Board games can bring out the worst in people (and are perhaps second only to Mario Kart when it comes to inciting anger).

My younger sister still holds a grudge against me for beating her at Monopoly in our youth. Yes, I was cheating, but it was her own fault for not paying attention. We both learned valuable lessons: she learned to never trust a banker,¹ and I learned just how hard a ten year old girl can punch.

Decades later, my sister still brings this one game up, and is hesitant to play most games with me.

I witnessed another anger inciting game this weekend, while playing the Civilization board game (based on the video game) with my friends, Ken and Francis.²

Francis is quite taken with board games, and has the stacks of boxes to prove it. And when I say board games, I don’t mean Monopoly, Life, or Sorry. I am talking about “hobby” board games, such as Settlers of Catan, Dominion, and the aforementioned Civilization (to name only a few).

I partake in a weekly Game Night with the pair (and others), and depending on the game, we will either be laughing all night, or looking for the nearest heavy object to hurl.

The latter was the case with Civilization on Sunday afternoon. It nearly came to blows.

I was Egypt,³ Ken was China, and Francis was Russia. The board was laid out in a sort of Christmas tree shape, with Ken and Francis on either side of the ‘base’ and myself far away at the ‘top.’

Ken and Francis’ proximity to each other (only two square ‘land’ tiles separated them) resulted in a crash course with wackiness. By which I mean, Francis went after Ken like a junkyard dog.

Ken was content to focus on culture and creating a peaceful civilization, while Francis went the opposite way: War. Ken, bless him, took the assaults as personal.

“I just want to build libraries!” Ken yelled as his troops were crushed under Francis’ iron heel. Ken threw up his hands and resorted to a weapon of his own: Passive Aggressiveness. “I can see you don’t care about culture or libraries. The arts clearly aren’t important to your people. All you care about is grunting and swords!”

Francis cleared Ken’s pieces off the board, “Dude, it’s just a game.”

Ken jabbed a finger toward my empire, “I don’t see you going after Dan at all, and he’s winning!”

Francis shrugged, “You’re closer.”

There was a loud scrape as Ken pushed his chair away from the table and got to his feet, “We are a peaceful people! We have libraries! You don’t even have writing!”

Later on, I emailed another friend, Glenn, about the near-brawl. His only response was, “Who the [expletive] plays Civilization just to build libraries?”

Indeed.

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¹ Summed up best in this hymn by Mojo Nixon.

² Names changed, same goes for Glenn.

³ Egypt is so Over Powered (OP to use the gaming vernacular), that I ran away with the game. I had three Wonders of the World, gunpowder, rifle carrying cavalry, and steam power, while the others barely had irrigation. When/if we play again, we decided Egypt cannot be used.

The people watching at a ballet in a mid-west college town is quite the feast for the eyes. Stephanie and I went to Swan Lake on Friday, and it offered an amusing mix of ‘Oh, I should dress up,’ to ‘Clubbing clothes count as dressing up’ and ‘Why can’t I wear my Big Johnson T-shirt?’

My collection of video game T-shirts says all one needs to know about my fashion skills (to the point where I had to seek the help of a Fixer). Heck, that night I ended up wearing navy blue socks with my black shoes and forgot a belt (mostly by mistake). The variety of ‘appropriate’ dress at Swan Lake was nothing short of entertaining. Some women wore elegant evening dresses, while others wore skirts shorter than their winter coats (to the point Stephanie thought one young lady was wearing only a coat). Another young lady sported a tutu of her own, likely in hopes of being called on stage to fill in if Odette pulled a Keith Moon.

A favorite was a stoic gentleman in a T-shirt and suspenders, who’s belly cascaded over his jeans as it tried to make a break for the exit. I needed these bits of observational mirth after the tense drive through the snow, which left me as mentally stable as Brad Pitt in Twelve Monkeys.

It took nearly an hour to get from downtown to the show. Such a trip should, on a good day, take no more than twenty minutes or so (ten if I am listening to the Drive soundtrack. Three and a half if my radio gets stuck on conservative talk radio). It was my first Screw This I am Moving to a State Without Snow drive of Winter. It happens every year.

Additional mirth came when we overheard a passerby critiquing the range of footwear worn by the intrepid staff of the venue, “Do they even have a dress code? One is wearing dress shoes, and another is wearing Chucks¹. This isn’t Point Break Live—we’re here to see the Moscow [Expletive] Ballet.” Indeed.

Speaking of, if you ever get a chance to see Point Break Live!, do so. It is Swan Lake for our Modern Times. With beer, fake blood and Gary Busey impressions².

And the people watching at Point Break Live! when I saw it in San Francisco? EVEN better.

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¹ Chuck Taylor Converse All-Stars.

² “Utah! Bring me two!”

I am seeing Swan Lake this evening. Getting a bit of “culture” by going to see the “ballot,” and wearing a shirt with “long sleeves.”

There is one problem, Pop Culture has pretty much ruined Swan Lake for me. The ballet has been featured or referenced in many TV shows and films (a favorite being, Brain Donors). However, it is the frequent use of Swan Lake in popular media which makes me want to see the original. Compare and contrast, as they say, and it is always a good idea to become familiar with the source material–and is why I often consider reading Twilight: so I can make more accurate jokes, and better enjoy the ones already made.

Swan Lake is not the only classic¹ dulled by Pop Culture. I recently (and finally) watched all of Gone with the Wind. I was already familiar with the famous lines, and scenes (“I don’t give a damn,” etc.) via the many references over the years, but, when seen in context they made MUCH more sense, and had more weight. When Rhett delivered his famous line in the waning minutes of the film, it hit like a truck—now I knew why he said he didn’t give a damn.

The same can be said when I watched Citizen Kane for the first time in my youth: I finally got a lot of jokes and references—ranging from The Simpsons to Tiny Toon Adventures.

Is it wrong that Pop Culture “ruins” works like Swan Lake or Gone With the Wind? No. I would probably A) not know about Swan Lake or B) not want to see it, if it weren’t for it being referenced over the decades. Jokes about, and references to, classic works keep them alive and at the front of our memory—kind of like what Barb Wire did for Casablanca.

Well. Let’s skip that example.

Honestly, I am just happy for an excuse to leave the house². I turn in to a bit of a hermit while the Snow Miser stalks the Michigan countryside during our nine months of “good sledding.”

I just hope the stage version of Swan Lake is less creepy than the last incarnation I saw.

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¹ To be clear: I am not lumping Twilight in with Swan Lake, Gone With the Wind and Citizen Kane.

² By which I mean “apartment” and not “my parents’ basement.”

I confess to being a public enemy when it comes to trying to be funny on Twitter. The bulk of my feed is filled with lame attempts at humor¹ and I am not the only guilty party. But, there are times when Twitter serves a Greater Purpose (and perhaps other times, a Greater Porpoise).

A couple Saturdays back, I had just finished an overpriced, under-French Toast’d² breakfast, when I decided to check Twitter on my phone (sort of an after meal mint for the 21st Century). I saw a tweet from a friend asking for help—she had a flat tire, and required assistance putting on the spare.

Thanks to a quick exchange of tweets and a peek at my Maps app, I learned Rachel was less than a mile away–well within walking distance. Like a 21st Century Dudley Do-Right (both in spirit and in abilities), I was off to lend a hand.

I had just finished reading The Lost City of Z, which was about the famous (and missing) explorer Percy Fawcett and his search for a lost city in the Amazon. The book was filled with stories about explorers in the early part of the 20th Century, and I figured if these folks could handle exploring the jungles of the world, I could certainly walk 0.7 miles to help out a friend.

Let’s rewind a bit: via my “phone,” I was able to see a friend needed help, get a fix on her location, see how far away she was on a map of the city and get walking directions. If need be, I bet I could have found directions, or a video, on how to change a tire too (but fear not, I have Experience).

About nine minutes later (I walk fast), I found Rachel and got to work. A neighbor noticed our plight and offered us the use of his hydraulic jack. He was a charming fellow, who used profanity as one would a punctuation mark³. Needless to say, we got along famously.

With the tire fixed, Rachel gave my dirty hands and I a ride home. I hadn’t discovered a lost city, or even a lost shopping mall, but I still had quite the adventure—all thanks to Twitter and my smart phone.

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¹ Just like this blog.

² The breakfast in question came with two slices of French toast and four slices of regular toast. How about we split the difference? Four slices of French toast and call it good.

³ Lewis Black has a great joke about this sort of thing.

I joined the website Goodreads recently as a way to track what I am reading, to get suggestions about what to read next and to try out their Reading Challenge.

After signing up, I saw they had my novel, The Magic of Eyri, listed, and that if I was the author, I could apply for Author Status. Why not? After a couple mouse clicks and a short email, I was given the title of Goodreads Author a few days later (despite my novel being self-published, but hey, take the wins where you can, right?).

Now that I am a Goodreads Author, folks can become “a fan” (which is probably only a few pegs lower than joining the Mr. Belvedere fan club¹). Neat.

I found a few friends of mine on Goodreads and added them, because it is What You Do, and I saw an alert that one of my friends, John, was now “a fan”². I popped over to his page, and I was listed with some of his other Favorite Authors in the sidebar, which gave me a chuckle.

I should see if they want to collaborate on a book. And then I woke up.

I didn’t expect to be listed alongside big names like Orson Scott Card and George R. R. Martin anytime soon, except perhaps as a punchline.

Joking aside³, I know I do have fans of Magic of Eyri† and the other nonsense I churn out, and when I have been lucky enough to meet them in person, I am always grateful. If you have 10 fans, or ten thousand, each one is a win–and take them where you can.

Except Spambots on Twitter. Those don’t count.

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¹ FACT: I was a member back in the day. I have the stickers and the T-shirt somewhere. This is not a reference to the SNL skit.

² In all honesty, John has been one of my biggest fans and supporters since the book came out in 2007. I don’t forget stuff like that. Same goes for my Magic of Eyri co-star, Robin.

³ I’m a fan of Ender’s Game, and I want to read the Game of Thrones  series at some point (and watch the show–c’mon, Netflix). I have played the game though, but before the show came out.

† I have been very lucky to meet a few fans at conventions, and some have even emailed me–mainly when the Magic of Eyri podcast was on hiatus. That kind of stuff keeps me going.

While driving down the highway¹ the other day, I spotted a single, lone crutch on the side of the on-ramp. “Sweet bananas,” I thought, “What’s the story there?”

I tried to think about what would cause some poor soul to cast aside a single crutch, and on a highway on-ramp of all places. “Perhaps someone tied it to the roof rack, and it fell off,” I thought at first, but then I remembered such a fate is usually reserved for the likes of R2-D2, Granny and Irish Setters.

Then it came to me. Someone was hitchhiking, and they were picked up by a biker. Yes. What else could it be? More importantly, the hitchhiker in question HAD to be Tiny Tim.²

read more…

In a way, a relationship is like a chicken pot pie. Both benefit from the quality of ingredients used in their making.

I thought about this over a room temperature chicken pot pie at a restaurant last month. It was the day after Christmas, and I was unwinding after the usual holiday-insanity, which had me visit eight different locations between Eaton Rapids and Detroit in 48 hours. I was spent like an unpaid intern during the New Hampshire primary.

Which brought me to the restaurant and the less than hot chicken pot pie. I figured a hearty lunch would help recharge the batteries. As would be expected on Dec. 26th, the place was a ghost town, and it was closing in about an hour. I was one of only three patrons. This caused the staff behind the counter, a man and a woman, to drop their guard when it came to chatting.

The conversation was on the woman being in a new relationship, or not. Her co-worker asked about her liaisons, or if you prefer the Oxford Dictionary term, “booty calls.”

“I haven’t slept with anyone else in five months,” she said as she cleaned the counter.

Her co-worker shrugged as he counted the money in his register, “That sounds like a relationship to me.”

Indeed.

There are perhaps other signs too, which means it is time for You Might Be in a Relationship If:

• You stop selling your partner’s anti-depressants in the Denny’s parking lot.
• You ask for photos of your partner’s face.
• Your partner names a Final Fantasy VII character after you.
• Your partner only shoots you once.
• You mention your partner on your podcast.
• You show your partner photos of your real family, instead of the photos that came with the frames.
• During a weekend getaway, you don’t wake up in a motel bathtub missing a kidney.¹
• You no longer list your partner as collateral.
• You answer the phone with “Hi!” instead of, “I need a favor.”
• You no longer care that your partner doesn’t have the same blood type.
• And finally, Your partner acts as inspiration for a character² in your self-published, My Little Pony fan-fiction novel, Relationships are Magic: Adventures in Mor-Thanfriendsia.

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¹ Which at the worst can only happen twice. Look on the bright side.
² I’ll let you think up the cutie mark for this one.

This image caught my eye. Because, well–LOOK at that hand. Creepy. Look at the finger being used to apply the sticker–looks like the middle finger to me (I could be wrong though, but I really hope I am NOT, and given the context of the article about Mitt Romney, it would make sense).

"Here is a photo featuring our newest hand model, the Crypt Keeper."

Intentional or not, this photo is hilarious.¹ Nice work, BBC News.

Later on, this photo replaced the one above:

The proper phrase is, 'a plague of microphones.'

Interesting. Maybe someone else noticed the creepy/suggestive factor.

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¹ I say this regardless of the candidate and/or party. The political aspect does not concern me, as I just write in Mojo Nixon every election. Because, if your ballot don’t got Mojo Nixon, then your ballot could use some fixin.