Add-On Pack 1

Now that we've had the chance to spend a little time together, you might be wondering to yourself how I became the paragon of geekdom that you see today. Then again, you may not. If, however, the former is the case, you're in luck. I'm going to take a quick detour from my narrative for what the literati call "a little background."

It was a typical Californian winter, which is to say it was like pretty much any other day in California, except that the homeless guys in front of the Santa Juanita mall were wearing Santa suits. I was with my mother, presumably to help her finish her Christmas shopping. Being seven years old, it was not where I wanted to be at the time.

"Do you promise you aren't going to make me try on any clothes?", I asked suspiciously. Even at that early age, I had developed a healthy fear of department stores in general, and dressing rooms in particular.

"We're not shopping for you, Biffy," she explained as we passed through the huge doors into the mall. She had to duck slightly to keep from banging the top of her beehive on the doorframe. "We're getting something for your father." I wasn't falling for it. I could see the way her eyes were pulled toward any sign that indicated anything like "Clearance," and knew it was only a matter of time before I'd be parading around in front of her in something she thought was adorable, and that I thought was itchy.

After an eternity of aimless wandering, we were no closer to finding anything my mother found suitable, and I was beginning to feel a screaming fit coming on. That's when we stumbled on Santa.

I'm not sure how I knew this Santa was more important than the ones outside the mall, though in retrospect I tend to believe it was because his elves, unlike the North Pole denizens outside, didn't smell like Grandma's breath -- which in turn bore a striking resemblance to Annie Greensprings Strawberry Ripple. I had to speak to him, if for no other reason than to have a place to sit and rest for a while. Mostly, though, I had to let him know about the One True Gift.

The line to see the Big Guy was somewhat long, but it gave me time to gather my thoughts. I had to be ready when I got my chance to tell him what I wanted for Christmas. Over and over, I rehersed the words in my head. "Mr. Santa, sir, I've been a very good boy this year. In return, all I'm asking for is an Authentic Speed Racer HO-scale Slot Car Racing Set, with Mach V Jumping Action." I had been good, after all. There had been no unfortunate accidents like the previous year's firecracker incident, and even if we still had a cat I'd have learned my lesson about pets and pyrotechnics. Just the fact that I'd made it this far into a shopping trip without turning blue once must surely be a sign that I was on the straight and narrow.

Soon I was next in line. One last time, I quietly went over my lines. Confident that my presentation couldn't possibly be more polished, I stood up straight, puffed out my chest, and prepared for what would surely be one of the shining oratory moments of my life.

A dumpy elf with bags under his eyes pulled a rope in front of me. "Sorry, kid. Santa's taking a break. Come back in an hour."

An hour? An entire hour? My God; my naps weren't even that long! It was more than my fragile psyche could take, and the inevitable tantrum occurred. The last thing I remember, I was carried out of the mall by my mother and two burly security guards.

I never get a chance to tell Santa what I wanted, and as a result ended up getting a stupid BB gun. Even in those days, there was almost nothing a kid could do with a BB gun in the dense suburbia that is Santa Juanita except do damage to neighbors' property. It wasn't long before it was taken away from me. I ended up spending quite a bit of time playing with the fancy new computer my mom had bought for my dad, killing hours programming a Space Invaders clone with reindeers in the place of aliens, and a blocky little sleigh worth 1,000 points every time I blew it out of the sky.

Speed Racer was cancelled shortly thereafter. The rest, as they say, is history.