Hose Monster Blog

4.12.2003

When you author a world famous, hall of fame blog adored by millions, you tend to receive some very interesting attention. And with interesting attention comes interesting email:

Dear Hose Monster:

We are creating a TV pilot about blogging. We want to bring this phenomenon of personal expression to television for the very first time, and have been scouring the web for appropriate sites. Your web site seems like a potentially great fit for the show.

If you would like to be a part of our pilot, you can do so by submitting a video that encapsulates you and your blog.

Whatever you want to say and show in your video is fine. The key is to capture the essence of your blog in video format, and if it's interesting enough, we'll include it.

If this is something that you want to participate in, please go to our web site for more information, and follow the instructions.

[web address omitted]

Thank you so much.

Sincerely,
[Anonymous Entertainment Group]

Unfortunately, it appears that they only want to consider entries about "Freedom" at the moment, and I just really do not find myself inclined to talk about freedom, since I haven't ever really blogged about it. But if this certain entertainment group wants to start looking at sex or Vicky's underwear, I will have the first entry for them.

Then I got this one today, an absolute stunner:

Hello,

I am a Private Investigator based in Europe. A group of Government Officials from an African Country contacted me with a Proposal.

I am to Make contact with you and state their offer, if your Interest is Genuine, you will be Contacted for your Account details to which will be transferred the sum of $45,600,000.00 USD. (20 of which is yours). You are then required to forward the remaining balance (Minus the Interest, handling and tax clearance charges, which Will be offset by Us & Deducted from the transferred sum) to a nominated Bank account in the Cayman Islands.

I don't think I need to spell out the importance of Secrecy in this Matter considering the amount involved. Let me state clearly here that the account that you would be providing does not need to have funds in it and we have choosen a the funds or any clearance demands made on it. It is only needed to be active and be able to receive funds.

So, if I don't hear from you within three days I will assume you are not interested and will solicit for a new partner, but if you know you are interested let me know. List your phone & fax Numbers so we may communicate with you. This is important as we would Have to talk about the modalities of the transaction.

Waiting to hear from you.
yours faithfully
[Anonymous name]

I have no clue how this certain party thought I had an interest in money laundering, but I think if I engaged in such behavior, I might violate the Cornfield College of Law Honor Code, so I think I will refrain this time.

The joys of being a world famous blogger. Har har.

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4.11.2003

As a child, I had myself a healthy interest in the sanitation services. Garbage collection, if you wish me to speak more precisely.

Yup, as a wee lad, I would pull my little folding chair out of the garage every Tuesday morning, set it up on the front lawn, and sit there and wait for the garbage truck to come around. I don't know exactly what kept me so enthralled; I think the levers operating the hydraulics always interested me, the sound of the heavy machinery struggling against itself as it lifted that precious load into its cavernous belly, the casual nonchalance of the guy in canvas coveralls never bothering to climb back into the cab after each stop, but simply stepping up onto the running board, holding on with his left hand and turning back to me and waiving with his right.

Watching the garbage truck come and go punctuated my every week as a minute little boy.

I wanted garbage truck toys to help me maintain my fascination when Tuesday had long passed. But in the early 80s, as I would suspect the situation remains now, sanitation-related playthings did not exactly inundate the market. For the longest time, the cast-iron garbage truck piggy bank came the closest to any toy I might have. Heavy though it was, and simply refusing to give me back my money to the point of extreme remonstrance, I still say on my bedroom floor many afternoons making parallel cast-iron tire tracks on the carpet and putting imaginary loads of garbage into the cast iron belly of the heavy beast that refused to give me any moving parts to break. One wonderful day, however, my parents somehow found the promised land and my fathered delivered to me an actual toy garbage truck, complete with rolling wheels, opening doors and a garbage hopper that actually moved up and down. To date, I still think about that truck and wish I could have it back to place on my dresser next to my other prize possessions, my original He-Man and Battle Cat action figures.

But let us not forget again my pronounced youth at this juncture. Aside from having strange hobbies, like having your very own garbage truck-watching folding chair and spending an hour or two sitting on the front lawn every morning for a few minutes of enrapture, little boys like to spend a lot time in their nakedness. On warm summer days, I too enjoyed living free.

Sp picture for yourself a distant Tuesday morning in the slowly developing northern suburbs of Los Angeles. A warm morning, somewhere between a spring and summer morning, warm enough to make you a little sweaty but not to the point where you sit inside wishing you could go to the community pool or sit all day watching "Press Your Luck" with the air conditioner pumping out cool air. On this morning, there a young Hose Monster sits, awaiting his canvas-clad heroes' arrival with eager anticipation. They had fallen behind schedule this morning, and the extra time waiting forces our young Hose Monster to entertain himself as best he can.

Now picture yourself as a garbage man, driving down the street, glancing off to your left to see the smallest whitest little naked boy jumping up and down on his front lawn as you perform your duties. Wonder if this type of fan was the groupie you had hoped for when you first departed for garbage man training camp. Try not to look embarrassed as this little naked boy stands frozen with joy as you approach his lawn, then stop, collect his family's garbage, and remount the truck. And try not to laugh at him as you waive good-bye.

Finally, picture yourself as the proud mother of this wee naked lad and shake your head in amusement at your only son's amusement with the garbage truck. Feel so confident in his state of enrapture that you do not have any qualms momentarily stepping inside to do whatever you have to do, go to the bathroom, get a new book, answer the telephone. And finally, imagine your horror when you return outside moments later to discover your garbage collected and your little boy gone, having left only his clothes in a disheveled pile on the front lawn as a clue to what happened. And put together what has happened a minute later, run down to the end of the street and up to the next block, and there discover a little while bottom in pursuit of the garbage men, following them nakedly down the street.

I was a very special boy.

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4.09.2003

She glided over to me, having just pursed her lips to lightly exhale away the tip of flame she had just transferred from match to candles. The smoldering sliver, laying on the dresser where she had dropped it before turning, sent a wisp of smoke up that danced itself into the ceiling. As she moved I immediately forgot the miffed feeling I had formed seconds before, provoked by her keeping her back turned toward me, thereby depriving me of taking in her appearance.

But now the flickering lights dancing off the wall sent a cavalcade of shadows across the white shirt she wore, a button-up left way-too suggestively unbuttoned save a single clasping at her breast, leaving me to wonder if the bra underneath, if indeed she wore one, matched the black panties she had on peeking out from underneath the edges of her oversized white shirt. Well, perhaps. Maybe just underwear. Black and lacy, hip-hugging, really more of a hybridization of a pair of ass-shorts and Victoria’s Secret’s finest.

Sexy, damn sexy.

Her hand always nestled so perfectly into mine. Ours would find their way together almost independently of our conscious actions, she allowing my thumb to fall on top of hers in a position naturally comfortable to me.

The same in bed, not sexually of course, but after. Sharing our naked warmth, we would prostrate ourselves in whatever manner we fell into each other. Her head on my right shoulder with her left arm draped across my chest. My left arm tunneling under her neck, my right hand resting on the corner of her upturned hip. Directly on top of the other, doing our best human blanket impersonations.

I supported her weight with my feet on the floor as I sat on the edge of her bed. The slight squeeze of her thighs wrapped around my waist passed over me relatively unnoticed, lost in the sensations of her hands almost violently combing through my hair and taste of her tongue in my mouth.

We lay there, curled up on her red and green plaid easy chair, the type of chair you would never think comfortable but hardly ever wanted to leave once you had settled into it, me slowly trying to put together the pieces of the night. The television sent a muted blue glow in our direction, accompanying it with an almost-silent humming. Or perhaps that came from the VCR. I gathered we had fallen asleep at some point, what exact point in the movie I could not remember, and the weariness of waking had still not left my eyes to the point that I could make out the message the clock on the far wall kept trying to whisper my direction.

The old blue blanket covering her rose and fell but the slightest amount in cadence with the breathing sounds of sleep. Curled up against a pillow and trapping my arm underneath her, she had left me with no manageable method of extracting myself without disturbing her slumber.

Changing the angle by arching her back slightly, she found the rhythm she wanted, and kept it for me metronomically with gasps jumping from her mouth. I almost grunted with the change, almost taking the tips of my fingers from the raised point of her bare breast, almost pulling my hand out from between her legs and our bodies, almost feeling the need to steady myself to her movements, not sure whether to try and meet them with my own or lay back and let her work, moaning all the while with her. Her hands fell on me then, just below my collar bones, grabbing my chest in bunches and digging into me with her fingers. In her flushed face I saw her building up and I wondered whether to try and keep her on the edge or let her fall off it with me coming right behind her.

I hate the damn telephone, and she made me want to talk to her on the telephone every day we were apart.

Against the wall, I held her up with my forearms wrapped her outer thighs, her inner thighs squeezing me harder and then softer as she tried to get the maximum range out of our motions against the off-white plaster trying unsuccessfully to pass on some its chill touch to our naked bodies.

Minutes on end. Miles on the long highway. The smallest details, the biggest stories, stupid things I had done when I had only five years of life under my belt. Nicknames people gave me, insults people had used to wound me. Achievements. Mistakes. Friends. Others. Pasts and futures.

She made me talk about everything.

“Harder,” she panted, “faster.”

I would lay there at night, long after she had wandered off with the Sandman, looking at her, wondering what dreams passed before those flickering eyes, wondering if I had a part in those dreams. I would muse upon the merits of fighting her sleeping body for an extra square foot of covers but would always decide against it, knowing that I always managed to stay a few degrees warmer.

I would lay there at night with her, naked beyond my skin, wide awake and hoping to never awake again.

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4.08.2003

I'm re-running the following post that I wrote in November for a number of reasons. One, the topic has been on my mind the last two days, and I thought I'd take a look at what I wrote again. Two, I think this post is one of the more thoughtful things I have ever written here. Three, I don't have time today to write something new, but I didn't want to leave you with nothing.

For those of you that have already seen this, I apologize. For those of you who haven't, hey, enjoy.

In their 1977 opinion in the case of Coker v. Georgia, the United States Supreme Court struck down a portion of a Georgia statute authorizing the death penalty in certain rape cases. The four Justices compromising the plurality thought the death penalty "grossly disproportionate and excessive punishment for the crime of rape," and therefore violated the 8th Amendment outlawing cruel and unusual punishment. 433 U.S. 584, 598. While the plurality opinion did characterize rape as "the ultimate violation of self," it nonetheless found rape to be less heinous than homicide and concluded that rape "does not compare with murder ... in terms of moral depravity and ... the injury to the person and to the public." Id. at 597-98.

I strongly disagree. But my disagreement makes me wonder if I have a skewed sense of the external world.

The recent history of the criminal law seems to generally support the notion that murder and rape constitute the two most serious violations of self by another person (for the sake of argument, I will not consider this blanket statement in light of various categories of unintentional homicide or non-aggravated/statutory rape situations). I agree with the argument that murder has more serious empirical consequences. The victim is dead. You do not come back from death. End of story. I will also agree that you can make a strong argument that a perpetrator requires an extreme amount of moral depravity or an inability to think rationally in order to commit such a crime as murder. And I will agree that parties convicted of murder deserve very stringent punishments, generally leveraged closer to the maximum penalties our criminal justice system will permit.

But I have to disagree with the general theory that rape is a less serious offense than homicide in terms of a violation of the self and even in terms of moral depravity.

Empircally, the consequences of rape may seem less than those of murder. The victim becomes a survivor and has the opportunity to continue living his or her life and pursuing his or her goals. What the plurality opinion seems to neglect, even as it characterizes rape as the ultimate violation of self (and then immediately contradicts itself by saying an ultimate violation does not compare with the more heinous crime of murder, negating the descriptor "ultimate" entirely) is that while homicide is a strong violation of self, that violation may only last so long as the victim breathes away the remnants of his or her life. With rape, that infringement on the self of the victim lasts for the duration of his or her life; we apply the term "survivor" to them because we imagine they have already been to hell and back.

And back. Are we sure about this? Before making this assumption, we have a duty to consider the psychological impact of the violation on the survivor and those who will meet that survivor throughout the rest of his or her days. The violence of the violation committed in rape does not end when the commission of the rape ends and the bruises fade; it endures to the end of the survivor's days and beyond, carried on in the memories and nightmares of his or her family and friends.

The Court claims that rape does not compare to murder with respect to the injury to the person and to the public. But what do we consider as these injuries? With the commission of every murder, I would argue that a sense of fear seeps into the public consciousness, a fear of certain ethnic groups or neighborhoods or activities or whatever else you want to consider. Certainly this is an ill to the public, but perhaps an ill confined to the certain zones of fear in our head. Not to be racist, because I don't think I am, but when was the last time you were walking at night through an affluent white subarb and felt a small fear in the back of your mind that you or someone you loved might become a victim of murder? How about the last time you drove through the south side of Chicago, or East L.A. or Detroit? You have to admit that your state of mind is a little different in those two situations.

Now contrast this with rape. Allow me to throw at you some unresearched statistics that I remember generally from hearing them
previously. I know this is somewhat irresponsible, but I am on a tirade, so just let it go. (You should also take into account the fact that these statistics are based generally on reported cases of rape, and some theorists think that as many as 70% of rapes go unreported, which if true, greatly distorts the numbers into the realm of utter horror.) A woman is raped between every five and seven seconds in this country. The great majority of rape does not happen through violent assault or other incidents generally termed as aggravated rape, but between two people who previously knew each other.

Date rape, the use of alcohol or drugs to impair judgment, psychological pressures and fear of violence: these are more common tools of rapists, not guns and knives, though those certainly play a role in a number of rapes as well. Moreover, where do rapes frequently happen? College campuses, house parties, apartments, and on and on. Everyday places for a large number of us.

I hypothesized above that murder can create a fear of proximity in the public, that this fear is a great ill to the public sense of welfare and security. But rape, which can permeate the everyday situations of our lives, according to the Supreme Court, does not compare with homicide with respect to its injury to the public? What about the shattering of trust and the feeling of general safety we feel in our homes, with our friends, with people we meet at a party or a bar because they flashed a nice smile from across the room? What about the fact that we might fear the most basic of social situations because we cannot be positively sure of our own safety unless we are extremely cautious? What is the public cost of this caution, and how greatly do this caution restrict our enumerated basic right of the pursuit of happiness? Obviously I am dropping a great number of rhetorical questions here, but I nonetheless think I make the point that ill caused by rape is greater than an injury; it is a cancer feeding off itself and always growing. It metastisizes and pursues us into the most basic moments of our lives. It leaves us fearful of being alone with another person on suburban college campuses and makes us distrust dating, relationships, sex, love, emotional commitment, building a family, and on and on. I would consider these some of the most basic liberties that we have the right to pursue in this country, and the fear perpetuated by rape certainly can touch every one of these basic desires that seem simple enough goals for a great number of us to pursue.

And note that I have spent the great majority of the time talking about the ill to the public here. The difficulties a survivor of rape must endure are for the most part beyond my reach of discussion, for I have never raped anyone, nor am I a survivor of rape. Tragically, I have in my 23 years already met and come to know way too many survivors of rape to last an entire lifetime, and I shake my head in sorrow at the realization that I will meet more before my tenure on this Earth comes to an end. Nonetheless, I consider myself unsuited to try and explore how a rape affects the rest of a survivor's life. I can only assume the horror of it.

All that said, I have serious issues with the contention by the pluarilty of the Coker Court that rape does not compare with murder in terms of moral depravity and the injury to the person and to the public. I agree they do not directly compare, and as heinous as murder can be, I am of the opinion that rape is worse than murder. I agree with then Chief Justice Berger and Justice Rehnquist (and this is an extreme rarity that I agree with Rehnquist) in the observation that "the long-range effect [of rape] upon the victim's life and health is likely to be irreparable" and that "rape thus is not a crime 'light years' removed from murder in the degree of its heinousness." Id. at 611-12, 620. Personally I would rather be shot, execution style, in the back of the head, than raped. That may be the sickest thing I will ever write, but it's true.

And yet, at the end of all this discussion, though I disagree with the Court's reasoning, I do nonetheless agree with the plurality's ruling that capital punishment penalties should not be applied to felons convicted of rape.

I might more successfully articulate an explanation for that feeling if I knew how I felt in regard to the utility and fairness of capital punishment. I do not believe that the death penalty is unconstitutional as a violation of the 8th Amendment; under the right circumstances, I have no problem thinking you should die for killing someone else. In fact, I once rather strongly supported capital punishment and felt it an essential element to the criminal justice system. But little pieces of evidence have eroded that certainty. Questions of proof in capital cases, the fact that most death penalty cases end up costing more than life imprisonment due to the expense of appellate litigation, and the fact that the United States is the only Western country that has retained the death penalty. Furthermore, we could launch into the possibly racist nature of the death penalty as well, but I will not even explore the race question at this point. However, I recognize that there exist a multitude of racial arguments you could articulate to attack the legitimacy of the death penalty as well.

One of the major reasons I might still support capital punishment (and honestly, if I had to decide this moment one way or another, I do not know which side I would join) is the argument that no stronger deterrence exists than the risk of death. Currently, I am mulling through two rebuttals to that argument. For one, I am tempted to think that if you are morally depraved enough to intentionally murder (and I will say that I believe the death penalty should only apply in cases of intentional homicide), than how much of an added deterrent will the prospect of your own death over that of lifetime imprisonment be? Secondly, with the way the criminal justice system administers the death penalty, the actual punishment is so far out of the line of sight of the criminal, in that the average death row felon waits years before going to the gas chamber or for lethal injection, does it really make sense to claim the death penalty is a deterrent to a 20 year old; will he or she think that he might be executed at 35 because of his actions now? Additionally, I wonder if offering death to a felon is not conferring on him or her grace for killing. With life imprisonment, you must live out the rest of your days in dealing with the danger of prison.

But back to the point. If I were to come out in support of capital punishment, I would defend it in cases of intentional homicide, and yet I would have a hard time saying that it should apply to rape. Given my arguments above about the moral reprehensibility of rape, I would expect myself to argue differently. But I'm not.

Were I to decide that I supported capital punishment, would that make me as hypocritical as the Coker Court?

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4.07.2003

Dear Jennifer Lopez:

I ain’t fooled by the rocks you got.

I’m also not stupid enough to believe, nor are most of us not willing to walk in the shadow of your gigantic ass, that you’re still Jenny from the block.

Jenny from the block does not go through men like nobody’s business. Jenny from the block does not have a very public relationship with one of the most public figures in the world, drop him at a moment’s notice, suddenly marry one of her dancers months later, then drop him less than a year later to start a tabloid romance with a People’s Sexiest Man Alive and get herself a huge, horribly ugly pink diamond engagement ring less than a year after her previous marriage ended.

Jenny from the block does not leave her man during his very public criminal trial. Especially when she happened to be a key figure in the night’s events during which the shooting allegedly occurred.

Jenny from the block does not get lucky enough to star in a brilliant film and look like a halfway capable actress purely because Steven Soderbergh’s script for “Out of Sight” is absolutely ingenious.

Jenny from the block does not tell Ben Affleck, or any man for that matter, that he may not have a bachelor party. Jenny from the block has a little more confidence that the man who gave her an ugly pink ring, had the willingness to star in her dumbass video and have his life plastered on the tabloids because of her really does want to marry her and has the capacity to have a good time without doing anything to jeopardize their marriage.

Jenny from the block does not forbid her man from hanging out with his very public best friend, with whom he earned one of the highest honors in his field, purely because she dislikes him. Furthermore, Jenny from the block does not provoke such vitriol in her man’s friend, who seems like a genuinely good guy (said with extreme caution and speculation).

Jenny from the block does not have her own clothing line. Jenny from the block does not drop her given name and start going by a more media-friendly, catch term like “J-Lo” that sells movies, clothing and merchandise. Jenny from the block does not slap this term and a logo bearing it on a trendy clothing line. Jenny from the block does not charge the young women who only want to look attractive way exorbitant prices for little itty bitty clothes that try to make them look like her ho ass instead of attractive young girls out having fun with just a little bit of edge. Jenny from the block remembers how trying to look good can cost a lot of money and sympathizes accordingly.

Jenny from the block does not have her own perfume. Jenny from the block also is not facing a potential lawsuit based on the name of her fragrance.

Jenny from the block does not have her own cult following because of her ass. Jenny from the block does not spark debate as to whether her ass is the perfect two-hander or just plain disgusting.

Jenny from the block does not have her own entourage with an eyebrow specialist and an eyebrow assistant. Jenny from the block does not pay people to follow her around for exclusively that reason.

And most of all, Jenny from the block does not pretend to be someone she’s not. Jenny from the block recognizes how lucky she has been to receive every break in the world and admits that she’s not the same woman she was back in those Bronx days.

Ms. Lopez, you can probably gather that I have no respect for you. I don’t resent you or your career. Some people get extremely fortunate breaks because they have talent dripping off them. Some people just get the breaks though they may not deserve them. I need not pass on what type of person you are; it’s irrelevant to my point.

You have risen from a life you assert was very poor to the top of the world. The world caters to every one of your whims. You have success, you have one of the most attractive men in the world, you have a multi-faceted career where every step you take leads to success. You have the world right where you want it. I don’t begrudge you any of that.

What you do not have is one ounce of perception or context. In place, you have hypocrisy.

Whether or not you’ve earned it, you have fame, money and success. Those have led to cars, clothes, jewelry, vacations, homes, failed relationships and endless media attention. It has also led to profound change.

I’m sorry, but your assertion that you’re still Jenny from the block has absolutely no merit to it. Poor people from the Bronx, people from the block, who are still truly people from the block, simply would not find the need to have not one but two people following them around for the express purpose of making their eyebrows look good.

Real people from the block would not falsely assert ownership to that block in order to sell a million records and make more money they’ll never find a way to spend in a worthwhile manner.

I do not find fault with your success. I find fault with your disclaiming that success and claiming to be something you are not in a calculated effort to spring the very success you disclaim to the next level.

Use that line in your next song. Run it by your eyebrow specialist and your eyebrow assistant as they fawn over you, making sure your perfectly sculpted brows still look perfect while reinforcing your Bronx attitude.

Regards,
Hose Monster

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I will remember today as a banner day in the annals of Hose Monster history.

Not because, following my latest post about video games my very good pal sent me a NES emulator and I played Kung Fu all through my Civil Procedure class. Not because I turned in my appellate brief today, effectively finishing up with one class in this semester that seems to never want to end. Not because I will try to encourage someone to wack me as hard on the right shin tonight as some guy did at last week's broomball game in a effort to bring a little symmetry to my life.

Not even because today is my buddy's bithday, although that certainly accounts for the overall importance of the day.

No, today achieved status like few other days, because my Mad Little Ponies elected yours truly to their Hall of Fame.

I've never before received such a ringing endorsement before this. It warms the cockles of my heart to see such complimentary words enshrined on the side banner of a cute Sooner girl and her younger driving sidekick.

Yes, today is special. Hose Monster has joined the Mad Little Pony Hall of Fame.

(Today is also special because I used the words "annals" and "cockles" in the same post. Tee hee.)

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Today is the birthday of one my closest friends in the entire world. He contributes to the new blog Setguard6 and gives me guidance daily on how to successfully meander my through law school.

Happy birthday Adam!

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4.06.2003

I was walking through the store the other day when I passed a display of Xboxes bundled with a few games, and I thought, hmm, maybe I should get me one of those.

The thought lasted for about five seconds.

I’ve really only logged a short time playing these new-fangled systems, probably less than two hours total (and by new-fangled, I mean anything PlayStation or later, so PS2, Xbox, Game Cube). I have a very difficult time trying to play the games with any strategy or skill. The damn controllers have too many buttons. Two on the top for the index finger, then another four above the two that sit in the traditional thumb spots. Let’s not forget the attraction of the analog stick that Nintendo 64 (the most recent system I own, and I only acquired it to better my Goldeneye skills in an effort to try and better my dorm mates in college; I haven’t purchased a game for it in over two years and about the only thing I do with it is play The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time – still one of the better games I have ever played) introduced to us. I simply have no success trying to manipulate all those controls, and so purchasing a new system to help me enjoy the free time I don’t have just seems to make little sense.

But I wonder if, in the back of my mind, my nostalgia for those video game days of yore keeps me from trying to move into the present day.

I think I would rather go on Ebay and get myself an original Nintendo Entertainment System and a bunch of old games.

Video games these days, for all their graphics improvements and absorbing game play, simply don’t measure up for me to those 8 bits of pixilated glory that the original Nintendo gave me. I prefer the simplicity of Excite Bike and its two controls: accelerate and really accelerate but be careful not to overheat. Give me the quest of trying to prove that at some point my princess really won’t be in another castle, that at some point I’ll dump that dragon in the lava and actually find my girl. Entertain me with the attempt to play the American League All Stars on RBI Baseball and try to go through the entire line up with everyone hitting a home run. Let me put five fat guys on my team for Ice Hockey and watch me beat the sorry shit out of that computer team with their “well-balanced” line up of two skinny guys, two medium guys and one fat guy. I’ll kick your ass.

I’m sure the simplicity of the games makes me happier because I’m a simpleton. But Nintendo will always offer something the super systems of today cannot touch. Generational unity.

Right now, we have no less than three major systems competing for market share. In 1985, however, Nintendo was the only game in town, unless you count the clearly inferior original Sega IIe. As such, we had a collective Nintendo conscience.

I’d love to walk into a room filled with a bunch of guys ages 20-28 and start chanting melodically “Up Up Down Down Left Right Left Right B A Start” and see how many people starting chanting with me. 30 guys, five continues and ultimate success at the original Contra. Throw a “Select” in there, find a friend and have endless debates over whether the machine gun, laser or spreader weapon was the best.

If we still had that generational bond, my friends would probably offer me demigod status because I still somehow remember, almost 20 years later, that 007 373 5963 is the pass key to go straight to Tyson on Mike Tyson’s Punch Out! (go ahead, try it, I promise it works; I honestly don’t know why my brain retains things like that but I cannot remember to pay my rent…).

Nowadays, I don’t see kids hanging around the video store waiting for that elusive copy of Super Mario Bros. 2, which just came out two days ago, to come back in so we could rent it for that night and stay up all night throwing vegetables at flying fish. Nowadays, I don’t see kids having debates over whether Bo Jackson or Randal Cunningham are the most unstoppable players on Tecmo Bowl.

Nowadays, if kids had a football game with only four possible plays, they’d call it a Tiger Electronics game and it would be sitting on the toy store rack with handheld Black Jack games and other “travel” diversions.

I know I’m dating myself, and most of the people who read this site are probably more hip and cool than I am and actually have the capacity to succeed at a video game with laser sharp graphics and 18 different player controls and combinations. I have to admit, a lot of this stuff does look pretty damn sweet.

But screw you anyway. Your generation will never have an Up Up Down Down Left Right Left Right B A Start to call your own.

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