The Muddy Misadventures of the Caliche Kid

Galleons, for those of you who don’t know, I’ve spent the last few days on the road, traveling from Michigan to Arizona in my giant van without a name (since it wasn’t my vehicle, it never got a real name, though I will admit to a pang of sadness as I returned it today- we bonded during our journey). The first day was long and uneventful, but the second day… oh, the second day.

The second day of travel found me getting tolled up the ass as I zipped across Oklahoma. And while I was excited to get out of that wallet rending suckfest, I was less excited about where the road was taking me next.

Texas.

I have never been to Texas, and it’s one of the few states I can honestly say I have no desire to visit. And yet, I had to drive through the panhandle on this trip of mine. Ugh.

And not only was I going to have to spend a few hours trucking (or vanning, in my case) through fucking Texas, I was going to have to stop for gas once. To reiterate: Ugh.

So that’s how I found myself pulling into a gas station in Conway, Texas in the early afternoon. There were a few absurdly long lines of cars at about three pumps. A rotund gas station attendant strode over, and as I rolled my window down, he began explaining to me about their pump issues in a thick Texas accent. I’m forcing a smile and nodding politely, already feeling insanely impatient and thinking I should just get back out on the road and stop at the next gas station along the interstate instead. But by then, another car was up on my bumper, so I couldn’t maneuver giant van out of the line.

Looks like I was waiting.

Ten minutes later, I finally pull the van up to the pump, select the only working option, and start fueling up. During this time, gas station attendant has wandered back over to me (lucky me) and starts asking me where I’m from and where I’m going and yadda yadda bullshit fucking smalltalk. I try to be civil but short with him to deter him from further conversation, but it does not phase his laid-back Texas self. Oh no. He just keeps fucking talking. When the tank finally fills, I almost do a fucking hoppy dance of joy as I jump in the van and pull away from Chatty McGee.

Parking the van away from the pumps, I head inside for a soda (and bathroom stop). Everyone working there is disgustingly friendly and so Texan it was painful. I happily exit the convenience store and get back in the van, ready to get the hell out of this state.

Unfortunately, the ramp back onto I-40 was closed, so I decided to head on down the road until Gary (my little Garmin) gave me directions that would lead back to the interstate. Sure enough, he had me immediately turning onto this little county road, which was going to link right up with an I-40 access road. Huzzah.

And so, me and the van start along this county road. While tiny and kind of shitty, it’s paved and not too terribly long. I can see where it will hit the access road in about a mile.

But what you can’t tell from the start of that little road is that it stops being paved about halfway along. At that point, it goes from shitty paved road to shitty dirt road. And I was honestly not paying a hell of a lot of attention to the goddamn road surface as I went along, so I was on the dirt portion before I realized it.

I fucking hate dirt roads, galleons. They are just dirty, uneven, awful things that I avoid whenever possible. And if I had known this county road was going to become a dirt road, I never would have taken it. However, I’m halfway down the road and while it’s now dirt and shit, the end is in sight, I might as well just continue on.

What I failed to take into account was the winter storm that had just passed through the area, probably because there was no goddamn snow on the ground. I just didn’t put it all together until, as I’m going down this road, I suddenly start to slow down. Slower. And slower. And then I am stopped, though my foot’s on the gas, and it dawns on me.

This dirt road is now a goddamn mud pit.

And I am stuck in it.

The shit-scared panic of being stuck in the middle of this county road is Assfucknowhere, Texas isn’t the first thing that hits me. The first thing I think of is actually a scene from My Cousin Vinny when Joe Pesci gets his car stuck in the Alabama mud. And really, if you had been raised in the same household as me, where that particular film is watched at least twice a year, it’s probably the first thing you would have thought as well.

Regardless, I try to shimmy the car back out of the mud and onto the ostensibly drier portions of road we’d previously been traveling on. I can only manage to move the van back and forth two or three feet, and I start to worry I’m just digging it in deeper by doing so, so I stop. I throw the emergency flashers on, then get out of the car and start the muddy, squelchy trek the 3/4 mile back to the gas station.

Upon reaching the gas station, I speak with the attendant from earlier. He seems incredulous that I managed to get stuck in the mud (it was the first of many, many times I heard one of the locals ask “Why on earth were you driving on that dirt road?”) and about as useful as an asshole on one’s elbow. So, I haul my muddy self inside. The folks behind the counter freeze at the sight of me. I calmly ask if they have a phone book or the number of a local towing company to help me extricate my vehicle from the muddy hell it was currently residing in. One of the ladies finally stops staring long enough to give me the number of a towing company.

Upon calling the towing company, I discover that they lack a 4-wheel drive vehicle that could get me out of my sticky predicament. Really? A towing company in a rural area without a 4-wheel drive vehicle? The guy on the other end tells me my best bet is to find a local farmer with a tractor to haul me out, then hangs up on me.

So much for that famous Texas hospitality.

I squish back over to the counter and ask for the number to the local sheriff’s office. The same lady frowns (because it is apparently greatly putting her out to write down two fucking phone numbers for me), then gets me the digits. I call the sheriff’s office, tell them my woes, and am told someone will head by when available.

And so… time to wait, I guess. I buy a new soda (having left my other one in the van) and proceed to sit and stare morosely out the window at my van, which is visible in the distance. A man sits down at the table next to me and starts asking about my situation, having overheard my phone conversation. I tell him what’s going on, then he offers to try to help me out after he finishes his sandwich. He has a 4-wheel drive Jeep with a winch on it, so he thinks he can drag me out. I shoot a skeptical look at his little Jeep, thinking about the heavy ass van sitting in the mud ahead, but figure anything is worth a shot.

By the time we got near the van, his Jeep started losing traction (which my van never did, which I still find really odd). He slipped and skidded around, and I had about 20 heart attacks as he slid behind, around, in front, and back around my van, nearly hitting it SO MANY TIMES. After thoroughly coating both my van and his Jeep in mud, he determines he can’t do anything and we drive back to the gas station.

And now I’m waiting again. I speak with my father, then call the sheriff’s office again, where I’m told a deputy will be there when they become available but that the dispatcher can’t make them get to me any faster and would I please stop calling. So, I sit back at my table and do the forlorn staring bit again.

A sheriff’s car drives by, going the opposite direction from the van. I bitterly watch it go, thinking it’s going to go the wrong fucking way (despite me repeatedly telling dispatch to have them come to the gas station and get me so I can direct them to the van) and leave me up shit’s creek here. But then the car turns around and comes back. I practically leap from my seat and fly out the door, but the car’s gone past. As I run toward it, I watch it pull down that county road.

Well, at least I knew this sheriff’s car was here to deal with my issue. Finally.

As I hurried toward it, the car went down the road, stopped partway, then started backing all the way back down the road. At the end, the deputy finally saw me.

“Well, little lady,” he said, “you appear to be stuck in the mud.”

NO SHIT.

But instead of being the impatient, asshole city dweller that I am at heart, I turned on my limited charm and played up the “damsel in distress” angle, which works way too well on folks in rural towns because they are all insanely sexist and really do think women are weak and rather useless. Particularly with cars.

The deputy has me get in his car and he drives me a few miles down to Panhandle, the little town he’s actually from. Along the way, he tells me about the dirt in the area, which is actually a clay-like substance called caliche, and about how often vehicles end up stuck in the mud after a bout of precipitation.

Him: “Well, down here, we don’t really have regular mud, you see. We have caliche, and when it gets wet…”

Me: “It turns into horrid, squelchy, car sucking death muck?”

Him: *laughter* “That’s ’bout accurate, missy.”

He gets a call over the radio and proceeds to start joking into it, saying how he’d picked some girl up who was being mouthy and how he’d smacked her around to show her who’s boss.

Lovely.

We eventually pull right into a towing company’s parking… area (can’t call it a lot, more like a dirt patch), and the deputy starts explaining to the stereotypical hick working there the situation and how it should be possible to pull me out from the front, right onto the access road I was trying so hard to get to. The towing guy says he’ll give it a go and tells me to go wait in his Suburban.

After fifteen fucking minutes of the good ol’ boys shooting the shit, the towing guy and his crony get into the Suburban and we head back to the van. During this trip, I am repeatedly asked why I was in the mud in the first place, and it really took everything in my not to make a smartass remark in response. I mean, what the hell, do these fuckers think I was doing this on purpose?

“Why van, doesn’t this seem like a lovely day for a caliche cruise? Let us frolic about in this mud patch until we are both mired in the muck, yes? Righto.”

We arrive at the van and the towing guys hook my van to their Suburban, and we slowly drag its heavy ass out of the goopy mess it had been hanging out in. And there was much rejoicing.

Anyway, this entire fucking adventure lasted less than three hours, but was full of enough stress (that I really didn’t need, after the previous week’s stress) to last three months. I spent a lot of that time walking around in the cold and wind, fretting and fussing as everything I fucking own hung out in a patch of sticky muck.

But the whole time this was happening, the part of my brain that finds amusement in the weirdest fucking things was just having a goddamn LOLfest. Every single goddamn Texan I interacted with was a fucking Texas stereotype. They were exactly how Hollywood portrays them. Exactly. It was fucking hilarious. If I’d been given one wish during the whole escapade, that part of my brain wouldn’t have wished for the van to be out of the mud. Oh no. It would have wished for a camera to have filmed the entire ordeal, just so I could show everybody later and everybody else could see how fucking absurd everything was.

Anyway, that concludes the tale of the Caliche Kid (as I have styled myself). I hope you found some amusement in it. Because now that it’s all over, I think it was a fucking riot.

And also, I am a goddamn moron.

On Sleep

I do not know how others sleep.

I know that getting to sleep is often described as drifting or gently falling, as being welcomed into a dark embrace, as succumbing to a void. But this is not how I fall asleep.

I do not know how others sleep.

For me, sleep is a thing I must work toward every night. I must fuss about, filling my time until my capricious body decides sleep could potentially work its way into the equation. I must fluff pillows and arrange my body in carefully determined positions. I must twitch and nestle and curl and burrow into a spot beyond a description, a perfect arrangement of limbs, blankets, and pillows that allows the muscles to relax. I must actively still my racing mind, force myself to focus on my breathing, to push all thought from my mind. Which is difficult beyond measure (preach to me about meditation all you want, world, my mind stops for no one). My thoughts skitter and dart, slithering through the carefully neutral cloud I’ve erected around the steady sound of my breathing, insidious, becoming whole trains of errant thoughts and ideas and imaginings before I realize my error and shut them down again.

I do not know how others sleep.

Again and again, I blank my mind. I breathe. I will myself with every fiber of my being to just fucking fall asleep already. It’s not a drifting, not a gentle fall. It is a crawl, inch by agonizing inch, me hauling myself along, digging my nails in and pulling myself through to that much needed rest. It is a long journey on a narrow bridge over a fucking chasm with gale force winds buffeting me as I creep along. One wrong move, and off the side I go, and it’s back to the beginning to try again, video game style. An unconscious twitch of the muscles. a too-full bladder, the slightest noise, and I’m forcibly pulled back to the world of the fully awake, mind bright and racing once more, a sour frustration churning in the back of my throat.

I do not know how others sleep.

Sometimes, I can drug myself. Or push myself so far that I succumb quicker to the world of sleep. Methods that come with a rushing, whirling sensation as I lay my head down, no longer a stumble-crawl toward the finish line but a slippery, uncontrolled tumble down a mountain side. There is always fear, fear as I fall too fast and too hard, fear that often yanks me awake again at the last moment.

I do not know how others sleep.

Insomnia isn’t about being awake longer, about simply being unable to sleep. It’s a constant battle for even a few hours of shut eye. I fight every goddamn day for the meager amount of rest my body decides to give me. And the fight isn’t over once I’ve gotten to sleep, either.

I do not know how others sleep.

Most of the time, I can’t stay asleep for longer than three or four hours. At this point, I’m jolted awake again. Sometimes, it’s by the need to urinate. Sometimes, because a noise has startled me. But often, it’s for no discernible reason at all. I am simply awake, suddenly, completely, where seconds before I had been asleep. Awake and unable to fall back to sleep, feeling temporarily energized and rejuvenated but knowing the feeling will only last a few hours. Hours that I will be spending awake, because I can’t get back to sleep, even if I desperately need the rest. And after a few hours, as my body starts to feel the exhaustion creep back in, we’re back to square one. Once again performing the rituals of slumber, but often without the promise of more than an hour or two of sleep before the alarm clock signals the day has to begin.

I do not know how others sleep.

Lying awake for hours, a dull pain pulsing somewhere behind my ear, every muscle screaming for sleep but unable to snag any of it… this isn’t something that just happens once in a while. Something that occasionally pops up when I’m stressed or worried. It’s what I have to deal with weekly. Too tired to do anything, yet unable to sleep, trapped in this exhausted limbo that teems with despair and angry frustration.

I do not know how others sleep.

But I wish I did.

Hate is a Battlefield, Too, Ms. Benatar

Today’s post is uncharacteristically serious and topical for me, my galleons, but it’s one of those moments where I’m just full to bursting with opinions. I do that, on occasion, you know- have opinions. And, as a note, those opinions are not always entirely PC. They are also super rambly and might make no sense.

Because that’s how I roll, motherfuckers.

It all started one week ago, with a Suzanne Moore article about women, the recession, and the power of female anger (and the necessity of it). As far as self-proclaimed “feminazis” go, I don’t tend to outright hate Moore’s work (yes, that’s right- I find blind radicalism in any form, good intentioned or not, to be counterproductive and fucking tiresome). She tends to stick more to actual information than attempting to inflame the hearts/minds of the vaginal masses with gross exaggeration and misandry (just because institutional misandry is practically non-existent compared to misogyny doesn’t mean misandry doesn’t exist in other spheres).

However, this particular piece did raise the ire of one minority group. When discussing the unrealistic female body image all-but-demanded of society, Moore stated, “We are angry with ourselves for not being happier, not being loved properly and not having the ideal body shape – that of a Brazilian transsexual.”

Okay, before we hit the reaction, I want to go on record (…if this blog can really be considered any sort of reliable record) as initially believing this statement, while certainly not PC, was never meant to be hateful. And here’s where we take a quick side trip to discuss my own potentially back assward views on sex/gender (for the record, sex/sexuality/gender have so goddamn many terms now that I mostly just end up confused as to what’s going on when I think about all of them- I also don’t particularly understand why… no, you know what, that’s a can of worms for you all to get pissed at me for another day). BECAUSE OF REASONS.

I’m never going to truly understand the idea of believing yourself to be born the wrong  sex. I’m not condemning, I’m simply stating it’s one of those things outside my sphere of experience that I honestly have a difficult time imagining (To be fair, I have a difficult time with a lot of empathy-related issues as well, so we can chalk that up to my seemingly borderline sociopathic self, yes? …That’s a joke, I’m not a sociopath- I’m just emotionally retarded. Oh yeah, I’m un-PC all over the place today). I often think I exhibit more masculine traits than feminine, but then I cry over The Gilmore Girls and I’m stereotypically girly again. I think stereotypically “gendered” emotional reactions and interests are pretty much utter bullshit, anyway. We all exhibit traits of the masculine and the feminine both, some just show greater quantities of one or the other. My father is an ultra-manly, beer-drinking, stuff-building, football-watching dude who also loves to burn scented candles and take long bubble baths. I know people who listen to Lady Gaga and Metallica, wear ruffles and can handle a gun better than you, buy cute boots and enjoy a good Scotch.

We all slide between the masculine and the feminine because, despite our differing genitalia, the sexes are not black and white, this and that, one and the other. We are all people, unique, complicated, walking shades of grey (50 of them, if you are into bad literature- OH SNAP). I’m not saying society necessarily accepts this, I’m just saying that’s how it is.

And because of this belief (and despite more modern definitions of the terms), I do tend to use “gender” and “sex” interchangeably. The words, in my world, are used when describing those nigglingly different sets o’ genitals (heh, I wrote “genTITals” first). I am aware this ain’t PC, yo. But because of my views of “gender” as that sliding scale in each of us (like Kinsey and sexuality- I tell ya, I wish I could have coffee with that man, because we’d have shit to talk about), I don’t feel the need to differentiate between people’s insides in such black-and-white terms of ‘male’ and ‘female’. And yes, I know that some scientific studies have found differences between male and female brains, implying some sort of internal dichotomy I’m straight-up ignoring, and while I do admit that there have been legit differences found in the brains of the two sexes, these differences are never consistent across the board.

We could go on and on about my thoughts on genetics vs society when it comes to supposedly inherent gendered differences in the brain and development (hint: I don’t put a lot of stock in most genetic arguments because we can never study developing children brains in a vacuum without societal influence, rendering all studies/experiments fundamentally flawed), but I’m already way off-topic. Suffice to say, while I understand not feeling like you conform to a stereotypically male or female “gender”, I cannot understand feeling like you were born the wrong “sex”.

But just because something is not within my realm of experience doesn’t mean I don’t respect it. And so, if undergoing surgery (or not, seeing as not all transsexuals are post-op) to switch sexes is what’s going to make you a happy and fulfilled person, shit, fucking go for it. I’m not going to judge you for it (though I might not always use your preferred pronouns if you’re pre-op, and I’m very sorry about that, but I’m not perfect). I think all people have a fundamental right to pursue what makes them happy, so long as it doesn’t hurt others (and no, upsetting your “delicate sensibilities” doesn’t count as injury).

Unfortunately, transsexual culture and drag culture are inextricably wound together in the minds of the general populace. There’s nothing wrong with drag culture, but drag queens/kings are entertainers, basing their looks in caricatures of the other sex and their performances are comedic/satirical. Transsexuals are not caricatures- they are simply trying to live their lives in the sex they believe they should have been born to. For the most part, they are not caricatures- they are real women and real men. They wear jeans and t-shirts and business suits and cocktail dresses and ballet flats and baseball caps like anybody. Unlike drag queens/kings, trans individuals don’t fucking walk around in lime green sequined evening gowns and six-inch platform heels all the time. They are just men and women, dressing down, dressing up, having families, hanging with friends, just fucking being happy.

But, because sex/sexuality/gender is so very confusing and is confused even more by shit portrayals of various groups in media, most folks still confuse drag culture with trans individuals. And so, a trans woman has to be a 6’2″ broad with giant tits, a feather boa, and a silver miniskirt.

So, I assumed Moore fell into that trap. She was trying to give a perfectly exaggerated image of the “ideal” female body type, the type society pushes, and what she was going for when she said that the ideal body shape is “a Brazilian transsexual” is that stereotypical drag queen image people share of a trans woman. Was it PC? OH FUCK NO. It’s also straight-up wrong on most counts. But she was going for an exaggerated image of the ideal female form, and because drag queens are in fact caricatures of femininity, you don’t get more perfect an exaggeration.

At least, that’s what I assumed she meant. But she didn’t say drag queen. She said transsexual. While I was obviously being too optimistic (you’ll see why in a second), I really thought she just confused the two. As a professional writer, I think she could have simply said ‘underwear model’ and we would have understood where she was going. But I didn’t think her intention was, “HaHA, here’s a perfect example to stealthily spread my mega-hatred of transsexuals!” It was a confused and poorly chosen phrase, but I maintained her intent wasn’t hate.

But that doesn’t mean it didn’t offend. The transsexual community was, in fact, very upset by it. They demanded an apology from Moore.

At this point, Moore should have been all, “Shit, I fucked that up. Sorry, everybody, I was just being a bit of an idiot, not an intentional bigot. Swearsies.” If, in fact, she had made the mistake I believed she did.

INSTEAD, she lost her shit on Twitter. And not just in an angry rant way, in an angry, flippant, bigoted, transphobic hate spree. With such gems as:

“I dont prioritise this fucking lopping bits of your body over all else that is happening to women Intersectional enough for you?”

“I dont even accept the word transphobia any more than Islamaphobia You are using ‘intersectionality’ to shut down debate. Its bollocks.”

“!) People can just fuck off really. Cut their dicks off and be more feminist than me. Good for them.”

Okay, I think saying she lost her shit is a bit harsh. She just got nasty with people who were, admittedly, being nasty to her. She was being cyber-bullied pretty hard over this article. That being said, her response really solidified her own transphobia (whether she accepts the word or not) as it really highlights a huge issue facing transsexuals- the idea that a “natural” or cisgendered woman (or man) has more rights than them, is more important than them, and should be held above them.

It’s all some fucked up shit, really. I can’t believe our society is still all “Oh, they gets rights, but you don’t, for some arbitrary ass reasons.”

It’s become obvious, despite her explanation of using the phrase she used (“I deliberately used the word Brazilian transexual as ideal shape small hips and big T and A.”) that she is, in fact, kind of a bigot. At this point, while I’m no longer on her side, I still think the reaction to the initial phrase was a bit much…

More on that in a bit (I’m trying to keep this chronological).

So, there’s bullying going on all over the place on the Twitter, which causes Moore to /gquit that shit. I will not stand up and defend what she said, but I will say this (and I say this a lot and I do, truly, believe it): You cannot fight hate with more hate. What she said was bullshit. Calling her on her bullshit? Super just. But if she was legitimately bullied off of Twitter by people threatening her and her well-being… Well, that shit’s unacceptable. I don’t care what the bitch said.

[NOTE: I don't know the exact types of messages sent to her. Various sources report her being 'cyber-bullied,' which I take to mean threats to her, not criticism of her shit opinions. But I've made the mistake of assuming once already in this debacle, so I hesitate to do so again. Judging by her above Twitter reactions to it all, it sounds like people were just calling out her work. Rage quitting because people are criticizing your work and your dickish views? That's not a reaction to 'cyber-bullying', that's being unable to take criticism. But, like I said, all my information here is really hearsay from later articles regarding this matter.]

I reiterate: Cyber-bullying, for any reason, is not cool.

So, Moore leaves Twitter. Which causes her friend Julie Burchill to write a reaction piece to the whole affair.

And oh boy, I tell ya- nothing I say can ever be as offensive as the shit this cunt writes. Some choice fucking snippets:

“I nevertheless felt indignant that a woman of such style and substance should be driven from her chosen mode of time-wasting by a bunch of dicks in chicks’ clothing.”

“But they’d rather argue over semantics. To be fair, after having one’s nuts taken off (see what I did there?) by endless decades in academia, it’s all most of them are fit to do.”

“I know [tranny's] a wrong word, but having recently discovered that their lot describe born women as ‘Cis’ – sounds like syph, cyst, cistern; all nasty stuff – they’re lucky I’m not calling them shemales. Or shims.”

“And we are damned if we are going to be accused of being privileged by a bunch of bed-wetters in bad wigs.”

“To have your cock cut off and then plead special privileges as women – above natural-born women, who don’t know the meaning of suffering, apparently – is a bit like the old definition of chutzpah: the boy who killed his parents and then asked the jury for clemency on the grounds he was an orphan.”

HO-LY SHIT, RIGHT?

Oh yeah, this went over well. In fact, the piece is now the subject of an inquiry by the Observer readers’ editor. Well, no shit. Reading this filth makes me sick to my stomach. Sometimes, I am not PC. But I am not full of this vitriolic hate. Burchill tells us we should see trans women as second-class citizens to “natural” women. Buh-wha? For a supposed “radical feminist”, as she refers to herself, how can she think it’s acceptable to relegate anyone to second-class status? How can anyone think that ever? Why is it only recognized bigotry if she will benefit from triumphing over it?

I mean, this shit is appalling. Disgusting. Loathsome.

So when people blew up over it? Oh shit yeah, I was all over it. The Observer cannot allow this kind of filth to be published (how the fuck did it get published to begin with?). Even in this digital age, with online publications and less formal forms of reporting, there still have to be standards for columnists. And this kind of pure hate? It cannot be allowed.

I mean, what the ever-loving fuck?

***

There is one last thing I would like to mention. Both Moore and Burchill accuse the trans community of language policing, of quibbling over semantics. And, despite my deep reverence for language and the fact that I know semantics are fucking important (no matter what anyone says), I was feeling a little like they were making a point. As I initially argued, the original phrase, while not PC, isn’t inherently transphobic, is it?

So, why was the reaction so intense?

Then I get some context. I will admit to not being terribly knowledgeable about world trans issues- they don’t tend to show up on most major news sites (which is sad in and of itself). And so, it took an article by the well-spoken Roz Kaveney to shed some light on the issue for me and burn away some of my own ignorance on the matter:

At this point Suzanne Moore reprinted in the New Statesman a piece about female anger that complained, among other things, that women were expected to look “like Brazilian transsexuals”. A lot of people seem not to get why this upset most of the trans community.

In the first place there’s the implied dichotomy between women on the one hand and Brazilian trans women on the other – as if Brazilian trans women are somehow not women. But far more important is the fact well over a hundred Brazilian trans women were murdered in the last year alone. The failure of the mainstream press to cover the worldwide war on trans people is a significant failure – one of the major trans community events for the last few years has been the International Trans Day of Remembrance.

OH.

And now it all makes sense. Yes, this would really cut people to the quick, wouldn’t it? Looking at this, you have to wonder at why Moore specifically selected Brazilian trans women for her comment- was it coincidence, or was she jabbing the trans community, trying to bury the knife deeper? Either way, grossly disrespectful doesn’t even begin to cover it.

I get it now. She was wrong.

Moore has since popped back onto Twitter long enough to supposedly issue that apology she should have just fucking given from the start:

“I did not set out to offend and the murder of all women trans or not is clearly something I DO care about. I think readers know this?”

“I am grateful for the support of I have had from many top notch people gay straight trans who cares?”

“As I said I less concerned with peoples genital arrangements than the breakdown of the social contract. Which hurts.”

“If anyone cares to storify the abuse against me please do . I cant It was threatening, ignorant and nasty and my original points got lost.”

“Despite all this there has been much bridge building between me and several trans people who I deeply respect.”

“But I realise that my flip jokes, silliness and general way i behave on twitter is no longer possible.”

“So I do what most pro journalists do and simply self promote and never anything real or “controversial” ?”

“I am sorry to those that I misrepresented and I feel pretty misrepresent myself ( an EDL supporter??)”

“To think I am opposite side of anyone who has had to think long and hard about gender is horrible. I am not your enemy.”

“But I am not ladylike when attacked and fight with fire. Thats me. Otherwise I post music and have a laugh.”

“But for now I see must leave for a while. Really bad things are happening in the world and this is a storm in a double D cup.”

Oh, way to take the high ground there. It’s not an apology, and it still makes her look  like a total twat. “Oh, yes, sorry or something, but poor me.” Real fucking classy, Moore.

Then again, after all this, I don’t expect anything more from you.

Also, learn to Tweet, woman. You’re a professional writer- check that you’re typing your words correctly and for the love of Feynman, punctuate properly.

This whole fiasco is just sad. It’s a quagmire of hate.

Get your shit together, world. Because right now, you sicken me.

Smart Phone Etiquette 101

Smart phone users, I have a bone to pick with you. I know that fancy little gadget that you paid out the ass for allows you to get online whenever you want, allowing you to look at shitty YouTube clips whenever you desire. I get that. And I’m not even saying you shouldn’t do so. Browse the internet to your little heart’s content.

But please

WEAR. FUCKING. HEADPHONES.

If you are in a room/on a bus/on a train/on a plane/anywhere around other people, wear headphones when you are watching your fucking videos. The people around you do not want to hear whatever crappy Dolly Parton cover you are watching. In fact, those very people are trying to carry on a conversation or read a fucking book, and have absolutely no desire to be subjected to some guy yelling weird shit at passing vehicles. Those people are, in fact, talking or reading. Now, they have to try to talk over your dumbshit noise or attempt to tune out the cacophony while trying to get immersed in their novel.

Smart phone users who don’t use headphones, you guys are just straight-up douchebags. I wear headphones when I’m listening to my iPod so that I do not bother the people around me with crazy German punk Christmas music. I would like, nay, I fucking expect you to show me the same goddamn courtesy.

Enjoy your videos, just enjoy them quietly.

You cocks.

The Faygo Imbroglio or Why I’m Not Very Good at Being a Michigander

“Why the hell do you people drink something that looks like Easter egg dye and tastes like you dropped a cough drop sucker into a bottle of battery acid?” I wheezed as I-

Actually, before I tell you that story, I have to tell you this one. Chronology, background, context, all that jazz. You know how it goes, galleons.

When I first entered MSU, I had these moments where I felt like I was adrift in a strange land. 1000 miles away from where I grew up, I suddenly found myself trying to learn the rules of Euchre (which I did learn, but it doesn’t really matter, seeing as I find the game incredibly stupid and never play it), shopping at Meijer and Kroger for the first time, trying to get someone to explain to me what the everloving fuck “Sweetest Day” was (why yes, Virginia, there is a holiday even dumber than Valentine’s Day). But it was the Redpop that really threw me.

There is no Faygo out west. We had Shasta (turns out, they are both owned by the same company… and are both equally shitty discount soda). I’m fairly certain Shasta has some sort of strawberry soda, but I don’t know if I had it as a kid (and if I did, it was apparently underwhelming). I can tell you that there is no real fuss made over any disturbingly red carbonated beverages where I grew up. But those first few months at MSU, I kept hearing people extolling the virtues of this fucking Redpop.

I had no goddamn idea what they were talking about.

It wasn’t until a little student function that I learned the answer. Refreshments included a wide array of Faygo flavors, and as my roommate poured herself a cup of something that looked like a video game health potion, I poked hesitantly at the bottle and asked about it. The ladies around me starting exclaiming, filling a red plastic cup with the potentially radioactive substance and shoving it into my hand before I could utter a word.

Apparently, I just “had to try this stuff.” So I did.

It was caustic and too sweet, and I nearly spat the stuff all over the tittering females. Needless to say, I was unimpressed with the godly Redpop. My still full cup managed to find its way unceremoniously into the trash, and I remained that weird outsider from across the Mississippi.

But now I was an outsider with knowledge. Knowledge that Redpop is fucking disgusting.

Which brings us to today, when my coworker bought a bottle of that same sickly strawberry soda for lunch. I wrinkled my nose at it as he set it on the table, causing him to turn to me in question. When told I find Redpop abhorrent, he (and the others at the table) proceeded to wail and complain. How on earth could someone not love this ambrosia, this nectar of the cheap soda gods?

Tired of listening to this (because it was really getting in the way of me reading my book), I said I was willing to give it another shot. With an eagerness I’ve only seen on the faces of extremely stupid puppies, he pushed the bottle across the table to me.

I sat there for a moment, staring at the bottle. It was just as unnaturally red as I remembered, a start contrast against the white table. There it sat. Redpop. My great foe.

Mustering my courage (and steeling my stomach), I unscrewed the cap. Immediately, I could smell the saccharine-yet-vaguely-acidic stench that I remembered from my first experience with the stuff all those years ago. I glanced balefully up at my coworkers once, then took a swig.

“Why the hell do you people drink something that looks like Easter egg dye and tastes like you dropped a cough drop sucker into a bottle of battery acid?” I wheezed as I sputtered and choked down the hellish liquid. Everyone at the table laughed as I made faces and grabbed my own drink, trying to wash the taste of mania and regret from my mouth. The taunting went on for a while, but the aftertaste of that burning death drink lingered far longer than their laughter.

Also, I actually cared about the Redpop flavor. Because it was all up in my mouth, causing me grief, being awful and all. There even came a point when all I could wish for was a quick death of all my taste buds- anything to get that foul taste out of my mouth.

Anyway, the moral of the story is that Redpop is fucking disgusting, and I don’t know how anybody drinks it.

In Which an Irrational Fear is Made Rational (This Post Has Nothing to Do With Bunnies, Just So You Know)

Oh galleons, this morning the great and terrible Xbox gods decided to play a most distressing trick upon me, their humble devotee. I stumble in the door from work, exhausted, frustrated, needing a sword-and-sorcery fix like some people need coffee or crack. I turn on my Xbox, wander into the bathroom, and take my contacts out… only to return to the living room to find my screen sporting a message about a disc read error.

What fresh hell is this?!

For those of you who are unaware of my previous Xbox escapades (Xcapades, if you will), I have owned a total of three 360s now. My first was unceremoniously stolen while on loan to a friend. The second suffered a hideous, drawn out death last year that culminated in the dreaded Red Ring of Death. And the first symptom that Xbox the second was going tits up? A disc reading issue.

So, when I walk into the room this morning and find that message on my screen, my blood goes fucking glacial. Not again. You have got to be fucking kidding me. This system is less than a year old, for fuck’s sake.

Then there was a bit where I dash over to the Xbox, muttering “No, no, no,” under my breath like some kind of healing mantra. I’m stroking the thing, caressing it, whispering sweet nothings and pleas as I eject the Dragon Age 2 disc inside it. A cursory glance at the disc reveals nothing, and it had been running just fine the day before, so why on Earth would there be anything wrong with it? No, this was the Xbox. It has to be. My truly terrible luck with technology has struck again.

I ease the DA2 disc back into the Xbox, practically begging the system to work. There is nothing more pathetic than a gamer on their knees in front of their system, all but praying for it to work.

The disc spins.

…

…

…

Nothing happens.

I can feel that bubble of despair/frustration/terror welling up in me. My Xbox is my de-stressing device, my primary source of entertainment, my geeky life’s blood. I can’t be without it again. I just can’t.

The rational side of my brain kicks in slowly, fighting its way to the surface through the sludge of my sadness.

Try a different game, it says. Listlessly, I comply.

The disc spins.

…

…

…

And the game starts right up. No problem at all.

At this point, I’m staring at my system, slack-jawed. What miracle is this? What divine blessing has been bestowed upon my poor console? I take out this disc and insert another.

Another successful read. That must mean…

I examine the DA2 disc closer. From the very center of the disc spreading out to halfway to the center is a very fine crack. Not a scratch, a fucking crack. No wonder the game couldn’t be read- I’m surprised my system managed to read it yesterday.

I’ve always hated the cases DVDs and video games come in. You have to apply just enough pressure to get some of the discs out of their cases that the disc itself bends a bit. I have had a long-held fear I’m going to snap a disc in half with my mannish hands and freakish strength one day.

Turns out my irrational fear was less irrational than I thought. I must have cracked that disc removing it from its stupid case yesterday.

Leave it to She-Ra, right?

Anyway, after a quick trip to the store to purchase a new copy of the game, I am once more on track to make my sarcastic, bearded rogue sex up the broody, tattooed elf with the leg-weakening baritone. Oh yes, this is going to happen:

It can be a lot to take in, I know.

Hur hur.

The Horror of Kerinci Seblat

It seemed to be a sort of monster… of a form which only a diseased fancy could conceive. ~H.P. Lovecraft

They are out there, my galleons. Lurking on two Indonesian islands are creatures that have clawed their furry little bodies out of my darkest nightmares and into my waking life. Writhing, breeding, hopping horrors, turning their beady eyes in my direction and sniffing the winds with terrible twitches. Hidden. Waiting.

In 1998, images emerged from Kerinci Seblat National Park of a creature sure to cause the shaking, frothing mantle of terror to descend upon any who viewed them.

Nesolagus netscheri

The Sumatran striped rabbit

Once blissfully believed extinct, after the 1998 revelation it became obvious the banded monstrosities were merely concealing themselves deep within this park. Biding their time.

And now, wildlife researchers have captured evidence of these creatures once again. In Bukit Barisan Seletan National Park this time.

They’re spreading, galleons.

Researcher Jennifer McCarthy claims, “Whether the rabbit does occur undetected in other parks is not certain,” but I know better. Slowly, stealthily, they are moving. The pernicious lagomorphs are stirring, gathering, radiating outward in a silent, beady-eyed wave. And the very fabric of space shivers at their steps.

The Tale of the Sanctimonious Scrivener: A Rant

There is an old joke that professors grade essays on their heft. The weightier the paper, the better the grade. Drawing from the idea that the longer the work is, the more time was put into it and the more deserving it is of a higher grade, the concept brings the flaws of human grading into focus.

Which brings us to a recent study evaluating the accuracy of computer programs created to score essays. These programs are by no means new- they have been in use for years, particularly in the world of standardized testing. With so many short essays being churned out by test takers the world over, it seemed a simpler solution to automate the grading process.

Of course, while automated grading of multiple choice tests is simple enough, cost effective, and accurate, can we really say the same for automated essay grading?

According to a study from the University of Akron and a consultancy called The Common Pool, the answer is a resounding yes. They took something like 16,000 essays (with sets that included different lengths, different rubrics, etc.) that had already been scored once by a human, then let a computer (well, several programs, actually) grade them again. The results were almost terrifyingly similar. Want proof? Here’s a chart of the scores on mean estimation… they are all so close that the lines all appear to be one goddamn line:

Of course, charting out other factors yields less impressive-looking graphs, but fuck truth when we have visual impact, right?

Regardless of potential data skew based on the most widely circulated chart from the paper, the study really did find a striking similarity between the human and computer graders. This is the first time a study like this has been done on this scale, and it does a lot to address the many flaws in computerized essay grading. Many programs favor essays with more complex lexical choices, as they are representative of an advanced vocabulary (never mind the fact that one can easily toss around a word without knowing the finer points of its meaning, i.e. thesaurus junkies). Programs also favor length, in both the entire paper and in the sentences in themselves. And, of course, they prefer proper grammar.

However, programs have been ridiculed for favoring these technical aspects at the expense of actual content. Can we honestly dole out high marks to students spouting eloquent garbage? The programs are those theoretical professors grading papers by weight, with no regard for the actual information within. A problem, to be sure.

As artificial intelligence technology advances, though, the programs have become more complicated. They are able to discern some relationships between words and phrases that help them “understand” the meaning of the essays. Last year, the University of Florida did some research on the usage of automatic grading systems using AI technology. The system in place was able to look at something like “the heart pumps blood” and find a relationship between the words “heart” and “blood,” essentially finding the meaning of the sentence by piecing together word relationships built through the rubric created by the teacher.

Interesting, to be sure, but it’s still a crude system that can, seemingly, be easily exploited by a moderately clever student. Like a child beating the square peg into the round hole until the corners break, the systems might be able to hammer out a rudimentary “understanding” of the essays, but just as that mangled square peg will never be a perfect fit for the round hole, so too will these programs never understand complex, intricate writing.

Why, then, would we let these systems do our grading for us? There are many purported advantages to removing the human component in grading. It does away with biases (personal, racial, gender-specific), which curbs grade inflation. It alleviates teacher fatigue (from which can stem errors).

There are pros and cons to both methods of grading, to be sure. And this study seems to add another entry in the pro column of computerized grading.

***

My issue with all this isn’t whether or not the Akron study is accurate. They obviously found a strong similarity between human and computer grading of these essays. To me, this is indicative of a far greater problem.

I am mere days away from completing my English degree, and there is a problem that has been gnawing away at me for the majority of my school-going years. A problem I assumed would vanish when I entered the collegiate world. But it didn’t. It continued on, this relentless march toward mediocrity.

It is a problem with the formulaic nature of writing education.

If a computer can grade an essay with nearly the same degree of accuracy as a human, this says less about our marvelous technology (sorry, but I follow AI research and know even the most cutting-edge experimental programs are nowhere near as impressive as any human mind) and more about the shabby state of our student writing. We teach our students the fucking five-paragraph essay, the rote rehashing of theses to form concluding statements. Pick a topic, back it up with two or three points, wrap it up. There is no room for creativity, for real cleverness, for anything that makes writing art and not just a series of rules to be regurgitated from the tip of a pen or onto a computer screen. As Alexander Pope wrote,

True ease in writing comes from art, not chance, as those move easiest who have learned to dance.

Our students are less concerned with writing interesting, engaging pieces exploring novel ways of thinking or delicately bending the rules- they instead hammer out blocky, mechanical essays. They present bland topics with just the right number of supporting facts to net them a decent grade. That’s it.

I have had many professors, and I have never had one that really inspired me to be a more creative, interesting writer. There was one who broke the mold slightly, but even she wasn’t really a powerful force in my academic career. I know that many others have those professors that shaped them, that really touched them, that showed them something about themselves or their course of study or the world that makes the student grateful and better for having known them. I understand that, I respect that, but I neverhad that. My thirst for knowledge, information, and creativity has always best been sated on my own, outside a traditional classroom.

And while I’m sure there are many English professors [And since when are English professors the only ones expected to foster strong writing in their students? You might have a great idea, oh mighty chemist, but if you can't write a goddamn elucidatory (...fuck you, WordPress, that's a word) paper to share that work with the rest of the scientific community and the world, then you are shit out of luck, now aren't you?] out there who really work to engage their students, given my own experiences and the fact that most students, if they had an “inspirational professor”, only had one or two… statistically, most professors just teach their students that mechanical, boring writing.

I suppose it is time for me to clarify a few points here, particularly for those of you who know me and are pointing at the screen in horror, screaming about my hypocrisy. I am aware that I am known for being an exceedingly technical proofreader. Am I not just perpetuating this system I purport to despise? Well… yes, I am. Because there is technically nothing wrong with writing this way. And, in fact, I am a firm believer in understanding and utilizing technically sound writing, particularly in formal settings. And those five-point essays I was harping on about? Well, they are actually a very useful tool to teach young writers about structure. I do not think they are so much the devil as I find them a despicable crutch we are not only allowing older, more advanced writers to use, but we are actively encouraging this kind of lazy writing. While there is less room for creative flair in formal, academic papers, there should be breathing room for a personal voice to show through the formal technical aspects. It’s a delicate balance, tying the writer’s soul into the formal rules… but it’s certainly possible. But we are not teaching (or even encouraging) this kind of skillful writing. Which, I believe, is a travesty.

More on that in a second.

Just last night, I was teasing a boy for marking a diaeresis, as it’s considered rather archaic in modern English. That being said, I was only poking fun because I am a right and proper bitch (and because the two of us seem to communicate primarily in taunts, mockery, and faux arguments). In all actuality, I found the use of the diacritic strangely charming. I have always enjoyed people who strive to plumb the true depths of the English language. Perhaps that’s an English major thing.

But these finer points of language… they are not taught anymore. Or, at least, not to any real degree. Why did diaeresis diacritics fall out of vogue, anyway? Because the variants, sans markings, became more popular. And our schools teach what is popular. Which is fine, which is useful, but which becomes more and more diluted. Our vocabulary shrinks, the finer points of our language get lost, and then where are we? The loss of the flavorful bits of language, those accent marks and mellifluous phrases and cheeky verbage, cripples us. We lose more than just words, we lose imagination and creativity. And as those slowly degrade, so too do advances tied to them. Invention, discovery. This destroys us slowly, across all aspects of human knowledge and progression.

And we just allow it. That is what I have such a problem with.

Formula is a base, just as we have basic vocabulary. But as we continue through our education, we need to be advancing. We build on the base. We learn the rules, then we learn how to break them. Instead, we stop at a simple formula. After we’ve mastered this, we are done. The end of the line for our writing education. Oh, there’s a bit picked up here and there. But there’s no longer any real push to expand your skills.

Not even for English students, sadly.

Our writing can be graded by a computer program. That’s how basic it is, how fucking systematic it is.

Congratulations to us.

***

I don’t have a quick fix solution to this perceived problem. Perhaps you don’t even agree with me that this is a problem. So be it. These were just my bitter, scattered thoughts as I read about the Akron study.

Take this with a grain of salt, like you should all my posts, dear galleons.

Not a Single Fuck Was Given This Day

In Which I Address the Mass Effect 3 Ending Controversy

WARNING: I feel it goes without saying that I’m going to be laying down some solid spoilers for the ME3 endgame here. So, if you haven’t played and have been fastidiously avoiding spoilers, turn your gaze away from this page right the fuck now.

Also, I’m going to ramble like mad and piss everyone off.

Oh, galleons. What with the statement from Bioware released today, I feel like I have to finally write this. Really, ever since finishing Mass Effect 3, I’ve been toying with doing this post. Because, after I emotionally calmed myself after the soul-shattering end to a four-year span of my life, I found I was a little disgruntled with one teensy aspect of the ending. One tiny plot hole that I was having a hard time justifying.

Honestly, when 99.9% of the game is golden, though, it’s hard to be too upset about the last three minutes or so.

And I couldn’t help but wonder if I had missed something. I mean, I was sobbing by that point and helplessly chanting, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry” at the screen as I thought I was essentially destroying everyone I loved in order to save the galaxy as a whole (more on that in a minute)… so, let’s just say there was ample room for me to have missed a moment that explained away that silly plot hole.

It seems I didn’t, and when I turned to the internet looking for the answer, I found a whole slew of people whining about the ending.

So, here goes. Here’s what I have to say about it:

You are all a bunch of pussies.

I actually fucking applauded the fact that Bioware killed Shepard in nearly every ending. In fact, I’d go so far as to say I don’t think Shep should have ever survived. Let’s look at the facts here:

Shep survived not one, but two ridiculous-fuck-situations where she (yes, she) should have died: the Battle for the Citadel and the attack on the Collector base. In fact, Shep did die once. She’s mortal as fuck. And she gets her ass blasted by that Reaper laser right before the Hammer ground team hits the Beam to take them to the Citadel/Crucible. You spend the remainder of the game limping, in a haze of fucking pain. She is seriously injured walking into the final confrontation. God, when they tell her the Crucible isn’t firing and she’s hauling her broken, dying body up to respond… that’s fucking heart-wrenching, no? And it can only be so if we truly believe Shep is mortal and is dying there.

What I’m trying to get at here is that Shepard has been the paragon (pardon the phrase) of humanity throughout this series. She’s creative, she’s tough, she’s tenacious, but she’s human. Her humanity is highlighted even further in ME3 as we really see the psychological toll this war is taking on her and has been for the past few years of her life. She is forced to make tough decisions, I mean the fate of all life in the galaxy level of tough decisions, but she’s not a god. She’s a mortal woman (with a few fancy tech upgrades courtesy of Cerberus, sure). Her very humanity, her spirit, is a combination of both her strength and her frailty. To have her walk away completely unscathed from the final fucking war with a deadly, giant machine race would have been an insult to the character and to the players.

This is a war and you are a soldier. More so than the other two titles, ME3 really brings that home. All these friends you are making? You are dragging them into a fucking war zone with you. Not everyone gets to walk away from this alive. Statistically, that’s impossible. And you, Commander Fucking Shepard, despite being a hell of a soldier, are just as mortal as the rest of them. And really, you are being tossed into the worst places in the war. In that final battle, you are the front fucking line on Hammer team. That you make it to that Beam at all is a goddamn miracle.

Shepard basically had to die to make this whole journey even remotely believable. She was never a god. She was a mortal woman. A badass mortal woman, to be sure, but mortal nonetheless. Her incredibly emotional journey, the loss of so many friends and teammates… how else could this really end? It was always building to this, to that moment of ultimate sacrifice. She was always going to die to save the galaxy. This has always been her destiny. That is why she is the lynchpin of the trilogy, why we play her. Since she first encountered that beacon on Eden Prime, her course has been set. We knew this, deep down. Maybe we didn’t want to believe it, but we knew it. When she dies at the beginning of ME2, we scream, not because she died, but because she died without completing her task, without fulfilling that destiny we know she’s been walking toward.

But, I digress. Suffice to say, despite the fact that Shepard should die to end the trilogy, I feel like people are unwilling to accept it and that’s where a lot of the ME3 backlash lies.

I blame J.K. Rowling for this.

Honestly, the ending of the seventh Harry Potter book, that fucking epilogue, was perhaps one of the most insulting pieces of fan service in recent times. I loathe that the fans are now dictating the story, that writers are cobbling together that “perfect Disney ending” just to appease the whining masses who refuse to experience the honest story, the more somber ending, the bleaker look at how life sometimes works (particularly in times of war). No, we want everyone happy and married and popping out babies and eating cookies.

Now, Harry Potter was geared toward a younger audience, so I suppose you can argue that it needed hope and a happy resolution (though I think that argument is bullshit and half, but that’s an argument for another day). Mass Effect has always been geared toward a mature audience, dammit. Adults don’t get Disney endings, they get the goddamn truth.

Apparently, as Jack Nicholson so famously said, you can’t handle the truth.Because what I’m getting from most comments regarding the ending is people saying it’s “not fair” that Shepard dies, it’s “not fair” that they don’t get a perfect, mindless, generic happy ending to the Reaper threat.

True, a lot of forum comment monkeys are sniveling children (or the emotional equivalent of such), so I shouldn’t be surprised.

Harsh? Maybe. I’m not feeling particularly generous at the moment. I’m feeling irritable.

But, while I feel that most of this backlash is centered around that whole “dead Shep” issue, there are some points being tossed about that I’ll discuss.

The mass relay explosions

In the Arrival DLC pack, we shot a goddamn asteroid into a mass relay and leveled a star system (including a batarian colony). That sucked (not really… batarians are cocks). So, a lot of people are really fucking pissed that the Crucible destroys all the mass relays in the goddamn galaxy, but doesn’t wipe out any star systems as a result.

Were the writers ignoring their own established canon here?

No.

We have to take into account the fact that the mass relays in these two instances were destroyed in very different manners. In Arrival, we hurled that asteroid at the whirling ball of eezo in that mass relay. When that eezo essentially detonated, it fucked that star system up. But the Crucible appears to be using up the eezo in the mass relays it hits to fuel its passage to each subsequent relay. By grossly depleting the eezo in such a manner, we have a much smaller resultant explosion when the relay blows up. Think atomic bomb to conventional bomb here. The star systems would survive that.

Why did we just bring the whole galaxy together if we’re going to rip them apart by destroying the mass relays?

*sigh* Yes, you just spent all those hours making the galaxy play nice so you can bring a massive army to fight the Reaper threat. And yes, destruction of the mass relays means there are now a bunch of essentially stranded alien races in various star systems across the galaxy.

But… how is this such a mind-shattering thing? I think it was perhaps one of the most poignant parts of the ending. In order to “fix” the galaxy and truly break the cycle, we had to wipe the Reapers and all their tech out. That included the mass relays, which were not invented by any galactic race. Essentially, we’d been cheating at space travel this whole time. We had the tech for FTL travel, but we couldn’t jump between star systems in the blink of an eye (it would take many-a year at FTL travel to take a jaunt to another star system). The mass relays let us do that, but at a terrible price- the goddamn Reapers.

It was a fairly subtle commentary on the downfalls of using technology without truly understanding it. The races never really fully understood how the mass relays worked- they were never able to build new ones, now were they? But they blithely used them anyway. That kind of technological advancement of the races was never earned. We cheated. And what this hard reset of the galaxy did was give the races a chance to earn it this go-round. To build and understand and invent and create on our own.

Sir Isaac Newton (the deadliest son-of-a-bitch in space) once said, “If I have seen farther, it is by standing on the shoulders of giants.” But we didn’t just stand on their shoulders. We were strolling around on the ground, found a button, pressed it out of curiosity, and were teleported up there. We don’t know how the teleporter works. We don’t even know the giant’s name.

Without coming right out and saying, “THIS IS WHAT WE’RE DOING HERE,” Bioware conveyed that sense of us toppling from grace because we hadn’t earned our place there. Cheat your way to the top, and it eventually comes back to the bite you in the ass. But that doesn’t mean you can’t then try to get back up there… the right way.

And, in the same vein…

But all those turians and quarians will never survive on some of those levo-amino planets! And what about the colonists on more hostile worlds who needed shipments of materials in order to survive?

Yeah… no, they’re probably gonna die. Sorry.

Again, it’s that “needs of the many vs. the needs of the few” dilemma Shep’s been battling with the whole goddamn game. A choice had to be made, and it couldn’t be easy. We couldn’t have a crappy choice where everyone’s fucked and a great choice where everyone’s happy and call that a tough decision. It was a choice between “some will die to save the many” and “everyone fucking dies.” I don’t even feel Bioware has to justify this complaint, because it’s in the same vein as the “oh noes, Shep died” ones.

The ending was too rushed. We got no closure on what happened to the quarians (did they finally get to live outside their suits?) or the krogan (with the genophage cured, did they rebuild their culture?) or…

Blah, blah, blah. This was Shepard’s story. That is all. This wasn’t the entire history and future of the galaxy we were playing. This was one character’s journey through a pivotal moment in galactic history.

I think what some fans wanted was a Dragon Age-esque ending, where there were some text snippets telling you a bit about what happened after you valiantly slaughtered the archdemon. You know, the What-Are-They-Up-To-Now? bits.

Just because this trilogy is over doesn’t mean we’ll never see another game set in this universe. We don’t have to know everything that happened ever in the future. The ending of the game was a galaxy that has been torn apart by war and now has to rebuild. There’s that sliver of hope, though, that they can. Thanks to Shep. It was an emotionally perfect way to end it.

As for the ending being too rushed… maybe it was for some, maybe it wasn’t for others. I felt it was fine. I kind of liked that we never really knew exactly what the Crucible did until the very end, and it wasn’t what we expected. Again, it’s that whole “we’re using tech we don’t understand” dilemma.

And really, the Metal Gear Solid series has the market cornered on 2-hour cutscenes… let’s just leave it that way, yeah?

How did the Crucible accomplish the fusion ending? Space magic?

Okay, one of the possible endings for the game allows you to fuse organic and inorganic life in order to stop the cycle of Reaper violence. But, how can that happen? How can the god child (the Reaper AI or whatever that created the Reapers in the first place as a “tidy” solution to the problem of organics and synthetics killing each other chaotically, that’s been around for aeons and appears to you as the little boy that dies at the very beginning of the game simply because it’s emotionally resonant) fuse the two?

Yep, it’s space magic. Or, rather, Mass Effect‘s version of space magic, which is eezo.

I like that fans get all confused and huffy over this, but have absolutely no qualms with the fact that people perform these crazy ass “space magic” biotic tricks throughout the games. Is it because they were explained?

Guess what- their explanations translate tidily over to the fusion ending. Exposure to eezo was what caused the biotic powers to manifest in the races, because eezo changes a person on a genetic level. The biotic implants just helped folks utilize the powers they now had- they didn’t give them to people. Eezo did that. Like the coolest radiation mutation ever.

Because eezo has the power to rewrite organic genetic code, it could theoretically be used in a targeted fashion to rewrite genetic code to accept inorganic code as well. If fucking Miranda could fuse organics and cybernetics to bring Shep back from the dead, is it really so hard to believe this incredibly advanced AI god child, hanging out in the Citadel and watching/coordinating the cycle time and time again, the thing that create the fucking Reapers in the first place, couldn’t manage to make that eezo wave it sends out fuse man and machine?

It’s a slight stretch of the imagination, but really not much further than we’ve already stretched it. The whole situation calls to mind Arthur C. Clarke’s Third Law: “Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.”

People are up in arms that Bioware didn’t explain anything in the ending, but they did… they just did so over the course of the last three fucking games, not all at once in the ending. They were anticipating that their fans were intelligent enough to pick up on this.

Sadly, it seems they were mistaken. It’s a damn shame- they didn’t hold our hands through the end of the series because they weren’t going to patronize us, and that’s blowing up in their faces.

What does that say about us, gaming community?

Why are the endings the same for both Paragon and Renegade players? That’s stupid.

I actually think this is one of their more brilliant moves.

My very favorite author, Kevin Brockmeier, has a short story entitled, The Human Soul as a Rube Goldberg Device: A Choose-Your-Own-Adventure Story. As the title states, it’s a choose-your-own-adventure style tale, set in a regular day in the life of an average person. Your choices are basic, normal, mundane things. Do you put your book back on the bookshelf or leave it on the arm of the couch? Do you throw away your fountain drink cup or buy a refill? Perfectly boring, normal decisions. Each little thing moves you in a slightly different direction through your day, but there’s only one ending: no matter what you do during the rest of the day, you die of a heart attack.

It’s a clever way to explore the idea of fate, that the universe has some predestined plan for you. No matter what, the character’s fate is sealed.

In a way, Bioware did something similar with the Mass Effect trilogy.

In the first game, whether you Paragon or Renegaded it up only really impacted two things: whether you could convince Saren to shoot himself in the initial fight or had to fight him twice… and whether you killed the Council or not. And really, even if you Paragon the whole goddamn game, you can Renegade kill those Council bitches (I always do). It was less about “your decisions change the ending” and more “your decisions color the game and how people interact with you”.

Game 2. You can gain squad loyalty through either Paragon or Renegade choices and the rest of the squad’s fate lands in who you choose to lead the fire team/be the tech expert and whether you upgraded your ship or not. Again, whether you Paragon or Renegade the rest of the game, you can still choose either option when you are figuring out what to do with the Collector base. It makes no significant impact on the ending at all.

So… why would we expect a sudden shift in the formula now? Because this is the last game? Your Paragon and Renegade decisions decide who you bring to the final battle (fleet-wise)… your war assets. Which impact which decisions you have in the Crucible and whether or not the galaxy survives. But whether you Paragon or Renegade your play-through, you still get the same options at the end. This is the same thing that happened in both previous titles. And what should happen. It’s not Paragon=good, Renegade=evil. They are simply two different paths toward achieving the same ends. One way you’re diplomatic, one way you’re a bit more… aggressive. You charm or you intimidate. You sweet talk or you punch them. Either way, you get a similar outcome.

Like the character in Brokmeier’s short story, Shepard has a fate. She cannot escape that final decision. She’s going to get there no matter what else she does. She can shelve the book or leave it on the couch. She can let that terrorist go or shoot him in the face. In the end, though, all steps will lead toward that one end.

That end where you have to choose.

***

Now, as I mentioned at the start of this post, there is an actual plot hole I can’t seem to resolve (and maybe I’ve just missed something- I plan on replaying the game in the future and seeing if I can’t figure it out).

Situation:

I am part of the Hammer team, the ground team pushing its way through London toward the Beam that will lead to the Citadel so we can open its arms and connect it to the Crucible. As always, I have Garrus with me (as my buddy Tony said, “You only ever have to ask someone who their other squadmate is. Singular. Because you always take Garrus with you. ALWAYS.”), as well as Liara. We’re making our way toward the Beam. Between us and it is a fucking Reaper.

It shoots us. There’s this huge explosion. Shep shakily gets to her feet, severely wounded, and eventually staggers into the Beam. Either Garrus and Liara are dead at this point (GARRUS…. NOOOOOO!) or grievously wounded. There’s still a Reaper hanging out by them. The Normandy is out in space land as part of the Sword team.

Okay. Cut to my decision. My Shep decided to do what she came here to do- she destroyed the Reapers. As such, she really chose to destroy all inorganic life in the galaxy. Goodbye Reapers. Goodbye geth. Goodbye EDI.

You see the eezo wave shoot out from the Crucible… and then you see the Normandy in what appears to be FTL drive (since it’s outpacing the explosion to start), with Joker wildly hitting controls as the wave hits and the ship obviously is being fucked with. You don’t know exactly what’s happening there, but it looks fucking bad. And shit, I just chose to destroy EDI, who we learned early in the game is an essential part of the ship now and couldn’t be removed from the Normandy.

It’s at this point, tears streaming down my face, that the “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry” chant happened, because I’m fairly sure I just destroyed everyone I care about (between Garrus and Liara down on Earth and my crew up in space) in order to save the galaxy. And fucking emotionally eviscerating as that was, god, it was a hell of an ending. I was in awe even as I cried.

Then, you see the Normandy crashed on some garden world in another star system. And out climbs Joker… and Ashley… and Garrus.

Wait… Garrus? What the fuck?

Somehow, in the time it takes Shep to limp through the Citadel, confront the Illusive Man, talk to God Child, and make her choice… the Normandy manages to swoop down into Reaper central, pick up your wounded squadmates, and… do an FTL jump? To, what, avoid a Reaper? Because I’m never going to believe the Normandy would just leave the battle… Joker is a lot of things, but a coward isn’t one of them.

Oh, we also managed to completely patch up your on-the-brink-of-death love interest for you. Even while crashing. Way to go, Chakwas.

Honestly, that whole bit was confusing as hell. Those three minutes or so? I could have done with a bit more explanation, yeah. It didn’t make much sense to me. It felt like the Normandy was forced into an FTL jump with no explanation just so we could let the team survive… but in another system.

…

Yeah, I don’t get it. Joker’s a hell of a pilot, but there’s no way that Reaper by the Beam (not to mention all the other Reapers around Earth) wouldn’t have torn him apart if he’d attempted a rescue operation.

Weirdly enough, I’d probably be okay with the unnecessary crash landing ending if the Earth ground team just didn’t feature at all. They died. So it goes. Everyone else survived, I guess. At least there wouldn’t be such a strange plot hole.

That being said… I really don’t need Bioware to change it. So there was a hiccup there at the end. The rest of the game MORE THAN FUCKING MADE UP FOR IT, and I certainly didn’t walk away feeling cheated. At all.

***

Just because the game didn’t end the way you wanted it to doesn’t make it a bad ending. In fact, that kind of makes it a good ending, doesn’t it? The end was odd only in that, in the four years since I started playing this game, I never expected it to come down to that final decision in the Crucible. But that doesn’t mean it was a bad ending. I commend Bioware for being able to give me something I wasn’t expecting, for striving for a resolution that wasn’t the obvious.

The ending was visceral. It was hard. I didn’t walk away happy, but I definitely walked away satisfied. I was horrified at what I had to do, but by god, I wouldn’t want it any other way. That decision had to be brutal, and they did a great job of making it so. This war was never going to end with a shotgun shell in a Reaper’s face, after all. It had to have a big decision, that giant red button Shep would have to press… with all the requisite strings attached.

Bioware actually did a damn solid job of bringing a lot of the unique elements (Particularly eezo… get it? Elements? I’m funny, dammit) of the series into play in that final bit. It was the culmination of battles and knowledge acquisition, the sum total of everything the player should have learned about the Mass Effect universe and how its rules worked.

I’m sorry that the gaming community has failed the writers, not the other way around. If there were a few flaws in the ending, that is vastly outweighed by the sheer ignorance of those whining about the ending. Bioware gave us the chance to prove we are smart, clever folks. That we don’t need the writers to tell us, step-by-step, what is happening every moment of the game. That we could extrapolate from known information, could use our extensive knowledge of the Mass Effect universe, to easily understand how this could all work out.

I honestly hope the Bioware team doesn’t cave to fan pressure. There’s a line between listening to and learning from the critique of fans and bowing to their demands. Drastically changing the ending would set a dangerous precedent in the gaming world.

Anyway, I’ve prattled on long enough.

Rant over.