waynengarth - Tumblr blog

[waynengarth]

A Taste For Scum

Nine years ago, Charles Ram entered the most active years in his young, sick life. By age 17, this bona fide high school dropout graduated from the world of petty crime by attempting to steal some very big diamonds from a very rich woman. The kid probably wanted to find an island somewhere and disappear from a world that didn't seem to want him. (Heh. That's funny. Ironically funny. Because... well, you'll see.) Unfortunately for Charles, this very rich woman had a very big boyfriend who was watching the house while she was away on business. One swing from the baseball bat that served as the home's last defense system and the resounding crack shattered poor Charlie's forearm like a bag full of light bulbs. As he fell to the floor, presumably before an excruciating pain of piercing bone shards kicked in, Charles reacted by firing all six shots from a pipsqueak revolver into the chest of his attacker. Very Big Boyfriend with his home run swing suddenly didn't seem so tough. Charles was laughing when the police arrived, which the boyfriend had alerted before deciding to play hero against lil Charlie. It wasn't a crazed laugh - Charles wasn't a silly comic book supervillain after all (not yet, anyway). Just a soft, amused, satisfied laugh that came and went, came and went, through the surgery that amputated most of his ruined arm and through the trial that got him off on self-defense thanks to this state's ass-backwards legal system full of technicalities. That laugh would eventually earn ol' Charlie his media nickname of The Laughing Man, but he wouldn't come to be known like that for sometime still. For now, though, Charles Ram had his first tango with twisted thrills. And, like all of the worst of them, he wanted more. And more he had, bit by bit over the years until seven years ago when the shit really hit the fan. In the span of just six months, we pinned eight definite and five probable murders along the coast on our pal Charlie. A serial killer by the books, and we hadn't a clue where he was. The loss of a jerk-off arm had apparently been enough of a wake-up call that Charles wasn't expected to live very long with this sort of lifestyle while being a fucking idiot. So he got good. Real good. Better than us, always one step ahead and leaving his damned calling card - a bright red clown nose. Real original, jackass. But it worked. Cops hate being taunted when they don't have a lead, and Charles had us right where he wanted: always in his dust, never interfering with who he decided would die tonight. As luck would have it, one of those people ended up being - ta-da! - Charles Ram himself, though I seriously doubt he decided the fate. One night we were responding to a disturbance. I expected something more, then we found this hulking frat boy shivering and crying in the corner of an alley. "A gentle giant," I thought at first when I saw him - Have you even seen a big frat boy cry? It's the saddest thing ... would put the most stoic among us in a hugging mood - Anyway, then I took in the scene and caught sight of something that would make anyone cry (or cry out, at least). Just for a second, because that's all the glimpse I could spare before my half-digested dinner sprayed across the sidewalk. A few feet in front of this frat boy was an explosion of ... gore. I say "gore" because "blood" wouldn't be enough. Oh, there was blood alright. More than you'd imagine to fit inside one human body. But there were chunks as well. Fleshy chunk, and all this splashed out in a circle like somebody ate a stick of dynamite and we were bearing witness to the consequences. In the middle of it all, though, we found a real curious treat. Standing straight up, able to do so by some bizarre precision cut that didn't at all fit with the chaos surrounding it, was Charles Ram's stumpy arm. Something told us Charlie himself hadn't escalated his trademark from dollar store clown noses to his own appendages. Something told us the massive baby in the trucker hat wasn't responsible, either. Turns out we were right on both accounts. The blood tested positive as a match for Charles, and the party boy barely knew any more than we did. He had turned down the alley to take a leak in a drunken stupor on his way home when he heard footsteps behind him. Then a voice - Charlie's - saying something he didn't fully catch. Our boy turns his head, and - pop! - The Laughing Man is a stain on the asphalt. How macabre. How extraordinary. At least that's how he told it, but who's going to take the word of a 21-year-old w/ a blood alcohol content 82x (more or less) over the legal limit seriously? Not my chief. Not my partner. Not our Channel 6 news media or the crazies who blog about this shit. Just me then. All right. The crime scene gave us nothing. Goose egg. There wasn't enough of Charlie left to test, save for his special arm. Even studying that, though, was a bust. No fingerprints. No bruising. No grime or DNA under the fingernails to suggest a struggle and give us a lead. Just that deformed arm, perfectly sliced and ready to serve. Due to Charlie's track record, I'll admit we accepted defeat a little earlier than if it had been the mayor's daughter or even that good-hearted college kid displayed with the insides out. But honestly, there was nothing we could do - a dead end with no hint of a way forward. Still, mass murderer or not, I knew I never wanted to see anything like that again. Never in the field, never in a photo, never in my dreams, never. That hope lasted just over a week; we found another one eight days later. Same deal, minus the teary-eyed bro and his alley of piss. Not a murdered this time, but a woman-beater. A serial woman-beater, so just shades of gray between him and the last guy. Not sure how he avoided the slammer so long, to be frank. His $10.2 million net worth probably had something to do with it. He remained free - free enough for someone to liquefy most of what made this man human. We found this one in a parking lot with one intact finger as our souvenir this time. He wore a ring on that finger - some gaudy piece with a few diamonds to show he was rich and a skull to show he was a douche bag. Later I did some background and found that three of his ex-girlfriends had their faces examined due to bruisings with a shape that was eerily similar to this iconic bit of jewelry. Yet here he was for all the world to see. "Good riddance," if you would have asked me then. The Force tended to agree . Whole-heartedly. So did the city. Like Charlie, this stiff - can you call him a stiff if most of what remains of the guy could only be transported in buckets? Whatever, I'm calling him a stiff because that's our general term for "dead person" and I don't remember his name anyway. Might've been Frank. Might've been Bruce. Mr. Asshole, if you prefer. It was the type of name you'd expect from a guy who slams girls around. Really, I have no idea... Anyway, where was I? Right, Mr. Asshole and his similarities to Charlie. Like Charlie, nobody gave a shit about him. Or rather, we gave enough of a shit to smile and nod when the news blast that night told the world that another slick of scum had been scrubbed off this boat. Nobody shed a tear. Nobody came forward asking for justice to soothe their heart broken from the loss of his life. Nobody wanted this violent fucker out there and, considering his history, I don't blame them. ---- Thus ends the chunk (poor word choice? got guts on the mind, buddy?) of story I started while on vacation in the Dominican Republic last spring. One week of no responsibilities and the first season of True Detective on the mind gave me all the fire I needed to stoke something new. It changes from here, as the later bits were never as easy to write as this intro. Damon (as you'll learn his name) is narrating this story for someone to get the listener up to speed. But why? Just to share old horror stories and spook the locals? Of course not. We've got a mystery to solve, team, and not even I know whodunnit yet.

[waynengarth]

Finding time

It's tough.

[waynengarth]

Let me tell you about my Ghosts story...[Part 1]

Why do I insist on telling you about my stories instead of just, you know, telling you my stories? I could say it’s because I need to get reconnected with these stories first. I have not worked on most of them in a long while - over a year for some - and this exercise will give me time to reflect on what I’ve created and prepare to continue with the work.

I could tell you that, but it would be more-or-less a lie to make myself feel better. No, in reality, I’m telling you about my stories instead of telling you my stories because the former is easier than the latter, and it’s Saturday morning. You can’t expect me to do good, solid work on this, the most relaxing of days, can you?

Plus, my girlfriend is supremely hungover on the floor behind me right now. I wouldn’t expect my creative juices to flow too freely while tending to her from time to time. 

Onward, then. I have… four stories? Maybe five long-form narratives that I’ve worked on in the past couple years. Many are quite dusty. Allow me to start with a summary, bring us all up to speed on the content, then I’ll give a little background/critique of the thing. Perhaps then I’ll remember why I wanted to write what I wrote in the first place.

GHOSTS* *not an actual title. Just the subject matter so I can hashtag this post with something and easily search for all my writings on this story.

Summary: Jack and Nick are best friends. Best friends in middle school, the awkward time when all best friendships are forged. Social outcasts? Not exactly, not that extreme, but definitely not among the popular. Others in school might call them “weird,” but then again, everyone is weird in their own special way at that age. That’s why I love it, and that’s probably why I wrote about it.

Dammit, this isn’t the place for non-narrative commentary. Wait your turn!

Anyway, Jack and Nick. Nick and Jack. No, it should be Jack and Nick. He’d never say it, but Jack is, without a doubt, the leader of the duo. The extrovert to Nick’s introvert. The conversationalist to Nick’s mumbly, unsure self. The one who speaks his mind while Nick just wants everyone to stay happy. An unlikely pair, it might seem, but opposites do attract, or at least they did here. Oh, and Jack has this extreme obsession with ghosts. 

Er, make that finding ghosts. [side note: If you know how to edit text on the Tumblr app, lemme know, yo. I miss italics.] Jack’s lot in life, at least in the short-term, is to find evidence of a real ghost, a real haunting. A fanatic for late-night ghost hunting reality shows, but also a purist: He seeks out the paranormal with nothing more than a flashlight and a hopeful gleam of excitement in his eyes. Meanwhile, Nick would rather have nothing to do with hunting ghosts. But Jack is his good (and only good) friend, after all, so what else is he supposed to do? Nothing, which is why he always tags along.

Our story opens with Jack and Nick on another nightly trek through another local supposedly-haunted old building. An ancient warehouse or hospital of some kind; it isn’t explicitly stated and the detail doesn’t matter. What matters it the two are at it again, as always, and Nick is getting afraid and frustrated at every little noise, as always, until Jack says something with his snarky mouth that crosses the line and sends Nick heading home in a tizzy. As always. As Jack gives up with a sigh minutes after Nick has stormed off into the darkness, the noises in the distance happen again, and closer. They keep happening. And happening. A knock, a slam, always just outside the little cone of light produced by Jack’s flashlight, his one weapon against the terrors of the unknown. Suddenly, our terror springs, Jack lets out a girlish scream (that’s so unbecoming of the man he’s trying to be), and … he is subsequently laughed at by Christy, a girl from school. 

Christy is tough, hard-headed, outspoken against anything that doesn’t seem right, or fair, or just downright bothers her. Not exactly the best set of characteristics for fitting in with 14-year-old material girls, is it? A tomboy, you could say in reductive terms. Though not unpretty, she doesn’t wear the “right clothes” or do her hair in the “right way” to pretty herself up any more than she cares, which isn’t much at all. A natural-looking kid, with all the blemishes out in the open, and fewer friends than ever Jack or Nick. That is to say, nearly none at all. 

Well, except for Nick, but that’s an awkward thing (as expected). The pair will hang out from time to time. They used to more, when they were younger, but now they don’t know how best to handle themselves. Jack is very aware that Nick has a hard crush on Christy (to which he’ll never admit) and gives him a rubbing for it whenever he can. Christy, though, doesn’t really know how she feels. She doesn’t think about boys that way, not yet, and never Nick (not yet?). She just likes to be around him because he stops her from feeling lonely. Isn’t that what everybody wants at that age? At any age?

[This was originally saved a draft, but I can’t figure out how to access my drafts on the Tumblr app... That damned thing, always keep an aspiring writer down. Ah well, you get enjoy this Part 1 for now. Part 2 will get through what parts of the story I’ve written and feature my discussion of the idea, along with a little brainstorming as to where I might take it when I someday return. Until then...]

[waynengarth]

Sometimes, Briefly, Dinosaurs

I’m reading Michael Crichton’s The Lost World. The awkward sequel to Jurassic Park, it didn’t take me long to realize that this book isn’t going to wow me the same way the first did (or the same way the movie of the first did). Its story is less compelling, its characters are less interesting (even the same character coming back from the original novel!), and the whole package just comes across feeling half-hearted. Like Jurassic Park fan fiction written by someone who was really into dinosaurs.

That said, The Lost World also reminded me that I am really into dinosaurs. While probably not too typical for a man of my age, I go through dinosaur phases. I don’t consider them for roughly 99% of my life, but - oooo, boy - that one percent hits me like a raging fire.

And baby, right now I’m a-burnin’.

So, despite its shortcomings, I’m still really digging The Lost World, and solely because it has dinosaurs. Not talking dinosaurs or a baby pet dinosaur that doesn’t do anything, but fully-realized, fully-researched dinosaurs. Dinosaurs with diiiiino DNA.

My excitement for all of it brought forth a question: Why are dinosaurs so absent from popular entertainment media? Perhaps an odd question to ask when Jurassic World just landed its spot as the #3 highest grossing film of all time (I think that was the record)…but maybe not. Maybe that accomplishment only makes my question more meaningful. If a movie featuring great dinosaurs and just-okay everything else can crush at the box office, why not more?

Sure, Pixar is moving into dinosaur territory soon enough with The Good Dinosaur, and there are more Land Before Time sequels than cat hairs on this blanket I’m using to prop up my phone (okay, that’s like seventeen billion, so probably not actually) but think: Can you name another book or live-action movie or TV show featuring an honest representation (or close to honest; feathers be damned) of actual dinosaurs? There are probably a few B movies. A few more sci-fi novels. But nothing at the forefront.

The follow-up: Why? In Hollywood, the easy answer is that dinosaurs are expensive. They tend to be huge, so whether to CG or not to CG, you need to commit. Unlike other creatures or monsters, no guy in a cheap suit is going to pull off a convincing dinosaur.

I don’t think that’s it, though. Not really. Otherwise, novelists would sidestep this issue and write their hearts away. No, I think the absence of copycats comes from the story.

Michael Crichton claimed the scientific pseudo-cloning process to bring dinosaurs back to modern times with Jurassic Park. That’s his thing, and he put forth the only logical reason why anyone would ever do that (an amusement park - but of course!). Anyone attempting to do something similar, to cast scientists bringing back dinosaurs, would be slammed as a copycat. So what do you do? Well, either we go to them, or they come to us … across millions of years of time? So, time travel? That niche thing that even confuses people when it’s sorta scientifically accurate in Interstellar? Not the best, pal, especially if you’re trying to take anything backward, which real time travel (Einstein tells me) would never allow. And if you tried, any movie with a working time machine tends to lose me. Or at least, lose my expectation for the sort of dinosaur story I would want. Pulling a Terminator and actively choosing to not explain the time travel element at all Because Future is really the only direction anyone has left, and that adds a layer of silliness that leaves us with … Scientists stuck in the past with dinosaurs?

I’ve thought about it. Too simple, and not enough hope outside of fixing the time machine. To me, mechanical know-how is never a satisfying way to save the day.

Which brings us here, to now, to the point of this post, sixty seven paragraphs later. Remember what I’m working with here, a Professional Writing Blog. That said, and with a thought brought about by a quote I saw (again) the other day stating something like, “If you don’t like my stories, write your own,” I considered just that.

Unfortunately, I don’t have a master plan just yet to outline. I need to let this one slowly stir until it’s ready, until it hits me just right. Still, I wanted to get this thought down and out so I could officially ignore it and move on to other writings without being distracted, knowing that it lives forever recorded as a Tumble.

So how are we going to do this, boys and girls? What will my dinosaur story be about?

I have ideas.

At the core, essential to me at this moment, is a post-apocalypic-like scenario. Humans are wiped out, or at least there are very few remaining in an area that used to house millions. Also, there are dinosaurs (surprise!). And… that’s it. Think of a zombie story, yet without the zombies. Our main characters will travel through the ruins of humanity and society, with access to human-made tools and technologies that are no longer being produced as they scavenge for food. But instead of the walking dead hiding in the next unexplored building, there might be a dinosaur.

Pretty cool, eh? I think it’s cool, if only on my teenager side for now.

But for now, I’m stuck on the “how?” How did this scenario arise? How did the dinosaurs come back to time during or after human civilization? Where are all the humans? I don’t want dinosaurs to be the direct cause of the death of humans. That’s silly to me. They’re big, but also dumb. That’s not a battle we would lose. So… (Idea Farm Time)

-People do some trickery to bring back dinosaurs from the past, but a weird plague comes with them. Dinosaurs are brought back through… a weird wormhole thing into the past? Into another dimension? What were the scientists trying to do anyway? Does it need to be explained? Maybe not, but that crosses over with another (better) idea I have for another non-dinosaur story… -Maybe the human race didn’t die off, they just left a planet that was being invaded by dinosaurs? Again, dinosaurs are not our military equals, so I don’t see this as too promising. -Humans colonized another similar-to-Earth planet … which also had dinosaurs, and most of us abandoned ship when we couldn’t hack it, though a few got left behind? Ahhh, while easier, I don’t love it. I want to stay on Earth, to stay grounded. Pun probably intended. -Other brilliant idea I haven’t imagined yet that will make me the happiest boy.

But that’s for another day. First, I have other stories to work on that come to me more easily than this one, stories that already have a foundation living inside of my bedside notebooks.

Stick around and you’ll get a peek.

[waynengarth]

Professional Writing Blog 2: The Cliffhanger

Leave it to a girl with a degree in Storytelling to cause a cliffhanger at the end of my previous post, amiright?

I had no idea she was coming over, for the record. She caught me in classic Home Alone Man Mode. That is, messy hair, a pair of athletic shorts, and nothing else. Women, huh? Always trying to catch us topless. Hyuk-hyuk-hyuk...

Okay, back to formula.

I hate to break it to you edge-of-seaters, but the big reveal is nothing special. Really, I just bought a Bluetooth keyboard. Which may seem like no big deal, but for me it makes a major difference given the technological restraints outlined last time.I don’t want to be confined in a single space while I’m writing, so Bluetooth keyboard + smartphone seemed brilliant. I didn’t want to invest a huge chunk of change into a writing tool before I’ve even gotten started. With big money comes big responsibilities, and I don’t want to feel obligated to write because I spent beaucoup bucks on a laptop solely for that purpose.

But anyway.

A Bluetooth keyboard hooked up to a smartphone. Apparently that’s something people can do. Apparently that’s something people do do, according to the great minds on Yahoo Answers. Preliminary research in those sanctuaries told me that this setup is a common thing for screenwriters in Hollywood, tapping away in coffee shops without the need for heavy equipment. Or maybe it says more about the quality of these screenwriters if all they have is a $20 keyboard from Amazon as the best mechanism for recording their stories. But, considering I’m nothing more than Fledgling Writer Luke at this point, I’m in good company with Down-And-Out Screenwriters.

So I’m going to be writing. Remember the title: Professional. Writing. Blog. All three words play a core part in what I will be doing here. “Writing” is self-explanatory. “Professional” only means that this place is a creative outlet for story ideas, not to be interspersed with ramblings about video games or my inner being or what have you. And then there’s “Blog.” Blog. Because this is, by definition, a blog, and because I’m not going to be anal about spelling and grammar mistakes. I want this process to flow as best it can, and Googling correct who/whom usage on the regular will only slow me up.

Cool content you can look forward to!

Transcriptions of super-short horror stories I wrote every night for a spell a year or so ago. Maybe even a little critique at the end as I really don’t remember the details of these.

Transcriptions and continuations of any of the three main stories I have worked on in that same time frame.

General story ideas and outlines that come to mind, many originating from oddball dreams I have. For now, these live in a Google Doc, away from your hungry eyes. It’s a travesty.

Essentially, think of this place as my notebooks. Like a sketchbook for a writer. Most of it will be spur-of-the-moment thoughts or early ideas that don’t really connect with anything. Some of it may grow beyond that into the early workings of a story. One thing may emerge as more. Who knows; it’s a mystery. Sounds fun!

Really, making this public in a blog atmosphere gives me 1) a more casual environment to let ideas flow and 2) a feeling of responsibility for anyone (BRANDON) who is interested in reading what I post. Those two bonuses may just be the nudges I need to stay motivated this time. 

And so it was, and so it will be. After today, all posts will contain kernels of stories that come from my imagination (and with less delay between posts than you’ve experienced so far). Not my thoughts on writing. Not an explanation of what I’m doing that is really only for me to organize my intentions on the matter. Just stories, or bits of stories, more like. Hopefully I’ll catch your curiosity at some point, ensnare you with a feeling of wanting to know more.

That’s all I’ve ever wanted. 

[waynengarth]

Professional Writing Blog

Only two forms of Luke have ever maintained a blog for more than an entry or two:

1) Teenager Luke, fueled by hormones that generated angst, whining, excitement over the silly, and an obsession for things to always stay the same.

AND

2) Unemployed Luke, complete with lingering depression that college graduation and the subsequent summer failed to shake away. He was a little confused and very uncertain. You can read about him in every entry prior to this one.

And now I’m giving birth to a new blog. Well, technically a continuation of the second blog because I can’t care enough to develop a new one and create another damn account with another damn password I need to keep in order. So you get me, here, with all the baggage. Which, I guess, aligns with my philosophy that my past is my past, y’all, and you are fully entitled to learn about it if you so desire. Hiding all of my ancient uglies only makes them scary. Like what I thought was the theme of The Babadook until the ending didn’t make any sense, though I still enjoyed it something fierce.

Hey, topic! Get back here!

Okay, right. Or should I say, write! That’s what I’m here for, fellas. I’d make that gender-neutral, but let’s face it: Only Brandon reads other people’s Tumblrs. 

I don’t want to start another get-my-shit-out emotional management blog. Honestly, I don’t need one. As my About Text text to the side reveals, I’m happy now. Actually happy, for an extended duration. It’s magic. So, now that there is room inside this boy to build something other than shadows and sadness, let’s make it something productive.

I tried to write before. Have written, really, in notebooks, which is the medium that tends to pull my creative energies to their highest heights. Unfortunately, writing is a slow, deliberate process. And i distract easily. Sometimes I have three or more unfinished emails open at work because something new comes up before I manage to finish whichever one I’m working on. Can you expect a guy like that to write longhand for the extended period of time necessary to write professionally?

I did, actually. Last month. I gave myself all of June to write 50 pages of the latest story I’ve been imagining. Fewer than two pages per night, on average. For someone that doesn’t have a long-standing habit to procrastinate.

I wrote six pages in the first week and never went back.

So that’s why I need you, Professional Writing Blog, for my professional writing. It’s difficult, though, because I don’t exactly have a convenient way to write blog posts. Sure, I could pop on my PC like I’m doing now to update the WayneNGarth wall, but this sucker’s a tank, baby. She deserves to do something more impressive than access Tumblr. And so she shall.

Anyway, I don’t have a laptop that functions well as a laptop (anymore). I don’t have a tablet at all (anymore). Typing on my phone screen, despite its size, is still a nightmare for anything beyond a few sentences. Unless...

Which brings us to my solution:

Oh shit, Rachel’s here. Timeout for now. 

[waynengarth]

brb.

Just kidding, finding a more fulfilling hobby. 

[waynengarth]

Toaster Logic.

Making up for my absent Friday, yet with something that is decidedly not video game related.

Yet potentially nerdier.

...

It's no secret that I dig digging into fictional universes for unspecified yet understood constants. Laws that don't apply to our real world but structure the happenings in the one created through storytelling. I spent much of Unemployed January, for instance, re-reading the entire Harry Potter series and analyzing every character action in relation to the world JK established for us. "Why doesn't anybody other than Harry hear the basilisk's hissing in Chamber of Secrets, even if they can't understand it?" = The type of thing I'm talking about.

Now, let's look at The Brave Little Toaster.

...

I didn't realize it when I was younger, but the appliances in The Brave Little Toaster are oddly dependent on an energy source. Not just around people to confirm their laws of physics, either. Until last night, my understanding of this Toaster Logic was intricate but simple: The appliances need power to operate with their intended human-serving purposes, though not for anything else. Toaster, then, cannot make toaster without being plugged into a wall, yet is fully capable of walking around. Ditto for everyone(-thing?) else. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy. 

Fortunately, an outdoor adventure to find The Master isn't highly dependent on making toast. Nor are the appliances often in need of a heating blanket, so Blankie's fine on his own as well. At one point, Radio utters a surprise that his "back-up batteries" are still functioning, so we can assume that he is able to produce broadcasts at any time due to an internal power source. No issues there. Bingo bango.

Both Lampy and Kirby, though, offer up much more useful skills for the crew along the way. Kirby, being the largest and most powerful of the bunch - him being a vacuum -  is dictated the responsibility of powering their transportation method. As is shown early on in the film when the appliances first try leaving the cottage, Kirby is unable to even roll without being plugged in, shutting down the instant his cord leaves the wall. To overcome this issue, Toaster rigs up a car battery to their office chair. When it runs dry and traps our heroes in the dark forest, Lampy is similarly unable to shine light above in search for the lost Blankie. That is, he is unable to perform his human-serving duty without a power source. Right in line with the logic.

But wait a minute.

Simply put, Kirby becomes a problem. His wheels, I imagine, must be powered themselves. Certainly, after rescuing everybody from the raging river and returning them to (relatively) dry land, the crew is briefly seen dragging Kirby along using their power cords. 

However.

Just minutes before, after their chair, battery, and every appliance sans Kirby tumble off the cliffside into the waterfall below, Kirby does something curious. Making a bold decision, he slowly rolls back offscreen before speeding off the edge after his fallen comrades. Rolling. Speeding. With his wheels.

Kirby broke the rules.

And that isn't the only time. After escaping from the horror show that is the appliance dealer's office, the team is seen careening across the countryside in a carriage ... Powered by none other than Kirby. He even ushers them around the City of Lights right to The Master's front door.

Without a battery. Without a power source.

How is he doing this?

I mentioned Lampy before. He, too, likes breaking the rules, although for some reason his violations were less apparent to me until I started seriously considering a decades-old children's cartoon as a 23-year-old college graduate. One specific instance that comes to mind happens in that forest again. Lampy, believing he's found a nice shelter for the crew, lights up the area to reveal he is inside a hollowed-out tree resembling a monster.

Lampy lights up the area, yet is not plugged in when doing so.

With this realization, my entire ideological knowledge base of The Brave Litter Toaster lore was shattered. Why can Kirby occasionally roll without power? How can Lampy switch on his light bulb while disconnected from an energy source when he is fails to do so other times? Interviews with the film's creators show that Toaster was the definition of a passion project. That said, I find it difficult to believe that these committed folk would overlook such obscene offenses to their own logic. There must be something I'm missing, some reason why these rules only apply when they matter most.

...

Or maybe it's just an excellent-but-silly kids' movie and I have a weird way of getting my kicks.

[waynengarth]

Nuff Said.

Screen Gems Takes On Sony PlayStation Vidgame Adaptation ‘The Last Of Us’

*mic drop*

[waynengarth]

The Last of Us. The Best Game I Don't Care To Play.

Seriously, guys, this nightly "remember when you were depressed?" prompt to my daily writing is so against how I've been feeling lately. Even after only two days, I need a break. You'll get more tomorrow. By "you" I mean "Luke" because if I wasn't me, I wouldn't be reading this Tumblr, either.

So, let's pretend I still managed and wrote for a games press site. This is what I would be saying this week.

...Or probably last week, when the Left Behind bonus chapter released. Gotta be timely to top N4G, ladies and gents! Marketing. 

---

The Last of Us. Recipient of enough Game of the Year nods for a rerelease to outdo even Arkham City's absurd box art. Unchallenged champ of this year's DICE Awards. A beacon of hope that risk-taking and creativity can still occur in the triple-A space. Created by a talented team with a proven ability to tickle my heart, this title, perhaps more than any other from 2013, demands and deserves my immediate attention. In fact, I have likely completed more Naughty Dog productions than games released by any other single studio.

And yet, against all logic established by the previous paragraph, I don't care to play The Last of Us. Now, that's not to say I don't care about The Last of Us. It's just the playing bit that eludes my interest. Notice that subtle difference. Damn shame, really, as is obvious due to my gaming history and the game's critical reception. I would love to join Joel and Ellie in their post-apocalyptic adventure for survival; would truly love to.

But then I'd have to play it. 

If anyone fires a complaint at The Last of Us, it is always directed at the gameplay. Unlike Nathan Drake's limitless lust for gunfire, Joel is forced to operate with a mixture of stealth and tactical action mechanics. Every move must be calculated, every attack tagging along a definite chance of catastrophic failure. And failure will happen, various secondhand sources confirm. Often. Again and again, until the player memorizes enemy patterns and anticipates all potential permutations of the combat scenario. 

I don't want to be that player. 

Similar sentiments toward the Metal Gear Solid series inspired an old Gamers Association article I entitled "An Argument for Easy." In it, I describe my reasoning for choosing the lowest difficult in circumstances when I wish to experience a story without being interrupted by the road-blocking interactions standing in my way of it. I am not good at stealth gameplay; don't have the patience for it, so I opt for Easy.

Except in The Last of Us, Easy doesn't cut it.

I have heard multiple accounts of people who share my issue, people who admit to not being skilled at playing The Last of Us. Even on Easy, they say, the game still finds myriad ways to bring about its Game Over screen. How frustrating! How infuriating! How ridiculous it is to desire absorbing an entire story while being told "No!" from the narrative-containing vessel itself! No other entertainment medium operates this way. Movie theaters do not enter intermission after an hour and require a passing quiz grade on the film so far to earn its ending. The back end of a book doesn't feature blank pages until the reader succeeds at a dexterity test. Yet video games do, and especially video games like The Last of Us. Overly-challenging ones with trial-and-error action sequences that punish imperfection with instantaneous deaths. Sounds stressful, and not at all fun for me.

I want to know what happens to Joel. To Ellie. To everyone Naughty Dog created to build that world and make it real. I want to ride that team's latest emotional roller coaster. But I won't, because no matter how brilliant the overall design, I know my seat will be uncomfortable. A lap bar that locks too tight. A bumpy cart that generates a headache. A rowdy child directly behind who can't help but yank my hair. Whatever the metaphor, that little detail is enough to ruin the ride. As such, I don't care to play The Last of Us. 

Even when everybody tells me I should.

[waynengarth]

Here We Go Again. Part 2.

I'm not really in the mood to revisit this again at the moment. It brings back at the negativity and worthlessness that wasn't just a happenstance, but a constant part of my college life. Now, with a loving kitten that is currently reaching out with an urge to kiss my face and nothing to complain about beyond not yet achieving my dream job, I have no desire to recall what the world used to feel like. 

*presses play on the Journey soundtrack*

But the show must go on.

...

"Here we goes again" appears in its text box, just like last time.

Luke awaken in his closet bedroom, just like last time.

It's 6:47 and the alarm clock is going haywire, just like last time.

But now you choose to act, to Press Any Key To Continue like you've been trained to do.

Unlike last time, your character moves. Alarm off, he glances at the screen with heavily-bagged, half-lidded eyes, that same text box appears in the corner.

"Here we go again."

Rocking the arrow keys back and forth - a tired, mundane input method that nobody enjoys - your character shuffles out of the sheets, rises, stretches, and exits the makeshift sleeping space.

Kitchen.

Too early for the sun to greet us in a Midwest winter, the scene is bathed in harsh artificial light. Your character enters, now wearing sweat pants and with comically large headphones encasing his ears. You hear a very, very distant sound, like a radio perched in an open garage far down the street on a summer night, but you can't make out more than a nondescript buzz. 

Time for breakfast. 

The fridge, cupboard, drawer, and coffee machine glimmer just enough to trigger that subtle understanding that these areas are interactive. Clicking on each reveals a minor activity that dictates the tiniest bit of your character's life today. Milk or orange juice? Cereal or toast? How much coffee? Your choice. It doesn't really matter anyway. There are even basic dexterity mini-games for adding water to the coffee machine at an ideal level or pouring enough milk into the cereal bowl without needing to follow up with a paper towel across the counter. They aren't fun; tedious, actually. As he sits to eat, a single left click causes your character to take another bite. With the right, he drinks. Do this, in near-silence, until everything is gone. Very straightforward. Very boring.

*BZZT*

Phone again. 

"Why do you even bother?"

...

Your character walks away, dropping his dishes in the sink as he passes. 

Fade to black. 

...

How about a scene a day, then?

[waynengarth]

Here We Go Again. Part 1.

As everybody who will ever read this kinda-hidden Tumblr already knows, depression did a number on me all throughout college, and then some. Lying in bed - which happened to be my futon mattress from high school thrown onto the hall closet floor - and trying to find a loophole in suicide where it wouldn't be so bad for this immortal soul and all you lovely people occurred enough to be considered a favorite pastime. It was during one of these bouts of hopelessness that I thought up a personal narrative, something I dubbed Here We Go Again. I originally imagined it as an independent short film. However, the unreasonably optimistic part of my mind eventually decided that this tale stood a chance of being told via a video game (that, assumably, I would learn how to create). In retrospect, it could be anything. A cartoon. A comic. The medium doesn't matter, as long as it's visual. 

Naturally, I will tell you about it now using only text. How fitting.

Here We Go Again.

The Video Game.

Imagine To The Moon-style visual design, would you? If you haven't played it, I'll wait. Then wait again for the tears to subside. Or maybe you don't have that kind of time, daddy-o, so I'll settle for a screenshot to set the scene. Here's one now: 

http://freebirdgames.com/system/wp-content/uploads/TTM-Ss3.jpg

Dark tones and detailed sprites. Simple yet beautiful. You got it, dude. 

Okay then.

Black screen. And then, a white text box appears with black text at that familiar buzz of a vibrating cell phone. It reads, "Here we go again."

Scene opens. There's me, lying in my closet, recently awoken by the alarm clock that sits on the shelf. 

6:47. The beeping continues. And it will continue forever, on and on until You, The Player, press any key. If you choose, Sprite Luke will lie in bed with his eyes open all day as the clock ticks in real time. The beeping never ceases. At around 10:30 PM he'll automatically look over, release a sigh, flip the alarm off then on again, and fall asleep. The screen darkens, and the game repeats. 

That is one way to play.

...

Tangent: Having never evolved this story idea beyond classroom daydreaming and conversations with myself in the shower, I didn't realize how extensive it could be. We don't have visuals, as you'll recall, so I'm forced to paint with words. Perhaps "sketch with words" is the superior phrase. Regardless, there's too much here for one GJotD post (Jihad, kids. Say it like Jihad!). Now you know what you're getting into. Now you know one way to get through a day.

Tomorrow, I'll show you another.

[waynengarth]

New Life; Game Junk of the Day.

So I have a job now.

Huh.

And that was supposed to solve all of my anxieties and insecurities.

But instead I feel regretful for giving up on my life dreams and settling in a career path I never wanted.

...

Huh.

But it's only been four weeks. Maybe too early to tell. Maybe being caught up with all the background information yet fully incapable of contributing anything meaningful because of my lack of experience is how I'm supposed to feel for a bit. Maybe time will make it better.

Maybe.

But I doubt it, because four weeks is long enough to observe what my close colleagues are up to. To that, I say,

"I have foreseen the Daily Grind, and it is Boring As Shit."

...

At least I have the best cat. Yet even she isn't enough.

So, Game Junk of the Day.

I need a hobby, a passion to come home to beyond sleep and kitten cuddles, and writing about video games is honestly what gets me going. Revs my engine, tickles my fancy, and drops me from very high heights only to catch me at the last moment, knowing I love that sensation. Reading books, binging on TV series, and actually gaming are all my favorite forms for personal entertainment, yet none provide that extra special jolt of fulfillment that comes from creating something of my own. Even if that something is nothing more than a dumb article that nobody reads. Some people perfect beautiful acoustic masterpieces with guitars in their bedrooms, never having a need to perform for anyone Same deal for me and writing about video games.

Albeit far less sexy.

So every day - whether every week day or business day, I can't be sure - I will producing game junk. Could be a video. Could be a podcast. Could be a review. However, you are probably going to get my reaction to or perceived understanding of the meaning behind some piece of video game news. You won't care. I don't care. This is for Papa, sugar. Take it for what this is or get your kicks elsewhere.

That dumb name will probably change, because that's the beauty of no longer running a proper video game website. I don't have expectations to live up to. No back-end promotions to make or comments to worry about. Length is no issue, as I imagine these will fluctuate from single sentences of shock to multi-paragraph rants over minutiae. Freedom, man. Freedom to make game junk.

And it really is junk. You know how many kids freely distribute personal editorials about video games across the web under the moniker of CoolGameGuys dot Biz or some other ridiculous domain that they're hoping to someday see printed on an E3 badge? More kids than we know. The Internet is well stocked with this content. It doesn't need more from me, but damn do I need to start giving again.

So yeah. Game Junk of the Day. For now. Starting tomorrow. Or Monday. Whatever.

...

Also I like the idea of referring to it in my head as GJotD and pronouncing it like Jihad because hilarious.

[waynengarth]

Positivity.

New job = No longer a buzzkill fun-sucker cheapskate

Living alone = Nightly cat cuddles

St. Paul = Taking a girl home doesn't mean meeting my parents

--

Party in the 2014.

[waynengarth]

Resolutions.

#TheObviousWorkInProgress: Reach and maintain a healthy weight of at least 140 lbs.

#TheImmeasurableAttemptAtUppingMySocialLife: Keep myself open for unplanned outings and experiences that break me out of my self-defeating comfort zone.

#ThisWouldBeNice: Get a New Year's kiss to end 2014.

[waynengarth]

Depression Quest.

http://www.depressionquest.com/

I have never experience a more accurate depiction of how I felt for the past four years, right up until quite recently. 

...

Holy shit.

If you have 15 minutes...

...

Holy shit.

[waynengarth]

Mad Decent Monster Mix.

Merry Christmas.