A Hellacious Sense of Style

I recently had the chance to catch up with an old friend.

It’s been awhile, but what was clear at first glance was that with each passing day, she was starting to show her age. Yet the charm and fun that we’ve had in the past kept bringing us back together to the shores of hell. Deep within this inferno was the love of my childhood. Knee-deep in the dead, amongst all the loving memories and tender moments, she sits their fondly.

Installed on my computer.

Doom.

Oh, how I missed thee greatly.

The game was simple in nature. There was no alternate shoot button, no jump button, no crouch button. You didn’t get to pick a character or give him a name. You didn’t select between an easy, medium, or hard difficulty setting. Instead, you selected anything from “Hey, Not Too Rough” to the impossibly delightful “Nightmare.”

There were no special items to be found in the game, just basic health and ammo. What more do you need really?

There was no reload button; simply shoot till empty. Unlike all other games today, there was no cross hair in the middle of the screen indicating where you were aiming. As long as you were shooting in the general direction of the bad guys, the computer assumed that’s who you were trying to shoot and Bang! down goes the imp.

There wasn’t even a boss waiting for you at the end of each level, merely a red Exit sign hanging from the ceiling just above a golden door behind which was a silver button with red and green squares. It was your way out of the world and into the next level.

Despite missing features that have since been taken for granted, what this game had – beyond hours of fun and a high body count – was some of the most magnificent interior design in video gaming history. Never before have my eyes gazed upon the work of one of the world’s most anonymous yet finest interior decorators.

Scattered through the otherwise dingy interiors of Doom were yellow trident lamps to provide a lovely mood lighting for you and your pistol. If the trident lights were a little too pomp for your tastes, some levels were decorated with more conservative emergency lights, which were cute.

As I walked through those halls, my character’s face was constantly looking back at me while I looked at the road ahead for any enemies. The face was not gazing at the interior decoration. It didn’t even verbally communicate with me. The face indicated the type of mood that I should be feeling by mere facial expressions, a feet quite revolutionary for its time.

When I started the game, the face was all serious, with a tough-guy exterior extending deep into those black pupils. But grab that chainsaw? He was all smiles. Have his health fall below 20? He would look at me with those bloody temples, begging to know why I felt compelled to shoot that barrel full of green goo, a green goo that turned out to be highly combustible.

But if only that face could take a moment to stop and look around the large, industrial rooms, I’m sure that face would positively melt.

Not wanting to reinvent geometry, the levels consisted of mostly square rooms.

Green and gray dominated the color palette.

As I meandered through the straight halls, I would occasionally stumble upon a room with blue walls painted to look like a giant circuit board. If I were not inundated with soldier after soldier, I may have had a better chance to sense the cold feeling in the room. It was low lit, with the ceiling lights blinking on and off casting rigid shadows on the wall. The contrast between the wall and the shadows exhibited enough personality to provide warmth in this otherwise cold room. It was the kind of place I’m sure you could invite other Doom commandos to to share a cup of tea and reminisce about past slaughters.

For the most part, the rooms were basic in their shape and layout, with a minimal amount of clutter. Before you think these rooms were boring with no tables and no boxes, remember, it was all part of the minimalist design. To help break up some of the monotony, there would be a decadent corpse sprawled on the ground, completely decayed as indicated by the pixelated-blotches of red outlining the body.

One of the most difficult parts of the interior decorator’s job was the unique challenge of evaluating a green wall, then painting a small section with hints of silver. It had to be unnoticed, but still have a strong enough accent to indicate that wonders beyond your wildest dream – perhaps a med kit? – lay behind the wall. This wall had to be detailed to perfection while a rude imp hurled fireballs in the interior decorator’s direction.

Thankfully, Doom portrayed something all other games have missed and that is there is no loyalty amongst crooks and thieves. While the imp hurled flames, a pink pig-man with Tyrannosaurus Rex-sized arms would come along and eat it only to get shot by a shotgun wielding soldier. That is the genius of this interior decorator who managed to complement the colors of the world with the characters that inhabited it, knowing full well that they’ll all end up dead anyways.

Long before women were swooning over the fact that he went to Jared’s, eyes fell upon the exquisite placement of red buttons and silver levers and hearts a-fluttered over the possibility of which door may open or elevator would rise, opening new places to explore and wonders to behold.

That red key glowing in the distance? It. Took. My. Breathe.

Away.

I’m sure the interior decorator was faced with a deadline crashing upon him faster than he could strategically place the blue shoulder pads on the tall pillar to provide just a hint of color to an otherwise brown room. If not for the magical keystroke of I-D-D-Q-D, the interior decorator may not have been able to finish. But with his eyes glassed over white, the fireballs and green slime had no affect on his health as he dotted a wall with just a hint of blood. For added spice, he surrounded it with blue vials of health, a design decision so obvious that most people would try to place an army green box of ammo nearby that just wouldn’t fit. Not like those blue health vials. That’s what makes a good interior decorator.

For you snotty suburbanites out there who think they invented feng shui, head to the Phobos Lab level. A little ways down from where you spawn, take a right and notice the placement of the rocket launcher in relation to the half wall that looks out over a pool of green slime. You may have to mow down the invisible piggies to get a good look, but once you do, I think you’ll recognize the design element.

When I got reacquainted with Doom, I had to pause for the briefest of moments before I took my first step by pressing down on the UP arrow key.

As I gazed upon the terrace found in the first level – upon which was some green armor. Score! – I couldn’t help but think that this is why HG TV exists. It’s the interior blue pool next to the courtyard that kept me shaking my head, wondering why this interior decorator has not gotten his proper due. His vision and sense of style brought this world together and brought me closer to the game of Doom where my heart beat rapidly and my blood boiled steadily. It was either the clean lines of the area that caused my physical reaction or it was a result of the horned beast’s radioactive fireballs; it’s hard to tell sometimes.

As much as I would have liked to continue admiring all of the nuances in the design, sometimes in life, you have to put aesthetic tastes aside and start gunning down some demonic mofo’s. As I looked over those demon’s heads, I could spot the exit sign.

Those exit doors had an intricate weave of gold on the front. To create this elaborate door, the interior designer didn’t just possess a steady hand and keen eye. It took some serious balls to take the focal point of the room and indent it as opposed to placing the door flush with the wall, which was the common thing to do at the time. It was risks like this that won over my admiration. To take such a key component of a room and push it back…oh bravo, my friend.

Bravo.

Check My Name Tag, Baby

When it comes right down to it, you can’t rely on others to give you a nickname. That’s how big guys become Tiny. Fat guys get named Fatty. Because of people handing out nicknames, we are forced to deal with an inordinate amount of Butches, Scooters, and Hotties. If people were in charge of their own nicknames, the letter O would be rendered useless. No more Jimbo’s. Goodbye Bob-o’s and Tim-bo’s.

The only way to get a good nickname in this world is to give one to yourself.

This trend has been steadily growing over the years. Kobe Bryant decided to call himself the Black Mamba. John McCain had a penchant for referring himself Maverick.

Tired with herself, Beyonce Knowles recently released an album proclaiming herself to be… Sasha Fierce. Beyonce is a lovely name, but if you go to a concert headlined by someone named Beyonce, you can expect to be inundated with a diverse vocal range and jiggly dance moves. It’s a safe experience in a clean environment.

However, a concert with Sasha Fierce is a different experience. The name alone signifies an increased likelihood of being stabbed. In this cut-throat recording industry, stabbing sells records.

Beyonce doesn’t even carry a butter knife; Sasha Fierce is wielding a machete.

Physically, it’s the same person. But a new name brings with it a new personality and a different mentality all together. Sasha Fierce adds an element of feistiness that the bootylicious pop queen has been lacking so far in her young career. But all of that is about to change.

Before Beyonce changed her namesake, Puff Daddy has had a notoriously long career of changing his nickname. He started off as Puff Daddy then P. Diddy then just Diddy then Sean Combs. At one point, Puff Daddy tried to become Bo Diddy, but Bo Diddley went all diddy-wa-diddy on Diddy’s ass and now he’s just Sean Jean.

As I look at more and more people coming up with nicknames, I can’t help but feel left out. Perhaps I have gotten as far as I can go with my birth name. I need something that contrast nicely with my lovable persona. Something that gives me an edge. A tough guy aura. Something new and exciting. Something that people can relate to, that they see every day.

With great deliberation and careful consideration, I have decided to move forward with my new nickname – Contains Phenylalanine.

People encounter this name everyday on their favorite soda cans – Coke, Pepsi, and the underrated RC Cola – in the form of a warning message to phenylketonurics about how this refreshing beverage contains phenylalanine.

Phenylalanine is also found in many legumes, so I have that going for me now too.

The beauty of this nickname is the flexibility that exists when it comes to spelling. I can detach the S and give me a middle initial and become… Contain S. Phenylalanine.

Phenylketonuria is a genetic disorder where the person has a deficiency in the enzyme phenylalanine hydroxylase. Why is this a big deal? Because this enzyme is necessary to metabolize the amino acid phenylalanine to the amino acid tyrosine. And why is this important?

Two reason.

First, Amino Acid would be a cool nickname for my sidekick.

Secondly, when Contain S. Phenylalanine walks through the door, any phenylketonurics better get the F out of the way because they can’t properly process me. I’m deadly to them. My amino acid collects in their urine and causes mental retardation and other brain damage, what what.

For too long, people have never looked at me as being a threat. Sure, I was no push over before, but no one felt threatened by my mere presence. But as Contain S. Phenylalanine, I pose a serious risk to only a select few in the room. I don’t want to keep everyone away; the purpose of a new nickname is not to create a world of isolation. Rather, a new crowd to associate with. A new audience for me to reach that otherwise would not have taken me seriously. Sorry phenylketonurics, but you better keep away. It’s nothing personal.

Things are going to be different for now on.

While my former self would politely close the lid of the ketchup bottle and return it to the refrigerator, Contain S. Phenylalanine is going to leave the lid open so that the juicy, ketchup remnants will harden around the nozzle, slightly inconveniencing the next ketchup consumer. That’s the new me; that’s how I’m going to roll for now on. Watch world, for you will never know when crusty ketchup is lingering around the lid.

In fact, I may take this one step further and instead of using ketchup, I may resort to catsup.

I feel totally liberated with my new persona. But that doesn’t mean everything will change. Rest assured world, Contain S. Phenylalanine believes in maintaining an empty urinal between him and the next occupant. Somethings are just too important to ignore and urinal buffer zone is one of those things.

Contain S. Phenylalanine is a name that rolls of the tongue. It has a Y, which is nice. It also has some lovely alliteration in the middle, with the la-la. And it’s long too. You know what they say about people with long names, wink wink.

To be fully committed to my new persona, I may also have to change my laundry detergent of choice. I guess that means no more Tide. Perhaps there’s an exception here. Did Sasha Fierce start using different detergent? You know what, she probably hired different people to do her laundry for her. This part of the change was never really in consideration for her.

Maybe I’ll just stick with the Tide for now and see where the ‘tide’ takes me (just because I’m now Contain S. Phenylalanine doesn’t mean I don’t like a good pun).

Peace and love always,

Contain S. Phenylalanine

Treasure? Really???

Tuesday night is trash night. It’s when all the garbage we’ve collected during the past week – all of the things that no longer work or are no longer needed – gets taken out and placed on the side of the road. The next morning, people in yellow vests and green boots come by and throw all of these items into the back of a giant green truck.

The stuff is never seen from again.

However, last trash night, some of our garbage didn’t make it to see the men in yellow vests. A couple of strangers in a pickup truck stopped by to see what we were throwing out, looking at things we no longer need or are no longer functional.

This wasn’t a couple of hobos looking for food scraps either. This looked like a professional operation where two partners case the neighborhood, looking for households that have more than just a traditional garbage can stationed at the end of the driveway.

With one guy keeping his hands on the wheel, the partner steps out, armed with a flash light, and looks around. He finds what he wants, throws it in the back of his truck. He doesn’t get back in the truck to leave until he takes one last look around.

After investigating the remains, I concluded that this scavenger took some metal pipes. But to go through someone’s trash, you can’t help but wonder where the line is. What would happen if I throw away a chair with no bottom? This guy would probably take a long-sleeve shirt with no sleeves (in this scenario, would I be throwing away a perfectly fine tank top?).

Last week’s newspapers, a refrigerator without a door, an umbrella with a hole in it. If his flash light could reach it, this man would take it all in his truck with three tires that some fool was trying to discard.

If one man’s trash is another man’s treasure, I really have to question this man’s sense of self-worth. While the empty cardboard boxes could have some uses, the rusted out lawnmower missing the engine has very limited uses and next to no intrinsic value. If one were to take this beat up lawnmower to the open market, you wouldn’t be able to convince the buyers that this lawnmower had any financial worth, let alone convince these people that you were a landscaper.

This lawnmower was useless.

This man was trying to fit it in the back of his truck.

When someone goes against the grain like this, a need arises to do something. While not really a blatant invasion of privacy – after all, we did purposely throw the stuff out there for people to take – I feel compelled to fight back. Although, I’m not sure who I’m fighting or what I’m fighting for.

I could always resort to the coiled snake contraption. This classic prank involves a tightly wound spring held in place by a lid. Once the trash scavenger removes the lid, the spring releases, scaring the crap out of the victim.

If the spring is not the best option, then I can always throw away some rotten eggs. While some people may think that’s too cruel, to those people I ask, “What do you do with rotten eggs?”

You put them in the trash!

However, this could backfire and I would be forced to suffer the consequences of rotten eggs emitting an offensive odor onto the premises.

The best I could come up with would be to get a fart machine and plant it in the trash. I would hate to buy something, only to throw it away, but that might be my best option. Maybe I can bury it underground next to the garbage cans and create a nice baritone blast.

In order for this to work, I would have to get a flatulence machine with decent distance. I bet they go by meters too. You can get a 20 meter fart machine. I’m not sure if that’s enough distance. How long is a meter? My trash scavenger would hear the deep squeak and think it’s a deranged raccoon with a bowel obstruction. While this may not prevent these dudes from returning next trash night, you cannot deny the juvenile delight that will result from this prank.

Then again, perhaps I shouldn’t be spending my nights looking for ways to terrorize this trash tandem. Instead of harassing this guy, maybe I should congratulate him. Get to know him better. Here, standing at the end of my driveway, holding a flashlight, is a man living ten years behind the times. Perhaps he found the fountain of youth. Long after everyone else dies, this man will still be wearing bell bottoms while adjusting the bunny ears on top of his analog television set.