TDC Rising

Give us the Cookies! Part 1

July 30th, 2008

$Gelubii\'s \$ Who are these guys, anyway?

Who REALLY knows who’s punching the buttons on the other side of the screen? Do you REALLY have a sense of a person by the antics you see played out by those not quiet real images of make-believe people?

Sometimes, the answer is “Absoutley Yes.”

I’ve played online multiplayer games of all flavors for a long, long time, but rare are the opportunities to meet those I’ve struck up friendships with. Most of the time I don’t even know their real names, or what they do for a living, anything more than general information about their health and families. And sometimes this is the way they want it–the games offer escapism and many choose to take advantage of it to lose their real identities and troubles for a fleeting moment.

But for those caught up in the Zen Bassmasters community that wasn’t usually the case. Most Zen were adults, people with jobs and families and real world problems and pressures, and the games we played together were good times lived vicariously. Even the hard core among us grow tired of endless leveling once the Zen move on from game to game, proving that pixels don’t matter but people sure as heck do.

While most other games held the interest of players for a year or two, the challenge and atmosphere of FFXI made it somehow more appealing than all the rest–to me, at least. Of all the online games I’ve played I’ve played FFXI the longest. It hasn’t been playing-everyday-IV-Diet-Pepsi-dripping-in-my-veins-while-shaking type play, but rather a slow burn, a leisurely stroll through monsters and fields of cookies, laughing our way through high challenge and brutal defeat. But despite the GAME I’d cancel it in an instant if it weren’t for the folks I know there. I’ve got cards and a nosy cat if I want to play solo.

Though the years I’ve met many, many people here and there, and consider myself lucky to have shook the hand of a few of them in person. But the FFXI folks were scattered to the world even more so than the others, and no opportunity to change that presented itself–until I lost my job <laugh>. Ironic? Sure, but life without change may as well be death, so look at every wave that breaks upon you as a an oportunity to rise above the next. Here’s how it worked–working full time meant bills were tight and time overdrawn. Remove the full time job (and throw in a part time self-employment gig) and bills are tight but TIME magically reappeared. That and the fact that I’d been collecting the past fifteen years of loose change in a collection of five gallon jars (not my only savings, just mad money) and suddenly possibilities arose that I’d never dreamed of.

“Hey, why not VISIT these guys?” I asked myself one Thursday night while nuking and laughing maniacally. Why not indeed? It turned out they were as curious about us we were about them, so we committed to a date, hased out the plan and Zen Con North was set a-rolling.

The trip began with a meeting of the Fayetteville FFXI Zen Bassmasters on Thursday July 24th, 2008. We ate mexican, kidded each other and talked about old times in game and out, and then set about signing our “Con Poster,” which would later be signed by the Canadians we could manage to rope into it.

That’s them over there–from the left, Tserof (Jason), Tyas (Eric), Eztar (Terry) and Ez’s wife Janie. Maelek couldn’t make it to the dinner but did meet up later that night to sign next to his Hume. While at the resturant, we told Tserof about some of the new things in FFXI–and he immediately brightened. “Hey, that’s pretty cool. I might have to join ya’ll. Especially that Dancer job…”

For reasons I won’t go into here (but most of you already well know), this caused fear and panic among us. “Noooo!” Gel once said, “Galka dancers are DANGEROUS for Taru!”

But for the Galka that owns a complete set of XBOX guitar, drum and wind controllers and an extensive Guitar Hero collection, that funky groove CANNOT be denied… Taru everywhere, live in fear.

The Huntsville-Buffalo Airship

Lots of folks dread air travel post 9/11, but I’m not one of them. More things can kill you walking out your door to pick up the Sunday mornin’ rag than a gaggle of terrorists at the top of their game or air and maintenance crews at the bottom. Fear not living, for the ending is always the same–the only question is how much you’ll enjoy the plot twist at the conclusion of your story.

It IS less convenient to transit airports than it once was, of course. One of these inconveniences involves taking liquids and gels (not Tarutaru) aboard the plane. But, as with all things, the wheels of commerce have turned diligent paranoia into profit–behold, the “Things you can take with you on an airplane” aile at Walmarts! How about that 3 fluid oz thing of shampoo for twice the cost of a full sized thing of shampoo. Almost considered going to look for small plastic jars and filling them myself, but who knows how far that diligent paranoia goes? So Walmart grew slightly richer and I ended up with taru-sized toiletries.

Then came packing. The only luggage I had was a smallish Big Lots special that my old cat used to sleep in, but this was easily fixed by a downpour the day I’d left it outside in the Sun to air out… Pack in four sets of clothing and wrap up the laptop bag and all was set for departure.

All, that is, save my internal clock. I operate on a noon to 4 AM schedule to do after hours server work (but really because that’s the schedule that comes most naturally to me–I’m most productive after midnight). Unfortunately, when Tyas came knocking on my door that Friday to drive me to the airport that meant I’d had just two hours sleep. And though flying itself isn’t bad, the seats sure as heck are <chuckle>. There’d be no sleeping on the plane in seats meant for average-sized people of the 1950’s.

Tyas booted me from his car of technical wonders a while later and I found myself at an airport for the first time in years. Rather lost I wandered around and discovered how eager the people with guns are to help people who look like they don’t know where they’re going. “Having problems seeing the signs, sir? The terminal you’re looking for is right over there.” I even had asked a lady at the ticket counter to operate their self-check in gadget for me since I couldn’t find where to put in the codes. All this impressed me with how eager folks were to keep you happy and moving along, a trend not limited to airport staff. Fellow travelers had a “we’re in this together” mentality, so the German businessman ahead of me at the security checkpoint very helpfully instructed me on what all was required when I tapped on his shoulder and asked, again unable to read the blurry signs.

Security was a kind of pocket history of the past few years. You had the little ziplock bag of liquids and prescription medicine, you had your shoes off, your laptop out and carry on laid bare to the world (or the X-ray at least). My gear took four good sized plastic hefts once it was all laid out to their satisfaction, and then I got to approach the metal detector. And that’s when the straw hat met it’s match.

Ironically, the most stares I got for wearing the straw hat the entire trip was right near home, at Huntsville International Airport. The other passengers to be in the security line seemed to be wondering what the heck I might be hiding under the hat—and so did the security guards. After arranging my possessions to their liking, the guard at the x-ray machine said “Put the hat on the conveyor, too.” Okay, no worries—I had to shove it down the machine’s throat as the hat was too light to push aside the plastic dividers, a procedure the operators repeated when the hat refused to come out of the machine. Still, despite the slight disfigurement of my trademark hat security was essentially painless.

The first leg of the trip to Cincinnati was unremarkable, save I needed a seat-belt extender to don Federally mandated restraints. I was bent over nearly double making it down the Canada Air RegionJet’s fuselage, but the seat itself was spacious enough. My “Good Morning” was met with a terse grunt from my row-mate when I sat down, ending our conversation for the trip—let the good times roll.

Once in Cincinatti, things started picking up. I met a grandfather with grandkids in tow and we marveled at the cross-airport bus ride (the buses run along the same taxiways as the big jets, delivering people between distant concourses—it’s pretty alarming to see the bus make a sudden stop to allow a 737 to taxi by, wingtip almost passing overhead). But the little worker buses did their job and delivered us to the proper place—where I was to wait three hours for the next flight.

Or, at least I THOUGHT it was three hours. I got to the gate, was told when my flight would leave and when I should be there, glanced at a my watch and wandered off to get lunch. The lady at the Quizno’s register lit up when she saw something besides suits walk up to her (literally, it was suit, suit, pilot, suit, straw hat, suit, suit…). After lunch, I moseyed back up to the gate and began my nap.

One hour passed, then two, then suddenly, “Now boarding, Flight for Buffalo.” I’d been half awake but my eyes shot open hearing that! I looked at my watch in disbelief—they were a whole hour early! With no time to lose, I gathered my stuff and raced to the gate, glancing at their large clock on the way.

Erm… why was their clock an hour ahead of mine? DOH! Eastern Daylight Time… when did THAT happen?

The flight to Buffalo was more interesting—a window seat this time in a row by myself. A French couple (Quebec, maybe?) sat across the way and we chatted a bit. The flight crew were even less anemic than the first: “I’m Captain Adams for your flight to Buffalo, New York, home of the best damn ice hockey team, the Sabers… no matter how much they lose.” (When I told Cjm about that, he threatened to pull over and make we walk! “Buffalo the best! My ???.)

I could make out the broad brush of cloud cover and we flew above it, and it was a grand sight (as always). The most striking moment came when I glanced down and, instead of clouds and the random green blur of whatever was down there, there was a smooth blue blur instead—the Great Lakes! I figure we actually flew through Canada an hour before I reached the border crossing.

Approach to Buffalo felt like the last time I tried to land a C-130 on an aircraft carrier via flight simulartor. After some hard banking turns, the jet finally touched down and lumbered to a halt. “Thank you for flying Delta Connections,” the flight attendant said—with the sounds of alarms going off in the cockpit behind her. “We hope you enjoyed your flight…”

The Buffalo terminal looked like the same “Airport Dimension” I’d been traveling through since Huntsville—unending corridors and crowds of people surrounded by square miles of concrete. But finally the exit appeared and I found baggage claim.

Cjm was already there waiting on me, but I didn’t know it. He also didn’t know me, because my vest covered the Zen Bassmaster’s T-Shirt I wore. So as I marched up and down the baggage terminals waiting for my luggage to pop out for the next half-hour, I must have patrolled past Cjm a half-dozen times. He tried to call me on his cell phone but discovered he didn’t have service, while I tried to call him on my cell to get a message saying he was unavailable. So it was until I finally got hot and pulled of the vest, to hear a voice say, “Gel?!” And that was that.

Cjm in real life turned out to be the spitting image of Cjm in FFXI. Bald, jovial and expressive, you can see him on the right there summoning a cheeseburger shortly after our entry into Canada. The only things lacking were the tattoo on his head and a great axe, but somehow I don’t customs would’ve let him pass wielding that. They might even have turned the tattoo away…

In any case, it took Cjm to find my luggage (I’d walked past it several times), and then we were off!

It’s a Tennessee Thing

The Canadian border crossing, which I’d been sweating for days, was a piece of cake. I’d looked at the Canadian website and searched for their requirements for entry, but they would never say. Rather, for Americans they always cited what an American would need to get BACK INTO the USA. This suggested that Canada’s requirements were at least no more severe, but it also suggested that Canada would let anybody who could pronounce their name and didn’t drool too much in. The truth, naturally, was somewhere in between.

We drove around Buffalo a while, the typical maze of smog and intersections, until we came to a bridge across the Niagara River. We passed the double flags of Canada and the United States signifying officially “You ain’t in the USA no more” and pulled up to a wide gated building with lines of cars queued up for entry.

Cjm told me as we approached, “A little advice, bro. Take off the sunglasses. It’s a little sign of respect, because here these guys are God.”

The conversation went like this: A female guard told Cjm “So let’s see your ID, then,” and he handed over his passport. “Headed back home, there, sir?” “Yup.” “Okay, and you sir,” she asks me, and I hand over the requisite identification. “Have ya been to Canada before?” “No, ma’am, this is my first time.” “Really? Well, I sure hope you enjoy your stay. Where ya from? How’d you get here? Where’d ya fly from? How was your trip? How long ya staying? Do you have a return ticket? When ya leaving? Are you carryin’ any knives or firearms?”

I answered all questions and soon had my ID back. “Take care, okie?” And that was that. No worries at all.

We get down the road a little bit and Cjm turns and stares at me. “You know, bro, I’ve brought plenty of Americans across the border, and that’s the first time they’ve EVER asked if one of ‘em had any knives or guns.”

I sighed. “Must be a Tennessee thing.”

Really, honestly, in the states a cop asking if you have a gun or a knife is a no brainer–lots of folks carry one or both. I happen to carry neither, not being a fan of such things, but who knows what goes through the mind of a Canadian border guard upon seeing a tall bearded man from Tennessee wearing a shirt proclaiming something about live and dead fish? I guess I’d have to wonder, myself…

Welcome to Canada! But it didn’t FEEL like being in a different country. Folks drove on the right, they drove fast, they passed signs in English (which I could READ, the text was so big!–I joked with Cjm about how sign makers in the states seemed to have all the steel they needed to make huge signs, but somehow kept running out of paint…) Strangly, it wasn’t until we drove up to a McDonald’s flying a CANADIAN flag that it finally hit me.

“Wow, we’re really in Canada!” I told Cjm.

“Yup.”

We darted inside and grabbed drinks while I dazzled Cjm with my technical expertise by demonstrating my inability to operate my camera. He got a big kick out of THAT <grin>.

We jawed all the way around Lake Ontario (and for the benefit of Slayed’s friends in Kentucky, there wasn’t a single igloo or snow drift in sight, just LOTS of traffic).

More to come in Part 2