Sweet Home Chicago

I just got back from the Windy City.

The trip, while not bad, has helped me reinforce a few things.

Namely, that I hate people.

Let's dial this one back a moment.

On Friday, I, along with two friends, ventured north from this little patch of swampland in order to attend Games Day Chicago- effectively a giant Games Workshop commercial disguised as a convention.

We did this for a number of reasons, but at least in part because we, as servants of a dreaded and dastardly games store, needed the inside skinny on what exactly the GW staff were going to do.

The convention was a big steaming pile of "all right." Not bad, but not good.

We learned a few things, but we also had to endure countless man-child reenactments of an Ork battle-cry.

The things I do in the line of duty.

Now, we've been wallowing in nerdishness all day.

My good friend and esteemed associate Bob hints that he has a line on a party we can go to.

So, after letting my mood spiral down into the basement, I agree to go.

Big mistake.

You see, it's a cast party.

Now, keep in mind that I majored in theatre. I have danced the dance of the performing arts. And knowing what I do, I should have taken the rain check I was earlier inspired to do.

Because theatre folk, for those of you just joining us, are cliquish, introverted, selfish creatures. They are convinced that what they are doing is important. They are, of course, possibly right. Sometimes.

Most of the time, they're a collection of indolent twits divorced from reality.

Which leads me to the party.

This is an apartment near Wrigley Field. Now, despise the Cubs as I may, I know that they sell a lot of tickets. And I know that real estate near Wrigley field ain't cheap.

The apartment is a luxurious affair.

Clearly, then, someone's Mommy and Daddy are forking over some dough.

I say this because the group throwing the party has just perpetrated Shakespeare in the Park, which is not exactly one of the bigger-budgeted shows on God's Green Earth.

Thus, it was like being in high school again... but without the desire to fit in.

No, this time, my bitter, scorched, blue-collar in spite of having every advantage ass was out for blood.

Particularly since these are people I have no intention of ever seeing again. Bob knows.... one or two of them.

The rest are an enigma to me.

So when a corpulent fellow in a white suit is introduced to me, and I am told he is the show's fight choreographer, my response is, "You poor bastard."

"Whoa, whoa, man, we just did a show, I don;t know if you wanna be so disparaging..."

"Look, I majored in theatre-"

"So did I!"

"... and I feel sorry for anyone who has your job."

Had he actually had the courage of his convictions, I would have been told to get the fuck out. Perhaps he might have punched me. I certainly wasn't the one with the most people in his corner.

Instead, adopting a wounded expression, he drifted away.


Which leads me to the point of this whole, ugly, rambling mess.

I often blame Indiana University for beating my love of theatre out of me... and they did their part.

But I'll be damned if, after several years of working freight, demilitarization, and retail, I'm going to put up with people so neurotic and thin-skinned. I get plenty of that shit from John Q Public.

Surrounding myself with a bunch of prima donnas convinced of their importance?

Bad move.

Life During Flutime

So, while I'm sure this may surprise some, I am, in spite of my lack of formal study in the field, greatly interested in epidemic disease.


And thus it is, that the current Swine Flu bit fascinates me so.

The 1918 Influenza Pandemic was an amazing disease.... its death toll was of the sort that beggars the imagination.

And while none of the data thus far make this look like a repeat of 1918 as such, it is still fascinating.

The WHO website hasn't seen this much traffic in ages. And with things like the Pandemic Alert Level moving from Stage 4 to 5, the temptation to go a little crazy is there, no mistake.

But rather than letting this phase me much, I'm taking a perhaps not entirely healthy interest in watching how things pan out.

As of 6PM, Greenwich Meridian Time, the flu has been reported in nine countries. Here in the United States, we have 91 confirmed laboratory cases, with one death.

Mexico has seven verified deaths linked to the H1N1 virus.

The WHO's advice on this is as follows-

"WHO advises no restriction of regular travel or closure of borders. It is considered prudent for people who are ill to delay international travel and for people developing symptoms following international travel to seek medical attention, in line with guidance from national authorities.
There is also no risk of infection from this virus from consumption of well-cooked pork and pork products. Individuals are advised to wash hands thoroughly with soap and water on a regular basis and should seek medical attention if they develop any symptoms of influenza-like illness."

In summation?

While this is interesting- and not to be ignored- wash your damned hands and don't fucking panic.
God bless the information age, when college students in Pig's Knuckle Arkansas can worry about flu cases in New Zealand.

Of Women and Me.

So, recently someone tried to solicit my advice on how to pick up girls.


I managed to avoid laughing in his face.

To date, at the age of 27, my conquests consist of-

1- A girl I met in College, with whom I made out a lot but never did the deed.

2- A girl I met in college with whom I made out ONCE. We never did the deed.

3- My now-ex girlfriend, who I met for the second time the summer before my last year of college. We..... made out a lot, and had a veritable truckload of sex over the three years we were together.


But that's it.

Literally.

I have had sex with ONE woman, and, counting her, have only kissed three.

Haven't been laid in... it'll be three years in May.


So.

Clearly the guy asking my advice is a sorely misinformed sort.

My lack of success with women has three root causes, none of which seem to be immediately apparent to anyone else-

1- My Face. While I don't shatter mirrors or turn people to stone, the fact is, I have a singularly unfortunate face.... particularly when it's in a neutral expression. This prevents most people from either noticing me or taking action if they do. Of course, I may be wrong, it might be more to do with....


2- My powers of perception.... or lack thereof. On at least two occasions, I have been informed that a girl was giving me "the eye."

I have never noticed.

My Ex had to practically club me over the head for me to notice.

I cannot read non-verbal cues to save my life, at least when it comes to the whole date'n'mate scene.

In bars, it's even worse.

Parties? Even more so.

Not that I go to a lot of parties, which brings me to...


3- My attitude. I hate crowds, hate bars, hate parties, hate getting drunk.... Add that to a certain sense of apathy, and you arrive at a fellow who prefers to stay at home alone.... while cursing his own loneliness.


Saddest of all?

I'm starting to think my libido is in atrophy.

Back in high school, I may not have been able to say word one to a girl I was interested in, but I HAD girls I was interested in.

These days?

Nothing.

And man does it suck.

Where the hell did I get all this STUFF?

Seriously.

I own entirely too much CRAP.

One car.

Four guns.

Two computers, only one of which works.

Enough gaming books to fill a small library.

Old toys.

Looted toolboxes.

Clothes of varying caliber.

Regular books.

A pile of CDs

A bunch of VHS tapes.

Some DVDs

Several armies of Warhammer miniatures.
How the hell did I let this happen?


Is it terminal stupidity, or is it something more sinister?

Travellin' Man

As far back as I can recall, I've been prone to move around.


Not moving as such, you understand... I lived in the same house for most of my life.

No, my family and I just took a lot of trips. Part of this was simple common sense.

When you live in Alaska, taking a vacation or two helps keep you sane. Seeing a warm sunny day in October can keep you from chasing your neighbors around with an ice auger.

But we left the state, on average, at least twice a year. Mostly, we went to California or Indiana, where the parents of my parents lived (and live, in the case of Mom's parents).

The point is, I've been packing up and trucking along since I can remember.

Until the last three years.

After my last grand trek through Canada to get here, Indiana, where I have done, accomplished, achieved and gained NOTHING, I have been more or less shackled to not merely Indiana, but to Bloomington.

You see, even when I was in Alaska and not out of the state, there would be trips to the cabin in the south, trips which more or less entailed enterign a different climate.

Now?

I find myself mired in Bloomington, trapped in a town that did its best to give me the boot five years ago. Graduation should have been my farewell to Bloomington, and to Indiana.

Where I used to be able to get some distance under my feet, make some tracks, I've bogged down in the mire.

And that, as much as anything, is why I hate it here.

Of Boars and Spears

So, I want to go kill a boar with a spear.

There's an outfit in Florida which can guide me affordably (although I'd need to bring my own spear, which I haven't got yet).

And thus, I find myself seriously considering it.

I've never been a fan of hunting an animal with firearms... at least, not in terms of an act that is enjoyable in and of itself...

But getting up close and personal, using a sharp piece of metal on the end of a stick? Stabbing a wild pig as it rushes at you?

Somehow, that dings my trolley.

Now, if I could just dredge up ninety bucks for a good boar spear....

Lyrics I've Come to Appreciate Greatly

"Punch your lights out, hit the pavement, that's what I call entertainment."
-Mindless Self Indulgence

"When somebody loves you it's no good unless he loves you all the way."
-Frank Sinatra

"I'm living in a foreign country but I'm bound to cross the line, beauty walks a razor's edge someday I'll make it mine."
- Bob Dylan

"Twenty-one guns, box made of pine, letter from the government sealed and signed delivered Federal Express on your Mother's doorsteps."
-Clutch

"You're beautiful. You're beautiful. You're beautiful, it's true. I saw your face in a crowded place, and I don't know what to do, 'cause I'll never be with you."
- James Blunt

"Dream with the feathers of angels stuffed beneath your head."
- Clutch

"Masquerading as a man with a reason, my charade is the event of the season."
-Kansas

"See the fire sweepin' out very street today, burns like a red coal carpet, mad bull lost its way"
-The Rolling Stones

"There are women in Cypress Grove, and if they catch you, you don't go home. So get to booking and don't look back, a one way ticket on a two way track."
- Clutch


"I'm afraid of nothing. It's the only way to be."
- Monster Magnet

"I'm learning to fly, but I ain't got wings."
- Tom Petty

"I've got soul but I'm not a soldier."
- The Killers

"Arm yourself because no one else here can save you."
- Chris Cornell

"No, you won't remember, you won't remember me, there'll be no ripcord in my destiny."
- Darkest of the Hillside Thickets

"Hell yeah, I'm the one that you wanted, hell yeah, I'm the Superbeast."
- Rob Zombie

"I've seen the morning light, I've seen the morning light, and it's not because I'm an early riser, I just never got to sleep last night."
- Bob Dylan

Naming Names

Let it be known, I'm something of an odd duck.

It's something I've come to accept as well as I imagine I ever will, and only the fact that pointed reminders of it bother me still makes it relevant.

And one of the least overt signs of this is that I LOVE naming my stuff.

My first car, a 1988 Toyota Corolla which served my family faithfully from 1988 up until about 2005, received the sobriquet, "Cross-Eyed Mary" after I'd been driving her less than a year.

My current automobile, a '97 Saturn SC, received its name on day seven of my drive from Alaska to Indiana (bad move, that). As I sat in a motel in Minnesota, it came to me.

The Reverend Otis P. Jivefunk, Minister of Culture.

It had clearly been a long haul.

Sometimes, the names are based upon whimsy, sometimes upon what an object is. I own a Mosin-Nagant bolt-action rifle manufactured in 1941, with the hammer and sickle of the Soviet Union stamped on the receiver. I named the grand old shoulder cannon "Uncle Vanya," in honor of another angry old Russian. It kicks like a mule, the muzzle flash is visible from space, and it has a steel plate on the rifle butt rather than something sane, like padding, but the old man fires true and hits like a freight train. Who could ask for more?

Then there are things named after deeds I have done with them.

Frogchopper, my Cold Steel Gurkha machete, labored namelessly for over a year before the Great Summer Bug-Out. On that trip, the bullfrogs were making a nuisance of themselves untila good friend of mine went after them with his .22. Rather than simply waste them, I took the frogs over to a sectioned log and chopped them in half so we could eat the legs and use the front halves as catfish bait. Hence, Frogchopper.

In the midst of all of this, I find the things that I don't name stand out more than somewhat.

Neither of my pistols has a name of any kind. Nor do my many secondary knives. My computer has no name (although my old latop, Mimir, certainly did). My straight razor has no name.

I've come to believe that the more "commonplace" I see an item as being, the less likely it is to receive a title.

Although that still makes the pistols odder than somewhat...