Don't ever let them grumkle your scrunkies. That's what my father told me on his deathbed, as the last of the poop drained from his bowels and the infection completed the ravaging of his body. Around this time—I was five years old, maybe older—I played Banjo Kazooie for the first time. It was magical. I don't know how to describe it, and I don't think I have anything interesting or meaningful to say about it. Frankly, it was a little bland.
The first thing I think of when I think about video games are the colors. Hundreds of them. Like, high hundreds of them, even. Think something like three hundred. Maybe even a few more than that. It's a lot of colors. And Banjo Kazooie has more than most. Banjos are normally just kind of black and white I guess, so that's two colors. But then kazoos are made for little kids, so that's a whole bunch more. Anyway the game was colorful is what I'm saying. It looked nice.
It's perhaps my first meaningful memory of art: the deep, murky hues that the N64 was restricted to, pallete-wise; the uncanny lighting and camera angles. The deeply-felt sense of risk in moments of tight platforming and high-stakes combat, contrasted by safe areas and rest spots. Something about the acrobatic exploration of the world felt as a metaphor for the internal mental and physical, and even emotional, development I experienced in this tumultuous time. Each jump and somersault performed reflected some deeper and more meaningful somersault in my own life; adolescent yearnings and angst, anxiety over trajectory and status, personal style and flair; the more I aged and the further I went from the death of my dry-colon'd father the more the game felt like it was playing me than the other way around.
On that first, humid, meaningful summer, as I searched for squiblies with Banjo (and Kazooie, of course, in tow), the words of my shitless father echoed through my memory, and I think for the very first time I discovered something true about both myself and the world at large. But what was it really, is it still true? Would I trade that for a father, and would he trade that to finally get some shit in his ass once more? These questions, and more I found, if they were not answered by Banjo, Banjo provided a framework to discover their answers. And at the end of the day, all we have are our answers.
Well. As my father would have told you: our answers, and our scrunkies.
The first thing I think of when I think about video games are the colors. Hundreds of them. Like, high hundreds of them, even. Think something like three hundred. Maybe even a few more than that. It's a lot of colors. And Banjo Kazooie has more than most. Banjos are normally just kind of black and white I guess, so that's two colors. But then kazoos are made for little kids, so that's a whole bunch more. Anyway the game was colorful is what I'm saying. It looked nice.
It's perhaps my first meaningful memory of art: the deep, murky hues that the N64 was restricted to, pallete-wise; the uncanny lighting and camera angles. The deeply-felt sense of risk in moments of tight platforming and high-stakes combat, contrasted by safe areas and rest spots. Something about the acrobatic exploration of the world felt as a metaphor for the internal mental and physical, and even emotional, development I experienced in this tumultuous time. Each jump and somersault performed reflected some deeper and more meaningful somersault in my own life; adolescent yearnings and angst, anxiety over trajectory and status, personal style and flair; the more I aged and the further I went from the death of my dry-colon'd father the more the game felt like it was playing me than the other way around.
On that first, humid, meaningful summer, as I searched for squiblies with Banjo (and Kazooie, of course, in tow), the words of my shitless father echoed through my memory, and I think for the very first time I discovered something true about both myself and the world at large. But what was it really, is it still true? Would I trade that for a father, and would he trade that to finally get some shit in his ass once more? These questions, and more I found, if they were not answered by Banjo, Banjo provided a framework to discover their answers. And at the end of the day, all we have are our answers.
Well. As my father would have told you: our answers, and our scrunkies.