That'd be a great name for a band, wouldn't it?

I've been out of commission for the last few days. I've been trying to get over a nagging chest cold fire-damaged lung caused by breathing the spores of the mystical white phosphor lotus I got while playing with my cousin's baby battling a rabid Yeti sorcerer to the death in the Himalayas. Click the pic and I'll tell you all about it.

After a week, the problem had failed to clear itself up, so I went to the doctor an ancient Hopi shaman and spirit guide. He gave me a solid steroid inhalant sacred medicine bag and powdered snakeskin to kill whatever it was the baby Yeti did to me. Monday night I was lying in bed and I inhaled the powder and held my breath to let it coat my lungs, per the instructions on the box. Both the doc and the instructions made it VERY clear that you're not supposed to swallow this stuff for whatever reason, so I stood up and headed to the bathroom to wash the powder out of my mouth, still holding my breath. I made it very nearly six feet when I succumbed to the shaman's ancient spirit magic fainted like a dainty Southern belle.

I remember reaching out for the wall to steady myself because I knew I was stumbling, but I don't recall any sensation of being off balance or dizzy. Everything was completely black by the time my ass hit the floor, badly bruising my tail bone. I remember thinking "I sat down too hard" like it was in a dream. I knew for sure I was in pain, but I couldn't feel the pain. I was just vaguely aware of it. It was a very detached sensation; very cool, but hard to describe.

I was completely out before my head hit the floor, but I know for certain it hit the floor with no small amount of speed. Had I been conscious for that, I probably wouldn't look back on this whole experience and think it was nearly as interesting and fun as I do now. I'm not a doctor or anything, but judging by the severity of the recurring intense headaches, I'd have to estimate my skull made contact with the hardwood at roughly Mach 7.

The first thing I remember on waking up was the sensation that I was coming out of the most peaceful, serene sleep I'd ever had. It was amazing. I've seen people who look like they're disoriented when waking up, but that's not really the way I was feeling. I was confused, mind you, and I couldn't figure out for the life of me why I was laying on the floor, but it was a pleasant, curious confusion, not a frightening one. It would be a while before I remembered everything leading up to the blackout, but I wasn't physically disoriented or unable to focus. On the contrary, I was absolutely clearheaded and perfectly relaxed. It was an almost unnatural calmness. It was zen, to put a label on it, and it was wonderful. If I knew how to wake up feeling like that every morning, I'd never have a bad day again. It was quite possibly the best feeling I've ever experienced.

The first thing I saw upon waking was my wedding ring. It is a titanium ring, a very well made replica of Brigman's titanium wedding ring from The Abyss. If you haven't seen that movie, then stop reading this right now, and go watch it. It's superb sci-fi. Ed Harris's character Brigman cannot let go of his wedding ring, nor his love for his estranged wife, both of which which save his life during the course of the film. The Abyss is one of the best films I have ever seen, one of the top five sci-fi films ever made. But this is not a review of The Abyss.

My ring was a natural thing to focus on, as it was a shiny, silver object resting against the dark wood background of the floor and door. It took a while for this to register as unusual, but when it did, I remember thinking, "How did my wedding ring get on the floor?" I usually keep it on top of a bookshelf with a watch my dad gave me. I got up, noting the numbness in my ass and the back of my head where my tail bone and skull would be screaming at me in the morning. I picked up the ring to put it back where it belonged, but I couldn't. The bookshelf wasn't there anymore. 

I either knocked it over on my way down, or tried to grab it and pulled it down with me. I don't know how it happened, because, like I said, I was out before my head hit the floor. In either case, the bookshelf was down, and everything on it was scattered throughout the room. Honestly, I could've dropped a lit stick of dynamite behind the damn thing and made less of a mess. Stuff was everywhere. It was a bookcase full of computer equipment and vintage video game consoles and cartridges; a lot of stuff I'm probably not going to be able to replace if its broken. That would probably have bothered me any other time… scratch that: that usually would have pissed me off at myself to no end, and I would have berated myself for days for my own clumsiness and stupidity. But I was still in that state of supreme preternatural serenity, and I didn't mind. Not all all. I didn't mind anything. I was at one with the universe. Ohhhmm… 

Anyway, the next morning I was sore all over, and my ass and head were apparently engaged in a contest to see which would be the first to make me cry. Going to work was not an option, not for someone who's job is sitting at a desk (on my throbbing assbone) and wearing a headset talking to idiot callers with grating voices (while my head tried to make itself explode from the inside). Not gonna happen. Tuesday was a haze of trying not to sleep because I heard that was bad after a head injury, and then passing out on the couch anyway because it felt so good. That, and about 14 solid hours of Deep Space Nine. It was a very good day, at least the parts I remember.

I feel much better now. Actually I felt much better on Wednesday, and I could've come to work the past two days, but fuck that. My HR department counts sick days in "instances." Three days of being sick still counts as one "instance," as long as they're taken consecutively and for the same reason. Four would be pushing it, but I knew I could get away with three days off, so I took them. Three days for the price of one; at these prices, you'd be crazy not to. Anyway, I needed a break, and falling down and busting your head is an excellent reason to be childish and self indulgent. I spent all of Tuesday and most of Wednesday resting, and Wednesday night I felt decent enough to leave the house for the first time since the blackout. I took my cousin H-Bomb out and we got liquored up beyond belief. Thursday was spent recuperating, plus it was payday, so my bank account was magically refilled with funds. All in all, not a shabby week.

So that's the "Sick Chris" part of the article. But what about the rest of it? Well, since I've been away from the PC for a few days, so I've got nothing prepared article-wise. So I'm resurrecting this piece from my 2006 post-Christmas wrap-up. Why? 'Cause it's been too damn long since I posted any ninja love, and I'm not waiting any longer. So here's some flashback ninja goodness, Mag•Warriors style. Seacrest out.

:::

These are Mag•Warriors, and they hold the distinction of being the only action figures I own powerful enough to demagnetize the debit card I bought them with. The idea behind Mag•Warriors is that each figure's arms, legs, and head is held on by a magnet, allowing for much more poseability than a normal hinge or ball joint, and also allowing kids to more easily tear these little guys apart and mix-and-match their pieces to create weird new Frankenstein ninjas. Their feet and hands are also interchangeable… in theory.

In reality the ball joints at the wrists and ankles are just too tight to make swapping them out something you'd be willing to do during playtime. These things come disassembled, and it took all the strength I had in my fingers to put their hands and feet in the sockets. Afterward my hands hurt for a solid hour. I can't imagine a kid being able to do this. And as far as swapping them out again… forget it. On the off chance I could manage to remove one of these extremities, my fingers would be hurting too much to push it back into a different joint. These damned ninjas have got my arthritis acting up again. Quick, one of you grandkids go get Pappy his pills. I'm having a spell.

I thought I was buying three different figures, but when I got home I realized I had grabbed one samurai Balesword and two ninja Hirotengu. That's cool, though, because there's no such thing as too many ninjas. Ninjas, REAL NINJAS, are totally awesome and have REAL Ultimate Power and they flip out ALL THE TIME AND GO CRAZY as hell and they don't even care. These guys are cool; and by cool, I mean totally sweet.

I only took pictures of Hirotengu, which was stupid because Balesword is a cooler looking figure. Hirotengu is better than Balesword overall, though, because he's a ninja and because he has more accessories. Together my new Mag•Warriors totaled about $13 after tax, which I'm guessing was a huge markdown from their original prices. Even at cheapo retailers like Big Lots, comparable magnetic action figures usually start at about $7 each, so god knows how high these were marked before they went on clearance. As cool as they are, their playability and features make them worth no more than five bucks tops, so I'm not surprised they weren't selling.

Note to toy manufacturers: kids aren't collectors. Stop marketing every toy line like its the Cabbage Patch Kids. Unless you've got the next Tickle Me Elmo on your hands, your overpriced plastic ain't gonna move. Cut the foil-boxed, overpackaged, numbered edition price gouging crap, and make with the affordable toys. Nobody's going to buy a no name action figure for nine dollars when they can get a G.I. Joe for three. Yo, Joe!