When I was in Austin recently, I went to a Friday-night party thrown at one of those Texas bars with an outdoors space the size of a city block. Nearly the entire SXSW Interactive convention attended, and since a large percentage of those attendees were the types of dot-com people who go to Burning Man each year, the booze flowed voluminously and there was much getting down to the dance hits of the 1980s.

That decade of our halcyon cheese-drenched youth also manifested itself in a video-game corner, including original Galaga and Frogger stand-up models. The geeks lined up three deep for their turns. I briefly considered it, because, after all, I wasn't drinking and wasn't going to get laid, but then I thought: Fuck it. I am not waiting in line to play Asteroids Deluxe.

Two nights later, however, I found myself at Room 710 with a crowd of mostly Gibby Haynes lookalikes while a truly apocalyptic Hill Country thunderstorm turned the streets of Austin's party district into a temporary Schlitterbahn. My choices were two: Watch a band that sounded like Iron Maiden but was fronted by a female bassist in a Minnie Mouse dress, or play Centipede. I opted for the latter.

In the years before my pubes sprouted hair, I spent many brain-poisoning hours playing Centipede, particularly at Superfun, an arcade in the Paradise Valley Mall that was, at the time, state-of-the-art. It was the only game I ever mastered. Even now, desparately out of practice, I can usually make the leaderboard. But the bar is a lot lower now. Apparently, Centipede skills are in decline the world over. Whereas it was once hard to crack the Top 10 with a score of 40,000, now entry can be bought at a measly 17 grand. I'll still be scoring that on my deathbed.

A few weeks ago, when I took Elijah to get his hair cut, I made my first attempt to pass down my skill.

We went to The Yellow Balloon, a children's cut joint in Arcadia, just down the street from the Santa Anita Racetrack. The Yellow Balloon is no longer associated with the place of the same name in the Valley, but even if it were, the cuts cost $10 less, the waits are shorter, and it's a hell of a lot easier to find parking. However, there are video games.

In particular, the Yellow Balloon had two machines of interest: Ms. Pac-Man and Millipede, the former being a far more successful sequel. Elijah seemed interested in both. We attacked the Millipede first, since my Ms. Pac-Man skills have always been woeful.

I may have little to teach my son. I don't know how to fish, I can't pitch a tent, and I don't even speak very good Spanish. But I can definitely tell him to "roll the ball around, press the fire button, and shoot the bugs." And he did, asking important questions.

"Daddy, why are there bugs?"

"There just are."

"Then why am I shooting them?"

"Because they want to kill you. In this game. Not in real life."

"In real life they want to suck my blood."

"Some of them do."

"Or eat poop."

"Again, some of them."

By this point, the boy had exhausted all his lives. It was on to Ms. Pac-Man. I gave him a demonstration game, which lasted only about five seconds longer than the game he played subsequently.

I had two quarters left. Elijah's game had ended, but he was still manipulating the joystick. He couldn't tell the difference between the demonstration screen and the actual game.

"Daddy, I'm winning!" he said.

"Yes you are," I said. "You keep winning. I'm going to play some Millipede."

By the time my two games were done, Elijah's haircut appointment had arrived. I made the leaderboard both times. It didn't take much.

Posted by at 8:36 PM | Permalink