Sometimes I need to remind myself that this blog isn’t all about me. Or Leah. So I’ll try to put together a unicorn chaser here. Thanks to all those who commented on yesterday’s incendiary post; it’s always interesting to find the limits of acceptable public disclosure.
In lighter news, I discovered over the weekend that Atari — beloved game maker of my youth — produces three games for the iPhone/iPod Touch: Super Breakout, Centipede, and Missile Command. I typically shun paid apps, but I admit to forking over the $10 (total) for Centipede and Missile Command. Playing these games is a real blast from the past. I can’t get past the sensation that I’m holding a giant arcade game machine in my hands as I play…cognitive dissonance? These games were totally made for this format, even though I really, really miss that big ol’ trackball. I clued my brother-in-law Kevin into the games, and he was all, “Huh? Centipede?” I keep forgetting he was two years old when Centipede was released.
So this morning I was lying (not laying) in bed, playing a few rounds of Centipede while Leah showered and before Ava awoke. After a bit, Ava came in and asked what I was doing. She’s familiar with the iPod Touch but has never done more gaming on it than her Jirbo Match sessions. She watched me blast away for a couple minutes, then asked if she could try. I set the difficulty to “Easy” and handed her the iPod. She was pretty good! Watching her, I was reminded of my high school friend Josh, who used to skateboard with this weird mix of haphazard genius that always left us standing in awe. It was like Ava was playing by accident, time after time coming within a hair’s breadth of disaster at the legs of a bouncing spider and then whizzing away at the last possible moment.
Leah, natch, was not thrilled with Ava’s new pursuit. And I have to grudgingly agree that the theme of Centipede is probably beyond Ava’s years. I mean, really, who would shoot a centipede? Talk about cognitive dissonance…to make the decision not to let your child do something that you enjoyed as a kid has the real sting of adulthood to it. And it’s a painful sting. I just hope all this oversight pays off.
Lastly, a bedraggled, wilted olive branch for my long-suffering wife, whose kind and caring nature would rather see me dead than leave the house with a PowerPoint presentation that’s missing a dash in one of its compound adjectives:
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.