Why rock the boat? Why piss on the parade?

Can we get an OUNCE of honesty from ye wicked?

Virtue is a coward’s weapon, a lie. Lightweight, the soft handed debutante carries it to battle. Cheap and easily manufactured. The affirmed armies march, imposing their will.

Righteous anger has its place in this world.

But the battle of true consequence is waged in secret, in our mind. Tortured dissonance fires from moral battlements, the fallout manifesting at the scale of humanity.

Salvos of lies bombard us as the ground upheaves. Our bodies hurtle through the chaos. The horizon tumbles. The ground eclipses the sun.

What is true? What is good?

Does it matter?

We’re trying to survive this mad world.

We believe the smile, we believe the soft inflection, we follow the norm.

And we have good reason to: We’re only human.

We trust in our tribe, we trust that those who came before know how to survive the winter. We trust that those in positions of power have important knowledge to impart. That they have suffered the storms, that they have fought great battles, bled much blood, and that they have earned their influence in this world.

Only the strong and awkward indulge the truth.

Most have their walls up, they’re in the Utopia, they're bright eyed and bushy tailed doing what they know will make everyone happy, will keep the peace, maintain the fairness of things where all have a place at the table. And they will be rewarded with their pats on the back and their scrumshis candied treats.

Harsh reality, for better and for worse, has been purified from our world.

Do these blogs make me an asshole? Absolutely they do. And I’ve made peace with that. I will even say that I am possessed by my own delusions and blinders. They serve me, give me purpose and the will to carry on the fight, just as yours do.

We all play the game in this bizarre existence. But are all so unquestionably certain of their infallibility? Why does no one question their self-serving motives as they slit our throats?

Does anyone actually believe in anything? Does anyone stand for anything? Does anyone sacrifice for their strong, and noble beliefs we have been bombarded with for oh so very long?

When did believing something to be good become more important than taking action towards good? When did lording over notions of morality eclipse actual acts of kindness and modesty?

Always the other that must pay for our collective sins.

In this empire of cards, where a velvet glove clasps its fist, a dull breeze will send everything to ruin. Protest is a death sentence. The necessary fight in us is tied to noose.

I had an angry father. The smallest of infractions would send him to rage. Booze, heavy drugs, music blaring, walls thumping into the morning.

I loathed anger, hated confrontation. It was petulant, it was unnecessary, barbaric. And yet, deep down, I was a bit like him, I repressed it best I could.

I was perfectly content to lay low and silent, letting the sunshine and rainbows sweeten the air, the world was good, it was competent, and it had purpose. What had I, an awkward neckbeard to offer?

But as the tides came and went, I began to notice that spite and underhandedness weren’t missing from others, they simply kept them secret, most of all to themselves. And this dastardly secret has given them terrible power. The sweetness toxifies.

Mighty metal alloys do not rust in perceptible scratches of time, their luster fades like youthful ambitions, you can stab at it, crush it, assail it with stone, with nary a mark, but untended in dreary corners, the time takes its toll.

In our minds it's still the protective suit of armor forged for our protections by the hard, calloused and sure hands of our forebears. And those who know no better are told of its enduring strength, its purpose, and this is all they will ever know.

Decay is the new normal.

The pillars awash in bubbling swells as the tide rushes in. Warmed by affirmation, heavy with salty judgement, and soured by endless smarm.

Yet to the taste it's sickly sweet, sticky syrup. It find its way to every nook and cranny where it clots, where it corrodes and corrodes.

The bitter-sweet funk beads up and lacquers as waves crash up into the sea air, hardening jagged and brittle formations downward toward the glazed sands.The fermenting film accumulates, drying ornate formations of delicate, iridescent bubbles under steaming ray.

Strong rock gives way to shattered glass as coastal bluffs fall to whirling pools of noxious spray. 

We drown in rancid kindnesses.

"Think different" we used to aspire. Put your neck on the line, push that line, challenge convention.

Be brave. Be radical. Be a damned American and stand the hell up for something!

Though by and by we rats busied about, we tended the machines, we spun the wheels, there was a healthy level of rebellion we accepted in our lives. Not the destructive sort, the necessary spirit of freedom, to stand up for what we believe in, to tell the institutions to go fuck themselves. To do things our way, the JUST way, the EARNEST way, the hard way.

FUCK THE MAN

FUCK THE SYSTEM

Now it's disguised in lipstick and puts on a Sunday dress and we're all told everything is hunky dory. Censorship is necessary when it silences YOUR critics.

Prejudice is necessary when it's against the crazed and vindictive. The bigoted must be curtailed, the sexist stunted, those rough around the edges must be plucked out.

…and who decides?

The "pure of heart", the wonderfully accepting and always nice and always smiling. The infallible, the enlightened, the affirmed, the coddled, the weak, the petty.

Anything worth anything in this world is born from the pulp of those pushing against the grain, whose bodies fall against the spinning wheels, they  throw their fingers to the machine.

A red-hot ambition, tempered by maturity, wielded with resolve can crash against the spinning wheel, grind it to halt. Only authenticity can meet the clashes of the endless wave of virtuous replica.

Righteous anger cannot be manufactured, purpose cannot be mass produced, cannot be bought or sold. The character to wield it is born of battles lost, off the beaten path.

Resolve weighs heavy, builds strength, compels action, singes sacrifice. With every battle, every harrowing defeat, impurities purge and we are forged anew. Stronger, tested, tempered. In the destructive flame, only our strengths of character survive.

We have lost the will to set ourselves aflame.

We have surrendered to fear, surrendered our blades at the feet of affluence. Year on year we invest ourselves in madness. And we smile, and we grovel, and we shake our soft hands in unison.

RABBLE, RABBLE!

We take all the accountability, all the spite, all the just anger we are owed to ourselves, at our friends, our family, and our colleagues. We ball it up, and we hurl it against the evil bogeymen for all to see, cementing our place in the pyramid, certifying our allotment of flesh.

And we pander and we chatter, and we affirm, and we bend over backwards for anyone and everyone who returns the favor.

Endless self-serving empathy.

Nothing built, nothing sacrificed, nothing earned. A soft parade marching ever onward toward the nothing.

There are worse things in this world than to be outcast. To be gate-kept. To be shut from the current of the sickly-sweet.

We have our purpose, we have a future. We stood for something for once in our life. We suffered the dark secret in silence, and now it reveals itself to all.

This is a phase, it will pass. The blood moon waxes, the sickly tides wane. As the sun sets, the beds are soiled, and now they must lay in them.

We have seen the world where the wicked are untempered, where the spoiled rot and fester.

A corrupt tree bringeth evil fruit

I've been doing these blogs for several years now, but we've never spoken to the skeletons rattling our own closet.

To those who share my frustrations with this industry these blogs serve as rally cries of sanity, but those who do not share our frustrations will peer into the window of a depraved mind.

This is a small industry, word goes around. If you're part of the tribe is paramount. There is no keeping your head down, there is no staying out of the conflict. They will test you, and if you do not kiss the ring, they will cut you down. We’ve been on the list for some time, as such, over the years I've abandoned all pretenses of civil discourse.

After how petty and vindictive this industry has grown, I figure, fuck 'em.

But as they say, "In the land of eye for an eye, we are all blind." Someone has to be the bigger man. And we sure as hell can't rely on this industry to take a hard look in the mirror.

I've touched on this in prior threads, we are all the victims of circumstance. Our thoughts turn in the bubbles and caves by which we are bound.

A great deal of this industry keeps their heads down and wants to make good games, they want to earn a paycheck for an honest day's work, they want to keep the peace, but in these pools all are soured.

Have I been too harsh? Have I painted this industry as whiney babies, who lay around and scratch backs, and never roll up their sleeves to produce great works?

Absolutely I have. But please try to understand my perspective. I have lived and breathed this soul crushing work for over a decade, sought lifelines and bridges among a throng of old friends and new acquaintances. Door after door has slammed in our face, while the world kicked and kicked and kicked us into the dirt mercilessly without care. Only the reacharounds matter, only the careless alliance carved in soft mud.

When was fairness ever extended to us? When did their empty platitudes ever amount to a hill of fucking beans? Take, take, take, kick, kick, kick from ivory tower on high where they look down in disgust.

I will get to taking my share of accountability for our lot in this life, it is long overdue in this crazed blog.

But at least I'm fucking honest, at least I'll fucking say it like it is in an attempt to set things to right. "Hey, your zippers down, ya dingus." Better than letting them walk around like a goof all day. People don’t have the heart to tell others hard truths, no matter how badly they need to be said.

I've made poor life choices, never been the best schmoozer, never fit in with the growing crowds of back scratchers and socialites. I've always just been the nerdy quiet guy that wanted to work hard to make good games.

You'd think there'd be a refuge for people like me in this awkward and forsaken industry, but only if you play the game, only if you scratch the egos and keep your head down. Schmooze, turn blind eye, feed the bodies into the machine. Doesn’t matter if everything is going to shit, just so long as you don’t offend the delicate sensibilities exploiting the project for their own ends.

Think we’d be fine if we’d gotten into coding at a younger age, think we’d have kept our head up during the rocky seas. I stumbled down the road of art for most of my career and that's more a cliquey situation.

It's crazy how tiny decisions and paths we stumble define our lives. So much more is left to chance than we dare admit as we step over the broken bodies. Who you know, the sorts of social advice you're given, if you learn how to play the game, or if you're born a master of it.

These factors determine your survival in the modern age. Not ethic, not will, not purpose, nor talent. Obedience and charm.

This is our lot in life. To be the sniveling, whiny, troll stewing under the bridge, all shortcomings under the microscope, all admirable qualities forgotten. The sequestered other is the sum of all negative truths and rumors throughout their lives.

That's how our engines operate, fueled by judgements of the other.

At the very least it's put a fire under us. It's given us a purpose, given us a quest we can't ignore. Redeem ourselves before we snuff it. Fight the ever encroaching hordes of smarm fuck.

Better angry than helpless.

Angre is the fire in which respect is earned, it’s where the wheat is sorted from the chaff, it’s where judgement compels us to better.

All that is good, all that is true, all that is bled and waters the fields in this mad world, stems from the root of righteous indignation.

Greatness has never been born of cowardice. Never grew from coddled origin. It doesn’t jerk in a circle while singing Kumbaya. Elbow grease is an oil and it does not dissolve into the salty seas of affirmation.

We do not fit in this industry, and for a time, that gutted me. I begged and pleaded for a chance, for a shot and after many years I got that shot. The disillusion was immediate and lasting. There were no thoughtful gatekeepers, no methods to the madness. Just another rat race. Just another clique of see no evil hear no evil. Smile and nod, show on time, maneuver the lies, kiss the ring.

None of it matters, no one gives a damn. No one is there to push the envelope, no one shows inspiration to push to the limit, no one shows to bleed for greatness, to cultivate the right stuff.

What’s the point? All bleeds into dirt.

Just friends and acquaintances who want to cash their paychecks, to go out for nights on the town. To enjoy their cushy blink of existence that they have stumbled upon.

The past doesn’t matter, the future doesn’t matter, all that matters is enjoying the here and the now as much as possible, sacrificing as little as possible. Smiles, back scratches, and lowered standards are on the menu.

Time and again I had hoped I could catch a break in this industry, I worked and slaved in an idiot attempt to show value. But value is only seen in the hollow gestures. How much will you scratch their back? How much will you jock and jeer and bring joy to their nothing? There’s the rub.

Nothing outside the paltry politics, the political posturings, the building of bridges and sustaining of lifelines means a damned thing any more.

This industry no longer builds games. It builds vapid social clubs. It’s steered by the self-serving, and manned by the exploitable. In this vile union, our ethic, our ambitions, our sanity drips to nothing, it trickles past the barren fields and spills to salt the oceans.

I’ve grown apart from this world, and while many would think that it is I who has wasted and fallen from grace, I’m not sure I agree with their judgements any longer.

I now wonder if the reverse is true.

Few value the measure of a life in party tricks, in time squandered, by-...

I’m wrestling with this blog entry. What path do we choose? What does our terrible SeaCrit reveal?

Do we rot everlasting, thirsting for the approval of society at large, for a chance to be in their good graces as we awkwardly sought when we were bright eyed and bushy tailed?

I don’t even know what this world is any more. I don’t know who anyone is any more.

How do you make a meaningful decision when nothing in this world is what it seems? When everything is a caricature of its former self?

No one has the stones, or the will to say it like it is. And so we coast through this sophomoric life of lies and empty nothings. We send one another gifts manufactured in foreign lands, designed to break in some years time, forged of ethereal zero’s and ones or cheap pieces of plastic equal to a few hours of our time. Delivered for us by the mechanisms at large.

We regurgitate the hollow pleasantries, “How do you do?” over an electric line.

It’s normal to watch people fade away. It’s normal to turn blind eyes, to buy into the big lies, to find your new circles that fit cleanly into a prepackaged life.

It’s so very empty, so devoid of purpose, meaning, and spirit. It’s soft and predictable just as the machine demands.

What good is family? What good are awkward old friends? What good are people who don’t share our self serving values? All that is rough around the edges, all that doesn’t fit into our perfectly sculpted lives must be discarded.

I’m fucking different, I never stood a snowball’s chance in this social club of an industry. I’m not going to backscratch someone I find to be incompetent. If the project is set for failure, I’m going to do everything in my power to right the ship, and I will make the workplace awkward and I will rub others the wrong way for having the audacity to put my job above the sophomoric horse shit.

My whole life I was told I didn’t care, that I’m an unfeeling ass.

No, mother fuckers, YOU don’t care. And now the whole of humanity pays the price of your self-serving weakness.

These thoughts are not going as I had intended. Was supposed to simply justify our anger and move on to the next blog.To shout out old friends and allude to future reunions. I shouldn’t air this stuff, it’s painful, just makes us more outcast, more pitiful.

We have enough distraction.

I don’t know if this is principle, petulance, or just self destruction to act as I do. I probably shouldn’t take things so personally. We are not responsible for the madness and stupidity of the world…

…but that’s where we’re wrong. We are ALL responsible for this world. And its lack of decency, its lack of honor, its lack of giving a damn has manifested from most fucking all of us.

Call me a fucking asshole, call me bigot, call me troll, or just a cautionary tale. What’s it matter?

Born in the wrong era. Born in the era of the smarm fuck, of the reach around, of the hollow smile, of the soft parade.

So this is the path we’ve chosen I suppose. Bitter, self destructive, resentful, alone.

Can you honestly fucking blame me?

Wish I could go back in time. Wish I could not throw so much of my life and dignity away to alcohol. Wish I could just take a deep breath in the workplace and not take everything so damn seriously. Wish I could have gotten out of my shell at an earlier age and learned to play the game. Wish I coulda spent more time building bridges rather than burning them. Wish I could shout into my idiot ear the truth of how fucking stupid and petty this world is. Don’t get your hopes up.

All these years I waxed poetic about how we were better here, not petty, trying for something good and true, and this is how we act?.. maybe there isn’t any difference between us and the “smarm fuck”. Maybe the only difference is that we’re an awkward asshole better left behind after all.

But I don’t want pity, I at least have enough self respect for that.

I’ll end with this thought. We’re not victims of circumstance, we just live different experiences stemming from who we are. I can sit here and spin this crazed narrative about how we weren’t given a shot or this or that, but the truth of the matter is we’re an awkward, angry fuck who must atone for who I am. Other people don’t have to deal with our bullshit. They shouldn’t deal with our bullshit.

We’re all alone in this crazed world, we’ll put on a face, we’ll put on a smile for those who will help us advance in our careers, for those who will bring us the good times and the fun moments. The only difference is I don’t have the comforting illusion and I don’t feed that damned beast.

Anyhow. This is my last post for a while. I don’t know what purpose this blog serves any more but a personal pity party or means for me to spread my misery to those who don’t deserve any of my whiny bullshit.

I’m sorry this is how it all played out. Sorry this is who we turned out to be in the end.

Some of you reading this gave a damn longer than you should have, and some of you know people I haven’t been in contact with in ages and I hope you’ll tell them that I hope they’re well and that I’m sorry things went down as they did. That’s on me 100%.

We don’t ask for our callings in life, don’t ask to be the petulant, bitter loser, but we can’t escape reality, no matter how painful. It’s only fair that if I’m going to call out the world of back scratching smarm fucks, I had to take my lumps too. For all I know I’m not even good at making video games. For all I know this blog is the biggest fucking joke in the universe.

Life’s a crazy road.

It’s regrettable this is how things unfolded, it’s no one’s fault, things just kinda went this way over time. For a time a had an amazing group of friends in you guys and I’ll never forget that, but we’re all given different callings, and this is mine and it requires me to be a bitter and angry and a really fucking shitty friend.

I want you guys to know that the old jeff is still down here, but we’ve fallen so far, I gotta go deeper into the cave and throw what little humanity we’ve got left to the void.

Wish it wasn’t like this, wish I’d fit into this world a bit better and coulda been a positive memory, not a sour note of regret. But I have been blessed with a rare opportunity to slave and fight for what I believe in, and though I do not enjoy the day to day niceties and comradery most enjoy out in the rat race: Friends, belonging, honest pay, dignity, I’ve carved out this little nook where at least we can keep up the fight, where we can keep this modest fire alive.

It was bittersweet hearing from old friends and family of late, but it kinda opened old wounds. And I know this is silly. I know I'm just an old face in others’ stories of fun adventures, of the usual get-togethers, and travels, and enjoyments of a life well lived that most everyone should be afforded in this life.

But as evidenced by this blog I’ve put the blame for my shortcomings on the world at large.

In another time I think we would have been fine, could have earned a living performing a craft, had a group of lasting and dear friends. Could have gotten my act together and put together a more conventional family where no one had to be ashamed to know me.

But these are the mad times we are living in. These are the mad standards by which the vapid dictate the rules.

There I go again putting off the blame.

Time to get back to work in SeaCrit. I’ll blather again when we get our shit together, when we get this demo done, when we have something worth putting into this world besides our hurtful and childish rages.

I’m sorry.

Edit: At the risk of smashing apart our perfectly pitiable post and making light of these thoughts, I've decided to update this entry.

For one, we can't help but run our mouth, and for two, because I don't want to be disingenuous, and I don't want to cut too deep.

We’re going to be ok. We’re fine being the crazed outsider, we are quite numb to the cold by now and even at peace here, and it isn’t right to twist the knife and try to hurt others over the lot we’ve made for ourselves in this life. We are working in SeaCrit and there are no phantoms of madness around to sabotage our work, none but our own anyhow.

I do not write these blogs lightly, this is not a character, a performance of song or dance for you the audience. These blogs are true to the journey of SeaCrit, and it’s been at times painful and others embarrassing. Wish I could say this was a foreign feeling, but there is a reason we found our way on this journey.

But we’re nothing if not honest. Writing this addendum is probably the most fake I’ve felt writing this blog, but this is a landmark entry and may best define our journey and our purpose and our outlook on the state of this grand endeavor of gamedev that has stolen up so much of our life.

Right at the surface of this journal has been that steady rumination of anger, of petulance, of throwing fits and raging at perceived wrongs. Sometimes it IS for entertainment. We push it far and make light of the endless slog, it keeps us sane and entertained to have someone to vent to.

And part of that is simply the persona of being an IllTemperedTuna which I thought was featured in Austin Powers, but I goofed, those were ill tempered sea bass, NOT tuna. What’s it matter they were supposed to be sharks anyhow!? HOW FRIGGIN’ HARD IS IT TO GET FRIGGIN’ SHARKS WITH FRIGGIN’ LASER BEAMS ON THEIR FRIGGIN’ HEADS!?

But truth be told, we didn't adopt our moniker as a joke. We have a bit more “fight” in us, passion, rage, whiney shit fits, whatever you want to call it than others in this industry, than is tolerated in this industry.

I am not trying to say that SeaCrit was forged purely out of spite, or that anger is our defining characteristic, most everyone who’s ever known me in real life would laugh at that notion. But in the current climate, in the ruin of our collective industry, as the smarm fucks mocked, and our collective futures turned to shadows and dust under their unchecked command… yeah, i’ve grown a bit fucking miffed.

I am not signalling that anger is the solitary and greatest emotion that can fuel a great work, or should fuel a work. Far from it.

…but it's better than nothing, if you're in the belly of the whale and running on fumes as I like to say, “better angry than helpless”.

Some days we swing the hammer with optimism, some days with sad regret, and yes, on many days we crank up the Manowar, let the unfairness wash over us, let loose the dogs of war, and swing with fiery, reckless abandon.

But we swing the hammer hardest when we're enveloped by them all, when we are clawing back to the light, hopeful for a better tomorrow, excited to be heeding our calling, and grateful to have our purpose. 

It's a delicate balance keeping each of these purposes alive in our depraved mind!

There is more than enough mindless spite and anger looping ‘round our mad world and it is obviously a great regret that SeaCrit has been made under these dreary conditions.

But if the hot and long of the journey for the grail were known, none would e’er make the trek!

This is how it has to be. All the setbacks, the disadvantages we rage against made us stronger, it amplified the unique qualities within us that we bled into our project.

We’ve kept it SeaCrit, we’ve kept it safe.

Here is the message I want to float out there from this blog: To anyone down on your luck, who spy the hot judgements lurking in the desolate corners of your life, who are outcast, and all you have is the bitterness, all you have is a raging fire...

If you can temper that anger, if you can purify it to the fuel for change that it is. If you can slow its intake until it fires the pistons of compulsion and resist it consuming you. You can rage against the dying of the light. The fight will ignite your veins, and fire your mind as you push beyond the brink where your tired muscles know they can strain no further.

Though your skin will ash and your thoughts will boil, the embers will burn the midnight oil, powering your ascent. You may yet crash your bones 'gainst the mad machine once more.

=========================================================================

Dedicating this crazed blog to my old man, who first blasted the rock music that kept us past the midnight hour, which is now our life-blood in SeaCrit.

Careful the resentments you cast. For one day, you will grow into them.