Part 1.1
Rock Band has destroyed me. A game I have readily avoided due to the sheer cost of owning it alone.
I love it now, I think. It has done what all twelve Mario Party games have only dreamt of doing and developed a game that doesn’t bore the fuck out of people after the first half hour.
We have been playing for what could easily be an hour, waiting for her to arrive.
She’s been is classes all morning. I, in the interest of saving quite a bit of money, took the overnight bus to Minneapolis and arrived at 6:30 am. A long time Rochester-era friend of mine found and rescued me from the bowels of the unfamiliar city. To protect his identity I search for a humorous nickname but am too tired. His name is Danny Eckberg. Google it.
After breakfast and a bit of a stroll we arrive at his place and rest. Upon awaking, my introduction to Rock Band begins.
Also, I lost my phone. So that sucks.
Danny’s phone, serving as my surrogate means of communication, rings. He tosses it to me, I answer.
She’s lost. I look to Danny for directions, but he throws only a compass rose my way, and being unfamiliar with the immediate location I struggle to use it in a constructive way. Eventually I just run outside to see if I can spot her roaming the streets.
Sure enough, here she comes. Walking at a painfully slow pace, donning her new acrylic fur hat, she comes.
I am excited to see her, of course. Over the past year and a half she and I have become increasingly fast friends, and life in Chicago has grown mind-meltingly stressful. To get away is, in a word, a treat.
It is also important to mention here, though there may be no need already, I harbor a great deal of affection for her. This is a more recent development than some of my close friends are willing to believe, but I insist that these feelings have only begun to manifest themselves in the last few months of our friendship.
That said, however, it may also be important to note that I haven’t had a crush on anybody, let alone a legitimate relationship, since the disastrous high school break-up of ’06. I am, suffice it to say, out of practice.
But if there is one thing the Windy City has taught me, it’s ‘look like an ass as infrequently as possible.’ So my dorky, pimply, angsty teenage self that has been resurrected along with these feelings stays quietly inside me for the most part and I remain cordial and socially acceptable.
She trots towards me once she sees me, waving and smiling. We embrace momentarily and say our hellos. She is tired, of course. I know few people these days that report they are lively and attentive after a morning full of classes.
I am in town to see a play. Night Train to Bolina. She is one of the leads and has been obnoxiously busy with it for weeks upon weeks.
It is noon now, seven more hours until she is due at the theatre, so we return inside and convince the next few hours to be devoted entirely to Rock Band. Alas.
Danny does Oasis proud with a heart-wrenching rendition of Wonderwall, I warble away with Fleetwood Mac, and there isn’t a dry eye in the house after she takes the mic and brutally rapes Rage Against The Machine with their own tune.
Perhaps the Mario Party franchise would be more successful if it gave you the opportunity to scream into a fake microphone for points.
Before we leave, Danny insists upon making us lunch, selling us on the fact that the one item on the menu is not only a mysterious tasty treat, but also the only thing he can prepare without use of the microwave.
The dish, the secret recipe I unfortunately could not get the rights to divulge here, is a surprising and silly treat ironed and pressed to perfection on a big red knock-off of the George Foreman grill.
Created and coined as “Quesa-Quesa” by a twelve-year-old version of Danny’s father, the crispy specialty is a delicacy, I’m sure, in some far away made up Eastern-European country.
We eat, we chat, we exchange high-fives with our host, and leave.
We walk slowly to her apartment. It has warmed up outside, the ice that attempted on several occasions to take my life earlier in the day has turned to rivers and oceans.
As we walk through someone’s front yard to avoid one of these mass expanses of accumulated H^2O (yeah, I remember something from chemistry. Suck it.) one of her boots sinks into a puddle of mud and she groans.
“Now we have to go home and wash my boots,” she sighs.
I smile. A moment passes.
“I am, of course, using the royal ‘we’ in that instance.”
“I assumed so.”
“You don’t have to help me wash my boot.”
“Good.”
We walk a bit further.
“I’m glad we’re friends,” she says.
“Me too.”
“I don’t know what to do after the show tonight.”
“Whatever you want.”
“But I don’t want you to get bored.”
“I won’t be.”
“Okay,” she says as we approach the door to her apartment building. “We’ll do whatever the fuck I want.”
I smile. “Perfec’.”
She smiles back. “Perfec’.”
I love it now, I think. It has done what all twelve Mario Party games have only dreamt of doing and developed a game that doesn’t bore the fuck out of people after the first half hour.
We have been playing for what could easily be an hour, waiting for her to arrive.
She’s been is classes all morning. I, in the interest of saving quite a bit of money, took the overnight bus to Minneapolis and arrived at 6:30 am. A long time Rochester-era friend of mine found and rescued me from the bowels of the unfamiliar city. To protect his identity I search for a humorous nickname but am too tired. His name is Danny Eckberg. Google it.
After breakfast and a bit of a stroll we arrive at his place and rest. Upon awaking, my introduction to Rock Band begins.
Also, I lost my phone. So that sucks.
Danny’s phone, serving as my surrogate means of communication, rings. He tosses it to me, I answer.
She’s lost. I look to Danny for directions, but he throws only a compass rose my way, and being unfamiliar with the immediate location I struggle to use it in a constructive way. Eventually I just run outside to see if I can spot her roaming the streets.
Sure enough, here she comes. Walking at a painfully slow pace, donning her new acrylic fur hat, she comes.
I am excited to see her, of course. Over the past year and a half she and I have become increasingly fast friends, and life in Chicago has grown mind-meltingly stressful. To get away is, in a word, a treat.
It is also important to mention here, though there may be no need already, I harbor a great deal of affection for her. This is a more recent development than some of my close friends are willing to believe, but I insist that these feelings have only begun to manifest themselves in the last few months of our friendship.
That said, however, it may also be important to note that I haven’t had a crush on anybody, let alone a legitimate relationship, since the disastrous high school break-up of ’06. I am, suffice it to say, out of practice.
But if there is one thing the Windy City has taught me, it’s ‘look like an ass as infrequently as possible.’ So my dorky, pimply, angsty teenage self that has been resurrected along with these feelings stays quietly inside me for the most part and I remain cordial and socially acceptable.
She trots towards me once she sees me, waving and smiling. We embrace momentarily and say our hellos. She is tired, of course. I know few people these days that report they are lively and attentive after a morning full of classes.
I am in town to see a play. Night Train to Bolina. She is one of the leads and has been obnoxiously busy with it for weeks upon weeks.
It is noon now, seven more hours until she is due at the theatre, so we return inside and convince the next few hours to be devoted entirely to Rock Band. Alas.
Danny does Oasis proud with a heart-wrenching rendition of Wonderwall, I warble away with Fleetwood Mac, and there isn’t a dry eye in the house after she takes the mic and brutally rapes Rage Against The Machine with their own tune.
Perhaps the Mario Party franchise would be more successful if it gave you the opportunity to scream into a fake microphone for points.
Before we leave, Danny insists upon making us lunch, selling us on the fact that the one item on the menu is not only a mysterious tasty treat, but also the only thing he can prepare without use of the microwave.
The dish, the secret recipe I unfortunately could not get the rights to divulge here, is a surprising and silly treat ironed and pressed to perfection on a big red knock-off of the George Foreman grill.
Created and coined as “Quesa-Quesa” by a twelve-year-old version of Danny’s father, the crispy specialty is a delicacy, I’m sure, in some far away made up Eastern-European country.
We eat, we chat, we exchange high-fives with our host, and leave.
We walk slowly to her apartment. It has warmed up outside, the ice that attempted on several occasions to take my life earlier in the day has turned to rivers and oceans.
As we walk through someone’s front yard to avoid one of these mass expanses of accumulated H^2O (yeah, I remember something from chemistry. Suck it.) one of her boots sinks into a puddle of mud and she groans.
“Now we have to go home and wash my boots,” she sighs.
I smile. A moment passes.
“I am, of course, using the royal ‘we’ in that instance.”
“I assumed so.”
“You don’t have to help me wash my boot.”
“Good.”
We walk a bit further.
“I’m glad we’re friends,” she says.
“Me too.”
“I don’t know what to do after the show tonight.”
“Whatever you want.”
“But I don’t want you to get bored.”
“I won’t be.”
“Okay,” she says as we approach the door to her apartment building. “We’ll do whatever the fuck I want.”
I smile. “Perfec’.”
She smiles back. “Perfec’.”
posted by AHaynes at 3:55 PM
3 Comments:
Man... I was really looking forward to getting a nick-name from you, in the vein of Tomato-face.
And yeah, she rocked it out on "Testify." That was awesome.
Quesa-Quesas are an Eckberg family staple, like an edible Sprinkles.
Was that Daniel's secret ingredient?
Danny,
Sorry. I tried hard, but I think I'm done with the nickname game.
Tracey,
Yes.
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