The first part of Nadia’s three-part Street Fighter retrospective is up over at that one site I work for. I’m sure it is woefully inadequate in the eyes of people whose only joy in life is memorizing fighting game combos, but I think it’s a nice little read. And in any case, I’m pretty sure it will make fewer people angry than my Final Fantasy roundup (which turned out to net way more heated, angry retorts than I intended).
I remember the last time I played Street Fighter II in an arcade. It was ages ago — I still lived in Texas, and I was at a movie theatre waiting for some friends to show up. SFII seemed a better way to kill some time than, say, Revolution-X. Some little kid wandered over and his dad dropping in a quarter, disrupting my solo playthrough. Which is fine — I wasn’t playing seriously or anything. In point of fact, I decided to stop playing Street Fighter to win after bludgeoning my way through the maximum difficulty setting for all eight characters in the original Super NES release, ruining both a controller and a desk in the process. (Sorry about that, Mom.)
The kid had no idea how to play, and I didn’t want to be a jerk by completely demolishing him, so I gave him a few love taps with Chun-Li and then spent the rest of the match using her eleet jumping skills to run down the timer and win on a technicality. This infuriated his father, who angrily criticized me for not letting the kid win. And that was when I decided I hate all humans.
Just kidding. I’d come to that conclusion long before.
Except Terry Pratchett. I definitely don’t hate him, and news of his condition is slightly heartbreaking. For someone who makes his living with his imagination and his facility with words to live with the knowledge that he’ll inevitably lose those facilities is one of the worst fates I can imagine. Celebrity news is something I don’t keep up with, but Pratchett is one of those rare famous people I actually respect (if only for his ability to take a critical look at religion without seeming as puffed up with imaginary self-righteousness as, say, Richard Dawkins or Philip Pullman), so yeah. Awful.