LARP: The Remembering
I LARPed because I had nothing better to do.
That is the truest statement I can possibly muster about the many times I stepped onto a game floor dressed as some vampire or other supernatural creature. That's not to say that I despised gaming, and in fact, I enjoyed the experience. I enjoyed being Dion Haig, Jean-Louis Divisdeschade, Gabriel Silverman and any other role I took. Escapism? Sure, but what it really was was communion.
Most friends are gamers of one stripe or another. My novel/thesis is a thinly veiled memoir about this experience. That's not to say that it is true in fact (most events are loosely based on reality, but predominantly bullshit), but it is true in heart. I know that must sound horribly emo of me, but then again, we were pretending to be vampires.
I had nothing better to do.
In truth, I did. I could have been writing. I could have been working out. I could have been working on getting a job that didn't involve pushing a broom across a floor. But I didn't. My friends were there. My girlfriend was (for most of them) there. It was where we met, all of us, once a month to pay homage to and celebrate in our many layers of geek. To this day, whenever I teach a class and have to decide which side get's their papers back first, I have two students get up from their seats and rock-paper-scissors it out. They think it's silly fun, and it is, but all the while they are shaking off signs, I'm thinking about what ability retest to throw for the next presence challenge.
In truth, LARPing made it possible for me to be a teacher, not only in my ability to run a classroom and talk myself through explanations of rhetorical analysis essays, but also in my ability to navigate the sabbat-esque political environment of higher-ed. (However, it didn't do any wonders for my posture, as the person who is in the room with me right now just cringed at the sound of my back cracking.) Despite it being the geekiest thing one can do with one's free time (arguable statement, I'm sure), LARPing nevertheless had some redeeming skills that it could impart to those who participated.
Now, years afterward, I teach at a community college. It's a tenure-track gig, and a far cry from the days of following around a broom. I no longer LARP, and my gaming habit is dying out. Now my free time is spent talking to wonderful people, people I care about outside the context of vampiric disciplines and downtime actions, and that's okay. It's quite nice, actually. But I still, every now and again feel the twinge coming from deep within my goblin-slaying, stake-pounding soul, urging me to write down some traits and de-rustify my rock-paper-scissors skills. Every now and again, I miss the group gatherings, the punch, the item cards, the dressing up, the horrible pseudo-British accents. Every now and again, I miss not having any real responsibility and being able to stay up until five am discussing the finer points of thaumaturgical rituals. I miss having nothing better to do.
But right now there is someone reading a Hellboy comic on the couch nearby, and I'm going to go over and talk to said person, because this person is kind and amazing and deserving of attention. Best of all, I don't have to throw a challenge in order to do so.
PS: God rest your soul, Ragin Miller. Keep Hunter Thompson company until I get there.
That is the truest statement I can possibly muster about the many times I stepped onto a game floor dressed as some vampire or other supernatural creature. That's not to say that I despised gaming, and in fact, I enjoyed the experience. I enjoyed being Dion Haig, Jean-Louis Divisdeschade, Gabriel Silverman and any other role I took. Escapism? Sure, but what it really was was communion.
Most friends are gamers of one stripe or another. My novel/thesis is a thinly veiled memoir about this experience. That's not to say that it is true in fact (most events are loosely based on reality, but predominantly bullshit), but it is true in heart. I know that must sound horribly emo of me, but then again, we were pretending to be vampires.
I had nothing better to do.
In truth, I did. I could have been writing. I could have been working out. I could have been working on getting a job that didn't involve pushing a broom across a floor. But I didn't. My friends were there. My girlfriend was (for most of them) there. It was where we met, all of us, once a month to pay homage to and celebrate in our many layers of geek. To this day, whenever I teach a class and have to decide which side get's their papers back first, I have two students get up from their seats and rock-paper-scissors it out. They think it's silly fun, and it is, but all the while they are shaking off signs, I'm thinking about what ability retest to throw for the next presence challenge.
In truth, LARPing made it possible for me to be a teacher, not only in my ability to run a classroom and talk myself through explanations of rhetorical analysis essays, but also in my ability to navigate the sabbat-esque political environment of higher-ed. (However, it didn't do any wonders for my posture, as the person who is in the room with me right now just cringed at the sound of my back cracking.) Despite it being the geekiest thing one can do with one's free time (arguable statement, I'm sure), LARPing nevertheless had some redeeming skills that it could impart to those who participated.
Now, years afterward, I teach at a community college. It's a tenure-track gig, and a far cry from the days of following around a broom. I no longer LARP, and my gaming habit is dying out. Now my free time is spent talking to wonderful people, people I care about outside the context of vampiric disciplines and downtime actions, and that's okay. It's quite nice, actually. But I still, every now and again feel the twinge coming from deep within my goblin-slaying, stake-pounding soul, urging me to write down some traits and de-rustify my rock-paper-scissors skills. Every now and again, I miss the group gatherings, the punch, the item cards, the dressing up, the horrible pseudo-British accents. Every now and again, I miss not having any real responsibility and being able to stay up until five am discussing the finer points of thaumaturgical rituals. I miss having nothing better to do.
But right now there is someone reading a Hellboy comic on the couch nearby, and I'm going to go over and talk to said person, because this person is kind and amazing and deserving of attention. Best of all, I don't have to throw a challenge in order to do so.
PS: God rest your soul, Ragin Miller. Keep Hunter Thompson company until I get there.