Fan Letter #392

This is actually an OLD fan letter, replete with my original italicized, fictitious intro. It's also a reminder that it's OK to write us (literarybrothel at gmail). Maybe we'll even put your letter on the site? You never know. -KV

FAN LETTER #392

Ho hum. Another letter from a satisfied customer. Edited at the author's request, for once.

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Hey Klaus,

It's about time you updated the damn Brothel. However, it just got me into a spat.

Congrats; your web page seemed more interesting to me than the practical ramifications of the Nolan case on California Land Use Regulation. With wireless internet here in law school, we're online in class. In class, the Baseball Stars article made me laugh out loud. Laughing out loud isn't necessarily a bad thing, so long as a teacher or student said something funny. In fact, it doesn't even have to actually be funny, an attempt will usually be sufficient justification, because none of us laugh as much as we would like. Unfortunately, this wasn't the case.

Let me clarify: the laugh wasn't a giggle or even a chuckle. If was a full laugh, and when I tired to suppress it, the laugh escaped and made it's presence felt in the form of a audible snort and and then a series of muffled snickers.

The display attracted the attention of many a student, and more significantly, one professor. Said professor responded, predictably, with "Mr. Roland, do you have anything to add."

Ninety other students, eager to understand the apparent interest or humorous twist I had in a subject any objective observer would be forced to search their mind for an antonym of fascinating to describe, turned their collective stares upon me. Me, a bit disheveled conducting an in depth analysis on how the [Black] Ninjas* resembled the modern day Marlins, and recalling my glory days beating up on the American Dreams* and Lovely Ladies,* attempted to think of something said in past 5 minutes that could be tied, however remotely, to something humorous, only to fail - primarily because I hadn't listened to a damn word in a good 15 minutes - stammered out, in typical Kevin eloquence "No."

The teacher glared, the students rolled their eyes and/or smirked, and I sunk into my chair. Like any good Republican, I blame you. I blame you for making me look like a jackass in one class, inspiring me to spend another 10 minutes writing this email, thereby putting me at a unconquerable disadvantage in my Corporation class.

While I'm at it, I blame you for Ahnuld getting elected. Why? Because I can. Thanks a lot, asshole.

Love,

Kevin Roland
(Not my real name)

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*Baseball Stars reference. And another. And another. Kevin, (Nomar,) you're a freakin' unrealistic dork. Unrealistic because there's no way the Black Ninjas or anyone can consistently conquer the glorious American Dreams. Maybe two out of three with some solid pitching and tricky base running (you know what I'm talking about), but that's it. AD is a power house, an 8-bit tour-de-force if you will, and they don't go down without a fight.

Old School Time: Baseball Stars on the NES

In the introduction it appears this will be the start of a series of writings about Nintendo games. I believe this is what some refer to as "good intentions," and others "foolish proclamations." Who knows, it could still happen...?? -KV

BASEBALL STARS
Klaus Varley

(This is the first piece in a series of writings dedicated to Nintendo games we loved and cherished in our youth, and dominate today. The games that so eagerly took away those “precious” moments between the ages of 8 and...20? Okay, 5 and 29. Damn. I knew there's a reason I don’t use integers.)

Needless to say, that without the countless hours frivoled away in front of a viewing screen day after day, year after year, we would all be geniuses by now. (Geniusi? - The prosecution rests.) I've ponder how my life would be different had I enthusiastically dedicated two to three hours per day - including weekends and especially on Sundays - to a practical hobby. Had these hours gone to guitar, I would not be writing this late on a Friday night, instead rapping up the post-gig party after my set at the Hollywood Bowl. Romeo Blue opened for me, and though he was solid, he should drop that pseudonym. Your real name ain't bad, kid.

If not guitar, something, anything, would have filled the video-game void and given me an admirable trait: one I could flash like a badge to the bouncers of the coolest clubs; one to boast about on Internet dating sites; one that would make me very, very wealthy – or at least emotionally stable.

Or would it?

The point is, Baseball Stars is a great game. Let me explain.

The history of Baseball Stars is…something…I have neither the time nor the patience to explain. (Nor do I know the history nor where to research it – nor how to use “nor” properly. Yes, I tried the Internet, but you’d be surprised at all the things you CAN’T find on the Internet: namely, the history of Baseball Stars. If it were the history of pom-pom girls, that would be a different story and on a different site. Although that article would probably better suit a site called “The Literary Brothel” than an article about a rustic video game.)

Historically ambiguous, the game works as follows: Create your own team, naming the fellers one by one and battle the established crews thematically crafted by the brilliant programmers at SNK. And then you…play other teams. That’s about it. Make team; play other teams. You can also buy replacement athletes from an infinite pool of athletes that at age thirteen I christened, “The Amazing Abyss of Wannabe Stars,” but now just call the pool of players. How we lose our imagination in our age.

Or do we?

To this day I start by creating a team of my closest friends with some shred of athleticism. I’m the coach of course. I’m always the coach. “Klaus” used to be on the team, but if Klaus were too good, Klaus would feel guilty and want to take the virtual Klaus aside to say, “Look man, you're in with the team creator, so don’t go showing off. The other players might resent you. Stop kicking so much butt, this is a team sport.” So, I reside to work my magic behind the scenes. The jealousy and inner-group conflict of that digital butt kisser “Klaus” is assuaged. No one gets crucified on my watch. Not even virtually.

Yet at the end of the day, it’s about friends. Sit down and imagine them together, on the field – having the time of their lives. Friends I see once a day to friends I see once a year, all on-screen as two dimensional, blobby white guys, even if in reality they are not white, or guys (or two dimensional). I tell Perhach to dive and he dives. Frooz turns two like a champ, and Yee…Yee!!? Yee keeps popping out! Dammit Yee, we’re a line drive team! Quit going for the fences!

When the only resemblance are the names, it takes a little imagination. In the end though, I’m playing a game with my old friends.

All except Yee. He’s off the squad. Better luck next year, kid.


-KV