Month: May 2014

Campaign Stories: Wiliken 15

Justin Tiemeyer 2 Comments

When Wiliken had desired the company of his wife, the sun on his face, the fresh air in his nose, and the conversation of a friend, he was locked away. Naturally, as soon as he had contented himself with solitude, he began getting visits from one of his captors.

It was not as if the githzerai had been left completely alone. There were the people who brought his meals, three times daily, and more ample than the dinners his own wife prepared for him. His trays were picked up shortly after he had finished, and his latrine was emptied often. He had been put up not in a dungeon but in a fairly nice barracks room. His was more the life of a soldier than the life of a prisoner, and he’d never had much difficulty with the life of a soldier in his youth. His bed was supportive but not too comfortable, and the people of Felshore were keen on making sure he had clean bedding as well. He always had a candle for light, and if he’d asked Wiliken had no doubt he’d be granted scrolls to read or a quill and parchment to write on. People shuffled in and out of his room, but when Jean-Baptiste arrived, it was the first time anyone had spoken with him.

Wiliken remembered the first time the old man had visited him. The first thing he said was, “How many means of escape have you figured out?”

With the heightened focus the githzerai had gained from his peaceful meditation, Wiliken had learned to see the room for what it actually was. While most would be fooled into believing that the linens from a bed are meant to keep you warm in the night, Wiliken understood that the true purpose of his bedding was to be twisted into rope. Everything had a different purpose, from the utensils he used to eat to the bucket he emptied his bowels into, but the names and the familiar uses disguised these things from the mind. After six weeks of solitary confinement, Wiliken wondered how many people had lit a candle without considering the utter devastation that can be caused by its flame.

“Thirteen,” Wiliken responded. Jean-Baptiste smirked. The others were intelligent, but the gristly man of the wilderness who stood before him was wise. “Eighteen, if you decide to let your guard down.”

The githzerai and the human laughed together.

“You seem more… attuned than previously,” Jean-Baptiste said.

“A githzerai is measured by the calm of his mind,” Wiliken said. “I have lived as a man for many years, concerned with wages and possessions, with bantering for the sake of alliances and pandering for power. I cannot remember the last time I put my distractions aside and retired to my inner dwelling.”

“Your awareness has expanded.”

“You are keen to notice,” Wiliken responded, somewhat disturbed by how well Jean-Baptiste could read him. “For the last few days I’ve had the sense that my bow is located in the next room over, leaning against our shared wall, near the doorway.”

Jean-Baptiste looked over as the githzerai pointed to the approximate location of his weapon. “Indeed. That is the case.”

When Wiliken worried about nothing more than the ease of his morning commute to work, he would see elderly men gathering together in parks in order to play simple games or share a hot beverage. For these men, there was nothing else to life. Their meetings helped them to keep a schedule, to remember to get up in the morning and shave, to remember how to be human. Wiliken had viewed these rituals as foreign, and yet it seemed that this is exactly what his relationship with Jean-Baptiste had transformed into. Over time, the githzerai wasn’t quite as sicked by this insight about their meetings. The familiarity was warm. It was refreshing. Jean-Baptiste brought news of the outside world, or at least the small time-displaced portion of it that his battle allies occupied in the Shining City. He told of Jurgen disappearing shortly after they escaped from Valgaman’s Menagerie, of Morgan building an orphanage for the would-be sacrifice victims, of Grace’s Pelorite church and its unexpected growth.

Jean-Baptiste never mentioned Douglas, and Wiliken never asked.

One evening, Jean-Baptiste arrived with a dark look in his eyes. Some beast was eating away at him, asking questions that he did not want to be entertaining. Wiliken had sensed it building, despite his kind manner during their get-togethers, and he expected that it was only a matter of time before this secret got the best of Jean-Baptiste.

“I know who you are,” Jean-Baptiste said, grimly.

Wiliken had often suspected that their interchanges were not quite so light as they had seemed, but this was the first time he’d felt frightened by his friend.

“If you are referring to the Iuzian greys I wear, I assure you that not every citizen of the empire is a villain like Valgaman,” Wiliken said.

“It’s not your clothes,” Jean-Baptiste responded, irritated.

“Then my son – ”

“Stop,” Jean-Baptiste said. “I know who you are. I have not told the others. We’re old soldiers, yes, but you and I fought on opposite sides when the big terror went down. If rumors have value, and in this case I think they do, then you weren’t just a spectator. You had a role to play in the would-be-destruction of this city. A role bigger than most.”

Wiliken was quiet. Not only was he in a make-shift prison, but he was caught, and that was worse. Baseless mistrust was one thing, but certain guilt – that was something else. There was no sense playing games with Jean-Baptiste. From here on out, things were serious. Neither the human nor the githzerai spoke for some time, and it was Wiliken who finally decided to break the silence.

“Where do we go from here?” Wiliken said, because he honestly did not know.

Campaign Stories continues in Waiting for the One Who Comes.

Campaign Stories: Wiliken 14

Justin Tiemeyer 2 Comments

On the other side of the teleportation portal, Wiliken was met with the splendor of the Shining Kingdom of old. He’d heard some of his allies speak of the Felshore having been transported through time just at the moment of its destruction, but the githzerai hadn’t believed it. In the years since the destruction, he’d heard songs where the good people of the Shining City were spirited away from some god or other just before everything was obliterated. He’d never imagine that he’d see the place with his very own eyes. In that moment, Wiliken felt that he could put down the burden he’d carried for all those years, that he could be forgiven for his hidden sin.

In the moment that followed, the githzerai was captured by a motley group of soldiers in mismatched armor and dragged off.

In the holding cell they’d fashioned for Wiliken, the githzerai spent all of a week in a rage. He raged about his wife, who would be in harm’s way without their intervention. When his guards had begun to fear for their own safety, Douglas had showed up to explain that they didn’t have any means of communication with the outside world, that the normal methods would attract the wrong kind of attention to a city that is not supposed to exist. He further explained that the only mode of transportation was teleportation, and that all requests had to go through the wizard Jenkins. Every word that came from the human’s mouth sounded like a lie to Wiliken, and he raged thinking that Douglas enjoyed the githzerai’s misfortune.

Slowly, the githzerai was able to keep his anger in check. Sense suggested that his wife was not in very much danger. His father-in-law was a very influential man. As such, anything that happened to Wiliken’s wife would call down the terrible justice of the empire. Furthermore, while Wiliken’s own son was clearly a dangerous adversary, the githzerai could not imagine that the boy would kill his own mother…

With these calming thoughts, Wiliken was able to turn to meditation, spending the next few weeks doing little other than sitting cross-legged in a state of keen focus. He meditated on the recent past, on the ways in which his recklessness had nearly killed him and his one-time friends. In time, his thoughts drifted to the present and there they remained, until the object of his thoughts was a small sliver of a moment.

There had been rumors that someone adept at meditation could gain extraordinary powers. Wiliken had seen monks move objects, not with arcane rituals or devices, but strictly through the exercise of their own minds. With his focus turned inward to his own mind, he began to feel the boundaries of his consciousness expanding. At first, he felt a great existential fear of this expansion, but in time even this subsided.

After six weeks in a makeshift prison, Wiliken found peace. It was short-lived.

Campaign Stories continues in Wiliken 15.

Project Karamazov: Pronunciation Guide

Justin Tiemeyer 2 Comments

For those of you who wish to know the proper Russian pronunciations of the names featured in The Brothers Karamazov, I’ve pieced together this pronunciation guide. Special thanks to Tatiana Uglova for her tutorial on AllExperts.

Note: Capitalized letters denote which syllable is emphasized.

Adelaida – ah-dellah-EE-dah
Alexei – ah-lick-SYAY
Dmitri – DMEE-tree
Fyodor – FYO-daur
Fyodorovich – FYO-daurau-vich
Ivan – ee-VAHN
Ivanovna – ee-VAH-nauv-nah
Karamazov – kahrah-MAH-zauf
Mitya – MEE-tyah
Miusov – mee-OO-sauf
Pavlovich – PAHV-lau-vich

As of right now, I only have the names featured in the first chapter, but more are forthcoming.

Project Karamazov

‘How Do You Know Until You Try?’ Life Lessons Hockey Taught Me

Tom Mitsos Leave a comment

It’s no secret sports can teach you some big life lessons. From leadership to working as a team, coaches from the high school level to the professional ranks use sports to teach athletes about basic fundamentals of life.

One of my biggest life lessons came from my dad when I first started playing hockey. It wasn’t my dad who got me into hockey — he wasn’t even a fan when I first started playing — but it was a friend of my dad’s who had three boys whom all played hockey.

I remember the first time I watched my dad’s friend’s kids play hockey for the first time. I was hooked. I don’t know what it was about the sport, maybe the thrill of scoring a goal and everyone cheering for something you did, or maybe it was because I tried every other popular sport and none of them clicked with me like hockey did.

I did tee ball, baseball, basketball, soccer and they were all fun to play, but I got bored with them or had no desire to get any better.

Then I found hockey. Hockey is a very expensive sport. Not only do you need to buy all of the equipment just to play, but you need to pay for lessons to learn how to skate. Then once you do that, you have to pay fees to be on a team, which include ice time for practices and games. Then you need to pay gas money to play in different cities. I was never on a travel team, but my house teams would still travel to Holland, Muskegon, Traverse City and other places across the state to play other house teams.

This is me as a Pee Wee at 12 years old.

This is me as a Pee Wee at 12 years old.

One of the biggest challenges I faced whilst learning how to skate was learning how to stop. Because I was afraid of falling down and being made fun of by my peers, my three strategies for stopping myself were to crash into the boards, slide into a slow stop or turn sharply. None of these strategies are ideal for a game-type situation, but who wants to be made fun of for constantly falling down? I was getting into the game late as it was — most kids start skating when they are around 3 years old, I didn’t start until I was 7 — and I needed to catch up to the other kids without being the laughingstock of the team.

I remember telling my dad “I can’t stop, I’m never going to be able to do it.” For whatever reason, I thought being able to stop was something you were able to do or you weren’t. There was no ability to learn it — you either had it, or you didn’t.

My dad’s response to this was one of the greatest life lessons I still value today: “How do you know until you try?” Of course, like every kid that age, I brushed it off thinking I knew better than my parents, and mostly because knowing that isn’t going to make it any easier when my teammates are laughing at me because I can’t do a simple thing like stop. I continued to struggle with stopping, while all of my peers could stop on a dime.

It was frustrating. But I slowly started to realize that not everything is going to come naturally to me. The only way I could improve my game was to continue to work on my weaknesses. I practiced and practiced, and I don’t remember specifically falling a lot, but I’m sure I did. And I’m sure a few guys snickered at me, but everyone had weaknesses.

The first time I stopped without falling was a monumental achievement. I remember the snow spraying up on the boards as my skate blade dug into the ice surface. I stopped, and I didn’t need the boards or friction to slow me down.

Of course, my dad was the first one to say “See, you don’t know until you try.” He was right. How would I ever know I couldn’t do something unless I tried it? Simply saying I can’t without trying is already admitting defeat.

This lesson has served me in other areas of my life, most notably, in my relationships.

Last year, I met a girl at a party who I became instantly attracted to (side note: That usually isn’t hard for me, but this girl was captivating). She was way out of my league, and I figured she probably wasn’t interested in me, anyway. With a face and body like that, she could get any guy she wanted.

But then the words of my dad echoed in my head: “How do you know until you try?” He’s right. Maybe she doesn’t like pretty boys, maybe she’s not into jocks. Maybe she goes for quasi-nerdy, awkward guys like me. How will I know unless I try?

So I gulped down some liquid courage and started talking to her. We probably talked for a good two to three hours at the party. Even when I left her to go talk to my friends, she continued to follow me around all night. I never had a girl follow me anywhere — I was always the one doing the following.

We hung out a few times and stopped talking to each other after about a month (translation: I started getting feelings, and she probably recognized that so she bailed), but I don’t regret spending time with her at all. Sure, there were a lot of red flags from the start, and I could have avoided some heart break by never speaking to her again after the party, but I had a good time with her and it gave me confidence knowing that not all girls are unattainable, even if their looks dictate otherwise.

It’s also served me well in applying for jobs, discussing work issues with my bosses and just about every other facet of life. Assuming doesn’t get you anywhere in life. And you know what they say about people who assume, you make an “ass” out of “u” and “me.”

Yeah, I ended my post with a lame saying. Deal with it.

The Longest Windiest Winter (Classic)

Justin Tiemeyer 1 Comment

Of the thirty-one years I’ve spent on this Earth, I believe this year has been the longest, coldest, snowiest, stormiest winter I’ve experienced. In many regards, this is not just a subjective hunch of mine, but an objective, measurable fact. The winter of 2013-14 was quite a bear to make my way through, and even more so because I walked to work every single morning through the frigid, frosty winter wonderland of Lowell. Because of a streak of bad luck with a pair of Ford Tauruses (Tauri? Taura? Taurs?), both of which ending up totaled after all of the repairs added up, Amy and I found that we were once again a one car family. She had been working in Kentwood, which is much too hefty of a walk, so I ended up putting more miles on my feet than any other season I can remember.

There is a widely spread myth that languages in the Eskimo-Aleut (Eskaleut) family have hundreds of words that they use to describe snow. Even if this is not the case, I could understand why it would be so. Every morning I walked to work – and the amount of snowy days I walked to work had to be nearly 100 – was a different situation. I remember embankments of snow pushed together by plows. (I like big buttes and I cannot lie…) I remember when the Huntington Bank near my apartment turned its overflow parking lot into a 30 foot high snow dump simply because there was nowhere else to put the snow from the main lot. Children would play atop the piles with the same vim and vigor they exhibited when they played on the toxic sandbag sand disposed by the city in a grassy green field down the road from my apartment after the flood of 2013. I remember shoveled sidewalks protected by a four-foot wall of snow on either side. I remember even more sidewalks that weren’t shoveled. At one point there was word that Governor Snyder was warning people not to even go outside to shovel your sidewalk because of how dangerous the cold had been, but there were still those who got up and scraped out a path for me every morning by 6:15 AM. There were times when I had hiked in knee-deep snow for so long that when I got to a patch of shoveled sidewalk I nearly cried, vowing to someday buy a gift basket for those who put in the effort to make my commute easier.

Making my way through the heavy snow made my legs stronger, and I finally felt like I might be able to keep up with my fiancee Amy the next time she decided she wanted to take a summer hike to through Fallasburg Park. It was the ice that was the real menace. What you don’t realize when you drive to work in the winter is that the roads are always, with no exception, in better condition than the sidewalks, and it makes sense because the nation depends on the transportation of goods and automobile slip-and-falls can be much more deadly than pedestrian slip-and-falls. I remember one day when everything was covered in ice. I had traversed carefully across the ice for about a mile before this indescribable terror set in – I had spend so much energy keeping my balance, but that energy was running out. At one point, I stepped on someone’s driveway and, like Gumbi on some invisible skateboard, just kept slipping until I was across it. I didn’t fall that day, but I can remember two times when I did. The first time I exercised every precaution, planned every step, and still managed to fall flat on my back my first step off of my porch. The second time was when, like Moses, I glimpsed my final destination – Litehouse, the promised land of my morning walk – only to plummet to the ground the first moment my foot touched the parking lot, backpack and all. There was ice like a glaze or candy coating on the snow, ice with water underneath it that bubble-danced about as you stepped on it like coy in a pond, and sometimes I even became part of the ice. I could always tell when the temperature was circling around ten below freezing, because my eyelashes would begin to freeze together.

In the break room coworkers would say that they saw me in the flurries and morning winter storms as they drove in to work. Soon they began to pity me, offering me rides, and eventually I put my pride aside and let an electrician named Eric drive me home. But when those same people talked about how terrible it must be to have to make that walk every morning, I must have seemed like such a stereotypical “manly man.” I’d say something like, “Nah. That walk was nothing. You should have been at the Winter Classic.”

Photo Jan 01, 11 12 20 AM

The Big House as viewed from our seats before the Winter Classic.

The NHL Winter Classic is a tradition established in 2008 where two professional hockey teams, usually teams from the North and usually on or around New Years Day, match up in order to play an old time outdoors hockey game. This year I spent the first day of the year with my good friend Tom watching the Detroit Red Wings take on the Toronto Maple Leafs, two teams with a decent potential to underachieve their way out of a playoff spot, at the Big House in Ann Arbor. A friend at work would later express how awesome it must have been to see Detroit greats like Gordie Howe and Steve Yzerman, but we didn’t end up seeing them. The alumni game, which usually precedes the Winter Classic, was held on the previous day in Detroit, making it much harder to attend both events.

While I was born and raised in Michigan, people who know me might have wondered why I even went to the 2014 Winter Classic. As a Dallas Stars fan, I really didn’t have a dog in the race, and while I love hockey it is the other Tiemeyer brother that people usually associate with the sport. My buddy Tom was a Wings fan, so his attendance made sense. Amy had been a Leafs fan ever since she first saw players like Tyler Bozak and Jonas Gustavsson while watching a Stars/Maple Leafs game on NHL GameCenter, but she had decided to step back and give me some bro time with Tom. I was excited to be a part of such a big hockey event. I had once attended a Red Wings/Stars game in which Detroit broke the record for most consecutive wins on home ice in a season, but this Winter Classic was expected to break an even bigger record. According to ticket sales, it was boasted that this would be the most highly attended hockey game in the history of the NHL.

One of the cuter pre-departure photos I took. That's Tom on the left and me on the right.

One of the cuter pre-departure photos we took. That’s Tom on the left and me on the right.

While January 1 was the day I would be part of hockey history, it was also my first day of documenting as much of 2014 with my camera as humanly possible. I am looking forward to getting married to Amy in September and I want my family – Amy and all of our little potential kids – to have access to the events that preceded our marital fusion. To this end I took photos of pre-departure, pictures on the road, pictures of everything I could. As we were walking up to the stadium, surrounded by a sea of red (Wings) and blue (Leafs), it became more and more painful to take off my gloves and capture the moment with my camera phone. This was the first sign of the trouble to come.

The Ascent, or, In Which We Realized it was Too Cold to Take Pictures Anymore

The Ascent, or, In Which We Realized it was Too Cold to Take Pictures Anymore

In our excitement, we arrived in Ann Arbor over two hours early for the game, which gave us the time to walk around the Big House more times than we would have liked. The first lap was to check out what was going on in and around the stadium. Every subsequent lap was an attempt to keep our bodies from freezing in place, never to be thawed again. We encountered some interesting things on our adventure in the cold. There was a film crew from CBC (Canadian Broadcasting Company) that had gathered a crowd of Wings and Leafs in a semi-circle to shoot an adversarial promo for the event, there was a giant Bridgestone Winter Classic billboard that we took the time to pose in front of, and best of all, a generic hot dog that ended up being my favorite dog ever simply because it injected a little bit of heat back into my body. First, my extremities had gone numbed, and then the wave of cold had encroached upon my core, so that little bit of stolen heat was like manna from heaven.

Tom of the Franzen Jersey and the heaven-sent hot dog

Tom of the Franzen Jersey and the heaven-sent hot dog

The snow had started falling as soon as we entered the stadium, so when we returned to our seats after the walk our collectible seat cushions were covered with powder. The game hadn’t even started and I colder than I had ever been, colder than the time I slipped down a snowy hill into an icy river in the back of an elementary school friend’s house, colder than at any Polar Bear camp out I had attended in the Boy Scouts, colder than I could imagine cold to be. This was a really big game for Tom and we had paid a lot of money for the tickets, but if Tom had asked my honest opinion at that very moment I would have told him that I wanted to go home before the players even hit the ice.

I didn’t ask Tom to take me home, and we still survived the experience. As more people started filing into their seats I started getting hopeful that they might share their warmth, but the heat didn’t seem to be able to survive the minute gap between one person and the next. My scarf kept slipping from my face, revealing my bare skin to the elements. At one point, I took a big risk, unraveled my scarf, and re-applied it tightly over my neck and face, but it had turned around in the process making my neck wet and cold from the ice that had formed on the fabric. My thoughts drifted to the emergency medical stations established throughout the stadium and how warm they must be inside. If I could just walk over to one, perhaps things would be better. But I couldn’t leave Tom on such a big day. I just couldn’t. To this day, I wonder how many people ended up needing medical attention at the most attended game in hockey history. I would gird myself against the elements and tell myself that I could make it, but then I would see someone wipe snow off of a seat cushion with their bare fingers and something deep inside me would scream – THIS IS DEATH!

The Wings and the Leafs were pretty balanced that day on the ice. Neither team ever got more than one point ahead of the other. Though I estimated more Leafs fans in the bleachers, the audience of the game was fairly balanced as well. Many of the Wings fans were acting like frat boys and being really inhospitable to their rivals from across the lake, but after a while that feeling of Canadian friendliness began to take over. One of the most powerful moments I can remember was when the chants of opposing fans began to weave together like verse and chorus of the same song: “Let’s go, Red Wings. Go Leafs, Go. Let’s go, Red Wings. Go, Leafs, Go.”

But that was merely an interlude in the burning coldness that lead to complete numbness. At one point I remember feeling like a huge block of ice had formed within my boot. I’d try to move my toes and push it away from my flesh, but it wouldn’t budge. Later, when we got to the heat of Tom’s car I would come to understand that the block of ice was the outer layers of my own foot as perceived by the portions that still had some feeling left in them. During both the first and second intermission, we escaped to the refreshments stand in order to pick up expensive hot chocolates. Tom cradled his in his hand for a long time, sipping and enjoying the feeling of the hot cup on his cold fingers while I gulped down my drink, hoping that the spark on the inside of me would re-ignite the fire in the rest of my body.

When we returned to our seats and I felt just as cold as I had before the hot chocolate, I started having a guilty thought. I knew I was supposed to be rooting for the Red Wings – after all, that was Tom’s favorite team, and the guy had just driven me across the state and I’d gotten into the event with a ticket that I hadn’t even paid him back for – but in honesty my one hope was that the teams were not tied at the end of regulation. I didn’t want to sit through overtime. I didn’t want to sit through a shootout. I wanted to leave as soon as possible. When Amy’s favorite player Tyler Bozak scored the goal that put Toronto ahead, I cheered on the inside while grieving with Tom on the outside, but when Michigan native Justin Abdelkader tied it back up I did the reverse. The game went into a scoreless round of overtime before Bozak struck again and won the game for Toronto.

I may have seemed like Mr. Endurance to the people at my work who shivered from just walking from their car to the entrance, but if they had heard me complain for hours like a little child I am certain they would have thought differently of me. As it was, I gained something much more valuable from the Winter Classic than Tom did. When Tom got back behind the wheel of his car he was forced to sit for hours in post-Winter Classic Ann Arbor traffic while thinking about how the Toronto Maple Leafs spoiled this momentous occasion for him. Amy had been watching the game from her parents’ warm living room on NBC and when she sent the inevitable text gloating about how her boy Bozak brought ruin to Tom’s Red Wings, I wished that I could have seen the cellular signal as it zipped across the state and intercepted the communication. I just couldn’t see more sorrow befall my buddy. Tom gained an experience that his friends couldn’t claim, but he also gained his fair share of sadness and remorse. As for me, I gained confidence in the resilience of my own body that would last me years.

As I prepared my life for the wife and children that seemed to be barreling straight for me, neither stopping to rest nor waiting for me to be ready, I imagined a day when I would take my children on a winter hike through the woods. I would be leading the pack, and they would be dragging their feet saying things like, “Can we go home yet?”, “I’m hungry,” or “I HAVE TO PEE!” It would be sunny outside without so much as a breeze and they would start complaining about how cold they were. I would stop, turn around, and I would say, confidently, like the crotchety old man I already feel myself transforming into, “You think this is cold? Let me tell you a story about when me and your Uncle Tom went to the Winter Classic in ’14.”

And the story wouldn’t end there, because this blog isn’t called The Longest Wind for nothing.

Tom and I were captured on the official HD Panorama. Don't we look excited to be out in the cold!

Tom and I were captured on the official HD Panorama. Don’t we look excited to be out in the cold!

Epic Fail: A Tale of Steven Tyler and His Terrible Thumbs

Gallerysmathos 2 Comments

If the phrase “Epic Fail” was ever truly warranted for a situation (with the exception of Katy Perry lyrics of course), then it would have to be the time Steven Tyler of Aerosmith “fat fingered” the record button on my Apple iPhone.

I was finishing my final weeks of a six-month military deployment in El Salvador during the fall of 2013. I was stationed there to fly counter-drug operations as a Navy P-3 Orion pilot. Life on deployment was reduced to the bare essentials – eat, sleep, workout, guitar, video games, and a whole lotta of flying. In short, deployment basically ruled. This particular deployment, however, ruled even more when a band of rock ‘n roll legends showed up to my workplace.

I was lifting weights in the small on base gym, dubbed “The Boneyard”, when one of the other pilots asked me if I heard that Steven Tyler was visiting the base in two days. I of course had no idea, and immediately assumed he was pulling my chain since I had earned a reputation as a diehard lover of 80s music. He said he was serious and that he overheard base security talking about preparing for his arrival. Skeptical, I checked the tour list on the Aerosmith website and sure enough, Aerosmith had an upcoming concert date in downtown San Salvador in four days. My initial skepticism was dissolved when my brain connected this fact with the facts that 1.) Our base was attached to El Salvador International Airport and 2.) Steven Tyler is a complete publicity whore (meant in the nicest way possible). My pupils dilated and heart started racing – I was going to meet Aerosmith.

Giddy like a schoolgirl, I raced to Facebook to consult my two closest Aerosmith confidants – Micah and Justin Tiemeyer. I was introduced to #ProjectKaramazov when Justin requested that I record Steven Tyler reciting a passage from Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov. For any other celebrity I would of thought twice, but with Steven Tyler, the bizarre task actually seemed plausible.

In the two days leading up to the supposed visit, I noticed base security started to beef up. On the day prior to the Aerosmith concert, the base scheduled an unusually late “Quarters” (military version of a large scale meeting). Typically Quarters is held in the morning, so it was very unusual to have it so late in the day- but this only confirmed my expectation of the awesomeness that was about to unfold. It was a typical afternoon in El Salvador with grey skies and thunderstorms building in the distance. I show up at the hangar for Quarters in my flight suit and I notice some of the permanent staff had brought their wives and girlfriends. They all had lots of makeup and had their hair done up nicely. They basically looked like groupies. I could feel the rock concert aura already brewing. I was beginning to feel anxious. Would I even be capable of having a coherent conversation with the band? Would I be too overcome by reverence and awe to carry out the solemn task Justin had charged me with? My self-doubt was building with every passing minute…

Before I continue the story, let me take a moment to properly address the importance Aerosmith in my life. I was formally introduced to rock music at the age nine by an older neighborhood friend. It was 1994 and he gave me my first mixtape (an actual cassette tape) consisting mainly of Green Day and Offspring tracks. I listened to this mixtape guiltily in my bedroom because of all the swearing. I felt like such a rebel. I have many fond memories of going to his house and listening to tapes for hours, the likes of which included 90s greats such as REM, Bone Thugs-n-Harmony, Rage Against the Machine, and Cypress Hill. It was here that I had my first experience with Aerosmith when I listened to the tape with the cover of the weird dummy head pierced with nails – the “Livin On The Edge” single. I couldn’t remember the song, but I always remembered the crazy ass cover. It would be another four years (which seemed like an eternity) before I would discover Aerosmith in earnest. Every Thursday after school I would go to a church youth group with my best friend Micah. My friend Mike Burns from church offered to sell me his three Aerosmith CDs, Permenant Vacation, Pump, and Get a Grip. I had a strange falling out with music during the last year, mainly because I associated people I hated from Middle School with late 90s pop that played every day on the schoolbus (Aqua, Chumbawumba, Sugar Ray, etc). But it was when Micah wisely advised me to buy these Aerosmith CDs that my life changed forever. I spent hours and hours in my room listening through “Get a Grip”. I felt like a bona fide badass. I knew the words to every track. I felt enlightened and superior to all the posers groveling over pop music. I simply could not get over the power and rawness of Steven Tyler’s vocals and lyrics. The fire and venom behind the guitarwork of Joe Perry and Brad Whitford utterly blew my mind. Pop music in 1998 was shamefully bereft of proper rock ‘n roll, and Steven Tyler was like the angel Gabriel trumpeting me into musical heaven. Finally, music that made me feel cool. This music made me feel like I could conquer anything. These three Aerosmith albums planted the seed of rock ‘n roll in my soul, and I never looked back.

So fast forward to the military base in 2013. Aerosmith, in the flesh, casually strolls through the hangar door and my childhood heroes are standing before me. The band looked a lot shorter and more haggard than the photos, but Steven Tyler was in good spirits as always. He made a few opening statements thanking us for our service, and then the band split up and walked around to meet us. I knew that 90% of the crowd had only superficial knowledge and love for Aerosmith, but I on the other hand, understood them. Unmarried at the time, Tyler had his latest squeeze shadowing him everywhere- so rock ‘n roll! While my primary task was to talk to Tyler, I was personally far more interested in talking to lead guitarist and all-around-legend, Joe Perry. My heart racing at the sheer surreal-ness of what was happening, I find the courage to approach Joe Perry. He was answering some generic questions about his age and signing autographs when I clarified that he first played in The Jam Band in the 60s. Perry broke his stone face and cracked a smile at me- he immediately knew I was an actual fan. As a guitarhead myself, I went straight for the jugular and started talking guitars with Joe Perry. He told me about his first guitar (a Silvertone acoustic) and his preference for Marshall amps. I told him he should play Fender guitars more often, and he laughed and said he tries to play all his guitars equally. Steven Tyler clearly had the biggest crowd following him, so I expected a long wait before I could approach him.

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We all moved outside for a photo op with our P-3’s. “The Get Your Wings” references ran abound in my mind, and I desperately craved the presence of Micah and Justin to share this mind blowing experience with. After 30 minutes or so, the allure began to wear off and people started dissipating. I couldn’t fully comprehend why people wouldn’t want to spend every second in Aerosmith’s presence, but then I remembered that 99% of the crowd probably didn’t understand and love Aerosmith the way I did. I’m pretty sure half of my peers only knew Steven Tyler from either two things- the loud judge from American Idol or Liv Tyler’s dad. The band eventually requested a tour of our P-3 Orion airplanes and I, along with a handful of other crewmembers, happily obliged. I started with Brad Whitford who spoke quietly, but had a lot of genuine questions about the plane. What are all these holes in the bottom of the plane for? What’s that long phallic object protruding from the tail? I almost felt like I was explaining my plane to an old World War II vet (no offense to Whitford as he still has killer blues guitar chops that no one knows about). Having nothing else to autograph, I gave him a patch from my flight suit. I walked him up the ladder toward the inside of the plane. I met up with Tyler and Perry and showed them all the highlights from our ancient airplane. Whitford had fun playing around with the joysticks. Tyler and Perry sat down in the cockpit and started asking lots of questions. I had to keep pinching myself as my two great childhood dreams were fusing in perfect harmony – Aviation and Aerosmith – this was too perfect. The band whose albums I jammed to while playing flight simulator games on my computer were right here before me- in MY airplane. I desperately wanted to stop talking about my job and start talking details about Aerosmith, but Steven “loudmouth” Tyler kept getting distracted and asked too many questions about the cockpit. I was super surprised to discover Joe Perry was a pilot himself, having received his basic pilot’s license. Speaking in a quiet, monotone Boston accent, Joe told me about the time he almost crashed into a power line buzzing Steven Tyler’s Massachusetts home. He said he has a little over 25 hours flying little single engine planes and that he uses the same airport diagrams that we use in our P3’s. The Toxic Twins eventually exited the cockpit and I felt intimate enough with them to start asking about their music. “So, Steven I heard you were the one that wrote Seasons of Wither?” (one of my favs). He casually confirmed this and elaborated that he wrote it during a cold Boston winter on an old acoustic guitar Joey Kramer found in a dumpster. I giddily asked if they could play Seasons of Wither during their show tomorrow but I don’t think they heard me. I was beginning to feel like protagonist from Almost Famous.

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Aerosmith gathered by the main cabin door for one last photo op with the crew, which is when I found the nerve to ask Tyler to read the Karamazov excerpt. I told him it was for a fan project and I was terrified he would go all Prince on me and decline due to copyright reasons. Having seen and experienced all the weirdness of the 70s, 80s and 90s, there was not a request too weird for Steven Tyler. He didn’t talk back and acquiesced to my demand with a straight face as I handed him my iPhone. I told him to “just press the red button” and read the excerpt. I didn’t verify the recording until Aerosmith departed the tarmac in a long convoy of white minivans. It was then that I discovered the absence of the Karamazov recording, and a colossal wave of disappointment washed over me. I felt like Darth Vader at the end of Episode III – NOOOOOOO!!! I never found out why it didn’t record, but I suspected it was because Tyler either fat fingered the ‘record’ button, or pressed the OTHER button on the Voice Memos page. Epic fail.

Note for all future celebrity voice memo recording: PRESS THE RECORD BUTTON YOURSELF, prior to handing it over to the celeb. I eventually forgave myself for this failure, and had a blast at the concert the next day. The show was made even better when Joe Perry smacked my squadron’s sticker on his turquoise Strat and gave a shout out to the “47 Group”. No Seasons of Wither unfortunately, but a killer concert nonetheless. While I realize the unfortunate truth that Aerosmith has become irrelevant in this day and age, they can still play better, louder, and with more balls and swagger than bands 1/3 their age. Long live rock ‘n roll. Long live Aerosmith.

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Campaign Stories: Wiliken 13

Justin Tiemeyer 2 Comments

“I think it’s about time you got us out of here,” Wiliken said to Dusk and Grace. While Grace had done a great deal of healing since she arrived, neither of their allies had even attempted to get them out of Valgaman’s Menagerie.

Douglas stepped between the githzerai and his two friends. “If Jenkins could get them in, then surely he can get us out.”

“And how can you be so sure that we’ll survive long enough to make it out?” Wiliken asked. “Valgaman doesn’t seem to have any trouble throwing his goons at us. How long before they hit us harder than Grace can heal?”

“I have faith in my friends,” Douglas said. “Which is more than I can say for you.”

Wiliken stormed off. As he did, his allies split off into groups in order to figure out a way to disable the force field that held them in. It was a fool’s errand, and yet some thought they could conjure a password from the lingering spirits of the murdered nobles upstairs, and even Jurgen thought he might be able to consult the extraplanar sages. Some short moments later, they were all back in the large room where Morgan had felled the demon minotaur and none of them had any answers.

“Now that we have exhausted all of our options,” Jurgen said. “Perhaps we need to entertain something a little more… gruesome. There were both ghosts and beasts who said they could help us get out of here if we just let them feed on one of the children.”

“No!” shouted Douglas and Wiliken in unison.

“I’ll fight every last minion of Valgaman before I will allow these children to come to harm,” Wiliken said.

“And they’ll all die of starvation because you weren’t willing to sacrifice one,” Jurgen retorted.

“They can feast on roasted minotaur and salted boar,” said Jean-Baptiste.

“Wait,” Douglas said. “I think Jurgen is right. If we’re going to get out of here, we are going to need to use the children.”

There was a murmur of confusion and disagreement.

“Think about it,” Douglas said. “If their youth and perfection is enough to power some terrible dark magic, it is also the sort of vitality from which all healing and regenerative magic originates. These children can break through the force field, and I think I know how.”

Douglas began to sing a song. Wiliken recognized it but could not remember its name. The song had been old when Wiliken was young. Though the words had been forgotten by most long ago, the children began to join Douglas in singing. Their song was jubilant and uplifting. Perhaps the song merely invoked a feeling of happiness in the githzerai, or perhaps there was a power at work in this room. Wiliken felt his worries fall from his shoulders to be replaced by hope.

“The wards are crumbling,” rejoiced the half-elf Dusk. Jenkins must have scryed their success, because moments later a teleportation circle appeared. Douglas shifted from leading the song to helping the children escape to the Felreeve.

The song continued until the other circle formed on the ground, the giant teleportation circle of Iuzian design.

Wiliken immediately switched to battle mode. He barked commands at the others, some to shepherd the children toward Jenkins’ teleportation circle and others to put themselves between the oncoming invaders and the portal to the Felreeve. Their next set of enemies materialized, revealing a giant skeleton, far larger than the minotaur they’d just battled, and radiating cold, accompanied by several small wolves that waved in and out of existence like clouds of smoke. This crew would be even more deadly than the previous, and yet Wiliken found his attention elsewhere.

A ruckus had arisen in the next room. The animals had become agitated, and loud angry voices accompanied them. One the githzerai made out as saying, “They’re in there. Get them.”

Wiliken rushed to the door just as Morgan was hit by a huge throwing axe and pulled back toward the skeleton by some invisible ghostly chain. The githzerai was tempted to turn back, but were he to do so the battle for their lives might quickly turn into an inescapable ambush. The door to the next room was a simple wooden door. Wiliken knew he could lock it, but he also knew it would take more than just one githzerai with a bow to defend the doorway from the axes and swords that could easily tear it down. They needed more allies if they were to save these children and escape this place in one piece. An idea came to Wiliken.

He stepped through the door and closed it behind him.

On the other side, he saw several heavily armed warriors who had just disembarked from the elevator. Their teleportation circles had likely landed them in the sandpit. As they rushed toward him, Wiliken made two quick moves that may have saved his life – he tossed the ring of keys that they’d found in the other room to the tentacled octo-bear, and shot an arrow at the lock on the cage of the dragon creature. The two beasts emerged from their cells and immediately rushed toward the soldiers, allowing Wiliken to slip back into the room where the others were embattled.

Douglas was funneling the last of the children through the portal when Wiliken shouted, “I’ve bought us a few moments, but we need to make this quick.”

The githzerai first took aim on the ghost wolves which had stepped forward and engaged his friends. Some arrows passed right through them and others struck, but his attack was meant more as a distraction to allow his allies to get away. One by one they sneak away, Jurgen, then Morgan, then Grace, the healer who had done a great deal of damage to their most dangerous foe. As soon as Wiliken dispatched the ghost wolves, he strafed while firing and ended up next to Dusk.

“Get to the portal!” Wiliken shouted.

“Not while the skeleton still stands,” Dusk shouted. “He would just pull one of us back.”

Wiliken hadn’t thought of that. For the many to escape, one of them would likely have to be left behind as fodder for the icy skeletal warrior.

“I have to end this,” Dusk said. His eyes rolled inside out as he pushed the limit of the magic he could control. Wiliken stepped forward to draw the attention of their shared foe and keep him from interrupting any incantations or conjuring that might happen next. Wordlessly, Dusk summoned a blinding radiant blast. If Wiliken didn’t know better, he’d have thought the half-elf had siphoned the flaming forces of their previous enemies, but this wasn’t the power of fire the githzerai was witnessing; it was the power of pure light.

Only when the skeleton had disassembled and fallen to the ground would Dusk exit. Wiliken followed closely behind, but was stopped by Douglas.

“We have a few moments before the door is broken down,” Douglas said, calmly. “What say you and I sort things out.”

Exasperated, Wiliken said, “You would leave me to die? After all I have contributed to the safety of you, your allies, and those innocent children?”

“It is not my first choice,” Douglas said. “For all I know, you did what you did to save your skin. While we were all confined together, you denied your blood and worked with us to escape. But when we get out of here, you could just as easily slit our throats in our sleep and escape, running back to assist the son who would have these children murdered for his schemes. What proof do I have that this will not happen?”

“You’ll have no proof from me that hasn’t already been given,” Wiliken answered. “Any further proof comes when you release me from this place. But if you’re going to leave me to die, at least strike the blow yourself. Only a coward leaves his sheep to the wolves.”

Douglas stared at Wiliken for a moment and withdrew a dagger from his belt. Wiliken looked from Douglas’ eyes to the dagger and back again. He stood up straight and accepted his fate, but Douglas sheathed his dagger, and as the door fell down and enemies and beasts alike flooded the room, Douglas pulled the githzerai through the portal to safety.

Campaign Stories continues in Wiliken 14.

Campaign Stories: Wiliken 12

Justin Tiemeyer 2 Comments

Half of the elemental beasts that moved in on the party were sentient magical cyclones known as dust devils. The deva Jurgen stepped forward and waved his right arm across his body and then pushed forward. His own arcane wind issued forward in a powerful blast, disintegrating the dust devils on contact. This blast was little more than a breeze to the more immediate threat, a set of minor fire elementals.

“Spread out!” Wiliken shouted as he dove for partial cover behind one of the cages. The flame creatures were easy to control, and that made them perfect for Iuzian military operations. A single flame could summon its own small inferno, but as more and more congregated, the size of the destructive wall of fire grew exponentially. Wiliken remembered a flame battalion large enough to burn down a whole village in one concentrated flame burst.

His friend Jurgen, the beast-charmer Douglas, the druid Jean-Baptiste, the dragon-born Morgan, Dusk the half-elf sorcerer, and the healer named Grace did not react quickly enough to Wiliken’s command, and found themselves engulfed in flame due to their folly. Rather than moving away, Morgan had actually stepped toward the fire, placing his entire mass directly in front of Dusk. The flames that licked and tormented Jean-Baptiste had no effect on either the dragon-born or the half-elf he shielded. Wiliken heard screams as his other companions battled to find a way out of the forest of flame, which pulled at them as they attempted to exit.

Wiliken shot a couple of arrows at the flame creatures. While they were mostly composed of ethereal magic flame, there was such thing as a center-mass to these beasts. Each one had a small semi-solid heart floating around within their own personal furnace. It would be hard to hit, but the githzerai had to try – his allies might not survive another inferno.

Soon, Wiliken’s allies emerged from the fire. Dusk was the first to push forward. In one fluid motion, he stepped out of the flames that gripped him and moved in on the towering demonic minotaur that had stood several steps back from the destroyed dust devils. The monster had allowed these smaller elemental beasts to sacrifice themselves for the sake of some immediate damage, likely waiting to destroy each of the heroes one by one. Dusk advanced fearlessly with his hand held forward in a claw shape. He muttered strange incantations, but Wiliken was able to make out the words “subject to the maw.” A near-invisible stream coalesced between Dusk and the minotaur, and it appeared to the githzerai that his half-elf ally was siphoning off the beast’s vitality in order to restore his own. Jean-Baptiste soon joined the attack on the minotaur. In his camel form, he charged the beast awkwardly, slamming his shoulders and long neck against the demon beast.

“Jean-Baptiste!” Douglas shouted. “Behind you.”

The flame creatures had begun to ignore the threat of Wiliken’s arrows and advance on Jean-Baptiste, who was already injured from their first assault. Jean-Baptiste wheeled around to face them, decided they were too much of a threat to charge, and transformed instead into a mouse in order to run away. Without the threat of their flames, Wiliken stepped forward and fired several arrows at the living flames. He’d had little luck before when he was firing off a couple of arrows and then ducking back behind the cage, but now that he could just stand still and shoot he found himself wildly accurate. He pierced the hearts of most of the fire beasts before the remainder of the crew turned their attention back to him. It felt as if he had learned his lesson from the previous battles – Do not charge into battle. Take cover and strike tactically.

As Wiliken fired off arrows at the remaining flame beasts, he noticed his allies were getting massacred by the minotaur. The big, dumb beast hadn’t seemed like much of a threat at the beginning of the fight. Once the elementals were disposed of, they could all simply mass on the minotaur and treat it as one giant target. They’d release their entire arsenal on him and make short work of him, but the beast’s had used his massive swinging arms to batter the companions. One by one, he struck a blow on each of them, scattering them throughout the room and leaving them to nurse their wounds. Grace escaped unbloodied and danced from one ally to another in order to treat their injuries.

Wiliken attempted to make a run toward the minotaur in order to assist those he fought beside, but a blast of flame prevented his movement. He ducked back behind the cage and hoped his allies could survive until he destroyed the two flame beasts that remained.

It was the dragon-born Morgan who stood up to the terrible demonic minotaur when none other could. He was just as injured as the others, moreso than many, but he stood tall and exchanged blows with the beast. The minotaur struck Morgan, and Morgan struck back, the minotaur struck Morgan, and Morgan struck back. They continued this way for some time, leaving Morgan so brutally beaten that Wiliken had wondered if he’d died three minotaur strikes ago and his ghost had stepped in to continue the fight. While Morgan was certainly on his last legs, the githzerai also noticed that the minotaur had been significantly weakened. Just when Wiliken believed the dragon-born might gain the upper hand, a fist slammed down on him and knocked him to the ground.

Morgan laid there for far too long, and Wiliken could not tell for certain, but the man looked broken. He still drew breath, but his body had twisted unnaturally. The noble fool had gotten himself killed, and Wiliken could do nothing to stop it.

But in that moment of doubt, Morgan surprised all present by getting back to his feet. He landed one more blow on the minotaur, a powerful uppercut which knocked the beast’s head back with such powerful that there was a sickening crack. The near-dead dragon-born had snapped the neck of a demon minotaur with one well-placed punch, likely the last blow he’d had the strength for. Their fierce enemy fell to the ground with a boom, and their fierce ally did the same one moment later.

Campaign Stories continues in Wiliken 13.