Here is a list of facts as to why I often to not feel like very much of a man:
– I look like a wet noodle with a not-thin-anymore layer of lard on top
– I haven’t been in a fight for 15 years (at least I won that one, though)
– I stopped playing sports long ago
– I love going to buy clothes
– I have a very musical voice
– I own no leather aside from a pair of Sperry Top Sider deck shoes
– I am currently wearing a green cable-knit cardigan
– I have incresingly drank less regular beer and more light beer this summer (because it’s… summery)
– I think scotch is yucky
– I think UFC is pretty boring
– I know what “braised” means
– I’d rather play video games than eat beef
– I don’t know how to drive, and
– I HAVE NEVER BEEN ON A MOTORCYCLE.
Good thing I spent about eighteen minutes playing this game, because now I know! Stunning first-person graphics bring the crotchrocket to life in this insane-o speedrace to see who can ride a motorcycle fastest from some place to another place that may or may not be called “Suzuka.” Apparently it takes eight hours; I am boggled as to who on God’s green earth would sit down and play a game for eight hours in this day and age where EVEN YOUR VERY CONSOLE distracts you (Bloop! Your friend is online! Bleep! You’ve got e-mail! Blop! Have you had dinner yet?). But, I respect that this game may have come out in a time where sitting down to play video games meant you were entering your own tiny sensory deprivation state, where the only things that existed were you, a controller, and some circuits or whatever blah blah something technical. But now I got the cell phone, and the laptop, and the desktop, and the 360, and the house in the city that looks out onto a shitty, noisy, busy, light-filled street. I’m lucky if I get 30 minutes into anything.
Then again, if I were to get that much in a game, it wouldn’t involve something as masculine as tucking an engine between my legs. It’d probably be a puzzle game with lovely animated characters in lovely top hats, or little androgynous fellows whacking away at each other with swords on a grid. But I think that makes sense. We’ve already established that I’m about as manly as a pile of Richard Simmons’ nail clippings.