I wasn’t really sure what to write a Super Nerd Sunday about this week. I’ve been stressed and caught up with my coast to coast move, and while I’m used to banking short stories for the weeks leading up to times like these I’ve been so overwhelmed that I haven’t been able to digest any of my gaming experiences. But I have had a chance to dabble with Old World Blues, Fallout: New Vegas’ latest expansion (a full treatment is forthcoming, but so far the thumb is way up), and it’s made me consider a lot about the landscape of America.
See, the New Vegas expansions mostly just play with the idea of how the world has changed in other locations after the bombs fell. A remote part of California, the Zion Valley park in Utah, wherever the fuck Big Mountain is (Wyoming, maybe?): all of these places feature new takes on just what has become of the world with unique personalities emerging from them, completely distinct from the Mojave’s. And driving across the northern edge of the United States lengthwise, you get to see a lot of landscape that looks like it would be untouched by the apocalypse.
High desert country, sparsely populated, dots the eastern edge of Oregon and Washington. Passing through you’ll catch sight of abandoned mines and ramshackle farmsteads, the last vestiges of someone’s dream of subsistence a century ago. All of this set against a bleak, sparsely populated backdrop of surreal beauty and harsh serenity. I’m sure most normal people just drive through these areas and appreciate the pristine nature and the amazing vistas provided at every twist and turn. But I cannot help but look at the wooded hills of Montana, its high plains filled with verdant grass, flowing with clean water our present self-destructive industrials has not yet devastated, and wonder what the end of the world, more specifically Fallout’s end of the world, would look like here.
I know Fallout one and two sort of explored this concept already, and Fallout 3 ostensibly did the same thing New Vegas did for the DC area. But there’s something far more evocative about the approach Fallout: New Vegas takes to exploring various landscapes. Even within the game, each town and place has a very distinct feel. I’d be hard pressed to really notice the difference between the Red Rider factory and the Corvega factory in Fallout 3, but even the H&H Tool Factory, a throwaway building I imagine most people never saw in New Vegas, had its own unique personality and a story that tied directly into the mythos of New Vegas.
After my drive through the Indian reservations of Southern Montana and Northern South Dakota my interest is especially piqued. These tragic places of poverty existing against a backdrop of staggering natural beauty paired with the clusters of entitled civilization bordering them just to the north and south, populated mostly by white people stuck in flyspeck towns, set a backdrop for a future conflict in my head. And it seems perfect for the Fallout setting. Does an older, better way, if somewhat tragic in origin and not always as terrible and effective as our modern methods, win out? Or does the inevitable march of progress without concern for its direction win out, material wealth and excess outdoing quiet isolationism?
The Northwest and Midwest of the United States seems like such a perfect place to examine the social experiments that Fallout revels in, it seems like a total loss that it hasn’t been examined yet. We already know what the somewhat less than urban capital of Fallout 3’s world would look like, what the Mojave desert and its already scattered bastions of civilization might grow into. The first two Fallouts even gave us an image, granted a pixilated one, of the American West Coast (except for the part north of Corvalis which, most people from California will agree, is pretty much unimportant unless you’re trying to shoot a film on the cheap). But we’ve never considered the Midwest in anything more than a passing fashion.
People from the coasts tend to ignore the Midwest. But the Midwest has given us so much: the Hmong-American cultural identity, Leinenkugel’s Honeyweisse, Barack Obama’s political career, awareness of Lutefisk and Bob Dillon. In all seriousness, the Midwest is a ubiquitous place to outsiders, but people who know its landscapes, both cultural and physical, know it to be a rich landscape for storytelling. Many of our most interesting authors hail from the Midwest, write with a Midwestern perspective and tell Midwestern stories. More than just Dillon has emerged from the Midwestern musical scene, and while American Movie made a spirited mockery of the Midwestern spirit of film making it also told a uniquely Midwestern story, just like Twin Peaks and Juno did.
The Midwest is more than just fertile ground for storytelling. It’s a part of the American culture and landscape, a unique feature of our nation. And it’s rarely given its due. Fallout is the perfect venue for revealing the true heart of the Midwest. Before Fallout: New Vegas rolled around I didn’t give a shit about Las Vegas. One night passing through and I was done and gone (to be fair, I don’t find casinos that interesting – ditto goes for Fallout: New Vegas). But New Vegas showed me how much more there was to Nevada and Vegas itself. By casting the city in the light of a struggling place riddled with violent crime and corruption instead of a monolithic capital of corruption with relatively little violent crime for its deeply entrenched perfidious institutions it drew me into Las Vegas’ unique culture and made me care about the story it had to tell.
There are even hints in New Vegas about Montana retaining a thriving culture. I’d just like to see that play out. The scale is big, certainly. Much bigger than anything else we could consider. But I could totally see a game centered around Missoula being incredibly interesting. Or Bozeman. Or Butte, or Billings. Any of Montana’s quaint, unique and yet somehow constant cities littering the I-90. Expansions could investigate reservations, Wyoming and the horror that is the Idaho border. I’ve even got a title for that last one: Allen’s Heart. It’s about a robot heart encased in stone in the ruins of Couer D’Alene. I’d like to look for in 2012. Work with me here, Zenimax.
My point, belabored as it may be, is that Fallout is great at bringing places I never really cared for to the forefront of my imagination and my daily thoughts. And that the Midwest is just itching for that treatment. In that, or in any video game. Aside from Puzzle Agent, which already nailed Northern Minnesota but good.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Congratulations on Your Marketing Failure!
You had a good idea. Kids love action figures. Adults love cocaine. Cocaine Joe should’ve been a fantastic follow up to the venerated G.I. Joe series of figures, an updated take for the post-9-1-1 world. But there were problems from the start.
First of all, too many cooks. You knew that that could be a problem from the beginning, but it should’ve become really obvious when that bitch said that she thought your action figure might be offensive fifteen minutes into the meeting.
“FUCK YOU!” you shouted back, but what you really meant was “You have a valid point.”
She pointed out how monetizable the figure could still be if it was marketed as a work of satire, a post-modern delving into the foulness of consumerism counterpointed by the mysticism it is imbued with by the general public. She even had some TV campaigns lined up that involved shifting the marketing from teen girls you wanted to think dudes who did coke were cool towards adult males who found the idea of a coke fueled asshole hilariously douchey. They would’ve bought your figure in droves with all their disposable income, especially with cute animated ads and a six episode ironic HBO series about how the character didn’t learn lessons backing it.
But you had to try and translate your attempt at launching a line of action figures into an attempt to bang tweens, because you’re a closeted pedophile and you have serious problems with coming out about that, addressing it and moving past it. So your launch is going to fail and you’re going to find yourself tonight in a hotel room covered in plastic, surrounded by executives.
The closest executive will be loading a revolver. A .38 special with a standard barrel. He’ll put a single bullet in one of the chambers and spin it. He won’t bother to stop it. Instead he’ll hand you the gun. He’ll gesture for you to cock it and put it in your mouth.
Which is how this Saturday will end. With you with a pistol in your mouth, staring at a circle of businessmen who want to either watch you kill yourself or feel briefly and wonderfully alive for half a second. They’ll get off either way. The only real questions is which one will come to you as you stand there with the gun in your mouth, growing heavier by the second. You’ll draw the hammer back and close your eyes and wonder if you’ll become another Walt Disney in the next few seconds.
Congratulations on Your Marketing Failure!
First of all, too many cooks. You knew that that could be a problem from the beginning, but it should’ve become really obvious when that bitch said that she thought your action figure might be offensive fifteen minutes into the meeting.
“FUCK YOU!” you shouted back, but what you really meant was “You have a valid point.”
She pointed out how monetizable the figure could still be if it was marketed as a work of satire, a post-modern delving into the foulness of consumerism counterpointed by the mysticism it is imbued with by the general public. She even had some TV campaigns lined up that involved shifting the marketing from teen girls you wanted to think dudes who did coke were cool towards adult males who found the idea of a coke fueled asshole hilariously douchey. They would’ve bought your figure in droves with all their disposable income, especially with cute animated ads and a six episode ironic HBO series about how the character didn’t learn lessons backing it.
But you had to try and translate your attempt at launching a line of action figures into an attempt to bang tweens, because you’re a closeted pedophile and you have serious problems with coming out about that, addressing it and moving past it. So your launch is going to fail and you’re going to find yourself tonight in a hotel room covered in plastic, surrounded by executives.
The closest executive will be loading a revolver. A .38 special with a standard barrel. He’ll put a single bullet in one of the chambers and spin it. He won’t bother to stop it. Instead he’ll hand you the gun. He’ll gesture for you to cock it and put it in your mouth.
Which is how this Saturday will end. With you with a pistol in your mouth, staring at a circle of businessmen who want to either watch you kill yourself or feel briefly and wonderfully alive for half a second. They’ll get off either way. The only real questions is which one will come to you as you stand there with the gun in your mouth, growing heavier by the second. You’ll draw the hammer back and close your eyes and wonder if you’ll become another Walt Disney in the next few seconds.
Congratulations on Your Marketing Failure!
Friday, July 29, 2011
Congratulations on Remembering Your Special Condoms!
Most of the time you’re lucky if you even recall to bag it. That’s why you’re riddled with herpes. All kinds, even the Complex kind. Normally people in your position would take heed of their crisis and slow down or, at the very least, invest in a combination of treatment and preventative measures. But not you. You just keep getting fucked up on Wild Turkey and sticking it in crazy bitches, mostly because TV tells you to.
But you still care about “her comfort,” whatever the shit that means, so every once in a while you buy some really classy condoms. Condoms that cost a little bit extra.
Aww yeah. Now we’ve got your attention.
So tonight you’re going to meet this chick at a bar who has a ponytail or whatever. We’re not entirely sure what’s up, because you’re going to be blackout drunk and Steve, the predictor who pulled the short straw and ended up watching your life of all god forsaken shitshows, is only able to see things through the eyes of the person he’s channeling. So he’s only going to remember what you remember.
He’s going to remember the splinter you get from the girl’s doorway, which will catch in your hand and bury itself in your finger too deep to get out. It’ll be a short shock of pain, one you’ll forget until the next day. He’ll remember the way you taste, like Old Crow and breath mints. From your mouth he’ll realize your desire for this young woman, blowing gales against your subconscious.
He’ll remember you finally convincing her to come to bed, her insistence that you wear a condom. You’ll act surprised about it, like you look like someone people fuck more than once, but after she insists you’ll remember your fire and ice shit, those condoms that make your dick hot and/or cold and ostensibly do something to the genitals of the women you’re fucking which, you understand, are supposed to be capable of feeling things as well. And once the condom is out of your wallet and swabbed around your dick she’ll cautiously lower herself on to you and have cautious, tenuous sex with you.
The whole time it’ll feel like she might break away. She’ll muffle her shrieks occasionally, mumbling into her own arm as she rides you. Occasionally you’ll reach up to touch her body, but she’ll bat your arms away. As she works herself on you you’ll slowly come to realize how insignificant you are in the world. Under her tender ministrations you’ll approach orgasm and, for the first time, avoid it. You won’t want to shame yourself in front of her.
But she’ll outlast you, despite the numbing powder the condom you’re using is filled with. You’ll twitch as you finally come, writhing underneath her, and she’ll smile for the first time since she started fucking you.
She’ll withdraw from you after that, standing at the side of the bed until you awkwardly stand and then pointing for you to leave her bedroom. She’ll give you some sheets and a throw pillow the pullout couch that you’ll find yourself on, staring up at the ceiling. As sleep beckons you’ll wonder what she’s thinking right now. You’ll wonder if she’s masturbating herself to fulfillment or sleeping contently. You won’t really have any context, since you’ll usually be insensate before this part of the night. It’ll be strange for you, laying there alone, wondering what just happened. It’ll feel a little bad.
Congratulations on Remembering Your Special Condoms!
But you still care about “her comfort,” whatever the shit that means, so every once in a while you buy some really classy condoms. Condoms that cost a little bit extra.
Aww yeah. Now we’ve got your attention.
So tonight you’re going to meet this chick at a bar who has a ponytail or whatever. We’re not entirely sure what’s up, because you’re going to be blackout drunk and Steve, the predictor who pulled the short straw and ended up watching your life of all god forsaken shitshows, is only able to see things through the eyes of the person he’s channeling. So he’s only going to remember what you remember.
He’s going to remember the splinter you get from the girl’s doorway, which will catch in your hand and bury itself in your finger too deep to get out. It’ll be a short shock of pain, one you’ll forget until the next day. He’ll remember the way you taste, like Old Crow and breath mints. From your mouth he’ll realize your desire for this young woman, blowing gales against your subconscious.
He’ll remember you finally convincing her to come to bed, her insistence that you wear a condom. You’ll act surprised about it, like you look like someone people fuck more than once, but after she insists you’ll remember your fire and ice shit, those condoms that make your dick hot and/or cold and ostensibly do something to the genitals of the women you’re fucking which, you understand, are supposed to be capable of feeling things as well. And once the condom is out of your wallet and swabbed around your dick she’ll cautiously lower herself on to you and have cautious, tenuous sex with you.
The whole time it’ll feel like she might break away. She’ll muffle her shrieks occasionally, mumbling into her own arm as she rides you. Occasionally you’ll reach up to touch her body, but she’ll bat your arms away. As she works herself on you you’ll slowly come to realize how insignificant you are in the world. Under her tender ministrations you’ll approach orgasm and, for the first time, avoid it. You won’t want to shame yourself in front of her.
But she’ll outlast you, despite the numbing powder the condom you’re using is filled with. You’ll twitch as you finally come, writhing underneath her, and she’ll smile for the first time since she started fucking you.
She’ll withdraw from you after that, standing at the side of the bed until you awkwardly stand and then pointing for you to leave her bedroom. She’ll give you some sheets and a throw pillow the pullout couch that you’ll find yourself on, staring up at the ceiling. As sleep beckons you’ll wonder what she’s thinking right now. You’ll wonder if she’s masturbating herself to fulfillment or sleeping contently. You won’t really have any context, since you’ll usually be insensate before this part of the night. It’ll be strange for you, laying there alone, wondering what just happened. It’ll feel a little bad.
Congratulations on Remembering Your Special Condoms!
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Congratulations Less Important Ajax!
Today you’re the less important Ajax.
Remember how Ajax was a big figure in the Trojan war who fought for years against the Trojans and was generally a badass? Remember how a dude with the same name who was way less important died in obscurity early in the war when Achilles cut him open like a pig?
You’re that Ajax. Today you’re living out your own death in the Greek afterlife.
We know what you’re thinking. Shouldn’t you be in the heroic part of the Greek underworld?
Not really. You were kind of a shit in general in life. You argued for no reason, you never supported anyone worth half a shit. You mostly just tried to kill people with huge spears and shout your name really loud in the hope that people would think you were the important Ajax and try to fuck you.
It rarely worked.
So tonight we hope that as you live through your own death for the umpteenth time you find some measure of peace as you realize, once and for all, how terrible you are and how much you deserve your own punishment. Because honestly, if you accept it you just might be able to leave. And then we can stop feeling sorry for you.
Congratulations Less Important Ajax!
Remember how Ajax was a big figure in the Trojan war who fought for years against the Trojans and was generally a badass? Remember how a dude with the same name who was way less important died in obscurity early in the war when Achilles cut him open like a pig?
You’re that Ajax. Today you’re living out your own death in the Greek afterlife.
We know what you’re thinking. Shouldn’t you be in the heroic part of the Greek underworld?
Not really. You were kind of a shit in general in life. You argued for no reason, you never supported anyone worth half a shit. You mostly just tried to kill people with huge spears and shout your name really loud in the hope that people would think you were the important Ajax and try to fuck you.
It rarely worked.
So tonight we hope that as you live through your own death for the umpteenth time you find some measure of peace as you realize, once and for all, how terrible you are and how much you deserve your own punishment. Because honestly, if you accept it you just might be able to leave. And then we can stop feeling sorry for you.
Congratulations Less Important Ajax!
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Congratulations on Earning That Black Eye!
You probably shouldn’t have mentioned your opinion of her tits, and you definitely shouldn’t have mentioned it so soon after you launched a lengthy tirade on why gay marriage should be illegal, why whales are actually assholes and why Kenny G. is better than Kenny Loggens. Just shitty decisions all around. But hey, at least now no one can say that you didn’t earn anything in your life you worthless piece of excrement.
Congratulations on Earning That Black Eye!
Congratulations on Earning That Black Eye!
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Congratulations on Acing Your Thesis Defense!
Lately it’s the cool thing to do. You shit all over Bob Jones University. Doesn’t matter if you know your asshole from your elbow from Bob Jones’ quaintly diverse faculty. It’s just hip to call people from the south who don’t believe in evolution ignorant assholes.
But you don’t give a shit about that. Your momma raised you to do your own thing, so when you were accepted to the Bob Jones theology and archaeology PhD program you hugged her goodbye and packed your bags to learn on Domino’s pizza’s dime for eight years. And today it all comes to a head.
Your professor, a dude in a black robe who chants a lot, sometimes without really knowing what he’s saying, will lead you through a long hallway. It will be lined with torches and spiders will be all over the place, doing their spiderly business. He won’t say a word on that day, though. He’ll just lead you through the hall to a giant double door. He’ll open the door a crack and gesture at the darkness within and you’ll nod at him before entering.
He won’t respond.
Once you’re inside a single torch will light at the end of the hallway. That’s how you’ll know it has begun.
You’ll move through the hall without any real sense of where you are. You’ll just feel the rush of air as blades twist and scythe around you. You’ll slide your body around your spine, flipping back and forth as spikes slide up from the floor. Arrows will rain around you, but the torch will grow closer and closer.
Your world will be a swirl of color and light as you move constantly, guided by instinct rather than thought. When you finally reach the light the chaos will stop. Your breath will come ragged and quick, but you’ll be alive. Wonderfully alive and on the dias.
Voices will suddenly sound around you. “Well done,” they’ll announce. You’ll know that the entire faculty of your two departments, including your advisor, will be just outside the circle of light. They’ll be there judging you silently. Some of them might be holding weapons. In fact, all of them might. You won’t know.
You’ll just wait there in silence, waiting for them to speak again. When a voice finally rises anew you’ll feel a suddenly rush of relief. It’ll be all you can manage just to keep from shitting your pants right there in front of everyone.
“Your thesis was acceptable,” they’ll say. A diploma will fly at you from the dark and you’ll catch it, successfully earning your degree. Then the giant boulder will be released and it’ll be time to flee.
Congratulations on Acing Your Thesis Defense!
But you don’t give a shit about that. Your momma raised you to do your own thing, so when you were accepted to the Bob Jones theology and archaeology PhD program you hugged her goodbye and packed your bags to learn on Domino’s pizza’s dime for eight years. And today it all comes to a head.
Your professor, a dude in a black robe who chants a lot, sometimes without really knowing what he’s saying, will lead you through a long hallway. It will be lined with torches and spiders will be all over the place, doing their spiderly business. He won’t say a word on that day, though. He’ll just lead you through the hall to a giant double door. He’ll open the door a crack and gesture at the darkness within and you’ll nod at him before entering.
He won’t respond.
Once you’re inside a single torch will light at the end of the hallway. That’s how you’ll know it has begun.
You’ll move through the hall without any real sense of where you are. You’ll just feel the rush of air as blades twist and scythe around you. You’ll slide your body around your spine, flipping back and forth as spikes slide up from the floor. Arrows will rain around you, but the torch will grow closer and closer.
Your world will be a swirl of color and light as you move constantly, guided by instinct rather than thought. When you finally reach the light the chaos will stop. Your breath will come ragged and quick, but you’ll be alive. Wonderfully alive and on the dias.
Voices will suddenly sound around you. “Well done,” they’ll announce. You’ll know that the entire faculty of your two departments, including your advisor, will be just outside the circle of light. They’ll be there judging you silently. Some of them might be holding weapons. In fact, all of them might. You won’t know.
You’ll just wait there in silence, waiting for them to speak again. When a voice finally rises anew you’ll feel a suddenly rush of relief. It’ll be all you can manage just to keep from shitting your pants right there in front of everyone.
“Your thesis was acceptable,” they’ll say. A diploma will fly at you from the dark and you’ll catch it, successfully earning your degree. Then the giant boulder will be released and it’ll be time to flee.
Congratulations on Acing Your Thesis Defense!
Monday, July 25, 2011
Congratulations on Eating All the Cheese!
Today you’re going to be a mouse. But you’re not just going to be any mouse. You’re going to be a red-blooded American mouse, one that loves to fuck, fight and eat and doesn’t give a shit about what anyone thinks of him. So today, when the people whose house you live in go on vacation for three days out to Tahoe you’re going to do what any good American would do: take everything that isn’t nailed down.
At first you’ll just devise systems of conveyance to drag truly massive objects back to your mouse-house: bags of flour, sacks of rice. At one point you’ll even get a turkey, a real whole cooked turkey (half of one anyhow) back to your hole. But you won’t be able to actually get any of it inside. You’ll consider devising a means by which to destroy the wall blocking your path, or finding a way to rapidly shrink the products you’ve brought back with you by reducing them to much, much smaller pieces. But after a while this will grow tiresome, and you’ll wander back into the kitchen in search of something more manageable to steal.
You’ll catch sight of your chosen target almost immediately: a wheel of home-made mozzarella cheese cooling and congealing on the counter, completely uncovered by the slow witted (they’re both financial advisors) jackanapes that reside in this house with you.
Now we’re not fans of stereotypes. Sure, they pay most of our bills, but the reality of it is that mice actually really do love cheese. They love the shit out of it. They love it so much they can’t control themselves. Only the fear of death can remove them from their cheese-induced madness even briefly. And today you’re going be bereft of that fear of death. So you’re going to dive into that cheese, tiny mouth hanging open, and start chewing.
You’ll essentially swim through the warm mass of congealing bacteria, devouring it in whole mouthfuls. Each bite will strike you as a delicious treat that you and only you will ever know. You’ll be so enamored of this flavor that your mind will fog, your eyes will roll into the back of your head and you’ll lose consciousness within the cheese mass. Most of it will be devoured, concealed now within your horribly distended body, but the toll will have been high.
Your hubris, in believing you could consume that much cheese, will have undone you. And as you lay there, the world fading around you, you’ll want to shout “America!” at the top of your lungs. But you’re a mouse and you can’t use language, so you’ll just die.
Congratulations on Eating All the Cheese!
At first you’ll just devise systems of conveyance to drag truly massive objects back to your mouse-house: bags of flour, sacks of rice. At one point you’ll even get a turkey, a real whole cooked turkey (half of one anyhow) back to your hole. But you won’t be able to actually get any of it inside. You’ll consider devising a means by which to destroy the wall blocking your path, or finding a way to rapidly shrink the products you’ve brought back with you by reducing them to much, much smaller pieces. But after a while this will grow tiresome, and you’ll wander back into the kitchen in search of something more manageable to steal.
You’ll catch sight of your chosen target almost immediately: a wheel of home-made mozzarella cheese cooling and congealing on the counter, completely uncovered by the slow witted (they’re both financial advisors) jackanapes that reside in this house with you.
Now we’re not fans of stereotypes. Sure, they pay most of our bills, but the reality of it is that mice actually really do love cheese. They love the shit out of it. They love it so much they can’t control themselves. Only the fear of death can remove them from their cheese-induced madness even briefly. And today you’re going be bereft of that fear of death. So you’re going to dive into that cheese, tiny mouth hanging open, and start chewing.
You’ll essentially swim through the warm mass of congealing bacteria, devouring it in whole mouthfuls. Each bite will strike you as a delicious treat that you and only you will ever know. You’ll be so enamored of this flavor that your mind will fog, your eyes will roll into the back of your head and you’ll lose consciousness within the cheese mass. Most of it will be devoured, concealed now within your horribly distended body, but the toll will have been high.
Your hubris, in believing you could consume that much cheese, will have undone you. And as you lay there, the world fading around you, you’ll want to shout “America!” at the top of your lungs. But you’re a mouse and you can’t use language, so you’ll just die.
Congratulations on Eating All the Cheese!
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