Beer Fest!

Beerfest. Where people drink beer and listen to bands play. A straight-forward and simple plan of action one would be compelled to believe. And they would be right. That's all a beerfest really is. Founders seems to draw two types in particular. The Bros – as there is beer, add that to the fact that there are other Bros to rape, and you get a feeding frenzy. Group two is the Hipsters. Since the festival seemed to be infested with non-hipsters(the Bros as well as others) I'm wondering if the Hipsters are only showing up out of a sense of irony.

I don't know if I've mentioned it, but I don't drink. No reason why, I just don't. And I don't have a passion for music. I like music, even love it at times. But there's no burning desire to ensconce myself in front of a stage and press my head against the loudspeaker until my ears bleed. I'm perfectly content with canned music since, unless I'm dumb it doesn't damage what little I still have left of my hearing.

The bands ranged from OK to interesting, what I could hear. Eventually the music was droned out by the noise of conversation. There's that buzz that it becomes when hundreds of people are talking at once and the sounds cease to be meaningless and become noise. Often background noise. When I notice the buzz, it begins to freak me out. The hum is unescapable and wears at my fragile mind.

The noise makes even brief attempts at conversations rather self-defeating, which kills the mental stimulation that I need. Something to think about please. So, I begin to daydream about seeing epic Street Fighter style battles between the Bros and Hipsters. It's great. Just imagine seeing a Hipster yell Haduken! And throwing a ball of energy at a Bro. Fun times.

So, the concept on most levels is rather dull for a non-drinking hermit like myself. The only real draw? People watching. And a truer definition: Oggling Girls in their summer clothes. As I recall, scantily clad members of the female sex is a regular theme here on this blog. Comic con? Girls cosplaying. Rennfest? Girls cosplaying. I am a broken record. But as a creepy old shut-in, girls in revealing outfits are rare indeed in my usual domain. I'm forced to head out into the world to see them in their natural habitat.

This is worth the venture.

Note: Leering and drooling, are not socially acceptable behavior. Just passing on the hard won wisdom.

What else is there to say? The attention whores show up in droves to these events. Much like the cosplayers at nerdier events. Actually, exactly like cosplayers. The most notable was the Ent. See pic below. But others were the hula-hoopers. Dunno how they fit in, but there was a booth renting/selling hula hoops, so it can't be a new phenomenon. Founders Fest was a strange sight, and I am on the fence whether or not I enjoyed it fully.

The hardcore life of a drug mule.

I got to do some drug-muling this week. Boy was it fun.

Wait, that sounds like an actual adventure, and not a twisted half-mirror image of one. I work for a pharmacy that specializes In supplying long term care facilities. Most facilities are on a 30 day cycle for their medications, meaning that they generally get one large shipment every 30 days. With exceptions being made for emergencies and new prescriptions. But all in all days are spent packing tens of thousands of dollars of medication for one delivery. All your eggs in one basket indeed.

Let me explain something about the facility in question. First, it is a depressing place to visit as they take care of and house car accident victims. I don't mean people who broke an arm in a car crash, I mean the folks who have come away permanently changed. Or just aren't there any more. One of the most depressing set of instructions ever seen on a script is probably "Apply to stumps." Really, when it comes to a place like this, those what die are the lucky ones. The rest are just vegetables and shells. Which is why, that if I get into an accident, I hope to buy the farm immediately.

I think that 16 year old kids, and people on DUI charges should be forced to visit... no, work at a place like the Facility. Videos and brochures and slogans are all nice, but you need to be able to experience in all visceral sensual detail what their decisions could lead to, either for themselves or for others. Let them apply ointments to the stumps of a vegetable for a few weeks. Let them interact with the brain-scrambled denizens that poke and prod and generally go on crazy.

And if they fail to learn the lesson, shoot them, as anyone that thick shouldn't be allowed to breed.

In seven months, this is the third time I've taken cycle to the Facility. The first time was because our driver decided to take a day off right as cycle was due. This was about two weeks after I started. I got to drive across the state and deliver the cycle. Which is for our little company a very big deal. Almost like, oh I don't know, some asshole captain of an oil tanker in say Alaska skiving off to get drunk and handing the job over to the peon who washes dishes. Except that I avoided grounding on any reefs.

This is all just to say, muling isn't my usual job, I just step in when needed.

Our driver promoted himself to the head of the delivery department. This happened when one of our competitors imploded and our business quadrupled in like a week. So they brought in a ton of new people and a half-dozen new drivers. Here's where my confusion begins, they have a load of drivers who are fully capable of taking an object from point a and leaving it at point b and then returning home. They have one woman who is dedicated to this route. Plus the self-styled manager of the delivery department carried cycle to this very Facility at least ten times in the past year, plus near daily visits in between.

When he stepped up, he gave his job to an older woman. One who has yet to win the confidence of some of management in her ability to take an object from point a and point b and then return. She's pissed off the goblin that works at the Facility, who just happens unpleasant creature who doesn't seem to like anyone or anything. So I was asked to go along to make things smoother.

Which brings me back...

It turns out that I wasn't just along as extra muscle, I was the actual driver and delivery monkey. This is a one person job, and I would have preferred to do it alone. Or better have our main driver take over.

If one of his hand picked followers is incapable of doing the job, shouldn't the head of the shipping department be the one who steps in? It's not like the man is busy, his days are spent chatting on the phone and taking two hour lunch breaks at Hooters. Yeah, this is great. I'm doing his job. I hope I get paid extra for it. I would like to be the head driver for a day. Hang out at Hooters. Wreck the company bathroom. Take an hour to fill one car up with gas. Creep out the female members of the staff and get away with it.

The drive over went quietly and smooth. How I like it.

There was yelling when we arrived, or so I heard tell of later. The warthog wasn't too pleased to see my copilot. She came out of the South Building and yelled "Don't you know where South is?" I pointed at the building and responded "Yeah, It's right there!" Had I wanted to see a real explosion, I could have said "Do you need directions?" But I like having my testicles whole and attached to my person, so I kept my mouth shut.

Beyond this, the delivery went rather smoothly. Dropped off meds, saw pretty girls. That's the one reason for a Facility visit for me, they have a lot of pretty girls working there. My company is sadly lacking on that front. Gotta go out and visit other companies to see natural beauties in their wild habitats. With luck, maybe I'll bring one home one day.

During the second to the last stop, one of the more mobile patients approached my copilot and asked a simple question "Did it hurt?" Now there are two possible reasons that I can think of for this question, and sadly he didn't opt for the first and instead finished with one of the classic pick-up lines. Only to immediately dive into a second, followed by a third. My copilot giggled the whole time. We don't think she usually gets that sort of attention.

A second high-point, if it can be considered so, involved an idiot man-child. Now, when you stand in the center of a group of angry women, and then make what can be considered sexist statements to them, you should expect to get a beating. He didn't seem to make that connection as they slapped him. He even asked why I didn't man up and help him. I called him a moron. That got a laugh.

Then the return trip. The trip out was quiet, the one back not so much so. I got to hear about the yelling, and autistic grand children and about a dozen other topics of less interest. I thought about the pretty girls.

My favorite quote from the entire experience was "Animals are alive." This wasn't from a head-paitent or a random crazy hobo, but my copilot just after we narrowly missed turning a living breathing turkey into something that could be squeezed through a feeding tube. I don't know what she meant by it - I think that this was my "If it weren't for my horse" moment. I've tried to dissect the statement, and the best I can come up with was that it was a philosophical observation about the changing of the weather and how animals seem to just re-appear again.

Or maybe she's just dumb.

Round and round they go.

The general theme to this blog, at least in the beginning was that I would visit a place with my camera and take pictures along the way. Pretty damn simple. Except that I've been writing about adventures that don't really require photos, and I've not been bringing my camera since most of the events have arrived on short notice. It doesn't help that I went from having a lot of free time but no money to some extra money but little free-time. Paradoxes are a bitch. Growing up sucks. Here we are. Thus, I don't update too often. Only when something new and vaguely interesting comes into my life.

I live a dull life, as these pages will attest.

We kicked off the evening with BBQ at Sandmanns. If you ever visit town, be sure to give them a whirl. The food is inexpensive, plentiful and delicious. To the point that I feel the need to pimp them here to people who live across the far corners of the world.

I really don't enjoy spectator sports. Before I got lazy, I used to love playing games like soccer (football for the rest of the world) and badminton. I was reasonably decent at baseball, I even liked to run. Then, I graduated high school and drifted more towards geek culture and the computer gaming and general nerdiness. Yeah, I've played Dungeons and Dragons, and despite that I do one day entertain hopes that I will actually get to kiss a girl. It'll happen. Maybe. If I'm really lucky.

Anyhow, I just don't excited about watching other people play games. I don't gamble, and I'm not playing. I have nothing invested in whether or not a team wins are loses. I've lived in too many places to be attached to a club just by the fact that they 'represent' my home school/city/state. I've always been like that. I just take no pride in something that arbitrary and lame. Somebody else won a game that I wasn't playing. Meh.

But then, I watched Blood on the Flat Track: Rat City Roller Girls over that wonderful service that is Netflix. I found a new sport to appreciate.

Roller Derby has been around in one form or another since the 1930s. It's popularity waxes and wanes over the years and has been experiencing a resurgence over the last decade or so as leagues pop up all over the country. I hear it's really quite popular over on the west coast. But here in the midwest we have managed to cobble together a few teams. Which is cool, since It means that I didn't have to go far to experience this new delight.

Let me describe Roller Derby. Imagine one of those ancient Roman Chariot races where the chariots try to speed around the course and pass each other while beating the crap out of their . Roller Derby is kind of the same, in the fact that wheeled competitors are going around in circles around a track while inflicting harm. That's about where the comparison ends. Derby is a team sport where the opposing teams wear roller skates. The basic gist is as follows, there are about six players from each team on the floor. They're broken into two groups. The pack is made up of the majority of the players. They skate around in circles together as a big group, elbowing one another and generally carrying on in good fun.

Now for the scoring of points. Each team has a player called a Jammer. They start well behind the pack a moment or so after each round begins. The Jammer's job is to try and pass as many of the opposing players as possible. For each player they pass, they are awarded one point. There's some strategy here. The first Jammer to pass the entire pack is given the title of lead Jammer. It is in their power to call off the round whenever they please. Thus the strategic element to the game.

Then you have the coach, whose job it is to stand on the sidelines and yell “Skate faster!” and “Keep Skating.” The dude must be somebody's retarded brother. The special guy that wears a bike helmet and swim floaties wherever he goes, and he was just given the job to shut him up and make him feel special. Really, a coach on the sidelines is nearly completely useless in this sport. But hey, I love how the absurdity adds to the color. Don't change a thing.

Honestly, the spectacle gets repetitive quick for people like me. Roller Derby is rather linear and simple in nature. The players always go in the same direction. They always have the same goals. It's about like NASCAR, but with more intentional violence and far less deadly crashes. Yeah, they're really not allowed to get too physical out on the floor.

Where does it get interesting then? Well, here abouts anyway, the Roller Derby teams are almost entirely made up of female members. That's right. Girls on skates. Wait, it gets better. Girls in skimpy outfits on skates. Glee! Sex and violence. All the aspects that make for good entertainment. Women in hotpants and stockings bouncing off one-another.

That's about it. But what more does anyone need?

So, I had several weeks heads-up with the derby. I knew it was coming. I could have brought my camera. But I didn't. Why? Well, for the same reasons I don't often get pics at conventions of girls. I just feel like an utter perv. I am a perv. I know this. Known it for a while. But I don't like to draw attention to the fact.

But, should you ever get a chance, take in a match and make sure you experience this great sport live. Girls in skimpy outfits grinding and colliding with one another. Life is good.

The local league has two teams, and they import other teams to play against from such places as Chicago, Kalamazoo and Stepford CT. After watching Blood on the Flat Track, I looked up Roller Derby on my old friend Google and found our local league. I mentioned it to the Fat Man, who had also seen the documentary, and we made plans to hit it for my birthday celebration this year. Last year it was the Art Institute in Chicago. God, I'm a dork.

I'm waiting for the day that Derby gets the international attention that it disturbs. When it replaces soccer/football as the world's sport. Not likely to happen, since flat tracks and rollerskates are a lot more expensive than a ball and a field. But hey, it can at least make a showing in the Olympics. If Synchronized Swimming is recognized, Roller Derby is desperately under represented.

My half-assed adventure in learning a stick

Ding! Did you hear that? This toon just went up a level. Rank two Office Bitch! That's me! Wow, all that time spent camping the filing cabinet finally paid off! And what do I get? A new skill point! Sweet! Where do I spend it? Another rank in filing? Or maybe I could up my stats in Computers: Basic and finally figure out where they put the Any Key.

“Mike, the company car, it is a manual. Do you know how to drive?” She asked.

“No, said I. I maxed out automatic.”

“Well, you'll want to fix that yes? Manual driving is requirement for class. You need skill. Driving for getting stuff is your job.” Goddamn class requirements. I was going to invest in some Shmoozing With the Boss, or Sleeping With Your Eyes Open. Hell, there's always the old standby Looking Busy. But that's what happens when you roll up an Office Bitch. Isn't it just?

Just gotta check that description one last time... By taking this skill you will be proficient operating motorized automobiles using the manual transmission. These vehicles have a lower sticker price, and are more fuel efficient. Besides, chicks dig a dude who can drive a stick!

I dropped my solitary skill point into Operating Manual Transmission.

There are two ways to attack this problem. Procrastination isn't one of them. The first being to find someone who knows how to drive a manual and say, “Hey you! You know how to do this! Teach me!” That's the mentor route. Pretty shiny!

I've seen Karate Kid. I know that finding a qualified teacher is the better way to go.

But then I've seen porn too, and know that hot chicks answer the door in lingerie and offer the pizza boy sexual gratification in exchange for free pizza. Well, guess what didn't happen when I played the delivery driver campaign?

Yeah, I went with option two. I Googled it. There are a surprising number of videos available on the subject. So I dove in. Got the fundamentals. A picture is worth a thousand words? Well a video is worth a whole freaking library baby. I was ready.

The company owns a tiny, blue car that probably gets amazing gas mileage. The company owns it. Not me. Now they were sending a Low Level Peon out to try to learn a new skill in this dangerous machine.

Step one, push the clutch pedal to the floor. Start the car. Step three, select gear. Reverse. I wanted to back up. Now, how the fuck do you get this thing into reverse? Those inside, between the gales of laughter at my Noob Status, took pity on me and sent out a low level teacher. She kindly pointed out that there is a trick into getting into reverse. With that hint, the car started to move.

First gear! Time to go forward. About three whole inches and then the car stalled.

The man who normally drives the car is a Level Eight Delivery Driver, with at least a dozen ranks in Creepy Old Dude. He leaves the car smelling like smoke and the radio set on Glenn Beck. The radio in this car is a funny one. Pushing the volume knob mutes all sound. For the time being. Which means, that every time you start the car, the radio comes back to life, and there's Glenn with his usual manipulative crazy noise. Everytime the engine stalls, it needs to be restarted.

And there's Glenn with the crazy in his head.

The carrot and the stick. Girls love a dude who can drive a manual, that's the Carrot. Glenn Beck is the stick. Or a douche. Go, Mikey, Go! Learn fast and you will be rewarded. Fail to improve and you will suffer the consequences! Glen flogged me onward. One would think, towards improvement.

The carrot and stick method didn't work that well. After about the fiftieth stall, I punched the radio. Glen beck didn't shut up. I did take one point of damage to my hand. That's what you get for attacking an NPC in town I guess. I conceded defeat for day one. And then less so for day two.

Finally, I enlisted the help of Mister Miagi. His was an air of unerring Zen as he sat calmly in the passenger seat and in a kind and cheerful way, pointed out why I was a grade A doofus who would never know the love of a woman(for women love men who can drive a manual). Oh, and that the car was stalling because I wasn't giving it enough gas. And yes, It was fine to leave the clutch a little way in while I started to accelerate and the slowly ease off.

Huzzah! I finally qualified for rank one!

If I were an utter nerd, and I am, I would describe my skillz with a manual as such: Say instead I squandered my single point on something useless like proficiency in short swords. Say, that

“All right, that is the sharp end. I point that at the monsters. Or, here abouts, the small woodland creatures. Ouch! What the fuck? Oh, right, keep the sharp end away from myself. I'll have to keep that in mind. Check this out. Ah, shit, dropped it. Ouch, how did I cut myself? Stupid pointy end, why is it so sharp. Hey, it has a scabbard!”

And so forth.

So, I can get out of the Parkinglot. Where are the girls?