In which we try another video game

As we noted in the last post, one video game in particular has been invading the a Princess’s dreams at night, so it is probably wise to move on to something different for a while. Something maybe where we stay anchored to the ground instead of launching into the air.

We tried the flag football game, and for the first 17 games or so, the play was pretty predictable. We would race to the middle of the field, pick up the flag, and immediately it would be stolen by the opposition—a burly guy who apparently lost his razor decades ago—who would lumber to the goal line with it, with us in hot but fruitless pursuit, as we could never make our characters run fast enough to catch him. Instead of the game intruding on our dreams, our dreams invaded the game—that seemingly universal dream where you can't make yourself go anywhere fast.

Two against one, and we still never won. This could have something to do with the fact that the one or two times the Princess did miraculously take possession of the flag and attempt to run with it, she sort of forgot that she should run in the opposite direction of Burly Man. But enough about that.

Finally we (meaning the Hero) devised a new strategy: he would go for the flag, and I would play defense and lure Burly Man away with a nice shiny new razor. Failing that, knock him down. This worked quite well, and in the following rounds we were rewarded with several new opponents all at the same time.

Soon, events were happening so quickly that I learned to just hover my finger over the button that picks things up, so that when I came in contact with the flag I was at the ready and could grab it and run. But this at-the-ready business can sometimes backfire, as I realized when I suddenly heard the Hero say, “Hey, put me down. Put me down!”

Oops. Mistaking one’s teammate for the flag is somewhat embarrassing. I felt like a neighbor's dog proudly bringing back the stick for another throw and realizing, “Wrong stick! Wrong stick!”

It is also embarrassing to mistake one’s teammate for oneself. On numerous occasions I rather astounded myself at the brilliant moves I was making against ninja enemies in another game. I did allow myself one teeny-tiny doubt about these brilliant moves, because they seemed only marginally connected to what I was actually doing with the controller, but who was I to argue with brilliance?

In the midst of my self-congratulation I would notice—usually when the Hero would say, “Hey, where are you?”—my real self off in a corner somewhere, pointlessly going around and around like a windup toy in a very tiny shoebox.

It should be noted that the Hero, too, on occasion has tried frantically to move me around, thinking I am him.* Finally, in another brilliant move, we (meaning the Hero) figured out how to change the color of what we are wearing so we can tell ourselves apart.

So watch out, Burly Man. We know what we're doing now. Maybe. If only I could get out of this shoebox...

_______

*Luckily, this confusion is generally not a problem in real life.

The Christmas gift that keeps on giving

The Princess is in the air on her way to what is supposed to be Hawaii, but nothing seems right. The plane hops from mountain top to mountain top. Planes aren't supposed to do that, are they? And where is the Hero?

Now the Princess is whipping along a road at super incredible speed in some kind of personal vehicle over which she seems to have little control, when suddenly a huge chasm opens in front of her. Her vehicle leaps off the end of the cliff and

Another restful sleep hijacked by video-game-induced dreams. The Princess wonders if the Hero also suffers from this. Nope, he cheerfully tells her later when she inquires.

Darn video games.

The Hero got a new game system for Christmas (“A box is coming with my name on it but you should wrap it up for me for Christmas”). I say it is his because although I play too, I can only do so when he gives me the controller and says “Okay, start.” The first level of any game has nothing to do with getting past gatekeepers or avoiding falling gnomes. The first level—which I have yet to master—is turning on the remote. No, make that figuring out which combination of our five remotes will magically unlock the mystery of starting the game system. Five.

After that, well, bring on the falling gnomes.

The harrowing dreams come from a game wherein you hurtle down a path—I use that word loosely—in pursuit of a goal. For most players, this goal is 1st place across the finish line and leaving their competitors in the dust. For me, the goal is a little more prosaic: to not be so traumatized by those jumps across the chasms that I dream about them later that night.

So far, even such a prosaic goal has eluded me.

I have, however, progressed to trying out my special powers in this game.  These are very useful things. A character might be able to, for example, instantly encase himself in a bubble shield that protects him from other competitors, or from flying chickens (of which there seem to be a great deal in this particular game). Or attach a rocket booster to the car and blow through every obstacle.

My defining special power in one game was: flowers. When you deploy the special flower feature, a plume of lovely flowers goes out from the car and a sweet little tune plays for several seconds. As far as I could tell, this special power rated pretty negatively on the usefulness scale.

However, eventually I discovered that in a stressful situation—such as being chased by dinosaurs who live to devour flower-emitting vehicles—deploying the flower power was extremely soothing, what with that catchy little tune and bright, cheery buds flying around. Ahhh, my own virtual Prozac.

And I started to be proud of my flower power.

And then I discovered an even better use for it, the one no doubt intended by the developers all along. When the Hero was behind me, the flowers streaming from my vehicle would stick to his windshield, thus causing a few moments of mayhem where he couldn’t see the road. Ah ha!

Unfortunately for me, the Hero is hardly ever behind me in this game. Or in any others. Luckily, there is still the Prozac effect.

All dressed up—and don't want to go anywhere

During our recent snowstorm we witnessed a few regrettable acts of indignities involving pets. Now, we realize that most pet owners love their animals dearly, but some may be lacking a little in perspective. Here is an incident we witnessed when neighbors began to gather outside to try to find their vehicles after the blizzard (“Are you SURE you parked the car right here? ‘Cuz I only see a tree here”), from the point of view of the pet whose dignity was compromised. If we could get inside the thoughts of this pet—we’ll call him Tiny Dog—I think we'd find something like this:

We're going outside? Finally. Yay!

Wait, what are those?

PLEASE don't put little snow boots on me. Do you know what happens to dogs who wear little snow boots in public? Nooooo...

Fine, fine, I’ll wear the little snow boots. But...don't take me outside in them, okay?

Okay, not a bad idea to go outside after being cooped up all these hours, if you get my meaning...and hey, maybe none of the other dogs will see me.

Wait, what's that? Why are you pointing your phone at me? No, no pictures in these little snow boots—!

[Snap.]

Fine, take a picture. But DO NOT post it on Facebook. Sure, YOUR friends will think it's cute. I'll be the laughingstock of...hey, why are you pushing all those buttons on the phone? What are you DOING?

You posted it, didn't you. Oh, I am so toast. I will never be able to hold my head up again.

Hey, what's this? NOW what are you doing?

Of course. There is a hat. Ya know, I'm okay with the hat. Just pull it down a little more, would you, please? Annnnd a little more.

I can't see a thing. Perfect. Snap away.