February 25, 2012 scottcjones 1Comment

I’m standing in line at the GameStop and feeling ridiculous, which is basically how I always feel whenever I find myself standing in a GameStop line. Couldn’t this have been avoided somehow? I wonder. Was there really no other solution than to stand here and subject yourself to this terrible experience? And this line, which is not moving and might never move again for all I know, is not your average GameStop line. This is the “Two Days After Christmas” line. This is the “My Son Don’t Want FIFA 10” line. Frankly, now that I’ve had a few minutes to study it, this isn’t even really a line at all, not in the traditional sense of the word. It’s more of a vaguely hostile gathering of people who have decided to stand behind one another while inspecting their cellphones.

As with all GameStops, the newest, most relevant stuff is up at the front of the store, while the oldest, most useless claptrap is at the back. Walking through the store, front to back, is the game-store equivalent of walking through the Human Evolution exhibit at the Museum of Natural History. Tonight, I’m so far back in the line that I’m standing in the “Early Man” section of the store, next to a four foot-tall pyramid-tower of PS2-era Guitar Hero II bundles, which appear be free to anyone who feels like carrying one home. It’s the “Junk That’s Not Quite Old Enough Yet To Be Cool Again” section. It is the saddest, most depressing part of any game store.

“Next customer on line!” a cashier shouts. We shuffle forward. We’re making progress finally. The family standing in line in front of me–mom, dad, two kids–decide that they are tired of standing. They sit on the floor. Same way that yawns are contagious, sitting apparently is contagious, too. Soon, other people are sitting on the floor. The man in line behind me eats a Whopper so close to my shoulder that I can hear him chewing–smack, smack, smack. A mom takes her baby behind the pyramid-tower of Guitar Hero II bundles, lays a tiny pink blanket on the carpeting, and proceeds to change its diaper.

I wait. I look at my watch. “Next customer on line!” More shuffling.

I realize while standing there that, in some perverse way, I am actually enjoying this. No matter how uncomfortable I am, part of me always enjoys going to game stores. I want to be here tonight–right here, in this terrible line–as crazy as that sounds. It’s a testament to how much I love games. I find it strangely comforting to be surrounded by games and gamers, guide books and peripherals, used PlayStation 2 Slims and Guitar Hero II bundles. I like listening to the conversations going on around me. When a Chinese man in a Mets cap asks the cashier for a copy of Max Payne 3, I think, You sweet fool, Max Payne 3 doesn’t come out until March. Everyone knows THAT, and I realize–and take comfort in–the fact that no less than 10 other people in the vicinity are thinking the exact same thought.

Sure, there’s a ruthless, animal-rescue quality to every GameStop visit. I don’t like how these things that I care so much about–even the ugliest, most broken things among them (Duke Nuke ‘Em Forever, Too Human, Advent Rising, the Wii version of the Thor movie tie-in, etc.)–are shrink-wrapped and re-shrink wrapped, marked down, devalued then devalued again, until they are finally buried in the used-bin gulag. Despite all the rampant mistreatment, I enjoy coming here, and I’ll be genuinely sad when the brick-and-mortar stores are finally gone. You might not agree with the way that the Jawas treat droids, but you still have to do business with them once in awhile, especially, you know, if you’re really, really into droids, like I am.

At last, I am at the front of the line. A man with more head-neck piercings than Lisbeth Salander is asking me what I want. I tell him that I want a refurbished PS2 Slim with a controller and all the cables, chop chop. The refurbished machine is $49.99. A new PS2 Slim, however, is $59.99. “Why not just spend the extra $10 and get the new one, man?” Lisbeth asks.

He’s not wrong. But now I’ve got a real dilemma on my hands. I was hoping my One Night Of Gaming would only cost me a bit of pocket change. My total is already at $60 and climbing. “And I’ll need a Memory Card, too,” I say.

Lisbeth opens a drawer behind the counter, looking confused. “Sorry, man, we’re sold out of PS2 Memory Cards,” he says. “Still want the machine?”

I tell him sure, why not, bring me the machine already. He heads for the back of the store, back through the mysterious little door in the back wall. Once he’s gone, I stand there in the throng of mothers and fathers and gamers and babies, looking up at the ceiling, trying to figure out what to do here. Without a memory card, any gaming I’d do that night would vanish into the ether. I would accomplish nothing here, except for buying something that I already owned, and lightening my wallet by $60. The futility of it all is suddenly too much for me to bear.

I look at the little door at the back of the store again. I can’t imagine how I’m going to explain all of this to Lisbeth. It would be pathetic, even by GameStop’s pathetic-explanation standards. So I do the only reasonable thing I can do here: I untangle myself from the throng and exit the store. Suddenly, I’m outside, back on the sidewalk, before I even fully realize what I’m doing. I begin the long walk back to my apartment, trying like hell to convince myself that, for once, I made the right choice.

And now, onto stage 5-12. We have come to the final level of the DESERT section of the game, people. Time for yet another showdown with Donkey Kong himself.  As is typical with these rather predictable showdowns of late, we’ve got a typical pattern of platforms scattered about, all within an easy jumping distance of one another. D.K. stands in the center of it all, making his muscles and tossing these objects that I’ve never seen before. No, they aren’t traditional barrels. These objects are either, 1. Pharaoh figure heads with tiny feet on the bottom, 2. Egyptian porcupines, or 3. some combination of the two. Once these things land, they begin moving in this shuffling fashion. And as they move/shuffle, you must jump onto their heads–go ahead, it’s perfectly safe–hit the B button, then hoist them up until their creepy feet are wiggling in the air above you.

While carrying one of these things–let’s call them Pharaoh heads, OK?–you need to jump your way up to one of the platforms that’s level with where D.K. is standing. Then you need to jump towards him. This brings us to the only truly tricky part of the stage. The objective is to toss the Pharaoh head so that it strikes D.K. What you want to avoid doing is either tossing the head too soon or too late (too soon and it’ll sail up to the top level; too late and it’ll fall short of striking D.K.). Pro Tip: Wait until you are on the coming-down part of your jump, then let the Pharaoh head fly. If you miss, don’t fret. Simply go grab another Pharaoh head and try again. Hit D.K. three times, and he’s finished.

Totals for the final tier of DESERT stages:

Stage 5-9: 127 seconds

Stage 5-10: 137 seconds

Stage 5-11: 78 seconds

Stage 5-12: 118 seconds

Number of Marios in the Mario Tank: 21.

And that’s that for the DESERT section of the game. Next up: something called AIRPLANE.

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