Gore

My son, Walker, recently put together enough money to puchase and X-Box 360. If you are 13, this is what you must have. He can now play games on the internet with people he has never met, wearing this headphone with a microphone that reminds me of Madonna. He is, predictably, obsessed, and he and I have done a couple rounds about homework, sax lessons, and generally coming up for air.

He's downloaded a trial of one of those shoot-em-up games where he gets to do house to house combat and kill people, who die with great graphic accuracy, with parts of their heads splattered against the wall and pools of blood for them to lie in (which grow bigger as the blood leaks out of their pixilated bodies). Sort of Iraq lite, if you think about it.

I commented that I found the game offensive. I suggested that I might have a problem with him purchasing it, and that this sort of gratuitous violence is not consistent with our values. Walker was hanging out with his friend Dalton, who I have come to like, with some effort. He was part of an out of control incident with spray paint that resulted in Walker doing some serious wire brushing on our sidewalk and curb. Walker says Dalton is kind of the "bad son" at his house, which seems ludicrous to me because the other son is such a schlub. So, I like Dalton, and root for the underdog.

"It's not real. I'm not going to go out and shoot anyone, and my behavior isn't bad. What's your problem?" my son asked. I said I had a problem with him spending his time pretending to be the kind of person who takes human life to earn a score.

"No offense, Dad," Walker said, impatient to get back to mayhem, "but you're the kind of guy who takes pictures of flowers."

I also have a wide stance.

Walker is a good soul, first chair sax in jazz band, getting good grades, and staying out of trouble. Not bad for a mass murderer.