Wading in the Velvet Sea

Friday

Pretty uneventful. Stayed in, I made ziti, we drank wine. I proudly showed her my two new games for the Playstation 2, which she greeted with a customary roll of the eyes. So on the spot I suggested she star in Spike Lee’s next film, “Know Better Blues”. Short for “I Should Know Better Blues”. She hates my videogame habit, can barely tolerate the fact that I listed to so much Phish, cringes every time I watch a Sox or Pats game, and yet, she’s stuck with me because I’m so gosh-darn adorable. “Know Better Blues”, y’all.

Naturally the night went fine until I decided to play one quick level of my newest game (“Black”), only to find, unlike say every other game known to man since 1993, this game doesn’t let you save in-level. You can only make it to checkpoints (spaced further apart than the thoughts in Britney Spears’ head), and work your way through what turned out to be an insanely long level. She gets mad because I promised I’d only play while she watched a design show, I get mad because my hand-eye coordination is horrible with sober (and I was 4 glasses in), and I had to wait until after she went to bed to destroy that armory. Lose-lose all around.

Saturday

Determined to put this nerve-wracking game behind me, I wake up early. Well, early for me. 10 am, to be exact. The Girl’s out, so I make breakfast, fix me a cup of coffee, and get right back to killing Czechnians. By the time she’s come home, I’ve downed another level. Deeming myself on a role, I keep playing. Only the next one, naturally, is much harder than the last, so she’s stuck watching her shows, and I’m stuck unable to save my work, and after ninety minutes, you bet your sweet Aunt Petunia’s bottom I’m not stopping now.

Meanwhile, The Girl is wracked with sorrow in the living room. Turns out she watched a commercial that had her reaches for the tissues and wondering, where, oh for the love of Phyllis Diller where, was there any justice in the world? The commercial? A Pedigree dogfood commercial showing homeless dogs...and if that wasn't bad enough, there's voice-over narration as if the dog was talking to the viewer. This is the commercial in question. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Yea. Oh Lordy. So I’m trying to calm her down, even though my heart’s racing a million miles from the game, so really I’m in need of a sedative as well, and she can’t really get her thoughts out, so it sounds like she saw a commercial for “Pedigree for Homeless Dogs”, and I’m inwardly wondering what special dietary needs a homeless dog needs opposed to a house-living dog, but I’m not Larry David so I keep the thought on the inside until she stops heaving.

Sufficed to say, neither of us were in a great mood when we left for dinner and a movie that night.

The Girl suggested earlier that we go to see “Smoking Aces”, which I was down for. She wanted to know which film to see: the 5 or the 7:40. Since my skills at “Black” are insanely, and my one talent seems to be stepping into the path of a rocket launcher at a moment’s notice, I can’t accurately tell her when we can leave. (This is all a way of saying everything that happens afterward is my fault.)

I finish maybe 30 minutes later, and by now she’s made the MovieFone reservations for 7:40. We leave around 5:45 to get some food before hand. Naturally, the first place has a 45 minute wait. Next place? 45 minute wait. Where do The Girl and I have dinner on our date?

Wendy’s.

Can…you feel…the love…tonight?

I’m beyond pissed, she’s still thinking about the dogs, and to the untrained eye in Wendy’s, it must have looked like I just found out the baby wasn’t mine or something. Can’t even imagine. Sorry to break your stale baked potato eating moments, Wendy’s patrons. We end up driving around and finding a Ground Round, which unbelievably enough was a step up, culture-wise, from where we’d been. And yea, I’m a snob, but this was the Bar That Time Forgot. But it had seats, and more importantly, it had booze, so it fill the bill. The bartender asks me if I was a 16 or a 22, and I tell her I want to stick my mouth under the tap and drink deeply.

As for the movie: solid. Not the “Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels” type of movie that they advertise, but it’s very solid. And also gruesome. And very videogame-inspired. And I know I harp on the games thing all the time, but seriously, this thing had “Grand Theft”-inspired scenes everywhere, with a touch of “Resident Evil” chainsaw action to boot. Worth your $10 if you’re OK with graphic language, violence, and waaaay too many close-ups of Jeremy Piven’s sweat, coked-out face.

We get back on the road, and I say, “Well, so far, this night’s been a 3/10. But I’m fairly sure we can drink our way up to a 6.5”.

“Hell, yea,” she replies.

And another bottle disappears from the weekend stash.

Sunday

Got up, played “Black” for 11 hours.

Um, that was it.

Seriously.

I might write a novel one day about that last level, since it had the density of “Ulysses” going on there. The last level was as hard as everything before it put together, which may explain why nearly half of my game play for “Black” seemed to be on this last level. Ineluctable Modality of the Machine Gun, perhaps. Turning off was not an option, though there was the very real possibility I would not get it done before bed and I’d have to keep the damn PS2 on until I did, and just pray no lightning storms knocked our power out.

Needless to say, I’m finished, and I’m finished for the time being with all this neo-realism in my games. I don’t want to be a black-ops mercenary anyone. I want to be a beaver with a machine gun or something. I can’t get this worked up if I’m a beaver with a machine gun.

The whole point was to play until the Super Bowl, in order to avoid the boring 6-hour preview show. Course, I missed the damn game itself. Not that I was looking forward to it, but I wouldn’t have mined watching it. I wasn’t purposely avoiding it. And I wasn’t purposely avoiding The Girl, who spent the day doing homework and going to the gym and, perhaps, finding a few dozen dogs a good home, and listening to distance cries of, “Will you give me a freakin’ checkpoint already???”

***

And now it’s Sunday night, she’s in bed asleep, I’m ready to have a heart attack thanks to that last level, and we’re both looking forward to Monday.

Least we have our health.

And some wine left in the weekend stash.