"Hold, up, baby...lemme get this navel lint real quick..."
Sick of E3? Sick of politics and the media frenzy? Sick of fanboys, Red Ring of Death, and annual retail upgrades of your favorite hardware?
Smile and be glad you're not me: I am so sick and tired of frickin' Rascal Flatts.
Yes, you in the back: question? Say what? Oh. (He says he was sick of Rascal Flatts after one viewing of Pixar's Cars.) Good for you, sir. I live in Texas, remember? Texans have an obligation to put up with country singers for at least three albums; after that, we send them back to Tenessee.
In the meantime, "Me And My Gang" from the Guitar Hero World Tour Store very nearly has me smashing my ridiculously expensive plastic guitar through my compareably less expensive and more worthwhile HD TV. (It's amazing how a $59.99 guitar peripheral and a $1.99 download can make you scoff at the window stickers in a Lexus parking lot. "We can afford this if we want it...so long as we don't have to get that Guitar Hero drum set.")
You'll notice that my Gamertag history lists Guitar Hero World Tour pretty far down the line. It's not because I don't like the game...it's not because I don't have the time, necessarily...it's not for lack of my wife begging me to play. It's because every time I add a Credence Clearwater Revival song to the setlist, my wife pleads for that stupid Rascal Flatts song. Never mind that the rest of the setlist is compiled of favorites à la femme from Blondie, Pat Benetar, and Brooks & Dunn's "Hillbilly Deluxe", a tune that got old after the second hounddog howl in the intro...
Now, I'll admit that the bass line is a lot of fun. I'd go so far as to say that the country-western vibe is pretty groovy, every once in a while. But when I have to pad every setlist with a song that I downloaded out of pure morbid curiosity, I miss notes on purpose so that the annoying wuhnk-unk-wonk noise drowns out Gary LeVox's double-dubbed falsetto. Ugh.
Thankfully, "Me And My Gang" occupies 20% of our Guitar Hero time, at best. To keep the jammin' as continuous as possible, we always choose a full set of songs, alternating preferences each time. To be honest, I'm sure she's just as tired of playing Steve Miller's "The Joker" and the live version of "Sweet Home Alabama". Sometimes I sneak in an Ozzie song or something from Bob Seger; once the count-off begins, my co-op guitarist gets lost in the song, breathing only between beats.
I suppose it's only fair that after throwing down 98% on "Up Around The Bend" on Hard difficulty that we wind down with an Easy version of whatever she wants. Her answer to the query, "Which song next?" is never a surprise, but then again: we're married -- surprises are not so welcome anymore. Sure, you still have your Christmas gifts, positive pregnancy tests, and lingerie dances in the middle of the Saturday matinee movie on USA...but with those come speeding tickets, stained laundry, computer crashes, credit card binges, and plenty of other issues that make people like justabaldguy wish he was still a hair-headed bachelor. Besides, when I anticipate that she's going to choose that whiny country-western rendition of an otherwise swamp rock song, I get to be right. Correct. Undisputed.
And really: how often do we get to say that?
Yes? Fellow in the back -- another question? Um...wow. What a rude thing to say! Of course they're attached, and no, they're not in my wife's purse.
It's a little disconcerting when someone takes your attempt at dry humor and takes it as an all-out complaint session. I have a wife that plays Xbox 360 and Nintendo Wii games with me, bub! Recently, she took the plunge and bought a Live Gold account.
But please understand: two years into our marriage, it still makes me uneasy when she turns the console on. Putting a controller in her hands is just...unnatural. Kat will tell you that gaming is not just for boys, but for some reason it's earth-shaking when the same woman who claws my eyes out for leaving dirty socks on the floor is adjusting her pseudo-guitar strap and telling me to hurry up my evening defication so she can crank the TV volume to 11 (+29) and blast an Eagles riff online.
You'll have to forgive me a weak knee, Mr. Know-it-all on the back row. You see, my wife rocks out. She's awesome. And after dinner tomorrow evening, we'll be at the virtual frat house, playing a custom setlist and keeping the neighbors awake all night. From the Easy warm-up song by which the window panes will rattle, we'll shred all the way to the final and most satisfying note, tearing up the carpet and leaping from the couch for our explosive finale song!
I just hope it's not stupid Rascal Flatts.