Lock and Load
by Michael Goldfarb
I'M A PRETTY GOOD SHOT, but I can only go at it for so many hours before my eyes start to water and my hands begin to shake. Say I get up around noon. By dinner time I'm pretty wasted, the only consolation being that by then I've racked up an impressive body count. Alternating between a shotgun and a plasma rifle, I'm an army of one.
The Covenant, an alien coalition bent on intergalactic hegemony, is mostly reduced to cannon fodder, now that I've grown accustomed to stalking my prey in the virtual landscapes of video-planet Halo. These days, I'm making skilled use of active camouflage, and I've learned to bide my time and sneak up silently on my unsuspecting enemy before unleashing a barrage of fire that makes me giddy and makes him dead.
The fact is, I've always enjoyed shooting things. As a child I spent many summer afternoons firing .22 caliber bullets at enemy cans of shaving cream and bug-repellent, anything that offered the chance for a secondary explosion. Even now, though many years have passed, I can't resist a moving target.
Recently I thought I'd glimpsed Valhalla in a paintball match between allied and opposing junior journalists. We annihilated our adversaries time and again, only to see them rise from the dead and present themselves once more as willing targets; and when it was done, there were sandwiches and cold beer for victor and vanquished alike. But triumph is fleeting, and live targets are few. Mostly, I've had to dedicate myself to the destruction of Halo. It turns out I'm not the only one.
The other week saw the release of Halo 2, an event unprecedented in video-gaming history if measured by either sales or media attention. It seems that gamers are now so numerous, and of such advanced age, that our news warrants front-page coverage. The Washington Post ran a long story about the release, and didn't bury it in the tech section. Among the revelations: The average gamer is 29 years old, and may well consider himself (it's a man's world) part of the "Atari generation."
The Post's story, and gamers themselves, liken the hyping of Halo to the Hollywood blockbuster--to The Incredibles and Harry Potter. But some of the coverage, I'd have to say, is misleading. The Post's nod to "stunning, colorful, cinematic visuals" might leave readers supposing that it's the wonders of cinematography that keep their loved ones up playing video games all night. But of course it's not. It's our bloodlust.
The gamer demographic doesn't need to hunt for food, and many, I suspect, are living under circumstances similar to my own--in a house where gunplay is not tolerated. I haven't even seen my pellet gun since I last fired it indoors, prompting its immediate confiscation by the authorities (the fair sex can be so unfair). The Second Amendment providing no protection from tyranny in the home, I and others like me have had no choice but to commit ourselves to the virtual Third Way.
By now I have my own Halo 2, and I've probably spent 24 hours playing it over the last two weeks. This time I suspect I'm on the cusp of victory in my long campaign to extirpate the Covenant. But the conquest has not been without cost. I've neglected both personal and professional duties in its pursuit. And I've been getting some unflattering feedback from certain quarters.
My girlfriend is not amused by what she calls my immature affinity for firearms. And my parents can't seem to let go of this thing about "deadlines" and applications to "law school." The term "perpetual adolescent" was flung at me in one unpleasant exchange, along with the suggestion that I should read an article by that name in my own magazine.
Being a reasonable guy, I did as I was asked. I looked up the article, braced for a cold bath of reproach. I needn't have worried.
The author, a Mr. Epstein, wrote, "For the perpetual adolescent, time is almost endlessly expandable"--my sentiment exactly. And then he asked a very good question: "Why not go to law school in one's late thirties, or take the pre-med requirements in one's early forties, or wait even later than that to have children?"
Why not indeed? If the perspicacious Mr. Epstein is correct, my best years of youthful irresponsibility are still ahead of me, and my chances of triumphing over the extraterrestrials are excellent.
