Archive for the ‘Playing’ Category

Serenity! In plastic form!

Sadly, none of the ladies of Serenity have been figured, but here’s what’s available so far, with comments. WARNING: the more spoiler-centric of you might wish to avoid reading, just in case. Just look at the pictures.

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Go traveling in the 'verse your ownself, and see what it's like.

Roll up your own characters and crew and see if you can make your way in the Firefly/Serenity universe. Crammed full of information about the people, ships, weapons, technology, and history of Joss Whedon's brilliant series, plus gorgeous artwork by 11th Hour, the Serenity RPG is just what you need to get your Firefly fix. There are also limited editions available, signed by author Jamie Chambers and publisher/author Margaret Weis at http://www.serenityrpg.com/

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This weekend my 13-year-old son took an important step in his development, a milestone that makes startling new hair eruptions and a drivers license pale in comparison: he bought his first set of role-playing game dice.

For the non-geek among you, gaming dice have anywhere from four to 20 sides, will direct every decision James makes for the next six years, and will quickly become more important to him than any three relatives. Their constant clatter will bring back fond memories even as I yell at him to keep it down.

For over 30 years now "Dungeons and Dragons," the game he is starting to dabble in, has provided a rich haven for kids who enjoy the wonders of a dangerously overactive imagination combined with the never-ending delight of arguments about weapons encumbrance.

Players become knights, elves, dwarves, clerics, and other fantasy figures while the kid who controls the game (the Dungeon Master, or DM) tells them exactly what's about to kill them all. Then they describe their reactions and, based on their individual abilities, character classes, moral alignments, birthmark configuration, and the roll of the dice, events transpire.

DM: "The orc swings a massive club at you, with 2d8+7 damage. The princess you've been sent to rescue is screaming and helpless."

James: "I throw the princess at the orc and dive for the gold. Do I get to it before she splatters?"

DM: (dice clatter) "No, she was so mad she grabbed the club away from the hulking man-beast and now she's beating you in the spine with it while he watches and offers pointers."

James: "Can I still reach the gold?"

Rather than staying pent up in their fetid bedrooms playing video games all day and night, kids stay pent up in their fetid bedrooms becoming someone better than themselves, or at least someone easier to draw. Dragons are fought, wars waged, the helpless saved, and treasure earned, all without risk beyond eyestrain and self-inflicted malnutrition. And, since kids from the last three decades are still playing it — you're never too old, no matter what my wife says — D&D is more popular than ever. This is because D&D teaches valuable life lessons, lessons that will serve you well for the rest of your life.

You learn how to recognize honor, nobility, and self-sacrifice in others, and how to capitalize on it.

You learn how easily the arbitrary whim of one person can drastically change your entire financial situation.

You learn how to placate and bribe that person to improve your prospects. Whether it's with a well-timed handful of Cheetos before a devastating battle or a well-timed kick into the rough so your boss can win the golf game, it's important to know how to handle yourself in a greed-based economy.

You learn to never invoke anything bigger than your head.

You learn the all-important phrase, "And in this one D&D game I was in," a phrase guaranteed to quickly end all of your many, many first dates.

You learn the insightful, transcendent state achieved by living on caffeine and sugar for six days without sleeping, a valuable thing to know come the end of the fiscal year.

You learn to turn your imaginary friends into valuable allies.

You learn that when a religious artifact begins emitting light, you should close your eyes. Thousands of people could be saved every year with this simple safety tip.

You form lasting bonds with friends that will last forever, although this can backfire in the middle of a tricky business merger when the opposing representative turns out to be the guy you shoved into a goblin cave back in '84.

You learn the importance of selecting ceremonial robes that are easy to run in while still affording ample concealment.

You learn that, for some people, rules are all that matter. And you learn how to confound those people.

And now my son will learn these vital lessons the same way I did: at 3 in the morning, surrounded by his weight in empty Doritos bags. Now he will rummage through my old, musty, gaming books, hunting for decades-old tips and storylines he can surprise his friends with. Now his dice bag contains some of my dice, as a way of passing the torch down through the generations.

Not my good dice, of course. I need those. There was this one time, in this game I was in…

Just got home to find a box waiting, and it was full of Serenity! In plastic form!

Sadly, none of the ladies of Serenity have been figured, but here's what's available so far, with comments. WARNING: the more spoiler-centric of you might wish to avoid reading, just in case. Just look at the pictures.

Read the rest of this entry »

Row upon row of dark figures loomed over me. Nervous, hesitant, afraid if what I might find, I pushed past them, hoping against hope that I'd find her safe and sound, but it was no use. Bruce Wayne's ex-girlfriend, Rachel Dawes, was nowhere to be found.

Looking down the "Batman Begins" toy display I could easily spot Attack Net Batman, Battle Cape Batman (deluxe), Battle Gear Batman, Bomb Blast Batman, Dual Blade Bruce to Batman, and (I'm not kidding) nine more different Batman figures. There were even a few bad guy figures for the hordes of batmen to go beat up. But no Rachel.

Katie Holmes shouldn't take it hard, though. Love interests rarely get their own action figures.

Years ago this wouldn't have been the least bit surprising. G.I. Joe didn't have any women under his command, unless it was strictly "don't ask, don't tell." I think there were Wonder Woman and Invisible Girl dolls when I was young but they were only spoken of in hushed tones.

And this bugged me as a kid. I wanted the full cast. Despite my inborn "fight scene" DNA I wanted to be able to play more rounded games, with intricate plotlines and tense, emotional moments. Besides, exciting last-minute rescues are even more dramatic when there's someone to, you know, rescue (although in my games it was a toss-up as to who would be rescuing whom from the Halifax River of Death).

In the last twenty years women have made great advances towards breaking through the plastic ceiling, following the inspiring lead of plastic feminists like Princess Leia, April O'Neil, Catwoman, and the casts of "Buffy" and "Xena." Now female action figures are available, as long as you're willing to go to specialty stores to find them.

The problem was that throughout the history of toys one rule was handed down from on high: Boys Don't Play With Girl Dolls.

Then a little indie movie called "Star Wars" came out, and merchandising was invented. Suddenly the notion of buying toys to complete a set encouraged the Lucas Empire – and, playing catch up, the Star Trek people and DC Comics and Marvel Comics — to make figures of every single entity they could think of or make up, male or female. Collectors ruled the market, and everyone was fair game for more revenue.

So why didn't the Batman people drop one of the Implausible Attack Batman figures and stick in another important cast member? She could even have been a rare "chase" figure to improve her retail desirability. It worked for Mary Jane from the first Spider-Man movie.

Chase figures bring their own problems, of course. If you're a parent who had kids in the late 80's, you know, and hate, April O'Neil, reporter and friend of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. You may even still have gouge marks in the shape of my fingers if you got in my way around Christmas time.

"Chase," of course, refers to the way that collectors chased down truck drivers behind Toys-R-Us to pull boxes from the drivers' unconscious hands because there was only one April per case and their kids had to have one. April O'Neil was the crack of action figures. Why not continue that tradition?

And there are quite a few toy companies producing beautiful and cool female figures. Death, Kabuki, and Cry for Dawn are looking at me now from my shelf, joined by the dancing girl from the Simpsons.

And it could be argued that Rachel isn't that essential to the Batman movie. To be fair, there's no Alfred toy either, although I'd buy one. ("With new drink-serving action!") But search the racks for new Fantastic Four toys and you'll see that three of them seem to heavily outnumber the fourth, who is presumably not quite as fantastic. For the upcoming "Serenity" movie, which features nine main characters, four of them women, there are only three being released: two men and one bad guy. The belated "Pirates of the Caribbean" action figure series has Captain Jack, Captain Barbossa, Will, a pirate, and a complete absence of Elizabeth, whom I seem to recall was in a scene or two.

The Plastic Equal Rights Movement has a long way to go.

You put in a quarter. You hear this cheesy song. And suddenly you're a starving yellow creature, caught in a mad dash to devour all the little white dots you can catch before the hordes of floating undead bring you down. And it's not an M. Night Shyamalan movie. Well, not yet, anyway.

The classic video game Pac-Man turns 25 this month, which, in video game time, makes him about 6,000 years old. He was a simple man, from a simpler era. He didn't shoot anybody, jack any cars or beat his opponents senseless. Pac-Man even married, had a kid, and became a superhero, which is more than the Doom guy ever did.

It's hard to understand the addictive properties of Pac-Man if you've never tried it, assuming that's possible. To the casual observer it looks like a childishly simple game where you beat a maze while avoiding, for some reason, ghosts. Then before you know it eight months have passed and you're desperately fighting to get to the next level before you pass out from all the plasma you've been selling for quarters.

Also this month, Pac-Man entered the Guinness Book of World Records as the "most successful coin operated game" in history. It sold 293,822 units when it was being manufactured and has made over $100 million since its creation, of which I personally accounted for about half.

It wasn't just a game, not to me and not to the other kids crowded around the tabletop version at Pizza Hut who memorized hundreds of levels of twists and turns. Even then I knew that Pac-Man tapped into a cultural gestalt and in so doing, changed the face of gaming forever. Also, I was killer good at it.

Pac-Man was more personal than the other games. For once you were playing a real character — albeit a round yellow one that appeared to be mostly jaw – instead of a space ship or a green wire-frame tank. It was just you against your foes, pac-mano a mano. Unlike some games' wimpy button maneuvering, the physical effort of throwing your body back and forth against the machine while executing a lightning fast feint and reversal gave you the heady feel of a fighter pilot escaping enemy fire. And when you gobbled a Power Pill and turned on your suddenly cowardly opponents, you truly knew what it was like to be invincible, or on steroids.

There was also the mysterious element of the supernatural. It was never mentioned how screen specters Inky, Pinky, Blinky, and Clyde perished or why they endlessly tormented Pac-Man, although personally I suspected they were themselves ancestral Pac-Men, condemned through eternity to protect the very dots that they died trying to acquire.

It encouraged healthy diets. How many video games reward you for eating fruit?

Not only did his wife become a feminist icon by scandalously avoiding the patriarchal term "Mrs.," Ms. Pac-Man was more challenging, more fun, and sexier than her husband (she had a beauty mark, that mesmerizing wanton).

Pac-Man didn't just sit on his dots, though. He had his own cartoon and cereal and clothing line and even became a recording artist. "Pac-Man Fever" is still available on CD from www.bucknergarcia.com and includes such breakaway pop hits as "Froggy's Lament" and "Do the Donkey Kong" along with a new "Unplugged" version of the title song, which seems kind of pointless for a video game but there you go.

And he's a restaurant mogul. Head to XS Orlando on International Drive and you'll find the Pac-Man Cafe, 40,000 square feet and three floors of dining and games and even a Pac-Man Museum. Does Mario or the guy from Halo have one of those? I don't think so.

There are live-action Pac-Man games involving running people in ghost costumes using cell-phones and city street grids. There are knock-off versions made for PDAs. Soon we'll see new Pac-Man games, in 3D and anniversary editions. I'm expecting a Broadway version any day now.

His legend lives on. Let the lesser games fire their own weight in ammo, Pac-Man is a game of skill and cool-headedness that has yet to be matched.

Wak on, my friend. Wak on.

Parents look forward to the wonderful, magical day when their child chooses a career. Endless opportunities are narrowed down to one lifelong field, where their child can go out and make his or her mark. Mine has decided to become a megalomaniac.

While my 12-year-old son James has always had leanings in that direction, the concept of supervillainy as a potential vocation didn't arise until he started playing "Evil Genius," the game where players strive to construct the perfect island lair, defeat pesky secret agents, and take over the world.

"Dad! I just stole the Eiffel Tower!" he said last weekend while I was faithfully performing my traditional fatherly duty of not doing a large chore. In this case, it was moving a bookshelf in his room so we could paint behind it, a task that would require the stacking of books, the cleaning of shelves, and the actual physical sweaty moving part. When he spoke up I was sitting on his bed, drinking my Coke and attempting to move the bookshelf with my mind.

When I expressed disbelief — the Eiffel Tower is, by all reports, even tougher to move than a bookshelf — he cackled and showed me his monument-shrinking ray gun. He then spent some time showing me around his evil headquarters. There were death traps, an army of minions, more bite-size national monuments, lots of bubbling chemicals, and stacks of Weapons of Seriously Mass Destruction.

James really did have a flair for this. And I realized that encouragement of a child's natural aptitudes is important, even if they do tend towards death rays.

After all, he'd need to apply himself more in school if he didn't want to end up as an evil fry cook. He almost balked at that, but visions of staggering wealth and power helped keep him motivated.

"Will I still need math? Can't I torture someone to do it for me, or build an 80-foot killer robot with a calculator in it? That shoots plasma beams?"

"Oh, no, you have to have a good grounding in math to calculate trajectories and to make sure your countdown timer is going the right way. Mad scientists need math, son. It's what separates them from mad sociologists."

Politics. Chemistry. Nuclear physics. Care and feeding of henchmen. Advanced electronics. How to exchange your enemy's brain with that of a gorilla. Mad scientists have to be versed in all these fields of expertise, although I admitted I wasn't sure which colleges offered the best evil genius curriculum. Are mad doctors with community college degrees looked down upon? Is that why they keep trying to blow up continents?

Fortunately I'm not worried about any actual world domineering occurring because he'd never create his own doomsday weapon if he thought he could get his mother to do it for him the night before his worldwide ultimatum was due. "Mom," he'll say. "Since you're up, could you take over the world for me? You're closer." Besides, judging from countless Christmases, even if he got the world he'd get bored with it in three days and lose it in his room somewhere.

In the meantime he's watching James Bond and Austin Powers movies, "Pinky and the Brain," and "The Apprentice," and taking notes on each evil wannabe's fatal mistakes. He can't perfect his sinister laugh until after his voice changes, but just yesterday he convinced the UPS guy to turn against his masters and serve only James. And he's working harder on his math.

I don't know where this will take him. I don't know if he'll suddenly pop up on CNN one day, laughing maniacally, in front of a map of Europe with big circles on it and the words "emergency evacuation" on the crawl, or if I'll lose contact after an unexplained mushroom cloud appears over the Kurile Islands. All I know is that as his loving parent I want James to be the best he can be and to go wherever his skills take him, even if it's a secret moonbase.

But if he does manage to conquer the world, he can send around a few minions to move this bookshelf for me.

My 12-year-old has now seen the "Hitchhiker's Guide" movie twice. Not having gone in with the same, possibly unreasonable expectations I had, he enjoyed it wholeheartedly. (I did too, but I still felt somewhat disappointed when the lines spoken weren't as funny as they lines I had been expecting)

Today it came up and he asked what other versions there had been. I told him about the radio shows and the TV show and the books, and casually mentioned I had the shows on DVD. His eyes lit up, and he started watching these 30-year old shows with painful-to-watch special effects. He loves 'em.

I also mentioned there was a video game, and gave him the link to the BBC's flash version. That was 5 hours ago. It delights me no end to know that my son, who favors fast-paced, ultra violent, dazzlingly exciting shoot-em-up games is now completely, frighteningly intent on getting that damn Babel fish in his ear, just as I was many years ago.

Soon he'll ask to borrow the books, and I'll have him forever…

To celebrate the 70th anniversary of the classic board game Sorry! Parker Brothers has declared it to be National Sorry Week, which brings up two important points. First, the power of Parker Brothers is more far-reaching than I thought, and, second, it's half over already and you're just hearing about it now. Sorry.

Sorry! and other board games played a large part in my youthful education since they were more fun than school and had even more immediate relevance to real life than situation comedies, difficult as that is to believe.

Monopoly taught me the value of greed. The Game of Life taught me to accept everything the world had to throw at me as long as I could keep my little pink family happy. And Sorry! brought me the heady joys of petty vindictiveness, an endlessly useful tool that has served me as well in my business life as it has in my romance and child-rearing.

(At the time, my best friend David and I preferred the game Trouble because it had the cool Pop-O-Matic dice bubble and the simple physics of it stimulated our young and inquiring minds. Namely, we were wondering what would happen if we could get a gerbil in there.)

Sorry! has more real-world applications. The object of the game is not merely to triumph but to repeatedly send your opponents spiraling backwards while cackling into their faces in a rude fashion, an all-important skill routinely taught in Harvard's MBA program (PitGl – Pitiless Glee 101, with lab).

However, youngsters only learn about one type of insincere apology in Sorry!: the "I'm Not At All Sorry, Ha Ha Variant." There are plenty of others, and they all have their uses.

The Busted Sorry

Used by lamp-breaking children, vow-breaking adulterers, and garbage-wallowing dogs alike (and with the same expression), this sorry includes a surprised expression and the unspoken, utterly honest sentiment, "I'm really, really sorry you caught me."

The Let's Get On With Our Lives Sorry

"I said I was sorry, all right?" Delivered so that a refusal to accept this contrived confession somehow absolves the guilty party of all blame. I mean, he said he was sorry, what more could he do? Change? Make amends? Please.

The Patronizing Sorry

"I'm sorry you feel that way." While the speaker clearly has no shame at the offending event, he or she is completely sincere in regretting your response, your reaction, and possibly your existence. Hidden meaning: "I'm truly sorry you're the way you are. Seek help."

The Twisted Arm Sorry

A reluctant and grudging sorry squeezed out under threat of pain or lawsuit. Usually prompted by an angry, looming parent, teacher, legal team, or local TV news consumer awareness spot.

The Sweeping Sorry

"Whatever it was I did, I'm sorry." This remarkably efficient concession doesn't require any individual remorse or behavioral change whatsoever, nor does it require that the guilty party even remember, understand, or acknowledge what the apology is for, and as such it's the perfect apology for today's fast-paced lifestyle. Anyone continuing to harp on specific incidents afterwards is obviously just trying to pick a fight. Lousy ingrates.

The Fully Loaded Sorry

An apology where deep and abiding earnestness is assured by the price range of the accompanying gift. Flowers, jewelry, late-model cars, small islands, cabinet positions — such things can provide a level of sincerity that actual repentance simply can't match. Contrition is pegged to the dollar value as of market close the previous day, with forgiveness guaranteed by FDIC.

The Sorry With Qualifiers

My own favorite, commonly used to explain office tardiness, memory loss concerning promised errands or timely birthday presents, and lapses in personal and professional hygiene. Easily identified by the word "but," as in "I'm sorry I was late to our wedding, but I met this girl…"

None of these are meant to discount the honest and open, truly sincere sorry that displays your sorrowful acceptance of responsibility and your solemn promise to never do it again. And it is in that spirit that I'd like to apologize to that poor gerbil.

I'm sorry, Kiki. Rest in peace.

More information on National Sorry Week, along with convenient e-mail apology forms for all occasions, can be found at www.sorry.com .

Most fathers probably receive thoughtful Father's Day gifts tailored to their interests and hobbies.

Clothes, electronics, tools, pounds of steak, that sort of thing. Instead, my 11-year-old son, Jamie, threw brightly colored tights at me and dragged me off into the streets where armed miscreants could shoot me in the head.

He bought me a copy of "City of Heroes," a massive multiplayer online role-playing computer game (also referred to as "MMO," "MMOG," "MMORPG," or "incredible time-waster") wherein you become a super-powered champion and fight the forces of evil in beautiful, thug-filled Paragon City right alongside any other superheroes that might be logged on at the moment.

Jamie, already a member, wanted nothing more than to fight for justice by my side, which is bonding, in a weird way. And so I became a defender of the helpless.

First you design your hero. "City of Heroes" has an amazing hero-generation system that allows you to select your heroic archetype, build, height, and costume, something that can easily take several days. Want robotic arms and harem pants? T-shirt, jeans, and a coolie hat? A business suit to match your broadsword? No problem!

Countless innocents suffered while I anguished over what pants to wear. Baggy? Flared? None? Those are the kinds of life-or-death decisions a hardened warrior has to be ready to face.

I chose the "Tanker" category (strong, durable, not terribly maneuverable, like a human Humvee), but elected to become a slender, 3-foot-tall female Tanker named Arathustra, just to mess with my son's mind.

Next you run through a tutorial that teaches you about the game and your abilities. What it taught me was that Arathustra had all the grace of a roller skating water buffalo, which was bound to impact on my crime-fighting abilities.

Paragon City is a detailed and entirely believable place with more abandoned warehouses, embattled rooftops, and casual street crime per capita than Miami, at least during the off-season. Jamie and I teamed up to arrest a marauding gang, which meant that he sliced them up like lunchmeat while I followed behind, watching my step. Turns out that "arresting" looks an awful lot like "personal assault" and there doesn't seem to be a lot of paperwork involved.

After he went to bed I spent some time righting the scales of Justice by myself, full of ambition and dreams of Justice League membership, and I discovered something almost immediately.

I am forever doomed to be a sidekick, and not the useful kind. It's actually possible that the level of crime in the game went up after I joined.

My fingers fumble over the keys. I can spend hours running around the city, lost, despite the helpful map and glowing "over here, stupid" arrows. I tend to fall off buildings. Victims hesitate before calling for my help, realizing instinctively that it would be quicker and less painful to just get mugged. In the heat of battle I have difficulties with the essential martial arts concepts of "left" and "right."

I'm the superhero the other superheroes have to rescue, over and over. In a superteam, I'd be the one hanging around the dog.

None of this is the fault of the game itself, which is disturbingly fun and quite capable of sucking up weeks of your life without warning. Combat is a blast, sometimes literally, and the graphics and levels of detail are amazing.

So I'm going to keep at it, because even pathetic champions have their place. I can serve to make those around me look good in comparison, just as I do at work. By rescuing me the other heroes will gain valuable experience points and interesting scars. And a laughing criminal is a vulnerable criminal. I just need to play to my strengths.

So look out, people of Paragon City! You are now protected by the might of … let's see … "The Loose Cannon?" "The Weak Link?" "The Boy Hostage?" "Captain Liability?"

This heroing stuff ain't easy, let me tell you. Now, which pants should I wear…