WARNING: This post is exceptionally nerdy.

Hey nerds!

This past week has been an exercise in patience as I have tried to find a cool video game to play.  I have the Blockbuster Game Pass, which I prefer over something like Gamefly, because I can check out two video games at a time and bring them back the same day if they suck (unlike Gamefly where I would have to wait for the mail).  Through trial and error, blood sweat and tears and actually having to explain (unsuccessfully) to the Blockbuster clerk that I do have a life, I was finally able to secure a video game:

CONAN!

I have been skipping over this game for the past few months, electing to play bigger hits like Mass Effect, HALO 3 and Grand Theft Auto 4.  I’m glad I put it off, because as I mentioned, I have been experiencing a bit of a video game dry-spell, and I needed hope. 

This game is awesome.  If you were a fan of the God of War games, then this is a great game.  With non-stop swordplay, tons of enemies and monsters of epic size, it will keep you entertained.  Graphically, it is pretty good (not as good as GoW), the controls are easy and the game-play is smooth.  Also, unlike Viking: Battle for Asgard (which I figured would be like God of War), you don’t have to wander all over the place to get into the action.  In CONAN, you essentially have a set path you follow, and said path is chock full of villains to chop up.  I just finished playing the first couple of levels, and I have no doubt it will continue to rule.  Here are some additional perks:

- I mentioned the chopping people up, right?  It’s worth mentioning it again because there is a lot of chopping people up.  Geez, it’s so hard to find a game these days where you can slice and dice the bad guys.

- You can hurl boulders at enemies.  That’s right.  Big honking boulders are all over the place, and you can heave them at anyone who tries to get in your way as you are chopping people up.

- Bosses.  Remember way back in the day when video games had bosses and the bosses were hulking, larger-than-life gateways to the next level?  So many games made for the next gen systems seem to have have abandoned this.  CONANdoesn’t.  I just finished fighting a gigantic Butterbean-looking boss who wielded and equally large battle axe/hammer.  It ruled.  Add to this, I got to mash his face to a bloody pulp when I beat him.  Score!

- Finally:  Boobies.  The Holy Grail of video game nerddom.  So very few video games offer the player the opportunity to rescue unrealistically big-bare-breasted, helpless maidens.  CONAN did not skimp on this.

So there you have it.  Go play CONAN.  It rules.

Brandon was recently criticized for being a little more cynical than me in his posts.  Honestly, I may actually be more cynical and jaded than Brandon, so here goes:

Take off the stupid Bluetooth!

These little devices made their way to every other creep’s ears a few years ago.  I wasn’t really aware of their existence at that time as I hadn’t cashed in my Coke Rewards points and secured my free subscription to Wired magazine.  Every once in a while, I would be walking around, and I would hear some lunatic talking to himself, occasionally cutting himself off in mid sentence when his crazy brain interrupted him.  Then I would be driving around, and I would see some dude just moving his mouth – not like he was mouthing the lyrics to his favorite Maroon 5 song – like he was talking to himself.

I was terrified.  Had the world gone mad?  Had the terrorists spiked our tap water with some sort of mind-control agent that turned people into chatty zombies?  I wasn’t sure.

Then I found out…

Every once in a while, society presents itself with the newest and hippest fashion accessory/status symbol.  While initially an exclusive item, usually reserved for the self-important upper crust of society, these devices eventually become cheap and accessible.  All of a sudden, every douchebag dons the new item, hoping that maybe he will be accepted into the ranks of society’s most righteous.  Meet the wearer of the Bluetooth.

I am fully aware that these annoying little gadgets have some use.  I guess.  Here are some people that can actually reap the benefits of the Bluetooth without making me pray to God to strike them down with lightning:

Racecar drivers:  These guys’ jobs revolve around keeping their hands on the steering wheel and their eyes on the road.  They need to make that their priority.  Dale Earnhart’s crash probably occurred when someone called him as he was taking a turn, and instead of keeping both hands on the wheel, he picked up the phone.  The Bluetooth could have saved his life.

Rambo: Rambo likes to hold guns in both hands or at least guns that require both hands.  He doesn’t like to hold a phone in his right hand and leave the heavenly touch of the .50 caliber jeep-mounted machine gun to his left hand only.  Rambo, you need a Bluetooth.

Thalidomide babies:  Getting the phone to your ear is probably difficult if you don’t have arms.  Thalidomide babies can use Bluetooths (Blueteeth?) without seeming self-absorbed.  On that note, if dinosaurs were still alive, Tyrannosaurs could too.  That would actually rule.  T-Rex with a Bluetooth.  Attacking some city filled with people wearing Bluetooths.  Eating their faces.  I guess one can always dream.

I can’t really think of anyone else who should be allowed to use Bluetooths.  Racecar drivers, Rambo and Thalidomide babies (and T-Rex).  That’s it.  Nobody else.  If you have a Bluetooth, get rid of it.  You are not that important.  Burn that extra calorie or two and lift up that heavy cell phone and hold it to your ear you pretentious, fat jerk.

Brandon approached me this morning as I was sitting (with good posture) at my desk.  Sulking and bitter, he proceeded to explain that he is a bit frustrated at the comments we are getting on our respective blog posts.  Everyone who reads my blogs tends to dish out well-deserved praise to me, whereas Brandon’s readership tends to spew the most vile hatred at his posts.

Now, I don’t want this to become a trend.  Brandon is sad and has likely crawled into some dark corner clutching himself in his own comforting embrace.  However!  Better him than me, right?  If constant praise of me has to come at his expense, so be it.

In an effort to ensure that I am not missing out on any of this well deserved adoration, I have compiled a list of some things that I can do:

Walk:  I can walk.  Upright.  That’s right, friends.  When I have to go places, I put my shoes on (on the right feet) and I stroll (what we in “walking” circles use to describe cool and casual walking) to a desired location.  I very rarely trip.

Run: Not for the inexperienced walker.  When I want to walk really fast, I do something called “run.”  It’s like walking, but way quicker.

Talk: I can do this, too.  I know at least 1000 words, and I organize them into complete sentences (impressed?) to convey thoughts and ideas.

Read: I know you have all heard that I can do this.  It’s true.  Reading is like the opposite of talking.  It’s basically looking at someone else’s words and complete sentences and making sense of them.  I have done this a whole bunch of times.  Sometimes pictures make things that I read way neater!

Use simple tools:  Did you know I can actually interpret my surroundings and manipulate them to the best of my capabilities to make life easier?  For instance, one time I was really hungry for some chewy granola bars.  Despite my towering stature, there was no way I could actually reach these soft treats that were perched high up on the topmost shelf of the kitchen cabinets.  Through trial and error, I was able to secure a sturdy chair and use it to give me that winning edge and secure the prized treat.

Stay in the lines: When I want to shine artistically, I grab my deluxe pack of Crayola crayons and use them to fill in the borders of pre-drawn images in my Sponge Bob Squarepants coloring book.  I’ve done this like a billion times.

Clean my room: I put all my stuff away and make my bed.

There you go, folks.  I can do all of that stuff and probably like a million other things.  I just can’t think of them right now.  I’ll keep you updated on all the other things I can do. 

As for Brandon – Dude, I’m sure you can do at least a few of those things.  Don’t get mad when people say mean things to you.

UPDATE:  The People have spoken!  This post has received rave reviews.  It is true!  I am awesome.  I give myself a gold star!

Mötley Crüe is such a super-duper-mega-badass band.  They were making music prior to my Golden Age of Music but are certainly a significant band.  All other “hair” bands and “glam” bands that I may have jammed to once are now just on the periphery.  I think they may all just be making reality shows now.  Mötley Crüe, however, never really stopped being super cool. 

Of course, Mötley Crüe is really only Mötley Crüe when it is the original lineup: Vince Neil (vocals), Mick Mars (guitar), Nikki Sixx (bass) and Tommy Lee (drums).  The albums Mötley Crüe (when John Corabi replaced Vince Neil) and New Tattoo (When Tommy Lee was replaced by a couple of drummers) were okay.  They didn’t rule, though.  I think Mötley Crüe is a good example of a band that only works when it driven by all original members.  Unfortunately, the band has not released any original new material as original Mötley Crüe since Generation Swine (1997).

Until now (queue drum roll)…

This weekend, I heard the new single, “Saints of Los Angeles,” on VH1.  It rules.  It’s from the upcoming album of the same name.  I was so excited.  One thing this band has always been good at doing is making chart-topping songs that are accessible and that get stuck in your head.  I think it is safe to say that Mötley Crüe was one of the most notoriously insane bands in the 80s and early 90s.  And even though Vince Neil is all fat now, Mick Mars has some debilitating bone and joint disease and Nikki Sixx has been part of the “Cool Kid’s Club” (Meggie’s name for people who have gotten sober) for seven yeas, the band’s music still makes me want to trash a hotel room.  I saw them play a couple of times during their Carnival of Sins  tour a few years ago, and I can safely say that the concert lived up to what a Mötley Crüe show should be like.  With all the speed and alcohol in my system at the time, I am surprised my brain did not explode.  When the Saints of Los Angeles comes out next month, I am cramming it into my iPod and then blasting it into my ears.

Listen to the new song.  It will enslave your brain and force it pick cotton in a field of awesomeness.  I guarantee “Saints of Los Angeles” will be stuck in your head for a while:

- David C. Garcia

So, watching Oz is really paying off.  I consider work to be very much like prison, and as such, I have been treating my coworkers like they are my fellow jailbirds.  I’m really learning how to get respect.

I just went up to one of my coworkers who had ordered Chinese food and said, “Give me your egg roll.”  He did.  True story.

- David C. Garcia

Of all social dilemmas to ever plague mankind, none has ever been as mystifying and annoying (more annoying) than the toilet seat up or down quarrel between man and the finer sex.  Probably even before the invention of the toilet as we all know and love today, this argument raged on between the two sexes.  I am sure that even at the dawn of mankind, cave women would shriek (likely in the same inane manner women do today) at cavemen for not putting the rock back over the snake-hole they had just peed in.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, even today, this battle continues.  Here’s how it generally unfolds:

Woman: “Blah, blah, blah, toilet seat left up!  Blah, blah, blah.  Stop this!  Blah, blah, blah.”

Man: “Okay.  Sorry.”

This same conversation will usually rear its annoying head several more times the same day.  Why?

I DON’T KNOW!

This conversation should never happen.  There is no justifiable reason for it.  It’s just as complicated for me to put the seat up when I have to take a leak as it is for you to put it down when you — what do you ladies do? – oh yeah, “tinkle.”

Woman: “Blah, blah, blah.  Have to pee at night.  Blah, blah, blah.  Fall into toilet!!!!”

This argument is weak and lame.  What if I had to go to the bathroom at night, and the toilet seat was down?  I would pee all over the toilet seat.  And in the event that I happened to eat asparagus that night, you, ma’am, would be very upset at the bathroom’s stench in the morning as you applied your make-up and decided “hair up?” or “hair down?” (Hair down.  It looks good on you.)

Woman: “Blah, blah, blah.  Just do it.  Blah, blah, blah.  You will get used to it.  Blah, blah, blah. Just become habit.”

My dear, ladies.  You pride yourself on being just as capable as us men.  Wouldn’t it be just as easy for you to become accustomed to solving this problem at night?  Wouldn’t it be within your abilities to adapt to this?

Really, there is no right or wrong to this argument.  Both sides are in fact valid.  The guilt falls on the party, however, who brings it up and acts like their side somehow holds more water (or pee).

So, as is standard practice, the issue of the toilet seat came up (or down) last night, and before Meggie could go on about falling into the toilet at night and drowning, I carefully and deliberately laid out the entire argument – both sides –  for her.

However, Meggie threw me a curveball.  It was the ultimate “in-your-face” curveball. 

“Because it’s disgusting, David.” 

She went on to explain that leaving the toilet seat up, as opposed to down, makes a clean restroom look a little less clean.

GAME OVER.

I hate to say it, but she was right.  The toilet seat up does in fact make the restroom look a little more untidy.  With that one statement, Meggie effectively ended any future arguments we will ever have about that issue. (Unless I play the “It’s against my religion” card)

Meggie:1, David: 0

- David C. Garcia

Hooray for me!

Hooray for me indeed.  Yesterday would have been the day that I picked up a 13-month chip.  Except, A.A. doesn’t have 13-month chips.  No, monthly chips stop after the one year point.  There is an 18-month chip.  It is lovingly referred to the “Whiners’ Chip” in A.A. rooms.

I feel absolutely delighted today.  “I am OVER one year sober.”  Drug-free and alcohol-free for 13 months!  I have not been able to say that since I was 14 years old.

Life is wonderful today.  I am grateful for each and every day that I have now.  I would never give this up for anything.

13 months sober!

- David C. Garcia

I have just started reading Dexter in the Dark, part three in Jeff Lindsay’s “Dexter” series.  Apparently, the book has received unanimously horrible reviews.  If it is even as remotely good as the last “Dexter” book, Dearly Devoted Dexter, I will be happy.

Regardless, I have to read this book because even if it is crappy, Lindsay is preparing to release part four in the series later this year.

Reviews forthcoming…

- David C. Garcia

As the Golden Age of Music was approaching, I was busy jamming to the likes of Motley Crue, Beastie Boys, Run DMC and Faith No More (which would later become a significant player in the Golden Age).  The bands were fantastic, and to this day, I still enjoy them.  Something was missing from them, though…

I’m not a music historian, so I can’t tell you why, but in the early 1990s something new happened to music: Grunge.  This was the gritty genre that came about during the beginning of what I call my Golden Age of Music. 

Again, I am not a music historian, so I could be very wrong, but the four bands – The Big Four – that seem to have been responsible for solidifying Grunge music in the annals of musical awesomeness were Seattle-based Nirvana, Soundgarden, Pearl Jam and Alice In Chains.  It is the latter, Alice in Chains, that was most important to me.  I loved this band, and I still do.

Impressionable as I was at this age, I do admit that I got myself a few flannel shirts.  Later such attire would be donned exclusively by lumberjacks and lesbians, but I did look mighty cool at the time, if I do say so myself (and I do).

But I digress…

I had spent about a year listening to Alice In Chains’ first major studio album, Facelift.  One year later, the cassette was definitely worn down and “Man in the Box” was about 30 seconds longer.  By this time, I had moved to Venezuela, and I had graduated to CDs.  At some point, I went to a music store (likely wearing my Pearl Jam tee under my flannel shirt) and bought the follow-up studio album, Dirt.  This was THE album.  My God, this album was good.  The first track, “Them Bones” was hard and heavy and dark.  Unlike rock songs of yore, the guitars wailed – but they didn’t wail so hard that I had epileptic fits during a solo.  Add to this, the bass was heavy and brooding and did an excellent job of complimenting the introspective and morose lyrics.

Did I mention that Dirt was morose?  Because it was.  If Alice in Chains was an author, they would have been Fyodor Dostoyevsky (except, unlike Dostoyevsky, Alice In Chains didn’t make me want to hang myself with a belt).

Each song was a carefully-constructed song examining the darker side of the human condition.  That’s what I heard anyways.  Song’s like “Junkhead,” “Hate to Feel” and “Angry Chair” delved into the not-so-pretty side of lead singer Layne Staley’s heroin addiction, inviting the listener to understand that drugs really are not that glamorous.  “Rooster” was a fantastic but eerie tribute to the Vietnam vet father of singer and guitarist Jerry Cantrell.  Then there was “Would?”  “Would?” was the closing chapter of Dirt.  A tribute to Mother Love Bone singer Andrew Wood, who had died of a heroin overdose, “Would?” was such a good song.  I still get goose bumps when I listen to the song.

The music was amazing, and the lyrics were often too honest for comfort, but the real magic came from Layne Staley.  That man could sing.  When fans think of Alice In Chains, they likely think of that wonderful voice.  Unfortunately, Alice In Chains began to fall apart after Dirt’s follow-up album, Jar of Flies, because of Staley’s ever-increasing drug problems.  By the time their self-titled album, Alice in Chains, came out, everyone figured the band’s time had come.

It was so sad.  And in April 2002, Layne Staley was found dead from a drug overdose.  He had apparently injected a pretty large “speedball” (heroin and cocaine) and died.  He wasn’t found until two weeks later.

In an interview done with the singer three months before his death, he spoke of his addiction:

“I know I’m dying,” he rasped through missing teeth. “I’m not doing well. Don’t try to talk about this to my sister Liz. She will know it sooner or later.”

Staley, suffering from fever and nausea, told Rubio that his need for heroin was all-consuming, even though the effects of the drug were no longer enjoyable. He added that smack had completely ravaged his system and left him empty and filled with regrets.

“This f—ing drug use is like the insulin a diabetic needs to survive,” he said. “I’m not using drugs to get high like many people think. I know I made a big mistake when I started using this sh–. It’s a very difficult thing to explain. My liver is not functioning and I’m throwing up all the time and sh—ing my pants. The pain is more than you can handle. It’s the worst pain in the world. Dope sick hurts the entire body.”

The most chilling passage of the interview reads like a suicide note.

“I know I’m near death,” he said. “I did crack and heroin for years. I never wanted to end my life this way. I know I have no chance. It’s too late. I never wanted [the public's] thumbs’ up about this f—ing drug use. Don’t try to contact any AIC (Alice in Chains) members. They are not my friends.”

That one line, “I know I made a big mistake.”  That was one of the lyrics in “Would?” Life imitating art imitating life, huh?  Very sad.

In the end, every Alice In Chains album was a gem.  The albums were absolutely fantastic – all of them.  It’s a pity it all went away.  In the end, though, Dirt, remains one of the most important albums in my music collection.

- David C. Garcia

Last week, I offered Grey’s Anatomy one more chance.

You know how when you are on a long road trip, and you need to pee REAL BAD?*  It just gets worse and worse, and more and more uncomfortable.  Eventually, you get to the point where you just want it all to end.  It’s just that unbearable.   Then you finally get to a gas station bathroom and you empty your swollen bladder.  Suddenly, it’s like those horrible feelings you had are now ready to be flushed.  It’s like everything is right again in the world, and you want to shout it from the mountaintops.  Well, the Grey’s Anatomy season finale was that gas station bathroom, and I am prepared to shout from Mount Blogmore, “Grey’s Anatomy, you have redeemed yourself.”

Indeed, I watched my DVR’d Grey’s Anatomy finale this evening with Meggie, and I was happy to see that everyone somehow got everything together.  Christina Yang truly did “get [her] groove back,” and even though I wanted to smack her for actually saying that, I let it slide.  Even Meredith seemed to grow up and act her age.  It was refreshing.

Just a few things:

The “romantic” make-out scene in the end with Callie and Hahn seemed forced and was ultimately — what’s that word I’m looking for — stupid.

While I do forgive Meredith for behaving like a little whiny brat for the past two seasons, I cannot forgive her for constructing a life-sized floor plan with candles.  There were like 2000 candles, and they looked like they were each in little glass cups.  That must have cost a fortune.  Whatever.  Lame.

*If any of you comment on the size of my bladder, my inability to stay on the road without any restroom break/frequency of my urination, I will smite thee.

- David C. Garcia