Relive Shawn Kemp's Glory Days with NBA Jam T.E.

In the year 2006, when this article was printed, Super Nintendo game reviewer was ranked the third-least profitable profession in America, ahead of only punchlines one* and two.** I dabbled in the field, but ultimately decided against it since the market was saturated with men-boys who survive on the Pop-tart diet. Super Nintendo reviewers are in less demand than a lesbian bar in Smurfsville.

College provides an outlet and an audience for a variety of obscurities; just ask a philosophy major who once raised his hand in a pit class and spouted off a criticism of the logic behind the Greatest Happiness Principle, years before getting a tattoo that reads, "Where did I go wrong?" (Philosophical Debator is actually #4 on the aforementioned list.)

When I'm dead, they should feel free to stuff a few of the stupid ones*** into the coffin with me.


When my colleagues at the newspaper asked me to write a retro video game review, I had but two questions: "Hell yes, I’ll do it," and, "Does anyone even read those?"

Great sports games usually have more replay value than their action/adventure counterparts. With all due respect to "Metroid" and "Contra," they’re just not as enchanting the second time through. Sports games are also more conducive to two-player showdowns, assuming you have a friend or a drunk uncle to play with, of course.

"NBA Jam Tournament Edition" is easily the most enjoyable basketball title for the Super Nintendo console. Playability for basketball games is often hampered by a clutter of 10 players swarming around in a half-court set. It can get pretty messy. The original "NBA Jam" stripped round-ball down to a two-on-two contest—a marquee duet vs. a marquee duet. The results were amazing.

"NBA Jam" paired the simplistic team setup and permissible violence of Nintendo’s "Arch Rivals" with the aerial acrobatics of a coked-up superhero. The pacing is rapid and never slowed down by tedious foul shots. Game-play basically boils down to passes, dunks, three-pointers, shoves and blocks. Simplicity is beautiful. The sequel surpasses the original. ACT test analogy: "A New Hope" is to "The Empire Strikes Back" as "NBA Jam" is to "NBA Jam Tournament Edition."

The biggest difference is the addition of a third bench player for each team. Stockton and Malone are joined by another white guy. Kemp and Payton are joined by a European stiff. There is one more player on the Milwaukee Bucks that you vaguely remember. A third player is essential because of another new feature: injury ratings. Gone are the days when your character can be shoved around like a scummy kid at a Misfits show without consequence. In "Tournament Edition," your character’s speed and shot-accuracy deteriorate if he has endured too much physical punishment. After a quarter’s-worth of rest, however, they return totally revitalized…just like in real life.

Player attributes are more extensive as well. Each player is rated on a scale of zero-to-nine for eight different categories. Each player has idiosyncratic and distinct strengths and weaknesses. Reggie Miller can hit the three like no other, but on the other hand, I could probably beat him in a fight. Cliff Robinson can crash the boards and throw noggin-rattling elbows, but in clutch situations, he’s about as reliable as a broken alarm clock. Spud Webb can dunk from two time zones away…and that’s pretty much it.

The settings of "T.E." are malleable and liberating. The player can choose from five levels of both difficulty and game speed. In addition, the sequel features optional "hot-spots" and "power-ups." Hot-spots are starred numbers that randomly materialize then quickly vanish on the court. Hitting a shot from that location can be worth as much as (brace yourself, dude) NINE points. Collecting a power-up boosts a specific attribute to a Game Genie-type level. When an uncoordinated monstrosity such as Shawn Bradley stumbles across a three-pointer power-up, he virtually transforms into Larry Bird beyond the arc. From a purist’s perspective, hot-spots and power-ups are decadent and downright unnecessary. They jeopardize the sanctity of "T.E.," and I never turn them on. They lend the game an awful "Dragonball-Z" feeling. Thankfully, "T.E.’s" glaring gimmicks are excluded from the tournament quest.

One-player mode is driven by the challenge of defeating all 29 NBA teams. The gamer first faces futile teams such as the pre-Kevin Garnett T-Wolves and progressively works up to worthy foes such as the Sonics and Knicks. A few of the premier teams from this era are missing their best player. The battles down the home stretch are slightly anti-climactic due to the absence of Shaq Fu, Sir Charles, and #23. All three were peddling games one-tenth the quality of "T.E." at the time. Their absence is conspicuous and disappointing, but hell, I’m not going to cry about it…anymore.

Once you’ve stomped every team in the Association, the real challenge begins. The computer drones become increasingly tenacious, wily, and resilient to shoves. Marquee players are paired with secret characters such as the pony-tailed geeks that created the game. Make no mistake: these vainglorious dweebs are sensational ballers. There’s nothing more humiliating than having your lay-up swatted by a "Trekkie" with a Dream Theater tattoo on his pasty bicep. And I feel morally-conflicted whenever my character connects a vicious elbow shot to the jaw of Mike D. from the Beastie Boys. Likewise, the Beasties’ b-ball skills are slightly embellished.

For two-player showdowns, "Tournament Edition" is incredible. Games last no longer than 15 minutes, the frenzy never relents and last-second buzzer-beaters are a common occurrence. (About a month ago, Tyler Maas stuck a dagger in my heart when he swished the winning three-pointer as time expired. I fell out of my chair, spilled my Miller Lite and cursed the cruel fatalism of the video game gods. Not a pretty sight.) Two-player cooperation is another option, and it makes one wonder why Nintendo 64 half-assed their take on the "NBA Jam" series. A worthwhile 4-player game of "Jam 64" would have brought a smile to my face back in 1997. Alas.

Out of a possible 69, "NBA Jam: Tournament Edition" earns 65 fist pumps. (My rating system is very popular with ninth-grade boys.) Stores such as Game Crazy sell retro games and consoles for cheap prices. If you’re a fan of fast-paced, simplistic sports titles, do yourself a frickin’ favor and purchase this masterpiece.


Indeed.

What does the future hold for reviewers of video games that keep fading deeper into the past? Perhaps Super Nintendo Reviewer will once again become a legitamite career, due to something whimsical like the popularity of VH1's forthcoming "I Love Nostalgia: 1994, part 9." Or maybe people will instead realize that watching VH1 is a colossal waste of time. My prediction? Never bet against VH1, America.

And even if I'm wrong, I could still fit in the occasional Super Nintendo review for charity. Imagine the smile on the face of a terminally ill seven-year-old when I tell him what I think about Donkey Kong Country.****

* Fanny-Pack Merchant
** Rec. League Hacky Sack Referee
*** Like this one, for instance.
****I think it's awesome.

Hair Down There

I’ve noticed that the popularity of the first name Harry has plummeted the last few decades. I’m 24 and I can’t recall ever meeting a man named Harry in my age group. The reason being that Harry is a blatant lightning rod for ridicule these days, especially when paired with a cheeky last name such as Butts, Johnson, or McVagina.

Past generations had no qualms with the Harry/ hairy association because less fuss was made about excessive body hair decades ago. Allow me to prove a point using the great American reference point of celebrities. Burt Reynolds was an icon of masculine virility in the 1970s, and behind his black mane of chest hair, we can only assume that he had nipples. Sexy, sexy man nipples. In the 2000s, however, chest hair has become the subject of comedic high jinx, as depicted in "The 40-Year-Old Virgin," starring Steve Carrel, who is average-looking and far too funny to be considered a sex symbol. Who is this era’s icon of masculine virility? The chest-waxing, jogging topless on the beach grinning widely because he’s stoned out of his mind Matthew McConaughey, of course.

I’d love to see a movie based on the premise of ‘70s Burt Reynolds trading places with modern day Matthew McConaughey. (Like most great ideas, time machines factor into this one.) Transposed in the other’s niche, Burt would strike out with the ladies at P. Diddy’s pre-Super Bowl pool party, his penis crestfallen, perplexed by the recurrence of the insult, "Nasty Sasquatch."

Modern day McConaughey would strut around Studio 54...

***

For more information on pubes, order a copy of my book.

www.xlibris.com/NickOlig.html

REASON TO GRIPE

May 2008 is a time for gripes. Economic-stimulus checks from the U.S. government are not enough to quell the public’s gripes about the price of gasoline, which, I am sure you have noticed, is extremely fucking steep. Even the recent lottery winners who purchased a ticket at Ma & Pa’s on the Miracle Mile bitch about how much it costs to replenish their Bentleys when they make pit-stops there. The American breed craves independent transportation in fast machines. We are resentful of this crisis, wondering how steep the ceiling will climb.

I have little interest in the price of gasoline because I don’t own a car. My mind wonders how steep a different ceiling will climb: my medical bills. I can’t seem to avoid hospitals for a prolonged period of time. The day I was diagnosed with O.C.D. at the age of 15, my hand was stamped in permanent red marker to allow me convenient access back into the hospital for future visits. I was introduced to the entire staff at the hospital so that I could be on a first-name basis with not just the doctors and nurses but also the receptionists, gift shop cashiers, and janitors. Christ, I still owe Janitor Phil a Secret Santa present from last Christmas. And he won’t shut up about it!

My latest medical misfortune is a broken jaw. Legally, I am discouraged from communicating in complete sentences on the matter...Heart in right place, me try stop fight. Violence bad. Extra-blended mashed potatoes yummy.

That’s a load off!

I mention my run-in with Misters Innocent until Proven Guilty 1 and 2 only to reference the influx of gripes we are experiencing personally and globally. Griping in itself resolves very little, but I have always found comedic griping to be a source of redemption. Petty redemption perhaps, but I take what I can get from this stupefying world. Griping landed me a job writing comedy for the Advance-Titan at UW-Oshkosh. Before I joined the staff, I used to send a few e-mails per week to the Gripe Line. The Gripe Line lent a voice to the students whose hangover recovery was curtailed by the poseur metal-heads from the sixth floor of their dorm who blared the song “Headstrong” every weekday at 7 a.m. And so forth. If you could express concise agitation in a comical fashion, the Gripe Line was your outlet.

I have assembled here my favorite gripes from this era, all of which were printed anonymously alongside of complaints about people who ritualistically celebrate the song “Headstrong” by (gulp) Trapt.

Enjoy these gripes while I think up some original comedy that doesn’t involve me getting punched in the face.

1.) If life is really all just a dream, think of how many times you’ve unknowingly pissed the bed.
2.) The person who coined the phrase “smooth as a baby’s bottom” sounds like a real perv to me.
3.) Remember when our grade school teachers told us we had to learn cursive because our high school teachers would forbid us from writing freehand? The fuckers lied to us.
4.) Phone sex is okay, but you haven’t lived ‘til you’ve tried Morse Code sex.
5.) If I had but one superhuman power, I’d want the ability to scratch my butt with my mind. ‘Cause let’s face it, we’ve all had that inopportune butt-itch at a wedding or funeral.
6.) The other day I saw a heavyset girl wearing a high school track sweatshirt. A bit puzzled, I said to her, “Shot-put, right?”
7.) People are pretty crazy, but have you ever seen a dog barking out the window at a leaf scuttling by? Dogs are fucking BONKERS!
8.) Dirt Devil? What kind of a name is that for a vacuum? They might as well call it the “Soil Satan.”
9.) Christmas Eve is the smartest time to rob the North Pole.
10.) Neighborhood Watch Programs are essential in deterring society’s most pussified criminals.
11.) If prostitution is the world’s oldest profession, how were the jobless men able to pay for sex? Think about it, Gripe Line.
12.) The Athlete’s Foot is the only store I can think of that is named after a fungus.
13.) I love seeing “Minimum Speed Limit” signs alongside of the highway. They might as well read, “Just don’t pussyfoot it, granny.”
14.) G.P.S. Navigation Systems are bullshit. There’s no way a plate of German Potato Salad is going to tell you how to get to your destination.
15.) I haven’t been invited to an orgy in months. Gripe Line, be honest, is it because of my love-handles?
16.) My pet snake is taking FOREVER to make his first move in Stratego. Hurry the heck up, Morpheus. Jeez!
17.) Rock-a-holic rain stick player psyched about starting a heavy metal quintet. Influences include: Dokken, Warrant, Jackyll, and the Weather Channel’s “Storm Stories.” Stryper fans need not apply. Auditions are Friday in basement of Reeve building. Musicians are encouraged to bring me a sandwich.
18.) I sent a fan letter to Xzibit begging him to pimp my moped, but he never wrote back. Fuck him, and fuck my hopelessly un-pimped Razz ’97.
19.) Damnb thewse styubby7 fringers ofd mi9ne! (Get it?)
20.) The future would be less terrifying if our pubic hair fell out as we got older rather than turned gray.

Listen Drooly, I'm Going to Sue

To the canine beast that bit me last night: I am going to sue you, Drooly. You crossed the line, mutt, and you will be held accountable for your misdeed. I spoke with my attorney (the esteemed Len Finklin) and he shares my sense of outrage, for $200 an hour. We’ll see you in court.

What’s that you say? Woof, woof, WOOF? Ha, I’m sorry, but I don’t understand your primitive beast language. Like any non-terrorist, I speak the tongue of Lady Liberty. All I’m hearing right now is guttural gibberish. You can object all you want, but I refuse to repeal my lawsuit. Oh, and now you’re playing the old "Crotch-Lick Card," eh? You’re pathetic.

Did you really think you would get away with it? You’re even dumber than you look, which is saying a lot considering you lack the cognitive capacity to see colors. But after what you did to me, you don’t DESERVE to see colors.

I don’t have a perfect recollection of your attack, but my identical twin Terry informed me of the facts. In my festive mindset, I playfully wrestled with you. And yes, I did apply a painful (to sissies) submission move: the figure-four leg lock, popularized by "The Nature Boy" Rick Flair. But I had the decency to break the hold once your cowardly yelping began to drown out the thunderous pop of Def Leppard on the stereo. And how did you repay my act of mercy? By biting my right buttock and making my hiney gush blood. You son-of-a-bitch—and I mean that as an insult, not as an obvious acknowledgement that you’re a male and mother dogs such as your own are termed "bitches" in Webster’s dictionary.

My attorney Len Finklin has informed me that our dispute has garnered the attention of P.E.T.A. At the risk of overloading lame puns: those traders of humanity are barking up the wrong tree. We’ll bury them like one of your precious bones. You consented to that figure-four leg lock; the proof is on tape. Prior to twisting your hind legs into a "4" shape, I had the decency to tell you to bark seven times if you objected to a wrestling match. And you did not. You barked EIGHT times.

What’s more, you were ordered to tap your paw repeatedly on the carpet if the pain became too much to endure. Unlike me, you were not victimized, Drooly. No, you willingly participated in some playful roughhousing—playful, at least, UNTIL YOU BIT MY ASS! That was a bit of a buzz kill, let me tell you. I was awakened the next morning by the searing sting of hydrogen peroxide being poured on my right buttock. Terry then showed me the tape to jog my memory of the incident. (Sure, I had shot-gunned my fair share that night, but I wouldn’t use the words "blacked-out.") What I saw will someday soon chill the jury to the core of their souls. In mid-celebration dance (a number I refer to as the "Pelvic Earthquake"), you took a cheap chomp at my backside and metaphorically peed on my fantastic buzz with your inferior dog pee.

True, there is little precedent for lawsuits such as mine. In cases of dog attacks, the human owner unjustly receives the brunt of the charges. This tendency is an outright rejection of the self-deterministic values that helped found this great nation of ours. There is no denying it, Drooly: dog or not dog, you are responsible for your actions. If you dogs want to eat man’s table scraps and slumber on man’s couches, you better abide by man’s code of justice, too. The doggy door swings both ways, mutt. My grievance is not with your owner and I have no intentions of suing him. Only a complete fool would sue himself.

As a longtime pet-owner, I am fed up with the brash outbursts of the creatures I have granted a home to. For instance, Puzzwhether, the potbelly pig I used to own, once vomited all over my brand new sneakers, all because he couldn’t hold his liquor down. I wasted $120 because that smelly swine has a low tolerance for whiskey. That incident was infuriating, but it pales in comparison to your bloodthirsty rampage, Drooly.

The jury will almost certainly rule in my favor, and in the wake of their noble verdict, you will be ordered to pay restitutions. Now, I am by no means delusional enough to expect you to enter the human work force in order to earn money to pay for my physical and psychological torment. Although your PETA sympathizers might disagree, there is no place for dogs in the human workplace. As penance for savaging my right buttock with your teeth, you will be tethered to the lever of a red wagon and forced to pull me to all my various destinations. For three solid years, whether I require transport from the couch to the bathroom or from my kiddie pool to a back alley cock fight across town, you will act as my flea-ridden chauffeur. During our voyages, I will also harass you with taunts from a megaphone. If this punishment seems harsh, you should consider the retribution my twin brother Terry had in mind. Simmering with rage, he initially suggested we put you to sleep. "Put you to sleep" is a nice way of saying he wanted to suplex you off the top of a parking garage. You’re lucky I’m more merciful than my equally-handsome
counterpart, Drooly.

And how do you show appreciation for my lenient gesture? By getting fed-up with what you might consider a "nonsensical tirade" that is approaching 1,000 words and lunging for my throat with your salivating fangs? Well scoff, I guess that’s gratitude. If I survive this mauling, you can bet the jury is going to hear about this, too.

(Editor’s note: Dogs can’t read, Captain Silly-Pants.)

Musicals and Superhero Flicks, Fighting in Harmony

On a frigid night in January I watched a musical on DVD called "Across the Universe." Before watching this musical, I was under the impression that "Across the Universe" was a Beatles documentary because I was barely listening when a friend offered a brief description of the movie. Impaired by ignorance and blind optimism, I couldn't prepare for the cheap sensory damage that was to come.

The first sign that flamboyantly bad entertainment awaited came when I spotted the DVD case lying on the carpet of my friend's house. The cover displayed two young lovers about to kiss, framed inside a heart. It was the type of cover you'd expect to see on a Danielle Steele paperback for sale at the grocery store. I gulped morosely and contemplated escape. I decided to stay because leaving would have meant a long walk home in the bitter cold, and beyond that, people with no tolerance for slight suffering might as well give up now.

And so I watched it, I saw the whole damn thing, and here are my thoughts. Rock and roll loses its charisma when it is adapted into musical form. It's wrong to emasculate a song generated by machismo just as it would be wrong for Henry Rollins to release an album of Bjork covers. (And let's hope Henry never does.) They released almost ten great albums, and the two survivors probably had nothing to do with the the musical other than accepting a PGA-golf-outing-sized check, so I'd be a total Judas bastard to denounce the Beatles. But even so, "Across the Universe" made me resent the Beatles' boundless popularity and accessibility.

My criticism is biased, though, because I don't like any musicals. Every minute of a musical is five minutes in real time. "Grease" is the highest-grossing twelve-hour movie of all time. I could go from clean-shaven to a Unabomber beard in the time it takes to finish "The Sound of Music."

***

Like it so far? 'Cause you haven't read the entire thing. Please order a copy of my book. It's called "There Will be Blog."

www.xlibris.com/NickOlig.html