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Hook, Line & Sinker

First order of business -- I received my first hit from Russia, a friend from Moscow. I feel bad because the first thing this person had to read was about my dog dying. They didn't even get to any of the good swearing. Anyway, I'm excited about this new reader. Добро пожаловать, товарищ! (Welcome, comrade!)

Now, to today's order of business.

I like to fish. I grew up fishing the rivers and streams of Wyoming, generally with spinning gear, although I would often look longingly at the graceful fly-fisherman, with their delicate and expensive gear, their vast array of tiny fabric flies and long, and graceful casting motions with envious eyes; romantic visions of Brad Pitt from A River Runs Through It bouncing around in my head. I'd fly fish from time to time, but never became consumed by it the way the men of my town did. This was certainly a byproduct of a lack of spending bread, which, I'm sure, made it all the more alluring.



I didn't fish at all when I lived in Los Angeles, as, unless you're in Malibu, the ocean feels light years away even though it's just down the road. But when I moved to San Francisco, and was constantly surrounded by the frothy coast, it didn't take long for me to fall in with a group of guys who shared the same archaic addiction mixed in with a healthy sense of adventure. Anyway, although fishing the ocean is new and strange, I'm fishing a couple times a week now and I've realized a couple of things.

1. I don't know shit about saltwater fishing.
2. What I like about some video games is directly related to what I like about fishing.

Because, I imagine, a blog written by a game writer doesn't pull the Outdoor Life crowd, I'll hone in on number 2. If you give a hell about number 1, check out the Urban Safari Blog, where my buddies and I are posting the odd photo from our weekend gallivants.

The games I play can be delineated as such: I play things like Bioshock to get sucked into the world and the narrative for hours on end. Like easing my way into a hot tub that I plan to cook in for a while, a long-form-narrative-centric game soaks its way into my skin, leaving me with pruned fingers to think about long after the bubbles have stopped. I play games like Gears, Geometry Wars, Pacman, Street Fighter IV, and CoD for hours and hours, solely for the one or two minutes a night where I actually succeed at something. Where I continually react and position myself until I'm able to sink the perfect hook. It's a lot like fishing.

When I play Gears of War 2 with the nerd poker crew, I'll play all night, waiting to land "the big fish," which usually means I've got the drop one of the group's better players (like Michael Strode, a screenwriter who has nothing better to do with his time but become superhuman with a Lancer). All of the elements for the perfect kill will be set -- I'll be somewhere out of his line of site -- I'll have a Torque Bow or an active reload going on the ole' shotgun -- he'll have just said something smart assed while waiting int he pre-game lobby -- and he and I will be the last ones alive. It is with utter glee that I will turn that grinning bastard into a pile of mush. This joy will wipe away all memory of getting murdered by him throughout the night, and I'll walk away from the game fulfilled, anxious to get back and play again.

It is the happenstance aligning of factors out of one's control, combined with the skillful execution of a singular act that I find so appealing in these games. I wait and wait for the stage to be set -- Michael's the only one left alive, or I've just gone on a pretty good first minute run in Geometry Wars -- and then, it's time to shine. Or fail miserably. Fishing is the same way. You wait for the tide. You wait until you find a nice hole, carved out by the surf, where some fish could be hiding and dining on whatever the rip tide has pulled out to them. You wait for a school of perch or even striped bass. And then, when all of these things have aligned for you, it's up to you to get the bait out there and then not screw up the catch. Failure is devastation. Success is elation.

I won't for a second think that fishing or Gears of War are feeding my intellect. I read books and play games like Braid to do that. I'm talking about animal brain here, and I must say, these activities are its delectable candy, gobbled up by the caveman inside me who waits and waits for swift and sweet reward. Games (and often times movies) take a bit of flack for feeding the animal brain and not the human brain. I tend to think they can do both, but don't have to. Thus far in my career, I really only know how to make games where you have to think and engage a story, which is why I'm probably attracted to the more visceral offerings. The secrets to how they "work" seduce me and I take the bait, only to wake from the experience long after the sun has gone done, wondering where the hell the past five hours went.

Fighting a fish on the end of the line makes you feel like a wild beast, plucking your sustenance from the sea. And while I will always be the champion of story and the thinking man's game, any interactive experience that can recreate "the hunt," and remind me that it wasn't but a few thousand years ago that my kind was slaying the woolly mammoth, I'm all for.

When Good Things Come To an End

In the young life of this small web-log, I've made a habit of attempting to entertain. If you're stopping in for a taste of the same'old same'old, may I direct you over to the latest Nace Rant for a clever yarn about a man and his love affair with a five dollar bill. This enthusiasm, tonight, while hopefully not devoid of humor, is a brief jetty off of the predictably windy river of b.s. you've come to know and love.

My dog died today. Her name was Piper and she was part beagle part lab and part awesome. On Thanksgiving Day, 2000, some benevolent hillbilly found her and a bunch of other newborn puppies huddled up against her mom out in the middle of Wyoming's special brand of nowhere. We were in the process of putting down our beloved golden (whose short life was coming to an end), when out at the vet's, one of these tiny frost puppies weaseled its way into our lives. We had had her home a week and she was still nameless. That following weekend, I went on a backpacking trip up into the beartooths only to come back to my little sister having christened her "Piper." I hated this name and called bullshit from the hilltops. Nevertheless, it stuck, and I can't imagine Pipes being called anything else.

But she died today, and without going deeper in her puppy-obit, I will say that she was the smartest dog I've ever met, a helluva of hunting dog and an overall sweetheart. I'm sure my parents are carrying around the heavy hearts of having lost a family member tonight and I think it's probably their pain, which I feel as my own (despite having lost a best friend) that I feel the most.

I am at once both a softy and a bit of a realistic hard-ass. One may be a front for the other or I simply may be a fifty fifty blend of the two polar opposites who created me. Regardless, I must now temper my sensitive retrospective with the stark reality that I seem incapable of suppressing. Piper was an animal, of a species tamed by man thousands of years ago for my pleasure. We took her into our lives and gave her all of the fine makings of a human personality. Over time the Vanaman's gave her a name, a series of likes and dislikes, a voice, fears, pleasures and even eventually, a soul. Without us, it's hard to know if she would have had any of these things. If I think about Piper actually looking at me, I can see her see me and that actually makes my throat begin to tighten. But, when I see every other dog on this planet, they are dogs. Sometimes terribly cute, but always dogs. I know why there are here, and, for a lack of eloquence, what their deal is.

But let me shift gears completely here for a moment. And let this be of no slight to Piper, whose puppy soul, by now, has been lifted up into the heavens to run through the lush fields of dog heaven. Fields full of rabbits to chase, butts to sniff, boys to play with, and, in my illogical fantasy, a narrator, well spoken in the dialects of dog, to pass along this internet ode. Doggy heaven also has a DSL connection.

This gear shifts to a beloved radio show that was abruptly canceled a couple of weeks back. I'm not going to name it as this entry is dedicated to Piper and all proper nouns will be limited to such. Anyway, this show was yanked out of my life, and as dumb as it is, I mourned it for a few days. Because, like Piper, I had allowed it into my life and given it meaning. It entertained me on my way to work, it commented on the things happening in the world around me, and the voices that repainted my morning commutes became intimately friendly and invaluably familiar.

The way a dog can squirrel its way into your heart, so can a radio show. There is something about the simplicity of hearing a voice over the airwaves, even when you can't respond, that strikes deep into my core, to a place identified as uniquely human. I don't need this inner place to survive, but I certainly need it to thrive. And even if sometimes the voice is crass, or I disagree with the voice or I am bored by the voice, a good radio show can feed that place inside of you the nectar it needs to live.

For a while I was living alone up here in San Francisco. Without cable, I would come home to a dull and heavy silence, which I combated with the radio and podcasted portions of the radio show that I had fallen in love with in Los Angeles. The voices of the show would fill every nook and cranny of our one bedroom and any loneliness would instantly fall away. I highly recommend this practice to anyone living alone, feeling alone or simply alone.

The tie being here that I gave this show life. Before I allowed it into my consciousness, it was just another contributor to the dogged blather that persisted in the world around us. But I took it in. And it's only now that I realize I didn't do this because I felt like I was doing some good in the world, but because it gave me something. It enriched my life and filled a hole. As stupid as it was, I slowly let it become important to me, to a point where, when faced with the realization that it was going away, I was genuinely sad.

And a good dog does shares some of these qualities. (Again, not be crass: If given the opportunity to pick between the radio show and a sip from the fountain of youth for ole' Piper, it's silent airwaves, no doubt) Some dogs are rescues, you bring them in because they need a home, only to realize that maybe you need them more than they need you. And, while on the surface, they're only dogs, their meaning to somebody can be so humongous that, if visualized and put on public display, it may look quite silly.

Nevertheless, the things we choose to let become important ARE strange, surreal and often times silly. And one must be grounded enough to know which ones are which. But because of this awareness, I often hold myself back from falling in love with someone, some animal or something. I force myself to see this affection through the lens of others and cower in embarrassment.

Piper was only a dog, but goddamit I loved her. And I loved that radio show. And I loved Startropics on the NES. And I loved every page of Tom Sawyer. And I loved my grandpa. All lined up in a row its easy to suss out the ridiculous ones, and it doesn't take a moment to assign them importance. But what I'm talking about isn't importance. I'm talking about love, and whether or not something coaxes it out of you -- even the tiniest of drops. A life full of love, from the silly to the essential does a good life make.

We shouldn't hold back from giving these things love, even if it's a stupid dog. It's only when these things come to an end do we realize how much of that love we allowed ourselves to give. Piper had quite a bit. And she deserved every ounce.