Heart Pain and Brain Drain

Damn, has it been a downer of a week.

Some racist prick shoots nine people dead in a house of worship. Many scientist have concluded we're living in the midst of the sixth great extinction. Global Warming is very real and getting worse.

All the above is depressing enough, but it's the subsequent lack of any widespread intelligent reactions to such vital issues that really has me down.

I can't believe the responses I've seen from more traditional mass media and social media to Dylann Roof's slaughter of nine black people. First off, so many parties immediately launched into advancing their own interests. Pro and anti gun control parties put on their spin. Mass media plastered click bate headlines with corresponding articles of little to no substance in droves. It was all so predictable.

Can't we just take time to be sad? Can't we just process this instead of pretending we know what exactly happened? Can the talking heads shut up long enough for us to observe this?

Now that the dust has somewhat settled, I feel comfortable espousing a few views.

The idiocy I've seen from some friend's and friend of friends' Facebook posts is beyond stupid. First off, if you think that this wasn't an act of domestic terrorism, you are, quite frankly, a fucking idiot. If you think this an act of mass murder wasn't fueled by racism, you're even more of a fucking idiot.

Roof, the shooter, was wearing an Apartheid-era South Africa flag and a Rhodesia flag, a former nation that was under white-minority rule until 1980 until true democracy took hold and the country became today known as Zimbabwe, The young man told the victims and survivors as he was committing his heinous act that he was solely targeting black people because they are "raping our women" and "taking over our country." On top of that, he immediately confessed to law enforcement he did it. It's also looking likely his manifesto has been found posting online where he claims Trevon Martin's death and it's controversy caused him to do research where he alleges mass black-on-white crimes drove him to do his evil deed.

Sure, anyone who goes into a church and butchers nine people probably isn't mentally well. But to act like this wasn't heavily steeped in racism means you're... well, you know.

This act of domestic terrorism was made all the more depressing to me because of a recent Facebook debate I engaged in. An acquaintance of mine, though hardworking and tough, is an ardent racist. I try to focus on his good qualities, but he inundates his Facebook friends with borderline and outright racists posts. I usually look past it because when has a Facebook debate ever changed anyone's mind? Recently though he posted a video of a a crowd of black people doing incredibly destructive and stupid things. He provided the caption, "See the common denominator?"

This far too disgusting and easy to counter. I responded with a video of the 2011 Vancouver riots, then Penn States, Boston, San Francisco and -- this is a good one -- a pumpkin festival in New Hampshire. Of course, the majority of these rioters destroying random people's property were predominantly, if not solely, white. He responded with bogus statistics. I came back with FBI statistics, showing how white people were murdered in 2013. 2,500 of which were murdered by fellow whites. (For the record, while an idiot, this acquaintance doesn't have a violent bone in his body.)

Funny how Roof seems to never have bothered to search white-on-white crime.

As I mentioned briefly in my prior post, I truly thought my generation was on the cusp of achieving a post racial America. Judging by my Facebook friend's sentiments, the fact Roof is only 21 and the views being espoused by people of all backgrounds made me realize just how naive I truly was. I should have known better. Defying all morality and reason, the Confederate flag has flown high above South Carolina's capital-- it still does.

Those parishioners gunned down in what's meant to be the most peaceful and serene of settings sure seemed like outstanding citizens to me. The grief-stricken congregation and community seems to be uniting as one. That's awesome. It fills me with hope.

But then I factor in how species are and have been dying off at rapid rates since the advent of the Industrial Revolution and how otherwise seemingly smart and rational people continue to deny or turn a blind eye towards Global Warming and realize we may very well be absolutely fucked.

I'm so down isn't due to me questioning the goodness of mankind. I think the vast majority of people the world over, at their cores, are good. I don't question our hearts. I question our collective whole's ability to think through these issues. Our hearts sustain us, but we need our brains to save us from ourselves.

We're Better Than This. Aren't We?

I don't get it.

Nine people are shot dead in a church and, instead of mourning, the nation is pointing fingers and trying to spin opinion to fit an agenda.

Is it so much to ask if we're allowed to just be sad for a while?

Schools aren't safe. Churches aren't safe. I thought my generation was close to achieving something of a post racial America, and then a 21 year old tries to start race war. Then I have a few of my peers tell me it's okay for a cop to shoot an unarmed person in the back as they run away because, "It's an order."

I guess I'm just baffled that people are still racist in light of overwhelming evidence and common sense that all people are just that: people. Everyone's an individual and deserves to be treated with the utmost respect. Every stranger you meet deserves a blank slate. It's that simple and even more obvious.

But there are people running around acting like one race has a monopoly on intelligence, morality and peace and the other stupidity, sin and violence. There is only one race: the human race.

We're all in it together.

Headache Bellyaches

My car broke down last night, second time in as many weeks. As I waited on the side of the road for AAA to come tow my wounded Civic, I listened to the Cleveland Cavaliers fall to the Golden State Warriors. Ohio pro sports team and their fans' luck often seem intertwined.

Poor Cleveland. No city, hands down, deserves a championship as much as you guys do. It will come soon though.

Congrats to Golden State, I guess. Way to beat our beleaguered JV team plus Lebron James. What an "accomplishment." (Yes, I'm bitter.)

ON top of all this, i managed to lose my wallet. This doesn't sit well with me as I now have few means to extract my cash. I don't know how I managed this fumble, but I found a way.

On top of that, woke up with a major headache this morning. It's still raging. It's a challenge to even look at the screen.

There are worse fates in life. I probably shouldn't be complaining, but isn't that what a blog's for?

Game 5: Cream of the Crop

To be the best, you have to beat the best.

Playing another top-flight team, the same team that handily defeated the opponents that crushed us 8-2, would be a true test of our meddle and how much we've improved.

Sadly, I decided to be an absolute moron the night before our game, jeopardizing whether I would even suit up at all.

My roommate and I decided to go to a new pizza/bar joint across the street from us to watch the Cleveland Cavaliers game. Our other roommate had just moved out a few days prior; she was a recovering alcoholic. So, in a show of solidarity, us two male roommates had nary a drop of alcohol in our own home to show support and avoid further tempting her. Now that she was out of the picture in a sense, it seemed like a good idea to catch up on lost time.

I began downing Sam Adams Summer Ale like Stephen Curry was three pointers in the fourth quarter. After the Cavs suffered what I suspect to be a backbreaking loss, we went back to our home to cap off the evening with a glass of wine Matti had bought. That was supposed to be it. After he went to sleep though, his bottle of wine got progressively emptier as the night went on. Yours truly may have played a small role in that.

Boy did I pay the price the following morning. My head was throbbing. I felt paralyzed but willed myself to the porcelain throne to empty the contents of my stomach. It was easily the worst hangover I ever had. Mixing beer and wine when you've barely touched alcohol for the better part of three years is a bad combo.

It wasn't likely I'd be seeing any ice. But I slammed as much water and V8 as possible and felt vaguely human again about three hours before the puck dropped. I opened up my laptop to tell the team who would be on which line and some general strategies. To my horror I came to find four of our better players all had last minute cancellations. One's son was running a 104 fever. Our stud goalie was the recipient of a dirty cheap shot in separate league game the night before. I certainly wasn't going to be 100%. We'd be fielding something of a skeleton crew against the league's top team.

After getting geared up and hitting the ice, my stomach felt like a washing machine on a perpetual spin cycle. I was praying I wouldn't puke. In a stroke of karmic justice to further punish me for my over imbibing, our opponents team name ... the Jagrbombs. Bleh.

The game itself was fun to watch and play in. My boss working across the street came over to take a peak and really enjoyed himself. He was surprised by the speed. Both teams were relatively fleet of foot, especially for a lowly E League game. There was decent end-to-end action. "Pretty sweet!' my boss exclaimed. 'A lot faster than I expected."

Unfortunately the results weren't as good as our speed. We lost 4-0. Their goalie stood tall and we made too many unforced turnovers. Our backup goalie was clearly experienced and played exceptionally well. More help clearing rebound would have done him a lot of good, but it wasn't meant to be.

I did pretty well personally. I was hurtin' for certain, as my drill sergeant would say. I pushed through the nausea and made some stuff happen, but not enough to change the scoreboard.

However, we played them better than the score would indicate. We've improved leaps and bounds. People are battling for pucks and not playing so passive. It was, believe or not, their closest game thus far. We pot one or two goals in the first two frames, could have been a whole new ballgame. Alas, the W eluded us on this night.

Two of our younger players lived within a stones throw of the ice rink and were nice enough to invite us to their swinging bachelor pad to have a few drinks -- which I respectfully declined -- and watch the Chicago Blackhawks bring home the Stanley Cup. Everyone who attended had a great time.

Not the morning or result I wanted, but it was a pretty good evening all and all.

Prison

I'm going there, June 21. Stay tuned.

Heavy

I don't have much to say since my mind is preoccupied with close friends going through some serious trials. I could write some long, flowery prose, but I'll simply leave you with this:

If you're so low you're thinking about harming yourself, seek help. Get therapy. Use local and regional resources and health insurance and money are non existent for you (like this for Columbus). If you need something more immediate, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255 or go to their site if instant messaging is more your speed.

"Depression isn't a character defect. It's an illness."

Happy Accident?

Photo provided by Malay Mail Online. This photo is from a completely separate event and is only used as an illustration to my unique experience. 

My phone is littered with unnecessary, crappy pictures and videos. I decided the ones not up to par had be deleted into oblivion to free up more space. I gunned for the videos first, sending several to the chopping block. 

Then I stumbled upon a gem. A video narration I took mere minutes after one of the most terrifying events of my life. 

It was my third day of my solo transatlantic excursion. The original plan was to go to Italy with my good buddy Cory, but, due to unforeseen budget sequestrations, his government contracted employment appeared to be in jeopardy. A trip to Italy just wasn't a wise financial move for him at the time. 

I had airline credits from another failed vacation attempt the prior year set to expire in two weeks. I was dead set on going overseas somewhere, damn it. But who was going to have the cash and open schedule to fly across the ocean on a whim? Nobody in my circle. It just wasn't feasible. With the goal of stepping foot on each continent (not named Antarctica) before I plunge into holy matrimony in mind, I decided to go somewhere no one had ever expressed interest in going even with five years notice: South Africa. 

I had done just that, becoming a mere speck on the map as I cruised down the highway, car on the left side of the yellow line, steering wheel placed on the right side of the sedan. In the rear-view mirror stood Johannesburg, the city and two days of memories I had left behind to instead dive more into the wild heart of Africa. I was on my way to Kruger National Park to see the Big 5, to marvel at lions, leopards, buffalo, elephants and rhinos and whatever else may come in something resembling their natural habitat. I was thrilled. 

But the old adage "It's not the destination but the journey" would prove true on this day. 

Perhaps I was too fixated on not mixing up my turn-signal and windshield-wiper fluid sticks again, but, unbeknownst to me, I inadvertently told my GPS to avoid toll roads. Big mistake. 

Blissfully unaware of my error, I was soaking up the South African countryside, a big departure from the hustle and bustle of "Jo-burg." Even though the skyscrapers  slipped below the horizon, the voice of the city was still ever present in the form of talk radio. 

Unlike America's political talk radio, both host and callers were incredibly civil, polite and poignant with their words and demeanor. I would assume the current incarnation is a far cry from the days of Apartheid. Either way, I was envious. It seemed so productive and engaging. 

In between debates about whether the local rugby team's new military camouflage jerseys were too similar to the ruthless secret police that once violently defended Apartheid and how safe and valuable their currency (the Rand) was, there'd be little news blurbs about traffic lights being out (an all too common occurrence there), how the main entrance to a mining facility was the site of contentious labor union protests and which elected officials were accused of corruption. It felt both familiar and like new ground.

While South Africa's rates of violent crimes have dropped significantly over the years, particularly Jo'burg, there's still a seedy underside to the Rainbow Nation. I began to pass highway signs that read, "Hi (car)-Jacking hot spot." I made a decision that if I drew the short straw I was going to do everything I could to escape. I knew everything would be fine though. 

That's when my GPS slip up came to exact its price. 

Photo provided by Windsor Star

Instead of continuing down the relatively safe confines of the highway and passing through toll booths, I was instead directed to take a nearby exit. As I turned around a blind corner onto the single-lane road, my car was suddenly surrounded. 30-40 men, many carrying, what I assume were, tribal shields, large sticks and swatches. They ran from the sidewalk and engulfed my sedan, chanting in unison. I instinctively slammed my breaks to avoid hurting anyone, but immediately questioned if put the wrong pedal to the floor.  

I don't have a racist bone in my body, but it became quickly evident to me they were all black. I know South Africa is largely past it racially driven violence, but, like American, dynamics on that front can change on a dime, for all races, from one region/county to the next. Plus, they've had a slew of violent anti-immigrant protests in recent years. 

To be honest, I've rarely been so terrified in my life. 

I weighed my options in a nano second. I could just slam the accelerator and plow through these guys, but it's just not in my heart to kill a handful of people. Apparently I wasn't going to live up to my decision to escape at all costs. As nonsensical as it may sound, I wasn't going down without a fight either. My right hand grabbed the hilt of my pocket knife I wedged between my seat and storage compartment, just in case. If they busted the windows, reached in and pulled me out, I was doing as much damage as I could possibly inflict.

Before I did anything tragic, my cerebral microprocessors began to notice that all the men were wearing red t shirts. They were smiling and dancing. Does it really take 30-40 people to carjack and/or murder somebody? Are those protest signs?

Then it dawned on me this wasn't a criminal act but one of protest. They were members of a labor union taking part in an energetic, borderline joyous protest. There gestures implied to me they wanted me to show some sign of solidarity. I obliged by letting go of my knife and giving a thumbs up instead. This garnered a few cheers. Then I honked the horn repeatedly, emphasizing my newfound and enthusiastic approval and support for their cause. I didn't know the nuances and stances of either side, but was I really in a position to argue against them? I'd say no. 

I doubt it's always like this, but it appears sometimes labor protests are half party, half protest. Photo provided by LA Times. 

Once my honking ceased, the red t shirt sea parted and I slowly drove off as then men smiled, waived and held up their shields to show their gratitude. It was quite an unexpected spectacle; one I'll never forget.

As the tsunami rush of adrenaline slowly receded, I continued to follow my GPS's directions, still unaware of my blunder. No more than a mile up from where I encountered the protesters was the main entrance to a mining or processing facility -- up in flames.  I had stumbled upon a national news event I had just heard about on the radio an hour before. 

Emergency crews were putting out the flames, but doing it in such a nonchalant manner you would have thought it was business as usual. As it turns out, labor union protests in South Africa are no joke. This probably wasn't the first or last time the entrance had been incinerated. 

Just a few hundred meters later I entered a small town. There was music in the square, shops open and cart vendor trying to peddle their wares while kids darted all around. It was simultaneously bizarre and normal all at once, borderline festive even. All this in the context of, what I guess is, the town's biggest cash cow having its main entrance aflame.   

A national news event happening in their backyard and everyone's chill, enjoying life. South Africans are endearing, to put it mildly. With so many things on our lives and society seemingly up in flame, maybe the best course of action sometimes is to dance in the square. 

It was only on my way from Kruger did I realize the error I had made on the way to the park. I adjusted the GPS accordingly. I covered the distance between Kruger and Jo'burg much faster but without a story to tell. 

Accidents are often happy. 

Doesn't add to the story, but I put this in because the picture was taken by yours truly.

Game 4: Better Late Than Never

I like to think of myself as above-average intelligence. However true that may or may not be is up for debate, but yesterday would have given a lot of fuel to the Mike's An Idiot camp.

Maybe it was the fatigue of running down baseballs hit by distant, young family members in the summer heat while wearing jeans the day before. Maybe it was watching the glee of a cousin who was on the hunt for a pet box turtle and found one within two minutes of his attempt. Maybe it was the delicious home cooked meal my mother made. Maybe (probably) it was my stupidity.

Whatever it was that distracted me from common sense and reality, I ultimately came to the misguided conclusion that leaving from Athens, Ohio to the Lewis Center, north of Columbus at 7:00 PM would give me enough time to traverse the 105 miles with enough time to change into my hockey gear and hit the ice by 8:20 PM.

Oh how wrong I was.

When all the neurons and synapses came back online and the reality of my error dawned on me, I had to make embarrassing phone calls to some of my teammates to tell them their team's founder, captain and pseudo coach would be late -- very late -- for his own teams game, likely not dressed and on the ice until the third period.

"Wow ... okay. Just don't get yourself killed trying to get up here in time."

Wise words, but clearly, on this day, I was not wise. On the same stretch of road I had been pulled over for speeding twice, I slammed the accelerator and sped northward through a few brief rain storms.

I got to the rink, signed in and sprinted towards our ice sheet, the game already in the waning minutes of the first period. No more than 15 seconds after I stepped in, our third-line center was parked near the crease and potted his first ever goal, putting us Crew Jackets up 1-0. I was pumped for him, and so was the strangely, relatively large audience in the stands for this game. Usually four-to-six people watch E-League games, but there were 20 or so on this night and, for whatever reason, they were supporting us Crew Jackets.

My team had the locker room key secured on the team bench. I waved, jumped up and down trying to get their attention so I could change into my gear, but they didn't notice me. The people in the stands were naturally befuddled and amused by some random guy at a dozen plus people who he might as well have been invisible to. Once my threshold for embarrassment had been reached, I opted to take the unorthodox route of changing in the commons restroom's handicap stall.

Imagine the look of bewilderment of the rink's staff to see a fully-geared hockey player come flying out of a generic public restroom and not a locker room.

With a few minutes left to go in the second period, I was finally on the ice.

Apparently the hockey gods would exact a price for my tardiness. My first shift on the ice had the dubious distinction of giving our line a deduction in the plus/minus column. Our opponents, the Chiefs, got the pick near the crease and took a shot that deflected off our defender's stick and rainbowed over our stud goalie's shoulder, fluttering into the net to tie the game 1-1.

When I went to take the ensuing face off, the referee, Danny, a friend of my dad's for decades, said, "Better get to work, Mike."

My following shift, I received a near-perfect pass from my right winger that sprung me for a semi-breakaway. The lone defender played the pass and not the shot, which given my angle was an understandable move, but from near the right face-off dot I let loose a wrister. I didn't aim. Just put as much heat behind it as I could. I saw it go over the goalies shoulder, just past hist mask and top shelving it into the upper left corner of the net. It is -- by far -- the best goal I've ever scored. Crew Jackets up 2-1.

It was more luck than sense, but that doesn't change the fact that shot is a goal in a lot of leagues around the world. Last week, our goalie, who had scholarship offers from quality collegiate hockey programs advised, "Your wrist shot is legit; use it more." I still see that as an exaggeration but a little less so now.

It was such a pure snipe, my goal celebration was to cover my mouth with my glove because my jaw nearly hit the ice.

We had 2:30 to defend the lead. The Chiefs pulled their goalie, giving us an empty net to fire at. One of our defenseman did just that, putting us up 3-1 to seal the win and give us our first goal from a blueliner.

If anyone had misgivings about their captain being late, no one showed in the locker room in lieu of the quality game-winning goal.

About ten of us went out for post-game libations and watched Game 3 of the Stanley Cup Final. We all got to know each other better and all agreed we're starting to jell on the ice. After our humbling 8-2 loss last week, this was a nice morale booster. It was a good night.

I was greeted this morning with a text from my high school buddy and teammate, Ryan, exclaiming, "The team is really starting to work better together!" This is his first time playing hockey and has only ice skated a handful of times. It made my day to see him text, "What a perfect group to learn around." I replied, "I think it's a good team to play, win, hand and learn with." "Exactly."

When I took a long shot at starting this team at the last minute, I had a pretty detailed wishlist in mind for what the team could become. And it's panning out "Exactly" how I had hoped.

Normandy: Billions of Beneficiaries

Every so often I attempt an exercise: to understand what it must have been like, what fortitude it took to face Nazi forces, on the beaches of Normandy 71 years ago today.

As I've briefly mentioned before, I served two combat tours in Afghanistan, totaling 27 months. I lived a relatively cushy lifestyle, quartered in comfortable lodging and stationed on large mega bases that were, in many ways, bastions of modern western civilization. It was still a far cry from home, but I was comfortable far more often than not.

But a handful of times I was in the thick of combat. We had the upper hand in most circumstances with air, weapon, numbers and position superiority. But there were a few skirmishes within the larger battles that the playing field felt uncomfortable level. We're incredibly fortunate no good guys were hurt or lost.

Needless to say, combat in Afghanistan is nothing to scoff at. It left an unforgettable impression on me that forever altered my worldview and how I approach life, sometimes for better, sometimes for worse.

Even in the context of being one of the few Americans (percentage wise) to experience the trials of combat, I logically know that what I experienced and, quite frankly, most others who served experienced in Iraq and Afghanistan doesn't even come close to the magnitude and scale of trials WW2 vets faced in battle. That doesn't diminish or take away from what 21st American service members overcame, but its inarguable WW2, especially those on the beaches of Normandy on D-Day, went through more. Even knowing all this full well, I simply can't fathom it.

The initial invasion of D-Day was a fucking meat grinder, pure and simple. Men went in by the thousands and got came out the other side a tangled mesh of what was once a man. Brutal, yes, but it was the all-too harsh reality. How did those men move an inch forward toward the barrels of machine guns honed on them? How did they not freeze up, instead themselves into the very mouth of the monster? All that violence, death and stimuli had to be overwhelming to senses, incomprehensible to the mind.

But, in spite of all those daunting, deadly obstacles, they never thought it as insurmountable. With death reigning down on them, their brothers in arms being felled in droves, they crushed the monster of Nazi fascism. Those brave men denied Hitler his foothold in Western Europe he would never regain, and, after much more sacrifices and thousands of lives lost, domino after domino would fall as US troops marched eastward to the heart of Nazi Germany.

What a toll it surely exacted on those men can never be found or understood. So little was (and still is) known about PTSD. How many went on to fight other history-altering, brutal battles while coping with those trying symptoms? How many came back and hid their condition in the shadows from a generation who saw PTSD symptoms as a sign of weakness and lacking character and not a borderline inevitable, natural consequence of battle? So little is mentioned of that.

While I'll never accomplish the goal of my self-imposed exercise of understanding what they went through, I do comprehend -- and am eternally grateful -- to be part of a world where all seven-billion citizens are the beneficiaries of the heroism and sacrifice of thousands of brave, young men from seven decades ago. The least we can do is keep their memories and stories alive. Father Time is doing what Nazi bullets failed do on Normandy, felling our grizzled veterans in droves.

They've done their duty in both fighting evil and keeping their story and fallen comrades' memory alive. It's our generation's turn now. Let's never let them down. The world owes them that much -- and infinitely more.

Reach for the Sky!

While I'm far from the most ardent gamer, I still get excited from time-to-time about an upcoming release. Over the past few years though, I've been playing and anticipating less and less. Maybe it's the symptom of getting older or there haven't been many jaw-dropping innovations in gaming lately. I lean towards the latter. (Or maybe it's Netflix.)

I think video games are, or at least have the potential to be, the most amazing art form man has ever known. (People who look down on video games and gamers are increasingly looking antiquated and outdated. Neckbeards are still fair game though.) They've already produced incredible works and forged indelible memories for billions of people. The best part of the art form is, in my mind, very much still in its infancy. It took thousands of years to go from hand prints on cave walls to linear 3D perspective on a flat surface. Now consider the leap from Pong to Call of Duty in just a few decades time.

Past five years though? ... Meh. Things have gotten prettier and more powerful. Always a plus. I'd argue the story telling aspect of video games has noticeably improved. No small feat. Outside of that though, meh.

There's one titles on the horizon that I think will be a game changer in every sense of the term: No Man's Sky.

If you're not abreast to the massive hype already surrounding this title, here's the skinny: The scale of the game is h-u-g-e. Colossal. If the developer, Hello Games, is to be believed, they've essentially created a digital universe.  It's hard to comprehend our universe's millions of discovered galaxies, each containing their own billions of stars. Try wrapping you're head around that. Now, if you're not like me and you can actually pull that off, put that same scale into a digital medium. No Man's Sky has 18-quintillion planets (yes, 18,000,000,000,000,000), most allegedly being about around the size of our earth. It would take one person approximately 500-billion years of continuous play to discover every planet.

That is simply mind boggling.

Clearly they don't have the amount of artists nor the time necessary to hand craft each planet. So how do they do it? Well, this is probably going to be a gross oversimplification, but as I understand it they use a programming method called procedural generation. With it, they essentially input coding, mathematics, that govern the laws of nature within the game. Then, anything that can be done within the parameters of these laws will be randomly generated. While there will be plenty of planets with similarities, it's virtually impossible to have an exact replica of another. All of this without any (that we know of) being crafted from the ground up by hand. In a way, the planets weren't created; they just "naturally" occurred.

Much of the same is applied the species of animals and the fauna that will reside on many of the planets. There are broad parameters set in place for what species of animals and plants can and can't be, trying to keep a balance between plausibility and intriguing possibilities. Then randomness within the confines of the coding's laws does its things and large amount of species are born across the digital universe. To what exact number? I've seen nothing in regards to that. From what has been reported though, it looks pretty impressive.

But the numbers and scale wouldn't mean all that much if it doesn't have quality content and gameplay. While some planets will inevitably be more barren and bland than others (looking at you, Mars), plenty are filled with said fauna and animals. It appears some have structures built by an advance race. Maybe some will even have intelligent life. Still a lot of unknowns, but from the few screen grabs we've seen, there appears to be plenty to explore and experiences and discover.

There are some combat elements as well. It appears you can go all Star Wars on people, engaging in spaceship-on-spaceship laser battles. There are also guns of the hand-and-shoulder fired variety. Apparently you can make it your life's goal to annihilate an entire species or all sentient life in general on a planet.  Not my cup of tea, but this is an open ended game. Whatever floats your boat.

If nothing else, it's awfully difficult to not get excited about a game when the creator -- who has been working on this nearly every day for years -- rips the controller out a journalist's hands while he's demoing the game and declares, "Wow, I've never seen that before." No wonder people are clamoring to see what No Man's Sky announcements will be dropped at E3 Exposition, June 16-18, the premiere video games convention.

While not a sci-fi enthusiast, I have a layman's love for cosmology. The scale of our universe wows and inspires me. A picture of it captured on the grandest scale to date was my desktop background for over a year. The possibilities of what's out there are seemingly infinite. It's a bummer that, in all likelihood, I'll never slip the surly bonds of earth. I've barely skimmed the surface of this planet, and loved much of what I've explored thus far. Every trip and adventure has been an absolute privilege. Doesn't mean I wouldn't jump at the chance to explore on a galactic level if I could.

This game could well be the closest I ever get to fulfilling that. I bet the same is true for many of us. Fulfilling that in a digital format, that's a true game changer.

Swans and Such

I'm not really feeling the whole words thing today. So let's go with pictures instead! Two weekends ago, my girlfriend and I spent time with my parents at their place in the country and enjoyed the company of some of my condo associations' swans, their newborns and other critters.

I used to be a semi-pro photographer of sorts. Trying to get back into it. None of the photos have been cropped, edited or enhanced in any way -- out of pure sloth.

Enjoy!

My mom, a retired hairstylist, trims what little is left of my hair.

My roommate's dog, Ruger, tagged along because he loves my Mom.

My girlfriend, Alexis, may have taken this. If you don't like it, she definitely did.

And that would be my girlfriend.

 

My dad doing... and impression of the Godfather? 

This older, haggard male duck was constantly being harassed by the male swan. I don't think he has another winter in him, poor guy.

My girlfriend is terrified of swans. I don't see what's so intimidating about them.