But ah! The lure of the game. Like an electronic siren’s song, calling always calling. . . . I thought merely making the games contraband would be enough to stop the infiltration, but who knew that my dear husband would be the mule? (And I mean that in the nicest way of course).
Andrew is a techno-junkie, always looking for the latest electronic fix. Two years ago he got an iPaq, a handheld organizer, but not just any handheld, one with 110 cable channels, retinal scan security, satellite uplink and the capability to fly the space shuttle by remote control and, oh yes, games. Games such as Jawbreaker, specifically.
Andrew has loved his handheld with a passion with which even I couldn’t compete, no one—and I mean NO ONE—was allowed to touch it ("Be careful son that's not a toy!"—yea, right!) It was a thing of beauty to be carried at all times, to be treasured and guarded (I caught him stroking it, calling it “His Precious” when he didn’t know I was looking).
But as time went by newer, better, smaller and faster came along until suddenly he wasn’t sleeping with it under his pillow any more, but was leaving it home on Friday nights, letting the cover get smudged, not bothering to replace the stylus properly, looking at other handhelds during secret visits to CompUSA. Finally the day came when he admitted to me that if something should happen to his iPaq, he wouldn’t feel so bad, because he’d been wanting a Treo and if his iPaq was “out of the way” he’d be free to buy again, to get that trophy handheld he’d been dreaming about, the one that would understand him and make him happy.
Along with this brutal realization comes the discovery that somehow, somewhere through the miracle of genetics and natural selection Spencer has been harboring a secret, recessive Jawbreaker gene that has lain dormant until this weekend. After playing for an hour he triumphantly and rather innocently brought the iPaq to Andrew, saying, “Hey, look Dad! With one click I’m going to double your high score!” Incredulous and powerless, Andrew looked on as Spencer made a single move that decimated Andrew's reign as Jawbreaker Heavy Weight Champion of the World, finishing up with a high score which was something along the lines of five billion, give or take.
Andrew gasped. He began questioning Spencer up and down about whether that was in fact his correct score, that there wasn’t something fishy going on, that he hadn’t cheated somewhere (come on, this isn’t Chutes and Ladders, the computer doesn’t fudge these things). But when it became apparent that the score was for real and that Spencer had blown Andrew’s high score off the charts after playing it for a fraction of the time Andrew had, life changed in an instant. Release the hounds, the hunt was on. Dinner could wait—it was "just one more game."
The most frustrating thing for Andrew was that Spencer couldn’t tell him how he’d done it, it was just a case of nature meets nurture meets opportunity and genius was born. Though he questioned him about finger positions and breathing techniques and blinks-per-second Andrew came to the conclusion that the spark that took Spencer onto greatness couldn’t be duplicated for his own benefit, that thereafter he’d have to be content with Jawbreaker mediocrity.
Technorati tags: family, humor, handheld, technology
3 comments:
Just thought I'd leave you a comment so that you know that I check in on you from time to time. You always make me chuckle.
No matter how old men get, they are still little boys at heart! Great post!
Here via Carnival of Family Life.
Very funny. I guess men are just naturally competitive, huh?
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