Name your poison

Another quick story from D&D last week
When the first encounter started and everyone rolled initiative, I went around the table asking for characters' names so I could write them next to their initiative results. Since it was the first night, not everyone was totally ready. Jason hadn't named his character yet.

Flashback: About 10 years ago when we started playing our first 3e campaign in Seattle, we had that same moment. Stan! hadn't named his gnome character, and was futzing around for one at the last minute. Dave, former editor of Dungeon and Dragon magazines, said, "The punishment is that we call you something like Blobbo. If you don't come up with a name soon, that name will stick, and then we'll all call you that for the rest of the campaign."

Realizing this horrible truth, Stan! quickly devised Herumann, who went on to become a beloved curmudgeon and coward, hopelessly attempting to interject common sense into a rotating cast of D&D adventurers for the next several years.

Sadly, Blobbo stuck anyway. The name followed Herumann at a respectful distance for the rest of his career.

Jason's character was briefly named Blobbo last Thursday, because he wanted to take the time to come up with a campaign-appropriate elf name. (+50 experience points!) I didn't even try to make Blobbo stick. The name has enough stickiness all by itself.

Bonus Story: After the Blobbo incident, I moved onto Dave (a different Dave), who hadn't named his character yet either. Fearing the worst, Dave blurted out "Paul Oakenfold!"

Sure, technically, that name is already taken, but if you complain about D&D players stealing names, you have outed yourself as a solid n00b.

A Philadelphia overture

Seattle is experiencing 100+ degree heat (That's 38 to you metric weirdos). Meanwhile, Philly's having a cool-ish, wet summer.

We were seriously looking at moving to Seattle for a couple of months this year, but things (as they do) changed, and barring freak circumstance, Philly has become our point of medium-range residency.

I've been here almost 5 years. That was never in the plan. Yet, as I review my reasons for moving to Philadelphia, I realize nothing was in the plan. I never had a plan.

Vaguer than a plan, my expectation was to be somewhere else by now. California. Seattle. New York City. Dallas. Austin.

However, not only am I not somewhere else, I am more here than ever. I guess it's time to start liking Philadelphia.

My ambivalence re Philadelphia is on record. The place has good points, but oh so many bad ones.

But since it seems I'll be here a while longer, it's time to start liking the burg. I've already spent too long on the fence; I won't compound the mistake. Philly, I've kept you at arm's length, and that's only hurt us both. You're shockingly violent, too ethnic for my immediate comfort, your roads frankly suck, and you're nearer New Jersey than I'd ever hoped to be. But you have kick-ass museums, and a decent film festival. The gaming here is robust, and the cry for Jesus is almost too loud for my weak ears. You're not perfect, but Lord knows neither am I. There's plenty for us to do and become. Let's love like brothers.

My time in Ballard

Last week, the New York Times travel section did a bit on Ballard and Fremont, two wonderful neighborhoods in my former home, Seattle. I've often said I'd only need half a reason to move back to Seattle. Living in Ballard could easily be half of that half a reason.

I lived in Ballard for about six months back in my Seattle days, and although my housemates were troublesome, the house and neighborhood were fantastic.

Ballard is quiet, affable, and liveable. There are rows and rows of neat houses, owned by neat homeowners. It's walkable, and there are things you might want to walk to -- a marked difference from Germantown. There was even a game store a couple blocks from where I lived.

The Chittendon Locks are a fantastic place to spend an afternoon in summer or fall. You take a picnic and watch the boats rise and fall, chatting with the yacht owners stuck on their decks slowly, slowly coming up to meet you. The salmon churn themselves up the fish ladder, their soulless fish eyes sometimes appear suddenly, startlingly, out of the murk and froth.

As evening arrives, and the sky fails to darken since you are living on the 47th parallel, you head over to Golden Gardens Park, where there are sandy beaches and volleyball nets, and windsurfers packing up their flimsy-looking gear after spending a day dodging seals in Puget Sound. There will be parties there before too much longer. You will have, of course, brought a grill and some burgers and a frisbee.

When I lived there, I worked in Bellevue, which meant a daily commute over the 520 bridge, which is partially a pontoon bridge -- a floating parking lot twice a day, and subject to occasional flooding.

Though I lived in and loved Ballard, none of my other friends did. They still dwelt in Renton, an uglier, more modern suburb south of Seattle, home to the now-dwindling Boeing megaplex. It was a 45-minute drive to see anyone I knew, which sucked pretty hard.

One night I was taking one of my quiet long walks around Ballard. I was thinking about whether to move back south. My roommate situation was terribly stressful, and I had no local emotional support. As I sauntered up a back street behind a grocery store, a couple of shaggy looking bums were sitting together on the sidewalk. "Leave Ballard!" one of them shouted to me.

I don't usually take my cues from drunk, homeless people. But this one was telling me something I needed to hear. I moved soon after.

My friend, Erik, lives in Ballard now, and he also commutes to Bellevue every day. I pity his commute, but I envy his arrival at home.

Emerald City Facets

I spent the weekend in Seattle visiting old friends, who do not strike me as old friends, but our relationships are 10 years old, and I'm only 34. That's a significant fraction of my lifespan. They're old, dear friends now.

I'm happy enough in Philadelphia that I'm not leaving soon (knock on laminate). But I've missed Seattle since I left, and three days' exposure cemented it. I'm not gilding anything. I miss it.

Of course there's nostaliga for the great times I had, but I miss things that are still there, not just my life when I lived there. Things such as:

• Drizzly rain that doesn't really get you wet, so you don't need an umbrella.
  
• Overwhelming political liberality.
  
• Friendliness toward weirdness.
  
• Neighborhoods: Alkai. Capitol Hill. The U District. Queen Anne. Ballard. Fremont.
  
• The fish ladder and the locks.
  
• Convenient mountains for hiking, water for boating.
  
• People who actually take their SUVs off road.
  
• The walking path that follows Cedar River through Boeing property to Lake Washington.
  
• Gleefully observing Microsoft's grip on the city.
  
• Restaurants: Cedar River Barbecue. Ivar's. Fatburger. Chang's. More teriyaki places that I ever thought the economy could support.
  
• The most beautiful summers I've known, when the clouds take four months off, the sky is blue every day, high of 72 with no humidity, and the sun sets at 10:00 p.m.
  
• The PNW vibe.
  

Seattle was my first girlfriend of cities. I'll love again, but I'll never love like that again.