Duck and Wiicover

When it comes to home entertainment systems, the Nintendo Wii is the best bet for indiscriminate head injuries I’ve ever encountered.

Now that there’s a video game that doesn’t require knowledge of the access code for disarming thermonuclear missiles in order to work the controller, millions of people around the globe are dropping their weapons of mass entertainment and turning to the Wii.

Personally, I appreciate the fact that any six year old can map out new nations using the XBox 360 or any of the PlayStation stable, but I’m past the age where bending over to tie my shoes can be accomplished without the aid of a small child and a first responder in an emergency vehicle . Dadgummit, I need help. So under the guise of rewarding good grades and the relief of high school graduation, we bought a Wii.

No longer forced to live life as a virtual spectator, I picked up my plastic controller and dove right into Wii Sports. The first day I came down with tennis elbow, pulled a hamstring, and bruised a bowl of Golden Delicious Apples that were loitering menacingly on the coffee table.

Sure there are some problem areas. I have trouble remembering to push the A button to start ("The big, round button under your thumb, Mom."), and I have trouble focusing on the play instead of watching the cute character on screen cavort around the court in her spiffy duds, but after that I’m home free.

Eventually through trial and broken glass, I discovered that it’s best to use the wrist strap to prevent unwanted projectile activity. It’s altogether unsettling to clock the dog in the head yet again with an errant game controller that flies across the living room as if it were on a nonstop flight to Paris. Then you have to stop the game in the middle of a set to transport the Labrador, who is holding a damp cloth to his forehead with one paw and muttering unkind words about your aim, to the vet. I have to admit to some feelings of guilt that he's given up retrieving because of a bit of bad aim on my part.

I don’t know about you, but there’s nobody like family to spout sarcastic comments and unkind advice when you’re trying your hand at a new activity, although I think the dog is very fetching in the new pith helmet, in spite of the obvious sarcastic implications. It fits a little tight around the ears and he’s somewhat wary of the chin strap, but it fits in just fine when he hides under the coffee table to phone his therapist.

The latest casualty was Bill Dear, but it seems like a grown man with dozens of years experience working with high voltage machinery would be aware of the dangers of an unsecured battery compartment door. Upon unpacking the system, the children had, as required by law, lost the little piece of plastic that keeps batteries neatly in place and, strictly against OSHA standards, secured the batteries in place with an unregulated rubber band.

My enthusiastic backswing launched a volley of battery bullets that took out the ugly lamp from his bachelor days, six wide-eyed Precious Moments figurines, and a Girl Scout delivering cookies at the side door. Bill just managed to avoid the rocket by executing a double somersault with a half twist over the back of the couch, which would have been Olympic gold material if he had left the ceiling fan in working order and managed to keep his feet together on the landing.

All in all, everything has worked out quite nicely. I got a new lamp, Bill Dear is expecting to be able to return to work next week and the dog has become quite attached to the technicians at the vet’s office.

Sim Son

Today in the spirit of goodwill and because I wanted to put off doing the dishes, I agreed to play a video game with my teenaged son. Electronics is still a new and unfamiliar territory for me. I remember when we played Solitaire with real cards. Teenagers are also a new and unfamiliar territory. I remember when I entertained the children with the big box of Crayolas and a Barney video.

He handed me a controller that looked like the key to the nation’s nuclear warheads.

“Shouldn’t this be kept in a briefcase chained to a large, clean-shaven man in a suit?” I asked turning it over in my hand.

“It’s easy. You press the big buttons on the front to go up and down and to look behind you. You use the four arrow keys to go the different directions. You press the round button at the bottom to shoot.”

“What are these other little buttons for?” I asked gesturing toward a circular arrangement that resembled a miniature Stonehenge.

“You don’t want to know.”

Instinctively, I tightened my grip. There was a blinding blue flash on the screen.

“Great move, Mom. You just blew yourself up.”

After some experimentation, I managed to mobilize my soldier. He advanced to a cliff and fell over the edge. Luckily he landed beside an assault rifle which would come in handy if I could figure out how to pick it up. While I was still trying to decide which combination of alphabet buttons to use, my son buzzed by my head with a flying motorcycle. There was a blinding blue flash on the screen.

“Mom, you might want to stay away from that big button on the right. You blew yourself up again.”

“I can’t help it. When you attack me, my keen, battle-honed instincts kick in and I squeeze the controller.”

“Well your keen, battle-honed instincts just took out two jeeps, a health pack, and your food supply.”

“My soldier has adapted to short rations in the field.”

“That’s because he’s dead.”

I was delighted to find that my soldier reacted to stress the same way I do after a long day at work. He frequently collapsed in a pile then popped up prepared to obliterate mankind in the mad search for provisions. Granted, learning to work the controller was a little bit tricky. The soldier’s head refused to function in cooperation with his body, and there were times I felt sure his feet started off in directions that had nothing to do with the overall mission plan. Sounds like any given Monday morning at my house.

I wish all I had to do for supplies was stroll over a backpack along the trail. In real life, I’d probably break my leg in three places, dislocate my elbow, and tear my pantyhose, only to find there was nothing left in the rations pack but six stale Cheerios and a candy bar wrapper. Here, there was a blinding blue flash and moments later Soldier Boy was as good as new.

My son, good sport and selfless humanitarian that he is, soon tired of watching my multiple suicide missions and began to give me pointers. “Mom, the thing to remember is that if you see a blue flash, that’s bad.” And later, “Mom, your gun is pointed at the ceiling. You just blew a skylight into your hideout.” Soon after that, he sighed and stopped his soldier so close to mine that I could have parted his helmet with my flame thrower if I could figure out how to aim at anything besides my feet.

My teenaged son was giving me a free shot. I smiled as my keen, battle-honed instincts took over.

There was a blinding blue flash.

He sighed. “Mom, how’d you like to play Solitaire? We’ll do it the old-fashioned way. We’ll use real cards.”