This is a no-brainer. You feel dirty after you dated dudes you met in a chat room? Stop doing it. If it’s part of your psychological profile, an expression of your illness, a tendency to use Sex and the City as a guideline, whatever: Stop doing it.
Might very well be the shortest article on this site to date. Figures.
Bitching about your neighbours hardly ever is a wise move. Being passive-aggressive about said bitching doesn’t make things better just because you appear to be “polite”. It makes things worse as you’re spewing memes like mad, infecting others and creating problems that simply aren’t there. This is especially true in questions of nationality.
Calling Germans living in Switzerland Schiis-Schwoobe (Shithead Swabians) and blaming then for hogging job opportunities is stupid enough to begin with. Without them shitheads, half our health care would break down. And hey, at least some of them Schwoobe are flexible enough to relocate 1 000 miles to start with a new company. Whereas you guys moan if it takes you an hour to get to work, but refuse to move 50 km closer. Well done!
Cheering when the German team loses a match – what for? Did Schweini bugger your vuvuzela or something?
My personal gripe in this nationalist pseudo-discussion, though: First complaining about how Germans arrogantly dismiss the Swiss language just to get angry at immigrants at least trying to learn local dialects. This is not a sign of a sane society. And the media cater for such an audience, too, kindling the fires underneath an issue that mostly exists in your head.
A wise man once said: “The Swiss are polite. They are not friendly.” I am inclined to agree.
We all live on the same ball of dirt called Earth. And don’t forget good ole Newton: Actio et reactio doesn’t only apply in physics, but in human relations, too. So don’t complain if the bitchee bitches at the bitcher, i.e. you.
No, it’s not an indigo child. It’s not special just because it’s annoying as hell. In all likeliness, it also doesn’t have ADHD despite what your family physician told you when he prescribed amphetamines. He probably just didn’t like you (or your kid), but I digress. A spoiled brat does not make a saviour of worlds. It is not the herald of a New Age™ just because some parapsychologists have been writing about purple-bluish auras since the 80s.
Educating people about your child’s True Nature while it is dismantling a bookshelf, throwing around Riedel glasses, or not getting out of the damn way is not sane. Screaming bloody murder when people chuckle at your “creative” understanding of reality is not sensible behaviour. Them people will feel justified at best or, in the worst case, publish rants about it on the wobble.
“Indigo” children’s psychological features are easily explained by neurology or by your over-dramatisation of totally normal behaviour patterns. It’s more likely, though, that you just suck at parenting.
Sure, it’s easier to go all spiritualist and paranormal. The kid’s an asshole, but hey, I’m not responsible. It was the great [add higher power of choice] who deemed my child the harbinger of cosmic peace and harmony. By acting like a little shit, which I encourage at all times. Because if my child’s special, so am I, its parent. I rock! I didn’t fail!
Reality check: Every child is special. Using faulty upbringing or neglecting your child’s possible neurological or mental disorder, perhaps foregoing life-saving treatment, might be the most egotistical move a grown-up can make. Egotistical, yet stupid: You’re feeding a growing industry of crazies with your Dollars, Euros and Swiss Francs. Not that “special”, now, are you?
Some games make me angry, others don’t. Tale of Tales’ The Path resides, comfortably sheltered in a motherly embrace, in the second category. “Little Red Riding Hood” provokes fond memories, not the least as the name of my defunct cover band, but I digress. In this case, you’re in for a serious ride. Molestation included. As The Path says: “There’s only one rule. Stay on the path. The only way to win this game is by breaking said rule.” Or something. I can’t remember as I’m sitting in my shirt&ascot and tremble with fear.
This game has balls, even though the protagonists are all girls of various ages. Ages as in kids-growing-up, not a history lesson. Fine by me. All of ’em have to get to grandma’s house and all of them are bleeding idiots for straying from The Path. Probably because the player, i.e. yours truly, is supposed to make them do so. After all, you’ll only see the SUCCESS! badge – in childlike scrawling – onscreen if you’ve actually found The Wolf. You know. Man. The Male Principle expressing itself through its primary sexual organ. Ironic, isn’t it? Me, of a distinct male persuasion, leading girls to their doom because that’s the only way to progress in the game? And feeling like a major shit about it, too? That’s art, I tell you.
At least, that’s my personal interpretation of The Path. A game, I should mention, that has reaped prizes galore for being a “work of art,” so I might not be that far off. Even though I find it questionable that no boy victims characters are present. I smell the reek of simplified reality.
But bloody hells is it creepy.
I mean, you have these six girls, and you lead them through the forest. If you go straight through, guiding them savely to their grandmother’s bed, you’ll get a cut scene and a bloody huge FAILED! If you explore the woods, you’ll find golden stuff that adds up to 144. But to win each level, you’ll need to encounter perverted bastards The Wolf. You have to make them girls suffer! To make you suffer and think about all those people who actually experienced similar things in real-life.
Games as a means to public awareness? Certainly a game not meant for lightheaded entertainment.
At least not regarding the topic. The game is entertaining in a weird sort of way. You know. The same reason you watch Horror movies late at night and then complain about your having nightmares. Getting scared is fun. This game scares the bejeezus out of you, just to make you feel bad about it afterwards, too. At least if you’re a wolf man.
Not for the faint of heart. Or rather, not for the faint of imagination as The Path isn’t graphic, it isn’t violent. It’s, well, creepy, thought-provoking, and bloody scary. Figures it took a woman to pull this off. It’s only about a tenner and well worth the money, but for chrissakes, if you’ve been abused, do not download even the demo!
I just hope more people will pay them Indy Developers. Because, seriously – would you rather have disturbing games about childhood rape or the next Harry Potter fly-about? If the quality of indy games is on par with The Path, I know what I’d choose. It’s about bloody time games lost their childish aura. And Tale of Tales are right in the middle of it.
Serious stuff. For adults. With brains. And a heart. What more could you want?
“It’s so bloody frustrating to return from a romantic week-end and not be able to chat with your coworkers about it.” – “I’ve really had it with staying in the closet. But I don’t dare to come out on my fellow employees at the office.” – “People are always asking me about my lack of boyfriends, but how could I ever tell them about Sharon?”
Looks familiar? Mirroring your thoughts? OK, perhaps save the Sharon bit, but basically, sounds a lot like you after one beer too many on a rainy afternoon while sitting huddled and shunned in a bar sporting tasteless decoration and low-level 80s pop on the stereo? (The bar, not you. Even though that might be the case, too.) Well, if you like to get things done properly, rejoice: as every year, there’s a National Coming Out Day, well, coming your way. Last year’s motto having been “gay at work,” I should add. Like, be gay and be able to work at the same time. Wow, what a novel idea.
This joyful occasion is supposed to make it easier for (working) queers to leave the sticky embrace of the closet by feeling Accepted and Understood By Other People You Have Never Met But Share Your Very Same Problem, i.e. not being able to bloody make up your own mind if and when to introduce coworkers and friends to your secret sexual identity.
So everybody, don your power suits, get your rainbow ties and pink triangle pins out of that secret compartment in your closet, and be sure to greet everybody at work with the words “good morning, I am gay, how are you?” Don’t forget to pointedly stick out your little finger when having coffee, and whistling some George Michaels under your breath while signing contracts can’t be wrong, either. And mince. Mincing is important. Generally, just be as annoyingly gay as you’ve always wanted to be but never dared because, well, there wasn’t a date that told you to do so.
Use the weekend afterwards to arrange for a new identity and dye your hair a different colour. Get an accent, too, and nobody will remember that you’re actually the guy who was caught in the broom cabinet with much of John from Private Accounts in your mouth that last Thursday or whenever this year’s Coming Out Day will be. Fool-proof.
Actually, the very idea of communal, organised coming out is so sensible that I have to ask: why stop at gay coming out days? Where are all those other occasions that enable all those other sexual minorities to tell people about their hobbies and emotional landscapes? What about foot fetishists? What about geriatrophiles? What organisation cares enough to help compulsive undressers to drop their pants at the world, figuratively speaking? I suggest the introduction of a Coming Out Day for BDSM people, too, and I am looking forward to the Extreme Body Modification Weekend (explaining your attraction for cutting bits off you or your partner might be too complicated to be covered by one day only). And let’s not forget the Hetero Pride Parade everybody has been waiting for with bated breath. I’m sure the Catholic church would endorse it.
Hello. This isn’t Yemen. This isn’t 1950. Hello. If you define yourself this strongly by your sexuality to feel the urgent need to communicate your sexual orientation to each and everybody and his dog, do so on your own terms. If you worry about possible mobbing in the office – as if your coworkers actually gave a damn about who gets shafted or doesn’t get shafted, for that matter – but then accept a special date set by a third party (that’s probably too old to realise times have changed) for when to come out of the closet, well, in that case you should strongly consider joining the Skoptsi anyway. You’d probably have more fun, and I’m told the music’s better, too.