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 - 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 “.” 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
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 . 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-) , 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.