Bowling for E. Gary Gygax
The other weekend my friend JR was in town. Went to a lame show at the Fireside Bowl, an old bowling alley turned punk club, on Friday, watched mohican-haired teenagers text message each other on their cell phones and look sad, even though a Japanese hardcore band called Electric Eel Shock had come all this way to play songs like "Super Puma" for them. Ingrates. The next morning, JR was looking around online and randomly came across a page telling how, in the early days of Dungeons & Dragons, photocopied versions of the game outnumbered legitimate copies 2 - 1, and so fanatical TSR supporters (calling themselves "TSR rude boys") would go around gaming conventions, confiscating and destroying any "pirated" copies of the D&D rules that they found. Taking it as a sign, we decided we should drive up to Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, where TSR was founded, and check the town out. We had planned on checking out Milwaukee anyhow, and Lake Geneva was only an hour out of the way.
Lake Geneva is a little resort town about 90 minutes north of Chicago, just across the Wisconsin border, and like all resort towns, much more interesting to visit during the off-season. JR had found a street address for TSR from some old AD&D module someone had scanned online in .pdf format, which we fed into mapquest. I guess I always imagined TSR HQ as being in some old 1970's style office park, but this what we came across:
Fuck, how disappointing, looked like it was just their warehouse and shipping/receiving location. TSR is long gone from Lake Geneva, having been acquired by Wizards of the Coast. The facility itself looked kind of abandoned, or at least underused. We saw an old tractor-trailer rig in the parking lot, with yellow flames painted on its side, BJ & the Bear era shit ("Hey, bro what you haulin?" "Modules dude! Gotta get these modules to the kids!")
It was a Saturday afternoon, and we figured that if we could find a library, maybe it would have some old phone books in it, and we could see where E. Gary Gygax himself used to live. So we hit the library, and found a street address that appeared to be good from 1971 through at least 1977:
First though, we drove by what was supposed to be the circa-1977 offices of TSR. It was ideally situated next to a Pizza Hut:
Then we went by Gygax's old crib, which turned out to now be this hippy crafts shoppe:
It was a pretty small house --hobbit sized actually. All the rooms were filled with overpriced arts & crafts, some of which we felt obligated to purchase so that we could question the proprietrix, a bubbly, lawful good, trust fund artisan, about the house's past. She said that yeah, every now and then Seekers would come in there and ask the same thing. Some would request to see "the Door," which is an old door set up on sawhorses in the basement, which allegedly served as the gaming table for the first D&D campaigns. We asked if she'd take us down to see it, but she demurred. Probably could have rolled d20 against charisma to try and get a peek at it, but it didn't seem like she wanted to leave her store unattended and take a couple of chaotic neutral strangers who were probably into human sacrifices down into any basements. She did, however, offer up some more lore, saying how the building next door used to be a barn, and for a while E.G.G. worked out of it as a cobbler. She also mentioned in passing that he made a lot of money, blew most of it, lost the rest to various litigations, including a divorce, and now lived somewhere in the area.
Well, fuck. May as well drive by his current place too, and see how life is treating him. The address was ridiculously easy to find. I'm hesitant to say exactly how easy, out of respect to the guy's privacy. Which he must not care that much about, seeing as how he's not even making a cursory effort to hide. So okay, we just called up directory assistance, and they gave us his address and phone number.
The trust fund artisan we had talked to made it sound like he'd blown all his loot and had returned to his townie roots, but he didn't seem to be doing too badly. He had a good sized but unostentatious pad on a quiet, middle class street, the type of old house that in college towns would get split into four or five smaller units. He's steps away from the lake, and this being a resort town populated by the heirs of old Chicago and Milwaukee fortunes, I figured its worth at least about $400,000. He had two newer Volvos, a sedan and a wagon, in the driveway. Not that I give all that much of a shit, but I was glad to see that he hadn't been reduced to performing at filk sings or something just to eat, which was the impression the lady at the crafts store had given us.
if yr reading this, you probably helped pay for it
J.R. said we should go knock and say hi. I was against the idea, and said that he's probably got enough kooks coming around wanting to argue about critical hit tables and non-weapon proficiencies. He probably doesn't want to be bothered. But then again, he still has his phone number and address listed with directory assistance! He must *want* visitors! Then again, I could see him being the type of curmudgeon who refuses to pay an extra $1.50 a month, on principal, to keep the phone company from revealing his personal info. Then again, maybe he doesn't even live there.
We got on a road and drove west out of town, listening to Ice-T sing about cop killing, and discussed it some more. "Show up and knock and and say hi and then what?" I asked. "Just wanted to say 'hey!' K, thx, bye!" Totally fucking rude. I'm not the autograph seeking type, and neither is J.R. But, we agreed that it would be an undeniably good thing to meet Gary Gygax. But then again, I didn't want to invade this person's space. But then again again, it'd be really cool to someday be able to say you'd met Gary fucking Gygax! Etc., etc. etc. And what if he died tomorrow? I hear he chain-smokes Camel unfiltereds, and I bet he doesn't exercise much.
I mean really, Gygax was one of the most influential thinkers of the 20th Century. Almost everyone I know had at least a passing acquaintance with D&D in their formative years. That shit, and the other RPG's that followed, shaped millions of minds, including my own. Today, powerful people of all alignments, of all social and character classes have that polyhedron dice shit hardwired in their brains, and it affects and informs their actions on the world. I grew up in the sticks, and there weren't enough people around me who stayed interested in it to ever sustain a real campaign. By the time high school started, I guess I was completely out of that phase. But from fifth grade through junior high, that shit was all-consuming, and an incredible education. I basically taught myself all kinds of math, learned about history, folklore, maps, war-horses, all kinds of shit I never would have been exposed to otherwise. To this day, I still look at my chances of success in any challenge I might face in terms of rolling d100, especially if it's something where everything I could do, I've done, and the denouement is out of my hands. Standardized test scores? HIV test results? Felony bench trial? Emergency student loan application? Waiting to hear back on any of that kind of shit can be nerve-wracking, but I've always taken a bit of solace in researching whatever it was I was up against, breaking the statistics down into a mental table; sleeping better knowing that unless I roll 95-00 or something I'm going to be just fine. I don't know that I would be able to be so detached from shit if I hadn't been conditioned to look at the world as a series of percentile dice throws when I was little. So anyhow, meeting this dude would be like meeting one's, uhm, programmer.
Which was another reason I didn't want to go up and knock on this guy's door. What if he was a total dick? Over the years, meeting various musicians who played in some of my favorite bands has often ruined their music for me, because the people behind it were so foul (notable exception: Trent Reznor). I wouldn't want to remember Gary Gygax as being some bastard, even if we did bring that side of him out by knocking on his door unannounced at dinner time.
So anyhow, we drove around and discussed the situation. Finally I told J.R. that absolutely would not do it, but I'd wait in the car if he wanted to go up and knock or something. I did allow that I would do it if we had some kind of pretense that would excuse what would otherwise be inexcusably rude, like if we were interviewing him (J.R. is an arts writer for a major east coast daily newspaper). J.R. wouldn't go for that -understandably I guess, who wants to turn their vacation into work? Then I suggested maybe we should bring him a gift. So we decided to scour Lake Geneva for something appropriate.
It was getting kind of late, and there's not all that much to buy in Lake Geneva, but we drove around looking for something. Interestingly, Lake Geneva is entirely devoid --at least as far as I could tell --of any indication that it recognizes the awesome contribution of its most illustrious son to western (and beyond) civilization. This guy should be the Dungeon Master Laureate of Wisconsin, yet there was nothing, nothing in all of Lake Geneva that even referenced him or D&D. Even the incredible toy store we went to --an unassuming storefront on the main (Main?) street downtown that opens up into a two-story complex compound with snack shop and underground video arcade, with original $300+ Star Wars crap in display cases, Lionel train layouts and slot-car racing sets to play with, etc. --doesn't have anything even vaguely related to swords, middle earth or whatnot. I can't help but think that you could make a fucking fortune if you set up a bar in Lake Geneva and called it "The Polyhedron" or "The Greyhawk Lounge" or something. List all prices in g.p., serve mead, etc. Maybe have a lighted 20-sided die for a disco ball or something, and the applicable memorabilia on the walls. Have no-holds-barred mace fights on Thursday nights. Geeks from Madison, Milwaukee, Chicago and all over the world would make the pilgrimage just for that. But, Lake Geneva chooses to ignore its heritage. It's like if Memphis refused to recognize Sun Studios.
Anyhow, we found this bookstore and saw this set of audiotapes of a reading of "The Lord of The Rings" (something I never read, and have no desire to, despite my background). I know, no living person on earth is probably more familiar with LOTR than Gygax. But it came in an handsomely crafted wooden gift box, so we figured it would do. Besides, all the stores in Lake Geneva were about to close. We paid $50.00 for it and set off for Gygax's place.
We walked up to his porch and J.R. knocked on the door. There was an old Milton Bradley Battleship game sitting on the porch. So I guess that's what he plays on his own time. We waited for a while, and eventually heard someone rustling inside. The door opened, and there stood a good-sized biker looking guy, long gray hair, bushy gray bearded stained with nicotine, clad in flannel shirt, comic book store t-shirt and blue jeans.
J.R. spoke first: "Would you be Gary Gygax?"
"Yes, I would be."
There was the sound of CNN in the background, and I got the feeling he had just gotten up from dinner. It was around 6 pm.
Then me and J.R. both started talking awkwardly over each other. Essentially we said that we were passing through Lake Geneva on the way to Milwaukee, and had stopped in to see the town we had grown up wondering about, given our involvement in the game that he spawned, and just for the fuck of it thought we'd call directory assistance to see if you were still in town, and they gave us your address, and we're terribly sorry to bother you, and will be leaving now, but we just wanted to give you this gift as a show of our appreciation for what you created, and know that shit meant a lot when we were growing up. And with that, J.R. held out the Box.
Gygax said thanks, it was nice to hear from appreciative fans, but that we didn't have to give him anything. I said that we thought it was right, as you've given us so much, and we figured we should give you back something in return. J.R. extended the Box again, and Gygax took it, examined it and accepted. "I'm sure you've probably read it like 900 times," I said, "But we thought that maybe you'd still like to have it."
He asked our names and we shook hands and small-talked for a few minutes. He apologized that he couldn't invite us in, but that he would have like to if we had called first, and we assured him that was not our intent in dropping by, we just wanted to say hi, and thanks for everything, and we'll be on our way now, sorry to interrupt you.
"Hey, wait just one second," he said.
With that he disappeared around a corner for a few minutes. We could hear him rooting around for something. We whispered about whether he would return with a shotgun or a cauldron of acid to splash on us. Then he called out from around the corner, "Are you guys 3-E players?"
WTF? What the fuck is 3-E? I wondered and looked at J.R. bewildered. J.R. paused for a second and said "Yup!"
"Sorry to hear that," said Gygax, jokingly. J.R. replied quickly, "Well, it's more like an amalgamation with First Edition...”
He reappeared after a few minutes and presented us with a copy of an RPG sourcebook he had just authored (or at least lent his name to) called “The Slayer’s Guide to Undead.”
We protested that he did not have to give us anything in return. He insisted we take it and said "you know, cast forth your bread upon the waters." We said thanks and goodbye, and walked back to the car. Gygax waived from the porch, and we took off for Milwaukee.
J.R. explained to me that 3-E had been put out by Wizards of the Coast, and that there was some bad blood and politics involved, and that Gygax is kinda bitter about the whole deal, thus his comment. Fuck! When he asked us if we were "3-E" players, we should have said "Fuck Wizards of the Coast! Fuck Seattle!" He was rooting around back there for a while, he probably would've given us the original handwritten manuscript to Vault of the Drow. Oh well. He turned out to be a really cool dude. Kinda had this Buddhist vibe going for him. Our unannounced visit was a little rude and selfish, even if undergirded by a very sincere desire to express gratitude and appreciation. But he was cool with it, and even gave us something in return. It was a good interaction. A few days later I called directory assistance to see if our visit had so unnerved him such that he had had the phone co. unlist his number and address. He had not.
Anyhow, we went to some townie bar called "Fat Cats" and then headed up to Milwaukee, hit some record stores to see if they had the Hookers' "Satan's Highway." No one did. So we drove around the town listening to KMFDM and Ministry, both of which are perfect bands for creeping the streets of Milwaukee. Milwaukee is a cool town. I should have thought to contact george500, and next time I will.
Ate at some hippy place called "Beans & Barley," which surprisingly was friendly, quick, reasonably priced and delicious. Then went and saw Michael Moore's "Bowling for Columbine," which was playing at some second-run movie house in the campus district. It was pretty good, as far as agitprop goes, even though Marilyn Manson came across as the most level-headed person in the entire film. But ultimately Michael Moore's narrower message --the one about guns in particular, not about institutionalized societal violence in America in general --was undercut by the very evidence he presented to make his point. It occurred to me on the way back to Chicago, fuck stereotypes, ya know, whether about gun owners or RPGers or Marilyn Manson or hippies or whoever.
Lake Geneva is a little resort town about 90 minutes north of Chicago, just across the Wisconsin border, and like all resort towns, much more interesting to visit during the off-season. JR had found a street address for TSR from some old AD&D module someone had scanned online in .pdf format, which we fed into mapquest. I guess I always imagined TSR HQ as being in some old 1970's style office park, but this what we came across:
Fuck, how disappointing, looked like it was just their warehouse and shipping/receiving location. TSR is long gone from Lake Geneva, having been acquired by Wizards of the Coast. The facility itself looked kind of abandoned, or at least underused. We saw an old tractor-trailer rig in the parking lot, with yellow flames painted on its side, BJ & the Bear era shit ("Hey, bro what you haulin?" "Modules dude! Gotta get these modules to the kids!")
It was a Saturday afternoon, and we figured that if we could find a library, maybe it would have some old phone books in it, and we could see where E. Gary Gygax himself used to live. So we hit the library, and found a street address that appeared to be good from 1971 through at least 1977:
First though, we drove by what was supposed to be the circa-1977 offices of TSR. It was ideally situated next to a Pizza Hut:
Then we went by Gygax's old crib, which turned out to now be this hippy crafts shoppe:
It was a pretty small house --hobbit sized actually. All the rooms were filled with overpriced arts & crafts, some of which we felt obligated to purchase so that we could question the proprietrix, a bubbly, lawful good, trust fund artisan, about the house's past. She said that yeah, every now and then Seekers would come in there and ask the same thing. Some would request to see "the Door," which is an old door set up on sawhorses in the basement, which allegedly served as the gaming table for the first D&D campaigns. We asked if she'd take us down to see it, but she demurred. Probably could have rolled d20 against charisma to try and get a peek at it, but it didn't seem like she wanted to leave her store unattended and take a couple of chaotic neutral strangers who were probably into human sacrifices down into any basements. She did, however, offer up some more lore, saying how the building next door used to be a barn, and for a while E.G.G. worked out of it as a cobbler. She also mentioned in passing that he made a lot of money, blew most of it, lost the rest to various litigations, including a divorce, and now lived somewhere in the area.
Well, fuck. May as well drive by his current place too, and see how life is treating him. The address was ridiculously easy to find. I'm hesitant to say exactly how easy, out of respect to the guy's privacy. Which he must not care that much about, seeing as how he's not even making a cursory effort to hide. So okay, we just called up directory assistance, and they gave us his address and phone number.
The trust fund artisan we had talked to made it sound like he'd blown all his loot and had returned to his townie roots, but he didn't seem to be doing too badly. He had a good sized but unostentatious pad on a quiet, middle class street, the type of old house that in college towns would get split into four or five smaller units. He's steps away from the lake, and this being a resort town populated by the heirs of old Chicago and Milwaukee fortunes, I figured its worth at least about $400,000. He had two newer Volvos, a sedan and a wagon, in the driveway. Not that I give all that much of a shit, but I was glad to see that he hadn't been reduced to performing at filk sings or something just to eat, which was the impression the lady at the crafts store had given us.
if yr reading this, you probably helped pay for it
J.R. said we should go knock and say hi. I was against the idea, and said that he's probably got enough kooks coming around wanting to argue about critical hit tables and non-weapon proficiencies. He probably doesn't want to be bothered. But then again, he still has his phone number and address listed with directory assistance! He must *want* visitors! Then again, I could see him being the type of curmudgeon who refuses to pay an extra $1.50 a month, on principal, to keep the phone company from revealing his personal info. Then again, maybe he doesn't even live there.
We got on a road and drove west out of town, listening to Ice-T sing about cop killing, and discussed it some more. "Show up and knock and and say hi and then what?" I asked. "Just wanted to say 'hey!' K, thx, bye!" Totally fucking rude. I'm not the autograph seeking type, and neither is J.R. But, we agreed that it would be an undeniably good thing to meet Gary Gygax. But then again, I didn't want to invade this person's space. But then again again, it'd be really cool to someday be able to say you'd met Gary fucking Gygax! Etc., etc. etc. And what if he died tomorrow? I hear he chain-smokes Camel unfiltereds, and I bet he doesn't exercise much.
I mean really, Gygax was one of the most influential thinkers of the 20th Century. Almost everyone I know had at least a passing acquaintance with D&D in their formative years. That shit, and the other RPG's that followed, shaped millions of minds, including my own. Today, powerful people of all alignments, of all social and character classes have that polyhedron dice shit hardwired in their brains, and it affects and informs their actions on the world. I grew up in the sticks, and there weren't enough people around me who stayed interested in it to ever sustain a real campaign. By the time high school started, I guess I was completely out of that phase. But from fifth grade through junior high, that shit was all-consuming, and an incredible education. I basically taught myself all kinds of math, learned about history, folklore, maps, war-horses, all kinds of shit I never would have been exposed to otherwise. To this day, I still look at my chances of success in any challenge I might face in terms of rolling d100, especially if it's something where everything I could do, I've done, and the denouement is out of my hands. Standardized test scores? HIV test results? Felony bench trial? Emergency student loan application? Waiting to hear back on any of that kind of shit can be nerve-wracking, but I've always taken a bit of solace in researching whatever it was I was up against, breaking the statistics down into a mental table; sleeping better knowing that unless I roll 95-00 or something I'm going to be just fine. I don't know that I would be able to be so detached from shit if I hadn't been conditioned to look at the world as a series of percentile dice throws when I was little. So anyhow, meeting this dude would be like meeting one's, uhm, programmer.
Which was another reason I didn't want to go up and knock on this guy's door. What if he was a total dick? Over the years, meeting various musicians who played in some of my favorite bands has often ruined their music for me, because the people behind it were so foul (notable exception: Trent Reznor). I wouldn't want to remember Gary Gygax as being some bastard, even if we did bring that side of him out by knocking on his door unannounced at dinner time.
So anyhow, we drove around and discussed the situation. Finally I told J.R. that absolutely would not do it, but I'd wait in the car if he wanted to go up and knock or something. I did allow that I would do it if we had some kind of pretense that would excuse what would otherwise be inexcusably rude, like if we were interviewing him (J.R. is an arts writer for a major east coast daily newspaper). J.R. wouldn't go for that -understandably I guess, who wants to turn their vacation into work? Then I suggested maybe we should bring him a gift. So we decided to scour Lake Geneva for something appropriate.
It was getting kind of late, and there's not all that much to buy in Lake Geneva, but we drove around looking for something. Interestingly, Lake Geneva is entirely devoid --at least as far as I could tell --of any indication that it recognizes the awesome contribution of its most illustrious son to western (and beyond) civilization. This guy should be the Dungeon Master Laureate of Wisconsin, yet there was nothing, nothing in all of Lake Geneva that even referenced him or D&D. Even the incredible toy store we went to --an unassuming storefront on the main (Main?) street downtown that opens up into a two-story complex compound with snack shop and underground video arcade, with original $300+ Star Wars crap in display cases, Lionel train layouts and slot-car racing sets to play with, etc. --doesn't have anything even vaguely related to swords, middle earth or whatnot. I can't help but think that you could make a fucking fortune if you set up a bar in Lake Geneva and called it "The Polyhedron" or "The Greyhawk Lounge" or something. List all prices in g.p., serve mead, etc. Maybe have a lighted 20-sided die for a disco ball or something, and the applicable memorabilia on the walls. Have no-holds-barred mace fights on Thursday nights. Geeks from Madison, Milwaukee, Chicago and all over the world would make the pilgrimage just for that. But, Lake Geneva chooses to ignore its heritage. It's like if Memphis refused to recognize Sun Studios.
Anyhow, we found this bookstore and saw this set of audiotapes of a reading of "The Lord of The Rings" (something I never read, and have no desire to, despite my background). I know, no living person on earth is probably more familiar with LOTR than Gygax. But it came in an handsomely crafted wooden gift box, so we figured it would do. Besides, all the stores in Lake Geneva were about to close. We paid $50.00 for it and set off for Gygax's place.
We walked up to his porch and J.R. knocked on the door. There was an old Milton Bradley Battleship game sitting on the porch. So I guess that's what he plays on his own time. We waited for a while, and eventually heard someone rustling inside. The door opened, and there stood a good-sized biker looking guy, long gray hair, bushy gray bearded stained with nicotine, clad in flannel shirt, comic book store t-shirt and blue jeans.
J.R. spoke first: "Would you be Gary Gygax?"
"Yes, I would be."
There was the sound of CNN in the background, and I got the feeling he had just gotten up from dinner. It was around 6 pm.
Then me and J.R. both started talking awkwardly over each other. Essentially we said that we were passing through Lake Geneva on the way to Milwaukee, and had stopped in to see the town we had grown up wondering about, given our involvement in the game that he spawned, and just for the fuck of it thought we'd call directory assistance to see if you were still in town, and they gave us your address, and we're terribly sorry to bother you, and will be leaving now, but we just wanted to give you this gift as a show of our appreciation for what you created, and know that shit meant a lot when we were growing up. And with that, J.R. held out the Box.
Gygax said thanks, it was nice to hear from appreciative fans, but that we didn't have to give him anything. I said that we thought it was right, as you've given us so much, and we figured we should give you back something in return. J.R. extended the Box again, and Gygax took it, examined it and accepted. "I'm sure you've probably read it like 900 times," I said, "But we thought that maybe you'd still like to have it."
He asked our names and we shook hands and small-talked for a few minutes. He apologized that he couldn't invite us in, but that he would have like to if we had called first, and we assured him that was not our intent in dropping by, we just wanted to say hi, and thanks for everything, and we'll be on our way now, sorry to interrupt you.
"Hey, wait just one second," he said.
With that he disappeared around a corner for a few minutes. We could hear him rooting around for something. We whispered about whether he would return with a shotgun or a cauldron of acid to splash on us. Then he called out from around the corner, "Are you guys 3-E players?"
WTF? What the fuck is 3-E? I wondered and looked at J.R. bewildered. J.R. paused for a second and said "Yup!"
"Sorry to hear that," said Gygax, jokingly. J.R. replied quickly, "Well, it's more like an amalgamation with First Edition...”
He reappeared after a few minutes and presented us with a copy of an RPG sourcebook he had just authored (or at least lent his name to) called “The Slayer’s Guide to Undead.”
We protested that he did not have to give us anything in return. He insisted we take it and said "you know, cast forth your bread upon the waters." We said thanks and goodbye, and walked back to the car. Gygax waived from the porch, and we took off for Milwaukee.
J.R. explained to me that 3-E had been put out by Wizards of the Coast, and that there was some bad blood and politics involved, and that Gygax is kinda bitter about the whole deal, thus his comment. Fuck! When he asked us if we were "3-E" players, we should have said "Fuck Wizards of the Coast! Fuck Seattle!" He was rooting around back there for a while, he probably would've given us the original handwritten manuscript to Vault of the Drow. Oh well. He turned out to be a really cool dude. Kinda had this Buddhist vibe going for him. Our unannounced visit was a little rude and selfish, even if undergirded by a very sincere desire to express gratitude and appreciation. But he was cool with it, and even gave us something in return. It was a good interaction. A few days later I called directory assistance to see if our visit had so unnerved him such that he had had the phone co. unlist his number and address. He had not.
Anyhow, we went to some townie bar called "Fat Cats" and then headed up to Milwaukee, hit some record stores to see if they had the Hookers' "Satan's Highway." No one did. So we drove around the town listening to KMFDM and Ministry, both of which are perfect bands for creeping the streets of Milwaukee. Milwaukee is a cool town. I should have thought to contact george500, and next time I will.
Ate at some hippy place called "Beans & Barley," which surprisingly was friendly, quick, reasonably priced and delicious. Then went and saw Michael Moore's "Bowling for Columbine," which was playing at some second-run movie house in the campus district. It was pretty good, as far as agitprop goes, even though Marilyn Manson came across as the most level-headed person in the entire film. But ultimately Michael Moore's narrower message --the one about guns in particular, not about institutionalized societal violence in America in general --was undercut by the very evidence he presented to make his point. It occurred to me on the way back to Chicago, fuck stereotypes, ya know, whether about gun owners or RPGers or Marilyn Manson or hippies or whoever.