My soul is water. A silver fluid which fills spaces. Encapsulating and cradling the water is a porcelain bowl, which is the part I think of as "me." It's made out of meat and bone and white melamine desks and concrete floors and Ikea clip-lights.
I've built the bowl carefully these last 40-odd years, reinforcing the weak spots, crazy-gluing up the cracks.
"Golf is so popular simply because it is the best game in the world at which to be bad."
-- A. A. Milne
It's raining. I'm standing in in knee-high weeds. I set my bag down in a puddle and extract a muddy 9-iron. I wipe the grip as best I can on the front of my faded "Tears for Fears" T-Shirt. With little joy, I hack at the orange ball embedded in the mud.
Frankly, the last thing I expected to be thinking about this morning was my Sim and her gross approximation of a life, but despite my crunchy and delicious outer shell of Cajun blackened cynicism that strange talking avatar and her adorable pucker of a smile have made an impression.
My 11th grade English teacher once told me that the best an artist could hope for, in any medium, is to get a physical reaction out of their audience. I was never comfortable with that assertion. If that was all, couldn’t most pornography stand as the greatest artistic achievement of all time?
Plants vs. Zombies, the latest crack-infused Oreo cookie from Popcap Games, is an excellent strategy game. It succeeds in essentially everything it sets out to do: It's approachable, it is indeed strategic, it's replayable and it's funny.
"What's that daddy?"
It's my son, Peter.
"Shhhhh...." I chastise him. Without a beat, he shifts to a whisper. "What's that daddy?"
"It's an elk," I whisper.
He hops onto my lap, and for the next 20 minutes we work our way closer.
I am dressed in a one piece bikini, wearing a gladiator helmet, carrying a rocket launcher and blowing an illicit casino in the basement of a community center into tiny explosive bits. I am insanity with ordinance. I am death in a funny Halloween costume. I am a Saint.