The C Word Part II

My sister has cancer.

The C word.

It's breast cancer, one of the more fashionable diseases, like AIDS.

For better or for worse, men's fascination with breasts has probably saved millions of women's lives.

Dana has surgery on Thursday at St. James hospital in Santa Monica. I pick up Mom at the airport, she's better now, less consumed with fear. I'm glad my sister is having the tumor removed so quickly, I'm told having a tumor is like being in the tub with a large black spider and you just want it out as soon as possible.

We pay $12 to valet and go up to the 2nd floor, where Christos nervously keeps watch in the waiting room. The surgery has already taken place, Christos whispers that the surgery appears to have been successful and Dana is in recovery.

"What about the lymph nodes?" I ask. The lymph nodes are where the doctor's determine if there has been any spread of cancer. Typically they take between 6 to 12, a sampling to check for cancer spread.

"They only took one." Christos remarks.

"One?" I ask, dumbfounded. "I thought they had to take at least three?"

Christos nods. "Normally, but they were happy with what they saw, so only one."

An hour later we are admitted into recovery, Christos first, my mother second, myself last. Unlike them, I am not nervous. I know my sister is going to be okay. I grew up with my sister, and it's going to take more than some piddly little thing like breast cancer to kill her.

Like a volcano or a tac nuke.

When I first see her she's pale but smiling, relief emanating in all directions. No more spider in the tub, it's been removed and put into a jar where it is being examined to see if it left any of its brood behind. We get back to Malibu and Dana spends the rest of the day valiantly trying to stay awake so she can sleep through the night.

Christos writes an email thanking everyone for their love and support. He calls my sister, myself, and mother into the room and reads the email aloud.

By the time he is done tears are rolling down his face.

Dana sits in his lap, silent. She frowns, brow creased with concentration as she peers at the monitor. A moment later she leans forward and begins making corrections to the email.

I can't help it, I start laughing.

"I may not be able to control the cancer, or the surgery, but at least I can control this!" Dana snaps.

Volcano? Bah!

Definitely a tac nuke.

The C Word

There are some words that can never be taken back. Forbidden, illicit, verboten. Speak them, and you've crossed a line - you're done.

There aren't many bad words left in English, most so overused they have become little more than verbally redundant adjectives. But there is still one word that is still a pure verbal vomit conversation killer. The C word.

Cancer.

My sister has breast cancer.

She's 35.

It's malignant.

I know something is wrong when I check my messages and hear my mother's panicked voice. "Brian, call Christos."

Christos is my sister's husband. A successful bio-tech recruiter, he has a house in Malibu overlooking the ocean, drives a porsche, and was a former restauranteur and photographer. He sings, plays guitar, scuba dives, speaks three languages, has a wine collection that surpasses most restaurants, a connoisseur of the arts.

I'd date him.

I call, but can't get ahold of him. I try his cell and his home phone, then I try my sisters. Nothing. I breathe out a heavy sigh.

I have no recourse, I'm going to have to call my Mom.

My mother is borderline hysterical with fear. She doesn't want to tell me at first, but finally blurts, "Dana has cancer!" Her terror washes over me, envelopes me over the phone and drags me into a world of doom where the cancer could possibly masticate and transform into the blob, devouring civilization.

The next morning I get a call from Christos. His worry leadens every word, but he has it under control. He explains:

1. The cancer is most likely in stage 1, which is 100% curable. (Stage 2 is 92% curable.)

2. Dana will need a lumpectomy, or excisional biopsy to remove the lump and some of the surrounding tissue to determine if there is any spread of cancerous tissue.

3. She will need radiation, but chemotherapy is unlikely unless the cancer has spread into the lymph nodes.

Christos has used all of his contacts in the bio medical field, his business savvy, and his indomitable will to put together the dream team of breast cancer experts. He has the head of oncology at UCLA and a lumpectomy specialist who is considered the best in the world.

This surgeon is so good he only operates on Tuesday's and Thursday's, and he doesn't bother with insurance. You want his services, cash only, 75% up front. People fly from Japan and China to hire his services. Dana and Christos hope the surgeon will be able to squeeze them in sometime in the next 5 weeks.

Dana and Christos meet with him on Monday.

He agrees to perform the surgery on Thursday.

Say one thing for the Count, he gets it done.

Say one thing for my sister, she knows how to turn on the charm.

Birthday Bazaar

On my birthday I have a tradition of going to fabulous overpriced restaurants, all due in part to my sister who insists I eat something better then a cheeseburger and fries. LA is a fusion of international cuisine, there is practically nothing you cannot find here.

It's just not affordable. If great food was reasonable then that would take away the fun of being a snob and being able to tell your friends to "suck it" as you devour $20 rainbow rolls at Katsuya or the drunken crab doused in chardonnay garlic and scallions at Crustacean.

My sister is a walking Zagat's guide, she and her husband have traveled the world and eaten probably everywhere there is worth eating. So when Dana raves about a restaurant, one should wake up and pay attention.

This year I make an insane demand - I want reservations at Bazaar, currently one of the hottest, trendiest, and most expensive restaurants in all of Los Angeles. It's become a watering hole for Hollywood power players - agents, managers, and talent all hob knob there as women in tight skirts and bursting cleavage vie for attention.

Bazaar is the restaurant people imagine of what it must be like to dine out in a LA.

Going there in itself is not impossible, but I want the reservation on Saturday night.

People book months in advance for a Saturday reservation.

My sister does it with a week's notice.

She knows the chef - Marcel who was the runner up on the reality show Top Chef. Part cook, part chemist, part wild haired mad scientist, Marcel runs Bazaar's kitchen. Marcel's second in command to Jose Andres, who owns and runs the entire restaurant.

I invite Phil who himself is a bit of a foodie, perhaps more so then myself. The restaurant is only about a mile from where I live, but with traffic it takes 20 minutes. Bazaar takes up almost the entire bottom floor of the swank SLS hotel, a line of cars wait patiently for the valet, but Phil spins around a corner and finds street parking.

Fuck valet.

Inside there are three rooms, in the middle is "Bar Centro", a cocktail lounge with mix matched chairs, stools, and thrones. Paintings of royalty adorn the floors and wall, subtly shifting into were-people before turning back into human form. Old films play beneath the counter tops, the entire effect is one of disconcerting bewilderment.

To the right is a shop that looks like a museum: lamp posts carved into the likeness of M-16's, corsets illuminated on display next to $125 vibrators. There is an architecture of destruction collection, where one can buy model likenesses of the Titanic, the Twin Towers, and the City of New Orleans before they were destroyed. There are gold hand gun lighters, three foot long miniature speed boats, carvings of animals and cakes, it is a menagerie of the misfit toys.

To the left is the actual restaurant itself, divided into two sub restaurants: Blanca, decorated in white, and Rojo, decorated in black and red. My sister insists that one must eat in the Rojo, closer to the kitchen, eating in the Blanca is simply an inferior experience.

We sit down and order drinks. I order a rum and coke, and my sister fires me a look that can be charitably described as bemusedly exasperated. She orders me a specialty drink, rum mixed with liquid nitrogen. A woman pushes up a cart and begins to mix the concoction in front of us, steam hisses and pours forth, blanketing the table as she pours and stirs various liquids to create this magical elixir.

I end up with a glass of yellow colored sherbet.

It's bitter and strong, it tastes like rum and knocks me on my ass.

From there we head to the Rojo. Marcel has set up a special table for us, where we can see him working in the kitchen. He has wild, unruffled hair and does not look up, focused on whatever is in front of him.

Christos pulls out a couple of bottles of wine from his personal collection. (It's larger then that of some restaurants.) I smile appreciatively, I admit that wine is lost on me, but Phil whistles. A second later he bends over and texts Varga on his iPhone.

"Who are you texting?" I ask.

"Varga." Phil responds. "I'm telling him I'm eating at Bazaar. That and that he can "suck it."

Upon the chef's orders, the waiters automatically bring us dishes. In the tradition of Spanish cuisine, Bazaar is a tapas restaurant, meaning all the dishes are bite size entree's. One, possibly two bites, and the dish is gone.

Normally I would turn up my nose at such an absurd idea. Fifteen dollars for an entree that you can swallow almost instantly? That's the kind of crap that gives LA an elitist bad name. Give me a good 'ol steak any day.

The waiter brings out a set of watermelon tomato heart skewers. I eat it and it's a gastronomic explosion of deliciousness. Watermelon and tomatoes - mixed together? Are you kidding me? It's amazing.

My skepticism evaporates.

From there it is the jicama wrapped guacamole, which looks like small tiny little gift bags, miniature green purses that can be swallowed in one bite. Except when you bite into them, they don't so much melt as POP, overwhelming the senses with corn chips and cilantro. It's like eating an entire Mexican meal in a single taste.

Dana orders a set of caviar cones, tiny ice cream cones filled with delectable caviar, I almost swoon and we are just getting started.

Then come the olives. The waiter brings out a set of traditional "stuffed" olives, then a series of large white spoons each with its own Bazaar created olive, a soft gel like pod broken down and reconstructed from a regular olive.

"Be careful with these," Dana warns. "They explode in your mouth." A second later she bites into it, and olive juice erupts and dribbles down her chin.

"You didn't over sell it." Phil replies laconically.

I put one olive in my mouth and slowly bite into it. The olive blows apart, creating a wild sensation that encapsulates the flavor and essence of an olive more then an actual olive could ever hope to emulate. Just as fiction can be more revealing then truth, so the artificial olive is more pure in olive taste then any natural olive.

Christos orders a beet salad. Normally I hate beets, but at this point I'm willing to bet just about anything on this menu is amazing. Surprisingly, the beets are merely good, but I guess that making beets taste good is an amazing feat in and of itself.

There is a mini salad that you can eat in one bite, scooped up with a chip that gives the sensation of having eaten a full salad.

Then comes the mini Philly cheese steaks, bite sized morsels twice the size of a pizza roll, but twenty times as good. I devour it, the cheese and steak combines into a culinary party that showers the tongue, teeth and tonsils more completely then a foot long philly sub.

Then comes the foie gras, wrapped in cotton candy. Foie gras is a fancy name for goose liver, a delicacy in France, but like escargot considered disgusting nearly everywhere else.

Not quite knowing what it is, I pick it up and put it in my mouth.

A moment later I am in heaven, the foie gras melts in a chewy carmel orgy of pure unadulterated flavor, buttressed by the cotton candy it turns into an olfactory orgasm. If foods had a rating, the foie gras would be XXX.

It is divine.

(Khazani, for the record, you are crazy not to like this.)

It is the coup de grace of the evening. Nothing can top the foie gras wrapped in cotton candy. Not the delectable lamb in white sauce, not the mouth watering baby corn on the cob mixed with corn nuts and popcorn shoots, not the mussels or crab meat in cherry sauce, or sweet potato chips mixed with yogurt and tamarind. I am not eating one meal, I am eating twenty meals, each dish a perfect culinary delight that dovetails perfectly into the next ideal bite.

It is a culinary waterloo.

I have never in my entire life eaten a better meal.

Dana and Christos pay for everything. As always, I am amazed by their generosity.

I even got an iPod touch as a gift.

I thank them profusely. Christos shakes his head. "Too bad you aren't forty, you would have gotten more."

Dana introduces us to Marcel. He comes out from behind the counter and gives Dana a hug, then shakes our hands. He is quiet and smiles. On Top Chef he had the reputation for being an egotistical maniac, but then you can't really believe anything you see on TV.

"I expect a blog out of this."

"Don't worry, Dana, you'll get one."

Six Years

They say that public school teachers peak at seven years. They've learned the craft of teaching, but are still new enough to care while able to circumvent the worst of the inanity.

After 7 years, teaching is a slow descent into the black miasma of doom.

The first year I was terrified, nervous, filled with dread and anxiety.

The second year I was just nervous and felt like I was still faking it.

The third year I was giddy with excitement.

The fourth year I was self assured and eager.

The fifth year I felt slightly tense, full of anticipation, like an athlete before a game.

The start of this year, my sixth year, one year before my "peak"...I don't feel anything.

I'm not excited, I'm not nervous, I'm not anxious, I'm not energized.

This year I just feel bored.

When did this go from becoming an adventure to being just a job?

Don't get me wrong, it's still not easy. The schedule Sarah and I worked so painstakingly on has been shot to hell, the teachers I thought I would be working with have disappeared, the students remain forever adolescent. I should have lesson plans that last me for 6 months straight without even thinking - I certainly have collected years of material.

But every year I always feel like I'm starting from scratch.

I've picked up the tricks, learned techniques that can never be gathered through training but earned only through battle scarred experience. Like a magician, I can bring a class to attention with a wave of my hand, have them laughing with a sly joke, or freeze them dead with a glare.

The staff nods and waves. They all know who I am, although I can barely remember half their names. There have been so many of them that have come and gone through our school doors that to me the faculty blends right in with the students.

The older teachers, the lifers, treat me differently now. To the one's that like me, I am a comrade in arms, a trusted associate who can be turned to for help. To the more difficult teachers I am a predator, we circle each other like sharks, mouthing empty pleasantries before both moving along our way.

I have even outlasted the principal. He was promoted this year.

I remain.

The first day of school I sail through on cruise control. I march through my classroom like a twenty year sea captain walking the decks, anticipating problems before the students can even have a chance to react. Sarah is gone this year, and the room feels empty, party because I've finally managed to take down all her crap that cluttered the walls.

I miss her terribly.

At the end of the day I do something I have never done in five years of teaching.

I go out and join friends in Hollywood for a drink.

When did this become a job?

Photo Shoot

Photo Shoot.

Once upon a time, photo shoots weren't for mere mortals. Photo shoots were reserved for rock stars, models, and celebrities. Normal people didn't have photo shoots. Photo shoot? You'd have to be some kind of movie star to have a photo shoot.

Six months ago I met a photographer named Carlos. In Los Angeles, photographers make a living off head shots - every actor, wannabe actor, or person who thinks he's an actor needs head shots.

Or so I thought until the advent of online dating and facebook. Suddenly, I needed good photos.

That's when I met Carlos. He's a Peruvian photographer who used to run his own ad agency in Peru. Unfortunately for Carlos, he had the misfortune to spend more revenue then he generated, and his ad agency failed. They seized his assets, froze his accounts, destroyed his credit.

So he did what most people in other countries do when they need to start over. He turned his sights on the United States. Normally, the U.S. consulate would never let someone like Carlos through. A broke immigrant with no family in the U.S. and nothing to come back to? Forget it.

Carlos, however, does not look nor act like an immigrant. He's bilingual, fashionable, and hip. When he interviewed with the consulate, he wore a sports jacket and timberland shoes.

So they let gave him a ten year work visa. The bilingual, fashionable and hip can come to America anytime.

For anyone who wants to see his work, check out www.studiodecarlos.com. The man does know his way around the camera.

Carlos read some of my work, and was so taken by it he offered me a deal. I write a short story about his life, and in return he gives me a complimentary photo shoot.

The first day I had to try on a series of clothes. Fortunately, Carlos has an entire wardrobe of men's wear. Jean jackets and coats, formal and informal shirts, belts, cuff links, ties. He has enough clothes to start his own outlet store. He has converted an entire garage into a small studio, complete with backdrops, massive strobe lights, mirrors, and reflectors.

This isn't just some guy armed with a digital camera.

I interviewed him and we set up a day for the shoot.

"Come back on Thursday at four o'clock. The lighting is good then."

"Can't we do it earlier? I'm leaving town the next morning."

Carlos is adamant. "No, I want to shoot you in natural light. Natural light his the best light to shoot in, and I prefer late afternoon. Be sure to bring one pair of jeans, one pair of black pants. It doesn't matter if they fit, the camera only cares about the top of your body."

A week later I show up with one pair of jeans and one pair of black pants. Carlos has me put on a ruffled white shirt and black coat. He then begins to straighten it, looking to remove any wrinkles, attempting to get it to fall down along my body. He then pulls out a pair of golden light reflectors, they look like sun blockers, the kind that one would put in their car to reflect heat.

He asks me to sit in a chair and tells me to look at the camera. He begins to snap away, telling me to relax. Everything he takes is "great, wonderful, good." "Look sexy, that's it. Oohhh, that is so sexy. I love it. The women are going to love it. Yes, more of that. Look into the camera, own the camera. You are sooo hot right now."

"Should I give you blue steel?" I ask.

"Yes, Zoolander! I love it! Give me blue steel."

I shoot him a look attempting to do my best impression of Ben Stiller trying to look hot. I brush my hands through my hair and throw back my head.

"Yes, yes, yes! Now we are having fun." Carlos stops and gets on the ground, asks me to mimic a half dozen positions. Elbows on the floor, hands behind my back, laying on my side, chin out, chin up, face side to side. It is extremely awkward. Snap! Snap! Snap!

Carlos decides it is time for a change of wardrobe. He gives me a blue jacket and tells me to leave the top unbuttoned. "Oh yes, this is going to be sooo hot!"

We walk across the street to a neighbors house and he has me lean up in the corner of a vermillion wall. "Place your hands behind you and look like you are trapped." Snap! "Yes, this is good. Rich Varga found this spot and invented that look."

The neighbors small dog comes out to stare at us. After a dozen photos it lays down and goes to sleep.

I'm ready to go to sleep. After 90 minutes, I'm exhausted. Looking into a camera and trying to look sexy, relaxed, and confident is not as easy as it sounds.

Modeling is hard.

Seven hundred photos later, Carlos is done. He promises to take the best 30 photos and have them to me by next week.

A few days later he'll call with a problem. "Brian, I need you to come look at these photos. There are so many good ones I can't decide."

Damn, I knew I was hot.

The 32nd Floor

Downtown.

Downtown is the hub, the heart, the epicenter of the modern American city. Filled with skyscrapers, the phallic symbol of American dominance, downtown is the place to be. It's where the cool people come to party at the coolest clubs, its where connoisseurs come to sample the finest cuisine, it's where millions of Americans make the daily pilgrimage to and from work.

But LA, that curious city lying just outside planet Earth, breaks these rules. No one wants to go downtown, no one wants to party downtown, and certainly no one wants to live downtown.

Downtown isn't the heart of LA because LA is a city that doesn't have a heart.

Most Angelino's don't even work downtown, they just sort of pass through it on their way to somewhere else. If LA's downtown isn't the heart, it is at least the center of four major arteries that converge and pump traffic through via the 101, the 10, the 110, and the 5.

So while LA's downtown may lack the culture, finance, and importance of other cities downtowns, it still is a landmark. It is the heart of LA's traffic.

At least, that's how it used to be. About 6 years ago developers began to pump money into LA's decrepit core, creating the Staples Center, lofts for the young and affluent, and trendy bars and eateries for people to come drink and eat. LA's downtown developed from a rotting husk into a classic 3rd world city - fancy bars with tuxedo security selling $20 drinks a block away from homeless shelters and addicts.

Tonight Varga's gotten us invites to a premier at the LA film festival held within the newly redeveloped AT&T center. The film is entitled Reach for Me, directed by LeVar Burton, better known as Geordi La Forge on Star Trek: The Next Generation. It stars Seymour Cassell, a character actor who has starred and worked in over 170 films. Cassell was Bert Fischer's father in Rushmore, Robert Redford's menacing henchman in Indecent Proposal, Richard Dreyfuss' partner in Tin Men.

In addition to the premier of the film, Cassell is being honored with a lifetime achievement award by the Hollywood Reporter.

As soon as Phil and I arrive, I can tell we are underdressed. The men wear sports coats and button down shirts with jeans, the women are in black cocktail dresses and tight skirts. There are photographers and red carpet, but Varga meets us outside and greases us through security.

Underdressed as we are, we act like we belong, and we're waved through.

I get us seats in a mid sized theatre and meet a documentarian who has just finished a film about a man who ran 26 miles for 75 consecutive days to raise cancer awareness. I tell her I'm a writer but don't have anything more to add.

Luke Wilson takes to the podium to start the award ceremony. He's followed by clips of Cassell's work and a tribute video. A bald man with a beard worthy of a native from West Virginia then takes the podium, who then hands it over to a pair of suits before Cassell himself takes to the stage. He's an old man, but his voice carries loud and clear. He thanks everyone and keeps the speech brief, stating how lucky he's been to work so long in the industry.

Then we're subjected to one more clip from Lee Iacocca about the importance of living a full rich life and the importance of ending life with dignity. (I'm guessing he was a major contributor to the funding.)

Then the film begins. Reach for Me takes place in a hospice, a character study about how the old cope with death. It has no action scenes, which is why it's an independent film. It also lacks any kind of adversary, ticking clock, or climax. I'm bored out of my mind.

The documentarian next to me is sobbing.

So is most of the audience.

"Would this old fart hurry up and die already." Phil mutters.

When the movie ends we rise up out of our seats and make a break for the door. There's a party in the penthouse of the AT&T building, and there's limited space. Security only lets ten people up at a time, counting us as we enter the elevator.

We take it to the 30th floor, whereupon we enter a second, smaller elevator that takes us up to the 32nd floor - the very top of the building.

As soon as we arrive, my jaw sags toward the ground. The 32nd floor is one giant room filled with windows that provide a 360 degree view of the city. To the East and South I can see the million Christmas tree lights that sparkle over the city turning it into a mystical wonderland. To the West is the Staples Center, a purple space aged bowl and the softer colors of the less condensed neighborhoods towards the ocean. To the North is downtown, buildings lit in the bright glow of unearthly iridescence.

There are several bars, catering tables with food, and girls wearing mardi gras masks serving trays of drinks. Some hawk martini shots, others pass out bottles of coca cola, while others still offer cans of ice cold mocha coffee.

Everywhere there are beautiful women as trendy music reverberates throughout the penthouse. It is sensory overload, it is what I imagined LA was like when I first moved here in 2000.

Nine years later, I'm finally experiencing it.

I'm really under dressed.

Phil hits it off with a gorgeous young woman in a black dress, she's an actor and both her parents are from Spain. I start to think that Spain looks like a good place to go visit. I decide to help Phil out and mention to her that he writes scripts, and he has one that might be perfect for her. Phil runs with it.

I spot Seymour Cassell walking by us and I shake his hand, telling him I've enjoyed his work over the years. Varga gets a picture with him, and then a blonde comes up and steals Cassell's attention, leading him over to a group of girls.

Varga introduces me to one of the girls wearing a mask. She's half Hawaiian, half Filipino. I flirt, but she's not really all that interested. I tell her to get back to work.

I meet an older woman twenty years too old to be wearing short hot pants. She has a live snake coiled on the top of her head, a Python named Rocko. The snake is wrapped around a pair of chopsticks she has through her hair, otherwise only the snake's head moves. She explains that Rocko thinks her head is the safest place to be, so has no desire to move. I ask her she does when the snake defecates, but she explains he only eats once a week.

It's LA.

I meet a woman whose boyfriend is one of the board members on the festival. He's left her alone to go schmooze, so she's just happy to have someone to talk to. I ask her where the LeVar Burton is, the film's director.

"Didn't you hear?" she gasps. "They said it was too crowded and they wouldn't let him come up."

"What?" I ask, dumbfounded. "But Burton is the director of the film. The party is for him."

"Evidently security didn't recognize him. So he left."

I should be shocked, but after nine years of living here I just nod. If you aren't A list, you aren't guaranteed to get in anywhere, even when it's your film that you directed and it's a party celebrating the premier of said film. Seems in LA it's not who you are that matters, but how many people know who you are.

That's LA.

Games

"Hurry up. Make a move."

Dan shakes his head, eyes narrowed in concentration. "I'm sorry, but this is an important decision. Do I pick the wealthy skeletons, the flying tritons, or the swamp land elves?"

'What about the pillaging orcs?" Lisa asks.

"There's always the wealthy sorcerers." John adds.

Five minutes later Dan finally settles on the fortified trolls. The four of us stand around a colorful game board covered in an array of iconic pieces that would make all but the most soulless gamer take notice and drool. The game is called Small World, the objective is to score points by taking it over with different races, and when they die out through attrition, to pick a new race.

I launch an invasion of commando amazons, then as they go into decline I decide to invade with a horde of mounted rat-men. The board shifts and changes as waves of invaders charge in from the edge of the board, overpowering the previous races from before. Lisa, Dan, and John battle it out, vying for supremacy as I quietly amass power by holding large swaths of territory.

I am convinced that I am ahead.

When it is time to score points, I'm in last place.

I'm starting to think Small World is a stupid game.

We play a second time. This time I go with pillaging dwarves, switch to mountain walking giants, and finish with sea walking sorcerers. I'm convinced I'm losing.

Turns out, I finish in first.

Now I know Small World is a stupid game.

I am currently in Centerville, VA at the Wintergreen ski resort. It may not be Veil or Aspen, but for Virginia it's about as good as you can find, and the golf courses and trees are beautiful. A dozen of us have rented a house with three floors, a corporate board room table (with white board) and six bed rooms to hold a "gamer's retreat" over a four day weekend.

The objective: play as many games as possible.

The goal: win.

Via the power of Facebook, I've reconnected with people I haven't seen in nearly 20 years, people I knew in college. We belonged to the Guild, a role playing group that mostly preferred playing dungeons and dragons to getting drunk.

Although some people like Robb and Tony liked putting those two things together.

Actually I think Robb and Tony did just like getting drunk.

Meeting people you haven't seen in 20 years is a strange experience, they are neither friend nor stranger - they stand within the crossroads of the heart. Mike, Dan, Tony, Robb and Lisa - most of them are married, and most of them have kids.

But no matter how much they've changed, I've known them from before. I've known them as gamers. When it comes time to play a game, that's when the true personality emerges.

Mike is still thoughtful and even tempered, until someone crosses him in a game and he explodes in a fit of foul anger, then settles and quietly plots his revenge.

Tony is still just like the cartoon character the Tick, smiling brightly as he makes bold moves.

Lisa is content to let others fight it out while she secretly amasses power, playing as much for fun as much for the win.

Dan always plays for the win, maximizing every move for it's utmost potential, analyzing every possibility, trade and combination until he achieves a moment of zen.

Robb still likes to run around and shoot things and pretend to hit people. I'm not surprised he runs a school that trains actors how to to fight with swords and mimic hitting people.

There are other people I meet for the first time: John the Lawyer, Robb the Professor, Garrett the Corporate Defender, and Art the Entrepreneur. I do not know them, but we share a common bond - we're gamers.

Games lie throughout the house. Diplomacy, Settlers of Catan, Knights of Catan, Lost Worlds, Space Merchants of Venice, Puerto Rico, Talisman, Wiz War, and decks of Magic The Gathering. Dungeons and Dragons rule books are scattered everywhere, but these gamers haven't made the switch to 4th edition - they continue to play 3.5

Whatever happened to Monopoly and Risk? We still play them, but we prefer games where no one can get knocked out early and the race to win is close to the end. Modern games are more about strategy, cooperation, and deal making then they are about dice rolling.

Plus new games have all these really cool pieces.

Whether the game is old or new, good games all have one important element. They allow you to cheat and betray your "friends". Winning a game is great, but depriving an adversary of the win: priceless.

In MLB everyone loves to hit a home run, but when professional outfielders are interviewed many admit that they prefer to snatch them away from someone else.

It's human nature to screw others. It feels good.

But the soul of this group are role playing games, games that invoke intuitiveness and imagination, where a dice roll is more then just numbers on piece of plastic but a sword cleaving through a dragon's hide courtesy of the imagination.

The characters a player creates and the decisions that character makes better reflect the personality then a battery of personality tests. D&D isn't just a game, it's where true natures are revealed.

The first game we're asked to make up 14th level characters for a one shot adventure. Fourteenth level is powerful in D&D, akin to Luke Skywalker starting out as a jedi without having to whine for two movies in-between.

With all the rules, feats, extra skills, and magic items added on over the years, asking an experienced player to make up a 14th level character from scratch with no guidelines is like asking Frankenstein not to make a monster.

Robb creates a force missile mage capable of firing bolts of energy that would blow apart walls.

Lisa makes a multi-class ranger cleric with large amounts of versatility.

Mike plays a noble guardian.

Dan makes up a barbarian, but when he is unsatisfied with the final build (damage resistance doesn't stack) goes back to the drawing board and creates a club shattering fighter in order to achieve zen.

I forgo power to play something fun. I play a drunken monk.

Garrett is the dungeon master. We have nine players, which is a huge group for D&D and I quickly realize that this game isn't about the role playing, it's about the beat down. What good is making the character capable of punching a fist through a wall unless their is a wall to punch through?

I'm not having fun.

But unlike board games, role playing games are not so much about the mechanics and the rules as they are about the story teller. The next game is run by Art. He tells us to make up 4th level characters, or red shirts. While they are not nearly as powerful, I have a blast.

This time I create a multi-class fighter pirate named Jack Hawthorne. Teaming up with Tony, who in true Tick fashion makes up a brute fighter named Carlos, the two of us trick, bluff, and fight our way through the better part of an adventure. We push prisoners off of cliffs, trick demons into pits, both lie and fight our way past guards until we are finally overpowered by an evil priestess.

Being a cowardly pirate, I surrender. I'm also pinned in a door and can't move, so my options are limited. Tony fights to the end and dies in true Tick fashion, but not before taking out several thieves.

It's the most fun I've had playing a game in ages. Art is puzzled. "But you lost. You got captured, and Tony is dead."

I shrug and tell him to forget about it.

It's not about the win. It's about the game.