The God of Baseball

When I was a kid, all of those years ago, after church, my parents would take me and my brothers to get donuts, and they usually got the news paper, as well. This was well before the internet was a household item, but not before Al Gore started working on it, I'm sure (and, yes, I know he never actually claimed he made the internet). Aside from reading the comics... okay, "Garfield" and maybe "The Far Side," I remember the striking image on the front page: a baseball with a face and a hat. Somedays, it'd smile, others, it'd frown. Other days it just looked at the reader with no expression. Not understanding what was going on, I dubbed the strange entity the most logical thing my six year-old brain could think of: The God of Baseball.

This continued for years, that I believed that somehow, someone made a religion around a baseball with a face. I didn't even ask why his hat had a "C" on it, possibly thinking that the poor ball-headed bastard was illiterate. I think I even had some friends convinced of what it was, despite a few people smacking me up side the head and telling me that it was the Reds mascot. Not the least of them, but the tiniest, was Binkie. Even at six years old, she seemed to be one step ahead of me. What's even worse is that I have no idea just how she knew! She didn't even like sports, outside of ice skating and dancing. Yet, she knew that it was the Reds mascot.

Shortly after my family moved, they stopped getting the newspaper, and the God of Baseball seemed to have vanished. It was possibly just that I didn't notice him anymore, but as the years went buy, I stopped thinking of him as often. It didn't even register to me when I went to some Reds games with Jim, that the mascot was "The God of Baseball." I didn't even know his name (which is Mr. Red), yet it didn't matter. I came back with a mini Reds helmet full of ice cream, a Reds baseball cap, I got a Reds shirt for Christmas one year, and won a Reds Coffee mug, that no one but me uses to this day as an unwritten rule. Yes, I'm a Reds fan, but I still have to admit; Bronson Arroyo cannot pitch to save his life. Yet, he's actually a talented musician.

So, what was it today that made me think of the God of Baseball? Sculpture class. We're working on what's called an "additive problem." Basically, it's a plaster sculpture with a paper armature. I just happened to find a news paper with a familiar face: The God of Baseball. And he was not pleased. Somehow, the Astros have disgraced him, hell, the Diamondbacks did, too. Oh, but not the Pittsburgh Pirates. Somehow, the God of Baseball smote them with his Bat of Glory®, banishing them back to Pennsylvania.

The logical thing one would've done was laugh at the nostalgic factor of one's own naivety. As you all may know, I am not the most logical person in the world. After all, we live in a time where there's a religion based on a sci-fi writer's belief that we forgot we're actually immortal, and that we need to relive traumatic memories. Why not believe that someone actually worships an anthropomorphic ball. I ripped out one on the sad faces, got my tasty burrito dinner, and met up with Binkie. As a looked at my short friend, upset about an oncoming storm, I held the piece of paper to her, and calmly said: "The God of Baseball is not pleased."

Thankfully, she now has a sense of humor. She laughed before whacking me upside the head.

Retroactive Continuity circa 1984

Anyone who knows me, knows how much I hate when people can't keep track of the story in any given medium. I seriously went on a tangent in my review of God of War III due to the fact that the writers of that game, after three games, forgot that the first person who aids you in the quest to kill Ares was Zeus. Instead, they flat out said that Zeus never helped you kill Ares due to the fact that he feared Kratos would kill him. Needless to say, Zeus is a moron and pisses Kratos off, thus causing Kratos to go on a quest to kill him. If Zeus, being the Head of the Olympian Gods, had never pissed Kratos off, he'd have nothing to be afraid of in the first place.

Then again, I'm analyzing a game where the main character dies every fucking game, yet manages to escape hell simply by walking out the front door. After the first time, you'd think Hades would eventually put up security measures, leading up to standing at the door himself. Considering the size of Hades, he'd only have to hold out his hand on Kratos's head to hold him back. Should Kratos actually be able to kill him, there's still Charon, Cerberus, and the river Styx. Again, I'm analyzing a game where the way to kill an ancient Greek God is by rescuing another god's daughter, who happens to be a robot. Yeah... God of War III has a lot of issues.

As much shit as I give that game though, I got to give it credit: it retconned three games in one blow. Four, if you count itself. Dead Space 2 on the other hand, retconned its own story, in half an hour. See, throughout the game, it mentions that the McGuffin, the "Marker," is man-made. All of a sudden, this line of dialogue happens:

Isaac: Why are these people after me?

Daina: The Marker is very potent alien technology.

Keep in mind that in this game, there has been no mention before of alien technology being part of the story (save for the Marker that was on Earth, that isn't the problem causing one). Also keep in mind that the Marker in question was man-made on Earth, and, according to the first game, from Earth material. So explain to me...

If it's made on Earth, by Earth people, by Earth minerals to resemble an object that isn't even technology... how in the flying monkey's hell is it alien technology?! It's a fucking sculpture that has a virus in it, and is made by humans! And I know this because it's been said in the first game, and ten times in this one.

So, all this talk of retconning has got me thinking: what could I retcon from my life? I'm not talking about crappy things, I'm talking about things that don't normally hold any bearing on my life. I don't want to accidentally make a deal with the devil that involves saving my aunt in exchange for my marriage to a sexy redheaded actress. Or, maybe sexy brunette gamer-girl or sexy blonde Mensa president. Whoever.

I could always retcon learning the entirety of "The Jabberwocky" in the fifth grade. Then, I'd never have my catch phrase of "Callous Callais!" Of course, I never used it anyway, for fear of moving to San Francisco....

Maybe I should retcon playing Silent Hill. Then, I'd never have my favorite horror series, and Silent Hill 2 to hate.

Let's make this seem even more inconsequential. I should've never played tag in the first grade, started drawing, worked at Gabriel Bros for six months, and asked the smart kid about his "paper video games." Inconsequential enough, right? Sure, I mean, they're things we take for granted anyway, and are probably meaningless.

Except, if I never played tag in the first grade, I'd never met the person I've known for all of my life, who I trust with my life. Bink's the one of the few people that can accept me for all my weirdness, even going so far as supporting it. Can't do that.

If I never started drawing, I'd never have what I want to do with my life. Art has been my guiding light, and I can't help but feel that I have that talent for a reason. Can't lose that.

Gabriel Bros? I'd never met Patty, the rambling psychotic who can somehow make even the most distraught person laugh. Can't retcon that.

The paper games? I retcon that, I'd lose an entire group of the best friends anyone could ever have. I wouldn't have the people that support me when no one else is around. Who knows where I'd end up.

Those are examples of what would happen if the "little" events never happened in my life. I can't even imagine what would happen if I flat out did away with the major events of my life. The results would be catastrophic. Or worse. This isn't a game or a comic where all it does is become a plot hole.

Either way, in reality or fiction, retconning is a bad idea.

All The Single Ladies... Seriously, Put Your Hands Up! Please?

Today marks an unusual event in my life. I noticed that every time I point out that a woman is cute, I find out that she has a boyfriend. This isn't generalized thinking caused by my depression, nor is it self-defeatist (well, purely self-defeatist); this is disturbingly true. The trick being, I'm not getting any younger, and being a 26 year-old freshman in college, it's not like I'm meeting women my own age, especially single ones.

In fact, being a 26 year-old freshman and noticing an attractive woman that is a fellow freshman makes me feel more than a little dirty. I don't know how certain people do this. Then again, I feel dirty when I notice that a woman my own age is attractive. In fact, I think that's where part of my problem stems from. I love noticing the beauty that women have, but I can't say it, because I'm worried of how it'd be taken.

See, one of the things the Army drills into our heads is how to treat the women we're working with as equals. Of course, this is a good idea for several reasons, not the least being respect. It's hard to respect anyone when someone keeps walking up to them and saying how "cute" they are. Ironically, outside of work, most of the active duty people I worked with tend to be tools. Several times, I'd be home in my barracks room, and my room mates friend would come in, slap me on the back, and shout, "Hey, let's get some pussy!" Of course, me being the shy one back then, and also being the respectful nice guy, I'd say, "No." What I really meant was, "Do this again, and I will punch you so hard that the only lay you'll be getting is 'laid-up' in a hospital bed."

The Reserves is mostly a different monster. Yes, the asshole who only wants to get laid is present, but mostly, the guys are a pretty good group. The females, though... Let's not get into that. Let's just say that I will never date a female Reservist. But, the respect is still taught. Unfortunately, with me, this sticks to civilian life. I honestly fear that if I pay anyone a complement, I'm going to be sued for sexual harassment. I know how stupid this sounds, but I have reasons for this. I was threatened with a slander lawsuit by a person who said everything about themselves openly. On their blog as well.

Oddly enough, the Army is also to blame about me starting college so late in the first place. But, I can't blame the Army for my not being able to speak to women. No, I attribute that to the first time I asked a girl to a dance in the eighth grade, and it came out: "Wool you go dantce wilth meeeeeeee." If you can't tell how that ended, I didn't go to the dance, and she thought I was a babbling fool until high school. Despite having a girlfriend in high school that was attractive (seriously, people were asking what she saw in me... then again, she cheated on me... twice... with a guy who can only be described as "the troll under the bridge"), I was still single for prom. Ironically, my senior year is the the one year I had the balls to tell the girl I had a huge crush on for that past two years how I felt. This was in front of all of her friends, who all thought I was a loser. After that moment, they didn't think that... yet, I ended up back with the girl who cheated on me. Huh.

What it comes down to is that it's hard for guys like me to talk to women, not because we're too nice, but because of the biggest reason: the media has polluted people into thinking that nice guys don't exist. Go on Yahoo! and look up relationship advice. A lot of what you'll find is how men are jackwagons who want to get laid. This has created the stigma that there are no nice guys, and that women are either looking for the bad boys, or that all the good men are taken or gay, meaning they "have to settle for a guy who only wants sex." My reply to this?

Bullshit. Pure bullshit.

I refuse to believe that women are so stupid as to give up their search for a nice guy and settle for a cheesedick in an expensive suit with a bad pick-up line. I know better than that, because I keep failing in finding a woman because they usually find a nice guy that isn't me. Sure, I can be a good guy, but I'm willing to accept that I may not be the type someone's looking for. It also doesn't help that I can't seem to talk to women due to the fact that I can't talk to them without fearing that I'm going to have to talk to a lawyer as well. It's not like I'm Johnny Bravo. Maybe, I mean what I say?

I know that that question may come off as rough. I don't mean it to be, either, because I know that there are women who are smart enough to find good guys. What I am upset about is the fact that the media paints men as horny ass-baskets, and that women are stupid enough to date them. Hell, it gets worse. There's a movie coming out, perhaps you've heard of it? No Strings Attached. It's about a man who sleeps with a woman, just for sex. He falls in love with her, but she just wants sex, causing her to be upset that he's being romantic. It switches the roles, but still manages to make both genders look like asses. Yet, the very same day I heard about this movie, Yahoo! had an article saying that men are more romantic. I believe this to be true, but more or less because of necessity of both types. Men who want sex fake the romantic parts where as the men who want a true, loving relationship are more thankful for what they have, and remember the romance more.

I'm very sad to say that I'm getting jaded by this. All of my adult life, I've been in between comfort levels with women. Usually, when I do work up the nerve to ask a woman out, it ends up as a bad relationship, or I get passed up for someone else, worse or better. As old as I am, I'm starting to see that maybe I won't find a mature relationship, but at least it isn't all my fault. I've tried my damnedest, and I can say that.

And if worst comes to worst, I can blame the media.

Why I Hate Driving In Ohio, Unless I Have My Trusty Sackboy

It has been an interesting week, to say the least. I had Monday off of school, which gave me some much needed time to recover from the weekend. As some of you know from my gaming blog (under the Window Keeper), my Grandmother died this weekend, and I've been taking it kind of weirdly and rough. What most of you don't know, I went out with my friends that Saturday, for Jim's birthday. Due to the stress of everything, my anxiety levels were fluctuating wildly, so I decided not eat anything at T.G.I. Friday's. Instead, I order a mojito.

This was a bad idea.

I never ordered a drink from Friday's bar, or any bar, before. I have had mojitos from the six pack wine coolers they sell in the stores. Needless to say, I'm not used to the alcohol content in an actual mojito. Halfway through, I couldn't drink anymore because I was lucid enough to know that I was getting drunk. Getting drunk at a friend's birthday celebration is bad enough. Add to that the death in my family, and it's even worse. There's just one other thing, too. You know the horror project I'm working on, I Am Nothing. Well, I was designing a monster for that, which probably creeped out the waiter and the waitresses that were passing by, not to mention, possibly traumatizing a little kid. Then again, he was busy trying shove a straw in his ear, so I'm probably safe from that.

After getting back to the hub-house for Jim's birthday, I tried to sober up before having a Smithwick's. After about two hours, I had one... and relapsed. Thankfully, I didn't drive, and Jim gave me a ride home. Nothing's more embarrassing than riding in the back of your friend's car, in the fetal position, depressed, grieving, and drunk. Oh wait, something is: When that's followed by lying on your bed for five minutes (I hope), trying to get up to shower, then falling back on the bed again. I slept in that Sunday, thinking this: "Never again... Never again."

So, Tuesday rolls around. I have to get to the mall to pick up Little BIG Planet 2 to review for work (and fun). With my two friends, Binkie and Patty, and, for some reason, my stuffed Sackboy in tow, I leave to go to the mall. Since I live in Ohio, I've noticed an interesting phenomena: despite the fact that it happens at least 30 days in the winter, people still don't know how to drive in the snow. As soon as the white shit hits the ground, people forget the basic things, such as turn signals when changing lanes, or that the green arrow means you can turn. As irate as I was getting, I was strangely happy, because I knew that an army of Sackpeople would be at my disposal soon enough, and I will name them all, like I named my first one in the game (Mr. Pinkerton). As I reached the intersection to get to the mall, I said, "Soon, the Sackboys will be in my hands." I turn to see Binkie in the passenger seat, holding Sackboy (with his perpetual grin) in the air, one armed raised in victory, and her face mimicking the stuffed doll's.

I was thinking, I just caught my normally serious, short, Asian friend playing with a doll. My life is complete. This was quickly diminished by the sudden realization that it was my doll, so, to cover up my comment, I laughed. We turn into the mall, meet our forth person in our group, Jenna, and enter through the food court.

Unlike the other mall patrons, we're there often enough that the Asian cuisine people know not to bother us with free samples of there MSG-laden foods. This took years of practice, and at least one instant of catching one of the workers cussing out a customer, but it paid off. I imagined, if anyone cared, they'd see a guy in a brown leather flight jacket and a knee brace, a 4'10" Asian girl, a psychotic, pierced up, pink-haired babbling fool, and the seemingly "too-good-for-this-group-in-her-designer-suit" girl enter the mall like a slow-motion 1970's Mod Squad type group. "There goes Charlie and his angels. Huh... why is that one humping the seat while screaming at the salt to give them some privacy?"

We enter the game store, caught in a line. One guy is being interviewed by the manager (in a hoodie, no less), while the other store clerk is hitting on a soccer mom. Those are words I never imagined I'd have to type, imagine how the image looked. Captain Hoodie leaves, and I go up to pick up my reserved copy of LBP2. What normally goes smoothly went like this:

Me: I'm here to pick up my reserved copy of Little BIG Planet 2.

Manager: (Goes to get the game, then comes back.) Is that all?

Me: Yes, it is.

Manager: (Types something on the computer for three minutes.) Anything you want to reserve?

Me: Not today.

Manager: (Visibly upset by this, types in more things for three more minutes) Do you have your rewards card?

Me: Yes, right here. (Hand it to him)

Manager: (Scans the card, types more things in for five minutes.) Oh, crap, I did that wrong. (Types in more things for five minutes). The total is $64.04.

Me: (I pay)

Manager: (Types in even more things for two minutes. At this point I started wonder if he was updating his blog or Twitter). Codes on the receipt, have a good day.

I walk out, and the other clerk is still hitting on the soccer mom. Before heading back home, I decide to walk around the mall. I ended up in the movie/music store, staring at an acoustic guitar that was priced at $100, but on sale for $80. Despite it bringing me over my personal budget (by about $20), I decided to pick it up. See, my Mom has two guitars, one of which is acoustic, and I used to sneak in trying to play them when I was a kid. I always loved music, and I've always wanted to learn guitar, so why not? It's not video gaming, and I'm sure both Mom and Grandma would be happy to see me try something like this.

Apparently, I was right, because I ended up getting a discount on top of the sale. It went from $80 down to $67. The only thing wrong is that the strings seem to be cheap, but all things considered, when it's almost in tune, it sounds pretty good.

Tossing up my time between gaming and tuning my guitar, I still had to go to school. I come back, eat, sleep, and go to school all day yesterday. The ride back is what locked in my hatred of driving in Ohio. To go from home to school and back, I take a main road. The problem with main roads when no one knows how to drive is that you either end up driving like a dumbass yourself, or you go so slow to avoid the idiots trying to kill you that you never get back. Thankfully, I will never be as dumb as the guy who cut me off that day. In order to not hit him, I had to switch quickly to the next lane. As I went around him, the sight I saw will forever be burned into my brain.

He had one hand on his cell phone, held up to his head. And he was steering his car with his mouth. At first, I was in awe of both the sight, and the fact that somehow, this jackwagon managed to control his van with his mouth. Of course, my brain, not wanting to go unheard, forced it's way through my mouth to scream the first thing it thought of: "How's that taste, asshole!"

As I reached the last main intersection to my apartment, curiosity over took me. I was stopped at a red light, and I wasn't going to go anywhere for a while. I leaned forward, and placed my mouth on the steering wheel. What I didn't think of was that the last owner (who was one of my design teachers) used to smoke, and his daughter, who drove the car, used to smoke as well. Add to that, the pure sanitary conditions in the first place of placing your mouth on a steering wheel. I immediately recoiled at the taste of plastic and nicotine. As I got home, I took my bags out, and apologized to my '83 Cougar.

The moral of the story, if your car is older than you, don't make out with it. Unless there's a speed camera there. At least then you can give the police a laugh.