ten steps into the crazy

[freckles_and_doubt]

Evil stv, known colloquially as stvil for purposes of economy, worked his wicked will on Friday night, assisted by jo, to induct self and Evil Landlord into the horrors of the Wii. I would not - and I betray my status as a semi-venerable semi-academic to say this - have believed that the darned thing would be (a) so much of a spectator sport, and (b) so much damned fun. We were playing WarioWare Smooth Moves, which is a completely insane, manic, frenetic, off-the-wall, frequently cute and occasionally scatalogical bundle of attention-deficit images loosely connected by an absolute lack of narrative logic and no shame whatsoever. Gin was drunk, pizza was consumed, the remote was circulated, fun was had. In spades.

I really enjoy the Wii interface - the endless possibilities of that damned controller are amazing. Smooth Moves plays right into this with a set of perfectly ridiculous stances to make you hold the remote in different holds ("The Waiter", "The Mohawk"), tutorials for which, in a soothing, unctuous tone of calm pseudo-sensei authority despite slightly insane statements, are interspersed with the games. Smooth Moves is basically a series of mini-games, each lasting about five seconds, in which you have to assess and interpret, with lightning speed, the necessary movement to perform the desired action, from the (more or less undignified) stance from which you start. It's actually bloody demanding, even when you've screwed up and repeated the level a couple of times, and thus have some vague idea of what to expect. And the actual actions are quite bizarre at times - stick a finger up a giant nose, for example, or pick up an apple with an elephant's trunk, or shake fruit flies off a banana. Or, in one memorable boss level, lie on the sofa helpless with giggling after watching the Evil Landlord do dance moves at the Wii's evil-minded behest.

In other news, strawberryfrog and short_mort are in town, and I caught up with them last night. I am unduly gratified that the wild gym routines of the intervening year since I last saw them have made enough difference to my physique that approving comments were made. *basks*. Except that now the mort is trying to get me to wear a push-up bra. *flees in terror*.

In other, other news, the current Bowie fixation has waned to the point where I actually listened to Pixies for most of this morning. Except now I've discovered Tin Machine. Oops.

Comments

On wimmen's apparel:

[veratiny.livejournal.com]

You should not fear push up bras or the pimps there of... I have long been a convert, my breasts being two rather timid fearful creatures that like to lurk somewhere in my arm pits...if they can. Push-up (and plunge bras) for me are everyday wear.

What you really need to fear is those things that look like two pieces of raw chicken...you can be done for false advertising in those!

My turn to challenge Short_Mort in under garment pimping: I have discovered a fabulous piece of women's apparel...I think it is what my grandmother would have called a step in. In one of these babies you can shave off a dress size instantly and if you should waltz the gentleman will be convinced of your commitment to the gym...because you will be firm in ways only sixteen year olds should be! My mother wore one to Buckingham Palace... I don’t think she waltzed.

Re: On wimmen's apparel:

[extemporanea.livejournal.com]

No, no, you fail to understand. Habitually I don't wear a bra at all, since I have a negligible bust and consider bras to be the Agents of the Divvil. I actually find them uncomfortable. I wear a sports bra, under protest, at the gym, and have one other black lacy number for see-through tops. Also, forcing things upwards and forwards seems sheer Cruelty To Busts, to me. I think the Mort has a lot more convincing to do...