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About The daily Nebraskan. ([Lincoln, Neb.) 1901-current | View Entire Issue (Oct. 28, 1997)
CLIFF HICKS is a junior new 8-editorial and English major and a Daily Nebraskan colum nist. (Author’s note: The characters in this depiction are fictional and the events portrayed here are not neces sarily real. They might as well have been, though.) The two senators sit down at lunch in an upper-class restaurant. They smile at each other. It’s not that false this-is-for-formalities-sake befbre-the-bull-flies smile, but that of earnest friendship between two fine players in the political sparring ring. Pleasantries are exchanged, and the two swap stories about who’s stabbing whose back and how hard. It’s nothing but the usual banter the two trade over their weekly lun cheons, until suddenly a new topic comes into play. The older senator asks: “Have you ever really thought about what we do?” The younger senator, not accus tomed to considering his lot in life, pauses, then shrugs. A look of slight confusion falls on his face. “Not really. It’s not all that complex, though, is it? In principle, anyway. People want rules and we put them Laying down the law Rules exist to protect us from idiots down on the nation formally.” “It’s not that easy.” “What do you mean?” the younger man asks, still feeling a lit tle out of his depth. “Why do we make laws?” “Don’t be getting philosophical on me here. You know there’s too many deep thinkers in Washington already.” “Surely you have to have thought about it,” die older senator says as he leans back in his chair, folding his hands meticulously over his chest. “Every once in a while.” “And?” “And ... and I think that we make laws to make the world a bet ter place.” The older senator begins to laugh heartily, leaning forward as he takes the wine glass of water between his fingers, bringing it to his lips. “You sound like you’re starting to believe what those trashy speech writers tell you to say.” At this, the younger man can only laugh a little himself. “Maybe it’s not as noble as that, but that’s the general gist of it.” “Is it? I’m afraid I have to dis agree with you, my friend - that isn’t even the half of it.” A curious smile crosses the younger man’s face as the waiter sets the lobster down before him. “Oh? You have some insight to which I am soon to be privy? Do tell, do tell.” The waiter then moves to put the salad before the older man, who has begun to lose weight over die past few months because of his new, sen sible diet. “Our job is to protect the common people of this great nation from the biggest threat of all - the idiots.” The younger senator begins choking on the tiny bit of lobster before swallowing it with forceful effort, his eyebrows raised at his col league. It is the older senator’s turn to laugh, a broad smile on his face. “Well, it’s true. We have to protect the country from the morons and the morons from themselves.” As the younger senator begins to breathe easily again, he looks up at the older man. “Surely you can’t be serious.” A grin crosses the older man’s face, as he delivers the punch line waiting for him. “I most certainly am serious, and don’t call me Shirley.” The younger senator rolls his eyes with a smile. “The idiots, eh?” “Certainly. Look at speed limits. We have them to cut down on acci dents, but who are we to say how fast is too fast? What do I know about the millions of people who are affected by that decision? How can I judge their abilities?” “Well,” the younger man says, pausing for a moment, “I suppose you can’t, but we make a general guess that doesn’t seem too slow nor too fast and go with it.” A chuckle erupts from the older senator. “You’re avoiding the point. Here’s another example. The public makes out the National Rifle Association to be this evil bunch of people who are responsible for all the ills guns have ever caused, but accidents and incidents caused by NRA members constitute less than 1 percent of all gun related incidents. Why should we punish the responsi ble members of society for the mis takes of others?” The brow of the younger man wrinkles. “Well, I suppose....” “Don’t ‘suppose.’ Do you see the point I’m getting at?” “Yeah, but all the laws aren’t like that.” “Not all of them, no, but the majority of them are. Laws banning cellular phones in cars, laws ban ning drugs, laws stipulating who can drink and who can smoke and where, laws banning guns - laws, laws, laws. They’re all there to stop the idiots of the nation taking things too far.” “People needs rules, though. What would we do without laws?” “Oh, Darwin’s already answered that one for you. Survival of the . fittest. A century or two of strife as the idiots slowly wiped themselves out of existence and then a period of stabilization. Mind you, we could never get rid of these reckless peo ple altogether - new ones are bound to pop up all the time - but by mak ing them the minority, the rest of us can savor the world in peace.” The younger man shakes his head, not sure what to make of any of this. “And until then?” The older senator grins wide once more. “Leave them just enough rope to hang themselves with.” With that, the two laugh, finish lunch and go back to their respective offices, the younger man looking at the laws before him with a new insight and the older man just mov ing a little more smugly, knowing that sooner or later, all members of Congress come to see things his way. “What will they ever do without me?” he says as he walks up the steps, wondering how many of the people in his profession are the very ones he spoke of with his colleague. And at this he can only laugh to himself. Going postal New video game appeals to society’s lowest common denominator STEVE CULLEN is a junior advertising major and a Daily Nebraskan columnist. The scene is a family restaurant; little kids and parents are all eating peacefully. The door is kicked open, and in storms a trench-coat-wearing psy chopath. From beneath the coat comes a machine gun. While the gunman clenches his teeth, die gun barks off, sending pounds of lead ripping through bone and sinew. The smoke from the bloodbath settles, and the murderer turns to grumble, “Going postal.” Here’s the kicker: The murderer is you. If you’re willing to spend 55 bucks, you can pick up a tool that will unleash your worst, most hostile self. Now available is the rush as mothers grab for their children and workers cower and pray. Yep, just walk into any video game store and pick up the game “Postal,” and become a murderer, if only for 17 levels. Boxed up in some dark cellar, a group of irresponsible, emotionally twisted, computer nurtured, “game” inventors decided to kick open Pandora’s box. They invented a game where murdering the innocent and obliterating the city is cool to do. These individuals are playing on the most dangerous chord in the human instrument: our violent nature. It’s dangerous because humans are not far enough removed from the animal kingdom to avoid falling prey to the scent of blood. Under any guise which can be found — love, honor, justice, land, liberty, freedom and religion — there’s always a venue found to exact that most brutal nature - and wipe life from existence. But these inventors don’t feel we’re digressing at a fast enough rate. So they unleash for us “Postal.” Think I’m the one who’s lost it? Think again. This game is sliding us down the slippery slope to a more violent society faster than the Los Angeles Police Department. How? Simple operational condi tioning. In this theory on learning states, people associate actions and feelings (or states) when they occur together. What this means for the game: Little Johnny gets off whack ing the video population and starts to link the violence and euphoria. Wanting the euphoria, Johnny increases violent behavior until it becomes his dominant coping and interactive technique. Not to say that little Johnny goes into his room, grabs a shotgun, and smokes his dad because he plays “Postal,” but the bet is little Johnny’s anxiety and aggression go up. But the game is for adults? Research has proven levels of aggression go up when exposed to violent images, never mind interact ing with them - that was tested on adults. Therefore learning to be more aggressive and violent occurs even in adults. Hey, the military depends on it. So, regardless of who plays, he learns the only lesson being taught: Be more violent. Still say I’m overreacting? See then how jaded to atrocity society is. How this only further thickens the callous, moving the planet further toward complacency and inaction toward brutality. Shoulders shrug and heads shake when news of tragedy arrives, but.no longer are classrooms assembled to witness the explosions. There is no shock left for any new Manson family; anything new now is just another crawdad in the psycho gumbo. The border between “Silence of the Lambs” and reality is blurred by insensitivity and overexposure. This game is the next level: Active partici pation in societal demise - right in the comfort of your own home. And now for the final twist in perspective. Distance grants too little emotion and too much objectivity. Now we’ll take the analogy at a more personal level. Let’s say the game is called “Big Red.” Here’s the scene: a university campus. Life is humming along, but oh no, here comes a deranged athlete swerving his car though the { y streets, hitting pedestri ans. On the next level, tuC character scales a bal cony and uses a special > technique to drag a \\ . woman down the stairs by ' her hair. A bonus round - lets the character raid a dorm room and beat a bystander to near death. Finally, to win the game, the character gets drunk at a fraternity and falls out a window to die. In “Postal,” to win, the player must commit suicide. The punch line in Postal is never funny | It’s society and humani- K ty that’s the butt of the j joke these “gamers” are telling. The slope is very slippery, and becoming desen- ^ sitized is the first step to losing grip. First is the / ( ^ awareness, then the / \3 conditioning. Next is the acceptance, followed by expectan cy. Soon all hope is lost and the brutality is stitched ^B into the fabric of the cultural straitjacket, and nothing is safe. This game is the manifestation of the very worst people can find enter tainment in- to support it is wrong. There is danger in letting the few of our species who find pleasure in the “game” of murder drag the rest of the species all down with them. Letting the horror that lies in people awak en for a few twisted laughs is not worth the price of hard-fought ^' humanity. This was just one cry in the for est; it takes a chorus to move the masses. With the ball now passed, what do you think? if-H
