The other day, he asked me to join him on the Not Real Guitar. I am a fan of racing video games (Need for Speed ahh!)(I could beat you) and I wasn't reading a book, so I did.
I should mention now that I consider myself a bit of a musician. I mean, I play a bit of piano. When I was 17, I was a competition bagpiper (a phrase that I have said so often that I no longer contemplate its oddity). In college, I played harp and bodhran and tin whistle and led a Celtic band that toured 'round and made us some money. Now I have a guitar, too, that I fool around with. I do that whole writing music thing. Anyway, like I said, I consider myself a bit of musician.
So it should come as no surprise to you whatsoever that when I picked up that Rock Band plastic guitar and gripped the fretboard firmly and heard the familiar strains of my favorite Beatles song coming forth ("Hello Goodbye"), that I . . . sucked.
Oh yes, I sucked. Not just a little. A lot. And I perfected my suckage as the evening went on. They say practice makes perfect, yes? In fact, I even think I say that. Oh ho ho but it is not true when it comes to Maggies and Rock Band. The more I played, the worse I got. I got so bad by the end of the evening that the game was kicking me off and telling me I sucked so badly that the other player had to verify my joining back in. I got so bad that the game had to invent a new scoring system to accommodate my failure to play along. My not-real-playing grew so odious that flocks of 13 year old boys who had beat the game and made new high records while eating Cheetos and listening to other records laughed all over the world.
Oh, Lover enjoyed this hugely. He found it things like Ironic and Hilarious and Long-Awaited.
Me, I am finding it hard to walk through the living room without sneering at the little plastic guitar. It's going down, one of these days. Either through skill or by fire. Be afraid, Rock Band. Be afraid.