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Like many people, and gamers in particular, I have struggled to lead a double life. I have a family that likes me despite my gaming and a group of friends that like me because of gaming. This dichotomy of personality has led to a carefully balanced itinerary. The aim of which is to “satisfy” one aspect or the other, but never fully satiate the craving for either my social or anti-social pursuits.
I know satisfaction with the banal is dangerous, but so is being too driven right? For now, I’ll compromise, and eventually maybe I’ll see what’s out there. If, that is, I can see “out there” from a chair or sofa or something.
One such compromise is my miniature modeling station at home. It’s the saddest corner in a very sad basement. But discretion is the better part of valor, so I chose an area that was not desirable . . . ever. . . Many nights I’ve sat there, on my blown out bass half-stack, choking on the ammonia fumes rising from the kitty box nearby, and praying to the gods of flickering florescence for a few more hours of light.
I have witnessed the slow rise and fall of useless basement crap over the years. I’m sure it’s the steady, ravenous breaths of some suburban monster akin to “sprawl” and “peanut allergies.” Eventually, my tiny haven will be overrun as I complacently model away; adapting to the slow encroachment with the grace that only laziness could produce. Example: I have a fly-rod suspending a light-bulb over my work-bench. Boxes of old clothes and books and Christmas lights and my long lost Commodore 64 and Sega Master System will creep under my desk and over its surface. But I will duck, spin, hurdle and tip-toe before I do anything about it.
Today, my hibernating desire to paint woke hungry. I raced home after work, blew the cat hair off the table, moved a few boards that were supposed to be shelves a few years ago, opened the broken 50’s refrigerator next to my workbench to get my paints and clicked the fly rod on. Life isgood satisfactory. . .
I know satisfaction with the banal is dangerous, but so is being too driven right? For now, I’ll compromise, and eventually maybe I’ll see what’s out there. If, that is, I can see “out there” from a chair or sofa or something.
One such compromise is my miniature modeling station at home. It’s the saddest corner in a very sad basement. But discretion is the better part of valor, so I chose an area that was not desirable . . . ever. . . Many nights I’ve sat there, on my blown out bass half-stack, choking on the ammonia fumes rising from the kitty box nearby, and praying to the gods of flickering florescence for a few more hours of light.
I have witnessed the slow rise and fall of useless basement crap over the years. I’m sure it’s the steady, ravenous breaths of some suburban monster akin to “sprawl” and “peanut allergies.” Eventually, my tiny haven will be overrun as I complacently model away; adapting to the slow encroachment with the grace that only laziness could produce. Example: I have a fly-rod suspending a light-bulb over my work-bench. Boxes of old clothes and books and Christmas lights and my long lost Commodore 64 and Sega Master System will creep under my desk and over its surface. But I will duck, spin, hurdle and tip-toe before I do anything about it.
Today, my hibernating desire to paint woke hungry. I raced home after work, blew the cat hair off the table, moved a few boards that were supposed to be shelves a few years ago, opened the broken 50’s refrigerator next to my workbench to get my paints and clicked the fly rod on. Life is
