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wakeiseiyoSo. May War was fun, despite the slightly bumpy road to get to it (literally and figuratively - see work rant from last week) - after being quite nearly taken out by a staggeringly drunk-acting semi on a narrow two lane winding road in the sticks of San Diego County, I made it. :D x_x And it being war, there isn't really much of a timeline to speak of - it's a weekend of playing in the dirt just north of the border. Now with new and improved barely-there cell reception!
Snippets:
Impression #1: Dusty. VERY dusty.
Impression #2: I have much booze, and hope to bribe my way into camp. They know I'm coming, so I should be good-- Uh-oh, most of the women of the Household are watching me like hawks regard the baby squirrels on site and-- crap. But I know the secret password to their stern 'who goes?'! "I'm usually with the tall redhead!" Aaaaand safe - they accept my sooper-seekrit reply with a nod or three. I can now unroll my nylon pimple in the pleasant shade of the oak trees. (Wading through six-plus inches of dried groundcover... notsofun.) [Really - the household ladies are the ones to be feared, nevermind all the gents are the ones who take to the battlefield. There's scary, and then there's scary.]
Impression #3: I REALLY need to get out more - for something 'easy' to set up, I'm having a damnably hard time. The small horde of D&D-ers not more than a dice-throw away are also annoying; the temptation to say something was fierce - "Hail chivalry! Now quit bitching about the hit points of the dragons per the Monster Manual and get your unwashed asses over here to help me with this thing, you socially inept troglodytes!" ... I think it was a good thing I kept my mouth shut, because apparently, said gamers camped with the World's Worst Drummers.
Impression #4: I know I'm no Flatley, but it can't be THAT hard to keep a beat, can it? Apparently not - overcompensating by using a drum that's man-high and LOUD does not make up for the fact that there is no rhythm to be found in that beer-soaked haze of fire-fuckers and shag-hopefuls. And it's two-fuckin-ay-am! Constables ordered fires out at eleven-thirty; that would have been the first clue. Nylon tent does not block out sound very well. And it seems that there was more hill under this tent than originally thought, which would explain the distinct off-kilter sensation I'm feeling when I lie down on the cot. Huh. How much are earplugs, and is it worth the 5-mile drive to the nearest store in the hopes that they a) have them and b) are open at such an ungodly hour?
Impression #5: DUST. TOO MUCH GODDAMNED DUST. Migraine ahoy, maties! You know you're dehydrated when yellow Gatorade tastes GOOD, and you're oddly envious of the fighters for whom you've been waterbearing - how come THEY get water and Gatorade? Wah!
Impression #6: Someone drank my sake. I think I'm bringing my own cooler next time. But no one's touched the mead. o.O: Whiskey-tango-eth?
Impression #7: Still a migraine, and yet... oooh, shoes! Shoes that fit and are comfy and--- and cost $100 before tax. Fuck. Comfy!
Impression #8: Gatorade is still tasting damned yummy. I think we may have a problemo, Houston.
Impression #9: My chariot hath changed in the night! Apparently, parking in a dirt lot for 3 days is grounds for Mother Nature to do her damnedest on a paint job - I had to SCRAPE the caked-on dust off the windows to see enough to drive. Dust was so thick it was flowing off the hood like water rivulets. Creepy. o.O: (I took pictures! Even the drive home didn't shake it off!)
Impression #10: Rumor has it the camp showers are foul - and I feel dirty in public showers already. If I can wait 3 days, I can wait 4 more hours; besides, if the funk gets too bad in the car, I can just roll down a window. :D
Snippets:
Impression #1: Dusty. VERY dusty.
Impression #2: I have much booze, and hope to bribe my way into camp. They know I'm coming, so I should be good-- Uh-oh, most of the women of the Household are watching me like hawks regard the baby squirrels on site and-- crap. But I know the secret password to their stern 'who goes?'! "I'm usually with the tall redhead!" Aaaaand safe - they accept my sooper-seekrit reply with a nod or three. I can now unroll my nylon pimple in the pleasant shade of the oak trees. (Wading through six-plus inches of dried groundcover... notsofun.) [Really - the household ladies are the ones to be feared, nevermind all the gents are the ones who take to the battlefield. There's scary, and then there's scary.]
Impression #3: I REALLY need to get out more - for something 'easy' to set up, I'm having a damnably hard time. The small horde of D&D-ers not more than a dice-throw away are also annoying; the temptation to say something was fierce - "Hail chivalry! Now quit bitching about the hit points of the dragons per the Monster Manual and get your unwashed asses over here to help me with this thing, you socially inept troglodytes!" ... I think it was a good thing I kept my mouth shut, because apparently, said gamers camped with the World's Worst Drummers.
Impression #4: I know I'm no Flatley, but it can't be THAT hard to keep a beat, can it? Apparently not - overcompensating by using a drum that's man-high and LOUD does not make up for the fact that there is no rhythm to be found in that beer-soaked haze of fire-fuckers and shag-hopefuls. And it's two-fuckin-ay-am! Constables ordered fires out at eleven-thirty; that would have been the first clue. Nylon tent does not block out sound very well. And it seems that there was more hill under this tent than originally thought, which would explain the distinct off-kilter sensation I'm feeling when I lie down on the cot. Huh. How much are earplugs, and is it worth the 5-mile drive to the nearest store in the hopes that they a) have them and b) are open at such an ungodly hour?
Impression #5: DUST. TOO MUCH GODDAMNED DUST. Migraine ahoy, maties! You know you're dehydrated when yellow Gatorade tastes GOOD, and you're oddly envious of the fighters for whom you've been waterbearing - how come THEY get water and Gatorade? Wah!
Impression #6: Someone drank my sake. I think I'm bringing my own cooler next time. But no one's touched the mead. o.O: Whiskey-tango-eth?
Impression #7: Still a migraine, and yet... oooh, shoes! Shoes that fit and are comfy and--- and cost $100 before tax. Fuck. Comfy!
Impression #8: Gatorade is still tasting damned yummy. I think we may have a problemo, Houston.
Impression #9: My chariot hath changed in the night! Apparently, parking in a dirt lot for 3 days is grounds for Mother Nature to do her damnedest on a paint job - I had to SCRAPE the caked-on dust off the windows to see enough to drive. Dust was so thick it was flowing off the hood like water rivulets. Creepy. o.O: (I took pictures! Even the drive home didn't shake it off!)
Impression #10: Rumor has it the camp showers are foul - and I feel dirty in public showers already. If I can wait 3 days, I can wait 4 more hours; besides, if the funk gets too bad in the car, I can just roll down a window. :D
