November 2008 Archives

I have no illusions about my life. It has not been, what most people would consider, thrilling. In fact, it has really been pretty damn dull, if you asked me. Even so, there have occasionally been some brief flashes of excitement that stand out in my memory and make me wonder how I turned out to be the fully-grown, chemically-balanced, mature adult I am today (stop laughing).

And so, today's blog entry focuses on my fixation with blowing things up.

NOTE: For the benefit of those readers that happen to be members of a law enforcement agency, you should know that this blog is purely fictional. It is merely an amusing outlet for my playful and creative, if sometimes violent, inner child. None of the things you read in this blog entry have any foundation in reality. Not one shred of it contains any believable or, dare I say, prosecutable information.

NOTE: For everyone else... That last note is bullshit. I totally did all this crap!

Now... back to the story.

I suppose I was pretty typical as a child in respect to my fascination with fire. Using a magnifying glass to make the ants in my back yard feel the fiery wrath of their angry god was a frequent summertime activity. But, what started as a desire to burn things, eventually blossomed into a yearning to blow things up. And so, like millions of other people, despite the fact that it is against the law, I used to buy fireworks every 4th of July and set them off in front of my house. I mostly bought the standard stuff: firecrackers, bottle-rockets, roman candles, jumping-jacks and so-on. However, no matter what I bought each year, the resulting pyrotechnic display was always... lackluster, in my opinion.

One year, right around July 4th, I was flipping through channels, when I came upon Barney, that ridiculous purple dinosaur-ish thing, while he was in the middle of a song that was clearly designed to convince the children in the audience that he wasn't just a pedophile in a large purple costume. I had seen him before, and thus I am not entirely sure why this particular moment was any different, but I decided right then and there that he had to die.

So, I went out to the nearest toy-store and purchased a stuffed Barney hand-puppet...

Clerk (cheerfully): Heya! Welcome to Toy Palace.  How can I help you?
Me: I require a stuffed Barney.
Clerk (happily): Sure, we have loads of those!  Who's the luckly little kid?
Me: Fool!  This is not for one mere child!  This is for the justice of children everywhere!
Clerk (nervously): You... um... don't like Barney?
Me: No.  I loathe him.  I am going to destroy him.
Clerk begins to cry.

I bet you think you know where this is going. You probably think I strapped an M80 to his chest and sent his fluffy purple ass to meet -- and be subsequently rejected by -- whatever poor saint drew gate duty that day. Well, guess again! You are wrong on several points:

1. It was a blockbuster
2. I sewed it into his chest
3. I sincerely doubt he went in that direction to begin with

NOTE: A blockbuster has the explosive force of 1/2 a stick of dynamite, and this was a hand-puppet. The term "unbalanced response" comes to mind.

Once he was properly prepared, I put him on display for all to see during our 4th of July party. Then, later that day, before it got dark, I placed him in the middle of the street, lit the fuse, and watched as the blockbuster disintegrated Barney, with a loud and satisfying "thwump", scattering millions of Barney molecules all over the neighborhood.

It was a breathtaking experience, not just for me, but for all onlookers (well, except for maybe a few of the younger kids... cry-babies!). We filmed it, of course, and watched it over and over for the rest of the night, raising a toast every time Barney met his explosive end.

Given our great success with Barney, we decided to repeat the event the following year. This time, however, it was the red Power Ranger (Jason) who was the focus of our ire. The explosion the previous year, while adequate for Barney, didn't quite pack the punch that Jason deserved so we upgraded from the blockbuster to the pineapple which gave us the staggering power of a full stick of dynamite.

I fondly remember Jason's detonation. As I recall, his head sailed so high up in the air that we were surprised by the "thud" as it landed well after the smoke had cleared.

Each year, as the show got bigger, so did the crowd. The following year, the crowd was so large that we had to block off both ends of the street. The main event that year was: Elmo.

Frankly, I am surprised he wasn't the first. If there are any child icons that need to be rigorously dismembered, it is he. The other two were just plain annoying, but Elmo, in my opinion, was much worse. Here is a character, on an educational show for children, that doesn't actually speak proper English! It's like having Jar Jar Binks teach your kids ("Meesa gonna teechoo eenglits!").

After a brief search, we found a huge stuffed Elmo. He was about 2 feet tall, and built like a big fluffy pillow. It was clear to us that something that size deserved more than just a measly pineapple! So, we taped two together and surgically implanted them in his chest.

That year was the only year we actually used a homemade electrical ignition system, and as you can see, we had an extravagant materials budget. Not just any cigar box would do; only one that was filled with hand-made cigars that were imported from Honduras!

No, it wasn't pretty, but it enabled us all to be at least 25-30 feet away from Elmo when his payload was ignited. And, since we were now talking about the equivalent of two sticks of dynamite, volunteers to light it by hand were pretty scarce.

As I said, Elmo was about 2 feet tall, and very pillow-like. So, in order to enable him to stand upright in the street, we had constructed a cardboard stand. Basically, he was propped up in a box with his arms sticking straight out from his sides.

Just as the fuse was nearing its end, his right arm slipped from its perch and fell back down to his side; almost as if he was waving goodbye. And, just as it reached his side... he exploded with a concussive blast, spraying flaming bits of plastic stuffing everywhere.

The timing could not have been better. I am getting all choked up just thinking about it.

Maybe it was because we matured a bit. Maybe we began to value our lives more as we got older. Or maybe it was just because explosive fireworks became harder and harder to come by. But, sadly, Elmo was our last victim.

It's a crying shame too, because we had our next show all planned out. The guest of honor was going to be Dora the Explorer, and the show was going to be entitled: "Dora the Exploder"!

You live, for now, Dora. But I'd watch your back if I were you!

I think I firmly established in a previous entry that I really do not like sports, but I feel like I need to explain myself a bit better so that you can understand why I believe my dislike of sports is not without good reason.

For starters, I have always been a fairly overweight person, even as a child.  Around the time I was in my "tween" years, some of the more common terms used to describe children of my particular build included: "stocky", "heavy set", or my personal favorite, "portly".  Ostensibly, these terms were meant to be less offensive than simply calling me a "lardass", although I am not entirely certain that they were. 

To make matters worse, at that age I also exhibited a level of grace and dexterity normally reserved for semi-tranquilized livestock.

In the picture here I don't look quite as porcine as I remember, but you will notice that I didn't exactly have six-pack abs either.  You may also have noticed that, not only was my shirt a stomach-churning mustard color, but it also had logo on it that was large enough to be visible from space.  The whole "lumbering butterball in pee-colored polyester" look was a real hit with the ladies.

But, despite these facts my parents forced me to play soccer, as you may have guessed from the picture.  I know what they wanted.  They wanted what all parents want for their kids.  They wanted me to go make friends and be popular.  But the fact is, even at that early stage of my life, I really didn't like... well... people.  But, I didn't have much choice in the matter, so I donned the hideous uniform and went to my first practice.

When I met the coach, he -- after instantly assessing me with a practiced eye -- decided to assign me to the position of "Fullback".  I assume he figured my girth would block a fair potion of the goal.  He then patiently explained to me what I needed to do.  This amounted to:

1. Watch the ball
2. If the ball moves towards the goal, take it away from the guy kicking it
3. Kick the ball away from the goal, and to another player (preferably one on our team)
4. Repeat

These instructions were as simple as could possibly be.  But, understanding them was not the problem here.  The problem, in a nutshell, was that I sucked at soccer.  It wasn't long before I realized the only way that I could provide any real value to the team.  And so I amended the coaches instructions as follows:

1. Identify the best player on the opposing team
2. Pretend to be trying to take the ball from them
3. Slide-tackle them

Even simpler!  One less step!  Naturally, this always got me benched, but the way I looked at it, our team lost one shitty player, the opposing team lost one good player (because, trust me here... they weren't getting up), and I got to sit down.  Win, win, win!

As you may have guessed, my soccer career didn't last long.

Now here I am, all grown up and with kids of my own.  And as I subject them the same treatment, it makes me think about what sports is supposed to teach us.  If the opposing team represents all the obstacles that block your way to success, and the goal represents... well... your goal.  Then what I learned from my short, yet somehow disturbing brush with soccer was this: 

"In order to reach your goals, you must avoid all obstacles.  Some of these obstacles, however, are more nimble than you are (they probably have better 'cleats') and are therefore able to continually block your way.  In those cases, obstacles seem to go down pretty fast when they take a shin guard to the groin."

I know what you are thinking.  Do obstacles even have groins?  Rest assured, they do. 

But that's not my point.  My point is that, for most parents, sports are all about teaching kids some sort of lesson.  We all know the lessons that sports are supposed to teach our kids.  Sportsmanship, Teamwork, Bravery, Compassion, etc.  But, deep down inside, I think we also know that this is all a load of hooey. 

Occasionally, when I suggest this, some sports zealot will point me towards a news story wherein one of these farcical lessons is embodied.  Some tear-jerking story of compassion and sportsmanship where the player(s) sacrificed the game in order to "do the right thing".  Of course, if this happened as often as it should... it wouldn't be "news".  But, these are sports fans we're talking about here, and counter-arguments are only truly understood if they use small words... and are belched.

So, instead, I have come up with a few lessons that I believe sports really teaches our kids:

Losing sucks

It's not about winning?  You really believe that bullshit?  Right...  Um, Losing blows.  "It's ok to fail" is a great moral to impart if you want your kid to grow up to be a carpenter.  Not so great if you want them to be a test pilot.

No pain... no pain

This one seems fairly self explanatory.  Pain sucks even more than losing.

Sports aren't always healthy

Playing sports, generally, gets you into great shape.  I get that,  But I have many friends that are into sports, and let me tell you... they aren't without their share of problems.  For a comparison, let me list all the health-related problems that I can think of that my friends have had as a result of playing a sport, and then let me list the ones that I have as a result of not playing one.

Friends: Broken bones (just about any of them), knee surgery, concussion, many stitches, loss of a finger and loss of sight in one eye.

Me: I'm fat.

I think the data speaks for itself here.

Chicks dig athletes

A sad reality of life.  Women seem to fall all over sports guys.  Playing a sport well appears to be the human equivalent of having really vibrant plumage.  At least I can say that I am in no worse shape than most of the popular sports figures of my high school days.  And I don't tell boring stories whenever anyone is around (I just blog about them).

I am sure I could come up with a few more if I tried hard enough.  But those will have to do for now.

Hey... I am not suggesting that these lessons aren't worth learning.  Truthfully, I think they may actually prepare our kids for at least some of the harsher realities of life.  I'm just saying that nobody I know has ever played a sport and come out of it as some sort of shining example of perfect morals.  In fact, quite a few of them are narcissistic douche-nozzles.

So if you are a parent that is trying to provide your kids with a strong foundation of good old-fashioned American values, then I hope this entry has helped you realize that sports aren't necessarily the answer. 

If, however, you are a sports fan that is reading this because you are looking for some deeper meaning to apply to your hobby, then I probably lost you by the second paragraph when I used the word "ostensibly". 

We have two cars, a family car, and a station car.  But, while we bought the station car, we decided to lease the "family" car.  The theory here was that my wife Karrie would always have a car that is in good working condition, and under warranty.  But, in reality, I cannot deny that I really like having a new car every three years simply because it's cool.

Our lease on the latest family car was expiring at the end of November so, last Sunday, we decided it was high-time we went to the dealership to look at our options.  Above all else, I definitely wanted to make sure the car had Microsoft SYNC.  I would have cheerfully traded other, less important, portions of the vehicle, such as the engine, to ensure that it had this option.

For those of you that are unfamiliar with SYNC, it is a system that is integrated with the car that allows you to use voice commands to control your cell phone and media player (among other things).  It is, likely, the greatest invention mankind will ever see.

I think the thrill for me is that I get to talk to my car.  I mean, I really hate talking to actual people;  most of them make me want to do something violent.  So, talking to something I know is supposed to be stupid is very rewarding by comparison.  It's quite remarkable how the same conversation can have dramatically different results.  My conversations with the car go something like this:

Me: Call Bob

Car: Call Bob Smith?  At home? or on his mobile?

Me: Home

Car: Calling Bob Smith at home.

Me: Holy shit!  This is awesome!

Whereas, a similar human conversation typically goes like this:

Me: Call Bob

Person: Bob?  Who's that?

Me: Bob Smith?  Your father?

Person: OH... right... sure... that Bob...

Me: So...?

Person: What?

Me: Call him.

Person: Who?

Me: Nevermind.  Call 911, there's about to be a homicide.

Humans suck.

As soon as I got the car home I spent over an hour just sitting in it, in the driveway, having a nerdgasm.  As I played with all the wonderful toys, I was surprised to discover just how different my decision making paradigm is when it comes to car shopping for the family car versus the station car.

I basically bought a family car that has every feature available to a car that hasn't been on "Pimp My Ride".  Heated seats, heated mirrors, 6 CD entertainment system, Sirius satellite radio, etc.  There is even a button to change the color of the lighting in the cup holders.  Ok, that last part requires restating:

There is a button whose sole purpose is to change the color of the lights in the cup holders!

Holy shit people!  Some engineer actually spent their valuable time designing that feature?  I wonder if that's how they settle bets at the Ford Engineering Headquarters. "Hah!  You lose Fred!  I get to design the anti-lock braking system!  You have to design the lighting for the cup holders!"

 

Now, when I was shopping for the station car, the list of required features was a bit different...

Salesman: So... would you like the sports package?

Me: No

Salesman: How about the CD entertainment system?

Me: No

Salesman: Power locks?

Me: Listen... Does it have four tires and an engine?

Salesman: Sorta.

Me: I think we're done here.

My station car has, precisely, the following features:  A sexy golden(ish) color, an AM/FM radio (with cassette), automatic transmission, and an engine(ish).  It is not pretty, it doesn't talk to me, and it couldn't go over 80mph if it was hurled off a cliff, but it has served to transport me from my home to the train and back for over seven years.  So, I am happy with it.  When this car finally dies on me, I will probably buy another one that looks exactly like it, and has the same list of features.

And, although the station car doesn't actually talk to me, we still have conversations.  For instance, when the "Check Engine" light comes on, I always say "Listen... I am not taking you into the mechanic, so quit your whining.  If you break down on me, I am not going to get you fixed, I am going to take you to the scrap yard.", and the light promptly turns off.

No, my poor old station car may not have SYNC to give it a voice, but it still talks to me in it's own sad way.

If you have read my previous entry on Dungeons and Dragons, then you have been properly educated on how it is played.  Because of that, you may think that there is nothing dorkier than sitting around a table pretending to be a warrior or a sorcerer.

Oh, how wrong you are my friends.

For, although D&D is, without question, one of the premier activities for nerds the world around, it doesn't hold a candle to Live Action Role Playing (LARP).  This is an activity that snaps the needle off the dorkometer.

It goes without saying that I've tried it.

How could I not?  I had played D&D for many years at that point.  This just seemed like the logical next step.  The next stage in the evolutionary process that would ultimately produce a mature adult nerd.

The basic premise of the game is the same as D&D. One notable difference, however, is that when you want to hit someone with your sword, you don't roll dice... you actually hit them with your sword.

Before you run over to the Christian Life Ministries and tell them to fire up the printing press... These weapons are not real.  They are soft(ish) foam(ish) replicas.  Your weapon is actually  a couple of pieces of PVC pipe with pipe insulation around it, held together by a generous amount of duct tape.  Most of them are about the size of a railroad tie but, thanks to their lightweight materials and cutting-edge design, allow you to swing it like a person wielding a lightweight railroad tie.

Like the tabletop game, you have to choose a type of character to be.  I decided to be a rogue.  I have always liked the idea of hiding in shadows and sneaking up on my victims instead of fighting them the "fair" way.  I've never really been a big fan of "fair".  And, as an added bonus, my weapon wasn't one of the gigantic swords, but instead it was a dagger, which is much smaller.

With my choice of character made, I moved onto the next challenge:  My costume.  A hooded cloak, a tunic, a pair of boots, etc.  In the end, I created a look that I think speaks for itself:

Remember that cloak.  I will have a future blog entry in which it will make a triumphant return; an encounter that involves the Police.

Now I was ready.

The game that I went to was run at a 4H camp.  It ran for three days, included all meals, and cost only $35.  It really was a good deal.  Unless you considered the fact that it was wintertime, and we were housed in unheated cabins in the middle of the woods.

I don't usually mind being cold, but since I knew about the cabins in advance, one of the few things that I brought with me from the world of normal people was a small pile of chemical hand warmers, and I am very glad I did.  For, while I found them to be pretty nice to have, other people looked upon them with thinly disguised lust.

Not one to pass up an opportunity, I sold some of them on the first day (for in-game money). I would probably have sold all of them, but then I realized that, because of the cold, these people were desperate enough to buy used hand-warmers from me.  So, I used a few of my hand-warmers each night, and sold them in the morning.  They were still a little warm at that time, but I could almost guarantee that by nighttime (when they would actually want to USE them) they would be stone cold.  But hey... I was supposed to be playing a rogue, right?

One of the people I peddled my wares to was a lovely young lady who clearly hated being cold.  She was practically orgasmic when I handed her the almost completely spent hand-warmer.  She started rubbing it against her face and moaning with pleasure.  Thankfully, she didn't know that the small bag of carbon that she was so lovingly caressing against her cheeks had spent the previous night warming mine (yeah, those ones).

But LARP isn't only about hoodwinking lovely young ladies.  No, like the tabletop game, it has its share of "Combat Encounters".  You needed to be on your guard in this 4H camp.  At any time, danger could come calling...

So, there we were, my friends and I, three brave adventurers out for our first foray into the wild when, suddenly, out of the forest charges an Orc!  In unison, we...

Wait, I have to stop here to explain something.  When I described how D&D is played, I mentioned that, as a player, your heroism is off the charts.  Even if the odds are overwhelming, you fight.  And you will fight until there is no breath left in your body.  This is important to understand so that you can put this next part into context.

...in unison, we ran screaming like schoolgirls.  That's right, three fully grown men totally chickened out when faced with a dweeb in a poorly constructed Orc costume.

Our skills at combat did not increase appreciably during that weekend, and all encounters generally ended with us retreating as fast as our stubby legs could carry us.  In the quiet hours of the night, when I had sufficient time to reflect on the events of the day, I realized that this behavior should not have surprised me.  We are nerds, and not typically constructed for actual combat.  Our physique is more optimized for maintaining a sitting position for long periods of time than it is for trading blows with someone.

After a little while there, however, I began to wonder... who were these other people with us?  Because it seemed like we were the only ones running away.  I imagined that if we were ever to actually engage in combat with someone, and gain the upper hand, they would start to smile because they are "not left handed".

It wasn't until the second day of the event that we realized who these people were.  These seemingly combat-ready individuals were all fencers (they know how to fight with a sword, not put a boundary around a yard.  Keep up with me here).  This seemed a tad unfair to me.  The whole reason that I like playing fantasy games was because in them, I don't get my ass kicked.  This wasn't shaping up to be a good weekend.

A short while after that epiphany, I realized that there was yet another category of people attending this game because, if I had to guess, I would say that roughly two thirds of the people there didn't engage in combat at all... they just spent their time hovering around the "town center", being... whatever they were.  These people were... thespians (not lesbians!  THESpians!  Stop giggling!).

It kinda made sense, when I thought about it.  Here, they had the opportunity to play a role all day long for three whole days.  The problem with this idea, for the rest of us, is that they clearly refused to communicate with you unless you also played a role.  You have no idea how annoying this can be until you witness it...

Me: Hey, buddy!  You know where the bathroom is?

Robart:  Well, hello my good man!  I am Robart the Grey, a wizard of some renown in these regions.  Perhaps you have heard of me?

Me: Of course.  Your ability to locate bathrooms is known o're the land.  Care to point me towards one?

Robart: You speak a strange tongue.  From what land do you hail?

Me: A far away land without any bathrooms called Urinea.

Robart: A strange land, no doubt!  Have you come here to escape the tyrany of some evil overlord?  Or mayhap to live a life of adventure and to seek your fortune?

Me: No, I have come here to urinate.  Blink twice if there's a normal person in there somewhere.

Robart: Haha!  You are a curious fellow!  Are you perhaps the court jester?

Me: Haha!  I am going to pee on you.

I was tempted to run back into the woods and talk with the Orc (what's the Orcish word for "bathroom"?).  At that point, I was pretty convinced that we were the only people in the entire camp that had ever actually played D&D.

We spent most of the remainder of the weekend in hiding, coming out only for meals and bathroom breaks.

So, in conclusion, if you are a D&D player, then LARP may not be your cup of tea, but if you are a fencer or actor, then I highly recommend it.

Before you go, however, don't forget to get some chemical hand warmers. 

I have a few I can sell you... cheap!