So I like to play the Grand Theft Auto San Andreas. So I'm a gangster who's wrangled control of a third of the city, and racked up a good deal of cash doing it. But my wife's column today mercilessly mocks my newest pasttime:
Time was, a man played a video game for a few hours, shot aliens,
rescued princesses, ate a few mushrooms and called it a night. GTA has changed all that. It takes over everything. The mind. The body.
When
I bought Hubby the earlier version of GTA two years ago, I noticed he
drove differently after he'd been playing. Like he was always just
moments away from running over a cop and carjacking a sicker ride.
In
this latest version, players still shoot cops, steal cars and burn down
buildings. But they also eat. They groom themselves. They buy new
clothes and go on dates. Virtually, of course. In real life, they sit
on their rotting butts, driving their wives crazy.
Instead of
actually working out, Hubby twitches his jittery thumbs and madly makes
his character, CJ, pump iron. I've watched him sit in the same pair of
pajama bottoms every night as CJ goes shopping for new fly threads. To
impress Denise. His girlfriend.