My Dad loved G.H. He thought it was hilarious, and got a big kick out of it. He was horrible the first few times he tried it out... he got booed off the stage. But then he started to get the hang of pressing the right color with the right finger at the right time, while also strumming.
I was telling Em today about how odd it is to go to his apartment. Going there is like visiting a graveyard of all of the things that existed only in my childhood home. All of his furniture are the same things that were in the house that I grew up in. By now, my mom has mostly gotten rid of her half of the furniture and items from the split. She has a new bed, new couches, new coffee and end tables, new dining room table and chairs, new dresser, etc. (Most of these things were given to us over the years or part of a "trade" with friends) My dad's apartment is like a tiny version of our old house. All of our things crammed into a tiny one bedroom apartment. It's depressing to see that beautiful dining room table of my great-grandmother's squashed into a tiny "dining area" with six chairs around the table that probably haven't been sat in for 7 years. It's weird to see the plates used during my childhood and the entertainment center that used to house Kelsey and my Super Nintendo system and all of our Disney videos.
Life is strange.