded fates.  This theory is supported by the first verse;

If I could reach the stars
Pull one down for you
Shine it on my heart
So you could see the truth
That this love I have inside
Is everything it seems
But for now I find
It's only in my dreams

In this alternate reality, we see the artist going to great lengths just to get the right attention drawn on him.  The star he reaches up and pulls down is a source bright enough to illuminate the love hidden in his heart, which apparently she hasn't yet been able to see.  It would be undeniable; she'd have to finally see how much better she could have it with him.

What does this song say about love, furthermore?  This artist has the potential to be anything, and he chooses to be sunlight.  Don't get me wrong, I like sunlight; it lets me see outside my window, it gives me Vitamin D, and it saves us all energy since we don't have to turn the lights on.  That said, it's something I take for granted.   I'm not really thankful for sunlight, but rather, I just assume it will always be there.  Is this what the artist thinks that love is?  One would have to presume so.  Since this is the case, we get a bleak picture of the artist.  He is so desperate for his lover that even being taken for granted would be a huge upgrade over his situation.

Is there a right answer?  Probably not; I think it's a mix of both.  The artist is probably a good friend of the subject, who burns passionately for her but is also unable to get the courage to actually put that passion into action.  Thus, we're left with actually a pretty sad image of a man who is literally wishing upon a star for love to fall into his lap.  All we can hope is that this song is actually sung to the woman in question, and not simply lamented into the nothingness of space.

I wonder if I'm the only one who spends way too much time thinking of nonsense like this.

Equal Entertainment

These days, I find myself pressed for time.  It's not necessarily because I have so many worthwhile things to do, but more because I have a lot of worthless things that I want to do, and limited time to do them.  Occasionally among this list of worthless things comes a show I want to watch.  I know that if I want to catch up on a show that I've heard good things about, it will take many hours of sitting around and watching the show.  This is time that I could spend doing more worthwhile things; working out, writing, reading, etc.  The difference between then and now is that TV is slowly becoming a worthwhile endeavor.

How often are you told that you should be watching a show?  I'm guilty of doing this occasionally.  Certain shows are extremely entertaining, like Community.  Others are historically relevant, like Band of  Brothers.  Others have very well written suspense and drama, like The Wire or Breaking Bad.  The fact of the matter is that, as TV evolves, more shows come along that hold real artistic value.  Time is drawing near when watching TV will be considered just as valuable as reading a book.

It's already here to some extent.  One of the more popular book series out there is the Twilight series.  Without getting too much into a "Twilight Sucks" rant, I think I can safely say that the novel series isn't one which is designed to teach the world grand lessons.  Rather, it's supposed to be good fun.  There's a reasonable argument to be had that watching a TV series like Planet Earth, or even Mad Men.  Mad Men is a much more culturally relevant, engaging, and smart series than Twilight is.  

So what does this all mean?  When do we actually accept TV as a legitimate way to invest your time, as opposed to a distraction which needs to be limited?  When will books and TV be considered the same, if ever?

The Final Soul Blazing

The women in my family have had a tenuous relationship with video games in the past.  My oldest sister has basically never played them, my Mom played Mario once to the rest of our delight, and my other sister Stephanie only played a scant few games.  She would play Mario and other easy to pick up/easy to put down games.  There was one long RPG that she would play; Soul Blazer.

Look at this game.  This is a game where you have to free the gosh darn Freilians, and make that jerk Deathtoll pay.  What else do you need to know?  For those of you with no sense of heroism, Soul Blazer was a Legend of Zelda knockoff where you romped through dungeons killing monsters and freeing the humans trapped inside.  Once you did all that, you'd kill a boss, and move to the next area and do the same.  It was pretty fun, if not that innovative.

Stephanie played this game...a lot.  She must have played it at least six or seven times all the way through, which is not a feat to be underestimated.  Each playthrough was at least fifteen hours of gameplay, depending on if you wanted to make sure you did everything along the way.  Each time she played the game, she named the main character (a boy) after whatever boy she currently had a crush on.  There were so many that I couldn't even remember the names of all them.  Furthermore, for as long as we were kids, she could never defeat any of the bosses.  They were kinda tough, and she'd rather the monotony of doing the regular levels rather than toil away at the bosses, so she'd ask me to do them for her.  This continued through High School, and even College.  She borrowed my Super Nintendo, and played, and at some point I'd beat a boss for her, and she'd go back to the game.  One day, though, everything changed.  I got a call from her about four years ago.

Stephanie: "Andy, I gotta tell you something."

Me: "What is it, sis?"

Stephanie: "I beat Soul Blazer...by myself!"

There are a few constants of the world I must cling to in order for my life to make sense.  God exists, he sent his son to die, and he loves me.  The earth spins a little more than 365 times for each lap around the sun it takes.  2 + 2 does not equal 5.  Stephanie can not beat Soul Blazer.  All this is known.  When Stephanie told me she beat Soul Blazer, I plum didn't believe it.  I had to see for myself.  The next trip I made to her place, I demanded to see the game.  Sure enough, she had beat the game, by herself.  Her fiance assured me that he had no part in it, but little did he know how much of a part he had.  In fact, not only did he beat all the bosses, he beat everything else, without knowing it.

The character was named after him.

I think there's something symbolic there.  After years of trying to beat the game with characters named after a hodge podge of current crushes and daydream fantasies, she finally won.  She saved the world, and it's all thanks to a hero named Bob.  If I were allowed a speech at her wedding, this would have been the tale I was told.  It would have been grand and magnificent.

Maybe it's better that I was kept silent during the reception.

And then I stopped

When I was in High School I ran a lot.  I've mentioned this in the past.  For a while it was my main source of pride and happiness.  I ran because I was good at it, and it made me feel like I was accomplishing something in my life.  By the time my Senior Year rolled around, I had realized that I wasn't happy running.  This also fueled the realization that God needed to be the source of my happiness rather than sport.  Anyways, when I entered college, it caused me to have to make a decision; do I keep running for the sake of being good at something, or stop?

When I had decided to go to College of San Mateo (the local Junior College), the coach had actually "recruited" me, if you will.  Obviously there would be no scholarships to a JC, but the coach wanted me to be a key piece on his Cross Country/Track teams for the next two years.  He assured me that if I ran to the best of my ability, it would help me nail down a scholarship to a school whenever I decided to transfer.  At this point, running wasn't just a source of pride; it could actually be a source of saved money.  There was a tangible benefit to running.

Why would I not run, then?  The reason is simple; I hated it.  I just didn't like the way I felt when I was done, and I didn't like the person I was becoming when I invested myself into running.  I knew that if I hated the person I had become when only investing pride, then I would become an absolutely despicable person when I was investing personal well-being.

What won out?  Did I put aside my fears of becoming a worse person in favor of trying to secure a better place in the world?  Or did I realize that the benefits were shaky at best, and that personal happiness was more important?  As you may have guessed, I opted for the latter.  If/When I entered a four year university, I wanted it to be because I had earned it academically.  I wanted to be a man whose academic accomplishments were worth something.

You ever had one of those times when you're procrastinating, and you justify it because "Well, I'm a strong person, and I'll get it done when the time comes?"  I did that often.  The problem was that I never actually "did it".  I just liked the idea that Andy was a superman who could always grit it out with determination and awesomeness.  Sadly, there was little awesomeness left in the well to draw from.  The time would come, and I'd just flake and blow it.

What does this have to do with running?  I knew that if I kept on running, then I would never become the man who gets it done when times were rough.  I wouldn't actually challenge myself to learn valid skills and focus in the classroom; I would be the same immature boy who relied on empty promises to myself rather than actual hard work to accomplish things.  If I was going to go anywhere, I had to learn how to work hard.  I didn't work hard when I ran; I just did what the coach told me and then ran the race.

I'm glad I made the decision I did.  I stopped running, and it forced me to learn how to study, how to meet deadlines, and how to actually do things when I said I would do them.  God used that period to reform me.  He took a man who had no idea what gave him happiness and showed him how to work for the Lord.  I learned how to show my joy in the Lord by working hard, and I became a man of my word.

Are sports and running things that are inherently bad?  Not at all.  Idolatry, though, takes many forms.  Whatever you put in front of your relationship with the lord, or whatever you draw happiness from aside from God, is an idol.  The Lord showed this to me, and helped me cut it off so that I could instead draw my pride and satisfaction from what Jesus has done.  If there's anything I've gained from running, it's that it can't really fill me up, and I'm thankful for knowing that for sure.

Learning the Lesson

So I went out to see Moneyball, right?  Fun time; good movie.  The movie talks a lot about taking walks in baseball.  The idea is that a walk is, most of the time, just as good as a hit, since either way you end up on base which is the most important part.  The idea of taking a walk is a strange one, though.  I remember when I was  a little kid I loved taking the walk.  When I was in 3rd grade, I played baseball.  I was a member of the AAA Twins, and I think we were pretty good.  I was the shortest kid on the team, and after just a few weeks I realized that I got on base a lot more often when I didn't swing the bat.  You see, AAA was the first level when the kids pitched for themselves, and it was hard to throw a ball inside the strike zone of a kid that's right around 4 feet tall.  I loved getting on base, because when you were on base you got to run around (and even steal bases!)  As I've mentioned in the past, running was kind of my thing, so I wanted to do whatever it took to let me run.  I didn't really learn much about baseball though.

Flash forward to a couple years ago.  I was umpiring a AAA game for San Ramon Little League.  When I umpire that age group, the strike zone I call is gigantic.  If that kid can hit it, and it isn't at his eyeballs or on the ground, it's probably a strike.  This is to encourage the kids to swing the bat.  The pitchers have fun when they put the ball past the batter, the fielders have fun when they get to field the ball, and kids get to run around.  Everyone wins.  Nonetheless, on my way out, I was barked at by a bitter parent who was questioning the educational value of calling a gigantic strike zone.  I, in turn, questioned the value of sticking the bat on the shoulder and taking a free pass.  I knew I had done it when I was a kid.  I didn't really learn much about baseball though.

I wonder if this shaped my view of baseball at all.  I'm a huge fan of sabermetrics these days, and I know the value of the walk.  To me, it doesn't matter if you try the hardest on the field or if you're the nicest guy; what matters is that you put runs up for your team and stop the other team from doing the same.  I came to this conclusion after reading books like Moneyball and Baseball Prospectus, and through normal rational thought.  The question is, why do I think kids should swing the bat and adults should take the walk?  Is it better that I help the kids have fun rather than get results, and I think the opposite for adults?  At which point do I flip the switch and start taking the walk?  I feel like I haven't really learned much about baseball.

Pickiness and Potatoes

Were you a picky eater when you were a kid?  I was.  Fortunately the pickiness always fleshed itself out in easy to manageable ways.  For instance, when I wanted a sandwich, I wanted bread with mayonnaise and the cheap sliced turkey.  That's it.  If I was really feeling adventurous I might want lettuce.  If you had mayo and turkey, I could live for days.  Sometimes, though, my pickiness had dire consequences.  Let me tell you about mashed potatoes.

Let me say this first off: I like mashed potatoes (now.)  After many years, I grew to like the buttery texture and absorbant flavor, and have realized that my Mom really does make great mashed potatoes.  This was not always the case.  Certainly my Mom always made great mashed potatoes, but I didn't know.  When I was young, all I knew was that mashed potatoes were gross as all heck.  The texture was creepy and the flavor was sickening.  I knew I wanted no part of them.  I was probably five or six years old one day when Mom made the fateful mistake of forcing me to eat them.

It was a family dinner like many others.  The six of us were huddled around the table, and in front of me was a full plate of food, including a heaping helping of potatoes.  I told Mom, quite abruptly, that no mashed potatoes would be eaten that night.  If anyone else wanted to have their fill of the abomination, by all means, I won't stop them.  I, though, refused to eat such filth.  Mom, being the ever wise one, told me I had to eat the potatoes.  I get it now; she just wanted me to get over my irrational fear of potatoes and eat them because they tasted good and were healthy.  Nope.  I refused to cave.  She insisted.

You ever try to go toe to toe in logic with a child?  You know that at any time the child could cave in and do something so unthinkable that it throws the argument out the window.  I had to do that; I resorted to threats.  "Mom, if you make me eat those potatoes, I will throw up."  I meant it, too.  Mom wasn't having any of it.  I reinstated my claim.  "Mom, if you make me eat those potatoes, I will throw up."  I was told, once again, to eat the potatoes.  I was told I'd like them, and I saw my whole family enjoying them.  I had to teach them a lesson.

You probably have two outcomes swirling in your head right now: one where I cave in and enjoy them, and one where I eat them and return them from whence they came.  This, unfortunately, is a story of the latter.  I did eat those potatoes, and I returned them back towards the center of the table in the fastest way possible.  It was a revolting sight.  Nonetheless, Mom insisted on this dance again.  We debated the merits of the potatoes, and I once again consumed/unconsumed them.  From that day on, Mom never forced me to eat anything.

It took me until mid way through High School to enjoy a potato that wasn't French Fried.  I stayed picky, and enjoyed mayonnaise and turkey sandwiches.  Heck, I'll probably eat one of those this afternoon.  The point here is that when you try to match logic with a child incapable of reason, you'll probably get burned.  Mom knew that she had to pick her battles with her kids, and I guess that day she realized that with a possible outcome like that, foods were no longer a worthy battle to fight.

Dad, Still

Most people identify themselves as Morning or Night people.  For whatever reason, people always feel like they get better work done at one extreme or the other.  Me, personally, I feel I'm a night person.  It's almost as if the world has gone to sleep, and I'm finally free to just dump thoughts onto paper.  I need to have a free and clear mind from other work in order to really let it flow.  My Dad, on the other hand, is a morning person.  He claims he wakes up instinctively at 4 AM, sometimes 3, due to habit.  I don't know why we're so different in that regard, but you can't say he didn't try to make me a morning person.

When I was young, I remember waking up early on either Saturday or Sunday morning to play video games with my Dad.  The rest of the family was asleep, so the only ones to wake up were my pseudo-nocturnal Pops and me, the youngest kid in the family.  We'd wake up, drive to Happy Donuts in Belmont (I believe it was called Wild Bill's back then) and grab breakfast before going to play games.  Typically in the beginning we'd go off to my Dad's work, where his tech-savvy co-worker Don had a bunch of computer games stored on his computer.  Old adventure stuff mostly; I remember King's Quest being one of them.  Typically I'd play a game, and Dad would watch.

As an aside, there's something awesome about having your parents just sit and watch you do things.  When I started helping out with Jr. High, I remember I was told that the kids will grow to like you just because at that age it's cool to have an adult care about what you're doing.  I don't know what it is about having people watch and care and encourage you, but when it's an adult you respect (especially a parent) it really means something else.

So anyways, Dad watching me play video games was special.  Eventually the owner of the business (my Grandpa) caught wind of the games, and banned them from the office.  What a curmudgeon.  Anyways, the locale switched to my home.  The weekend gaming took on a new tone at that point; it was gaming in quiet because I wasn't allowed to wake my family.  The quiet was what permeates my thoughts of those days.  My Dad and I didn't always talk a ton.  Well, I should say, I talked a ton, and my Dad listened.  Perhaps the video gaming was a way for my Dad to enjoy my company without having to listen to me yammer on incessantly about Calvin and Hobbes or whatever occupied my six-year-old mind at the time.

There just isn't enough quiet these days.  I still talk too much, I play video games, and I still eat donuts, but I don't have the quiet enough.  Dad always brought the quiet.  When things went wrong, I could count on Dad to come in, bring the quiet, and slow things down to the point that they could be sorted out.  I think of Psalm 46:10.

He says, “Be still, and know that I am God;
   I will be exalted among the nations,
   I will be exalted in the earth.”

 I admire a lot about my Dad, but his ability to be still, quiet, and listen to God is definitely up near the top of the list.  Even in trivial things like playing video games, Dad was always there to be still and just listen to what was going on around him.  I really need to start taking in more of his wisdom.

Mother's Intuition

You ever think about the Christmas List?  When I was a kid, I made a list of things I wanted for Christmas.  I knew I wouldn't get all of them (sometimes hardly any of the specific things I mentioned) but I knew making a list was important.  It served to hype up the season and get myself excited, and it also served to let everyone know what I wanted.  Like many kids (or so I imagine) I always took great pride in my list.  I posted it front and center on the refrigerator for all to see, and I'd keep an eye out for people looking at it.  When Christmas rolled around, I was always happy with my gifts, though sometimes they weren't the ones on the list.  There was one thing that tied the gifts together though: Mom.  Either Mom directly bought it and gave it to me, or she had advised someone in what to get me, or cleverly disguised a gift from "Willie Mays" or whatever.  You could always tell the thought Mom put into buying Christmas gifts.

Her thought processes, though, ranged from the extremely cryptic to the flat out obvious.  I remember, once, receiving a call when I was 10 or so from my Mom in early December.

"Hi, Andy?"

"Yeah, Mom?"

"Uhh, yeah, do you like "War...craft?" 

"Yeah, I do, Mom."

"Oh, OK.  Do you like "Might...And...Magic?"

"Yeah...why do you ask?"

"Oh, I was just wondering." (Click)

Can't blame the lady for wanting to get it right.  Other times, though, it was mysterious.  I remember in College I got a printer.  It's a very nice printer; I still use it to this day.  It scans, copies, prints photos, and the ink is really affordable.  The thing is, though, that I never told anyone I needed a printer.  The printer I had at the time was a piece of junk that barely got the job done and was on its last legs  Come Christmas time, though, Mom gave me a printer though I had just barely realized I needed one.  Chalk that one up to Mother's Intuition I guess.

I think Moms are supposed to have an innate sense of knowing when their kids need something.  Being the fourth kid of the Patrick line, I think I reaped an intangible benefit of Mom having honed this skill through the years.  By the time I reached every age level, Mom was so well polished at the art of coming through in the clutch that I didn't even realize it was happening.  Things just went right, and that was the way of the world.  Even though she worked until at least 5:00, there was always a warm dinner at home at night.  Whenever practice had ended, there was always a ride ready to come get me.  Whenever I tore a hole in my shirt jumping over a fence to make prank phone c--I mean, jumping over a fence for fun and nothing else--there would always be another shirt there ready to take its place.  These may sound like trivial and obvious things, but I've started to realize that they aren't for everyone, and they didn't have to be.  If it weren't for Mom orchestrating all these things, then my childhood wouldn't have been as carefree as it was.

I wonder if Moms strive to get to the point where their kids don't even realize they're doing the things they're doing.  Mom always did everything without too much fanfare.  She never made a big deal about her birthday, or fished for thank yous at dinner, or anything like that.  She simply made sure it was done, and took joy in the fact that her family was safe and happy.  That's pretty amazing.  Maybe that's what Mother's Intuition is: just a practiced skill derived from knowing how to keep the family safe and happy.  If so, my Mom's pretty darn intuitive.

Brothers

Quick refresher course: I like video games, I rented them often, I thought my brother was the greatest video game player when I was a kid. With that in mind, let's flash back to the year 19xx.

The year is 19xx (I don't actually remember the year but I was around 7 or 8 years old). My brother and I had rented Mega Man 3. Mega Man 3 was a game where you weren't just a regular man, but a weird robot man that could absorb special powers from other robot men by killing them. So your goal was to pick a stage, get past the evil guy's lair (mostly by jumping and shooting) and then killing the guy himself at the end. There's more to it, but you get the idea. Each Mega Man game had eight evil guys you had to kill before getting to the final evil guy, and you could do them in any order you liked. When you beat a boss, you were given a password, and if you wanted to turn off your Nintendo, you could restart your progress by inputting the password when you started playing again.

Anyways, so my brother and I had rented this game. We took turns trying to beat the boss. Most of the time this involved me failing miserably and then handing the controller off to my brother who would do much better. In fact, I think he had beaten every one of the evil guys except for one: Magnet Man.

Look at this guy: dude has a magnet on his head. He's serious business. He was serious enough business in fact, that Doug and I had quite a time trying to beat him. I remember us trying more than once before having to call it a night and both having to go to school. After school got off I went home to try my hand again at the dreaded Man of Magnets. I had some time to the game myself before Doug got home, and I had to relish it. We were lucky to have a second TV in our house, and it didn't have cable, which meant it was free for Doug and I to play all we wanted. That said, sharing was strictly enforced. Once Doug got home, we had to take turns (unless, of course, one person "broke the other's concentration" which was a policy liberally enforced). In the time before Doug got home, though, somehow I had managed to beat Magnet Man. Don't ask me how; it was some combination of blind luck and sheer force of will.

This was a big moment for me; I think it was the first time I beat Doug to anything. Of course, I didn't really think of it that way. I thought of it as doing my part for the team. Doug would come home, hear the good news, and then we'd progress straight on to the boss together. That, unfortunately, wasn't the reaction he had. Doug wanted to beat the level for himself, and he was actually kind of mad that I had done it without him. We had what resembled an argument between brothers seven years apart, and I'm not even positive we played that night. The next morning though you can be dang sure we kept going in the game. Doug and I had a neat relationship growing up; we could get mad and yell at each other, but once we got a good night's sleep, all was forgiven. No apologies were sought for or given; we just reverted to being brothers without grudges. It was understood that whatever had happened before happened, but it wasn't big enough to get between us. We just let it lie, and moved on.

I remember at times wondering if there should have been more apologies handed out, but now I don't think so. The dynamic between us, at least from my angle, never begat any grudges, and I hope it was the same way with him. I wonder if all brothers are this way. I think the moral of the story is: don't let stupid nonsense get between you and your brother/friend/partner/whatever; there are magnet men (and their proverbial counterparts) that are far more important to focus on.

Gentleman Jim

So Jim Thome just the other day hit his 600th home run. This is a pretty startling athletic feat; only seven other players have done this, and they belong to three categories: Hall of Famers (Aaron, Ruth, Mays), surefire hall of famers (Griffey, A-Rod), or surefire hall of famers if not for PED suspicion (Bonds, Sosa). Jim Thome is also the nicest guy in baseball. One would think that these two things combined would make a huge baseball story, but it's not getting that much love. I particularly think that it's getting slighted when compared to Derek Jeter's 3000th hit, a feat accomplished by twenty eight people. I have a few theories:

1) In light of past steroid use by other sluggers, people are associating Thome with steroid use by proxy. I get it; baseball has tainted our minds forever. We can't really look at any random feel-good comeback story without wondering if it was a product of chemical use. When you look at a monstrous slugger like Thome, it's easy to think that he's all 'roids. That said, Thome has never been connected with steroids. He wasn't on the Mitchell Report, he wasn't named by Canseco, and there haven't been whispers around the media about him. Furthermore, hitting home runs is all Thome does. We're not talking about a guy like Bonds, who went from a great 5 tool player to the most prolific masher in history. We're talking about a big guy who stayed big and did what he had always done.

2) Thome does not play for a large market team. Thome plays for the Minnesota Twins, and before that he played for the Chicago White Sox. The American League Central has never been a division where most of America looks to for action. Thome is now on his 5th club (Indians, Phillies, ChiSox, Dodgers, Twins) and can't really be considered "Mr." anything, like, say, Jeter is. Jeter is an iconic Yankee, so he has the backing of the biggest fanbase in American Baseball.

3) Major League Baseball is hedging it's bet for a few years with regards to power hitters. This is related to #1, but focuses more on the sport as a whole. Major League Baseball might not want to trump up a huge slugger as a model for the game just in case a story does break that the involved parties were juicing.

4) Thome's secondary skills are overlooked. To the untrained eye, Derek Jeter is a fabulous hitter that is made even better by the fact that he's a shortstop. Jim Thome is a fat dude that drops bombs. While most of the world can't seem to fathom the idea that Jeter wasn't a good fielder, the simple fact that he is a shortstop makes his feat that much more awe inspiring. Jim Thome's secondary skill? Getting on base. Thome got on base at a .403 clip over his career, good for 6th among active players (Helton, Pujols, Manny, Berkman, Giambino). Unfortunately the majority of the baseball loving world is just as slow with realizing the benefit of the walk as they are of seeing Jeter's poor defense work, so Thome comes off as a one dimensional player while Jeter is hailed as a toolsy beast.

It's a shame. It's a darn shame. Gentleman Jim is among the best hitters we have had the pleasure of witnessing in our lifetime, and this great milestone may be the pinnacle of his career, and baseball just isn't giving him his due because of circumstances beyond his control. Well done Jim.

The Bonnell Hurdle

I didn't always like writing. When I was in Jr. High, I felt the same about writing as did every other kid; it was just something that came along with school. Sure, I wrote stories when I was a little kid, but those died out as I got older. When I was in school at that age, I wrote in the same manner as I did any other homework assignment; uncaringly. This made for quite the shock when I reached high school and I ran into the entity known only as "Mr. Bonnell."

Mr. Bonnell was his own man. He wore a bow tie, rode a cruiser bike to school, rang a bell to signify the start of class, and addressed everyone by Mr. and Miss. He was, to put it lightly, old fashioned. During the summer going into my Freshman year of High School, Mr. Bonnell required all incoming students to write a paper on a book of their choice from a small list. I chose "The Hobbit" because I had already read it, and thus, didn't have to do any extra work. My paper was what I had assumed a paper was supposed to be; grammatically correct in most ways. I didn't really care about what the content was, because my 8th grade teacher cared only about proper grammar. It didn't matter to me that the entirety of my paper was just a rough summary of the book in two pages, as I thought I had done a fine job. Mr. Bonnell politely disagreed.

After I read my paper to him in private as all students did, he explained to me that my paper wasn't quite up to standards. To sum up; I got a D-. It was quite the shocker as my first grade of my High School career wasn't one to write home about, so clearly I had work to do. I spent the rest of the first semester trying to figure out what to do, and mostly failing, though occasionally I gained slight progress. Up until the last paper of the quarter the highest grade I had received on a paper was a C-. The last paper of the semester was on George Orwell's classic, 1984. I had to try something new. I told my Mom (God bless her for putting up with all my writing nonsense) that I would go a different route. I was going to throw style out the window completely and be totally structured with my paper. My essay would consist of quotes and explanation. I would have a short introduction, a short conclusion, and one sentence at the bookends of each paragraph. Other than that, I would have nothing but quotes and explanation to prove my point. "Winston did this" and it meant that. It was bold, but I had no option left other than the hail mary. When I had finished reading that essay to Mr. Bonnell, he sat there staring at it blankly. He carefully pondered how to break the news to me. I knew I had done something wrong.

"This is exactly what I've been looking for, Mr. Patrick."

The clouds parted. Light shined down through the atrium and onto me, straight from the heavens. The wisdom and mysteries of the stars were being revealed to me as all happiness flowed through me. Mr. Bonnell was finally pleased with my work. He went on to tell me...I don't know. I don't even remember the particularities of that conversation beyond "you did it." All I knew was that I had somehow figured out how to write a paper, and I did it by breaking it down to its most basic elements, shrugging, and hoping I got there. That day was a turning point for me; I would strive to be as terse as possible in my academic writing, and it hasn't failed me since. Sure, I don't follow that model in blog-format ramblings, but that's why nobody reads this blog but me, and those who love me an inexplicable amount.

At what Cost?

Growing up in Foster City was really, really hard. I'd try to communicate to you how difficult it was, but I'm afraid the english language has no such words. Until "undifficult" becomes a word, I think I'll just have to abstain. One such undifficult summer saw Joe, Kevin, off-and-on 4th musketeer Steven, and I trying to find refreshment on a hot day. It was a blisteringly hot 90 degrees outside, and we had no money. Our parents, the sole source of money, were at work, and we only had water to help us. Joe had one option, though, and in his freezer for whatever reason was a bottle of Coca-Cola. The only problem was that, since the Coke was in the freezer, it had been, well, frozen.

It was a rock. We tried to get that coke out, and maybe just let it thaw to allow us to drink the coke slushee, but the coke wasn't having it. We tugged, pulled, twisted, banged, hit, sledged, punched, and every other violent verb you can think of'd that bottle of coke. We wanted that coke; we needed that coke. After thoroughly beating into submission, though, we realized that we just needed to let it thaw. As a last ditch effort, Joe took a butcher knife out of the cupboard and tried to cut it open. When he stuck the knife in, unfortunately nothing happened. We expected sweet sweet coke to drip out, but it didn't. Joe shrugged. Steven, ever the eager young man ready to tackle the word, opted to give it the old college try.

Steven saddled up to that bottle of coke much like a young Arthur trying to pull the sword from the stone. Unfortunately, unlike Arthur, things didn't work out for him. Oh, he got the knife out, but much more with it. Imagine that, for a moment, when Arthur pulls the sword out, that the very rock that held it shattered into a million fiery pieces because of the sheer magnitude of what had just occurred. Now, replace "million fiery pieces" with "Coke" and you can guess what really happened. The moment that air was allowed into the savaged Coke bottle, it erupted with the anger of a thousand Mount Vesuvii. Once the coke dust cleared, Steven was left dripping with Coca Cola, and a Steven shaped outline on the wall was left, as the wall took the majority of the damage.

We spent the remainder of the day trying to clean it up, but unfortunately, there was no escaping the grounding that occurred. Alas, when Joe's dad came home, the ceilings were sticky, and Joe was punished. I'll always have that moment, though. The hissing sound of the air escaping, the brown flash in the air, and the Steven shaped outline on the wall as we finally got all the Coke we wanted.

Biblical Witnessing

I've been thinking a lot lately about what it means to "witness" to people in a biblical sense. I've heard the term thrown around a lot amongst the church, and unfortunately I find it to be mostly a christian buzz word. I'd put it right up there with "righteousness" as one of the more common terms used without much thought. Let's take a look at a passage from Isaiah.

⁸ Lead out those who have eyes but are blind,
who have ears but are deaf.
⁹ All the nations gather together
and the peoples assemble.
Which of their gods foretold this
and proclaimed to us the former things?
Let them bring in their witnesses to prove they were right,
so that others may hear and say, “It is true.”
¹⁰ “You are my witnesses,” declares the LORD,
“and my servant whom I have chosen,
so that you may know and believe me
and understand that I am he.
Before me no god was formed,
nor will there be one after me.
¹¹ I, even I, am the LORD,
and apart from me there is no savior.
¹² I have revealed and saved and proclaimed—
I, and not some foreign god among you.
You are my witnesses,” declares the LORD, “that I am God.
¹³ Yes, and from ancient days I am he.
No one can deliver out of my hand.
When I act, who can reverse it?”

So God is trying to win everyone over, right? God's got this amazing book and this long history of amazing things he's done, and he knows he can back his word up. He's calling out idol worshipers from other lands to see who else out there has been able to do what he's done. Whenever they show up, he's going to put us out there against them. In the proverbial case for God, we are the witnesses he calls to the stand. We are the expert opinions, the eyewitnesses, and the character witnesses to prove God's glory. God does not need us to be all powerful, but he does use us to prove his point. When we're called to the stand of life to prove what God has done (which should be every day) we have to be confident in our testimony (there's another Christian buzz word I can clear up here) so that we can help God win the case. I never used to think of words like "testimony," and "witness" in a court sense, but that's intended imagery right there. God wants us to remember that we, in the way we live our lives, are making a case for God. The more we live our lives like we don't care, aren't confident in the word, or are too insecure to speak, the weaker of a case we make for God. Conversely, the more confident we are in God's work and the more prepared we are against cross examination, the more water our testimony will hold in the court of Earth.

Live your life as a worthy testimony. God has chosen you to prove his point, and he's not going to put you on the stand unprepared. Trust in him, seek his council, and you'll be more than prepared to play your role in his case.

I Can't Read People

Just a quick story today.

When I was younger, my Dad and I were always on the hunt for cheap video games. We'd scour garage sales, the San Jose Flea Market, and any other place we could find with used video games on the cheap. One of the places we found was a Game Crazy in Arizona where we vacationed one year. Game Crazy was in its first stages, so there weren't a lot of them around. Anyways, my Dad and I were in the store browsing the games there when a lady walked in. The lady had a rather disheveled appearance; her dark hair was frizzed about everywhere, she had a cane, her clothing looked like it was just thrown on, and she had a gigantic dog with her. She also had big black sunglasses. The lady, grabbing everyone's attention from the counter, yelled to everyone inside, "Is this the Applebee's?"

It was rather strange; this place was clearly not the Applebee's, purveyor of fine pies and family dining, this was a video game store. She was informed as such by the store clerk. "Where is the Applebee's?" the lady shouted back. I didn't really understand why she couldn't find it herself. The clerk told her to walk out the store, take a left, and walk about 200 yards down the street and she'd run smack dab into it. She left the store. What a strange occurence.

When I got into the car with both my parents when my Mom picked me up, I decided to relay the story. Even at a young age I knew this would be a fun story to tell, so I told my Mom what had happened. I told her a clueless, strange lady came in with a big dog, huge sunglasses, and an inability to distinguish Game Crazy from Applebee's. My Dad, ever the realist, threw up his hands in amazement at my inability to understand. My Dad always had a way of explaining things so that I would understand them. Once again, he had found a way to take this complex, strange affair, and break it down to the most simple solution so I, too, could see.

"Andy, she was blind."

Oooooooooooooooooh.

Short Circuits and Garden Shears

I spent a lot of my high school days inside the cramped garage of Joe's family. Joe was allowed 1/4 of the garage to play host to a veritable mini-man-cave for him and his friends. There we had an extremely small TV, an old couch, a beat up recliner, and dreams. We'd gather together many days to play video games and forget what time it was. One day, though, all that would come to an end after a misplaced snip by yours truly.

There were five of us there that day. I believe it was Joe, Kevin, Kevin's sister Lauryn, and occasional d'Artagnan Steven. We were playing the shooting game Perfect Dark which only allowed four people to play at a time. While we cycled through rounds of the game, one person had to sit out. During my turn to sit out, I set out to find things to do. I was in a garage, and as such, was able to find a lot of things to do. There were many random implements to stupidly amuse myself with, and the flavor of the day was a pair of gardening shears. As my friends played, I snipped. I didn't snip anything in particular, I just snipped the air. Don't ask why I was doing this, for there exists no such rhyme or reason. During the match, though, my snipping would go awry. Without realizing it, an errant controller cord moved itself into the path of my blades, and with one movement of my arms, the cord was cut.

Instantly, all the lights in the entire garage went black. The lightbulb at the ceiling; the LED lights from the Nintendo; all lights went out. Within a few seconds things came back on, but the Nintendo did not. It was fried. We tried a lot to resurrect that poor system, but it was all for naught. Joe, in shock from what had just occurred, simply uttered to himself, "Well, at least this will give me a chance to play Chrono Trigger" (on a different gaming console.) I thought to myself, though, that the Nintendo 64 shouldn't have been fried. I didn't understand, though, why cutting a controller cord caused such a power surge as to total the gaming console. As it turns out, there was an answer for that, too. Joe's Nintendo 64 plugged into a power strip. In that power strip was also plugged a TV, a Super Nintendo, a fan, and a game boy charger. That power strip was plugged into another power strip, which housed a similarly full array of devices. That power strip was plugged into a single socket which stemmed from the garage door motor, and the collection of strips dangled from the ceiling like an eerie skeleton hung in a closet. The resulting monstrosity was so fragile in its wiring that one link anywhere in the chain (in this case, a controller plugged into the Nintendo 64) was enough to cause a veritable grenade explosion inside the tubes, with the Nintendo 64 valiantly diving on top to save its electrical brethren.

The moral of this story, kids, is don't plug too many things into a single socket outlet. Otherwise, idiot kids will come over with garden shears and break everything, and you'll only have yourselves to blame.

Barry Bonds: Dreamcrusher

When I was about 10 or so years old, I was a member of Foster City Little League. I was on the Cardinals; a AAA team with my newfound friend, Trevor. The league held a contest, as they did in other years, to sell tickets to a San Francisco Giants game. The league got a portion of the ticket sales, and the Giants kicked in prizes for the highest sellers. Trevor and I pooled our collective sales and won that contest by selling 125 tickets to that game; pretty remarkable when I look back on it, but really most of the credit goes to my parents. We each won a bat autographed by Shawn Dunston and, along with the eight other highest selling kids, got to go down to the field before a Giants game to get autographs during batting practice.

I had a blast. Each of the players that took practice graciously came over and signed autographs for us and took pictures. I remember kids yelling out the name of each player that came over to talk to us, and I remember Stan Javier giving me the bat he cracked during practice (what a nice guy; I still have that bat, Stan.) I remember one other thing from that day; Barry Bonds dodging us. While we were getting the autograph of the aforementioned Shawn Dunston, Bonds snuck in behind us, into the locker room, to continue his pregame. In the video of that day that my Mom took, you could actually see Bonds sneaking in behind us, and me catching a quick glimpse of it. I look back on that now and try to think of what was going through his head; I guess he didn't want to deal with the kids that day. It was a pretty jerkish move, for sure.

That said, I think a lot of people take this sort of stuff into account when evaluating players like Barry Bonds athletic ability. Barry will be coming up for Hall of Fame Eligiblity soon enough, and he almost certainly won't get in now, and quite possibly ever. There's a fair case against him that he did steroids, and I can at least buy the argument for that. Unfortunately, though, I think the fact that Barry Bonds was not a real likable guy clouds people's judgment. The thought that Barry Bonds is not one of the greatest players of all time is patently ridiculous; he's verifiably the greatest hitter of all time, and only the second best player of all time because Babe Ruth was also an above average pitcher for half of his career.

This isn't a quality exclusive to Barry Bonds; I hear people talk about other athletes the same way. So and So is holding back the team because he doesn't have a winner's heart, etc. You might also hear them called a Clubhouse Cancer. The idea is that their jerkishness outweighs their ability to put runs on the scoreboard, or whatever the applicable stat is for said sport. I find it really hard to believe that someone could be a big enough jerk to make the greatest hitter of all time not valuable to a team.

What this boils down to, for me, is that athletes shouldn't be role models. We need to stop looking up to professional athletes as anything but excellent physical specimens when they don't care to be anything more than that. Some athletes do try to be more than just athletes, and in such cases, awesome. Many athletes, though, such as Bonds, just want to be awesome baseball players. I think that's just fine. We even have an awards show and museum dedicated to such players. The idea that people think he should be kept out of such a museum because he was a jerk seems pretty irrelevant, and this is coming from a guy who basically had his dreams crushed by Bonds.

Any professional writers that have a hall of fame vote out there? Vote Bonds. I don't like the guy from the one encounter I had, but he's too good of a baseball player to not be in the Hall of Good Baseball Players. We don't even need an asterisk or any such nonsense; everyone knows that Barry Bonds played in the steroids era, and if you think he did steroids, then you don't need an asterisk to tell you that. Heck, vote McGuire, Palmeiro, Rose, Jackson, and just about anyone else who is being barred for such things. We need to take the era for what it is. Plaques of players from 1890 don't have asterisks for dead balls, lack of black opposition, or anything else. We don't need this arbitrary steroid talk keeping these great ballplayers from earning their due respect.

Near-Death Experiences and Baseball

I have a lot of memories of A's games. I can remember walking down the aisle to check out the seats I would have all season in 2006 (I won them in a card-game tournament.) I remember seeing Justin Duchscherer throwing a no hitter into the 8th inning. I think my earliest memory though, along with my most traumatic one, came from when I was younger than ten years old.

I can't even precisely remember the year, to be honest. I was a kid, and that's all I remember. It was my parents' anniversary and they decided to go to an A's game and let me tag along. Perhaps back in the day my parents alternated anniversary activities every year and it was my Dad's turn. Perhaps also my parents rotated which kid would accompany them on said activities. Regardless, I was at an A's game with my parents. It was a beautiful weekend day during late June, and I was just a little kid enjoying the game. Like most kids, I probably had no real idea what was going on in the game, other than I wanted to see the A's win and a lot of balls to go over the fence. As I contemplated the complexities of the game, I leaned in to get some soda out of the cup. After taking a sip, I leaned back into my seat. Mere moments after I put the soda back into its cup, a baseball sent from the heavens decided I should be content with the amount of soda I'd already consumed, and flew down right into the soda cup.

We sat there perplexed. Where did the ball come from? It didn't come from the field; we obviously would have noticed that. It must have come from above. We were sitting along the first base long about 20 rows back or so. Maybe someone had dropped it from above? Man, that would be some rough beats. I mean, dropping a ball from that high onto a kid's head could seriously hurt him; we're talking at least 100 feet or so. There's no way whoever did that would show their face. We hadn't taken into account, though, that the mind who would lose such a ball would probably be just as oblivious to the consequences of such an action. Suddenly, a young child not too much older than myself came down asking for the baseball back. He didn't fool around with pleasantries; he simply asked for his ball back. The logic probably all worked out in his mind.

It did not work out in my Mom's mind, though. She lost it on that poor kid, and with good reason. She almost saw her child's head get seriously hurt by a stray baseball tossed down by a goofy kid, and now this kid had the gall to come asking for the ball back without so much as a "Whoops, my bad, bro." She let the kid know what she thought of the whole situation; how dangerous it was to let a ball fly like that, why he should apologize, and the huevos it must have taken to come down there and ask. After giving him that lecture, I believe she ended up giving him the ball back. She got her peace of mind, I got to keep my head, and that kid got his ball back. Like any good Mom, at the very least I know I can count on her to go to bat for me, in the face of overwhelmingly oblivious children hellbent to leather on allowing my head to be caved in. Thanks, Mom.

I Stink at Fighting Games

In lieu of a new post this week, I'll simply point you to minute 51 of this video, wherein I get to be on internet TV. Here's the short version:

1) This is my third fighting game tournament. There's typically one match at a time being streamed to the internet for people to watch and take potshots at. This is my first time being given such treatment.

2) I get matched up a well known pro player, who is the primary impetus for this match being streamed.

3) I'm playing the sumo wrestler, and the game is Super Street Fighter IV: Arcade Edition.

4) The announcers simply refer to me as "some white guy" because they don't know me.

5) I don't do too well.

Enjoy!

Watch live video from IPLAYWINNER on Justin.tv

A Letter to Bud Selig

Hello Mr. Selig,

My name is Andrew Patrick. I'm 25 years old and I live in Foster City, California. I've grown up my entire life rooting for, attending games, listening to, and following my beloved Oakland A's.

I write to you today to plead the case for the A's stadium. I was just three years old when the A's won the World Series in 1989, so its safe to say I have no recollection of the A's winning it all. Since then, I've witnessed the ups and downs of the Bash Brothers years, Rickey Henderson, The Big Three, Eric Chavez, Frank Thomas, and everything in between. I've loved going to games at the Oakland Network Associates/McAfee/Overstocked.com Colosseum, and some of my best memories are of that stadium. That said, the stadium is no longer fit for the dynasty which it houses. The Oakland A's are too storied of a franchise to waste away in a stadium with a closed upper deck, an outfield ravaged by a football team, and none of the modern luxuries other teams enjoy. Every year that goes by, as the team tries to repair its struggling offense, another Free Agent spurns the team because of the awful stadium situation and the waning fan base that it begets. With the lack of big free agents, the team loses more fans, and the vicious cycle continues, as it will, until the unthinkable happens.

Two years ago you set up a committee to look into the issue; the viability of Oakland, San Jose, and all surrounding areas. I applauded your resolve and determination to help sort out this very complicated issue. Since then, I have yearned for the day to hear your conclusions and to hear what the fate of my beloved A's would be. I have waited, and waited, for some sort of tangible plan to stop this cycle which prevents our team from taking the necessary steps to improve the on field product. Now is the time for action, Mr. Selig. Every day that goes by without resolution on this issue further condemns this team to mediocrity, a declining fan base, and reduced profits. The tepid waters we lay in hurts the league as a whole, as it has already caused nigh irreparable damage to the reputation of a team which, especially after the Giants' recent world championship, plays second fiddle in the area.

I implore you, sir, to please hasten your decision and devote as much of your time and resources as possible to find a solution. Every day is precious to this team and this problem, and you have the power to stop this nonsense from continuing. I eagerly await your decision, and long for the day when my team can play in a stadium which suits their legacy.

Respectfully yours,

Andrew Patrick

New Satisfaction

God's done a lot for me over the years; understatement of infinity. One of the more tangible things I've noticed recently is how much happier I am when things go poorly at the end of the day. Just the other day, for instance, circumstances went awry. I was sent home from work early without pay because there was nothing to do, my TV broke, and I was given a jury summons. That said, I can't say I was cursing the world or panicking, as I would have done in years past. To be honest, I felt a little bit of bad luck, but I just sort of shrugged and went on with my day each time. The question is: Is this because God's plan has given me different standards for happiness, or because my emotions have dwindled in general since my depression in High School?

If you're an avid reader, you know about my depression in High School. For that time period, and a few years following it, bad times would get me real down. Whenever something went abnormally awful, I'd beat myself up inside. I'd focus on the things I was trying and failing at, and would magnify them to the point that I'd consider myself the nut low. I'd surround myself with depressing music, push the world out, and then victimize myself to the point that nothing seemed to be my fault. This would happen when I got bad grades, if I didn't get invited to a party (even those I didn't want to go to,) etc.

These days, though, that rarely happens. Even on days when something beats me to the point of self-indulgent pity, it only lasts the night. I always wake up infinitely refreshed and satisfied in God's plan. I remember that, as a Christian, I don't have to prove myself to anyone. My identity is not my own. When God made me, he made me the way I am for a reason. He purposefully put every hair on my head, and gave me the gifts and faults I have so that I could serve a very unique purpose in his Kingdom. When Jesus died for me, he went on that cross to show the world that he's my identity now. He knew I'd screw up, but he wanted me to lean on him and let the world decide my worth by what he's done.

I don't think that a lessened sense of self-pity is caused by an overall numbness in my spirit. Rather, I believe my emotions have been heightened by God's love, and furthermore they've been put on a different scale, so that I can't punish myself too much for my own faults. When Satan tempts me into thinking that I've screwed up God's plan, God's always right there to correct that lie. I'm not quite sure what I'd do without God; I'd probably be living a much more, fitting a theme here, pitiful life. Thank goodness God is here.

My Siblings' Music

Growing up as the youngest kid of four has its ups and downs. The downs are that you're constantly thought of as the baby, you're expected to remember your siblings' friends whom you haven't seen since you were four years old, and you always have to sit in the middle on long road trips. The ups are that you get to hang out with, and ask advice from, a lot of people. You also get the trickle down benefits: clothes, toys, etc. One of the greatest gifts my siblings have given me is my taste in music.

I had to share a room with my brother for many years, was babysat by my oldest sister for just as many, and drove to/from school with my other sister nearly my whole young adult life. Having these people above me meant one thing above all else; I had to acquiesce to their taste in music. Whenever I was in their car, room, cheerleading practice, birthday party, or whatever, I had to listen to whatever music they wanted to listen to. This resulted in me growing to like a pretty eclectic selection.

I could tell you about the pool party where Sarah's friends taught me the hand signs for 2 Legit 2 Quit. Or I could tell you about the time that I asked my brother, totally ignorantly, what his ONYX tape "BACDAFUCUP" meant (he wouldn't tell me, and I was angry.) I could tell you of the many times I pleaded with Stephanie to put on something, anything, other than another Steven Malkmus or Pavement album. The fact of the matter is though that these weird moments helped shape my tastes as an adult. I remember a friend of mine I was driving with once was amazed at how I seemed to know the words to every song that came on the radio, and I explained to her that this is what happens when you are forced to listen to everything that is on the radio; you grow to like most of it.

While I can't say I've gone out and bought any of the albums my siblings loved, I will say that there are certain things I've made my own. Since Stephanie was around, I was able to steal her copy of The Bends by Radiohead and never get it back, and it still is an album I listen to fairly often. If Doug wasn't around, I never would have become interested in Hip Hop, and would have never been turned on to some of my favorite acts, like The Roots. Arguably the greatest contribution though came from Sarah; because of her girlish love for George Michael, I was introduced to Faith, which I absolutely kill with at Karaoke Night. Thanks guys.

Groundings and Gauntlets

I wasn't the best student for most of High School. I skated on ability for a good chunk of my time there, and that meant I didn't do well. The first three years I was there I would not do well the 1st semester, and then in the first grading period of the second semester, my progress report would be awful. My parents would ground me then until my grades came up. My Freshman year of High School, when this occurred, I had already pre-ordered a game called Gauntlet: Dark Legacy. After it arrived, I was forced to let it sit on my cabinet, taunting me, until the day my grades were better. It sat there for about a month, then one weekend, I proved to my parents that my grades were getting better. I brought in test scores from a number of classes to show them how well I had been doing, and as a reward, they suspended the grounding for a weekend. I had a mission to beat that game within the confines of the weekend.

Gauntlet: Dark Legacy was a revamped version of the old Gauntlet games from the 80s. You have a man, and you're in a dungeon, and your goal is to get to the end without dying. Along the way, monsters spew forth endlessly out of monster generators, and the only way to stop them is to destroy the generators. You accomplish this by hitting it with your sword, the same sword you use to hit the monsters. Along the way you can pick up food to increase your life, which, in the old games, was constantly decreasing even when you weren't being attacked. This served to keep the quarters flowing in the arcade machines, and frustrate home users. The game is famous for its voiceovers which informed the user of what was occurring, such as the famous "Wizard needs food badly."

So I called my buddy Kevin and told him of the ceasefire, and we plopped our butts down for some marathon gaming. Joe should have been included, but he was away for the weekend, and this was a one time deal I couldn't afford to blow. For my character I chose the Knight, and the color Blue. Kevin chose the Green Jester. We played that game for at least 12 hours each day. We played it when it was fun, and when it wasn't fun.

You see, there comes a time with every hobby when it just becomes not fun anymore. We knew that our time with the game was limited, so we knew we had to beat it. In order to beat it, we had to do some pretty tedious things; finishing a level multiple times in order to get every collectible, namely. I have distinct memories of us getting angry at each other for not fulfilling our roles adequately. By the time we finished it, we wanted nothing to with it. That game, in all of its simplistic glory, had served its purpose.

The victim in all of this was Joe. When he got back, he was ready to play the game, as he too had been patiently waiting his turn. Unfortunately, though, we had nothing to offer. Sitting down and playing that game only brought out disgust from Kevin and me. We would play for 15 minutes, and after that, we were done. The memories of grinding away at the game until we found its juicy, unfulfilling core, flooded us. We were done, and Joe to this day is angry at us.

7th Saga: Or the Day I Bested my Dad

Growing up, the man crew in my house went through Role Playing Games pretty quickly. Between the three of us we covered a pretty wide swath of random medieval themed adventures of random names. We played Dungeon Magic, Sword of Vermilion, Landstalker; you name it. One of the games that gave me a great story, though, was 7th Saga.

Yeah, you heard that right: shout outs to 7th Saga! 7th Saga was a game on the Super Nintendo where you chose between one of seven heroes on a quest with a large bounty. Along the way, you could team up with the other characters you didn't choose, and even had to fight them along the way. Your options included a Knight, a Cleric, a Wizard, a Robot, a Demon, a Dwarf, and an Alien. It was unique in that it was a linear progression game but your character choice dramatically changed the storyline along the way. For a Super Nintendo RPG, it was pretty neat. When we got it (from who knows where; Flea Market is my guess) my Dad and I were playing the game at the same pace. He was playing as Kamil, the Human Knight. A solid choice; Kamil could heal a little bit, attack a little bit, defend a little bit, and all around was the most well balanced of the seven characters. A very well educated pick. I, on the other hand, was nine years old, and so I chose the mighty robot TETSUJIN. I'm not capitalizing his name for emphasis; his name was always capitalized in the game for whatever reason, while other text was not. Tetsujin was a tank that didn't care for chat. He wanted power, and he wanted you out of his way; obviously I found him to be the coolest.

One day, my Dad came to me with a problem. He had finished a certain dungeon three times now, and every time he finished and came to the next town, the evil alien Wilme was waiting to kill him. In order to get into the Inn and thus rest/save the game, Dad had to beat Wilme. Every time he did, though, Wilme would pound his brains in. Dad couldn't figure it out. I made a bold claim at that point; I would defeat the evil Wilme. My dad scoffed. There's no way I could beat Wilme--I was just a kid. In times when Dad couldn't do things, the only solution was to work harder and level up more; not just to keep banging one's head against the wall and expect different results. A rational line of thinking, but he forgot who he was dealing with. My Dad went so far as to offer up a whole dollar in the incredibly ridiculous event that I actually defeated Wilme.

So I took him up on it. My dad finished the dungeon as he had done so many times in the past, and Wilme waylaid my path. Wilme certainly was formidable. He came with a quick, steady onslaught of attacks. Where my Dad though, would pause his attack and try to heal his wounds, I continued pressing the A button on the Attack option. I knew that Wilme's offense would always outpace my defense, as it had always done with my Dad, so I just figured I'd give stupidly constant offense a shot. I think you can guess what happened next:

Wilme was defeated, and Dad sat there in shock. I subtly reminded him of the bounty he had placed upon Wilme's head, and he, mouth agape, sauntered into his room to procure my Washington. That was the first time I had proved myself better than my Dad in anything, and say what you want, I thought it was a big step in my development, right along with the time I beat Metal Man after my brother had failed multiple times in a row. Thanks again Wilme, you stupid, stupid Alien.

Games that Influenced Me: Street Fighter II

The Super Nintendo system was the first big purchase of my life. I saved up my non-existent allowance for months; I didn't ask for anything. Once my parents realized that I was saving up for something, they started keeping track of how long I had saved for. I think I saved my money for about six months in order to buy a Super Nintendo (give or take a few months; I honestly had no idea how much anything costed back then.) Once I did make my purchase, my brother, Doug, made his own purchase. One of the first games we ever owned for the new system was the breakthrough game that legitimized the "Fighting Game" genre: Street Fighter II.


Street Fighter II has very little to do with fighting on the streets. While there are streets, and there is fighting, the people that do said fighting are rather legendary. They throw fireballs out of their hands, they jump 20 feet into the air during suplexes, they teleport around the boundaries, and their limbs stretch to three body lenghts at will. This is obviously all ignored, or even embraced, by the youngsters who are playing the game, because to us real fighting was boring. Heck, I did that from time to time with my brother or other kids, and it just ended with me getting grounded.

I do remember the day that my brother brought the game home. Unbeknownst to me, the game was rather familar to him. He had already played for many an hour at friends houses, or more likely, The Tilt. The Tilt was a gigantic arcade housed inside the old Fashion Island Mall. I wasn't allowed to go to The Tilt when I was young; Mom said that gangs hung out there. Admittedly, all arcades house a certain amount of seedy activities due to how dark and impersonal they are, so she was probably right to some extent. Regardless, the day my brother bought the game, he immediately set it to its hardest difficulty. The difficulty meter in the game would make the computerized opponents more intelligent depending on how high you set it; sort of like how in chess you can set it to make really stupid moves, or you can set it to be a grand master a la Bobby Fisher. Doug blasted that baby up to Level 7 Hard and beat it without flinching, and then just left to go to his baseball game.

I was floored. It took me about a month just to beat it at level 5; to see Doug beat it right after buying the game at its hardest difficulty was art in action. I remember going to his baseball game later (I was too young to stay at home by myself) and bragging to the other kids that my brother had beaten the game on Level 7 Hard. Doug was the epitome of cool in my mind; the thing I wanted to do, he was "da best" at. My brother is seven years older than me. We shared a room together until my sister went to college, which was up until I entered Jr. High basically. A lot of my early wisdom was shaped around what my brother told me. I learned from him that if I failed at something while another person was talking that it wasn't my fault, but rather that "You broke my concentration." I also remember that I wasn't allowed to pronounce the name of the ONYX tape he owned, "BACDAFUCUP" even though it wasn't a word (Doug just told me not to say it; even though I had no idea what it meant.)

That day though, the day he beat the game at its most difficult, Doug was the best. He could've done anything in my mind. He could've leapt off the Eiffel Tower and lived and I wouldn't have been surprised. Doug had beaten Street Fighter II on Level 7 Hard; everything else paled in comparison. I wonder if this image will be stuck in my mind of what Doug means to me: "Brother, Friend, Destroyer of Level 7 Hard." That needs to be on a plaque in his room one day.

My World Ended with my Presidents' Tape

I was exposed to a pretty liberal music selection growing up. My parents listened to classic rock mostly and 60's style Rhythm and Blues; my oldest sister listened to Pop; my brother listened to rap and hip hop; my other sister listened to indie rock. As such, I listened to pretty much anything that was catchy. I believe I bought my first album when I was four years old. It was "Full Moon Fever" by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. It was a great album. My second album, like many kids my age, was Weird Al Yankovic's "Bad Hair Day." It was a great album. My third album, and the one that struck the best chord with me, was The Presidents of the United States of America's "II."

I loved this album. To this day I could recite every word of it and karaoke your brains out. It contained the hit singles "Volcano" and "Mach 5" as well as personal favorites "Toob Amplifier" and "Twig." I think a lot of people have an album like this; maybe it was "Hit me Baby One More Time," or "Waterfalls," or "I Just Called to Say I Love You." The defining trait of this was that this was the moment you knew you loved music, and this was the album that defined you. Some kids are blessed enough to have this album come to them when they're 3 or 4 years old; those kids probably grew up to be musicians, especially if it was a Hendrix or Al Green album. This is the album you listened to endlessly until your parents caved and bought you a pair of headphones, at which point you simply sat next to the stereo listening until your ears bled. And as such did my ears bleed.

I loved it. I listened to it off this old stereo my Grandpa had given me from the stone age, but somehow still had stereo sound and a bass system that could blow the cat down off the second story balcony (true story: it once did.) I shared a room with my brother at the time, so what time I had that he didn't want the stereo to himself I treasured. I'd sit there and listen, staring off into space wondering how such angelic chords could be discovered by mortals. I had the album on tape, so after each play, I'd have to flip the tape over in order to listen to the rest of it. I remember years later I found a copy of the album, but I couldn't name off which songs I liked, because I never learned the names of the songs. I didn't have iTunes to tell me what song I was listening to; I just knew track 5 was the bomb. One fateful day, though tragedy struck.

I was listening to the album for the 718293313rd time, when all of a sudden, the pace picked up. "I will survive, in my machfive, INMYMACHFIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIVE" POOF. Mid chorus, the tape had exploded. I guess the wear and tear the old stereo had caused on the flimsy tape film had finally become too much, and I slammed down the stop/eject button a moment too late. All I found was a garbled mess of film that, even when rewound back in, wouldn't play. I was heartbroken; crestfallen. I remember going to school the next day as one sad panda. I confided in my friend, Daniel Ferrera, that my tape had been eaten and barfed back up to me in a state befitting the verb. Daniel, though, was a good friend. He lived literally right next to school, so he sprinted home, obtained his copy of The Presidents' self titled album, and handed it to me with no hesitation. He told me he wanted me to stop being sad, and that this would help. I told him I appreciated the gesture, but nothing could console the sadness that remained in the black void where my heart once sat. Nothing.

Except this. I listened to it when I got home, got hooked, and was totally fine the next day. This just goes to show you folks; sometimes when kids are depressed, their just inconvenienced. Shout outs to Daniel for knowing exactly what I needed, and shout outs to POTUSA for giving me the inspiration to go on with life.