www.youtube.com/watch?v=uuImXBLU0Bw

It’s fair to say that I’ve played in a lot of games over the years—local campaigns, conventions, and even online. But the time logged playing a single character are far overshadowed by the hours I’ve logged in crafting stories and adjudicating the rules. In other words, I was always the DM.

Back in Georgia I’d beg one of my friends to run a game and let me just play. I’ve always loved being able to just show up with my character and some dice—Doritos and Mountain Dew are totally optional—and just play. Being a Dungeon Master (or Game Master outside of D&D-land) means you’re a host, storyteller, referee, den mother, and semi-omniscient/omnipotent being. In other words, it’s work.

I got burnt out. While I never hated it (I was still playing my favorite type of game, after all!) I definitely was ready for a break. And once I joined the hobby game industry it meant I was looking at this stuff all day long! Even after I moved to Lake Geneva, Wisconsin—birthplace of D&D, don’tcha know?—there was plenty of eager players, material that could use a round of playtesting, etc.

Eventually, though, I got my break. Several friends and co-workers moved away or simply moved on. The game group I had going collapsed, and with an overcomplicated life I was ready to let it go without much of a fight. I briefly tried to pull a new game together but half of my players went and had children on me. I took it in strike, probably because I just hadn’t been away from beind the screen quite long enough.

In the midst of all this, my friend/partner-in-crime Cam Banks decided he wanted to run a D&D game for us. I threw together an Elf Wizard named Dante and just showed up with my dice to have fun. And fun we did have!

Then I got the itch.

Oh, I ingored it at first. That’s all I needed was more work, right? But I was a life-long Dungeon Master, a card-carrying RPGA Network judge, and a story-teller that didn’t just love to write … I love to see stories happen to me before my eyes, in a magical meeting of my ideas, the player’s choices, and the roll of the dice. There wasn’t any soothing cream for my itch. I needed to return to my rightful place behind the screen.

Cam’s normal game night was off while he attended a family function on the other side of the planet. But instead of breaking one of my fourteen trillion board or card games, I suggested I toss together a short RPG session. I happened to have a hot-off-the-press game of my own creation, and I thought it would only be proper to run a game using the Cortex System Role Playing Game. That, and it’s just about the easiest game system when you know you’re gonna have to wing-it.

I told my players (Digger, Liz, Renae, and Dan) to create modern-day cop characters, while I figured out what to do about a scenario. There’s a fun series for the d20 System called Crime Scene, and one of them had an adventure in the back! I read up, made a few notes, and we were ready to go in half an hour. Soon the TRACE squad was tracking down the disappearance of several teenagers in a backwater Pennsylvania town.

It was fun. It was easy. I was back, baby!

Chambers Sunday Dungeon

But like an addict falling off the wagon, one fix just wasn’t enough. While my wife was stuck at work on Sunday, I resurrected our old D&D campaign but upgraded both the characters and the existing adventure to the new 4th Edition rules. I justified this as good practice for some upcoming design work, but I’ll confess it was just fun to dive into some game prep again.

For the first time in over a year, Walter the Fighter waded through the dungeon cleaving foes. Only eight years old, my son Xander really got into the use of his powers and figuring out what time he should use Sure Strike (minions, since damage is irrelevant) or when it was time for a Cleave (when two goblins were dumb enoiugh to stand next to each other when his greatsword was in range). Lizzy reprised her role as Lidda the Halfling Rogue and enjoyed doing sneak attack damage with throwing daggers while looting various treasure chests in the dungeon. Melanie abandoned her old character entirely to play a Tiefling Warlord, and she enjoyed her role as party leader and quickly figured out how to best use her powers to pound the enemy and keep the rest of the group fighting. I threw in a Human Wizard (who I named Winston, in homage to my original D&D character from 1982) as an NPC helper so the group would have at least the major roles covered.

Chambers Sunday Dungeon

The kids had a blast in the dungeon. They bashed skeletons, horded gold, solved puzzles, and even briefly attempted negotiation. (Lidda ended that one by throwing a dagger at the goblin sentry to whom Melanie was trying to speak!) They high-fived each other for clever moves or high rolls, and laughed when they screwed up or fumbled.

After it was over, my children all thanked me for running the game for them. They really enjoyed themselves. Little did they know they were simply feeding a lifelong addiction. Enablers.

That was yesterday. It’s safe to say that I’m once again fully hooked and looking for my next fix. The grownups only got halfway through our murder mystery and would like to play through to the end. (One teenage girl was found dead at the base of the Ferris Wheel, the other locked in a shed in the abandoned amusement park.) The kids are ready to get through the last few rooms and defeat the young dragon they know awaits them at the end. Xander also wants to make 2nd Level so he can re-train, buy new powers, and spend gold on some new gear. My boy has his priorities.

There are so many RPGs and so little time. I’m going to be heading out to a bunch of conventions this year. Anyone up for a game?

Walter, Akharia, Lidda, and Winston battle the undead!

That said, there are a bunch of Christmas presents for my children that never made it here. It’s left some of us scratching our heads.

Anyone who knows my mother knows that she’s into Christmas the way mice are into cheese, squirrels into nuts, and monkeys into flinging poo. She absolutely loves the holiday and begins thinking about it on December 26th of the previous year—when she will hit the after-Christmas sales at every major retailer and buy things dirt cheap. Ann Chambers will collect gifts and plan from January through December in order to get gifts for family and friends. The fact that her son (that’s me!) and his family live 800+ miles away is only one more logistical detail in the year-long Christmas stratagem.

One thing that’s happened in recent years is my Mom’s version of the 12 Days of Christmas for her grandchildren. Each kid gets gifts that start small and get increasingly impressive up until Christmas itself. It’s a tradition that the Chambers children have given their unanimous approval. (In other words, for a dozen days before Christmas each day begins with, “Can I open my present now?”) It’s a hit around these parts.

The 12 Days of Christmas, 2008 Edition began with a 24 x 24 x 24 inch box shipped in mid-November using FedEx Ground service. It was filled with a bunch of stuff—from gift cards to clothes to toys. With plenty of time to spare, it seemed that the plans were going well.

Because of a miscommunication, Mom thought that I had already received the first box, and it was sitting here in my office. Turned out that wasn’t true, but we figured it after the first week of December that the package never got to us. She pulled out the tracking number and had FedEx put a trace out on the package. It showed the package as scanned in and received for shipment in Kennesaw, Georgia … and never going anywhere after that. After a search, FedEx declared the package lost.

The best plans never survive contact with the enemy, and General Ann knows this. She had the package fully insured, and she immediately rushed around and replaced the gifts and got them out quickly, again via FedEx Ground.

The Good News? The second box arrived safely and successfully. The Bad News? That was the final bit of good news in this tale.

The remainder of this year’s 12 Days of Christmas, along with some additional gifts for friends who needed a bit of help this year, were sent in two 24 x 24 x 24 inch boxes. As a backup plan, she used a Sharpie and wrote my name, address, and phone number by hand on the box just in case the label got peeled off or damaged. She sent both boxes via FedEx with delivery expected on December 19th.

The Friday went to Monday the 22nd, and when trying to track the package down the snowstorms in the Midwest were blamed. She was told I could possibly drive out to a shipping hub in Carey, Illinois to pick up the boxes if the drivers could not get out the door. When Mom called back to confirm the boxes would indeed be there for me to get them, she was then told that one box was actually in Chicago and another was in Tennessee.

So here we are on Friday the 26th, the day after Christmas. Poor frazzled Mom, who planned for this all year, was on the phone with FedEx to confirm that our packages would be delivered today … a full week late. After being told previously they were in various places all over the country, someone confessed.

FedEx has no idea where the boxes are.

In less than an eight week period, FedEx was unable to successfully get three out of four huge boxes from Point A to Point B. They have vanished mysteriously within their shipping system, and their employees are apparently accustomed to lying in order to shut customers up and get them off the phone.

Anyone who knows my mother, though, knows that there’s perhaps one thing more she loves as much as Christmas: resolution, satisfaction, payback, or a good ol’ fashioned ass-ripping. She has already worked her way up the FedEx corporate foodchain and she’s expecting explanation, answers, and a rush on processing her insurance claim since the expectation is that none of these packages will ever be found.

So what’s the problem? A large, complicated shipping system in which some packages inevitably fall through the cracks? Disorganized drivers who mark things into their system even when they aren’t quite sure what they actually did? Or is it simple employee theft?

Who knows? But five minutes of Google told me this isn’t exactly an isolated incident.

We have to ship stuff, folks. Sometimes it’s going to get lost. I recommend insuring the crap out of it and keeping all of your receipts and documentation related to what you ship. Consider using the USPS Postal Service, because its theft would be a federal crime. (And there are ways to insure mailed packages as well.)

FedEx currently has a 25% success rate with the Chambers family for the holidays. That’s an F – – – for those applying high school grading standards. It sucks, it’s unacceptable, and I’m pretty sure none of us are going to be using them again unless we’re given a really compelling reason.

Hope everyone had a great holiday. We didn’t let Lost Package Blues spoil the Chambers Christmas. I just feel bad for Mom, who works so hard at getting her grandkids the 12 Days of Christmas, only to have boxes fall off the back of the truck.

2008 Christmas Card

The topsy-turvy year of 2008 is almost to an end. This has been a year of all kinds of change, ridiculous levels of stress, and anticipation for new things to come. I’ve stumbled, triumphed, experienced regret, endured painful loss, yet made some great new friends.

Instead of putting you to sleep with all kinds of detail, I’m just simply going to say that I’m grateful that this roller-coaster year is almost to an end. I’m so very thankful for the many wonderful people in my life—including my wonderful family, fantastic friends both old and new, and even the loyal dog that lays at my feet while I write. If it wasn’t for you I wouldn’t be able to survive the rough times to enjoy the good.

This first Christmas without my Dad has been hard. When I call down to Georgia soon I still want him to answer the phone. But I have thirty-three Christmases with him to remember, and thanks to the army of friends and family out there to support me I’ve made it through without getting too sad.

I’m looking forward to a 2009 in which I work both harder and smarter, avoiding more of the bad and savoring as much of the good as possible. I’m going to reconnect with old friends, get to know my new ones even better, and maybe even make a few more along the way. Let’s see if I can get healthier, wealthier, and a touch wiser as I go.

Thank you … all of you. I wouldn’t be here without you. Happy Holidays, and enjoy a wonderful new year.

Art by Larry Elmore

Bettie Page was such a big part of Dragon*Con tradition that legendary artist Larry Elmore created a painting for the show of her as a fantasy warrior-woman. My sister Stacy was one of the models that Larry photographed for this picture. (Obviously she was used for the body, not the face!)

My wife and I rented the biopic The Notorious Bettie Page a couple of years ago. The more I learned about the famous model, the more of a study in contradictions she became. She was, simultaneously, old-fashioned and progressive. Innocent in that she didn’t understand the kinky world she was photographed in—things like fetish outfits or bondage pictures and films—but certainly not ashamed at the same time.

It’s hard to put my mental finger on just why Bettie Page intrigued me (and so many others) … but part of it had to be the sense of mystery. She disappeared from the scene. When I first became interested in her in the 1990s no one had any clue where she had gone, what had happened to her, or even if she were alive or dead. She resurfaced several years ago and was finally able to benefit from her renewed popularity, though she was extremely reluctant to let anyone photograph her face. She said, “I want to be remembered as I was when I was young.”

Though the model Bettie Page gained immortality in her famous photographs and endless artist interpretations, the woman Bettie Page passed away on Thursday, December 11, 2008 at the age of 85. I believe her legacy and her popularity will endure. After all, she was completely unaware in her rising fame in the 80s and 90s. Her photographs speak for themselves, and her personality and energy are well preserved in the best of them.

The Storm
by James Alexander Chambers

And then in a storm,
I heard a tornado.
It was so strong it picked up my tomato.

There was a potato,
Then I played with my Play-Doh,
Then I caught my tomato
And threw it at the tornado.

Most of you know that I lost my Dad recently. I’m still in the middle of dealing with it, and family and friends who’ve been down this sad journey assure me that it’s one that’s not likely to end soon. I’m hanging in there, and one of the things I’m doing as part of my long process of mourning is to reconnect with some of the things that Dad and I shared.

I was a little kid when the movie Conan the Barbarian came out in theaters, and Dad didn’t give a damn that it was a rated-R movie. He had a passion for the character and the writing of Robert E. Howard. Years after seeing the film—which I can now quote from memory and grunt “The Anvil of Crom” upon request—I read my Dad’s old Conan paperbacks, the compilations of work by Howard, L. Sprague de Camp, and Lin Carter. Like my Dad, I loved the energy and imagery of Howard’s writing.

A few years ago my Dad was with me in a bookstore when I grabbed a paperback compilation called The Coming of Conan the Cimmerian. It restored the original Howard Conan tales to their original form and presented them in the actual order written. I’ve been savoring the tales of a barbarian warrior, pirate, mercenary, and king—thinking back to Dad and I talking over some of these tales at different points in my life. I added the other two volumes, The Conquering Sword of Conan and The Bloody Crown of Conan, to my Christmas list in hopes that I’d soon be able to resume my return to the Hyborian Age.

Yesterday my family and I hopped on an airplane to spend the Thanksgiving holiday with my family. I was kind of anxious about this trip, the first since my Dad’s funeral in September. I ended up leaving without my travel kit and toothbrush. And then I left my book in the seat pocket on the airplane.

It’s just a book. I shouldn’t have upset me so much. But as we road the tram toward Baggage Claim I felt my eyes shimmering because I had left behind the book that Dad and I had bought together. I was angry at myself for being so careless, and while I knew that a book can be easily replaced I was upset all the way until I made it to bed last night.

I lay there, half-asleep, with that feeling still in my gut. My eyes were unfocused and I stared at the bookshelf … and then I suddenly realized what I was looking at. Right there in direct eyeline to wear I lay in bed, was a hardcover copy of The Coming of Conan. I sprang up out of bed and grabbed it, and when I reached out for it I saw that right next to it was the other two volumes in the series—the books I had placed on my Christmas list.

Maybe it’s just one of those coincidences, that I’m reading too much into this. But I say screw that. My Dad took care of me. He gave me back the book that I lost and gave me my Christmas presents early. I slept soundly last night and woke up feeling a lot better.

Happy Thanksgiving and Merry Christmas, Dad.

But a writer is who I am. This is something I have to do. So here goes.

Some of you may already know that my father, Jimmie Chambers, passed away on September 13, 2008. He was sixty-three years old and suffered from several chronic health problems—none of which was severe enough where any of us had a clue that he would be taken from us so early. He left behind his wife of 34 years, my mother Ann Chambers, my sisters Bambi and Stacy, myself, and four grandchildren (Melanie, Elizabeth, Alexander, and Joshua)—along with many relatives and countless friends.

But who was my father? I’m not going to even attempt to write any sort of biography here. I couldn’t do it justice at this point, and my brain isn’t up to the task or organizing anything. The easiest way to get a glimpse of my father is to take a look at me and my life. I owe a huge chunk of who I am to my Dad.

Music

Any friend of mine knows that I’m a musical person to the point of being ridiculous. If you say something reminds me of song lyrics I might just burst into song right in front of you. I definitely owe Mom for the piano lessons and the prodding, but it was Dad who gave me the love of music, a bit of inherited talent, and my singing voice—which sounds a lot like his when I get into my higher range.

I have no idea when or where Dad started playing the guitar and singing. If I remember correctly he learned to play from a friend while he was in the Navy, and the story goes that he when he and a buddy jumped ship he took an unscheduled trip around Europe virtually penniless, just playing and singing for tips at cafes and on street corners.

Later on, Dad was a rhythm guitarist and backup singer in a cover band. He loved the Beatles, so much that his clothes and hairstyle for a period of his life heavily reflect his idol—John Lennon. When I was a little boy, he would pull out his acoustic guitar and sing to me before bed. My favorite was “Here Comes the Sun” by George Harrison, a song that we played at his funeral.

I didn’t always agree with Dad’s taste in music (or movies and alcoholic beverages for that matter—the man thought Starship Troopers was robbed at the Oscars and that Cold Duck was delicious wine). I was with him on the Beatles, like some ABBA, but couldn’t make sense of his love for “MMMBop” by Hanson. When it came to anything, he would just say “I like what I like.” No way to argue that one.

Games

My Dad was playing with me for as long as I can remember, and anyone who’s ever seen my Dad with a baby or toddler knows that he was willing to get down on his hands and knees and play. If it was as simple as peek-a-boo or a goofy “magic” trick where he makes a toy disappear or reappear, he was ready to go. As we got older Dad would play other games with us, even the usual assortment of kid-friendly board and card games. But Dad really got me into a different kind of a game that would definitely have a big impact on my life.

I had already seen a weird blue staple-bound book with a blue-toned cover with a picture of a dragon on it … and had a vague idea that it was something to do with some kind of game. I started playing D&D (Dungeons & Dragons, dontchaknow) with neighborhood kids at age seven—but it was with a group of older kids who teased me as much as included me. I loved playing but I didn’t have my own books or dice and came home sometimes with hurt feelings.

In ’83 Dad came home from the store with a red box. On the box was a ferocious dragon with a barbarian warrior charging it head-on. I didn’t know the names Gygax or Elmore back then, but I plunged into the books contents and became completely hooked. I didn’t play much with the neighborhood kids after that, but Dad and I cooked up one-on-one scenarios, and after a while I ran little “solo” dungeons for him as the Dungeon Master.

Years later I began running my own game, and Dad played. It didn’t even occur to me how extraordinary it was at the time. He was a grown man, in his 40s by then, sitting at the table slinging the dice with 12-year-old kids. But it was a mundane thing. He was my pal—the guy who took me to see Conan: The Barbarian when I was way too young to see an R-rated movie, but he wanted to see Robert E. Howard’s stories translated to film and he wanted to take his best friend to see it. His best friend being me.

At age 13 he brought me along to play with his adult friends. He had convinced them to let me play “just this once.” I’m sure they were convinced I wouldn’t know the rules or I’d be silly or immature. But Dad wanted me there, and after one session I was not only invited to join the D&D game but I got asked to join the Traveller-based “Space Dungeon” game as well.

Books & Movies

I already mentioned Conan. We had a tradition that every couple of weeks we’d go out and do something—just us guys. Movies were a big thing, and Schwarzenegger became a tradition after Mr. The Barbarian, though we’d see any crazy action flick with explosives and boobs or just about anything else that seemed cool.

Dad wanted to be a writer and didn’t write much, so he encouraged me when I started and was my first and biggest fan. He had great story ideas, though, and told them to me again and again. Soon, I think, I’m going to sit down and spin some of my Dad’s stories as best I can.

My Dad was super-interested in seeing if I’d like the same things that excited him. As I got older, not only did he get me into gaming, but he threw books at me. Classic sci-fi like Voyage of the Space Beagle and A Skylark of Space, pulp heroes like Tarzan and Doc Savage, serialized adventure with The Destroyer, crazy-concept fantasy and sci-fi from Farmer and Zelazny, gritty sword and sorcery from Howard and the high-fantasy of Tolkien—not to mention comics (everything from Archie to Batman) and humor (Mad magazine).

Since those early days, I majored in English lit and graduated to “the classics” and novels of depth and maturity. But nothing matched the page-turning glee of those first books, and while I’ve found lots of worth in so-called higher reading, I still enjoy reading the kind of books Dad set in front of me, and re-read some of those early books so I can recapture a bit of the magic of those early tales and adventures in my imagination.

I’ll be the first to admit that Dad’s the reason why I read in bed and in the bathroom.

Love & Women

When I was in kindergarten, we had a next door neighbor who was a seven-year old girl who towered over me. She was not a bad kid, but she could be a bit of a bully. Melanie was her name, and she was quick to call names or push a smaller kid to the ground. One day she was particularly abusive. She pushed my five-year-old self down several times, calling me one mean name after another. Though not an angry child, I finally had enough and I jumped to my feet and popped her right in the nose as hard I as I could swing my little fist.

Melanie burst into tears, screaming and crying and holding a nose that was gushing blood. I admit that I walked home proud of myself. I stood up against a much bigger foe and acted in self-defense. And I tagged her one good. She wouldn’t be picking on me again, and I was patting myself on the back. I went home and told my Dad the events with a self-satisfied smile on my face.

Dad was furious.

He told me never, NEVER put rough hands on a girl or woman. If they were mean or abusive, you are to walk away. In his book there was no acceptable situation where it was okay to hit a girl. He sent me to my room, telling me that he was ashamed that I had punched a girl in the face and left her bleeding. I stayed in my room that next day, was forced to apologize to my neighbors, and was grounded in the house the following day.

Lesson learned, Dad. It definitely wasn’t just that one incident that trained me to both a gentleman and a gentle man, as well as building in a protective streak when it came to the female persuasion. It was Mom who showed me how women can be just as tough, intelligent, and capable as any man—but that’s another blog—but it was Dad who showed me that any woman should still be treated like a lady.

When it came to birds and bees, Dad wasn’t much for the long talks. He gave me a very brief talk about protection—but for the specifics he pulled out a copy of The Joy of Sex that had been on the living room. The fully illustrated book showed me the mechanics, the philosophy of physical love between a man and a woman, and gave me plenty of inspiration for the years to come. It was less awkward and way more informative than he could have been anyway! He did tell me something that stuck with me over the years: “The worst sex I ever had was still better than no sex at all.”

Education & Career

My Dad went to college more years than most doctors and lawyers—yet he never got his degree. There were lots of reasons, including his physical limitations, but the real truth is that my Dad had a hard time sticking with any one thing. I learned as a teenager that my father had been in seminary for a time and had studied to be a pastor. He had since bounced around from one discipline and area of study to another.

That was definitely a running theme for my Dad. He was a dilettante. He’d get passionately interested in an idea or subject, dive into a like a man obsessed, and eventually get bored of it and simply shelve it away in the storage closet of his brain. He used to brag that he’d forgotten more than the rest of us would ever know.

He was fascinated with language, etymology, and specifically the evolution of the English language. Dad was also big on the connections of history—how individuals or seemingly innocuous events could have a giant impact on society, culture, and warfare. But he loved science, too. When I was about nine he showed me a book on Parasitology and let me know just what organisms were living on and in me on a good day, and what things I could pick up just by running barefoot through the grass. Dad definitely helped me develop the strong stomach that I have to this day—as he and I could have a conversation about hookworms at the dinner table while slurping up our spaghetti, even while my Mom and sisters turned green.
It took me a long time to realize that my Dad lacked real ambition and focus, however. Some people have a fear of failure, but I think my Dad had a kind of fear of success. He was a hard worker when it was time to work, but I don’t know that he ever would have been happy in any sort of traditional career. But he gave me lots of encouragement, was always excited for my accomplishments, and always made me feel like a winner. When I graduated from college, got promoted, got my first cover credit, won an industry award, he let me know how proud he was.

Dad made it clear that he wanted me to go farther and do more things than he was ever able. He never showed a hint of jealousy when I did something he had never did. Rather, he patted me on the back and quietly cheered me on.

Life

I could keep writing this for ages. I could talk about humor and storytelling. A love of hitting the road and traveling to new places. How I enjoy getting in the kitchen and cooking up a great dinner. Wearing blue jeans and t-shirts. Jumping on a motorcycle. There are just a thousand ways, and maybe more, of how I’m cut from the same cloth and sewn into very similar pattern as my Dad.

When I speak I hear how our voices are similar. When I scold my kids I sometimes find myself saying the same things. How sometimes I like to stay up late and play video games or have a few drinks and just tell stories with friends.

I miss him. And when I manage to remind myself of him, it’s impossible not to miss him all the time.

My brain and my heart haven’t fully accepted that he’s not here with us anymore. I half expect him to answer the phone when I call, and I know when I venture back down to Georgia I’m going to think he’s just off running a six-hour errand at Wally-World or picking something up at the hardware store.

He can’t be gone. From my earliest minutes of life he was the biggest, strongest, smartest, funniest person in my world. Indestructible. Immortal. He was so much of who I am. And even gone, he still is and always will be.

In 2006, my life hit a short-lived rough patch. I went back home for a week and slept on an air mattress in my old room, trying to figure out which direction to go with my life. When he thought I was asleep, he crept into the room and tousled my hair and said, “It’ll be all right, Dumplin’.”

I’ve done so many great things, largely thanks to him. I’ve written stories and made games and traveled across the country and even to other parts of the world. Some people think I’m really great, and none of them have a clue that I couldn’t have done any of these things if it wasn’t for my Dad. I couldn’t have done any of this without what he gave me, what he taught me, what he did with me.

I’d trade every dollar, every book, every award if he could walk into the room and do that just one more time.

I love you, Dad.

This actually happened last Thursday, but I had forgotten about it until Renae reminded me at lunch today. It’s too funny not to share.

Okay, first you need to understand that one of the artists who we’ve worked with, and Renae has become friends with, is Bruce Colero. (Note: The previous link is probably not safe for work, as it’s filled with naked women!) He’s an artist known for many things, one of the main ones being his photo-realistic female nudes—often with some exotic themes.

Renae gets routine e-mails from Bruce which he sends her (and many others) with his latest pieces. They can vary, but almost always have naked women. Renae often shares these with the rest of us here in the office. I’ve certainly never objected to seeing his excellent portrayals of the female form. With our current staff, Renae often forwards these e-mails to myself, Digger, and Cam.

It’s the Cam that got Renae in trouble. Her e-mail program generally lets her get away with typing in the person’s name and it fills in the rest. The problem is that Cam is an awfully short name, and she is on a mailing list to receive recipes using cans of condensed soup…

Campbells Kitchen [campbellsservices@familytime.com]

…so when she typed in “CAM” and hit Return she didn’t realize that she was sending a very graphic picture of a naked female devil-woman drawing blood with a fingernail to the back-end of a pale Goth chick (of whom we get an OB-GYN’s eye view of certain delicate parts of her anatomy).

Common sense and decency prevent me from showing you this picture (it’s pretty graphic) but try to imagine Renae forwarding porn to Campbell’s Soup and you can imagine the levels of hysterical laughter that hit our office on Thursday.

Things are never dull here at MWP. My wife makes me smile for many reasons, but this one was definitely different! I can only hope that some poor soup-lady didn’t fall out of her office chair and break her hip.

When I was seven years old, living in north Georgia in the year 1982, my older friends Matt and Scott asked me to sit in on a game. I would get to play a warrior in a fantastic setting battling monsters while taking treasure and glory. My father, much to my mother’s displeasure, had taken me to see Conan the Barbarian earlier that year — so I could hear the music of the Anvil of Crom ringing in my ears and could recite the “best in life” speech at a moment’s notice. I was ready!

Never mind that my warrior was horribly killed by a black pudding in the third room, I was hooked and and ready for more. The bigger kids only wanted me to fill a seat, so I didn’t always get to play when I wanted. But within a year I had the gorgeous Elmore-cover red box set and probably went up a grade or two in reading level trying to unlock all its secrets. I became a better D&D player, and finally got to roll up my own character.

Warriors were bad-ass, thieves were good at sneaking around and stabbing monsters in the back, clerics could heal … but the power to wield magic and fling magic and fire at your enemies was not to be matched in my young mind. I wanted to be a wizard. I rolled up a character, old-school. Three dice and that was it. He was pretty much useless except for his high Intelligence and mediocre Constitution and Charisma. I named him Winston.

Flash-forward twenty-five years. I’m 33 years old now, and I have a seven year old son of my own, Alexander or just “Xander.” But he didn’t have to wait until his current age to be exposed to gaming. I’ve been indoctrinating him since before he was even born. I have, in my possession, the same red books from that very same early-80s D&D Basic Set that are signed by both Gary Gygax and Larry Elmore to “Alexander.” Signed while he was still in the womb at the Gen Con two-and-a-half months before he was born. There is a picture of him (check my MySpace album) of him holding a d20 in his hand and miniature AD&D rulebooks under his arm. Once he could hold dice in his hand, I would let him help me roll. (He got his start playing the Warlord CCG from AEG.) I could not wait to get my son interested in games! When Xander his four, I was able to score a copy of the D&D Board Game that you can only purchase in Great Britain (for reasons that defy all the sense I have as a game publisher myself). For those of you who haven’t seen it, the game is an excellent intro to the hobby that uses symbols instead of numbers and complicated game stats. All Xander had to do was roll the right colored dice and count sword-symbols to know his attack.

He loved it.

About a year ago we graduated to the new D&D Basic Set, using the pre-made characters that came along with it. Xander stepped up and played Regdar the Fighter, Lizzy grabbed Lidda the Halfling Rogue, Melanie the Elven Wizard. It was great fun! But after a few sessions, life and work and everything else put a halt to the game. We haven’t touched it for a long time … until today.

My son came up to me and announced that he was tired of us not playing Dungeons & Dragons. But, he told me, this time he’d like to create his own character. Being the man I am, there was no way to refuse him — so we sat down the D&D Player’s Handbook and a set of dice that once belonged to my good and much-missed friend, Richard Wilhite, and began the work of rolling up a custom-character.

The resulting character creation was a pretty kick-butt human fighter. He’s strong, fast, tough, and wields a greatsword (improved with the Weapon Focus feat, supplemented by both Power Attack and Cleave for my curious fellow geeks). This guy wears scale mail armor and has a dagger tucked in his boot. Way better rolls and choices than I made twenty-five years ago on my first character.

But as I went to enter his information into the computer so we could print out a character sheet, I realized that there was no name for this human tank. Xander wasn’t quite sure what to name him, so I whipped out my Extraordinary Book of Names, a handy resource for both Dungeon Masters and writers of fantasy. We flipped to medieval English names and I let him read the list for himself. “Well?” I asked.

“Walter,” he said. “Walter the Fighter.”

The grin that split my face probably could have taken off the top portion of my head. I immediately decided that it was the best name for a D&D character in the history of the world — and it wasn’t until an hour later that I remembered my own Winston (who was later crushed under a 5-ton granite slab in some dungeon or another). James Alexander Chambers really is a chip off the ol’ block.

My brother Digger was so excited by this story that he decided we had play — today! So he, Mel, and Liz were armed with characters and they hit the dungeon. There were goblins, locked doors, trapped chests, an orc mauler, and a shrieking harpy. Through it all, Walter the Fighter waded through his enemies in a sea of blood and gore as my son rolled his orange d20 and looked so excited I thought his head would explode. They made it through two major areas of the dungeon and everyone lived, earning some healing potions and a pair of magic boots, along with 400 experience points.

Xander had a good time, but I don’t know if he could have possibly enjoyed it as much as me. There is something about being a father to a son where you see everything through his eyes. It was like being seven years old myself and discovering the keys to the kingdom all over again.

I’ll play backyard catch with my son, like I did with my Dad. I’ll take him to the movies. But I don’t think anything is going to compare to this. I just hope we’re still gaming together when I’m a toothless old man.

No matter how senile I get, I don’t think I’ll ever forget Walter.