A few years ago, I received a T-shirt with the emblem of The Legend of Zelda video game series as a gift. Every time I wore it, someone, usually a middle-aged man, would point to it and give me a thumbs up or yell “Zelda!” while I was out and about. Initially, I smiled and nodded politely, sneering internally at the thought of a grown man, possibly married, publicly celebrating a video game habit. For those unfamiliar, The Legend of Zelda follows the adventures of a hero named “Link” on a mission to track down a magical princess.
However, I soon realized that I had spent countless hours watching my kids play Zelda. Although watching a video game can be fascinating, my kids tell me that professional gamers can earn millions by broadcasting online. But bonding with strangers over a video game might be even more pathetic than watching one.
I don’t play Zelda, but I do play Mario Kart, where I drive on elaborate raceways made of candy while avoiding cuddly animals with giant hammers and fairies on scooters who throw bananas at me to try to trip me up. I own a real car, though, because I am a 53-year-old man. Or am I?
In my home, there is a collection of photographs of my grandparents, taken in the 1960s and ’70s when they were in their late forties and fifties. They appear to be around 75 years old, perpetually miserable, despite their sunny real-life dispositions. In one Polaroid, my grandfather is wearing a white, ironed button-down shirt, dress slacks, and his well-worn brown shoes, while my grandmother is in a button-down frock and unfashionable women’s oxfords at the beach. I can’t imagine my grandfather, who never owned a car, much less a bike, playing Mario Kart in shorts, flip-flops, and a T-shirt that reads “Sarcasm, it’s what I do best.”
My grandfather had no formal education or financial success. He took his gap year in Auschwitz, and his teenage years were anything but easy. He lived through two world wars, a depression, a revolution, and then an exceptionally modest life in a cramped apartment in Queens, but he always carried himself with great dignity.
My grandmother was born in the last year of the First World War, in a multifamily home with an outhouse. She did not own a TV until 1973. She was born three years after the first passenger flight, and by the time she died, tens of thousands of people would be watching movies on six-inch gadgets 30,000 feet above her head. Has any one generation seen more technological advancement? She never seemed impressed by any of it.
Since becoming an empty-nester, life hasn’t become more noble or serious or dignified; I’ve become more like a 15-year-old boy with some money to spend. My grandfather never owned a bike, but I have a carbon-fiber model with a bunch of needless gadgets attached and $90 bike pants to soften the ride. I troll the internet to collect hard-to-find vinyl. I have more streaming services than my granddad had shoes. I collect science-fiction books. I recently bought another guitar because who knows, maybe my dream of being a reluctant indie rock star will come true.
The notion of prosperous civilizations crumbling under the weight of their wealth and selfishness has been around ever since Herodotus told the story of the great Persian king Cyrus, who warned his allies that “tough lands produce tough peoples.” The Roman Empire stood for a thousand years, and they were rich and soft. Warning that the United States will fall like the Roman Empire is probably our second-favorite historical analogy, after comparing everything we dislike to Nazi Germany. I’m a skeptic of this theory.
Our world is far from a utopia, but it is as close as humanity has ever gotten. In many ways, that reality is reflected in the immature and undignified nature of our growing idiocracy. But the question is, would the paunchy guy who yells “Zelda” at me in the frozen aisle fight for his country if needed? Would he show dignity in the face of depression and oppression? Who knows. I’d like to think many would. I like to think we would pick up a rifle and fight if needed. After playing hundreds of hours of Call of Duty, I imagine I’d be pretty good at it. In the meantime, we should be grateful we don’t have to.
