Here Comes the Bride of Frankentrailer

Last September, we said goodbye to Frankentrailer after a catastrophic structural failure while attempting to deploy it during a mountain storm in Jasper. While never reaching the status of beloved, Frankentrailer was still a highly appreciated part of our household, enabling us to camp in significantly more comfort than provided by any tent.

A month later, while lamenting our loss, friends from church confided that they too had a seventies-era tent trailer that they had used on many an adventure, particularly while their boys were in scouts. With their offspring having grown and left home, their 1974 Bonair 850 was languishing in a storage lot, their Subaru not even having a hitch to tow it out. They were unwilling to part ways with both the memories and the heritage of a conveyance that had passed from grandfather to uncle to them.

And now, sold with mutual gratitude, to us.

We towed Bride of Frankentrailer back from Villeneuve in late October, and wheeled it into the garage. Some ne'er do well had seen fit to punch a hole in the thin aluminum roof, but we were able to patch it up with some silicon compound.  The tongue of this trailer also has a wheel on it, which meant I didn't have to hold up half the weight of it while we schlepped it onto the patio for winter storage. Once in place, we tarped it up, and waited for the spring.

Spring was inconvenient and untrusted, as most Edmonton springs are, so we only got around to unwrapping the Bride this past weekend (but summer doesn't officially start until next week, so we are counting it as a win!). I jacked it up pretty much by myself, such is the quality of the mechanism - I needed to raise and lower it a few times until I had a semblance of what I was doing, and Glory came out at one point to marvel at how both sides went up at the same time.

Wayne had opened up the trailer for us on the lot before we agreed to purchase it, and I knew it was in good shape and very clean for something that had sat dormant for around a decade, but once we had everything in place, I was astonished as to just how good its condition was. No lie, there are places in my house that aren't as fastidiously clean as the corners of this trailer. There were pinches of dust here and there (possibly from the gravel roads on the way to our home).

We pulled everything out and opened all the windows to let it air out, and the next day took to cleaning it in earnest: vacuuming the floors, storage areas, cushions and drapes, washing down most of the surfaces with Pine-Sol, and taking some vinegar in a spray bottle to a musty area of the canvas roof where some moisture must have snuck in.

Neither ArrKan RV, Woody's RV, nor Camper's Village had canvas cleaner for sale, but I did find some waterproofing agent at Canadian Tire. While I was out looking for it through, Audrey took it upon herself to pull out the propane stove (since we keep camp in bear country sometimes and that means keeping food out of the trailer), and I jigsawed up a piece of hardboard to cover the hole. Fenya and I also patched up the screen windows where needed.

Today, Fenya and I fixed two tiny holes we found and I applied the waterproofing to all the canvas, taking care not to get any on the vinyl windows, lest they end up looking like the foggy cockpits of so many plastic airplane kits of my youth.

And speaking of my youth, my second-favourite thing about the trailer interior (after its immaculate condition) is the nostalgia of the orange and brown floral print that covers both the cushions and curtains inside the Bride.

 For that matter, the floor is about a half-step off from what I remember in our kitchen in Willow Park...

The original Frankentrailer had originally come with, of all things, carpet on the floor, which Audrey's mother was so disgusted by, she tore it all out and burned it before we came down to pick it up. As a result, the floor never really looked or felt clean, despite the many hours we spent cleaning and disinfecting it. Bride of Frankentrailer has been a delightful step up in this regard.

We also uncovered a few intriguing artifacts from the late-20th-century over the weekend:

A set of McDonalds cups promoting the 1994 Flintstones movie.

A travel mug featuring some vintage NHL logos, including the Quebec Nordiques, Winnipeg Jets, and the best use of negative space in all sports imaging, the Harford Whalers.

And most intriguingly, a stack of branded, brown paper grocery bags.

Man, it is so odd that something so mundane can trigger such a vibrant sense of time and place! I've been fighting the urge to buy more groceries this week just so I could re-pack them in vintage brown paper, then haul them out of the Flex and into the house like I used to with Mom and the old Town & Country station wagon.

Ah, it probably wouldn't be the same without the bagged milk.

Nostalgia notwithstanding, everyone in the household is thrilled at the prospect of camping in the Bride of Frankentrailer!

A Poor Movie With Good Fan Service - Dark Phoenix, Reviewed

Before I talk about the final Fox X-Men movie, Dark Phoenix, let's talk a bit about the source material, shall we?

Chris Claremont's 100+ issue run on the Uncanny X-Men comic is an often imitated (and very rarely duplicated) high-water mark in long-form serialized storytelling. Over the course of a decade, Claremont had legions of followers caring deeply for (mostly new) characters he did not even create but developed extensively through events both mundane and epic. During his tenure, Wolverine went from being a crazed berzerker to a stoic ronin, Storm grew from being an idealistic goddess to a street-savvy punk rocker, and Kitty Pryde metamorphosed from a hapless teenager to a lynchpin on one of the world's most recognizable superhero teams.

None of these transitions are as well-known or influential as the Dark Phoenix Saga, a story of absolute power corrupting absolutely co-plotted by legendary artist John Byrne. Two nine-issue arcs tell the story of Jean Grey's adoption of/by a cosmic force, and three years later, how it finally overwhelms her.

Trapped between the vengeful Shi'ar empire (led by Prof. Xavier's alien lover, Princess Lilandra) and her own guilt over the literally billions of lives she has ended, Jean and an expanded team of stalwart X-Men defenders are being beaten by a Shi'ar super-team on a breathable region of Earth's moon, when she feels her darker persona reasserting herself, and in a final moment of clarity, permits an ancient booby trap to destroy her in front of her boyfriend, Cyclops. So much angst! And Jean remained dead for six years, which is quite a long while by comic standards.

This is a roundabout way of saying that this is far, far too big a story to be adapted into a single two-hour feature. I don't believe there is a director on earth who could make a satisfactory adaptation in this medium, but long-time X-Men writer turned director Simon Kinberg, has taken his second shot at one of his favourite comic stories. Sadly, he does not manage to achieve the impossible.

But there are those who would have you believe that this is the worst X-men movie ever produced, and friends, I am here to tell you that this is simply not the case. (And as long as X3 exists, that is unlikely to change.)

Overall, Dark Phoenix fails to make us comprehend or care for Jean's (Game of Throne's Sophie Turner) transformation as well as her eventual fate. In lieu of consuming a star and consigning five billion asparagus people to death, her confusion and anger lead to the death of a teammate, which, though tragic, does not have nearly the same impact.

Kinsberg's story reimagines Jean's origin as being related to childhood trauma and the death of her parents. The biggest story repercussions stem from the manner in which Prof. Xavier (James McAvoy) chooses to help young Jean deal with her hurt, shifting the theme away from "power corrupting" to "paving the road to hell with good intentions." It's a neat angle, but yet another departure from the source material in an adaptation already forced to compromise in too many ways.

Look, three of my favourite actors - James McAvoy, Michael Fassbender and  Nicholas Hoult - so it pains me to tell you this movie isn't very good, but the truth is, it ain't. But I still don't consider my time or money wasted in seeing it.

In terms of characterization, Dark Phoenix does a much better job than Apocalypse did, and every X-Man ( and X-Woman!) gets an opportunity to shine. The movie is at its best later int he second act and through most of the third, when it goes into full-on action-driven thrill-ride mode.

Nightcrawler (Kodi Smit-McPhee) is at his most effective and affecting since 2003's X2. When he finally allows his temper to get the better of him, he becomes a lethal, feral whirlwind, terrifying in aspect. In addition to being the tragic love interest, Cyclops (Tye Sheridan) finally becomes a tactical asset, using his optic blasts creatively as he so often has in the comics. And Storm (Alexandra Shipp) has never looked more devastating, wielding multiple lightning bolts in a relentless battle she knows she cannot win.

Watching these beloved characters from my youth being depicted so vibrantly was enough to turn this movie from about a 4 to around a 6, at least for me as an X-fan; your mileage may vary.

I also greatly enjoyed the idea of the X-Men being treated as heroes instead of outlaws, and the team really looks the part in their spiffy new uniforms, reminiscent of Frank Quitely's run in the comics. And smaller, quieter moments, like Storm creating ice in Cyclops cup or seeing Dazzler performing at a mutant beach party after an early victory, evoked the familial connections established by Claremont during his tenure.

So why are the reviews so bad? Why is Dark Phoenix's Rotten Tomatoes score the lowest in the history of the franchise, regardless of whether it "earned" that distinction or not?

Well, for openers, I think any superhero movie, especially one with such cosmic aspirations, is going to fare poorly when compared to either Captain Marvel or Avengers: Endgame, which only came out, what, 40 days ago? The bar for these movies is much higher now than when the very first X-Men movie came out in 2000, 8 years before Marvel Studios rewrote the playbook with Iron Man. And that's a nice problem to have, as a movie watcher!

There is also a rumour that Kinberg had initially pitched a two-part movie instead, with sufficient room to depict Jean's slow corruption and a larger canvas on which more of the space opera elements could have been drawn. Instead, we have to settle for a cosmic veneer crudely bolted on and which criminally underuses Jessica Chastain in the process. Imagining her as Empress Lilandra in a more epic retelling of this classic tale is a torment worthy of Dante.

In the end, though, that's not what we got. Whether due to studio interference, a lack of institutional courage or a lack of resources, we are left with a watered down version of an epic tale, a molehill with Olympian aspirations.

But for fans of the X-Men, there are still enough likable bits to warrant a trip to the theatre - at least on a Tuesday.

Feelings First, Facts Follow - Rocketman, Reviewed

There is nothing worse than a cowardly biopic.

This cravenness can manifest in myriad fashion; a failure to examine its subject objectively, a narrative slavishly mired in chronology, or a depiction that is wrought from imitation as opposed to inspiration. Thus I am happy to report that, while imperfect, the musical Elton John story Rocketman struts boldly and unapologetically upon the screen, delighting in the excesses of the time it depicts and anchored by a truly fearless performance by Taron Egerton.

It's important to understand though, that this is not a film particularly concerned with reality in almost any context. This seems fair, given the film's tagline of "Based on a true fantasy." In addition to the standard liberties similar films take with time and place, there are quite a few scenes and relationships that differ significantly from the record, particularly when it comes to John's manager and lover John Reid.

Portrayed with a suave detachment by Richard Madden (Robb Stark from Game of Thrones), Reid comes off as much less affable here than he does in Bohemian Rhapsody (where he is played by another GoT alumnus, Aidan "Littlefinger" Gillen). In fact, the degree of charming sociopathy he is capable of makes me think they are on to something in considering him as a potential replacement for James Bond after Daniel Craig's final outing next year. More to the point, the movie gives no hint of the fact that Reid continued as John's manager for decades after they broke up romantically.

To be fair though, the movie's disregard for materiality is worn way out on its sleeve, presenting itself as a full book musical which I fully expect to see adapted for Broadway before too long. You would obviously expect to see some musical numbers in a movie about a rock star with 58 Billboard Top 40 hits, but not necessarily an elaborately choreographed dance number of "Saturday Night's Alright" set in a brilliantly costumed, period-perfect British funfair. While others may find them disagreeable, I found the brief ska and Bollywood flourishes in this song to be a delight, if perhaps anachronistic, and a wonderful way to depict a shy boy with a showman's verve coming of age while playing piano in a pub.

Like Bohemian Rhapsody, a picture like this rises or falls on the shoulders of its principal star, and Taron Egerton really delivers the goods. In addition to doing all his own dancing and singing, in his own voice and not an impersonation of Elton himself, Egerton leans into his character's sexuality and human flaws. Director Dexter Fletcher (go ahead and say that out loud, it's quite amusing) deserves a lot of credit for not following the mainstream cinema trope of two men kissing passionately and then quickly traversing to fluttering curtains or some such nonsense. Homophobes will be made to feel quite uncomfortable, but I believe that is rather the point (or perhaps just a bonus).

This transparency goes a long way into underpinning the tragic loneliness that largely defines the first half of Elton John's life, something articulated extremely well by Lee Hall's screenplay but made painfully accessible by Egerton's performance. From the dismissive manner in which he sends away his legendary songwriting partner Bernie Taupin (Jamie Bell), through periods of lost introspection denoted in excruciatingly unforgiving closeups, and eventually to awkward attempts to reconnect with his parents, Egerton brings a humanity and relevance to his portrayal of a truly larger-than-life figure, playing up his gifts and foibles in equal measure, and his voice is awfully good as well.

I should also commend Rocketman's commitment to depicting the period, and not just in regards to costuming (which I fully expect to garner an Oscar nomination for). There is a brilliant shot of Sunset Boulevard, taken from a high angle and encompassing at least three city blocks, and I marvelled at the dozens of non-descript vehicles and '70s ads for things like Kool cigarettes, wondering how they managed to pull it off. It turns out that they took stock footage, digitally cleaned it up and matched it for lighting and inserted it into the print just so, firmly establishing the time and place in a way that no chroma-keyed billboard and street-level shot out a car window could never hope to equal.

As a fantasy musical biopic, Rocketman is without peer, largely since I believe it invented the genre this past weekend. The four of us had a great time at it, and so long as you can begrudge a little latitude to reality, fans of Elton John should not miss it.

G&G XIV: A Good Long Time

It feels like it's been a good long time since we last got together for Gaming & Guinness, and at eleven-and-a-half months, I suppose it has been. Eight of us finally reconvened (for the fourteenth time!) for a weekend dedicated to playing games, drinking beers, staying up too late and laughing a lot

Well, it started out as a weekend. Then one year, I suggested the miniature gamers get together on Thursday so those who didn't have an army could opt out if they wanted, but everyone came anyhow. Then people started showing up on Wednesday evening so we could get an early start on Thursday.

This year, early arrivals by the out-of-towners and favourably oriented work schedules for everyone else had us all on-site at Totty's place by 1:00 Wednesday afternoon, a new record. After a quick lunch, we kicked things off with the upsized, drinking version of Jenga (also known as JenG&Ga).

We moved on to a series of smaller games, including Anomia, Zombie Dice and Timeline.

The next day we played a game of X-Wing Miniatures set on a meticulously recreated Death Star trench. 

Best of all, I got be Luke Skywalker! (That's me in the lead X-Wing.)

Just like in the movie, the timely arrival of the Millennium Falcon enabled the Rebels (Scott, Mike, Pete and I) to deploy a proton torpedo into the fabled exhaust port and destroy the Death Star.

Everyone agreed that Scott outdid himself and that this was the best-looking gaming table we'd ever played on. Most importantly, everyone had a good time while decked out in appropriate t-shirts.

...and in Pete's case, thematic bedding. (And also a Death Star waffle iron!)

At the other end of the spectrum of gaming esthetics, Vintage Miniatures Deathmatch returned that evening for the third time, pitting (mostly) old-timey miniatures against one another in gladiatorial combat! This year we added power-ups tokens to the field which not only kept things moving, but also made them more fatal in a few instances.

Sadly, Brother Cadbury was unable to repeat his victory from the year before, falling to Scott's war-maiden Katilinia, the eventual champion.

After a delicious dinner of Maui ribs grilled up by Jeff, it was time for some asymmetric gaming in The Thing: Infection at Outpost 31. This game is so well done that I can briefly overcome my dislike of social deduction mechanics and just throw myself into the scenarios presented. We played well, defeating the creature handily when we encountered it, but despite reaching the helicopter, we lost the game when we stranded Pete (a hapless human) and took Scott instead, who turned out to have been the second imitation spawned in the game.

I made breakfast the next morning, and afterwards, Earl entertained us with enough Wits & Wagers trivia questions for two whole games, and Scott won both of them handily.

Then it was downtown to GTFO for a competitive escape room experience. Jeff, Pete and both Mikes managed to beat the Scott, Earl, Rob and I into Europa 4836's sole escape pod.

Win or lose, at least we all look good, right? I was very happy with how the shirts I'd ordered turned out.

I didn't take any pictures of our game of Captain Sonar, the brilliant team submarine game that Island Mike introduced us to last year, nor of Rock Band, but it's an interesting contrast as the former requires sobriety and concentration and the other actually discourages it, at least for most of us.

Saturday afternoon was our Battletech game, and I had selected sides with equal tonnages and re-acquired my original maps from the person I had traded them to (cheers, Jay!), but was dissatisfied with the idea of a straight-up slugfest. 

I threw out the barest bones of a scenario to the group, and within a half hour, we had a great one all doped out: diagonal deployment zones, with three objectives spread across the middle of the board. Spending a complete turn on the objective let you claim the equivalent of 70 tons of destroyed enemy 'mech, and the first team to end a turn with 210 tons or more would be the winner.

It was a real back and forth affair, and although Scott, Mike, Rob and I played our House Steiner forces very strategically, the balance shifted when Earl's battered 80-ton Zeus emerged from the river it had submerged in to cool off and blew the head off my 95-ton Banshee with a single shot from a particle projector cannon.

Saturday night means two things: Pete's exquisite green roasted chili with pork and our premier game: Circus Maximus. 

It's an unforgiving game, and although there were no fatalities this year, two three players ended up not finishing. Scott and I whipped Pete's horses one after other when he was in the corner and ended up with an unsurvivable speed of 35, flipping his chariot and stranding his driver. Rob took the same corner too quickly on the final turn and his double sideslip smashed him into the wall. The corner also finished Earl as he attempted to make up ground.

Jeff outpaced everyone again and took the trophy for the fourth time! Totty was in close pursuit (again), and Island Mike got third place despite having the second slowest horses in the game. Well done, gents!

 

Normally Sunday afternoons are just Totty, Pete and I squeezing in one last small game before I pack up all the crap I've brought, but with Rob's flight leaving just before supper, we had time for something a bit more involved. At my request, Totty brought out his Kickstarter edition of GKR: Heavy Hitters (GKR standing for Giant Killer Robots).

This is a brilliant-looking game (pre-painted figures too) with a fantastic set of card-based mechanics and a scoring system that effectively prevents someone from parking their mecha. Despite taking a hammering from Pete's blue beast, my orange Heavy Hitter managed to destroy four buildings and win the game. If only it supported 8 players so we could have it at G&G proper!

We finished just in time for Pete to bring Rob to the airport. 

I continue to be astonished and touched by how committed we have all become to this silly event, and by just how gratifying it feels to commit to camaraderie among such excellent fellows for the better part of a week. By my figuring, G&G XIV ran for about 99 hours, its longest iteration yet. It was truly a good, long time.

And I already can't wait for next year.

Stickin' It to King's Landing - Game of Thrones S8, Reviewed

Please note: This review is primarily a trojan horse for my commentary on fandom, but I will nonetheless attempt to keep it spoiler-free!

Nearly a quarter-century ago, George R.R. Martin published the first book in his "Song of Ice and Fire" series. Originally envisioned as a trilogy, the series is now expected to encompass seven books, of which only five have been published.

Eight years ago, HBO launched a television adaptation of the series, dedicating a ten-episode season to each book, eventually overtaking them (with Martin's blessing), and doing the final book as two shortened seasons. For almost a decade, viewers have followed the ups and (mostly) downs of the Stark family and the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. Last night, the televised journey of almost a decade came to an end, and Audrey, Jeff and I got to watch it tonight.

I hope there will be another series as galvanizing and engrossing as Game of Thrones in the future, and I am sure there eventually will be - something less bingeable and worth making an appointment or. Something worth speculating about and, yes - even being enraged by.

Dissatisfaction with last week's episode has spawned a petition with almost over a million signatures demanding the eighth season be remade with "competent writers." but I'm pretty sure television (and more importantly, art) doesn't work that way.

The level of entitlement perceived by fans is approaching dangerously ludicrous levels. Less than 24 hours after Twilight star Robert Pattinson was announced as a potential candidate to replace Ben Affleck as the movie version of Batman, petitions have sprung to life asking that the part be recast. I understand that legacy, multi-generational characters like Batman have a special place in people's hearts, but Jiminy Christmas, the arrogance on display here leaves me gobsmacked.

No one loved it when Michael Keaton was cast as the title role in 1989's Batman, and he did just fine (and made a lot of dough for Warner Bros. to boot). Later movies in that series were flawed for sure, but I am unsure just how much of the blame can be levelled at Val Kilmer and George Clooney. Very few people were impressed when Christian Bale donned the cape and cowl for Batman Begins, but the real outrage came when "pretty boy" Heath Ledger had the unmitigated gall and temerity to play legendary villain the Joker!

Of course, Ledger won tremendous plaudits working off a brilliant script and in addition to making oodles of dollars for WB, he was honoured with a (tragically posthumous) Oscar for his portrayal. I hope Pattinson, an actor who has little draw for me personally but who I know has credibility among many directors I admire, gets an opportunity to prove them all wrong as Bruce Wayne and his menacing alter ego.

Don't misunderstand me -  I am all for people expressing their opinions, and I am glad that the internet allows them to do that, but the sanctimonious manner in which some people try to upbraid creatives who have to work within the constraints of financing, studio notes, availability and scheduling in order to put coherent entertainment in front of our collective noses leaves me absolutely slack-jawed.

You didn't like season eight? By all means, voice your opinion! Write a letter, tell your friends who haven't watched yet not to bother, cancel your subscription to HBO. But I hope you don't think your million signatures is going to change anything - I doubt you will even get an edited version on disc when it comes out - except for where they remove the coffee cups and water bottles, perhaps.

For my part, although I feel the pacing of this season felt terribly rushed, I feel showrunners David Benioff and D.B. Weiss got us where we needed to go, even if they should have taken more time to get there. There were elements that I felt were objectionable, absolutely - a lack of compelling motivation here, a bungled farewell there, and a heel turn that, despite being telegraphed and foreshadowed, still managed to feel unearned. But overall, I think they told the story they set out to tell and presented us with the bittersweet ending that we should have been preparing ourselves for.

What I perceived as flaws could have been handled by a more deft hand in the director's chair, and I will blog about that in a future (spoiler-filled) post. In the meantime though, I'm not saddened by what transpired in the ending so much as I am at reaching the end of an eight-year journey into a richly realized world of knights and dragons, bravery and betrayal, compassionate cynicism and brash idealism.

Martin's story and D&D's adaptation have done a wonderful job of reminding us of the appeal of these timeless stories while simultaneously stripping away much of the romanticism and naivete associated with them. Like all things that end, the finale of Game of Thrones was never going to please everyone, but I found it to be a satisfying conclusion to almost a decade's worth of television.

Should I live so long, hopefully the books will do likewise!

On Birthdays, and Being a Known Quantity

There are very few among us who don't want to be understood, to be recognized, to have our presence acknowledged (if not celebrated) and our absences lamented.

I have been away from work since the start of the month due to some unpleasantness that transpired there and thus was not present for the traditional workplace commemoration of my birthday last week. Cake is good, gifts and cards are wonderful, but the best part is just getting away from the daily grind with the excellent people you share it with and enjoying each other's company for a few moments.

Yesterday afternoon I got a text from a work colleague saying that a parcel had been left on my step for me (they had not wanted to ring the bell due to a bout of sickness that has been lingering with them for over a week). I sent a thank-you text expressing my surprise and collected the package from the front.

I guess they know my tastes pretty well, as it was a magnificent pre-painted model of Thor from the comics (i.e. not Chris Hemsworth). Far more meaningful though was the card signed by not only my teammates but almost a dozen other people from the floor I work on, a number of whom had inquired about me both before and after my departure. It was truly touching.

One of the things I have tried to do in recent weeks is to never lose sight of the fact that I have a lot of people in my corner. When you get down on yourself sometimes, it can be easy to forget both the frequency and degree of affection and respect that others have for us. Being reminded of this from time to time is both a blessing and a balm, and I am grateful.

My family was also tremendously accommodating, and a day that started out tinged with sadness and physical discomfort took several turns for the better.

We went out for dinner at Craft Beer Market, where our early arrival meant there were happy hour specials on top of the 52% discount I received for my birthday. More importantly, Glory I fulfilled our long-standing goal of splitting the legendary 20-Napkin Burger. Dinner was accompanied by three exquisite pints, including the Wizard's Revenge Milkshake IPA from New Level Brewing in Calgary.

When we returned home I was presented with more gifts, including a new Monster Manual and Pickle Rick bookmark for it, as well as a coupon for a snuggie in the fabric of my choice and a copy of 1977's Slapshot on BluRay, but in a VHS-style box. Once again - it is good to be known.

I was only a little apprehensive when I put Slapshot on afterwards - after all, you can never be sure how oldies like this will be taken by the next generation. But I was gratified at how much the girls laughed, and it's a relief to know that references to the Hanson Brothers and Ogie Ogelthorpe have an opportunity to live on a little longer.

Ending the day full of good food and drink, surrounded by loved ones and laughter? It's hard to imagine a better birthday after all.

Top Qualities

Glory and I were at loose ends on a Sunday afternoon when we had the house to ourselves. This doesn't happen too often and we wanted to take advantage of it. She suggested we play a boardgame, and of the three I suggested, she selected Stratego. I dusted off our vintage (1962) edition of the classic game and we had at 'er.

Stratego is a great mix of strategy and luck, and I suggest more of the latter was in play for my victory. I could hear the gears meshing in Glory's cold-addled brain as we played though, and I know many of my stratagems will find no toehold the next time we face off.

As good a game as it is, the tedious setup and attendant overthinking make it a poor candidate for back-to-back play, so instead I dug into the closet and excavated my collection of tops and the stadium for combatting with them.

They are better known as Beyblades now, but when I was a kid, the most intriguing game I ever saw advertised was Battling Tops. Here was a game where something actually happened! There was motion, kineticism, and all the other qualities I had in mind when I purchased them over a decade ago.

I'd love to tell you that I got them with the girls in mind, but the truth is, they were for me and my mates. We unleashed them at G&G V and a handful of times since. I'd even gotten some more as gifts a few Christmases back, but the bigger, flashier models lacked both the performance and appeal of the smaller knockoffs I'd bought at Comex Hobby in West Edmonton Mall back when I worked there.

Glory was happy to see them reappear, and we spent over an hour testing launchers, experimenting with left spin vs. right spin and comparing the various scales of tops as we battled it out in the Heavy Metal Stadium.

It was a lot of fun, and we thought we would shoot some slo-mo video with the iPad for additional giggles. It was actually handy for determining match winners in a couple of photo-finish situations.

Mostly though, we enjoyed the instant replay feature to see how close to the exit some tops came:

...and some of the more dramatic match finishes:

I lack the physics and engineering wherewithal to tell you why some tops fare better than others, or why aggressiveness attacking often trumps endurance but not every time. Regardless of how they work though, I am astonished at how quickly we move to imbue them with human characteristics like stamina, agility, and even courage.

I quickly became attached to a battered blue top that I would have sworn to you had the heart of a champion. Blueboy won more matches than any other single top.

Moreover, he did so despite having a chunk ripped off of him in an early match, demonstrating real heart and astonishing quantities of both chutzpah and temerity for an inanimate object (to hear me tell it, at least).

Can a toy top have character? It's doubtful. But conversely, when Blueboy finally lost a step and succumbed to a (much larger, probably juiced) competitor in a gruelling matchup, his green replacement fared so poorly that he didn't even warrant a name. That didn't stop me from threatening to shitcan every green top in the house if he didn't shape up, though. I recognize such abusive tactics rarely garner the desired results (and did not in this case either) but in truth it was a little bit liberating, knowing that the top's feelings were unlikely to be hurt, and also seeing how amused Glory was by my misbehaviour.

Somewhere in the hazy middle region between an appreciation for our tendency to anthropomorphize everything we possibly can and the simple elation of two carefree people playing with age-inappropriate toys, my youngest and I had a truly enjoyable Sunday afternoon, and put a particularly trying week just a little further behind us.