DATE: 15 Dec 2008, 1:06 am / MOOD: Disappointed

SpikeTV's VGAs 2008 is now over, and I'm very proud of the chosen winners. However, I'm only going to focus on two awards.

Best PS3 Game: LittleBigPlanet

Studio of the Year: MediaMolecule (Developer of LittleBigPlanet)

And this leads me to my lament:

 

LBP, unfortunately, is a game pretty much doomed to fail. It just doesn't look like the game PS3 owners would enjoy playing. And that's the main problem with the industry these days: With games becoming $60, people think twice about buying games. It's a real shame, because LBP is truly a gem of a game.

I want to use three games as an example of excellence: LBP, MGS4: Guns of the Patriots, and Okami.

LBP's Metacritic score: 95 out of 100

Gamepro gave it 100%, saying: "There's really nothing I can say other than this: if you own a PS3 and you don't buy LittleBigPlanet, you are robbing yourself of one of the most unique gaming experiences ever designed."

G4 TV gave it 100%, saying: "It’s so satisfying to finally have a game that not only lives up to the hype but exceeds it so many ways it’s almost unfair."

IGN gave it 95%, and said, "Media Molecule has created a brilliant platformer, and then given you the tools to recreate the whole thing over again, or better yet, to create your own ideas from scratch."

 

Now, MGS4's Metacritic Score: 94 of 100 (One point less than LBP)

IGN, with a 100%, said: "Metal Gear Solid 4: Guns of the Patriots is a title that exceeds all of the hype that was attached to the title."

Gamepro also gave it their highest rating and said, "The Playstation 3 finally gets its "savior", Kojima gets his masterpiece, and gamers get one of the best games of all time."

And G4 TV gave it 100% while saying, "While debate will no doubt rage over the story and its outcomes, there really isn't a single wrong move in the gameplay sections."

 

Okami's Metacritic score is 93 of 100. (one point less than MGS4 and two points less than LBP)

GamePro called it "A stunningly gorgeous and unique masterpiece that effortlessly blends art and storytelling with puzzles and amusement." And said,  "Miss this landmark effort at your peril."

IGN also said it was "a game that any self-respecting PlayStation 2 owner should pick up."

G4's X-Play said it was "Gorgeous, gorgeous, and gorgeous!", that it "Gives you layer upon layer of beauty while keeping the gameplay equally captivating".

 

Now what is my reason for bringing these three games up? Well, to put things in perspective. MGS4 was the long-awaited sequel with a very large fan-base. It was destined to succeed even if it didn't receive those scores. Meanwhile, LBP and Okami are completely new IPs. What's scary?

Well, because these games are too different from typical gameplay norms, even excellence can't save it. Critics the world over lauded Okami and suggested everyone who owned a PS2 to go buy it. What happened in the end? The Studio behind it went bankrupt and fell apart. Well, not immediately, it was given a second release on the Nintendo Wii, with the hope that casual audiences will at least embrace it. They didn't.

LBP is in that current predicament. A completely new game that the critics absolutely love... but that no one is buying.

Trends like these ruin gaming as a whole, because those who make truly ingenius games are pretty much doomed to fail, just because they don't have scantily-clad vixens, and macho-men lead players with chainsaws attached to their guns. In other words, it's not like every other game out there, and therefore "weird". No one likes "weird".

Continuing on with my lament, I've become a jaded gamer. I can honestly tell you that no game has me excited right now. When SF 4 was announced? Not even a quiver. RE5? Nope. It was only LBP that really kept my hopes high for gaming as a medium. It made me think that games really weren't going stale and that people were still willing to take risks to try and move the gaming industry forward, instead of sitting on its laurels and fattening until it doesn't go anywhere at all.

Then it released, and I can say that it had accomplished everything I had hoped for. It even sent a message. But the problem was it didn't send the message I wanted it to. I wanted it to tell other developers, "Hey, you don't always have to rely on shooters. You don't have to go with the tried-and-true formula, you can experiment, and let your creative juices flow freely, instead of hampering it with what is now normal and accepted from a game."

Heh, of course, it instead sent the message to other developers, saying, "Don't try to make anything unique. Just make sequel after sequel. Just make the same game over and over again with better graphics, and a different enemy to 'spice things up', because unique games are doomed."

If that truly is the case, then the gaming medium will continue to grow stale. It will continue to degrade to a point where, well... the next great innovation... will be how to put every single type of enemy on screen at once so you can shoot them all at the same time.

So I hope that with the awards that LBP had won last night, the world will give it a glance. Now that gaming has become a mainstream hobby, so-called "Hardcore Gamers" have become stubborn, narrow-minded elitists. It's such a shame, too, because they're the one sustaining the PS3 and Xbox demographic. They think that any game that even looks remotely like a kid's game is "Casual Gamer Garbage".

 

So, in closing, I will share a picture of each game: MGS4, LBP, and Okami:

And because I couldn't find a good picture of Okami, here's a trailer. (Found in the Comment Section below.)

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DATE: 10 Dec 2008, 2:33 am / MOOD: Full of Life

Last year (if some of you can remember), I "gushed" over the hypocrisy of the Christmas season. This year, I'm feeling like that's already expected of me. And besides, with the current disdain for this season amongst today's youth, I'd feel like I'm simply "following" the crowd if I did what I did last year. So this year won't be so cynical. That being said, I'll get right out and say it: I love Christmas.

Well, now that I said that, it's time to get cynical. (Remember: This isn't as bad as last year's.) So it's that time again when the global economy fattens up a little bit, because everyone in the world is up and about spending something on something. Either they spend their time or their money... or both... on something they want to give someone else. A heart-felt gesture, they say. Children spending what money they have buying little things for mommy and daddy; writing/drawing up little Christmas cards. Changing the meaning of Christmas from whatever it was in days of yore to what it is now: a competition for the place in the family as the parents' favorite child.

Purists argue that the true spirit of Christmas is the kindness-spreading, the love-sharing. The spreading and sharing of "True Christian Values"... like... torturing people until they confess to sins they never committed. Or the condemnation and persecution of those who choose to place their faith in some other idiocy - pardon, ideology - and/or those who choose not to place their faith in some other... ideology.

Yes, it's that time when we spend our days well-wishing every other passer-by, and hating/ignoring every person in between just because the people you greeted ignored you. The time of year where dads will shoot each other to death over an item cheap at half the price. (To those not in the know, I'm talking about the oh-so-responsible dads who shot each other just because their wives couldn't agree on which one gets to buy the Nintendo Wii. Awesome job, Nintendo, I always knew you'd drive men to kill each other someday.) The time of year when everyone curses the very commercialization of such a sacred (see Purist statement above) tradition; damns every utterance of "Merry Christmas"; and completely betrays the very point of tolerance-teaching that was, or perhaps should have been, the foundation of ideologies the world over. It used to be about gratitude, but November has stolen that from this month.

No, it's all about the big "C" word. Consumption. Coast to coast, country to country, continent to continent (Guess what - those are all C-words, too) a gigantic land mass upon which we have built everything we could ever imagine all to wet ourselves in that juicy C-word. Still "Consumption", mind you.

Going back a little bit, I mentioned people choosing one faith over the other, or none at all. Yes, it's the time of year where we are happy for whatever faith we've chosen. We celebrate a country that so loved us that it gave us ten unalienable rights. Ten. Count them. Sure, the tenth one says that there can be no catalog of rights because there are so many that men have been given by God... but that's just fancy talk for "We decide what rights you get, if any at all". Yes, Christmas time is money time. Money spent and money stolen... earned, I mean.

It's when all the too-happy-to-be-happy people stand around just waiting for someone to breathe in their direction so they can sue them for invading their privacy. When this country shows us that it loves us so much, it'll give us trials and award people with our money (with a sum for its own) just because we exercised our supposed God-given rights. Funny, I never knew God would give rights to only some people, and leave out the rest. Wait... I suppose Science just called it Natural Selection.

I'm getting too far from the point, aren't I? Well, to end this. I would like wish everyone a Merry Christmas (sue me). And that I hope the time they get away from work is spent well: with their families and friends. See? I told you it wouldn't be as cynical as last year's.


Always,
Mephistopheles

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DATE: 03 Jul 2008, 4:21 am / MOOD: Other

Ladies and Gentlemen, this is a day to be marked on every movie-goer's calendar. If there hasn't been a reason yet to buy into the Blu-Ray High Definition format (and there has been plenty, mind you!) this is it:

Day and date with its DVD re-release is...

"The Godfather Collection: The Coppola Restoration"

That's right, the movie(s) that remain in the Top Five of AFI's top 100 Movies, (The Godfather is #1, and Part 2 is #3) is now getting a high definition make-over.

What took so long? Well, the first two movies were meticulously restored for Blu-Ray. (Read: Frame by pain-staking frame)

Then it has The Godfather Part III, the most controversial of all the three. And a fourth disc of features.

 

I've marked my calendar. Four Blu-Ray discs to add to my growing collection. The one set I've waited my entire (PS3's) lifetime for!

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DATE: 24 May 2008, 2:54 pm / MOOD: Other

This week's Word is something I don't think even my most learned friend knows. Then again, Mephistopheles could be wrong.

Deipnosophist- noun.

A person who is very good at table talk, or knowledgeable in trivial chitchat.

 

Said as Dype (think Skype), Nos (like the Spanish Nosotros), Sophist (as in Sophisticated). Dype+Nos+Sophist. It dates back to the second century AD, a literary work by Atheneus of Naucratis in Egypt. The book(s) is called Deipnosophistae and it comes from the Greek words, Deipnon and Sophistai. Dinner, and Professor*, respectively. One could say that Deipnophistae translates to "Dinner of Professors". Wikipedia says "Philosophers at Dinner". The work narrates a series of feasts, with the great Sophistai of the day (like Plutarchus) talking about grammar, literature, the arts.

I'm sure you can understand why then Deipnosophist means what it means. If not, read the latter part of the above paragraph again. Though its meaning generally means the same as it did, Deipnosophist has evolved out of the sophisticated and has since included informal talk. I suppose we, as the grammatical revolutionaries we are, can even start to use it "outside the table", per se, to simply mean an expert conversationalist. Meaning, not only an "adept conversationalist at table" (as Dictionary.com says), but wholly adept in conversation, including but not limited to table talk.

Proper usage:

Well as it is a specific noun, it has very little value for versatility. It can only mean one thing. In the case of Deipnosophist the best usage will be in a scenario of describing someone to a friend, for example. And it's best when used to specifically say that someone is sophisticated or complex, by not using simple words. I summon again Persons A, B, and C.

[A knows B and C. B and C do not know each other. A is telling B about C.]

A: I met C.

B: Oh, yeah? What's he like?

A: Oh, he's smart, he's sophisticated, he's a good talker.

 

Above: the simple way. It's effective, but notice that it requires two more adjectives (smart and sophisticated) to express that C is what A says he is.

Now:

A: I met C.

B: Oh, yeah? What's he like?

A: He's a real deipnosophist.

 

Above: Sophisticated and effective. It expresses the point precisely: C is a skilled conversationalist in all things literary, grammatical and/or artistic.

 

Mephistopheles' usage recommendation: Use it carefully. Use it when you know the person you're talking to knows what it means. Otherwise, you may come out seeming pretentious. Remember: there's no need to try to be sophisticated when you're dealing with people who are not. You do not have to degrade yourself by dumbing yourself down, however, take equal action; there's no need to degrade them, by making yourself seem smarter.

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DATE: 17 May 2008, 5:23 pm / MOOD: Other

Wow, it's really been a month since I started this. Cool.

 

Well, this week's "Word" isn't so much a "word" as it is a pair of words. I'm sure some of my peers will already be familiar with it, but for those who aren't, this week's "Word of the Week" is:

 

Sub rosa; Noun and/or adverb

Confidentially; secretly; privately.

 

Sub rosa is borrowed into the English language from Latin. Literally, it means under the rose. Tradition is that during private events, like dinner and a party, the host/hostess would hang a rose over the rooms in which these events take place. That is to signify a promise between every person under the rose keeps anything and everything that happens there a secret, or confidential.

Most especially, a rose is hung over a dinner table. That is to signify that anything someone might say sub vino (under wine; under the influence of wine/alcohol) is sub rosa (confidential; no one outside those group of people may know about it). It has been carried on through centuries even today, and it still, generally, means the same thing.

Confessionals will often have carvings of a rose (or roses) to signify that what is said is only between the confessor, the priest and God. Supposedly, in recent times sub rosa has even been used synonymously with covert operations--like spying, for example--and it makes sense. The latter usage of sub rosa is said to have come initially from the United States, and is gaining usage in other countries also.

But how did the rose become synonymous with secrecy? Well, funny enough, it's the Greeks' and Romans' fault. In Ancient Egyptian times Horus' emblem was a rose.  Then came the Greeks and Romans. They regarded Horus as the god of silence, owing to some misinterpretation of the hieroglyphs including Isis and Osiris... his name then became Har-pa-khered, which was then made Harpocrates, the Greek/Roman God of Silence. He carried over the rose emblem, but the story goes deeper.

In short, as the story goes. Venus gave a rose to Cupid. Cupid then bribed Harpocrates with the rose, to keep Venus' (and, indeed the rest of the Gods') exploits a secret. Thus, statements and actions under the rose.

Sub rosa is very similar to the Italian Omerta. But where the Italian meaning is a code of silence,owing to an oath made to preserve secrecy, sub rosa is more, shall we say, unspoken. No one has to swear to secrecy, but it is understood by everyone that by being under the rose, no one can break confidentiality.

 

Proper usage:

Anytime secretly, covertly, privately, confidentially, et al. can be used, sub rosa may be used more attractively. Don't be shy with using sub rosa, and my suggestion, in fact, is to use it every time you need a word of its meaning. It's not often you come across a conversation in which you have to state something is a secret. How much better are:

"Keep it sub rosa."

and

"He walked into the house, sub rosa."

As often as you come by the necessity (and it's not very often), use sub rosa.

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DATE: 10 May 2008, 1:25 am / MOOD: Other

Ever wanted to write a story, or tell a story to someone, that involved dialog with multiple replies? Take case A:

"Jason," John said, "we are at the high-point of our careers; the only possible direction is down."

"Don't disregard the other direction: straight ahead with no deviation. We stay at the top." Jason replied.

"That may be true. If you ask me, though, I think it's impossible for us to stay at the top for much longer." John replied.

Not everyone will notice - and not many will probably even care - for the repetition of "reply". Most will probably say it's fine, but for those who seek an alternative, there are always: answer, say, respond, and others. But it wouldn't be "Word of the Week" if it didn't have some new (at least to most people) words, would it?

That brings me to this week's word: Rejoinder.

Rejoinder, noun:

- An answer to a reply, or;
- A defendant's answer to a plaintiff's replication -- Law jargon aside, all that means is: person B's reply to person A's reply.


Origin:
It is the noun form of the verb rejoin (retort, reply, answer). Both derive from the Old French
Rejoindre (close enough spelling to the current word, right?) meaning, "to answer" or "to rejoin". Note: Rejoin is a homonym (same spelling and sound) to rejoin­ (as in to come together [again]). Back to topic, Old French Rejoindre, which (pertaining to the above note, oddly enough) comes from Re- (prefix: again) and Joindre ("join"). The Old French Joindre comes from the Latin Iungere*, meaning "to join".

Usage:

When reply, retort, response, answer, and others just don't suffice as nouns, or have become too repetitious, rejoinder is a perfect substitute. My advice: In a statement or conversation, when the needs arise, cycle through the synonymous words to prevent repetition and jog the vocabulary. Use it in every-day conversation. Such as:

[Person A and Person B are talking about an encounter that Person A had with Person C.]

A: I hate C!
B: Why? What did he say?
A: He asked me out just two minutes after asking this other girl out - when he even knew I saw!
B: What was your reply?
A: Well, I said 'I'll think about it.' But he knew immediately what I meant.
B: How could you tell?
A: His rejoinder - which made me want to hit him - was: 'Yeah, right. No, you won't, bitch.' (Author's note: Hah! I love that.)


*Iungere - to join. <- That's a capital i. As in iungere.


To recap the weekly words so far:

Week One:
Decimate - to destroy part (or most) but not all of a population.

Week Two:
Supererogatory - unnecessary, 'above and beyond' a (moral, ethical) requirement

Week Three:
Rejoinder - a reply, an answer, a retort
Verb form: Rejoin - to reply, to answer, to retort

I had so many words to choose from for this week, I just couldn't decide on which one to use.

My sources include:

Webster's Revised Unabridged Dictionary

Online Etymology Dictionary

American Heritage Dictionary

Encyclepaedia Brittanica

And, yes, Wikipedia.

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DATE: 05 May 2008, 1:22 am / MOOD: Other

This week's word is something that not many have probably encountered before:

 

Supererogatory, adjective;

Supererogation, noun.

These words come from the (late) Latin term, supererogatio. It's derived of the words/roots:

super - beyond, excessive

erogare - to expend, to pay

rogare - to ask

It literally means paying beyond what is asked. Nowadays, it means just means going above and beyond the requirement. It's close to its original meaning, but it doesn't necessarily mean paying. Rather, it's synonymous with superfluous or unnecessary.

In essence, it is a supererogatory way to say something is unnecessary. (See what I did there?)

In Theology, particularly in Christianity, it's going above what God asks of humanity:

• Marriage before sex is what God asks.
• Celibacy is supererogatory.

In Islam, Muslims are required to do a specific number of prayers every day. To do more is also supererogatory.

It's controversial in Ethics. It's often debatable when something is supererogatory or obligatory. Let's say... participating in a charity marathon. Some folks say it's supererogatory; others maintain that it's obligatory for people to do some charitable acts.

In Law, it can mean anything including, but not limited to, murder. One can rob someone as a goal, and killing them (accidentally or no) is supererogatory.

It's not limited to that, of course. For example, a nation is required to be able to keep its peace. (That's why we have government, for the most part.) However, for that nation to go to another nation for peace-keeping (say, the Iraq issue) is supererogatory. 

 

It's a flexible word - that is, as flexible as unnecessary and excessive. Thus, any use for the latter words is as good as any for supererogatory. My suggestion is to keep the usage to a minimum, don't be supererogatory about it. It works best that way. Plus, you may just get some puzzled looks when you use it... for better or worse.

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DATE: 25 Apr 2008, 9:21 am / MOOD: Other

I thought I'd start a little something. And for a while, I couldn't decide on what to start. And this idea came to me, to start a weekly blog wherein I get to share some words (new and/or familiar), and hopefully anyone who reads it will have a better understanding of said words. It's my way of helping improve their vocabulary. I'll start with a word that I'm sure everyone is familiar with:

Decimate

It's an interesting word, Decimate. What does it bring to mind when mentioned? Destruction? Annihilation?

Back in the 16th Century, Decimate was the English word for the Roman punishment of mutinous legions. It meant to kill one in every ten soldier. One-tenth. Thusly, its prefix Deci- came from the Latin word Decem, meaning ten. The word itself is a derivative of the Latin Decimus, meaning tenth.

But in recent times, namely the 19th Century, Decimate, has "evolved" to kill more than 10%, while still, for the most part, not killing 100%. Take for example, "The holocaust decimated the Jewish population in Europe." We know the holocaust killed more than 10%, but we also know it wasn't 100%, get my meaning? In that sense it's become nearly synonymous with Eliminate, and Destroy--but with a slight difference: Destroy means completely, unless otherwise stated; Decimate means only a portion, without having stated.

Compare:

• "The Great Flood decimated the animal population."

And

• "The Great Flood destroyed almost all the animal population."

Compared to

• "The Great Flood destroyed the animal population."

 

Notice that the verb Destroy changes from eliminating "almost all" the animal population. Simply by removing those two words, Destroyed changed to complete eradication. Decimate, on the other hand does not need words like "almost all" to imply that not everything was destroyed.

So, when is it proper to use Decimate? Well, it works best as a word to describe near-complete destruction. You may ask why I said that, and not its original meaning instead. English is an evolving language; what was proper then, isn't always proper now. Likewise, what's proper now, may not always be proper in the future. As it is, the old definition of Decimate is obsolete. And using the word to describe to someone that 1/10 of something was killed will be a lost cause unless that person knew its obsolete meaning. (In that case, the person will still most likely assume you mean the new definition.)

 

 

That ends the first "Word of the Week" Blog.

 

Always,

Mephistopheles

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DATE: 20 Apr 2008, 10:23 pm / MOOD: Other

So I thought I would share a little piece of literature today. But where, I thought, should I share such literature? Well, the only place that I haven't shared such literature, I suppose. And so, here it is. It will make you smile, it will make you frown. It will make you laugh, it will make you sick. It will stick with you for a very long time. Read it lightly, not seriously, for this is - as far as I understand - satirical.

 

Warning! The following contains graphic material, that many of you will find not suitable for... well... a sane person. It has some foul language, and explicit... "gore".

Guts
by Chuck Palahniuk

Inhale.

Take in as much air as you can. This story should last about as long as you can hold your breath, and then just a little bit longer. So listen as fast as you can.

A friend of mine, when he was 13 years old he heard about "pegging." This is when a guy gets banged up the butt with a dildo. Stimulate the prostate gland hard enough, and the rumor is you can have explosive hands-free orgasms. At that age, this friend's a little sex maniac. He's always jonesing for a better way to get his rocks off. He goes out to buy a carrot and some petroleum jelly. To conduct a little private research. Then he pictures how it's going to look at the supermarket checkout counter, the lonely carrot and petroleum jelly rolling down the conveyer belt toward the grocery store cashier. All the shoppers waiting in line, watching. Everyone seeing the big evening he has planned.

So my friend, he buys milk and eggs and sugar and a carrot, all the ingredients for a carrot cake. And Vaseline.

Like he's going home to stick a carrot cake up his butt.

At home, he whittles the carrot into a blunt tool. He slathers it with grease and grinds his ass down on it. Then, nothing. No orgasm. Nothing happens except it hurts.

Then, this kid, his mom yells it's supper time. She says to come down, right now.

He works the carrot out and stashes the slippery, filthy thing in the dirty clothes under his bed.

After dinner, he goes to find the carrot, and it's gone. All his dirty clothes, while he ate dinner, his mom grabbed them all to do laundry. No way could she not find the carrot, carefully shaped with a paring knife from her kitchen, still shiny with lube and stinky.

This friend of mine, he waits months under a black cloud, waiting for his folks to confront him. And they nev¬er do. Ever. Even now that he's grown up, that invisible carrot hangs over every Christmas dinner, every birthday party. Every Easter egg hunt with his kids, his parents' grandkids, that ghost carrot is hovering over all of them. That something too awful to name.

People in France have a phrase: "staircase wit." In French: esprit de l'escalier. It means that moment when you find the answer, but it's too late. Say you're at a par¬ty and someone insults you. You have to say something. So under pressure, with everybody watching, you say something lame. But the moment you leave the party....

As you start down the stairway, then-magic. You come up with the perfect thing you should've said. The perfect crippling put-down.

That’s the spirit of the stairway.

The trouble is, even the French don't have a phrase for the stupid things you actually do say under pressure. Those stupid, desperate things you actually think or do.

Some deeds are too low to even get a name. Too low to even get talked about.

Looking back, kid-psych experts, school counselors now say that most of the last peak in teen suicide was kids trying to choke while they beat off. Their folks would find them, a towel twisted around their kid's neck, the towel tied to the rod in their bedroom closet, the kid dead. Dead sperm every¬where. Of course the folks cleaned up. They put some pants on their kid. They made it look ... better. Intentional at least. The regular kind of sad teen suicide.

Another friend of mine, a kid from school, his older brother in the Navy said how guys in the Middle East jack off different than we do here. This brother was stationed in some camel country where the public market sells what could be fancy letter openers. Each fancy tool is just a thin rod of pol¬ished brass or silver, maybe as long as your hand, with a big tip at one end, ei¬ther a big metal ball or the kind of fan¬cy carved handle you'd see on a sword. This Navy brother says how Arab guys get their dick hard and then insert this metal rod inside the whole length of their boner. They jack off with the rod inside, and it makes getting off so much better. More intense.

It's this big brother who travels around the world, sending back French phrases. Russian phrases. Helpful jack-off tips.

After this, the little brother, one day he doesn't show up at school. That night, he calls to ask if I'll pick up his homework for the next couple weeks. Because he's in the hospital.

He's got to share a room with old people getting their guts worked on. He says how they all have to share the same television. All he's got for privacy is a curtain. His folks don't come and visit. On the phone, he says how right now his folks could just kill his big brother in the Navy.

On the phone, the kid says how-the day before-he was just a little stoned. At home in his bedroom, he was flopped on the bed. He was lighting a candle and flipping through some old porno magazines, getting ready to beat off. This is after he's heard from his Navy brother. That helpful hint about how Arabs beat off. The kid looks around for something that might do the job. A ballpoint pen's too big. A pencil's too big and rough. But dripped down the side of the candle, there's a thin, smooth ridge of wax that just might work. With just the tip of one finger, this kid snaps the long ridge of wax off the candle. He rolls it smooth between the palms of his hands. Long and smooth and thin.

Stoned and horny, he slips it down inside, deeper and deeper into the piss slit of his boner. With a good hank of the wax still poking out the top, he gets to work.

Even now, he says those Arab guys are pretty damn smart. They've totally reinvented jacking off. Flat on his back in bed, things are getting so good, this kid can't keep track of the wax. He's one good squeeze from shooting his wad when the wax isn't sticking out anymore.

The thin wax rod, it's slipped inside. All the way inside. So deep inside he can't even feel the lump of it inside his piss tube.

From downstairs, his mom shouts it's supper time. She says to come down, right now. This wax kid and the carrot kid are different people, but we all live pretty much the same life.

It's after dinner when the kid's guts start to hurt. It's wax, so he figured it would just melt inside him and he'd pee it out. Now his back hurts. His kid¬neys. He can't stand straight.

This kid talking on the phone from his hospital bed, in the background you can hear bells ding, people scream¬ing. Game shows.

The X-rays show the truth, some¬thing long and thin, bent double inside his bladder. This long, thin V inside him, it's collecting all the minerals in his piss. It's getting bigger and rougher, coated with crystals of calci¬um, it's bumping around, ripping up the soft lining of his bladder, blocking his piss from getting out. His kidneys are backed up. What little that leaks out his dick is red with blood.

This kid and his folks, his whole fam¬ily, them looking at the black X-ray with the doctor and the nurses stand¬ing there, the big V of wax glowing white for everybody to see, he has to tell the truth. The way Arabs get off. What his big brother wrote him from the Navy.

On the phone, right now, he starts to cry.

They paid for the bladder operation with his college fund. One stupid mis¬take, and now he'll never be a lawyer.

Sticking stuff inside yourself. Stick¬ing yourself inside stuff. A candle in your dick or your head in a noose, we knew it was going to be big trouble.

What got me in trouble, I called it Pearl Diving. This meant whacking off underwater, sitting on the bottom at the deep end of my parents' swimming pool. With one deep breath, I'd kick my way to the bottom and slip off my swim trucks. I'd sit down there for two, three, four minutes.

Just from jacking oft' I had huge lung capacity. If I had the house to myself, I'd do this all afternoon. After I'd finally pump out my stuff, my sperm, it would hang there in big, fat, milky gobs.

After that was more diving, to catch it all. To collect it and wipe each hand¬ful in a towel. That's why it was called Pearl Diving. Even with chlorine, there was my sister to worry about. Or, Christ almighty, my mom.

That used to be my worst fear in the world: my teenage virgin sister, think¬ing she's just getting fat, then giving birth to a two-headed, retard baby. Both heads looking just like me. Me, the father and the uncle. In the end, it's never what you worry about that gets you.

The best part of Pearl Diving was the inlet port for the swimming pool filter and the circulation pump. The best part was getting naked and sit¬ting on it.

As the French would say, Who doesn't like getting their butt sucked? Still, one minute you're just a kid getting off, and the next minute you'll never be a lawyer.

One minute I'm settling on the pool bottom and the sky is wavy, light blue through eight feet of water above my head. The world is silent except for the heartbeat in my ears. My yellow¬striped swim trunks are looped around my neck for safe keeping, just in case a friend, a neighbor, anybody shows up to ask why I skipped foot¬ball practice. The steady suck of the pool inlet hole is lapping at me and I'm grinding my skinny white ass around on that feeling.

One minute I've got enough air and my dick's in my hand. My folks are gone at their work and my sister's got ballet. Nobody's supposed to be home for hours.

My hand brings me right to getting off, and I stop. I swim up to catch an¬other big breath. I dive down and settle on the bottom.

I do this again and again.

This must be why girls want to sit on your face. The suction is like taking a dump that never ends. My dick hard and getting my butt eaten out, I do not need air. My heartbeat in my ears, I stay under until bright stars of light start worming around in my eyes. My legs straight out, the back of each knee rubbed raw against the concrete bot¬tom. My toes are turning blue, my toes and fingers wrinkled from being so long in the water.

And then I let it happen. The big white gobs start spouting. The pearls. It's then I need some air. But when I go to kick off against the bottom, I can't. I can't get my feet under me. My ass is stuck.

Emergency paramedics will tell you that every year about 150 people get stuck this way, sucked by a circulation pump. Get your long hair caught, or your ass, and you're going to drown. Every year, tons of people do. Most of them in Florida.

People just don't talk about it. Not even French people talk about everything. Getting one knee up, getting one foot tucked under me, I get to half standing when I feel the tug against my butt. Get¬ting my other foot under me, I kick off against the bottom. I'm kicking free, not touching the concrete, but not getting to the air, either.

Still kicking water, thrashing with both arms, I'm maybe halfway to the surface but not going higher. The heartbeat in¬side my head getting loud and fast.

The bright sparks of light crossing and crisscrossing my eyes, I turn and look back ... but it doesn't make sense. This thick rope, some kind of snake, blue¬white and braided with veins, has come up out of the pool drain and it's holding on to my butt. Some of the veins are leaking blood, red blood that looks black underwater and drifts away from little rips in the pale skin of the snake. The blood trails away, disappearing in the water, and inside the snake's thin, blue¬white skin you can see lumps of some half-digested meal.

That's the only way this makes sense. Some horrible sea monster, a sea serpent, something that's never seen the light of day, it's been hiding in the dark bottom of the pool drain, waiting to eat me.

So ...I kick at it, at the slippery, rub¬bery knotted skin and veins of it, and more of it seems to pull out of the pool drain. It's maybe as long as my leg now, but still holding tight around my butt¬hole. With another kick, I'm an inch closer to getting another breath. Still feeling the snake tug at my ass, I'm an inch closer to my escape.

Knotted inside the snake, you can see corn and peanuts. You can see a long bright-orange ball. It's the kind of horse¬pill vitamin my dad makes me take, to help put on weight. To get a football scholarship. With extra iron and omega¬three fatty acids.

It's seeing that vitamin pill that saves my life.

It's not a snake. It's my large intestine, my colon pulled out of me. What doctors call prolapsed. It's my guts sucked into the drain.

Paramedics will tell you a swimming pool pump pulls 80 gallons of water every minute. That's about 400 pounds of pressure. The big problem is we're all connected together inside. Your ass is just the far end of your mouth. If I let go, the pump keeps working-unravel¬ing my insides-until it's got my tongue. Imagine taking a 400-pound shit and you can see how this might turn you inside out.

What I can tell you is your guts don't feel much pain. Not the way your skin feels pain. The stuff you're digesting, doctors call it fecal matter. Higher up is chyme, pockets of a thin, runny mess studded with corn and peanuts and round green peas.

That's all this soup of blood and corn, shit and sperm and peanuts floating around me. Even with my guts unravel¬ing out my ass, me holding on to what's left, even then my first want is to some¬how get my swimsuit back on.

God forbid my folks see my dick.

My one hand holding a fist around my ass, my other hand snags my yellow¬striped swim trunks and pulls them from around my neck. Still, getting into them is impossible.

You want to feel your intestines, go buy a pack of those lambskin condoms. Take one out and unroll it. Pack it with peanut butter. Smear it with petroleum jelly and hold it under water. Then try to tear it. Try to pull it in half. It's too tough and rubbery. It's so slimy you can't hold on.

A lambskin condom, that's just plain old intestine.

You can see what I'm up against.

You let go for a second and you're gutted.

You swim for the surface, for a breath, and you're gutted.

You don't swim and you drown.

It's a choice between being dead right now or a minute from right now.

What my folks will find after work is a big naked fetus, curled in on itself. Floating in the cloudy water of their backyard pool. Tethered to the bottom by a thick rope of veins and twisted guts. The opposite of a kid hanging himself to death while he jacks off. This is the baby they brought home from the hospital 13 years ago. Here's the kid they hoped would snag a football schol¬arship and get an MBA. Who'd care for them in their old age. Here's all their hopes and dreams. Floating here, naked and dead. All around him, big milky pearls of wasted sperm.

Either that or my folks will find me wrapped in a bloody towel, collapsed halfway from the pool to the kitchen tele¬phone, the ragged, torn scrap of my guts still hanging out the leg of my yellow¬striped swim trunks.

What even the French won't talk about.

That big brother in the Navy, he taught us one other good phrase. A Russian phrase. The way we say, "I need that like I need a hole in my head...," Russian people say, "I need that like I need teeth in my asshole......

Mne eto nado kak zuby v zadnitse.

Those stories about how animals caught in a trap will chew off their leg, well, any coyote would tell you a couple bites beats the hell out of being dead.

Hell ... even if you're Russian, someday you just might want those teeth.

Otherwise, what you have to do is¬you have to twist around. You hook one elbow behind your knee and pull that leg up into your face. You bite and snap at your own ass. You run out of air and you will chew through anything to get that next breath.

It's not something you want to tell a girl on the first date. Not if you expect a kiss good night. If I told you how it tasted, you would never, ever again eat calamari.

It's hard to say what my parents were more disgusted by: how I'd got in trou¬ble or how I'd saved myself. After the hospital, my mom said, "You didn't know what you were doing, honey. You were in shock." And she learned how to cook poached eggs.

All those people grossed out or feeling sorry for me....

I need that like I need teeth in my asshole.

Nowadays, people always tell me I look too skinny. People at dinner parties get all quiet and pissed off when I don't eat the pot roast they cooked. Pot roast kills me. Baked ham. Anything that hangs around inside my guts for longer than a couple of hours, it comes out still food. Home-cooked lima beans or chunk light tuna fish, I'll stand up and find it still sitting there in the toilet.

After you have a radical bowel resec¬tioning, you don't digest meat so great. Most people, you have five feet of large intestine. I'm lucky to have my six inch¬es. So I never got a football scholarship. Never got an MBA. Both my friends, the wax kid and the carrot kid, they grew up, got big, but I've never weighed a pound more than I did that day when I was 13.

Another big problem was my folks paid a lot of good money for that swim¬ming pool. In the end my dad just told the pool guy it was a dog. The family dog fell in and drowned. The dead body got pulled into the pump. Even when the pool guy cracked open the filter casing and fished out a rubbery tube, a watery hank of intestine with a big orange vita¬min pill still inside, even then my dad just said, "That dog was fucking nuts."

Even from my upstairs bedroom window, you could hear my dad say, "We couldn't trust that dog alone for a second...."

Then my sister missed her period.

Even after they changed the pool water, after they sold the house and we moved to another state, after my sister's abortion, even then my folks never men¬tioned it again.

Ever.

That is our invisible carrot.

You. Now you can take a good, deep breath.

I still have not.

 

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