I think we're gonna need security.

Everything needs a password these days.

Sign up for this, scan a retina for that. You can't even pay a bill online or look up an ex-girlfriend's tax assessments anymore, without having to sign up for some account. Obssessive internet spying on someone else is no longer convenient for ego reassurances at 2am these days, it's just gotten to be a downright intrusion of my privacy. I mean, how rude for a site to ask me for my own personal information, when all I wanted to do was annonymously troll through the Facebook entry of that girl at the Long John Silver's drive-thru.

And then I have to remember the passwords.

And I forget them just like Lindsey Lohan done forgot her drawers on the cover of 'New Yorker.' So you go through the lame security question list, and your password gets emailed. But those questions are way too easy. I run my mouth alot, and anyone who listens to my non-sequiter ramblings can nod attentively to me and smile without actual comprehension, and still get on the old 'puter and guess the answer to a rudimentary verification of "Your Mother's Maiden name is...", or "What was the name of the dog your dad actually buried in the backyard, but always maintained she went upstate to run free with horses at a puppy farm?"

Before you know it, your Directv bill is full of unauthorized Adult fare, like "No Humping for Old Men." Great.

Let's be more safer out there. We need good questions. More gooder questions. I propose 'Moment Of Truth' - like security questions. Questions that really matter...ones only you would know. Like:

• "What was the name of that Junior High Cheerleader you got all tingley feeling'd for?"
  
  ...who was two years older than you, that you always forgot to avert your eyes when she and her dumb quarterback boyfriend came out of Choir, because he always had his hand under her skirt and spankies, and he told you he would punch you in the fecking nose, you bowl-haircut geek - it's obvious what you're thinking about her, because you wear thin pants.

• "Who was that judgemental bitch you got all bent out of shape for?"
  
  ...and made you buy her a new mattress just because you woke up wetting her bed? Age ain't nothin' but a number, and accidents will happen. And that's what she gets for wanting to just be friends and sleep head to toe, too.

• "What were you drinking?"
  
  ...that time when you woke up, drunk off your fecking arse, and you threw up granola and grilled cheese all over that baby? Shite, that was a fecked up Sunday Morning service.

I mean, really. Be truthful. Ask yourselves the hard questions. And you'll find the answers. Maybe it's a shame on you for having those answers in the first place. But you being a socially subversive miscreant makes your little corner of the world a safer place. I think.

Last words of a Love Fool.

Oh, here it is again. This Day of Valentines, well-intentioned but love-blinded cards, and candy-coated thoughts of mushiness.

Remember being kids.... scrutinizing store-bought cutouts for just a hint of interpretation - did she purposely curve that letter in just a way to tell me she'd secretly longed for me ever since I didn't tag her at kick ball? Or did she get a hand cramp while writing? Or maybe she was just the whore of 4th grade.

So much as changed since then. You grow older, and eventually don't even take the time to write out by hand; Affirmations are even expressed by email these days, and not even in actual cards.

But email can seem cold and sterile, even perceived as dashed off and thoughtless. But it does have its place in putting a smile on our faces when we see that one special name appear in our in-box. We almost expect the "pop up"...even taking offense when it doesn't happen- standing in the midst of self-realization to find that someone didn't even take finger to key and type off a few monosyllabic words to even show they're thinking of us.

And we still read into every word written, like we did way back. Hoping our intended pays as much attention to our craft as the time we took to to even consider them worthy of our prose. So, how does one keep the romance alive, and ensure the other isn't really just quick-skimming and "yeah yeahing" through your carefully crafted e-words of devotion?

I hereby submit the following last lines to tack onto your odes to love.


"We have to stop meeting like this. The restraining order clearly specifies the parameters."

"I'd better go, the dog just got sucked into a sink hole."

"Have you ever farted and sneezed at the exact same moment?"

"So weird how your belly button smells like shorts after a triathalon."

"Was that the doorbell? Did you hear that?"

"You are pretty much the only person I really mostly ever think about."

"Please do not search for my name on You Tube."

"Hm. You must have just been thinking of me. I threw up a little in my mouth."

"Uh oh. I just saw your apparition in my grilled cheese."

"It's peanut butter jelly time! Peanut butter jelly time!"

"And sorry again about the pink eye. Forgot to wash my hands after scratching the cat."

" 'You burnt my house down, you burnt my house down.' Geez. Just once, can I get through one year without you digging that up? Let it go."

"Did you put the milk back in the fridge when it was almost empty?"

"More in love with you than ever, now that I've Googled you."

"Why is it, every time I log into your account, you haven't saved any of my emails?"

"I still carry some of your hair in my wallet."

"Please pick up your socks next time. They do not belong in the middle of the floor."

"Stop mentioning me to your therapist."

"I look forward to your complete discounting of the above."

"Gotta run, but signing my name below hereby exonerates me from what I assume are already allegations from others in your inbox."


You gotta love someone. No matter what they say.

King Of Kong.

Last week, the documentary, "The King of Kong: A Fistful Of Quarters", made it's DVD debut. Set against the backdrop of video arcade game tournaments, it's the tale of two adversaries vying for the world's record "Donkey Kong" high score.

Full of feel-good moments of heroic realizations, conspiracy theories, good guy/ bad guy personas, and allegations of sabotage, it's a completely engrossing watch. Totally engaging. I gotta tell you, if this film doesn't make you want to immediately run out and find some lonely drifter to wrap their arms around you while spending your last $5 playing video games in a stale-beer-and-feet, run-down bowling alley...well, then maybe that's a normal Saturday night for you, and you were gonna anyway. Don't let me stop you.

But for those of us who were around to play in the time of what's referred to in the film as video gaming's "golden age" (early 80's), this film is a evocation of memories in a simpler time. When games were gentler, and crude-but-cute renderings of gorillas and portly, mustachioed plumbers merely competed for the attentions of a golden haired lass. By throwing fire and barrels at each other, rather than reaching in and pulling each others' brains out and then mercilessly jacking one another for their bling, as might happen today. But whatever. I'm old, and I wasted a lot of money on this game back then, so I got all mushy hearted inside watching.

Enter Billy Mitchell, the Hot Sauce King of Florida, perfectionist and over-achiever, and dubbed "Video Game Player Of The Century" by people who know such things. Billy holds the "Donkey Kong" highest score ever verified, a record that has stood for almost 25 years. In tune with his inner feng shui, he kind of struck me as looking like a cross between Jesus and Anton LeVey Tom Cruise. (More "Last Samurai" by way of "Magnolia" swagger, than "Born on The Fourth Of July," fortunately.) With his flowing perfect hair, dark shirts and painted on black jeans, everything about him just exudes charisma and attitude. Right off, you kind of don't want to like him, with his confidence coming off a little more like arrogance. The guy just wins at life's every turn, and there's plenty of footage of his parents and hangers-on to verify. He's a "topper." Nothing you've ever done can ever stand tall to what Billy's ever accomplished. Mostly, Billy will tell you in certain terms just how great Billy is. You respect his ability and, admittedly, his showmanship. You just hate his patriotic ties.

The bane to his existence, though, appears to be Steve Wiebe, way on the other side of the country. Perpetually an "also-ran" in life, Steve's just one of those likeable guys you can't help but want some luck to fall in his favor, just for once. The way the film paints him, he just always seemed to come up short in most endeavors. He even gets laid off from his job at Boeing on the day he and his wife buy a house. With life's direction sort of at a standstill, Steve retreats to the sanctity of his garage, where he sits for hours at a time, practicing "Donkey Kong." With no real intent at first other than to occupy his mind with something productive, he formulizes the game down to scientific terms, nearly distilled to absolute Physics. He absorbs the game's motions and responses into his being, for hours on end. So much so, at one point, he breaks Billy Mitchell's world record and captures the entire session on video tape (with an amusing audio coda by his bathroom routine-challenged son caught for posterity).

But with the performance submitted to officials for verification and admittance into the record books, Steve's new found limelight suddenly is dimmed; refuted by allegations of game tampering, his tape is invalidated as proof. Suspicion abounds, many from gamers well within Billy Mitchell's circle of sycophants, as to the merits of this heretofore unknown upstart's ability. So, with his character nearly assassinated, Steve sets out to...ahem...set the record straight (sorry), and travels cross country to compete in a tournament and recreate his score-shattering performance, live. With the ultimate intent being to compete against Billy Mitchell one-on-one. But for all of Billy's bravado, he's like this elusive apparition...kind of like a modern day Jimmy Hoffa disappearing act, except for the mob part. Or the buried part. No one's really seen him. Billy communicates his directives by phone, and sends old ladies out as mules to do his bidding - courriers of video tapes as proof of his new high scores. Has anyone really seen him in person since 1982? Oh yeah, and he styles that hair. My favorite scene in the film, is a roomful of people wondering when Billy will appear at a tournament, and the next shot being a doorway peek-through of Billy running a pick through those long brown tresses of his. Couldn't care less who's waiting.

And so it builds...testimonials, positive affirmations reduced to accusations of corruption, and the quest for a final DK showdown. All leading to Steve's shot at redemption, and what later becomes a Guinness World Record score at stake. Sounds hokey, but it really works.

I really want to be like a gosh-darned real movie critic right now and have all these have bold typed, 64-pointed exclamations on my page, like "Exhilarating!" or "The Ending Will Leave You Breathless." Or "You'll Stand up and Cheer!".

Maybe I'll make up my own and say, "It's the film that shows, it takes a lot of courage in life to win, but you only need a quarter to play!"

Or not. That's cheesy. But go watch it. Now.

Excess frustration leads area man to blog.

I've tried. I really have. I'd hide away in private. Work my fingers and hands so hard, but nothing comes from it. Up and down so much, I have callouses and blisters. Sometimes I draw blood from the friction, I've rubbed them so hard. I'm frustrated, and my wrist hurts. Grandpa watched me and told me I was doing it all wrong, but I've been doing it the same way since I was a kid.

All because I can't play guitar.

I so wanted to be a rock star when I was growing up, but I was denied the parental encouragement and hand-to-muscial semblance coordination. What - I can't live strung out and groupie shuffled, a footnote in rock history by the age of 28 who failed to grow along with my fanbase by refusing to succumb to shifting musical tastes? No sense of entitlement to the VIP laminate of revolving admittance into celeb reality-show rehab? No guitar-shaped couch and chinchilla bedspread? FINE.

But I am so encouraged by my own awareness of mortality and non-coolness, that I am determined - nay, obsesstified - to one day take my musical abilities one step further, and play actual guitar better than Guitar Hero. And I suck at both.

So now, a beautiful, black Fender Strat has been shuffled in and out of it's well-worn carrying case for ten years. Picked up, plugged in, and the volume turned to eleven. The distortion pedal has been maxed out to gargantuan fuzz levels. I've piled so much reverb and delay effects onto the sound to hide my ineptness, this wall of blackness spills out an hour after I've hit a C chord. It's not music, it's just one man's ego trip.

A sculpture of wood and wire sits low on my waist, and I spend a few minutes adjusting my shoulder strap. I study each string intently, determined this time that I will play a simple song through to it's enevitable car crash conclusion. Any song. ALL the way through. Not just the intro, not wasting an hour on just the chorus. One that I don't necessarily have to like, but a good three chords and out feeling of accomplishment. Flipping through my massive bible o' Dinosaur Rock Guitar Tablatures, I dunno...maybe "Satisfaction"... some Boston song. Maybe I get some of those Roy Clark color stickers to attach to the frets a'la "Michael Row Your Boat Ashore."

I have the posturing, I have the swagger and mannerisms of a road-worn Golden God. I just can't get my fingers to match my mind. Trying to hit the frets just perfectly until that metal muted ringing of failure no longer exists. Blind Southern blues men with no shoes sold their souls to be able to play a cigar box strung with window screen wire, how friggin' hard can this be? I tell myself to only look at the neck, and not at the pickups. I hit the first chord, and then try and fingerpick my way through.

Watch the fingers.

Here it comes...bend the string up, pull off. Next chord...

Aaaaannnnnd...

wait.

Now I gotta stop and think.

How does that chord go? My long fingers and tiny hands can't make the bend. Finger two goes where? Keep the thumb straight, action is at the elbow. No way I can do this without looking down. Maybe I run the whammy bar up and down a few times. That's always fun.

I start. I stop. And I put it back down.

Oooooh, how does the riff to "Smoke On The Water" go? I can practice that. Dah - dah -dah....

Sigh. I'll never be cool.

You know what's cool? How good my guitar looks in the corner, propped up against the chair

Yeah. People ask, "Oh, you play?"

And I say, "Oh, I pick it up once in awhile."

I've BEEN ready to rock. I just can't.