When I was 15, I purchased a subscription to Computer Land Magazine. I’d read articles that I rarely understood, always puzzling over the science fiction-like jargon. I’d study the photographs of men who had grown elaborate displays of facial hair, and who were always hunched over their keyboards the same way that I enjoyed hunching over the VIC-20. At the back of every issue was one of those “No Postage Necessary” postcards that I could fill out, ticking off the names of the magazine’s advertisers who I was interested in receiving more information from.
I would check every last box on the postcard, then take it out to our mailbox and raise the flag on the side. I’d send off one of those postcards, and a few days later our mailbox would be crammed with all manner of leaflets, pamphlets and computer-related information.
I remember one afternoon when a friend of my father’s had stopped by the house. They were enjoying a beer together at the dining room table when the subject of computers came up. My father’s friend mentioned that he was considering a Radio Shack TRS-80 as a family computer. I saw this as my cue. I carried stack of stack of Computer Land propaganda into the dining room, then launched into an impromptu presentation on why a Radio Shack TRS-80–or, as I called them, “Trash 80’s”–was a terrible choice as a home computer. My father initially seemed embarrassed by my display of unbridled nerdiness. Yet eventually, by the end of my convincing presentation, I think he was the tiniest bit proud of me.
Each issue of Computer Land also offered several programs which one could painstakingly type into their computers. These programs were always printed in a microscopic font, and could take many hours of uninterrupted concentration to type out. Then, once the programs were typed in, I would hit the RUN button and sit back and enjoy the fruits of my labor.
These programs, not surprisingly, often did not work, thanks almost always to human error. If just one character had been mistyped during the transcription process, the program would result in a heart-breaking ERROR message, and the entire thing would have to be re-typed from scratch. Computer programs, I learned, would accept nothing less than absolute perfection. Even when the programs did work, the results weren’t always so hot. I remember once spending several sweaty hours typing in a program called FIREWORKS only to sit back and hit the RUN button and watch a single pixel travel across the screen at approximately one mile per hour and explode into about 20 more pixels. I sat there, hunched over my keyboard, thinking, That’s it?
Other times, the results were borderline spectacular. I remember spending another sweaty afternoon typing in a program, and the result was–of all things–a clunky Donkey Kong clone.
It was these simple programs that gave me some idea of what computer programs actually looked like. And it was these programs, these glimpses behind the curtain, that put the idea into my head that I could make my own videogame.
Time for stage 7-9, folks. Today’s stage opens with a walrus charging straight at Mario. (And a very good morning to you too, sir!) There are three walruses in total to contend with–this one, plus two more on the very bottom of this three-tiered structure. Once you’ve cleared walrus no. 1, take the elevator on the right all the way down to the bottom of the screen. Notice the icicle that emerges from the ceiling then goes into a free-fall? For an added thrill, instead of taking the elevator, hop onto the top of the falling icicle and ride it down. Don’t worry, it’s perfectly safe. Now you can cross “Go for an icicle ride” off of your videogame bucket list.
At the bottom of the level you’ll find walrus no. 2 patrolling a small area in front of a shuttered doorway. Welcome to a section that I like to call “The Trickiest Part of Today’s Stage.” Note the nearby ladder, which leads to the level’s middle tier. Also note the bed of sharpangles on the middle tier. How on earth will you be able to cross that bed of sharpangles? This is how:
Jump over walrus no. 2 during his charge. Notice how, once you approach the shuttered doorway, three icicles emerge from the ceiling directly above the bed of sharpangles. They will fall, as videogame icicles always do, burying their icy shafts halfway into the sharpangle bed. This, people, is your way across.
Unfortunately, the icicles melt quickly, so you’ll need to get the timing right between triggering the icicles–remember, like the rising-falling monoliths, they’ll only fall when you’re directly beneath them–and hustling up the ladder and making your jump onto their backs before they disappear.
On the far side of the sharpangle bed you’ll find a portable ladder power-up. For some reason discovering this power-up cheered me greatly. You’ll need to use it twice: once to climb up to the small platform with the switch on it directly above your head (pulling the switch opens the shuttered doorway); and the second time to climb up the passageway at the left back to the very top of the screen where walrus no. 1 will charge at you for the second time today. (And another good morning to you, sir!)
Hit the switch on the top tier to reverse the elevator, making sure that it’s going up, not down. Then head down the elevator shaft either using skillful falling or by going for yet another icicle ride. I went the icicle-ride route, but that’s just me. At the bottom of the shaft–are there lots of “shaft” references today, or what?–once again make the jump over to the area where walrus no. 2 is patrolling in front of the shuttered doorway. The shuttered doorway is, of course, gone now, which means that walrus no. 2 has been joined by walrus no. 3. Carefully jump over these two toothy dopes, grab the key, then head back to the elevator shaft (what? again?). Ride the upwardly mobile elevator to the top of the screen, key in hand. Jump over walrus no. 1 for the last goddamned time today (And a good morning, etc. etc.) and hit the exit door. Now put down your gaming device and do one of those “wiping my hands of this situation” motions, because you are done for the day.
