Why Deer Die

If you’re one of the fine people like me who has the privilege of living up north, the sight of deer is a relatively common occurrence.  After all, we did kind of rip through their forest in our urbanization of the area.  What I wonder about them however, is this; are deer suicidal?

Anyone that’s driven down an empty road late at night and hit one of these furry bastards has probably wondered the same thing as me.  How in the hell does a deer choose the exact moment of your car passing to make its frantic run across the street?  It’s almost like the deer waited for your car to bear down on the stretch of asphalt before taking a little stroll across the street.

This occurrence has lead me to believe that deer are the adrenaline junkies of the animal world.  It’s almost like a game they play with each other, a stupid dare.  Sometimes they win; most of the time they don’t.  I imagine it must go something like this:

Deer 1:  Dude, I bet you can’t run faster than that Explorer out there.

Deer 2:  That big thing?  I could beat it on three legs.

Deer 1:  Prove it then, dude.

Deer 2:  I will!  Watch this!  (Runs out and becomes part of a grill sandwich)

Deer 1:  Sweet.  More grass for me.

Deer irritate me.  Any animal that can’t realize a large rapidly moving object is not something with which it shouldn’t fuck probably deserves to be gored by the wheels of a Civic.

You ever notice, there’s a certain amount of distance thats viable for the holding open of a door for someone else?  There’s a small window wherein a person walking behind you expects you to hold the door open, to take a few extra seconds to let them know you’re aware of their existence.  You don’t open the door, you’re denying that they are a part of the world.  People love validation.

However, sometimes it seems like you can go too far in the other direction.  If they’re fairly far behind you and you wait on them with door open, they’ll think you’re a self-righteous asshat.

“Yeah, that’s right, I’m waiting here for you to go through the door.” You’re saying in their slighted worldview.  “I’m taking time out of my life to make sure your path is door-free. “

I don’t like doors.  They raise expectations of me that I shouldn’t have to feel obliged to meet.  I don’t like thinking about the person behind me unless they have a knife.

Wistful Thinking

It’s late February or early March.  I can’t quite remember. I was a senior in high school, and the semester was in its waning phase.  It didn’t matter.  School was the furthest thing from my mind at this moment.

I’m standing in the local arcade, my arms folded, and my attention fixed.  Tekken 5 had just come out, and we’d been lucky enough to be graced with a new cabinet.  It’s flashy.  It’s new.  It draws the eye.  But that’s not what has my attention.

Packed into the arcade, gathered around the piece of hardware, are at least twenty Tekken fans from all over Michigan, people I’ve never met, people I’ve never even seen.  They stand around, talking to each other, most of them seemingly have come into contact before.  Some mirror me, watching Tekken intently with arms folded, as if evaluating the game.  Always two players remain on the machine.  A joystick seldom remains empty for more than a second.

The constant flow of competition, the camaraderie, were all foreign to me, and were all much appreciated.  Every so often a player would show a stroke of tactical genius, or a damaging juggle, or a bold reversal of fortunes.  Every so often cheers would erupt simultaneously from the throats of impressed and astonished gamers.  Even as I recall it now, I still feel the electricity of those moments, a tangible shock that ran up my spine.  That day saw my arcade gaming cherry popped.

Born a child of the console gaming revolution, I was raised on Playstation 1 and Game Boy Advance.  I wasn’t around for the Street Fighter, the Mortal Kombat, the original Tekken or Virtua Fighter.  I’d never known that one could be considered an arcade “regular” as one might equate a barfly.  I realized after that day I’d been missing out.

It was actually DDR that had first brought me to the arcade.  I’d just started becoming one of those arrow-stomping folks when our arcade somehow gained possession of a machine.  Even as I started playing there, more and more people started showing up.  Soon enough, there was a community of DDR players, and the arcade went from being a diversion to a hangout.  I still have fond memories of turn-marking i.d. cards lining the bottom edge of the screen while people lounged around in the summer heat (the arcade had little in the way of A.C.) talking about whatever came to mind.

Even as I’ve grown apart from my arcade, I still feel compelled to walk in at least once a week.  Sometimes I still feel like I can get hold of that sense of community I used to have three years ago.  I had even received word last week the arcade might’ve been closing, and I went in in a fit of panic.  Even after confirming that it wasn’t likely to happen, the future of my arcade is uncertain, at best.  Even though I know its a losing battle to hope for arcades to get a resurgence, I still wish children in my city won’t have to grow up without one after I’ve left.

Starting.

And so I take my first baby steps into the massive internet blogosphere.  I’ve been writing for awhile, I’ve been playing video games for even longer, and I figured I might as well combine the two.  I’ve never been an essayist, but it sounded like something interesting and new I could try.  ‘Sides, I haven’t been writing nearly as much as I should be, and I think this’d be a good way to keep me in practice.  Thanks in advance to anyone that reads this.