The cloud of dank smelling smoke forms above your head as you army shuffle across the diseased ground, nose inches from a crushed High Life can. You get a shot off, but you lose track of it in the dark. Shots come whizzing by your head and you think of Saving Private Ryan. D Day has arrived and you’re caught in the middle. You begin to lose hope. Where are your comrades, where is your backup?

 
 …it starts with the deep bass. Your heart pumps and you reload your remaining shots, taking a look at your watch. 0100 hours and you’re 5 Beam shots deep. You must keep warm.

The lights move in a irrational way, capturing the essence of the moment. You start to feel queasy. Maybe it’s the shots and High Life? Maybe it’s the fumes? You stare up to the sky…through the smoke, through the lights, and above the cheaply painted foam barrier that sits in front of you and the victory.

He is propped up like a king, sheltered from the chaos. He is in a trance. Who is this skinny figure with tinted glasses and oversized headphones that looks across the battlefield? Why does He hold so much power? Why is He protected?

 
You lean up against the blacklit wall as the climax approaches.

One more look to the sky, to the God that will forever change this night. You salute the electronica sensei and with that look, the music peaks. A burst of heavy chemical infused smoke fills the space around you and its your last chance. Nothing but sheer insanity will get you to the spinning red light, but He is looking after you.

Summersault. Gun lodges into your side, but you keep crawling. You puke. Quickly scamper another 5 yards, bust through the smoke, and run into a barrier–knocking it onto two people making out. You feel it. Above, He feels it. You make one last dive, reaching out for the victory. You puke again.

Oh no. Your vest vibrates and the Battle is over. The halogen lights turn on and you look around in awkward silence, covered in your own puke. The battlefield looks like a makeshift homeless sanctuary. Reality hits you. You’re playing laser tag. 

 In a last moment of desperation, as security leads you out to police to charge you with public intoxication, you shoot one more look upstairs. He has a Parliament lit and a blond lady by his side. He is smiling.

He is Blaine, the resident laser tag DJ at Enchanted Castle in Lombard, IL.

Download:

MP3: Tiga: Burning Down The House from Sexor

“Air Dust Cowboy” By Spud (aka Sly)

Air dusters are the sweetest office supply known to man. I recently went into the supply room to track down my favorite paper clips, when I found the cabinet of air dusters. The solid aluminum cooled my fingertips as I cleaned my keyboard inside and out. But on a slow day, after I had viewed the complete collection of Sports Illustrated swimsuit thumbnail pics, my eyes wandered back to the metal can.

Over the past two weeks (I blame the air dusters for my tardiness), I couldn’t put down the air duster. I made a holster with my Blackberry case and now I’m called the Air Dust Cowboy. I love my nickname and I love my air dusters.

Lets say you’re having a bad hair day, grab the air duster and perm yourself. The sun is shining and you’re feeling hot, air dust yourself. Pesky boss is breathing down your neck, air dust her away. Wanna tickle your girlfriends feet without having to move, air dust them. Have a photo shoot and you need to nip out, air dust ‘em. Afternoon swamp ass, just air dust yourself—you too can be the Air Dust Cowboy.

I read the other day that air dusters are terrible for the environment, and that put me in a tough position. At first I thought I’d stop being the Air Dust Cowboy, but I decided to use greencicles instead!

Yours Truly,
Spud

“Dooking” by Spud (aka Sly)

I will always partake in bobbing for apples on Halloween. It soothes my ghoulish soul. Cajoling random strangers by submerging your face into a basin of liquid, opening your mouth, and swallowing a thick Washington apple gets my blood pumping every time. Last Halloween, Nick Nolte, John Daley and I visited the Playboy mansion and joined The Girls Next Door in a friendly bobbing for apples contest. Losers had to take a mug shot– it wasn’t pretty. Hey, I love the game, but its lost some of its pizzazz.

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Bobbing for apples was a fall classic long before the World Series and Mr. October found their way into Americans’ hearts. Tracing back to the mid 1800s, this colonial game amongst friends would reveal who would lose their virginity that All Hallow Tide.. Apples, long synonymous with sex and fertility, were soaked in gin and placed in a basin of tonic mix—also the inspiration for a drink. Female participants ‘bobbed’ in the extra long basin for apples, hoping they weren’t the one who’d wake up next to John Jacob the next morning. Let’s just say the game has gotten more child friendly over the years–and I don’t like it.

This Halloween, I’m asking that everyone bobb for apples, old school.

In a little bit, we will be introducing a new feature on A Tender Praise called “Spud Nation.” Spud Nation will be a weekly written column by the one and only Spud (aka Sly.) Spud will be writing about topics that he finds interesting and that he thinks YOU will find interesting.

Stay tuned and check it out!