Grand Romantic Delusions Chapter 19: The Date (pt. 2)

Part II

     "OK," said Seth, leaning across the table. "I told you where I work."

     "Yes," replied Katie. "You work in this secret laboratory. But this is not so unusual. You said to me that you only clean the place, yes?"

     "Yeah, I only clean up, but I still see things, you know?"

     "What kind of things are you seeing?"

     "Things I … I'm not sure I understand them. But, there are weird things going on there all the time."

     "But if this work is for government, do they not already know of strange goings-on?"

     "Yeah, but maybe they worry about how much I know, and whether I'll tell the wrong person."

     "Did you talk to wrong person, you think?" Now she was finally getting somewhere—this is what Hanlon had hired her to do.

     "No," he replied. "I don't really talk much about work—at least not with people outside of work."

     "Then if government watches you, and knows you have done nothing wrong, you have no reason to fear, yes?"

     "I guess it depends …"

     "Have no others asked you about this work? Friends or family?"

     "I don't have any family to speak of—and few friends."

     "Besides," Katie said, "you are only worrying without proof. American government does not do such things like Russian—"

     "Wait!" Seth interrupted her. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small electronic device. "This is my proof."

     "What is this thing?" Katie recognized it immediately as a data snooper. She reached out a tentative finger, as if she wanted to touch it but was afraid.

     "It's a snooper," said Seth. "It tracks electronic data signals that go through a particular device."

Grand Romantic Delusions Chapter 17: The Café

     Another day. Another café. Sometimes—when on the job—Katie felt as though all she did was go from one coffee shop to another; talking to different people in each one, exchanging notes or packages. She could imagine a worse life—sometimes she felt as though she'd lived several worse lives already—but it grew tiring at times.

     This one was quite busy; unlike the book store she'd spent the evening in with O'Keefe. She suspected Lewis Wright had known it would be busy. He had been more than a little skittish and didn't want to meet with her at first, but when she had said they could meet in public and even let him pick the location he finally relented. Why is my life so full of fearful, paranoid men?

     The table he'd designated wasn't open when she'd arrived, but she had watched and waited like a vulture and snagged it as soon as the occupants had left. That was one of many reasons why she always arrived early to these things. 

     She wore a dark blue pin-striped pantsuit with a white lily pinned to the jacket. This was how she'd told Lewis to identify her. She had her hair tied back in a tight bun and wore a pair of wire-frame glasses with non-prescription lenses. All of this, of course, helped her get into her May Parker: Serious Scientist persona. 

Grand Romantic Delusions Chapter 15: The Hacker

     Gary Harold was a man of big ideas and small ambitions. He enjoyed figuring out complex systems, whether they were the mechanics of games or the rules by which international trade was conducted. He also enjoyed impressing others with his esoteric knowledge, but he lacked the drive needed to make any practical use of that knowledge. He also really liked smoking weed. These facts were probably related.

Grand Romantic Delusions Chapter 12: The Call

     "Why you think I would know of such things?" Katie asked, after several pregnant seconds of pause.

     "Well," Seth replied, "because you're from Russia. Isn't the government pretty much always surveilling everyone there?"

     "Is not always way things seem in American media."

     "How do you mean?"

     "You are thinking of Soviet Union," she said. "And not even under communists was it as bad as Americans always think. Or so my parents tell me. I was born in Soviet Union, but grew up with glasnost and under Gorbachev and Yeltsin."

     "But what about Putin? I hear he's a control freak."

     "Putin cares for power," Katie responded. " He does not concern about peasant goings-on and the like." They sat for a moment, sipping their coffees, before Katie asked. "Why do you ask this?"

     "Oh, no reason."

     "I think you have reason, but do not wish to be sharing." She pouted.

     "Oh, all right," Seth said. "I suppose I can tell you." He paused and looked around the café as though he were expecting someone to be listening in on them. He nodded to where Nita was sitting and whispered, "I think she might be listening to us."

     Katie turned to look. Nita was busy looking busy. "I do no think she has been paying us any mind."

     "Someone has been watching me. It's the government, I think."

Grand Romantic Delusions Chapter 10: The Contact

     The late-September sun shone through a break in the trees, nearly blinding Katie as she sat in her car watching a group of young men playing disc golf. They were laughing and drinking beer, which was, she was fairly certain, illegal in the park—the beer, that is, not the laughing. Or the disc golf—though watching the way these men behaved gave her the idea that maybe it should be. Or perhaps that was just the effect the beer was having on them that made the whole lot seem so intolerable.

     A black convertible roadster wound its way slowly down the gravel drive. She flashed her lights just as it crossed her line of sight. The car pulled up next to hers, facing the other way and the driver rolled down the window.

     Katie rolled her own window down and, without looking at the man in the other car, sent a text to the number she's been given by Gavrilo. It read, "That you, Fritz?" She could hear a tone go off from the other car.

     The man sent her back a message reading simply, "Miss Cavell." Katie turned in her seat to face him.

     "Thanks for meeting me here, DuQuesne," she began. "I believe you have something for me from Gavrilo."

     "Yes, Miss Cavell," the man replied. He was a man of very dark complexion and slight build with a close-cropped hair-cut. He was dressed in a dark coat, black shirt and hot pink tie. He turned to Katie and regarded her through his reflective cop shades. "And I believe you have something for us, as well."

Grand Romantic Delusions Chapter 09: The Roommate

     "Why can't I come along?" Lewis was using his anxious voice. The one which usually got him his way where Nita was concerned. 

     "Because," Nita replied, "I really need time to focus." She wasn't having any of his guilt-trip tactics this time.

     Nita's was the kind of room that left one with a feeling that just another couple of feet in one dimension or another would make it work. It wasn't cramped, exactly, but it wasn't quite big enough, either—especially for two people to share. There was a queen-sized bed, a tall dresser, a bookshelf and a very old desk and chair. None of this furniture matched. The state-of-the-art flat-screen TV on top of the dresser certainly looked out of place, as did the pychedellic paint job and the posters featuring bands from the 1960s and '70s.

     "I can be quiet. I'll just sit," he said. "And be quiet."

     "No, you won't." Nita had had far too much experience with Lewis to believe him. "I know you'll mean to, Honey, but I don't think you're actually capable." She could tell he was about to get into one of his down moods. She really couldn't afford to babysit him tonight, though—she had far too much work to do.

     "But—"

     "Listen, Lewis," she interjected, before he could really get going. "This is really important to me. Besides which, I want you to do me a special favor." 

     "Wait." Lewis was a bit surprised by this development. "What sort of favor?"

Solitaire

We have no choice but to play the hands we're dealt. Sure, there are rules by which the universe runs, but at its heart a lot of life is just chance, indifference—chaos unending. But, there's one thing that is always consistent: you're always there, watching me. 

Whether I fail or succeed, you're there, looking at me, weighing my worth as a human being. That's right, I see you giving me that look: that knowing look, that condescending look, that judging look. Or is that a look of pity—or of disappointment?

Missionary Position

So yesterday evening just after dinner, my family and I are all sitting and watching our regular Sunday night TV shows when there is a somewhat timid-sounding burst of knocks at the door. We all go silent, unsure if we really heard a knock, or whether it was the dog bumping into something upstairs and making noises or what. My teen-age son looks out the kitchen window (this is the only way to see who's at the door of our apartment). He says there's a guy in a suit standing there.

Great, I think. Some kind of salesman—probably looking to sell vacuum cleaners or insurance or maybe religion or something. Just to be clear, I have, on occasion, been known to buy a bit of candy or cookies from a child going door-to-door, but only because a) I'm in the mood for a snack and if b) I'm OK with the music program or Girl Scouts or whatever it is the kid is trying to promote. I don't like the fact that some of these organizations exploit kids in this way, but it's hard to say "No" to a child standing there with a box of cookies in her hand and a look of hope in her eye. 

Also, I fucking love Samoas.

Anyway, as I was saying, I generally don't care for the whole door-to-door thing. First of all, if there's something I want, I will go and get it. If I need insurance (which I don't, as it happens), I'll go shop for it. If I need a new appliance, or steaks delivered to my door, or bottles of knock-off fragrances or magazines or anything else, I will either go get that thing or order it online. I don't need some asshole interrupting family time, TV time, video game time, dinner time or any other part of my personal life with a sales pitch. So, I'm already miffed when I go to answer the door in my pajama shorts and tattered T-shirt.

I open the door, and there are two young men in suits and ties standing there.

"Yeah?" I inquire.

They stand there staring at me, mouths agape. Perhaps they were surprised someone bothered to answer the door. Several seconds pass, and neither of them says a word. They just stand there like a couple of idiots.

"What do you need?" I ask.

"Umm … we're missionaries—"

"OK," I respond. "Bye." And I then proceeded to close the door firmly in their idiot faces.

After a few minutes, my son went back to the kitchen to get something, and looked out the window again. They were still standing there. What, were they in shock? Were they just confused? Or were they performing some sort of prayer or incantation to either save or curse my soul?

I like to think they were putting some kind of sign on my door-post, like those old hobo signs that hobos used to let other hobos know where they could get work or a good meal, or to watch out for a nasty dog and such. Maybe they were putting a warning to other proselytizers that there was a doomed non-believer inside … like a Satanist or *gasp* an atheist! Watch out, the warning would signify, the guy in this apartment won't let you finish your spiel. Best move on.

But seriously, why does this happen? Why must I be interrupted by stupid "missionaries" at my door? And seriously? Missionaries? In the Midwest of the United States? Like there's the remotest possibility that there's anyone in this country who hasn't heard about JAYZUS and his wonderful plan for the salvation of my soul and the disappearance of my cash and my ability to think coherently.

Now, I used to be more polite to these people when they came around. I mean, I understand they have their beliefs and they probably really do think they're helping somehow. But you know what? I don't care.

I don't begrudge anyone their personal beliefs, no matter how far out they might be. But the minute you decide you have to go around and push your stupid superstitions on complete strangers, then you've lost the right to politeness. If you want to go hold a meeting—put up flyers or web ads or whatever and invite people to come talk about your beliefs, then great. If you want to go on the internet and find people who are interested in philosophy, theology, discussions about gods and the origins of the universe and other such topics, then that's OK, too. You can even go strike up a conversation with someone at a coffee shop or someplace public, as long as they don't mind. If you want to go out into the public square and chant about Krishna, Buddha, Jesus or whatever, I'm fine with that. Have fun doing it. I'm all about freedom of expression. Put up religious art … as long as it's not on public property. 

But, if part of your "calling" is to pester total strangers who have expressed no interest in you or your beliefs at their private residences, then fuck you and your stupid imaginary sky friend. You'll get the same respect and consideration from me that you've shown to me, which is to say none.

Grand Romantic Delusions Chapter 07: The Book

     "Hey, Anita!" Mary entered through the back door into the kitchen.

     "Yeah," came the reply from somewhere in the front of the house. "What's up, Mary?"

     Mary dropped her over-sized purse on the kitchen island and went to pull the book out. Unable to find it, she grabbed her bag and went into the living room where Nita and Lewis were sitting on the couch. Nita was sitting upright, with her feet on the coffee table, supporting her laptop on her knees. How she maintained this awkward position and still managed to function well enough to use her laptop Mary didn't understand, especially as Lewis's head was resting in her lap—he lay on his back, filling the rest of the couch, his knees propping up his own laptop.

     Mary sighed. "Well, I lost your stupid book." She dropped the purse on the coffee table with a loud thump. Lewis, startled, sat up, bumping his temple on Nita's computer.

     "Ow!" He exclaimed, "What the hell?" Mary stifled a laugh behind her hand and quickly turned her best glare on Nita.

     "That was seriously some of the goofiest New Age bullshit I've ever read, and I only read a dozen pages of it."

     Nita glanced up at Mary briefly, but immediately focused her attention back on her computer screen.

     "Lewis! You're losing aggro!"

     Lewis quickly turned and sat upright, likewise returning his attention to his laptop. 

     "Yeah, I got it, I got it ..."  He rubbed his right temple gingerly as he went back to his game.

     Nita replied, "You can call it goofy or whatever you want—and I'm not saying I agree with all of it.—but, you know, it does make you think."

     "Funny," said Mary. "I thought it had the exact opposite effect.  Although, to be honest, I'm not sure what was worse: the book, or the idiots at the DMV who kept trying to talk to me about it. That thing must be some kind of retard magnet."

     Lewis chuckled quietly. "So, you … what? Decided to pitch it out the window on your way home?"

     "No," Mary replied. "I just lost it. I … I guess I must have left it at the DMV."

    "You're in Ohio, dear," said Nita vaguely. Most of her attention was focused on keeping Lewis's game character healthy. "We call it a Bureau here, not a Department or Division."

     "Whatever."

     "So … are you gonna go back and get it?" Nita smiled slyly. "I mean, I'm an upright citizen these days. I don't need a lost library book on my record."

     "Yeah, I suppose I will, but I want to wait a while."

     "Whatever for?"

     "I just want to wait for the queue to clear out. There were people in it I'd rather not see again."

     "OK, what's his name?"

     "What? Who's name? What are you talking about?"

     "It's fairly obvious," continued Nita. "Some guy in line at the BMV—despite your best efforts at avoiding male attention—noticed you, and you want to avoid him."

     "You're crazy, Nita."

     "Am I?" Nita smiled more broadly. She turned to Lewis and said, "Rogue's down. How long you think you can hold on? Should I res him, or are we doomed to wipe again?"

     "We can get this!" Lewis tapped away furiously at his keyboard. "Go ahead and res him, then spam heals on me, quick!"

     "I'm on it." She made a few quick taps on her own keyboard, and spoke to Mary again, but her eyes remained fixed on her screen, "You know exactly what I'm talking about. Every time a guy pays any attention to you, you run away and for the next few weeks you give yourself a reverse make-over."

     "Revers— what does that even …"

     "You know what I mean. You wear the frumpiest clothes you can find and halve the number of times you wash your hair."

     "What? How?" Mary blushed. "Why would you even notice something like that?"

     "I'm an observer. I observe. We have lived together for nearly three years now, after all. It would be hard not to notice."

     Mary let out an exasperated sigh and went back to the kitchen.

    She yelled through the doorway. "How abut I just pay for the damn book?" 

     Mary opened the refrigerator and scanned the contents. She grabbed a pizza box and a can of Mountain Dew and closed the door. She dropped the box on the table, opened it, grabbed a couple of rectangular pieces of pizza and threw herself into a kitchen chair, cracking open the soda can with her other hand and taking a drink.

     "I'm not actually done with that book," yelled Nita from the other room. She followed up with, "There's still some pizza left from last night, if you want it. It's in the fridge."

     "Found it, already." Mary took a couple bites of cold pizza. "And why the hell do you still need it?"

     "It's for my research paper."

     "Wait, what? So, you're doing a research paper that requires the use of that stupid thing? What's the paper about, failed prophecies? Or just made-up bullshit in general?"

     "Well, sort of. It's about the social phenomenon of conspiracy theories. I need that book for my section on apocalypticism."

     "Did anyone ever tell you that you've made some odd academic choices?"

     "Says the woman who majored in Medieval and Renaissance Studies."

     "Touché." Mary sat with her eyes closed, chewing on her cold day-old pizza. There was another thing she never understood: square-cut pizza. Ohio was a weird place.

     After getting a shower—reverse makeover, indeed—Mary dressed and grabbed her cell. She looked up the number for the BMV.

     "No, ma'am, there's no book here by that or any other description," the woman on the line said. "You say you left it here today?"

     "Yes," said Mary. "I was there around noon. My name's Dagfridchen. Mary Dagfridchen. There was a guy there with two little girls just ahead of me, and an annoying man that had to mind them while their father had his picture taken. Any of that ring a bell?"

     "You know …" the woman paused, annoyingly. "Come to think of it, I do remember you. Did you know there was a man asking about you after you left?"

     "What? What man? Why was he asking about me? There wasn't anything wrong with my forms, was there?"

     "No, it was nothing like that. It was the guy behind you in line, actually. The one we had to watch the kids."

     "Wait, he … he … he was … asking about me?" Marry stammered. "What do you mean? What did you tell him? What did he ask?"

     "He wanted to know where you lived," the woman replied. "Name and address—that sort of thing."

     "Jesus! You didn't tell him any of that, did you?" Mary was starting to feel a little panicked.

     "Of course not! BMV data is private," the woman said. "Well, except when the state decides to sell it to marketers, I guess."

     "Well, thanks for that, at least." A terrible thought occurred to Mary as she continued, "You didn't happen to notice if this man had a book with him, did you?"

     "I think maybe he did."

     "Oh great," said Mary. He didn't have one while we were waiting in the queue, so he must have picked up mine."

     "Sorry to hear that. Important book, was it?"

     "Not really, except that it wasn't mine. My roommate had it checked out of the library. So … maybe this guy was just wanting to return the book to me. I guess I should call the library and see if he returned it."

     "Yeah, you could try that, except, I don't think it was the book he was worried about."

     "What do you mean?"

     "Well, this guy seemed on-edge. He came up to the counter after you, like I said. But he never said anything about a book."

     "What did he say?"

     "He came right up and told me that he needed to find the woman who was in line before him and started going on about destiny and how you were meant to be together."

     "Seriously?" Mary shuddered. "He actually said that?"

     "Sure did," came the response. "I told him this wasn't some kind of movie and if he wanted to go running after you, he'd have to wait in line again. So he renewed his license and went on his way. It was a big line."

     "And you're sure he had a book with him?"

     "Pretty sure, yeah."

     "I have a feeling I'm going to regret this, but … I don't suppose you can give me his name? Even though he probably has my book?"

     "Nope. His information is just as private as yours was."

     "All right, well, thanks, I guess." She touched her phone screen to disconnect the call.

     "Columbus Metropolitan Library—how may I help you?"

     "Hi. I lost a library book that I think someone else picked up and may have returned it for me," said Mary. "Can I check on that?"

     "Sure," said the man on the other end. "What's the account name and number?"

     "I don't have my library card with me, but the name's Anita Herrera."

     "Oh my God! Was the book Twilight of the Gods, by any chance?"

     "Yes. Yes, it was. How did you know? Did someone return it?"

     "Well, someone came in with it," said the librarian. "He was trying to use it to track you down … well, your friend, anyway."

     "My friend? Wait … what did he look like? What did you tell him?"

     "Calm down, Miss." The librarian started to chuckle. "I didn't tell him anything. You should have heard him, though!"

     "Why? What did he say? Who was he?"

     "He was about average height, maybe a bit overweight. He wouldn't stand out in a crowd or anything … light brown hair, or dark blond, maybe, with one of those little beardy things under his lip. He was wearing blue jeans and a plain black t-shirt. Anyway, he said he needed to find out who had checked out the book. I told him I couldn't give him that information. Then he started going on about how your friend was probably the love of his life, and he was desperate to find her. Did you loan the book to a friend, or something?"

     "Um … yes. I, uh … I loaned it to my roommate." Mary felt a chill crawling up her spine. "So … you have the book now?"

     "No. He took it with him." The man started giggling again.

      "What? You let him leave with it? What's so damn funny?

     "You see, I tried to tell him he had to leave it, but then he flew out of here like a bat out of hell." The librarian was just outright laughing now. "What's funny is that he kept stumbling and dropping things the whole time. It's not like we were chasing him, or anything, but I watched him out the window. Once he got to his car, he nearly hit a couple of people on his way out. Thankfully no one was hurt!"

     "So, you saw him get in his car?"

     "Yeah. That was part of what was funny. He was driving some old beater—like a Camaro or something—with a terrible half-done paint job and stickers all over the back of it."

     "What color?"

     "Oh. You know, I probably shouldn't have told you that."

     "Please … he has my book. And I think he's stalking me. My friend, I mean. I think he's stalking my roommate."

     "Well, OK, I wouldn't want something bad to happen to you, and it's not like I have any personal data on this guy. It was like a light blue … kind of metallic-looking. Big parts of it were covered in grey, though … like primer, I guess."

     "What about the stickers?"

     "Oh, there was a Metallica one and … let's see … Slayer, Iron Maiden … AC/DC, I think. Just, you know … rock bands. Oh! And there was a Labelle Research sticker. I think he must work there, because of the plates?"

     "You got a plate number?"

     "Oh my. Yes, I did, but I feel like maybe I shouldn't … Oh, what the hell? It was 'SECRETS' … but, with, like, numbers for some of the letters."

     "So, 'SECRETS' plus the Labelle sticker …"

     "Yeah. You've probably heard the rumors about that place. They're always working on some top-secret government projects and stuff. So, I figure this guy must work there. Although … as weird as he came across, I sure hope he's not working on something important!

     "Yeah," replied Mary. "You and me both."

Grand Romantic Delusions Chapter 06: The Venture

     Seth pulled the beat-up Camaro into the driveway of his small house. It was a side-split, only about 1,200 square feet, with siding painted in the most eye-watering shade of green imaginable. He drove over the half a dozen or so issues of bagged community newspapers that lay in the driveway as he parked.

     Grabbing the book he ran up the front steps and unlocked his deep red front door. He figured the people who had owned the house before him must have been huge fans of Christmas, or something.

     After grabbing a beer from the fridge, he plopped himself and the book down on the couch. He needed something to take his mind off Mary and how he was going to find her. He often found that the best way to solve a problem was to take a break from thinking about it. He was very Zen like that.

     He turned on the TV and grabbed a game remote. This guy Gary at work had been telling him about a new game called "Venture" or something like that. It was one of those downloadable console games you could get for, like, ten bucks. It was supposed to be a sort of "art" game you just had to experience to understand, he'd said. Of course Gary was quite the stoner, so his opinions were hit-and-miss. Still, Seth had plenty of points in his account, so he thought he'd give it a shot. After logging in and starting the download he stood up, downed the rest of his beer and headed back to the kitchen, book in hand. He dropped the book on the counter next to the fridge, grabbed another beer and went back to the living room. 

     Something felt … odd. He pushed the front curtain aside with one finger and peeked through the small gap he'd made. There were a couple of kids playing in the yard across the street, and one guy a couple doors down washing his car. He could hear the sounds of a lawnmower and those of a couple of dogs barking … pretty much just a typical Saturday afternoon on Cortona Road.

     He sat back down. The download was finished so he started up the game. He was greeted with a title screen which included a shadowy character floating about and making ghostly chimp-like noises while soft piano and synthesized flute music played over the sound of wind and crickets. Yeah, this looked like something Stoner Gary would get into.

     Seth was completely unprepared for what happened next. After hitting the start button, he found he had control of one of the ghostly shadow characters and he was floating through some standing stones on a hilltop in the middle of a foggy moor. It was dark, with only the barest sliver of a moon, but in the distance there was a faint light, so he moved his avatar in that direction. Quiet music rose and fell as he glided across the landscape towards the source of the light. It seemed to be coming from the base of a tall tower at the top of another hill. 

     On his way there, he started playing with the controls to see what functions they had. One button made him leap into the air. Another made him glide more quickly. A third caused his character to vocalize—making chimp-like noises. He found that if he tapped this button he got a simple ook-like sound, but that if he held hit down the sound became more of a squeal. If he held it long enough the noise was like that of a chimp screeching after having had a banana taken away or something. How could any of that possibly be useful? The fourth button didn't appear to do much other than make him squat down and raise his hands up. Weird.

     Seth shrugged and held down his sprint button. His character floated at double speed towards the tower in the distance. He downed rest of the second beer and went to pause the game so he could get another. It wouldn't pause. Weird … so apparently you have to play this game in real time? He quickly went to the kitchen and grabbed two more beers (the remainder of his six-pack), as well as the bottle of Jameson's and a glass tumbler from the top of the fridge for good measure.

     When he returned, he noticed that the faint light that had been at the base of the tower was now a little brighter … and a little closer. In fact, it appeared to be moving towards him. Suddenly he remembered a key point that Gary had mentioned about the game.

     "It's multi-player—online only. But you can't actually talk to the other players. You can only communicate through noises and gestures," Gary had said. "And you can't pick your partners. It just randomly teams you up with someone else who's playing the game."

     So, that light coming towards him must be another player's avatar! Cool, he thought. I can get into this. After taking a swig out of the third beer bottle, Seth set about moving towards the other player. As they neared one another, he could see another ghostly figure, similar to his, but white and glowing rather than dark and shadowy. When they came together, the two characters did a little dance around one another. 

     Seth tapped his vocalize button a couple of times. Ook! Ook! The other player did likewise. OK, well we can sort of communicate, Seth thought. But what do we do now?

     The white character willowed back and forth a couple of times then ooked at him three times and turned away, back towards he ruins of the tower from which she'd come. (Something about the way the white figure moved made Seth think of a woman, though he knew there was no way to know who was on the other end.) He followed.

     Suddenly it became a race. They each moved towards the tower as fast as they could. Seth realized that he could only sprint for so long before his character slowed down, and that it took some time before he could sprint again. However, as there was no "energy bar" or other indicator on the screen, you just sort of had to get a feel for when you could sprint again. So the two of them traded leads until they were almost there, when suddenly the white figure pulled ahead and touched the tower first. She must have been conserving her energy, thought Seth. Of course, this person had probably played the game before.

     The white figure began spinning around and jumping, ook-ooking the whole while. What did she want? He imitated her, spinning his avatar around, alternately tapping the vocalize and jump buttons. Sure, the dancing around and chattering senselessly at one another was kind of fun, but what was the point of this game?

     Suddenly the other character began bumping into him—sort of pushing him forward, guiding him around the tower. Once they were at the other side, Seth noticed that the tower had a large open doorway and inside there were alternating stones sticking out from the walls like a spiral staircase, but with big gaps between the individual steps, and the bottom step far higher than their characters could jump. This must be what she wants me to see!

     Seth finished the third beer and popped open the fourth and last bottle. He had a big gulp then turned his attention back to the game. OK , he thought, it's a puzzle. We have to find a way to the top of the tower, I guess.

     The white character began spinning again, then jumping. The more she spun, the higher she seemed to jump. She appeared to be trying to reach the bottom stair, but couldn't quite manage it. He tried the old Mario double-jump, but that didn't work at all in this game.

     Then the white character jumped on top of him and squatted. She held the position for a moment then sprung up into the air … but only slightly. This clearly wasn't going to help them reach the stairs, either.

     After landing in front of him, the white character squatted again and made an ook sound. Seth imitated her. She gave him two ook sounds this time. Then she squatted again and held the position. He pressed his squat button and held it. She ooked twice then jumped up. He did likewise. She stopped in front of him and ooked once, then stepped away and squatted again.

     Seth wasn't sure what she wanted at this point. He stepped towards her and squatted. She ooked twice … and he released the squat. She gave him one ook and stood still. Suddenly it dawned on him She wanted him to hold the squatting position!

     Seth squatted again and remained. The white figure ooked twice then began her spinning jump until she was on top of him again. She ooked. He sat there in his squatting position, unsure of what to do next. She ooked twice. He still didn't get it. Then she started shrieking. He remained in position, holding the squat button for a good thirty seconds or so … her shrieking rose in frequency and intensity. Finally, she jumped back down in front of him and shrieked some more. He stood up.

     She alternated between bouncing and squatting and shrieking, over and over again. Then she jumped on top of him once more. After several minutes of this, Seth finally got it. He squatted, she jumped on top of him, and he released the squat button and flung her into the air, high enough to reach the bottom stair … but in the wrong direction. So the squat button was really a throw button, apparently.

     Seth finished the fourth and final beer then grabbed the whisky bottle and poured himself a double-shot into the glass tumbler. He took a couple of sips. Nothing like trying to solve a co-op puzzle game while drunk, he thought.

     He moved towards the bottom stair, facing it, and ooked at the white figure. By this time he was sure it was a woman on the other end. He tried to imagine what she was like. She was probably patient. One had to be patient to play a game like this—especially with such limited communication. With patience came kindness, of course. He tried to imagine a pair of kind and gentle eyes. He thought they would be a light brown color, like Mary's—when you could see them through the glare of her glasses, that is.

     Seth squatted and let the white character jump on top of him again. This time he threw her accurately and she climbed onto the bottom stair. She hopped to the next step, then the next, but fell off the one after that, so he squatted and threw her again. 

     Wouldn't it be hilarious if it was Mary on the other end of the game, he thought. He knew fate was bringing them together, but wouldn't it be something if after trying to find her through the library, he ended up playing with her online? He finished his whisky, the cool warmth flowing down his throat and hitting him in the chest. He poured another.

     He watched as the white figure leapt from step to step until she made it all the way to the top of the tower. OK … what now? How was he supposed to get to the top? She disappeared through a trap door and then he heard a "click" and suddenly the walls of the tower began to rotate in sections, each section moving opposite from the way the section above and below it moved. The whole tower was like a big clockwork. As the sections rotated, more stairs popped out of the walls and then it stopped. Now he could climb right up to the top and join his companion without the need for jumping. 

     Once he reached the top and climbed through the trapdoor he stood next to the white figure and looked out towards the horizon. The tower was quite tall and they could see a fair distance away as a result. It was a beautiful, haunting kind of game world—especially with the soft New-Agey music and the wind and frogs sound effects. It felt like they were really outside in some mysterious and alien world. The sliver of moon lit the rolling hills and moorland about them just enough that he could make out the contours of the surrounding countryside without seeing any of the details.

     His partner began ooking again and spinning around. She stood on a pale circle of light on the roof of the tower. He stood next to her and ooked back. She moved to the other side of the tower and he followed her again., then she screeched at him.

     He wasn't sure what a screech meant. Was he supposed to follow her, or was he doing something wrong? She stood on another circle on the other side of the tower. He went and stood next to her again. She circled around him and pushed him into the circle and ooked at him twice. He squatted. Am I supposed to throw her somewhere?

     She crossed the roof again and he followed. She shrieked and he went back to the circle and squatted. Ook ook! She went and stood in the opposite circle while he remained. Suddenly the entire roof of the tower lifted off and floated away, carrying them with it. So that's the trick, Seth realized.

     Suddenly he knew it was her. That's right … it had to be. The universe was bringing them together, one way or another, and what better way than through the incredible shared experience of this otherworldly game?

     Oh Mary, he thought. If only I could find you in OUR world!

     They went on like this for hours. They explored the world, finding new landscapes, new puzzles and collecting various kinds of gemstones. Seth guessed that was the real point of the game: collecting the gems. Each time they found one, they were treated to swelling music and a new vista. They searched the moors and then a desert and then a barren snowscape. One doorway apparently led them to the moon—everything was grey and lifeless and starkly beautiful.

     Every step of the way they worked together as if sharing one consciousness. They would arrive at the new location and she would guide him through each puzzle —patiently, lovingly. Seth had never experienced anything quite like this.

     With each new discovery he was more convinced that it was Mary with whom he was playing. Who else could it be? Who else could he just click with on such a deep level, without even needing language to communicate? He knew instinctively that it was his soulmate on the other end of the network. And with this knowledge he was more confident than ever that he would manage to find her. He just had to be as patient as she was with him in the game.

     At the end they were in a jungle, exploring the ruins of some sort of step-pyramid. By this time Seth was so drunk he could barely sit up straight and hold the controller, but he was not giving up. He needed some water. He ooked at his companion a couple of times and jumped up—too fast. He fell forward before ever really getting to his feet. He was suddenly very glad he didn't own a coffee table.

     Seth stood and staggered into the kitchen. He grabbed the water jug out of the refrigerator and brought it back to the couch in the now-dark living room. He managed to pour himself a tumbler-full of water without spilling more than a couple of cups worth on himself  or his couch.

     He downed the entire glass of water in a couple of lusty gulps and poured another. God damn, I'm thirsty. He picked up the controller again and noticed that Mary was jumping up and down again, ooking at him like mad.

     He moved towards her and ooked back twice. She led him up the pyramid to a little room at the top. Again, they each had to press a button on either side, but this time instead of floating away, the entire pyramid inverted, collapsing in on itself—the top sinking below the level of the bottom—and they were suddenly in a chamber deep under ground.

     Everywhere was dark. They had only the soft glow of white light issuing forth from Mary's avatar to see by. She led him away from the little room into the deep dark chamber. In the distance there were colorful lights and he could see more ghostly figures like theirs—some dark, some light—dancing in a great circle. It was like a homecoming!

     There was a loud bang from somewhere behind Seth, which scared the living shit out of him. He jumped up, controller in hand, and pulled the console off its shelf. The TV screen went to blue. Disconnected!

     Heart racing, he quickly checked the wires in the back of the console, but realized he could barely see anything. The clock on the cable box said it was 11:30. Fuck! How long have we been playing? He jumped up to hit the lamp and almost knocked it over before he managed to get the light on. Goddamn neighbors! There was always someone in this neighborhood setting off firecrackers or target shooting or something.

     He checked his console now in the harsh glare of the lamplight. The cables were all connected, both to the console and the back of the television. He hit the power button on the console and it blinked on, then off. It wouldn't stay on, no matter how many times he pushed it.

     Seth howled with rage. He'd have to get this fixed. Shit! Probably cheaper to buy a new one. At any rate, he knew he was done for now. He'd get the damn thing looked at tomorrow.

     One thing he knew for sure: he would have to find Mary. He wanted to talk to her about the game. He wanted to finish playing it with her. He wanted to stare deeply into her eyes over a cup of coffee and talk about all the feelings they'd shared tonight. He wondered if she knew it was him she'd been playing with. Tomorrow, he told himself. I will find her tomorrow.

     Somewhere south of Phoenix, Arizona, in an adobe-style ranch house sat a heavy-set, unshaven man in his mid-forties. He wore an ill-fitting black tank, cut-off denim shorts and a trucker hat which read "Horny Old Bastard" —and he was not wearing it ironically. He scratched his ass as he stared at his TV screen, controller in one hand, can of Bud Light in the other. He began screaming at no one in particular.

     "That stupid sunovabitch! Took me for freakin' ever to finally drag his dumb ass to the end of this game, and then he fuckin' quits on me?"

Video Games Are Art

See? I told you so.


It's nice to see that the Supreme Court to can make a correct decision on occasion. You just have to be a billion-plus-dollar industry, and they'll see your side of the argument.

Are Video Games an Art Form?

I know I'm a little late to this party, but I've been busy. I've been mulling this topic over in my head for a while, too, and now I just feel the need to get it out on virtual paper.

Roger Ebert, some time ago, made the statement that video games could never be art. In response to this, Kellee Santiago of thatgamecompany gave a talk at a TEDxUSC event taking the opposing view. Ebert, unusually, felt the need to respond to that.

As usual on the Internets, a shitstorm arose in the gaming community and everyone from Gabe & Tycho at Penny Arcade to G4 TV's Adam Sessler to "Yahtzee" Croshaw have posted responses. Responses have ranged from outraged disagreement with Mr. Ebert to agreement on certain points and others basically wondering why anyone gives a rat's ass.

Well, I certainly don't kid myself that I belong in company of those people above, but I still have my opinions. For what it's worth, here they are:

First off, we sort of have to define just what art is. Andy Warhol's quip about most Americans thinking it's a man's name notwithstanding, I think art can be appreciated and defined by anyone ... but people will always have their disagreements about that definition. I think of art as a process (or product of that process) of arranging elements (whether visual or auditory, or whatever) in order to elicit an emotional or sensual response in an audience. I believe art can be the work of one individual or of a collaborative process.

Most importantly, though, we need to remember that whether something is art or not, does NOT determine its quality or value. There is good art and there is bad art.

Let's take one of my favorite paintings as an example: Nighthawks, by Edward Hopper. (I'm sure you know the painting, even if you don't recognize the name. Just do a Google Image Search.) I think pretty much everyone would agree that this is an example of art. Now, take the crayon etchings of a 2-year old that's up on the refrigerator of a typical middle-American home. Very few people would argue that the child's art is objectively the better of these two works. (Some might argue over purity of expression, or some such, but I'm not going there.) Most people would also consider both of these works an art form.

Similarly, the prehistoric etchings on cave walls have a certain beauty in their lines and are very expressive, but the objective technical quality doesn't compare to Leonardo Da Vinci's work. And furthermore, take a look at different forms and styles like the surrealism of Magritte or Picasso's cubism. These are all art. So is the spoof of Nighthawks featuring Elvis and Marilyn Monroe and James Dean. What about the Velvet Elvises and Dogs Playing Poker and the Unicorns with Rainbows being sold out of a van on the corner? I think most people would consider those art. Mostly bad art, yes, but art nonetheless.

I believe most people consider the act of storytelling to be an art, as well. Storytelling can take many forms: verbal communication or sign language, drama (stage & screen), literature, or sequential imagery (comics). And once you move from someone's individual vision, you're moving into collaborative art.

Mr. Ebert says he tends "... to think of art as usually the creation of one artist." I'm not sure why he brought this up, because he almost immediately shoots the concept down by providing examples of collaborative art: a cathedral, a tribal dance - though he goes on to claim that the dance is made up of individual choreographers. "Everybody didn't start dancing all at once." I find it odd that he neglected the most obvious form of collaborative art in our modern society - the field in which he works professionally: Film. Modern film is a collaborative art. Not everyone who works on a film is an artist - there are technical people and all sorts of behind-the-scenes workers involved - but there are many artists involved: writers, directors, actors, designers of props and sets. The end result of their efforts, both artists and non-artists alike - is a film - which I think most people, Mr. Ebert included, would consider a work of art. Maybe not all films are really "art" in their purest sense. But I think the medium itself is an art form. Sure there are some really lousy films out there, but that doesn't mean they're not art. They're just bad art.

So, I think we can dismiss the idea that art must be the result of one artist's singular vision.

One of Mr. Ebert's biggest issues seems to be with the non-static nature of video games.

Our modern method of photography didn't exist 200 years or so ago. At one time it was a new technology. An argument could be made that photography isn't an art, because all you're doing is pointing a tool at something that already exists and pushing a button. You're just mechanically producing two-dimensional representation of something from the real world, using a technological tool. Of course, anyone who's seen and been moved by the photos of Ansel Adams or Alfred Stieglitz or even Mathew Brady's portraits and documentary photos of the American Civil War will disagree with this argument. Photography is definitely an art, and I think most people today would agree with me. At one time, however, that wouldn't have been the case.

Motion Pictures didn't exist until just over a hundred years ago, either. If photography is an art form, does the non-static nature of movies make them not art? I'm guessing that Mr. Ebert would agree that motion pictures are an art form. Maybe he wouldn't consider all films art, but he certainly wouldn't say, as a result, that motion pictures could never be art. Of course, once a film is printed and shown, the film itself is identical for all the audiences viewing it, so in that sense, motion pictures are static.

So there's an argument - since each "audience" or player of a video game experiences the game differently, the game cannot be art.

But what about live drama? Each performance is slightly different from each other performance, even if working from the same script and using the same props, actors, backdrops, etc. Even tougher to categorize is improvisational theater or performance art, or dance, or live music. These performances of art are never quite exactly the same, even in cases, such as choreography and music, where the artists rehearse repeatedly to make each performance as similar as possible. How about improvisational jazz, or "jam" sessions? Does the fact that the various musicians are reacting to one another (and even the audience response) in real time make the performance no longer art?

And what about the audience? I believe that art exists in stages - there's the artistic concept, the execution of the concept, the presentation to the audience and the audience reaction. All of these are parts of art. And all of these can exist within video games. A video game can certainly elicit an emotional response in its audience. Sometimes it's curiosity, or wonderment, or simply frustration with the game, but there is an emotional response. And some games - especially story-based games - can invest the player/audience with emotional reactions every bit as deep as a film or book or play.

Mr. Ebert also has issues with the fact that one can win or lose a game. As he admits he has never played a video game, I will cut him some slack for such an ignorant statement. (Though I have to wonder why a person with pretty much zero knowledge on a subject, would feel the need to offer opinions on it without exposing himself to it at least a little bit!) I have played games where there is no win or lose state. Take The Sims for example. That game is simply a simulation. Sure there are goals within it, but even if you fail at them, the game just keeps moving along, and the story you're creating within it doesn't stop, either. I've also played games where, even though player death is possible, you get to re-load and continue the story. So even though there may be multiple fits and starts in the story line, I know, as long as I keep playing, I will eventually get to witness the whole tale unfold. Prime examples of this include BioWare's CRPG games, such as Mass Effect or Dragon Age. These games tell involving stories, that keep the player playing just to see the tale unfold - these are stories to rival or even exceed many of the stories told in to-day's cinemas.

Just as an example: when you watch a movie that involves the main character being faced with acts of brutality, you find yourself hoping that the hero manages to overcome adversity and put an end to the situation. In Mass Effect 2, there is a scene on a penal ship where there are some nasty and abusive activities going on. As a player I found myself disturbed by this and hoping that I would get a chance to right the wrongs being committed. Now, just because I have a certain amount of control of the character, and because I can chose, to some degree, the order in which certain events happen, does that artistically invalidate my response as an audience? I don't believe it does. My emotional response as a player was the same as it would have been watching the same scene in a movie, or reading it in a book. The only difference is that there is a certain interactivity involved. This is called audience participation, and it certainly doesn't invalidate the artistic merits of a live theater performance or improvisational theater. When the Blue Man Group interacts with its audience, it changes the performance. Does that suddenly mean the whole endeavor is no longer art? Of course not!

I think Mr. Ebert just can't get his head around the fact that video games are a new, interactive art form. It's a form that is just too different, and too outside his realm of experience for him to see the artistic merits within it.

Does that mean all video games are art? No, probably not. Just as maybe not all photos are art, and maybe not all motion pictures are art. I wouldn't call Tetris a work of art, necessarily. It's a clever and addicting game, but probably not art. I would say most strategy games aren't art. They're more akin to board games - though there can certainly be artistic elements within both.

But some games are art. And that's where I have trouble with Mr. Ebert's statement. It's just such a dismissive, blanket declaration to say that video games can never be art. And coming from a man who has never played a video game, it comes across as disingenuous.

I don't think that's his intent, though. I think it's simply a case of an opinion borne of ignorance.

Braaaaiiinnssss!!!

The stillness is palpable, or as the old cliché goes: It's Quiet. Too Quiet. My three comrades and I, armed with whatever weapons we could scavenge, venture forth into the strangely misty southern evening. Over the sound of crickets and frogs, a few dissonant notes can be heard from somewhere in the distance - plucked out on an old banjo. We cautiously make our way down the highway. There are abandoned vehicles everywhere - sports cars, tractor-trailers, SUVs, pick-up trucks ... our car would never make it through that mess, even if we found enough gas to fill it. Up ahead we can make out the silhouette of a low, flat building - it looks like an old motel. Maybe we can find a safe place to hole up there for the night.

Too late ... here comes one ... then three ... then an endless, mindless horde: it's like a town-hall meeting without walls.

We prepare to receive them ... guns loaded, axes in hand ... and their charge begins!

I shout my battle cry, "No one wants to kill your grandmother, and Obama was born in Hawaii!"

The mindless rage on the faces of our attackers is clear. They don't want to hear reason, they wish only to spread their fear.

----- ----- ----- ----- -----

As you can probably guess, I've been playing Valve's Political Allegory Game, Left 4 Dead 2. It's a lot of fun and chock full of timely commentary about the current state of the Republican party.

First, there are the survivors, who represent moderates, whether non-aligned voters or the "thinking" part of the Republican party. This is the part that holds reasoned conservative opinions.

The mindless Infected, are, of course, the Fundamentalist Fringe: religious zealots, Birthers, Tea-baggers, unreasoned assholes who think that anyone who uses their brain rather than just mindlessly parrots the dictates of anointed conservative leaders, is un-American. These are the people who don't believe in science, and freak out at the slightest mention of birth control.

Some of the places in the game clearly represent facets of American society. For example, Liberty Mall represents Capitalism and the Theme Park represents the Mainstream Mass Media (i.e. Bread & Circuses, Reality Shows) that act as a distraction from cohesive political thought.

The Special Infected are opinion leaders within the conservative movement:

The Smoker is Dick Cheney, hiding in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to strike. He tries to strangle political debate and leaves an evil cloud of noxious smoke behind him wherever he goes.

The Witch is Michelle Bachmann, who whines and cries all the time, but if you get her attention she becomes vicious and focused, and will attempt to tear apart anyone whose opinions with which she disagrees. (Also, she's genuinely fucking crazy.)

The Tank Represents FOX News*, the Juggernaut of Sanctioned Conservative Opinion , mindlessly destroying anyone in its path, whether a Democrat, Independent, or just the Wrong Kind of Conservative. -Oh! And the Clowns are obviously FOX News personalities such as Bill O'Reilly and Glenn Beck - entertaining the masses, while destroying their ability to function as thinking, reasoning beings.

Rush Limbaugh is the Boomer. Now, I'm not picking on Rush because of his weight - I'm a rather portly fellow myself. Rush is the Boomer because of the bile he spews all over everyone and everything around him. Also, when he takes damage, the mindless "Ditto-head" hordes are sure to be there, ready to attack anyone who dares question him.

Not all of the correlations are necessarily so obvious. Is Sarah Palin represented by the Jockey, riding the regular voter off into dangerous territory? Or is she better represented by the Spitter, because she spreads dangerous venom, leaving it in pools for the unwary traveler? Perhaps Joe Lieberman is the Jockey - riding whatever bandwagon he can for his own political and financial gain.

The Hunter & Charger are probably John Boehner and Joe Wilson, with their tendencies to charge in or jump on any insane justification they can find for their radical stances on important issues.

Regardless of who, specifically, is represented by what element within Left 4 Dead 2, the point is clear: there are a lot of zombies out there, spreading a lot of strange fears about what they believe to be the Liberal Agenda**, and if we don't watch out, they'll take first the whole Republican Party, and then possibly our whole nation, down the road to crazy-town with them.

Finally, is it just me, or does running around in New Orleans killing Zombies with a guitar fill anyone else with the urge to sing "Johnny B. Goode" at the top of their lungs? Should I seek help?

----- ----- ----- ----- -----

*They report only what they think you need to hear, so you don't need (or have any independent ability) to decide.

** Near as I can tell, these people believe the Liberal Agenda is something like: Force every American student to serve on government-appointed death panels with atheist homosexuals married to animals whose mission is to kill Medicare recipients during a pagan ceremony while illegal Muslim Mexican immigrants laugh and eat falafel tacos.