A genuine redneck whom I went to school with was actually the one to instruct me in the basics of psychology and the fundamentals of memory -- actually, I guess it all essentially boils down to pure nostalgia -- without my even realizing it. Can you imagine? A redneck! This guy wasn't just an ordinary redneck -- he also happened to be getting married, he spit his chewing tobacco on the school carpets quite frequently, and he ended up becoming a good friend and a pretty nice guy. Who knows what he's doing now, but I wish him the best.
Anyway, during a dull computer class, this genuine redneck allowed me to look through his collection of CD's; I could pick one out and give it a listen. So, being the nerd that I am, I chose one of the Grand Theft Auto soundtracks (Flash FM or something), and began grooving away to Michael Jackson's "Billie Jean". Honestly, it was a great CD and one that I'll always correspond with boring computer classes with headphones on my ears and my fingers clicking away on keys. Not that that's a bad thing.
One day, my redneck buddy asked me something peculiar as we were flipping through his CD's:
"Do songs ever take you back to better times?"
Whoa. Hold on there, Jimbo. Not only was this guy getting into emotional territory here, but he was also a genuine redneck, and genuine rednecks shouldn't ask these types of questions. I went along with it, though, and answered as wisely as I could.
"Well, yeah, I guess."
"Really?" he wondered, honestly surprised. "I mean, like, say you were on this road trip."
"Uh-huh."
"And you were listenin' to this song."
"Uh-huh."
"And then later on in the future, you hear the song again, and then it brings you back to old times, when you were on the trip."
"Right. I kinda know what you're getting at." I shot him a suspicious look. "What about it?"
He pointed to a CD in his collection. "Well, this album here always brings me back to this road trip I had, and it was a helluva lot of fun. I just wish I could do it again, know what I mean?" And with that, he returned to busily staring into space and not working on his computer.
At the time, I simply shrugged it off. I mean, really! His statement didn't seem that profound, and obviously, coming from the mouth of a redneck (albeit a good-natured redneck), I didn't pay it much thought.
That was my freshmen year of high school. Now, I'm beginning to think, as I get older, that that goddamn redneck was onto something.
***
The first game I received with my original Game Boy Advance was Golden Sun, a role-playing adventure set in a fictional world of sorcery and puzzles and feminine-looking dudes (well, at least Alex looks kind of like a chick). In 2001, it was incredibly fun and I thought it was the greatest thing since sliced bread -- nowadays, however, sliced bread isn't quite as revolutionary as it once was, and it definitely pales in comparison to (OMG!) hoagie rolls. Explore Golden Sun again in modern times, and you'll notice that it plays it pretty safe as far as RPG's are concerned.
But The Lost Age, while also going strictly by-the-book, luckily slipped into my "good-times memory" category created by my redneck friend. Let me explain.
Family road trip to Southern California. 2003. The Lost Age was nearing completion after a couple months of hardy adventuring, and I was foaming at the mouth. I had to see this baby all the way to its dramatic conclusion. While the weather in reality was beautiful and sunny and gorgeous, I was virtually fighting my way through an apocalyptic frozen wasteland as Felix, the (mostly) silent protagonist. The edges of the world were deteriorating into an ominous darkness (or something), and my traveling companions and I had precious little time to save it from impending doom.
Climbing to the top of the Mars Lighthouse, we encountered the Wise One, the mysterious floating eyeball Isaac and Garet had met in the first game -- and despite the fact that he was in no position to confront my party (because I was convinced my leveled-up characters were gods themselves), the Wise One sicked a freaking three-headed dragon on us. My fifteen year-old head whirled in amazement: I was not only fighting a dragon of massive proportions, but a dragon with three heads? Ho lordy!
At the time of this battle, in reality, I was sitting on my great-aunt's couch with headphones on my ears and sleep in my eyes. We had had a long day of swimming and laying out in the sun -- and since I grew up in the mountains where we had no access to a beach, I firmly believed (and I'm still convinced) then that there was no place I'd rather be. There's just something about the combination of sun and sand and water that gets me every time.
Meanwhile, I was still fighting my way through a three-headed dragon, Felix unleashing the epic "Megiddo" nearly every turn. As one of the heads was dismembered, a sickening thought occurred to me, previously thanks to Kraden's warning about the beast's true identity: what if, just what if, this dragon I'm currently doing a bang-up job slaying here, also happens to be Felix's parents and Isaac's dad who had disappeared long ago in a massive glowing boulder-rolling accident?
I thought for a moment.
No, there's no way. The dragon only had a single head at this point, so really, there was no turning back. With one final stroke of my blade and another discharge of "Megiddo", the dragon collapsed to the ground, slowly morphing into three *unconscious* bodies. My worst fifteen year-old fears confirmed.
***
As I reflect back, both the setting of the game and the vacation I was taking were such stark contrasts to each other that I'm still, for some reason, able to vividly remember each and every exciting/relaxing moment. I was in two places I wanted to be at the time -- me, on the beach, listening to the ocean waves crash on the shore, and me, sacrificing a three-headed dragon in order to save the world. The Lost Age, not really known for its originality, is a game that will stick with me for a long time, simply for this reason alone:
"I just wish I could do it again, know what I mean?"
Thanks, ya redneck bastard. I probably wouldn't have thought of it without you. Well, maybe.
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