The turn of the new year has seen some
big changes in the Ragnarok household. Both Malorie and I are
starting new jobs. Mine doesn't start until February 1, and so I have
the week after B-Fest to run errands, get some writing done, and
enjoy the biggest stretch of down time I've had since grade school
and, barring a winning lottery ticket or getting lucky enough to
become a full time writer, the biggest stretch I will probably see
until I retire. Malorie's new gig, on the other hand, started the
Wednesday of B-Fest week, and so it was that I set off for Chicago
solo for the first time.
A recent update of my GPS maps seems to
have altered something in the way Magic Voice sees the world, because
barely more than an hour into the trip it took me in a different
direction. Instead of taking Highway 20 all the way to the northern
suburbs of Chicago, with a little jog at Belvedere to get around
Rockford and some tollways, it swung me all the way down to Iowa City
and in on a huge loop of interstates. It certainly wasn't as scenic
and it definitely added some miles to the trip, with the tradeoff of
actually being a little quicker because instead of crawling through a
two hundred mile stretch of little towns with 25mph speed limits,
you're rocking away at 65-70 the whole time. At the end of the day I
think I still prefer the more rural Highway 20 route, but at least
the mild panic that Magic Voice had flipped her lid kept things
interesting.
I arrived at the Morton Grove Best
Western around 2:30, where I met up with the inimitable Tim Lehnerer.
Generosity was demonstrated and long-forged alliances were renewed as
he presented me with this year's B-Fest mix CD (which includes some
great music, as always, but this year also sparked a running joke
that will be with us all for a long, long time in the form of the
haunting driving theme from Truth or Dare: A Critical Madness)
and another box of fantastic-looking books. I'm especially looking
forward to reading Metal
Rules the Globe.
Then it was off to Half Price Books, where I had to show some
restraint since although I've got one more paycheck coming from the
old job, I am technically unemployed and as the new gig is partially
commission-based, unsure of exactly how much money I'll be bringing
in until I get good at it. Between trade-ins and a coupon, I got
away with spending less than half what I did last year and scored a
pile of really cool old Edgar Rice Burroughs pulp novels for dirt
cheap, including The
Land that Time Forgot,
which I've been hunting for for ages.
Later that evening saw the arrival of Scott Ashlin and Jessica
Ritchey, and Gavin Smith with his delightful lady friend Tori joined
us for a delectable meal at the Palace restaurant. Phenomenal duck
and almond pie, plus it's walking distance from the hotel and we all
spent an entire day in our damn cars so no one wanted to drive
anywhere. Not being on vacation like the rest of us slackers, Gavin
and Tori had to skedaddle after supper, but the rest of us went back
to the hotel for a rousing game of Cards Against Humanity. I also
acquired all the currently available recordings of Scott's killer
band, The Schismatics. Look them up, they kick ass. Think a punkier
Iron Reagan and you'll be fairly close to the mark. Weary road
warriors all of us, we turned in at a reasonable hour to meet up for
breakfast the next day and being our suburban adventures.
Suburban adventures? I hear you asking. Well, yes. We've done the
Field, the Shedd, the Art Institute, and so many other things in the
city multiple times, and were feeling a little burned out on train
rides and traffic fighting, so at the behest of Mr. Logistics Person,
we headed into Chicagoland to seek new entertainments.
At the suggestion of one of the Best Western employees who always
remembers the big dudes with glasses and Godzilla t-shirts who show
up every winter, we checked out a diner called Kappy's. It was good,
but not as good as Seven Brothers, which is, again, walking distance
from the hotel. And of course nothing we've found so far is as good
as the Omega Pancake House. From there we were off to the Cernan
Space Center, which turned out to be one space suit, a couple of
rocket engines, and a tack board with some articles ripped out of
science magazines and pinned up. They can't all be winners. At least
I got some neat glow-in-the-dark dinosaurs for myself and some
freeze-dried astronaut ice cream for the kids, and perhaps the most
ideal photo of Tim anyone will ever take.
 |
| Telstarman sensibly sets the anti theft system on his space capsule before turning his attentions to the conquest of Earth. |
For all that the Space Center was a bust, our next stop at the
Lizzadro Museum of Lapidary Arts was a resounding success. We
learned some things about jade carving (despite looking incredibly
fragile, it's only a couple of steps down the mineral hardness scale
from diamond, which makes its ability to be worked in such fine and
magnificent detail easier to understand), viewed many beautiful works
of art, and got to look at a piece of rock that was 3.4 billion (yes,
with a fucking B) years old. Mighty humbling, that is.
 |
| Chalcedony ghost skull is more metal than you. |
Finally for Wednesday was Horrorbles, a horror collectibles shop. It
occupies a tiny, odd little space with many cramped hallways and
rooms, and it was really hard not to spend all of the money I have
and ever will earn there. And then we went next door to Reel Art
Collectibles, which was full of Godzilla and kaiju toys. Son of a
bitch. I managed to restrict myself to a few Gamera chibis and the
NECA Crimson Typhoon figure.
Back to the hotel to meet up with Jacob and Natasha, who gave me some
lovely presents for my absent wife before we all headed off to the
Himalayan for supper with Gavin (thanks for the Godzilla pen!),
Edward, and his wife Melanie. Another round of Cards Against
Humanity with Sampote Sands's Crocodile as background noise
capped off the night.
Brookfield Zoo or bust on Thursday. The upside being it was a free
day. The downside being that most of the large outdoor animals were
in storage for the winter. We did get to see an Andean condor
disembowel and devour a dead rat, and a black rhino taking a whiz, so
that was fun. The reptile houses were a real treat, and I got a
Mold-O-Rama alligator, but the real highlight was watching the otter
run around chirping and being cute. If you don't love otters, you
have a problem. The running theme for the day seemed to be that every
animal we went to look at was dead set on presenting us with an
unobstructed view of its butt. Of course, if I was put on display I
would do nothing but moon my visitors too, so I can't really blame
them.
 |
| Eyelash viper. |
Exhausted but happy, we hit a little sandwich shop called Mr.
Submarine for a late lunch, and then went to the Galloping Ghost
arcade to spend the rest of the day reliving our childhoods. Well,
most of us did. I never played many video games as a kid, but they
did have the single greatest arcade game of all time: Lucky and Wild.
For those not fortunate enough to have had one of these in your
hometown arcade, it's a booth game where one person drives and
shoots, with a second gun for a passenger. Or, if you're feeling
wild and crazy, you can cram three people in and have two shooters
while the driver just concentrates on dodging the un-dodgeable
obstacles. You play as a pair of cops on the edge who play by their
own rules, chasing down a variety of bad guys driving monster trucks,
armored tractor-trailers with flamethrowers, Lamborghinis with laser
turrets and the like, while their minions in black cars and
motorcycles throw Molotov cocktails and grenades at you. Essentially
it's Cannon Films: The Video Game. I have no idea how many quarters
my friends and I pumped into that thing in high school, but it was a
lot and it was money well spent. They also had a Godzilla/Ultraman
cabinet that I had seen a console version of at G-Fest, which was
neat, but my attention span for video games is fairly short so I
spent most of the time playing pinball instead. The Creature from the
Black Lagoon table is a beast.
Having downed an enormous and rather late lunch and feeling a little
wobbly from either the van ride (typically as long as I'm not riding
in the back the motion sickness doesn't get me, but it had been a
long day) or the eight pounds of corned beef and garlic fries lodged
in my gullet, I considered skipping the Hala Kahiki. I said last year
that I had grown weary of the place, but this year it redeemed
itself. I figure since I only get to see my B-Fest friends once a
year, I should spend every minute with them that I could, and so I
decided to give the tiki bar another chance. Since Malorie had to
skip this year, Fistula and I decided to bunk together to save a
little money. He had arrived while we were out, so we returned to the
hotel to regroup and grab him and Lisa and Tim's friend Dave, both of
whom had also arrived earlier in the day, and off to fruity booze
land we went.
The past few years we've been stuck at the line of tables in front
of the door rather than the back room we prefer, and this year was no
exception despite Tim calling ahead for the group, but since this
year was a sadly slim one for the BMMB regulars, we were able to keep
up a lively round of chat. And for all that last year's waitress was
surly and inattentive, the gal helping us this year was friendly and
always right behind you the second your glass was empty asking if you
wanted another. I stuck with lighter vodka drinks, figuring dark
heavy rum would really do a number on my already questionable
stomach. A few refreshing lemon and grape juice drinks settled things
down nicely and before long I was back to full operational power.
Back to Jacob and Natasha's room to watch Daoism Drunkard, but
despite the insanity of the watermelon monster, the events of the day
began to catch up with us and we turned in to prepare for the Fest of
B.
Friday morning saw Fistula and I driving into the city to do some
galavanting with Scott, Jessica, and Lisa before the show. A visit to
the Gallery bookstore and a used CD/DVD shop the name of which I can
never remember, and then Scott aimed his van toward cinemasochist
Heaven and we rode to our fate at the hands of A&O Films.
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