Sore Thumb Soliloquy

I know, with ninety-nine percent certainty, that I will never again buy another comic book. Much like as an elementary school student I believed I would play with action figures my whole life, my adolescent self would have scoffed at that proclamation; but during my teens my once veracious love of funny books waxed and waned, then waned some more, until I finally, in my early twenties, stopped dropping by my local comics store every week. Now all I have are fond memories of the fantastic adventures of men and women with secret identities. And to be perfectly honest, dammit, I even have a soft spot in my heart for poly-bagged, silver-embossed, glow-in-the dark (etc.) gimmicks. And to be perfectly, perfectly honest, I even miss the constipated visages of Rob Liefeld's tooth pick-legged monstrosities.

But there comes a point in a man's life when he must put behind him the fancies of his youth, move on to bigger and more important interests. Like religiously watching VH1 countdown shows and pretending to be a relevant writer on a blog nobody reads.

Similarly, these days I find myself on the precipice of another bold step towards abandonning something which has provided me with endless hours of enjoyment and asked so little in return*: video games. Jesus, impotence can't be too far ahead, can it?

Let's get one thing straight: this is by no means insinuating that game playing in one's adulthood belies a lack of ambition or maturity. Unless you're past your twenties and still trying to defeat the Macho Man in Punch Out!, I mean. In that case, you should have done the world a favor and become a human test subject for drug companies a long time ago.

I actually admire hardcore gamers. They seem to be having so much fun. Not to say that I don't still experience an occasional sense of euphoria, but receiving a 15% off cupon for women's leggings at E-Mart is markedly unexciting compared to finishing Shinobi on a single life.

Many moons ago -- or so it seems -- a wise man gave me Marvel Ultimate Alliance for the PS2. Comic book characters and gaming, dig it! What's not to like, right? Shit sounded better than peanut butter and chocolate, tuna and mayo; but when I sat down to experience what I believed would be an orgasm of fanboy Fantasia, a weird thing happened. I felt as though I were stepping foot in a foreign land, my fingers betraying me like Judas, my geek libido making an about face.

Like Dirk Diggler coked up and masturbating furiously in Boogie Nights, I desperately tried to make it work -- but I soon realized that my enthusiasm for gameplay was NEVER GOING TO COME. Back.

Two weeks ago, a colleague passed on to me a copy of Metal Gear Solid 3, a game which I've anticipated playing for, I guess, 4 years. And as much as I want to feel that fire again, the very thought of immersing myself once more into a relationship...sorry, 3-dimensional virtual escapism...scares the hell out of me. I never half step, because I'm not a half stepper. Do it or screw it.

As is my nature, I'll give it a shot. Maybe I'll rekindle the flames of a misspent, Sega Genesis-fueled, youth. Maybe I'll go someplace where you can never find me.

Maybe I'll finish it in 3 hours and spend the rest of the day completing a short story about a bicycle-eating dead girl.

Or, just maybe, I'll walk away with my fond memories intact, no regrets.

Because when I was in third grade I beat Mike Tyson. And everything which came afterwards was meaningless in comparison.

Game. Over.



* No, not porn. At least not yet.