I've been on a Super Nintendo kick for the past few days. It happens maybe once a year or so--I drag out the system and my box of old games, or head to a video game shop and buy some new ones for five or six bucks, and I'll spend maybe a week reliving a little bit of my childhood. I'm not quite sure what brings it on . . . I've been worrying a little bit about work and bills lately, so maybe it happens when I'm stressed out and need a release. Maybe writing this will help keep a record of why I fall back on old toys. Then when I find myself playing Mario Bros. again I can think about what's been going on in the rest of my world and compare the times in my life.
My roommate joined me for some video gaming tonight. We've been friends since the sixth grade and we were playing the same games that we played when we were younger. There is a racing game that we particularly enjoy even now where you play as cartoony figures in go-karts and throw turtle shells and banana peels at the other racers. When we were in high school we took to naming our opponents after people we knew from school or work. The monkey in a tank top was an especially tough racer, and for every race where my roommate and I came in first and second place, that goddamn monkey came in third. He became our arch rival. We named him Jarrod, after a friend from school.
Jesus Christ, we hated Jarrod. He was always riding our ass, always getting in the way of our pixelated victories. We got so good at the game that our victories were practically assured--and Jarrod was always there on the podium with us at the end of the match. We decided it would make the game more challenging if we took on the task of not only getting first and second places for ourselves, but also making sure Jarrod didn't get third.
Every "cup" is made up of five races and the racers get different numbers of points depending on what place they finish in the individual races. My roommate and I devised a system: in alternating races, one of us would race normally and make sure they got first place. The other would hang back and intentionally sabotage Jarrod's progress so that he would come in fifth place or below, thereby earning no points. But that racer would also have to haul ass in the last lap in order to at least achieve fourth place or higher and thereby receive *some* points for that race. Make sense?
We played this game tonight and quickly fell into old habits. After a few laps in our first race we remembered all of the old nicknames we had give the racers: Kevin Harris, Ruth, Holtz, Doug, Joyce, and that bastard Jarrod. It took a few races to get back into the groove, but eventually we were up to par and claiming first and second places for ourselves on a regular basis.
And once again, Jarrod was always there on the podium with us. We fucking hated Jarrod.
So we went back to the old system of alternating priorities. One of us would win the race and rack up the points, the other would lag behind and make sure Jarrod wouldn't be on the podium with us at the end. It was a hard thing to do--if we shot Jarrod with a turtle shell in the first or second lap, that gave him plenty of time to get back into the race and still come in third by the end. So we had to stick on him and really screw him up in the final lap, then haul ass ourselve to make it across the finish line. It was best to hit Jarrod right before he crossed the finish line, because then we would be close enough to still come in second place, but by the time Jarrod recovered from wiping out four or five other racers would have passed him by. But if he hit him with a shell too late, he would wipe out but still be knocked across the finish line--thereby actually beating one of us.
The first time we did it just right, my roommate raced across the finish line into first place (nine points!). I was in second and Jarrod was coming up behind me. I had a shell in my inventory and it was my job to really screw the bastard over. I hit the brake just enough so Jarrod could get past me--the bam, I let the shell go and Jarrod spun out, slid, and stopped right before the finish line. I hit the gas again and creeped across the line and into second place (six points). Then Ruth raced by (three points), then Joyce (one point), then Kevin Harris (zero points, sorry Kevin) for christ's sake, and finally Jarrod got his shit together and made it into sixth place (you get nothing!).
It was PERFECT. Just like we had done so many times in high school, staying up all night to play video games, eating Twizzlers and drinking Mountain Dew. We both shouted in victory, jumped up, and high fived.
I don't know about you, but I can't remember the last time I gave someone a high five for any reason other to make them feel uncomfortable (go ahead and try it, people hate being forced into the high five--and they are forced into it, because once your hand is up in the air, they can't avoid the high five without looking like an asshole. It's especially useful in making people feel uncomfortable when you've just met them for the first time.). And the feeling of absolute euphoria that flooded my brain was amazing. And it was a video game (a video game!) that was giving me this feeling!
I imagine after this weekende we'll be burned out on Super Nintendo again. But the urge will hit us again in nine months or so, or maybe just when the bills start to overwhelm us again and we need a childlike sense of happiness to flood our minds.
Jarrod was always a friend of ours in school; but I sometimes think if, by the time I see him again at some high school reunion or another, I'll have so much anger built up for Racing Monkey Jarrod, that I'll just punch him in the nose. Man, I really hate the racing Jarrod.
My roommate joined me for some video gaming tonight. We've been friends since the sixth grade and we were playing the same games that we played when we were younger. There is a racing game that we particularly enjoy even now where you play as cartoony figures in go-karts and throw turtle shells and banana peels at the other racers. When we were in high school we took to naming our opponents after people we knew from school or work. The monkey in a tank top was an especially tough racer, and for every race where my roommate and I came in first and second place, that goddamn monkey came in third. He became our arch rival. We named him Jarrod, after a friend from school.
Jesus Christ, we hated Jarrod. He was always riding our ass, always getting in the way of our pixelated victories. We got so good at the game that our victories were practically assured--and Jarrod was always there on the podium with us at the end of the match. We decided it would make the game more challenging if we took on the task of not only getting first and second places for ourselves, but also making sure Jarrod didn't get third.
Every "cup" is made up of five races and the racers get different numbers of points depending on what place they finish in the individual races. My roommate and I devised a system: in alternating races, one of us would race normally and make sure they got first place. The other would hang back and intentionally sabotage Jarrod's progress so that he would come in fifth place or below, thereby earning no points. But that racer would also have to haul ass in the last lap in order to at least achieve fourth place or higher and thereby receive *some* points for that race. Make sense?
We played this game tonight and quickly fell into old habits. After a few laps in our first race we remembered all of the old nicknames we had give the racers: Kevin Harris, Ruth, Holtz, Doug, Joyce, and that bastard Jarrod. It took a few races to get back into the groove, but eventually we were up to par and claiming first and second places for ourselves on a regular basis.
And once again, Jarrod was always there on the podium with us. We fucking hated Jarrod.
So we went back to the old system of alternating priorities. One of us would win the race and rack up the points, the other would lag behind and make sure Jarrod wouldn't be on the podium with us at the end. It was a hard thing to do--if we shot Jarrod with a turtle shell in the first or second lap, that gave him plenty of time to get back into the race and still come in third by the end. So we had to stick on him and really screw him up in the final lap, then haul ass ourselve to make it across the finish line. It was best to hit Jarrod right before he crossed the finish line, because then we would be close enough to still come in second place, but by the time Jarrod recovered from wiping out four or five other racers would have passed him by. But if he hit him with a shell too late, he would wipe out but still be knocked across the finish line--thereby actually beating one of us.
The first time we did it just right, my roommate raced across the finish line into first place (nine points!). I was in second and Jarrod was coming up behind me. I had a shell in my inventory and it was my job to really screw the bastard over. I hit the brake just enough so Jarrod could get past me--the bam, I let the shell go and Jarrod spun out, slid, and stopped right before the finish line. I hit the gas again and creeped across the line and into second place (six points). Then Ruth raced by (three points), then Joyce (one point), then Kevin Harris (zero points, sorry Kevin) for christ's sake, and finally Jarrod got his shit together and made it into sixth place (you get nothing!).
It was PERFECT. Just like we had done so many times in high school, staying up all night to play video games, eating Twizzlers and drinking Mountain Dew. We both shouted in victory, jumped up, and high fived.
I don't know about you, but I can't remember the last time I gave someone a high five for any reason other to make them feel uncomfortable (go ahead and try it, people hate being forced into the high five--and they are forced into it, because once your hand is up in the air, they can't avoid the high five without looking like an asshole. It's especially useful in making people feel uncomfortable when you've just met them for the first time.). And the feeling of absolute euphoria that flooded my brain was amazing. And it was a video game (a video game!) that was giving me this feeling!
I imagine after this weekende we'll be burned out on Super Nintendo again. But the urge will hit us again in nine months or so, or maybe just when the bills start to overwhelm us again and we need a childlike sense of happiness to flood our minds.
Jarrod was always a friend of ours in school; but I sometimes think if, by the time I see him again at some high school reunion or another, I'll have so much anger built up for Racing Monkey Jarrod, that I'll just punch him in the nose. Man, I really hate the racing Jarrod.
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just kidding...
when I was in college I would get out an old atari 2600 (with parts from like 4 different systems) or nintendo and play for hours on end while my older friends were at the bars...
I build some mean tracks on excitebike...
-D
before reading your entry through and just seeing "Jarrod" throughout I thought you were talking about the formerly fat subway guy...
My old roommate and I spent hours upon hours upon hours playing Mortal Kombat 2 back when we lived in the dorms. We got so good at it that the only person who was even remotely a challange to play was playing against each other. Everyone else we just toyed with. We always just did random select too, so we were unfairly good with every character. We would end up having one of our weak characters and still be able to toy with people and taunt them the whole match. Make them think they have a chance and then pull off a huge combo to finish them off. He comes into town every once in awhile and we get together and play, so much fun.