Yesterday was Heidi and my four year wedding anniversary (for those of you keeping score, we’ve been together for more than ten years now). We decided to skip an exchange of gifts and invest in a first class dinner at Mikuni’s Sushi in Sacramento, which, by the way, kicks other sushi restaurants in their fish eggs.

I had already pre-ordered a gift for Heidi months ago, so rather than break our rule, I made it a gift for both of us. After all, I planned to enjoy it as much as her.

The gift? The new Frogger game for Xbox, of course! Heidi loves her some Frogger, and we’ve played every version of the game since the original. The game hasn’t changed all that much since it made the leap *cough* to 3D in 1997, which is when Heidi and I picked up the PC edition and played through it using the keyboard.

Even back in 1997, playing Frogger was kind of like eating at Chuck E. Cheese. Even if the pizza’s good, the beer’s cold, and the games are the latest and greatest, no adult can get past the play area full of plastic balls that smell like urine. Gamers see a game like Frogger and only smell child’s piss. You know?

Perhaps this is why game reviewers have given every new version of the game mediocre scores. It’s not that the games are so bad, it’s that they remind us of something we’d rather consider in the past. As one Gamespot reviewer states:

[T]he “new and improved” Frogger probably won’t convert anyone who didn’t care for the old one, and… gamers who liked the first one will groove on this one, too. And what, you ask, about the generation of gamers that’s never tried Frogger? Well, I’ve got a sneaking suspicion that guiding a cute frog to save his offspring – even if it is a 3D frog – somehow won’t have quite the same appeal now that it did when MTV first went on the air.

Why wouldn’t a young gamer enjoy this game? Because he or she never played the original? Too me, this is a gross generalization on the part of the reviewer.

A certain type of gamer will feel this way, but I don’t believe it has anything to do with having played the original Frogger or not. Kid’s are very open to video games of all types, and this just happens to be a video game that parents can give to their kids without worrying that Frogger might brutally gun down a Crocodile and then unleash his serpent-tongue on Froggette.

I think the true disdain of certain gamers lies in a basic form of snobbery. Just like music snobs and movie snobs and food snobs, the game snob not only doesn’t play a certain game that doesn’t interest him, he loathes the game for not being up to his preferences. An example of this type of gamer can be found lurking around most game stores (or working in one) as was the case when I picked up the new Frogger game yesterday.

I went to the local EB Games where I pre-ordered my Heidi’s our copy of the game. It was slated for release the day before but didn’t arrive on time. I assume that since the game is no Halo 2, the priority to get it in the hands of gamers was fairly low. When I spoke to the clerk, he pointed to the five boxes stacked behind him.

“It’s probably in one of those. It’ll take me a couple of minutes to look.”

“Carry on.” I said.

My eyes wandered around the store as he rummaged through the boxes. Being in a game store is like standing in a giant advertisement. You don’t see wall paint or furniture or anything else except game box art, game systems and game demos. At the game demo area of the counter, a man was playing the new Ultimate Spider-Man game.

The man looked and sounded like Bob Barango had Bob specialized in video games and computers rather than punk-rock, B-movies and general asskickery. After cursing the clichéd gameplay, he dramatically released the controller and stood behind me in line.

Right then the EB Games clerk found Frogger and held it up in victory.

“Tight.” I said.

And from behind me, the evil Bob muttered: “Ffft! Frogger?”

I turned to him, intimidated momentarily because I mortally fear the one true Bob, and stared deep into his vacant gamer eyes.

“Yep. Frogger.”

“Hmmpf.”

“You don’t like Frogger?” I asked, angrily.

He shrugged his shoulders and rolled his eyes, so I double-jumped high into the air. I landed square on his head and flattened him to the floor. I picked up the giant gold coin that sprang out of his fading carcass and used it to pay for the game.

Heidi and I played the game last night when we returned from Mikuni’s. It was fun and full of challenging puzzles. After playing for more than an hour, we tottered off to bed, happy with our fantastic anniversary night.

And I slept soundly knowing that the world now has one less snobby gamer to contend with.

BoingBoing posted a story about a costume onesie with an iPod control dial on the front, and a reader went and created a iron-on template for the do-it-yerselfers. Only he created a slightly more accurate control scheme (pictured above) than the one offered by iPodMyBaby.com.

Here’s a direct link to a zip file with the templates.

The brown clad UPS man dollied my new iMac up to the office door yesterday, so I let him in and shook his hand vigorously. He showed me a strange smile and asked me my last name, leaving quickly after I told him.

Immediately, I dragged the 40 lb. box into my office and dug into it. Apple can pack some shit, that’s for sure. The cables, booklets, discs and hardware all had spots in the foam that were both elegant and functional. Lifting the computer out of the lower foam, I was surprised with the weight of the machine. Mmm, good, I thought.

There’s something about a properly weighted piece of equipment that offers a satisfactory strain in the muscles, both the ones in my arms (which are rock hard and shaped like Mt. Fuckyouup), and the one in my noggin. The iMac seemed to weigh exactly what it should, and that is a plus.

Unlike the iMac, the Mighty Mouse I ordered seemed to skip out on the weight distribution seminar. The packaging scored the usual Apple points, and the look of the mouse definitely scored some more. But when I picked it up, I couldn’t help but wonder if it needed batteries. Of course, the Mighty Mouse is a corded peripheral, so it shouldn’t, but it felt too light.

I checked underneath. Nope, no battery cover.

Once I got home and hooked up the iMac (the screen is as gorgeous as any I’ve ever seen and I gave it a sweet, moist kiss on the Apple logo when the backlight came on), I plugged my keyboard and Mighty Mouse in.

Now, this is the first full Mac system I’ve bought or used. My other Macs include a Powerbook and a Mini which is running with my Logitech peripherals, so I’ve had no experience with standard Mac keyboards and mice.

My first thought was that there was a USB cable shortage in Cupertino. Why else would the keyboard only have an three inch long cable. I almost had to mount it to the iMac in order to plug it in. Sure, I can fix this situation quickly with an USB extension cord, but another few inches would have been nice (please pause for obligatory “that’s what she said” jokes).

Anyway, then I plugged in the mouse. The little nub for scrolling is the highlight of the mouse, boasting horizontal and vertical scrolling, and a good response. However, the buttons and overall feel of the mouse are sorely lacking, as if it were a prototype and the bugs had yet to be worked out. In addition to the fly-away feel, the buttons occasionally stick or misinterpret the intended left or right click, giving a bonus context menu when I was simply trying to double click. The reason seems to be that it is not the kind of mouse that you can rest your hand on and fold your fingers around.

Being a long-time user of multi-button mice, I’m a little too familiar with gripping the mouse firmly and lightly resting my fingers on the buttons. When I lifted my hand a bit off of the mouse prior to a click, it behaved well, but this isn’t a comfortable method of mousing for me right yet.

I’ll give the mouse another week to lure me in, and there’s a chance that Heidi and I will get used to it and love it. But right now, in my opinion, Apple still doesn’t make a two-button mouse. For the hefty price of $50, I would highly recommend any of the cordless Logitech mice instead of this poorly engineered attempt and getting into the multi-button mouse market.

I went to dinner last week with my friend Chris, creator of the infamous first sentence of the Merwin story. He liked the direction I took and was curious to know more about the characters.

I couldn’t really offer much more than what was on paper.

“I really did do this in a couple of hours last night,” I said. “I don’t know what happens next or what the equation means. But enough about my effort, let’s see what you wrote about Merwin.”

“Uh. That was just for you, dude.”

“BULLSHIT!” I yelled. “This was supposed to be for both of us.”

“Nope,” he returned, taking another large bite of Thai fried rice. “Just you.”

“Motherfuc…” I began. “This isn’t over. I’m going to create a first sentence for you that’s going to make a thousand buttless vampires shit blood. You just wait.”

“Bring it,” he said, eating the last grain of rice from the plate.

The next day, I received an email from him asking where the sentence was. I knew that I had to come down hard on him, for this would be my revenge. So I gave him the last three sentences of my Merwin story and bid him good luck. HA!

He wrote back the word “Asshole” in 6pt font.

Today, he sent me Part II of the tale of Merwin.

I’d say Cooke owes us an A (or at least an A-).

So I was walking to a nearby grocery store… (to protect the location of my employment, I’ve changed the name of the store to Fugget Market). Anyway, I’m walking to the store to get myself a bite to eat. Actually, I’m limping. It’s not that I’m hurt, I just like the attention.

So I’m limping to the Fugget, and I’m wheezing like a busted accordion. There’s nothing wrong with my breathing either.

I get myself a chicken salad sandwich and a jar of Mayonnaise, for I intend to lubricate every morsel of the pasty meal to ease its passage. I pay the courteous Fugget cashier and make my way back to the office.

As I limp through the parking lot, stopping on occasion to cough heavily and speak in tongues, I notice a mammoth SUV with an odd air freshener hanging from the rear-view mirror. It reads: “In case of RAPTURE, this car will be unmanned!”

There’s an apple-faced man with a helmet-style haircut in the driver’s seat, yammering on his cell-phone to God, no doubt. He watches me as I painfully approach. Figuring that he was sympathetic to my faux condition, I immediately surge into a massive coughing fit and dump my chicken salad sandwich and mayonnaise onto the hood of his holy ride.

Naturally, the mayonnaise rolls off of the hood and into the parking lot planter. Bending over, I notice his license plate frame. It reads: “In case of rapture… CARS YOURS!”

I consider the message: ‘You think Jesus is impressed? You think God looks kindly on a mortal who would only give up his SUV in the event of celestial euphoria, that this is some kind of grand gesture?’

I’m doubtful.

But I don’t have much time to consider this doubt as the man rushes out of his SUV like a senate democrat crossing party lines. He kneels down and grabs my arm. As soon as he closes his fingers, I spring to my feet and look towards the sky.

“I can walk! I can breathe! It’s a miracle! THANK YOU! THANK YOU!” I shout, grabbing his hand and shaking it furiously. His jaw drops and his eyes bug out, so I begin dancing a jig in front of him to convince him that my fake condition has been miraculously cured. He backs away slowly as I try to give him my mayonnaise as a token of appreciation.

He refuses and hops back into his SUV. I continue my happy dance until he drives off, at which point I gather up my sandwich and mayo and limp back to my office.