Skip to main content

A pile of Pokéshit.

I loved yesterday's Penny Arcade comic, Pokémorality. Naturally, I haven't played anything of Pokémon White or Black, but I did used to be a raging PokéNerd in middle and even a bit in high school.






I always used to scoffed--and even still do sometimes--at Professor Oak's lil poké-speech he'd give after you beat the Elite Four and RivalFace. He'd go on and on and on about how RivalFace had lost because he didn't love his pokémon; he'd used them as a means to an end, they were, to him, a means of winning and had not earned their love and trust. As for me, Oak would go on to say, I had won because of the love and care I had raised my pokés with.

That was a pile of raging pokéshit, and we all knew it.

Much like Gabe in this Penny Arcade comic, we taught our pokés to hate, we taught them to win!!! As with almost any game character--especially such replaceable, interchangeable, undying game sprites as these buggers--our compassion and morality regarding for them is shallow at best*.

Of course, this might be why I never won a single player-vs.-player linked battles, ever. Hm.

Meanwhile, some degree, however viciously spurious, of pokémorality was always a part of the games. But apparently it's more hardcore and less superficial in the new games. Fascinating. Maybe I'll go and acquire them. And a Gameboy. To play it. Hm. This could be costly....




* Raging exception being, of course, Aerith/Aeris from Final Fantasy VII, who made all us nerds cry.

Comments

Other things that might interest you...

This moment: A tattoo.

So I read Mrs. Dalloway in high school, and it was perhaps the most beautiful thing I'd ever read. One passage in particular, very early in the book, hit me hard with my first experience of the sublime, and stayed with me—and led at last to my first tattoo.
In people’s eyes, in the swing, tramp, and trudge; in the bellow and the uproar; the carriages, motor cars, omnibuses, vans, sandwich men shuffling and swinging; brass bands; barrel organs; in the triumph and the jingle and the strange high singing of some aeroplane overhead was what she loved; life; London; this moment of June.  (Emphasis added; full paragraph included below. From the full text of the novel as made available by the University of Adelaide.)

The paragraph this is from, the 4th paragraph of the novel, is the 1st passage with the stream of consciousness the book is famous for; although self-limited here, the flow is no less gorgeous. In the passage, Clarissa is walking on a street to get those famous flowers herse…

Losing Doolittle.

I recently got to spend a few days at the lake house my family used to visit through most of my childhood; we no longer own it, and it turns out I missed it more deeply than I realized.

Anthony and I both got the week before NYC Pride off this year, so I contrived to get us a little time there. The cousins who own Greenshore gave Anthony and me permission to relax there for several days rather than just the 1 or 2 I had expected. Good god, I'm grateful for that.

I missed this place. Standing on the balcony, the porch, or the dock and looking out over the lake, I was reminded of the beauty and tranquility this lake represents for me. The meaning and memories, too.

This was always a place of solace and stability for me. We moved around a lot when I was a kid, but we always came back to this place. It had been in our family for generations before I was even born—if we'd been able to keep it, it would have been a solid 4 generations including mine. This was where I figured out I w…

Gardenzia carnivorus.

I recently got back into horticulture after a bad moment of burnout, and wouldn't ya know it, I'm back at it with carnivorous plants! Despite tweeting about it endlessly, I haven't actually explained how or why this started.

Back in middle school, I helped my science teacher set up a carnivorous plant display. Nothing elaborate, mind you; a terrarium with a bunch of sphagnum moss and some pitcher plants, a sundew or two, maybe a Venus flytrap? Didn't leave much of an impression, except maybe that they died and that sucked. shrug.
A couple years later, I was in a bog near my grandmother's lake house, when things changed forever. I was in the back end of the canoe, and as my dad pulled the front end out of the water, I glanced to my right and spied, on a stump with some moss, sundews (Drosera rotundifolia, to be precise).
Of course I recognized therm instantly—they're hard to mistake, with those the sparkling tentacles and all. I gathered 3 or so of them (I know