Atomictumor

Are freakin awesome.

I’ve dabbled in computer games over the years, normally the kind where my French army (because the French army is always awesome) is trying to like obliterate the Apache nation or something like that, with some little disembodied head popping up every once in a while saying “Wow, AT, you suck.  Would you like to run the tutorial?”

It wasn’t always this way.

I came of age in the second great wave of video game consoles, with the olde skool NES coming out when I was in 5th grade.

Man, I wanted that mother.  I wanted that thing so bad I could taste it.  My friends with money got it when it first came out, and I’d go over to their house and rock some Super Mario Brothers, or Jackal, or Contra (I’m steeped in the uuddlrlrbastart business), and then go home to my old busted up Atari 800.  Now, the Atari rocked in its day, which was 1982, but this was 1987, man, and I was needing some NES.

I ended up going in with my sisters and buying one.  My lifes ambition was now complete.

And then I discovered that I can be a compulsive gamer.  When I wasn’t playing the thing, I was drawing little pictures of Mario, or closing my eyes and jumping over mushrooms.  When I got home, I snuck in the NES time, being all sneaky about it so that my folks would think I was playing for the allowed hour, instead of the not allowed all day.

I got a Super Nintendo for my birthday a few years later, and the process began anew.

Lemme tell you something about me and games too… did I mention the world ‘compulsive’?  I might not be using it in the fully understood and correct sense of the word, what I mean is that when I’m playing the game, I really don’t look like I’m having a good time, on account of all the cussing and yelling that I tend to do.  The ratio of “you stupid f—ing son of a bitchin diggidy damned piss off mother f—er of a game” vs the “hell yeahs” are fully 5:1, on a good day.  Some days, well, some days I’d tend to bang the controllers against the floor in a caffeine and sugar induced rage at the video game that just WON’T LET ME THROUGH THIS STUPID PART until something rattled and broke.  I went through about 4 Super Nintendo controllers in my wrath.

So, once I grew up, had a kid, and straighted up, I no longer had the time or money to devote to these pastimes, so I gave up a bit.

I also discovered, unfortunately, that the older I got, well, the more I sucked at them.  Its like some kind of weird reverse maturity, where my normally capable fingers just aren’t responding to my brain quite fast enough to dodge that freakin tank, or jump over that turtle shell.

So, now, I have an Xbox 360, fully on top of the console world, and lemme tell you people, it is sweet.  It is good stuff.  When I get to play it.  See, because those boys of mine, man, they say they’re just doing it for an hour, but I don’t know…

Pigpen’s on week two of his fall break, and things are going along decently.

Took down some pictures
Hanging up in the hallway
Put some new ones up

A refreshing change
My eyes used to hang on them
And make my feet stop

I stopped noticing
And I don’t need her pictures
To remember her

Now, the new pictures
Snapped on Ladyfriend’s camera
Of my bratty boys

Memories aren’t bad
Unless you want them to be
Nor is the future.

OK.

I understand that we, as a general rule, ended up doing some things about a decade ago that resulted in a child in middle school today.

Check.  I take full (well, partial) responsibility for that.  (well, for my child.  You’re on your own for yours…)

Now, my question is, are we supposed to be doing the homework?

Because, man, MastaG’s working on this one timeline project, and lemme tell ya, it ain’t going so well…

October 13 happens to be the Missus’s Thirtieth birthday.

So we’re going to have a picnic for her over at Bissell Park around 11:00 AM.

Bring a bucket of chicken, plastic bag of subway sandwiches, or whatever. Don’t forget to bring a drink (it’s a public park, guys), and some chips. Chips are great on picnics! We’ll have the cake.

Let us know if you have any questions.