Well friends, while Mr. Swift is having a down time, I must say that life in Chicago is GRAND! Truly, my job-having has not made life much sexier: I’m eating a lot of fruit leather meals, taping trash bags over holes in the shower wall, and sniffing underwear near the top of the hamper to determine which ones I did not use as an impromptu napkin for my cold pizza dinner last night at 2. (Hellooooooo, ladies!)
But the sunshine that emanates from my soul isn’t from the joy of coming home at midnight with the pride of two jobs well done; nay it is from drinking the taste of public transit out of my mouth and plugging in Guitar Hero.

Several nights have found me come home, composing some grand eloquent summary of the night and of young youthy youthness in general, and then the door opens and a tiny black guitar swings into view. And you may as well cue the “Ironsides” excerpt at that point, because by then I am already in fight mode, and a bandanna with the rising sun of Japan silhouetting the Dio logo (and maybe it plays a Yngwie solo when you “press here”) has sprouted on my head, Immortal-style wrist-gauntlets already scraping the side of the guitar as I sling it around my gleeful (yet still badass) torso.

I’m not going to tell you about the gameplay of Guitar Hero: most of you probably already have Freetar hacks of the new songs, and are playing them at a homemade difficulty level that involves continuous hammer-ons while singing the lyrics in whammy-bar-morse-code. I shouldn’t even have to tell you that playing it drunk is a treat of the most sublime level: oh, but I’m going to anyways.

Mr. Swift himself trained me in the ways of the Sparks-fueled Ace of Spades super-weekend, which is an advanced level of life in which you consume several gallons of Sparks , two handles of whiskey, and see how efficiently you can remove yourself from any possible political futures by playing song and rhythm games mostly naked in front of a camera. For four days.

At a party, and don’t know anyone? Guitar Hero is your key to social interaction. Just look in the corner. Without fail these days, you will see two lads or lasses idly fingering away, looks of bliss on their faces. Look in the other corner, and you’ll see the two kids playing Guitar Hero. Do not join the former (or do, but that is not what this blog is about) and head over to the wonderful glow of the G. Heriddy.

While common sense or green aliens floating near your shoulder will chide you that coordination diminishes when you have been drinking, they have clearly never played a game of beer pong (which, for the record, is not my scene, but when in Rome…you play beer pong) and then taken on a beginner in one-on-one solo-off competition on Easy.
In my most recent experience I got three 100% songs in a row. Is this something to be proud of? not really, not even when drunk. But is it something you will be proud of when you’re drunk? Yes, with a squinty-eyed and off-balance poke in the chest for emphasis.

At the end of my night, I’d defeated every challenger at said party, until it came down to the very owner of the Playstation himself. Clad in a Star Trek Federation uniform, sweat pouring from his brow, he proved a mighty foe. We finally collapsed back from our Moon Barking, the Rock Meter just Tower-of-Pisa-ing in my direction. We clasped each other around the waist and called each other brother. As I walked off into the sunrise, I promised I would treat his girlfriend with kindness and grace, having won her in the contest.

Obligatory student fiction ending:
And then, I woke up! I was no longer wearing the Tights of Eddie Van Halen Panama Jump, but merely my underwear. I was holding the guitar, which was no longer a talking, flying sidekick, but just a regular old toy. But when I looked up at the screen, and it winked at me, that’s when I knew: I had either tried acid, or Guitar Hero was real after all.