Gang Signs and Lang Synes

Not being much one for spirits, be they of the distilled or evil variety, I find my New Years celebrations to be somewhat downplayed. This year, I spent a lovely day with the Mrs., followed by ringing in the New Year with some hardcore auld-on-lang action. Now, in the aftermath (having taken her home), I find myself blogging in a strangely empty house. My brother is in Seattle, my mother in Las Vegas, and my father in La-La Land, or wherever it is he goes when the sawmill in his head starts up and he drifts off the noisy diesel-engine of pre-R.E.M. snoring into slumber.

Potato has proven my only stalwart companion, stinky as she is proving herself to be. My own gaseous prowess is of world-renown, i\t\ makes no sense for the animal to want to follow in my footsteps. Paw prints. Whatever.

I left the slashes in the above "it" for a reason. They were not made by me, but rather by Potato as she walked across the keyboard as I was typing. Not attacking my fingers as an exciting plaything, not looking to me for attention, walking across it and then going about her business. I swear, could you read the mind of a cat, it'd solely be thinking, "I'm going to fuck with this guy. Good thing I'm cute enough to get away with it." You notice the grumpiest cats are the fat ones and the ugly ones. This is because they're smart enough to realize that, without the Kevlar that is a cat's cuteness, we'd just as soon chuck them out a window at the first sign of a bared claw. I have a friend who has a one-eyed cat named Captain Rowdy. Awesome name notwithstanding, that cat is the friendliest thing in the world. Because it's genuinely good natured? Please. One eye equals one chance. The next time that cat messes up, it's taco meat.

In addition to the hot hot action, I'll be clanging and blasting the new year in with one of my favorite Christmas presents, if not the-BEST-PRESENT-EVER, which is of course the gift of mindless violence and sex with numerous prostitutes before murdering them for the purpose of remuneration of lost funds.

Yes, I speak of Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas.

Let me explain to you, dear reader, what gaming nirvana should be:

So far I have shot, burned, boned, lied, drove, danced, yes, DANCED, low-rider-raced, and hop competitioned my way to being only the itty-bittiest bit respected in my own neighborhood. I can command a gang of three, count them, THREE Grove Street thugs. And lemme tell you, my niggas is the hardest motherfuckers you ever gon' meet, bitch.

There are crooked cops, there are tons of vehicles, there's different hairstyles, clothing styles, even car modifications. Tons of weapons, tons of locales. Dynamics between gangs, the police, the people you see on the street, and the relationships you have with people in your gang. I have a girlfriend in the game. I rescued her from a burning crack house that I set fire to. I HAVE A GIRLFRIEND. IN. THE. GAME.

Halo my ass, people. Get immersed.

What strikes me the most is how, in a video game, these people have managed to capture the lowest common denominators that add up together to make a "city." I can't leave my house now without seeing everything as if I'm playing GTA. The people walking down the street seem sources of income, peices of the game. The cop cars I'm certain I can hop into and start vigilante missions with. If the police get angry, I'll just run someone over and take their left-behind, conveniently-floating-in-the-air firearm to defend myself. And I'm sure that once I've had the opportunity to play more of the indoor missions (of which there are plenty) leaving my house won't even be required. I'll wander through my home expecting to make stealth attack on people in between me and the bathroom. GROVE STREET, FOOLS! WHAT?!

The Mrs. has brought this on herself, having bought me the game AND an ultra-slim PS2 (Yes, I've thanked Jesus. He said you're welcome) AND let me play the game while lying in bed. While earning the "Most Awesome Girlfriend to Ever Fucking Exist" award, she has also sadly doomed herself to a life (or at least a month) of second-chair attention, GTA taking up not only most of my time, but most of my conscious thought processes. Hell, I just got into Ammu-Nation, and I have acces to nothing but body armor and submachine guns. This is flavor country.

The map has recently been gerrymandered into disproportionate sections of colored landscape, indicative of the gangs controlling the respective locales, and gang warfare is the new agenda. I've been attempting to take another territory for Grove Street, but it's so far proving difficult. I may have to run another mission for OG Loc or the crooked cops before attempting to tackle it again. I can always defend territory no problem. Those Balla bitches are straight bustas, yo.

My resolution for the new year is to champion the standardization of men's shirt sizes. We can no longer live in a fashion-conscious world where Large means "relatively big" and small means "Like a ten-fifteen-year-old." What one company thinks is large, another thinks is extra-large, what one thinks is medium, I think is perfect, but some other guy thinks is small. Can't we have some government regulation?

Or better yet, can't we do it like pants? Like I want a t-shirt with slightly longer sleeve and a shorter trunk? Wouldn't that be cool. I'd like a 20-12 shirt, please? Sure, production would cost more, but in the end we'd all have perfectly fitting shirts! Isn't that the American dream? Isn't that what all those troops in... you know... Nagasaki died for? Eh?

I ordered a shirt off the internet of late, and while undeniably awesome, it's like a damn tent. I debated with myself for a long time as to whether I should order the medium or the large, and I finally decided to check all my favorite shirts, to see what the story was with them. They were all large, so I ordered a large, and evidently the company had a different idea of the meanind of "Large," as the monstrosity that arrived could be used to fumigate my house. I tried shrinking it, like I know what I'm doing, but no-go. Thing looms bigger than ever, perhaps swollen from it's saturation in water. Perhaps it's feeding.

Anyway, I'm ordering a new, smaller one (medium ought to do it) and I guess I'll use this one as a rain tarpaulin or something. I don't know, it's these small defeats that really get me down. Rejected from UCLA film school, shunned by family and friends, relatives dying left and right like this was Uganda, I hardly sniff. I burn the last of the chicken pot pies, I can almost cry.

Before I go, a quick run-down of the day: Went to the Aquarium of the Pacific (on a national boozer holiday, no less, and DIDN'T get into a major accident!), rented Amores Perros (which I'll have to do a review of when I have the strength, and when the Ballaz no longer control the Ammo-Nation to the south of Grove), and the rest. Awesome, awesome day. I'm adopting a Sea Dragon along with the Mrs. More on that later.

As it stands, my lovelies, Happy New Year. I hope every happiness you're wishing today comes to you in intervals of three throughout the year, that you might learn to appreciate them all the more for the unfathomable suffering I wish upon you in the intervening days. Happy Christmas! Merry New Year! Buenas Aires!

I saved the pot pie. It was delicious.