So there's this guy at work, we call him Kilt Boy!
If you haven't figured it out, his nickname is because he wears kilts to work, complete with sporrans to boot. Some furry, some leather. Now the crazy thing is, he's not Scottish nor Irish. (that I can tell) He aint got an arcent or says aye or talks aboot things. The best thing I can tell he's a LARPer or some Ren Fair fanatic.
I've met the type before. This is the guy that sits in his mother's basement and goes on six hour raids via the Internet and drinks Red Bull followed by Mountain Dew Game Fuel. He reads every fantasy novel the moment they hit the bookstore shelves. He's not reading them for fun but checking them for historical accuracy. He criticizes the author's use of a halberd vs a claymore. Chastises the choice of goblin over a kobold. He only drinks from pewter goblets and munches on greasy turkey legs.
Not sure how he gets away with wearing kilts to the office. Perhaps he threatened religious or cultural discrimination. Or maybe he gets off on wearing skirts? What scares me is: if he wears them true Scottish style. Y'know, commando joe-- only a thin piece of polyester between us and his fun gun. He wears those little moccassin boots and Jesus sandals (in the summer). His hair is long and pulled into a pony tail. Not sure who's weirder him or 80s Dude (this guy that still wears cotton pants and topsiders).
The guy intrigues me only because he has the balls to be different. I've tried to bribe some young ladies in the office to talk to him and get his story. They've refused. Maybe I need to offer more than $20 bucks. One day I'll be stuck in the elevator with him and I'll be forced to get the tale. Until then, we'll keep callin him Kilt Boy!
Denver Comic Con
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Can a 40 Year Old Party like a 20 Something?
Do you know what happens when four high school friends get back together for a weekend of reminiscing?
At least one night of excessive alcohol consumption and at least one morning regretting the night before.
But it was worth it!
So, I drove down to Red River, New Mexico, the first time I've been in New Mexico in ten years, on a cold Saturday morning. There, I met three high school friends, two that I've not seen in those ten years and one that it's been twenty. Arriving there in a power outage, I met the guys at the Bull O' the Wild Saloon. We hugged liked bros and immediately picked up like there was no ten year gap, or twenty. Just then the power retuned to the little town. Steve drove us to his cabin, only to find that no power still plagued it. One really begins to miss electricity when it controls the water in a cabin and it means no toilets. Three beers each (plus the one from the bar) later, and a guy's gotta pee. Let's just say that four guys bonded that night by peeing off the balcony. And no, we didn't cross the streams.
The power returned to the cabin, to which four guys high five'd and yelled like they just scored but fifteen minutes later, it's off again. Then, ten minutes passed, it comes back on again. We again cheered. But the victory was bitter short. Less than five minutes, the power was lost again. The power company was teasing us like a cheap hooker- and she gave us blue balls. So, we stoked the fire and broke out the camping lanterns. We sat, in the dark, with no power and told stories about the last decade.
As midnight rolled around, the power returned for good. Now that water was restored, we hit the head and all showered—together. (GAG, Yuck, no way! Just checking to see if you’re still reading along. Okay back to the story…) We headed to our rooms. Yet, another hour passed as we chatted, standing in our doors like college students. Guys acted like guys; guys talked like guys. We offended the tender hearted; we offended the easily offended. Oh, and that we did. One of us even farted with pride and without prejudice.
Waking early Sunday, we headed into town. Our mission was to find food. We found it at a place called Shotgun Willies (in Denver this is a titty bar). We sat there eating French toast and Willie specials (sounds perverted if you think about its Denver cousin). While we drank coffee and orange juice, we talked about a project that brought us together that weekend--a collaboration of friends writing a incredible story.
We waited in town for the tiny market, which had a fondness to give change in $2 bills, to allow alcohol sales. (noon on a Sunday) I bought a sixer of Fat Tire. With booze in plastic bags, we drove back to the cabin. I say cabin, but it was nothing of the kind. This thing could sleep about 47. Second floor had an Arcade—complete with a Dragon’s Layer machine and pinball. But before the party could start we worked on our project and character building.
That afternoon, Steve, worked his magic on smoking some ribs. The best freaking ribs I’ve had in a long while. We watched movies, listened to music and drank our beer. The afternoon turned to early evening and with the work out of the way. The party began.
I’m not sure where it got out of control. And when I say out of control, I mean out of control for a bunch of nearly 40 year olds. Oh I remember— it’s called hard alcohol. Shots of Crown Royal. Mixed Captain Morgan Lime into Dr. Pepper. That was our first mistake. Mixed the boozes. What do we think we are? Twentysomethings. We wanted to play poker. Steve had instructed us he was going to take all our money. We almost played strip poker just for the shock and awe it would have caused the two females staying in the cabin. We didn’t. Yet, music and drink kept us distracted. Not sure if I should admit it but we danced. We danced like crazy teenagers. I’m surprised we didn’t throw out a hip or blow out some knees.
Just like teenagers, we invited girls over to the cabin. We could hear them across the river so we yelled for them to come over. Then my disclaimer statement, “only if you’re 18 or older.” Their response was, “we’re legal!” In our minds, they were going to be hot blond Texas A&M girls or perhaps the girls that were in town during the Oktoberfest wearing the little German lederhosen. They said they’d be over in half an hour. Try like an hour and a half. When they showed up, I was pretty blitzed and the booze goggles were kinda foggy. I couldn’t tell if they were calendar girls or Russian weightlifters. I looked to Shawn, no let’s call him Ray (to protect his identity), Ray gave me the head shake of “negative, Ghost Rider. The pattern is full!” They went to get a “friend” and be “right back” but we turned off the lights and prayed they couldn’t find their way back.
The night drifted into blurriness and Steve hit the Netflix to play Weird Science. Even tanked, we all ran the lines word for word. Then about half way through, Ray puked in the sink. Alright! It wasn’t Ray. It was me. It was me okay!! You happy. I’m not no young college frat boy. But, the bright side, it made the next day much more bearable. Then, I only remember cleaning it up and going to bed.
8AM and coffee . Watched Regis and Kelly. Forced a waffle down. Drank some water. We said our goodbyes and took some photos. Steve drove us to our cars and the weekend was over. I drove home. Only pulled off the side of the road to wiz once. The weather was beautiful. I’ve talked to these guys a few times since. The plan is to meet down there again. To Ski. Next time, I’ll skip the booze and remember I'm too old for that shit....
At least one night of excessive alcohol consumption and at least one morning regretting the night before.
But it was worth it!
So, I drove down to Red River, New Mexico, the first time I've been in New Mexico in ten years, on a cold Saturday morning. There, I met three high school friends, two that I've not seen in those ten years and one that it's been twenty. Arriving there in a power outage, I met the guys at the Bull O' the Wild Saloon. We hugged liked bros and immediately picked up like there was no ten year gap, or twenty. Just then the power retuned to the little town. Steve drove us to his cabin, only to find that no power still plagued it. One really begins to miss electricity when it controls the water in a cabin and it means no toilets. Three beers each (plus the one from the bar) later, and a guy's gotta pee. Let's just say that four guys bonded that night by peeing off the balcony. And no, we didn't cross the streams.
The power returned to the cabin, to which four guys high five'd and yelled like they just scored but fifteen minutes later, it's off again. Then, ten minutes passed, it comes back on again. We again cheered. But the victory was bitter short. Less than five minutes, the power was lost again. The power company was teasing us like a cheap hooker- and she gave us blue balls. So, we stoked the fire and broke out the camping lanterns. We sat, in the dark, with no power and told stories about the last decade.
As midnight rolled around, the power returned for good. Now that water was restored, we hit the head and all showered—together. (GAG, Yuck, no way! Just checking to see if you’re still reading along. Okay back to the story…) We headed to our rooms. Yet, another hour passed as we chatted, standing in our doors like college students. Guys acted like guys; guys talked like guys. We offended the tender hearted; we offended the easily offended. Oh, and that we did. One of us even farted with pride and without prejudice.
Waking early Sunday, we headed into town. Our mission was to find food. We found it at a place called Shotgun Willies (in Denver this is a titty bar). We sat there eating French toast and Willie specials (sounds perverted if you think about its Denver cousin). While we drank coffee and orange juice, we talked about a project that brought us together that weekend--a collaboration of friends writing a incredible story.
We waited in town for the tiny market, which had a fondness to give change in $2 bills, to allow alcohol sales. (noon on a Sunday) I bought a sixer of Fat Tire. With booze in plastic bags, we drove back to the cabin. I say cabin, but it was nothing of the kind. This thing could sleep about 47. Second floor had an Arcade—complete with a Dragon’s Layer machine and pinball. But before the party could start we worked on our project and character building.
That afternoon, Steve, worked his magic on smoking some ribs. The best freaking ribs I’ve had in a long while. We watched movies, listened to music and drank our beer. The afternoon turned to early evening and with the work out of the way. The party began.
I’m not sure where it got out of control. And when I say out of control, I mean out of control for a bunch of nearly 40 year olds. Oh I remember— it’s called hard alcohol. Shots of Crown Royal. Mixed Captain Morgan Lime into Dr. Pepper. That was our first mistake. Mixed the boozes. What do we think we are? Twentysomethings. We wanted to play poker. Steve had instructed us he was going to take all our money. We almost played strip poker just for the shock and awe it would have caused the two females staying in the cabin. We didn’t. Yet, music and drink kept us distracted. Not sure if I should admit it but we danced. We danced like crazy teenagers. I’m surprised we didn’t throw out a hip or blow out some knees.
Just like teenagers, we invited girls over to the cabin. We could hear them across the river so we yelled for them to come over. Then my disclaimer statement, “only if you’re 18 or older.” Their response was, “we’re legal!” In our minds, they were going to be hot blond Texas A&M girls or perhaps the girls that were in town during the Oktoberfest wearing the little German lederhosen. They said they’d be over in half an hour. Try like an hour and a half. When they showed up, I was pretty blitzed and the booze goggles were kinda foggy. I couldn’t tell if they were calendar girls or Russian weightlifters. I looked to Shawn, no let’s call him Ray (to protect his identity), Ray gave me the head shake of “negative, Ghost Rider. The pattern is full!” They went to get a “friend” and be “right back” but we turned off the lights and prayed they couldn’t find their way back.
The night drifted into blurriness and Steve hit the Netflix to play Weird Science. Even tanked, we all ran the lines word for word. Then about half way through, Ray puked in the sink. Alright! It wasn’t Ray. It was me. It was me okay!! You happy. I’m not no young college frat boy. But, the bright side, it made the next day much more bearable. Then, I only remember cleaning it up and going to bed.
8AM and coffee . Watched Regis and Kelly. Forced a waffle down. Drank some water. We said our goodbyes and took some photos. Steve drove us to our cars and the weekend was over. I drove home. Only pulled off the side of the road to wiz once. The weather was beautiful. I’ve talked to these guys a few times since. The plan is to meet down there again. To Ski. Next time, I’ll skip the booze and remember I'm too old for that shit....
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