Off To War

So we, my family and I, went to Pennsic. Or more formally know as The Pennsic War.  This was at my sister-in-law’s request.

I didn’t really want to go. It sounded like a two-week long Renaissance Fair. And while I will admit to enjoying the one ren faire I had been to and that I’m not a complete stranger to geek culture (I’m a big Star Wars fan, love Doctor Who and even own a few comics ((The Walking Dead not super hero stuff))), my tolerance for the full force fanboys and girls, which are the kind of people I imagined being there, is pretty low. As is my tolerance for crowds. And people I don’t know in general. Also we would be camping, my wife and children hate the outdoors and none of them are afraid to share their feelings about a situation with me. What I’m trying to say is that Pennsic pretty much sounded like my own personal hell.

But I went.

And I really, really enjoyed myself.

Part of that was because I got to watch the kids have so much fun; they all came back sunburnt, scabby and with dirt ground in so deep we’re still trying to wash it, which in kid means that things couldn’t have gotten any better.

I also enjoyed it because I discovered, what I’ve started calling, “The Party Nerd”. Party Nerd’s are a hard group to describe; fully familiar, accepting and sometimes completely entwined within geek culture, while also enjoying the virtues of, as a good friend of mine from Alabama would put it, eatin’, drinkin’, fightin’ and fuckin’ (please read in your thickest Alabama accent for full force in meaning). Most people at Pennsic seemed to fit into this category and it led to me overhearing some interesting things, like:

“INEBRIATE! INEBRIATE! Yeah, I’m saying inebriate like a Dalek! Whatta yer gonna fuckin’ do about it?!?! NOTHIN THAT’S WHAT! INEBRIATE!!!”

“If we get more drummers and maybe a bagpipe we can double the amount of belly dancers that show up. And there’s never too many belly dancers.”

And “Wouldn’t you know it, I have everything but D10’s [a ten sided die]. Oh well, I guess it’s margaritas and the bow range then…”

As my sister-in-law told me, “these are your people.”

I think she may have been right.

Rites of Manhood

One of the many problems the modern westernized man suffers from in this day and age is a prolonged adolescence brought about by the lack of any kind of discernible switch from boyhood to manhood. There are a few things here and there, especially here in the south where I live, that are close to rites of passage; first deer killed, first beer drank, losing your virginity, first time you eat way more hallucinogens that you can possibly handle and find yourself lost in the woods draped in moss, mud and nothing else… These things help but really don’t give you the clear-cut “now you’re a man my son” kind of jolt into manhood that a ritualized ceremony can produce.

These ceremonies are usually based around physical, mental and emotional stress and how well the individual at the center of the ritual can handle them, i.e. if the boy can take the test and remain courageous and calm throughout he will walk away a man.

I believe that I may have discovered, quite by accident, the perfect manhood right for the modern man.

First: go on a prolonged “vacation” with your family.

Second: at the end of this “vacation” pack three young children ranging from one to eight years of age and their mother into a crowded vehicle. Make sure every person in this vehicle has some sort of electronic device and that all devices have their volume turned all the way up to eleven at all times.

Third: drive for at least thirteen straight hours. Make sure that at least four of those hours are spent driving an average of 10mph through major metropolitain areas. It should also be raining the entire time.

Fourth: try to pull into your destination around 1am or so. Make sure all children are wide awake after the very short naps they took in the vehicle.

Final step: walk into destination (note: this step only really works if your destination is your own home) and find that someone has broken in and stolen your kids videogame system and all of your guns.

If you can follow these steps while remaining calm, collected and strong throughout you will walk away a man.

Or it might be easier to put your hand in a glove full of bullet ants…

A Much Needed Break

Some people find the idea of being alone for a long period of time with nothing but their own thoughts to keep them company a terrifying prospect.

I am not one of those people.

In fact I’m a real honest-to-goodness introvert. That’s not to say that I’m particularly shy or timid like many people think of when they think “introvert”, I just need time alone to recharge, collect my thoughts and generally remember how to feel human again.

Due to my home obviously being the stable where Pestilence has decided to board his horse until the apocalypse, I haven’t had any alone time in about six weeks. This hasn’t been great for my mental health. (Actually, as an introvert, being a stay-at-home father of three young children hasn’t been great for my mental health, but that’s a different subject for a different time.)

But tomorrow, oh sweet tomorrow, my family and I are waking before dawn and heading to Disney World for spring break where I will get all the peace and quiet I can handle…

…

…

…

Nah, I’m just kidding.

Well, not about the going to Disney.

We’re actually driving there tomorrow.

But I’m dropping the wife and kids off there with my sister-in-law, and my kayak, fly rods and I are driving down to the Keys where I, and only I, will have five full days of fishing on sunny tropical flats and every single one of those days will end with me sitting at a bar, alone, sipping on beer and eating fried conch fritters while I try my absolute best remain aloof.

It’s going to be freaking AWESOME!

So I Went Back Home Again And It Was OK

They (who ever “they” are, and in this case I think the “they” is a who and I’m pretty sure the who is Tom Wolfe) say you can never go home again. That statement is total and complete bullshit of highest order.

I’ll totally admit that sometimes going back to your hometown, especially if it’s been awhile, can be a bit awkward, but for most people getting back into the swing of things doesn’t take a whole lot of doing.

If your blessed like I am and your hometown is Charleston, SC  “getting back in the swing of things” means good food and good conversation with people you haven’t seen in a while while standing around a fire sipping beer and occasionally taking a taste of home-made corn liquor.  Which to say, in the colloquial tongue of my people, “ain’t really all that hard”.

So yeah, that part of going home was pretty enjoyable.

It wasn’t all great though; my wife ran a low-grade fever most of the weekend and only got more and more annoyed when I tried to cure it with more cowbell, two out of the three of my children are bruised, scabbed and battered due to hard play and for the first time in my life I can say I’m completely sick of oysters due to eating them almost every meal for two straight days (two bushels were too much).

But over all it was an good enough trip to counteract this problem.

Except for homesickness.

That may be worse.

Going Home Again

I live approximately two and a half  hours from my home town, which makes going back and visiting family and friends quite easy.

I despise these visits.

The justifications for these strong negative feelings are varied and pretty damn complicated but the first and foremost, and probably most superficial, reason for hating these trips is being in the car for more than a few minutes at a time with my three children. I’m convinced that my own personal hell will be driving for eternity down a featureless interstate with no exits while the kids scream from the back seat. And I’ll probably need to pee.

One of the other reasons why I dislike going back home is that my home town is Charleston, South Carolina, which is if you don’t know, a foodie’s paradise. (This would be a great place for me show examples with links but I’m a terribly lazy person.)

I love good food.

I’m always broke when I go to Charleston.

This last trip to Charleston I was able to enjoy a lunch from Chick-fil-a, which I admit was kind of a treat due to not eating there since the whole giving money to hate groups thing they were into there for a while, but still, Chick-fil-a? This is a city where your smallest hole-in-the-wall diner serves dishes with shrimp that were caught earlier in the day from local waters and bathroom stalls in the diviest of the dive bars have graffiti dedicated to the fatty rich wonders of foie gras next to the “for a good time call…” graffiti. And I have to eat at a fucking fast food place that’s famous for fried chicken sandwiches and a deep hatred for homosexuals…

As for all the other reasons I dislike going home again, well, lets say they’re directly related to the great bouts of homesickness going back causes.

I miss you Charleston.