Extreme Tubing

This is how most people enjoy watertubing: 

I, however, have a deep fear instilled in me. Since all the tubing I have ever done has been in the ocean, a healthy fear of jellyfish accompanies the act. It doesn't stop me from doing it, but it makes the stakes much, much higher than those happy-go-lucky lake folk. 

Every time I hop on the tube, I look into the murky depths below and imagine thousands of the redish jellyfish just lurking, waiting to strike me down. I've been stung pretty regularly every summer since I started splashing in the river for fun, so whenever I start thinking "eh, the pain can't be that bad," they strike again. Mercilessly.

Therefore, when I get on the intertube, it's like a test of my strength. I. Will. Not. Fail. To fail means to expose my mostly naked body to their evil tentacles of doom. I can't just refuse to go tubing, either. I have to prove myself!

My weak, white, unexposed-to-outdoors-or-strenuous-exercise-limbs cling to the handles of the tube. I suppress my screams (mostly), and try to survive. I wrap my legs around the side of the tube, pull my torso up while my legs drag in water, and do my best to breathe at regular intervals. Determination etches my every feature. Like a drowning rat pulling itself onto a drainpipe-- I endure.

 At one point, as I left the wake zone, my entire body lifted off the tube. Legs arched over body and I grew weightless before crashing down on my hips. The bruises look like I pelvic thrusted a brick wall.

My cousin joined me for some good hearty fun. We both shared the tube's straps, so we were one strap to a person. He had a blast, though we were slamming into one another and screaming and dangerously close to the water at all times. After a series of hard knocks and bumps, my unfortunate kin lost his hold. Our eyes met as he flew into the air, destined to plummet into the water. After the initial shock, I accepted the loss and the extra available strap, leaving him to his fate.

After twenty minutes of my uncle trying to shake me so he could go rescue his nephew, my muscles stopped feeling pain. They trembled, and I realized they were doomed to fail. The next hard turn was my last. My fingers let go of their own accord, though I'd weathered much worse. I slipped into the lake, swallowing enough water to replenish all I'd lost from tubing so hard.

Immediately I did the leg tuck years of tubing in jellyfish infested waters taught me. Hug legs to life preserver and use my palms to paddle me away from suspicious shadows.

But I realized-- I was in fresh water. They weren't coming for me. I tentatively lowered my legs. It was magnificent! I splashed around as much as my deadened muscles would allow.

When they finally got to me they had to lift me into the boat like a dog in a life jacket, since I didn't have the strength to hoist myself up any longer. But I'd come out a champion.

Magnetic DnD

I’m on a mountain!

But that’s not important right now. What is important is how people who are in the subculture of fantasy RPGs (especially DnD) tend to find one another. I’ve been thinking about this a lot as I look over the lakes of the Adirondack. Despite the fact that they are relatively rare and rarely within my natural social group of shared humor and interest, we always end up in a basement playing DnD together. It’s magnetic. It’s probably magical.

When I worked at Busch Gardens, I saw a man lumbering about Germany. Something drew me to this man, despite the fact that he was formidably large, much older, and had a big, bushy beard.

Actually I think the beard is what drew me to him in the first place. I’m not sure how, but some people wear beards like they wish they were a dwarf or a wizard, and other people wear them like they think it’s rugged or hip. I could tell that this man thought an axe would compliment his beard nicely.

I spent many days trying to attract his attention, but I have none of the physical features that clue people into my subgenre interest. I held myself like an elf, stroked my chin like a wizard’s beard grew there, but he did not notice.

Then, one day, I saw him on break at the same time I was. I steeled myself, took a deep breath, and sat down across the table from him and his fried chicken meal.

He looked up, eyes suspicious under eyebrows as bushy as his beard. Fried breading collected in the wiry hairs, and I immediately felt I was in a tavern asking a dwarf if he has heard rumors of a man in black.

“If I said a warhammer deals 1d10 damage,” I said, and trailed off, uncertain.

“I’d say you play 4.0,” he said, and smiled. Not only did he acknowledge me, but he even managed to scoff that I played the newer version of Dungeons and Dragons over the more traditional 3.5.

I still don’t know how I found the courage to do this, or why I thought introducing myself with that particular line was suave. Though it turned out fantastically, improbably well, and created one of the fondest memories I hold, that was a pretty high risk for a low chance of finding another player. I think the subconscious radio waves each player gives off gave me the confidence to approach him.

Two years later, my freshman year of college, I saw posters along my dorm wall. “Do YOU Want to Be a Wizard?” They asked, with a montage of wizards from every major fantasy production within the past twenty years.

I did.

So I went to the suggested meeting with my Manfriend, and we prepared to become wizards. The host turned out to be a tall, thin guy wearing a shirt listing fantasy RPG tropes. We were already excited.

He gave an invigorating discussion about wizards through history—from medicine men to the properties of meditation. He talked about herbs and their evolution to pharmacies. He basically told us to find the wizard within all of us.

I was charged. And I was also convinced he, too, was a member of our subgenre. Manfriend and I tried to saunter up to him afterwards, but he slipped between our fingers. A nervous freshman, I was afraid to ask him outright. I did much investigation and found out he was an RA on the floor below me. In the dead of night, I wrote a message on his door.

“If you have any information about DnD here at this school, please contact me.” I left my email but no name.

Two days later he responded: “Mystery person—I am starting a game here next semester and trying to get a tabletop gaming club started. Let me know if you would like to be updated or included in the game.”

Would I ever!

And thus I started playing DnD at my college, and Manfriend and I immersed ourselves in the pre-collected group of players—including, but not limited to, an employee at the local video game shop, a regional head of the Wizards of the Coast tabletop gaming organization, a brewer of mead, and two men with magnificent beards.

With the tabletop gaming club’s debut, I started pulling my other likely friends in. “Just one game,” I’d say as I helped them roll a character. I got fifteen people who had never thought they’d roll a dice playing even after I stopped bribing them.

With each person I grew more confident, until finally whenever I saw a triforce belt, a picture of a sword, even an offhand reference to fantasy humor, I blurt “I play Dungeons and Dragons!” just to check. Unfortunately this method is less accurate.

To try to capture the magic, I’ve created a chart that pinpoints some of the cues I get to approach a person. The closer the proximity to DND and larger the font, the greater the likelihood they’ve played. 

(click to enlarge) credit to Jordan, Curt, and David for suggesting things they pick up on when identifying a player.

I've added a Stumble button somewhere here on the bottom, so if you think I'm cool, Stumble me! You can also follow me to get a gentle reminder when I've updated.

Motorcycles

Since I failed the motorcycle course, I decided to get my learner’s under my dad’s supervision. Unfortunately, when my new motorcycle rolled off the ramp, my brain decided to mass delete every useful memory from the motorcycle course. All I could recall was the guy that rode into the hay barrier and how the nice bearded man had to help me hold my bike up when I walked it. So we decided to practice a bit on the grass, since I didn’t even have a real helmet yet and had to use a bicycle one.

Initially, it was magnificent. It was like the bike was made for me. I felt like Iron Man—part woman, part machine, connected through our shared power. I could walk it—alone! 

Then, I rode it. Very slowly, very wobbly, but I mounted the bike and we worked together—human and machine—to move forward. Turns were a bit difficult, but I put my feet down and sort of hopped, and then the bike understood what I wanted from it.

Then I toppled. When I righted it, the left handbrake hung limp and useless.

I’d killed it.

So the bike expedition was put on hold for a bit while Dad figured out how to find the right parts. I say parts because he ordered several handbrake levers—an act that I think suggests a lack of confidence in my riding abilities.

In the meanwhile, I got myself a helmet. I picked all white so I’d look like the Stig from Top Gear (the effect is ruined by my indigo riding jacket). The professional fitting me squeezed an extra small over my noggin and said it fit, even though it made my cheeks do this:

But I guess it’s better to squeeze your cheeks than to flop around on your head when you fall.

So at long last, we took the bike out for riding on real roads.

My biggest problem, other than an awkward waddling start, is shifting gears. I’m fine shifting up from 1^st gear, but then I hit a corner, go back down to a mystery gear, and I’m lost. The bike protests loudly and I frantically soar through the gears while it groans and wails beneath me and my dad grows more distant. This tends to happen when a car is behind us. On clear, empty roads I roll through the gears and keep up with Dad like I rode for years.

I ambled after Dad like a mentally unstable duckling, and he played the part of momma duck and waited for me to sort things out before taking off into the wild again.

After several weeks of this, I was comfortable leaving our neighborhood. I did not realize how frightening the world gets when you leave 30 mph behind.

First are the bugs. I don’t mind bugs, really, but imagine if a firefly could go 60 mph. It’s like a squishy bullet that sprays neon. The butterflies are the worst. I see them meandering on heavily forested roads, or next to a meadow. They flutter in their serene world, probably giddy because their bellies are full of pollen. They’re the reason flowers grow, the reason I can appreciate the meadow of tulips I’m riding past.

It wouldn’t be so bad if the faceshield on my helmet wasn’t so clean. Air creeps in the bottom, too, to further fool me into thinking it’s not down. So I see the butterfly floating by and want to take evasive action into a ditch to avoid eating it. Even when I find out the visor is on, it’s still disconcerting because all of a sudden a crippled butterfly is staring at me accusingly.

Then I keep getting intimate with the wildlife displayed on the sides of the roads. You people with walls around you when you drive don’t have to stare down a recently deceased raccoon. I’m closer to the ground and nothing separates me and the furry, bloody, squirrel.

Even with all the exciting things I was experiencing, the greatest I encountered at a gas station. Dad was pumping his bike while I idled on mine, watching the intersection out of boredom. Out of nowhere an enormous man in a leather vest with giant sunglasses and billowing golden hair rides into view.

I remembered that Dad said it is biker code to wave to every biker you pass. Uncertain, I raised a hand at the man.

He granted me a deep nod and biked on, hair flapping in the wind.

He acknowledged me. The large man on the oversized Harley acknowledged me because I was now a part of his guild, or tribe, or club or whatever. But we shared a common bond, and I was one of his people. Was I happy? Yes. I never knew I wanted to be one of his people, but now I knew there was something missing all along. I think everyone secretly wants to get acknowledged by the large man on the loud bike, but won’t know it until he picks them out of a crowd (or gas station) and tells them their special by nodding (deeply!) at them.

So if you see Dad and I on the road, riding the wind, wave at us and share the feeling! But we won’t see you, because you’re in a car.

Why I Can No Longer Play Morrowind

After a good year of Morrowind, a relapse into Oblivion, the discovery and descent into Mount and Blade, and Dragon Age, I've come to terms with my condition. I am too greedy to play such free-flowing RPGs. Here is a brief illustrated narrative of my path to ruin.

First, the character questions.

Talk about an existential crisis. Do I want to virtually assume a strange and unfamiliar gender? Stick to my roots?

Then you get to designing the character. This is somewhat time-consuming for me…

Once I've spent a good many hours matching the facial proportions of Queen Latifah or Patrick Stewart, I still have many important decisions to make. Rogue or Paladin? Skills? Weapon points? Do I want to be ironic—a small framed woman with a greatsword? A wood elf Arnold Schwarzenegger? This typically takes another hour, and often results in me going back to alter the face to accommodate the class.

Finally I’ve been released into the game world. I’ve selected a rogue, or a mage with all my skills in secrecy and lockpicking. I bypass the first friendly guard who tries to approach me with a plot relevant quest, break into the first hut I see, and loot their meager life possessions. Then I trade the plates and sack of potatoes for a few coins and keep at it until I can buy myself a sexy suit of armor or weapon, both of which will make it easier for me to loot.

I spend hours prowling from house to house searching for chests of jewelry left untended. Slowly but surely I build up my small stash of coin using varying levels of thievery from Robin-hood style to shanking them in the street for a brass bracelet.

After days of stealing from the NPCs, I find I have no more strength to hold my gains. I put more points in strength the next time I level up, but I can’t keep up with the burden of my riches. So I kill someone that lives in a likely looking house and start dumping my ill-gotten gains there.

This pleases me to no end for roughly 80 hours. Then I start to feel guilty every time I pass the friendly guard, the reminder that though I’m at the top level and have raided every tomb and slayed many a creature, I still haven’t taken care of the rats back from the beginning of the game.

The guilt starts to eat at me. “Well, maybe I should just talk to him,” I think. But I procrastinate. There’s a new area to explore! I can go all the way north by this ship! Finally I’m squirming with guilt and I approach him for the quest, to find out I’d killed the rats and the owner of the building and stolen her pitiful payment in the same swoop as I stole her dress.

Only then I start asking myself important questions. Like what exactly I achieved by owning all magical glass armor and the highest level enchanted battle ax. I hadn’t spoken to my grandparents in days, written a paper, or made my bed. I didn’t follow the plot of the game, so I wasn’t even any nearer to accomplishing an imaginary objective.

What I learned from this experience? 

Not much.