Life As I Play It

Wrestling Inner Demons

2008-12-19T18:21:00.000-08:00

I should preface this by saying I don't know squat about the opposite sex. My gift is reading people.

I recently started another battle with the face in the mirror, grappling with a massive inferiority complex that has caused me to harm a lot of people in its wake. I don't like hurting people (usually), and I despise being afraid. So this journey to overcome the fear of not being good enough is the next step in the journey of self-reconciliation.

I can look at you and tell you that I know I'm a good fighter. I know this because I've had years of getting my ass whooped to get tough, because I've devoted entire days to getting stronger, faster, more fluent in my technique; I know this because what I fear most is someone standing over me, with that damn look as though they are better than me. No one is better than me. Either way, getting good took years of practice.

I suck when it comes to girls. Believe it. I have friends who can attest to it. I suck because I am trying to overcome the mentality that I don't deserve to be with anyone. Hell, I didn't even start seriously dating until about seven years ago. Before that, I was in a tumultous relationship with the mother of my children, then one woman who may or may not have cheated on me...and then one really serious relationship past that in which I professionally screwed up.

What I do is when I become interested and they (God forbid) become interested in me, I take the most insignificant, minuscule little faults in that person and turn them into atomic disasters, and then use that as an excuse to push them away. Oh, and I'm great at pushing girls--people in general, but especially girls--away. I have a list of people who'll readily testify to that.

There is one thing worse than being rejected by ninety percent of the people in your life, and it's not learning that you don't need anyone to get by. It's when you learn in spite of all that, you don't want to be alone.

There's really not a lot to me, and I think that's my biggest hang-up. I make a single-digit hourly salary, I have more debt than punches thrown in my entire life, and I have two children. That's before you get to know me. Some of the guys who have pursued women I've been interested in have worked as freaking Directors of Operations for freaking hotel chains. Great, I think, maybe he can give me a job.

What I always have a hard time seeing is that the girl chose me. I never pay attention to that; I always ask why.

This isn't always the case; sometimes, I was just with the wrong girl. No names.

Now, here's the thing.

There's a pretty good chance my relationship status will change after this weekend--once again.

I've done things differently; I've confronted things that worried me head on, I've been straight with her about the issues in my life, and I haven't done that push-away thing I could add to my resume. She's still here. I won't use names, I won't blog anything her and me might go through because it's between her and me.

I may not be the be the brightest penny in the fountain, but I learn from my mistakes. She says I'm what she wants. I'm not going to question it. I'm just going to go with it. Hopefully I'll win this battle too.

It's Coming...

2008-12-13T23:40:00.000-08:00

I was gonna twitter this, but it's too long. Figured I'd make it a diary entry.
The time where I return to Michigan to answer for previous offenses is not far off. None of these are serious; I should be back home inside of six weeks.
Although I could make arrangements to pay fines and waive jail time, one county in particular will not let me do this. I have to turn myself in. I will inevitably sit in jail for no more than ninety-three days. I don't think it'll be that long; when I left the area, they were sending people to other counties because the jails were full. Jeffrey Dahmer I am not; just a wise ass with authority issues and a penchant for shooting off at the mouth.

Heh. The follies of youth, right?
I'm trying to figure out when I'll do all this. Invariably I'll be moving within the next six months and I've gotten it figured that I'll do this while I'm between apartments. Either I'll store my stuff and find a place when I get home, or post two months rent at a new place and head off. The first option sounds better.

Doing this brings an official end to the Busterwolf era; I have no wants or warrants where I am. I've stayed straight for a year. I do this, I regain the ability to drive. I'm in a way better position to take care of my kids. There are other factors I can't go into just yet, but let's just say they involve people I care about.

The point is, I'm starting to feel it at at my back; getting on the bus, taking that long ride back to Michigan, walking into the police station, giving them my name and stating that they have a warrant for my arrest.

Then I'm at their mercy.
I swear this will be the last time I am at anyone's mercy.
When it's done, I can go home freely.
First, I need to go to jail. January and February of next year are going to be hard months.

But for now, I need to go to bed.

Busterwolf's Day Off

2008-12-12T19:26:00.000-08:00

Depending on our first encounter, you may think I'm brash, cocky, arrogant, or quiet, awkward, humble, maybe even shy. I've also heard mysterious a couple of times. Sometimes all of the above, sometimes all at once.

With the imminent completion of my client's novel looming, I chose to take an impromptu day off and walk the city. I had a few things to do but truthfully, I just wanted to get out of the house. So, dressed, up, running, and Powered By Zune, I left the house.

My first trip is to the local fax shop which is about a mile and a half away from me. I cover the distance in about fifteen minutes and am pleased with my physical conditioning. I feel like I could run it. They're tearing up the street at the nearby corner where Madison meets Whitton, a major intersection, and the workers are uncharacteristically polite. Maybe it's the season.

I have to fax my final check amount and date of employment to the local office so I can get food stamps next month. The guy running the shop is a local, and most locals over fifty automatically don't like people of color, so equally automatically I'm ready to get in and get out. Turns out I was wrong; he was cordially pleasant, he even faxed my document for free since it was in town. I felt stupid. Sad thing is, I have a fax machine as a part of my copier; I just have no idea how to set it up.
I make a crack at the roof worker as I head into the next door dollar store and pick up a few snickers fun packs. I had no idea Spider-Man was black.

Now here's the thing. Libraries to me are what bars are to most people; I go in, I get soaked, in knowledge or fiction rather than booze, and I go home feeling better than when I entered. I plan to go into the library and lounge around long enough for Billy to get home. Doesn't happen that way and I end up checking out nine books, all of which I have to carry home on my back. REALLY need to get a car.

My first highlight is when I make camp near a fifteen-year-old entrant in the Britney Spears lookalike contest. She's typing madly away on a netbook, and I've never seen one of these things in action before...I've heard a lot of mixed opinions, but I'm not as strict on my technology requirements as others are.

I swear, too, I was checking out the computer, not Britney. Really.
Anyway, she finally catches me ogling her netbook and plays it off, because she thought I was checking HER out. Which I wasn't. But anyway, making small talk, (I'm getting better at that) I tell her I've never seen one of those before, I was just curious as to how they worked. She slides it in my direction and tells me to give it a go.
Yeah, maybe in three years or so.
I tell her thanks anyway, I learned what I needed to know. She asks me, with a grin, how I'm supposed to make an informed opinion if I don't experience the object of my curiousity. Wow. That's a quote. High schoolers think they're so smart.
I chuckle. Thanks anyway, I say.
Well, can you tell me what you learned? She asks.
I smile, and tell her.
"It works."

I check my books out and exit. I wave goodbye to her on my way out the door.
Next stop is Billy's house. Nothing big there, save I raided a bag of his snack food and watched people raise a black bear from a cub. Why do people raise black bears? They're black bears. Eventually they want to hunt you. In most cases, anyway. This is just my paranoia talking. Tammey, my eternal cheerleader, is kind enough to bring me some metformin. Time to go home.

It wouldn't be a full day off if I didn't get to head out at night, though. At my old office, they put a block on the internet. Weird, because I never once looked at porn sites there. But yeah, sure, why not, I need to get the bigger coffee pot (which makes a much better cup, I have to say).
Hello to Tammey again. I can't get into the computer, but I'd like to see some old friends while I'm here.
I pass a few tenants who wanted to inflict grevious injury on me at one point. A couple of them had their chance. They see me coming and walk in the other direction. I smile.
I shoot the breeze with a guy who shares my interest in muscle cars, and then visit someone who wanted more than what I could give them at the time. I told her I was sorry for handling things the way I did. She asked me if there was a way to get in touch with me, and truthfully, if you don't have the internet, there isn't. I don't think I could've given up my contact info anyway. I'm not off the market, but I'm not in the game, either.

"How do I get in touch with you, then?" She asks.
Again, I smile. "You don't. I'll find you."

So there you have it. Nothing big, nothing dramatic, nothing catastrophic. Just a day off, plain and simple.
I often feel in the center of a maelstrom that I helped create, where I'm just barely in control of my life. Now that I spend roughly eight hours a day staring into a monitor trying to make sense of my (and other people's) imagination, it was good to just get out and do nothing for a change.

Happy holidays. Thanks for reading.

Just Random Stuff

2008-12-08T17:33:00.000-08:00

Floppy disks for coasters. I did it because I didn't want to waste money. And it turns out that Diet Code Red is almost as good as the real thing. I have to remind myself that I'm on a budget, and I can't run through them too quickly. It'll be a minute before I can go shopping again.

I slept under a bridge once in NYC and I wasn't as scared as I am right now...but I'm starting to get past it. I don't hate anything more than being afraid, and I don't have time for it.
I would be in extreme dire straits and only then, at the height (depth?) of desperation, I'd ask my parents for help. It was a coin toss and always came with a lecture as to how I wasn't living right, or as they approved. Small price to pay if it meant surviving a bit longer.

I'm not really in dire straits now, I'm just freaked out that I'm not good enough to really cut it as a writer. I try to draw on the same confidence that made me a good fighter (funny how they rhyme) when it comes to writing, and it just isn't there. I have more to lose here. What would it mean if I wasn't good enough? It means I would settle on some mundane career for thirty or forty years just to survive and to me, that is worse than dying.

I do not settle. Call it pride, call it ego, call it whatever you want, but I do not settle.
Truthfully, I think I'll make it as a writer. It might take time, but I'm willing to put that in, even if it's all of my time or what I can squeeze in after work. I'm a very patient person.

A fear I have been forced to confront lately, and I owe some thanks to Billy behind this one, is that I am not good enough to be a husband. I don't know if this is true or not. I can only be myself, and hope that's enough for someone. I know in my heart I'm a good person. I'm not lazy and I'll take a bullet for the people I love.

Whoever I enter a serious relationship with will have to accept that my life is on the mend; my credit is under repair, I don't have a lot to my name, I'm not educated, and not only do I not have a driver's license, it'll be a minute before I can get once, since I have so much to answer too in Michigan. I also have two kids that come before anything else.

I don't need any financial help from anyone I get involved with--something Sam never got. No matter what I'm doing, I can pay my own bills and even save money without breaking law or jaw. I just would like someone to be there.

I think all this stems from the fact that I can look directly ahead of me and see everything I've ever wanted and talked about--and I'm terrified to reach out and grab it.

I guess it's my move.

The Cloud

2008-12-07T10:36:00.000-08:00

As someone who lives on the outskirts of the technology sphere, I don't understand the big deal about working in the cloud. In fact, I think it's dangerous that things are moving towards this trend, something I liken to a "skynet" mentality.

For those who may not be aware, the term 'working in the cloud' loosely leaving the desktop behind and placing the majority, if not all, of the workload on the internet--the 'cloud'.

This hails from getting into the internet around the mid-nineties when "this page cannot be displayed" still dominated roughly a quarter of everyone's surfing experience. Granted, things must be doing better; I can't remember the last time I saw a broken page or 404 error that wasn't quickly rectified. We're living in a better internet era than what we had ten years ago, but it's still prone to errors. That's right, yahoo, I'm looking at you.

Here's what scares me.
Imagine someone under the descending blade of a deadline goes to retrieve their 2MB file from Google Docs for some last minute editing--and the 404 error comes up.
Sometimes it only takes a refresh to straighten things out--but that's not the case here. Eventually the user is redirected to a smarmy page that explains its all Google's fault, not yours and of course they're working to fix the problem as soon as possible.

This might not seem so frightening to some of the more financial secure of you out there. If you use a system like this to pay even some of your bills, it can be horrifying.

Then again, maybe I'm just a control freak.
Either way, if my programs are going to fail, I'd rather they failed because of something I did, rather than something completely outside of my control. This is why I like my documents and my important data on my hard drive, or my external hard drive, or in my possession at all times.

I think the cloud mentality is too dangerous because it essentially places control of important information in other error-prone human being who may be miles smarter than the rest of us, but they make mistakes just like the rest of us, too.

Something to keep in mind the next time you think Google Docs is a blessing, since they don't charge you...;)

Beast Within

2008-12-04T21:07:00.000-08:00

I feel so disconnected lately...November, what a month, it only ended five days ago, and it feels like eons. I feel like I've been living in December forever, in an eternity of Christmas carols and too-bright displays of a holiday I just don't want to know right now.

And at the same time...I feel as though I have no right to complain. I feel like I've been freed, after twenty-five years of hard labor, and now that I am back out in the sun, I don't know what to do. Here I am, doing day by day what I have spent my whole life working towards...and I still have one hand at the edge of the pool.

I've had this energy inside me as long as I could remember. It's a rising feeling that feels like an ever-brightening bulb beginning at the pit of my stomach and filling my whole being, pressing against my skin from the inside and threatening to burst its way out, free of mortality.
It was borne from rage, no doubt, years of what my father and I put each other through and kids in school who kept finding ways to be crueler...although to be honest, there were plenty of times I brought it on myself. I would talk shit just to get them to come after me, sometimes. I couldn't tell you why. I just did it.

I grew up--that tends to happen, and this energy stayed with me. I first thought it was evil, and I was okay with it. I learned to control how bright the bulb got. I could see the punch coming from two towns over and in that primal moment when I caught the wrist, and forced my enemy to the ground by his shoulder, I was on top of the world. In the madness of destruction that is a fight, I was the wolf king of the jungle.

But it was evil. It had to be repressed, purged.
So I quit fighting. I tried to suppress it, keep it down, and get it out of my system altogether. I tried to literally stop being angry--a fool's errand. I tried to settle into this uncomfortable truce with this beast I had inside me...I was stupid enough to believe that it would only come when I summoned it. Even if I had no idea what it was.

I'm telling you I believed it was evil until two days ago.

I should've been at the pit of depression--hell, I probably still am--I lost my job and my fiance (whom I sacrificed aforementioned job for) inside of two weeks.
But I finished NaNoWriMo.
I may have been *technically* out of work, but I'll clear enough on my contract to cover rent, food, and bills for the month. How unbelievable is that? I hope I never get past the shock.
My job would take me back eventually and back me up anywhere I wanted to go, making the whole world my playground again.
I love my children, and I'm talking to them again.
I lost Sam. I loved Sam. I will love others, and I might lose them too. I'll keep loving and losing until I find The One.

So there it is.
Couple of days ago, I'm at my first writer's meeting at the local library and here I am, swiping ideas back and forth with people who have the same type of creative buzz I do. It was the first time in life I'd ever done this. I was ready to come out of my skin and I don't think they knew what to make of me, but they seem to have accepted me all the same.

On my way out of the library...there it is again. The light bulb didn't gradually appear like normal; this time it was at its brightest, instantaneously bursting and filling me up to the point that I thought I might leave the ground. It was the first time I ever felt it...and I was not angry.
Not now. I told myself. There's no reason for it. Not now. Not now!

It was so intense that it became a physical pain, threatening to fold my stomach in half. I let loose a grunt and fell to one knee, clutching my stomach it hurt so badly. I figured it was stress; everything was finally getting the better of me. Why now?

Then I heard it, as much as I felt it; the omnipotent voice in my head that has never steered me wrong.
Let go.
At first I didn't know what to think, I hadn't heard it before, but as sure as night is above me now, I heard it again.
Let go!!
I looked up, ahead of me, down the street. It was vacant as far as I could see it. My heart was a percussive drum resonating throughout my ears and the rest of my body. The light receded within me to a dim fuse, my legs became dynamite.
One foot in front of the other, feeding from the wolf within, I took off. Racing down the street at top speed, fast enough to make Sonic wonder what the hell just passed him, I had a conversation in my head;
What about the bum knee?
There is no bum knee.
There is no pain.
There is no excuse.
There is no reason why you cannot.

I couldn't have stopped if I wanted too--and I didn't. Even as the cold air raked its way out of my lungs and my legs became rubbery, I had ceased to be any kind of human being for a scant few moments and transcended, allowing the wolf to assume control, finally, without any complaints from the logical side. I felt like I was doing fifty. I covered five blocks in less minutes than that.
When I got to my house, I became human again--and nearly passed out, wondering what the hell I was thinking.

I think science calls what I feel every so often a state of euphoria. I don't need a technical term. It just felt great, and for the first time, as I get up and go to bed when I want, talk to who I want, eat what I want, do what I want, and still get my responsibilities done...this is what I spent my life dreaming about, don't you dare get scared now.

I felt like writing this...I'm going to watch Hancock and hit the sack. I have a lot to do tomorrow.

Nanowrimo and Beyond

2008-12-01T20:42:00.000-08:00

November 2008 was a life changing month. I turned thirty-two. I re-established contact with my kids and started a plan to get custody of them on at least a part-time basis. The sudden inclusion of my kids changes everything when it comes to my priorities.
Second only to talking to my children, I entered a 'competition' in which you had to write 50,000 words in thirty days, with no planning ahead or any other shortcut-taking.
Nanowrimo (National Novel Writing Month) is something you enter to win. It's where you find out who you are.
At first, I didn't think it was that big a deal, to write 50,000 words in thirty days, but then again, I've never placed any sort of cap on my writing; I would write until the story was done, and I would write whenever, and where-ever, the mood struck me. Very literally, literary abandon.

When the reality of the monstrous word count set in, and it felt like emptying the ocean with a tablespoon, I was going to bow out. Then something funny happened, on twitter of all places; one of my followers asked me; "Oh, I thought you were a writer. Tell me about Modern Magic!"

It was a genuine question. I had mentioned it plenty of times on twitter and lived with it more than half of my life. Yet, when I went to answer, I stumbled. All I could say was that it was my 'life's dream', a place where writers could work and develop their ideas freely...but I couldn't think of anything concise.
What a profound moment. How could I not answer a very simple question about a dream I had been living with for more than twenty years?
Then it hit me.
I could no longer speak passionately about Modern Magic because I could no longer see things clearly.

I focused on the book. I would sit and write for hours, and when you put aside all the planning, drama, and bullshit...when you just let the inspiration flow freely, you may find that you are at your best. Writer's block, in my case, often comes in the form of being unable to think of something specific, which puts the story on hold for weeks, sometimes. What I learned to do was create a first draft and use placeholders to keep the story going.

I lost my job with Securitas (due to something unrelated) but I finished the competition. They may not mean much to someone who doesn't understand the daunting task of writing fifty thousand words in one month, but saving those gif files, and printing that certificate...that meant everything to me. After all this time, I finally understood why God put me on this planet.

I also understand the exhilarating, terrifying world of freelance living. I will make enough money from my client's novel to ensure that I do not have to go back to outside work this month. I wonder if God removed Securitas as an obstacle so I could at last come into my own. She continually praises my work and promises she has more on the way. I have won and lost enough contracts to get at least a feeling as to what the life promises. The question is; can I sustain myself, and two boys on it?

Yeah, I think I can...
I've begun to look up do-it-yourself publishers for my own novel which has "an interesting premise" I'm told. I'm trying to work my way past the fear of a slew of rejection letters--which I know inevitably are coming. Almost no one makes it big on their first book.

Then there's my tumultuous relationship with Samantha, which needs a final resolution. This is all I can say on that right now...

I'm a writer. This is what I do. Everything else will fall into place. God is with me and that's all that matters. My name is Avery K. Tingle, and I'm Here To Bust This Groove. ;)

Thanks for reading! Hope everyone has a happy and safe holiday!

Can Video Games Change The World?

2008-11-26T10:20:00.000-08:00

I think it was on twitter, but once I likened a Hideo Kojima title to watching someone shoot a basket. You watch with bated breath as the ball circles the rim for what feels like an eternity. Trying to master interactive cinema, the art of giving players freedom in a story that by nature has restrictions, is no easy task. He's come the closest. Cutscenes can be a little long-winded (I haven't played MGS4 yet) but as of MGS3, little tidbits like allowing to you to see the scene from Snake's POV show the progress he's making.

Last night, I made a horrible mistake.
Okay, wait, let me slow down a bit. I managed to make my word quota for nanowrimo and I was in a good mood. So I come home from dinner with the fiance and her mother (which went surprisingly well) and pop in MGS3, hoping to make some headway before hitting the sack. I plan to do this around eleven PM. After (finally) defeating The End (if you've played the game, then you know how long this can take) I kinda lost track of time and before I know it, it's three in the morning.

I should have gone straight to bed after popping the geriatric End right in his peasy-ass head. But no.....
One instance in the game, I was warned about. Funny, no matter how hard someone tries to prepare you for something, it's never quite enough when you face it.
Enter The Sorrow, the most chilling experience I've played in a game.
In between life and death, you wade, waist-deep, through an uncomfortably narrow swamp littered with gutted fish. Deliberately slow, macabre music plays as you painstakingly make your way through this swamp, unable to run, unable to dive, unable to do anything to increase your rate of speed.
The environment is a cold, drab, off-olive green that can only be described as dead. The Sorrow taunts you, hovering above and ahead of you, telling you how you will suffer for all those you have killed. Weird, those nut shots were funny at the time...
I fire a shot at him. It goes right through him. "You've got it all wrong," he hisses...
And then it happens.
Out of the distance, in eerie, jagged patterns, reflecting the injuries you inflicted, the ghosts of the slain come at you. Some more slowly than others; I'm wondering if Kojima-san wanted their walking speed to reflect their anger. Some of these corpses are horrid; still spurting blood from the arterial vein I slashed open when I had them at my feet. They touch Snake and the damage, at first, seems minimal. When The Sorrow claps his hands at you, he releases this tentacled energy that winds its way towards you. It touches, and for just a second, you see a shot of someone you (Snake) murdered, sometimes at the moment of their death. This seen brought my mind back to Stir of Echoes and each time I heard that damn scream, I jumped.

Eventually I made it through, but then I went to bed. Can you guess what I dreamt about?

I've played a lot of great games in my life, but Metal Gear is about as profound as I've ever seen. Kojima-san is a genius in the way he conveys his message because its forceful, and almost impossible to ignore, and at the same time, he's not waving his finger. He presents you with fiction based on proven fact and allows you to come to your own conclusion.
But beneath it all, Kojima-san is calling for change. He hates war, he hates how it is fought, why it is fought and what it costs. And while he's not preachy, I walk away from these games and I understand what he's trying to say. We're all products of our own choices.

But it begs the question; can video games change the world? Because I sincerely believe that to be Kojima-san's chief aim. The franchise has been around since the eighties, it is one of the most hailed franchises in the world, but when the power goes off, it's not spoken of widely outside of those in the know. I don't think the Joint Chiefs in the world pause and say "Well, wait a sec. My son was playing this game where there was this bipedal monster capable of launching a nuclear weapon from anywhere in the world. If this one guy--I think his name was Reptile or Amphibious or something--hadn't stopped it, the world would've gone up in flames."

No, I doubt that happens. I find it easier to believe that they sit around and try to beat our enemies to the punch.

Either way, I would perfect my Japanese just to speak with this man. Kojima-san has chosen video games to tell his story but he's reaching for something much higher. Now that the series has come to a close, I guess history will be the judge. But I tip my hat to the man for at least trying for something other than the bottom line.

Um, I can't go back to that game right now. It's not that I'm scared, but,well, I have things to do. Important things.
And as soon as I think of them, I'll let you know.

Please.

2008-11-24T14:26:00.000-08:00

It's not often I say this...but I need help.
This has been one of the lowest points of my life, although not as low as when someone shot at me and I had nowhere to go. Things can always get worse, and I acknowledge that.

These past two weeks, I lost my job, I lost a contract, my fiance may be diagnosed with something fairly serious and it's put a tremendous strain on our relationship. I HAVE to be in a position where I can take care of my children in six months because I'm all they have.

I'm lost. I don't know what to do. I know it's wrong but I haven't prayed in almost a week. I feel like I have no right moves and everything I do is wrong. I don't know where to turn from here.

I'm asking, in all sincerity, for anyone who reads this and believes as I do, to please pray to God that He returns my strength to me, that He sees me through this crisis. I hate feeling lost, but I don't know what else to do.

Thank you.

I Will Not Break.

2008-11-21T19:25:00.000-08:00

I acknowledge that hundreds of thousands of people in the world write better and more useful blogs than I do. I'm grateful for the few people who take a peek into my life, even more so for the people that choose to follow me. The truth is, I don't write about anything particularly useful; I write about life as I see it, live as I live it, and life as I play it. I find myself in the unique position to do this because I have survived so much in my life and I did not take the stereotypical route.

How easy it would be to take the system, though. Sometimes I wish I still could. The law is antiquated and a lot of those who enforce it do so corruptly, feeling they can get away with anything--and usually they can, because no one will stand up to them.
To be fair, most of the time, when I was arrested, I had it coming. Other times, not so much.
For an example, and the first of my troubles...roughly five years ago now, after my last big fight, I woke up in a Bay City, Michigan hospital. I had tubes running down my throat, my leg was encased...and I was handcuffed to the bed. I remember thinking funny, I thought they only did that on TV.
When I recovered, they pushed me hard. They wanted to know where all the underground fight clubs were, who was promoting them and who was participating. Basically, damn ya and damn the horse that brung ya.
And what were they willing to do for my cooperation? Why, they were willing to let me walk right out that door! I bet.
So what did I do, you ask? Why, I did what any patriotic, God-fearing citizen of this country in my position should have done! I asked for a lawyer.
Apparently, telling some police officers that you want a lawyer sounds a lot like "I just did your mother. Hard. Twice. From the back." I swear he was going to shoot me.
Anyway, with nothing to hold me on except vagrancy/disturbing the peace, I had to go before the judge. He told me that I had to clear up the other matters I had in the state and then reappear before him. I never did.
Now, all of the other counties in the state will let me settle my penny-ante stuff for reasonable fees, but not Bay County--they want blood. They'd extradite me if I could.
Upon surrendering myself, I do about thirty days and they let me go. Jack Sparrow, our debt is settled.

I plan to do that early next year. Maybe I should do it now, since I'm out of work, but we'll get to that in a moment.
Now, most of you know that my ex-wife abandoned our children to her mother and family a number of weeks ago. I found out that this was actually the eighth time this had happened, and she has since become addicted to crystal meth.
Now, I get to talk to my children on a daily basis, and it's great to hear my youngest son (who doesn't know me) cheer out "daddy!!" when he knows I'm on the phone, but I have to be ready to take them for the summer, which is in six months. I also have to contend with my angry child asking me; "If mom loves me, why does she keep leaving me".
I don't hate Amy for what she's done. I feel sorry for her, and I'm scared for her because I'm worried she will end up a statistic. I take no responsibility for what she has become, but when we were together a number of years ago, I did not do right by her. I'm grateful that God has given me the chance to make things right.
This is pretty much my singular goal right now. I have to get back in my children's lives, and I have to prove I can take care of them, and be the father they need me to be.

I also have to prove I can do it on my own terms...
Problem #3,462; I lost my job this week. I am no longer employed (I think) with Securitas Security Services.
Why?
Well, Samantha (my lovely fiance) has been battling a lot of issues lately, none of which I'll disclose here, but one episode was particularly bad a couple of nights ago. I chose to go to her house, without properly informing my bosses, and see her through it. I wound up getting to work over an hour late, and my boss caught me.
If I had to go back and do it over again, I wouldn't change a damn thing. Family is the most important thing in the world.
I should also add that I (apparently) left the office such a mess that it constituted a health violation. Who knew. I don't have roaches in my own home but apparently I'm a nightmare to work with.
I was a little miffed that there have been officers on this site who have masturbated to obscene material and they were only transferred. I took an hour to comfort the woman who's going to be my wife (I hope) and they fucking fired me.
Oh, wait. Not yet.
The word coming down is they plan to call me in two weeks.
Good for them. If they do, maybe I'll come back.
I doubt they'll ever reinstate me at the towers because I don't have the personality they're looking for, but I should say now that I am deeply moved by the support I have received from everyone who lives there. I even got word that people might be taking up a petition to get me back. I doubt it would work; that kind of thing only succeeds in a democracy.

I wish I could do more for Sam, but I have finally run up against the one problem that I am completely powerless against. I think it's ironic; I finally meet someone I cannot do without and I can't do anything but pray and hope she gets through it. She will. I have faith in her.

You know why I like video games so much?
They're pure.
You either win or you lose.
You vanish into these fantastic, whimsical worlds, and after everything is said and done, you either win, or you lose. It's that simple. Life isn't. (<--Kinda/sorta taken from Oliver Stone's Any Given Sunday)

This is par for the course with my life, and knowing that I am being tested means I cannot fail. I will not fail. I will get through nanowrimo because I can, and I will continue to build Modern Magic into the force I see it becoming. I will become financially secure because I can and because God will aid me if He so desires. I will succeed not despite my critics and adversities, but because of them.

I will go make a salad.
Oh, I'm sorry for switching like that. I'm just hungry. ;)
Keep safe and God bless. Thank you for reading.

I'll play by the rules as soon as you give me some worth playing by.
Everything seems to happen at once.

I’m Scared.

2008-11-12T22:08:00.001-08:00

"As Long As The Lord's In My Life, I Will Have No Fear."-DMX

As I listen to that song for the third straight time, I'm trying to make myself believe that.

We elected a black man to the highest office this country has to offer. That same week we had a klan rally. I laugh in cynicism. I don't know if this area's eternally stubborn way of refusing to let antiquated ways of thinking go, or the fact that their actions change nothing. Either way, I laugh. Sometimes I get into debates with people who don't share my faith, and one thing I hear a lot is how in the Bible, God literally spoke to us. They always say; if He spoke then, why doesn't He speak now? I always say the same thing; He didn't stop talking. We stopped listening.

Unable to divide my energy between so many projects and unwilling to turn down so much work, I seized an opportunity and formally hired someone (who has turned out to be a Godsend) to complete the lesson plan for me. This has unexpectedly terrified me; the idea that Modern Magic now exists outside my head, the fact that it now generates its own income (for the first time ever), the fact that I actually pay people for their efforts. I have never, in my life, been this scared of screwing up. I've always had this fear of being responsible for millions of dollars and making one trivial decision that turns into catastrophe for everyone who counts on me. It's not going to jail that frightens me, it's people counting on me and my letting them down, the look in their eyes when I tell them I failed, that they're out of a job, their livelihood is in jeopardy and it's my fault.

There is one thing that scares me more than that…
It's amazing how one little thing can set your world on its ear and throw things into perspective.
Recently, I learned that my ex-wife abandoned our children to be with her boyfriend, and has become addicted to drugs (again). My mother sighed sadly upon hearing the news; "Those poor kids. They've been abandoned by both of their parents."
Don't hate my mother.
She's telling the truth.
I did leave.

In hindsight, there's no way I was ready to be a parent; I was so angry and hostile that I was able to pass on to my preteen son. I don't even know my youngest son; the last day I ever saw him, he was barely a week old.
I always hoped and dreamed that I would somehow get back into my children's lives somehow, but now, suddenly, it's all on me.
And may I be forgiven if this sounds selfish…but the first thing I'm scared of is losing Samantha. There, okay? I admit it. Mr. No-Attachments Busterwolf has something to lose.
It's both loads of fun and incredibly frightening to finally be with the one you know you're supposed to spend your life with. Sam is incredibly strong, both mentally and physically, but we've both agreed that our children become first. My children, especially my youngest, are angry. My five-year-old son doesn't even know how to read. If she chooses to stand beside me, she will bear this burden with me, and I wonder how much of it she will take. I wonder what she would do if either Terry or Brandon did something to her daughter? Because I know what I would do if someone's child hurt my own.
But she's not me.
I take refuge in that.

I think the real fear stems in the fact that I have been working towards what will happen next year since I lived in Michigan, since I wore gloves and the rag, since the damn shelters, the nights on the street, the endless scenery of the United States viewed through bus windows. I'm finally doing it; I am succeeding on every single level, and I am scared of fucking it all up—like I normally do. I'm scared that I will fail my children; that I will not get past all of their hatred, hatred I AM RESPONSIBLE FOR. I'm scared that Sam will take off, and I won't blame her if she does. I'm scared that I will not be the kind of husband I should be, and I'm scared that I'm really supposed to spend my life wandering the country until I fall down dead at the side of the road.

I'm scared. I'm really scared.

Writing this helped.

I'm going to get back to work on the novels. Thanks for reading along. Keep safe, God bless.

"Come On!"

2008-11-07T03:25:00.000-08:00

Last night, I received about the most distressing (yet uplifting) news about my children since the day I last saw them. If you follow me on twitter, you already know about it. If you don't follow me on twitter....wait, why don't you follow me on twitter?

Anyway, the news put me into a very, very bad mood. After blasting what I learned across my social networking sites, I reached for my phone and dialed Sam. Truthfully, before my own mother, she was the only person I could think of.

Sam was remarkably patient as I told her what was going on. Being her natural, nurturing self, she asked if there was anything she could do. I asked her, selfishly, if she could come over. I immediately regretted asking. Doing so would be next to impossible so late at night; she would have to leave her daughter at home. I didn't want Dani to see me as angry as I was.

Yet, somehow, she still did it.
She walked in the door and immediately recognized how angry I was. She tried to find a way to let me release it, and...she stood up, and took a defensive stance. A defensive stance I showed her, by the way. Even as she did it, I couldn't believe the words that came out of her mouth.
"Come on, let's go."
I was bewildered. "Excuse me?"
She gestured, mock-confrontationally. "Come on. I want to help. Let's go."
I told her over and over again, despite her considerable hitting power (she could stun an elephant with her right cross) that I didn't want to hit her. That I would not hit her.

Without hesitation or a word, she picked up a pillow from my couch, balled it in half, and held it out from her body. "Come on." She continued. "Let it go. Come on."
Sam can take a shot, even from me, so I didn't see the harm in it. God knew I needed to let something go. So I had her turn to the side so I could unleash a few roundhouse kicks into the makeshift bag. I fired my right leg into the pillow and she took it well, barely registering the impact with her body. I fired another one. And another one. And another one. I rapid-fired five kicks in about as many seconds into her pillow before I finally caught the look on her face. Her eyes widened, her cheeks flushed....was she in pain?!
"Stop, stop." She said softly.
I immediately stopped assaulting my throw pillow. She almost dropped it, clutching her wrist, and doing her damndest not to cry. "What's wrong?!" I asked.
She's really trying not to cry, leaning on my couch, keeping her head down. "My wrist...I think I broke my wrist."
"WHAT?!!"
She immediately looks to me as though I've done nothing wrong. "Honey, it's okay. I'm fine!" As she talks, she has her right hand concealed behind her back. I almost tear it off to get a look at her wrist, which is crimson and swollen....and I'm thinking to myself I DID THIS!!!!

I'll admit it, okay? I cried, I did. I swore, up and down, I would never, ever batter a woman, no matter how angry I got. With everything I had learned last night, I had reached my emotional limit. She held onto me. She kept telling me it was okay, nothing was wrong, she knew what she was getting into. I gave her an ice compress (more like she took the one she had given me out of my freezer, I had forgotten about it) and before we talked business, she looked at me and said something I'll never forget; "You know, I came over here tonight with the intention of boxing you. I know now...I'm not at your level."

For a second, she pulls a play from my book and laughs about never having broken a bone before. She thinks its kinda cool. I have to chuckle at her; I'm may have broken this girl's wrist and she's laughing about it. I tell her that I hope her curiosity doesn't extend to gunshots.

It wasn't pride at hearing that statement; pride means nothing to Samantha. It was listening to her admit that she was not as good at something as I was, which is extremely rare. It was shock that she made the confession aloud that blew my mind.

Then we spoke business about the next step in my bad news. I told her; I didn't call her over because I wanted support, although I did. I called her because she was the logical side of our relationship, and she would know what the next move was. As usual, she did.

Most people know I have more than my share of hit and misses when it comes to relationships. I'm pretty good at helping two people hook up, but I'm not the best when it comes to my own stuff because I can be, well, me.
I look at Sam and I can tell you that no person on the planet pisses me off as thoroughly as she does. I can also tell you that no other woman in the world ever did what she did for me last night.
And I know I'll never do better than that.

I'm attracted to strength, I realize. Not fighters. Sam is far and away the strongest woman I know.

I just wanted to take a minute and say that. The post about the bad news? That'll come later.
In the meantime, why don't you follow me on Twitter? ;)

You Know What The Midwest Is?

2008-10-30T12:47:00.001-07:00

This has happened to me three times since I've come to live in the Midwest.

I often tell this first story humorously, but as I get older, and exposed to it more frequently, it becomes a lot less funny.
About six years ago, I lived in the tiny town of Bad Axe, Michigan. You would have to refresh Mapquest a number of times to get the site to find it. The house I shared was literally on a country highway; it was given a common name for mailing references, but otherwise, it was known as M57, and the speed limit was fifty-five miles per hour. I always used to wonder if kids ever ran into the street and got killed. Coming from the city, where homes were typically miles removed from high-speed traffic, it wasn't something we worried about.

So I (illegally) walk across the street one day to check my mail. Upon doing so, a cop I hadn't paid attention suddenly makes his tires scream as he wheels around and heads back in my direction. I still don't think he's after me as I (illegally) head back across the street, until he pulls into the driveway. The way he was driving, I was expecting a TV crew and John Walsh to pop out.

He hops out of the squad car and asks me 'just what did I think I was doing.' Having no clue what this was about, I told him I was checking my mail. Littering too, if he had given me thirty more seconds. To make a long story short, he wrote me a $150 ticket for jaywalking and suggested that I walk the five miles up the road, where there is a crosswalk, and then walk five miles back down to check my mail. Because that was legal.

What did I do? Well, I politely—politely, mind you—suggested that he undertake the joys of self-copulation.

That wound up being my first legal problem in Michigan.
Years later, across the state, I wound up making an enemy of another cop in another small town. For our final confrontation, you can check out the full blog entry here; http://blog.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog.view&FriendID=41508991&blogMonth=12&blogDay=1&blogYear=2007

And then there was last night. Same story, different town.

I had just gotten off work and begun my walk up a small hill that leads to the main drive, off of which is my house. Behind me, a cop pulls to the stop sign and lingers there for about half a minute. I turn to see him. He's looking at me; he wants me to see him. Nevertheless, I replace my headphones and keep walking.

He turns the corner and pulls up slowly besides me. He doesn't turn on his lights or siren.
I remove my headset again. He feigns politeness, asking me (with the phoniest grin I've ever seen), if I'm just out for a walk. Yeah, five in the morning, forty degrees outside, I felt like strapping ten pounds to my back and going for a stroll.

I just got off work, I explain. There's a big difference between twenties and thirties, especially when it comes to your temper.
Really, he asks. Where do I work?
Just back there.
Can I prove that?
Yeah, I can imbed this badge between your eyes. Would that be proof enough?

I unzip my jacket to my chest and, keeping my right hand in plain sight, pull enough of my coat away to reveal my badge. Satisfied at my capitulation, he pulls away.
The more I think about it, the madder I get. My anger stems from my origins in Northern California, where this kind of thing just doesn't happen so often, especially in the areas I'm from.

My friends ask me why I stay. I'm not really a Midwest kinda guy, they say. Why do I put up with this nonsense, they ask? Why don't I come home?

Well, I'm gonna tell you.
Cause I'm too big an asshole to leave.

If I left, and went back to the West Coast, it would be like conceding. To me, I would be sending a message that their oppression was greater than what I could bear, that it beat me and I was forced to go 'back where I came from'. Most of you know I'm way too cocky for that.

I've been out here six years. I have established long running friendships with some really beautiful people, I've maintained steady employment and my own apartment, and I have earned the respect of others, all of which did not involve my physical skills.

All the things I have done in my life, I think it's hilarious that not one police department I've encountered out here could make one of the trumped-up arrests stick. The look on their faces when I finally walked out has always been priceless.
I bitch a lot but I really don't hate the Midwest. It's an area in a state of change, and change is never easy. There is a simple, core philosophy here; something deeply ingrained into this part of the country that I can't quite articulate…it speaks to me, it makes sense to me more than any place I've ever been. I know peace here.

So…I can be racially profiled, falsely arrested, or whatever else you wanna throw at me. I've survived worse. I'll survive you.

I'm here to stay. Deal with it. ;)

“What Are You?”

2008-10-29T11:32:00.001-07:00

I'm about the most unconventional Christian you'll ever meet. I believe in God, and that his son Jesus died for our sins. After that, me and traditional Christians tend to part ways. I have found the majority (but not all of them) of Christians to be so zealous and close-minded in their faith that they refuse to accept the possibility that just maybe, there's something else out there. I'm here, as a Christian, to tell you there is.

The Bible doesn't recognize chi. I'm here to tell you that it's real. I know it's real because I have seen it, felt it, used it, and had it used against me. I have witnessed practitioners in San Francisco and Philadelphia use it as a way of life and a means of combat. I have wielded it myself, most recently in a sparring session in which I literally blasted my opponent across the floor. I believe all things come from God, and chi is no exception.

Tonight, I had a chance to minister to someone in the way I believe it should be done. Ironically, it was with a man I used to butt heads with a lot.
I hadn't seen him in weeks, and while I never completely trusted him, I was glad he was still alive. Considering out rocky history, I was surprised that he came to the office specifically to see me. I was cordial, friendly, but unsure; he was asking me all sorts of questions, such as when I was getting married (I'm not, for the record), what nationality my girlfriend was, and if I had any kids.

Yet, Something above told me that everything was on the level, so I was forthcoming. He was surprised that I only had two children by one woman. He knew where I lived and wondered how I dealt with the new, louder neighbors. I told him simply; the woman who lives above me was kind enough to come down to my apartment and ask if she was making too much noise.

He was in pain, and listening to him was a nice little reprieve from writing. I listen to this man, relatively diminutive but bearing the eyes of an ancient, war-weary giant, go on about recent events; he suffered an asthma attack and was hospitalized. While he was laid up, the housing authority evicted him. The housing authority was not making it easy on him to get his apartment back, even though he could verify everything. His family had suggested that he up and move to Florida.

He then goes on, and I'm wondering if he's going to sink right in front of me, and talks about how tired he is. So tired, he says. Just so tired of the trials and tribulations.
Anger and exhaustion breed desperation. I look at him, remembering how God tried to reach me when I was at this point. Obi-Wan, speaking to Yoda about Luke in Empire Strikes Back comes to mind; "Was I any different when you taught me?"

I tell him, and as I tell him, I realize that at thirty-one, I'm truly starting to understand.
It is the rewards we reap that make the trials and tribulations worth it. We endure the trials so we may greater appreciate our successes. God will deliver you from your troubles, as long as you hold tight to Him, I promise.

I said this to him, in various ways, until he looked as though he was about to cry. Having felt like I said my piece, I politely dismissed him so I could do a round. As he walked towards the elevator with his head down, I called his name. When he turned, I told him that I would keep him in my prayers. I promised—I gave my word, knowing that what I was betting on was a sure thing—that God would deliver him from his strife if he put his faith in Him.

He just stared at me for a minute. "What are you?" He asked.

"Christian," came the simple reply.
He gestured as though he knew that. "No, I mean, what are you, Baptist?"

I smirked. "Non-denominational."

He reacted incredulously. "What church do you attend?" He asked.

"I don't."

I don't think he knew how to react, but his elevator came, and as he stepped inside, he smiled. "Bless you." He said as he walked away. I headed in the opposite direction. "You too."

And as I walked down the hall to do my rounds, on this job I had maintained for nearly a year, I gave a quick point to the sky. I remembered the nights on the train, under the bridge, I remembered the endless streets and the violent eyes of thugs and killers looking for their next victim, I remembered the shelters, the pain when trying to breathe, the feeling of my arm on fire every time I threw a punch. I remembered the laughs, the crying, the hunger, the desperation, the anger, and finally, the forgiveness.

I remembered where I was at this moment.

"Thank you." I said skyward.

And I went on with my night.

Final Destination: The Game?

2008-10-19T15:30:00.000-07:00

As I watch a movie, I can usually discover the formula that would translate the film into a great game. I can't help it; this is just how my mind works.

As someone who strongly advocates better story in today's games, I don't think there are many movies out there that wouldn't make kick-ass games, if done right. I don't know if the same applies for the reverse; we're allowed to play and live through a game, while we only observe a movie. I don't know if it could ever be the same. Maybe it's this generations way of why read the book/when you can watch the movie?

Anyway, I'm (finally) watching the teen thriller Final Destination 3 for the first time on cable TV. While not revolutionary by any stretch, I always liked the Death's Design/Mousetrap formula that was well-executed throughout the first two (for this I can forgive the sub-standard acting).

And I think to myself, if developed in the same vein as Clock Tower, or Deathtrap Dungeon, Final Destination would make a great game. In the era where the fourth Ghostbusters is a next generation console title rather than a feature film, Final Destination 4 could appropriately fit as a budget or download title. Part three is less than three years old; it's still got just a little freshness on it.

The objective; cheat death.

The plot; insert teenager and his/her friends on some outing in which some tragedy occurs, but before said tragedy, the protagonist has a premonition of said tragedy. Protagonist panics; panics enough to halt his/her friends from getting involved in whatever it was that would've led to the tragedy. Tragedy occurs anyway, a few people are saved (but kill a quick supporting character to generate a little sympathy for your protagonist).
Death then starts picking off the survivors. Protagonist learns of Flight 180 and the events surrounding it, speaks to the mortician (Tony Todd), figures out the design, saves just one or two people after everyone is picked off in a hair-raising climax. (Granted, the second film's climax kinda, well, sucked. You can say it)

The gameplay; figure out how death's design. Save as many of your friends as you can in a small-but-open-world setting. All the while, stave off your own death. Make decisions; you figure out the pattern, but as you save one, you change the design, putting someone else on the chopping block. Ultimately, can you beat the design altogether? Can you save everyone? The more you learn, the better your chances are.
Then, become Death; set up your own elaborate bloodbaths. How dare they defy what you wrought? Show them there is no escape.

Okay, it's not a design document, but there's some meat there. Anyway, I was just watching the movie, and this is what sprung to mind.
All the solutions are out there; you just have to look.

The Power of the Game

2008-10-19T11:21:00.000-07:00

Video games have the power to bring people together. Not just nerds, mainstreamers, and all those in between, but entire families. Those who understand this find success in the business. Nintendo knows this. Sega's getting it.

Case in point.

Not too long ago, I introduced my little stepdaughter to Sonic the Hedgehog. She enjoyed a little face time with Sega's Blue Bomber, but took an instant liking to Knuckles. First, she would ask me if she could play "Red" instead of "Blue" but within a few hours, she had the names down. This is all by way of Sonic Mega Collection on the PS2.

For days after that, without fail, every single time she saw me, she asked me if she could play Knuckles. If mom says it's okay, I say. After you get out of school, I say. When we were given the time, I would sit with her and explain to her what a spin dash was, why she needed to get rings, and watch go between the D-Pad and analog stick trying to find a sense of comfortability. An intelligent and inquisitive child, she spends a few seconds letting Knuckles chill on screen while she figures out the pad, and why it rumbles in her hands every so often. When she feels she's ready, she looks at the screen and goes to work. No, honey, the big metal bugs are not cute. Yes, they will hurt you. No, Knuckles really isnt dead. See? He comes right back (PLEASE don't let me have to explain the game over screen. I'm not ready for that yet).

Sam doesn't play video games, so when I bring the PS2 over, this is her child's only exposure. About ten days go by or so before Dani is able to play again. During this time, according to Sam, she doesn't mention Sonic, Knuckles, or anything, and I figure it was a nice fad while it lasted.

So when I come back over, Dani immediately looks to me and asks "Can I play Knuckles?"
Sam, in shock, looks down to her little daughter and barely gets out; "Wow."

This intangible ability, the ability to have so little exposure and yet burn a permanent impression, this is why I love video games so much.

A Day In The City

2008-10-18T11:19:00.000-07:00

Happiness is the initial realization upon waking that you do not have to work that night.
I don't have a lot of food left; I'll barely make it through payday. But I have a little something saved up, so I decide to head out; hit the local grocer and pick up some ramen, just to cover my ass.

It's different, though; I wake and within minutes, I'm on my feet. Pushed by the unseen force, I get dressed quickly and am on my way out the door, where ten minutes earlier, I was sound asleep. I don't question moments like these; I just go with them.

Sure enough, it's Saturday, it's a little warmer than I expected, and there is another festival downtown. I wonder if, weather permitting, there's a festival every weekend.

The last couple of days haven't been good. This morning, I wake up to find a contract canceled, and yesterday, I ended things with Samantha. Some people saw it as inevitable, but I was tired of causing her pain, and tired of not being good enough. I actually allowed myself to fall for this girl so hard that I have a hard time remembering Julie's last name now. I really thought she was it. I still do.

These events pass through my mind as I navigate whatever it is Jeff City has going on this week. There's a tap dancing family/group or something that has a a lot of people's attention, but the aura of something in this crowd is familiar...one of the gifts I missed was the ability to sense everyone by life force, but it only seems to work when I'm single. It usually frightens people I'm with, so I subconsciously repress.

But amid the auras of the young and old, there is something familiar, bright, and radiant that stands out atop the sea of humanity. Drawn to it, I walk towards it...and find a booth advertising free martial arts lesson for children. The practitioners are dressed in coal-black gi's reminiscent of those who practice aikido, and I realize, looking at the children who practice bo-jitsu, that they are the source of the aura I felt.

Amazing, I think. These kids are younger than my oldest, but they're stronger than some of my old opponents...stronger than I was at one point.
Indeed they are; they seamlessly link together stabbing gestures, twirls, and spins as mere ways to pass the time, with the efficiency and precision of those who devote their whole lives to the perfection of the art. I'm mesmerized, watching them laugh and joke as children, but play as martial artists. I make a mental note; I've never heard of the fighting style, but the man in charge of the booth possesses the aura of a master; there is a calm, quiet confidence about the unseeming man. If I saw him in street clothes, I probably wouldn't have felt much. I have yet to learn that trick, to keep my chi beneath the surface. But I'm getting better.
Eventually, I'll take a look at the school. Anyone who can do that to kids has to know what they're doing.

I wonder if that's why I felt so compelled to head uptown.
I enter the little grocer and quickly realize why I never shop there; their selection is fairly limited and they never have anything I like. Cool, I get to sit on my money, but food is still an issue...and I'd really like to know why He pushed me out the door. So I head back outside with eyes open and start looking for my answers.

Within a few feet, I come acorss several exhibits geared towards children and wonder how come I can't see--or feel--Sam or Dani.
Suddenly, almost subconsciously at first, and then openly, for the first time, I am scanning for Sam or Dani's presence. I realize I haven't done this as long as I've known her.

This festival is right up her alley, something she would bring Dani too and spend hours looking at all the little knick-knacks.
All the girls I've ever dated, all the endless chasing and searching, only Sam came along and eclipsed all of them, including Drea or Julie. No one else balanced me out so completely, and I was genuinely convinced that after so many years of hitting and missing, not just with girls, but with life in general, that she was it; the one. I still believe it.

But as I pass through the festival, I can neither see, nor hear or feel her. I think Dani would've called me out had she seen me.
As I prepare to leave, in the continuing drama that is my life, I catch a glimpse of something, only a flicker, as a candle burning it's brightest just before it goes out, and I turn and look. Three Days Grace in my ear; "Maybe we'll turn it all around cause it's not too late. It's never too late."

I hope they're right.
But she's not here, and I'm not sure when or even if I'll ever see her again.
And so I head home...

So You Wanna Know How My Week Went?

2008-10-13T01:28:00.001-07:00

Sometimes, there's nothing you can do about it. Sometimes, it's just better to keep your ass in bed.
Last week started with my losing balance during a workout and giving my basement neighbors the impression that the ceiling was about to cave in. This was the highlight.
I turn on my computer and it only reads at 56%. Odd, considering that I turned it off that previous night at a full charge, but par for the course for my karma, so I don't think much of it. As I get into the day's emails, I notice that the battery power is draining faster than gas from a muscle car. I don't know why; it's plugged into the wall.

At 33%, it shuts down. Just like that. Kaput. Game over.
I check all the connections and everything seems in order. Wait a sec…that's it. The AC jack inside my computer has come loose. No problem, I have friends who know how to fix it. I'll take a day off and be back up tomorrow.

Yeah, right.
Although the work week is relatively uneventful, I get no good news on my computer. Billy is the first person to look at it and DING DING DING for me, the power cord and the AC jack work just fine. Guess what, Avery? It's your motherboard! Congratulations!
Only then it dawns on me how hard I work my laptop; it sits on a metal desk at work while struggling to maintain a weak internet connection, manage 25+ gigs of music connected to an external hard drive, because the main drive only has ten of eighty gigs free. It hits me like a slowly-poured bucket of muddy water; I'm screwed!

A flurry of negativity is flushed through my being; my whole world is on that laptop! The latest design document is on that hard drive! I can't tie my shoes without Outlook! What the fuck do I do now?
Then it really hits me, and I feel like a cosmic clown. I have almost two hundred gigs of external storage. I carry ten gigs of storage on me at all times. And never, not once, did I ever think to back my stuff up. Hee-Haw.

God opens a window and Billy is able to extract the data from my SATA hard drive onto one of the two flash drives on my keychain. Data is saved, I have a (poor) desktop at home…right now, it's gonna have to do the job.

The desktop computer is so slow that….oops, hang on a second. Missing some music.

There.

Now, like I was saying, the desktop computer is so slow that it takes almost an hour to install office and that's before my incompetent ass fumbles around trying to configure my email accounts. It's way past my bedtime by the time I get everything (including the rarely used tweetdeck) so I skip breakfast and hit the sack. Bad idea.
When I woke up, my head had been held underwater, strapped to an anvil, and turned into a stove. My throat felt like a shredding wheel. Oh hell no.
Luckily, I was prepared for this. I always keep medicine and cough drops on hand because I despise being sick.

I have a stellar thinking process when facing a crisis, probably because I don't think about the consequences. There are always consequences. I'll deal with them later. So here it is; I pay my rent, lights, and nothing else. I don't even buy food. The top priority, other than recovering from this damn cold, is to get things back up and running. Modern Magic is on a somewhat high note right now, I'll be damned if a little cold slows me down now. I still have to go to work because I'm the only full-time officer on site. I don't show, there's no one to fall back on. I push myself to do it by telling myself I need the money. In truth, I might not; I'm working two contracts and just got invited to apply for a third, but I can't fulfill any of them unless I have my laptop because the desktop doesn't let me work remotely, so…yeah. I need the money.

So there it is. I spend the next few days eating nothing but pizza soup and drink nothing but oceans of water, diet soda, and knock-off Theraflu. I've eaten so much pizza soup that I can tell you; from a dietary and diabetic standpoint, the soup is not bad for you at all. The most carbs (and sugar) are in the soup; the cheese contains very little and the pepperoni has none. Never knew that.

Funny thing is I'm not sick of the soup yet.

This also marks a huge milestone in my life; this is the first time ever I lost something very valuable and was able to replace it within a week. Not bad from staying in a shelter three years ago, right?
On my budget, I had two choices; new Acer or refurbished Dell. Both boasted specs that were above my previous computer.

Now, here's the thing.
I had advice thrown at me from all sides, and everyone had something different to say. You know what I took from all this advice was? No one makes the perfect computer.

My two prior laptops were manufactured by HP, and neither of them lasted two years. The Presario lasted me about fifteen months, and chances are I'd pick up another one. I wouldn't buy an HP laptop at gunpoint. Seriously; I'd rather take the bullet. The one I owned I paid nearly one thousand dollars for and it didn't go a month without needing repairs. A car accident finally put it out of its misery.

I ran with the Dell. I've always wanted one and I heard the least amount of negativity about it. I disregarded my initial bad experience with Dell and bought a refurbished 1525.
Today, I sweated out the last of my cold and was awoke to the sound of Armageddon banging on my door. That's what it sounded like, anyway…
I opened the door and greeted my well-meaning (but clearly deaf) neighbor, who was kind enough to nearly kick in my door to let the delivery man hand over the Dell that wasn't due until next week.

Almost twelve hours later, here I am. I've kicked the cold (lasted three days, a record), loaded all of my software and finally, synced up my Zune. This is the last day of the week; I spend tomorrow with Sam, and by the time you read this, I'll be watching the Ravens (hopefully) pummel the Colts.

I really wanted to see Joe Biden in person, I just didn't have the strength. There's always the next election, I guess.

This week was nothing. Next week, I actually have to catch up. The task will be that much easier now that I'm backing my stuff up daily.

Hee-haw.

Putting Fun First

2008-10-12T23:20:00.001-07:00

If I have to pick an upside from this last week, it's that I finally got to sit down and play more than I have all year. With no laptop, I took my PS2 into work and got back into Madden, the Art of Fighting Anthology (man oh man did they screw the pit bull on part three), and finally, seriously, got into Metal Gear Solid 3.

One week straight, almost nothing but playing. I very seriously thank God each night that I can do this.
The sights, the sounds, the immersion (the idiocy, in some cases. I'M TALKING ABOUT YOU, ART OF FIGHTING 3!!!), and the sheer, utter joy of being able to let everything hang out in a virtual world. To be an MVP, a fighter whose skills border on the supernatural, and a skilled assassin, all within one hour. It was the first time in a long time I remembered why I got into this line of work!

On a quick hit; Hideo Kojima is almost a master storyteller and you can see it in his work. He's onto something big and he knows it. Playing the Metal Gear franchise, from a writer's perspective, is like watching a basketball circle a hoop in the closing seconds of a game. He's got it, he knows what he's looking for, but as of part three he hasn't quite found that missing link between storytelling and gameplay. He comes closer than anybody before him, but he's not quite there yet. This is just my humble, unpublished opinion of a great man's work.

You know, the world doesn't make a lot of sense to me, but games do. Games are pure and absolute to me. They all boil down to the same thing, told in millions of variants; you either complete an objective, or you win. If you fail at either of those, there are no real consequences. Usually, no one gets hurt, no one dies, you just hit the reset button and go again. It's simple it's pure, and more and more people are catching on.

Think about it. Where else can you unload a full clip into someone and not only avoid incarceration, but make it look cool, and get rewarded.
Now, see, most people have enough common fucking sense to know that the game ends when the power goes off, but the few that don't get the zealots and conservatives something to scream about. It's the perversion of the game that makes me sick. You take something that's meant to be great, and fun, and you turn it into a fucking tragedy. Those people need to be shot. From the nuts up.

Above the whole Terry-Bogard-idolization, video games have taught me my most important lesson; dammit, have fun with your life. Laugh every day. Make light of things, because everything gets taken care of (as long as you're willing to work). Put fun first.

I've been working at Modern Magic almost as long as I was on the street, and yeah, I may have failed half a dozen times, but I learned from each one of those failures and I had a blast doing it. Things are rough now, and I'm still having fun. If this ever becomes un-fun, then I'll find another line of work.

I'll keep this up until the day I die because I sincerely believe it was what God put me here to do, and despite all the hardships, trials, and tribulations, dammit, I am having the time of my life and I wouldn't trade any of it for anything. This is the only life I have and I'm gonna cram as much goofiness into it as I possibly can.

But this is just me, and I'm happy as hell to have a roof over my head, full cable and internet, a comfortable bed, food in the fridge, two healthy children, parents that love me, kick-ass friends, a girl that loves me, and a blood sugar that is very slowly coming down.

And I got my laptop back.

What the hell do I have to complain about?

I'm having fun.

My Father’s Letter

2008-10-12T23:15:00.003-07:00

Lately I've been dissatisfied on the relationship I have with my father. We've never really gotten along, but my grandmother's recent passing helped put things in perspective; none of us lives forever. Part of my patience comes from a phrase I coined while waiting for the bus, train, or whatever; "It's only time." Truth is, it's one of the few things we can't get back when we lose it…

I've written my father ice-breaking letters before, but I never could convey the message because I was so pissed off. I haven't felt so angry lately (first time in forever, I can't tell you how good it feels) so I sent him a sincere letter to let him know that I was okay. I cemented this point by stating that I had been able to tap my own legitimate resources to replace the laptop that had just burned out.

On another note, I'm realizing that some people have been waiting for me to "get here" for a very long time. But anyways…

I wasn't expecting such a quick, or forthcoming, response. My father has always been very secretive, he could baffle Batman if he wanted too. So this was unlike him. He told me…we always butted heads because we were so much alike, and he's right. We're both tough as hell and we both can have this intimidating Darth-Vader type presence when we want too.

He also said something to me that he's never said before, and even as I write this, I'm still not sure I believe it. He told me that he actually respected me for being who I was, for staying true to who I was. My father actually said he respected me. Thirty-one years, he's never told me that.

You know, my father was the first person whose opinion I learned to tune out, so I found myself a little embarrassed that I was getting a little misty-eyed as I finished reading the letter. He told me he loved me, something else he never says, and we could talk more often.

I laugh and make stupid jokes when I'm trying to brush off deeper emotions. I didn't fall into a bawling heap or anything. Instead, I wiped my eyes and playfully cussed my old man out; "You fuck…you ALWAYS know how to reach me, don't you…"

I walk into the kitchen—my kitchen—where I'm prepping dinner and my right fist lashes out at the side of the fridge as I force the waterworks back down. That's as emotional as I allow myself to get.

I admit that I feel like I've done it and not just said it; come full circle as a fighter, a martial artist (there is a difference) a game developer, a writer, and as a man. I no longer refer to myself as a "kid".

I miss my children. I'm a horrible father if for no other reason than I allowed them to be removed from me, but things between me and Sam are on a huge upswing. I'll get another chance.

I'll also answer to Terry and Brandon one day. So will their mother.

But for now, there it is, and I need to eat dinner.

Sam’s Blessing

2008-10-12T23:15:00.001-07:00

For all Samantha and I have in common, we have very opposing ways of viewing the world. I like to say I find the bright side of everything; in truth, I'm cynical. I expect people to do what they have to in order to get by, and most don't care who gets hurt in the process. In my opinion, at least if you're ready for it, there are no surprises when it happens.

Sam is different, and it drives me crazy. She knows how cold-blooded the world can be and she forces herself to remain a nice person. That's a difference between her and me; I consider myself a good person, but I'm not nice. She's both.

Her unshakably positive outlook on life drives me crazy because she can maintain it despite the adversity she's had to overcome. It also drives me crazy because I can't be like that.

A good example; not too far from where she lives, sometimes, there's this large, white pit bull chained up outside of the house. I'm always aware of this dog when I turn up the block (on foot) because this dog acts as though it will attack anyone that comes into its line of sight. Therefore, when the dog takes notice of me, he starts barking, hopping, snarling, and trying for all he's worth to break free of that chain. The first time I saw this, I took a defensive stance in case the dog actually got free and came at me. Now, I'm just very aware of where the dog is since I have to get close to it in order to get to Sam's house. Every time I see this dog, from the second I enter the block to the second I disappear from its view, it does nothing but act like it wants to make me its next meal. I'm always on guard, expecting to turn suddenly when I hear that *SNAP* sound, indicating that the pit bull has freed itself and is now racing for me. My mind cycles through millions of possibilities; do I lunge out of the way, avoid being taken down? Will it take my arm off if I try to jam it down its throat? Should I go for the sidekick to the midsection when it's in mid-air? What if it's a fighting dog? What if I don't get out of the way fast enough? What if I go down? Can I get it the hell off before it takes a piece of me with him?

Blessedly, I've never had to put any of these scenarios into practice. Nevertheless, they always fly through my head as I approach the damn thing.
Sam, however, is different.
We were walking to Oktoberfest, me, her, and her three-year-old daughter, when the pit bull takes notice of us and goes off. Instinctively, I jump in front of Samantha (she hates that) because I'm more worried about her daughter than her. Sam can take care of herself.
Sam approaches this dog with absolutely no fear and all smiles. She talks to the dog. She gets within the dog's range, all the while the dog has not stopped growling or barking. My right fist clenched; I'm hoping I can get to this dog before it does too much damage to her.
Even the dog's owner is concerned. He steps outside looking as though he just woke up, pulling his shirt on. He's observant, but does nothing. Sam reaches out to the dog….who proceeds to launch the most vicious licking attack I've ever seen. The dog savagely takes to her hand and begins to horribly lavish affection on her as though she's made of milk-bone.

My jaw is on the floor, and so is the dog's owner. He just wanted to play, I hear in my head.
Sam says something Disney-ish to the dog that causes the owner to roll his eyes. I catch it and laugh. Sam ignores us both and continues onward.

For a second I just watch her. How do you do that?

I look at that, and I wonder; how many situations in my past became violent because I refused to acknowledge a possibility that there might be another way to resolve it?

I've never had that before.
That is why I am with her.

The New Generation

2008-09-19T00:22:00.001-07:00

So just today, a close friend of mine (who hasn't given me permission to use her name) had someone she cares about go missing.
The person who went missing was last seen walking home from a bar late last night in a nearby small town. She had just taken a beating from her daughter and daughter's boyfriend. Her arm was probably broken, if the story had been told right.

My friend was worried sick and lost; she'd never encountered anything like this, at least, not this close to home. A small-town girl curious about life in a larger city (although this area is hardly a big city), she had found herself in an abusive relationship and managed to get herself out of it.

She feels a need to help those around her, those who didn't grow up in a loving, two-parent household. She wants to help those who are not quite ruined yet. She just doesn't know how to do it.

Listening to her tonight made me think back to Tim and Ashley...and it made me think.
There is this entire generation of people coming up who realize that the system doesn't work. Angry and sick of being lied to and pacified, they have decided to take matters into their own hands. I have to admit that while violence may not necessarily be the best course...great change only came after great conflict.

Your friend is missing, the police tell you there's nothing they can do, I say you have done what you can within the system. Now is the time to work outside of it.

I have found that my student's mentality is turning towards a teacher's mentality, and I guess this means even I have to grow up sometime, right? I have been a hellraiser my whole life, and I lived to tell about it. I know how to work outside the system, get results, keep your honor, and more importantly, keep your freedom.

I also know how to damage the human body to the maximum degree if I need to. I have passed on some of what I know to other people.

I think it's the responsibility of those who come into knowledge to pass it on. Although I'm not about to raise an anarchist army (notice how close that word comes to antichrist?), I believe a few people can make a difference.

So when people come to me looking for guidance, be it in handling a situation or learning to defend themselves, I will do what I can.

Besides, at my age, it's not my fight anymore. It's theirs.

As for my new protege, the first thing I told her was that the first thing she needed to do was check her emotions at the door; at best, they'd keep her from thinking straight, and at worst, they'd get her killed. When I asked her what her first instinct was, and I meant the first thing that entered her head, she told me that she imagined her friend was off drunk somewhere, and this would pass. I told her the first instinct was usually right.

In this case, I was right, and the story had a happy ending. Although her friend would require hospitalization and surgery to repair her arm, I had to remind this girl that she wasn't physically able to take revenge, and even if she did, she'd just be perpetuating the cycle (man, did I feel like a hypocrite saying that). Justice, as always, would run it's course.

The Promise

2008-09-19T00:22:00.000-07:00

"A Warrior Hates Fighting Because They Are Always Aware of the Damage Battle Causes." Alton Koch Sr.

What is the difference between a soldier, a fighter, and a warrior?
They all share very similar codes, yet execute their tasks in very different, sometimes conflicting means. Up until a few months ago, I never gave this a second thought.

It is the dream of any warrior to give their life in battle, for a noble cause, or in the name of something they believe in. I admit that I used to desire this, when I was younger. I dreamt about a gun in one hand, a sword in the other, atop the hill of a grassy knoll, as an oncoming horde of two hundred million came for me. I smile now even as I think about it; it would be a good death.
We all have to go sometime, and I know the strong ones have some control over their own fate.

My life could be summed up simply; someone would do something to me, everyone would laugh. I would do something back, suddenly I'm getting suspended or I'm the bad guy or I need anger management or blah blah blah. A kid named Ryan thought it would be funny to hold me under water during a school-sponsored school trip in the fifth grade. Everyone got a big laugh, somehow the teachers didn't see it. When I knocked out one of his teeth, I got suspended for three days.

If you follow my blog, you know how much time I've spent (wasted) being angry.
Alton Koch is a resident at the Towers where I'm stationed as a private security officer. He's disabled and veteran of every war since Vietnam. Up until three months ago, I didn't pay much attention to him. I don't remember how I found out about his history, but I can tell you I was drawn to the power he possesses. Here was a man who was physically disabled and unable to function without painkillers racing through his system, and yet when he saw something he disliked, the look in his eyes changed just like that. He went from broken-down old warhorse to highly trained soldier, with enough tenacity, skill, and ruthlessness to make Solid Snake look about as threatening as a throw pillow.
Alton (Al) would speak of chi and how mine was always out of balance; like I was always struggling and straining, reaching for something. I used to think that this wasn't the movies, it was real life. There's no way this old drunk has anything he to show me. But I still listened to his stories, and believe it or not, I took something away from them. He speaks how he despises the awards the Armed Forces gave him as he talks about what he did to earn them.

Two nights ago, Al appeared to suffer a severe stroke at work, and adamantly refused medical care. I checked up on him throughout the night, and at the end of my shift, he appeared to be fine.
Last night, he appeared to relapse, almost collapsing in the lobby. I knew he wouldn't go to the hospital, but I had to put my professionalism first; I dialed 911. Clutching his head in agony, barely able to stand, he waved me off and made his way to the elevator, demanding not to go to the hospital. Tammey, another resident I have gotten close too (and an ex-military wife) went with him.
The rest of the night was a vigil.
Al laid on his couch, occassionally retching from the pain coursing through him, convulsing, but never vomiting. Tammey kept a rag on his head. I remained in his apartment as he hallucinated for almost two hours. He reached out to enemies only he could see, he asked for his rifle, he said he'd "kill all of them".
A couple of times he said his goodbyes. As God Himself is my witness, I'm telling you as I held his hand, I felt his grip weaken, and I felt his pulse go to nearly nothing. I cannot tell you that I felt this man die; he had to come as close as one can. He did this twice. Both times, he fought his way back from whatever was calling him.
I asked myself...what kind of strength does that take? What kind of strength does a man possess that allows him to literally control your own fate?
The last time he did it, he asked Tammey to hand him a necklace that was hanging on the wall. It appeared American Indian in design, constructed of eagle and other animal bones, with a blue decorative stone taken from someplace called Snake River at the end. No matter it's origin, it was beautiful.
When Tammey handed him the necklace, he reached for me, beside the couch. He had lost the strength to open his eyes, and was reaching blindly. I took his hand with the necklace, and he latched onto me.
He explained to me that he had been a medicine man for the Lakota Indian tribe in his youth (I may not be using the right name) and the necklace had been given to him. As he squeezed my hand, he told me, seeming to force what little strength he had left into his words; "Don't fight for yourself. If you must fight, fight for those weaker than you."
In my head, I heard; "You have nothing left to prove."
Clutching his hand, accepting the necklace, I said it and meant it; "I promise."
Al released the necklace into my hand and without trying to trivialize it, I felt like I had just inherited the Matrix of Leadership. I held the necklace....and the words resonated as a new sensation went through me. I promise.

I left the apartment after that.
I have to say here that I believe in God over everything; I believe He communicates with us through angels who take many forms, and this is why I can be open-minded about other religions (most of them). What we call angels, some call spirits.
For the first time since I was five years old, I genuinely do not feel like fighting. I have heard stories of rage and hatred and the worse possible things people do to one another and the anger passed through me like a cold, ethereal wind instead of nesting and growing. Revenge is an illusion for those wronged. It's an evil cycle that can only reach conclusion when there is absolutely no one left to kill.

What is the difference between a soldier, a fighter, and a warrior?

The soldier fights for their country.
The fighter fights for himself.
The warrior, however, fights for a higher cause.

People used to call me a warrior and I can tell you that they were wrong. I was not, and I am not, a warrior. I have always been a fighter because while I disguised my reasons behind seemingly noble objectives, the truth is I was just pissed. Doing the wrong thing for the right reason is still wrong.

I've been a fighter my whole life. On September 17, 2008, I became a warrior.

But as I leave the old ways behind me in mind as well as body, a new road reveals itself...

Proud Chaos

2008-09-14T12:22:00.001-07:00

In the entertainment medium, musicians and writers are a dime a dozen (and most people have a dollar). So when you put yourself out there, you better bring something special to the table.

I remember roughly ten, maybe twelve years ago now, back when I thought I could just pull a triple-A game out of my ass, I put out an ad for a musician on one site and the offers flooded my inbox. I was only checking my email once a day or so and remember sifting through nearly fifty applicants, some of whom were very skilled, others….not so much.

I get an email from a fifteen-year-old kid from "across the pond" and attached is his work sample, a simple, atmospheric MP3 called "Airless" (which he was kind enough to let me rename to "Shades of Blue".

I listened to this piece roughly ten consecutive times before I decided not to open any more emails. The music was reminiscent of Enigma and Jan Hammer, and I was sold. I fired off an email to the kid, telling him I wanted him for my project. His name was (is) Adam Fielding.

Adam remains one of the most talented and undiscovered musicians I've ever come across (and I still deal with a lot). He recently released his first album "Distant Activity" on Magnatune and I recommend it to anyone who likes game soundtracks, Enya, Enigma, or something you can throw on and chill to.

Adam's range is pretty wide, taking the cold, lonely "You're On Your Own" to the controlled chaos of "Wildfire", both of which are on the Distant Activity. But with Adam's music, it's the background that draws you in. Every song tells a story (I love that about his work) and while the notes at the forefront of each title are prominent, it's the ambient, steady tones present throughout each title that sets and layers the experience, leading you into entire worlds rivaling anything that Square-Enix has produced.

Personally, Adam is the consummate professional, and perfectionist. I think he agonizes over notes the way I agonize over words, because just one out of place would ruin the entire thing. Adam turned over roughly seventy tracks for the original version of Universal Warrior. I'm happy that other people have found out how talented he is—on the other, I dread wondering what I'll have to pay out when I need him to help me bring the franchise to life.

But straight out, this kid is good. There are way worse ways you could blow eight dollars than on this album. Check it out here.

Tell It Like It Is.

2008-09-08T13:53:00.001-07:00

Bernie Mac, man…
I'm not one who usually trips off of celebrity deaths. Heath Ledger died, I was shocked. I got over it in a couple of days, and I was saddened and blown away by his performance in the Dark Knight. We lost a talent too young—but I rarely think about it now.
But a month later, I'm still tripping off the death of Bernie Mac.

It was my girlfriend of all people who told me that he had passed on. I found out a day after it happened and went running to IMDB, and was close to tears, I won't lie.

Put simply, the man was fuckin' funny.
And to be honest, I didn't even really get into him until Spike Lee's "The Original Kings of Comedy" and the first time I saw it, I hadn't laughed that hard since Eddie Murphy. Probably because I got it; I actually used to keep my little hellraiser of a son on a shoulder leash so he wouldn't run off, and I can't tell you how many people gave me dirty looks in the mall or even had the audacity to say something to me. Man, don't tell me how to raise my kids.

And Bernie was right; we all thought it, he just said it. If you haven't seen the act, check it out here.

You know, I'd heard of him through almost all of his bit parts, and I think he had one of the best lines in "Friday" ("The Lord is my shepherd, he know what I want."), but he finally got his breakout through "Kings". After that, he achieved mainstream success, if only for a moment; his show was cancelled suddenly after five seasons with no conclusion.

I think what I admire most about the man was that he, like most of my other heroes, achieved success on his own terms. Bernie was as warm as he was brash, he said exactly what was on his mind and he didn't give a good damn what anyone else thought—and he still made it.

I get both praised and criticized because I'll often say what's on my mind regardless of consequence, and I worry sometimes that it will be detrimental to my own success. I just don't bow down. I spent enough of my life fighting off people who tried to change me into what they thought I should be. For better or for worse, this is who I am. I'm thirty-one years old I'm still struggling to find my place, but not I'm not gonna change who I am.

But then again, how do you define success?
I say it's when you succeed at your endeavors while remaining true to yourself.
That's why Bernie Mac's death hit me so hard; he did it. He stayed exactly who he was over the years and he still made it.

I find hope in that.
So, thanks, Mac. You're an inspiration and you are greatly missed.

And I agree;

"If they grown enough to talk back, they grown enough to get fucked up."

Bernard Jeffrey McCollough
"Bernie Mac"
October 5, 1957-August 9, 2008

So Google Has A Browser...

2008-09-03T09:29:00.000-07:00

Okay, straight up, if you've followed this blog at all, you know I'm not the most technically astute person in the world. I'm not going to discuss the Chrome's technical features because I don't feel qualified too.

What I am going to tell you, from the perspective of someone who watches as much G4 as possible except when the NFL is on Sundays, is if you really need this browser on your computer.

I don't want much out of my technology; it just has to work. I don't want to download or purchase and then update or subscribe or whatever. I want it to work, a it should, right out of the box.

Google Chrome does this. It works, from the moment you download and install it, and it'll even hold your hand during the installation process. Better add a shortcut to the desktop and launch bar if you don't know how to hunt for your programs, especially if you're running Vista Pro. Chrome doesn't go into your Program Files; instead, you'll find it under your computer's profile, in the AppData. I spent about an hour looking for it so I could add the icon to my sidebar. Frustrating.

Considering how cluttered my Firefox is, Chrome is a breath of fresh air. Something that took me by surprise was how it immediately opens up your most visited pages and gives you the option of navigating to them. To the right side you'll see some of your bookmarks. Very convenient, very i-googlish.

Chrome will automatically import all of your bookmarks from Firefox or Flock or whatever you use, but kiss your add-ons goodbye. Hey, it's still in beta. Give it a break.
I know it's supposed to import all of your passwords, I know because I checked, but I still had to open up my old browser to dig up some passwords I hadn't used in months. Probably a bug that only affects one or two percent of the users. Frustrating, again, but not at all a dealkiller.

Nice little animation when you want to open up a new tab, and Chrome handles multiple tabs without bogging down your processor.
I think Chrome's best strength is that the navigation bar is so efficient it's frightening. There is no "stop" button. Never really saw the point of the stop button anyways, and I always end up removing it in FF. No, here, you get Back, Forward, and Favorite, all conveniently to the left of the address bar. To the right, you get to play with it a little, plus Chrome manages to condense most standard features into two buttons. The best thing to happen to any browser is Chrome's ability to allow you to open a page "incognito". A potential nightmare for employers, any page you open here will pop-up and not be saved in your history. So for those of you who just have to get your little XXX fix on while you're on the clock, this one's for you. Just don't do any downloading. Chrome will still log that.

I have to admit, I'm not totally blown away by Google Chrome, but if you're not too familiar with Firefox or Flock yet, then go ahead and download Chrome.
Even if you are, this for sure is something to keep your eye on. The scariest thing about Chrome right now is that it's still in beta. Experts predict it'll take two years to catch up with Firefox, I'd be surprised if it took that long.

It's only real fault is that it is brand-new, and unrefined. Even if you don't download it, keep your eye on it. You spend any amount of time browsing, chances are you'll want this soon enough.

Brutal/Gaming

2008-09-01T07:47:00.001-07:00

About five, maybe six years ago, I was working as a bouncer at the Bad Axe Lanes and Lounge for their annual New Year's party. Although the previous year had been uneventful, this year, I wound up getting into a very serious altercation with a corn-fed country guy who, lucky me, didn't have a lick of body fat on him, and had spent his entire life working with his hands. Unfortunately, he liked to carry a big Bowie knife on him, and to make it worse, this guy was not all talk.

The brawl had started over something very trivial; he had gotten a little loud and my boss asked me to say something to him. I did, he got belligerent, I turned my back, he went to push me, I restrained him, he drew the blade, the band plays on.
I remember during this entire battle that I felt if I got a single technique wrong, this guy would capitalize and kill me. Every hit had to count. Nothing could miss. If I kept my distance, I dared not to rush in for fear of being impaled. I let him come in and intercept him. Once I got in close, I wouldn't let him get away until I did as much damage as I could. Try as I might, I could not get that knife away from him. I was suddenly very aware of every artery in my body.

There is something to be said about the power of sheer hatred. I had martial arts, a somewhat clear head, and experience on my side, but this guy was motivated by a sheer hatred that fed off of destruction, that needed no rhyme or reason, that existed only to see every person of color dead. For me, I was trying to stay alive (and got knicked up pretty good in the process) but for him, it was an opportunity to personally take out an object of his hatred. When I first start a fight, I hold back the full power of my moves for fear of permanently damaging my opponent, but every single time I hit him, he just got madder and madder. By the time the fight reached its bitter, bloody conclusion, I was drawing on reserves of strength I didn't even know I had. Ultimately, the fight came to a very brutal end.

Fast forward. This past weekend I finally got a chance to play the much-maligned Rockstar title "Manhunt" and considering the colossal uproar this title caused, I was expecting something pretty violent. Granted, I'm pretty jaded, but I can still be moved. I was impressed with the outright gritty storyline, and maneuvering James Earl Cash felt natural. I felt a dark, sick glee come over me when "plastic bag" became one of my weapons.
I was, however, greatly disappointed with the execution. I was thinking to myself; this is it? This is what everyone's flipping out about? They have Disney movies with chicks getting shot in the head and this is what everyone's mad about?"

I thought Kojima-san's Metal Gear Solid was waaay more brutal, but even better, it made a point.
The terror-factor from getting suffocated with a plastic bag comes from tightening the plastic as the victim fights for air, struggling harder as they feel their life slipping away. A cutscene doesn't convey this appropriately, because you're watching it, not doing it.
In the first Metal Gear Solid (PS1) there's a scene where you're breaking out of prison, and the brutality factor is best conveyed here. Throughout the game, the faster you press the button, the quicker you end your captive's life. Hesitate, and they may struggle and get free. Even better, do it with just enough force, and you only put them to sleep. But there's a certain finality you feel when the neck snaps, the pad JOLTS ever so slightly, and I remember I found myself looking around in real life as Snake set the carcass down.

When Snake is trying to break out of prison, he's been tortured and injured, so the button pressing, no matter how hard you're doing it, feels a little weaker. This is conveyed by the soldier, who is not screaming as frequently as he would be if Snake were in optimal condition.
To me, the act of holding onto a guard and making an effort to kill them, when you have other options, that is brutal. That is jaw-dropping. That is scary.

Brutality is a choice, not a vision. This is a hell of way to be approaching the game development biz, but this is what I know, and this is how I tell it.

But that's just me.

The Will To Win

2008-08-23T04:51:00.001-07:00

It's almost seven in the morning over here. I've spent the past few hours completely and utterly annihilating a friend of mine at DragonBall Z: Budokai Tenkaichi 2. I mean it. Since about two o'clock, he managed to win a single round in about the sixty-seventy we played.
He used to be better than me. I used to beat the brakes off of him in Tekken, but he could find refuge in knowing he could use me as a mop in DragonBall Z.
Such is not true anymore. Having completely and totally dissected his game, he hasn't stood a chance in a long time. He actually wondered in frustration if I was using a custom character. I wasn't; as far as the stats were concerned, we were evenly matched.

He's not the first person this has happened to. A long time ago, my ex-wife's older brother used to consistently hand me my head at the Blitz and Madden franchise. But the more I played him, the better I got, until he too found he didn't have a chance against me. It wasn't uncommon to see a score of 49-0 at halftime.
It used to happen in the arcades, too. When I first started playing the Street Fighter and King of Fighter franchises, I was bantha fodder. When I got better, I had someone put five dollars in my hand if I walked away and let him finish his game in peace. I would have scores of people lined up on the second player side, each waiting for the slim-to-nothing shot at taking me down.

It's not just video games, either. All those years on the road, facing someone faster, stronger, more experienced…it didn't seem to matter. I always managed to find that one shot, that one place to hit them that brought them down. A few people who have seen me compete said that something comes into my eyes. Another friend of mine noted; the less you believe in me, the stronger I become.

I have come to accept that I am not at all at peace with what happened to me as a child. People close to me call me confused and conflicted, and they're right. A month in my current life is forever ago, yet I can remember Julie's death, and everything my father put me through, as though it was yesterday. Falling asleep on Greyhound and waking up in the wrong place feels like two centuries back now, lifetimes removed…and yet I can barely remember what happened earlier this week. Nothing ever changes anymore for me. I admitted flat-out that if I could've lived on the road and fought for the rest of my life, then I would've done it. I stopped because I was getting older, and the risks were becoming too great. My life has become simplistic routine, and I only say I wouldn't change it because I don't want God to take it away from me. Otherwise…it's dull.

Also, if I give up, pack a bag, and hit the road again, it's like saying that I'm not good enough to succeed in this life. Like all I can do is fight, destroy, and be violent, and I really don't want to be that way anymore. I don't want to succeed to spite people anymore. I want to succeed because I know I can do it.

My father spent so long drilling into me how worthless I was that there's a part of me that still believes him. What I learned tonight, what I finally realized…was that after all the humiliation, the name-calling, and the beatings, I am still here. In fact, I've put myself in a position where I could actually afford to take a recently-evicted friend of mine in for a few days. I could put a roof over someone's head and offer him free access to my fridge without worrying where my next meal is coming from. I've had the same job for months. I write for a living. I haven't been arrested all year.

That was what he couldn't take from me. He could not break me.

It is the same thing that allowed me to overcome every obstacle I've come across that will finally allow me to succeed.

It is the Will To Win, against any adversary.

Even myself.

I don't know how I will let it all go, but I know that tapping into that same reservoir that allows me to overcome hurdles will allow me to do it.

I want this confusion to end. I plan to win this fight…

Learning from SNK Playmore…

2008-08-20T05:00:00.001-07:00

In hindsight, I look at SNK as the runner-up in the arcades; the red cabinet with four games in one, I always thought it a blessing to get there and find no one on it. Rarely there was a crowd, but when there was, there was always the same crowd. You could always find a crowd around the Street Fighters and Mortal Kombats, but it was a different set of people almost every time. Around the SNK cabinets, it was the same people most of the time; people who didn't just enjoy the games, but had their favorite characters and storylines. You saw someone at an SNK cabinet and chances are you already knew what you were up against, because you had seen it before. Street Fighter had more of a tournament appeal than any of the SNK games, but SNK felt more like a small religion.

I used to think it was cool that SNK came out with a new fighting game every week, in hindsight it looked like they were desperate to find a hit to catch the success of Street Fighter II. This point couldn't be made clearer by the extremely average, forgettable World Heroes. Hanzou and Fuuma? Need I say more?

So recently I've been drowning myself in old-school nostalgia with the Art of Fighting and Fatal Fury anthologies. Up until playing these games, I had never played these franchises in their third incarnations.
Both Fatal Fury and Art of Fighting peaked out in their second incarnations, in my opinion. Having gotten used to such rock-solid, hard-hitting gameplay in the first two versions, I was hugely disappointed when playing Fatal Fury and Art of Fighting 3. It isn't just the gameplay that's been changed; the character set in both titles is so new and unfamiliar that I'm betting a lot of diehards felt alienated back in the day. Even now, playing these for the first time, I felt….betrayed. While one could argue gameplay in AoF3 until the cows came home, the graphics by any standard seem like they took a shortcut. Me, personally, I didn't care for the gameplay.

I don't know if SNK realized this (and I don't think it's by accident that neither franchise went very far beyond their third incarnations on their own. Art of Fighting went nowhere.) but it wasn't just the gameplay that drew the cult following. We would sit down and talk about our favorite characters, because they offered depth and charisma that Capcom couldn't give us. With Capcom we had to fill in a lot of the blanks. With SNK, we were thrust into this world of intrigue, violence, betrayal, and revenge, cheesy as it was.

Both Fatal Fury and Art of Fighting 2 offered us continuing stories and new characters who felt familiar enough to be friendly; they fit into the world well. In part three, we didn't know what the hell was going on. Change the character set and the gameplay so completely, you're gonna lose a lot of your fan base.

Oh, look at that. They did. Shame, because they were both good franchises, for awhile.

Almost all of my titles are inspired by what I played back in the day, rather than what I play now (which isn't much). I'm of this mentality; if you're lucky enough to develop a sequel, don't innovate to the point of alienation. People still love a good story if delivered correctly; Bioware is clear proof of that. But as you develop your world, remember the people who helped make it what it is. Stray too far, and people will turn on you.

But that's just me.

The Mythos of DragonBall Z

2008-08-14T01:00:00.001-07:00

You either love it or hate it, but you've heard of it. It is one of the most successful franchises in the world, spanning over a decade on television, more than fifteen films and a host of games that continue to be published today. There is even a feature-length Hollywood production based on the first saga in the works, casting Justin Chatwin as Goku and action star Chow Yun-Fat as Master Roshi. It has been mimicked, parodied, and ingrained in American nerddom as well as popular culture. Even with the series over and long off the air, syndication and Atari have helped ensure that Akira Toriyama's work is here to stay.

All of us fanboys have our favorite moments in the series; mine came at the beginning of the Trunks saga. After watching Goku's long, hard-fought battle against the nearly-invincible Frieza, I was amazed that even after Goku achieve the legendary Super Saiyan status, Frieza was cut down with his own attack. Goku was then forced to destroy him—after he restored some of his energy.
So I was surprised to see Frieza, now mechanized, on his way to Earth to exact revenge on the amnesiac Saiyan. Vegeta (always second-best) had been decimated by Frieza the first time around, and with Goku not yet on Earth, I was bracing for Frieza's revenge spree when he, and his father, returned to Earth. Instead, when Frieza dispatched his foot soldiers to find Goku's friends, most of them were cut down, literally, in mid-air. This gray-haired young boy slowly descended from the sky. He bore the insignia of Capsule Corporation, presumably the world's largest conglomerate. He branded a sword he easily dropped into the sheath on his back. With no fear and firm resolve, he stared the greatest threat in the universe down and said; "Ah, so…you must be Frieza."

I captured that audio clip and made it a ringtone. The boy, Trunks, who I refer to as the "Ninja Saiyan", went on to annihilate the foot soldiers, Frieza, and his father without taking a single hit.

I've been getting back into the series lately and from a writer's point of view, I'm still greatly impressed with the series, and I think I've figured out why it's been able to withstand the test of time. In the brutal, yet lighthearted world of DragonBall Z, evil is a forgivable choice, no one is beyond redemption, great power can be achieved through hard work, and maybe most noteworthy, DBZ offers us a chance most of us dare to dream of in real-life; to "wish back" those who have died. In DragonBall Z, death is not the end, and there are ways of contacting those who're loved and missed.

The character array is probably the vastest in any anime, going so far as to even fuse characters together to create new ones. Some of us thought this was a little ridiculous…but hey, it worked. Central to the series was Goku, aka Kakarot; the Saiyan boy who was sent to Earth as a baby to destroy the planet, but after a head injury, became the universe's greatest fighter. Goku was arguably the most powerful of the series, but certainly not the most popular; Goku's lightheartedness, infallible goodhearted nature turned a lot of people off. Enter Vegeta, the "Prince of all Saiyans" who was arguably a shade weaker than Goku, but not prone to mercy or honor in battle. Vegeta could be called downright evil when he first appeared on the show, but his character is a testament to the fact that all things can be forgiven, and anyone can change. Although the rivalry between Goku and Vegeta was paramount through the series, Vegeta eventually became one of Earth's defenders, even as he retained his cranky, sadistic nature. Vegeta was always motivated by his goal of surpassing Goku, which eventually led him to surrender his will to a wizard in order to raise his power level to match Goku's. Towards the end of the series, having settled down with a human being and raised a family, Vegeta at last comes to accept that it is his anger that has held him back, and that it is Goku's good nature that makes him the better fighter. While Goku represented that goodness that (I hope) is in every human being, Vegeta represents humanity's dark nature and the desire for power at almost all costs. He comes to represent a not-so-desired look in the mirror, and acceptance of our own faults. I think it is the remarkable human change that Vegeta goes through that has made him a fan favorite.

Also central to the series was the martial-arts, which really didn't need a name or a set style. These people were blowing away mountains just by thinking about it; who cares how they did it. The fights may have been a little repetitious and drawn-out, but they were still a blast to watch. Everyone has their favorite match-up (my personal favorite is Goku versus Maijin Vegeta). These people flew as easily as normal people walked and achieved powers great enough to detonate whole planets, just by pushing themselves to the breaking point. There were a number of children (and those a little older, admit it) who wondered how powerful they might become if they trained in intensified gravity…the dream of turning into a Super Saiyan, with outrageous powers and hair to match, is still popular enough to spawn a ton of fan-made videos on YouTube.

Ultimately…I believe that DragonBall Z tells a very simple story of good versus evil, and it's always been simplicity that has earned the most success. It has shown that things aren't always as black and white as we'd like them to be, that everything is a result of the choices we make, and that no one is beyond redemption. It has shown what can be achieved if one is willing to work hard, it has given us a lovable cast of characters and endless sagas to debate. It has managed to successfully merge very Disney-inspired, lighthearted humor (Bibbidi, Babidi, Buu) with bloody, brutal violence and even a little morality.

And I need to get back into the Fusion saga. Thanks for reading!

As What Will Never Happen Again Comes To Pass…

2008-08-07T17:14:00.001-07:00

Tomorrow is 8/8/08. It will never happen again.
As it dawns, and I will be working again, I just awoke from one of the most profound dream sessions I have ever had. These thoughts came to me, and I wanted to get them out while they were still fresh, and at their purest.

I want to walk, not drive, every road in the world with a bag over my shoulder. I believe that by touching feet to the Earth are we able to appreciate where we have been more. I want to physically touch every human being on the planet and learn all I can from them and become worldly. I want to fight the strong and help the weak. I want to push the cowards and execute the evil. I want to remember anger and evil within me so I never forget what it took to overcome it.

I want to sample the food and language of every continent on this planet. I want to aid in a rebellion and bring an end to tyranny. I want to take the chances no one else will, I want to do the things that frighten other people, I want to push the limits of perception and dispel the notion "It can't be done".

I want to walk the line with the abyss below me and the light above me. I want to sit down with God and ask why. I want a life to be filled with joy, laughter, sorrow, and the extremes of every emotion. I want to know a love so deep that it hurts to be away from them. I want to be a light in the darkness, I want an end to cynicism, and I would like to leave my feet and the Earth behind, if only for a moment. I want a battle that pushes me to my breaking point and beyond, I want to look at my opponent and smile.

I want to defy notions of commonality and status quo. I want to show people the power of the human mind and the evidence that God exists, working within all of us.

I want to fight and win without spilling blood. I want the people I love to know I love them. I want to laugh every day. I want to sit down, close my eyes, and exhale.

I want to face my kids and follow my heart where-ever it will take me.

I want peace.

I want to live.

Fight For All The Right Reasons

2008-08-07T11:27:00.001-07:00

"This place corrupts everything it touches, including me. Stay away from here."

It's what I tell people in regards to where I work, known as the Towers. It is two buildings, nine floors into the sky, nearly identical and nondescript from the outside. When you enter, you feel the oppressive push of its insanity and rage, created by the hundreds of crowded people who have just plain given up, and are now only out to get what they can, who get angry when others get more, and do the best they can to keep others at their station even as they try to rise above it themselves. It is a place of madness, and I don't fault anyone for not wanting to be there for very long.

Not everyone is like this. There are a few people who genuinely do the best they can with what little they have, and it is these people that make it a little easier to come to work each night.

I lived among this element my entire life, so it's nothing new to me. It's a quiet office that has air conditioning and a fridge, where they feed me on a nightly basis and I can focus on my stories and the entire series of DragonBall Z. It's not so bad when you learn to filter out the bullshit.

Every so often, though, I get to hunt, and vent my frustrations on some genuinely deserving people.
Last night was one of those nights.
It began even as I first walked into work; with a host of the parasitic element recently evicted from the Towers, it's made room for a whole new host of parasites to move in. With these parasites come their associations. Again, I imagine they're not all bad; these're just the people I've met recently. The first incident came with some idiot on the fifth floor who felt a need to share his music with the entire city. His girlfriend (for the moment) had recently returned home from a local emergency room with a swollen eye (I wonder if he gave it to her) and I guess they were celebrating. Anyway, when I knock on the door, he's drunk to the point of barely standing with his jeans sagging and his zipper down. Sorry I interrupted.

When I ask him to turn his music down, I find he's a polite drunk. He apologizes for all the times he said the word nigger (I never heard him say it, but whatever) and that there were niggers in every race and he was just venting about all the niggers he didn't like. I've just become numb to it. I really didn't care. As long as he kept his music down, I was fine. He invited me in for a beer, and had I known what awaited that night, I might've taken him up on it. He, it turns out, was the nicest part of the evening.

Nope, about two hours later, the fun began.
There's this young couple visiting an older couple, also on the fifth floor. When I can hear their music from a floor down at two in the morning, I figure I should say something. So when I knock on their door and ask him to turn his music down, he, filled with liquid courage, turns it up. Great…

I tell him I don't want to call the cops (it wouldn't help anyway) and I'm not trying to jam him up…just turn the bloody music down, please? Slurring his words to the point of near incomprehension, he tells me that he don't have to do what I say and blah blah blah. This is the point where I have to be careful. I can't step into this house without permission and there is no surveillance here. As always, on my own. So I take my most diplomatic tone of voice and address the situation as politely as I can.

Turn the music down or turn it off.

Of course, he asks me; what I am gonna do if he doesn't?
Confrontationally, he spreads his arms. He begins to walk towards me in full stride. He's a little skinny but has muscle tone, his legs are long; sober, he might prove a challenge. Either way, I figure he's gonna close the distance between us in less than four seconds. I step my right foot forward, just barely outside the apartment, and the second he gets into striking distance, I unleash a right-handed backfist strike that catches him clean by his eye. I haven't fought in years, but my aim is still pretty good.
He drops. Just like that.
I pulled the punch. I know I didn't hit him hard enough to do permanent damage. I ask if I can step inside, and his bewildered, suddenly-sober girlfriend gives me the okay. I check his pulse; steady. His breathing is fine. I help him onto the bed and document the entire thing. At this point I'm wondering if I'll have my job the next day.

A couple more hours go by, and amidst the good-jobs I'm getting from some of the better people in the tower, I'm thinking to myself; I hit him, I pulled it, and I wasn't angry. I didn't envision my father or anything. I just hit him once and let it go. Don't think I've ever felt that before.
There's a knock at the far window…and it's Juice.
I do a double-take.
I don't talk about Juice often; he used to be my nemesis on this site. He nearly raped a woman—on my watch--and the cops didn't touch him. He was free to do pretty much what he wanted at the towers because he had turned criminal informant. Personally, he personified everything people don't like in black people. It had taken months of work to get rid of him, going through the damn "right channels" but I did it. In the process, I walked away from an opportunity to whip his ass, and that never sat right with me. Unemployment would've sat worse.

But tonight, months later, gone, and nearly forgotten, here he was. Is it my birthday?
Juice has been sentenced to three years in prison, but was given a three-day reprieve to get his affairs in order. He began his sentence today; I guess he wanted to settle up with me before disappearing.
I don't know what I have less faith in; our judicial system or the belief that he would actually turn himself in. Either way, he beckoned to me to come outside.
I walked outside slowly, not sure as to what he had on him or who might be with him. As it turned out, he was alone.
I could see it in his dark brown, now black eyes why he was there. He had made up his mind about this long before he showed up. Good.

I told him he had to leave; he was not legally allowed on the property. He accused me of stealing his girlfriend; the young girl he left permanent scars on and got arrested for possession of crack cocaine.
I told him I did no such thing. He didn't believe me. That's his problem. Leave…(I had to say it)…or I have to remove you.

Yeah, I wanted to fight him. I wanted to break him down with my bare hands.
But I can't do that now, can I…
He dared me to remove him.
When I stepped towards him, he reached for the small of his back. Make a decision quick; pin the arm or drop him? Juice is forty-four years old and riding high on a crack habit. He may be ex-military, but he blew any training in a pipe years ago. I gamble that his reflexes are shot and send a right cross into his jaw with about half of my hitting power.
He drops and instantly gets to his feet; I'm impressed, but I'm still gonna shine up that bald head of yours, man. I feel that familiar ball of energy rising in my stomach and I smile, my hands stay open. I look at him and see the man, not my father, not anyone I hate, for I hate no one. I feel no anger, no rage towards this man, for life will deal with him as it deals with all of us. This is merely a reward for patience and truly getting my anger under control. I can savage him…and not do permanent damage. This is the fight I have been waiting for. This is the test to see if I'm ready for it.

He jabs, weakly, slowly. I'm disappointed. Ex-Navy and he's nowhere near my level. I swat them away and dance around him, and it pisses him off. He begins to lose control, talking about how I stole his girl from him. I feel bad for him; in his own way, maybe he did love her. Maybe the violence was the only way he could express it. Then it hits me that I'm really not angry, and I'm not fooling myself. There is nothing I can do to this man that he hasn't already done himself.

When he tries a right hook that can be seen from two towns over, I block it and send a firm body blow into his solar plexus. I pull it. It's still enough to knock the wind from him. I finish him with a left palm to the cheek. He's down, and struggling to get up.
If you leave now, I tell him, I won't call the cops. You can blow town. Just walk away.

I don't even know if he heard me.
As he lunges towards me with bloodshot eyes, I realize that my right arm is outstretched in that ward-off fashion. He grabs it. I yank it back and use his momentum. I grab him by the shirt and roll onto my back. I thrust my foot into his solar plexus and send him flying over me. Haven't used that move in awhile. I'm hoping he'll stop before I really have to do something to him—and I don't want to. I still can't believe that.

As he smashes into the ground, I hear the impact and wince, and I hear it in his voice and a twinge of guilt goes through me. That must be Sam's influence. He tries to get up, but he can't. There is nothing left for me to do but call dispatch, who picks him up for Trespassing. Of course, I document the whole thing.

I haven't fought in a long time, but it still feels as good as it always did. For me, it's not about the violence anymore. It's about the move-to-move fluidity, and although this may not make sense, win or lose, I always win. If I win, then I know I have pushed myself hard enough to be better than my opponent. I have expanded my knowledge and skill set to have risen above the next challenge. If I lose, then I know I have that much more to learn, that something is lacking in my technique. Every experience is another opportunity to learn.

It's not even about anger or rage or punishment anymore. Just like everything else I try to do, it is about becoming a better person.

Last night was a good night.

Oh, in case you're wondering; I've been in touch with my job and the client. I did everything by the book, and I still have to report for duty tonight.

For Lora

2008-07-29T13:42:00.001-07:00

Lora Jeanette Moreland was a resident of Hamilton Towers in Jefferson City, Missouri. She passed away suddenly, and unexpectedly, on Saturday, July 26, 2008. She was forty-six years old.
To me, she had become an unwelcome nuisance. Everything always had to be about her. She had become obsessed with me; spreading rumors throughout the Towers about her and I running off together. I wanted to see her move.

Lora had this clockwork-like habit; every time she received bad news, she would have some sort of medical crisis. She would always go to the hospital and return home that night. I came to think nothing of it, save for I was glad she was gone for a few hours.

The last time I spoke to her was Wednesday, the 23rd. I had told her two days prior that I had been fielding a lot of complaints about her insistent nosiness. She hadn't taken the news well.
She told me that I had been holding her to a double-standard. She always told me when people were bitching about me, but I never returned the courtesy. I told her I didn't want to give her one more (last) thing to stress over.
She then said that she would leave everyone alone. She was withdrawing. She gave in.
She said she just wanted to be happy, and outlive her daughter. She didn't expect to be here much longer.

Three days later, she died.
I did not do right by her.

Sam says that she doesn't ever see us getting married because I "do not have that level of commitment to any one person" and she couldn't be more right. I do not allow myself to care about anyone to the point where they can do me harm. The people I do end up caring about, I look for reasons to expel them from my life. It's sick, it's wrong, and I wish I knew how to fix it.

Lora would be waiting in the lobby every night for me when I arrived at work. She always had a meal ready; not just fast food, but something she had put effort into. When she found out I was diabetic, she tailored her cooking accordingly, and still managed to fill me up without running up my blood sugar.
Sometimes she would have whole notebooks filled up with her observations of the people we were trying to evict in the Towers. A lot of my investigations were based on her efforts. She feared nothing; I told her repeatedly that she was making a mistake, blaring to people that she was the one who was turning people in, getting them written up. She was threatened more times than I could count.

It didn't matter what kind of help you needed. She was just there. She took in the youngest resident of Hamilton Towers and fed her when she had no food. She targeted, investigated, and saw the eviction process through the end on more than three tenants in the six months I've been there.

I used to think her constant pleas for attention were just egotism. Lora had been through more hell in her lifetime than most of us could go through in three, including two divorces, the death of one son, nearly dying in a plummeting car crash, and eventually, living the rest of her life out in terrible loneliness.

No, her cries for attention were just asking someone--anyone--to love her.
She threw herself at me, and I couldn't return her affection in any way, shape, or form. I completely shut her out....and today I saw her buried.

So, Lora...if you can take two minutes away from your son and read this, please know that you did mean a lot to me. Please forgive me for my coldness, my shortsightedness, and my cruelty. I sincerely mean it when I say you were one of the best people in the Towers. Thank you for dinner, over and over again.

Find the peace that eluded you in this life, and I hope I see you again someday.
Not soon.
But someday.

You Don’t Find Him. He Finds You…

2008-07-23T04:08:00.001-07:00

Let me start this off by saying something. I don't try to force my beliefs on anyone and I don't judge anyone by their beliefs. This is just what I believe, my faith, and my opinion. If you're easily offended, you should probably click back now.

I sincerely believe that the world has gone crazy simply because we have not surrendered to God's will. And the cynic in me doesn't blame anyone one bit. This is an age where we need to see to believe, and the very notion of God is that you cannot see and hear Him in the traditional sense. To understand, I think you need to feel on a much deeper level, and face things within yourself you may shy away from.

I've always believed in God because I was raised that way. Now that I'm a little older, I don't believe a lot of what I saw as a kid. I've been exposed to so much hypocrisy in church that I flat-out refuse to go back. I've seen pastors preach about marital fidelity and then try to get into my mom's pants. I've seen preachers who drive BMW's and convertible sports cars and talk about giving back to God. Child molestation is so rampant in the Catholic Church that it's actually become acceptable to make jokes about it. I don't really believe in the practice of infant baptism anymore, but I respect the majority opinion on it. Seriously, how're you supposed to follow anything when your first impression is some guy speaking in a loud voice and drowning you at the same time?

Please.

I found God—more like He found me—when I was an adult.
There is a little-known shelter in the worst part of Saginaw, Michigan. It's not in any phone book. You only find out about it through word of mouth. This place used to be the very definition of the word "crooked". I opted to stay here, rather than the well-known Rescue Mission, because they didn't preach or force you to attend any services, either. They didn't necessary make you do anything to better yourself, either. You could languish there forever.
I was there not even three years ago, now.

On the mend (as always) and working at a rinky-dink telemarketing agency, one of the so-called better managers got word of who I was, and it turned out there were other former fighters there, so he organized this tournament in which people fought to a knockout, and the grand prize was only a thousand dollars. When you're broke, homeless, and you need a way out, you will kill for a thousand dollars. I saw it as my ticket out. I entered the tournament, and made a very good friend in a Capoeira expert who taught me some of the basics.

As the tournament went on over the course of a month, both me and my newfound friend excelled through a bunch of newbies until the situation presented itself that we might face one another. Although we laughed and joked, deep down, neither of us wanted to fight each other. True friends in the street are very hard to come by, and one of us facing defeat would've ended that.

Turns out we didn't have to face off.

Another fighter no one was paying attention too was accelerating to the final match just as quickly as we were. This guy wound up facing off against my friend and broke his leg in two places. It boiled down to him and me in the finals, and after what I had been through in KCMO and Bay City, I didn't think I had a chance in Hell against this guy.

I went to the man who organized this whole thing and told him I wanted out. Although I offered to buy my way out (a coward's way, but it happens) he simply warned me that there would be consequences for my actions.

The next night, as I'm walking back towards the shelter, a four-door Crown Vic beater pulls up about three blocks away from me. Someone steps out of the backseat and raises something metallic that glints in the moonlight. I remember it going through my head; "Holy shit, is that a gun?!"

I saw the muzzle flash before I heard the shot. That's how fast a bullet travels. The projectile was past me before I even heard the gun go off. The bullet didn't come anywhere near me—deliberately—I think, but I ducked instinctively. I heard the car speed off.

I've been shot before, but the bullets weren't for me. This was the first time someone had ever fired a gun directly at me. When I got back to the shelter that night, the man who had organized this tournament asked me how my day went. I got the message.
I consider this the lowest point of my life. I have nowhere left to run, no way to leave the state, no place to call home, all I have is a menial job and a bunch of dreams. At my cot that night, for the first time in over a year, with nowhere else to turn, I got down on my knees and clasped my hands. "God," I said, not sure how to go about this, "Please, see me through this. I will leave this life behind. Please see me through this."

I got up, got onto my cot, and went to sleep.
My friend, although unable to spar, took me under his wing and trained me harder than I've ever been trained before. For two weeks, he stayed outside with me, having me throw kicks against trees until my shins bled, teaching me how to spin without getting dizzy, pushing me to my breaking point and beyond. When the day came that I would take on the man who beat my friend in the finals, we met in the railroad tracks which served as an overpass to a two-lane road that was always busy below us. It was winter, it had snowed the previous night. I remembered thinking that it always seemed to be cold and snowing during my most critical battles.
He stepped in, throwing a cross. I blocked it and came right back, hitting him with everything I have in a gloved right hook.
He spun and turned, falling flat to the ground, unconscious.
For a second, all was quiet. No one, including me, could believe what happened.
Then I collected my thousand dollars. I never fought again.

The money set me up in my first apartment in Bay City. It was a cruddy little studio that was so small that I couldn't stand up in my own bathroom. But when the following winter rolled around, I was living in my own apartment. I went back to a church I trusted in Bay City and had myself re-baptized, confirming my faith in God and Jesus.

Now…I'm thirty-one, I never thought I'd see thirty, I rent a one-bedroom in Jefferson City, I have a great girlfriend, I work in a supervisory position on a job that allows me to pursue my long-fought-for dream, and I'm developing a reputation as a solid investment as a freelancer. To some people, this doesn't seem like much. I don't have the right to ask for anything more.

I don't think you find God, I think He finds you, when you are ready for Him. I don't think you can force people to believe, if you try, you'll just turn them off. I think everyone knows that He's out there, but they need something more to convince them to believe. It may seem trivial, but I liken true Christianity to being a jedi knight; it's a hard, yet rewarding road and when people who don't believe get close to you, they wonder how you do the things you do. Some are unwilling to put the time in when they realize the sacrifices you have to make. I don't own a 360 or even a car. He will bring these things to me when He sees fit. I can relax in that.

But as I'm the only one who's lived my life, people often think I'm strange when they ask me how I can believe in God. My response is always; "How can you not?"

My final example is how He works through the people in your life. I have long been torn between Torque and the XNA developer's community for my game development choices. This morning, I get a message from Soulhuntre telling me to check out the new XNA Premier Developer Community and just like that, I know where I'm supposed to be.

I believe in God because I have seen too much evidence to deny His existence. I believe because He is the only reason I am alive today.

If you really want to believe….if you're honestly looking for God, stop. Stop looking…and let Him find you. I promise you, He is already searching for you, and He will find you, if you let Him.

The Dark Knight

2008-07-23T03:34:00.001-07:00

It dawns on me that I would be a better blogger if I could organize my thoughts more quickly. I should work on that…

First of all, the Dark Knight should not be classified as another "Batman" movie or even a superhero movie. Christopher Nolan's Dark Knight, his second entry into the new Batman franchise, is a psychological crime drama that is reminiscent of Michael Mann's 1995 hit "Heat". It just happens to have Batman in it.

Nolan chose to shoot the film entirely in Imax, and as such we're treated to a lot of larger-than-life imagery and shots, even in its current, reduced state. Fight scenes especially feel more visceral and real; this is Batman at his most brutal and merciless. Gone is the semi-clean fighting from the nineties. Here you get up close elbows and fists to the face, and I found myself wincing watching Nolan's vision.

Heath Ledger's portrayal of the Joker is nothing short of legendary, made more poignant by the fact that there he will not be able to re-take the role in the inevitable third film. In order to portray the Joker, you have to strike the balance between dark comedy and utter terror; no easy task, and Heath Ledger pulls it off, although he didn't make it look easy. This is the first Joker, in any incarnation outside of the comic series, that is both scary and funny at the same time. This point is brought home with the Joker's "Disappearing Pencil" trick.

The film also boasts a pretty good secondary cast, including Michael Jai White and the ubiquitous Eric Roberts. It would've been nice to see Michael Jai White demonstrate some of his physical abilities, but he does his job well enough here.

What stuck out the most to me, character-wise, was Aaron Eckhardt's portrayal of the tragic District Attorney Harvey Dent, destined to become Two-Face (who has long since recovered in the comic series). The WB cartoon series in the nineties was the first to show some of Harvey's more humane side and bring some sympathy to the character, but Christopher Nolan brings it full-circle. We like this Harvey Dent, a zealous, bad-ass DA who kicks someone's ass in the courtroom and then refuses to take a break so he can finish his cross-examination. He may be the story even more than the Bruce Wayne/Batman examination, as he truly represents all that is good in Gotham, and made all the more tragic as we know what is to happen to him.

The Dark Knight's true success lies in the daring, and visual reality of this film. Some of these scenarios seem just a little too real, too close to home. What would we do, placed in the hopeless situations the Joker creates? How far would a police department let a vigilante like Batman go?

Questions like these and more is what really sets the film apart and makes it inappropriate to call it a superhero film. Batman, while fictional, is a human being, who makes real choices and suffers real consequences. This is the most visceral, realistic portrait of Batman to ever hit the big screen and is worth seeing more than once.

Avery K. Tingle/Busterwolf

2008-07-18T05:35:00.001-07:00

Forgive me, mom. I have to let this out.
They say confession is good for the soul. I don't like to talk about this kind of stuff in person, but I can write up a storm. So here we go.

I am one person divided into two psyches; Avery K. Tingle, and Busterwolf. Like Bruce Wayne and Batman, I'm not sure which one is really me.
Probably Busterwolf.

See, it's like this. There's Avery, who was beaten to a bloody pulp day in and day out by his father, who was happy as hell when he won Stratos in the fifth grade and the whole class laughed at him, who was told that everything he was ever interested in wasn't right, or he would never be anything at it. And then, in this pool of blood after I was eleven, Busterwolf was born.

Busterwolf is the one who genuinely doesn't give a fuck what other people think, he's the one who beat anyone who ever looked at him cross-eyed to an inch of their lives, he's the one who succeeds at everything he does just to spite other people. He's the one who stuffed Danny McNair into a locker overnight and then dared him to say something when he was finally released. He is also Avery's fiercest protector.

I'm older, all the abuse and violence is behind me, and reconciling the two has thus far proven impossible. Avery is the one who loves video games, Busterwolf gets good at them, Avery is the one who loves girls, Busterwolf isn't afraid to talk to them because he honestly doesn't care about being rejected.

Avery wants to trust the world, Busterwolf won't let him.
I'm not sure which one wants Modern Magic, who created Universal Warrior, who's great at talking to people, who loves to learn, and all the good things I believe make me who I am. I don't know which one of me that is. I don't even know how to go about putting it together.

All this strength I got over the years and I have no idea what to do with it. I don't know how to channel it any other way but through violence. I don't know what to do. I just want to scream.

The Last Big Crossroads

2008-07-18T03:38:00.000-07:00

I'm going to be brutally honest here, and hope it helps. I have a BIG problem with procrastination. The reason why is that I am utterly terrified of success.

Here's what I mean.
My job is a breeze. I have to sit at a desk and watch computer monitors for eight hours (when they work). I am welcomed, even encouraged, to pursue outside interests, so this is the perfect job for me to sit my ass down and get a buttload of writing done. I have no shortage of work. I can work on the outline for Heir to Fire, I can work on the novel I've been hired to work on, I can edit the script for Faithless, I can work on the GDD for Oppression, hell, I can even work on Batman: Immortal if I get bored.

My problem is I always find something, some reason, not to do it. I'm lucky if I get two nights a week in where I really get something done. I spend a lot of time bullshitting with the residents and feeling guilty and mad as hell when the night is done.

People I respect have read my stories, heard my ideas, and thought they were great and worth pursuing. A long time ago, I even had a corporation ready to invest money into me if I was willing to relocate. Eons ago, a lot of people heard what I had to say and waited for me to make it happen.

I failed.

I'm not sure when my number is up. I'm an unmedicated type-two diabetic, which is a leading killer of black men in America. I'm not supposed to be healthy by the time I reach my mid-forties. I'm thirty-one now.
Let's say I get Faithless done on time, I will be close to thirty-three by the time it's available.

I have spent more time lately leveling up my characters in a game no one cares about than getting actual work done.
I have begun to ask myself if this is what I really want.

I think anyone can live easily, to just do what they want, when they want, and not worry about the consequences. I think too many people adopting that mentality have turned this country in the wrong direction (sic; Family Guy: We Lost The Morals, But We Kept The Weed). I used to live this way too, but I have also come to realize that I can't afford to be selfish as a parent, and I have to take the consequences of my actions into account.

It's not just about me anymore.
So here I stand. On one end, I can live easily at this job, in this apartment, for the rest of my life, or I can put my mind to the long-envisioned Modern Magic and make it fucking happen.

I'm sick of feeling like this, though.
I need to make a decision.

Wal-Mart Warning

2008-07-17T01:01:00.000-07:00

So a couple of weeks ago, I'm psyched. I finally have enough money set aside to begin production on Faithless, the first entry in the Universal Warrior series. Riding high on the dreams of what may come, I head to Wal-Mart, my (formerly) favorite one-stop shopping center and purchase a money order to cover half of the fee I worked out with my concept artist. That day, I get it into the mail and don't give it a second thought.

She gets in touch with me a few days later, and lookie here! My very first delay! Seems that the Wal-Mart where she lives won't accept their own damn money order because, apparently, their money order is so easy to forge that occassionally, they won't honor it.

Hell, I think. It's a money order, I paid cash for it, shouldn't be a problem. We agree that when she sends the money order back, I'll refund it and get her one from the post office, and things will get rolling.

Well, not so much.
I went into the same Wal-Mart I purchased the money order from and they refused to refund it. It seems that when I put someone else's name on it, it was completely voided. I asked how the fuck did that even work. Just by putting someone's name on it, the damn thing was voided?!
I realized that it was easier to walk away before I turned into Ghetto Hulk and wound up needing bail money. But I wound up stuck with one hundred and fifty dollars worth of dead weight because one of the nations largest retail chains refused to honor its own money order.

So this is a warning to anyone who deals with Wal-Mart, and I know that's a lot of us; their money orders are indeed easy to replicate (Google it, you'll see) and if you buy one from them, you're rolling the dice. Do yourself a favor and get to the post office.

Avoid Wal-Mart money orders at all costs. Friendly warning.

I Saw MS at E3…

2008-07-16T03:28:00.001-07:00

I was able to catch Microsoft's presentation at E3, thanks to G4. More than anything, I was impressed with the president of Square-Enix, who just barely spoke English and still made a dramatic showing of his company's lineup for the 360. "The Last Remnant" looked promising, and what they showed made the dialogue seem less like it was translated (although I know it was) and more fit for American viewing.

Microsoft put a huge emphasis on its new social networking features. I've never seen a business make such a big deal on the type of avatar you could create, although I think it's a cool little feature. I really liked the idea of a partnership with Netflix and the idea of creating your own rooms to do whatever you like, such as trade photos or music.

It all kind of irks me, though, because it makes me realize that my time, the time of the hardcore gamer, is long over. I didn't realize until today; Nintendo may be winning the console war, but Microsoft and Sony are thinking on a much more global format; they want to control your entire living room. Microsoft is succeeding, I think; I know one person who doesn't make a lot of money who owns a 360. He uses it to store and play music more than anything else; he doesn't own four games for the system.

It is easier to break into the games business through Microsoft than it is with Sony or Nintendo, and I wonder with a little bit of dread; in the Day of the Casual Gamer, is there any room at all for the hardcore gamer?

Just barely.

I take refuge in niche titles like DragonBall Z: Burst Limit for the niche market and Ninja Gaiden 2, which certainly isn't for everyone. One of the things Shane Kim was sure to mention was that a majority of the upcoming titles were "E to Teen". With so many games aimed at the global market, I wonder, as the last hardcore gamer finally on the development end of the table, do I even have a chance of succeeding? Is there even a market for what I want to do (story-based entertainment) anymore?

I have to grumble a little bit, knowing that the same people who made my life hell in school for loving video games are now the same people keeping the business going.

Nintendo may be dominating the games market, but it's only fair to say they're winning if they were competing. I don't think Microsoft and Sony are competing with Nintendo anymore. They aren't on the game level. Nintendo just does games better than the other two.

Microsoft and Sony want it all.

Maybe…one may begin by becoming successful at casual games, and in order to do that, you have to somehow make your title stand out from the pack. After you accomplish that, maybe then you can do it at the hardcore level.

But that's just me.

Inter-Corporate Incompatibility...WTF???

2008-07-11T03:15:00.000-07:00

First, let me say how much I love my Zune. I don't know what I'd do without it. It's always on my arm, I love how much it holds for how little I paid (nearly 2/3 of my music collection are on it) and I love how I can turn my favorite shows into videos and watch them on the fly. I love how all of my podcasts are readily available for quick trips to the bathroom. No, this isn't me complaining about the Zune.

Here's what I don't get. Why in the hell isn't the Zune compatible with Windows Media Player?
I should probably say now that I don't have much of a problem with the Zune software, save that it keeps freezing on me. It's pretty easy to learn. But I don't understand something. Windows Media comes from the same corporation that manufactures the Zune. Windows Media Player is completely free so long as your software is valid. Windows Media Player is also something the majority of us are familiar with even if it isn't so dominant anymore.

I think MS is on to something by fostering a community for its users to trade music (for a reasonable piece of your income) but I think the software would have been much better as an add-on to Windows Media instead of forcing us to download yet another resource-consuming piece of software.

Doesn't make much sense to me. Competition is healthy for business sure, but what do you get when you compete against yourself? Think about it; has Madden undergone any significant improvements since EA forced 989 and everyone else out of the game?

But that's just me.

Training

2008-07-09T13:49:00.000-07:00

One thing I can say is that when I step outside now, I can feel the sun on my face and it feels good. I can't remember the last time I felt at peace, and it did not come easy.

I love fighting. I do. I always will. I absolutely love that first rush when my hands go up, I love the second rush when my opponent comes at me, I love the look in the other guy's face when he realizes that I'm better than he is, and I love it even more when I realize I have encountered someone who is at a higher level than I am. I love the seconds that decide winning or losing, when there is a technique coming at me that I haven't seen before, and I wonder if the defense I have spent so much time perfecting is good enough. If it isn't, is my mind and body strong enough to withstand the impact? What if it isn't? Am I really ready to accept the fact that I can lose?

When you fight, you don't think, you act, and this is how I became such an instinctive person. You learn to read little nuances in people, watching how they walk, talk, gesture, and use their body. You figure out weaknesses and exploit them for all they're worth. Best believe they'd do it to you.

I've been studying martial arts since I was around six, first mimicking what I saw in Bruce Lee films and then moving on to actual styles. I've been formerly schooled in American Tae Kwon Do, but over the years I've studied kickboxing, muay thai, aikido, wing chun, ninjitsu, boxing, and a whole bunch of other stuff. I'm not really proficient in any of them, now that I think about it. I have realized that I might be a good fighter, but I'm a lousy martial artist.

When I was training, I eschewed forms but excelled at sparring. I didn't see a point to forms. I mean, if I get into something on the street, I'm not going to go into a series of movements and hope I bore the other guy into submission. I'm going to kick the shit out of him. When I trained, I didn't bother with forms. I wanted to increase my speed and hitting power. I wanted to turn my blocks into something that injured my assailant.

That's the destructive lure of martial arts; the more you learn, the deadlier you become. Knowing that you can cripple or kill with a well-placed strike is an addictive feeling. It makes you feel like you're better than everyone else.

Within the last two years, all the injuries caught up to me and left without the ability to fight, I felt empty. I still feel empty. I know that no matter how hard I train or practice (roughly five hours a day, off and on) I will never be at the level I once was.

A friend of mine, one I hope to spar with one day, told me simply to "relearn".
The road takes you to some amazing places. At thirty-one, I am now taking to heart every lesson I eschewed as a child.
I can't give up the martial arts, even if I have to give up fighting. I sincerely believe that part of the reason why I'm healthy is because I spend so much time training. Martial arts is what you make of it; it has the power to heal, as much as it does to destroy.

So I study forms now. I rehearse them a few hours a day, and my body is still getting used to it. My knees hurt and buckle when I try to maintain a front stance. I really did a lot of damage to myself over the years.

I don't have it in me to quit, though. I'll keep studying and finding ways around my own weaknesses until I strike the balance between instinct and logic. I'm told that the ultimate goal in martial arts is to learn to avoid confrontation.

Yeah, right.
I'll let you know how that goes.

FISA, Google/YouTube, Death of the Constitution

2008-07-09T04:24:00.000-07:00

First off, I'm not a political person. I follow campaigns on the fringes because truthfully, I don't have any faith in politicians, not even the almighty Obama. I think politicians are like kids at Christmas; they're on their best behavior once a year (or four) but the rest of the time, they're mean lil bastards. Having said that...

I'm catching up on my newsfeed when the lovely Alison Haislip goes into a story about FISA, warrantless wiretapping, and the like. Apparently one of the new amendments would allow the government to monitor any US citizen outside of the United States with the president's permission (yeah, that makes me feel loads better).

Now, I acknowledge the work both parties put in to make this bill remotely passable, but doesn't this take just one more slice of what little privacy we have left away? Sure, only the President can authorize a warrantless wiretap, but his decisions don't come without influence. And those in power are not known for influencing on behalf of the people.

There's also something going around about Google wanting Youtube to give up the username, IP address and every video that person has watched to police copyright infringement. Youtube is fighting it.

How is warning people not to watch copywritten material going to stop those who upload it in the first place? Does anyone ever ask this stuff?

What makes me mad, and I am doing my best to keep my temper out of this blog, as that I think I'm the only person who sees something wrong here. What happened to privacy? Or, following the (outdated) letter of the law, why not go after the people who upload copywritten material instead of persecuting those of us who watch it?
It reminds me of Columbine, when everyone was so quick to point the finger at Id and Doom and no one took a look at the parents. We are a people who not only avoid taking responsibility for our own actions, we refuse to.

When did we become so paranoid that every little word we spoke had to be monitored for even the slightest chance it might bring harm to the nation? I think it was around September 11, 2001...

It makes me sick. Sorry I can't think of a better close, but to me, it's disgusting, and it makes me shudder to think where we might be ten years from now at this rate.

Frozen

2008-06-17T23:45:00.000-07:00

I was young, barely twenty. My son was still an infant. I had parlayed mild success as a bouncer into a part-time position with a security firm. After a particularly brutal takedown outside of the 12th and Broadway BART station, one of the attending officers volunteered to back my application into the police department. I chose San Francisco over Oakland.

I thought it was amazing that I was an actual, for real, honest-and-true police officer. I would take out my uniform and just look at it; dark blue, pressed to a razor's edge with my name and my badge pinned to my chest in its respective areas. Best of all I only had to wear the damn thing for forty hours a week while I went through my probation period. My training officer was about ten years older than me and while a little jaded, he still enjoyed the job. Mostly I rode around and watched him work.

The most fun for me was when I was off-duty; when I got to wear my street clothes and I had a special wallet that was custom-made to fit my badge. I found it too heavy to wear around my neck. This is where the pride of law enforcement came in; no matter where I went, or what I was doing, I was a cop, and that meant something.

The highlight of an extremely short-lived career was running down two adult shoplifters from the local Albertson's. You should've seen their faces; as a bad-boy myself, I spotted them a mile away. They weren't even slick about it. So I alerted security and met them at the door. When they asked me what I had to do with this, I flashed The Badge; "I'm a cop. That's what I gotta do with this."

The only thing they didn't do was say "meep meep" before they took off. I ran them both down and made my only solo arrest. One of them was confined with the plastic ties I had been taught to always carry. They were my arrests, and I got to see them through the system. They both got off. Figures.

I never finished probation, though.
In my second month, my training officer asked if I wanted to take part in a bust. I thought it was a good idea at the time. I mean, it wasn't as though my hands hadn't been dirty before...
Weeks of prep work went into the raid, which was to take place about a mile away. I knew the house. I knew the people who lived there. I took pride in knowing that I would help put them behind bars.
The day of the raid, Amy couldn't stop crying that morning. I kept telling her not to worry, that I'd be okay. I kissed her and my son goodbye and left in my street clothes to make roll call.
Shortly after arriving at my precinct I was outfitted. I was given full a bulletproof jacket emblazoned with the letters "SFPD". I did my weapons check three times. I loaded into the back of the van with everyone else. Right about then, it began to set in that something was going to go horribly wrong.

I don't remember much of the raid, except that everyone was a lot more relaxed than I was. San Francisco is made up of a lot of hills, and I remember heading up and down a lot, mirroring my emotions. I wasn't sure what I was thinking, but I knew it was too late to go back.
The battering ram hit the door with a force that shook the Earth and we were all inside. As I made my way through the house behind the other officers, it dawned on me that it was my life I was risking, that I was about to be shot at, these guys would not go quietly--

My thoughts were broken by gunfire, down the hall in the bedroom. Then returning gunfire. Then shouting orders and all of us converging on a single area where one suspect had been dumb enough to fire on a cop. It had been his very last mistake.

Shell shock began to seep in. The man had so many holes in him and he had been alive only seconds earlier, and now he was gone, and I was wondering if his life had mattered for anything to anyone.

My TO snapped me out of it. Are you okay? He asked. I nod. He tells me to say that I'm okay. I look him in the eye. I tell him I'm okay. He worries about me. He tells me to stay close to him as we sweep the rest of the house.
We head into the depths of the house where light fails us. He carries his flashlight crossing his handgun and stays in front of me. I see what he's doing and do my best to mimic his movements.
That guy is dead...
The basement is huge and easily makes up half of the house, broken down into corridors for some strange reason, that makes our job a lot harder.
When he steps into one room, I see his eyes register something. He fires. Someone screams. In that same second, two shots bellow out and he is knocked onto his back.

I take his place. White guy, bald, body art, built, young, evil, took a round to his left shoulder. It's affecting his ability to hold that revolver. He's raising it at me.
I'm pointing at him. Drop it, I say. Why can't I pull the trigger?!
With horror, I realize that he has lifted the gun past my chest and I can almost see down the barrel. Why can't I fire?!
Four shots boom out underneath me. Suddenly, he's God's problem.
I watch him sink to the ground, listless, lifeless, and manage to look to my TO, who was hit in the vest. He asks me, through ragged breaths, if I'm okay.

I'm okay, I say.

The house is cleared. Two people are taken into custody. Two people are killed.
At the end of the day, I surrendered my badge and gun.
There wasn't any fanfare. I wasn't being asked to leave. I wasn't being investigated. I just left.

Someone almost died because of my inability to act. I don't know how I would've handled it if my TO had died simply because I couldn't pull the trigger.

Besides, while I wasn't being asked to leave, no one was clamoring for me to stay, either. The stigma of freezing under pressure stays with you.

I learned then to be as ruthless as the situation warranted. Most of you know the rest of the story.

The Girl.

2008-06-16T22:42:00.000-07:00

Riding the type-2 rollercoaster of fried chicken, regular soda, and a pot of coffee, I am reminded that I am at my best when I shut the fuck up and listen to the world around me.

One of the people who lives where I work has made it a habit of coming downstairs every night, and we'll spend anywhere from fifteen minutes to a good hour talking. Mostly I listen. She's much more interesting than I am.

One of my recent problems was trying to figure out how to best make my relationship work or even make sense. Of all our differences, she admits to having no imagination, while I try to make my living with mine. She has adamantly stated that she will never like video games. Her friends would ask her what she's doing with me even as my friends would ask me what I was doing with her.

Tammey has been married to the same man now for more than ten years. He's about as hardcore gamer as it gets, down to the tabletop D&D stuff even I won't touch, and she doesn't like games all that much. She admits that she's the serious type while he's a lot more laid back. I listen to her talk and all of this sounds glaringly familiar. So I ask her the obvious; How the hell do you make that work?

The more obvious would be why I stick around, but I'll get to that later.
Her answer is simple; compromise.
Straight out, I'm a lot better at that than Sam is, although she's learning. I approach life as an adventurous learning experience while she approaches it like a problem to be solved, so it's easier for me to see her point of view (especially when she's so much smarter than me in so many areas). I don't need logic for a problem to make sense to me, something that frustrates her to no end.

And yet, for almost ten months now (off and on) we've been making it work.

Tammey relayed one of many interesting stories to me tonight; she told me about the time she and her current husband, Brian, went to a country-music concert. Brian is not the biggest fan of country music, but she didn't want to let an extra ticket go to waste. They make it their second (or third) date.

Brian heckles his way through performances by Kenny Chesney (ugh) Lonestar (doable) and gets quiet when Alabama begins performing. Tammey had a painful experience to the song "Angels Among Us" which she relived as they performed the song. Brian gently put his arms around her and cradled her throughout the entire performance. Ten years later, here they are.

This past weekend, Sam is having one of many disagreements with her well-intending but domineering mother (nice lady, but I won't be starting any fan clubs). Sam usually capitulated to her mother on most things but as she strikes out on her own, she's found it easier to stand up to her. While explaining to her as politely as possible why she will not make me meet her grandparents, she said some things that got my attention.

It doesn't matter to her that she dislikes video games while I love them; it's the fact that I am driven to succeed that she respects.

It doesn't matter to her that I suck at small talk; it's the fact that I can carry an intelligent conversation that she loves.

It doesn't matter that her grandparents don't approve of interracial dating; I'm what she wants, and they will have to deal with it.

It was the first time I'd ever had someone go to bat for me like that.
Sam and I are as different as night and day and at the same time we have everything in common.
Begrudgingly, she'll even admit that she's learned to take things a little less seriously since being with me.
I've never been in a relationship where I've had to work so hard. At times it's so frustrating that I want to head home and never look back (and she knows it, we both apologize for being so frustrating).

But every day, it gets a little easier to envision a future with her.

This blog is for Tammey; who has lupus, but it doesn't have her.

Modern Magic's First Game

2008-06-16T00:29:00.000-07:00

“Flight 271” is a top-down, 2D shooter that is my tribute to old-school space shooters. The objective is to blast your way through five levels until the end-all-be-all final confrontation with the big boss that represents all things evil.

And….that’s it.

Keeping with the company’s mission statement, there is a story attached; you play a single pilot who has obtained data needed to bring down the vile Tethoy alien race, who has long controlled the galaxy. Of course, they’re not gonna let you go without a fight, and they’ve sent all sorts of baddies to bring you down before you escape—one of which is meant to scare the holy hell out of the player. It’s part of a trilogy I’m writing with Jake, who is planning the sequel, tentatively named “Survival Instinct” has the pilot continuing the story.

I’m also trying out a new business model. I want to release these games exclusively in what I call the “99 cent depot” which is, quite simply, casual games aimed at portably devices available for only ninety-nine cents. Now, as I’m using the Torque engine to make these games, I doubt Garage Games will let me get away with that, but the idea of making cheap, quality games that anyone can play is something I’d like to explore.

If I have my way, I’d like to make this trilogy available for portable phones more than anything else. To be bluntly honest, there’s no originality here; my concept is inspired by the kind of games I used to play when I was a kid. The goal is not to make a ton of money. It’s to say that this company finishes what it starts. Considering what’s been put on Xbox Live and the like, I don’t know if I can compete. Not that it’s gonna stop me from trying. ;)

Going into this, I’m a little conflicted. I don’t like putting something out that doesn’t seem like it needs a lot of effort (then again, I haven’t put it together yet), and I really don’t like putting something out that doesn’t offer a deep story (I suppose something is better than nothing, tough).

But at least if we accomplish this, I’ll have proven that I do know how to make games, and I guess you have to crawl before you can walk, right?

Development is supposed to begin roughly August 1^st, I’ll post updates.

Timeless Interactive Storytelling: Can It Be Done?

2008-06-10T08:41:00.001-07:00

Bioware beat me to it, but at the same time proved it can be done; can you really build a business on story-based interactive media? Apparently, you can, and you can do it using someone else's property, too.

This has always been my goal; to run my own development firm that specialized in storytelling through games and animated films. As I delve deeper into the venture (meaning, I'm putting my own money into this and it's starting to feel more real) I have come to realize that we are approaching a time when more than mere story is needed in triple-A titles in order succeed. Not only do we need the story, we need to give the player the idea that they are in control of it.

Star Wars: Knights accomplished this perfectly, I think, but years later, I'm having a hard time thinking of the high points of that story. In the end, to me, it was kick-ass gameplay with derivative characters that placed you, the player, in the center of that universe. The whole thing was written off in the end by claiming to be "another story woven into the history of the Jedi Knights." Nice, but doesn't last forever.

I've played timeless games where story had little to do with it; Street Fighter 2 achieved its massive success because of its addictive gameplay and the perpetual goal of getting stronger. I attribute a lot of its success to the first, and ultimate, social network; word of mouth. Moves were never displayed on arcade cabinets. Instead, you learned from friends, usually after they finished whooping your ass. You passed what you learned on, and so forth. The Alpha franchise gave us more insight into the character histories, but in the end, it was still gameplay that allowed it to succeed.

One game came the closest to timeless, in my opinion; Final Fantasy 7.
Yes, I refuse to let this title die because it was just such an overwhelming success on so many levels. I cried my eyes out when Aeris was killed. I smirked for that last one-on-one battle with Sephiroth. I relished how much I so hated a video game character, and the four-disc chase has yet to rival anything story-based I have played since then, including Star Wars Knights.
Final Fantasy succeeded by simplifying the RPG formula and showing the rest of us what the big deal was (I wouldn't be caught dead near Zelda beforehand, and now I count Xenogears and Star Ocean among my favorite titles). Final Fantasy 7 has endured the test of time, as proven by its ever-increasing price tag. I will eventually mortgage my home to own this game.

So the question is now, can this success be replicated? When you think about it, FF7 had an incredibly deep story, but not a lot of variances that ultimately affected the story. Yet people still flock to it in droves. What did it do right?

I guess when I figure that out, I'll get a game published.

In the meantime, I have come to these conclusions.

Keep the premise simple: Star Wars (the trilogy) boils down to Luke Skywalker's rise from desert farmboy to Jedi Knight. You have a killer supporting cast and subplots, but Luke's journey is what it all boils down too. Create a protagonist in your game, give him/her a simple goal (or set of goals) and then create the world around it. But if you can't understand your main character's motivations, chances are the players won't either.

Let the player choose: I got news for you. I don't like games like Grand Theft Auto that glorify violence just for the sake of being violent. But you know what? The games make ungodly amounts of money, and that is largely because the player controls what happens. There is a larger objective to be accomplished (see rule number 1) and then a myriad of ways to get the job done. There are even more ways to screw around (literally) as you get said job done. I don't know if GTA will still be as cool ten years from now as it is today, but it'll always be a hallmark in gaming history simply because Rockstar gave the player free will. Which brings me to rule number three...

Take your ego out of the equation: One of my favorite lines spoken by M in "Casino Royale" and truer words are never spoken. It's not about you. It's about the people who play the game.

I guess....when I find a way to reconcile all three, I'll get to where I want to be. Here's hoping someone doesn't beat me to it. ;)

Video Games...

2008-05-30T03:28:00.000-07:00

Someone who lives at the Towers recently acquired a Playstation 2, and challenges me to a game of Tekken 5. The glory days of gaming are done for me, I am only left my memories. I remember how to talk shit, but everything else is almost a little alien to me. Never one to refuse a challenge, I follow him back to his house.

I was once so intimately involved with fighting game drama that I could recite from memory the blood type of every character in the game. As I looked down on the casing for Tekken 5, all I can remember is how I felt when Jin Kazama’s fighting style changed. I had no idea what to do.

And yet, when that pad hit my hand, black plastic, worn, sticky and more damaged than I would every allow my gear to be, I felt that powerful sensation wash over me again. Not like I had just come into power, but it was within reach, if I could remember how to take it.

The first match pitted my Hwoarang against his Feng, and I admit I made the rookie mistake of underestimating him. Although I managed to squeeze out a 2-round victory, the last round was by playing the clock rather than my opponent. I had a lot to re-learn.

The second match pitted my Paul against his Brian Fury, and I was quickly overwhelmed. I could salvage a one-round victory by knockout, only to be brutally overpowered the next two.

It was humbling, and I shut my mouth. I remember the experience that killed my arrogance left me on my knees, unable to stand, nearly six months ago now.

Shut up and fight.

With us tied and me facing being down by one game, he picks Yoshimitsu. I pick Bryan Fury.

Any battle is fought with the mind as well as the body. Bearing that in mind, I out-strategize him and secure a first-round win. I brutally knock him the fuck out in the second.

Fight four. His Kazuya, my Paul Phoenix. Now that I’ve found the ability to turn thought into instinct, flowing that into physical action, he doesn’t have a chance. Two rounds go to me.

The final fight, I can smell his desperation like blood in the water. His last resort; Jin Kazama. Hwoarang returns. I pummel him so severely he wonders if I’m cheating.

In the end, it’s just a game. He challenged me more than I thought he would. I shake his hand; it was an honor to battle with him. We have to do that again.

And at long last, as the virtual dust settles, the rage subsides.

When I felt my anger reaching its peak, I asked my mom for help. She turned me towards God, and told me to seriously examine my faith for the answers.

As I walked through the cool, oncoming summer night, answers seemed to descend into my head like a downloaded file.

I was born to be in the game business. Everything else is a stepping stone.

Family can be by definition more than blood. Over the years, I met people I am proud to call family, people I never would’ve met had I felt safe at home as a kid. Had my father not beaten me on a regular basis I would never have learned how to fight. I would never have developed the will to win. If I had grown up around trustful authority then I would never have learned to question it. The most valuable lesson you can learn is the one that teaches you; those in power do not always have your best interests at heart. If you know that, then you can challenge it.

If my reality hadn’t been so fucked up I wouldn’t have lost myself in the world of Southtown, where Terry Bogard fought to avenge his father’s death in one of the most poorly-put-together fighting games I’ve ever played. I would not have grown sick of the shallow story treatment in video games, which prompted me to start writing my own.

If Julie hadn’t died I never would’ve known how powerful love is. Love is the best thing you’ll ever get in this world. It’s the only thing worth fighting and dying for.

Everything happens for a reason, and we’re not meant to understand those reasons. We’re meant to survive them and become stronger people at the end of it. I may never fully accept that, but at least I know.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go kick the hell out of this guy at Marvel vs. Capcom. Some people never learn.

Let’s hope I’m not one of them.

My New Zune

2008-05-30T03:21:00.000-07:00

I got tired of watching everyone making their way downtown with their iPod’s or what-have-you’s strapped to their arms in the most convenient manner, free to make their way to their destination as customized playlists gave them the perfect audio experience. To compound matters, I would catch glimpses of their screens as we passed. I could imagine them in their spare moments, sitting and catching up on their favorite podcasts in full visual glory. Me? I felt like a thirty-year-old latchkey kid, with my old-school iPod shuffle dangling from my neck (held by a cord I had to sever when it got tangled with my necklace) endlessly repeating a random loop of my favorite music, and my only choice was to skip or repeat the last song.

I felt like a kid staring into the window of the next generation, and I wanted in.

I had a small problem.
After suffering through the migration of my iTunes to my external hard drive, I was already a little sour on them. I wasn’t about to pay $150 hard-earned dollars for a 2-gig nano. I didn’t want another shuffle. It didn’t hold enough, and I wanted to listen to something at my leisure, rather than when the computer saw fit to play it.

So I began the journey to find a new MP3 player, with video capability, within my budget.

One more small problem. I didn’t know jack about MP3 players.

I’m superficial when it comes to my technology. If it works, looks nice, and has a bunch of cool features, I’m in. Soulhuntre, a rebel techno-geek with a penchant for attracting extremely beautiful girls, recommended Microsoft Zune.

Anything regarding technology that Soulhuntre tells you, you take to the bank. Sure enough, Zune’s 4Gig model came in my color, with a video player, and Wal-Mart (Resistance is Futile) was even willing to give me this neat little armband just for buying from them. So I did.

The Zune is small. It won’t get in your way. It feels durable, but cracking the glass will cost you about eighty dollars. Use with care. The touchpad is a neat little bonus and if it’s not your thing, you can just turn it off. I have had zero problems so far with playback. It both syncs and charges via USB port, and does both pretty quickly. I was able to upload about a gig of media to my Zune in about a minute.

But of course, Microsoft always does something so bass-ackwards it makes you wonder how they’ve been in business this long. Vista, anyone???

I assumed (my mistake) that the MICROSOFT Zune would be compatible with the MICROSOFT Windows Media Player….not so much. No, the device forces you to learn new software if you plan to use it. Luckily, Zune software is a breeze, everything migrates quickly and easily. You just point the software to where your music is, be it external hard drive or whatever, and it will automatically upload your files.

Zune frees you from the confines of DRM-protected media, but it won’t work with a lot of TV Sites. As it’s still a new service, they only offer the most popular shows on the networks they advertised. No CSI: Miami, guys.

These are minor complaints that will probably all be rectified with time. Zune has a huge social network (setting it apart from the other me-too’s in the MP3-player game) and Microsoft is known for listening to their customers, so in time, Zune will probably get a lot better.

It might get a lot more expensive, too; right now, $130 will get you the four gig color Zune of your choice plus an armband. You can do a lot worse.

Twitter is a Good Thing.

2008-05-27T03:41:00.000-07:00

This was inspired by Robert Scoble's most recent post, which you can read here.

Yesterday, me and my girlfriend were sitting on opposing ends of the couch when she said she thought the "Internet should just explode."
Bewildered, I asked her to go on. To summarize, she went on to say how things like Twitter and the like were a colossal waste of time. In fact, she even mentioned that the world had become mired within the internet and emailing, and asked what happened to the days when people picked up a pen and wrote letters. You know, by hand?

I live in the extremes of my emotions. What I wanted to do was grab her by her shoulders and ask her; "What the hell is wrong with you?! How can you NOT understand this?!" I probably brought some of this by myself when a message from my phone meant for Twitter accidentally went to her instead.

My girlfriend is a great girl, and it's a very healthy relationship. She's incredibly old-fashioned and (in what will make or break us) simply cannot understand what people see in video games. For her, reality is it, that's all there is, and there is room for almost nothing else.
It makes for interesting conversation when I earn a living using my imagination.

But after reading Scobleizer's latest blog, I think I can explain it a little clearly without grabbing or shouting.
Like it or not, this porn-saturated, youtube-infested internet is here to stay.
And I'll admit it; I do not understand a lot of the absurd humor. I don't understand why a man who deliberately goes groin-first into a rail gets so much attention. I don't understand why every vacuous blonde with pretty eyes gets so much attention just cause she licks her lips. Okay, I can watch it once. I think the internet these days is filled with about seventy percent bullshit.

But I don't consider Twitter, Friendfeed, MySpace, Facebook, and Youtube a complete waste of time.
All these social networking sites allow you to maintain a friendship even if you two are on other sides of the globe. I think it's awesome that I can simultaneously talk to a friend in Portland and London about the latest Indiana Jones movie.
I think it's amazing that you can upload photos of your trip to the concert from the comfort of your phone. I think it kicks ass that you can stream sessions live from wherever you are directly to the internet. I think it is awesome that I can browse Youtube for my favorite video game cutscenes, string them together and burn them to DVD.

I think it's just plain cool that you can upload the smallest thought and have the world chime in on it.

But from my own perspective?
I love how I can work for someone based in London, collaborate with someone else on the east coast, get paid for it and access my online funds from anywhere in the world.

All bullshit and time-wasting activities aside, the internet is what brings the world together now, and at lightning speed at that.
This blog isn't nearly as good as the one that inspired it, but this is just my take on something that keeps getting better...and worse.
Take it for what you will.

For A Friend

2008-05-20T03:26:00.000-07:00

By the time I was thirteen, I had endured a lifetime of physical and emotional abuse from my father. I had been beaten and hit by anything he could get his hands on, and I had watched him break my mother down until she was nearly nothing. I had come to believe that negative action was the only way I could earn my father’s attention. You’ve seen it in a million sitcoms, and I knew in my soul that I was on the wrong path, but I didn’t know anything else.

I had one bright spot in my life. I knew her for two years. That second year was one of the best of my life, but since then, there have been better ones. Towards the end of that second year, she was killed.

I got there about an hour after it happened. I held her, even as the odor of the dead began to overtake her perfume and rigor mortis began to set in. Believe me; it doesn’t take a long time at all.

Still, I held my head to her chest and cried until I had no tears left. And as I cried, something inside me finally gave, and all the years my father tortured me, this one act of someone violently robbing me of someone I loved, this proved every word my father had ever spoken true. That in the end, black people were seen as only one thing.

The one I loved died because she dared to believe differently.

I remember this feeling of utter helplessness sinking in, knowing that my father was right.

Helplessness quickly gave way to the most powerfully, all-consuming rage I have ever known. I felt it well up from deep within the core of my stomach until my hands were shaking, my grip on her was tightening as though by sheer will I could bring her back to life. But I couldn’t.

But I could make it right, or so I thought.

I’m not ready to go into publicly what happened afterwards, but I gave up two years of my life for it.

For just a single, fleeting moment, revenge is the best feeling in the world. Older now, I can tell you it solves nothing.

When I re-entered the world, my beliefs had solidified. The world preyed and picked off the weak. There was no room for dissenting opinion, the majority always ruled. Too much disagreement would cost you everything you held dear, and then your life.

What happened to me happened to millions of people around the world. We had that in common. What we didn’t have in common was that now I could do something about it. What happened to me, and to my beloved Julie, would never happen to anyone else, ever again.

That year, I started fighting back against my father.

It didn’t end there.

As publicly and as brutally as possible, I took out almost fifteen years of pure rage against anyone who dared to oppress someone weaker. It got me kicked out of school numerous times, and it eventually wound up to me graduating from adult school. It cost me a football scholarship. I didn’t care.

Only a few people knew the entire truth. It started for real in San Francisco, California, when I first started working as a Bouncer at a 24/7 fast food joint. Me and four other people, we faced off against seven and we won. It felt good.

I kept fighting. I stepped into the ring and had my left knee blown out in the third round of a fight I went on to win. I was told I would never fight, or do anything physically professional, again. I didn’t care.

I took to fighting in the street. First in California and then through the various states leading to Johnson County, Kansas. Eventually I wound up in New York City, New Jersey, and a coastal town in Maine. I brought home money and became my sons hero. I was a lousy disciplinarian, I was arrogant, selfish, foolish, and it was costing me more than I was aware of.

I take refuge in the good I did for other people, but if you ask me if it was worth it, considering the uphill battle my life has become, I couldn’t tell you. Ask me again come Christmas.

I lost my wife and two children. I didn’t care.

Only during my final bout in Bay City, Michigan, did my life come into perspective. In the bear grip of a man twice my size, crushing my ribs until they splintered, did a cold realization hit me; I don’t want to die.

I won that fight. I bowed out of “that life”. I cared then.

It’s been a few years since then.

I’ve been straight and narrow now for nearly three years. The highlight of my life, other than seeing my girlfriend, is doing my food shopping. Every two weeks, I get a little “me” time in Wal-Mart where I have the means to purchase anything I want. That is the height of my enjoyment now, aside from writing.

Billy (some of you call him knife-boy) is a lot like me, and that’s where we click. I was clueless as how I could help him. I didn’t want to force him to give up “the life” because I understand the various motivations. Tonight, he finally looked at me and told that if he could get out, he would.

I told him in all honesty; going straight is boring, but you have a longer shelf life. My career in both private security and game development is on a very high note. I’m in contact with my ex-wife and working out an arrangement where I can see my children again. I have someone who loves me.

So Billy, if you read this, I tell you from personal experience that your life is yours to do with as you wish, and none of us have a predestined fate we’re doomed to live until it calls us to cash in.

The thing is, you have to want to do it, and no one can make you. If you try to do it for someone else, then you’ll fail, because you’re not being true to yourself. In order to succeed, you have to decide that change is what’s best for you.

But if you want to, you can do it. I'm know this because I do it every day.

Good luck.

Future Dreams.

2008-05-18T22:36:00.000-07:00

You know, I was gonna turn this into this a long-winded tirade about where I've been and where I'm going. I've talked about all that, though.

Sometimes I think my time has passed, and that my ideas originate in a time long gone. I enjoy social networking and IM'ing as much as the next guy, but I hail from the day of arcades, where silver and bronze coins lines noisy cabinets and crowds waited to take their shot at the champ. When, after you beat the holiday stuffing out of the guy next to you, you two would trade tips and handshakes, and then go for a burger at the local McD's or BK or whatever your style was.

I'm managing four projects right now, and I'm only working with one person.

One is a casual game using the Garage Games Torque engine. My partner and I have decided to create a casual-game trilogy that we hope adequately demonstrates the spirit of Modern Magic Enterprises LTD; a story told through three titles that are easy on the wallet and just as easy to pick up as they are to put down. But for this series, the emphasis is more on gameplay than story. This is about proving that we can make games.

The second is the demo to the ultrahypermega title Universal Warrior: Oppression, which I've been hyping since oh, I dunno, forever and a day? This isn't so much about story either as it is proving the game's functionality. Two characters, one background, and fully functional gameplay. It's still gonna cost a lot of money but if my plans are feasible, and I can prove to the world that this kind of title can be done...

We're facing a resurge in the fighting game market. If I don't do it now, I may be in my mid-forties before I get another chance.

The third is the entrant for Make Something Unreal, and this is the furthest along, because at least the script is finished. A five-minute short film in the UW universe, Faithless tells the story of a cynical agent forced to confront her beliefs during a mission that goes disastrously wrong. The script is under review by people close to me (if you want a copy, let me know, I'll take opinions from almost anyone) and slated to begin production in two months.

And finally, the first screenplay I actually intend to attempt to sell is called Batman: Immortal, and is meant to be an animated film. It takes place in near-future Gotham City, in which Bruce Wayne has died and crime has skyrocketed. A mysterious stranger trains an angry youth to assume the mantle, but the boy learns quickly enough that it takes more than brute force to wear the mask.

Now, if you're gonna tell me about the massive uphill road ahead of me, and you wanna keep your comments positive, I'm all for it, but I've been hearing the negative, you-can't-do-its all my life. I'm a black man in middle America trying to do the damn-near impossible. I have an idea as to what I'm in for.

But this is all I know. This is what I'm good at. I think I can do this. I changed my way of thinking over the years. I read EGM now. ;)
So when I wake up, another work week begins. I'll keep posting, and thanks for any support I might get.

Rising (I Hope)

2008-05-15T19:49:00.000-07:00

So here I sit.
I think I have everything I need.
I have this beautiful L-shaped desk, strategically placed by my living room window. When in writing spells, I have a habit of staring to my right. I don't know why, but I figured if I was going to look to the right, I might as well look at something. So now, sometimes in the same day, I can choose between a thundering rainstorm or a beautiful, cloudy blue sky that makes me homesick.
Directly ahead of me is the TV. Right now, it's an episode of Law & Order: SVU, one of my favorite shows, but an episode I've seen to death. I take refuge in routine and continuity. Either that or I just need the noise. Sometimes I mute the TV and retreat into my iTunes, soon to be Windows Media Player.
I have a Twitter account with over twenty followers now, I have a fair amount of MySpace friends, and I'm starting to become more active on Facebook. I'm up on a lot of technology-related news (Yahoo needs to bend over and take it, because by force or otherwise, it's gonna happen.) and I even have a Samsung Alias phone that I use to monitor all my accounts when I'm offline. It's got this neat little feature that allows it to flip up two ways. It makes me feel cool when I text.

Yes, I have everything I need. I'm much smarter than I was ten years ago.
This is not my first attempt at building a multimedia business. Rather, it's my fifth, I think.
All the lessons I learned along the way are being applied now. I know what I'm good at, I know what I suck at. I know that my heart lies in the creative process. One day, I would like to turn the business over and focus on making story-based games and animated movies. I understand the tremendous workload I'm taking upon myself, trying to go my own way instead of seeking publishing help. This drive pours from two faucets; one, I'm the most anti-authority, rebellious sumbitch you may ever meet, and two, as cliche as this sounds, I don't want some accountant fucking up my vision to fit a market I'm not trying to reach. Hell, it pisses me off that people I used to get into fights with because of my passion for gaming are now first in line for Grand Theft Auto.

But yes, I've learned my lessons.
I don't work with a whole group of inexperienced volunteers right now. Instead, I work with one creative firebrand who shares my passion for more emphasis on plot in various genres of gaming. We spend our spare time inspiring one another, when I'm not using the poor kid as a sounding board. The stories he has bely his age (he's a wizard in a teenagers body), and we work together putting our (mostly mine, for now) ideas on paper. I don't hire people until I actually need them.

I don't work from my yahoo address anymore. I invested money and registered my own domain at youarenowplaying.com.

I'm not trying to change the world on my first game, if I'm talented enough to assemble a first game. Instead of trying to go broke making the next big AAA title, I'm using a business model that allows the creation of small, casual, cheap titles that can be assembled quickly and picked up or put down easily. We demonstrate an ability to complete a title, we'll get our chance to change the world.

Right now, it's hard work, but I asked for it. I spend my spare time going between the feature-length film script, editing the completed script for a contest I plan to enter, outlining the story for the mega-game I want to do, planning the smaller game I need to do, or focus on how much it's gonna cost me to build the websites. It's a full time job in and of itself.

But this is what I want, and I wouldn't have it any other way. I'm not naive enough to go boasting that Modern Magic Enterprises is gonna be the next EA or anything like that, but I'm confident enough to say that having picked up the lessons I have thus far, being patient, diligent, and following the right course of action will get me to where I want to be.

So here's hoping.

From Within

2008-05-12T12:34:00.000-07:00

I work at an apartment complex run by the city housing authority called Hamilton/Dulle Towers. I call them the Two Towers.
This is low-income housing at it's finest, stocked to the brim with the people society would rather forget about; the elderly, newly freed, mentally ill, and of course, the dealers who prey on them. I fit right in.
Billy is a resident I've become good friends with, so good in fact that the other residents ask me to talk to him when he looks as though he'll fly over the edge. Similar backgrounds unite us, my desire for normalcy draws a line in our friendship, something he reminds me of every conversation.
That's his version.
My version is that I think he wants to go straight, he just doesn't know how. He's my friend, one of the few residents who's been in my house, and he's been alone with my girlfriend. I trust him, and I can't say that about a lot of people.

Last night, Billy calls me in the office, asking me to meet him outside. There's an edge in his voice that makes me take him seriously.
Outside, he tells me that an ex-friend of his is on the way to settle a score, some he-said-he-said bullshit. Billy places in my hand his set of three butterfly knives, perfectly weighted, and his switchblade. He asks me to call the police if he runs into trouble.

I watch him head up the street, into the darkness, and my badge suddenly feels like a weight against my chest as I am bound by the stop sign at the edge of the property. To maintain my employment, I can't pass. I can't get involved. I can only watch.

And so I watch.
I watch Billy head up the slight incline of the street as his former friend, clearly off his medication, sheds his shirt in fifty-degree weather and begins yelling, gesturing. I shake my head as I watch Billy keep his hands in his pockets while his friend wastes five minutes huffing and puffing. Get on with it, I'm thinking.

Billy is essentially a goth, without the makeup. You can't pay him to get out of black clothes and there is a borderline insanity in his light blue eyes. He stands at 6"2, roughly 300 pounds poorly carried in his stomach. He's out of shape, but by no way is he weak. His friend is about half that size, but in much better shape. It could go either way.

Eventually, the friend gets tired (or winded) from all the yelling and closes the distance between himself ad Billy.
It's not my fight, my mind tells me. It's one on one, it's fair, so I need to stay out of it. Nevertheless, it Busterwolf who emerges as one of the butterfly knives slides into my hand, concealed, and ready to be hurled for everything I'm worth if I think Billy runs into a jam.

The friend swings. The fight begins.
Billy is grabbed by the neck and taken down. My hand goes to my phone and dials JCPD's dispatch. I inform them of the situation as I watch Billy struggle to get to his feet beneath a barrage of punches and kicks. The friend attacks with animal ferocity and I feel like both a hypocrite and a coward, watching my friend get beaten down.

The friend has no stamina and the altercation ends after a minute (literally). He triumphantly shouts his victory to the city as he walks away, making a show of picking up his jacket. Billy, meanwhile, gets to all fours. He stands up, removing his long, worn, black trenchcoat. I yell to him. "Billy, we're gonna have company!"

He gets the idea. Truthfully, I love the guy, but I don't think round two would've done him much better. He shakily makes his way back to the property, and I escort him into the lobby where I tend to his wounds. As three squad cars come down the street, Billy places something in my hand, asking me to hold onto this.
I open my hand to reveal a switchblade.
I look at him, surprised.
He looks at me, but I can't really make out the look on his face. Regret, sadness, anger?
We give a semi-fabricated story to the police that omits the blades. I escort Billy home, not sure of what to say or think. Had I been in that situation, would I have used the blade? I honestly don't know. Part of the fear with my anger is that I don't know what I'll do when I'm enraged. I know what I'm capable of, so a deadly weapon in my hand probably isn't the best thing.

But Billy had kept that switchblade in his possession the entire time. Any moment he could've pulled it and ended the fight in what I used to think was a more positive way.

And then it hits me, as I walk back to the office, something else so many teachers tried to drill into me over the years. There are so many ways to win a battle, but the battle you win within yourself, that's the most important one.

Good for him.

Hero Worship Never Dies

2008-05-11T03:18:00.001-07:00

Given the opportunity to dispose of a little extra income (as I do each pay period, much to the chagrin of my girlfriend) I was presented with a chose. Either God of War: Chains of Olympus or SNK Arcade Classics Vol. 1 would be added to my fledgling PSP collection. One of these games couldn't have paid to stay off the airwaves in the months before its release, the other I would never have known about had I not been running searches for King of Fighters a long time ago.

Now, it's not that I have anything against God of War, or Cliff Bleszinski himself. On the contrary, I think the man's a genius and the screenshots of the PS2 epic were mind-blowing. But I have this fear of the unknown, and this almost irrational anxiety that I will not like the game once I pick it up. Then I have to get back on the bus that runs once an hour and haggle with the brand-new adults at Wal-Mart who will spend valuable minutes trying to convince me of the titles greatness. I don't need the hassle.

But most of of the games on SNK Classics....I've played all of those. Plus it's ten dollars cheaper.
I bought this game for two reasons. One, it contained, in all its jaggy camera-panning glory, Art of Fighting. This game was the first to teach me about great foretelling. It explains the plot in ten seconds without saying a word. You see a picture of two men, with a beautiful young girl in the center. The picture suddenly cracks, and the girl fades to black. She's gone, those two remain, and just like that, you know what you're getting into. The game itself is larger than life and doesn't make up for the mediocre gameplay as well as it used too.

The other reason was King of Fighters 94, the first in the series and featuring, although not starring, my lifelong hero, Terry Bogard.
So ingrained into my psyche was this character once that I practically shaped my entire personality around him. From the hat and gloves to the "Okay!" taunts I used to do, I admired everything about this guy. Now, the hat and gloves may be gone, and the blue jacket with the star on it hangs honorably in my closet, but the admiration hasn't diminished.

Even more so than the one I have with Street Fighter 2's Ryu, Terry and I have always had this understanding. I even approximate the motion on the PSP's clunky D-Pad, and Terry will know what I'm doing. Strategies that worked thirteen years ago work just as well now. The understanding Terry and I have, the one that has eluded Ryu and I in Street Fighter Alpha 3, propels the two of us right through the game, on its easy setting, up until the last boss, who kicks the ever-loving shit out of us. I don't remember Rugal being that tough.

I turn off the PSP and my mind drifts back to when I would walk down the hill from my house, as a little kid. My mother would be on the porch, watching me go. As I would get to the bottom of the hill, I would remove my hat and hold it the same way Terry would, as if throwing it. She would always wave back. I think she understood the obsession, which was why she nurtured it.

I think about where I am now, laying in bed and preparing to post this, having worked six of what will be twenty-one consecutive days without a break. Instead of a hat, it's my index finger from my forehead in the same manner.

"Okay."

Hero worship never dies.

Pizza Soup For The Soul

2008-05-10T17:27:00.000-07:00

Outside my window a typical midwest thunderstorm rages on. I try to enjoy it from the inside while I can; I'll soon be trudging to work in it.
Not that I mind my job so much, mind you. It's mostly people management. I get to sit in an office, complete with a fridge and access to a microwave. The tenants like me, so they often provide me a meal or allow me to access their fridge. My laptop doubles as an entertainment center. If I had a cot, or even my inflatable mattress, I could call it home.
A few times a week, I have to bust someone's head open, deal with inept law enforcement, or endure a death threat. That's the drawback. Considering my background, it's nothing new, but I'd be lying if I said it didn't faze me. The job provides me with enough money to live in relative comfort and pursue my ambitions. I don't have a lot to complain about.

I've been living this straight life for about two years now. I'm only now starting to make sense of it all.
Before this, I used to be a fighter.
When I say that, I mean I used to fight people for money. Sometimes, I would fight them just for the hell of it. In my arrogance I would justify what I did by saying it was for some higher purpose or greater good. Maybe someone would think twice before beating his wife or kid again. In truth, I didn't know how to deal with my anger and taking it out on people who reminded me of my childhood gave me an excuse to unleash it.

I'm very much an adrenaline junkie. I love the rush, and I love how it feels. Having said that, I miss the old life, but there's a big difference between thirty-one and twenty-one, and I'm not as sharp as I used to be. Nothing hurts quite as much as the painful realization; you can train to perfection and still never beat the clock.

So this is my life now.
I'm divorced, I have two sons, and aside from my job as a paid couch potato, I'm a freelance writer and video game designer. I actually have two credits under my belt, not that you've heard of them. One of them was never released, the other is undecided. My girlfriend, God love her, says I sell myself short with my rates. It's flattering and hard not to let it go to my head, but she's biased. You have to walk before you can crawl. A lot of people in the business will tell you I'm a nice guy, but that doesn't mean they'll vouch for my writing.

Being black, standing at 6"1, 250lbs, people expect things from me. They expect me to be "hard" to listen all of that gangster rap music, and to translate ebonics for them. The truth is, I listen more to video game soundtracks than anything else. My next choice would be Nickelback, followed by anything easy listening or instrumental. I absolutely abhor gangster rap and most R&B makes me want to blow my brains out. Note I said most, not all. ;)

So this is my blog. Not the blog you'll find on MySpace or anywhere else, here you will find the truth that I won't say anywhere else. Here you will find my observations on the triumphs and idiocies of the human race as observed through an iPod-infused mentality. Here I will share how my experiences in two disparate worlds has allowed me to survive in both of them.

And here, I will be very frank on how I view situations, including my own, and state how things could get better--or worse.

Feel free to comment, criticize, advise, whatever you like, because it's only through the opinions of my peers will I see where I am strong and where I need to improve.

Thank you for reading. Welcome to Pizza Soup For The Soul.

Enjoy.