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Man Chi. Three-hundred hulking pounds of anime fan-flesh. His thick upper arm, a quavering mass of tattooed gelatin, reads “I Heart Mom.” But the MegaCon attendees don’t flee from his presence because of his aura of machismo—oh no. His hairy, tree-trunk legs ferry him forward in complete Chi garb, a tiered white dress mountainous like a wedding cake.
Downtown Orlando is but a small, rubbery carrot in the American melting pot, a flip-flop of tourism in Florida. My girlfriend has taken me to a “BJD” get-together. The attendees are predominately female hobbyists from a message-board called “Den of Angels,” and the “BJDs” are ball-jointed dolls, a breed of effeminate Asian manikins valued between $500 and $3000.
What is it about the activity of role-playing that makes non-gamers scoff? Is it the game’s association with overweight, drooling, thirty-something social rejects who lock themselves in their mothers’ basements for hours on end?
The kind of faith that is defined as belief in God out of fear of consequences, not only cheapens the whole concept of salvation, but cheapens the concept of God himself.
