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Flying in Minecraft

HOW TO GET THE FUCK UP THERE
 
A quick tuto­r­i­al of flight in Minecraft that’ll have you in the air in no time! Before you take off, let’s con­sid­er some alter­na­tive expe­ri­ences.
Ah, to be unleashed in the jagged heav­ens above this rudi­men­ta­ry cube world! Sure­ly, every cit­i­zen day­dreams of dis­cov­er­ing such dis­tilled knowl­edge in a free, visu­al­ly-com­pelling pro­gram like the video stream­ing ser­vice YouTube, or Twitch - the live mor­tal­i­ty mar­ket­place. Sure­ly, it is uni­ver­sal - this over­whelm­ing lust for the free­dom once allowed only to the foul can now be had by any­one will­ing to drop $too-much required to enter the gor­geous uni­verse born of Mitch Plague (known all-but-legal­ly as Gouge,”) the now-celebri­ty Supreme Neo-Toy­mak­er - the Patron Saint of Pre­pu­bes­cence! His Chaste Holi­ness!
 
After real­iz­ing how many of your bio­log­i­cal existence’s total breaths you’ve released heav­i­ly, uncon­scious­ly, mouth agape at the image of your rep­re­sen­ta­tive flat-edge slave grov­el­ing in the dig­i­tal dirt, it must be joy­ous to final­ly soar above your menial work­ing-class labor sim­u­la­tion off to the lux­u­ry of the wild blue! Per­haps Gouge real­ly is a Saint! Con­sid­er­ing his fedo­ra, just these mea­ger uncon­scious allu­sions to the Judeo-Chris­t­ian after­life must make him the con­tem­po­rary C.S. Lewis!
 
Remem­ber Gar­rett: if you’re qui­et for the whole car ride, you’ll be allowed the priv­i­lege of using the iPad to mod­el The Cru­ci­fix­ion in church! The Body of Christ is a gold mine!
 
Dear­est Gar­rett, you are an escapist, don’t you know? That is what it means when you don’t want to look up, perk up, or stand up; when you’re com­pelled to seek refuge in your juve­nile nether­world, but - dear­est Gar­rett - what is yours but an inten­tion­al­ly shod­dy approx­i­ma­tion of your father’s and his God? Swing­ing your three-pix­el sick­le is a bar­ren har­vest - tap­ping, you do noth­ing but the Devil’s work. Not that your desire to leave it all isn’t under­stand­able. I know your world is beige, cut, and tree­less - I’ve heard all of the plat­i­tudes in which you’re tire­less­ly wrapped, and that your folks shouldn’t be expect­ed to exem­pli­fy sub­stan­tial sin­cer­i­ty any­time soon, but, my boy… The Fuck­er, Gouge does not have the cor­rect answers to those exis­ten­tial ques­tions which you’ve been as yet unable to begin artic­u­lat­ing.
Gouge, The Cre­ator is an intel­lec­tu­al crim­i­nal who finan­cial­ly tar­gets chil­dren just enter­ing the phase of meta­phys­i­cal devel­op­ment in which most of us come to terms with the rela­tion­ship between our uni­verse of infi­nite, relent­less vari­abil­i­ty and those abstract lens­es of absolutes that we’ve cre­at­ed - like math­e­mat­ics - which are so nec­es­sary to main­tain any sort of intel­lec­tu­al buoy­an­cy in the noise. How­ev­er, if Garrett’s Mom & Pop are the Forbes type, they’re prone to falling in a sink­hole, mil­lions-deep, who’d regard Plague’s cre­ation, per­haps, as suf­fi­cient can­vas for human expres­sion.”
 
But where’s the research?
 
I threw it away.
 
It sounds like Gouge’s game has giv­en much more to its 56 mil­lion cumu­la­tive play­ers than it would appear from shal­low­er obser­va­tion, but I wouldn’t know - I have inter­faced with the Minecraft soft­ware on only a sin­gle occa­sion, over six years ago, to cap­ture the frames nec­es­sary to pro­duce this thir­teen-sec­ond, impres­sive­ly low-res­o­lu­tion video. I remem­ber absolute­ly noth­ing about it but the vague impres­sions that my occa­sion­al expo­sure to exter­nal screen­shots have sure­ly molest­ed to mean­ing­less­ness in my mem­o­ry, by now. When it comes to the franchise’s con­tri­bu­tion to (or destruc­tion of-) edu­ca­tion, I’m about as much of an author­i­ty as your grand­moth­er, but - if you crave the sen­sa­tion of flight, I know some­body dying to help.
Vir­tu­al­ly regard­less of where you cur­rent­ly are on This Great Blue Sphere, you’re more like­ly than not with­in easy dis­tance of a sleepy lit­tle region­al air­port who’s neglect­ed asphalt is often touched by com­plete­ly exhaust­ed, but excep­tion­al­ly well-main­tained high-winged Cess­nas that were prob­a­bly built before your dad. These worn-out old birds are oper­at­ed by stu­dent pilots - an excep­tion­al­ly dwee­by brand of human being of which I once called myself kin. Though - in case you’re a bit thick, and you think I’m try­ing to brag, or some­thing - I should warn you: gen­er­al avi­a­tion is even less cool than fuck­ing Minecraft in 2017, and it will under no cir­cum­stances get you laid.” How­ev­er The Gar­rett Gen­er­a­tion was deceived into think­ing it’s a real expen­sive and labo­ri­ous chore to get them­selves in con­trol of a lit­tle pri­vate air­craft is beyond me, but it’s dead dumb.
 
It’d be con­sid­ered awful­ly steep for a pri­vate instruc­tor, fly­ing ser­vice, or fly­ing school to charge you more than one hun­dred dol­lars an hour for gas, instruc­tor time, and plane rental - I ceased my train­ing at just under eleven hours - one les­son before my First Solo (an enliven­ing­ly pro­found, but very nerdy rit­u­al,) and my total expens­es were just a bit over $1000 includ­ing the sparse gear and lit­er­a­ture mate­r­i­al require­ments. And frankly - while Mr. Gouge­beard is lit­er­al­ly drown­ing in cube rev­enue - gen­er­al avi­a­tion is suf­fo­cat­ing from an inex­cus­able lack of pub­lic inter­est and a noble, over­head-bloat­ing adher­ence to the for­got­ten droves of FAA reg­u­la­tions your mom­mies, dad­dies, grandads and grand­moth­ers left upon them and for­got about, long ago. Yes, this par­tic­u­lar injus­tice is com­i­cal­ly irrel­e­vant, cul­tur­al­ly, but I swear on our servers that the expe­ri­ence of oper­at­ing a small, ana­log air­plane is more nat­u­ral­ly vis­cer­al and spir­i­tu­al­ly stim­u­lat­ing than any/all of your hob­bies com­bined.
 
Young con­sumers of the Gouge Game who find escapist sanc­tu­ary in your cubes, know that your pur­ga­to­ry is an extra­or­di­nar­i­ly inef­fi­cient means of cop­ing.
 
There are alter­na­tives! Your cubic hell can be escaped!
 
Imag­ine soar­ing the dew off a cute old one fifty two’s spars, climb­ing through serene morn­ing air toward your crush’s par­ents house, pierc­ing their adap­tive noise can­celling bub­ble with your lit­tle Lycoming’s hum­ble drone until they turn their head in con­fu­sion and acute scorn! You will be face­less, yes - for this, you should prob­a­bly be thank­ful - but at least you’ll have done a ser­vice to soci­ety by remind­ing a human being of the most beau­ti­ful achieve­ment their kind has ever reached, if only for a sec­ond. And you’ll have done your­self one, too - for all the irri­tat­ing plat­i­tudes about flight are fuck­ing true, and I’ll bet - in the end - you’ll have spent a lot less occa­sion­al­ly tak­ing to the air than you would’ve on your fuck­ing cubes.
Edi­tor-in-Chief