Dancing Girls Vs. Rock Band

I’m conflicted.

Two sides of my person are at odds with each other. There’s the “Dweeb” facet of me that needs very little physical outside stimulus. It’s a low maintenance creature, requiring a minimum sustenance of movies, books and - to a lesser extent - video games. This facet is perfectly at home with, well, staying at home or some other enclosure…and basically geeking it out. Tea in hand, of course. Fellow like-minded souls in close proximity are optional.

Then there’s the “Dude” part. You know who he is. Well, if you’re male, you do. The Dude thrives on thrill, thirst, and thighs; babes, beer, and bawdiness. Ribaldry personified, his appetite is sated when all three demands of his Neanderthalic nature are met. He’s a simple creature, hard to tame but easy to trick. The metaphoric leash has a little slack so as to not upset him, but he’s easy to reign in when his energy depletes. And it can deplete rather quickly. Dude goes balls out, but only for short periods of time.

Dweeb, on the other hand, has greater endurance, vast energy stores. Why? He doesn’t use any of it. Given that he’s a sedentary creature to start with, exertion is a rarity. When he is called upon to initiate something in his natural habitat - a gaming table, TV, computer, or other media outlet - very little of his energy is spent. He can go for hours.

Rarely do these two facets come into contact with each other. A wall of moderation divides their mutual territories, keeping them exclusive yet whole. One doesn’t tread on the other’s ground. There’s never a reason to. Both operate on completely different wavelengths. Conflict only arises when both get “hungry” at the same time.

As was the case this weekend…twice.

Several Fridays ago was a Dweeb night. He called dibs. The day was reserved for impromptu geekanalia. First on the docket was an outing to The Incredible Hulk. Upon exiting the theater after, all four of us were in total dweebdom, arguing about the possible future of the Avengers-ish story-arc Marvel Studios appears to be developing. We debated special effects, performances, cameos, future superhero movies-to-be. All quaint stuff.

Until Mr. Beer entered the equation.

We moseyed our way to The Ram for microbrews, nachos, and more bullshitting. The problem was that this…was Dude territory. Dweeb and Dude can coexist in Beerland for a time, but it’s a small duration. Extended attempts at synergy fall apart.

Geek talk transitioned to guy talk. Sex, stupidity, and stuff. You know, boy toys. The realm of cars, electronics, etc. My cell phone chimed with a text message. It was from a female friend, one of the “M” Troika (read: women-folk); M-1, to be precise. She put an invite out to go to Mixers.

I hate the place. I knew I hated the place. I knew I had no reason whatsoever to set foot near there. Or so the Dweeb kept rationalizing.

Then the Dude part said, “But there might be girls there.”

Even Dweeb had to shrug, “He has a point.”

Mr. Beer wasn’t helping either.

My three compatriots had come to similar inner conclusions, and off to the shit-bar we went. The bar was, indeed, shit. But there were women there. The M-Crew succeeded in luring my mousy arse onto the dance floor on more than one occasion.

For the record, I’m not the biggest fan of dancing. I’m no good at it, I feel awkward doing it, and I don’t understand the appeal. Yet once I’m actually on the floor, I can’t get off of it. My inner attention whore, having broken its proverbial chains of prudeness, bursts forth with reckless (one might even say, metro) abandon. I blame the three M-s.

My inner Dweeb gained the upper hand after about an hour, though, when one of my friends made a suggestion. A suggestion that is as deadly as putting a brownie in front of a fat kid. I know, I’m a fat kid…and I like brownies. This was something like that.

“Let’s play some Rock Band.”

Unless you’ve been residing under an obelisk of denial and retardation, Rock Band is a video game. Wait, no. Let me rephrase that. It’s crack in pixel form, pure unadulturated digital freebasing. You play mock instruments with squeaky buttons and mimic like you’re in an actual rock band. One of the four players even has to sing…er…more or less. They have to keep pitch.

Let me introduce you to another lesser facet of my being. You’re already acquainted with the two main schisms, Dude and Dweeb. You were also introduced to the lesser imp, Attention Whore. Permit me to welcome…Karaoke Douche.

Karaoke Douche is the special sibling to Attention Whore and distant cousin of Dweeb. His existence is accepted by Dude because of a loophole called “The Peacock Factor”. Dude allows Attention Whore and Karaoke Douche to subsist because of a verbal agreement made - a promise that their assaholic antics might get “The-Power-That-Is-Me” laid.

Granted, this has yet to work, but they are masters of persuasion. Whereas Writer Dork, a silent little sap in the primordial soup of my brain, scoffs and records their smarmy attempts to garner said female favor with limited - albeit entertaining - results. They exist so stories can be told.

Sorry, I kinda digressed.

Rock Band would not appeal to us - I mean, me - if it weren’t for that karaoke comparison. I. Love. To sing. Am I great at it? Heavens no. But I love to do it anyway, and that’s the allure of the game. The illusion of awesomeness. Even Dude is not immune.

Dancing lasted an hour. Rock Band lasted four. Dweeb won.

Dude was not going down without a fight, however.

When that Saturday rolled around, and I got a call to play more Rock Band with the guys. We decided to put a little twist to it. More to the point, my friends did. Their goal was to create the gayest band possible. The lead singer avatar, which they created for the game, was incidentally named “Lucky Pierre” - a pig-faced, pink-haired, rotund bear of a mic-sucker.

As the game progressed, we were called upon - after successive gigs in-game - to alter the attire and appearance of the band. We feminized them even further. Not in a glam rock sorta way, ooooooh no. We went balls-to-the-teabagging-wall with these boys. Even gay men would wonder what the hell they were. With the exception of the drummer, of course. One of them had to look manly. Although, our definition of “manly” was a slightly-bearded Dr. Who look-alike.

What do you expect? We’re geeks!

After four hours of this politically incorrect band-handling, I got a text from M-1. The troika were going dancing again, this time downtown. I informed the other guys, but they were content to continue playing. I was at an empasse.

Dude scolded Dweeb. Dweeb acquiesced. I bid farewell to the brightly-dressed band and microphone in order to get my groove on. Or what there was of it.

What part of me won overall? That’s just it! I have no friggin’ clue. Dweeb won Friday, Dude won Saturday. The battle is currently a draw. All that remains is a way to end this simile of a stalemate.

Hrm…

Maybe…

Playing Rock Band with dancing girls all around!

Whoah.

I need to patent that.

Tags: Bars, Girls, Nerds, Rock Band, Video Games