Unless you’re an uber-dork like myself, you probably aren’t familiar with the world of videogame importing. Nintendo, Sony, and Sega have never enjoyed Americans playing Japanese games - oftentimes, the Japanese versions of videogames have bits and pieces deem inappropriate for American audiences, but the more common reason why people import videogames is because, quite simply, the title isn’t available in the states.

In the early days, lockouts were physical limitations on the hardware itself; different sized cartridges between the Nintendo, and it’s Japanese counterpart the Famicom, acted as a natural lockout. This quickly ended when some nerd smashed open a Nintendo game to discover it simply incubated a smaller Famicom cartridge. This led to people ripping open old copies of the American Metroid to insert Japanese titles that never came here, such as Super Mario Bros. 2

(Note: The game Americans know as Super Mario Bros. 2 was called Doki Doki Panic in Japan. The original game was deemed “too difficult” for American audiences, so Mario skins were grafted on the characters on the Arabian-themed Doki Doki Panic. Bullshit.)

When CD-based gaming came into light, regional lockouts were encoded like DVD players in order to keep players from importing. However, these could be circumvented with a modchip - a bypass mechanism which needed to be sautered to the system’s motherboard. This was a warranty-voiding process that was complicated, but chop-shop style import stores would charge you 60-80 bucks for the process, plus the chip. This had some additional side benefits - with a modchip, you could play burned, pirated videogames. Nintendo kept locking out players with internal cartridge size mechanisms, which were easy to surpass. (However, all of Nintendo’s portable systems could play Japanese games without any modification.)

Ironically, the only big-ticket game I imported was a Japanese copy of Panzer Dragoon Saga - which was available in the United States for the Sega Saturn, but drastically underproduced. Modchipping was also the only way I could play review copies of videogames sent to me by publishers, back when I wrote for a videogame Web site during the dot-com boom at the ripe old age of 15. Needless to say, the Web site died.

To my knowledge, nobody has “cracked” the next generation of videogame systems to figure out how to violate their region lockouts and piracy protection. But a few days ago, I discovered a rather surprising move made by Nintendo.

Back when the Nintendo 64 was dying a slow death, a Japanese game company called Treasure released a game called Sin and Punishment for the system. It was a last hurrah, and Japanese-based critics praised the game as one of the best - if not the best - for the system. The game had sharp-as-hell graphics for its time, as well as Treasure’s trademark - a control scheme so fucking natural it felt absolutely neurological. Moving your character is accomplished with the face buttons rather than the D-pad or the analog stick. Yeah. Wrap your head around that one.

But it worked. And it was glorious. And American gamers were stuck with two choices: cry, or import the thing for $100+. And seeing as I didn’t have a Nintendo 64, I let the idea die.

Last Sunday, I fired up my Wii. I clicked on the Virtual Console to see what games were added.

Sin and Punishment. 1200 points. Seven years later. Cue fist-pump.

I couldn’t believe it. Nintendo also included the aforementioned original Super Mario Bros. 2 (although it was released in the US as Super Mario: The Lost Levels as part of a package for the Super Nintendo), sending import fans into a frenzy.

I soaked up Sin and Punishment for a few hours and I’m still not finished. If you’ve got a Wii, buy this game. It is the best shooter on rails of all-time - no questions asked. And there’s nothing better than blasting the hell out of hordes of aliens while figuring out how to avoid getting smashed by a gigantic tidal wave of blood.

Hmm. Maybe that’s why this game wasn’t localized the first time around.

I was pretty surprised that D.C.’s screening of Heima - the new Sigur Ros documentary - wasn’t sold out. It was one of three cities in the country to receive the first set of US screenings (the other two cities being New York and Baltimore), and it was being shown in a relatively tiny theatre at the E Street Cinema.

The concept is pretty simple - after touring the hell out of Takk in 2006, Sigur Ros returns home to Iceland to play over a dozen free shows at several random venues, which include desolate village squares and abandoned fish factories. The layout for the film is in a one song per venue format, before moving on and continuing the story.

In Feburary of 2006, I saw Sigur Ros at the Allen Theatre in Cleveland with Rachel. And it was a great show - they didn’t play “Vaka” (Untitled #1), but I was fine with it. It was as close as I’ve come to a religious experience in my lifetime - and I hate using that cliche.

Toward the end of Heima, Jonsi and company head out to a protest where a handful of natives are displaying signs of Ghandi to express a sort of silent outrage over a huge dam being constructed in the middle of a gorgeous, vacant part of Iceland. The dam was built by Alcoa - a name I’ve come to recognize during my days as an energy reporter.

And Jonsi talks about the corporate rape of his homeland.

And he calls the electricity-generating dam a ‘monster’ while his visage buckles to his underlying emotions.

And the band plays an acoustic version of “Vaka” during the protest, maybe to 50 people. It’s an incredibly appropriate protest, considering the nature of the construction.

Naturally, I’m pretty swarmed with emotion. I had to wait almost two years to get the version of “Vaka” that I wanted, but it was the perfect way to end a performance that began with two kids, dashing through snapping-cold Cleveland wind to catch the rock show of a lifetime.

When Stereogum first came out with its tribute to OK Computer, I was pretty underwhelmed. The concept had the potential to be incredible - a cluster of great indie acts corraled together to provide a trendy update to one of the most influential records of our generation.

As a whole, the record lacked polish. Most of the covers weren’t thought out, and didn’t any artistic merit to the original record. So, when Stereogum decided to do it again - this time with R.E.M’s Automatic for the People, I was skeptical. As far as I was concerned, it was just another chance for Stereogum to fuck something else up again.

I was right.

All and all, the tracks are pretty horrible. The Veils turn “Drive” into a drowsy track that’s about as pleasant as heroin withdrawl. Rogue Wave’s take on “The Sidewinder Sleeps Tonight” is aimless - wandering through ethereal dreaming sounds before being consumed by cluttered, random noise. And don’t get me started on “Nightswimming” by The Wrens - I don’t think I’ll be able to look at my favorite REM song the same ever again. Fuck you guys. I know Stereogum is trying, but I haven’t seen such an obvious waste of talent and time since Frank Miller’s Sin City came to the big screen.

On the plus side, “Man on the Moon” by the Shout Out Louds is a rocking calypso-infused jam that I’ll be playing out the next time I DJ at Saint-Ex.

Speaking of DJing, I played out last Thursday to a bigger crowd, but fewer people were dancing. All in all, 50 people probably showed up at the party’s peak, but by 12:30 or so most people had already thinned out. Conflict of Interest is slowly growing, and I couldn’t be happier about it.

I also covered my first big event last week, going back and forth from our newsroom in Crystal City to the State Department to cover the climate change conference being held here, which is essentially George Bush’s attempt to usurp the United Nations from trying to reach global, binding greenhouse gas emissions regulations to battle global warming. It’ll be interesting to see how this impacts the upcoming round of U.N. discussions at Bali in December.

Before one of my cabbies ripped me off and charged me 18 dollars for a fare that should’ve been 12 bucks at the most, he told me that I had a “baby face” and asked how I got a job in Washington so quickly. I personally don’t think having a job here is that big of a deal, but when I returned to the State Department to listen to James Connaughton’s closing remarks, I took a look around the room - I was definitely the youngest person in the press pool.

I don’t think this is a good thing either - my youthfulness could be disarming and sources may be less apt to take me seriously when I’m talking to people on the Hill or covering hearings. I’m not complaining about my babyface, but it’s hardly a perk when every other reporter on the hill looks astute, experienced and Ivy League. I’m sure I look pretty bratty to several lawmaker types, but hopefully I can carry myself past any predispositions.

After the two-day hell that was the summit, I went to a bizzare Animal Collective show and a Le Loup concert where the best thing about the show was the company I came with and the jumbo slice I scarfed down with Starr at the end.

Patrick Wolf was last night, and it certainly brought me up from the concert doldrums, as he shared some new material with a pretty intimate Black Cat audience. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard live strings at a show, and it didn’t disappoint. However, the lighting at the Black Cat was piss-poor as normal, so I couldn’t take any decent photos.

He opened up with “Wind in the Wires,” a heavily-layered song that begins with Wolf plucking his ukelele while strings and piano build cascade throughout the track. Although most of his tracks are melancholy and feel like an indie-rock renaissance fair, he’s completely capable of rocking out - check out “Accident & Emergency” to see what I’m talking about.

The last couple of days have been a complete whirlwind. After dumping off a bunch of money at NYC’s finest establishments (Uniqlo, Strand, various East Village eateries) and interviewing members of Enon and Mobius Band, I’ve been waiting for the week to tick around until Thursday.

And why would I be anxiously anticipating Thursday?

The debut of my dance party at Saint-Ex last month was a hit and miss affair. A lot of people showed up for a random Wednesday night, but I stuck to a pretty safe (but still rocking) playlist. On Thursday, I’ll be bringing the rock, come hell or high water.

So, if you’re in D.C, stop on by. I’ve got a reasonably-deep bar tab, and maybe I can score you a free drink.

But before that happens, I’ve got to cover a climate change summit and listen to Condaleezza Rice tell the world why a voluntary, technology-based approach is the way to tackle global warming as opposed to a globally-binding resolution to reduce greenhouse gas emissions.

Boy oh boy, I was not prepared for the evil, sentient overlords guarding the Black Cat stage at the Girl Talk show on Wednesday.

As a venue, I like the Black Cat. It draws some great bands, possesses an enjoyable ambiance, has cute and personable bartenders while providing a little bit more intimate of a venue when compared to something like the 9:30 club. But some of the security measures can be downright oppressive.

I first noticed it at the Bonde do Role show on 9/11. Security personnel dressed like faux hipsters creeped throughout the venue, spotlighting any underagers with a Yuengling, and hoisting them out of the club with impeccable speed. These buzzkills had the attitude of a junior high-school hall monitor and the precision of an American sniper pecking off Iraqi insurgents.

The Girl Talk show promoted more of the same behavior. If you wanted to get on stage to dance with Gregg Gillis (a Girl Talk tradition, mind you), you had to wait until one of these lumbering fools shifted their focus to sneak up on stage. It took me a few tries but I made it. Some of them were pitching people back in the audience who made it up, and thankfully, I was not one of them. I wonder what kind of a lawsuit you could file against the Black Cat if you were injured after being thrown off stage by one of these thugs.

Ignoring the pressing security issues, the show was a blast. Girl Talk did a great job of keeping a classic backdrop of his old material while mincing in bits and pieces of more current pop music. He managed to implement both of my latest Billboard-topping guilty pleasures (T.I’s “You Know What It Is” and Kelly Rowland’s “Like This”) into some old favorites over the course of the night. But the true beauty of a Girl Talk show is strangers dancing together right up there with the artist.

I flagged down Gregg after the set, and he remembered me from my interview with him in February (or, if he was faking it, he did a good job), and left me with a “the Free Times is the shit!” prior to being swallowed by the crowd.

Alas, every show can’t be as good as a Girl Talk show. Case in point: Metric at the 9:30 Club on Thursday night.

Speaking strictly on the behalf of the performance, Metric was great. Emily Haines was vivacious, but the crowd was at a standstill for the majority of the performance, due to one of the worst setlists I’ve ever witnessed at a concert. They left out a lot of their classic dance tracks, electing to perform some of the more boring tracks from the laughable Live It Out. “Combat Baby,” “Dead Disco,” and “Monster Hospital” were the only truly groovy tracks offered to the audience. Where was “Succexy,” or “The List?”

The crowd was - well, interesting. To my left, we had a guy who could not keep his touching his girlfriend. I’m all for cute couples at shows, but not these Chester the Molester types who don’t know when to give it up. He would paw through her hair, as if he was checking for lice (maybe a tasty snack for a creep like this Uncle Fester look-a-like) while feeling her up. Gross. I tried my best to throw them off their game by grinding my ass on the two of them, but it was to no avail.

In front of me, we had the lurching 6 foot 6 hipster who couldn’t get off his cell phone. Listen, if you’re going to be tall, in front and obstructing the view of others, at least enjoy the show and put the phone down, rather than taking your front-row spot for granted.  Trust me, your MySpace girlfriend in New Jersey will barely be able to make out “Patriarch on a Vespa” on her voice mail.

But the show had its highlights. During “Hustle Rose,” as Emily crooned a chorus of “now that your wallet is all lit up,” some enigmatic crowd-goers actually lit their wallets on fire. And it almost made up for the indie-rock Mark Foley to my left and Lurch in front of me.

For more photos from the show, go here.

My normal path to work was interrupted by a production crew and an endless line of trailers and trucks two weeks ago.

D.C.’s Eastern Market, located a block away from my apartment, looks remarkably like eastern Europe, with its brick sidewalks and Victorian-style architecture. So, the producers of “Body of Lies” - an international spy movie starring Russell Crowe and Leonardo DiCaprio, thought it would be a good idea to film in the market. They gave $20,000 to encourage development in the neighborhood, shut down the block, and oh, yeah, flipped over a couple of cars.

On my walk home from the metro, the production crews were gone, but the charred pieces of shrapnel from the devastated Range Rover and Mercades had to be scraped off of the street by Capitol Hill custodial crews. It was surreal - like a terrorist attack in my neighborhood.

On Wednesday, a different kind of explosion will rock the District - a musical inferno created by Pittsburgh DJ Greg Gillis, also known as Girl Talk. I interviewed the king of mashups for a show in Cleveland last February, and subsequently danced my ass off (losing a shirt in the process) on stage at the Grog Shop. Tickets for his show at the Black Cat are sold out, but DC Craigslisters are selling pairs for as much as $160 bucks. Yikes.

Check out this Girl Talk rendition of Grizzly Bear’s “Knife,” complete with all sorts of top-40 lead-ins.