Broken Frontier

Give me a minute to set the scene for you.  It’s the weekend, more specifically a Friday or Saturday night.  You were feeling particularly nostalgic earlier in the day, so you chose an old, faded Poison t-shirt (of which you cut the sleeves off long ago to make a retro gym tank top) to be the focal point of your wardrobe.  You have a couple of friends over for the evening and a 30 rack of Bud Light in the fridge… though by this point the predictable drunkards sitting in your living room have already cut the beer’s numbers in half.

Remember though, when you point a finger at someone else, you have three digits pointing back at yourself, which means, you’ve had your share of brews as well.  You sway slightly when you stand only to realize that you’ve hit the point in your alcohol consumption where you’re itching to impress your lady friend… the trooper in the corner who is doing her best not to roll her eyes at you.  Something inside you wants to show her that you still have “it”… whatever “it” is, so you start to get cocky, referring to yourself as the offspring of Jimi Hendrix… the prodigal son of Eddie Van Halen.

With a swagger worthy of Tony Manero (look it up if you don’t know who he is), you take your position in front of the high definition flat screen you purchased for moments just like this.  Pulling an overpriced controller in the shape of a Gibson over your head, you widen your stance and select “Cherry Pie” from a list of songs… some of which you love, most of which you know, and a few of which you couldn’t be bothered with.

You hear the imaginary audience go wild, chanting your name.  “Jay!  Jay!  Jay!”  The moment gets the best of you and you toss out the patented Dio devil horns to your friends, a staple of any legit bringer of the rock.  And with that universal symbol representing the green flag, the music begins and you’re unleashed… a flurry of color coded fingers and mechanical strumming explodes from your body and you’re him.

Who is him you ask?  Only the pseudo rock icon you always aspired to be as a kid, that’s who!  You’re a guitar hero!  No… you’re THE guitar hero!

And… scene!

Okay, I know that’s more or less a fictional tale I just spun, but in reality, that’s pretty much how the majority of my weekend nights have played out lately.  I didn’t see my lack of a social life coming by a long shot, but in hindsight, I can recognize its origin.  You see, it all happened a few months ago when a close friend of mine and X-Box enthusiast introduced me to his plastic no-strings and a programming marvel known as Guitar Hero.  At first I scoffed at his little game, claiming that if I wanted to play like Slash, I’d just pull out my patented double necked air variety and rock out on my own terms.  But things changed slowly as the night went on and I let my guard down… all thanks you Anheuser-Busch and their empty calories in a can.

You see, while I’m not advocating drinking as a pastime, I can’t help but suggest, based solely on personal experience, that booze is the perfect compliment to Guitar Hero.  As a game in and of itself, it’s not really the kind of thing you’d play solo after calling in sick at your day job.  No, it’s a party game… the same as Quarters, Flip-Cup or Beirut… and it’s meant to be enjoyed with intoxicated friends, possibly in costume, all of whom have no problem pretending they’re Angus Young meets Stevie Ray Vaughan in order to win over a crowd… whether it’s an invisible crowd or not.

I am a strong believer in drinking responsibly.  That being said, I don’t think it’s reckless of me or any other adult over the age of 21 to operate a mass-produced toy guitar while under the influence, especially in the comfort of our own homes.  I’ve seen lots of people drink for different reasons… whether it’s to forget something or someone, to celebrate a big day, or to just unwind, but here… drinking to rock makes the most sense of all.  In fact, since my introduction to Guitar Hero, having a beer or cocktail doesn’t interest me unless the possibility is there that I’ll be crawling around on the floor while fake jamming out to “Free Bird” in a series of greens, reds and yellows.

Beer and Guitar Hero are the new salt and pepper.  The more modern Burt and Ernie.  Generation Y’s peanut butter and jelly.  In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if their coming together went down in history as one of the best matched inanimate pairings since the start of the Industrial Revolution.

Again, I’m not advocating that you run out and buy a six-pack this weekend and get yourself liquored up for the sake of getting liquored up.  All I’m saying is, if you’re looking to unlock your inner Motley Crue, you don’t need your own Pamela Anderson and a pocket anaconda to make that happen.  (That was an obscure reference to the size of Tommy Lee’s wiener if you didn’t pick up on it.)  No, all you need is a little liquid courage, a reasonably sized room for the appropriate amount of on-stage antics, and a few friends to laugh at you.

Oh, and of course you need a copy of Guitar Hero.  Without that, you’re just venturing into Milli Vanilli territory, and as a rule of thumb, friends don’t let friends Fab and Rob.

THANK YOU CLEVELAND!