THE MAN WITH HALF A FACE

Last night, we here at Jordans Room were sitting outside (near the still standing wasp nest - we here at JRP are idiots that never learn our lessons, apparently) and we noticed a man.......

I'm starting too late in the story. Give me a second to tinker with my flux capacitor and I'll roll us back a few months.......






We just moved in. This place is new. Who are our neighbors? We don't know.

What we DO know is that EVERYTIME we go outside, the human who occupies the apartment next to our house is taking a shower.

"Surely, you jest! A man cannot be showering EVERYTIME you're outside!"

I jest not.......and don't call me Shirley.


This man - we assumed it was a man - earned himself the moniker "Mr. Clean" - as he MUST have been oh so clean ALL THE TIME.

Thinking about it now though - I suppose Mr. Dirty would have been an equally fitting name - certainly someone that lathers and scrubs THAT often has to be........dirty, right?

I'm drifting.

I'm ranting.

I'm coming back.


So Mr. Clean. He showers with the window open. It's a high window, set towards the ceiling so we can't see in (not that we tried, okay?). We don't know what he looks like so this sort of becomes a weird running joke for us. Months pass and we only ever hear him showering, this faceless stranger with a mysterious name.

What does he do? What does he look like? Who is he? Is he a he?

One day we're outside and the female says "Look! Mr. Clean! I saw the top of his face!"

I missed it and became angry. I became obsessed with seeing his face. She says he's hispanic - a latino.

She says neither of those words, though. She says he's Mexican.

This makes sense. Everyone here is Mexican.

Everyone except us that is....living in our honky paradiso.


Strangely, we start seeing him more - well.....we THINK it's a him, judging by the top of his head. And so now it turns into this weird Wilson Dilehmma - you know, Wilson....from Home Improvement.

He was giving us JUST enough of his face to want more.


The man was a sicko.



Back to the flux capacitor. Let's head back to the present.....well - the past - last night....the future past - just.........c'mon.





So last night we're outside and LO AND BEHOLD!!!!!!!!! MR. CLEAN IS STANDING IN HIS KITCHEN STARING AT US AND THE FEMALE SAYS TO ME, 'MR. CLEAN! HE'S LOOKING AT US!'

I turn around and sure enough, there he is. He looks a bit like Mario of Super Mario Bros. if Mario were Mexican and not Italian.

He smiles, waves, and opens up his fridge, pulling out two Coronas. He lifts them up and points to me.

I smile and nod.


He comes out and we meet by our fence - a four foot high cement brick monster......and there we stand for the next 30 minutes. Me and The Female and Mr. Clean.


Let me take you back again - a few years - I guess now it's been more than a few - to High School.




I'm in Spanish class. For the life of me I can't remember my teacher's name and this bother's me in a strange way. She was from Portugal or Chili or somewhere down south (way south) and she was married to the Algebra teacher who taught upstairs.

Anyway, I failed her class. I'm saying FAILED. Like.....I had a 36%, I remember.

I never took another semester of Spanish and I never understood a word of it.

The Female is A LITTLE BETTER. She can say "How do you say" and "What is your name" type stuff. Very basic - and I got the impression that we were sort of slaughtering that.

Mr. Clean - who's REAL NAME is Filipi, but his friends (us) call him Lupi. He was in the same boat, except on the opposite end. He knew probably ten words in English and that was it.


So back to last night - Lupi doesn't speak English and we don't speak Spanish so, like I was saying, maybe "talk" is a little loosey-goosey for what we did. It was more like "Win, Lose or Draw" or "Taboo" or "Scherades".


Mr. Clean, as it turns out, is a 35 year old man that came to America four years ago and has been laying tile in bathrooms and kitchens ever since - granite, marble, etc. He drives an hour to work and back and works ten hour days. He lives with his three friends and they love beer and football. He's never been married and has no kids.

The Female and I relayed a little information about ourselves to him and that was that.

It felt good talking to a person in some new, strange, hybrid language. Trying to communicate thought and friendship with no words. We'd point and laugh and make gestures. I tried to explain to him that I was an editor, but, as it turns out, "editor" is an almost impossible scherade.....go ahead.....try. I ended with "TV" and pointed to his football game I could see through the window.

He knew the word "work", so I just said, "TV, work" and then I shrugged and laughed. We all knew we weren't going to get any closer than that.


We stood outside, neighbors, humans, whatever. We drank Mexican beer and we learned a little bit about each other. At the end, we clinked empty bottles together, lifted our hands and walked into our own houses.


Another mystery solved.

4-WAY PLOP

We were driving back from "The Dark Knight" talking about where traffic laws came from - WHO established the red light?

I say, "Don't they drive on the left side of the road in England?"

She says, "Yeah - all over Europe and Asia, I think."

I say, 'That's weird, you'd think since we came from Europe we'd drive on the left side as well."

She says, "I don't think cars were invented when the pilgrims came over."

I smile sheepishly and wonder what those poor fools did without Flowbees.



THIS MAN LOVES HIS FLOWBEE!



LOOK HOW THIS WOMAN CHERISHES FLOWBEE!



KIDS LOVE FLOWBEE AND FLOWBEE ADORES CHILDREN!



DOGS LOVE FLOWBEES TOO!

A SECOND SINNER

Uh-oh. Looks like the sport is really starting to pick up.

NoobHunter and NoobHuntress are here to pwn.

Jordans Room Productions - now blowing your mind in the real world as well as the pretend one that we spend most of our time in.

Noobs beware, your end is nigh.

And yes, that IS a rocket launcher my wife has chosen to do combat with. She likes to charge in bullmoose style and cause large amounts of bloodshed in short amounts of time.

CONFESSIONS

I have a confession to make.

I play a game.

It's an online first person shooter called "RETURN TO CASTLE WOLFENSTEIN" that was released in 2001, which a.) pretty much makes it an antique as far as games go and b.) pretty much makes me a complete tool for taking the time to look that up specifically for this blog.

This is not my confession.

For many, many years I went by the screen name Johnny The Face. I killed and was killed and people knew who I was.....I'd like to THINK people knew who I was. I didn't want to change my name because I thought it would kill my e-reputation.

So I kept this name for about five years, solely because I wanted people like Bernhard, Toy Soldier, Rambo Balboa and the closely related Ram Bro Ski to remember who I was and to respect my gaming abilities.

To give you an idea of what kind of warzone I'm used to being entangled with, I've taken the liberty of including some screen grabs.




I mostly like to play as a medic - it allows me to revive downed teammates as well as the ability to slowly regenerate health myself. You can see I've chosen to be a medic for the sake of realism in these stills - those are my feet hanging out of the bottom of the screen there - I've been shot while taking a screen grab.

You can also see on the left side of the screen one of my teammates avenging my death - shooting that axis evil-doer right in the back.

On the right side of the screen stands another teammate - he's just watching, unphased - he's been exposed to this sort of bloodshed before.

Also, what you're seeing here is called the "Forward Bunker". We've captured the flag and will now be spawning inside of here rather than down on the beach front. 1 POINT TO THE ALLIED TEAM! GO AMERICA!



Here you can see that one of our engineers has successfully blown apart the sea wall breach and a small team is trying to push on alone - up the ladder to find the war documents.

GO TEAM!



The Axis have reclaimed the forward bunker, forcing us to respawn at the beach. You can also see at the bottom there that Shaik Kaleem is shouting for some ammo - you can activate certain voice commands by hitting 'V' and then a series of numbers.

(For ammo, it would be "V-2-2" For MEDIC! it's "V-2-1")

Pepito Grillo is also shouting "Yee-haw!" That's a term that is strictly American. If you choose to be on the Axis team, your shout / celebrate turns into a menacing snicker.



Here's me. I've died again and am waiting for a fellow medic to come and revive me. (This is where I'd press "V-2-1". MEDIC!

Also, there's not much time left on the clock - 4:29 - BUT IT'S STILL ENOUGH TO WIN!!!








Game over.

We lose......again.



Now that you're a little more familiar with my situation, let me get back to my confession.

I was playing the other night - it was late, perhaps 3am.

I had just respawned in the forward bunker and was going to press on to kill all my opponents, capture the war documents, transmit them, save the day and take the victory for all of us.

As you all know, the journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step - and I couldn't take mine because some freaking new guy who hadn't even bothered to change his name from the default Wolfplayer was standing in the doorway with a big rocket launcer firing at anything that moved. (The rocket launcher is often considered a 'noob' weapon - it takes little accuracy and almost no skill).

I couldn't get out - I COULDN'T SAVE THE DAY - this frustrated me because I was on a blood lust of my own and I KNEW I was a much more skilled player than this guy. Who was he to be holding up my plan for domination?

So my journey COULDN'T begin thanks to this 'noob' as they say (I don't say this - I've always felt it was a little TOO gamery for my delicate tastes).

So Wolfplayer and his stupid rocket launcher are blocking the door and I can't talk to him because I don't know the voice command for "MOVE!" so I just keep bumping into him, hoping he gets the point.

Eventually he does.

He steps aside to reload and I walk past him just as an air raid team begins to fly in. If I stand where I am, I will die....so I try getting back into the forward bunker but this frigging NOOB is STANDING IN THE DOORWAY AGAIN with that big dumb noobite rocket launcher of his.

I don't have time to bump into him until he gets the point - I try once or twice, but he doesn't get it so I just plant a couple blasts between his eyes and shout, "F*ing NOOB!"

This is not a voice command.

This is me, alone, in my house, at 3am, talking to a kid probably a decade my junior, located who knows where that can't hear me.

This is my confession. I'd never used the word 'noob' before - not seriously. It had always been joking around (mostly with my wife concerning sex). But this time, I let it rip with true malice in my heart.

I wanted this guy to know that I thought he was a nooby - I suddenly felt inspired to tell people that I was no nooby - I was a pro.

A real killer.


I decided it was time to put a rest to Johnny The Face and start a new identity. Yes, the guys would forget Johnny The Face - he would fade from their memories, but someone else would take his place - someone greater, someone with FIVE YEARS OF WAR EXPERIENCE.

Someone who was a pretty f*ing good shot and wasn't afraid to break a few eggs to make an omelet.




NoobHunter was born.


Now when I log in, I usually say, 'I'm here to hunt some noobs - I hear they're pretty big game in these parts"

That's not a voice command, either.

I actually take the time to write that every time I log in and sometimes during gameplay if I feel I killed an especially noobious player.

I've embraced what I am.

I've embraced who I am.

And I hope this blog empowers anyone out there who is struggling with embracing their inner gamer.

I have.

RAISE MONEY BY JUST SITTING THERE!!!

Hey Everyone!

A few months back one of JRPs friends was LITERALLY stabbed in the brain squabbling over a bag of sugar in Africa.

His name is Manuel and he is roughly 19 years old - HE'S ALIVE, BUT NEEDS OUR HELP!

For every friend request we receive, JRP will donate 1 cent to The Elias Fund to help raise money.


http://www.myspace.com/theeliasfund


It doesn't seem like all that much cash, but realize that it takes roughly $200,000 ZIM dollars to equal ONE US DOLLAR.


if we can get 100 people to come over, we'll have raised $100,000 ZIM DOLLARS!

Our money goes much further because we are the White Devil.


JRP

A TRAGEDY AT JORDANS ROOM

Late last night we here at JRP were sitting on our back steps, talking with John's mother on the phone when a wasp casually drifted down from it's nest above our kitchen door.

Weeks prior we'd thought about destroying it; we'd thought about crushing the nest when the wasps were least expecting it - BETTER SAFE THAN SORRY!.......but we didn't. We said "live and let live" and we left the nest. The wasps weren't bothering us and that was that.

Last night that all changed. An unexpected siege was planned.

A wasp fluttered gently down from the heavens and landed by Jade, who promptly evacuated the scene. I, peaceable imbecile that I am, thought, 'I won't move, and he'll leave me alone. I'm not gonna run. I'm not gonna show fear. He'll just leave me alone."

And he did - he left me alone. He just took flight and then......landed immediately on my ankle.

I tried to keep my cool. I really did. I thought, 'Just be cool. They only bite when they're defending themselves. He won't hurt you.'

Yes, he's about the size of two quarters. Yes, if he bites or stings you, it's going to be heinous. Yes, he IS a savage - HE'S A BEAST! HE'S MALICIOUS! OUT FOR BLOOD! My calm zen quickly escalated into near hysteria without warning.

So I freaked out. The throws of frenzy and panic suddenly began pulsing through my veins. One second I was fine, the next second, the reality of me allowing a giant killer wasp to crawl up my ankle struck home and I panicked. I panicked in the worst way.

I kicked my foot. I slapped it around in the air senselessly, lost in oblivion, just wanting this thing to get off of me, hoping to use gravity as my ally to slap it into the night air.

It was gone.

I had succeeded.

Goodbye, wasp. Sleep tight. Perhaps next time we can meet as friends....and then it happend....the worst thing happened.

I felt a burn in my loins. Not a kind, romantic, slow burning ember, but a poisonous, heating, flame.

This is not a warning. This is not a joke. I had managed to kick the wasp off my ankle and UP the leg hole of my loose shorts unto which there would be found no underwear.

This wasp, vindictive, hateful, loathsome little creature that he is, found my little wee-were and dug in deep.

I tried pulling up the legs of my shorts to get him out and finally only managed to save myself when I unzipped my drawers and just let it all hang out.

The wasp flew away and I politely told my mother, 'mom. I've gotta go. A wasp just bit my dick...what do you put on wasp bites?'

For anyone wondering, APPARENTLY, meat tenderizer does the trick.

We didn't have any meat tenderizer so I just manned through it like the idiot that I am.



This morning, swelling abounds.

Think you've got problems? My wang looks like the Elephant Man.

JRP