Audio Version, 8m54s, 3.0Mb (Mistakes and inconsistencies can be safely ignored; I just didn't feel like re-recording. Enjoy!)

Part 1
Mike and I went to the mall on Saturday, sort of as an excuse to spend time together, partially to shop, and in some measure to whittle down the hours from a listless weekend filled with interiors of chess and NPR. Toward the end of our excursion, we stopped at Babbage's to check out the latest and greatest in PS2 paraphernalia. Mike wanted to buy The Getaway, and did so on recommendation from the man at the counter, a lively but unfortunate fellow posessing a tongue of lisp-inducing proportion and a grossly unfair complexion. Seeming rather knowledgeable, though, I asked him if Xenosaga was also worth shelling out half a Benjamin for. He hastily endorsed it. Then again, he seemed to be under the impression that everything was "fabulous." Mike and I looked down at his wedding ring and then smirked at each other.

Part 2
I woke up with a song by Tiefschwarz in my head this morning. I've also been thinking a lot about death recently; not in a miserable or morbid way, but a way that could be likened to wondering what I'll have for lunch today or whether I've left the garbage for curbside collection. Sometimes these thoughts turn to speculation and I piece the most unrelated events together in various formations looking for the final combination that links them to my inevitable and, most likely, rapidly-approaching end.

So I had this song in my head this morning, you see, and I woke up to an incredibly cold room but Mike was in no mood to cuddle. It's not that the Tiefschwarz repertoire is particularly memorable, either, so while I fought furtively for an inconspicuous location near Mike's side of the bed, I contemplated the implications of such attentions, but to no avail.

The human mind is an amazing liar. It decieves itself with such deft that I marvel at how we are able to function in any kind of truthspace in the first place. I had somehow convinced myself, long ago, that the world operates on an anti-Panglossian, tragic fate. Once passive acceptance of this logic -- or illogic -- had been induced, my mind fine-tuned itself to seek out potentially tragic situations. For instance: waking up to the person you love, who, for inconsequential reasons, is disconsolately torpid, quiet, and impassive; thus relegating you to a most certain, inescapable tragedy later that day on the highway commute to work. Tragic, indeed.

Later, however, we dressed, made coffee, discussed the night's melancholy, kissed, hugged, bid farewell, and got in our cars, leaving for the day relieved that the air of dejection had been absolved and the radar of tragedy forgotten. But as I shuffled the CD deck in preparation for my half-hour drive, I felt a vacuum form in my lungs. An influx of inferences scattered inside my brain like released marbles because, out of 120 possible alternatives, my CD player had chosen to land on Tiefschwarz.

Part 3
It had been a really disappointing game. Our team had tied 2-2 in a single, uninvited overtime that seemed to do nothing but extend our weariness after a late-night start and two hours of an unswerving, exhuasting outpour of mental support for the team. "Sixth man," my ass. Dejectedly, we left the stadium and headed home. The ride home was quiet, and it was the second round of a curious silence that would only deteriorate into the subsequent languor of this morning, but we joked about the flashing lights on the interstate and talked about my upcoming trip this weekend in short, calculated sentences.

"Are there going to be drugs there?" he asked me, referring to New York City and Montreal.

It was an honest question, although it struck me as being rather silly. When, in the history of gaydom, were drugs -- however concealed and unspoken -- ever not involved? I answered affirmatively, although overlooking the additional consolations that I'd most likely not be partaking. Later, I discovered that however honest my answer might have been, it did not please him to know it.

We drove for a while in silence, and Mike was driving very fast. By the time we had approached the grey Jeep Cheroke doing sixty in the seventy-five lane, conversation had switched to a more inconsequential topic and Mike flashed the brights to prompt a quick clearance of the left lane, but instead of the expected, graceful acquiescence, something surprising happened. The Jeep was suddenly very close to our front bumper. I saw red, but it wasn't the red of anger or fear; it was the red of illuminated brake lights as an unseen pedal was pressed hard. We swerved to avoid a sixty-mile-per-hour collision and Mike's brights flashed along with his anger. While traffic continued to our right, seemingly unaffected, we slowed and pulled into the right lane to pass, but the driver of the Jeep was not finished with us yet. With a violent tilt, the SUV careened into the right lane with such force that I found myself simultaneously fearing and admiring the viscosity of the tires as they compressed and flexed on the pavement at such merciless speed. Mike swore and swerved to avoid another impact.

I remained relatively relaxed. After all, this couldn't be that dangerous. It wasn't tragic enough.

Part 4
Forty square miles of metropolitan London is replicated in The Getaway and even though I've only been there for two weeks, I can confidently verify the accuracy of its reproduction. It's that good. Graphical rendering technologies still have a ways to go, as entire sides of buildings disappear at certain angles and people are still relatively featureless marionettes, but it's nevertheless an attractive, addicting game.

A reluctant vigilante-hero, you drive the streets recklessly (or perhaps that's unavoidable due to oversensitive controls), indisciminately colliding with street lamps, fellow drivers, decorative railings, medians, statues, and pedestrians without any immediate consequence other than the randomly selected recording of a cockney'd voice exclaiming that insurance "details" are needed or that you should get off the road.

Ultimately, if you accrue enough vehicular damage, acrid, black, computer-generated smoke begins bellowing from the hood and if you're not careful, the car will explode into flames. The ensuing scene is strangely surreal, as a well-dressed man calmly, nonchalantly exits the burning wreckage, responsibly closing the door behind him. Avoiding firey death in such a manner is accomplished by simply pressing a button. «