Dish 1: Vietnamese Eggrolls

When one thinks about eggrolls, the image of greasy yet tasty finger food often comes to mind. The evocative image of +$1 for a combo meal dances in the head, and well, that’s it. Eggrolls are a mainstay of Chinese Restaurants, but they are not important. A throwaway, like the first female child of a traditional Chinese couple. But whereas the Chinese equivalent has failed us, the Vietnamese has excelled. Crispy, fat and plump. The Vietnamese eggroll is reminiscent of a cigar, with the girth and length that would make any homosexual blush with anticipation. But the one major characteristic about the Vietnamese eggrolls that are universal, at least in Vietnamese restaurants in California, are the fact that they are all delicious (this is not the case in Chicago where they are reminiscent of the Chinese ones). I pondered this with my brother. Why, regardless of restaurant, locale or zip code in California, are they all delicious? His answer, “Because they are fresh.”

It is interesting to discuss the nuances of “farm to table cuisine” versus, produce purchased at a farmer’s market. But when it all comes down to it, the differences are in degrees and likely intangible. The difference is premised on sentiment and goodwill towards our animal kin and not so much on the quality of the loin. But Dear Reader, the leap between frozen and fresh are leaps and bounds. This is entirely the case with eggrolls. The ones you see riding on a dim sum cart or tacked on as a +1 are likely to be frozen. Manufactured at City of Industry, California and the epicenter of the mortgage meltdown, these infernal fingers are trekked over to your local Chinese restaurant ready for your consumption while accompanied with that sugary plum sauce. Vietnamese eggrolls are different, they are made at the restaurant. You see the Vietnamese ladies hunched over with the egg wrappers spooning the mixture of pork and reconstiuted woodear mushrooms before the flick of their wrists transforming meat paste into Asian burrito. The Vietnamese Eggroll will always taste like pork, and mushrooms, not fried skin -not something frozen 1,300 miles away.

This is ultimately a tale of globalization. The Chinese are victims to it. We have lost the eggroll to refrigeration and interstate commerce. The only thing satisfying about Chinese eggrolls are the qualities that make fried foods so appealing. But the Vietnamese eggroll, they were made at the very table you are sitting, and that’s why they taste so much better.

Compare the first picture (Vietnamese) to the sad Chinese one:

31 Dishes

So this begins the first post in a series about my trip back to California. Dear Reader, I am going to be honest, this is not a trip I wanted to make. Things have been cold and empty since my coming out. My mother never addressed the issue and I definitely do not expect an apology.

Since October, my father has strongly suggested that I should visit. First he recommended an unholy odyessy for Christmas but I knew what that would comprise of; a bunch of Asian meals with very Asian people. For the uninitiated, the Visigoths have better table manners. There is a particular “aunt” of ours that remove the flesh from chicken feet with the precision of a surgeon; and then spits the remnants back onto the table. Oh yes, I come from bourgeoise stock.

Then I had to deftly avoid purchasing a plane ticket for Chinese New Year. Dear Reader, the stereotypes about Chinese drivers are true, but think about the annual rodeo when they all converge into a 20 mile radius.

But then my father caught me with the Siren’s call, “Come back for your birthday, we want to take you to Vegas. You won’t bring any of our friends”. I couldn’t really resist, I don’t think there are many Asians driving around Vegas (instead of taking to the road they stay in the casinos and gamble), plus, the people I try to avoid, mainly my parents’ friends will not be there.

Two days before coming to California, I learned that my mother will be going to a Texas Hold’em tournament, and that through a slip of my brother’s tongue, I will not be going to Vegas. I would stay in California as they go out and scratch that proverbial Asian itch that is gambling.

Since I will be in California and hanging out with my brother, I plan to write about 31 dishes I have consumed during my trip to California. Of particular note, he was present at every meal. Some people say we resemble Frasier and Niles. That is probably true. I am Niles.

There will be some other cast-members. My cousins will make cameos - and much to my joy, so does Wendy, Jon's girlfriend.

"Eric, your cats are gay."

I was trying to convince them that they would like Big Bang Theory. It seems like such a silly sentence. The word “convince” should never be in the same sentence as Big Bang Theory. Everyone should like it. Everyone, like me, should yearn for Thursday nights 8 Eastern / 7 Central, and click to CBS. It is a show about comic books, videogames, and socially obtuse nerds – how does it not appeal to all? Well my friends, Peter and Scott were having none of it.

Scott was playing the good friend, he was trying to enjoy the show, laughing at all the right moments, but there was something hollow, something missing. His verbal ejaculations reminded me of mine when I speak with a coworker on the phone, “Oh I have soooo much fun working on projects with you. I can’t wait for the next one. [Cackles and the rolling of my eyes].” What I really meant to say is “Get the fuck off my extension, I am waiting for my Match.com boyfriend to call me.” What I really heard when I heard Scott laugh was “Can we play Dead Space?” But Scott was bearing it, he was pretending to be a good friend.

Peter was having none of it. He could not hide his contempt for the show, all he did was try to find a boyfriend on Grindr.

“My God,” I thought to myself, I am a terrible host. If I cannot entertain my friends – my chums – my coterie, how could I ever entertain a date. Dear Reader, I have a very limited skill set. If I was a Dungeons and Dragon character, all my points would be attributed to “awkward conversation” and none to the ones that count such as “strength” or “agility.” If I can’t even entertain Peter and Scott, it will surely be a cold bed until I level up and get more points.

Well Dear Reader, something happened. Scott actually placed his iPhone down on my coffee table and got up. The phone was just lying there, alone and naked against the wooden furniture. On the screen was a grid of semi-naked men. I made a note to myself to get the CDC to examine my sofa after Scott leaves. I followed Scott’s eyes, like two floodlights they were trained on my cats. Peter noticed something too, and he laughed. It was not a fake one to make me feel better about my cultural choices, no it was a real hearty bellowing laugh. What are my cats doing that would entertain them so? Surely they cannot be more entertaining than Sheldon Cooper. And then I saw, it was a dark sight indeed. My yellow cat, Frodo, was humping my other cat Sam.

[Spotlight on cats]

Scott: Eric, your cats are gay.

Eric: [Exasperated] No, they are not. Frodo is just showing his dominance by biting Sam. Frodo is not thrusting, there is no motion of actually humping. They are not gay. It is an issue of property rights.

Scott: Dude, your cats are gay.

Peter: Oh my god, your cats are gay.

[Audience Laughs]

Eric: Frodo is the alpha cat. Not everything is about humping. Look at Scott’s phone, surely there must be one legitimate picture in there!

[Light moves onto Scott]

Scott: My cats’ don’t do that. And they are both boys.

Eric: My cats are not gay!!!

[Curtain]

I don’t know why I am so adamant about my cats being straight. I tried to rationalize it away. Frodo acts differently when women are around. It is an issue about property rights. They are just doing what is normal in nature, this is my boundary and you are the Omega Male. I rationalize, they can’t be gay. I imagine this is what most parents do when they hear their children are gay. They rationalize, my son can’t be gay. “He is so good in sports,” which may lead to “He had so many girlfriends,” to “Not my son, what did I do wrong.” My cats can’t be gay.

There is an obvious irony to this. But the irony is not one geometric line, rather, it comprises of many fibers woven together to make a giant trunk. The central fiber is obvious, I am gay. So why do I care if my cats are gay. In fact I should take pride in it. The second fiber, I am progressive in my politics and judicial philosophy. I believe people have no choice in being gay (they may have been born gay, or they were influenced by early social cues). To be consistent, nature made my cats gay. The third fiber - so what? If I was straight, I would still be an opinionated, bombastic horror of a person. Sexual orientation is of very little importance about my character. Sure, I could make jokes about Grindr, but the wasteland that is The Dark Tower has formed more of my character than abs and a 30in waist ever will. And yet I still tell myself, my cats can’t be gay.

I had a discussion with my best friend about her son. She said she would never want her son to be gay because life is so much harder. I agree. You have to hide who you are. I knew when I was 10 and I pretended to never look at the quarterback while feigning interest about the ball he was catching. I acted. It is horrible to tell a boy to be something he is not. This act is not premised on mere chauvinism, or homophobia. Gays do it too. On dating sites, the term “straight acting,” is a badge of honor. The term “fem” is a scarlet letter. And nothing is worse than watching a bunch of gays around my age wear Abercrombie and Fitch sitting at a sports bar, acting out a fraternity life that they never had. I sit in the throes of ennui whenever I see fags pretend to be the very human waste that so terrified their childhood. And there I did it too, I said “fags.”

So why, why can’t I accept Frodo and Sam being gay? I mean with names like that, they should default to being homosexual. Am I a homophobe? Don’t be silly, I interned at Lambda Legal; I worked on the Iowa Marriage case. I have plenty of gay friends. I like Prada shoes and Gucci suits. I can’t be a homophobe. Surely, I am not Rick Santorum!

But Dear Reader, the sui generis of my denial, is this, it would make my role as a cat owner as part of the minority and I have led my life trying to be part of the majority. I once made a comment to a Partner at work, I was born American first, Republican second. On so many levels, that still holds true. I know enough about my culture. Dear Reader, if you have a hankering for dim sum, give me a call. You want to play mahjong, I will be your fourth. You want a Steven Chow movie, I have 12. But if you asked me, would I do tai-chi in public, I would tell you to go to hell. In fact, I have a special scorn for those who look at me as if I am Asian first; in fact, I have no patience for “Rice Queens” (white males who are chemically attracted to Asians).

You have to like me for all the things that make me uniquely American – or at least Westernized – or even better, the characteristics that make me superior to most people. I am able to wield the tax code like a machete, can a FOB do that? No! I am a lawyer that practices common law – can a FOB do that? No, he is a communist! I am going to spend 5% of my disposable income at Borders this year, will a FOB do that? No, there is no Hello Kitty. I am. I am. I am… part of the mainstream. Fuck you if you think I am weird. My cats can’t be gay! My yearning to be a normal cat owner goes against my aversion to gays who act like frat boys. Aren’t they just scratching an itch to be part of the mainstream? Well guess what, at my age, you should move up to couture. I look down at you and your attire purchased at a mall.

Bingo!

“Your cat’s are gay” translates to “That is weird.” I am not weird. I am part of the mainstream. I am better than most people. My cats can’t be gay. And that is my problem, it is one of pride. I was injured when my Mom acted most undiplomatically during the revelation that I liked men. I expected her to say “That is fine. I love my son regardless. Plus I have always known – he has a lot of black shoes.” But she flipped out, “He can’t be gay!” I don’t think my mom is Rick Santorum. I just injured her pride.

Note #1: I love my cats. Ask anyone. I treat them better than I treat myself.

Note #2: I love Peter and Scott, even if they prefer Grindr over Big Bang Theory. I love them more than I love myself; but maybe not my cats.

On HIV

I assume that people do not think much during sex. People are probably not thinking, “Wow this is happening,” or “I need to watch out, or I may get her pregnant,” or “He needs to brush his teeth.” People normally do not think, let alone during sex. I recently watched agog as pair of teenage idiots stood clueless while waiting and ordering at Starbucks. They were dithering about macchiato vs. latte; foam vs. topper. I doubt that they would engage in much dolorous excogitation in the middle of coitus. But one thing that has been illuminating, especially as of late since I just got tested, is sex and HIV. People do not think going into sex “I may get HIV from this.” Trust me, as a gay male, as a person who shared the bed with another who was positive, I never thought about it. I wonder why.

I try to get tested frequently. By “frequently” I mean semi-annually, by “try” I don’t know what I mean. I make an attempt to go to church every week; I aim to call my parent’s every Thursday. But do I make an attempt to get tested? I don’t know, I just do. This is not being sanctimonious, I am sure many people do not get tested. I assume most heterosexuals do not get tested for HIV, and sadly, I don’t think enough homosexuals do either. I just do it, and it is scary as Hell.

I know enough about HIV. As I said, I was in a relationship with somebody positive. We were safe, very safe. And as I ruminate about my sexual exploits of last year, it dawns on me, I am still so ignorant. Now Dear Reader, don’t get the wrong impression. I was not some sexual gymnast balancing partners on an engorged phallus. I didn’t really get all that much, but that might be subjective. But before I discuss more about HIV, I think I should add some background as to my recent year. I had intercourse with three people, two of them were ex-boyfriends, and one was an absolute stranger (with one of the two ex’s it was not protected). Regarding oral sex, I am not going to lie, there were many, and most were strangers. With all of them, I had fallatio performed on me (I really have to like the guy for me to open my mouth, and last year, I was mum on the subject).

I assume that if you are reading this blog, you have an odd understanding about me. I can be rather clinically detached. In fact, one of my relationships ended with the assertion that I calculated too many situations, when in fact, I should enjoy the moment. Well guess what, Dear Reader, I was not much of a machine, I did not think, I had random sex, with a lot of strangers.

Recently, I went to my normal spot to get tested, and I went through the same battery of questions. For the uninitiated, the questions range from the personal “How much do you make a year,” to the lurid “Have you been to a sex party,” to the extremely specific “Have you done LSD while engaging in anal sex.” I think I am an interesting test subject because I am a matter of extremes. With the first set of questions, I try to be as specific as possible. In response to educational level, I responded with “I have a law degree. I am licensed in Illinois and with the US Supreme Court. I want to get a MBA.” On questions about income, I actually asked, “Are you asking W-2, gross, or net? Or are you asking about adjusted gross income.” The specificity to my answers have no bearing to the results, but I give them because somehow, an answer about line 43 could control me being negative. I am so good about playing around with tax rates, surely I must be negative. Surely I can will it. The second set of questions, I completely gloss over. Have you had unprotected sex? “Yup.” Where do you normally meet men? “In a bar.” How many partners have you had? “A dozen, two.” I could pinpoint the first set of questions with marksman like accuracy; I was just driving around the second with training wheels. I didn’t want to talk about it. Maybe it is because I did not want to talk about my sex life, but more likely, it was because the second set of facts would determine my fate. The first set, was merely to determine my class.

Tests have changed a lot. The examiner swabbed my mouth and took a vial’s worth of blood. I was going to get my results in 15 minutes. I remember a Golden Girl’s episode where Rose had a scare, and she had to wait a week for her result. Fifteen minutes is a lot more bearable than one week, but it is still a hellish 15 minutes. I started to look around the walls. Everything was so sterile. Posters about various help groups with young gay men eliciting that it would be alright. My eyes were scanning everything in the room, it was like they were about to fall out of my sockets. The examiner noticed my nervousness, so he told me about how he was a paralegal. The topic of the familiar began to calm me. He talked about how he filed things for the Seventh Circuit. The minutes quickly ticked away. The discussion was about the first set, not about why I was there.

One more minute remained. “Ok, so if it is negative, there will be no stripe. If it is positive, it will be red.” I nodded assent, even though it did not register agreement to any result. Just a nod on my part - please no stripe. Why, why did I do what I did? I don’t even remember any of them, it wasn’t even good! If I die before my cats, who will take care of them. Sam eats a lot, do I need to create a trust for him?

DING.

The examiner looked at the vial. There was no emotion on his face. FUCK! Why is he not smiling? Why does he not tell me “Congratulations”? He shows me the vial. The paper was blank. I nearly had an aneurism. Oh my god, blank means positive right? Shit, I am positive. I stammered “What does blank, mean again?” He laughs, “It means negative.”

So I am negative. I don’t have it. This thing has infected so many people I know, but I don’t have it. I am going to try to be better, to be smarter. Sex is overrated anyway; all those bodily fluids – what a mess. What an emotional mess.

10 Things I am Looking Forward to This Year

10. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2, in particular, the battle at Hogwarts.

9. Green Lantern, in particular, Ryan Reynolds in... green.

8. Comic Con

7. Dreaming about moving back to the city. Oh yes, the financial models are being broken out.

6. Holding an "ideal portfolio" by the time I place my earmarked amounts into my retirement accounts.

5. News of The Dark Tower novel. I need Oy, Jake, Eddie, Susannah and Roland. They have become my ka-tet.

4. Planning that trip to Argentina.

3. Sam Park's novel. My friend's book is coming out. It is going to be a work of genius. Plus he supported me when it was darkest. The least I can do is watch him triumphant.

2. Just one date; where potential is everything afterwards, where nothing shades the past.

1. Hanging out with the people I love; more than I did in 2010. I forgot a few of your faces.

My Books of 2010 and how they rank:

The Stand, Stephen King A
Luthor, Brian Azzarello A
The Snowball, Alice Schroeder A
Fast Food Nation, Eric Schlosser A
Fooled by Randomness, Nassim Nicholas Taleb A
Batman: Dark Victory, Jeph Loeb and Tim Sales A
Dry, Augusten Burroughs A-
The World is Flat, Thomas Friedman A-
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows A-
Batman: Long Halloween, Jeph Loeb and Tim Sales A-
Song of Susannah, King A-
Salem’s Lot, King A-
On Writing, King A-
The Waste Lands, King A-
The Drawing of The Three, King B+
I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell, Tucker Max B+
Game Change, John Heilemann, Mark Halpern B+
The Way to Win, Mark Halpern and John Harris B+
The Wolves of The Calla B+
The Hours, Michael Cunningham B+
Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Rowling B
The Year of Magical Thinking, Joan Didion B
The Gunslinger, King B
Angels & Demons, Dan Brown B
The Reason for God, Timothy Keller B
Batman and Robin, Vol I, Morrison B
Harry Potter and The Prisoner of Azkaban, Rowling B
Supreme Courtship, Christopher Buckley B-
The Rehnquist Choice, John Dean B-
Harry Potter and The Sorcerer’s Stone, Rowling B-
The Food of a Younger Land, Mark Kurlansky B-
The Irresistible Revolution, Shane Claiborne C+
The Da Vinci Code, Brown C+
How to Win Friends and Influence People, Dale Carnegie C
Julie & Julia, Julia Powell C
The Money Book for the Young…. Suze Orman C
God & Empire, John Dominic Crossan C
Harry Potter and The Sorcerer’s Stone, Rowling C
Harry Potter and The Chamber of Secrets, Rowling C
Party of the People, Jules Witcover C
An Alter in the World, Barbara Brown Taylor C
Superfeakonomics, Steven Levitt and Stephen Dubner C
Stocks for the Long Run, Jeremy Seigel C-
1776, David McCullough C-
Wizard and Glass, King D+
Harry Potter and The Order of Phoenix, Rowling D+
Tyrannosaurus Sue, Steve Fiffer, D+
The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, Larsson D
The Lost Symbol, Brown D-
Eclipse, Stephanie Meyer F
Breaking Dawn, Stephanie Meyer F

On Videogames

I try not to keep rules during a date. I use to keep a certain “playbook” that comprised of 96 traits I wanted in a mate. After much self reflection, and ridicule, I moved my mouse cursor over the Word file and dragged it into the recycle bin. I erased something I held dear with a left click. I entered into the scary world of dating without this extensive crib sheet. But instead of feeling liberated, I still needed to reach for something, some sort of rule. As much as super villains appeal to me, I am more Batman than Joker, I need rules. As a result, my new totem while dating is to fess up that I am a nerd on the first date. If you are willing, if you are able, you have to be open to me drone on about: the psychosis of the Riddler, why The Stand is a better authority on how we should live our lives than the Bible, and my fascination by Richard Burr’s vote on Don’t Ask Don’t Tell. At the first date I will pound into the other participant that books are my body, DC comics are my victuals, and politics are my life blood - did I forget to mention that everything that deals with money is my soul? A good weekend is me sitting at Starbucks reading an enlightening article in Barron’s about palladium and how I can make money by investing in shipping companies that move precious (oh yes, precious, not precious-light) metals from Latin America to China. I am some fucked up CNBC policy wonk that spends too much time playing Magic the Gathering. As I said in the beginning, I let all my dates know at date one. I don’t hide it anymore. Sure, I can do some pretty urbane gay things like talk about the career trajectory of Tom Ford (his best stuff was when he was director at YSL), but give me P/E ratios and Green Lantern t-shirts any day.

Dear Reader, I am going to share my results. I have been on enough bad dates that you can examine them like some homosexual fossil record. I can tell you what are not the deal killers. Telling a guy that you like to read, will not destroy the prospects of getting laid. Everyone puts up the front that they are looking for somebody smart. Of course this depends to a magnitude, there are some rice-queens that are terribly afraid of dating an Asian that completed college. Telling a guy that you like politics makes you look urbane and witty … of course this also depends on degrees. For the fags out there (and I really mean it in this context), make sure you say all the right things about Don’t Ask Don’t Tell, DOMA, and all things marriage. But don’t get too specific, mentioning the invocation of the Commerce Clause, discrimination in the Internal Revenue Code, Intermediate Scrutiny, and the sainthood of J.Kennedy will end the date. AND DON’T for the love of God, do not make the mistake of saying that the federal deficit or marginal tax rates are more important issues than gays in the military; you will be stuck with the check. I am telling you what not to do, but I am going to hold true to myself, if we end up on a date, you will hear me pontificate about Lawrence v. Texas.

I know the rules, maybe not all of them, but enough. Dear Reader, the one thing that kills dates and that laid waste to my sex life, are fucking videogames. It is easier to be a sex fiend, a coke-whore, an alcoholic, a person who failed the GED, than to proverbially come-out and tell the other guy, you play videogames. Every date has ended on the circle button.

What I don’t understand is society’s allergy to videogames. I understand going to a Gamestop is often a harrowing experience; especially for one’s nose. People may not be able to shake off their preconception of sketchy arcades with machines covered in cobwebs a’la Tron. For those who argue videogames are for kids only – and not the cool ones, but the pimply faced virgins who will not score till they are able to tap a credit line, I argue, are movies that much different? Every time I go into a movie theater, sclerosis tightens its fingers around my temples. Parents who should have sought counseling at Planned Parenthood are staring at the marquee as if they are reading an alien language, teenagers are jibber jabbering on their phones (in line and often in the movie now), idiots bring in Panda Express, and there is always that one douche bag who pretends he is some investment banker and needs to check his cell phone a hundred times during the movie. No Dear Reader, I protest! I rather spend my time at home, and live in my squalor opposed to the den of discourtesy at AMC!

But while I make an argument that one’s castle is a better environment to enjoy entertainment than the movie theater, it still does not explain why videogames should be lauded. Why a potential Romeo should undress me immediately when I explain the merits of Fallout 3. Roger Ebert argued that “in principle video games cannot be art,” and I imagine, most people believe this. Ask my parents for a concurrence and they will add “Of course, videogames are for kids.” Hogwash. I challenge anyone, to sit through 30 minutes of Bioshock and tell me that they are not sitting with rapt attention watching the game move from one startling set piece to another. I challenge anyone to find me a better story, (with the exception of Prof. Samuel Park’s novel to be released in 2011 of course) than Bioshock; Hell, I will even throw in the inferior Bioshock 2 to the mix. The reason is simple, you are the movie.

From beginning to end, the Warcraft III campaign took me twelve hours to complete. During this odyssey, I saw a prince prevent a plague, sell his soul, commit regicide, and become a super villain. Meanwhile his lover tragically becomes something she hunted, cosmic powers are bringing down the apocalypse, and demi-gods are stirring in their sleep. A lot is going on, but guess what, the pacing, the story, is better developed than most movies I have watched. I didn’t care if Christina Aguilera made it in LA; I barely cared if Annette Benning and Julianne Moore rekindled the fire in their bed. You know why, the experience was passive, I was sitting in a chair watching people play tragic lives. I was not invested. But I was invested, dare I say, videogames are my IRA when Arthas became the Lich King. Instead of merely watching, I fought as Arthas, I was in his shoes as I pursued Kel’Thuzad to the ends of the world, and then I – yes, I, committed genocide in Stratholme. I have done more as Arthas than I will ever do in my life. That is fact.

You could argue, well videogames are just mere escapism, give me sports any day, for I am a participant – nay a gladiator on the court. Well first, I would argue that the point of entertainment is escapism. But even more important, you are not a character on the tennis courts. I concede there is a component in competition that appeals to people but I have been watching the “leader boards” for Assassin’s Creed Brotherhood and I think it is probably more cutthroat than any bowl game. No Dear Reader, if you want your sports, watch a Starcraft II tournament and turn off ESPN.

I am sure the literati will still scoff at this entry. They would asset that I am shooting fish in a barrel. Of course Eric can make arguments that videogames are better than movies and sports, he doesn’t care for either, but dare he challenge books? Well first I have to say this, I will make a blanket statement that I find videogames a superior form of entertainment than movies and sports. But I cannot make that sweeping generalization with books. First I will argue is the importance of the set piece. The Ayn Rand dystopia of Bioshock’s Rapture is breath taking. It beats Nolan’s Gotham City and whatever nonsense in the Matrix, but is it better than King’s version of Las Vegas in The Stand? Probably not, because in the book you can smell the flesh burning, you can hear the moans from those crucified, you can feel the sex, you know there is no God in that land. Rapture cannot give us the sensory feel. Once again, it is pressing the circle button. But I have already established “I like books” is acceptable on a date; so should “I like video games.”

The character development of a good videogame (like books there are many bad ones), are inherently more nuanced than any that you will find in most books. Do you like John Galt? Well guess what, the machinations and the rise of Andrew Ryan is even better. Does Goethe’s Mephistopheles stir your literary loins? I argue that Portal’s Glados wears an even more wicked mustache under her mechanical exterior and barbed quips. And maybe this goes back to point one, good characters are influencing you. The explosion in the tunnel is forcing you to run, and if you don’t, people will die. Edward Cullen’s pompadour does nothing to the reader, you just turn the page.

So Dear Reader, next time when I say, “I like videogames,” pick up the check, and let's go to Gamestop for a nightcap.