Me and my boys were at a shopping center today, and Calfgrit7 asked if we could go into the video game store. I don’t know why he wanted to go in, and I don’t really know why I agreed, but the three of us entered. We don’t have a console system, and the only computer game I’ve played lately is World of Warcraft.

This made me realize that I’m not really much of a video gamer anymore. I’m more of a has-been video gamer. Since the Super Nintendo and Sega Genesis of the early ’90s, I’ve played very, very few console games. Past, say 1995, I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve played a console system. Although, I still own my old Super Nintendo (with only the Super Mario Cart game cartridge) and Sega Genesis (with only the Shadowrun cart.), sealed up in boxes at the back of my closet. [I pulled this out for my boys after our trip into the video game store — I’ll write about this experience for Monday.]

I have a shelf under my desk with at least half a dozen computer games — off the top of my head, I can think of Diablo I & II, Half-Life 1 & 2, Far Cry, F.E.A.R., DOOM 3, Guild Wars, and World of Warcraft plus it’s two expansions. But since I started WoW three or four years ago, I haven’t really played much of any other computer game. WoW takes a lot of time, and you never really “finish” it.

Before starting WoW, I’d play a game for a few months — finishing it and replaying it at least once — then I’d get another game. I played at least two new games a year. I know some would call that “barely a gamer,” but computer gaming was not my life, it was just a hobby for occasional escapism. (Table-top gaming had a deeper claim on my life.)

But now, other than the WoW expansions over the past couple of years, I haven’t bought or played a new computer game. And even at my most intense, I played WoW only twice, occasionally thrice, a week, for about 3-4 hours at a time. And now, even with getting the new Wrath of the Lich King expansion in November, I’ve maybe played it a total of 4 hours (outside riding around and exploring the world with my sons).

My main WoW character is still only level 70, and my new death knight character is only level 56. A couple of weeks ago, I canceled my subscription to WoW, and my time paid runs out this weekend. Now, I’ve canceled my account before, after reaching the top levels in the game, and I ended up back in the game after 3-6 months. But this is the first time I’ve canceled it before “finishing” it as a solo player.

Over the past year, I’ve done very little computer gaming at all. One of my friends loaned me Fallout 2 about three weeks ago, and I haven’t played 10 minutes of the game — I’ve really only installed it and started it to see what it looked like.

When I first came to this realization that I’m not doing any computer gaming lately, I felt a little saddened. What’s happened to me? I thought. I used to be “a computer gamer geek.” Computer games were part of my personality and character. But once I considered what has “happened” to me, I realize I’ve made a choice: to write (and work) on this web site every night instead of playing computer games.

And after thinking seriously about it for a while, I’ve come to realize that I like the choice I’ve made. I’ve really enjoyed writing (and working) on this web site. Not only am I doing something I enjoy doing, but I feel a sense of accomplishment looking back through the logs of this site that I never felt looking through the boxes of completed games on my desk shelf.

I do feel a sense of loss, though, over not playing computer games anymore. I’ve definitely “given up” something that has always been a part of my life — as far back as ZORK on my Commodore 64. But I guess I need to accept the fact that I’m no longer, currently a “computer gamer.” I’m just a “used to player.”

Do I have to turn in my membership card? Or can I just be put on reserve status?

Bullgrit

Late 1983, I was 16 years old. I had discovered a condom vending machine in a local gas station restroom.

I and my best friend of the time decided we really needed to have a condom for the opportunity that we knew would inevitably arise, soon. It’s always good to be prepared, and first sex was not a situation we wanted to find ourselves in unprepared. The two of us discussed it, and we made a plan.

The restroom was located outside the station, around on the left side. We’d drive into the parking lot (using our freshly earned driver’s licenses) via the left entrance to the parking lot, and park right in front of the restroom door. We’d both get out of the car together, but only one would go into the restroom at a time. The other would hang outside the door keeping watch.

The one inside would put in his two quarters, turn the dial, and get his condom pack. He’d come out and take watch for the other to go inside. We’d then both get in the car and drive away, out the left exit from the parking lot.

Our biggest concern was that the ladies room was adjacent to the men’s room — what if a woman walked up to or came out of their door? We’d have to be fast so to reduce the chance of that happening.

At the time, we were very serious with our plan. We were shy, 16-year-old boys secretly acquiring something that only adult men with mustaches needed. Having a condom was the first step into the Playboy mansion, we thought.

We also believed, without actually saying it aloud, that just having a condom would increase the chance of having that first sex experience. I mean, if you’re prepared, it’ll give you confidence to pursue that first experience. Right?

We drove away from the gas station a little faster than we should have, but we both had our treasure. The package was a thin square box with the brand name on it (not Trojan) and the fine print instructions and warning that no one actually reads. Neither of us had actually seen a condom “out of the box,” but we weren’t about to waste ours by opening it prematurely. We were confident we could figure it out when the time came to use it.

I don’t know what my friend did with his, but I hid mine in my bedroom. I had a big stereo system (a hand-me-down from my dad) with an 8-track tape player. I didn’t own any 8-track tapes — I only had vinyl records — so the tape player was useless, mostly. It became the treasure chest to conceal my condom.

The first couple of weeks after buying the condom, I would carry it with me, in my jeans pocket when I went out to the mall. But soon, I all but forgot about it. It just stayed in the 8-track tape slot all day and night, every day and night.

A few months later, when I came home from out somewhere, my mother met me in the kitchen. “What’s this?” she asked, holding up the thin, square package.

I stammered incoherently for several seconds. “Um,” I at last managed to squeak out, “where did you get that?”

“Your brother found it in your room,” she said.

Through the embarrassment, I thought, Why did he look in my 8-track tape player slot? It still, to this day, confounds me, what made him look in my 8-track tape player slot? Why would he even look in it? It’s just a slot in my stereo system.

I was sent to my room. Sitting in my room, on the edge of my bed, I was trembling with embarrassment. I was also strongly angry at my 11-year-old brother for nosing through my room enough to find the condom in the perfect hiding place.

My mom never followed through with anything on the situation. I figure she thought the embarrassment was enough. My older step-brother told me, a little while later, that he had suggested to my mom that it was probably something passed around on the school bus, and I just ended up with it. My mom seemed to accept that as an explanation, and I never disabused her of that idea.

But then I didn’t have a condom available if the need for one came about. I sure as heck wasn’t going to buy another one any time soon. And without feeling prepared for the occasion, I lost my false confidence (it was a confidence I felt only when no girls were in sight) for pursuing my first experience.

My mom had taken away my mojo. And it was all because my brother was friggin’ nosing about in my room. Damn being a teenager, with an attentive mother and a nosy little brother.

Bullgrit

When I was in high school (grad 1985), my friend’s older brother somehow got a hold of
a bunch of STP stickers. When I say “a bunch,”
I mean at least a hundred.

He spent a whole school year sticking these stickers up in numerous and various places throughout our town: road signs, buildings, convenience store gas pumps, school windows, sidewalks, dumpsters at the mall, etc., etc., etc.

It was a cool secret for those of us who knew where these stickers were coming from. In big cities, kids used spray paint to tag their nicknames on buildings. In our small town, it was one kid with a box of oil treatment promotional stickers. Hey, at least they didn’t damage what they were put on — they could be taken off, in theory.

Some of these sticker placements lasted for years. There was one stop sign near my friend’s house that sported this STP logo for at least a decade. I haven’t been around that way in a long time to see if it’s still there.

I never heard if any authority figure learned who put out the stickers. I never heard of my friend’s brother getting in trouble over it. I hope he didn’t. He never put a sticker on anyone’s car or other really personal property, so it was just some juvenile fun. It was better than when some kids at my high school went out playing mailbox baseball.

* * *

Back several weeks ago after I set up my Cafepress store, I ordered a few items to ensure they were going to look good. The t-shirts are good — I have a black, long sleeve one, and Cowgrit wears a white, short sleeve one to bed. The stickers are good — I have a GOB on my laptop computer at work, but my BULLGRIT is sitting on my bookshelf, as yet unstuck.

I’ve been trying to think of where to stick the BULLGRIT bumper sticker, but no really great place has come to mind. Of course, it’s a bumper sticker, so the obvious place would be on my bumper. But I feel it would be over doing it to have a BULLGRIT sticker on the same vehicle that I have a BULLGRIT license plate. (Yes, my license plate is that cool.)

I could put it on Cowgrit’s van, and that will be where I’ll stick it if I can’t think of anywhere more interesting (read: entertaining). I’d rather put it somewhere more original. Somewhere where it would get attention, without violating vandalism laws.

So I’m open to ideas and suggestions. Where do you think I should stick this sticker?

Bullgrit

Continued from yesterday.

It was a few days after getting the whoopie cushion before I could give it the first play. The boys were playing in the den, and Cowgrit was doing something on her computer at her desk in the den. I was in my office quietly opening the plastic package and blowing up the cushion.

I snuck the cushion into the den and placed it in our soft chair in the far corner. I used a thin pillow to conceal the trap. It wasn’t a good set up, but if I could keep Cowgrit misdirected, I might could pull it off.

I went to Cowgrit and whispered I needed to talk to her for a moment. I pulled her over to the other side of the den, past the boys playing on the floor, and in front of the loaded chair. I made sure her back was to the trap, and I urged her to sit down.

She immediately suspected I was up to something sinister. She smiled suspiciously at me, and tried to get away. I grabbed her, laughing, and dropped her down on the soft chair.

Nothing. “Dagnabbit!” I said.

“What in the world,” she laughed. She stood up, turned and looked under the thin pillow. “Oh geez,” she said. I let her walk away, then.

The cushion was flat, but it must have let all the air go slowly from the weight of the pillow on top of it. I took the cushion out of the room and blew it back up. The boys were oblivious to everything but their toys. Cowgrit had gone to the kitchen to make sure she was away from her insane husband.

I set the cushion back down in the chair, but there was no good way to conceal it. I’d never trick one of the boys to sit on it. So I’d have to set it off myself. I sat down.

The cushion gave a beautiful explosion.

Both boys stopped their play and looked at me. Calfgrit7 laughed, “Daddy farted!” Then Calfgrit4 laughed, too.

I sat in the chair for a minute, laughing at myself. When the boys went back to playing, I reset the cushion. I sat down on it again, and again the room was filled with a wonderful explosion of sound.

Both Calves laughed again, but this time Calfgrit7 knew something had to be up with the whole thing. “How are you doing that?” he asked.

I stood up, and showed them both the whoopie cushion. “It’s a balloon,” said Calfgrit4.

I showed them how the cushion worked — I blew it up, placed it on the chair, and sat down again. Both boys shouted with laughter at the sound. CG7 actually fell to the floor laughing so hard, and CG4 copied him.

For the next hour, the two boys used the cushion on every chair in the house. CG7 would blow it up, and they’d take turns sitting on it. They “farted” on both den chairs, all three cushions of the sofa, the four chairs around the kitchen table, my and Cowgrit’s desk chairs, and several places just on the floor.

We tried to get Cowgrit to knowingly sit on the cushion, just one time, but she refused. She’s such a girl.

Bullgrit