On Life, and catching up

Hey. 

t's been a minute. Or two. Alright, maybe more like 6 months. I'm not sure if anyone actually missed my writing, but, on the off chance you did, I'm sorry. I don't necessarily have an excuse for not writing more often, and I suppose I don't really need one, but well, you know how it goes. Life happens. The daily grind does as it promises, and grinds you down. Time slips away.

n the last six months, I've felt fairly stagnant in my life - the only progress I feel I've made as a person comes in two forms: 

1) As a parent. I feel like I'm getting better at doing this "dad" thing. My kid seems to think so, in that she seems outlandishly happy all the time, and I suppose that's all that matters.

2) I've gotten a lot more, as I believe the kids call it, "woke". I feel like my outlook on life and society has shifted quite a bit recently, but I'll probably unpack that in another blog installment (hopefully sooner than 6 months from now). 

n the meantime, let's touch on point number one.

I'm still living in a 600sq foot box, surrounded by other, identical 600sq foot boxes. This amalgamation is lovingly referred to as the "Urban Village" by the property developer who put it together. While it's certainly cozy (the polite term for it), it's rapidly getting smaller by the day. Which isn't to say that it's actually decreasing in volume, but more so that my child is increasing in size at an alarming rate. She's pushing two years old, but is as tall as many three year olds. But since buying a home in Vancouver is fucking stupid, we'll likely be here for a bit longer yet. The upside to this is, she doesn't seem to care. 

We on't spend a lot of time at home. Living in central Whalley, or as the city of Surrey would have me call it, "the west village", has a lot of perks. Chief among them being proximity to a number of great parks, the mall, the library, the pool, and the SkyTrain. All things she loves. Its also a few minutes drive from Grandpa's house, Gran's house, Nana's house, and Aunties house, where her favourite (re: only, at least for now) cousin lives. Watching a child interact with her family, and her surroundings, is truly one of life's most simple pleasures. 

She's not only walking, but climbing all over everything. The climbing leads to her routinely scaring the shit out of me by showing me how good her balance is as she stands on the arm of the couch, yet again, while yelling about a clumsy Eggman. Or scaling the ladder to our loft bed, six feet off the ground, as she tries to justify this excursion to find the cat like it's some sort of holy pilgrimage. Now if only she could figure out how to climb down...

She sings. She dances. She proves that the hokey pokey is truly what it's all about on a daily basis, as she lights up my life with her infectious giggles.​

​​To cap it all off, she's finally got the fine art of sleeping down (mostly), and sleeps through the night (mostly). Which is tremendous. I had no idea how little sleep I'd been functioning on previously, until I realized I'd managed to get at least 6 consecutive hours every night for a span of 2 weeks. To all my new parent friends (or soon to be's), it'll get better. Give it time.

​​This has been a rambling blog post, with no real purpose other than providing some sort of State of Union-like statement on how things in my life as a parent are going. Anyways, that's it. Leave a comment, let me know how you're doing. Like I said at the top, it's been a minute. Let's catch up.

On Avril

This was originally written in May 2017, and hasn't been edited since it was written then.

This is a very personal blog entry, one I struggled to read after writing. I hadn't published it until now, I wasn't sure if I should. Writing it gave me closure at the time. I'm still not sure if I should publish it now either, but here it is anyways. 

---

I saw a man die on Thursday morning. I haven't told anyone this, as I've tried to put it out of my mind. But I watched a man die. He was laying on the pavement below Surrey Central station, and paramedics were doing chest compressions as I rounded the corner to head up to the train platform, I don't know how how long they'd been there for. I was late for work, and there was nothing I could do. But I watched a man die. His shirt was torn open, and he wasn't breathing. As I rode the escalator up I could see one of the paramedics sit up, look at his partner, and shake his head solemnly. They disappeared from my view after that, as I reached the platform above. 

 I didn't know this man, I never will. I don't know if was someone's father, someone's husband, a brother, an uncle. If you knew this man, I'm sorry for your loss, I truly am. 

A couple of weeks ago I lost someone very dear to me as well. She was a friend, a mother, an aunt, a wife, a grandmother. She was my grandmother, and I'll miss her everyday. I'm not sure if I've come to terms with her absence yet, maybe that's why I'm writing this post. It's important to remember those we've lost, to cherish the memories we have. It's important to grieve. 

She was the strongest woman I've ever known. She lived through the second world war with bombs raining down throughout her neighbourhood. She came to Canada as a young girl with her parents and brothers to settle on the Sunshine Coast, a foreigner in a new land on the other side of the globe. She met my grandfather, married and had two children, my aunt and my father. She had three grandchildren, and one great grandchild. She battled cancer throughout her life, beating it several times, until it finally came for her one last time. 

She used to take my cousin, my sister and I to the beach below their house to throw stones, swim, fish. She made us cookies and bread. She was quick to smile, slow to anger, and gave the best hugs. She taught me the value of patience, as I waited for the bread to rise, eager for a warm slice with butter as a young boy. She listened to our troubles, and gave us advice, but never judgement. She kicked my ass at monopoly and crib everytime we played, teaching me to never play monopoly with an accountant. 

 She loved my grandfather with such devotion and ferocity. She was the light of his life. Grandpa, never let that light go out - it's not gone, only dimmed, keep that fire burning. Cherish those times you had together, those decades. Crystal and I aspire to have a love like yours, 60 years of marriage is an incredible achievement.

She loved her friends, her family. She loved her grandchildren, and spoiled us often. She loved her great granddaughter, and I'm so glad they were able to spend even the brief times they had together. I wish Ciri had been so blessed as to know Crystal's grandparents as well.

 It's a difficult fact to face, but time comes for us all at some point, whether we're prepared for it or not. Grandma was ready. My grandma lived a long life, full of love and joy, and ups and downs. There were hard times and good times. She made the best of all of them, and is at the heart of some of my favourite memories. I'll never forget her smile, the sound of her voice, the smell of her baking. But I'll always miss her hugs, and those walks on the beach.

On Silence; Or, Speaking with another person's voice

I recently had a great conversation with a group of fellow gamers over Slack, in which we discussed the role of perspective within games. I feel like this discussion extends into other media as well, such as books and film. I wanted to talk a bit more about this topic, however as conversations do, the course of the discussion shifted and the thread was lost. Thankfully, I have a blog.

The role perspective plays within games is fascinating to me. So much can change with just a simple shift. The most noticeable shift I think can be seen is in the differences between games with voiced and silent protagonists.

The standard voiced protagonist is a character who is already well developed, a fully fleshed out person with their own backstory, motives and desires. This is a character who is driven, and their own individual. You're simply discovering their story as it unfolds in front of you. Some examples would be characters like Adam Jensen from Deus Ex, Geralt of Rivia from The Witcher series, BJ Blazkowicz from Wolfenstein, and Max Payne, from well, Max Payne.

Yeah, he's not thrilled about his name either

The player is in an interesting place with games with voiced protagonists. These are games with strong narrative structures, with well developed and compelling stories. These are interesting characters, with complex emotions and motives. The player isn't the character, they're simply in control of the characters actions. The character is the character, they just bring the player along for the ride. These style of games feature characters with voice acting, and frequent dialogue, either with other characters, or in the form of self reflection or narration. The best description I can think of for the role the player is placed into in these sorts of games is that of an observer.

The story is entirely out of the players hands, even in games with multiple endings, such as The Witcher. There are established end game points where eventually the story will conclude. None of this to say that these games aren't rewarding - quite the opposite. The Witcher 3 is absolutely one of my favourite games, and one my wife and I have played through multiple times. 

In contrast to these games however, we have games with silent protagonists. These would be your Dragonborn from Skyrim, The Lone Wanderer from Fallout 3, and of course, the infamous Gordon Freeman of Half-Life.

The Lone Wanderer. I mean, he's basically alone. Dogs can't talk either.

These are games with primarily first-person camera angles (3rd person is optional in Skyrim and Fallout), with characters with either non-existent or very limited backstories. The perspective shifts with this style of game. The player is the character in these games, for all intents and purposes. In the case of Skyrim and Fallout, the characters background is extremely limited, and the personality and motives of the character are largely a blank slate, waiting for the player to write their story onto them. You can be whoever you want to be. These types of open world games also feature strong stories, with rich narrative, however they allow the player to approach them at their own pace, or to ignore them altogether. They allow the player to tell their story if they so choose, role playing as a unique individual within the worlds setting.

Half-Life is different, in that Gordon Freeman is essentially a character on rails, with clear cut end game goals that don't allow for any deviation. The story has a point A to point B structure. Gordon has a limited backstory, that we learn of very early on in the game. However it's Gordon's lack of voice that allows the player to be him. Because he doesn't express his own thoughts, emotions or desires, the player is free to project themselves into and through him, effectively rendering ourselves Gordon Freeman while we play. In these games, the player is an active participant, and I find, more frequently deeply connected with the narrative and events of the game.

Half-Life masterfully evokes an emotional response from players with visual cues

An interesting twist on this however is the protagonist of The Legend of Zelda games, Link. Link is famous for never uttering a word, other than a grunt or a loud "hiiiiya!" while swing the Master Sword. Unlike Fallout, Skyrim, Half-Life, Dishonored, etc, The Legend of Zelda is in the 3rd person, with the camera set back and external from Link. While he doesn't speak, he has emotions, which he conveys through facial expression, or are expressed through the dialogue of non-playable characters.

The many faces of Link

As the player sees Link's face betray the way he's presently feeling, it allows the player to extrapolate what Link must be thinking as well. What this does is pull the player out of the role of the character, making the player an external party once again, in much the same manner as Max Payne and his many strange grimaces.

Again, none of this is to say that I prefer one game style over another - many of my favourite games fall into one camp or the other, and I'd never dream of decisively trying to decide which is the superior format. Such a task would be insurmountable, and frankly, rather silly. These are just different types of games, both can and do evoke a range of emotional and critical responses. I merely wanted to expand upon a previous discussion. If you'd like to keep the discussion going, please feel free to leave a comment below!

On Growth

It's been a whirlwind of a year since our daughter was born (well, 11 months as of this post), that feels like it's gone by in the blink of eye, and yet painfully, excruciatingly slowly all at the same time. I've grown rather fond of using the phrase "the longest, shortest time" to describe this point in my life. The days drag on and on, blending into ceaseless, unending nights, which give way to what feels like the shortest year of my life. 

It's a magical experience watching another person grow up, especially when that person happens to be your child. You feel like you're barely keeping your head above water most the time in the early months, gasping for air and any sort of break from the demands of this tiny human who can't be reasoned with because she doesn't understand the fundamental concept of "reason". It's weird how it feels like yesterday that my child was, for all intents and purposes, essentially a potato: 

Taken at 1 week old. That's one cute potato.

I don't mean to use the term potato in a derogatory sense, she just didn't do much, like a potato. She pretty much just laid there and stared at us, with unblinking, out of focus eyes  that shifted colours like the aurora borealis.

When I look at these "old" photos of my little girl, I almost don't recognize her anymore. She looks like someone else entirely, which makes me think of her passport photo, taken at 2 weeks old, which looks nothing like her, and makes me laugh when I think about her using this passport in the future when she's 5 years old. 

I mean, seriously, look at this thing

It's so bizarre watching her grow up. It's incredible, seeing her basically transform into an entirely different person over the span of a year. She's metamorphised from her potato form into a tiny person, learning to walk, tackling the cat, yanking on my beard and throwing down sign language like she's in some sort of street gang. She's learned so much so fast, and I can't wait to see where she goes next. 

But in addition to all of this, Crystal and I have grown a lot as well. I can't speak for Crystal, but I feel like I've aged a couple years in the span of one, and I'm sure I have a few new grey hairs to show for it. I also feel like I've learned to be more patient, and more aware of my own language and actions, as I seek to set a good example for this little person. 

Parenthood is a weird thing, different than I ever thought it would be, both easier and far more difficult, but at the same time richer and more fulfilling. It's been a wild year, and I can't wait to see what's in store for us in the future. 

On Fatherhood Pt.4

Two months ago - May 28th to be exact - my wife and I were blessed with the birth of lovely, healthy baby. We didn't find out the gender ahead of time, we wanted it to be a surprise. It was an incredible moment in our lives, full of joy and happiness. I already have a hard time remembering life before we had a baby. Yet it was also an intense, seemingly forever moment of time, packed with raw emotions - fear, pain, suffering, helplessness - and far more blood than I imagined.

The baby seemed to take forever to arrive. First, there was the long pregnancy, ending two weeks late. Often times people will say about anything that takes a while to arrive, "oh, the waiting is the hardest part". Those people are right. Sort of. But also not at all. The waiting was excruciating - going to work everyday, being ready to bolt out the door at the second the text message arrived declaring the imminent arrival of our dear little baby. This lasted for two weeks - two long, long weeks of unceasing alertness and readiness. That text message never came. Instead,  the waiting ended with us having to evict the stubborn little peanut from the womb with medical induction. The waiting was over.

Next, there came the actual hardest part - the neverending labour - nearly 40 hours of intense, painful contractions. I am in awe of the stamina and strength of the woman I love. While I slept - albeit fitfully - she suffered through a night of constant, uneven contractions, contractions that went on for over a day and a half. We arrived at the hospital, after more than 24 hours of contractions and multiple phone calls to the nurses station advising us "oh, just give it more time". Once we got there, we were told we may be sent to another hospital, as Surrey Memorial didn't have enough beds to accommodate every expectant mother in triage. We watched as one couple was sent to Royal Columbian, another to Peace Arch, and a third sent to Abbotsford. Then the water broke, and we were allowed to stay. 

We got a room, some pain medication was administered, and a brief couple hours of sleep followed. Then came a couple of hours (that felt like an eternity) of gut-wrenching pushing, which very nearly ended in a C-section, and resulted in our little darling being born on the operating table in case a last minute attempt at anything but a C-section failed - thankfully it didn't.

I tried my best not to look towards the doctors as they worked, not because I'm squeamish - but because I wanted to focus on my wife, on comforting her. I made the mistake of looking over once - and seeing far more blood than I ever imagined seeing at a birth. They don't tell you about that during prenatal classes - none of the videos or talks or books mentioned how incredibly visceral things could get.  

They lifted this tiny, incomprehensibly small person onto my wife's chest, and wrapped them in a towel. I cried. I squeezed my wife's hand, and practically sobbed out a few words - "we have a baby girl."

I spent the entire pregnancy boldly declaring "I'm not a baby person"; "When do they stop shitting their pants? I'm excited for them to be that age"; "I wish we could adopt a fully grown person who doesn't need anything from us". 

The moment I laid my eyes on her, I was smitten. I've never felt love so deep and powerful - it's such a raw, tangible feeling that tears at your heart. I became a baby person in the blink of an eye.

On Fatherhood Pt.3

Monday, May 16th was our due date. It's now Wednesday, May 18th. I know due dates are really, at best, a suggestion. But I was kind of hoping the baby would be here by now, if for no other reason than to preserve my sanity. Seriously, I don't understand how my wife is so calm right now. 

I'm starting to feel like Lenny and Carl watching sun creep across the floor of Moe's bar.

I've set my phone up so I only get notifications from her, since Facebook reminding that it's someone's birthday every morning while I was at work was really starting to stress me out. My new job, the one I talked around in my last blog post, is about a 45 minute train ride from home. It's not that far, but it's far enough that I'm pretty much always ready to run out the door at this point. 

I know my family and friends are on edge, waiting impatiently to hear the news that the baby is here. I've been greatly amused by the probing text messages and over-analyzing of my beer check-ins on Untappd. Especially the beer check-ins, with people suggesting that because I haven't checked in a beer over the course of an evening means that maybe, just maybe, it's because I'm at the hospital. I have co-workers who are disappointed to see me in the morning, because it means the baby isn't here yet.

It's weird, being so excited to meet someone I don't know and have never met before. To be absolutely thrilled at the thought of holding our baby. A couple years ago I would've recoiled at the idea of becoming a father anytime soon. Now it can't happen soon enough.

The fact that I'm bursting with excitement doesn't belay the fact that I'm still filled with sheer blind terror at the idea of becoming a dad, of my wife becoming a mom. That's still very much present right now. I probably won't quite grok the concept of what I've gotten myself into until the little poop factory bundle of joy is the room with us.

Life is weird. People are weird. We're so full of contradictory emotions and thoughts. It's a wonder our species has made it this far. Being excited and scared; nervous and happy. It doesn't make a lick of sense (neither does that expression, but the hell with it). I guess that's just part of the human condition. Just something else to introduce our little one to when the time finally comes.

On New Beginnings

Friday, April 8th. That's the date that marks the end if my almost 11 year tenure at Two EE's Farm.

Summer 2015, before the field was sold.

It's a strange, surreal feeling, one that hasn't quite sunken in yet. I don't think it will until I board to skytrain on Monday the 11th, and travel to a new job, and hopefully a new career, in the opposite direction of the farm. There's a sort of melancholy sadness, mixed with equal parts of excitement and nervousness at the thought of leaving a job after so long to start a new one.

Two EE's has been my second home. The people there, the regulars, the lifers, my family. The transient, summer student employees my foster siblings, here one day, gone the next.

I won't miss the sweltering summer heat on my back, as I rip weeds from the ground. I won't miss the cold, rainy January days, scrapping mud out of gutters. I won't miss dealing with some of the customers. But I probably will miss all of it.

I'll miss the fresh air, and the fresher fruits and veg. I'll miss my coworkers, and the feel of fresh tilled soil under my feet. I'll miss the smells of the farm, of flowers, dirt, and the faintly sweet scent of compost. I'll miss the early mornings, watching the sun climb over Mount Baker in the distance.

Rainbow Chard, fresh from the field.

It's strange. It's like leaving home again. It's like setting out on a new path, a new adventure, knowing that things will never be the same again. I've never quit a job before, this is the only job I've ever really known. I've watched coworkers come and go, some of them multiple times, and I wonder if they've felt this same way. Or if it was just a job to them, just a paycheque.

Two EE's was my home. It's a part of who I am. And I'll be forever grateful for having worked there. But I'm ready for something new. 

On Fatherhood Pt.2

This is part 2 of an ongoing series on fatherhood, and my journey towards becoming a dad. To read part 1, click here: Part 1
 

Two weeks ago my wife and I started taking prenatal classes put on by Douglas College's North Surrey Continuing Education Program. The classes have been super informative, and while we've only done two classes so far, I feel like I've learned a lot of stuff I never knew, and a whole lot of stuff I never knew I didn't want to know.

For instance, did you know that it's a scientific fact that all 3D ultrasound images are actually of Cave Trolls, and not babies?

It's also proving to be a seemingly unlimited source of unintentional hilarity. Seriously, some weird and funny shit goes down at these things. For instance, this week we were learning about what to do when labour starts, and the instructor - and we'll talk more about her in a minute - separated us into two groups, of moms and dads. We had to make a list of all the things we thought we'd need to bring to the hospital with us. The list the women came up with comprehensive, and spanned the whole range of household and personal items. They knew what they were talking about, and had clearly thought of this stuff already. The list us menfolk concocted was, well, let's just call it rather brief and only slightly embarassing. Our initial list, and the one we were all content to go forward with before we were scolded by the instructor, consisted of three items:

• Woman
• Baby (I pointed out that the two were technically one "thing" until much later, but was shot down)
• Ipod

After our scolding, we acquiesced, and expanded our list to include a carseat, clothes, blankets for ourselves to sleep on, and some snacks. Oh and granny panties. Apparently those are important for some reason that I won't go into here.

Our instructor is a very nice lady,  in that late-forties-early-fifties age range that's hard to distinguish between, and starting to go through menopause, so she's always really hot, and leaves the front door propped open with a trash can to crash and bang in the wind. She's also British, and uses weird British slang. She's also prone to getting super distracted and going off on tangents about her kids. It's been quite the experience watching this woman imitate what labour is like, and the sounds she makes are nothing short of haunting: 

This is, of course, just a crude approximation. The real thing sounds much more like a goat than this.

Supposedly once this class is finished, there's going to be a reunion class about a month or so after all the babies have been born. I'm already afraid of being around my own child, largely due to the projectile vomiting I've heard so much about, and so the thought of being in a room containing 8 other tiny vomit factories fills me with a sense of almost palpable dread. I guess I'm just not a baby person.

Crystal and I have discussed this before, and we've both concluded that we're not really baby people. You know the type. The people who see a baby and let out an unconscious gasp of excitement and perhaps a little squeal of joy, perhaps followed by cooing noises about tiny feet. Those are baby people. Me, not so much.  What's the age when they stop defecating in their drawers all the time? I'm excited for that. I guess I just really want a tiny person I can have weird surreal conversations with.

All that being said, I find myself growing less frightened of infants by the day. Perhaps it has something to do with just how damn adorable my new niece is, but they're starting to seem less scary all the time.

On Goodbye's and Hello's

A few days ago Vancouver bade farewell to one of it's many sons. My good friend Hythe, who boarded a plane out of YVR - one my favourite places in the world - and set off to Taiwan earlier this week.  He's headed to Thailand next, and magically appearing in Europe some months later. I don't know how it all works. I'm assuming it has something to do with interdimensional rifts or some such thing.

If our collective confusion over an X is any indication, it may take a while to figure out Hythe's travel plans. (Photo credit to Jonny Picture)

I'll let Hythe tell you himself. You see, he's going to be blogging with me here at 3B, over at his own travel blog, which can be found here: http://booksbeersandbeards.com/weltenbummeln

You might be looking at that url and thinking, what the hell is Weltenbemmeln? If you are, well, that's probably because you don't understand German. Weltenbummeln is, well, I'll let Hythe explain it, it's his blog after all.  Thankfully, Google Translate's got your back if you're in any kind of urgency.

At the time of writing this, there's no posts or content there yet. It's coming. Hythe is halfway around the world after all, and it's 2am there right now. Plus he kind of needs wifi to post, which he may not always have access to. 

Give him a warm hello when he shows up 'round here. Because me and a few dozen other folks already gave him one hell of a goodbye.

On Airports

Last night my wife and I travelled out to YVR, to pick up my Mom and step-father, who were returning from three weeks in Australia. We arrived early, in case the plane chose to do so as well (it didn't) and decided to kill some time walking around the spaces open to us, since we rarely ever fly out of YVR. 

If only it were possible to kill time in airport.

A man awaits the sweet release of death in an airport.

It wasn't a particularly late evening, we got there at about 7:45, and so there were still a handful of blatant traps shops still open and people milling about. It was then that I was struck with the realization of what happens to time - the sense and tangibility of it - in an airport.

Time simply ceases to function in the manner of which we're accustomed. The closest analogy I could come up with was that airports occupy a curious portion of space-time, and are, in essence, purgatory or limbo. As you walk the halls of the airport, you see people doing the only thing they can do, waiting. Everywhere you look, people are waiting. Waiting to fly, waiting to pick up luggage, to drop off luggage, to greet an arriving loved one, to leave, to climb in a taxi, to pass customs, people are always waiting. 

Airports try to make the waiting more bearable. The sole purpose of airports various accoutrement, the shops, food court, seven Tim Hortons/eighteen Starbucks, and miscellaneous art pieces seems to be to ease the passage of time. I believe that airport bars exist for the singular purpose of lubricating our sense of time, to make it easier for us to deal with the crushing blow to our sense of being that accompanies the announcement that your flight has been delayed by two hours because it's still raining in Seattle.

The lubrication provided by airport bars also comes in handy when the airline gently informs you that there's an additional convenience fee on the use of the air you breathe overhead luggage rack of only $39.99, and kindly suggests that you bend over and take it.

But aside from the various kiosks and food courts with which airports try to make time pass quicker and fail, they resort to a method long understood by mankind as the worst way to pass time, sitting down and staring at a clock. Airports make this easy, they provide ample benches throughout the concourse (although finding two or more together is often difficult) and then helpfully mount a television on the ceiling, and put a clock on the corner of the screen. As you watch the seconds slowly start to reverse, like grains of sand falling up, you being to wonder what you did in life that lead to this moment. A sort of madness grips you.

What past sins did you commit that damned you to this hell. Was it the time you fed your sister small bugs? The time you forgot to feed the cat before leaving for school when you were seven? What about that time you mixed your plaids? Or wore white socks with dress shoes? How about the murderous thoughts you've just started having towards the small screaming child sitting three rows of uncomfortable benches over, could those have damned you to this hellish nightmare?

And then, suddenly, you're free to leave. Much like leaving purgatory, you ascend, purified, your essence distilled into one of purest relief,  either into the clouds above on the steel wings of a plane, or into the blessed freedom of outside, into fresh air, and drive away home.

On Fatherhood

This is going to be part of an ongoing series, as I try to make sense of what it means to be a father, since in a few short months (and they're increasingly feeling shorter and shorter) I'm going to become a dad. And I couldn't be more more excited. Or terrified.
 

Pictured: A baby version of me, 11 months old. Practicing for a modeling gig I never got.

Fathers are an intrinsic part of human society. Most of us have one. I say most, because some people have two, and some people have none, but the majority of people have a dad. Some dads are wonderful, amazing human beings, others are just okay, and some are, well, deadbeats. Dads are as varied in quality as any other people. I suppose the same can be said of moms.

My dad is one of the good ones. No, sorry, he's one of the amazing ones. He's taught me more life lessons than anyone else, and I feel like he (and my mom of course, but this blog is about dads, sorry Mom) is one of the primary reasons I feel I can consider myself a successful adult, whatever your definition of what that means. He taught me how to ride a bike, to fish, to build a fire and to change the oil in my car. He taught me to respect women and to appreciate a good rye. My dad can be summed up pretty accurately I feel, as a man of integrity. He says he's going to do something, and he does it. I've never seen him cheat or lie about anything, even Monopoly, and everyone cheats at that awful game. I'm secretly pretty sure that's how my grandmother won every game I played with her*; although maybe it's because she was as an accountant, and 8-year old me was rather lousy at math and didn't quite grasp the concept of what a "monopoly" actually is. But back on topic: Dads. My dad isn't perfect, he has his faults, but so do we all. But he's my dad, and I'm intensely proud of that fact. Dad, I'm pretty sure you're reading this, and I don't think I've ever said it before, but thanks for everything you've ever done for me. I love you.
 

My Dad, my sister, and I. 

It's soon going to become my responsibility to share in the care and maintenance of the life of another human being, one completely incapable of taking care of itself, or telling me what it needs or wants. A wholly uncontributing member of society. It's going to be my responsibility (and my wife's) to educate and teach our child how do this thing we do called living. I have to feed this person, clean up after them, keep them safe. They're going to puke, poop, and generally make a mess, and I'll have to clean it up. They'll get sick, I'll take care of them, then I'll get sick, then this cycle will repeat. This is going to last for the rest of my life. And to top it all off, like some sort of sadistic cherry on top, this tiny human being is going to seriously cut into my beer budget. This is, to put it in the bluntest of terms, fucking terrifying.

But at the same time that I feel the icy grip of fear envelope my heart, I can feel the warmth of joy prying those cold fingers loose. I get to experience everything in life over again, anew, through the eyes of a tiny little person who's never seen a tree before. Who's never seen the sky, who has no idea what anything tastes like, or feels like, or has any concept of, well, anything. And I'd be lying if I said the idea of all that didn't fill me with excitement and tumultuous joy. I get to sit down and read books to a tiny little person who's never seen a book before. How soon is too soon to start reading Tolkien to them? At what age can I introduce Neil Gaiman and Patrick Rothfuss to my child? These are serious, pertinent questions about parenting that I need answers to.

I'm looking forward to becoming a father, to being called "Dad" soon. I hope I can do as good a job raising this little one as my dad did raising me, and as his dad did raising him. 
 

*I don't really think my grandma cheated at Monopoly. She's beaten my entire family at it, many, many times. You'd think we'd learn to stop playing with her. Maybe she should have been an investment banker or something.

On Games

Games have been a big part of my life for just about as long as I can remember. I've always enjoyed playing video games, boardgames, and I even enjoy sports - the more-likely-to-cause-injury kind of games. I like games so much they that occupy an entire bookshelf in my apartment, a cupboard in my entertainment stand, space in my closets and storage locker, and currently a couple terabytes of harddrive space. I have a lot of games. 

The annual gathering of the nerds, PAX East, Boston, MA

But why?

Why do people play games? Aren't they just wasting their time? Anyone who's ever spent time in their youth playing video games can attest to the things said by parents, relatives, and other authority figures in regards to electronic entertainment: "Put down that controller!" "Pick up a book!" "Go outside!" The list goes on.

And while outside has it's merits - the resolution is stunning, and the graphics are amazing, although the game mechanics could use a little work, no extra lives or savegames? Really? - I feel that a lot of the time video games are misunderstood.

Ask anyone who's ever spent hours - or even days - playing a giant RPG, or an adventure games, such as The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time, or Fallout, and they can attest to the richness and depth of the stories told by those games. Many games rival the greatest books in terms of storytelling, with characters embarking on epic quests to save the world, or to escape a terrible evil, or to discover what it is to be human. Games let you do fantastic things: jump higher than anyone has ever jumped, fly, drive amazing vehicles, and save entire universes. How many times have you found yourself reading a book and wishing you could be part of that world? Games let you do that.

I've recently been playing through a game called The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt, made by a Polish game studio called CD Projekt RED. The story and worldbuilding in the game is so rich and engaging that it can be easy to assume the world the designers have crafted is a real one, not since the first time I read Tolkien have I been this drawn into a fantasy world.

As a child, I played games because I loved the stories they told, the gameplay was fun and engaging, and so I could explore. Sure I could go outside and explore my backyard, or explore the forest down the street, and I did those things often. But how could that compare to exploring an entire new world, inhabited by fantastic new creatures and alien flora? My generation was born too late to explore the Earth, and too early to explore the stars, but we were born at just the right time to explore the imaginations of each other.

Books, as much as I love them, can only tell you about other worlds, and authors must let you imagine them yourself. Television and movies can show you the worlds of their creators, and yet you only see what they want you to see, and only fleetingly. But games, games can show you those worlds, exactly as their creators intended them to be, and at the same time, let you live in them, however briefly.

It's not just mere escapism  that draws people like myself to play games. It's certainly part of it, but games allow the mind to wander, the imagination to soar. Games let us be kids again, and as we get older, isn't that something we all wish we could be?

On Blogging

Why do I want to write a blog? 

This is a question I've been asking myself recently, as I started seriously considering starting this project. And I've come to the following conclusion:

I'm writing this blog as a means to try and organize my mind, to put thoughts and ideas into coherent form, and to keep them all together in one centralized space, rather than scattered to the winds of the internet across innumerous other websites.

I've always enjoyed writing, and the written word in general. If you've ever seen one of my short essays on Facebook, you'll likely understand. And so writing a blog seemed like a natural progression.

I have a deep affinity for books, and perhaps indulge in my love of collecting them a little bit too vigorously at times, as my wife (and credit card statements) will likely attest. I often find myself desperate to discuss a book, and so starting a book review blog seemed a good place to start.  

I also bear a deep, unquenchable love of good craft beer. As I noted in the post in the beer review blog, I was starting to feel limited by the usual avenue I take for reviewing beer, and so moving onto bigger things seemed almost a necessity. 

Two of the three blogs here (the Book and Beer blogs) will be much more focused, as their primary subjects are found within their names readily enough. But the third blog, this blog, so aptly named, won't have such a focus. There's going to be lot of daydreaming and navel gazing going on here, as well as recollections, ruminations and rants. 

Hopefully you'll find something here worth reading, and I'll have made something worth everyone's time.

- Ryan