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10.27.2002 - 10:39 a.m.
Sunday
Our house has forever changed.
The thing that has been introduced into our lives has altered
the state of our domesticity, in ways I could have never foreseen.
Like the squalling of a baby, it calls out; demanding attention,
it holds us hostage in its phosphorescent grip.
I'm talking, of course, about
Xbox.
It appeared in our living room
last week, its coiled wiry black arms greeting me one day when
I came home from work. Its glowing cold green eye staring.
I tried. You can't say I didn't
try to appreciate it. I attempted to drive cars that smashed
against guardrails and other vehicles, screeched all over the
road and then told me I wasn't fast enough. I gamely pointed
guns at things that brutally attacked me and left me for dead,
time and time again. I haltingly maneuvered a catlike mammal
around a world that killed me in humorous yet relentless ways.
What I have learned is that
apparently I have a complete and utter lack of hand-eye coordination
skills. I sort of suspected this all along, but now I have irrefutable
proof.
JB, on the other hand, can
manipulate the little buttons and triggers and knobs with freakish
speed and accuracy, like he has about 50 thumbs.
In addition to being very,
very bad at the games, they cause me dire stress. When the blinking
light indicates an alien is approaching me from behind, I can
hardly stop myself from whirling around physically and staring
over my shoulder. If I can't stop my car in time from crashing
headfirst into a highway divider, I wince and make an involuntary
"arh!" sound. When my character is pulverized and the
point of view rises to show my lifeless body, I heave a shaky
sigh and think well, at least THAT'S over with.
So I have reconciled myself
to the role of Observer. This is not too bad, as it appears I
am quite easily entertained by what seems to be a movie unfolding
before me. Openmouthed, I can happily watch JB blow away monsters
left and right.
If it is true that I tend to
take the games a little too seriously, JB suffers from the same
fault. Instead of being a chickenshit like me, however, he gets
into it. "All right, boys", he mutters to his
on-screen Marines, "Saddle up, because we've got some major
fucking asses to kick here."
"Say your prayers, motherfucker,
because you're going DOWN."
And if the idea of me sitting
around watching someone play video games is not dreary enough,
this is how I spent part of my Saturday afternoon: combing the
web for cheats that will help JB get past a certain game level.
JB may be talented with a digitally rendered machine gun, but
his memory is pure crap.
" 'Near a couple of canisters
you'll find an Overshield,' I read. "Did you find that?"
"Um, I'm not sure. Maybe."
" 'There is an Elite carrying
a laser sword atop the central platform'," I say with exasperation.
"THINK. Did you SEE a 'laser sword'?"
"Yeah! Wait. Um, I can't
remember."
I'm not sure what sort of game
I would be good at. Something that doesn't actually require me
to move around or interact with things, or propel scary
objects at me with lightning speed, or sap my 'life energy',
or require me to use complex button-pushing combinations.
This is sad...but I think online
shopping is as close as I can get.
"AMAZON: OPERATION
WISHLIST."
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0
comments so far.
I have moved. - 1.03.2005
Obviously, a work in progress. - 12.27.2004
Happy holidays! - 12.24.2004
Listen, I am not a complete dick, it's not like I want Joe to die alone surrounded by cats or something. - 12.23.2004
Plus I am convinced my butt is extra big when it's upside down. - 12.22.2004
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