Toys Based on Call of Duty

So, there are now Call of Duty toys in the toy section - right next to the LEGOs. They're just toys, I know, and kids have been playing with army men and GI Joes for years now, which is fine, but this is different. The media are always talking about how violence in video games is having a negative impact on children, specifically games like Call of Duty and Grand Theft Auto, and this is true - but these games aren't designed for children. The M for Mature rating means it's for people 17 and older. This is reinforcing the idea in parents' minds (stupid parents) that letting their children play Call of Duty is perfectly fine - which it can be, if you feel your child can handle it.

These days we are always hearing gripes and complaints from the media, politicians, and parents about violence in video games. The ESRB rating system was put in place to protect children and inform parents about what they're playing. If you're a parent or a grandparent, or even an aunt or an uncle who isn't familiar with games, look at that little black and white box in the bottom left corner before you buy a child in your life a game; know what you're putting in their hands. Same goes for those who are familiar with games; if you feel your child can handle it, and is responsible enough, then by all means - just don't go blaming the games when something goes wrong. Any time there's a school shooting or something, everyone always blames the video game industry (and guns), and not the parents.

The targeting of young children by the Call of Duty series in this way sort of feels like it's undermining the ESRB rating all of it's games hold (M for Mature). I am by no means for censorship, not in the slightest - but I am for common sense, and the sheer amount of young children playing these games shows that there's a severe lack of it.

Revisting a Dream

Originally written on July 4th, 2013


When I was very, very young, I had a dream about a hotel nestled on a dreary coast. I don't know if it was in England or Maine, but the grass was green, the sea grey, the air was filled with fog, and it was bone-chillingly cold. The hotel was old and immense, and dwarfed the small village it sat outside.
Inside the hotel was dark, the air was stale. Despite the establishment's size, the dining area used by the guests was quite small, with room only for twenty people at most. As you moved up through the hotel, the rooms became smaller and smaller. While the second floor rooms were spacious, the fifth floor rooms were closet sized.
When you reached the attic, you found yourself in long, grey space filled with pillars with doors. Light poured out from windows inside the sleeping spaces between each pillar on the right side (facing the sea), bathing the dusty floor, though even this light was lifeless and depressing. Inside each pillar was a changing room, similar to the ones you would find on beaches in the early 20th century, and between each one was a space with a table, a small, rusty bed, and small window.
A small, claustrophobic flight of stairs brought you to the apex of the building, a long, thin room with a tiny round window at one end and a bed and a nightstand. The walls were adorned with fading maritime-themed murals - not grand paintings, but childish paintings, depicting ships with smiling faces and cartoonish seabirds. This was the room I found myself in in my original dream. They called it the Honeymoon Suite, though I could not find my bride.
At the foot of the stairs leading to my suite was a small room with a small woman living inside - the caretaker for the floor. I don't know her name, but my mind manifested her in the body of Zelda Rubinstein. She was an angry old woman, manically checking the changing rooms for luggage and clothing left behind by guests and yelling at ghosts that only she could see in the empty beds.
I can't remember much about my original dream, other than the setting, the old woman, and the missing bride.
Last night I visited the hotel again, this time with a family member - a sister, or a cousin; certain details escape me. I didn't see the Honeymoon Sweet, but I was staying in the attic, my family member a few "rooms" down from me. While she would leave the hotel to see the coast and the countryside, I was trapped within for the most part, left wandering the empty hallways on my own and gazing out through the blinding windows.
For some reason I had decided to go swimming in the sea (despite not being able to leave the hotel?), so I took my bags into a changing pillar and changed into something (I can't recall what, though I don't think it was swimming trunks, and I don't think it was anything outlandish like a tuxedo). I hurried downstairs, forgetting my bag in the changing pillar. When I got to the front desk, the attendant informed me that my family member had checked out a few moments ago.
Why had she checked out? Panicking, I ran back up to my sleeping space to pack - but then I realized that I had left my suitcase in the changing pillar. I quickly opened the door, but there was nothing. Panicking more, I began to check each pillar, then each sleeping space (even the dark windowless ones opposite mine). I was truly afraid, more than I had ever been in my entire life. Suddenly it dawned on me, as the barely discernible sound of a laughtrack reached my ears. Looking back I saw lights playing through the crack under the old woman's door.
As I drew closer to the door, I passed the familiar flight of stairs leading up to the Honeymoon Suite. I was afraid of the room, and hurried by as fast I could, trying to avert my eyes, feeling as if the lonely door at the top wanted me to open it.
The laughtrack continued, interspersed with crackly voices speaking in foreign languages. As I knocked on the door, I could hear an angry sigh from the within. The voices and the laughtrack continued as the door opened - and there she was, the angry old woman, ancient, but unchanged from my first dream. I explained my situation to her, and she beckoned me inside. Her room was very small: long enough to just fit her bed, and wide enough for a small table and a TV (the source of the laughtrack and the voices; the black and white screen showed men dressed in suits angrily hitting each other). The room was a faded white, and a window next to the bed filled it with an oppressive light. I explained my situation to her, and she left her mattress and pulled out my bag and handed it to me. I don't know why I didn't run, but instead I sat the bag on the table opposite the window and opened it. Suddenly she threw my CD cases inside; turning around I saw her looking around the room as if nothing had happened. I opened the cases to find the albums gone. Looking back, I saw her toss a pile of CDs into the bag, as well as my keys and some pocket change. She mentioned the Honeymoon Suite upstairs for some reason (a guest was expected). I asked if it was still decorated with boats and birds and she laughed, saying it was, and asking if I had been up there before.
As I closed my bag, I woke up.

For Boredom's Sake: Eric's Tale & The Adventures of Sir Wilhelm

It's been awhile since I've posted anything here, so, I thought I'd plug my other story blog thingymuhbob. A few years ago, I was a semi-avid blogger over on Xanga, posting my thoughts almost daily (despite having zero readership); it was mainly a journal type thing, where I whined and complained.

But, in March (I think) of 2008, my friend Will (who also blogged some) started writing a silly story about a fictional, quasi-medievel version of himself. His story also featured a hilarious, badass charicature of myself, which inspired me to write my own stories with the character. This story would be a prequel to Will's (everyone loves prequels, right? ... right?). I wrote a single opening chapter (featuring Sir Eric finding himself in Hell) before losing interest, as I so often find myself doing. End of story, right? Wrong.

A few days ago I recieved a text from Will telling me how he was reviving his stories. He had decided to post his story from 2008 onto Blogger and continue where he had left off (with his character hilariously jumping off of a ship, leaving my character onboard to marry a she-pirate). This inspired me to go back and look at the chapter I had posted. I instantly found myself plotting out what would happen next, so I decided to continue my story as well. Onto Blogger I hopped, and the rest is history.

I've written an additional two chapters, and I'm presently writing the fourth. Will's story features surreal slapstick comedy and potty humor, which is hilarious. Mine is in the same vein, but slightly more serious. I took the same approach Talking Heads took when writing The Overload, being inspired by the band Joy Division, despite never having listened to them; I'm inspired by Terry Pratchet's Discworld stories, despite never having read any of them, haha.

So, if you're interested in reading some not-so-high fantasy (delivered in convenient, short chapters), then please check out my other blog, For Boredom's Sake: Eric's Tale and tell me what you think.

While you're at it, check out Will's story, The Adventures of Sir Wilhelm!

We're planning on joining them up at some point, though indirectly. The possibilities are literally endless. I have some pretty neat ideas on my end, and I'm sure Will can think of some pretty hilarious adventures on his end. Tell us what you think!


Yours,
Mr. E. Greer