Navigating Heartbreak Series 3/5: Embracing Sadness

In January, the girl I love broke up with me after 9 years of being together. We had a loving, comfortable, understanding relationship. But she found out something about herself that she needed to explore, so I had to do the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my entire life, to date: I lovingly and understandingly stepped out of the way as she broke up with me to pursue another romantic relationship. Holy fuck, does that hurt a lot to type right now, but I know that it was the right thing to do. This person who means the world to me is self-actualizing, and I want her to love and know herself the way I love and know her. It would be unfathomably selfish of me not to want that for her. In short: I am happy for her, but sad for me.

In fact, I’ve never been sadder than I have been in the last 3 1/2 months of my life. I’ve run the gamut of the 5 Stages of Grief, and I still find myself bouncing back and forth between them daily. The sadness feels insurmountable, sometimes. Lately, I’ve been leaning pretty heavily on friends and some family to help me through it, and boy are they a godsend. Particularly the ones who have told me that it’s okay to be sad.

“If you weren’t sad/anxious about this, you would be the weirdest person ever. You’re physically going through withdrawal and a dramatic lifestyle change. But imagine this process without those emotions for a moment as though they don’t exist. [Is there anything] unhealthy about how you’re dealing with it?
—A text from one of my closest friends

When I got to thinking about it, no. There hasn’t been an unhealthy thing that I’ve done throughout this whole arduous process. I might have done a little bit of social media stalking early on, but once I realized that it was doing nothing but hurt me, I quickly staged a self-intervention and logged out of all accounts that I could follow her on. Other than that, I’ve grieved with close friends, I’ve started this blog, I’ve written in a journal, I’ve written music, I’ve buried myself in hobbies… I’ve done basically everything to keep myself occupied, because the biggest obstacle for me is time. Time is the fucking worst. I know I definitely want to be her friend in time, but I know that the only way for that to be a reality is for me to get over this sadness. I can’t be her friend if every one of our interactions is emotionally volatile like they have been, lately. And that makes me even sadder.

Spoiler alert: no one likes being sad. But I’ve come to accept that sadness is okay. That doesn’t mean I like it, by any stretch of the word. But sadness means I’m still capable of happiness. In her TED Talk about vulnerability, Brené Brown says:

We live in a vulnerable world. And one of the ways we deal with it is we numb vulnerability...the problem is: you can not selectively numb emotion...you can't say 'here's the bad stuff...I don't want to feel these...'

You can't numb those hard feelings without numbing the other emotions...when we numb [negative emotions], we numb joy, we numb gratitude, we numb happiness...and then we are miserable...

You are imperfect and you are wired for struggle, but you are worthy of love and belonging....practice gratitude and joy in those moments of terror when we're wondering 'can I love you this much? Can I believe in this as passionately?' ...Stop catastrophizing what might happen and say 'I'm just so grateful.' Because to feel this vulnerable means I am alive.

—Brené Brown, “The power of vulnerability” TED Talk

SPOILER ALERT FOR INSIDE OUT

If you haven’t seen Inside Out yet, you should definitely give it a watch. The point the movie makes is that sadness is integral to our experience as human beings, and it is a healthy, expected response to trauma. Being sad sucks. But it’s normal. You shouldn’t beat yourself up for being sad over something. Allow yourself to be sad. It’s all a part of the process of healing. Most of all, don’t be afraid of sadness. Because if you try to avoid the possibility of being sad, you also avoid the possibility of being truly happy.

And we all deserve to be truly happy.

Continue to Navigating Heartbreak Series 4/5 »

Navigating Heartbreak Series 2/5: Behind the lyrics of "HAPPY4U"

One of the most frequent pieces of advice I’ve gotten throughout this heartbreak of mine is to bury myself in things I’d always wanted to do. To try and think past the hurt and remember what I liked to do before it all happened. Well, at the center of my person is a writer, artist, and musician. I’ve always wanted to write a song, perform it, and do something with it. So when NPR announced their annual Tiny Desk Contest, I knew I wanted to enter it with a guitarist friend of mine. I’d known that he had a chord progression he was fond of, so I wrote some lyrics over the course of a few days, hit him up on a Thursday, we had our first rehearsal on that Saturday, and did our first screen test that night. Fast forward to last night (the following Wednesday), and we put the above video together with the help of a videographer friend. You can see our submission here.

Shit, now that I read that back to myself, we created a whole-ass song in under two weeks. I wonder if that’s par for the course in the music industry? Idk. All I know right now is that art—and writing, in particular—has always brought me catharsis. This song has brought exactly that for me when I needed it most. Anyway, what I wanted to do was explain how I came up with the lyrics for the song—if for nobody else, just so that I can write it down and see it unfold in front of my own eyes. Here goes:

Happy For You
By Interstate Eighty
Lyrics by Alex Basa
Guitar by Chris Clark

Verse
Hi there, stranger! Are you broken just like me?
Have you come into this building seeking heartbreak therapy?
Did the man down in the lobby greet you using your last name?
Did he know which floor you needed and say “Elevator A”?

People only come here when the sadness is too much.
Do you wake into your nightmares? Does your life fucking suck?
I’m sorry if that sounded forward, or if it sounded rude.
I don’t know how to flirt with girls; can I try with you?

Wait! Don’t go. I know that’s why you’re here,
But like the last girl that I loved, you’ll be leaving me in tears.
Now, I’m alone. Just like every other day.
And since the doctor picked you first, I have something to say:

Unsurprisingly, the inspiration for this song actually came from a therapy session I had. In fact, the whole song takes place in the therapists’ waiting room on the 10th floor of 388 Pine Street in San Francisco. Maybe you missed it, but there’s a bit of angst hidden in the lyrics of the song. I remember walking into the building before one of my sessions, and the man behind the counter in the lobby actually recognized me, knew which floor to send me to, and told me the elevator to take. At that point, I knew that meant I had gone through enough therapy sessions that reception was able to pick me out in a crowd. I wouldn’t say I was embarrassed, per se, but it definitely did not make me feel super great. It’s a good thing I was headed into a therapy session…

The literal elevator that inspired that lyric.

Anyway, I was sitting alone in suite 1010 when this girl walked in. She flipped her therapist’s switch—which was right next to the switch I’d flipped when I came in—and sat down in a chair in the opposite corner of the room, as far away from me as the 8’x8’ box would allow. She was actually kinda cute, and my love-starved brain’s first thought was “I wonder if we’d be compatible? I should say hello.” My immediate next thought was “what the fuck is your problem, dude? She’s in a therapist’s office trying to get over something. She does not want to be flirted with right now.”

Eventually, her therapist came to the door to let her into the second area (where all the therapists’ offices are), and I was left sitting in my shame and sorrow. What a fucking dumb, pathetic, jackass thought that was—no matter how brief.

Chorus
I’m happy for you.
So damn happy for you.
Really I’m happy for you.
Sad for me, but happy for you.

Okay, fun fact: the chorus (and title of the song) sort of started out as a snide tweet I made when Justin Bieber announced his engagement to Hailey Baldwin some time ago. I joked that I was eagerly awaiting Selena Gomez’s future hit-song “Happy For You.”

Obviously, that song never came, but I really liked the idea behind a melancholy song that wrestled with the complex emotional state of being happy for someone, but sad for yourself. Little did I know that I’d be using it for myself in a little under a year, lol.

Verse
I open my phone getting sadder as I swipe.
I didn’t pay them so that means this app paid for my life.
They’re cashing in on carnal cravings: a parasitic plot.
Dating apps don’t work because I’m cute, but I’m not hot.

I still feel the ghost of the ring I used to wear:
A poignant, persistent reminder that you aren’t there.
And my entire life is something that I would have shared.
I fucking hate the fact that I will always fucking care.

No. That’s not true. It’s not something that I mean.
Any vitriolic lamentations I say are obscene.
In the future when the pain subsides I hope we reconvene,
And as your friend I hope you know this one important thing:

Chorus
I’m happy for you.
So damn happy for you.
Really, I’m happy for you.
Sad for me, but happy for you.

This verse is inspired by something that I’ve come to rue since having downloaded them at all: dating apps. I originally downloaded them to feel like I had some control over my situation, but they were only fun for all of like, 20 minutes. The ensuing days (and weeks) of using them just began to gross me out more and more as one point became all the more salient to me: I’m a kid in a candy store with the wrong kind of currency.

Even the most optimized dating apps cater to a single, primal human desire, and that’s finding an attractive mate. Nobody really gives a fuck how much you like dogs, how funny you think The Office is, or how sarcasm is “like, totally your second language.” If you’re not a 9/10 in the face+body department, you might as well be swiping right and left on paint swatches at your local hardware store. Me? Conservatively, I’m probably like a 7/10 on looks alone. Hence the lyric: “dating apps don’t work because I’m cute, but I’m not hot.”

Have you ever heard the phrase “if you’re not paying for it, then you’re the product”? A really good, sickening example is how nightclubs will charge guys a cover fee, but let girls in for free. Dating apps are a lot like that. My female friend told me about how she was getting certain “complimentary” perks from the “premium versions” of certain apps—”trial periods” of the full service the apps provided. That shit never happened for me, lol. And even if you exclude that bias, when you realize that these apps are making money by means of a superficial swiping gallery, it’s just a little bit depressing. I realized that every time I sized up a potential mate, I would read her short bio (if she had one), and I would compare that brief snippet of information to the 9 year long relationship that I’d just been forced to exit. Naturally, there can be absolutely no comparison, and every “candidate” just made me realize more and more that none of them were the person I really wanted.

Which brings me to the second stanza in the second verse—and perhaps the one that hurts me most day to day: “I still feel the ghost of the ring I used to wear: a poignant persistent reminder that you aren’t there.”

I’ve worn a “promise” ring on my left hand for the last nine years. Ask anyone who frequently makes use of a cell phone, or watch, or any sort of everyday-carry object how they feel when that object isn’t on their person. They’ll tell you that they feel “naked” without it. When you don’t feel that object, there’s a slight moment of panic as your body instinctively searches for its familiarity. Multiple times a day, I find myself feeling like something is missing from my left ring finger—because something is. And every time I do that unconscious freakout, there’s no sense of relief that follows it. All that follows is the reminder that she’s gone.

It’s frustrating beyond measure when your own body betrays you like that. I want to cut off my finger to teach it a lesson for constantly telling me what I don’t want to hear. Sometimes that frustration ratchets up to anger and resent that extends in all directions, including at the woman I love so dearly. Fortunately, I’m pretty good at reeling back those visceral emotions when they flare up. I’ve tried to approach this whole experience with love and understanding, because I do care about her and want her to be happy. I’ve supported her through undergrad, grad school, and everything few and far between. I want to support her, now. But it hurts. There’s no way I can just jump into caring about her solely platonically right now. Maybe in time. But it’s the time that kills me.

Verse
It’s not me, the one you love, and that I must accept.
But darling, over you, I’ve wept.
The songs that I love paint a portrait of what we were
And I can’t listen to them without crying, that’s for sure.

Maybe this is fine. Maybe it’s what we needed.
But I regret the day you left and that I had conceded.
There’s not a thing that I won’t do for you and that you know.
I guess that means right now, I’ve gotta let you go.

So I’ll be fine in time, don’t mind the way I write these rhymes.
Out of this hole you’ve dug for me I’m certain I will climb.
I even might forgive the piece of shit that did me wrong,
But for now, trust the words of this melancholy song:

Chorus
I’m happy for you.
So damn happy for you.
Really, I’m happy for you.
Sad for me, but happy for you.

Solo section

I feel like this section needs the least amount of context to understand well. She loves someone else. I think the angriest line in the entire song is in this verse, though: “I even might forgive the piece of shit that did me wrong.”

So, I like to refer to my performance as “the character,” here. Because I’m not as resentful as I’m portraying in the song. Yes, that was definitely a thought that I had. The person I got left for 100% flirted with, courted, and eventually crossed a bunch of physical boundaries with my then-girlfriend, knowing that she was in a committed relationship. And you can argue that it takes two to tango, but the actual situation is a bit more complicated than that. What I’m trying to get at here is that…

I don’t know. Fuck it. Maybe I am that angry. I’m allowed to be angry. But I’ve never acted on that anger in an unhealthy way. I’ve never been prohibitive or nasty towards the two of them. Maybe the nastiest thing I’ve done is write that line into the song. But you know what, I don’t owe either of them any more courtesy than I’ve already given them. I’m reclaiming my life and sanity in the only way I know how: by making art.

Wow, okay, that was a bit of a tangential rant…. Anyway, the last thing that I wanted to talk about is how we chose to end the song. Chris and I went back and forth between abruptly ending it in the middle of the chord progression (symbolizing the jarring and abrupt way my relationship ended, from my perspective), ending it on the last chord in a nice, open resolve (symbolizing the end of this chapter in my life), and ending it on the fade out—which is what we went with. We chose this way because we felt that it represented the most optimistic truth of this entire sad song: just like the chords of the song, life goes on, and so will I.

Anyway, thanks for listening. A few people have reached out and told me a bunch of really nice things about the song—the most touching for me is that people have said they were able to relate to the lyrics. They say misery needs company, and if we were able to give someone the chance to commiserate with us, then we accomplished our goal of making some great art.

In short, if the song made you feel good, then I’m happy 4 u <3

Continue to Navigating Heartbreak Series 3/5 »

Oh, we called ourselves “Interstate Eighty” because both of us live along that interstate. That’s pretty much it.

Navigating Heartbreak Series 1/5: The Surfer Analogy

I am not a surfer, but as a writer, I have an undying love for analogies, and one of my friends recently introduced me to an analogy that I feel perfectly encapsulates the experience of going through a heartbreak—something that I am currently going through at 26 years old. For context, my recent breakup was a relationship that was 9 years long, with someone who I’ve known for about half my life. There was no vitriol or bad blood between us. In fact, we had a very steady, healthy relationship. For me, its end was a literal night-and-day surprise—but that’s a blog post for another time. Some day, when it hurts less, I know we will be friends again. Anyway, onto the analogy…

Here, the obstruction happens to be the shallows of a shoreline. Pictured on the right is what’s called a “beach break.”

First, it helps to understand what a "breaking wave" is: for lay-people—like myself—it's what we normally think of when someone says "wave," even though “wave” is a general term to describe all types of water currents. A “breaking wave” is that beautiful, crescent-shaped tunnel of water that people surf, which is created by an accelerating undercurrent meeting an obstruction, sending the current upwards, and causing the wave to “break” the surface and crest in that iconic fashion. Typically, advanced surfers can recognize several different types of "breaks" just by looking at them, whether they were caused by a reef, the shoreline, or otherwise.

My friend told me that every surfer has experienced falling off their board while riding a break and getting caught in it. Supposedly, the first time it happens, it's a harrowing experience—you're freaking out trying to surface while being tossed around by the current. Eventually, the break passes, you're able to rise above the waterline, and you can take a breath.

But often, another break is right behind you, which crashes over your head, dragging you under once again, restarting the whole horrific experience.

He says going through heartbreak is a lot like getting stuck in a cycle of breaks. Sometimes you'll have a moment to breathe, and you feel like everything will be okay, then the next wave crests over your head and you feel like you're drowning all over again. Rinse, wash, repeat.

But the thing is, eventually—as long as you keep swimming—the waves will wash you ashore. But you have to keep swimming, and never give up. I’m currently (hah—”currently”) doing my best not drown in my own sorrow and misery. I’m burying myself in the love of my friends and family. I’m trying to do the things that I know I used to enjoy. Most importantly, I’m trying. And I’m trying harder than I’ve ever tried to do anything in my life, before.

I don’t exactly know what I’m doing, and I don’t know if there’s a “right” way to do it, but I know there are a bunch of wrong ways to do it; I’m trying my best to wade away from those. I don’t know if what makes me feel good today will still make me feel good tomorrow, but that’s a problem for tomorrow-Alex.

Today-Alex just has to get there.

So for now, I’m channeling my inner-Dory, and I’m going to just keep swimming.

Continue to Navigating Heartbreak Series 2/5 »

You’re headed towards shore, kiddo. All you have to do is make it.

Bojack Horseman and the search for meaning.

I have seen the episode “Free Churro” from Bojack Horseman at least four different times, and I very well might see it four more. As far as TV episodes go, it’s probably the most uniquely written episode from one of the most uniquely written TV shows out there. For anyone who is not caught up with the show up to the point of season five, episode six, beware, for there are some pretty big spoilers in this blog post. Also, if you haven’t caught this show, but have been meaning to, certainly do not read this blog post. This is definitely not a good episode to jump into.

Welcome, to any of you that made it here. We’re going to get a little existential in this post, because that’s all I do with my life, anyway. Specifically, we’re going to get existential about Bojack Horseman and the search for meaning. In this instance, when I say “search for meaning,” I mean “trying to extrapolate meaning from things that happen in our lives.” Some people define this as seeing “signs” in things, such as a butterfly landing on your shoulder while sitting in a park and reading a book that your late mother gave you several years ago. I’m sure you’ve met someone (or you might be that someone) who pulled meaning from that, when it’s very possible that it really didn’t have any meaning at all. It was just a tired butterfly, and you were just an inanimate object. There are a few people who are particularly susceptible to “finding” meaning in things—among them: superstitious people, writers, and fiction critics. The habit of searching for meaning compounds exponentially if you tick multiple of those boxes.

The reason people like this are susceptible to this habit is because they’re all trained (academically or otherwise) to ascribe meaning to things that might be banal. You might recall your high school English teacher walking you through the different interpreted themes, motifs, and symbols of classic literature, back in the day. Was the mockingbird in To Kill A Mockingbird really a metaphor for Boo Radley? And was the murder of Tom Robinson also a metaphor for the “loss of innocence” that Scout goes through during the course of the book? Maybe. But I’m sure you’ve heard the argument that “sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.”

Why do some people do that, though? Why is finding meaning in things so appealing? I think it’s because as social creatures, we like stories. And what’s better than stories? Stories within stories. Parables. Teaching moments that elevate our stories from simply entertainment fodder, to life lessons we can internalize and perhaps share with others. Icarus wasn’t just a story about a boy, his father, and defying the laws of physics—it was a warning not to reach further than you can grasp. “Reading between the lines” is a way for us to feel smart about recognizing esoterica, and boy, who doesn’t like to feel smart? (Particularly people who use words like esoterica)

As a writer and amateur fiction critic, myself, I constantly find myself searching for meaning in things. But as a pragmatist and general non-superstitious person, I also find myself trying to remember that the universe is under no obligation to make sense to you. Because—yes—sometimes a cigar is literally just a cigar. And that brings me to my favorite episode of Bojack Horseman.

Hey mom, knock once if life has any meaning to it at all.

I’m going to try really hard not to get into the nitty gritty details about Bojack Horseman’s possibly-optimistic approach to existential nihilism, because then I’d be talking about the whole show at large, and that’s a blog post for another time. But what I do want to talk about is the way Free Churro pretty brilliantly walks between the duality of meaning and meaninglessness. The episode is absolutely dripping in existentialism, and I will admit that it gets a little meta finding meaning in an episode that explores what meaninglessness means (I’ll give you a second for the room to stop spinning)… But honestly, that’s part of the brilliance of the episode, for me. Sort of like how Evil Morty’s speech at the end of The Ricklantis Mixup absolutely shits on every evil villain speech, while simultaneously being the greatest evil villain speech ever conceived.

For anyone who needs a refresher on the episode, it’s basically a 30-minute monologue by actor Will Arnett, taking the form of a beratement at Bojack from Bojack’s dad, and then a subsequent (read: much later) eulogy from Bojack after his mom died. One of the most brilliant things about the episode (that I didn’t catch until my third time watching it) is that its opening line is, “Yes, yes, I see you.”

i c u

Maybe you’ve heard people say that some of the best books/movies tell you exactly what the whole work is going to be about from the opening shot/paragraph/line. Most memorably for me is the opening sequence of the movie The Prestige (and I’m not even going to risk spoiling that one for anyone who hasn’t seen it yet—side note: why the fuck haven’t you seen The Prestige, yet???). In Free Churro, one of most repeated phrases by Bojack is “I see you.” The reason he repeats this so much is because he was in the intensive care unit when his mother died, and the last thing she said was “I see you.”

Throughout the episode, he wrestles with this last parting message from his mother, with whom he had a strained relationship throughout his whole life—”strained” being a massive understatement. He wonders what she meant by “I see you.” Here’s an excerpt from that scene:

BOJACK: I was in the hospital with her those last moments, and they were truly horrifying, full of nonsensical screams and cries, but there was this moment, this one instant of strange calm, where she looked in my direction and said, "I see you." That's the last thing she said to me. "I see you." Not a statement of judgment or disappointment, just acceptance and the simple recognition of another person in a room. "Hello, there. You are a person. And I see you." Let me tell you, it's a weird thing to feel at 54 years old, that for the first time in your life your mother sees you. It's an odd realization that it's the thing you've been missing, the only thing you wanted all along, to be seen. And it doesn't feel like a relief, to finally be seen. It feels mean, like, "Oh, it turns out that you knew what I wanted, and you waited until the very last moment to give it to me." I was prepared for more cruelty. I was sure that she would get in one final zinger, about how I let her down, and about how I was fat and stupid, and too tall to be an effective Lindy-hopper. How I was needy and a burden and an embarrassment. All that I was ready for. I was not ready for "I see you."

Only my mother would be lousy enough to swipe me with a moment of connection on her way out. But maybe I'm giving her too much credit. Maybe it wasn't about connection. Maybe it was an "I see you," like, "I see you." Like, "You might have the rest of the world fooled, but I know exactly who you are." That's more my mom's speed. Or maybe she just literally meant "I see you. You are an object that has entered my field of vision." She was out of it at the end, so maybe it's dumb to try to attribute it to anything. - [woman sighs] -

Back in the 90s, I was in a very famous TV Show called Horsin' Around. - [man coughs] - Please hold your applause. And I remember one time, a fan asked me, "Hey, um, you know that episode where the horse has to give Ethan a pep talk, after Ethan finds out his crush only asked him to the dance because her friends were having a dorkiest date contest? In all the shots of the horse, you can see a paper coffee cup on the kitchen counter, but in the shots of Ethan, the coffee cup's missing. Was that because the show was making a statement about the fluctuant subjectivity of memory, and how even two people can experience the same moment in entirely different ways?” And I didn't have the heart to be, like, "No, man, some crew guy just left their coffee cup in the shot.” So instead, I was, like "Yeah."

And maybe this is like that coffee cup. Maybe, we're dumb to try to pin significance onto every little thing. Maybe, when someone says, "I see you," it just means, "I see you." Then again, it's possible she wasn't even talking to me. Because, if I'm being honest, she wasn't really looking at me, she was looking past me. There was nobody else in the room. I think she was talking to me, but, honestly, she was so far gone at that point, who knows what she was seeing.

I think this section of the episode perfectly encapsulates the dichotomy between searching for meaning and inherent meaninglessness. Later, while still trying to understand what his mom meant by “I see you,” he starts telling the audience about his mom’s final moments in the ICU, and…

BOJACK: …I see you… “I. C. U.” … She was reading a sign!

The episode of full of subversions of itself like that. It constantly asks you to find meaning in something by baking meaning into it, then tearing it down later.

Is there a meaning to why I put a screenshot from another cartoon here? I dunno. You tell me.

Another comparison in Free Churro I think really drills down on the point is the comparison between Bojack’s opening and closing of his eulogy:

BOJACK: Beatrice Horseman, who was she? What was her deal? Well, she was a horse. Uh, she was born in 1938. She died in 2018. One time, she went to a parade, and one time, she smoked an entire cigarette in one long inhale. I watched her do it. Truly a remarkable woman. [rustling] Lived a full life, that lady. Just, all the way to the end, which is, uh, now, I guess. Really makes you think, though, huh? Life, right? Goes by, stuff happens. Then you die. Well, that's my time, you've been great! Tip your waitress! No, I'm just kidding around, there's no waitress. That's all I have to say about my mother. No point beating a dead horse, right? So [inhales] Now what? I don't know, Mom, you got any ideas? Anything? Mom? No? Nothing to contribute? Knock once if you're proud of me. Can I just say how amazing it is to be in a room with my mother, and I can just talk without her telling me to shut up and make her a drink? Hey, Mom. Knock once if you think I should shut up. No? You sure? I mean, I don't want to embarrass you, by making this eulogy into a me-logy, so, seriously, if you wanted me to sit down and let someone else talk, just knock. I will not be offended. No? Your funeral. Sorry about the closed casket, by the way. She wanted an open casket, but, you know, she's dead now, so who cares what she wanted? No, that sounds bad. I'm sorry.

[LATER]

BOJACK: "My mother is dead, and everything is worse now." Because now I know I will never have a mother who looks at me from across a room and says, "BoJack Horseman, I see you." But I guess it's good to know. It's good to know that there is nobody looking out for me, that there never was, and there never will be. No, it's good to know that I am the only one that I can depend on. And I know that now and it's good. It's good that I know that. So it's good my mother is dead. [gulps, sighs]

Well. No point beating a dead horse. Beatrice Horseman was born in 1938, and she died in 2018, and I have no idea what she wanted. Unless she just wanted what we all want—to be seen.

At first, Bojack is obsessed with trying to prove he knew what his mother “wanted” by means of all the cynical jabs at her. At the end, he concedes to never truly knowing what she wanted, because perhaps there was no inherent meaning behind the things she did, other than she just did them. Then again, maybe all she wanted was to be recognized and validated, just like him. Just like all of us. The whole meaning of the eulogy by now is about Bojack reconciling with his mother in front of the attendees of the wake, despite the fact she can’t appreciate or reciprocate it.

At this point, Bojack opens up the casket to look inside. Then, confused, he pulls a funeral program from his pocket, looks up, and asks, “Is this funeral parlor B?”

Conclusion:
Bojack Horseman, and Free Churro, in particular, explores whether or not there is a such thing as “meaning” at all, but also asks if you can find meaning in meaninglessness—if nothing inherently means anything, then why can’t you make everything mean something to yourself? Or is the search for meaning as frivolous and temporary as getting a free churro on the day your mother dies? You tell me.

The final two shots of Free Churro that completely subvert the episode; none of the last half hour mattered. Or did it?

Why I don't think AI will ever truly be conversational.

"Are you doing anything fun this weekend?"

"I might be visiting my parents."

"I haven't seen my parents in a few weeks, myself."

"How have they been?"

"They're going on a cruise in July!"

"Wow, are they excited?"

"They won't stop talking about it."

"That's great."

To you and me, the above interaction is easy to track. In fact, I'm fairly certain that you've had conversations just like this in real life. But even in its simplicity, this conversation is laced with nuance, intuition, and assumptions—things that I'm not quite certain we would be able to replicate at a binary level. Let me show you:

Pictured here is a conversation I had with Cleverbot. For anyone not familiar with the ai, I was the first line (black), and the chatbot was the second line (blue). You can see that non-sequiturs abound in this "conversation." But that's because the nature of human language is contextually interpretive.

Let's deconstruct the above conversation in terms a computer would be able to understand.

"I'm hungry."

This is a simple statement. It's a pretty easy statement to follow up, and the chatbot does (albeit in a sort of creepy manner).

"What would you like to eat, Master?"

The next part of the conversation is something that you might have taken for granted, but it's where the conversation took an immediate turn into a ditch—and it was technically my fault.

"I like sushi."

This is what I meant earlier by language is contextually interpretive. I responded with a fact about myself, when the chatbot was asking me to name a noun. What I should have said is "I would like to eat sushi," or simply, "sushi." Since I responded with something that didn't apply to the original question, I introduced a non-sequitur to the conversation, something computers don't do very well with, as evidenced by the chatbot's response:

"Do you have a family?"

Another non-sequitur. It responded to my non-answer of the original question with a new, unrelated question, because it couldn't reconcile my non-sequitur within the context of "what would you like to eat?" I may as well have said "I have a collection of Taylor Swift posters." Like any human, I naturally tried to bring the conversation back around.

"What does that have to do with my hunger?"

"You asked the question."

Here, we see that the chatbot was looking for a binary response again: yes or no. Instead, I answered its question with a question that it perceived as unrelated. So it threw out the first thing that it thought made sense. But it didn't. To us.

Here's an example of a conversation where I played by all of the rules:

You'll have to excuse the terrible spelling—it learns from other users, and as we all know, humans can be incredibly stupid. But the conversation stands up well. I stated a fact. It responded with a command related to that fact. I responded with a related fact. It asked me a related question. I responded with an actual response to that question. It asked a new, sort-of-related question:

"Are you Japanese?”

The way AI works right now is typically self-contextual within a certain limit. That is to say, AI only talks and responds within the context of the previous thing said to it—it can not extrapolate answers the way humans can. For example, when you say to me, "what do you want to eat?" and I reply, "I like sushi," you contextually infer that I am saying "I would like to eat sushi," even though in reality, that's not what I said at all.

Try noticing this in your day-to-day conversations. Whenever you're talking with somebody, see if the things you say actually relate to the previous thing said. I'll bet that a lot of the times, they take some extra inference to truly have a natural conversation. It might seem like something very simple, but it's in fact a very complex process that happens in our heads. To hear a non-sequitur response and be able to intuitively understand it, you have to think about everything that has been previously said, think about what was just currently said, cross-reference that statement with every other statement about the topic at hand, make a reasonable deduction about which two statements relate the best, and then respond back based on all this information.

For example, if a chatbot asks:

"What do you want to eat?"

As long as you respond with a noun, or a transitive sentence using the verb eat, and involving a noun, the sentence makes sense to the chatbot, even if it's absurd to us.

"Rocks."

"Why do you want to eat rocks?"

"I like eating rocks."

"Eating rocks is bad for your teeth."

"My teeth are fine."

"How many teeth do you have?"

Conclusion:
I very much doubt that we'll ever be able to distill contextual conversation to a binary response. After all, everything that computers do comes back to a choice: 1 or 0. Without a direct path to that choice, the logic fails. And conversation is certainly not logical.

Sorry, Threepio, but I don’t think human-cyborg relations will be coming to fruition any time soon.

"As a 20-something-year-old male, what's your deal with Taylor Swift?"

I get this question a lot: “how did you become such a big fan of Taylor Swift?”

It’s an interesting question. And I think the answer has a lot of parts. Is it because her music is really catchy? Is it because she’s a master of her own brand presence? Is it because she does a lot of philanthropic stuff? Is it because she puts on an amazing show? Is it because she knows how to write in an extremely relatable manner in which I aspire to achieve someday?

Certainly, yes, to all of the above.

But if I think really hard about it and had to choose one single compelling reason why and how I became such an ardent fan of Taylor Swift—the person, musician, and brand—it’s simply this: someone once told me it wasn’t that cool to be a fan of Taylor Swift.

A picture that my cousin took from her seat at #RepTourSantaClara. If you tell me this isn’t cool, you’re delusional.

If there’s anything you’ll quickly learn about me, it’s that I’m absolutely shameless about who I am as a person. I think that stems from a rebellion against years of awkwardness and insecurity about whether or not I was “cool” and “likable,” as anyone who was once a teenager will tell you was the case. I spent a lot of time trying to fit into a bunch of different social niches, never really finding that I had much longevity in any of them. I tried to unilaterally identify as a bunch of different things at a bunch of different times, and it just made me feel like I never really belonged. So then I tried to identify as “different and unique,” which, as you know, every teenager thinks they are.

It took me some time, but eventually, I stopped trying to identify myself. Ironically, when that happened, I started actually having a personality, and people started identifying me as certain things. When I started to just like things because I liked them (and not because I was socially expected to like certain things), I started to find out that I belonged to a bunch of different social groups in a bunch of different ways—and the ways that I didn’t identify with them did make me unique. Finding out how to be me for me has probably been the most grown-up shit I’ve ever done, to date.

To put it plainly: I don’t give a fuck what you think I should like or why I should like it.

Learning how to not be embarrassed about the things I enjoy was hard. Which is why when the person who introduced me to Taylor Swift fandom shied away from associating with the fandom, I may have taken it as a challenge to everything I stood for at the time—what do you mean it’s not cool to like what you like? Fuck that.

Big reputation, big reputation / ooh, you and me, we got big reputations

I like to think that behind the social rebellion also lies a more noble cause. It got me thinking about how I’m the oldest cousin in a long line of cousins and siblings—many of whom are 20 years younger than I am. It got me thinking about how young kids are bullied out of liking things they like every day. It got me thinking about how conformity to social norms is how young kids develop self-esteem issues, and as the pioneer of my familial generation, I was in a position of responsibility to show them that you didn’t have to be ashamed of liking what you like—Taylor Swift just happened to be the most socially jarring thing I could put at the epicenter of my personality to prove that point. Little did I know how much of a feedback loop I’d gotten myself into.

As the years went on, I found myself not just liking Taylor as an anti-establishment statement (after all, what’s more Punk Rock than liking shit no matter what people say about you?)—I started to realize that I really liked what she did as a person. In short time, I began to consume more and more media about Taylor, and the more I consumed, the more existential I would get about my relationship with the Taylor Swift brand. Like me, she went through rapid changes in identity, always choosing to exist in a place that felt “right” to her. She’s far from perfect, and she knows it, but she’s not ashamed of her flaws and mistakes—choosing instead to grow from them as an artist and person, and wearing that person on her sleeve at all times. Perhaps most admirably, for me: she has been at the center of public scrutiny and attention since she was a teenager—a time where most people would buckle under the social pressure, dissolving into a congealed puddle of shame and self-destruction. Taylor has always (at least outwardly) tried to be true to herself, which aligns perfectly with who I want to be, to this day.

It’s who I want my cousins—and eventually, children—to see me as. Because I never want them to be ashamed of who they are or what they love.

Haters gonna hate, so shake it off.

Conclusion:
I like Taylor Swift because I’m allowed to like Taylor Swift. Despite what tabloids or otherwise would have you believe (get the fuck out of people’s personal lives, you creeps), I genuinely think that Taylor is a terrific person, and that she—like everyone—is growing and learning bit by bit as she goes along; it just happens that she’s doing it on a global stage, a la The Truman Show.

Taylor has done incredible things for people, and whether or not you’re a cold, jaded, unfeeling monster who thinks that it’s all a constant publicity stunt, it doesn’t change the fact that she’s done good and inspired goodness because of it. And like Diane said in Season 1, Episode 12 of Bojack Horseman, “I don't think I believe in deep down. I kind of think all you are is just the things that you do.”

Well, I want to be a fan of Taylor Swift.

This show is written so painfully well.

Video Games and Literature—A Comparison

So I’ve had this opinion for a long time, and I’ve even written essays in high school/done presentations in college about this topic, but I wanted to immortalize it here, as well:

Video games have the potential to equal the intellectual capacity and value of classic literature.

That is not to say that they are interchangeable with each other, nor is it to say that one is inherently superior to the other. Look, I love books, too. Hell, I love books so much that I became a professional writer. But I often see bookworms scoff at at video gamers as if they were nothing but button-mashing Neanderthals chugging neon green soft drinks and munching on triangle-shaped, nacho-cheese-dusted tortilla chips. I think that characterization does a disservice to the art form—and yes, video games are an inarguable form of art; it’s literally a major at the art school from which I have a BFA.

Tell me to my face that this isn’t art.

Anyway, let’s compare apples to apples, shall we? Unless you’re a serious fan of typesetting, novels aren’t really visual art forms (excluding book covers, which can be absolutely breathtaking). Their artistic value comes from the narratives captured within their many pages, often inclusive of different themes, motifs, and symbols—welcome back to high school English class, everyone. Now, I believe that the intellectual value of video games exceeds strictly the realm of compelling narrative, but for comparison’s sake, we’re only going to talk about story for right now, capiche? Great.

If we’re going to talk about classic literature, it’s probably only fitting that we start with the iconic benchmark by which basically all hero stories are told—Homer’s The Odyssey. This epic poem chronicles the adventure of Odysseus, king of Ithaca, as he journeys home following the events of Homer’s previous epic poem, The Iliad.

The Odyssey follows (and is perhaps responsible for popularizing) the format of the hero’s journey, in which a protagonist goes through trials and tribulations to achieve a specific goal, encountering archetypes of allies, mentors, and antagonists along the way. Many action/adventure pieces follow some permutation of this format; it’s a tried and true outline for creating a compelling and satisfying story. Since most video games involve some measure of action/adventure element, it’s important to understand this canon.

One of my favorite installments in my all-time favorite franchise.

I know I talk about The Legend of Zelda games a lot, but it’s only because they’re always so damn good. This time, we’re going to observe LoZ:WW from the perspective of the hero’s journey.

We have a protagonist (named Link), who starts off just a young kid living on an island when his sister is kidnapped by a giant bird. That’s Link’s call to adventure. He goes on an epic journey, meeting a talking boat inhabited by the spirit of the King of Hyrule—his supernatural aid/mentor—gets royally fucked up (by threshold guardians) while trying to save his sister because he’s too weak, goes through trials and tribulations to get stronger, gets fucked up some more as his ally gets captured by the ultimate antagonist, Ganon, (the abyss), has to get even stronger by assembling the pieces of the Triforce of courage (his transformation), he saves his sister (atonement), then he has to fight Ganon again with the help of the newly empowered princess Zelda and her Light Bow (gift from the goddess), defeating him and restoring peace to all the land—whereupon it is implied that he and his newly assembled friends get to go on endless adventures to come (the return).

All along the way, LoZ: WW envelopes you in a charming world full of eclectic but relatable characters with sub plots that are all extremely satisfying to resolve. The game tells an emotionally compelling story while challenging you to think and react in creative ways to progress the narrative. I’ve played through and beaten LoZ: WW at least three different times in my life, and each playthrough is equally as satisfying as the previous one—similar to how people have read through The Odyssey numerous times and found satisfaction in its story.

You may be thinking, “but Alex, the hero’s journey is the low-hanging fruit of narrative structure. What about books like To Kill A Mockingbird or Catcher in the Rye that deal with humanistic themes, like the loss of innocence? Or Fahrenheit 451 or Brave New World that deal with control/censorship in a modern world?" What about complex stories about morality and the human condition apart from going out on an epic adventure?”

Great question, my friend!

Red Faction: Guerilla not only had some of the funnest gameplay mechanics in recent memory, but it really makes you rethink your socio-political preconceptions.

In 2009, developer Volition, Inc. (which is now Deep Silver Volition, LLC) released Red Faction: Guerilla under the publisher THQ. The game is a 3rd person POV shooter game with a revolutionary mechanic at the time—fully destructible environments.

From RF:G’s wiki:

Red Faction: Guerrilla takes place in the year 2126. The Earth Defense Force (EDF), the allies in the original Red Faction, have become the main antagonist of RF:G. Although initially supportive of the Martian miners, Earth's natural resources have run scarce, and as a result, its world economy has collapsed from rampant speculation of commodities and lack of production. Under pressure by Earth's corporations and leaders to acquire the resources of Mars at any cost and at a pace to meet Earth's high demand, the EDF has forced Martian society into a permanent state of unfree labour. The newly reformed "Red Faction" arises to revolt against the EDF, drive them off the planet, and begin fairer negotiations with Earth.

You play as Alec Mason, who finds himself shoved into the midst of a rebellion after witnessing the murder of his brother at the hands of the planet’s governing body, the EDF. In the game, you fight for the greater good of the Martian residents at the hands of tyranny. Red Faction: Guerilla is far from subtle about its implications—from its on-the-nose title, to the content of its narrative, to its constructivist-inspired art style—the message is obvious: you are literally playing as a communist.

Red Faction: Guerilla’s logo is heavily inspired by constructivist art from Russian propaganda from the early 1900s.

It’s never explicitly stated that you’re a communist. But you’re fighting for the equal distribution of wealth and prosperity in the game—it really doesn’t have to be explicitly stated. And that’s the gorgeous part of it: once you realize what’s going on—that you’re playing the protagonist in a communist rebellion—it really challenges the American propaganda that’s been drilled into our heads since the first Great War. You empathize with Alex Mason and the Red Faction. You want to topple the established governing body with your own two hands and battle-worn sledgehammer. “Down with the EDF!” you might find yourself rallying throughout the course of the game. If you rooted for the Red Faction, you rooted for communism, plain and simple. How’s that for compelling and intellectual narrative?

“Video games are the shit; come at me, bro!”

Conclusion:
Video games and literature have equal potential when it comes to narrative intellectuality. Sure, there are brain-dead games that don’t really serve a higher intellectual purpose, but there are also books that fall in the same category (see: Goat Simulator and the Main Chick vs. Side Bitch Series, respectively). This blog post didn’t even attempt to cover the puzzle-solving element or resource-management skills that video games can help develop. But that’s a blog post for another time. For now, all I hope you do (if you don’t, already) is pick up a story-based video game and indulge in its narrative. If you feel so compelled, try to extrapolate the greater implications of that narrative to see if the writers, developers, and artists of that game are trying to make some sort of commentary on the nature of the human condition. If you want any suggestions, feel free to drop me a line—I’d be more than happy to add onto your gaming backlog.

A really cool couple’s tattoo idea I saw on the Internet a long time ago.

Paramore has stayed weirdly relatable while growing up

I remember the moment that I realized I was a big Paramore fan. Don’t get me confused when I say that—I want to emphasize the word realize, there. Looking at their full discography and reconciling the dates with what I can remember about myself at the time, I’m pretty sure I onboarded as a fan around 2007-2008 (during the Riot! era), when I was either an 8th grader or a freshman in high school. I just didn’t know how big a fan I truly was until I was in my early college career (around 2011 or so). I was organizing some playlists I’d intended on putting on my new phone, and I’d noticed that I had all three of their albums that they had out at the time. Not only did I have all three of their albums, but I realized I knew the words to pretty much all of their songs.

For 2011-Alex, that was actually pretty abnormal. I didn’t really believe myself to have a “favorite” band, and the only two full-albums I’d ever bought with my own money (which was basically allowance money, but I’ve digressed) up to that point were Sara Bareilles’s Little Voice and Eminem’s Curtain Call (Yes, I realize those are two very different genres of music). Most of the music in my collection was comprised of singles from artists I’d liked here and there, or maybe a few songs from a few albums… But I didn’t know I’d owned three consecutive albums from any band or artist. Sure, my parents probably bought them at the request of either my brother or myself, but it didn’t change the fact that I knew all of their songs. Like I said, as a non-committal to any artist or band (before my introduction to Taylor Swift), that was a pretty big deal to me.

Recently, it got me thinking about my relationship with Paramore, and how—out of every band or artist out there—I’ve always related to their music, no matter how old I was. That also struck me as strange, because—like most people—I went through phases of liking music/musicians. I had an Avenged Sevenfold phase. I had a Disturbed phase. I had an Eminem phase. I had a Frank Sinatra phase. I even had a weird showtunes phase. And while I still listen to all those things intermittently today, none of them has endured as constantly or in as high volume as Paramore has for me. I’ve literally never been disinterested in picking up the “next” Paramore album, whereas I don’t think I’ve even downloaded an Eminem song since Stan.

Hell, I guess you could call me a Paramore stan.

And I think the reason why my interest in Paramore has endured so vehemently over the years is because their music grew up with me, too. A lot of those other artists and genres stay pretty static, in my opinion. There isn’t much change to their music, album to album. But I’ve noticed that Paramore’s lyrics have had a subtle emotional evolution, much like we do as we grow up. So, in this blog post, I wanted to reverse-engineer my fascination with Paramore, and how I related to their music as I grew from a superficial angsty teenager, to a self-actualizing adult with a more complicated fear of the world. That being said, let’s start with where I remember being introduced to Paramore—with Riot!

I’m in the business of misery, let’s take it from the top

So, I guess during the Riot! era, Paramore was seated firmly in the Emo genre. Makes sense when you consider songs like Misery Business, That’s What You Get, and We Are Broken. These are all songs that 14/15 year old Alex resonated with hard. I was just finding out what dating (and getting broken up with) was like, and teenage hormones meant that the thing at the front of my mind was navigating a romantic relationship. Not only that, but being miserable and edgy was so in. Naturally, it felt like Paramore understood that when “nobody else did.”

And it's obvious that you're dying, dying
Just living proof that the camera's lying
And oh, oh open wide
'Cause this is your night, so smile
'Cause you'll go out in style
You'll go out in style

—Fences, from Riot!

Well now I'm told that this is life / And pain is just a simple compromise / So we can get what we want out of it

By 2009, Brand New Eyes had come out, and I was full-swing cringey teenager. I was also the gross PDA-ing type of teenager with my first serious then-girlfriend, with whom I would get into shouting matches on campus daily. So songs like The Only Exception, All I Wanted, and Brick By Boring Brick were staples of my personality by this time. I couldn’t be bothered to be told anything by any figure of authority because I was just too damn good for all that shit, man. And I definitely thought I knew everything important there was to know about life—and life was so hard (good god, can I PLEASE take those years of my life back…).

And the worst part is
Before it gets any better
We're headed for a cliff
And in the free fall I will realize
I'm better off when I hit the bottom

—Turn It Off, from Brand New Eyes

And after all this time I’m still into you

Oh man, 2013… By this time, my teenage angst had evolved into emergent-adult angst. With Paramore, the band’s self-titled album, things were not only beginning to change for me, but for the band, as well. In the four years since Brand New Eyes, Zach and Josh Farro had left the band. In my own life, my three best friends had recently just moved to study at UCLA, Cal Berkeley, and Cal Poly, and my latest then-girlfriend had moved off to study at UC Davis—I was insanely happy and proud of them, yet I was also incredibly sad and lonely. I was still stuck in my little hometown attending community college, feeling like I was stuck in a rut of self-disappointment and self-loathing. I was definitely feeling an indescribable mix of emotions.

Unless you were Paramore.

Don't go crying to your mama
'Cause you're on your own, in the real world
Don't go crying to your mama
'Cause you're on your own, in the real world

—Ain’t It Fun, from Paramore

—Side note, while this album contains two of my favorite songs in Paramore’s discography (Ain’t It Fun and Still Into You), it’s actually my least favorite album of them all. Isn’t that an interesting metaphor for my life at the time?

(Hard times) gonna make you wonder why you even try / (Hard times) gonna take you down and laugh when you cry / (These lives) and I still don't know how I even survive / (Hard times) / (Hard times) / And I gotta get to rock bottom

…Which bring us to the current era, as of this writing: After Laughter. Jeez, what can I say about After Laughter? By 2017, I’d graduated from college and was just getting my first taste of the real world. Honestly, I’m still there, now. But I seriously can not sing enough praise about After Laughter. You can tell that the emotions the band are trying to articulate are much more nuanced and undefinable than they’ve ever been. It’s an apt metaphor for being in your mid-20s, because you haven’t quite figured everything out, but you’re also definitely not a naive kid anymore. Songs like the sonically-upbeat Hard Times are sobered up quickly when you listen to the somber lyrics. Forgiveness is about wanting to forgive someone for hurting you but knowing you don’t have the strength in you to do it. Told You So is about eating humble pie when you realize how wrong you were about something. The entire album is layered in denial and self-destructiveness, but in a way that feels cognizant of itself, as opposed to self-bemoaning in the way a bratty teenager would be.

After Laughter is peppered liberally with dancey-vibey tracks that take a second or third read to really see underneath. It’s sort of like being aware of your own melancholy while knowing that it bums people out, so you try to put on a smile so as not to bug people with your sadness. You want to Fake Happy for everyone else’s sake, and perhaps also as a bit of performance art because you know you’re supposed to be happy—just like everyone else is, right? I’m 26, currently, as of this writing, and I can say without a doubt that I’m going through the weirdest set of emotions I’ve ever had the displeasure to confront in my life. I know that I’ve just recently exited life’s “tutorial” stage. I know that I’ve barely lived a quarter of my life expectancy. I know that this is still a relatively easy section of what my life will be. But knowing all of those things doesn’t stop me from feeling sad, or heartbroken, or hopeless, or incompetent. And yet, I feel compelled to fake being happy because I think it’s what I “should be.” I try to be appreciative of everything that’s going well in my life, but the insecurities just scream louder than I can quiet them.

And I think Paramore gets that.

Reality will break your heart
Survival will not be the hardest part
It's keeping all your hopes alive
All the rest of you has died
So let it break your heart

Hold onto hope if you got it
Don't let it go for nobody
Hold onto hope if you got it
Don't let it go for nobody
And they say that dreaming is free
But I wouldn't care what it cost me

—26, from After Laughter

Conclusion:
It’s been an interesting decade-and-some-change being a fan of Paramore. While most artists I’ve listened to over the span of the same time have seldom strayed far from the beaten path, it feels like Paramore has had an uncanny ability to gracefully wander to and fro, exploring different musical stylings while still speaking true to the relatable experience of being miserable—but also growing up to realize that there’s complexity to that misery. It’s not just vitriol and “you don’t understand me, mom!!”

I think being aware of sadness and allowing yourself to be with it for a time is really the only way of getting past it. Denying yourself a moment to grieve over whatever you need to grieve over is a fast track to becoming angry and resentful over things that are out of your control, and that can lead to hopelessness or worse. I’ve experienced a unique catharsis listening to Paramore at different stages of my life, and I think it’s because Paramore has an intimate understanding of what it’s like to be sad at different stages of growing up.

Maybe the most poignant example of this is a tweet Haley Williams sent on July 20th of 2017—a date which likely haunts fans of Linkin Park.

Immersion in Open-World Gaming: When is it too much?

Of the three games shown above, I only played two to completion—”completion,” here, being defined as “the end of the main storyline.” It’s not that I didn’t enjoy the storyline of one of these games—quite the contrary! I think all three contain expert levels of narrative storytelling. The reason I didn’t finish one of these games is because one of them was completely exhausting to play for me. I understand that the point of open-world video games is that you’re supposed to feel immersed in the universe of the game, and that exploration apart from the main story is part of the appeal to these types of games. Trust me, I love games that don’t force you down a linear hallway of story (not that there’s anything wrong with that, either). I appreciate the ability to explore the passion of devoted game developers who have lovingly carved out a secondary life for us in which to indulge. However, I think one of these games tries to be too immersive, which, for me, has the ironic effect of removing me from the immersion of the game.

Are you ready for it? It’s Red Dead Redemption 2.

Before you get your keyboard pitchforks out, let me explain what I mean by “too immersive,” because I realize that’s a fairly nebulous descriptor to use. I think RDR2 has a chronic problem with its commitment to being as “realistic as possible” getting in the way of the pace of the game. It’s not so much one glaring frustration I had with the game that broke it for me, but a bunch of little inconveniences that compounded on my experience to the point I was like, “fuck this shit; I’m out.” Maybe you can call me impatient. I dunno. But there’s no better example that encapsulates my annoyance with the game than walking through the fucking camps in RDR2.

Literally me while trying to walk from the entrance of camp to my quarters.

Whyyyyyyyyyy do we have to walk through the camp in RDR2?? I mean, I know why—because that’s what civilized cowboys did—but why do we have to walk through the camp? For immersion’s sake? To make us feel like civilized cowboys? You know, for a game that touts its every choice as having a consequence on the storyline, it sure does force you into the expected mannerisms of its protagonist. Like, why can’t I run through camp, pissing off Dutch and Ms. Grimshaw as I go? What if I wanted to play my version of Arthur like Micah and say “fuck you” to all your stupid-ass camp rules? Beyond my angst of having choice removed from me in a “choice-driven game,” I also feel that it just adds an unnecessary lengthener to the game where it shouldn’t be. Did the developers want to force us into appreciating the textures of the camp? Did they want us to be sure that we didn’t miss any social interactions with the NPCs? Or did they just want to show off how cool Arthur Morgan looked when he strutted his stuff in front of everyone, spurs and all?

For comparison’s sake, take a look at how Metal Gear Solid V: The Phantom Pain handles your “headquarters” area (Mother Base). As Venom Snake, you can run through the different platforms, drive vehicles up and down the place, or even beat the shit out of your compatriots who often thank you for it. The only real restriction you have at MGSV’s headquarters area is that you can’t kill your friends—which makes total sense in the world of the game. Having all those options available to you really makes you feel like you’re in control of Venom Snake at all times, which really immerses you in the character.

It doesn’t make any fucking sense that I can’t full sprint through my dirty-ass camp to get some goddamn chili in RDR2. Forcing you to walk in RDR2 really just pulled the autonomy right out of my hands and had me futilely mashing the A button on my controller to make myself feel a tiny bit better about my temporary immobilization.

Ohhhh, you sons of bitches are about to GET it, lmao.

Another thing that felt gratuitous to me is something that has happened in other video games before it, and has been equally ridiculed on the Internet—why RDR2 gets to escape the criticism is beyond me: there are interactive sections in the game that should seriously just be part of the cutscene. Anyone familiar with gamer culture is familiar with the Press F to pay respects meme, often shorthanded as simply “F” in online comment sections or otherwise.

By now, gamers are used to pressing “action” buttons to initiate tasks like opening up chests, doors, or reading loose papers. Used appropriately, they clue gamers into taking an action that has a tangible consequence—opening a chest will yield you loot, opening a door will grant you access to a different area, reading loose papers will expose you to new lore. They can even be used as “quicktime events” that have a consequence for failure. But used inappropriately, all they do is stunt the progress of the game. Here’s a tip to parse whether or not an action button sequence is necessary: does this action button stall the game? If so, what happens if you don’t press the action button? Nothing? Then don’t put in an action button.

Press F to Pay Respects. Triangle to connect wire. Power button to stop playing this boring-ass game.

I could go on for quite a while about all the little things that bugged me with RDR2’s gameplay pacing—from the half-assed fast-travel system, to the respawn location randomness, to the tedious stamina mechanic. But the one that broke the horse’s back was perhaps the micro-interactions, such as playing mini-games, making special bullets, or taking a bath at a hotel. There was so much extra animating and button pushing that it felt like a chore doing any of it. Why do I have to watch the winner of every poker hand celebrate and collect his money? Why do I have to watch Arthur carve a notch into each individual bullet to make split-bullet ammo? Why does every limb during Arthur’s baths have a different button I need to press? Why can’t I skip all these things if I want to?

Comparatively, Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild does one of these micro-interactions much better—cooking. Every button press feels like it has a purpose other than gratuitously showing us an animation, and you can even skip the actual (fairly short, mind you) cooking animation altogether if you want. BoTW’s action sequences never feel like I’m being forced to slow down, which is much better for “immersion” than having to see every little minute detail. There are certain things that we just don’t need to be “realistic,” particularly when they get in the way of actually playing the game.

Conclusion:
Read Dead Redemption 2 is a beautiful, story-driven masterpiece, but it really begs the player to have an exorbitant amount of patience to get through its extraneous, forced interactive moments. A game that feels much better that came out around the same time as RDR2 is Assassin’s Creed: Odyssey. The only time I ever felt like the game slowed me down needlessly was when I was walking down that super long hallway to upgrade my spear. But those instances came so few and far between that it didn’t feel like it broke the flow of gameplay for me. I’m not saying that slow parts of a game are necessarily bad—but I am saying that they should serve a purpose, otherwise instead of being impactful, they just feel cumbersome.

A Millennial Perspective: Brands on Twitter →

Ah, millennials. The elusive generation that’s “killing” every industry. At least, that’s what casual dining chains, the housing market, department stores, the diamond industry, and many more capitalist darlings would have you believe. However, while some brands/industries are more than willing to play victim to a shifting socio-economic climate, there are plenty other brands thriving at the forefront of millennial “mindshare.”

Ask anyone under 30 what “Wendy’s Roasts” are, and there’s a pretty good chance they’re at least familiar with Alonzo Lerone’s viral reactions videos, where he reads off a laundry list of exemplary tweets from the Wendy’s Twitter handle (yes, the fast food burger joint) in which they mercilessly make fun of users who @ tweet them.

As a marketer, if someone floated you the strategy of “hey, I have an idea—let’s ridicule people on the Internet for fun!” you’d probably have them cleaning out their desk by EOD. So among the rising tide of ad blockers and “skip ad” button pushers, how do brands like Wendy’s expertly navigate the treacherous seas of the marketing world today? Evolution, my dear Watson…

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Read my full article on the Traction Agency website »