Oh yeah. My weekend in Baltimore: Friday

I was still very tense as I sat in the Wharf Rat.  The fish and chips were very tasty, possibly the best I'd ever tasted.  the cider wasn't the best, but it smoothed my pallet and wore the rough edges off the day.  I had forgotten something I needed for my games that weekend, and to make matters worse, I left my cell phone on the plane.  Auspicious start to the weekend, no?  Well, a trip to the convention hall and the store inside let me replace my missing items.  A phone call to SouthWest Airlines confirmed they had found my phone, and would hold it for me until I returned on Sunday.  I couldn't tell them my dad's cell phone number, but I knew Heatray's. 

The tension faded as we ate, traded jokes and advice, and left the pub.  A few of us crowded around a table in the hotel bar.  We swapped more war stories, and wondered how we'd do the next day.  The tensions was gone by then, replaced with a warm exhausted feeling.  Things have a way of working themselves out, I thought.  I slept well for a time, though the thunderous snoring of my roommate jolted me from sleep again and again as the skies grew brighter over Baltimore.

Weak End in Baltimore: or, the Fickleness of Fate

The best (and most interesting for the rest of you) light to view the Grand Tournament in is to talk about Fate.  A force beyond your control, randomness.
I'm talking about dice.  Dice are random things.  Games based on dice make for a great metaphor for life.  You can design your army for maximum efficiency, and have the tactical acumen of a master general.  You can have a blueprint for your life, knowing which school you want to attend and what jobs you want afterwards.  But you have as much control over how the dice roll as you do over the curves that life can throw you.  All you can control is how you respond to those curves.

You can smile when your plan and the universe are in synch.
You can laugh as your best laid plans are dashed against the rocks.
You can grimace and persevere, overcoming the worst of bad luck but not qutie succeeding.
You can take satisfaction in being overmatched and outmaneuverd but doing your best, and making the other person sweat a little.
And sometimes, you have to just suck it up and take it on the chin in emotionless, detached resignation.

That, in a nutshell, is how the Grand Tournament was for me. 

Good times were had outside the convention center too.  We feasted like kings at the Ocean Reef, where I amused the hell out of my friends by polishing off a bottle of fine red wine.  The dancers at The Night Shift beat those at Centerfolds hands down.  And despite how many times I do it, I never get tired of taking off in a plane.  The feel of the rumbling wheels, the full speed press you into your seat throttle, and that sudden shift from lumbering motion to pure and heavenly flight.  The earth tipping away beneath you.  The web of lights spreading out dimmer and dimmer as you hurtle into the sky. 

Magical stuff.