Before I complete the tale of the now legend 2old2play Chicago LAN Party, I just want to address some recent hate mail I have received.
Obviously, I get thousands of communiqués a day (1) and when you are not afraid to tell the truth some feathers will always be ruffled. Ordinarily I don’t pay any mind to the death threats and slanderous innuendo. However, due to some of the more suspicious packages of late, my town Emergency Response Team has requested that I not be so candid with the follow up to LAN Party Confidential. Despite the heightened threat alert, despite the fact my faithful canine companion died kicking and frothing after I fed him the “steaks” someone sent me to “congratulate me for a job well done,” I will not be swayed from the final telling of the sordid details from The Heart of The Beast. Friday night ended as Friday nights always do when fueled by booze, fear and tasty faux southwestern treats. We played Halo 1 and Halo 2 in equal parts until 3:30 in the morning when finally the appalling smell drove even the last diehards from THTB. Gameplay, of interest to some of you I presume, was noticeably marred by the fact that we were playing 10 to a screen and they averaged 19”. I retired back to Room 101 and began the elaborate ritual of security I had planned to prevent late night incursion. After completing that, I placed several wakeup calls for 5:30 AM to each room occupied by doodi or one of his henchmen and counted myself lucky to be alive as I drifted off to sleep.
Saturday morning dawned gray and misty in the Windy City.
I would be remiss if I did not take a moment to reflect on what Sandburg called the “Hog Butcher of the World.” I would just like to say that for the record, the city fully deserves the title. The squealing and smells that interrupted my sleep throughout the night were either the result of every city resident plying their Hog Butcher trade simultaneously, or an alternative too unholy to consider. I discovered late Saturday evening that the Sears “Tower” was really a cardboard mockup a mere thirty-six feet tall and it was still the tallest structure in town. The Cubs, the Sox, the Bears and a local lacrosse collective all lost in competition while I was in town (the lacrosse team and the Cubs to a local all-girl Catholic school). Sunday, the Sun-Times ran as their front page, a picture of the late Richard Daley in a Prom Dress. Also on the front page of the metro section was an item about the Second City Comedy Troupe being court ordered to change their name to “Eighth City.” Oh- and O’Hare airport is run by a bunch of cross-dressing baboons whose bus was so short they rode to school stacked ten-high on the roof.
But I digress.
The hotel, which so far had received failing marks for location, security, hospitality, adequate sewage infrastructure and temperature control finally redeemed themselves during the breakfast buffet. Unfortunately, it ran a mere 22 minutes before the surviving 2old2play members had completely sacked the table and left it in ruins. Luckily, I was one of the few that managed to snag enough food to maintain my strength (2).
At 9:00 AM another van load of televisions arrived and doodi’s crew watched carefully as we unloaded each one to make sure that none of us tried to get a look at the driver. The veneer of friendliness from the day before was wearing a little thin at this point and Knaabi especially was quite fast to kick and punch us if we were not moving fast enough to suit him. Fortunately, just as we were starting to wear down from a combination of sleep deprivation, physical and mental abuse and frostbite, reinforcements began to trickle in.
First to arrive, with some equipment of his own, which he boldly strolled in carrying- was Sunburned Goose. Goose immediately turned his substandard equipment over to one of the more cowed members that had been through a night of beatings already and plunked down in front of one of the new model television in a Barcalounger Deluxe 9000 he brought with him as well. He would not move again throughout the course of the day.
Dead Dr. Phibes arrived and there was a palpable sense that maybe newcomers would not always be a blessing. DDP was festooned with the paraphernalia of a trade that he tried to tell us he had left years ago. However, the tote full of scalpels, curettes, rib spreaders and titanium bladed bone saws did nothing to calm our already jittery nerves. He was quickly summoned to an audience with doodi and I tried to drift nearer to hear what passed between them.
“Did you get them?” doodi asked.
“You told me not to come without them or I would need them myself,” the Doctor replied, avoiding eye contact as instructed.
“Than make sure Bliznot gets them before you go to the bathroom” doodi instructed. I watched as Bliznot counted out the twenty-five body bags DDP handed over to him…as instructed by doodi.
The next man to arrive was a breath of fresh air and a joy to behold for us all. The newest member of 2old2play, Mushroom Samba, wafted into the room like a cool breeze. Saturday was actually Samba’s 25th birthday and he had been given dispensation to purchase his ticket in advance with the understanding that he would not enter the hotel compound prior to his actual minute of birth. Some of the older members of the site thought that it would be fitting to celebrate the arrival of new blood to the site at our largest gathering to date. Few could have guessed the awful toll that the day would take on the young man. That photo has not been in anyway retouched or doctored.
Samba would later shamble feebly to the front of the room and proclaim it to be the greatest day of his young life. The tears I shed at that moment were not of joy, as Samba suspected. Rather, they were the tears of a man who had seen a young life robbed of its vigor and vitality in the space of ten short hours. We all tried our best to keep Samba away from the mirror for the rest of the day.
Just as the work of building the final stages of the LAN were being completed, StuntDan arrived and arrogantly plugged a gold-plated controller into Defasum’s painstakingly handcrafted Xbox and booted him out of his chair. Snarling that “n00bs sit in the back,” StuntDan sat squarely in front of the television and awaited the start of the free-for-all tourney. The first scheduled matches of the weekend were about to begin.
While the LAN Party setup precluded archiving our stats as we might have on Xbox Live, many of us assumed that the free-for-all tourney would be a fairly straightforward event- whoever defeated the most opponents would move forward to the next round of competition or some such sensible scoring method. We had not counted on the depth of doodi’s insanity though. His minions, augmented now with the hulking Bigeks, circled the room and randomly chose players and proclaimed them to be “unclean.” If there was in fact some underlying system or motive (or even a difference in hygiene) I was unable to detect it. When Ebola tapped your shoulder and told you to “get cleansed” you were out. Knaabi and his bolt-cutters stood by to enforce the edicts. Throughout the morning and afternoon the growing crowd of disqualified participants sought with varying degrees of success to maintain a low profile. As televisions became available, side games broke out, with people wagering scraps of food on the outcome. Eventually, after several hours of this, Knaabi crashed the ever-present bolt-cutters into the junction box. As power to the room died, doodi and his boys began chanting “StuntDan, StuntDan, StuntDan.” The free-for-all “winner” had been selected.
A team of electricians came and went, 480 sq. feet of pizza arrived, power was restored and the masses were fed. 2:00 PM rang on the clock and as if they had been waiting for it, many members began once again to attempt to numb the fear and fight back the cold with that sweetest of elixirs- beer.
It was at this point that Defasum, despondent since the loss of Cool Arrow, brightened visibly and asked what day it was. Our time sense had been severely tested by the deprivation and hardship of the past days. When told it was the 13th he told us all that tomorrow would be his birthday. As if on cue, his wonderful wife arrived with a bottle of Tennessee Sippin’ Whiskey and his delightful children in tow. Knaabi, always the opportunist, took the bottle from her, straight-armed Defasum back into his seat and snarled “yeah it’s my Birthday too.” Defasum’s family fled and he sank back into apathy.
On a side note: Knaabi did not have long to celebrate his victory as Ebola, versed in the ancient secrets of Japanese “naked/kill” techniques, used a folded paper cup to remove Knaabi’s earlobe and stole the bottle from him.
It was at this point a strange event occurred that few witnessed but that may have changed the tenor of the day for all involved. Xerxdeej, a local veteran of the unemployment office and self-proclaimed “meditator on digital pop-culture” arrived with a man who called himself “Action Thaxon.” Xerxdeej was approximately 4 hours late, smelled strongly of cheap wine and appeared to have dressed from a dumpster that morning. He looked like Gatsby compared to Action Thaxon.
Xerxdeej, like everyone else who entered the room, was brought to within 8 feet of doodi (no closer) and briskly searched for weapons by the implacable Ebola. It was then a strange thing occurred. Doodi stepped down from the improvised throne of discarded pizza boxes and clasped hands with Xerxdeej. Under his breath, I heard Xerxdeej whisper to doodi, “I can make you famous.” Gritting his teeth and clamping down with a hand hardened by countless hours of pwning n00bs for breakfast, doodi whispered back “I AM famous.”
Toe to toe the two men stood. Straining against each others grips, their eyes locked in a contest of wills, the silent battle had begun in Conference Room A- all of our fates hung in the balance.
Suddenly, like a cloud passing from in front of the sun, something changed in the room. Doodi took one step closer still to Xerxdeej and an audible snapping could be heard. He released his hand and as Xerxdeej stumbled back to his chair. Doodi laughed wildly and the rest of us cheered. It would be Xerxdeej’s bandwidth that would bear the brunt of the first story about the LAN party.
With that issue settled, tension ran out of the room, doodi became downright civil and even the freakishly intense Ebola seemed intent upon enjoying himself.
The Team tourney was resumed with a new air of freedom. Don’t get me wrong, it was still plagued by tortuous rules, seemingly random scoring and the fact that our piles had begun to act up after nearly 48 hours of being seated in front of TV’s. Still, people had begun to sense that there was a light at the end of the tunnel. As is frequently the case, it turned out to be an oncoming train.
As is my birthright, I guided my team to overall victory in the team tournament (3). With organized play completed and food still plentiful a circus atmosphere began to pervade the room. Ebola was in a downright playful mood. After cursing at some small children, so was Knaabi. Even doodi seemed to shed the cruel exterior he had worn throughout the weekend and he played a few brutally efficient matches against us commoners. Suddenly, though, it became apparent that a new menace had begun to rear its head.
Much has been written about “the incident.” Pictures and video would appear to tell the whole story. However, the fact remains that only those of us that were there know the full horror of what would become known as “The Teabag.” I have attempted to get the story out through conventional means and have been stymied at every attempt. King Drewsky’s laughable behavior palls when compared to the full horror of the final hours of the Chicago LAN Party. Through my contacts at the NSA I have been able to establish a fully encrypted, un-hackable link to the evidence that has been sought of the most heinous crime of the weekend. Names will be named and identities revealed, the truth will be known to all about what occurred when the TV’s had been stowed and the gear packed away. HHN Zero was onhand to capture the final horror of the day and I was able to secure his rescue mere hours ago from a federal prison to retrieve the evidence.
In closing for your perusal, I offer- The Proof.
Oh yeah, DSmooth was at the Party too. He lost.
(1) When we actually attempted to reach Bubba via e-mail we were told his account had been suspended due to inactivity. His mailman, Arthur Stillwell, replied to our inquiry, “I wasn’t even sure if his mailbox opened. I have not tried it in years.” –Ed.
(2) By some accounts, Bubba may actually have gone to the buffet as many as eight times before the housekeeping staff finally asked him to stop filling his pockets with muffins. -Ed.
(3) Bubba scored exactly 4 kills in the 28 total games played for the team tourney. At one point, his teammates actually had to wake him up because he had fallen asleep draped over the television they were playing on. –Ed.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It had been my intention to leave this story as written and with the final joke intact. My instinct to go for the jugular was immediately confirmed after I posted Part 1. I posted it at night and went to work the next day. At 9:27 I logged into my workstation and at 9:28 DSmooth began IM’ing me immediately demanding to know why I had not acknowledged his “pivotal role” in the creation of the site, the LAN Party, Halo 2 and the firmament. If you know just how many times he brought it up between then and now it really only keeps making the joke funnier and funnier.
However, the fact remains that I do a huge debt of thanks to a tremendous amount of people who make it possible for me to be a smartass to thousands of people at once. Not a small amount of that thanks belongs squarely to DSmooth. As the head code monkey on a freaky little site like this, DSmooth has done, and continues to do, about a hundred things that make it possible for all of us to joke, debate, fight, flame, schedule tourneys, find friends, and ultimately plan events like the Chicago LAN Party. So to my favorite Elitist Sh__Bag, I say a hearty thanks.
To Knaabi, who really did do all of the heavy-lifting, all of the wiring and technical hands-on stuff I could just say “thanks.” However, more is due. Sunday really was his birthday, and he chose to spend it with us. A bunch of ‘tards he has only virtually known for less than a year. It was his beautiful wife that brought the bourbon and his kids that got cursed at (oops). It was also Knaabi that greeted most of us first and who drove me to the airport on Sunday. To a true prince of Chicago, I raise an (empty) glass of Jack Daniels and say “thanks.”
To Bliz, who made good and goddamned sure that me and BC got the best tacos in the world on Sunday and who also was a gracious host throughout the weekend thanks!
To Ebola, who gave his all and took one for the team (With a great deal more dignity and good-humor then I could have possibly mustered). Who has an awesome dog that can fly through plate glass, who let BC do horrible things in his bathroom on Sunday and never complained (because he was sleeping), I say thanks.
To Doodi, who is ornery enough and funny enough and smart enough to tell an entire community of online people to go F themselves because he knew a better way to do it for his clan of online friends I give a great big thanks as well.
To all of the cool people I have gamed with for months and who turned out to be even cooler in person, thanks for Chicago! I had a blast.
To those who couldn’t be there but who pestered us for info and devoured it when we gave it, to Buffy and Sarge and Drewsky and a bunch of other volunteer moderators who keep cleaning up my messes and to Bluestar and Rockcrawler and the other clan leaders that made this space a home for their clans, to everyone at 2old2play…
Thanks! And Game On Dorks!
CLICK HERE FOR PART 1
CLICK HERE FOR MEDIA
Obviously, I get thousands of communiqués a day (1) and when you are not afraid to tell the truth some feathers will always be ruffled. Ordinarily I don’t pay any mind to the death threats and slanderous innuendo. However, due to some of the more suspicious packages of late, my town Emergency Response Team has requested that I not be so candid with the follow up to LAN Party Confidential. Despite the heightened threat alert, despite the fact my faithful canine companion died kicking and frothing after I fed him the “steaks” someone sent me to “congratulate me for a job well done,” I will not be swayed from the final telling of the sordid details from The Heart of The Beast. Friday night ended as Friday nights always do when fueled by booze, fear and tasty faux southwestern treats. We played Halo 1 and Halo 2 in equal parts until 3:30 in the morning when finally the appalling smell drove even the last diehards from THTB. Gameplay, of interest to some of you I presume, was noticeably marred by the fact that we were playing 10 to a screen and they averaged 19”. I retired back to Room 101 and began the elaborate ritual of security I had planned to prevent late night incursion. After completing that, I placed several wakeup calls for 5:30 AM to each room occupied by doodi or one of his henchmen and counted myself lucky to be alive as I drifted off to sleep.
Saturday morning dawned gray and misty in the Windy City.
I would be remiss if I did not take a moment to reflect on what Sandburg called the “Hog Butcher of the World.” I would just like to say that for the record, the city fully deserves the title. The squealing and smells that interrupted my sleep throughout the night were either the result of every city resident plying their Hog Butcher trade simultaneously, or an alternative too unholy to consider. I discovered late Saturday evening that the Sears “Tower” was really a cardboard mockup a mere thirty-six feet tall and it was still the tallest structure in town. The Cubs, the Sox, the Bears and a local lacrosse collective all lost in competition while I was in town (the lacrosse team and the Cubs to a local all-girl Catholic school). Sunday, the Sun-Times ran as their front page, a picture of the late Richard Daley in a Prom Dress. Also on the front page of the metro section was an item about the Second City Comedy Troupe being court ordered to change their name to “Eighth City.” Oh- and O’Hare airport is run by a bunch of cross-dressing baboons whose bus was so short they rode to school stacked ten-high on the roof.
But I digress.
The hotel, which so far had received failing marks for location, security, hospitality, adequate sewage infrastructure and temperature control finally redeemed themselves during the breakfast buffet. Unfortunately, it ran a mere 22 minutes before the surviving 2old2play members had completely sacked the table and left it in ruins. Luckily, I was one of the few that managed to snag enough food to maintain my strength (2).
At 9:00 AM another van load of televisions arrived and doodi’s crew watched carefully as we unloaded each one to make sure that none of us tried to get a look at the driver. The veneer of friendliness from the day before was wearing a little thin at this point and Knaabi especially was quite fast to kick and punch us if we were not moving fast enough to suit him. Fortunately, just as we were starting to wear down from a combination of sleep deprivation, physical and mental abuse and frostbite, reinforcements began to trickle in.
First to arrive, with some equipment of his own, which he boldly strolled in carrying- was Sunburned Goose. Goose immediately turned his substandard equipment over to one of the more cowed members that had been through a night of beatings already and plunked down in front of one of the new model television in a Barcalounger Deluxe 9000 he brought with him as well. He would not move again throughout the course of the day.
Dead Dr. Phibes arrived and there was a palpable sense that maybe newcomers would not always be a blessing. DDP was festooned with the paraphernalia of a trade that he tried to tell us he had left years ago. However, the tote full of scalpels, curettes, rib spreaders and titanium bladed bone saws did nothing to calm our already jittery nerves. He was quickly summoned to an audience with doodi and I tried to drift nearer to hear what passed between them.
“Did you get them?” doodi asked.
“You told me not to come without them or I would need them myself,” the Doctor replied, avoiding eye contact as instructed.
“Than make sure Bliznot gets them before you go to the bathroom” doodi instructed. I watched as Bliznot counted out the twenty-five body bags DDP handed over to him…as instructed by doodi.
The next man to arrive was a breath of fresh air and a joy to behold for us all. The newest member of 2old2play, Mushroom Samba, wafted into the room like a cool breeze. Saturday was actually Samba’s 25th birthday and he had been given dispensation to purchase his ticket in advance with the understanding that he would not enter the hotel compound prior to his actual minute of birth. Some of the older members of the site thought that it would be fitting to celebrate the arrival of new blood to the site at our largest gathering to date. Few could have guessed the awful toll that the day would take on the young man. That photo has not been in anyway retouched or doctored.
Samba would later shamble feebly to the front of the room and proclaim it to be the greatest day of his young life. The tears I shed at that moment were not of joy, as Samba suspected. Rather, they were the tears of a man who had seen a young life robbed of its vigor and vitality in the space of ten short hours. We all tried our best to keep Samba away from the mirror for the rest of the day.
Just as the work of building the final stages of the LAN were being completed, StuntDan arrived and arrogantly plugged a gold-plated controller into Defasum’s painstakingly handcrafted Xbox and booted him out of his chair. Snarling that “n00bs sit in the back,” StuntDan sat squarely in front of the television and awaited the start of the free-for-all tourney. The first scheduled matches of the weekend were about to begin.
While the LAN Party setup precluded archiving our stats as we might have on Xbox Live, many of us assumed that the free-for-all tourney would be a fairly straightforward event- whoever defeated the most opponents would move forward to the next round of competition or some such sensible scoring method. We had not counted on the depth of doodi’s insanity though. His minions, augmented now with the hulking Bigeks, circled the room and randomly chose players and proclaimed them to be “unclean.” If there was in fact some underlying system or motive (or even a difference in hygiene) I was unable to detect it. When Ebola tapped your shoulder and told you to “get cleansed” you were out. Knaabi and his bolt-cutters stood by to enforce the edicts. Throughout the morning and afternoon the growing crowd of disqualified participants sought with varying degrees of success to maintain a low profile. As televisions became available, side games broke out, with people wagering scraps of food on the outcome. Eventually, after several hours of this, Knaabi crashed the ever-present bolt-cutters into the junction box. As power to the room died, doodi and his boys began chanting “StuntDan, StuntDan, StuntDan.” The free-for-all “winner” had been selected.
A team of electricians came and went, 480 sq. feet of pizza arrived, power was restored and the masses were fed. 2:00 PM rang on the clock and as if they had been waiting for it, many members began once again to attempt to numb the fear and fight back the cold with that sweetest of elixirs- beer.
It was at this point that Defasum, despondent since the loss of Cool Arrow, brightened visibly and asked what day it was. Our time sense had been severely tested by the deprivation and hardship of the past days. When told it was the 13th he told us all that tomorrow would be his birthday. As if on cue, his wonderful wife arrived with a bottle of Tennessee Sippin’ Whiskey and his delightful children in tow. Knaabi, always the opportunist, took the bottle from her, straight-armed Defasum back into his seat and snarled “yeah it’s my Birthday too.” Defasum’s family fled and he sank back into apathy.
On a side note: Knaabi did not have long to celebrate his victory as Ebola, versed in the ancient secrets of Japanese “naked/kill” techniques, used a folded paper cup to remove Knaabi’s earlobe and stole the bottle from him.
It was at this point a strange event occurred that few witnessed but that may have changed the tenor of the day for all involved. Xerxdeej, a local veteran of the unemployment office and self-proclaimed “meditator on digital pop-culture” arrived with a man who called himself “Action Thaxon.” Xerxdeej was approximately 4 hours late, smelled strongly of cheap wine and appeared to have dressed from a dumpster that morning. He looked like Gatsby compared to Action Thaxon.
Xerxdeej, like everyone else who entered the room, was brought to within 8 feet of doodi (no closer) and briskly searched for weapons by the implacable Ebola. It was then a strange thing occurred. Doodi stepped down from the improvised throne of discarded pizza boxes and clasped hands with Xerxdeej. Under his breath, I heard Xerxdeej whisper to doodi, “I can make you famous.” Gritting his teeth and clamping down with a hand hardened by countless hours of pwning n00bs for breakfast, doodi whispered back “I AM famous.”
Toe to toe the two men stood. Straining against each others grips, their eyes locked in a contest of wills, the silent battle had begun in Conference Room A- all of our fates hung in the balance.
Suddenly, like a cloud passing from in front of the sun, something changed in the room. Doodi took one step closer still to Xerxdeej and an audible snapping could be heard. He released his hand and as Xerxdeej stumbled back to his chair. Doodi laughed wildly and the rest of us cheered. It would be Xerxdeej’s bandwidth that would bear the brunt of the first story about the LAN party.
With that issue settled, tension ran out of the room, doodi became downright civil and even the freakishly intense Ebola seemed intent upon enjoying himself.
The Team tourney was resumed with a new air of freedom. Don’t get me wrong, it was still plagued by tortuous rules, seemingly random scoring and the fact that our piles had begun to act up after nearly 48 hours of being seated in front of TV’s. Still, people had begun to sense that there was a light at the end of the tunnel. As is frequently the case, it turned out to be an oncoming train.
As is my birthright, I guided my team to overall victory in the team tournament (3). With organized play completed and food still plentiful a circus atmosphere began to pervade the room. Ebola was in a downright playful mood. After cursing at some small children, so was Knaabi. Even doodi seemed to shed the cruel exterior he had worn throughout the weekend and he played a few brutally efficient matches against us commoners. Suddenly, though, it became apparent that a new menace had begun to rear its head.
Much has been written about “the incident.” Pictures and video would appear to tell the whole story. However, the fact remains that only those of us that were there know the full horror of what would become known as “The Teabag.” I have attempted to get the story out through conventional means and have been stymied at every attempt. King Drewsky’s laughable behavior palls when compared to the full horror of the final hours of the Chicago LAN Party. Through my contacts at the NSA I have been able to establish a fully encrypted, un-hackable link to the evidence that has been sought of the most heinous crime of the weekend. Names will be named and identities revealed, the truth will be known to all about what occurred when the TV’s had been stowed and the gear packed away. HHN Zero was onhand to capture the final horror of the day and I was able to secure his rescue mere hours ago from a federal prison to retrieve the evidence.
In closing for your perusal, I offer- The Proof.
Oh yeah, DSmooth was at the Party too. He lost.
(1) When we actually attempted to reach Bubba via e-mail we were told his account had been suspended due to inactivity. His mailman, Arthur Stillwell, replied to our inquiry, “I wasn’t even sure if his mailbox opened. I have not tried it in years.” –Ed.
(2) By some accounts, Bubba may actually have gone to the buffet as many as eight times before the housekeeping staff finally asked him to stop filling his pockets with muffins. -Ed.
(3) Bubba scored exactly 4 kills in the 28 total games played for the team tourney. At one point, his teammates actually had to wake him up because he had fallen asleep draped over the television they were playing on. –Ed.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It had been my intention to leave this story as written and with the final joke intact. My instinct to go for the jugular was immediately confirmed after I posted Part 1. I posted it at night and went to work the next day. At 9:27 I logged into my workstation and at 9:28 DSmooth began IM’ing me immediately demanding to know why I had not acknowledged his “pivotal role” in the creation of the site, the LAN Party, Halo 2 and the firmament. If you know just how many times he brought it up between then and now it really only keeps making the joke funnier and funnier.
However, the fact remains that I do a huge debt of thanks to a tremendous amount of people who make it possible for me to be a smartass to thousands of people at once. Not a small amount of that thanks belongs squarely to DSmooth. As the head code monkey on a freaky little site like this, DSmooth has done, and continues to do, about a hundred things that make it possible for all of us to joke, debate, fight, flame, schedule tourneys, find friends, and ultimately plan events like the Chicago LAN Party. So to my favorite Elitist Sh__Bag, I say a hearty thanks.
To Knaabi, who really did do all of the heavy-lifting, all of the wiring and technical hands-on stuff I could just say “thanks.” However, more is due. Sunday really was his birthday, and he chose to spend it with us. A bunch of ‘tards he has only virtually known for less than a year. It was his beautiful wife that brought the bourbon and his kids that got cursed at (oops). It was also Knaabi that greeted most of us first and who drove me to the airport on Sunday. To a true prince of Chicago, I raise an (empty) glass of Jack Daniels and say “thanks.”
To Bliz, who made good and goddamned sure that me and BC got the best tacos in the world on Sunday and who also was a gracious host throughout the weekend thanks!
To Ebola, who gave his all and took one for the team (With a great deal more dignity and good-humor then I could have possibly mustered). Who has an awesome dog that can fly through plate glass, who let BC do horrible things in his bathroom on Sunday and never complained (because he was sleeping), I say thanks.
To Doodi, who is ornery enough and funny enough and smart enough to tell an entire community of online people to go F themselves because he knew a better way to do it for his clan of online friends I give a great big thanks as well.
To all of the cool people I have gamed with for months and who turned out to be even cooler in person, thanks for Chicago! I had a blast.
To those who couldn’t be there but who pestered us for info and devoured it when we gave it, to Buffy and Sarge and Drewsky and a bunch of other volunteer moderators who keep cleaning up my messes and to Bluestar and Rockcrawler and the other clan leaders that made this space a home for their clans, to everyone at 2old2play…
Thanks! And Game On Dorks!
CLICK HERE FOR PART 1
CLICK HERE FOR MEDIA
