Me, My Wife and the Wii

I don’t know how I did it. My wife, approximately six months ago, notified me that she thought we needed to purchase the new Nintendo Game Console called Wii. I agreed. So, we made plans and decided that we would purchase one as soon as we found a store that wasn’t sold out of them. That took until early this month. Now, the thing I am not sure of is why she was convinced that we needed the most up-to-date piece of technology out there. Normally it would take two significant factors to coerce my wife into considering such a purchase: 1) I would have to beg her in a prostrate position, often with heartfelt tears and 2) I would have to do several out-of-the-ordinary things that would earn me what are commonly called ‘brownie points,’ causing my wife to feel obliged to cave in to my incessant entreaty. This time she decided, on her own, that it would be positive to own this new, groundbreaking game system.

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Now, having been the proud co-owner of a Wii for over two weeks, I feel it necessary to tell you the impact that such a purchase has had on my wife and me. The games are incredible. The ‘paddle’ is an intuitive remote control that has no binding wires to mess with. A sensor on the top of the television and the internal tilt sensors of the handheld remote tell the Wii exactly what we are doing. So, when you are sword-fighting, you swing the remote around as though you are using a sword (see Figure 1). My favorite game is boxing because the system is designed to read your punches and translate them into your on-screen character. So for boxing, you don’t push buttons; you simply punch the air. OK, the impact: we are addicted.

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My wife was addicted about one week prior to myself, because she played it daily after work. I just recently got sucked into the kingdom of Wii fanaticism. The symptoms of such an addiction are grave. I find myself holding the steering wheel of my Mazda B2300 like it is the Wii controller (i.e. on its side, see Figure 2). My reflexes have changed dramatically. Instead of hitting the brake in my truck, I now search my truck for a button labeled ‘1,’ which on the Wii controller corresponds to stop and reverse in the game ‘Need for Speed Carbon’. The effects of Wii addiction culminated to a financial loss last Saturday: I was driving my wife’s car, she was with me, and we were on our way to our church to help out at a youth retreat. We had stopped at the Taco Bell drive-thru for dinner and were eating as we traveled. My wife had just finished putting three packets of fire sauce on my meat and potato burrito, and she handed it to me. Just as she did this, traffic came to a sudden stop and she screamed “STOP!” at a decibel level high enough to make me momentarily deaf. Time stopped, I slammed on the brake on my perceived Wii controller, which was actually a saucy meat and potato burrito, and we collided rudely with the truck in front of us. Nintendo Wii: $250. Chevy S-10 Bumper for the truck I just hit: $500.

Ten Years of Solitude; Twenty-Four Years of Life

If I told you that there exists a man who has no family, would you believe me? What if I told you that he lives such a life that social interaction has not been a part of his life for over ten years? This character lives in Chicago, Illinois, one of the most intensely peopled geographic areas in the world. Yet he has not spoken a word to a living person for over ten years. Can this be possible? You decide.
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Now, what if I told you that I am who I am completely independent of any person’s influence? You shouldn’t believe me because one very essential fact remains in every person, no matter how lonely or independent: every person needs a family. The reason I am tossing out so many questions that seem unreasonable or foolish is because I want you to understand something that I realized just recently: people really need people. I need my mom, whose warm embrace and sense of humor made me capable of attending the ninth grade in spite of my fear. I need my dad, who taught me how to build things and how to be kind and strong. They both made me angry at times, and I even had phases of hatred, but God gave them to me to teach me to live. I need my sisters, who were there, experiencing life with me and providing commentary that would affect my choice of what to do with my life. Jules’ crying when I had screamed mean words at her taught me how to be compassionate. Shelby’s look of betrayal when she saw my worst side taught me how important integrity was.
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My wife taught me the importance of living. I live for her. She also showed me how necessary oneness is in marriage. I cannot be without her. My grandparents taught me how important it is to be unique; their kind laughter at my quirks encouraged me. My in-laws helped me to be confident in myself: ‘you are a gift to our family’ they told me; I didn’t think that was possible. My friends showed me how to live in adventure, no matter how painful it was! I don’t think that the Chicagoan I wrote about can exist. People are necessary for living. Jesus said, “By this all men will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another” (John 13:35 NIV).

Zoo vs. Pet Store

Pet stores are one of the most joyous places on earth (as long as the animals are well cared-for). You can enter without paying a fee and spend hours observing some of the most fascinating creatures on earth. Zoos, likewise, are fun to visit, but there is usually a long line to wait in (on the nice days), and you must pay to gain entrance. Some would argue that the scope of animal life represented at a zoo is more interesting than that of a pet store, but I am not sure I would agree.
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Pet stores give you the option of purchasing the cute puppy or kitten that has captured your heart. Zoos will not allow you to purchase that adorable newborn reticulated giraffe with the carefree cowlick of fur on its head, though. No matter how much you beg, wail at or cry for the zoologist, they will not cave into your anthropoid tantrum.

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Now, one may argue that visiting a pet store may be more expensive because one may purchase any animal in sight. I would refute with the simple fact that any expenditures made would only increase the payer’s joy because it would be rewarded with a real creature to call “Fluffy” or “Socks” each subsequent day. At the zoo, you are only tempted to take that six-foot-long Chinese alligator home – your desires cannot become a reality.

Eritu’s Defeat Part 3 - Death

Eritu had been waiting several minutes for the King’s reply, but there was no reply. The King simply looked at him as though he were reading his mind. Then the King answered.
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“I do not wish you to worship my goodness, just worship me, as my slave, and enjoy all that I will give you.”
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“Yes, I am your slave King Leukos.”
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The King snapped back “Do not call me by that name; that is simply your tribe’s interpretation of me, a derivative of my name when I was a mere slave. I am now your King, and my name is not of any concern.”
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“Forgive me, Master.”
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Several moments passed now and Eritu continued to wonder where he could provide all that was necessary to worship this King. He kept thinking to the thing he had realized since meeting the King. Worship is more than just surrender. Is being this King’s slave adequate worship? No. He would have to do more. He wondered if the King realized his thoughts. He looked in the King’s eyes, which were still fixed on him. The King spoke again.
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“Now, what do you desire?”
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“I told you, my King, I desire to worship you.”
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“No. To worship me, you must begin to worship yourself, for you are like me. You are my slave. I will give you all of your desires, and your enjoyment is your act of worship to me.”
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Eritu though about what he wanted. “I am hungry.”
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“You will have food.” Suddenly a banquet filled the room. Every sort of food Eritu loved was there, and he was happy. Several things happened from this point. The King gave Eritu more and more of his desires and after several months of this Eritu truly did begin worshipping himself and the King. Worship is more than just surrender. Eritu was surrendered, and the King’s slave. What more could worship be?
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Eritu was just a young warrior when he had met the King. He never again saw war and never heard of the results of the war he had fled. He had now lived with the King for over thirty years, and Eritu had begun to feel the effects of old age. He was weaker than ever before, for he never had to work. He was given whatever he needed. And he had forgotten his question about worship. Then one day, the question was brought back to him by the King.
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“I have been giving you all you need and you are worshipping me well, slave. Do you want to finish your act of worship?”
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“Yes, Oh great King!” Eritu had loved the King for a long time now, and was eager to do his will.
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“Then you must die. Take this knife and end your life.”
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Eritu did not hesitate for he was on the King’s opium: incessant mindset of adoration. He took the knife and stabbed himself beneath the ribcage and up into his heart and lungs. It stung him and he winced, but he was doing the King’s will, and that was enough. He slowly drifted from the invisible palace he knew as home. Then he saw darkness. Eritu felt alone and hopeless. He was alone in this cold place. Eritu had worshipped the King of this world, and he was now a part of his kingdom forever.

Roofing

My right knee is the worst joint in my body. When ever it is submitted to bending beneath my 220 pounds, it cracks like breaking branch. No doctor has ever examined it, perhaps that should change. Perhaps a doctor should have been called on site four years ago, when I was lying on a porch roof all but crying. The porch roof was almost completely level, thankfully. But the roof that ascended from it was very steep, fourteen inches of rise for every foot of run.
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Moments before this scene I had been carrying bundles of shingles up the slope of the roof to the peak, using toe boards (spaced evenly every 3 feet and nailed to the roof perpendicular to its slope) to aid my shoe’s grip. The bundles of shingles weighed about sixty pounds each and my knees were doing all of the work in lifting the load of my weight combined with the wrapped asphalt. I would bend my knee, put my foot on the next toe board and lift the weight with a single leg’s strength. I had done this about six or seven times successfully, but this time my body failed.
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At the point I was using my leg to lift me; the knee failed, cracked and tore. I began sliding down the roof, and everything passed in an infinitesimal period of time. I had slid down the roof with shingles on my back and the toe boards had nearly ripped my shirt off during my descent. My chest consequently burned from the flesh that had been sanded off by the granular surface of the old shingles covering the roof. I was conscious on the porch roof thanking God I had not fallen to the ground. But my knee was twinged with an intense pain (ripped ligaments, no doubt) and my chest was bloody and burned.

Why I Am A Pickup Man

Ever since my first vehicle, a 1986 Ford Tempo, I have dreamt of owning something far better: a truck. Any person who has an understanding of masculinity (or machismo) knows that trucks are a symbol of manhood. That reason, among others, was my rationale for the goal of truck ownership. My father has had trucks for a significant part of his life, and when he was without a truck, he had an equally manly vehicle like a Jeep or 4x4 yellow Dodge van (formerly owned by the United States Geological Survey) in its place. So, for many years, I pursued my dream of owning my own metallic moving machine.
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If you are familiar with country music (which I generally am not), then you would know of the strange relationship that men have with their pickup trucks. Songs like “Pick Up Man” by Joe Diffie extol pickup trucks and their value in the life of their owners. These things help explain my draw to ownership of a pickup truck. There are also some specific components common to trucks that explain my draw to them:
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Two Seats
Most pickups only have two seats. This is representative of the collective pickup truck owners’ demographics. Two people only, The driver and his wife, or a dog, or a friend, or a comrade, ride in the front of a pick up. The driver needs only one other person to share life with. The one who fills the 'shotgun' seat is the driver’s right hand man (or woman), a trusted confidant whom he would fight to the death for. This is a valuable quality of pickups: true, deep and committed relationships. The crew cab or extended cab is a recent accommodation to those who want to have a crowd legally ride in their pickup with them.
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Uninhibited Space
The bed of a pickup is open for a reason: freedom. Freedom to cram four sofas vertically into the bed while moving is representative of the pickup-owner’s heart: ‘We’ll get the job done, no matter how hard it is.’ Again, a concession has been made for those who want to inhibit liberty: something called a topper.
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Economical Cabs
The interior of a pickup is quite different from the bed in that it appears to be closed in and, shall I say, inhibits freedom. This is not the case. The reason that the cab of the pickup has minimal storage space is because of the bed being so spacious. The owner does not need excess room to store possessions that can be destroyed by the elements. True pickup owners live on what they have (whether wet or cold or rusty), this is parallel to the ideals of ‘living off the land.’ The next time you encounter a pickup truck, look at what is in the bed. Usually there is a wealth of possessions wide open to the elements: this indicates that the truck owner has nothing to hide.
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I could keep going if you wanted me to, but you don’t. You see, this dream of mine has come true. I have been the proud owner of a 1994 Mazda B2300 since December. It is a little pickup, but it still feels manly. I hope that I have helped others to see the value in pickup ownership, and apologize to those I have offended.