Lots of Monkeys

Just finished up the first playthrough of inFamous and I’m not sick of it yet.  So I’m in my second playthrough.  Playing the boy scout and the game is definitely more challenging.

When I was playing the evil side, there was just destruction, chaos.  I would launch explosives at every opportunity.  If there was a problem, the solution was shooting it.  If there wasn’t a problem, more than likely I was blowing something up.  I could do anything I wanted, and no one could stop me.  Not the cops, not civilians, not the gangs.

It was awesome.

Now, as the boy scout, things are a little more challenging.  If I shoot a civilian, that’s an automatic karma penalty and I take another stop towards evil.  I can’t just shoot everything.  And explosives are right out in public places.  It’s annoying.  What’s even more annoying is when pedestrians run right into the line of fire.  It’s not frustrating, and so far, I still find it funny.  It’s just a little surprising when I’m hiding out behind cover and I pop out to take a shot at the guy that’s shooting at me and a civilian just jumps into the line of fire.

Ah well.  Can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs.

I figure the greater good is worth a few civilian casualties, as long as I make the effort to revive them later

Not surprisingly the solutions to all of the problems are still explosives and shooting, but now I’m shooting the bad guys.  Although I was still shooting bad guys the first time. I guess I’m doing it again.

Although in a good way.

The air is thick with solid beams of light, blues and greens and reds made manifest in the swirling fog.  The music is Rebel Girl by Bikini Kill and our lead singer is suitably drunk and loud.

I know she’s there because I can hear her, but I can’t see her through the fog.  I don’t have time to think about it because I’m playing lead guitar and it’s complicated.  Maybe we should have practiced more, but now it’s too late and we’re playing.

Then the strobes hit and I see the crowd, floating faces lit up by the light show and made bodiless by the thick cloud of fog that fills the too small space.

We finish strong and Lisa, our vocalist, voice raw from the performance asks if we can

Someone shouts Aqualung from the back of the family room.

Welcome to Rock Band 2, with the stage kit.

Beer.

I never thought I would become the sort that would talk about beer in the same way that most people talk about wine.  In fact, no less than a decade ago, I would never believe that I would enjoy the taste of beer.

It was foul, bitter, watery, and just not pleasant to drink.  I drank at parties, but stuck to vodka tonics.

Then, one summer day, in a basement pool hall, I, for some reason, had a beer.  The first real beer.

I remember it pretty clearly.  It didn’t look like other beers.  Instead of being yellow and pale, the beer had a rich dark color to it.  It looked substantial.  It looked considerably different from the other beers that I had known in my life.  The Budweisers, the MGDs that I watched downed by restaurant patrons, at ball games, at parties.

No, this was a Rogue Dead Guy, off the tap at Atomic Billiards.  It was just on the tip of sweet, with a distinct flavor.  I grew to like it, the way that it would start sweet, then fade to a bitter that disappeared clean.

After that was Guinness, and while not sweet, there was a definite ease of drinking that came with it.

Since then, I’ve grown to appreciate other types of beers.  Hefeweisens, white ales, barleywine, ultra hopped–I may not have enjoyed them all, but I would definitely taste them.

Ultimately, I think that my beer of choice falls into the Imperial Pale Ale category, although the types of beers that I enjoy in this category really aren’t all that pale.

Go figure.

Did you know, that there are boutiques specifically for the sole purpose of taking a woman’s measurements (read: boobs) and then giving them a bra that fits?

As a man, I have to say the very concept of underwear not being S, M, or L is almost like a foreign language.  Men never talk about underwear.  On the other hand, the bra is often spoken of but never really discussed.  I think it has something to do with the boobs.

For example.

There’s no stigma or suppositions imposed on a man if he announces his suit size is a 38S.  This is a basic chest measurement, along with a sleeve length.  I could say that another man is a 44L.  In either case, there’s not really any sort of image that is conjured by the measurements.

On the other hand, let’s say that a woman is a 30A.  There’s definitely an image there.  Then another woman is a 36DD.  Already, there’s a clear mental image of this woman.  That, and if you’re the empathetic sort, a twinge of back pain.

Which is why hanging around half a dozen lady friends at The Full Cup in Alexandria was an eye opening experience.

The store itself is hidden away in a small nondescript building.  It’s not a place that you would discover.  It is in fact, one of those places that would be found only during a quest.  In this case, it’s the quest of six women to find a bra that fits.

Once I found it, I was immediately set upon by attack dogs and then summarily kicked out I was surprised to find comfortable velvet couches filled with pillows.  The inside was red and foreboding, with light sconces on the walls and some curtains for texture.  One wall was dominated by various lacy things and bits that I’m not at liberty to describe.  The opposite wall featured a long horizontal mirror framed by two corsets, themselves in frames.

I placed myself and my Digital SLR on one of the couches closest to the door and furthest away from the dressing rooms.  While we are all friends, I thought that a modicum of decency was required.  For the general public, at least.

I had a great time, in no small part due to the company and of course, the experience.  (I unfortunately did not find a bra that fits.)

There were boobs, certainly, but they were always behind the curtains, past the shimmering anti male gaze field projectors and the auto tracking tasers.  Which are aimed below the belt.

Naturally.