Mysterious Barricades

You know you’ve found a good one when you give her a tour of your living space saying, “This is my Samurai Jack poster, Samurai Jack bobble-heads, Storm Trooper and Captain America figures, Optimus Prime Mr. Potato Head, Ratchet and Clank cardboard cutout and action figures (mint in box), signed Les Paul t-shirt, Zombie superhero painting, Nerf battle axe and mace, stuffed abominable snowman from those Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer claymation specials, yo-yo collection, and Pokemon Monopoly game,” and she replies, “I call Blastoise.”

There’s a certain contentment that comes after you’ve eaten delicious oatmeal, pancakes, or pizza and beer, or when you’ve hit a stretch of time in which all that goes wrong is clearly your fault only. That’s no bad thing. Now, nothing has gone wrong, and I’m not complaining. Things are all right for me at the moment. I had my oatmeal this morning, and I’m experiencing that oh-so-delicious oatmeal contentment. 

Is it really the oatmeal? Maybe, just maybe I learned a new and exciting intermediate level yo-yo trick and there’s a special someone that I would like to show it to. Perhaps I finally have a genuine reason to wear collared shirts and an excess of hair product. And maybe it’s not just that I have a reason, but perhaps that I have a good reason. Perhaps I’ve been listening to quite a bit of 1980’s era Tesla.  

Spivey Hall, you have the worst timing. You would choose to feature a concert of my favorite composer and my favorite work by said composer during what might be the busiest, most expensive week of my winter. This is beyond bad luck. This is malicious. 

I really did have every intention of getting some work done in this coffee shop. The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry. 

So lemme tell you what I learned yesterday. Hunker down.

I learned that I might have the world’s weakest shoulders and that an arcade boxing game can accurately diagnose the strengths and weaknesses of one’s personality. You see, there’s this game at the arcade where the player, that’s me, picks up two boxing gloves, each weighing about the same as a medium sized dog, and proceeds to try and beat the living crap out of some pixels on a screen. There are some problems with this system besides the aforementioned puppy weighted gloves. For one thing, one cannot simply throw punches and land a successful hit. Instead, the player must waited for prompts from the game. Here’s my problem with that: Isn’t the game your enemy? Why in the world would the game want me to land a good punch? What’s worse is that there is no tangible reaction to let the player know that one has come in contact with the enemy pixels. So in my case, it meant swinging those bags of cement on my hands like an idiot in front of people I’m trying not to look like an idiot in front of. Oh yeah, the pixels swing back, and apparently one is supposed to dodge. I contend that I would not have to dodge if I didn’t have to wait for the prompts to throw my super powered punches. 

And it’s not over. Once you’ve been defeated in the second round, the computer that engineers this fight and gives you your prompts then breaks down your personality into a tasty little recipe. It must be pretty accurate because I was told that I am the most clever person on planet Earth. Yep, that’s what it said. I was there. Saw the whole thing. My buddy in the boxing stall next to me (couldn’t make it past the first round, poor guy) was very charismatic. That means that he lulls the opposing boxer into a false sense of romance and then clocks him good in the gut. 

Long story short: My back and shoulder are on fire. Best part of yesterday. Until around 7:30.

None of your business, that’s what.