Skip to main content

Hero Worship Never Dies

Given the opportunity to dispose of a little extra income (as I do each pay period, much to the chagrin of my girlfriend) I was presented with a chose. Either God of War: Chains of Olympus or SNK Arcade Classics Vol. 1 would be added to my fledgling PSP collection. One of these games couldn't have paid to stay off the airwaves in the months before its release, the other I would never have known about had I not been running searches for King of Fighters a long time ago.

Now, it's not that I have anything against God of War, or Cliff Bleszinski himself. On the contrary, I think the man's a genius and the screenshots of the PS2 epic were mind-blowing. But I have this fear of the unknown, and this almost irrational anxiety that I will not like the game once I pick it up. Then I have to get back on the bus that runs once an hour and haggle with the brand-new adults at Wal-Mart who will spend valuable minutes trying to convince me of the titles greatness. I don't need the hassle.

But most of of the games on SNK Classics....I've played all of those. Plus it's ten dollars cheaper.
I bought this game for two reasons. One, it contained, in all its jaggy camera-panning glory, Art of Fighting. This game was the first to teach me about great foretelling. It explains the plot in ten seconds without saying a word. You see a picture of two men, with a beautiful young girl in the center. The picture suddenly cracks, and the girl fades to black. She's gone, those two remain, and just like that, you know what you're getting into. The game itself is larger than life and doesn't make up for the mediocre gameplay as well as it used too.

The other reason was King of Fighters 94, the first in the series and featuring, although not starring, my lifelong hero, Terry Bogard.
So ingrained into my psyche was this character once that I practically shaped my entire personality around him. From the hat and gloves to the "Okay!" taunts I used to do, I admired everything about this guy. Now, the hat and gloves may be gone, and the blue jacket with the star on it hangs honorably in my closet, but the admiration hasn't diminished.

Even more so than the one I have with Street Fighter 2's Ryu, Terry and I have always had this understanding. I even approximate the motion on the PSP's clunky D-Pad, and Terry will know what I'm doing. Strategies that worked thirteen years ago work just as well now. The understanding Terry and I have, the one that has eluded Ryu and I in Street Fighter Alpha 3, propels the two of us right through the game, on its easy setting, up until the last boss, who kicks the ever-loving shit out of us. I don't remember Rugal being that tough.

I turn off the PSP and my mind drifts back to when I would walk down the hill from my house, as a little kid. My mother would be on the porch, watching me go. As I would get to the bottom of the hill, I would remove my hat and hold it the same way Terry would, as if throwing it. She would always wave back. I think she understood the obsession, which was why she nurtured it.

I think about where I am now, laying in bed and preparing to post this, having worked six of what will be twenty-one consecutive days without a break. Instead of a hat, it's my index finger from my forehead in the same manner.


Hero worship never dies.


Popular posts from this blog

The Long Road Home

I will end you tonight. No, wait. That's not where the story starts. The story starts two and a half years before this, when Michelle (referred to as Michelle for legal reasons because SATAN was too heavily trademarked) reached out to me by Facebook. She mentioned that we played the same Facebook game and she wanted to say hi. I had never, in fact, even heard of the Facebook game. But I was freshly broken out of a relationship and she was pretty with a good body so I said "Hurr, okay." Conversation ensues. She tells me we came up in the same place. We did not come up in the same place. We spent one night in San Francisco talking. But I really wanted to sleep with her. So, "Hurr, okay." Fast forward a few months. I've left Missouri for the beautiful Pacific Northwest. I've settled into the ass end of Lynnwood, a suburb of Seattle. The apartment was so bad that the landlord wrote the mold on the wall off as "crayon coloring

America: A True Story About Hatred and Unity

I wanted fast food tonight. That was all. I found myself at Burger King to pick up my wife's order. I was a few cars deep when I spotted the Confederate flag. I surreptitiously snapped a few photos. This was going to be a very different story. When I pull out of Burger King, it turns out there's more than one. In fact, there are four trucks, each flying variations of the flag. I have to go around the front of them to avoid an accident. They're parked right in the middle of the road. As I drive around them, each person in the vehicle makes it a point to ensure I see them. I do. They see me too. When I get to McDonald's (which is in the same lot), I learn that they're not taking debit cards at the moment. Terrific. I wanted chicken nuggets and instead, I get a run-in with the new Confederacy. So I make my way back to Burger King, again appearing in full view of the trucks. I place my order, get it, pay, and pull out. Then one of the

Wave Rocketbook Reviewed

I love writing by hand, and I love notebooks. I'll often devote entire budgets to them and when Officemax has one of their twenty-five cent sales, I'll buy them out. I often draft by hand, finding that the scene comes together more purely when it flows from a pen rather than a keyboard. So when DailyDot advertised a durable new type of notebook that you could use over and over again for the cheap price of twenty-five (thirty after shipping) US Dollars? I'm down. The Wave Rocketbook is meant to be elegant in its design and simple in its execution. The instructions come on the bag itself, and only the pen and notebook are included. The pen feels like any other, so you have to be careful not to mix it into your collection or you will end up marking your notebook with the wrong pen (like I did). The ink is erasable, which is a bonus. A place to put the pen would've been nice, but it clips easily, if not securely, into the ringed binding. The paper is thick and