Freedom from Things

Hugh Hefner is dead. There are many individuals who can be labeled “problematic,” but Hefner leaves a very complicated footprint on the cultural landscape.

 Was Hefner a sexual revolutionary? Yes. Just as the Eisenhower era attempted to calcify sexual mores Hefner and Playboy reacted by creating a veneer of respectability in taking old nudie mags and upping the presentation and book-ending it with world-class writing. The articles – for which you surely “read it” – provided the fig leaf when censors attempted to silence it. Hefner fought the censors while cutting a stylish figure whose hip, urbane forward thinking defied prudes to label him a filthy pornographer. You could censor Playboy, but that would mean censoring Bradbury, Updike, Joyce Carol Oates, and more. Playboy used art and journalism to justify the tits and ass. Playboy was a premier venue for fiction, and the long-form monthly interview gave its subjects the license for unusual insight and candor.

 In many ways Hefner was to porn as Steve Jobs was to computers. He used branding to soften the edges on the ugly, exploitive aspects of porn. These were not nude models or porn actresses; they were ‘Playmates,’ with one for each month. You weren’t purchasing a stroke mag. Your subscription bought you a collectible volume with cutting-edge cultural content and glossy, attractive women who appeared attainable to the average American middle class (probably white) straight male. Hefner told that man that the trappings of affluence were his to acquire. Playboy represented a dream of comfort for that man. Thus, when the censor came for Playboy it faced the ultimate reactive power in America: the entitled libido of the middle class male.

 So why is Hefner such a problematic figure? It’s the same reason why most porn is problematic: capitalism. Once a woman’s body ceases to be merely itself and becomes a commodity that can be exchanged for motive power (money) its value is no longer determined by the woman who possesses it but by the entities that trade in it. Hefner (and others) argued that posing in the nude was empowering – because it served his purposes. Hefner detoxified the brand of the nude female image and made it a commodity that was safe to traffic in, but his goal was always to get rich, get famous, and get laid. Any empowerment experienced was a happy accident.

 This is not to denigrate the important artistic work that appeared in Playboy’s pages, nor is it meant to belittle the women whose bodies made Hefner a well-paid, well-fucked man. Those writers, editors, photographers, and models all shared in the labor that rattled one facet of the patriarchy while reinforcing another.

 It has been noted that one of the most toxic aspects of sex positivity is when freedom to fuck is conflated with the obligation of women to be game participants in transgressing norms rather than the drivers thereof. I’ve seen this multiple times in the non-monogamy community, the kink community, and in everyday life. If we are to honor the changes to which Hefner contributed then we must also acknowledge that when a body can be leveraged to make money there are inherent incentives to devalue the body in order lubricate the machinery of supply-and-demand.

 Hefner’s “revolutionary” idea was that sex is not ipso facto dirty or wrong and therefore should be ‘free.’ That much is true, and we’d all be a lot better off if that idea gained greater traction. Especially in 2017. Instead of making the justification for the freedom of expression the capitalist gratification of the American male we should work to ensure the physical, emotional, and economic agency of women and thus the world entire.

Last night we held a ceremony celebrating my mother’s life. I was struck by how many lives she has touched and the outpouring of love and support I and all of my family experienced. I shared this with them, and I share it here.

As we gather here today am I reminded of my grandmother’s funeral over fifteen years ago.  The pastor spoke of both my grandparents. He said that Cecil, my grandfather, showed us how to live, and that Joan, my grandmother, showed us how to die. We live the lessons that our parents teach us.

The saying is true: how we deal with death is at least as important as how we deal with life, because life is finite, but living is not. That is why I must say with great pain and admiration that the best thing that happened to my mother is also the worst.

 When my mother was diagnosed with cancer she took it as an opportunity to focus on living a better life. My mother struggled greatly in her life and wrestled with depression. When she was diagnosed I did not know how she would manage. But she did.  She poured her energies into the things she loved. She devoted herself to her family. She continued her education – a lifelong ambition – and she summoned the strength to travel to the places she wanted to see before she died.

 In facing death my mother chose to live the best life she could. I am proud of her.

 “It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.” Dickens wrote those words for a man who used his last moments to be a better person. Mary Mazzuca is at rest now, but we should all follow her example – to live the best version of our own lives, as she herself did.

At the end of last night’s ceremony the head of her department presented the family with a diploma for a Bachelor of Arts from Colorado Women’s College. At last her studies have come to a close, and the great ambition of her life fulfilled. My greatest regret was that I never got to see her walk to receive a diploma for which she worked over the course of decades. My sister, my nephew, and I got to walk for her.

Anything I say about An Octoroon at the Wilma is ultimately insufficient. I’m going to try, though – because you need to see this show.

 The barest description I can give for Branden Jacobs-Jenkins’ script is to call it a genre-hashing deconstruction of a pre-Civil War melodrama. The Wilma Theatre’s production takes every aspect of that script and delivers on its promises. Director Joanna Settle’s ensemble (and truly that – every performer brings a powerful, unique presence to the table) takes a deeply challenging script and runs with it. Admire these people – half the time they’re acting in two different, complementary genres at once. That’s where the true, bracing, vital fun of An Octoroon lies: it’s a gymnastic routine of genre and form, brutal, hilarious, revolting, graceful, ugly, and human. Very human. Painfully, excitingly human. Once you realize just how deftly it dodges between period and contemporary dialogue, salvaged text, social commentary, hilarious banter, dance, a fist-pumping live music act, and heinous degradation you begin to revel in just how many balls are in the air. ILL DOOTS lays down a fantastic live set that reclaims the melodrama and gives it a strident hip hop soundtrack. At the end of the first act I had one big question: can it possibly stick the landing? It does. Brilliantly.

Spock is dead.

 Such a reductive way to note the passing of Leonard Nimoy. It seems so self-indulgent to contextualize our grief by making the man’s role of a lifetime the placeholder for his identity. Spock is a piece of fiction. Leonard Nimoy was a man: complex, fallible, human. To boil his existence down to a character he played for three seasons and several movies is to presume an existence no greater than our own narrow perception. Leonard Nimoy deserves to be remembered as more than Spock. He deserves to be remembered as Leonard Nimoy.

 So why do we feel this loss of a man we never met?

 For myself and many like me Spock represented our highest ideals: enlightenment, rationality, dedication, and hope. Star Trek portrays a future where humanity has transcended its basic needs and promotes learning, exploration, and cultural exchange. The unknown is not something to fear but to be embraced and understood. That’s a future worth seeing. That’s a future worth building.

 In the middle of it all was Spock, logical, detached, but still waiting to be surprised the wonder of it all. That’s text. The connection to the audience, the one who sold the world on this idea? Nimoy. Portraying intelligence is difficult – true intelligence, not preening “Smartest Guy in the Room” showboating. One of the hardest stage directions to give to an actor is “He thinks.” It’s such a relative, potentially-neutral action to play that when assigned to an actor playing a cool, logical character runs the risk of falling flat. What Nimoy did was find the drive of his character not in the absence of emotion but in the deepest, most restrained expression thereof. That is why we identified so much with a character so alien.

 Leonard Nimoy made him human because he helped us see the humanity in an alien, and we saw ourselves better.

 It is also fascinating to watch how Nimoy’s relationship with the character evolved from job to millstone to mouthpiece, and finally, his own ideal. Today with our remix nostalgia-based culture we are more than happy to have our favorite actors play the same part for us in perpetuity. In the 70’s getting locked in as a scifi actor meant a dwindling career, not a stable niche career as many enjoy today. That, plus that curious obsessiveness of a people buying into a different worldview caused him to wrestle with the character. Leonard Nimoy signed on to be an actor, not to be the face of a movement. When Nimoy finally did embrace the character he acknowledged why so many keyed into the very character that he by his performance helped create.

 Now with Nimoy gone we are filled with a sense of loss. It is not the personal loss of a loved one. It is the loss of a symbol. Spock was a symbol of the best we can be, and Leonard Nimoy was the vessel of that symbol. We grieve because there’s one less reminder of what we can be. It’s not the stabbing pain of loss. It’s hollowness resulting from a world that is now a little less full – with the sense that it ought be made fuller.

One tumbler, filled with cubed ice

10 shakes of Angostura Bitters

Juice of one lime

A generous pour of aromatic gin

A delicate splash of 100% Pure Cranberry Juice

One half-squeeze of fresh lemon juice

Yesterday, a New York Grand Jury declined to indict the police officer who ended the life of Eric Garner. This is not conjecture or opinion. The official medical examiner's ruling was "homicide" - a death resulting from human volition, the physical cause of which was the choke hold administered by Officer Daniel Pantaleo. There is also little debate about that, especially since the homicide was captured on video.

I was speaking with a friend tonight over Facebook, and he wondered if, in our current climate, Stacey Koon would have even been indicted, much less convicted.

Stacey Koon? Now there was a name I hadn't heard in... years. Wasn't he? Oh. Yes. Rodney King. 

And then, memory.

When I was in Catholic grade school we had prayer at the start of each day. Shortly after the Rodney King beating one of my classmates asked us to pray for Rodney King. The teacher berated him, saying "How can you say that? Your father is a police officer!"

Even though that was long before my consciousness grew to appreciate how race, class, and the dynamics of power permeate our society, I was deeply off-put by the fact that my teacher excoriated my classmate for asking to pray for a man who, clearly, had received a harsh beating.

I still have to wonder: how does praying for a man insult one's father? How does praying for a man, even a criminal, insult a police officer? Up until then, I had had a lot of Catholic dogma drilled into me, and mercy unto sinners was pretty high on the list. I know. It was constantly reinforced that I was a sinner, that my sins caused Jesus to suffer and die, and that I could be forgiven if I acted faithfully. There seemed room for mercy for Rodney King in that cosmogony.

Now I understand what my teacher was actually saying. Praying for Rodney King wasn't an affirmation of God's grace towards a criminal. She viewed it as questioning the actions of a police officer - someone in authority. In any authoritarian power structure the questioning of authority is the unforgivable sin. I can now see how that would enrage someone in her position in that context.

But all authority can - and indeed should - be questioned. Even if you agree with it. Especially if you agree with it. Equality and justice are concepts whose definitions are concrete but whose perspectives are fluid, and they are only truly grasped via extensive inquiry - with both the implicit and explicit acknowledgement that you yourself can indeed be wrong. If your bedrock supposition is that you are right, then all following analyses are colored by that bias. That is not only inherently ignorant. It is the path by which you become a party to terrible things,

There's a lot of evil in this world done by good people because they do not ask why they are good.

That is why I value my closest friends. They are the ones I can count on to find the holes in my arguments, the errors in my judgment. They keep me honest. They help me grow. They make me better. Without them, I am diminished.

To question authority is not disloyalty. It is the ultimate affirmation of loyalty, because those who question, who criticize are those invested in the continued growth of a system.  Once someone is completely checked out of a system, they can either ignore it or destroy it. A healthy system provides opportunities for greater renewal of its components and deeper investiture among them. An unhealthy system will eventually fail.

As I wandered past the couch, I heard some rather catchy faux-classical music coming from my girlfriend's computer. I lean in. Countryside. Building. Thing. I ask, "What's this?" thinking it was a viral video or some new cable series. 

"Downton Abbey," she replies, looking as if I had inquired about the Skywalker family tree.

"Really?" I had no idea. She has watched all of Downton Abbey (save for the episode she's watching right now) within 5 feet of me. I should be able to name characters and discuss that big plot twist that came at the end of season.... like... I think 4? 5? Is this Season 6?

Part of that is my policy to only watch shows after they're over. Before I take a deep dive, I want to know if it was worth it. Also, if I truly get into a show, I want to devour it. Also, it's nice to have warning before a hard shark jump moment. My life's too busy to get involved with a story without an end point.*

There's a certain strangeness that we can isolate to that degree. She can consume hours upon days of media semi-publicly and I know only that Downton Abbey:

A) is British

B) has lots of situations and things and period detail stuff

C) is regarded by a large number of people whose taste I respect to be the current state of the art in High Quality BBC Period Drama.

It's rather telling that in 2014 the personal enclosure within one's device -  a window we ourselves select as a catch-all window on the outside world - we can isolate. In one sense it's amazing that we can engage wholly closed off from their other's experience - while we're close enough to need to mind each other's feet. It's also not that remarkable - it's not like people reading novels in their rocking chairs by candlelight were any more connected.

Now, back to my world engagement hole.

Two Points of Irony for Today

1) Comcast did NOT actually give me the worst customer service I experienced today.

2) I am writing this on a blog about my desire to get rid of excess possessions, and it concerns renting a truck to move my extraneous possessions from one apartment to the next.

  So, this story stretches back to August 2nd, when I priced out a truck for moving into my new apartment with my Girlfriend.

  Note: I have confirmations in email, text message, and call recording for most of these interactions. To their credit, @UhaulCares tried to take care of my concerns on August 5th.  I did not post this then because I decided to wait and see. Would they honor agreements? If so, I’d publish praise. If not… well…

  Time for Plan B.

  Begin Message that recapped up to then:

  Truck Availability and Customer Service - Nick Mazzuca - Order # *****297

4 messages

Nick Mazzuca <myemail>            Tue, Aug 5, 2014 at 9:44 PM

To: [email protected]

To Whom It May Concern,

  Over Twitter you asked for my problem. On Saturday my girlfriend and I called the number for University City U-Haul in Philadelphia to price out trucks for our move. The agent was very helpful and gave us a detailed, useful quote. We wanted to do a bit more research, and she let us know that we should book quickly before the end-of month bookings fill up. We wanted to book a truck on the morning of the 29th and keep it until the morning of September 2nd. She said it was no problem, and after we did some research, I resolved to book on the next business day - Monday 8/4/14.

  When I called in to book, the agent pulled my quote up and then informed me that it was impossible to book - a hold on multi-day bookings had been put in effect in the less-than-36 hours between the calls. I asked if there was anything to be done, and he said to call the booking manager of the location. I was transferred over to an individual to whom I explained the situation. They stonewalled. I suggested work-arounds, such as making 3 individual 24 hour bookings for each day - and was met with hemming and passivity. I then requested a supervisor. I repeated the same story and was told that my booking was possible, and that a confirmation email was on the way.

  I received a confirmation email and availability confirmation text message - for one 24-hour booking from the morning of 8/29 to the morning of the 30th - not the 8/29-9/2 booking I booked. I immediately called back and described the previous several calls and their proceedings in detail. The service rep I received then was quite direct, understanding, and helpful. He modified the booking, sent a prompt confirmation email, and also gave me the number of your booking services hotline for the area so that if the University City location refused to honor the booking they would get a line on a location in my area that would. I thanked him, and I decided to wait 24 hours to see if another availability confirmation text would come through, cementing my booking. This relatively-simple booking had become complicated enough that I felt it best to double check, lest I be without a truck on moving day.

  24 hours passed, and I called back. I explained the situation, illustrated my concerns and asked if the booking was certain. The rep dismissed my concerns, stating that I had a confirmation email - what further evidence did I need? I asked if it was still possible for the truck that I booked not to be available. She said it was, because it was the end of the month - that I should expect so. I stated that that was why I was pricing and booking my rental early - and why I was following up to ensure that my request was fulfilled. She went on to state that it was not fair that I would book for multiple days, which might mean that others would not be able to rent trucks. I responded that I was not borrowing a truck but renting one - exchanging cash goods for services rendered at the price that U-Haul dictated. She then browbeat me for wanting to use a truck for multiple days - why would I need that much time to move a one-bed apartment?

  Frankly, trying to shame me for wanting to use your service is an excellent way to get me to rethink my need for a truck - namely your truck.

  I know that I may indeed need to cancel this booking - and the sooner the better. If you cannot guarantee the truck's availability, I'll be forced to cancel.

  Thank you for your time,

Nick Mazzuca

Order # *****297

Paul Cotton <[email protected]>     Tue, Aug 5, 2014 at 10:07 PM

To: my email

Hello Nick,

  I apologize for the issue with the representative. I do show that your reservation was confirmed for the time period that your are requesting it. I was wondering the second representative that you contacted in regards to this were they from the main call center or did you call one of the local offices. I would like to follow up with the team that is responsible for that representative.

  Thank you,

  Paul Cotton

Social Media Support Specialist

Phone: Redacted by NJM

VoIP Ext: Redacted By NJM

[Quoted text hidden]

Nick Mazzuca <myemail>            Tue, Aug 5, 2014 at 10:24 PM

To: Paul Cotton <[email protected]>

Paul,

I am honestly not sure - I call the local number for University City U-Haul. Each time it sounds like it goes to a call center rather than a local land line. I could not confirm which one it would be without listening to a recording.

  If this means that I should be good to go for the 29th, I thank you.

  Thanks,

Nick Mazzuca

  Re: Truck Availability and Customer Service - Nick Mazzuca - Order # *****329

2 messages

Paul Cotton <[email protected]>     Tue, Aug 5, 2014 at 10:32 PM

To: my email

Nick,

  From what I can see you are all set up for the 29th. I will follow up with the call center management team in regards to the call I believe the representative would have been from there.

  Thank you,

  Paul Cotton

Social Media Support Specialist

Phone: Redacted by NJM

VoIP Ext: Redacted by NJM

    From there I was satisfied. A check of my confirmation page showed the truck requested and available. I received an “Early Check In” Email, and since I had time today, I decided to proceed with early check-in to get the last of my pre-move chores locked down.

I proceeded to do early check-in, but the Availability had changed to One Day and 3 hours. This was changed without my knowledge. I proceeded to call the Uhaul customer service line and told them the story behind all of this. They transferred me to the regional office. I explained to the gentleman that I had been promised in writing that I would have a 10’ truck on the days I requested. He said none were available – a change from previous. He then told me my options. He said I could drive to Delaware to pick up a truck, I could accept a downgrade to a 9’ van, or I could cancel my request. I asked if they would drive the truck up here. He said no – that I would have to drive to Delaware. I replied that I did not have a car – hence why I requested a truck from a store in my neighborhood. I said that I would call customer service again – to which he hung up on me. I proceeded to call customer service again and explained the problem in detail again. I was transferred  - again, and without warning – to the same gentleman who repeated the same lack of adjustment or options. I then said that I would call customer service again. I did again, and the service rep said she would transfer me to the Regional Manager, Myra Colum at 888-829-7326. I hung on a silent line for minutes, hung up, then called that number directly. The same gentleman again – who up through now never offered his name – said that his regional manager had been notified of my calls and that I refused all my options – implying that my non-compliance was the issue and not his/your refusal to honor a booking. He also said that I should consider changing the dates on my booking on a date that isn’t around the end of the month – an absurd suggestion considering that this reservation was booked around a fixed moving date – which is why I wanted the truck to begin with.

  In effect, his best solution was not to provide me service –  a service which I was happy to pay for. In fact throughout this process I asked for no special accommodations, merely a guarantee of rental for the time I was promised for the price I was quoted.

  In order to have any potential accommodation I finally opted to accept the downgrade to the 9’ van.

  This entire process has shown that A) U-Haul does not honor its bookings and agreements, B) Calls to have issues resolved are used to seemingly placate without anything to backup the solutions promised, and C) the staff of your regional offices have little interest of following through on the promises made under the umbrella of your national organization.

  I am awaiting a response. I am more than happy to listen to any recordings made – as U-Haul states they are recorded at the start of each call. And, likewise, since I have been recorded by U-haul, I too recorded several of these interactions.

After getting some bourbon for my bourbon chicken stir-fry, I decided to mix up something new.

It's dead simple, but damned satisfying on a summer day. I searched my brain for a name, and after a few consultations, I decided to name it after a favorite band of mine: The Handsome Family. 

Old Fashioned glass

Ice

Juice of one lime

3 shakes Angostura Bitters

Generous pour of bourbon

Stir gently

Top off with soda

It's time for a true confession.

I have had the most terrifying notion - that some day very soon a small, well-meaning theatre company will put on a night of Shakespeare monologues at a pub. They will cheerily promote it with the title, "Twelve Beers a Knaive." They will think it's high-minded and cultural to associate their soiree with the movie. They will not grasp the very, very troubling implications of said title. They will broadcast it on social media.

And then the backdraft begins. There will be a long, hard look at bourgeoise artistic privilege appropriating the tragedy of slavery as a marketing gimmick. The internet will become, for lack of a better term, an absolute, epic shitstorm. 

Here's a recipe I came up with when I needed something to spruce up some chicken bites from Checkers. It's the tastiest dipping sauce you can think of. It's also the most hipster.

Sriracha Fig Jam Dipping Sauce

4 Heaping Tablespoons of Fig Jam or Trader Joe's Fig Butter

1 Tablespoon of Sriracha (or heathen knock-off equivalent)

Dash of basil (or a shred of fresh basil)

2012’s Game of the Year is a murder simulator.

That familiar term has been abused by many to dismiss and condemn video games as base, pornographic depictions of a gratuitous violence meant only to stimulate adolescent power fantasies. Spec Ops: The Line embraces that term, but rather merely conform to the implied expectations it transcends them by facing the all of the ugly implications contained within. You play a Delta operator in a war zone. You lead men. You wield a gun. Most games end there, allowing you to soak in the power you have over life in death. Spec Ops: The Line goes one step further. It makes you face the consequences of your choices.

Umberto Eco famously stated that when enough clichés combine, the effect becomes Homeric rather than mundane. One could argue that art happens when the creator embraces conventions and uses them to illuminate truth with them. The team at Yager chose to take the “realistic” military shooter and deconstruct its elements to create regret instead of triumph and revulsion in the place of celebration.

The typical realistic military shooter is a tightly-scripted collection of action beats and mini-catharses whose ultimate goal is to make the player feel like the vanquishing right hand of God, Country, or Justice. The world is neatly divided into “right” and “foe.” The player’s primary means of interacting with the game to commit violence, but doing so creates no unforeseen consequences. It costs the player and the player character nothing to do so. Spec Ops begins by establishing itself in the genre with the characters (a trio of Delta Force operators) on a mission in Dubai – an Arab city in a sandy, distant land. The American gamer has played many hardened soldiers and killed many, many more digital Arabs in distant lands. He (or she) has used almost every piece of the modern American arsenal (neatly segmented into the usual shooter categories of pistol, assault rifle, sniper rifle, shotgun, and grenades) so much that the average player can instantly understand these objects role and power.

This familiarity forms a knowledge base that allows the gamer to instinctively play the game. The gamer is the player character, ergo, the player character is elite. The player character has weapons to use and thus may play. The gamer plays because using these tools powerfully will result in the accomplishment – the efficient and proficient dispatch of all who oppose the player.

Killing is its own reward, for in killing there is power.

Spec Ops: The Line gives the player all of these things and dollops even more of the trappings of the American violence idiom on top of them. Prog Rock and Motown punctuate the action set pieces and the quiet interludes – perfect mimics of military films in the Black Hawk Down vein. The Delta operators shout combat lingo during kills and magazine changes. Everything in Spec Ops: The Line keeps the player constant moving, focused on the mission. You’re a soldier. You have a job. You need to get it done.

Kill something. It’s why you’re here.

Spec Ops then, slowly, gives you choices. Are you here to save lives or to complete a mission? Who deserves death – the thirsty thief or the brutal guard? Give a dying man his last mercy or let him face his fate? All of these are accomplished with the one tool you’ve been given and have mastered: a gun. The game doesn’t reward you with a pat on the back. It shows you the results and then forces you on without any time to appreciate or congratulate yourself. You don’t get satisfaction. You get a new objective.

The only times you’re allowed to slowly take in the consequences or your actions are when you have crossed a figurative line – from being a killer to a murderer. Midway through the game you are presented with an impasse. A massive formation of guards stands between you and your goal – too many to kill with just your rifle and pistol. There is, however, a White Phosphorous mortar. It is the solution to your problems. With it you can kill everyone in your way. And so you do – burning everyone before you. Soldiers and civilans.

Many have criticized this moment for its lack of choice. There is no way around the base except by using the White Phosphorous. The player has this atrocity forced upon them. How could they not do it? The game demands it.

No. You demand it. You want the game to keep going – to keep rewarding your proficiency with its tools. You’re the one playing a realistic military shooter.

Kill something. It’s why you’re here.

Thus begins Spec Ops systematic rebuke of the player, the player character, and the lack of consequence within the genre. Spec Ops shows us the horror of the awesome firepower you can unleash. Then it takes away your catharsis by having the character become ever more the animal. Do you know the rush of the kill streak and that quick, guttural cheer you make when killing a bad guy? Of course you do, because your silent protagonist player character does not. In Spec Ops the protagonist announces kills with shouts and curses. You, too, can follow along, but once the emotion has been expressed by your avatar, what is left for you? The game gives you even more powerful weapons all the way on up to a minigun. Ordinarily this is the designers’ reward for you enduring weakness and danger. In Spec Ops, your character outwardly admits that he has no real need for the minigun. He just wants to see how much carnage he can wreak. You are in no danger. You are just doing it to exert power. There is no savor to it, however, for you have not sacrificed or suffered. It’s a prize you haven’t earned, and using it feels empty.

That is what sets Spec Op: The Line apart from its brethren. It is a game that makes the player keenly aware of the toll that the experience takes on both you and your victims. It makes you, the player, complicit in the horrors you have wrought and ultimately lays the responsibility at your feet. You can argue all you want about how the game wouldn’t let you do anything else other than kill, but you chose to play the game, to continue long after it became apparent that you were horribly, terribly wrong. The deaths you cause are premeditated actions of volition. Murder.

“The game wouldn’t let me!” might as well be “I was just following orders.”

For me, the greatest moment of horror came after the White Phosphorous attack. I had had the moment spoiled, and so it did not take me by surprise. I still went through with it. I still gazed upon the burning bodies. And I kept going.

Right after I took a break for tea. My wife saw my unease, and she asked me what was wrong.  I admitted to her, “I just launched a white phosphorous strike on civilians,” and then I wept. It wasn’t the doing the deed that horrified me. It was finally bearing witness to my own actions that did so. My wife suggested I take a break to calm down, and I replied, simply, “No, I have to keep going.”

Alma Bennett was a mentor. Alma Bennett was a friend. I first spoke with her during an impromptu telephone interview on a cool Saturday afternoon in the spring of 2007. I had applied to Clemson University, and she, as I found out, was determining whether or not to admit me to the Department of English. It was the first of many great conversations with her. She spoke with a warmth and wit that I soon came to recognize as her hallmarks. In fact, I only realized it was an interview after the fact, so easy was her demeanor and engaging our conversation.  When I finally met her, I was charmed. I was glad to have her as an advisor, a teacher, and later as committee member for my Master’s thesis. 

I am still reeling from the news of her passing. Cancer took her swiftly. I spoke to her just before Labor Day, and we planned to meet for coffee after she got over a fierce malaise. A few days later, she was in the hospital. And now she is gone. The shock of Alma’s passing comes not from its speed but in its sharp contrast, for in Alma being dead is so incongruous. Alma cannot be dead because she, of all of the people I knew, was one of the most alive.

She was a woman of grace, wit, and strength. So many of her students remember the fine parties in her home and the long talks in her office. Indeed, her sense of hospitality was part and parcel to her generous nature. Alma always found a way to make her students and her friends (one often becoming the other) feel at comfortable, at-home. Open. She spent of herself for others, seeking to crack open the door within their soul so that they could open it the rest of the way themselves and walk through. I know this because many times another student was leaving her office as I was walking in, they themselves having had as vital and heartfelt exchange as I was about to have. That she did this was amazing. That she did so to her dying days was profoundly humbling. The last time I spoke with her she was sad and embarrassed that she was too tired to see me. I was dumbstruck. Recovering from surgery, tired, and in pain, her first thought was that she was depriving someone of her energies.

She was always giving.

Alma was not merely a generous soul. She was keen, adventurous, and possessed a passion for living. There are many who travel well. There are many fine scholars. There are many with a talent for music and art. Alma was all of these things. The other grad students and I would joke about how any conversation with Alma could eventually be connected to some great figure or some exotic locale. The hilarious and awesome truth of it all was that nearly any conversation could indeed be connected to some giant the field (any field, mind you) or a place known only on a map.

I once brought in a pan of spicy habañero brownies, and I knew that Alma, being a lover of unusual cuisine, would want to taste it. Before taking it to her office, I joked that she probably had already tasted them and gotten the recipe from Pancho Villa himself.

She had tasted the flavor before. In Sudan. If Alma Bennett didn’t exist, we’d have to invent her. 

To give you the scope of her travels and the breadth of her acquaintances, one must remember that she worked in Washington during times of change. She lived in Japan and commuted between there and the States getting degrees in music and in her classical studies. She shared breakfast with Yo-Yo Ma, and she told me that the one adventure that she might have left to do before she died was to go into space. This was two years ago, by the by. Some people ease into their final years. Alma Bennett, had she more money and time, would have literally defied gravity in her quest to live a life far beyond the ordinary.

Simple actions become exercises in process and order-of-operations.

Add at least 30% more time to any task.

Most tools were meant to be operated with two full-functional hands.

Every day is button-down shirt day.

Touch-typing becomes hunting and pecking.

Getting into and out of confined spaces requires extra concentration.

Your good arm may still be strong, but you’ve lost most your leverage.

Your blind spot just got wider due to the fact that you can’t turn your head.

Your good shoulder and arm will be strained because the support from the opposite side of your frame is gone.

Similarly, this absence of support will cause your back muscles to overcompensate, leading to back pain.

You have to sleep in a reclining position. As this provides a less-satisfying sleep, you’ll find yourself waking up tired.

Back pain and dissatisfying sleep combine to create a perfect blend of foggy discontent.

You will constantly be reminded of your physical limitations.

Your activity level will drop, causing a general sense of malaise and sluggishness.

Most cars weren’t designed with broken collarbones in mind.

No cars are designed to be drive with a broken collarbone.

Cleaning countertops will be easy. Cleaning dishes? Harder. Scrubbing floors? Hard.

Cooking for yourself becomes a genuine chore.

Eating the food you’ve cooked also becomes a chore.

You don’t get to really, fully hug the people you love.

Picking your nose? Tough.

Your posture suffers from not carrying yourself with symmetry.

Pain medicine becomes a godsend.