Villanelle Poem - On RPGs

This is my villanelle poem, about roleplaying games, that I did for my Creative Writing class. Yes, I am that big of a dork.

Dungeons and Dragons Do Weigh
On the Mind of a Boy, a Man Apart

My pride, so torn, it does betray:
A game of rolling dice and playing roles--my secret art.
The quest--my craft glorified--so hid away.

As men and boys, like boys, do convey
Communal bliss in playing games--their glowing heart,
Their pride, so torn, I do betray!

And do brave men, in myth, not dragons slay?
Yet Boys--now men--from such dreams depart;
The quest--our craft glorified--so hid away.

What would they have me stand and say?
“Fellows, no more fantasy!” and with shame impart
My pride, so dimmed; my companions I would betray.

Can I reconcile these twisted halves now sadly turned away:
Vivid creativity from cold maturity supposedly so smart?
My quest--my craft glorified--I cannot cast away!

This shame, culled by joy, can bring me no dismay,
And my trembling ego will not so easily thwart
My pride, now set to shine my path. Thus I cannot betray

My treasured quest--my craft glorified--I did once lock away.


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And this is the rough draft of my villanelle poem. I like the final much better:
"Playing Role-Playing Games"

It’s embarrassing to feel this way,
To roll dice and call it social art;
I’m torn on how my passions play.

As men and boys, like boys, convey
The shameless joy at their shared heart;
It’s embarrassing to feel this way.

Do brave men, in myth, not dragons slay?
Yet boys, now men, from imagination depart.
And thus: I’m torn on how my passions play.

And what would all the women say?
Surely they find its substance smart;
Oh, it’s embarrassing to feel this way.

What of my elders? Can I turn away
Vivid fantasy then maturity impart?
Alas, I’m torn on how my passions play!

I fear they feel complete dismay
Which leaves me tasting sweetness tart.
It’s embarrassing to feel this way:
Judged, now torn, on how my passions play.

Legs - a poem

“Legs”

I’m a man, aren’t I? But that‘s not exactly the questioned called out.
--But call me out, they do; and draw me out, they do;
Out like a snake from its hole. Am I more beast than man?

How old need I be to see--too old? How honest? How moral?
What do I want but to stare and admire? Nothing! Yet--
Respect and I are not speaking; what have I done wrong?

There is nothing more beautiful than a woman.
But objects are beautiful. Sunsets beg adoration,
Not legs that lead up, up-- Women, endowed, receive attention.

I’m like a kid in a candy store, with diabetes.
I’ll have two servings, please. Or better yet, three.
I might as well starve!

I can remember what is best for me:
Two which climb to a companion heart, resting below a supple mind;
A being like me--sometimes beastly, sometimes kind.
So, I cannot forget:
I, so abusive as to objectify, become the object which is abused,
And die, limbless and alone, having left my humanity inside its little hole.

Remembering Boppa

On Sunday afternoon, on the 3rd of March, 2013, my grandfather passed away in Tyler, Texas.  His name is Ernest Edwin Atkinson, though we all call him Boppa.  He had fallen last winter, and his Osteoporosis and the fall had taken its toll.  When he died, we were waiting; he had been suffering for some time, and had not walked since Christmas.

I was at my apartment in Austin, waiting.  I had gone home from work early, in hopes of heading up to east Texas.  I had told myself that I would go see him and my family soon, but due to scheduling I couldn’t be gone too long, so I had yet to leave.  I was playing a computer game, distracted, and in the back of my mind, I was just waiting for that phone call.  When someone is going to die, particularly someone who has been suffering, you’ll find yourself holding your breath.  So I let out a sigh when I got the call, and cried with my mother and grandmother over the phone as they told me the news.

My girlfriend, Lauren, came over to my place that evening, and even though we are both on a diet, we had consolation-pizza and cookies, and went for a walk.  The air was clear and cold that night.  Even though I had cried when my mother called and told me about Boppa passing, I didn’t really feel sad yet, not really.  There was, and still is, a distance between what I know in my head and what I feel in my heart.

In the back of my mind, I was thinking about my grandfather’s machete.  When I was a child, I would always want to play with it; he got his machete while doing mission-work in Costa Rica, and it fascinated me.  I wanted to swing it about, to pretend to be someone else, somewhere else, on an adventure.  He would tell me, “When I die you can have it, but you’ll have to fight Jim for it,” or something similar.  But now that he’d actually passed, I  just wanted to put it up on my wall, to remember him by.

Monday started out with prep for the trip.  I met with my brother Jim afterward, and we unsuccessfully clothing-shopped for the funeral.  Then we picked up Lauren from her apartment, and decided to have lunch at my cafe, Cafe Java, before we left.  We arrived in Whitehouse, Texas, well after dark; the trip up was filled with the usual deep and theoretical conversation that Jim and I usually get into.  Lauren listened, and slept, in the back seat.  We weren’t sad or distant; we were normal, as if it were any other road trip.

I found my family to be as tired as I felt, yet everyone was calm, relieved even.  Very few tears were shed, and there was plenty of hugging, laughing, talking, and planning.  On Tuesday, after lunch, we went through some of Boppa’s belongings.  Meema seemed to want to get rid of, or give to us, as much of his things as she could.  We were obliging, and personally I wanted something to remember him by, thinking about my machete.  Jim and I personally took a collection of books--all theological texts--and I took an old thermos, two scarves, an old wallet, and a gold watch that he had worn for a short time.

While we were looking, I mentioned Boppa’s old machete, feeling childish and silly as I did so; my family responded with sympathy, however, and helped me look for it.  We searched the garage, the study, the bedroom, and all the closets.  Nothing turned up.  My mom thought that perhaps he had given it to Baylor University’s public archives, like he had done with some of our old family photos--something he was prone to do, to his family’s chagrin--and my aunt Elena said he probably just got rid of it, thinking it dangerous.  Either way, there was no machete.  Later, after shopping, I went home feeling uneasy, feeling even more childish than when I asked for the machete.  Simple expectations can yield simple disappointment, unfettered by wisdom or understanding.

That night I talked with my father--who was going to lead the funeral services, as I expected--and I shared with him a passage written by Henri Nouwen that I believed Boppa would have appreciated--Nouwen was one of his favorite authors.  The passage was about celebrating life, and death, and about how they’re intrinsically interconnected.  I was too shy to ask, but my dad beat me to it: he suggested I read the passage at Boppa’s funeral the next day, and I agreed to do so.  I thought it would be fitting, and I wanted the responsibility, wanted to be a little more like my family, like my grandfather.

Boppa was a man of incredible intellect and drive, yet he sought a spartan life, admiring monks and scholars most.  I have always looked up to him for that, though I myself don’t crave solitude and simplicity enough to pursue them outright.  But we all know Boppa for his faith and his eccentricities, of which he had many.  Even now I feel like I am who I am because of who he was, and if Boppa taught me anything, it’s not to be afraid to be a little weird, and to never stop learning.  As Boppa himself put it in an oral history interview he did for Baylor University in 2000, “I’ve been a student all my life.” 

The funeral was in Ennis, where my grandparents had lived for a time and purchased plots there in Myrtle Cemetery.  The family caravaned there from East Texas.  Lauren and I dressed in our funeral best and drove the two hours to Ennis.  Friends and well-wishers met with us at Keever Mortuary; I met a few of my grandparents’ friends for the first and perhaps last time there, and we all spent part of an hour sharing and mingling.  Boppa’s casket was open, and he looked better now than he did when he was alive.  It feels, in some way, like we were all having our introductions and conversations right there with him, as if he was just listening in, as he often did.  When it was time, we headed to the cemetery.

For the first time in my life, and completely unscheduled, I was a pallbearer.  My brother and I and a few others carried Boppa to his grave.  When everyone assembled, there were only about twenty or so of us, and the graveside service was short.  The wind was chilling, but the sun was warm.  Afterward someone rhetorically asked why it was always so windy and cold at funerals, and I said, “because there are no trees around to block the wind.”  I’m pretty sure I’m right about that, and that the biting cold has nothing to do with how we feel when we lose someone.

My uncle Benny, Elena’s husband, spoke well, and so did my father.  I have spent my life watching my family--my father, several of my uncles, my mother, even my brother--speak well in public.  I am the youngest in my family, and when I got up to read my Nouwen passage, I felt like it.  My voice was small and shaking, my emotions suddenly high, and I couldn’t even get through all two pages of it, though I was aware enough to at least skip the middle and read the closing.  When I was through, and my father was through, my cousin Elizabeth closed out the funeral by leading us all in singing Amazing Grace.

Then there was food at Tabernacle Baptist.  Everyone was ready for it.  In my passage that I partially read at the funeral, Nouwen talks of celebrating death.  It sounds morbid, unless you’re there, or you’ve experienced it.  But that’s what we were doing: celebrating.  The conversation was happy, not awkward, and the coffee was perfect.  We all spoke of memories and good times.  The ham was sweet, the mood calm, and the dessert wonderful.  We had thrown a little party in Boppa’s name, and I think he would have approved.

When we finally left the church, where we had been graciously fed, we all parted ways.  We hugged, we smiled, we thanked one another, and we did not cry.  I promised to my grandmother Meema that I’d be down to see her soon, and it wasn’t an empty promise.  Before Lauren and I left Ennis for Austin, we went with Jim and his wife Emma to go by and see our grandparents’ old house.  It was nothing like we remembered.  Someone remarked that things always seem larger, farther apart, when we look back on them as adults.  Nothing could be more true, as we navigated the narrow roads of the crowded suburban neighborhood.

Lauren and I had a pleasant drive home alone, stopping for both ice cream at Braum’s and pastries at the Czech Stop.  There went our diets for the week.  But life gives you time enough to stop and taste the roses, as it were.  I will always remember my grandfather, for many reasons, least of which was his love for the simple things like food, friends, conversation, and family.

We got a little lost driving back, as we sped down dusty roads and crept through tiny central Texas towns.  When I realized I was lost, I smiled, and Lauren googled a route home.  I felt alive then, unafraid of the unknown.  I was happy to have been with my family, and now I was happy to be lost with my love.  It felt then like the start of something new, and it feels now like I have an example to live by.  I will travel, I will finish my education--though I will never stop learning--and I will learn to live a life worth celebrating when I’m gone.

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Below is a link to the oral history interview my grandfather participated in, and below that is a re-posting of his obituary from the Ennis Daily News for the sake of posterity.

Oral History Interview:

http://contentdm.baylor.edu/cdm/compoundobject/collection/buioh/id/2040/rec/8

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"Ernest Edwin Atkinson, 89, passed from this life to his new home in Heaven on Sunday, March 3, 2013, from Tyler, Texas. Ernest was born in Jessup, Georgia, on July 15, 1923, to James Nicholas and Ruby (Bass) Atkinson. He grew up in Baxley, Georgia, and graduated from Baxley High School. On August 21, 1948, he married Martha Sheffield in Pelham, Georgia. After moving to Texas, he received a Bachelor of Arts from Howard Payne University; a Bachelor and Master of Divinity from Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary; a Doctorate of Ministry from The Austin Presbyterian Theological Seminary. He served in the United States Navy from 1941-45. As a missionary for 40 years with the Home Mission Board of the Southern Baptist Convention, he served as pastor of Spanish speaking churches both in Texas and Florida and also served as professor, librarian, and Dean for the Mexican Baptist Bible Institute from which he retired in 1988 after 28 years of service with the school. He is survived by his wife, Martha Atkinson; two daughters: Elena and husband, Benny Petty of College Station; and Becky and husband, Ray Davis of White House; along with three grandchildren: Jim Davis and wife, Emma; Elizabeth Petty; and Joshua Davis. He is preceded in death by his parents, two brothers and one sister. Visitation will be on Wednesday, March 6, 2013, from 10 am. until 11 a.m. in the J.E. Keever Mortuary of Ennis. Graveside services will be held at 11 a.m. on March 6, 2013, in the Myrtle Cemetery of Ennis with Dr. Ray Davis officiating under the direction of J.E. Keever Mortuary, Inc. In lieu of flowers the family requests any donations be made to the Heart to Heart Hospice of Tyler, Texas, in memory of E.E. Atkinson. www.jekeevermortuary.com"

http://www.ennisdailynews.com/obituaries/ernest-edwin-atkinson/

The Fault In Our Stars: Impressions (SPOILERS)

   “As he read, I fell in love the way you fall asleep: slowly, and then all at once.”

              ― Hazel Grace Lancaster

I'm a big, old mess.

I've got a lump in my throat, and I could cry at the drop of a hat, and it's all thanks to John Green.

Finishing Green's The Fault In Our Stars (referred to as TFIOS by the author himself) has left me distant, emotional, listless—and satisfied.  I anticipated that I would appreciate Green's work, as I've watched his various videos on YouTube, enjoying his sense of humor, clever dialogue, and honesty.  But I wasn't prepared for TFIOS.

John Green's hit young-adult novel.
In case it isn't obvious, I really liked it.

Hazel Grace Lancaster suffers from thyroid cancer, though an experimental wonderdrug has bought her some time.  She is wrapped up in her own little world, unaware there's love out there for her--until she meets Augustus Waters at her support group.  Augustus has osteosarcoma, in remission, and even lost a leg to it.  He's also dead sexy, and interested in Hazel, to her surprise.  As the two grow closer-- bonding over Hazel's favorite book, An Imperial Affliction, and over a trip to Amsterdam to meet it's author--their love and understanding of one another grows.

I fell in love with Augustus Waters and Hazel Grace Lancaster, and I am mourning for them in the end. This is Green's great feat; his book is equal parts tragedy and romance, and it works perfectly as both.  It is as sweet and funny as it is serious and mature.  Augustus' blind, bull-headed determination and his guarded ego drew me to him immediately. And Hazel, with her maturity, her fragility, her seriousness, her wit; even as the narrator, as we see her from the inside out, she's compelling from the outside in. I fell in love with Hazel as Augustus did, and I fell in love with Augustus as Hazel did.

Then came the drop. You know it from chapter one, from page one; for Hazel this story will not end well—in the sense that she will not live, not have a long and healthy life. We all have to die, but Hazel is dying sooner than most.  In anticipation for this fact, she has matured, refining her worries into something she can handle. But from the very beginning, you know someone's gonna die. You sense her hidden fear, her anxiety.

But when that drop comes, when the novel's twist hits you, and Hazel survives the love of her life, the narrative turns from being about her death, her end, to being about Augustus,' and the life they had. The finals pages extol Hazel's love and Augustus' legacy, and in that way, the book doesn't end with death so much as it does with life—why we live and care for others in this life, and why we let ourselves get hurt.  This may sound trite, but I assure you it all comes naturally.  This novel is a meditation on sacrifice and suffering, and coming to terms with both.

And so, TFIOS' final chapters are haunting me. Augustus' words haunt me. Hazel's pain is in me, and the pain isn't about disease or death, or about leaving this world without making an impression.  Explained in her own words, Hazel fears that she's a grenade—a time bomb, ready to go off and hurt those around her. She's going to die, and she knows it, and she doesn't want to get too close to Augustus, because she doesn't want to hurt him. She sees her parents suffer, and has seen Augustus suffer after losing someone else, and she doesn't want to be another source of pain for him.  God, isn't that relevant.

Going through my divorce, spending seven years loving someone, trying to make it work, and then having it all just go away... it feels like that if I did that again, if I got close to someone, and they went away again, or I went away... I'm not sure if I could handle it. I mean, I could, but what would it make of me? The book seems to illustrate what could happen, with the only character that could suffice as the villain: Peter van Houten, the author of our two lovers' favorite novel.  He lost his daughter years ago, when she was eight, and it haunts him. He wrote a book about losing her, to give her another life on paper, to try and make her immortal, but now he's crawled into a bottle, and given up on life.

I don't want to become a Peter van Houten, ever. And I fear I that I might, if I don't learn the lessons my life has to offer.

The point of the novel, of this story about loss and love, is addressed beautifully in its final pages.  Augustus hits this sensitive nail right on the head with his own words.  I find it hard to accept, hard to fully swallow--hence the lump in my throat--not because I don't believe it, but because it's just so damn relevant:

        “You don't get to choose if you get hurt in this world...but you do have some say in who hurts you. I like my choices.”

Wreck-It Ralph: the Review

Vanellope, Ralph, Felix, and Sergeant Calhoun

Disney’s “Wreck-It Ralph” has all the appearances of a by-the-numbers kids’ film, though at  times it feels more reminiscent of Pixar than Disney.  Witty dialogue, pop-culture references, and quirky archetypes are rife throughout.

But “Wreck-It Ralph” is more than the sum of it’s parts.  Charming and honest, with believable characters, vibrant visuals, and a well-paced plot that is as entertaining as it is involving, the film will satisfy both kids and adults.

Developed and distributed by Walt Disney Studio’s, “Wreck-It Ralph” is the company’s 52nd feature film.  First-time director and co-writer Rich Moore--known for directing episode’s of “the Simpsons” and “Futurama”--brings a clarity of purpose to the plot and characters.  Usually working within twenty-one-minute time frames, Moore keeps excellent pacing during “Wreck-It Ralph”’s 108 minutes.

The movie switches visual styles and color palettes all throughout, moving from a flat, pixelated 8-bit style to Disney’s crisp, clear CGI which it has become known for.  All the various video game worlds depicted have their own colors, moods, and even physics.  This adds depth and a sense of realism to what would otherwise be a very unrealistic animated film.

A key feature of “Wreck-It Ralph”, and one that anyone familiar with video or arcade games will pick up on, is the inclusion of many actual arcade game characters.  “Street Fighter”’s Zangief gives career advice to the main character, Q*bert helps out when he can, and everyone rides the Pac-Man rail system.

Moore and producers made an active effort to put in as many of these characters as they could.  The principal characters, however, are all original to the film.

What won’t feel as original is “Wreck-It Ralph”’s underdog story--though in a children’s film that’s par for the course.  Ralph is the villain of the arcade game “Fix-It Felix, Jr.,” an outdated classic reminiscent of Nintendo’s “Donkey Kong.”

The story takes place within the microcosm of the video games located within a particular arcade, Litwak’s Arcade.  It’s a bit of a brain-teaser, but the film doesn’t dwell on it, and neither should the audience.

Fed up with being left out, Ralph decides to earn the respect of his fellow arcade inhabitants any way he can.  Ralph leaves his home-game and ends up causing havoc amongst two others, finally ending up in “Sugar Rush,” a Candyland-themed go-cart racing game.

Felix, the titular hero of “Fix-It Felix, Jr.,” and Sergeant Calhoun, the hero of the high-resolution first-person shooter “Hero’s Duty,” decide to go after Ralph.  Once inside “Sugar Rush,” Ralph agrees to help the cheeky Vanellope von Schweetz, a glitchy would-be racer, who is an outcast in her home game, just like Ralph is in his.

The plot so described might seem a bit fluffy and pedantic.  But the charm of the film is that there is weight to all of this.  Characters have jobs and responsibilities, and what little cartoonish violence characters commit has suitable consequences.

If you die in your game, you’re gonna be fine.  But if you die outside of your game, or your game is unplugged--that’s it, you’re finished.  Therefore the central conflict of the film is getting Ralph back before his rash actions lead to two of the arcade’s games being shut down, causing hundreds to be deleted.

Despite this harrowing detail, Wreck-It Ralph is very light-hearted, and appropriate for children, particularly those who grew up with video games.  To the film’s credit, there is almost a complete lack of innuendo or toilet humor--with the notable exception, joking about “Hero’s Duty”, posted right in the trailer.

The relatable John C. Reilly provides the voice for Ralph.  Big, awkward and socially ostracised, Ralph is a perfect character for Reilly, who tends toward playing friendly outcasts.  Opposite in lead is Sarah Silverman as Vanellope von Schweetz; the popular comedian brings both her forwardness and sense of timing, but leaves her vulgarity at home.  Silverman and Reilly play well off one another, and their characters’ camaraderie feels genuinely warm.

The affable and handy Fix-It Felix, played by Jack McBrayer, and the gun-toting, no-nonsense Sergeant Calhoun, played by Jane Lynch, both meet while searching for the absent Ralph.  Felix immediately falls for the “high-definition” Calhoun, and eventually Calhoun falls for Felix’s tenacious kind heart--or perhaps the violent Calhoun just likes that Felix fixes everything he touches.

To the credit of McBrayer and Lynch, their characters are both likable and dynamic.  However,  Felix and Calhouns’ romance feels forced.  It is even stated that Calhoun is “coded” with a tragic past, to give Fix-It Felix something he needs to fix.  That is all the romantic incentive these characters need, it seems.

“Wreck-It Ralph”’s familiar theme--of underdogs and outcasts finding their happy place--is actually it’s strongest feature.  Characters leave their comfort zone, try to make something of themselves, cause problems along the way, but then ultimately solve these problems by being true to their nature.  To help him along the way, Ralph remembers the villain’s montra: I’m bad and that’s good.

By the closing act, the four leads have come together to solve the problems that Ralph has caused along the way--but in solving these problems, they all grow, and every character finds a new and better place.  Though this is a very safe way to end the film, it works, thanks to “Wreck-It Ralph”’s warm performances and clever writing.

Sure, its premise might be strange, and some of its elements a bit trite; but the skill of the film’s production, along with so many of it’s clever ideas combined, helps solidify “Wreck-It Ralph” as a true Disney animated classic.

Debate Numero Uno: How Romney Got His Groove Back

The first of the 2012 presidential debates was held on October 3, and it sure does look like Obama dropped the ball on this one. More importantly, Romney actually looked pretty fantastic.  What's going on??

Romney seemed to have a firm grasp of what he wanted to say and do, and he was by far the more aggressive and confident of the two men--yet he remained respectful. Obama just looked... languid, like he was still in practice mode.  Was this a strategy upon Obama's part, to look like a total wimp? Is Obama trying the rope-a-dope strategy, and just not letting us in on this?

Prior to the debate Romney was looking pretty bad; news of his “47 percent” comment at a Florida fundraiser that had incited intense criticism was still ringing in everyone's ears, and he was behind Obama in the polls by as much as 4 percent. But now he's riding high off of what appears to be a lead, according to several prominent sources, including CNN.

What the happened, Romney? More importantly, what happened Obama??

I'm coming from a biased standpoint here; I like Obama—seems like a great guy—and I am a Democrat in almost all respects (I like owning a gun, that's about all that keeps me from being wholly capital D—can you blame me? I'm a Texan after all). But I'm not a zealot, and I have room on my metaphorical shelf for respect for Romney.

As the governor of Massachusetts, Romney was quite moderate; he had a pro-choice standpoint and he mobilized his Democratic-majority legislature to push through a solid health care plan. It's obvious that, in order to appeal to farther-right-leaning Republican voters—and more importantly to get the support of the radicals in his party—he had to swing away from the middle during his run for the presidency.

This is no time for sign language, Mitt.

This always happens, candidates have to swing toward their party. It's par for the course. It just means that I can't respect him as much as a presidential candidate as I did when he was a governor. So I support Obama.

Now isn't that a sad sight? I'm more AGAINST the opposition than I am FOR my party's nominee. I can't exactly blame Obama; this IS politics, and he has to appeal to his voters and his party just like Romney. But what I CAN blame him for his not showing us his strength. As a presidential candidate four years ago, he was confident, charismatic, and opinionated. Old Barack would not have stood for new Barack. Look how far all four of you have fallen, future-and-past Barack and Mitt. For shame.

Well, maybe not so much shame for Romney. The facts and the stances don't matter as much in a televised debate; the performances do. Romney has changed his stance since his gubernatorial days, but he has also shown in the debate that he can confidently command a room, and look good doing it. Obama didn't show his stuff; his performance suffered, and it's his performance that is under attack here, and rightfully so. He was too quiet, too cautious. Despite Romney having that seemingly-Republican characteristic of occasionally putting his foot in his mouth, he shined last night, and made Obama look like a player in a lesser league. And for that, Romney should be praised.

If I had a president who was both confident and commanding, and who supported ideals that I personally support, I'd be more than pleased. And seeing as how most politicians don't ever do what they say once they get into office—and instead just do what they've always done—I may enjoy or even benefit from a Romney presidency. So long as he ignores the radicals of his party like he used to.

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(I wrote the article above as an exercise in how NOT to write a news story.  In time I plan on posting my actually news coverage of the first presidential debate, sans bias and informal language.)

OkCupid: Impressions: day 1

Following an extremely normal and expected letdown in my personal life, and a realization that I had acquired a bit of the "dating bug", I followed the advice of so many others and joined the online dating website OkCupid.

What follows are some of my impressions and evaluations of the process of starting my profile.  I'm just writing how I feel, and I'm just going from memory, and from glancing at my own profile page.  This is raw, people.

Getting into it:
Logging on and beginning the creation of a profile was easy and simple.  It's obvious that initially they are looking for a simple system and easy entry.  With something that relies on user input as heavily, they needed to make the set-up simple, and they have.  I'm unsure of just how many people are on there, but I can assume it's a large number of sad and lonely people like myself.

You, you, you:
Immediately after setup you are brought to your homepage, your profile.  You're certainly not done, and there's a progress bar to the side that measures just how much left you have to do, like it's some kind of test.  I STILL haven't finished setup, and I spent 3 hours on this.  What takes so long?  We'll get to that.
--First, however, you must fill in all the details of your profile.  Ethnicity, height, body type, if you smoke or do drugs, what you're religious beliefs are, how much money you make, etc.  All the hard, simple facts.  Relatively easy.
--Next. you must provide a profile picture (or pictures).  This is that first impression.  It is what people will see when they view your page, and even before they do.  A little thumbnail of yourself accompanies any information presented about you.  For instance, if I see a message that "Jane Brown" has such and such level of compatibility with me, I see a picture of her.  So, one must accomplish the impossible, and post a pleasing picture of oneself, a picture that will simultaneously represent you accurately and be the sole, initial focus of the judgement of those who happen to view you.  Woe is you, for thinking you could avoid this step; OkCupid is smart to put this step early on, to scare off the weak or hideous.  So I post a picture.  My fate is sealed.
--Then, you must fill in the "About" section, wherein you must put into words everything you want those who view your page to see.  It's a lot easier than choosing a profile picture, because you have the option to give a more full impression of yourself, if you're good at doing so with text on-screen.  Of course, if they're on your page already, they've already seen your profile picture, and for some reason they've approved of you.  Oh no, you've got someone stalking you, someone who likes to hurt ugly people like you.  Most of the "About" section is a series of open-ended statements you must complete: "I'm really good at", "The first things people notice about me", "The six things I could never do without", etc. This section also contains an "I'm looking for" section, wherein you say what kind of person you're personally seeking, and what kind of relationship you're looking for.

Then it gets personal:
The next "step" in the process is to answer some random questions about yourself.  I put step in quotation marks because, at this point, all of this is more work than a resume.  You should be getting paid for this.  And like any job, there's plenty of long, boring, repetitive work.  To finish this step in the process it recommends you complete 75 questions.  There are, of course, more than 75, but you need to finish at least 75.
Now, some of these questions are straightforward, easy, and unobtrusive.  You are presented with a statement ("Could you date someone who was really messy?" for instance) and you must respond, sometimes in degrees, other times with a yea or nae.  Following your approval, you must put what response to the above statement you want others to give ("Answer I'll Accept...") and finally you rate the importance of the question (from "Irrelevant" to "Mandatory").  This process has a pattern after a few questions, and you soon realize you're creating compatibility information, data the site uses to match you with potential partners. Around the time you're figuring this out, you start running into the personal questions. "Were you picked on a lot in school?", "Do you enjoy meaningless sex?", "Would you ever consider cutting a partner (who asked for it) in sexual play?", "Do you enjoy giving oral sex?", or "Do you believe in God?"  After the thirtieth question or so, I knew it was in deep.
Ironically, there's a rhythm you get into when you start talking about yourself, particularly answering questions.  You watch your "score" to the side, which measures how specific your answers are, and how likely you are to find a "perfect" match; you answer some very introspective and powerful questions, followed by completely asinine ones, and you start to get into a pattern.  Like I said early, I spent three hours signing up, and the majority of that time was spent on these questions.

And then the voyeurism starts:
When you've answered at least 75 questions, you are informed the next step is to take a look at their recommendations, and message 5 people.  Randomly message five people.  In real life, this would be the pick-up line.
Fair enough though, have to start somewhere.  So you start looking.  This is when the dirtiness starts to sink in.  You see a series of profile pictures--pictures carefully chosen by strangers, just as you chose yours--and you starts just knocking them down.  Boom, boom, boom, ding.  Not you, not you, not you, yes you.  As you look at their pics, you see their basics next to each:  username, sexual orientation (straight for me), relationship status (mine pages only show single), location, and how compatible each person is with you--specifically with your questions and profile information.  And it only takes moments, seconds, for you to start turning people down in your head, and deciding who you'd pursue.
You click on one person: a girl with a silly username and a cute picture.  She's too good looking, but hey, maybe you're a perfect match?  No, you're an 83% match, though OkCupid delightfully informs you that you're also a 90% "Friend" match with this person, and only a 13% "Enemy" match with them.  So let's call this person "PlainJane888" and she's 23 and single and lives nearby in Round Rock.
Going to PlainJane888's profile, you can read all of her questions, personal details, and interests.  You can see it all, including more photos, if Jane's uploaded anymore.  You can even go to their "personality" section, where you see data comparing her to the average girl on OkCupid.  According to this page, you see she's "less sloppy", "less sex-driven", and "more conservative" than the average girl.  Go figure.
From here you go to her questions, where they've put her questions and answers side-by-side with yours; the section is titled "the Two of Us" just to remind you.  Oh, hey, look, PlainJane888 thinks that jealousy is healthy, just like you do.  That's great.  If you keep looking, you find out more and more about them.  This is a mixed bag, of course, as you might agree on some completely frivolous questions (oh, look, we both like horror movies), but then disagree on important things (you say you want your next relationship to be 6-12 months, and Jane is looking for a one-night stand).  You can even answer new questions on this page, getting an instant comparison to this particular person, increasing (or decreasing) your compatibility score with them.  That's great.

The icing:
The secret is... this is TOO perfect.  I feel simultaneously sleazy, hopeful, and objectified.  But it works.  You're getting quick results, comprehensive (if shallow or skewed) information on complete strangers, and you can easily just pass by or ignore people you have no immediate interest in.  It's almost too much... and the worst part is, all the information is subject to change or interpretation, meaning you're only getting what you want to get from it.  I could read my profile page and think I'm a charming, intelligent, capable guy, or I could read it and think I was a snarky, bloated loser.  And I could do just about the same to anyone else.

The bottom line is, I'm impressed and disgusted at the same time.  The step in the registration process I'm stuck on, is messaging at least 5 people.  I think I've sent 3 girls a short message, nothing that would actually hook anyone.  I'm sure OkCupid will want a medical report and semen sample next.

Of course, I say all this having not heard any messages from anyone else, not even the three I've sent.  Perhaps I'd have a different perspective on all this if I'd obtained immediate results.  I'd settle for a quick, cheerful conversation online...
But this is day one, and there will be more to come, I'm sure.
I need to go take a cold shower.