"Mr. Green and Mr. Blue." Said Johnny.
"Don't do that." Christian said as his character got up off the couch and began running into walls and bookcases while looking for any pickup-able items. John's character, Mr. Blue, aka Quinton, was also running around in the third person view, attempting to find something, anything that could be picked up. As this was happening Christian began wondering about the nature of stuff and of people and their stuff. In this game, which had a dire plot and harsh consequences for the digitally created players, the stuff meant 'survival' and you needed it to 'win'. Was it the same in reality? Did we need stuff to survive? Fuck, of course not, he thought. Well, not stuff in the 21st century meaning, at any rate. We didn't need ipods or iphones or fucking tube socks or ps3's or, or, or, or....
Before Christian had graduated kindergarten he had a dream about Christmas. He dreamed that he woke up on a Christmas morning and found his entire living room covered with Star Wars toys. There were X-Wing fighters and Millennium Falcons hanging from the ceiling. There were hundreds of action figures set up around the living room, all holding weapons, all ready to fire upon the enemy. There were Ewok huts and Imperial fortresses. That was in July. That dream always stuck with him. Not because of the dream itself but because of the timing. He felt guilty wanting presents in July, and he felt silly because he was disappointed when he came downstairs that summer morning to find no presents at all. Later that day a bird was trapped in the shed behind his house. He killed it with a wiffle ball bat.
"Did you pick up any health? " LaCada interrupted his thoughts and he realized he had been playing on auto-pilot, crusing around like so many games before this, searching rooms, opening drawers, adding inventory. Clear the room, next room. Clear the room, next room. They had both picked up a .9mm handgun, a few rounds of ammo, some health packs and Johnny had found a journal. Of course. Did people read these journals in video games, Lacada wondered. There were always journals, but more often than not he would find them and grab them simply to advance the story.
LaCada thought about his own journal. The one that was hidden under his hat collection in a closet upstairs. He had promised to be faithful to it, but then life got in the way and it became less of a priority. Plus, he had less to write about, which made him cringe a little. What would he even have to confess? He lived a clean-ish life now. No weed. No Tobacco. Limited pill usage. No other women. No disgusting porn. He even watched reality TV with his wife, and to be honest with himself, he didn't want to put that in the journal. Could you imagine finding a journal years into the future, on an archeological dig and hoping it would be exciting only to find a recap of a scripted reality show. The thought was almost too depressing to have.
"What's in the journal?" Christain asked.
"Nothing interesting. Not this early on anyway." LaCada responded.
"Don't do that." Christian said as his character got up off the couch and began running into walls and bookcases while looking for any pickup-able items. John's character, Mr. Blue, aka Quinton, was also running around in the third person view, attempting to find something, anything that could be picked up. As this was happening Christian began wondering about the nature of stuff and of people and their stuff. In this game, which had a dire plot and harsh consequences for the digitally created players, the stuff meant 'survival' and you needed it to 'win'. Was it the same in reality? Did we need stuff to survive? Fuck, of course not, he thought. Well, not stuff in the 21st century meaning, at any rate. We didn't need ipods or iphones or fucking tube socks or ps3's or, or, or, or....
Before Christian had graduated kindergarten he had a dream about Christmas. He dreamed that he woke up on a Christmas morning and found his entire living room covered with Star Wars toys. There were X-Wing fighters and Millennium Falcons hanging from the ceiling. There were hundreds of action figures set up around the living room, all holding weapons, all ready to fire upon the enemy. There were Ewok huts and Imperial fortresses. That was in July. That dream always stuck with him. Not because of the dream itself but because of the timing. He felt guilty wanting presents in July, and he felt silly because he was disappointed when he came downstairs that summer morning to find no presents at all. Later that day a bird was trapped in the shed behind his house. He killed it with a wiffle ball bat.
"Did you pick up any health? " LaCada interrupted his thoughts and he realized he had been playing on auto-pilot, crusing around like so many games before this, searching rooms, opening drawers, adding inventory. Clear the room, next room. Clear the room, next room. They had both picked up a .9mm handgun, a few rounds of ammo, some health packs and Johnny had found a journal. Of course. Did people read these journals in video games, Lacada wondered. There were always journals, but more often than not he would find them and grab them simply to advance the story.
LaCada thought about his own journal. The one that was hidden under his hat collection in a closet upstairs. He had promised to be faithful to it, but then life got in the way and it became less of a priority. Plus, he had less to write about, which made him cringe a little. What would he even have to confess? He lived a clean-ish life now. No weed. No Tobacco. Limited pill usage. No other women. No disgusting porn. He even watched reality TV with his wife, and to be honest with himself, he didn't want to put that in the journal. Could you imagine finding a journal years into the future, on an archeological dig and hoping it would be exciting only to find a recap of a scripted reality show. The thought was almost too depressing to have.
"What's in the journal?" Christain asked.
"Nothing interesting. Not this early on anyway." LaCada responded.
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