0 0 0 B 10B - The Michigan Daily - Thursday, September 23, 2004 JASON ROBERTS - SUPER nmpTno OBERTS MY LIFE AS A VIDEOGAME The Michigan Daily I qI ALEXANDRA JONES -AUTo NEUROTIC AN OPEN LETTER TO PEOPLE WHO WON'T SHUT UP ABOUT MY HICKEY O n more than one occasion, I've wondered what my life would be like as a videogame. Before you scoff at me and tell me I should spend more time outside, consider this: You probably have, too. Haven't you ever been driving around in your car and wondered if you could pull off a 360-degree flip off that concrete high- way divider a la "Grand Theft Auto" or "Need for Speed Underground?" I'm sure I'm not the only one. The problem with this thought pro- cess, however, is the fact that I can't really find a genre of game that my life would really fit into. Let's take a look at these briefly, and I'll show you what I mean. We shall begin with the first-person shooter, the quintessential action game. When I first started thinking about this whole idea, I thought that the FPS would be an obvious choice. After all, the games that I have been playing most recently have fallen into this genre - games like "Doom 3" and "Unreal Toumament 2004." However, in terms of reality, I have a harder time justifying it. First of all, I would have to be aggres- sive and fast, and I am neither. In fact, I don't really see running as an activity I would purposefully choose to partake in at all. If I'm running, it's because I'm running away from something pretty ter- rible coming the other way, and I'd sug- gest you run with me. I prefer to bike, and I've never seen a successful first- person shooter that takes place on a bike. Secondly, I'm a chicken. I jump out of my seat just playing "Doom 3" or watching movies like "28 Days Later" and afterwards have to check and double check the darkened realm under my bed to make sure there isn't a zombie in waiting. Thirdly, I don't really come into con- tact with aliens from another planet or the undead very often, and that really establishes the core of these types of games. The closest things I experience to these types of creatures are the Gideons I that hand out pocket-sized Bibles at the bus stop, and I check for them lurking under my bed at night, too. So the first-person shooter is out. My thought process then tends to drift to the second most likely candidate: the driv- ing game. I can imagine myself cruising through the virtual streets of Ann Arbor, driving up over curbs and onto lawns and zipping the wrong way down one way streets during rush hour. That would be stellar. However, I quickly come to the real- ization that my rusted out 1994 Ford Tempo is not exactly the hot rod that most gamers would want to have control over in an action-packed driving game. The vibrations from the misaligned front end and its constant tendency to pull to the right might put a lot of gamers off. The idea did cross my mind, though, to combine the driving-game and simula- tion-game genre so that you had to keep an eye on the level of oil in my car, making sure you added to it as the level continually dropped so the engine didn't seize, but I quickly dismissed it for obvi- ous reasons. So the driving-game genre is out. My next idea: the sports-game genre. I get excited about this idea initially because it could be a real moneymaker. EA Sports releases a new version of the same game every year, and they sell millions and millions of units. It's simply genius! The problem becomes the fact that the only real sport that I play nowadays is golf, and depending on who you talk to, it may not even be a real sport. It's kind of on the same level as freshwater fishing and poker. Plus, if I did have a golfing game, you'd have to have the option to pick up and throw your ball if you hit it into some really tall grass and you would consistently slice your ball to the right when you drive. After much more thinking, I come to the perfect solution: the adventure- game genre. Even though I don't know anybody named Gandalf or wield any specific magical powers, I thought that this would be the most acceptable genre. There has to be one condition, however It must be one of those old-school text- based adventure games, kind of like one of those "Choose Your Own Adventure" books you'd read when you were younger. I like this kind of entertainment because it forces you to use your imagi- nation ... and it allows me to exaggerate. For example: YOU COME UPON A TREE THAT HAS FALLEN IN THE ROAD, BLOCKING YOUR PATH. YOU DO NOT SEE ANY WAY AROUND IT. WHAT DO YOU DO? And you could say: MOVE THE TREE And the game would say: WITH YOUR BULGING BICPES AND TREMENDOUS STRENGTH, YOU LIFT THE TREE OUT OF YOUR WAY, CLEARING YOUR PATH WHILE SAVING THE LIVES OF SEVEN LITTLE KITTENS TRAPPED UNDER THE FALLEN FOLIAGE IN THE PROCESS. It's such a forgotten genre, and graphics are overrated anyways. With your own imagination, my measly physique doesn't have to show up anywhere in the game world; I leave everything up to the power of the writ- ten word. It would make my humdrum life much more interesting than it really is. Look for it to hit retail shelves by next Christmas. E-mail Jason at jasoner@umich.edu. Dear People Who Won't Shut Up About My Hickey, After a discourse that has been - and this is my fault entirely -woe- fully one-sided, I have decided to respond to you, People Who Won't Shut Up About My Hickey. The sum total of your silly taunts, childish innuendo, sexist comments and out- right astonishment has weighed on my mind for the past few days, but now, I can reply calmly, in full and without embarrassment. Your ranks include the likes of my roommate, my classmates, friends, teachers, even the supposedly inno- cent boy who branded me with such a lack of consideration and civility. Last Saturday, when I received what would be - if honors were bestowed for such things - a prize- winning hickey on the lower.right region of my neck, I knew what to expect in the coming week. However, I chose to act with pro- priety, as though nothing at all was out of the ordinary and there wasn't a mark roughly the color and size of a small eggplant peeking out above my T-shirt collar. But you, People Who Won't Shut Up About My Hickey, chose to take a decidedly lower path than I. Because of your immaturity, People Who Won't Shut Up About My Hickey, I and my monstrous love bite (I was going to give it a name, but I knew it'd be gone soon and didn't want to get too attached) have endured pointing and giggling, offensive remarks and even wide- eyed disbelief at the sheer extremity of my hickey. Yes, it covered an area of nearly 1.5 square inches at its peak and varied in color from pale mauve to a deep indigo, but that's no reason to laugh, or stare wide-eyed at my neck and say, "Oh my God! That is, without a doubt, the most enormous hickey I've ever seen in my life." Because my hickey merely amounts to a slight contusion, a section of broken capillaries that my body will quickly heal and forget - unlike you, People Who Won't Shut Up About My Hickey. Despite its graphic appearance - to which some of you responded with that not at all witty "curling iron accident" line - my hickey hardly felt like anything. But you can bet, People Who Won't Shut Up About My Hickey, that after a cer- tain boy administered my suppos- edly heinous bruise and alerted me to its extremity by saying "Oh shit! Oh shit, I'm sorry," that I punched him really hard a couple times. It's true, People Who Won't Shut Up About My Hickey, that it didn't have to be this way. That's why you think I'm so deserving of your criti- cism - that I practically begged for your inane giggles and gross com- ments about branding. I could have refrained from opening this derma- tological can of worms. Unfortunately, I don't know the first thing about applying founda- tion or concealer; hell, thanks to my stunning complexion, I don't even own makeup. But it's com- mon knowledge that cosmetics are not the only solution to an age-old conundrum like mine. Indeed, I own a number of styl- ish turtleneck sweaters, and even a few neck scarves that could have easily done the job in just such an emergency. However, high tempera- tures and too-sunny September days would have been suspicious, never mind uncomfortable. And let's face it - even in winter, who wears tur- tlenecks for five days in a row? Obviously, People Who Won't Shut Up About My Hickey, I decided to be honest about my hickey rather than conceal the truth, to display my massive neck bruise without hesita- tion or embarrassment. As you know, while I was "with hickey," I proudly donned T-shirts, Oxford dress shirts with the collar button undone, even a strappy tank top. I wore that bruise like a badge of honor. Nothing could make me feel ashamed, People Who Won't Shut Up About My Hickey. Despite the jokes, the derisive comments, the slight feeling of shock I felt every time I checked my otherwise fine self out in a store window, I remem- bered, but I never gave up.. Every morning I was greeted by that scar- let H staring at me from the bath- room mirror, but I didn't crumble under the pressure. While I'm proud that my convic- tions stood firm, People Who Won't Shut Up About My Hickey, you sure have taught me a thing or two. For example, don't let boys bite you unless you want your friends - who you thought were respectable, mature and educated people - to regress to a sixth grade mentality and annoy the shit out of you. Also, if the boy who gave you this make- out monstrosity makes any dumb jokes about "marking his territory," punch him really, really hard until you feel better. It's been real, People Who Won't Shut Up About My Hickey, but as Ifyou see Alex on the Diag, chec out her hot hickey. Act now - it fading fast! She can be reached < almajo@umich.edu my egregious neck bruise heals, yc guys have got to move on. For real: Shut up about my stupi hickey, okay? Seriously. Regards, Alexandra Jones DAILY ARTS. IF BEAUTY WERE A CRIME, WEED BE ON DEATH ROW. 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