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On the Russian River

On our recent car trip up north to the Russian River (that’s “Russian,” not “rushin’,” we discovered when we found the stream checked (not Czech’ed) by summer dams), we decided to rent a couple of kayaks and see what we could see. The water hardly moved through the dams, and we soon discovered that, though we were going downriver, we could hardly make any headway against the wind. Once we got into the lee of the bank, however, we started making progress and soon found ourself at a fork in the river just above the Bohemian Grove.

And there we saw it: a giant, epic rope swing.

While I have never participated in the Iron John movement, like most men I consider myself ready to take on the elements, ford a stream, survive in the wild. More importantly, ever since I was a child and saw my first Steve McQueen movie, I have always held that I was ready to survive the Towering Inferno, and even get Fred Astaire out with his case of champagne, which is more than Paul Newman could ever do.

Don’t be confused: ready for action does not necessarily mean you have the skill set for the Inferno. You might be able to get to the bottom of the hull on the SS Poseidon, you might even be able to land a 747 with Charlton Heston calling you “honey” the whole time over the radio, but if you want to keep alive in the Tower, you’re going to need one more thing:

You’re going to have to swing from a rope.

Come on, you say, anyone can swing from a rope. But you’re forgetting that, the higher you swing, the heavier you get at the bottom of the rope’s arc.

Looking at the spry, 20-somethings climbing that bank say, 25 feet on slippery mud, launching from at 35-foot rope with about 17-foot arc, I guessed that they were pulling about 3 g’s at the bottom (over rocks) before swinging upward, over the river, and letting go at a height of about six meters. Using that rough factor of 3 times the force of gravity, I tripled my weight, and wondered whether I could hold it.

I handed my wife the camera, kissed the kids, and jumped into the water. I figured if I got killed, at least I wouldn’t have to look for a job next year. The whole trick here is not to get maimed. Once I negotiated the muddy bank, I thought I was in the clear. Then, as I tested my grip on a knot, one of the 20-somethings called up, “…and watch out for the log.”

You can see the results here. The impact was uncomfortable, driving water up an otherwise one-way street, if you catch my meaning. But I had been in enough waterskiing accidents as a child to shrug this one off. I was about to go up again, when I heard my daughter say, “We can go now, Dad,” and I swam back to the boats.

Along the way, my arms shaking as I swam, I knew that I still had it. Me and Steve McQueen. The image soon faded as I spent a couple of minutes trying to haul myself onto the kayak.

It’s a whole new nerd game

Somehow, through no fault of my own, I had to go to the San Diego ComicCon again. I had thought I had been filled with dread about going before, but this year I found out it was sold out and was able to dread it even more, thereby implying that, while I dreaded going, I was not absolutely FULL of dread.

As usual, the convention rose to meet my dread quotient, and then some.

You have to realize, it is the biggest comics convention ever. Period. Remember that Iron Man, The Dark Knight, Hellboy II, Hulk whatever, and some other superhero movies I’m forgetting have all come out – making the comic book business the biggest it has ever been.

And the world is getting to be more like a comic book as things wear on. Used to be, criminals were just criminals. They sold drugs, shot people, committed white collar crimes. Nowadays, criminals are terrorists. They poison water supplies, bring down buildings, send out video statements declaring war on goodness and wholesomeness – in other words, we have arch villains. It’s like free advertising for Marvel.

But the convention itself – man, it’s tough. Just think about it: a gathering spot for loners, an actual physical spot that allows you to celebrate your fantasy world, together with other wizards and elves and robots and time travelers. And don’t get me started on the Klingons – they wouldn’t even talk to us, because some Klingon had appeared in a sketch on the show eight years ago, and had used the wrong syntax, thus mangling “Die, Human,” and turning it into, “I’ll have the fried Denebian Slime Lizard, please.”

They are there for validation. Some people we met spent 8 months making their costumes. Others spent more than 20 grand. There was a family from Chino Hills dressed as characters from “Planet of the Apes,” where Dad was the ape and Mom and Daughter were human slaves, where were not allowed to speak even when the camera wasn’t rolling.

Hey, whatever you’re into, I say. But nobody would break character. It’s only so interesting to have someone declare they are Valdar of the Lizard Clan five or six times before you want to take his Ragnaroc spear and jam it through his neck. So it’s not the Tonight Show bit you might be expecting. Worst of all, I got the sense that these people felt they were pretending in the rest of their lives, and here, they could be their true selves.

But their true selves are also being celebrated, albeit not in the real world. Take a look at the new A-list of nerdy movie stars. I have a feeling Seth Rogen has spent at least a few of his megabucks on some action figures.

Luckily, I had young director Brian Herzlinger as my host. He has the kind of affable charm that’s tough to come by. And he’s able to enjoy the scene, while poking mild fun at it (as a matter of fact, Brian had a ticket to the convention on Saturday, and I shanghaied him for my piece). I was reminded of a young Kevin Smith from back in my early days of Tonight Show Correspondents. (We had an interview set up with Kevin, but he cancelled in a text message to one of the crew at the last minute).

If they’re here, who’s playing The Sims?

I saved the strangest bit for last. Turns out, hundreds of nerdy women, who are teachers and computer programmers and moms for the rest of the year, come here to walk around half-naked and let the shut-ins take pictures. It’s like a 4-day, nerdy brain/hot body contest, and every self-abusing guy with a digital camera in the Southland is the winner. You know the old movie moment, where the nerdy secretary takes her glasses off and the boss says, “Why, Miss Johnson, you’re BEAUTIFUL?” This is like the atomic-powered version of that.

You would think that the Tonight Show coming to an end would be a total bummer, but there’s a bright side. No more ComiCon! Now I can get on with the business of dreading everything else.