Ode to the Candy Machine at the University of Nebraska Press Building

For Chrissy Osmulski (1981-2015)

In the lobby of the office where I work there used to be a small candy machine perched on a pole by the elevators, the kind where if you put in a quarter and turned a crank, a mass of candies would drop down a chute, clatter through a hinged doorway, and fall neatly into your hand.  This machine, though, was different: while most candy machines have only three or four slots in a neat line, this one was a cube with slots on all sides, two on each horizontal face, with a total of eight candies to choose from.  It had M&Ms, Skittles, Reese’s Pieces, Mike and Ikes, Hot Tamales, trail mix, novelty gummy candies, and even some brown nuts of a kind I’d never seen in a vending machine.

The candy machine was the one iconic feature of the building lobby, where I spend no more than a few seconds waiting for the elevator each time I go into work.  It’s a long, rectangular lobby with entrances on either side, both of which are covered by square, flat awnings.  Oversized American flags and a potted plant attempt to instill a friendly atmosphere in the corridor, and perpendicular to the entrances large glass doors open into large offices, though both of these offices have moved and printed notices remind visitors to come to their new locations.

I noticed the candy machine on my first day because it was the one object in the lobby that actually stood out, and I swiveled around it to see the types of candy on its four faces, two of which were tilted inconveniently close to the wall.  It occurred to me that if I had a quarter (which I usually don’t—I rarely carry change anymore unless I’m doing laundry or happen to have purchased something with cash that day) I could turn the crank and get a handful of Reese’s Pieces to eat on my way home, a reward for making it through the workday.  I could also have tried the brown nuts I’d never seen in a vending machine before, or bought some Skittles to eat one at a time (since Skittles are best savored individually, rather than in a mixed handful).  I wondered how much candy one got for a quarter—had the manufacturers considered inflation by working an adjustable valve into each slot’s measuring mechanism, or did twenty-five cents buy the same number of M&Ms today as it did in 1980?  If it did, then buying candy from the machine might be a better deal than buying it in single-serving bags from the gas station, a bargain the building owners may or may not have foreseen.

Then, one day, the machine disappeared.  When I came into work and found it not in its usual spot, I looked first to the other end of the lobby to check whether a thorough janitor or furniture mover had placed it there temporarily, but it wasn’t at the other end of the lobby either.  Nor was it there the next time I came, or the time after that, and even though the American flags and potted plant were always in their same places, the candy machine wasn’t.

I often remember how the candy machine’s compartments were always full, and though I’d initially considered this an illusion maintained by slanted surfaces inside the case, it occurred to me that fewer people passing through the lobby meant fewer candy purchases, and fewer of those people carrying change meant fewer purchases still.  I wonder how much money the building owners made from the machine, or whether some rental agreement had actually caused them to lose money by keeping it there.  I also wonder whether I could have halted them from removing it if I myself had started carrying change and actually used the machine.  I wonder what those brown nuts tasted like and what they’re called; I can’t describe them exactly, but would know them if I saw them again.  But most of all, I wonder about the men who’d come while I was away and pulled the machine down the outside ramp on to a truck, and whether they’d taken that truck to a warehouse somewhere with all the other candy machines no one wanted.  If I’d happened to be walking in the day they were bringing the machine out, I could have done nothing more than watch them from the back stairs. 

I miss the machine now that it’s gone, since there’s nothing else in the lobby to look at, and without it I find my thoughts at the beginning and end of the day much emptier than they used to be, with fewer things left about which to wonder.

Things That Annoy Me About Each of the Batman Movies

Batman (1989):  Michael Keaton's "You want to get nuts?  Let's get nuts" line.

Batman Returns (1992): Christopher Walken not doing anything Christopher Walken-like.

Batman Forever (1995): Most of the coolest stuff getting edited out.

Batman and Robin (1997): The entire fucking movie.

Batman Begins (2005): Christian Bale's raspy voice; training scenes that take up half the film (tie).

The Dark Knight (2008): That scene in the courtroom where the mob guy misfires his carbon-fiber gun and Harvey Dent not only spots it as made in China, but suggests that next time, "I recommend you buy American."  The scene (and much of the China plot that follows) not only capitalizes on the anti-China sentiment that was rising around the mid- to late-2000s, it serves as a hokey call for moviegoers to buy American goods rather than their poorly made Chinese counterparts - a shameless political ploy that's going to date even more terribly than Marty McFly's Japanese boss in Back to the Future II.

The Dark Knight Rises (2012): Gotham's citizens rising up against the wealthy.  While working-class revolutions are nothing new, the timing of Gotham's attack on the rich with America's post-recession awareness of the gap between rich and poor can't possibly be coincidental, and should thus be read as overtly political (which the series stooped to in the China relationship in the previous film).  The problem here, though, is that the film portrays Gotham's revolution against the rich as ridiculous, destructive, and corrupting for everyone involved, particularly in the courtroom scene where the Scarecrow sits atop the towering heap of desks like something out of Kafka.  When the common people rise up against the rich, the scene suggests, they do so nonsensically, without bringing real structure to their new order, since they can only sentence rich people to torturous deaths for the crime of being rich.  This in turn implies that any time the masses rise up against the rich or try to change the world they live in, the result will be anarchy, since no sensible alternative to is ever presented onscreen.  The film implies, therefore, that changing the status quo is wrong, that the grievances of the masses are petty and not worth taking seriously, and that order can only reign as long as the rich keep power for themselves.  Not cool.

Art Swap 2013: The Many Faces of Nicholas Cage

"I am a lizard, a shark, a heat-seeking panther." - Painting by Sam Roman

Illustrator, painter, needlepoint artist, and fellow Leighite Samantha Roman's contribution to the Art Swap shows her love of humor, pop culture, and vivid colors.  I'm not sure which is scarier - the bees, or the middle Cage face.  In addition to her illustrations and comics, Sam's also done paintings based on characters from The Simpsons, High School Musical, and The Office.

For those of you interested in having a wild-eyed Cage to call your very own, prints of this painting are available for a mere $25 - which includes shipping!  To get yours e-mail Sam at samantha.k.roman[at]gmail[dot]com, or visit her website.  You won't be disappointed.

You can see more of Sam's paintings, illustrations, and other artwork (including an Adventure Time themed cross-stitch!) on her website, an unmistakable cone of ignorance, or at her art blog, Drawn in a Hat Store. 

Oh yes, and among Sam's other talents, she's also well-versed in the hats of The Great Gatsby.

Every Monday for the rest of the year I’ll be highlighting a different project from Art Swap 2013. Want to throw in your own metaphorical hat for the event? Post here in the comments section, or e-mail ianmrogers[at]hotmail[dot]com.

In Defense of Zelda 2

Zelda 2: The Adventure of Link on the NES gets a lot of flak, and arguably so. It’s the black sheep of the series, the maladjusted but convivial cousin who still lives with his parents and never got his driver’s license. The game consistently ranks as the worst non-CD-i Zelda game ever on forums and gaming blogs due to its difficulty (flying one-eyed blobs everywhere), arcane puzzles (items found by entering random squares on the overworld), frustrating repetition (players start from the beginning at every game over and must traverse the entirety of Hyrule all over again), lack of story (Zelda’s asleep – now wake her up!), and distance from other games in the series. Zelda 2’s gameplay includes features not found in any other Zelda game: an experience-based leveling system, side-scrolling battles, random enemy encounters, and prostitutes that refill your life (see below). It’s a disorienting transition for players that started with A Link to the Past or Link’s Awakening, and frustratingly outdated for players whose Zelda experience began on the N64 or later.

In every town, Link meets a woman of the oldest profession eager to invite him inside...

Even though I would rank Zelda 2 at the bottom of the series, I would never call it a bad game. I’d rather play Zelda 2 than most of the other titles released on the NES, and find it deserving of its #58 spot on Nintendo Power’s final all-time favorite games list. Why, then, do people view Zelda 2 with such indifference and downright hate?

...and leaves with his life refilled.

Since the Zelda series has become tantamount to gaming perfection in players’ minds, they’ve grown used to a certain type of gameplay and are reluctant to accept a title that doesn’t dazzle in the same way. They hold other series titles to the same standard, and enter into them with expectations that leave them disoriented when they go unfulfilled. Being above-average just doesn’t cut it for a Zelda game, but if Zelda 2 were a non-franchised entity featuring another hero, another princess, and another land, and players viewed it without the expectations garnered from other games in the series, they would have to view it on its own. After all, a game can’t be the worst in the series if there is no series.

Players who give Zelda 2 an honest playthrough without enjoying it are most often exhibiting a distaste for the platform battle genre in which it holds a place. While the overhead view and item-based gameplay of the original Legend of Zelda would reappear in later titles, Zelda 2’s stand-and-crouch swordfighting battle system is more easily relegated alongside 8-bit staples like Contra, Castlevania, and Journey to Silius. Zelda 2 is meant for those desiring this kind of action experience that relies heavily on skill, though I rank it above these other games for its complexity and focus on exploration. These skill-based action-adventures haven’t fared well in the 3-D era, and players are often shocked to find this style of gameplay counted as canon with Link’s Awakening and Ocarina of Time, whose gameplay has had more longevity for present-day players.

Too bad you can't throw some holy water at him.

Zelda 2’s status as franchise misfit can be better understood when viewed as a product of its time. In 1988 there was no Zelda formula, and no expectation of item-based exploration, overhead perspective, or multiple quests that layer the storyline, as these features of a Zelda game had not yet been concretely defined. Rather, Zelda 2 is Shigeru Miyamoto’s attempt to try something that hadn’t already been done, to give the gamer an entirely new experience, and to expand on the original game. They did not want to start a Mega Man franchise where games sprung from the same formula and used the same sprites as their predecessors—they wanted to surprise players with something new.

The idea of a sequel radically transforming the original game was prevalent in other early NES franchises before they became franchises. Castlevania 2: Simon’s Quest notoriously took its side-scrolling predecessor and added an enormous world-map, weapon selection, non-player characters, and infuriatingly obscure puzzles, transforming a linear action game into an open-ended adventure. Super Mario Bros. 2 (originally released as the non-Mario Doki Doki Panic in Japan) eschewed Goombas and fire flowers in favor of Shyguys and vegetables, while the original Super Mario 2 (The Lost Levels on the SNES) was condemned in Japan for using the same graphics and being too similar to its predecessor. In both cases, the third game retained the formula of the original and helped cement that formula in the gaming consciousness, but no one could have predicted this at the time. How different would our view of Mario be if Nintendo had continued to produce games where POWs clear a screen of enemies, potions create doors to shadow worlds, and jumping on enemies produces no effect? These principles would have become associated with the Mario series, making the original Super Mario Bros. the anomaly.

Imagine if Super Mario World looked more like this.

Without the gaming community hungering for something familiar, designers in the late ‘80s were freer to take games in new directions, and these pioneers were unafraid to turn an overhead Zelda game into a side-scroller, to have Simon Belmont’s world go from day to night, or to let Mario hurl one enemy at another. When these ideas didn’t catch on, the spirit of experimentation gave way to consistency within the franchise, and players came to expect these reoccurring standards as the norm, leaving designers to try their new ideas on unknown titles.

Instead of viewing Zelda 2 as a series mismatch or an outdated curiosity, players should enjoy it for what it does well. The leveling system is neither too easy, nor does it require a lot of farming, and it encourages players to master the battle system in preparation for later challenges. Link’s spells are fun, useful in battle, and take the place of the item-based challenges found in later games. Completing the dungeons requires solving puzzles unique to the game’s design (for example, falling into a pit and transforming into a fairy to reach a higher path). Maze Island and Death Mountain push the limits of the overhead scenes by making it difficult simply to get from one place to another. And that last boss is still damned hard.

Don’t judge Zelda 2 for being different than what you expect; judge it as its own unique experience. Those who don’t will miss out on something that can't be counted as spectacular, but is still very good.

Or you can be like this reviewer, who calls it the best Zelda game ever.

Worlds of Power: Mega Man 2 (A Review)

Isn’t it a little strange that our hero has chosen to attack Quick Man with his bare fists?

The Worlds of Power book series was a moneymaking scheme concocted by marketing extraordinaire Seth Godin to sell video-game based books to adolescent boys who spent most of their free time playing NES (though, to be fair, anything that helps adolescent boys enjoy reading can only be a good thing). The series included novelizations of Metal Gear, Castlevania 2, and Ninja Gaiden, as well as two junior edition books for younger readers: Mega Man 2 and Bases Loaded 2. All contained helpful game hints in upside-down boxes, though sadly, none included the quintessential center insert with eight pages of color photos.

In the Mega Man 2 novelization, author Ellen Miles imagines the eponymous character as a whiny eight-year old with a limited vocabulary and a penchant for clichés like “cool your jets” and “he was just full of hot air.” The plot proceeds as follows: Mega Man is transported to a robot boss’s lair, kills some enemies, then easily defeats the boss. Repeat seven times, and then add in a slightly expanded version for Dr. Wily’s castle. There’s also a poorly-developed subplot where Mega Man accidentally becomes human and must deal with his newfound emotions for the first time, but this was handled a lot better in the movie Blade Runner. Several times in the book, Mega Man encounters obstacles like oversized enemies, or weapons that seem to have no effect on the bosses, but each of these challenges is quickly remedied as the Blue Bomber continues on his quest (fortunately, the author leaves out the part of the game where you choose the wrong boss, find out that all your weapons are useless, and have to go back and choose another).

The most annoying loyalty to the game comes when Mega Man has to fight all eight robots a second time by going through teleportation machines. Instead of omitting this relatively unimportant scene, in an act of deft narrative summary, Miles describes each battle in a single alliterative sentence (“He wiped out Wood Man,” etc), leaving only Air Man’s battle described in minor detail (presumably because she couldn’t think of a destructive verb beginning with A).

To make things more exciting for younger readers, the author also litters the book with italicized KaBoom!s, Whump!s, Pow!s, and FWOOSH!s of the type one might expect from the Adam West Batman series. Even more annoying is Bubble Man’s habit of inserting underwater sounds into his speech, which is poorly handled at best:

Mega Man swam through the gates. Bubble Man was waiting for him. “Mega blorble man!” he cried. “How gurgle dare you enter my king-burrble-dom!

While I’m quoting, here’s a typical example of the author’s attention to detail:

The door to the Robo-Transometer* swung open, letting in a stream of light. Mega Man stirred. His head hurt.

“My head hurts,” he said.

*Robo-Transometer (n): a machine capable of both cloning robots and making them human.

The Game Tips (requiring the reader to turn the book upside-down like a Slylock Fox puzzle) range from revealing enemy weaknesses to laughably basic advice (“To kill Air Man, carefully jump the tornadoes to get close to him”). Amazingly, later in the book, the same tip is repeated twice within ten pages (“To get to Heat Man, use the C weapon to cut through the wall”), meaning that either the editor got a little lazy, or this tip was so important that it had to be repeated twice for the forgetful reader.

I’m probably being a little hard on this book considering it had a target audience of eight year-old boys back in 1989, but it was a fun way to kill a half hour. I definitely had a good time making fun of this book that I wouldn’t have had making fun of a book based on Call of Duty 4 because childhood memories of the gameplay, however cheesy, made it fun. While one can’t possibly attribute any objectivity to this nostalgia, it will add a noticeable degree of enjoyment for any twentysomethings who grew up with NES.

Or, you could skip the book and watch this video of James Rolfe reading it in its entirity instead.

Relative Nostalgia

More and more often, I see our generation united by common memories of mass consumer and pop culture from our childhoods (approximately 1983 to 1996), thus firmly establishing the popularity of sites like The Angry Video Game Nerd, the Nostalgia Critic, and this site examining awesome VHS covers from the ‘80s.

The ‘80s covers might be a different story, but were all those cartoons, movies, Nickelodeon shows, video games, and commercials really worth enshrining, or were we just at an impressionable age where even marginally serviceable entertainment would blow our minds? Is it possible that today’s mass culture (mediocre by our standards) has the same effect on kids, and in twelve years we’ll have a whole new generation talking about how cool the Geico gecko was?

Answer: not fucking likely.