Flash back to 10:00pmish, a few hours prior - I've filled up my plastic tumbler with water, and I'm preparing for the slumber that will make my Thursday a little less dreary. PJ strolls in, fixing the cuffs on his longsleeve shirt, "I don't know if you're interested, but at the Emergency Room bar they're having a Guitar Hero competition." My eyebrows raise. PJ walks away. Confusion sets in. "When?" I ask. He looks at his watch and replies, "Now." "Oh," I say, having expected a 'tomorrow [at some time]' as an answer, "I'll get ready." PJ admits, "Normally, it being a school night, I wouldn't go but..." "Lemme guess, there's a girl?" I nail it on the head. "Well, kinda--Julie will be there writing an article for the Weekly." If he had wanted to see Guitar Hero, as he mentioned later, "[he] could have just had dinner and watched Scott play in the living room."
Mere minutes later, we're in PJ's rent-a-Hyundai blazing our way towards Chinatown. The Emergency Room is a dive bar at Decatur and Spring Mountain, in the same shopping center as the restaurant that the Shiues take me.
Business cards are used as monetary devices at the door to avoid a $12 cover charge to see the last of what is referred to as a 'punk' band event. I don't see the correlation between punk, and hard-core cookie monster speed metal--but whatever, it was free because PJ's some hotshit guy with business cards to prove it. He needs cards to prove his fame, nobody has asked me once to prove that I'm the fried mozzarella cheese stick competitive eating champion for North America (3 years running).
Post bandage (which was intensely long, with much Coke-drinking, poker-playing, ear-bleeding, and "we've got one more"ing) - A bigscreen is rolled on a dolly onto the floor, and the complex hookings-up of a PS2 are made. Dozens try their hand at the unlocked songs you get if you use cash earned in the game--songs I had no desire to unlock myself, so I was hearing for the first time. Some of the originals were played, and it was clear that there were two experts, and a smidgen of easy/mediums around. Mr. Boo Radley formerly of KDT (now in some other band, I've been informed) played, and subsequently was unsuccessful at getting PJ to try his hand. The experts made it clear that this game could get unbelievably tough, with double and triple the notes flying.
War Pigs (as made famous by Black Sabbath) was ruined by a pair of females--one exhuberantly drunk--playing the guitar section, the other doing a decent job at the bass lines. It was surreal to hear such a good song flubbed up--with just Ozzy and bass, it could have almost worked as a funk tune.
Julie had finished her notes for the article, and it was determined that we were to leave. She proceeded to the event's organizers, and while she chatted with them, PJ and I stood in the back, watching more players. A song ended, and guitars were extended outwards--the sign for "Hey, wanna play?" Nobody bit. I waltzed up--this had been the opportunity I was waiting for, I didn't want to barge in the middle of the party, I wasn't one of 'them'. As I grab the controller, my co-player grabbed Player 1's guitar, and we settled into the arbitrage that was selecting the songs. He'd played several times already, and wanted 'Stray Cat Strut' which was not how I wanted to exit. He let me pick--and I went straight for Dick Dale's Misirlou--we both settled on medium, and I chose Lars Umlat's uncanny resemblance to me as my uber-avatar.
I took the guitar lead, and he played bass--both of us achieving 97% or above of the notes (as indicated by the stats at the end of the song). Jitters caused me to miss a couple--but nobody noticed. It rocked. We rocked. I had a new brother.
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