My Fighters Blog: OUCH, Right In My Soul!

 

It's EVO Time! and IM NOT THERE!!

    I wrote an entire entry last week about how excited I was for EVO. I had hoped my next blog post would be my stories of success and a drop of all the pictures I got with my crew; perhaps some selfies with my favorite players. But apparently it was not meant to be.

    I worked a normal shift on Thursday. Up at 6 am, bowl of Apple Jacks, and off to work. I knew that to make my flight, i had to leave home about 7 pm. So all day at work it was : 

10 hours until i leave for my flight.

9 hours until i leave for my flight.

I get an email - my flight has been delayed by half an hour.

Upsetting, but whatever. 9 and a half hours until i leave for my flight.

8 hours

7 hours

and so on.

When I finally left I practically skipped out the door. Its an hour and a half drive from my house to the airport in Belgrade. I checked my bag at the desk at 9 pm. Then i walked over to check the departures board. I did a double take, rubbed my eyes, thinking I must not know how to read, and look a third time. My flight, originally scheduled for departure at 10:09 was now leaving at 12:45.

This was when I started to worry. I booked a flight out of Belgrade airport on Allegiant. People who like to travel in confidence, who find things like arriving on time or having an airplane to ride, don't ride Allegiant. They take better, faster means of travel, like Southwest Airline, or a donkey. I had already been burned by Allegiant Air, and I got that disturbing sense of foreboding that comes with the knowledge you might be about to witness a disaster.

At that point I had to check in with the crew. Not only was I going to be late, I was going to be so late I would have to consider skipping my morning Tekken match.. The crew, having basic knowledge of American travel, had already arrived by other methods. They were comfortably set up in the room and already practicing. They told me what I already suspected: I was an idiot for putting an important trip in the hands of Allegiant air, and I get what I deserve for living in rural Montana.

A Quick google and some simple division tells us that Allegiant has 80 flights that are delayed or cancelled EVERY SINGLE DAY

After that I tried napping, thinking perhaps if I slept now I could still make my morning matches. I actually did manage to fall asleep against one wall, propped up on my stick bag like a pillow. When I awoke, I found more good news, plane was another half hour behind. I'd already been waiting at the airport for two and a half hours. Flight's new arrival time - 1:15 am.

Around this time, I was trying to make peace with the fact I wouldn't be making my morning match. Half the country away, a tech company I've never heard of started their nightly software update. Within an hour, this unknown fart of a company would cripple international infrastructure.

It was around 1:45 when the copilot made an announcement that there was some sort of trouble with software and we cant board yet. Being Allegiant though, they let us know how much we meant as customers - we dont know if were going to take off. we dont know if the flight is cancelled. we dont know if there will be a flight for you to take tomorrow. if you leave, you are not entitled to a refund.

At 3:00 (thats 0300 - 6 hours since I parked outside) the pilot made the announcement that something called Kr0wdStryK3 had forced an update and travel all over america has been grounded. we dont know if there will be a flight tomorrow, probably not.

Travel was disrupted across the globe. It takes a big BIG event to cause problems that big. In my lifetime all i can think of are Covid, and 9/11. We're talking once every few decades type of travel disruption.

I dont travel often, maybe twice a year. and that once-a-decade event happened minutes before my ultra-delayed flight came in.

If Allegiant was a competent, reliable company, I'd be at EVO. If CrowdStrike, a company I didn't know existed, had been a competent, reliable company, I'd be at EVO. The cascade of bad-luck-horseshit that had to happen to lead to me missing out on EVO has left me stunned and oh so bitter.

All my friends and family are sympathetic of course, they offer their condolences and they are sincere. But they really don't know how deep it cuts. It's not like I missed a vacation, it's more like a holiday got cancelled. Imagine a Hindu acquaintance tells you how upset he is because Navratri was cancelled. You feel bad sure, your friend is clearly upset, but you don't really know what Navratri is, and you can't understand how much it means to him. (Its a celebration of their goddess Gurga, and it involves alot of dancing)

I was going to give one of these to each of the people that eliminated me from the tournament. No idea what to do with them now.

I'll remember Friday July 19th as one of the worst days of my life. I was up waiting for the damn plane all night, but managed to get a few hours nap in  that morning. The rest of that day was spent feeling like my heart had been carved out. I was so tired and miserable that it physically hurt. If you've ever had your heart broken, you know the feeling.

Writing this has been therapeutic. I've been avoiding watching the stream, I'm afraid it will just make me more upset. But my crew played well, and good luck to everyone still in it!

My Fighter's Blog: It's EVO time again!

 EVO Time Again!

Each Summer, the best fight-gamers from all over the world gather in Las Vegas, Nevada to battle it out for the title of world champion. The Evolution Championship Series (known commonly as EVO for short) was founded to be the world finals for fighting games. But since its inception, it has grown into a full- blown fighting-game-centric Comic-Con. (good-golly that's a lot of hyphens)

Ever since my good friend Hola Bird introduced me to the world of competitive streetfighter 15 years ago, I've made an effort to watch as much of the event as possible. But this weekend, I will be attending the event in person for the first time. (I'm so excited I'm positively giddy.)

While I love to watch these matches online, I am downright mediocre when it comes to the caliber of play you need to participate in these tournaments.(I've stressed this multiple times in previous entries) I have attended exactly one other major tournament in my life, Canada Cup 2010. I am going to share that dismal experience here. (I've hinted at it in the past, but here comes the full story.)

You may have some major fiasco in your past, the type of event that you avoid recalling whenever possible, and when it does come up, you speak in hushed tones, changing the subject as quickly as possible. These are the moments you refer to as 'the insert-word-here incident'.  Among those of us involved, it is referred to as The Canada Cup Incident.

Your personal incidents may have left deep psychological scars that will never heal. But, most likely your shame was private, perhaps shared among a few old friends or petty enemies. The Canada Cup Incident was broadcast over the internet, and can still be found if you search deeply enough through the annals of YouTube. (I will post a link at the end of this post, something I promised myself I would never do, but perhaps the time has come)

The whole thing was Hola Bird's idea. "Come with me to Calgary", he said. "It will be fun!", he said.     

I wouldn't say it was no fun, but it certainly wasn't pleasant.

After weeks of preparations, planning and training, we set out for homeland of our northern neighbors, ridiculous dreams of championship trophies and internet fame in our heads. I got my passport solely for this event, it remains the only time so far that I've ever left the country.

This is the logo from Canada Cup 2010. I still have a T-shirt from the event with autographs of Mago and Daigo written on the sleeves

One of the events at Canada Cup 2010 was a team Street Fighter event. It was designed for 3 man teams, when one team member lost a match, the next would rotate in, and so forth until one team was eliminated. The winning team would move one, and the losing team just lost their entry fee. (No consolation bracket in team tourneys, losers!)

Hola Bird and myself formed a team with another Street-Fighter-loving Montanan, a fun guy that goes by the handle Bonzai Boomerang. Before our match even started, we all knew there would be trouble. We were called up to the main stage, and informed our match would be taking place on stage, streamed online, against a team named 'team third place'.

Why did they pick the name team third place? Because they already knew they would be taking third place. Third place behind a team that had Daigo and Mago, and another team that had Justin Wong and Mike Ross.

So, I just threw some names out that probably meant nothing to most readers. But allow me to equate them to some names you probably do recognize. If this had been baseball, the names might have been Babe Ruth and Mickey Mantle. In Basketball, it would be Michael Jordan and Kobe Bryant. In cricket, Sachin Tendulkar and Sir Viv Richards. Icons of the sport, in other words. And we were pitted, round one, against the team that was expected could only possibly lose to these giants.

We...lost. and when i say we lost, I mean we LOST. In the three man team format, we did not make it beyond their point man. In between Bonzai Boomerang's vicious slaughter and my own, (Bonzai played first position, I was second, and Hola Bird was our anchor) there was a forced reset of the console, (there was some sort of sound issue with the stream) and that technical issue took much longer than it took their point man to wipe out our entire team.

As it turned out, the entire time we were getting our asses handed to us, the commentators for the stream were roasting our poor play for all of the internet to hear and laugh (and laugh and laugh). While it can't be argued that we sucked HARD, I would like to take this moment to point out this wasn't exactly a fair matchup. In Street Fighter 6 terms,  it was the equivalent of 2 silver-ranks and a gold-rank being matched up against 3 legend-ranks players. The layman might equate it to watching someone who jogs a couple times a week enter the Olympic trials.

These people play at a level I can barely comprehend, let alone achieve. So, while my play has undoubtedly improved since The Canada Cup incident, my expectations have vastly diminished. EVO doesn't have a team tournament, but I did register for the Street Fighter main event. It is double-loss elimination, so if I do better than 0-2, I will consider it a small victory. 

If you have any desire to track the progress of me and my crew this weekend, you can do so at start.gg.

My handle is Atmaweapwn. The rest of the crew is Hola Bird, Bonzai Boomerang, and Sammich. 

If you enjoy watching people get ridiculed as they are destroyed by vastly superior players, you can find the videos of Team Carne Crew vs Team Third Place here and here.

Wish me luck. 

It's Published!!

 

I've been looking at it for months, and I'm still impressed with how well this cover art turned out.

    So it's official, as of April 22nd, I am a published author. This is my first blog post since the big day, so I want to start by apologizing for not updating more often. Between work, the kid's extracurriculars, the big push for book release, and my all-consuming street fighter habit, writing time has been hard to come by. Luckily, I've been adhering to a strict drug regimen to keep my mind limber.

If you haven't read the book yet, you're missing out. Pick it up HERE, what are you waiting for?   

    You probably noticed I used a pen-name for my novel. I did this for two reasons, First, there are a lot of Brian Smiths. I know two others, and I live in a tiny Montana town. I wanted a more memorable name that stands out and makes you remember it. The second reason was more practical. If you google Brian Smith, you will scroll for ten pages before giving up, never having seen me. But when you google Guile Branford, BAM top result is my book with my picture.

    I don't have any regrets picking that for my pen name, but it isn't perfect. I have been asked several times how to pronounce that first name, with one person calling me GEE-OO-LEE in conversation. I suppose I shouldn't too harshly judge those troglodytes that are unfamiliar with classic video games (it pains me to refer to the games I grew up playing as classics), but you would think that librarians, book store owners, and editors would have at least seen the word guile before. 

    The other problem with this pen name arises when it comes time to sign the book. It would be embarrassing to admit just how much time I've spent practicing this signature, daydreaming about lines of adoring fans waiting for a chance at meeting the Guile Branford. But even after all those practice runs, muscle memory kicks in when I start signing BRANFORD. The BR comes out, my brain, thinking I'm about to throw down the same signature I've been using for decades, signs Brian (like an idiot). I have signed more than a few books now as Guile Brianford, and then i have to smile and hope they don't notice that I don't know how to spell my own last name.

Guile, from his first appearance in Street Fighter II on the SNES (1991)

Terra Branford, from Final Fantasy VI, also on the SNES (1994)

    So, my pen name was selected from the two franchises I most adore in all of the video game kingdom: Street Fighter and Final Fantasy. Final Fantasy in particular has shaped my love of good story telling and fantasy epics.

    Read the book. Tell your friends. Write  review (unless you hated it, keep that shit to yourself). Spread the word far and wide that Guile Branford is a name you should remember. 

My fighter's blog - "You don't understand"

     "You don't understand."

    If you follow my blog, firstly I want to say thank you. Secondly, you've probably noticed that I've been writing less and less (and less). That is partly because I have returned to working full time, but just as big a reason was the release of Street Fighter 6 on June 2, 2023. I have spent nearly as much time playing Street Fighter as I have working, and I get the withdrawal shakes if I go too long without getting my fix. (I'm only slightly joking.)   

    I've addressed fighting games several times in previous posts, but its time to divulge my all consuming obsession with them. I played lots of fighting games in my childhood (Tekkens 2 and 3 were particular favorites of mine, I even once claimed to have the world record for longest combo in a fighting game [I once hit 10k hits on a combo loop in practice with Jun, but I doubt thats a record, just something I liked to brag about as a preteen]) but it wasn't until college that like turned to love. In 2009, while working at a local video store, Hastings (RIP), I met a fellow gamer named Hola Bird. (as always in my blogs, i refrain from naming names to protect those who claim to be innocent) Hola Bird told me of his obsession with Street Fighter 4, and suggested that we play some time. 

  I have mentioned this dear friend before, referring to him both as Ken Masters, and Hello Pajaro. His screen name is Hola Bird, and that is how I will refer to him going forward. 

    I told Hola Bird of my success at fighting games in my youth, and assured him that I was no scrub when it comes to fight games. He replied simply, "No, you don't understand." 

    When he came to play fight games that very night, the exhibition of just how much I did not understand began.

    That night, Hola Bird showed me my very first fight stick. For those of you not in the know, a fight stick is like the control portion of an old arcade cabinet cut off and boxed up to fit in your lap. (since this introduction to these fabulous oversized controllers i have bought 5 or 6) He trounced me time after time as I fumbled on my dual shock controller to perform a simple Hadoken. 

    By the end of the night I admitted, "You're right, I didn't understand."

    That one night of gaming turned into a 5-nights-a-week routine. As time went on we slowly added members to our little fight crew, until there were nearly a dozen players at our weekly game night. Each time a new player showed up, they'd receive the same warning, "You don't understand."

    There really is a difference between playing Street Fighter and playing Street Fighter. If you don't have a friend to show you the way, you just won't understand.

    I had my Hola Bird, and I'm perfectly happy to do the same for anyone. Just remember, you don't understand what you are getting yourself into.

The gradual return to normalcy

The Gradual Return to Normalcy

Playing with AI Image creators. Easy way to waste an entire evening.

    I want to give an update on the new status quo. I have been back at a nine to five for several weeks now, and its actually been a welcome change. Some people can work from home. Millions manage it every day with no problem. I envy those people. Self discipline has always been something I possess in limited supply. Sticking to a work agenda in the same room as my PS5 turned out to be an insurmountable task for yours truly.

    Back at work however, my days are occupied, so my nights become more valuable. The writing projects I've been meaning to get done turned from something i could pick up and do anytime i wanted (which means i would never get to them) to something that I need to set specific times for (like right now).

    I can't really understand why, but I get more done with less free time than i did with infinite free time.  Plus I'm using my paychecks to do something truly awesome: publishing my book.

50+ agent queries. Not a single one even bothered to read it.

    It's official, I'm publishing it myself. My goal is to have it released before my birthday.(40. are you fucking kidding me? 40?) But that is rapidly approaching, and these things take time, so we'll see. I want to be able to say that my first book came out before I turned 40. You can tune in here for periodic updates, or you can follow my book page on Facebook HERE.

    So, what's the job I've got that will be the source of my soon to be stardom?(refer to my last blog entry for my infallible plan) I am a sanitarian with the county. Sanitarian is the new fancy word they've pasted on the job that used to be Health Inspector. That's right, I'm the guy that gets to go to all the restaurants in town and lay the smack-down on anyone who dares to challenge my authority.

    I've been preparing for this job my whole life. I was raised by a woman who lived and breathed food safety, and most of my time in college was spent learning about microbes and how to kill the little bastards. It's a good gig, and a lot more intensive than i ever would have thought. I sometimes really do have to be the bad guy, but one thing I've already learned is that you do not fuck around with food safety. 

    In 99%+ cases of food disease, you just shit your brains out for a few days. But, there are some truly horrifying diseases out there that happen every year, all around the world. For example,DON'T CLICK THIS LINK (warning: leads to one of those image searches that everyone warns you not to google, but you do anyway, and then you need eye bleach for a year)

    So, I'm back at work, not just my day to day, but I'm working on my writing again. I've got big plans and aspirations. With luck, half of them will come to pass. In the mean time, thanks for reading, see you again soon.

Priorities, priorities

Priorities, priorities

If this is the state of things in Flavortown, imagine how much worse we all have it.

    Nothing rearranges your priorities like a good crisis. Recently my plans have encountered, not so much a speed bump in the road, more like a full train derailment. I should clarify, this was not that well thought out a plan in the beginning. It really only consisted of three steps:

1, Write book.

2. Celebrity interviews, mass book signings, general uproar at the fantasticalness that is said book

3. Retire to the Bahamas

    As you can see, the plan had all the kinks ironed out beforehand. What could go wrong? 

    Its been months since I last updated this blog, and now i will try to explain why. A year and a half ago, when I sat down to ramble out my first blog on this site, I declared my unending desire, my long time dream of becoming a writer. I was wrong.

    These past few months have revealed that I don't want to be a writer. I want (what I always wanted) is to be a novelist. Someone who writes something every few years and spends the intervening time reaping the rewards of fame and fortune. Writers, real writers, are the people that put out new content every day, weekly at the least. I have new found respect and admiration for the people who can create articles everyday. Columnists, reporters, hell even cartoonists, you all have my eternal praise for what you are able to do.

    I started this blog thinking I could do a weekly anecdote, like i had my own column in the paper. Those guys do it right? I didn't make it two months at that pace. By week 4 I was out of ideas. By week 8 writing something new was like trying to squeeze out toothpaste from an empty tube. I was writing like crap and I knew it. What started as a hobby had become a job I dreaded doing.

Nope.

Yep.

    So, that's why the blog has taken the sideline in my priorities. But what of the book? Surely the novel I spent years writing hasn't been shunted aside?! Unfortunately, it has. Something I had never anticipated was just how difficult (read: nearly fucking impossible) it is to get someone to read a book. I have pushed this book on to just about everyone I know. Very few of those people have actually read the book. I have family members, people that have been my close friend for over 30 years that cant finish the prologue. And trying to get an agent to read it is just out of the damn question.

     I have spent the last 20 months diligently querying agents from all across the globe. I have a tracker that carefully follows every submission I make, and the date of every rejection letter. I have kept a dozen open queries since February of last year, and the second I received a rejection letter, I sent another query. In all that time, with all those sent queries, I have not had a single request for more material.

    Simple truth is that as a first time writer with no fan base and no professional referral, no agent will ever take a chance on my work. The futility of what I was hoping to achieve had finally hit home, and it was a very bitter pill to swallow. I had to face the facts: it was time to go back to work.

    I had left my job thinking my three step, foolproof plan was well on its way to completion. But with my complete and total failure to reach step two of the plan, I started to see how that perfect plan just might not be working out. My hobby had become work, my attempts to get it into print had flopped on its face, and what's more, I had become a world-class couch potato.

    I always knew I liked TV, movies, and video games more than was strictly healthy for me, but having no job while writing less and less lead to a straight up sinful amount of time spent binging Netflix and doing video game marathons. I put on at least 20 pounds and lord knows what my cholesterol looks like.

    Hopefully i got the hotfix started. I'm back at work, real work. Hopefully I can kick my ass back in gear and get healthy. And with writing back to being just a hobby, maybe I'll finally enjoy it again.

    I hope to write again soon. Stay happy out there.

    

    

It's EVO Baby!

 This last weekend,in fabulous Las Vegas, a myriad of combatants will clash in a test of fists and wills. Fists and feet will fly, tears will be shed, and many an enthusiastic fan will scream himself hoarse.

A fabulous shot of the champion getting embraced by the man he beat in Grand Finals.

I’m not talking about the next UFC cage match (though there probably is one of those happening too), I’m talking about Evo. The only esports event that I follow closely. There are some other events I'll tune into, GDQ (games done quick) is always a fun watch, and the LCS (league championship series) draws a massive crowd. But for me, it has to be Evo.

The Evolution Championship series (Evo) is the biggest fighting game tournament in the world (there are over 7000 competitors this year, and a grand prize of ten thousand dollars.  People travel from all over the world to compete at games that basically breaks down to PUNCH THE GUY IN THE FACE!

I don’t know what it is about these games that appeals to me so much (particularly because I play them so terribly), but I’m happy as a pig in shit to just sit and play for hours, then go online to watch videos of other people playing that same game.

It really is like watching a sport. There are sponsoring labels, and players who Don that merchandise as proudly as any NASCAR driver.

Ravenous, I dig through the back pages of back pages, constantly on the hunt for some new combo or piece of tech to get the slightest edge over the competition.  I’m slightly ashamed to admit I know more about the frontrunner of the is years Evo than the current state of the Seattle Mariners.(Long time reader(s?) will know that I’m a big Mariners fan too.)

What brought me to this lowly state?  Well, 20 years ago next month, I met a man who would eventually set me down this path. A man named Hello Pájaro (As always, names have been altered protect those who claim to be innocent).

He was one of the very first people I met when I spent my disastrous freshmen year of college at MSU (for more on that flavorful experience click here.) And we became fast friends. We of course lost touch when I set fire to my college career, but to our mutual surprise, we ended up working together at the same store.

By the end of his first week, he was my favorite person to see at work. The one buddy that makes working retail not only bearable, but even occasionally enjoyable. By the end of his first month, we were hanging out outside of work. Twenty years later, he is like an uncle to my children. (The weird, distant uncle, but still)

At evo this year, there was a blind entrant. And he won several matches.

One fateful night, early into the bromance, he asked me if I ever played fight games.

“Oh yeah”, I scoffed. “I don’t like to brag, but I’m pretty good.”

This, dear reader, was a lie in two parts. Firstly, I love to brag (just ask my wife about any time I’ve been proven right), and secondly, as I quickly discovered, I’m not as good as I thought.

I invited him to play one evening after work. Food and fight games we declared. I invited this man into my home, I fed him. And how was my hospitality repaid? He kicked my ass. Beat me like a red-headed stepchild. Completely wiped the floor with me. He’s never really stopped wiping the floor with me. No matter what I try, no matter how much time and effort I put into training, I can never get more that the occasional win over Hello Pájaro.

I think that is what my entire obsession boils down to at this point. I don’t want to be a world champion. I don’t expect to win against every opponent I face. But just once, I want to wipe the floor with Hello Pájaro.

Monkey see, Monkey do.

Get those tasty grubs!

    Next time you find yourself at the zoo, or perhaps watching a nature documentary of some kind (FYI - The David Attenborough fan club has over 387k members), watch how the animals interact with others of their own kind. It doesn't have to be wild or exotic animals either, if you have multiple cats, or dogs, watch them long enough, and you will see some form of grooming happening. At some point, Mr. Fluffypants will lick down Zazzles, or perhaps you'll see a monkey pluck a juicy grub from off his mom's back and chow down. 

   In my own pack, I am subjected to this construct as well. Every few days my wife, the lovely Princess Consuela Bananahammock, will pin me down and search me head to toe for any little blemish or mark and ruthlessly scour it from my body. Only once she is satisfied am I allowed free, pink and sore. I have always hated these little moments of hers, and fought to avoid them. Only recently have I learned to accept them as a sign of love, and not a malicious intention to cause me physical harm.

    So the other day, whilst sitting on my wooden porch stairs, I attempted to scoot three inches to one side to let my daughter pass. The resultant scooch left me with half a dozen splinters in my butt cheeks. Princess Consuela's spidey sense went wild, and before I could make a break for it, I found myself bare assed on my own front porch.

    Now, I live in Montana, I don't have many neighbors, and we all sort of keep to ourselves. But I still think that the sight of a digging intently at her husband's ass crack out on the porch just might be a subject of gossip.

    But every cry of "Can't we do this inside?" and "DO WE HAVE TO DO THIS NOW?!" fell upon deaf ears. She was in the zone, completely enthralled, happy as a pig in shit. I was told to shut up and man up.

    Ten minutes I stood there as she poked, prodded and scraped loose each and every one of the eight slivers she managed to find, soaking up lots of sun where the sun isn't supposed to shine. After double and triple checking her work, she seemed to come out of a sort of trance. 

    Standing up and heading inside at last she asked, "Do you think any of the neighbors saw?"

    "Well," I replied, "if they did, I'm sure we'll see it on YouTube."

    

Otto 'Bud' Smith

 

My grandpa Bud (left) and my dad (right)

    No new episode today, but I should have one out tomorrow. I've heard a few comments from readers on this little story, so glad you are enjoying it, and I'll work on making updates more regularly. Most of my time has been spent on the second revision of my novel, but thankfully that is nearing completion. I'll be sure to let you know how that goes.

    

    Today I want to share another humorous anecdote from my life, and this one is about the fellow pictured up above. My grandpa Bud died several years ago, and during his funeral I saw something that gave me a chuckle and I thought I'd share.

    But first, a little about the man himself. Otto Smith was born just before Christmas in 1921. He was the youngest of 12 (twelve!) children born on a family farm outside of Helena, Montana. Growing up on the farm, it was nice to have that many people around to help with the chores, I'm told. (I asked my father recently if they were catholic. nope. just very prolific)

    As a young boy, Otto decided that he wasn't too fond of the name his parents had given him. He took a pencil and some paper and wrote down all of the nicknames he could think of, and picked his favorite. From that moment on, he'd decided he would be called Bud. For the rest of his life, he introduced himself as Bud, and that's what he went by.

   

    About the time he was picking out his new name, Bud fell ill with Rheumatic Fever. It's one of those diseases that is easily treated these days, but in the 1920s, could be easily fatal. Bud was bed-ridden for a year with it. In the end, he pulled through, but his long childhood illness made him ineligible for the military when WW2 came around in 1939.

    

You can still find this brand if you look hard enough.

    Instead, when the war started, Bud found himself working as a baker at Eddy's bakery, a job the government declared as 'necessary'. Because it was a necessary occupation, he wasn't allowed to quit. And because he wasn't allowed to quit, he was paid a pittance for his work, a dollar a day.

    After the war,  the now twentysomething Bud and his wife Clara moved to California in pursuit of better paying jobs. He might have succeeded too, if every man returning from the war hadn't had the same idea. After several months of living in hotels while looking for an affordable home, Bud gave up and moved back to Montana. (good thing too, or I would have had a very different life to be sure)

    Bud went back to work as a baker, but after a couple of years doing this, he developed an allergy to flour. As you can imagine, a baker being allergic to flour created a bit of a work conflict. My dad tells stories of how Bud would come home at the end of the day with his hand looking like ground hamburger, cracked and bleeding all over. Bud moved from the bakery to the delivery truck. He spent years on a delivery route, putting hundreds of miles a day in behind the wheel. 

    Eventually though, his flour allergy progressed to the point that he couldn't even drive the truck any more, and he was forced to move on to other jobs. But Bud never lost his love for the open road. Bud was a car guy through and through, and it wasn't unheard of for Bud to drive several hundred miles in a day, just to drive. (Bud liked speed too, when I got my first car, a 1966 Chevy Impala, Bud told me you have to make sure to get it up over 100 mph once in a while to blow out the carbon build up. My dad vehemently denied that was necessary.)

    Old age and a condition called macular degeneration eventually took Bud's eyesight and put an end to the roadtrips. But til the day he died, Bud  said that one day, one day they will come up with a cure for his blindness, and he was going to buy a new truck. (I can just picture my 95 year old grandpa in a one ton diesel that he can't see over the steering wheel of tearing down the interstate at 90 miles an hour.) 

    The last time I saw Bud was not a happy visit, and it's not the way I prefer to remember him. Bud had dementia, the result of a stroke he'd had. Bud (bit of a hardhead too as it turned out) didn't got to the hospital for several days after his stroke, and by then of course, the damage was done.

    When Bud did finally pass, his funeral was a small affair. He'd managed to outlive all his friends and his 11 siblings. It was decided that instead of a formal funeral, we'd have a small gathering of his kids and grandkids.

    Bud was cremated, and was set to be buried next to his wife, Clara, the love of his life who had predeceased him by a nearly 30 years. We stood around Clara's grave and shared stories of the two of them for about an hour.

    When they time came, my uncle Wayne opened the box that Bud had been placed in and that was when I saw it. Something was stuck to the bottom of Bud's urn. Something that is instantly recognizable to anyone in America. A small, golden oval.

Made in China

I couldn't help it, I started laughing. Here I was at a funeral, trying to stop myself laughing while we all take turns trying to peel off the little sticker. (you know how sometimes they just wont come off) Bud always had a good sense of humor, and I like to think that would have given him one last grin, despite the fact that he was laid to rest with little clumps of cheap adhesive stuck to his underside for the rest of eternity. 

Happy 2023 - Tales from the kiddos

    No new episode for now, this post I want to instead share some updates and a story or two from the family. It has been one year this month since I left the work force to (heavy air quotes) "become a professional writer". 

    In that time, not only did I fail to get published, I've actually gone backwards. I went from having a finished manuscript actively seeking agents, to having a jumbled mess of partially completed computer files, all at different stages of completion. I have been doing a massive re-write that rethink several of the major characters. I am just past the halfway point on the redo, and I don't know if I could drag my feet any harder.

    

A lot of my writing lately has been like this. Staring at the keyboard, blank page.

    So, here we are on January first, first day of the year, time for resolutions. My new years resolution is the same exact thing it has been for the last 3 years - FINISH YOUR BOOK!!! For the last month I've even been doing that trick from 'The Secret'. Every morning, while I'm stumbling about the kitchen preparing my first cup of coffee, I take a pen and paper and write those words. FINISH YOUR BOOK!!! all caps, three exclamation points.(so far this has only been the secret to making myself feel bad.) Here's hoping that I get it done right this time, and a Happy 2023 to all of you.

    So what exactly have I been doing with all my time if not getting the book done? I've been a professional dad. I have discovered a new understanding and respect for my mother (hi mom!). She kept a cleaner house, cooked healthier meals, and got less gray hairs than the experience has given me, all while working a full time job. I have no idea how she managed it all without killing the three of us, but mad props to mom.

   I've picked a story from one of my little gremlins that I want to share in this post, because even though I love them with all my heart, that doesn't mean I haven't had to remind myself  that murder is illegal, and my wife still expects two children when we go to bed at night.

How Canadians punish their toddlers.

    My son, Ricardo Shilley-Shalley, (As always, names have been changed to protect those who are not innocent) has played hockey for the last few years. This year we had to cut the season short because the my entire household has been sick since October, but there are still plenty of highlights from his hockey career to choose from. 

    This particular event happened during the last game of the year last season. Have you ever shared a bit of trivia, some obscure fact that doesn't usually mean anything, with someone who shouldn't have that information? Maybe you let slip who your secret Santa was, maybe you inadvertently spoiled the end of a movie one time. Whenever I have one of these slips, my thinking is always the same: 

1)Oops.

2)Shit.

3)Maybe he didn't hear me?

4)Damage control.

    Such was the case toward the end of last hockey season. I was watching an NHL game with Ricardo and after a particularly nasty cross-check penalty, I said, "Did you know that its okay to hit people in hockey, so long as you do it right?"

    My mind immediately went through the first 3 steps above. My then 6 year old son, who can still hardly keep upright on skates, definitely didn't need to start checking people on the ice. But a look of pure joy was already spreading across his face. Step 4 - damage control.  I explained (vainly) that checking wasn't allowed in kids' hockey, that his coaches would teach him how when the time was right. 

    Didn't matter, of course. The very next practice, his coach had to pull me aside to tell me that he had been knocking down his teammates whenever one was in arm's reach. Luckily, the season was almost over, only one tournament left, and then the sweet sweet reprieve that comes when you know you don't have to cart them around for the next few weeks.

    By the time that game day came, Ricardo had become quite familiar with the concept of the penalty box. (his coaches would make him serve the penalties he racked up throughout practices) Each time I helped him suit up, I would remind him of the rules, and tell him he was not allowed to to push, hit, trip, knock down, tackle, strike, smack, hook, pound, slam or touch any of the other players. It was like telling a bird it wasn't allowed to fly.

    Hockey tournaments are designed so that the kids get to play as much hockey as can be crammed into a weekend. This particular tournament saw Ricardo playing four games in one day. He played the first three games with little incident, he didn't do anything to send him to the penalty box anyway. But by game number four, he was spent, tired, and touchy. (think any kid who really needs a nap) Game four, he didn't even make it through warmups. 

    For about 10 minutes before gametime, the kids just mill about on the ice, passing and shooting at empty nets, just basic stuff. I was watching Ricardo warm up (as parents do, where's my kid, what's he doing, and whatnot) and I saw him fall on the ice, no one to blame but himself mind you, just slipped on the ice and went sprawling. From his position, spread eagle, face down on the ice, I watched as he extended his stick out as far as he could, to snag and trip one of the kids from the other team.

    Oh, it was on. Ricardo had managed to trip a kid who was just like him. The two spent the rest of warmups chasing around the ice, tripping each other. I was annoyed, thinking that I'd have to repeat the list of no-nos again after the game, but not worried about much else. Warmups ended, and I figured he'd get on with the game.

    Wrong again. Ricardo seemed only slightly aware that a game was happening around him as he played head hunter on the ice. Rather than chase after the puck like everyone else (if you've ever watched a young kids' hockey or soccer game you've seen how this goes), he went from player to player peering into the helmets to see if it was the same kid that had tripped him during warmups.

    For most of the game the two never saw the ice during the same shift. But I know my son, and my anxiety only grew as I watched him stalking the ice for this kid. It didn't happen until the third period. Long enough that I was starting to get that false sense of hope (maybe it wont happen after all!) But finally he saw the face he'd been looking for. The two saw each other from across the ice. All of the rest of the players were huddled in a corner, fighting over control of the puck. The rest of the rink was completely empty, save these two kids, rushing at each other like bulls charging.

    It was the warmups all over again. Each kid would trip or tackle the other, then make a wild escape, trying to make sure they got the last say. Except this time they were doing it out on open ice with no hustle and bustle to mask their little war. Ricardo's coach ended up having to go out on the ice, pick him up, and carry him to the penalty box.

    I got to hear it from the coach again after the game. Ricardo got to hear it again from me. I never did find out who the other kid was, for which I'm grateful. The last thing I needed was to hear it from another parent, but hey, maybe they were just as embarrassed as I was.

Happy New Year. Keep to your resolutions, I'm certainly going to try.

    

The Great American Pastime

     Not another episode of my mini-series right now, but there is one forthcoming, I promise. I write a lot of blogs about my nerdy hobbies and favorite books and movies and the whole slew of nerd pop culture. But, I'm also a big sports fan. (thanks mostly to my father being in control of the TV remote my entire childhood.)

    I've lamented before on here about how I have never been an exceptional athlete, but I never let that stop me from enjoying the professionals at work. In face, I think knowing how much I suck makes me appreciate all the more the level of skill on display. Next time your team's kicker shanks a field goal, go out side, measure out 30 yards and try to kick a ball that far. (no uprights, no aiming, just try to make it 30 yards. You cant do it.)

    Baseball is one of those sports that's fun to play, but not so fun to watch on TV. Watching games live, however,  with a hotdog in one hand and a beer in the other, the crowd cheering and chanting, is one of my favorite things on the planet. I love the fellowship and the camaraderie you can form with perfect strangers sitting around you.

T-Mobile Park was sold out. 

    Last weekend, I had the privilege of being one of the fans that witnessed the first post-season home game for the Seattle Mariners in over twenty years. I am proud to be one of the long-suffering Mariners fans. A true die-hard, resigned to the constant rebuilds and losing seasons without once ever wavering in my love for my team.

    The ol' M's put a lot of hurt on us fans in that time. They not only had the longest playoff drought of any team in any American professional sport, (seriously, there are plenty of people old enough to drink that hadn't even been born the last time the Mariners made the playoffs.) but they had three 99+ loss seasons during that time. They made trades that made me pull out my hair. (A small part of me died when they traded Ichiro to the Yankees) They put ever lasting faith in bad players just because they cost so much. (every single one of the aging stars they bought underperformed spectacularly, and I still facepalm in dismay every time I think of Rodney taking the mound in the ninth with a slim lead)

    But as I said earlier, Mariners fans are long-suffering. Our woes extend well before this playoff drought began. Not going into long Seattle history, even just my own there are tales of Father-Son slugging duos that fell short of capturing the title, Hall of fame rookies abandoning the team early in their stellar careers, and perfect-game pitchers that won the world series with other teams.

    But that's sports. You can gripe about past seasons for the rest of your life (and we love to, don't we?), but all that history is forgotten when the team puts on a good show.  That is precisely what we got that Saturday night in Seattle. 

    Game 3 of the ALDS series ended in Seattle with the Mariners losing 0-1 in the 18th inning. That's 17 full innings with no score, and a solo homerun in the top of the 18th that finally ended the game. 6 and a half hours of baseball, two full games. And I sat through it all, with a 7 year old and a 10 year old along for the game (they actually behaved better than I could have ever hoped). The game tied the record for longest post-season game, and set a new record for most strikeouts in a post-season game. How many strikeouts? Forty-two. That's enough strikeouts for 14 straight innings where every batter strikes out.

    Boy did it feel like it toward the end. By the thirteenth inning, my wife and kids were asking me how much longer. By the fifteenth inning, they (not me) were beyond caring who hit the ball, just someone please hit the damn ball. By the time the solo HR came in the top of the 18th, even I was past the point of caring overmuch. 

    I did everything I could. I shouted myself horse cheering and jeering. I booed and heckled the Astros in the outfield near me. I wore my hat inside out, I even pulled off my shoe and put it on my head, which worked so well to rally the bats in the wild card series. But, having never been signed to the team, my contributions were minimal.

When I showed this picture to my sister she said (in her best deadpan serious voice) "Wow. I cant believe that didn't work." 

    And thus did the season end. As T.S. Elliot said, "Not with a bang, but with a whimper". When that ball landed just over the fence in left center field, The air went out of the crowd like a popped balloon. It was dead silent for a split second, before a lone Astros fan, sitting three or four rows behind me began screaming his joy to the heavens. I was truly concerned for his safety as everyone, myself included, stared daggers at him.

    The longest, most drawn-out pitching duel I've ever witnessed. 6 1/2 hours of nothing. 10 hour drive each way, and the price of the tickets meant no Christmas or Birthday presents for yours truly. Still worth it. May they not take another 22 years to make it this far again.