Punk, Punk, Goose
More and more I'm reminded just how small of a circle this gaming-thing is.

To wit:

Back in the day I was a huge fan of the Blackhammer Project. If you were into R. Talsorian's Cyberpunk, Blackhammer's digs were the place to be. All the cool web design, all the best home brew --- the folks at the Project did what the rest of us bunny punks dreamed about.

Surfing the other night I came across the Project's new home: The Dread Gazebo. Lo and behold, the Hellhound himself was running DCCs for the ENWorld folks. Even cooler, he was running some of my work.

Instant geek love on H's part. Blackhammer playing in my game. Very cool.


IGGYS: A Pointless Story About a Knife
OR Size Does Matter
Back when we all wanted to write material like the Project, my friends and I wasted all our time mudding. We'd game all night until the Swedish servers kicked us off for their school day, then go grab dinner-at-dawn at Denny's and sit around recounting our night's triumphs and failures.

They were good times, especially if you were a shy kid just off the farm, who had never really had much in the way of friends with the exception of your little brother who was ten times more socially adept than you could ever be.

Anyhow. We were mudders, largely, because we were social misfits. We wore leather, rode skateboards, and found solace in shared exile. For lack of a better moniker we were punks. And sometimes --- just occasionally --- we’d get harassed by the jocks and would-be gangsters. So we got into the habit of carrying knives.

Flash forward a decade. Harley’s headed to GenCon and --- simply out of utility --- tosses his knife into the luggage. It's a long-ish flick knife, with a tanto style blade. Heather calls it the “I’m Gonna Get You Sucka” knife.

The knife came in handy during booth set-up, opening boxes and what not, but after the first day I stashed it in my courier bag and forgot about it. Not much chance of getting jumped on the streets of Indy, especially when you have the Saurus riding shotgun with the guy that threatens to bite off his own arm* whenever he gets cornered in a fight.

Sunday comes and I leave to catch my plane home. On the way through security I get pulled. What could possibly be the problem, officer?

…Oh yeah…

IGGYS didn’t make it back into my checked luggage. It’s neatly tucked away in my carry-on, conveniently located in case I need to get at it really quick.

Okay, not a problem, I’ve been here before when I (accidentally) tried to bring a collection of metal files onto a plane. You just mail them from the airport to your destination. Not a big deal –

Except that a crowd of TSAs have gather around IGGYS. They've opened the blade and are measuring it against a ruler. Hmmm.

(About this time, Case, all-around good guy and author of the brilliant City of Brass, makes it through security, assuring the gathering crowd that I’m world famous. In retrospect, the only way he could have made it through security was because half the staff was examining IGGYS. I was the decoy.)

Finally an officer breaks free of the crowd and walks over to me. Very politely she informs me that state law for Indiana restricts the blades of pocket knives to less than 4 inches. After that, you need a permit or you get arrested, do not pass go, do not collect $200.

The length of old IGGYS?

3.75 inches.

//H


*True story. I'll tell it to you at Christmas.