We had to go to Best Buy today to buy some shit. I hate it there. The blue-shirted khaki-clad workers are like a poor mercenary brand of brigands gussied up to look like regulars. When they ask, "Can I help you?" they really aren't sure and most times they can't. Anyway! On the second floor in those mockups of entertainment centers, a group of 30 men and women had gathered around one screen where a fierce game of Guitarhero was taking place.

Update: As various readers have noted, the game being played above is Rock Band, not Guitar Hero. We regret the error. Guitar Hero still rips apart families and destroys lives.

In front of the fake drum sat sat a young man in a beenie. Behind him was a dorky white dude in an overcoat playing guitar. Around them a massive group of ecstatically cheering shoppers clapped and oohed with each flam paradiddle and riff the two, evidently strangers before the game, managed to hit. The two players eyes were glued to the screen as it reflected in their eyes what in their eyes it is— Chríst—for Guitarhero plays in ten thousand places, lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not theirs.

As the players progressed in the game, they'd look at each other with a glance pregnant with respect, gratitude and yes, even love. I tried to buy the game, desperate for that sort of rapport, but my credit card got declined. Instead, I got a couple of blank CDs and pack of AAA batteries and headed into the cold December.