Turkeys And Assassinations At Christmastime, With Dysentery!

I was giving thanks last week, all last week and to no one in particular. It was just a general blanket sort of thank you to the universe at large, I guess. Mostly, it involved me not doing any work whatsoever, hence the lack of new essays right here at Coquetting Tarradiddles. I did eat a lot, however, which turned out to be sort of like work after the fourth trip to the leftover pantry. Fortunately, gratuitous mastication seems to somehow indicate gratitude around this time of year, as long as dead turkey flesh and various casseroles are involved. In any event, I was otherwise occupied and I slipped out the back door when it came time to post last week’s essays. I’m back today though, so be thankful!

Today is the first day of December, which means that Christmas is only twenty-four days away. I’d like to say that I have all my shopping done and am happily enjoying the festive Christmas spirit – but I’d also like to say that I’m a golden god who pees rivers of 24-caret glory. Some things just ain’t true.

In all seriousness, I’ve no idea what to buy anyone this year, save for my blushing bride. All she wants, she tells me, is a new HDTV for the bedroom and an Xbox 360 of her very own to go along with it, no doubt due to her overwhelming obsession with the game Dragon Age. I’m not sure if it’s healthy to feed this strange new addiction of hers, but I might risk it. Infusing a bit of geek into her personality has positive side effects after all, not the least of which is an increased ability to recognize my bizarre variety of references. When I jokingly suggested we name our child James Tiberius, for example, she immediately burned my soul with hate-lasers shot from her angry eyeballs and made it clear that she would never give birth to Captain Kirk. Never ever. (No, she’s not pregnant. Not yet, anyway…)

I also helped get her over her strange aversion to the word ‘frak’ by subjecting her to enough episodes of Battlestar Galactica to erode her misgivings concerning the curious lexicon employed by the battle-hardened last survivors of the human race as they flee from the genocidal rage of an endless army of really hot robots. She just needed to get the first one out of of the way, I think. After all, the first fraking is always the most difficult, but after a couple more really good fraks, you kind of start to like it. In fact, she’s even admitted that she’s begun to enjoy the show. Geekdom is a slippery slope, however, and there’s a fine line between the harmless fun of, say, wearing a ‘Miskatonic University’ t-shirt and the hideous consequences of spending all your free time roaming the fantasy realm of Azeroth looking for a Night Elf to penetrate with your Axe of +2 Sexterity. I only pray I haven’t set her down a terrible path…

Speaking of the Xbox 360, this time of year is generally known as the Gaming Season, where all of the top AAA titles come out all at once, competing for your attention and hard-earned dollars. One such game came out a couple of weeks ago, called Assassin’s Creed 2. And, despite all logic and reason, I was forced to pay for it out of my own pocket. Despite knowing someone in the upper echelons of the development team, and despite having had to endure his incessant onslaught of mockery and gloating as he enjoyed pointing out that his game rocked, I was not sent a free copy. Nevermind that I predicted the game’s entire storyline the moment I found out about its setting, or the fact that I’m generally such a damned swell sort of fella, or that I introduced him to Terry Pratchett; I was given no preferential treatment. Instead, I had to schlep to the store and buy it like all of the other plebeian mouthbreathers of the world. The shame was almost unbearable. Almost.

I’m happy to report that the game does indeed rock, although I have to admit that I don’t think as highly of it as does Trey. He, in fact, loves the damned game. He demands that it be playing on the TV whenever he wishes to watch it, and goes so far as to walk across to room to pick up the 360 controller and bring it to me, insisting that I “Pway da Wezio game!” The character you play is named Ezio, and the majority of the game (at least while Trey is watching) is spent maneuvering him to climb up the sides of tall buildings in renaissance Italy, looking for boxes of treasure to loot before jumping off of the roof to fall several stories into the soft safety of a well-placed bale of hay. Trey will walk up to the screen and talk to Ezio, pointing out boxes of treasure and suggesting buildings to climb. It’s all very cute, especially when he and Ezio get involved in a lengthy conversation about “hay buggies” – but it has led to one curious and potentially catastrophic side effect: Trey has started climbing.

He’ll scale the Mount Everest of our bed and announce to the world that he is “dooding it wike Wezio!”. He runs at breakneck speeds as fast as his little three-year-old legs will carry him, then suddenly turns, heads towards me and leaps into the air to come crashing down into my lap in a fit of laughter and giggles. “I joomp in da Kwis hay wike Wezio!” he shouts, before hopping to the ground to repeat the whole spastic process all over again. It’s quite cute and charming, but in the back of my mind I can’t help but think about him attempting to scale the brick walls of my home before jumping off of the roof into a phantasmic bale of hay that exists only in his mind’s eye. Fortunately, he doesn’t play outside unattended, and so far he’s shown no signs of being able to scale the textured sheet rock of my home’s interior, so he’s safe for now. I am, however, planning to hold both the game’s publisher responsible as well as my heartless, uncaring “friend” who worked so hard to bring the game to life, should any unfortunate accidents occur as a result of my three-year-old suddenly thinking he’s become a fifteenth century Italian assassin who’s running through the streets of Venice and ascending the ogee arches of St. Mark’s Basilica before plummeting down into a conveniently-placed wagon filled with hay. You have been warned, Ubisoft! (You too, Chuckles.)

In other news, I changed the water pump on my car this past week after the metal beast subtly indicated to me that it was in distress by exploding coolant all over the engine whilst Brittany and I were waiting in line at a local fast food joint. The smell of burning anti-freeze does not blend well with french fries. Make a note.

I’ve also started putting out the Christmas decorations, which is something I mostly skipped last year on account of the hurricane and various other goings-on. This year, however, I’m decking the halls like Chevy Chase…and having just about as much luck. One of my main lawn decorations suffered a mysterious injury between now and the last time I put it up, and repairs are required before I can unleash its air-blown glory upon the neighborhood once again. Also, Brittany’s very-cool-but-insanely-heavy-and-huge apothecary table is sitting right where the Christmas tree is supposed to go, and the space ain’t big enough for the two of them. So, rather than assemble my grandmother’s antique artificial tree in the (now apothecary table-filled) window as is tradition, I think we’ll be putting up a real tree this year. We’ll just have to settle for a slightly shorter tree than I’m used to, which we’ll proudly set up on top of the table.

Trey has never had a real Christmas tree, and since nothing says Christmas like a slowly dying coniferous evergreen in your living room, I think he deserves one. I hope he’ll enjoy it more than the artificial tree, and the fact that it will be standing atop the apothecary table brings with it the added bonus of presents elevated from inquisitive toddler hands that might otherwise be tempted to execute a pre-emptive strike on Santa’s bounty before Christmas morning. My parents always had a natural tree for Christmas, and there’s something about the scent of a pine tree mingling with the distinctive smell that comes from the slightly heated plastic of bubble lights that always makes me feel like I’m a kid again. One whiff and I’m ten years old and eagerly anticipating waking up on Christmas morning, hoping there’ll be a brand-new Apple ][ computer waiting for me under the tree. I’ll never forget that Christmas, and I hope that I can give Trey the same sort of vivid memories from our celebrations together as my parents gave to me.

Then again, my cell phone runs a better version of The Oregon Trail than my old Apple ever could, so I’ll have to keep up with the times and get Trey something current and just as exciting to him as my old beige monstrosity was to me so many years ago. I can’t imagine what sort of holographic, microchip brain implanted, augmented reality version of The Oregon Trail that may exist for whatever super computer will be around whenever he hits the big 1-0, but I do know that I’ll probably still die of dysentery before I even make it to Fort Laramie – but at least I won’t have to flip the floppy disc to side 2 when I get there!

Want some books? 'Course ya do!

NOTE:  I know times are hard and yeah, I need to make a living too, but if you want to read any of my books but can't afford to buy them right now, hit me up.

I'll take care of it.

Humor | Nonfiction
Available now from the following retailers

Have you ever lived through an experience that was so humiliating that you wanted to die, but when you tell it to all your friends, they can't stop laughing?

Have you ever made a decision that seemed like a good idea at the time, but you're still living with the hilarious consequences years later?

If so, then grab a snack, get comfortable, and prepare to have all of your own poor life choices seem just a little bit more bearable.

You're welcome.

Short Stories
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The nine stories of rage and sadness collected here range from the most intimate of human experiences to the wildest realms of magic and fantasy. The first story is a violent gut-punch to the soul, and the rest of them just hit harder from there.

Those who tough it out will find a book filled with as much hope as despair, a constant contradiction pulling you from one extreme to another.

Life might knock us down, over and over, and will the beat the ever-loving snot out of us from the time we're old enough to give it attitude until the day we finally let it win and stop getting up.

Always get back up.

Gaming | Nonfiction
Available now from the following retailers

This isn't just a book. It's a portal to other worlds where there be magic and dragons and hilarious pirates. Okay, not really. But this book is about those portals, except they're called video games.

The Life Bytes series of books take a deep dive into one man's personal journey through childhood into kinda/sorta being a responsible, competent adult as told through the magical lens of whatever video games he was playing at the time.

Part One starts way back in 1975 and meanders down various digital pathways until, oh, around about 1993 or so.

If you're feeling nostalgic for the early days of gaming or if you just want to understand why the gamer in your life loves this hobby so much, take a seat in your favorite comfy chair and crack this bad boy open.

I'll try to not be boring.

Horror
Available now from the following retailers

What you are about to read is not a story. There is no beginning, middle, or end.

What follows is nothing more than a series of journal entries involving shadow people, sleep paralysis, and crippling fear. It’s not pretty, it doesn’t follow story logic, and nothing works out well in the end.

You've been warned.