Guitar Heroics

At the Javitz Center a couple of weeks ago, the Ziff Davis conglomerate hosted the DigitalLife technology trade show. It's fun stuff, really. Lots of gadgets and gaping black holes into which you can throw hard-earned money. Oh yeah, and one booth handing out lollipops, which I thought was kind of creepy, although delicious.

At DigitalLife, there was a big booth featuring Guitar Hero 3. Now, I have played guitar hero just a few times in my life. I am fine if we are playing a meandering rock ballad on Easy, but anything beyond that just adds extra stress to my life, which is one thing that I don't need. But these kids at DigitalLife, who I consider to be my guitar heroes, are phenomenal. But after watching these guys pleay guitar hero, it makes you wonder if their talents aren't being a bit misguided.

Of course, this is what the video game industry is doing and has done for decades now. When I was younger (what I condescendingly tout as the "before my mission" days), I played my fair share of video games, starting with Sonic the Hedgehog. I could wax off the first level in 32 seconds with my eyes closed. Then came RBI Baseball 2, where I could run up the score into the hundreds before my eyes would dry out and crust over. It was often a crash course in problem solving and perseverence, although I admit that I was never really that good at any video games. (I always played RBI baseball on Rookie and never defeated Dr. Robotnik on the final level, where Sonic flies in a surprisingly agile biplane.)

Essentially, it taught me how to solve problems that didn't really matter and that didn't help me in life. The only times that video games have ever really come in handy is as a networking tool and conversation fodder. ("How you doing, Chris. It's been a while .... so have you played the new Resident Evil? Lot's of ill-tempered zombies in that one ...") And as technology has progressed, the industry has become progressively more capable of tapping highly specialized skills towards meaningless pursuits. Enter Guitar Hero. Enter Dance Dance Revolution. Enter Bass Masters.

The real danger is that these meaningless pursuits aren't as meaningless as we outsiders (we that are jealous) make it out to be. This really matters to a lot of people, mainly a lot of overweight 20-somethings and anemic computer programmers at the Javitz center. It's not because it is a waste of time that it becomes a problem. It is because people don't realize that it is a waste of time. The line separating reality and a false albeit satisfying sense of reality is dissappearing.

This is the argument that I give, and the argument that countless others would give if they had as much time on their hands as I do. So with that in mind, I am going sit on the couch and watch college football. And then I am going to cheer on the Red Sox as they beat the Indians in Game 6. After that, I might read the last few chapter of Frankenstein or go see a show on Broadway.Or otherwise escape reality with a false sense of reality. And I will be joined by the concourses of countless others who purport that Guitar Hero is a waste of time, a senseless squandering of talent. All of whom are really just jealous that we can't play Strutter on Expert.

Land of opportunity

I have been on vacation this weekend, which I am never naiive enough to enjoy. I went determined to discover the joys of New Englandish carelessness in the Can-American peninsula of Maine. It seemed a shame to miss the leaves turn in the leaf-turning capital of the world when I was so close. I mean, it was either that or Florida, and I figured since Florida is nice all year round and since I have lived Florida sufficiently through countless episodes of Miami Vice, I should give something else a try. (That's the same reason that I drive a Lincoln and not a Ferrari.)

Anyways, while en route I also stopped by to meet some family in Massachusetts and found pretty much everything that I was looking for in Maine. The weather was beautiful, the fall colors were vibrant, and the sidewalks were not hidden by splotches of chewed gum. We went for a walk in the woods with their dogs (neither of which have names worth trying to pronounce, let alone spell) that would have made any transcendentalist proud. Well maybe except for Thoreau because he was a hack. A big fat hack. And he couldn't build a house that would last long enough for the emminent rush of tourists to ogle. It was the perfect day (plus a couple of hours) of the anti-Times Square.

But during my stay, the cleaning ladies came to clean. That's what they do best, you know. Turns out that they were Brazilians, which makes me happy because I will find any excuse to practice my Portuguese. (Well, more accurately, I am always looking for easy ways to impress people, such as speaking in Portuguese. Really not that impressive, I guess, when it is something that hundreds of millions of people can already do. Regardless, please forgive my selfishness.) After speaking to them for a while, I asked if they were here with their families.

The two women, it turns out, are sisters, and they live with their other two sisters who also clean houses. So the four of them, and all of their four spouses live together. Probably not the ideal conditions, but certainly livable. So eight people under the same roof is nothing to complain about, right? And cleaning for a living isn't a bad way to live. I even envy the guy at work who gets to run the floor waxer. But these poor women.

They left their children--one left 4, the other 2--all under the age of 12 back in Minas Gerais, a state in northern Brazil. They had not seen them for three years, during the time they have spent here cleaning houses. Now I don't have kids (none that I have made public, at least), but I can't imagine how a mother's heart must hurt as she cleans houses of families that have everything (and often take it for granted, I am sure) as she thinks of her children thousands of miles away who have nothing.

Damn those selfish good-for-nothing immigrants.

Living Large

So my roommate and I are getting along great. No major arguments, no large grease fires, no larceny to speak of. We are both considerate of each others' personal space and beliefs, level of cleanliness, etc. I really have no room to complain, but those who know me know me better than that.

My rommate is a nice young woman, 22 years old from South Carolina. It goes without saying coming from the home/mission/BYU-Idaho background that graces my past 23 years that this is the first member of the opposite sex that I have lived with. (Of course my mom and sister don't count. Don't be silly.) "Interesting" perhaps explains it best, with "educational" and "experimental" close behind.

She's a very nice girl, and not necessarily unattractive. I mean, I am in no risk of throwing away a shot at eternal salvation or anything, but she is datable by most standards. But let me tell you a couple things about the totally platonic state of cohabitation in which I have found myself. A couple of observations, not complaints. No, no complaining here.

I am happy that I have had this opportunity to live with a woman before being married to one. Some of the things that would have shocked me during the first few months of living with my wife have now surfaced, which will take a few surprises away from the adventure called matrimony. And believe me, the last thing that I want in marriage are surprises, except for good ones like new sets of golf clubs and power drills for my birthday/anniversary.

For example, you and I know both know why God invented Saturdays: college football. It's a special day where we can get all of the sports out of our systems so that we are ready for Sunday. Well apparently this memo is just attached to our Y chromosones, boys. Let me tell you what has been broadcast on the new Samsung LCD television and HD cable box (both of which I bought specifically to watch college football, mind you) over the bast two saturday afternoons. Vanity Fair (shoot me now, I beg of you), Working Woman, several excruciating seasons of Sex in the City and Friends, Miss Congeniality (I will let that one pass because Sandra Bullock is my future bride), and Must Love Dogs. That's not right. It just ain't.

So instead of watching football, I thought I could at least vaccuum my room. But our vaccuum just doesn't work like the commercials have told me it should. Its little motor whirs away, but it absolutely sucks at sucking like it should. I flip it over to make sure there is nothing stuck in the unercarriage (such as a Snickers wrapper, stray kitten, etc.). All that I found was hair. Miles of hair, all wrapped up in the vaccuum that just wanted to get its job done. So much hair that the brushes on the plastic roll were not even visible. And people don't buy dogs because they shed. You don't want hair all over the place, get a dog and don't get married (or don't move in with a woman).

And the bathroom, boys, don't even get me started. My rooommate dies her hair red, and although I am not sure how the process works exactly, one step (apparently) also involves dying the grout in the shower the same color red. And when I walk in after she has applied makeup, every exposed surface (mirror, sink, toilet seat, tile floor, toothbrush, etc.) has a light dusting of that powdery stuff. You know, the stuff inside those plastic clams that women always carry in their purses. And I never feel totally at home with my pants down when I can see brushes and combs and curling irons peeking over the edge of the shelf above me.

In the end, what I have in a female roommate are all of the caveats of marriage with none of the benefits. You know, I still have to cook my own meals and my Friday nights are still lonely. For all intents and purposes, all I want back is Mark, Dan and Kyle, who didn't mind when I left the seat up.

A Litany of Regret

I am now a real person, at least idealistically. I am out of college, I no longer live with my parents (my mom just sent me the remaining contents of my closet at home; what was once "Tony's room" is now in the process of becoming "Dad's office," a titled previously held by a makeshift desk secured by a piano hinge sitting in front of his toilet downstairs), and I have a job that makes enough to both pay the bills and sustain select guilty pleasures (you know, eating, paying rent, and going to Mets games). That means that I should only have real concerns, I should only commit real mistakes, and I should only make really good decisions. Again, idealistically, perhaps not practically.

However, I do feel that now is a good time to outline the litany of regrets that I have about some 23 years of life. And this is not a confessional, but a reflection. It may be of consequence that this is being posted between sessions of Conference, but I would like to think that it is something more than that; that is to say that it is a genuine and pensive attempt to leave some things behind and not a spontaneous admission of guilt that will be deleted (both figuratively and literally) tomorrow morning.

I have not valued many personal relationships with good people. I am sorry that I did not remain friends with Ryan (safer that full names are omitted, huh?), one of the purest people that I have ever met. In choir in fourth grade we were voting on who was to be choir president, and he asked me to vote for him. We voted by a raise of hands, and when his name came up, I didn't vote for him. Neither did anyone else. He cried in class, in front of everyone. I am sorry, Ryan. I regret not voting for you. And I am sorry that I was not your friend through what I'm sure were some of the hardest of your life.

Once in Brother Sanford's seminary class we were playing somewhat of a scriptural muscial chairs, and it was a showdown between Betsy and me. The music stopped and I pulled the chair out from under her. She fell and she cried. I'm sorry, Betsy. Sorry I cared more about winning a childhood game involving the scriptures than I cared about your physical safety. Ironic, really. The scriptures, which I'm sure advise people not to pull chairs out from under others. (Probably in Exodus somewhere, one of the "Thou shalt not"s.) I regret that I let my competitive nature get the better of my civility.

I sold a cornet on Ebay with a post which I said that the valves were recently overhauled, which was not true. Sorry about that, guy in Minnesota that bought it. The thing barely even played. But you found that out soon enough, I'm sure. I regret having lied in that Ebay post.

Once I tried to take a corner too fast in my mom's new Volkswagen Jetta (the first new car that she ever bought) and running into a telephone pole at Hastings on Overland. It was a dumb move in a car that I shouldn't have even been driving. My mom let me take it to school while she took the bus to work. The last day of high school, someone keyed the front door and quarterpanel on both sides, which was something that I undoubtedly deserved. I regret having tried to take that corner too fast, I regret that my mom had to take the bus to work, and I regret having offended someone so bad that they would key both sides of my (e.g. my mom's) car.

I have spent most of my life trying to be cool, to little avail. Cool (in the conventional Will Smith sense) is something that I am not, and something that I will never be. I regret having tried.

I never learned the course of romance. (All I know from what love is I have learned from Sinatra lyrics.) I tried taking the physical side of the relationship too slow and taking the emotional side too fast, which broke my poor confused, dillusional heart. Then I tried taking the physical side too fast with little emotional attachment, which just made me a bad person in so many senses. I regret that I broke my own heart and that I undoubtedly hurt others along the way (I won't say "broke others' hearts" because I would be giving myself way too much credit).

I have said things that I have thought would be fun or funny or witty, all in the name of good fun. But in so doing I crossed lines and entered arenas where "good fun" does not belong. Some of these statements have been lewd, others cutting, others self-depricating. I regret having not respected that line.

I have been pefectly pessimistic and unduly cynical for most of my life, which is maybe one of the most unbecoming characteristics (aside from being homocidal, of course) that a person can have. It repels the kind of people that I want to be around and represses the kind of man I know that I should be. I regret calling pessimism realism, an idea which is absolutely repulsive.

I will not go on for fear that people will stop reading or stop caring, although this is by no means the end of my list of regrets. I hope that those who have been offended (such as the person who keyed my (e.g. my mom's) car and those who I offended by virtue of my relationship idiocy) at least understand that I am trying to be a better person. After all, I am now here in real life where I know that my actions have--and my actions have had--real effects on real people.