Why I like this medieval stuff…

Let me preface this article by saying that there is a huge cast of characters involved in this tale. Space and brevity prevent me from mentioning them all. You know who you are and you all helped shape me into who I am today... so it's all your fault. Live with that on your conscience.

So many people that I have met later in my life have had a hard time imagining me as the quiet wallflower that I was in my youth. For their benefit, I present how it all came to be:

Like so many other nerds/geeks in this world, I was an awkward youth (hell, I’m still awkward at 41). I never really fit in to society, especially in school. I was the whipping boy throughout my school career. Very few of my classmates ever had kind things to say or do to me. When my parents used to give me the speech about “these are the best years of your life,” I called them liars and I turned out to be right.

When you spend every day wondering where the next attack will come from and being afraid to open your mouth because anything you say can and will be used against you in the court of savage mockery, it tends to destroy your will. I don’t know how it is nowadays, but in the 80s, there were only a few stereotypes that everyone needed to fit into (watch The Breakfast Club. It is spot-on accurate to the world of high school in the 80s). I, of course, fit into none of them. I was not smart enough to be a “brain,” not interested enough in drinking and drugs to be a true “burn-out,” not athletic, and certainly not popular. Although I did spend a good amount of time with the “burn-out” kids that lived around my neighborhood. They tend to not judge people.

The only goals I really had back in those days were to:

1. Disappear into the ranks of the “normal” kids
2. Someday find me a blind girl so I could make out in the hallway like everyone else
3. Graduate and get out of this literal hell-on-earth. I am really not exaggerating here. I hated my school career that much. I am not embellishing the daily attacks from the “cool kids” either. I really was savaged every day in some form or another.
   
   

   

   Yeah, it was about like that.

   
   
   
   

I moved to a new school in 7^th grade and, in my awkward youth, was entirely failing to make friends. I had managed to secure my own private lunch table (my radiance and charm must have helped a bit there) and was content to spend my time on this solitary island while dreamily watching the social goings on that I was destined to never be a part of.

I think it was just a couple of weeks into the school year during the early part of the day when I noticed another new kid who had apparently just transferred in. I remember thinking wow, he must hate this as much as I do. Still, he's probably more socially adjusted that I am and will climb the social ladder pretty quickly.

I was, of course, looking forward to my private lunch all morning. By the time lunch came around, I was quite famished (who am I kidding? I'm a fat kid; I've been famished since right after breakfast). Armed with my two dollars and a ravenous appetite, I stepped into the lunch line for my sustenance. I quietly waited, listening to the surrounding 7^th and 8^th grade conversations, until I got today's divided tray of barely-ingest-able slop. Moving back to my table, I saw with abject horror that my private dining island had been invaded.

There was the new kid (I could call him that because I had a couple of weeks seniority on him) sitting across from where I had made base camp at the end of the table. Well, he's new and I'm new so, at least, we have some common ground. I rolled up to the table and sat my tray down across from him.

“Normally, I sit here alone,” I said, “but since you're new and don't know any one, I guess you need to sit here too.”

“Eating hot dogs is hot. Barfing them up is not.”

Friend.

Throughout that year and the next. Mike (for that was his name) and I gathered a small group of fellow weird kids and polished up on the finer points of insanity. My longing to return to my old school system soon faded as I found my place amongst the socially inept.

In 9^th grade, we were given the option of getting all our physical education credits for high school by taking a complete year of gym as freshmen. Since I have always had the mentality of “get it over with as fast as possible,” I chose that option thinking ahead and preventing any worse destruction of my self-esteem in later years. The locker room savagery was bad enough as freshmen. It would only get worse as we got older. I still feel that it was the wisest road to take because maybe… just maybe… some of the girls would have forgotten the public announcement made by one of the football heroes about my physical attributes during the mandatory showering by the time we reached our senior year. Not that I needed any help understanding how physically unattractive I was back then (see earlier blog about Laws of Attraction), but that certainly destroyed any chances of any of the girls seeing past that and giving me a shot anyway. Now that I think about it, why was that football player looking? I never looked at him in the locker room. Hmm...

After all, he could have been a high school football star.  Just saying.

In our freshman year, we moved school buildings. 9^th grade had it's own building leased from a nearby community. This is when some of the catholic school kids joined the high school community and, because of this, I met Ogg (obviously not his real name, but most know him by it) Ogg was an immediate kindred spirit in that he seemed to not fit in either. We hit it off from the first moment and became fast friends. Little did I know from that one single meeting how much life was going to change.

Ogg was quite the weird kid. Weird in a different way than Mike was and that particular year I hadn't had any classes together with him. Ogg was much more open in his strangeness. He seemed to be unfazed by the ridicule of our classmates and seemed to counterattack by just becoming more disjointed. I enjoyed watching that and I even started to get a little disjointed myself. Ogg was genuinely funny (and he still is) and added much to make my hell-on-earth a bit entertaining.

He also introduced me to the nerdiest of all the nerdly things: Dungeons and Dragons.

Ironically, the building blocks of my social life.

Many nights were spent (after convincing parents to drive us to each others houses) playing this rather enjoyable game. Ogg was (and I'm sure still is) one of the greatest gamemasters of all time and, thus, I was to learn the art of great gaming from the Great One. Much to my delight, Mike was also a gamer and knew Ogg as well from other gaming escapades in their neighborhood (I lived on the other end of town). So, from high school forward, I had a group of friends. Sure, we were not prom kings or football stars, but we preferred it that way.

Much has been said over the years about how D&D is “evil.” I never understood why people would make that claim other than a few of the antagonists in the printed text were demons. Did these same people have a problem with J.R.R. Tolkein? D&D is heavily influenced by him, as is just about all of medieval fantasy. It's not like we were performing ritual sacrifices and painting ourselves with blood; we were sitting around tables rolling dice and eating Funyuns into the wee hours.

The game is exercise of the brain (unfortunately, not the body so much. Thus, my gut continued to grow robustly). It stimulates so much creativity that I would bet that many legitimate writers have indulged over the years. It builds character (both figuratively and literally) and quick-thinking. Not seeing so much any “evil” inherent in the subject matter.

The downside, however, is that it does keep you sequestered in darkened basements with a small group of like-minded social misfits and doesn't polish social skills terribly well. After high school, I was still pretty maladjusted (although I did end up dating Mike's younger sister for a while, so I had finally touched a real-live girl). That stigma of gamer-types held pretty true for me in those days.

I had no confidence in myself and had no desire to expand my social circle. Mike's sister and I had chosen to go our separate ways and my self-esteem plunged, once again, into the mire. During this period, I also met Tim, who was an older friend of Ogg's and an avid gamer as well. I was working a restaurant job and had made a few acquaintances there whom I hung out with at times, but was still rather unsatisfied with life in general and still quite socially awkward.

During some of the social situations where my two peer groups were together, I would frequently hear Ogg and Tim telling stories of this strange medieval group they were in that actually went out and fought each other with weapons made of foam. At first, I thought this was quite the silly idea and was definitely not my cup of tea. They both had made attempts to get me interested; especially Ogg, who said it would do me a world of good. I failed to understand why. What would be good about me being embarrassed by other geeks who could fight better than me? I had no combat training, other than the martial arts weapons I made and played with as a teenager. Hitting trees with homemade nunchuks does not a fighter make. No, thank you, I'll stick with dice and paper.

These hurt less...until you step on one.

Through circumstance, a weekly gaming session had been created that took place on Monday nights. Various people from the foam fighting group had been invited to join and I found their company quite enjoyable. Monday Night Gaming became a quick institution.

During that same period, and since I had met a few of the players, I grudgingly went to a “battle” with Ogg and Tim. Thus was my first exposure to a group known as Dagorhir. My eyes were met with wonder seeing all the cool costuming and creativity. Misfits from all walks of life, they gathered together on the odd weekends to take to the woods and fields to savage one another in mock war. See the movie, Role Models; it was much like that, but with not so many over-the-top characters running around.

This is not a scene from the movie.  I am the guy kneeling in the front with the large, blue shield.

At my first event, by the rules, I had to be a “page.” This meant that I had to put on a white headband, follow people around, learn the rules, and pretend I didn't exist. The last part came pretty easy to me... I had lots of practice.

I would like to say I was hooked from the very moment, but, sadly, it is not true.

While I, now, thought the concept was pretty cool. I was treated (like all other facets of my life) like a non-person bordering on a burden. Shifted from area to area (“Are you a newbie? Then go stand over there.” “Why are you standing over there, newbie, you need to be over here.”) like a misplaced piece of luggage, I was eventually assigned to walk around with a fighter who had showed up late. The penalty, in those days, for tardiness was that you had to be a Herald (referee) for that days battle. This, of course, didn't make him happy and the fact that he had to show around a stupid newbie did nothing to brighten his day. Thankfully, I had learned most of the rules of the game from Ogg and Tim, because I got almost nothing from my tour. This just played into my desire not to be there so I decided not to return.

Six months passed and the Monday Night Game continued to grow. Ogg was now dating a girl from Dagorhir, Donna, and she and I became fast friends. More and more people stepped into my life from the group. Still, I had no desire to return to the fray. Then Ogg asked me for a big favor.

It was to be the ultimate birthday weekend for Donna. Ogg had planned a huge party on Saturday and there was a battle scheduled for the following day. The plan was for me to ride out to the battle with them and then drive Ogg's car home after a limo showed up to take Ogg and Donna out to a nice dinner. For his sake, I agreed to go and just sit and watch the battle. I still had no interest in joining.

The party, however, was most enjoyable. Most everyone there was from Dagorhir and every one of them asked why I was not in the group. Some remembered me from my one and only foray but everyone was keen on me showing up and trying it again. Some of them even apologized for the way their compatriots had treated me six months earlier. Maybe tomorrow would turn out to be interesting after all.

It was pointed out to me, once we arrived the next morning, that since it was technically my second battle, I was allowed to be a “scout” this time. That meant I could run around with a team and do what the term implies. I decided, out of boredom, to do it, ready for the rolled-eyes reaction from the team I was assigned to. To my surprise, they were happy to have the new guy and actually made me a part of their strategy. Everyone was completely friendly and treated me as a welcome newcomer this time. I started thinking that maybe I could get in to this thing.

I spent a few years trying out different styles of fighting and learned a great deal about the strange science behind the construction of the weapons. I got better over time and eventually discovered that being a shield-man was, apparently, my calling. I got comfortable in my combat prowess and even sort of made a name for myself in some circles. More than combat, however, my head quickly turned to the organizational side of things.

My desire to be on “court” came from a desire to get more involved. I was already considering Dagorhir to be “home” to me. I realized that Ogg and Tim had been right all along. This group is just what the doctor ordered.

I wish I could say that my heavy involvement with the administrative side of things was purely selfless. Most of it came from a place of wanting to give back what the group had been giving me all those years, but it also felt really good to be in positions of authority. Not because of some power trip, but because it perked up the self-esteem to have people looking to you for guidance. I rose pretty quickly up through the ranks and did, ultimately, become King. So there I was, head geek of the many geeks but, you know, it felt good to be the big fish in the small pond for once in my life.

A very young me (right center, kneeling and sort of snarling) posing at a battle with my fellow members of the fighting unit Dyr Kanis who all thought our fecal matter presented no foul stench.

Also, this was the time of my life where I discovered the true unsung (or, more like “sung”) treasure of medievalism in the northeast part of the country. I discovered a magical place in Pennsylvania called The Pennsic War. I don't think you could get a closer approximation to the “ideal” medieval chapter of history in this country than attending this event. I had been told what it was like, but words cannot describe it at all. I was still relatively new to the whole middle-ages thing, but Pennsic can show you very quickly how wrong you have it. I walked into the event for the first time in barely-passable costuming. In my hand was a can of Coca-Cola that began shining like an anachronistic beacon, drawing undue attention to the new guy “who just doesn't get it.” I found the closest merchant selling ceramic mugs, bought one, poured my coke into it, and threw the can away.

You can sort of see why a pop can might stand out a bit.

Now I would never be presumptuous enough to say that I know what it would have been like to live in the middle-ages, but Pennsic taught me how to live in the “idealized” version (you know, with toilets, showers, and a whole lot less crippling disease and plague). Although I was only at this two-week event for the final weekend my first year, I still found it to be amazing.

The following year changed my life. Riding high on my status within Dagorhir (which is actually not affiliated with Pennsic), I did things at that event that I never thought I would do. On top of imbibing more alcohol than I ever had before in my life (not that that's anything to brag about), I spent several days “dating” a strange girl who I had stepped out of character and made out with because she said she had never been kissed (how can you resist that invitation?). For someone like me, this is completely unheard of. The old me that had no confidence would never had taken such a gamble. It worked out quite in my favor in the end.

Nights at Pennsic can be...scenic, to say the least.

If you had told me only a couple of years previously about something else I did at that event, I would have laughed in your face. I was talked into going to a spot at Pennsic called the “Classic Swimming Hole” and, in deference to my horrible memories of the high school locker room, threw aside my inhibitions and jumped, naked, into a freezing river alongside about fifty other similarly-unclad people of mixed gender. Scary at first, but ultimately liberating on so many levels. There were no football stars remarking about my physique (or lack thereof), no pointing and laughing (at least not outwardly), but a whole lot of people having a whole lot of (believe it or not) innocent fun. It was nothing like I imagined it would be and I am a much better person for having done it. I got home from that event, found myself a girlfriend, became King of Pentwyvern (our local kingdom), and eventually quested for and became a Knight (a accolade kind of harder to achieve than King, which is only for a year, and dictates that you conduct yourself in a certain chivalrous way on and off the field of battle. A position you keep forever), spent nearly 20 years as the “Head Herald” (head referee who designs and runs events), and just generally enjoyed life like I never had before.

So now, here I sit; older, wiser, married, and fortunate enough to have some very good friends surrounding me. Ogg has moved to the other side of the country, but I still see Tim and Mike almost every weekend along with many others whom I would never have met were it not for this nerdy foam-fighting group. Tim and Mike were best man and groomsman in my wedding (which was medieval-themed) and I still occasionally attend Pennsic when I am able. A lot of the same crowd surrounds me both there and at home. I have not attended a Dagorhir event in many years, though, but I've been told that my “legend” still lives on.

And apparently it does.  I just found this on the web.  It is from someone's site.  I didn't make this but I am the guy in blue, second from left with the weird symbol on my chest.

Hopefully, this year, I will be able to spend at least a little time at Pennsic again. My wife even enjoys the event, in her own way (she likes to shop there, and there's plenty of that to be done) and is always happy when we get to go. I will camp with most of the same people I have known for years and see faces that I haven't seen since the last time I was there. I will probably even go back and visit the swimming hole again, so hide your eyes. It's not a pretty sight, but the difference between then and now is that, now, I don't care if you don't like what you see. It's home to the new, improved me and, if you don't like it, you can go back to high school. Despite what Mom and Dad told me, I never wanted to go back to my teenage years... you can keep them.

Despite everything that has happened in the last few years, you can turn off your Wayback Machine, Mr. Peabody. I like it here and I'm staying.

Shut it off, hyper-intelligent, mutant canine.  I'm good here.

Luck, and My Lack of It...

As some of you know, I’m a firm believer in luck. I worship luck the way some people worship famous people… from very far away and never likely to meet. I sit, starstruck, and wonder what it would be like to have good fortune just fall into my lap.

I’m not going to sit here and say that my life is all emo tragedy; that’s not what I’m trying to get across at all. While some horrible things have happened to me as of late, I do not blame them on luck. We can chalk those up to something bigger, if you like. What I AM saying is: when it comes to more “insignificant” things, I have the worst luck you have ever seen. Sonnets will, someday, be written about my grand (or really more like petty) misfortunes.

Games (of any sort) are the worst of the lot as far as this goes. This, especially, includes the lottery. Time and time again, I have had to prove to people that I should not be included in the office lottery pool. At my last job, they badgered me until I played and that, not unexpectedly, was the first time that they won ABSOLUTELY NOTHING back. They had always won a few dollars here and there, but the first and only time I got involved was the only time they won nothing. They never asked again. Unfortunately, the people at my current job were not deterred by that story and so I donate a dollar a week for the pleasure of being a “part of something” that will, ultimately, end in tears.

Unfortunately, my bad luck with lottery spills over into the real world. Every time I wander into any convenience store, I will, invariably, be behind the person who plays scratch-offs like they are about to reveal the cure for genital warts under the magic silver powder as they furiously attack the ticket with their coins or keys. 

Keep scratching, my friend... I don't need these Twinkies until next Thursday anyway.

 They stand there and make everyone wait as they incessantly scratch, win a dollar, use that dollar to buy the next ticket, and vigorously scratch at that one while I, and the rest of the county, stand somewhat patiently and await the inevitable cataclysm of 2012 that will end this eternity of waiting to purchase our soda or cigarettes. What would be wrong with buying some tickets, stepping aside, and letting people who have some semblance of lives get on with their over-consumption while you grind at your tickets that will, no doubt, reveal untold riches?

I will saw at the silver glue/powder until I see this.  Today will be my day.

The good news out of this? I will NEVER become a gambling addict. “Games of Chance” are my Kryptonite. I will not play ANY game that just involves being dealt the right cards. I may be one of the only white males in the Midwest who doesn’t even know how to play Texas Hold’em. There is absolutely no use in learning this game for me. Might as well set my paycheck on fire; at least it would provide me with momentary warmth. And don’t even mention “the fun of playing”, as I get no enjoyment out of any game where I’m guaranteed to lose.

I have nothing against card games, mind you. Twice a year, at our large family gatherings, giant Pinochle tournaments start up. This is a game I will play because, while I am dealt lousy hands every time, the challenge for me is to play those abysmal hands and apply some tactical skill to it all (that, and playing with my family is hilariously fun) . It’s a team effort and it’s all about overcoming disparity. Poker of any style relies on the luck of the draw (and yes, there is skill involved but too much of it is built around being dealt the right cards…I don’t know how that feels so I cannot speak any further on this matter).

This image is a lie.  The cards should be a 3 and a 5 (different suits) and those chips belong to the guy next to me.

I have never played roulette (not even the Russian style, which is why I am still here posting idiotic blogs… you’re welcome) or put a coin in a slot machine…ever. Oh, I’ve been to Las Vegas…when I was eight and spent my time looking at the pretty lights. I have no need to ever go back there (unless I was visiting someone. In case you’re reading this, cousin).

Recently, I went over to a friends house for a visit (and to return a winter coat that he had drunkenly left at my house).  As we chatted, the subject of this wretched game came up:

This was developed by the Dark Lord to torment my eternal soul.

My friend loves the game.  In fact, his bathroom is themed around it (which I think is kind of creative and interesting).  He spoke of all the dodgy deals and marathon sessions he has played in and suggested we play sometime.  My response was less than friendly.  They say he will get to come home from intensive care very soon and should have a full recovery, but I don't think I will be invited to dinner at his place any time soon.

It's not that I have any trouble grasping the game.  I can handle the money, property, and little green houses.  I can negotiate with the best of them (but only if I get to be the car.  I own guns) and can handle strategies.  I have the wherewithal to be a railroad tycoon and a decent slumlord.

The problem comes with the dice.

Of course, this roll means I am exactly seven spaces away from Boardwalk with someone else's large, red hotel standing majestically on it.

I could spend years studying the intricacies of Monopoly and study mathematical theories pertaining to the science behind winning and would still be the first player out of any game I choose to torture myself by being involved in.  The evil dice will make sure of it.  Any other players with developed properties on the board are guaranteed income from me each trip around the board.  Usually, I just ask the banker to hand my $200 from passing "GO" to the nearest property owner before I even roll... it's just easier that way.

Interestingly, the only dice roll in the game that seems to be "in my favor" is when I roll "doubles" to get out of jail.  This, however, only serves to let me land on other players' properties faster and, thus, helps me more quickly ease the burden of my small pile of cheerfully colored money.  The cheap properties that I may have acquired during the early stages of the game invariably get flipped over to the "mortgaged" side by about the fifth trip around the board.

Never been there, they tell me it's kind of helpful.

As we chatted about this (yeah, I'll say it) Satanic board game I tried to get across the point of my bad luck.  In response, he pulled a set of large dice out of his desk drawer and asked me to roll them.  I think I rolled something like a 6 and a 4.  He scoffed at me and told me that it was a decent roll, and it was.  The problem, I explained, is that the roll meant nothing.  Yeah, I can sit and roll dice all day and get truly random numbers just like anyone else.  When the roll stands to gain me anything at all, those rules change.

"Alright," he said, not for nothing, "roll them again, and, this time, it's purely for honor."  That was enough.  After he looked, dumbfounded, at the dice which had come to rest on 3 and 1, he swept them back into the drawer and snapped "Got it. 'Nuff said."   After I left, he probably dipped them in paint thinner and slaughtered a few chickens in the back yard to ward off whatever curse I had brought upon his home and family.  Can't say I blame him.

Now this brings us to another style of game:

Part of any self-respecting gamer's "standard battle loadout."

Yes, I am a nerd/geek/dweeb who likes role playing games (a subject I plan to blog a bit about later, so I won't get into the why's and where's right now).  For those who do not know, these are games where you take on the role of a "character" and get put through a series of mental-picture adventures by the person who takes on the role of "Gamemaster." The various dice that inhabit your collection represent the element of "chance" that allow the characters to succeed or fail in their endeavors.  I know... but, believe it or not, I have touched a girl before.

I have enjoyed these games for many years but as I get older, my tolerance for my idiotic luck fades. WARNING:  GEEK TALK APPROACHING.  A year of two ago, a friend ran a Star Wars roleplaying game.  I was excited because, in this particular new version of the game, players were finally able to take on the role of Jedi.  This, to me, was the ultimate "nerdgasm" as I have been such a fan of these fictional knights since 1977.  I ordered the game book off of Amazon and eagerly awaited its arrival like a kid going to bed on Christmas Eve.  I poured all the creative mojo I posses into the creation of this Jedi character.  I came up with a cool name for him and, with the assistance of the gamemaster, wrote a heck of a good back-story that I think even George Lucas would be happy with.  The excitement pounded in me as we sat down around the table in the basement (my life is a cliche...I swear it is) and pulled out the books and dice.

Suffice to say, I ended up with the clumsiest parody of a Jedi Knight that anyone has ever seen.  On a twenty-sided die, I was unable to roll above a 4 in any given circumstance.  What resulted was nothing more than my character that I had worked to hard to create and flesh out becoming a lightsaber-wielding Chevy Chase from the early years of Saturday Night Live.  To the ultimate annoyance of my friend, the gamemaster, I quit the game and spent my Saturday nights home watching movies and playing Playstation games (while my wife continued to go play in the Star Wars game).  It was quite peaceful.

This past year, right after we found out about Dad's cancer, it was suggested that I join a different game now being played by the same group.  The company of people became a "safe place" and I am still involved with the game.  This time, however, I had the gamemaster make my character for me and I put almost no effort into him. I also found it amusing that, due to it being the 21st century, I could game "paperless" (aren't I "green?") with the use of my netbook.  My character is a spreadsheet and I have a .pdf of the game book on the hard drive.  Abandoning physical dice in favor of an electronic "roller," my misfortune is not as bad as it once was... probably because I have much less invested this time.

Thankfully, so far, this phenomenon has kept itself to matters that aren't terribly important.  Again, luck had little to do with my parents' passing.  That was a matter of life and health and the lack thereof.  So far (vigorously knocking on every wooden surface I can find), no trees have fallen on my house (sorry, Rob and Wanda) nor have bolts of lightning electrified my television or computers (yet).  As long as the bad fortune stays within games and other insignificant matters, I can live with it.

At least until the power goes out right when I am finally doing well in a game of Black Ops.  Trust me, it will happen.