8th-grade Elevator Pitch: The Cosmos Annihilation Matrix

As I remember it...

It wasn't technically an elevator pitch, because we weren't in an elevator.  Also, I was fourteen years old, and had no concept of what a "pitch" was - let alone the elevator version of one.  Still, that's what it was.  

I was waiting in line at the Air and Space Museum in Washington, DC, with my mother and my younger brother, who were busy negotiating the dining and/or treats in our future.  We were queued up to see "To Fly," on the 5-story-high movie screen that would later be called "IMAX." The gentleman in line behind us had overheard our prior conversation about Atari games - and how we would improve them.  He asked me to describe in two minutes what I would put into a game if I were in charge.  

[Blogger's note:  It was 1981 so, you know, cut me some slack.]

"In my game, you're a baby owl, so you can't fly, but you have roller skates, but if you get hit, you can lose them, but you can get them back if you eat enough mice from the barns along the way, and..."

The man, who seemed to me to be about 99 years old, when in fact he was probably 28, interrupted. "Wait.  Is this a first-person shooter, or is it a scroller?"

"It's both," I said. "When you're the baby owl, it scrolls right-to-left, but later, when you learn to fly, and when you fight the mother ships, it's first-person."

"Do you have inanimate obstacles, active enemies, or both?"

"Both.  If you hit a tree branch, or a car, or a squirrel's tail, you lose energy, and if you lose too much energy, you go extinct.  Also, there are theater majors with a creative writing minor, and they try to grab you and use you as a prop for their soliloquies.  They squeeze you over-dramatically and kill you 'cause your eyes pop out.  Plus, there are these cats that are, like, part cat and part over-ripe plantain, and they're all named TJ, and they're friendly at first, but eventually, if you don't buy a universal life policy from them, they turn sort of passive-aggressively hostile, and they start to subtly call your manhood into question, until eventually, the only way to get rid of them is to hold down the Fire button and waggle the joystick left and right as fast as you can.  Then, your owl says, 'Fuck off, TJ,' and it works, but your owl feels bad that it had to be rude, and you lose more energy points.  But then, after a few seconds, your owlet starts to resent TJ even more, for putting it in the position where it had to resort to telling him to fuck off, and it chases the ghost of TJ off the screen, throwing stuff at him.  There's a cutaway instant-replay of this action, where you can clearly see that what your owl is throwing is poop - and not owl poop, if you know what I mean..."

"Wait.  How old are you, kid?" the stranger asks.

"Fourteen," I say, "Why?  It's okay for me to say the F-word, if it's in the gameplay description."

"No, no - I'm okay with the language.  I'm just wondering how you're going to get simulated speech from an 8-bit processor."

"A what?"

"An 8-bit processor.  Some of the new arcade consoles have 16-bit chips, but if you're talking about your little Atari set at home..."

I held up a confident, let me finish hand.  "Ah, I'm not worried about that. If the voice can't be emulated, I'll just have a dialogue bubble pop up above the owl."

"Okay.  So, what's the goal?  Is it just multi-level, never-ending, or is there a boss villain - an end?"

I hadn't thought of that.  I said, "I thought of that, sir.  There's a giant robotic alien guy at the end, and he looks like Joan Lunden and R2D2 had a baby - all gleaming blue and white and metal, but with a cute blonde bob, and thin, professional, no-nonsense on-air lips.  He fires dirt missiles and intestine-shattering jokes that can't be unheard, plus some deep-fried bowling shoe guacamole balls, and reaches out with long, vector-graphics tentacles and grabs you as you try to dodge the projectiles.  He pulls you into his freakish plastic mandibles and eats you, and you lose."

"And?" the man said, shuffling forward as we began our march into the massive theater.

"And what?  Game over."

"How do you win?"

I tried to be polite, but I could feel my brow furrowing into its What are you - stupid? shape.  "You don't," I said, matter-of-factly.

"It's un-winable?"

"Correct."

"What are you calling this thing?"

"It's called The Cosmos Annihilation Matrix, because if you don't collect all the coat buttons in the coat-button phase, everything that is, or ever was, or ever will be... winks out of existence in one fell scream of ultimate horror and suffering."

"What?  No extra lives?"

"Nope.  Finito."

"Wait - what coat-button phase?  You must have skipped that part," the man said, somewhat bemused.

"That's 'cause I just thought of it.  I realized that there was no transaction education element, and our future capitalists really need that, you know?"

"Yes.  I'm fully aware of that.  Anyway, you had me until you said 'vector graphics,' kid.  You can't do vector graphics on a regular TV.  No sale."

"Okay."  I pretended not to be heartbroken.

"Maybe you should think about a career in accounting or something."

"Um... okay..."  Soul... crushed.

"Enjoy the movie!"

That Thankfulness Thing 2014 - First of Three Bite-size Pieces

Remember a couple of years ago, when a lot of people spent the month of November sharing via social media one thing per day for which they were thankful?  And remember how I did all 30 of mine at once, via blog post, in 2012, and again (a day late) in 2013?  No?  That's okay.  I don't remember what song my iPod finished playing 22 seconds ago.

Anyway, those posts were way too long for today's short attention spans, so-- hey?  HEY! OVER HERE! (snaps fingers)... Geez.  I'm trying to help!  This year, I'll post my list in three MUCH more reasonably-sized parts, so that you, dear reader, can get back to your pintstergram and skype-chat and whatever this year's Candy Crush is.  See - aren't I nice?  Well, sure I am.  You have a bad attitude, today.  Wait - I didn't mean that.  You're very busy - I know. 

So let's do this!  This year, I find myself especially thankful for...

1.  Hypnotoad.  All glory to the Hypnotoad... And to everyone involved in any aspect of the production of "Futurama."  It was a most skillfully-crafted show, and it was unapologetically nerdy - even before that was trendy. 

All Glory to the Hypnotoad...

2.  Robin Williams.  Versatile, fun, gifted, and flawed - just like the rest of us, only more so.

3.  Neil deGrasse Tyson, Bill Nye, and Carl Sagan - bridging the gap between us and science.  Dr. Sagan is irreplaceable, of course, but Nye and Tyson are engaging and smart and witty, and they're doing an admirable job, despite the astonishing power of the willful ignorance that stands in their way.

4.  Two words:  Red Stapler.
 

5.  The fact that, as she did in November 2012, my old (snow) car surprised me and the DMV by once again passing her emissions test.

6.  Beach webcams.  Especially THIS ONE.

7.  Game Sevens - especially when the yankees and braves are not involved.  In the sports world, it doesn't get much more dramatic than a game seven.  Unless, of course, it's a best-of-nine series, in which case WOWEE GAME NINE!!

8.  Lizards.  They HATE me, but I still think they're groovy.

9.  My office (cubicle) toy corner...

Oh, the personal history on that shelf.

10.  The Internet Arcade!  Free, old-timey (1980s is old-timey) arcade machine emulator software you can run right in your browser.  I'm wallowing in nostalgia, here!


And with that, Bite #1 is complete.  Will Lionel trains finally make the list, this year?  Tune in on the 20th for Part Two, to find out!  Seriously.  Tune in.  Don't make me beg.  I'll be thankful for not having to beg, maybe...
 

1983

The favorite year.  Most people have one.  It usually occurs in one's late teens or early twenties, and involves some sort of coming-of-age event, like a first job, first love, first sexual encounter, first drug experimentation, first out-of-body experience, first murder, first space flight, first arrest and so on.  For some, it comes later, and centers around becoming a parent.  For a few, the favorite year comes late in life - retirement, grandchildren, enlightenment, transcendence.

I have a lot of favorite years, and I'd love to bore you with tales of 1978, 1988, 1996, and 2000 - but I won't.  Tonight, let's take a quick peek at 1983, because really, it was all downhill from there, in so many ways.

I was fifteen when the year began, and younger than my years, so my world was an amalgam of music, movies, video games, and a few TV shows... Oh, and my first job.

First, there was snow.  We don't get a lot of snow, in the DC area, but in February of '83, we got this:

Thirty Inches of White Sky-excrement

I know that by now, if you've read what I have to say about winter, you know that I am not a fan.  I hate snow - because I'm an adult, now.  In 1983, however, it was pure white fluffy frozen MAGIC.  Anyway...

Television.  I had outgrown "Little House On The Prairie," and "Automan" proved to be a giant lie - with trailers that deliberately made it look like "TRON," but a show that was beyond terrible.  I was too young to care about "Dynasty," and even at fifteen-going-on sixteen, I could not wait for "M*A*S*H" to just end, already.  Also, I really thought "Just Our Luck" and "Mr. Smith" had a chance, but they were dead on arrival.  But there were bright spots.  "Taxi" showed promise, "Cheers" was good, and "V" did not disappoint, but in early '83, we obtained our first VCR, and suddenly it was MOVIES that we wanted on our TV screen.

"Cujo" was, as almost all big-screen adaptations of Stephen King stories are, a gigantic disappointment, but "War Games," "Risky Business," "Flashdance," "Monty Python's The Meaning of Life," "The Outsiders," "Return of The Jedi," "Vacation," "Scarface," and -helLO- "A Christmas Story?"  It was not a bad year.  Not enough?  How about "Eddie and The Cruisers," "The House On Sorority Row," and "Krull?"  Yeah - top that, 1984.

Of course, at 15-16 years old, I couldn't help but be ruled by music.  Whether it was on the turntable of our first real component stereo system, on my first boom-box, or in the too-powerful headphones of my first-generation FM Walkman, it was one of the driving forces behind my adolescent psyche.

There's entirely too much music to even begin to attempt to think about doing justice to, here.  Rest assured, if Bowie said "Let's Dance," we danced.  If the Plimsouls were "A Million Miles Away," so were we.  When the Stray Cats were "Sexy and 17," and demanded that we "Rock This Town," we did.  Thomas Dolby couldn't find "One of Our Submarines," Kajagoogoo was "Too Shy," Peter Schilling hijacked "Major Tom," and Men At Work said it was all "Overkill," and we were all like, "I'll Tumble For Ya," it's just "The Politics of Dancing -" no, "Don't Change" "My Ever-changing Moods -" "Goodbye to You."

I'll be brief on the video games, too.  I mean, it's not like anyone remembers Congo Bongo, Tapper, Blaster, Mappy, or Gyruss, right?  Everyone's all about Pac Man, Ms. Pac Man, and Q*Bert, blah blah blah.  But does anyone want to join me in a rousing adventure in Mr. Do's Castle, or a round of Crossbow, or the Journey (as in, the band) video game travesty, disaster, and money-grab?  No.  You're all off playing Missile Command, or Centipede.  Harrumph.

Now, about that first job.  In the late summer of 1983, I graduated from delivering newspapers to making bad pizza, cleaning up after bad pizza-eaters, and entertaining bad pizza-eating children - at Chuck E. Cheese's Pizza Time Theatre, in Rockville, Maryland.  Yes, they actually spelled "theatre" that way.  Anyway - click on that link, read that story, and you'll get a feel for why 1983 was special.

That's about it, really - although I would appreciate a little credit from you sports-haters, for not mentioning the Redskins' Superbowl victory or the Orioles' World Series victory.  You're welcome.

Anyway.  This post-a-day thing is already dragging a bit, but bear with me.  There's much for which we will be THANKFUL, as well as the highly-anticipated by no one TWO-HUNDREDTH POST!  I know!  The all-caps should arouse some excitement.  No?  That's okay.  Just don't leave me.  Yet.  

Please?

Zaxxon Galaxian's Extra Life - A 700 Hoboes Story

Zaxxon Galaxian was made of magic.  And water.  And carbon.  Mostly water, actually.  And some nitrogen and other stuff.  Okay, to be clear, he was composed of water, carbon, nitrogen and some elemental odds and ends, but he was made of magic.

In school in 1927, when the other boys were drawing stick-figures doing The Charleston, Zaxxon was doodling 3/4-view industrial landscapes in 256-colors.  And none of that simplistic vertical scrolling for young Zax, either.  It may have been good enough for his father, back in the stone age, but these days it was all about scrolling right-to-left, rendered to appear 3-dimensional.

Mr. Galaxian

Zaxxon, age 8

By the time he turned fourteen, Zaxxon had already known loss.  His mother died of pneumonia when he was ten, and at thirteen his father, then a blurry after-image of his once-vibrant self, was blown up three times by marauding space wasps.  But by then, Zax had also begun to realize that he had a gift.  In 1934, he ran away from the East St. Louis Industrial Arts School For Boys, carrying nothing but his beloved colored pencils and crayons, a pad of cheap sketch paper and a hat.  His mother had always made him wear a hat from the first week in September through mid-June, so he was sure he'd need it.

Like many hoboes, he kept mostly to himself.  He was tall, but thin and not very strong, and he knew nothing of fighting.  His self-defense was centered primarily around the avoidance of others.  He wandered east and found a stretch of woods and rails along the snaking Potomac River border between western Maryland and northeastern West Virginia, a few miles east of Paw Paw.  

He hunted small game, fished what little could be fished from that part of the river, and hid in the hills above a nearly-nonexistent place called Magnolia.  There, he worked on his craft.  When he ran out of paper or drawing implements, he'd venture into Paw Paw or hop a train to Cumberland and conjure up some more.

"Conjuring" was Zaxxon's term for his unique brand of panhandling and supply-replenishment.  He would go into town and find a park or a school - someplace with children - and he would trade his artwork for fresh paper, pencils, crayons, occasionally pennies or a new hat.  He was comfortable around children.  He trusted them, and they trusted him.  His hard life had spared his naive and loving heart, and in many ways he remained utterly childlike.  Kids could sense that.  Sometimes, the older children pitied him, but most found him fascinating, and absolutely adored him.  They came to look forward to his visits as though he were Santa Claus himself.

Their parents, many of whom were railroad men, were less trusting.  To them, he was just a creepy man who was too old - and far too filthy - to be skulking about the playgrounds giving weird drawings to their kids.  Once, a group of men set upon him with furious fists and one set of brass knuckles, and fractured his skull, leaving him for dead in an alley.  A few months later, he tried a little conjuring in Hancock, Maryland.  He was stabbed by two men who took exception to his fraternizing with their children, and left face-down and unconscious in a creek.  The following winter, he was pretty sure he froze to death in his makeshift tent near Magnolia.

He was well-aware of the three-life limit that afflicted his family on his father's side, so he knew that he must have somehow earned that elusive "free guy," the bonus life.  He was not about to squander it.

It took him a year to find a job in a department store in Cumberland, another year to earn the trust and support of a benefactor and two more years to find his way to the front of a classroom, teaching art to sixth-to-ninth-graders.  The magic in his drawings inspired the kids of that mountain railroad town for the next thirty-two years.  His students were never quite able to explain the magic of their teacher's works of art, except to say that to look at one was to fall into another universe, complete, moving and real.  

Orion Nebula

The grownups never quite warmed to him, nor he to them, but he was at least accepted.  The kids, until the day he died for the last time, loved him.

Zaxxon Galaxian and his gift had found a home.