BY JOSEPH WALTER
I'm sitting in the hall of our Hilton, as my parents succumbed to counting sheep hours ago.
Not five minutes ago did some adult male and his female friend come bumbling down the hall (mind you, it's 1:08 AM at the time of this writing), methodically counting out the numbers on each of the doors out loud. Like a child. Like someone who didn't know the pattern of how things work once you get to 100.
… I was going to write more about that, but the two plebs have now emerged from their target room, two new party members with them, and are confused about the purpose of stairs and how many parking garages there are.
I find myself more than flustered.
I don't know why.
The tallest one has just returned to the room. He seems solemn. I can hear him rummaging around. I'd like to believe the rummaging is being done as some kind of desperate release of frustration, as his latent desires come to the surface, compelling the various electrical signals of his mind to act out in an aggressive fashion against the inanimate objects that furnish this paid-for-nightly chamber.
Drat. His clan returns! They're rapping lightly on the door. It's opening slowly. One of them asked "Is that a squirrel?" as he entered and now the door closes. No cries of anguish. No tears. Nothing.
So much for the dark-rage-fueled rampage I dreamed of.
Now presumably-drunken laughter emanates from that space, the depraved cackle of the lone female oozing out like tainted blood from an infected wound.
What madness is transpiring? What witchcraft? Why is it 2:00 AM? What was the point of this blog post in the first place?
As if on cue, the cackle resumes its siren-like wailing, causing the men in the locked chamber to respond with jubilant screams of insanity before indulging once again in their liquid poisons. Presumably.
Normally, I don't think I'd be so cranky but……. okay, wait, one of them just defensively blurted out "...what the fuck was that..?" in the same way a kid would pouty-faced emote after the doctor pricked his finger for a blood test. You know the look: Eyes moist and wide, bottom lip poked out, mouth slightly ajar, hand cradling his tender baby-boy finger protectively.
But anyway, I digress: I wouldn't be so cranky, but today I was reminded about the sick truth of people that think "it's just my opinion" is some kind of defensive shield that should protect them from all opposing viewpoints. Particularly and specifically when their own stance is objectively false.
A stripped-down example of this occurrence would be something like this: "Although I see the overwhelming evidence that global warming and climate change is very real and extremely dangerous, I am choosing not to believe in it and find nothing wrong with not trying to reduce my carbon footprint. But it's my opinion, so don't give me any flak about it or you are a terrible, intolerant person."
In a more specific example (and one that, as always, reflects on the utter hive-minded stupidity of the Castlevania fan base): "You know what man, fuck you, the Lords of Shadow series is UTTER GARBAGE and the music is ABYSMAL. COMPLETE TRASH! Worst thing to ever happen to the franchise! It's my opinion, and I can say whatever I want! If you disagree, tough fucking luck!"
While he's right about being able to say whatever he wants, he's also a completely degenerate moron.
For those unfamiliar, "Lords of Shadow" is a remaining of the 25 year-old video game franchise, Castlevania, and it fundamentally changes around a lot of the tired conventions and lore.
Of course, this is disagreeable to a chunk of the fan base that doesn't understand that video games are meant for playing, and that changes to a paper-thin lore are not the end of the world.
But either way, where this pleb reveals his plebacity, is in calling the game "utter garbage." Objectively, the game is playable, unbroken, functions as intended, and is technically comparable to other games of its ilk on the market. If the legitimately believes the game is trash/bad, etc., he has a serious inability of processing relative quality, or perhaps just lacks experience. Because there are plenty of unplayable, practically-broken (or fully broken) messes of games out there. This isn't one.
As for the "abysmal music" claim: Even from a purely technical standpoint, a 120-piece orchestra and 80-person choir is nothing to scoff at, and the fact that the score has won multiple awards (including "Best Original Score" from the reputable International Film Music Critics Association)
Artistically, it can be argued that it doesn't compare to the luster of previous games in the series' soundtracks (although they are really of a quite different style) but to deny the sheer quality of the soundtrack on its own merits and decry it for its different, more atmospheric, take is just a sign of foolishness.
It's things like this that make me feel more like Daniel Plainview day after day.
P.S. - I just got my smartphone, so I've been exceedingly addicted to it. I miss feeling buttons and I hate being forced to actually look at the screen to text, but the connectivity it brings (and the ease of seeing various job opportunities) is really a relief, since now I don't have to check my laptop like a crack-fiend so often.
With tomorrow (today?) being the big party, and with me being certain that I'll be sloshed fairly early, expect loads of random texts, calls, and (God help us all) Snapchats.
I don't know what it is about Snapchatting that is inherently hysterical to me, but I'll be taking advantage of it for sure.
Also, something about Massachusetts really rubs me the wrong way, particularly Boston. I wish I could put my finger on it. I just get this culty-vibe I'm not into. Of course, it's far better than the infinitely-infuriating Philadelphia (and PA, in general) but… yeah. It's still obnoxious.
Ah.. perfect timing… the hedonistic and ear-rupturing antics of room 218 have drawn to a close, with two of the clan-members departing into the great unknown.
And with that, it's a perfect time for me to draw this aimless rant to a close, as well.
Good Night, one and all. Prepare yourselves for Snapchat Hell.