I first made the acquaintance of Tom in the spring of 2005. For years we attended a live-action roleplaying game (or "LARP", to those in the biz) that met 6 times a year at a 4H camp in Spencer, MA called Legends; the same said LARP of internet-fame thanks to the brilliance of our world-renowned Lightning Bolt video - the brainchild of some marketing genius looking to dissipate the perpetual stench of "uncool" surrounding the roleplaying crowd. That, of course, worked out well for all involved; especially "Tilanthis" (the gent featured in said video chucking "lightning bolt" birdseed packets), whose performance earned him a television appearance as one of the single most embarrassing people captured on video posted to the internet. He now charges $5 per signed "spell packet" at science fiction conventions. True story, people. America digs nerds, and I, for one, can't wait until he starts doing product endorsements.
Alas, for all the fame and fortune that befell our dear Mr. "Tilanthis" Boucher, neither Tom's nor my LARPing experience ever resulted in quite such wild success. Tom and I got each other (for better or for worse), a handful of embarrassing alcohol consumption problems, and a tight-knit group of friends who have become as close to family as I'm sure to find on the East Coast. Really, that's not such an awful tradeoff in the grand scheme of things.
Both Tom and I were the type of people who enjoyed humorously jerking other people around (I moreso than he, when it came to roleplaying, though when prompted towards original thought, Tom had an excellent mind for a well-crafted prank). Therefore, we relished those 6 weekend events each year as opportunities to show off some truly masterful feats of offensive humor... often times elevated to performance art. While never harmful or destructive to anyone else's good time, I personally liked to think that the elaborate anachronisms we added to the game really helped our fellow gamers lighten up a little and see the humor in the fact that they were running around the woods brandishing weapons made of PVC and foam, answering to Balendorf Breakswind, Hunter of the Drow. In the world of live-action roleplaying, few social pitfalls are greater than that of conflating the winning qualities of one's game character with those in real life. In fact, I daresay that being self-aware of its inherently humorous nature is the only way I feel safe in allowing myself to indulge in the escapism of fantasy roleplay at all. The world will rue the day that I ever forget "it's only a game."
The Granola-Eating Assclown I was dating at the time, however, was one such roleplayer who frequently fell victim to social pitfalls that come with forgetting the difference between fantasy and reality. He frequently took other players' snipes at his remarkably one-dimensional character as personal affronts to his manhood and on several occasions took serious issue with me for the unladylike behavior (read: swear-words, burps and farts) I exhibited when roleplaying my character, the town drunk. Frankly, I think I was as much of an embarrassment to him as he was to me. After seasons of consoling Mr. Clown for days after attending a roleplaying event he deemed unsatisfying due to game staff "totally messing up his plot" and my make-believe burps and farts, associating with people who took the game much less seriously became a necessary breath of fresh air to maintain my sanity (and what little there was left worth maintaining in my relationship with that limp-wristed ponce).
Despite our shared enjoyment of being the metaphorical saran wrap on the toilet seat of Legends, my interaction with Tom was fairly infrequent for the first four years we attended the game together. In fact, it was not until one particularly bad night where alcohol reserves ran dry that I sought out his company in earnest.
After a year or so of having to endure Mr. Clown's constant complaints, I took up drinking with my friend Steve after "game over" was called for the night at each weekend event. Since drinking was forbidden on the campsite according to the official game rules, I found myself often counting down the hours until 2am, when I could change into my jeans and split a bottle of fortified wine in the woods somewhere until I was sufficiently drunk enough to wander back to the tiny little cabin I shared with Mr. Clown and pass out. On nights that I was especially lucky, our drinking sessions would go late enough that I would wander into the cabin just as Mr. Clown was finishing noisily snapping on the gazillion pieces of armor which comprised his costume and heading out the door at the asscrack of dawn to beat everyone else to the "good loot" the game staff laid out on the trails for people. If ever there were a blessing to be had in Mr. Clown taking the game so seriously, it was the fact that I could occasionally drunkenly snooze undisturbed for several hours.
However, one particularly miserable evening, Steve and I discovered that the experimental bottle of chardonnay I had purchased from the local liquor store was absolutely disgusting. We looked woefully at each other, then the bottle of skunky wine, and discussed our limited options. Until fairly recently, the practice of drinking after spending an entire day roleplaying with a bunch of nerds had been somewhat limited to Steve and myself sneaking off into the woods and brown-bagging some wine. However, a recent tent encampment had sprung up in the lower part of the 4H camp centered around a bum-campfire, and was rumored to be a second bastion of post-game alcoholic delight. In hopes of pawning off our gross bottle of wine in trade for something palatable, Steve and I made our way to the camp.
It was here that I was first introduced to the Dirty Mercs - a group of people that would later become some of my closest friends both in real-life and within the world of LARP. The Dirty Mercs were called such for the fact that they roleplayed a group of mercenaries, led by Tom, during game hours, and for the fact that they enjoyed nothing better than playing a good rude joke on someone if given the opportunity. The kind of folks you'd really want to be stuck with if you were roleplaying with your boyfriend for a weekend at a 4H camp.
As we introduced ourselves to this group, it became clear that it would be no mere feat to fool this bunch into drinking our sour wine. Fine beers and choice liquors peeped out of paper bags clutched in the hands of these crude men and women - this was not a Bud Lite crowd. Despite our sub-par offering of wine, however, the Dirty Mercs were happy to share their contraband with Steve and myself after hearing my explanation for why I needed to drink. To them, it seemed, there were few fates worse than crawling into bed next to Mr. Clown sober. Despite my misgivings regarding the slander of the man I was dating, I undoubtedly agreed.
Our conversations took us many places that night. Among them was a comparison of the most useless prop items we had received over the years as part of the roleplaying game. LARPs sure do give away a lot of crap. I wonder if the LARP industry of New England is secretly responsible for single-handedly keeping the Christmas Tree Shops in business.
"I have this 'minotaur horn' made out of duct tape and foam," I admitted. "I got it as a prize when I went 'minotaur tipping' with the rest of the town drunks."
"What does it do?" asked Tom.
"Nothing, as far as I can tell. It's just a useless trophy item. I wish I could do something good with it."
"If it had something written on it in Elvish," Tom suggested, "you could totally get half the suckers in the game to fight over it. Especially Tilanthis. Nerds love Elvish. Hell, I bet if it were a strap-on, people would fight for it."
"Hah!" I said, "that would be priceless! A gilded Elvish codpiece of the Gold Court. I can just imagine that being the mother of all boy scout badges for the avid LARPer. If you tell them it's a magic item, I bet they'd wear it. I'd want to see Mr. Clown wearing it - he'd probably gnaw off Tilanthis' right leg for it."
"If you will paint it, I will make a strap for it."
Ladies and gentlemen, I know there's something deeply wrong with a woman who is charmed by a man's groincobbling skill, but then again, I wasn't being given a lot to work with in the Mr. Clown department. A man willing to support me in my tasteless endeavor to make people fight over a gold Elvish strap-on, purely for the sake of my amusement... well that was about as good as being swept off my feet. This is really how Tom won my heart.
"Really? You'd do that for me?"
"Absolutely. I'll bring my leatherworking kit next game and you will have your harness."
Follow-through. I like that in a man. People fear follow-through. Inspiring fear that you'll do what you threaten to do - that's where I get my jollies in life. I could tell this was going to be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
"Let's do this," I said.
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