Thursday, April 05, 2007
Mr. Scoop has finally broken our balcony's cherry.
Yesterday evening I came home to find him standing in the middle of the living room flailing his arms like some kind of epileptic. I was informed it wasn't epilepsy but "windmilling". You see, Mr. Scoop had purchased Guitar Hero II for the Xbox 360 and he was living the virtual rock star dream. Sort of. He was disappointed to learn that one cannot purchase a mud shark on EBay. But he was happily mashing buttons on the neck of the guitar controller and leaping onto furniture with wild abandon. "Could you throw some underwear at me?", he asked me while feverishly thumbing at the "strum" controls. I lobbed a day old pair of his boxers at him.
It wasn't the desired effect he was after.
"Groupies", he exclaimed. "I desire groupies!" "Of course you do, dear", I said. He tore into a computerized amalgamation of "Possum King" by the Toadies and stared around the room like he expected the walls to spontaneously start dripping goth pussy.
"You have to try this game", he said. I tried it. And I tried it. And, despite having played guitar since I was 5, was barely able to register above 75% accuracy. On the first song. I don't even want to get into how poorly I did on the other songs. I must say, I was not feeling the Guitar Hero II love.
Meanwhile, my failures on the stick were only making Mr. Scoop itch to get back in the saddle. I had no problem handing the "guitar" back over to him. I went upstairs to see if Konami had any plans to upgrade it's karaoke game to the 360 anytime in the near future. It didn't. Fuckers.
I shouldn't have left Mr. Scoop unsupervised.
I heard the door to the back balcony slam. I figured Mr. Scoop was out to get his hourly nicotine fix. Then I heard the shouting.
He had leapt up on the railing that fenced in the balcony. He perched there, precariously, with his arms outstretched. A small contingent of homeless had taken a break from diving our dumpsters for empties and other goodies to gather beneath and egg him on. "I am a golden god!" he declared thunderously. It echoed off the vinyl clad walls of the condo blocks across from us. "Yeah, man", one of the homeless yelled back. "Sing it!" Mr. Scoop looked at me. "Tell Rolling Stone that my last words were 'I'm on drugs'". "But, you're not on drugs", I shouted. "You're just really drunk!" Mr. Scoop began to wobble on the railing. I looked down helplessly at the rabble collected under my balcony. "Heart Shaped Box" played in a continuous loop from the game on pause in the other room. Mr. Scoop began to teeter over the edge.
"This man supplies you with $10.50 in returnable Coors Light cans. Single-handedly. Every week.", I shrieked at them. "For the love of God catch him!"
And, by gum, they did. He was passed hand over hand, working his way to the edge of the group in the most surreal episode of crowd surfing I've ever seen. They set him down gently on the far side of the mass. Then, they applauded him. Mr. Scoop stood up, triumphant.
"Ok. That's what I'm talking about! Alright then - who wants me to sign their cleavage?"
That's when the crowd suddenly had other things to do at 11:17 on a Wednesday night.
And I brought Mr. Scoop inside and put him to bed.
"I was really something out there, wasn't I?" he said, as he drifted off to sleep.
"Yes", I said, kissing him on the forehead. "You sure were."