Akting Out

This blog started off as an angry rant, demanding to know why homosexuals are treated so poorly in this country, but the truth is, everyone who is deemed different by the majority suffers some sort of persecution. All persecution based on race, religion, or sexual orientation, it’s stupid. Literally, stupid; as in a complete and total lack of intelligence. Imbecilic, as Websters defines it.

How can anyone hate someone else without knowing a thing about them?
I don’t think God hates “fags”. I don’t think God hates anyone. I think He feels sorry for those He must condemn, but He’ll pass the sentence just the same. I don’t think being gay is an automatic disqualification for getting into Heaven. I don’t think there is a disqualification (unfortunately) besides renouncing.

Call it the result of a liberal upbringing, but I just don’t see the big deal with homosexuality. I can’t imagine doing it myself, but that’s just me, and I have this funny little idea that my beliefs shouldn’t affect the mass majority. I don’t think that homosexuals are deviants or monsters or child molesters. I don’t care if they live in my neighborhood, and I don’t care if my kids see two guys walking down the street holding hands. I’d rather my kids didn’t see two guys making out, but then again, I don’t want my kids to see anyone making out.

Another thing; love is love. Who gives a damn who it’s between? Two men or women want to get married doesn’t really have anything to do with me, or anyone else. If they want to take the vow, what difference does it make to anyone else? How does their marriage affect your life?

Okay, so, say two people of the same sex get married or commit to a civil union. Just like that, the law says they cannot purchase family medical insurance (but individual insurance is fine), are not entitled to child custody upon ending a relationship, and cannot make medical decisions for their partner if they fall ill.

To all of which I say…wtf?!

So lemme get this straight.
Because they’re gay, they’re less qualified to raise children? They’re unfit to purchase joint medical insurance? I didn’t know being gay was a condition (even if it is, who gives a damn?). They can’t even tell the doctor that their partner may be allergic to a certain medication, because apparently, gay people can’t articulate feelings or retain information very well.

Sadly, I’m not making this up. This has really happened, and to the Nth degree.

My point to all of this is this; why are homosexuals treated as less than equals? What about how they choose to live their lives is so wrong, if they’re not trying to force their lifestyle on any one else? Why isn’t it easier to just deal with it instead of pretending it doesn’t exist or worse, trying to “cure” it and make it “right” in the eyes of God?

In my opinion, God values truth. He values honesty, and He values acceptance. What I wish we could all do, instead of competing for attention and trying to stamp out what is different and difficult to understand, is realize that there is one common bond that unites all of us.

Gay or straight, we are all human. We were put on this planet to understand one another. The sooner we realize that, the better we’re all be.

But that’s just me.

Thanks for reading.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC

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Clash of the Titans (4/10)

I’ve enjoyed Sam Worthington since his scene-stealing performance in Terminator: Salvation. I expected the cast he was surrounded with to bolster the Clash of the Titans remake. It did, but not beyond mediocrity. The film also breaks the number one rule of the action/fantasy GENRE; it’s BORING.
Louis Leterrier gets excellent performances out of his actors; Ralph Fiennes is a little creepier here than in his outing as Voldemort, and with Sam Worthington, all one has to say is “be intense.”
In 3D, the special effects are gorgeous and the monsters are truly something to behold (Medusa scared the hell out of me), but the film spends too much time winding up and then not paying off. The few action scenes are trite and predictable, and then it’s back to the long windup. The 3D outing isn’t worth the price of admission, and not even the special features can justify a thirty dollar price tag when the inevitable special edition comes out. Save your money.

Why Did I Get Married Too (7/10)

I loved the first movie because it was hilarious; it was hilarious because it was real. There was also a strong undercurrent of hope throughout the film that resonated in a very satisfying conclusion. The sequel isn’t quite as funny, lacks the same undertone, and is a lot more visceral, but it’s still a good movie. All of the actors from the first film return, including an enhanced Janet Jackson.  The couples retreat has been moved from Colorado to the Bahamas. Of all the couples, Troy (Lamman Rucker) and Sheila (Jill Scott) have come the furthest, but are arguably on the hardest times. This made them the best couple to watch, the ones you want to see work out. Marcus (Michael Jai White, who again showcases his acting talent) and Angela (Tasha Smith) still provide most of the film’s laughs. You learn in the previews that one couple does not make it, and this is where the film falls short. The breakup is ugly, friends are divided, and a couple of brutal scenes make this film much darker than the first one. The inevitable ending isn’t quite as satisfying as the first film, feeling rushed and hackneyed. One scene in the film showcases two great actors but felt more like a deleted scene than anything else. Still, the darker tone of the film isn’t enough to make it unwatchable, and it’s still an enjoyable, relatable experience.

Death at a Funeral (7/10)

I may never understand how you can cast Chris Rock, Martin Lawrence, and Tracy Morgan in the same film and then give James Marsden the best scenes. In a nutshell, this is a good movie, funny, but nowhere near as funny as it should’ve been, considering the talent showcased.
This is a remake of the 2007 British film directed by Frank Oz; Chris Rock (who also produced) is the harried, underappreciated head of household who takes on the enormous responsibility of assembling (and paying for) his father’s funeral. Martin Lawrence is the family favorite, Chris Rock’s older brother who is also a published author (something Chris Rock’s character is not allowed to forget), Danny Glover is awesome as mean-ass Uncle Russell, and Columbus Short of Stomp the Yard fame is Jeffery, the shady pharmacology student.
Don’t get me wrong, the movie is funny, and well worth the price of admission, it’s just nowhere near as funny as it was supposed to be. A lot of this movie is spent on little laughs waiting for the big one that never comes. It may depend on your sense of humor, but one scene is so far beyond nasty that it nearly ruins the film. James Marsden easily gets the funniest scenes in the movie.
Still, this is a pretty good way to see some of the best comedians of our generation slowly begin to fade into the sunset. Good, but nowhere near a great movie.
Thanks for reading.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC

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The Apple iPad made its debut a little more than two weeks ago. True to the hype, the iPad is a beautiful, functional piece of hardware.

And yet, I just don’t want one.

I’m a tech geek; unfortunately, I’m also a broke tech geek, which means I have to carefully choose who gets my hard-earned cash. I went for the Xbox 360 over the PS3 because of the hundred dollar price difference.

I was all for the iPad until they announced a starting price of $499. Suddenly, minor faults turn into glaring missteps. The iPad does not support Flash, SMS messaging, and there are even issues about charging it from your computer.

All that aside, I’d still be tempted…I didn’t already own an iPod Touch.
I expect the initial iPad craze to die off eventually, when more budget-conscientious spenders realizes that Apple has long since offered superior products for less money. When you stack the iPad against the iPhone or iPod Touch, it falls short in too many ways to be viable.

The 32-Gig iPod Touch retails from the Apple Store new for $299. The same-size iPad retails for double that. If you want the 3G coverage, you’re going to first pay $729, and then the monthly data plan fee.

Here, see for yourself. Here’s the iPad pricing guide, and here’s the iPod Touch pricing guide.

The 32-Gig Touch allows me to fit all of my music, four feature-length movies, nearly one hundred video clips and every single one of my most important apps. I have two pages that’re strictly games, and I have room to spare. Plus, I can plug the thing into my computer and not worry about running out of power ten minutes later.

Cheapest iPad I’ll get is one hundred dollars more and half the size, with all the issues. This may be just me, but I don’t need a big-screen luxury item that badly.

I imagine that second and third generation iPads will rectify some of the original’s mistakes. If someone gave me one for free, I wouldn’t turn it down. For now, I’m inclined to sit on what little money I have and wait for the next version. I advise you to do the same.

Thanks for reading.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC

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My first memory of my father involves him hitting me. He had picked me up from preschool, and quickly grown angry that I could not say the color of my favorite toy (it was a maroon Volkswagen). Every time I said it wrong, I got slapped—across the face.

At about the same age, I remember my parents getting into a heated argument. My mom screamed suddenly, there was this loud thump, and she shuddered as she walked past my room, crying as she clutched her forearm. It was the first time I ever felt rage.

Dad eventually stopped beating mom after my sister was born. It didn’t make things any easier; the mental abuse was unbearable. Dinner had to be on the table at a certain time. Mom could be in mid-conversation with a friend and literally hang up the phone when we heard the garage go up. Relaxing wasn’t allowed all that often. If dad saw you laying around, he’d put you to work. Things that weren’t done to his satisfaction meant a night of yelling and screaming.

At times, I was beaten so severely that teachers would ask me what was going on. Of course, I never said anything. It’s not like they’d believe me anyways. Dad would often threaten to kill me, especially if I was acting up (which was a lot). I learned to control my breathing because dad often liked to hit me in the stomach. I ran away from home thirty-two times. I lost track of how many times I was arrested as a kid.

One very fateful night, mom gathered my sister and I up, packed what we needed and put us in the car. I had taken another beating, and mom was going to go stay with her parents. They knew what was going on.

I remember she sat there thinking, in the darkness of the garage. It was still, and silent as a crypt. Dad was upstairs sleeping; I remember being afraid to breathe, for fear of waking him up.
After a five-minute eternity, mom unpacked us and sent us back to our rooms.

I didn’t understand that decision until I got older. But after that, I knew I was on my own.

My father nearly beat me unconscious once. I got up and challenged him to do more. It was the first time I’d ever done that—and one of the last times he ever beat me.

Throughout my teenage years, I became more rebellious and willing to challenge my father. He kept the fear of God in me by brainwashing me into believing that if I ever raised up on him, he’d kill me. Hence, one night, when things got physical, and mom tried to get dad off me, he would repay her by striking me. She pushed him, he hit me.

I left home at nineteen under very violent circumstances. I told my father that if he ever put his hands on my mother again, I’d kill him.

Since I spent a good portion of my twenties (neglecting my wife and son) on the road, I wound up getting involved with a lot of battered women and children. I have lost track of how many pathetic, frightened husbands I have stared down in the heat of the moment. I cannot tell you how many I’ve come across that have been revealed as cowards when push came to shove.

I helped relocate about thirty women and families during my wilder years. These were people who had a viable option to get out of their situation and they took it. At least double that number chose to stay. It’s what made me quit, what turned me bitter.

One thing I’d like to retract from the previous blog; no one ever deserves to take a beating, no matter their circumstance. I never told a victim that they deserved what they got; they don’t, and frustration got the better of me on that one. I’ve lost a lot of people I felt I could’ve saved.

I have learned a lot from the comments and emails I received from the first blog. I wrote this mostly to illustrate that this is not a subject I speak of as an outsider; domestic violence was very much a way of life throughout my childhood and shaped a lot of who I have become.

I stand by the idea that everyone has a choice. I realize that some choices may take more strength than one can imagine, but I’ve also seen people do truly amazing things when they finally realized that they could do it. I know anyone can do anything because I’ve seen the impossible done, over and over again.

All you have to do is believe.

My choice? I’d rather be dead than broken. I chose homelessness over putting up with my father one more day. I stand by the decision; everything I have now I earned with my own two hands, and no one can take that away from me. It’s the best feeling in the world.

The price paid? I’m not close to my family at all. They all live together, and the truth is, they get along better without me in the picture. Severing most of the emotional bond you had with the people who brought you into this world isolates you in a way you can’t imagine.

Survivors of domestic violence are the strongest people I know. The first blog served as a massive ego check; I understand now that not everyone can make the hard choices. I just hate having to admit that the bad guy wins.

I’d like to see domestic violence and child abuse taken more seriously in this country. Since the law hasn’t caught up with the times, and we can’t adequately prove guilt or innocence in these situations, I’d like to provide people with more ways out.

No one should ever be afraid to go home.

I know this because I speak from experience.

Thanks for reading.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC

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This is a blog about domestic violence. It will probably be more of a mindless rant than anything else. You’ve been warned.

I cannot stand people who think it’s okay to beat up their wives or their children. I lump them into the same category as child molesters because the damage, while different, is equally permanent. What really makes me angry is that most of the people who think it’s okay to do this are cowards. Some of my favorite memories involve getting into someone’s face and daring them to hit me, knowing they wouldn’t have the nerve. If they had, I would’ve happily beaten them to within an inch of their miserable lives, and I’d have enjoyed every second of it. Bullies and cowards; the lot of them.

Something I find scary is how rampant domestic violence is in Middle America. Not to say that it doesn’t happen in California, but out here, it’s almost underground common knowledge. Quite frankly, back home, people who were known for beating their wives or girlfriends were usually never heard from again.

In small-town Michigan, roughly four or five years back now, I was hanging out with a group of friends. We started complaining playfully (or so I thought) about our girlfriends and one member of the group suggests that I ‘knock the bitch out’. At first, I thought he was kidding. No one else was objecting.
When I finally to him to quit playing, he goes into detail as to how he savagely beat his wife ‘once a week or so’ just to ‘keep the bitch in line’. Remembering my own experiences with domestic violence, I nearly tore his head off. Instead, I never hung out with the group again.

But it’s easy to go on and on about the assholes who perpetuate domestic violence. You know who else I’m about sick of? The victims.

Again, this is something I’ve encountered mostly in Middle America, and sadly, it’s mostly among young people. I can understand not wanting to do something after the first incident, maybe not even after the second or third incident. But when a pattern is established, if you choose to do nothing, you deserve whatever happens to you.

I’m sick of the excuses. It was an accident. It was my fault. I shouldn’t have pushed him too hard. He’s under a lot of stress.

I’m also sick and tired of the people who would rather be in a violent situation—knowingly—than be alone.

I think people like this should not be allowed to have children. They’re too weak for the task. I wonder if they stop and think how their kids are perceiving these actions, because in the end, that’s who the real victims are. I believe that people who are choosing to remain in a violent situation should have their children taken away. If they’ve been given every opportunity to get out of the situation, and they’ve refused, for whatever reason, then they should forfeit their right to be a parent. Kids do not need to be exposed to that.

Everybody has a choice. We may not like the choice presented to us, but we have one nonetheless. Victims of domestic violence can choose to get out. They can choose to start over. The task is daunting, and requires the strength to stand on your own, but it can be done. Please trust me on this.

No one should be afraid of going home. No one should ever have to live in fear. If you think you’re in bad situation, the first thing you need to do is admit it, so you can deal with it. The person who is doing this is more afraid of losing you than anything else; that’s why they’re doing this. Because they’re afraid of you leaving.

If you’re in a bad situation, then please, stand up for yourself. Do it for your kids if you have any, because they see everything you do, and they learn just as much. If your children think it’s okay for you to be beat on , what will they think when they’re grown?

There’s no excuse for it. I’d like to see stiffer penalties leveled against those that do it, and in lieu of that, I’d like to see more of these people get the holy hell beaten out of them publicly. But for now, all I can do is write, and hope this gets across.

No excuses. No reason to do it.

Please make it stop.

Thank you for reading.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC

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We all have our moments, or places, when we do our best thinking. For me, it’s either on long walks, or when I’m doing the dishes.

In my socks.

On the tile floor.

But we’ll get back to that.
So there I am, doing the dishes, minding my own damn business when my old, familiar, finicky friend, the Muse, decides to drop by. And oh my, the things she has to say. Utter brilliance, they are. The kinds of things that would make old Will Shakespeare himself stand up and applaud.

It’s always a sequence. I freeze in mid-scrub. I no longer notice how hot the water is. My eyes widen as the Muse pours inspirational gold into my mind. The words. Such words. They must be recorded and now.

And I’m off. I’ve learned to keep my computers on for just such an occasion. I go racing out of the kitchen, looking like Daffy Duck going downhill. In fact, I’ve actually fallen flat on my face before. But the pain doesn’t matter. Nothing else matters but getting the Muse’s words on paper.

But I have learned that the Muse plays a dirty trick on you. As she speaks, she’s actually placed a time bomb in your imagination. There’s no timer, although it seems to go off the second you’re ready to bring her words into reality.

So I sit at the computer, raise my hands to the keyboard, and then…pleh.

The bomb goes off. The Muse is gone. The finicky little…we won’t go there…took her words with her.
I hate those moments; those first few seconds when my mind has frozen and I can’t think of anything to write. It’s like being abandoned on date night by someone you were really excited about seeing.

I have ways of coping. I pace. I talk out loud, trying to remember what she told me while questioning my own sanity. But it’s okay, I tell myself. I passed crazy a long time ago, but if I get these words out of my head and into the real world, it’ll all be okay.

So after wearing a groove into the carpet and having full-fledged conversations with myself, convinced that I’ve plucked the important aspects of the Muse’s visit out of the pit, I take my seat at the computer, and then…pleh.

At this point, I usually scream, cuss, moan, or turn on the 360 and lose myself in somebody else’s world, but since the latter isn’t an option anymore (yet) I had to find another way around it.

And then, just last week, it hit me.
The Muse may be finicky, but she demands hard work and total dedication. As well she should, considering what she brings to the table. You don’t just walk into the mine and picking gold off the walls. You have to dig for it.

So now, I sit down and just start writing. It only has to be relevant to what the Muse has told me; it doesn’t have to be perfect. It doesn’t even have to make sense. It just has to be out of my head and in the real world. I’ve churned out five pages of crud not even the sanitation department would touch. It doesn’t matter, because no one else has to see it.

Then, when all the crud is out of my head, I go back through it, sometimes tracing the words with my finger, and there. That one sentence, quote, or scene. That’s what I’ve been looking for. That’s what the Muse was trying to tell me.

When the Muse hits me now, I try to let it happen instead of making mad dashes for my computer (it keeps me out of intensive care). I get to my computer and pour my imagination onto the screen. I mine later and keep the good parts.

Thanks for reading, and good luck in your endeavors.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC

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A couple of weeks ago, my girlfriend and I are at the local Wal-Mart, finishing my grocery shopping. As we wrap up, I see a faded blue beat-up pickup truck. A sloppy, heavyset woman, determined to keep her back to me, is standing outside the passenger door. I spot the stuffed confederate dice hanging from the review mirror. One of these dice very prominently displays the word “Nigger”.

That explains the haircut, I think to myself. Her entire head is shaved, except for the top, which is oddly shaped into a ponytail. I wondered if she thought that was attractive.
Suddenly, I notice my girlfriend trying to urge me into the car.
The woman holds a baby in her arms; that’s when the anger hits me. Her boyfriend/husband/fellow klansman, all of one hundred and ten pounds with maybe five teeth in his mouth, begins laughing like a monkey playing with its own feces as his child starts crying.

I get into the car, trying not to think of what that child will grow up to be. I tell myself that it’s not my problem, but for some reason, I feel like it is. I couldn’t care less about their viewpoints, but what they will put that child through should be punishable in court.

But that will never happen.

There’s a very nasty old man who lives on the first floor. He’s walking proof that hate can keep you alive for a long time. I try to avoid him, but since we live in the same building, it’s almost inevitable that our paths cross.
Later that day, I’m doing laundry. As I converse with one of my neighbors (a very nice black lady), the man comes out of his apartment and maneuvers between my neighbor and I. He stops in between us and glares at me. I hold it with him for a few minutes. This man has lived in the building for nearly two decades; he’s very used to getting his own way. He’s certainly not used to anyone standing up to him.

I wanted to say something, but I didn’t. I just stared him down.

He stepped past me again, returning to his apartment. When he came back out, he stepped past my neighbor and I again, not making eye contact with either one of us. My neighbor pressed herself against the wall as tightly as she could and looked to the ground. At this point, I wanted to pound the life out of the man. I imagined she was alive when even glancing in his direction would’ve gotten her beaten, or worse.

Later that day, I made a mistake.
As the old man and I passed each other in the hallway, neither one of us made an effort to avoid the other. We slammed into each other, and with me being so much bigger, he got the brunt of it.

I could’ve moved and avoided the whole thing. Then again, he could have too. We were both wrong.

He whirls on me and screams; “Are you blind?!”
“No,” I reply calmly, “Are you?”
His eyes are ice and his hand goes into his pocket…
I immediately take an aggressive stance—if he pulls something out of his pocket, he’s going to make my choices very easy—but I did not attack. His hand remained in his pocket.

Another staredown commenced.
I have no warrants in Missouri.
My girlfriend is upstairs.
He’s an old man.

God is trying to reach me, I can feel it, but as I stare this physical manifestation of hatred down, I can see in his eyes exactly what he’d like to do to me, what he may have done as a younger man…and I want him to try. May God forgive me; I wanted him to advance on me so I could attack him and beat him and crush him and break him until there was nothing left.

I hated him as much as he hated me. I only knew his name. I didn’t know anything about his life up to that point; where he came from, where he’d been, or what experiences had shaped who he had become. None of it mattered. I hated him.

Logic prevails. My girlfriend is from a much different world than I am, and she does not need to be exposed to this kind of thing. “Walk with God.” I tell the man, keeping my eye on him as I return to my apartment. It took twenty minutes for the adrenaline to leave my system.

Love and hatred are dark mirror images of each other; each eschew logic and reason and act as pure emotion. They can be equally creative or destructive. Love creates. Hate destroys. Sometimes it just takes a small push to turn one to the other.

Love requires work.
Hate doesn’t.

I think back to the day my son was born. I was nineteen. I had no idea what I was supposed to be thinking or doing. I just knew I wasn’t going to run.
I remember watching them pull him out of my ex-wife, and the way he cried was always laaa instead of waaah. I remember watching them clean him off, wrap him up, and place him in a plastic container.
Looking down on him from outside the maternity ward, I wondered if it was like that for every father; scores of new life, yet you instinctively know exactly which one you helped create. I didn’t see any other baby except Terry, my brand new baby son.

I was dressed in faded blue jeans, shredded at the knees, my favorite blue jean jacket, a black t-shirt, and naturally, the hat and gloves. And I had just had a son.
This beautiful little boy is going to look to me and expect me to define every last little detail of the world. His views, his successes, his failures, it all depends on what I show him. What I tell him.

I did not know him. But I loved him.
Separated for years, emotional bond frayed, I still love my children very much. I love it when they call, when Terry tells me that he made the honor roll, that his favorite subject is science. I love it when Brandon exhibits typical six-year-old greed and tells me how he’ll be good if I get him Optimus Prime and Bumblebee.

Some may say it’s easy to use blood relations as examples of unconditional love. I wonder if most of struggle with the concept of someone loving us when they don’t have too; someone outside of us who sees exactly how screwed up we are, and wants to be with us anyway.

I wonder how many people get married without knowing truly what they’re in for. I wonder when divorce became so easy.

I believe that when someone looks you in the eye and vows to spend their rest of their lives with you, when you’ve developed that deep a connection with another human being, who was at one time a stranger, you’ll never know anything better.

It’s true; hate can keep you alive a long time.

Luckily, so can love.

Thank you for reading.

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC

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Dear Electronic Arts;

Hey, longtime fan here; always loved the Madden and Need for Speed franchises. Lately, though, you seem less like the popular kid we all want to be like in and more like the whiny brat  who has to have all the toys and keeps screaming; “LOOK AT ME!!”

I have three examples for you. Let’s examine the Dana White conundrum. The man approached you about doing a game based on Mixed Martial Arts, which is emerging as a popular sport. ‘No’ would’ve been a more dignifying response, but you wouldn’t even take a meeting with the man.  You told him that Mixed Martial Arts “disgusted you”. You also told him that Mixed Martial Arts “wasn’t a real sport”, you “wouldn’t touch this thing” and you wanted “nothing to do with it.”

Okay, not quite how I would’ve gone about it, but everyone’s entitled to their opinion. But then, eighteen months later, you have the audacity to reveal your own MMA title for the 360?

That’s cold. But most single mistakes can be forgiven.
I have more.
Let’s take a look at (ugh) Dante’s Inferno. Did you do everything under the sun to hype this game, or what? Let’s be straight. It’s not a bad game, but you went straight to the Cliff Bleszinski playbook for this one. This is God of War on the 360. In fact, I’ll go so far as to say that if God of War had never been made, we never would’ve received Dante’s Inferno.
The game has not opened to rave reviews. It turns out that not all the hired protesters and an animated adaptation are not enough to distract players from the truth; you ripped off God of War. The game is just barely good enough to keep us from going up in arms. Oh, and the animated film isn’t so hot, either.

My last example hit close to home, and I strongly hope you reconsider what you’re about to do.
So now you’re going to start charging us what everyone else releases for free?

Granted, there are valid arguments as to why you’re doing this, but I think you’re overlooking one vital thing; you’re developing expensive, luxury items as the country attempts to emerge from its harshest economic depression in decades.
Being of the mentality that video games should be accessible to everyone, not just the top twenty-five percent, the idea of paying up to fifteen dollars for demos—even extended demos—seems like milking the cow to death. I know things have been rough for you these past few years—join the club. But you’re not hurting for money. This is an unnecessary, selfish move. If you really wanted to boost your customer base, and show them that you give a damn as to how they spend their hard-earned money, why not give these extensive demos for free, on the condition that the consumer gives feedback? No one goes broke and you get free beta testers. Everyone wins.

Sadly, a lot of people will continue to support your practices. A lot of people may even buy into this PDLC crap. You don’t get to where you are without knowing how to survive.
I, however, will not, and I will encourage others to save their money for the full version of your titles and hope that they’re worth the wait. I also hope that you think long and hard on your future releases, realize that there are many viable options for games before you shut someone out, and rely on the quality of a game, rather than a pointless media blitz, to help it sell.

Then we’ll all be happy.

Thank you for reading.

Sincerely,

Avery K. Tingle
Gamer

(c) Avery K. Tingle for Akting Out LLC

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