“Besides, it’s not like there will be any girls around to make them fell embarrassed,” he told me, as if the presence of girls were the only possible reason they wouldn’t want to play a game aimed at younger children.

“What makes you assume their interest is in girls?” I asked.

He could’ve told me that his cousins had expressed interest in girls before and the conversation would’ve ended there, his answer directly addressing my question. He could’ve explained that he was making an assumption and he didn’t actually know or care about their sexuality. He could’ve explained that the event was just going to be family so it didn’t matter who they might be interested in, they wouldn’t be there regardless.

He did none of those.

“Are you calling my cousins gay? Cause if you are, that’s kind of low.”

“Are you calling them straight?”

—

It was the beginning of the end of our evening, my questions clearly eliciting what could have been a homophobic rage.

My second question was clearly argumentative and unnecessarily pointed, but the implications of my first question were honest. Each and every one of us makes assumptions about others. We must in order to function as a social entity. We assume that a uniform denotes a job, that the sex someone presents in their appearance is their sex (or at least the one they choose to present). I certainly don’t hold that against my friend as there’s not a person alive not guilty of it.

The social norm in society is to assume a sexuality and gender identity for children even though there often isn’t a defined sexuality until the formative years. Certainly, there are tales of people who knew, early on, that they were gay or straight, but translating this into a part of one’s personality and making it known to others often doesn’t come until later. We often act out of curiosity as much as interest, and children far more so than adults.

The young men in question, 12 and 13 respectively, I’ve only met very briefly in passing. My friend, however, I know well, and I’ve never really seen any significant homophobic prejudices in him before. His last serious girlfriend was very much involved in gay rights and supporting the GLBT community, something which tempered some of the rougher edges he had shown early in our acquaintance. His use of “gay” in the pejorative sense is hardly enough evidence for labeling him a homophobe, but his reaction to my question, however loaded or innocent it might have been, has raised questions. I strongly doubt that the sexuality of his cousins actually matters to him, but his reaction surprised me.

It seems to be the general consensus to let kids be kids for as long as possible, but language, media, and the social norms pushed on children hardly allow it. We may not actively meddle, but we cannot avoid it either. In a realm where the influences of adults are both necessary and often detrimental, even when the intention is to be helpful and supportive, how are we to proceed?

I feel as though I was born wired in. I had my first computer at age 4, complete with the Muppet Learning Keys to teach me how to navigate a computer more effectively than Fozzie Bear. My parents gave me a pager before they went out of vogue, and thanks to that Mountain Dew offer, I was only a buzz–and walk to a pay phone–away from letting them know where I was and what was going on. I spent much of my free time in high school chatting online, both on AIM and IRC, sending emails, playing games. In many ways, my social life was virtual.

As cell phones become de riguer for most, I avoided any more digital tethers for as long as possible. A job in college finally made me feel as though having one were necessary. At first, I couldn’t stand losing signal. I would walk out of class and check for messages as soon as bars began to appear. They were rarely there, but I felt obligated to check anyway. My cell, combined with my graveyard shift job and free long distance, allowed me to while away the witching hour chatting with friends half way across the continent.

Eventually, the job faded, my bank account along with it. When I canceled, I felt lost for the first few days. I kept the worn brick of plastic in my pocket solely for comfort, though I did occasionally use it as a phone book. Gone was my ability to remember phone numbers like I had in my youth. Gone was my seemingly endless connection to the world at large. Soon, though, I began to relish the solitude. I was off the grid and it felt wonderful. I could lose myself in my own world and it took effort to interrupt.

It took nearly a year before I needed a phone again. I once again got used to the weight of it against my thigh, its subtle vibrations making me twitch with anticipation, my fingers wriggling with anxious curiosity. I swore it would different, that I wouldn’t forget that feeling of freedom. I tried turning my phone off or leaving it at home, but I feared what I might miss if there were an emergency. It was possible to do either, but I never relaxed instantaneously.

Given my penchant for bad birthdays, and knowing the deluge of calls, texts, emails, and everything else that come pouring in, I decided soon after that my birthday would be unplugged. I wouldn’t give up my phone or stay offline, per se, but only those communications essential to the day would be answered, acknowledged or dealt with in a timely fashion. All else could wait.

Another birthday has come and gone, and not without its surprises. The biggest surprise by far was that either I hadn’t expressed this disconnection policy to my parents or they had forgotten, making for an awkward conversation the following day when I returned their call and thanked them.

SIDE NOTE: Birthdays are arbitrary to me. We celebrate another revolution many times each year. Chinese New Year, Jewish New Year, and New Year’s Eve/Day all register celebrating revolutions alone. Were we born on another planet, the length of revolution around its star might be different. Neil Armstong walking on the moon was a milestone; a birthday is just another mile marker. Christmas, July 4th, Valentine’s Day, Thanksgiving, and Easter all demarcate the annals of time every year around the same time. And while birthdays may have helped celebrate another year of survival in the past, we no longer worry about survival in any sense that truly matters. There are lots of reasons to celebrate, but time alone seems like a silly one.

I spend too much of my time connected, be it video games, email, surfing the net, texting or simply on the phone. For one day each year, I want to really experience the world and people around me without any digital distractions.

So if my birthday rolls around some year and you feel so inclined, please feel free to leave me a voicemail, drop a note on my facebook wall, or even sent me a card.

It will all be appreciated and enjoyed in time.

Our arrival meant that there were six of us sliding into our seats, waves of anxiety and excitement shivering down our spines. It was almost a matter of pride arriving when the bistro was empty save for a smattering of staff and a handful of bleary-eyed fans huddling at the bar.

“Good work, boys,” the hostess said with a smirk. “You made it just in time.”

Perfectly on cue, the ball leapt from the pitch and the game was on.

The crowd slowly grew, tables sliding and chairs twirling to accommodate the late-comers. Passers-by with a moment to spare appeared in doorways and at windows, craning their necks and succumbing to the tension.

We watched, rapt, our eyes straining and hearts pounding. Every glance away, every sip and bite, was nervously timed, fear mounting that the moment everyone awaited with hope and trepidation would slip past unseen.

We waited, idle conversation flecked with nervous laughter. Children and parents cupped their glasses, knuckles white and brows furrowed. Some prayed, all yearned, our collective desire emitting into the ether in waves, as if it could cross the vast physical distance and bring us the outcome we desired.

Somewhere else, others were doing the same, hoping for an opposing end.

With the clock ticking away, the opportunity waning, it happened.

We clamored. We cheered. We cried. Hands slapped in a cacophonous roar, the potential becoming kinetic so fast that we virtually collapsed, our reserves emptied.

As the final whistle blew, we numbered perhaps fifty, our faces smiling, relieved.

For a moment, we were united. Not just the fifty of us together there, but the tens of thousands of us tucked into every corner of every bar, huddled around crackling radios and TVs, and entrenched in the stands a hemisphere away.

This was our hour.

This was the World Cup.

“You,” she said, a wry smile slipping slyly across her face, “are a logistical nightmare.”

I can’t deny it. I’m rarely prepared and I like it that way. Though I may learn from my game-changing mistakes, I often choose to ignore the little ones that add just a touch of challenge. And while I don’t like being late, last minute is a very comfortable place for me.

“Don’t worry,” I assured her. “I’ve made some calls. I’ll know when and where the wedding is before it happens.”

“It’s in two days,” she reminded me, skepticism dripping from my mother’s lips with the acidity of a poisoned dagger.

“Don’t worry,” I repeated, my cock-sure delivery belying my ever pressing fears.

—

Today marks the unions of two of my close friends to their respective significant others. Sadly, the logistics prevented me from being in two states at the same time, so I had to choose between attending the wedding of Dana (pronounced “dah-nah”), one of my good friends from high school, to her quiet and kind fiance Doug and attending the wedding of Josh, one of my good friends post-college, to his demure and lovely fiance Laura. I can’t stress enough how difficult a decision that was to make. In the back of my mind, I had hoped that one wedding would be on Saturday and the other on Sunday so I could schedule a red-eye flight between Boston and Boulder to attend both. Alas, it was not to be.

I arrived in Boston confident that I was fully prepared for the glorious event to come. It wasn’t until I began to unpack, slowly dispersing my various accoutrements across my parents’ guest room that it dawned on me that I had, as I should’ve expected, forgotten things of import.

Missing from the collection of clothing and books I had dragged along were my dress shoes and, even more glaringly, the invitation to the wedding. My father wears roughly the same size shoe, so at least that error was easily remediable, but the invitation is a grander issue.

I wouldn’t think of disturbing Dana during her wedding preparations, so I decided I would rely on our mutual friends to inform me. They, of all people, might expect it, as I forgot my invitation to Emily’s wedding last fall as well and my friends graciously bailed me out. Of course, due to my lack of transportation and my reliance on the Sunday schedule of public transport, I showed up early enough to both take a stroll through Boston, read two chapters of a book in the public library (I would’ve read more, but they closed at 5 and kicked me out) and still ride the elevator up with the Groom’s parents as they arrived.

My friends are wonderful people and, as I had hoped, came through, informing me of the time, the place, and even avoided chiding my stupidity. So a big thank you to Josie, Gloria and Dara for correcting my failings when I needed them corrected most.

Though I’ve only met Doug on a couple occasions, all of them during my visit for Emily’s wedding last fall, I’m impressed that Dana has found a man who’s as sweet, kind, and caring as she is. It’s hard for me to put into words the happiness I’ve seen mirrored between them, and I can only hope that it continues to build and grow over time.

Josh and Laura, on the other hand, I’ve known as a couple. It’s difficult to remember them not being together, as they fit like pieces of a puzzle. The flaws of one seem tempered by the merits of the other. In many ways, their marriage exemplifies some of the best traits I saw in my grandparents’ union, finding balance in a world often lop-sided.

The Declaration of Independence claims the people have a right to the pursuit of happiness. It’s with great pride that two couples I know take a giant step towards succeeding today.

For Dana and Doug and Laura and Josh
on their wedding day.

Roger Ebert is an asshole. His self-aggrandizing appearances at the University of Colorado’s Conference on World Affairs every year cemented this in my mind during my stint there. He’s also, to his credit, a brilliant film reviewer who grasps all the technical qualities of a film in addition to the common draws that appeal to the average viewer.

While my personal beliefs about Ebert are not relevant to the discussion, the latter trait of brilliance as a critic unfortunately does nothing to flavor his close-minded and poorly formed pedantry in regards to video games.

It’s already been several weeks since Ebert published his second argument claiming video games can never be art, a piece that essentially started a veritable flame war with the internet. Everyone from Tom Goldman of the Escapist, an excellent video game webzine, to Robert Brockway of Cracked.com, a website known more for its frivolous time wasters than great writing,  have published impassioned responses defending the medium. Not surprisingly, the best response seems to be from Kellee Santiago, whose TED talk spurred Ebert to attempt to defend his position.

As much as I’d like to defend video games from Ebert’s lackluster and foolhardy attack, there are already too many voices pooling around the issue, spouting venom and rhetoric and poorly formed arguments attempting to define art. No one, however, seems to have notice that Ebert’s article calls into question not only video games as art, but blatantly attacks gaming as a whole.

Nearing the midway point of his article, Ebert attempts to address the game Braid, which might be the best game I’ve played in years:

Her next example is a game named “Braid” (above). This is a game “that explores our own relationship with our past…you encounter enemies and collect puzzle pieces, but there’s one key difference…you can’t die.” You can go back in time and correct your mistakes. In chess, this is known as taking back a move, and negates the whole discipline of the game.

Chess is one of the oldest and most revered games, but it’s hardly the only game out there. Board games which play with temporal veracity and allow players to shift their reality are myriad and plentiful. The classic Axis & Allies, in which players reenact World War II with differing outcomes, relies on changing history to allow every player a chance at winning. After all, who would play Germany if they knew they’d lose every time? Chrononauts, while a much more frivolous and silly pursuit, allows players to change the course of history and watch the outcome shift, the end goal being to restore the time line to match the reality you remember (and were assigned at the start).

But even in games like Chess, the act of taking back a move and replaying from an earlier point is a sign that one is address the game from an academic standpoint. Masters of chess are considered “students of the game.” To be so is a laudable and admirable status available to any and all who are willing to spend the time to study the mechanics. Across the spectrum of games, from the massive war games like Twilight Imperium to the playful Eurogames like Race for the Galaxy, studying the vast swathe of maneuvers and the functionality of game mechanics provides people critical thinking skills and strategic understanding that film, television, music, and the written word have great difficulty, perhaps even impossibility, imparting.

It’s doubtful that Ebert intended to critique not just games, but interaction and action as a whole; that is, however, the end  result. Film is an amazing medium which I love, but even when it does teach a lesson, it’s almost invariably a staunchly rhetorical Hienlienian straw man argument that prevents the audience from even attempting to address their critiques within. The great works of art that Ebert references, from Picasso to Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot, are all intended to inspire thought and action, yet they generally only inspire the former, not the latter. Games, albeit in a highly simulated arena, require action.

The far-reaching consequences of Ebert’s critique of video games isn’t restricted to games alone. It attacks the artistic merit of theatre, specifically interactive theatre, improv and much of the postmodern movement in the art world. It lambastes the choose-your-own-adventure books of my childhood and discredits the many attempts at interactive film and television over the years.

In 2005, Ebert explained the basis of his belief by saying, “Video games by their nature require player choices, which is the opposite of the strategy of serious film and literature, which requires authorial control.” This is exactly the reason why interactive media are more effective for conveying a point intelligently and effectively. I can watch the movie Crash over and over and I will still be able to critique it without eliciting a response. Through interactivity, however, the work could attempt to respond, making it a more dynamic and effective means.

In the end, what’s at stake with Ebert’s argument isn’t a definition of art, but a question of the purpose of art. If the purpose is to convey a message or cause thought, then Ebert’s claim is vastly off the mark. If, however, the purpose is provide the audience with a passive and uncontrollable experience, then he may be absolutely correct.

Until making choices is detrimental to the conversation, I will firmly believe that art is intended to move beyond the borders of its frame, be it a literal frame, a screen, or a keyboard.