WWF WTF!!!!!

It started slowly. All my friends were doing it. It seemed like harmless fun. It was something I only did socially, and I tried it because I was bored. And now I’m hooked. I’m an addict. Hello, my name is Barbara and I am a Words with Friends junkie. “Hi Barbara.”

I blame that darn Smartphone. It made it so easy to just sign up. And there was that first little ping – a friend wanted to start this online Scrabble game with me. How sweet. My first word was “Dog.” She countered with “Drawl”; I followed with “Wed”; she came back with “Feral”. F. U.C. K. Before I knew it the score was 345 to 82, in her favor.

Then another ping, another friend, another challenge; it was thrilling. What letters would the Scrabble gods throw my way? What words could I create with a simple drag of my finger? I tried my best, I used Xs and Zs, but was still left lagging far behind my competitor – like way behind, like three digits behind.

Words with Friends became my obsession. Soon I was no longer satisfied with my friends. I began trolling that dark world for any random opponent who’d have me. And there were many, like Friday Yah, XYZ23 and JaggerRules. Nameless, faceless players who helped me satisfy an immediate need. Heck, I didn’t even know if it was a man or woman I was playing with. It could have been a hay farmer from Georgia, a Russian novelist, or Alec Baldwin (shiver to think.)

I had multiple games going – all in hopes of increasing my score. Words lost meaning to me. I just saw them for their point value: Wax, Zygote, Quiz – I yearned for these high-point gems. Signs became life-sized Scrabble boards. Every time I drove past Jersey’s renowned hot dog joint, Rhutt’s Hut, the phrase “Sorry, ‘Rhutt’ is not an acceptable word,” flashed through my mind’s eye. (“Renowned” = 14 points)

Ahhh, Words with Friends in a tempestuous dance partner, my friends. Sometimes it was a kind provider, serving up a J, W, C or the wonderful, beautiful high-point B, with the corresponding and critical vowels. I challenged my partners – some strangers to me – with nuggets like “jazz”, “torque” and “nugget”. (“Nugget” = nine points) Other times, it was a cruel prankster, and only gave me vowels. I would look at my screen disheartened, with only “I E E I I I O” as my options. I updated the board with “it” “is” and “in”. (“In”= three points!)

As far as addictions go, Words with Friends was pretty tame. I could smoke, drink or become obsessed with a Chicago-based genre-bending rock-n-roll band. (Oh, wait a minute. . .)

It kept my brain going after hours. Rather than sitting in the couch and frying my brains on bad reality TV, I juiced up the “grey cells” with WWF. (Okay, I never watch bad reality TV because I think that medium is single-handedly causing the stupidification of America. I like The History Channel*.) {Wow if “stupidification” was a word, it would be lots o’ points.}

I even brought my dictionary home from work to increase my vocabulary. I discovered words like “yagi” (a directional radio or telescope antennae), and used that sweet little word to satisfy my dirty, little need for points. (Yagi = eight points) I did not feel bad, I won that game.

And then there were the desperate times when I pulled random letters together in hopes that it would be a word – and it was! Like “obi” (abbreviation for oblique or oblong). The screen would display “sending” and I would have those exciting few second waiting for the points to add to my total.

What a rush when 98 would jump to 128. The first time I broke 300 was exhilarating. I think it was “Quay” that brought me to that milestone.

Now I am always on the hunt for that rush. I swore I would never be that person who was constantly checking my phone while with friends and family. But now I keep checking to see if that WWF icon is up, indicating that it’s my turn. At least I am not updating my Facebook status every five minutes. (“At the gym.” “Eating cookies.” “Back at the gym.”)

Don’t judge me. (“Judge” = 19 POINTS!) I’ve enjoyed playing WWF with my young niece. Until that 16-year know-it-all started whooping my ass. (“Whoop” = 14 points) And it keeps my mind active and will delay my inevitable decent into dementia. (I know it is coming, just don’t know when.)

Even now as I type this, my phone is next to me, tempting me away from my brilliant prose to fill my board. That siren call is pulling me back to that rectangular device, in hopes that I will see those beautiful words: “Your Move.” (“Move” = 10 points)

Could be worse. Could be Angry Birds.

*Okay, I don’t really watch The History Channel, unless it’s Ancient Aliens. (“Ancient”= 13 points)

This is what happens when I get stuck in traffic

In my defense, this came to me during a five-hour drive from New Jersey to Massachusetts for a Wilco show. My inspiration was the WII-lco t-shirt, which resembles a cartoon. I got to thinking on this long, lonely drive about what the Wilco Scooby-Doo style cartoon would be like. I just started with who would be who, according to cartoon stereo types based on looks.

And then my imagination just went to this place…

Nels: Since he's the oldest, he'd be the smart, rational one in charge -- sort of the Fred, if you will. Often rolling his eyes at the antics of Glenn and Pat (see below).

John: He appears to be just a really nice, normal, intelligent guy. He'd be second in command, sort of the guy version of Velma. He and Nels would be the ones who actually solve the mystery.

Mikael: He wears glasses, so obviously he's the nerdy professor. He's created all these contraptions that come out of his keyboards, e.g., he presses a key and transforms the Wilco-mobile into a helicopter, race car, hovercraft -- whatever the situation warrants.

Glenn: Drummer = wild and crazy guy who's always getting into trouble; scared of dark, scary houses.

Pat: There’s something very Peter Torkish about him. With that mop-top he gives off a very naive, innocent appearance. Therefore, he gets teamed with Glenn to investigate the dark, scary house.

Note: At some point, Glenn and Pat will disguise themselves as French maids to fool the bad guys. Believe it or not, it works.

Jeff: Since he's the front man, the only purpose he serves is to get kidnapped and spend most of the episode bound and gagged.

The plot goes along these lines: Wilco is playing a benefit show to raise money for the local orphanage. The bad guy, Mr. Snively, wants to buy the orphanage to turn it into a parking lot. His dastardly plan to thwart the band's efforts? Kidnap Jeff (see above). So, Mr. Snively's henchmen, Bruno and Max, disguise themselves as teenage girls who want Jeff's autograph. And – despite the fact that Bruno and Max are large men with ample five o’clock shadow, Jeff falls for the disguise. Unknown to Jeff, the pen contains some noxious gas. When he opens the pen, purple smokes flies out and Jeff is knocked unconscious (with the appropriate amount of twirling eyes and birdies).

Back in the dressing room, the other band members realize Jeff is missing. They need to go find him, but the show starts soon, so long-suffering manager Tony M forbids them from leaving.

In true rock-n-roll rebellion fashion, the boys decide to ignore Tony and head out in search of their leader. But how: Tony stationed a big, burly security guard at the dressing room door.

Then the appropriate light bulb goes off over Mikael. “Invisibility!” he shouts. “I programmed an invisibility cloak into my keyboards. All I have to do is play the opening of ‘Walken’, then transition into the mid section of ‘At least that’s What You Said,’ then the close of ‘Spiders’ .. And before you can say ‘Albert Einstein’, we….are…invisible.”

The now invisible boys all sneak out and the search for clues is on. The first one: the discarded poison pen. Professor Jorgensen takes a quick sniff and announces, “If my highly advanced nasal passages are correct, this is knock out gas. And here on the ground is a trail of what smells like Diet Coke. One can only deduce that that a pair of dastardly henchmen – disguised as teeny boppers – fooled Jeff into signing an autograph. Only, the pen was filled with knock out gas than rendered him unconscious, he spilled his Diet Coke and left a trail behind him in that direction.”

Nels hands out the assignments: Nels and John will go to City Hall to find out more about Snively Industries; Mikael will go back to his lab at the Loft to see if he can get any more clues off the pen; and Glenn and Pat are told to follow the trail of Diet Coke.

And the individual adventures go like this…

Nels scratches his head, “Well, ole Mr. Snively must not be too pleased with our little show tonight, which is going to raise enough money to keep the orphanage open for years to come. But not is Jeff is not there. I bet you if we find Snively, we find Jeff. And the show will go on.”

Mikael: Back at the Loft, Mikael has made an interesting discovery. He shows Nels and John that the mysterious substance he discovered on the pen can only be found at Snively Industries. So, Mikael, Nels and John hop back into the Wilco-mobile and head for the big, bad Snively Industries.

Pat and Glenn: The trail of Diet Coke leads to Snively Industries, which, for the purposes of this story, is a dark, scary house. After a few rounds of “I’m-not-going-first-you-go-first,” the boys go inside, holding tight to each other and with the appropriate amount of knobbing knees. They are met with a pair of bright, yellow eyes peering at them from the darkness. The response to Glenn’s shaky “Who are you?” is “Who”. This goes on for a few rounds, with an increasingly agitated Glenn. Mercifully, this ends with an owl flying out.

They find Jeff bound and gagged in a room, being guarded by Bruno and Max. How will Glenn and Pat save Jeff? LIGHT BULB! Dress up as French maids. The boys don the outfits (where they found French maid outfits in a dark, scary house? Who cares? It’s a cartoon and a little thing called “Suspension of Disbelief”) and try to distract the guards. The gagged Jeff rolls his eyes at the attempt.

The French maid disguise works until the wig is pushed off Pat’s head. And the chase is on. Glenn and Pat grab Jeff (still bound and gagged), lift him up over their head and run. They meet up with John, Nels and Mikael, and they all run though the streets of Chicago, while holding the bound and gagged Jeff aloft and being chased by Bruno and Max. This all happens to tune of "Just a Kid," hilarity ensues.

They get back in time to plays to show and save the orphanage.

My Tale from Clinton Road

Let tell you a little bit about Clinton Road. Every small town has that one creepy house, graveyard or abandoned lunatic asylum. West Milford had the mysterious Clinton Road and the equally spooky Clinton Castle. Rumors said that it was built in the 1600s by some heretic settler who spent his nights in debauched activities with the local virgins and livestock. It was actually built 1907 … in the 1600s the only people in the area where Ramapough Indians and a handful of Dutch Settlers. But that’s not a creepy story.

Long story short – Clinton Castle burned down, the land was turned over to the Newark Watershed and the Castle and the surrounding property was left undeveloped. So – with the abandoned burned out remains of the Castle standing over the pristine Clinton reservoir – the surrounding woods became the playground to Satanists, witches, Nazis or the KKK… at least that’s what the scuttlebutt was. People said that there was a demonic presence that cast a deadly vibe over the area. Hogwash if you ask me.

Oh, I am sure there was some “Satanic” activities going on up there. By that I mean a bunch of 17 year old headbangers taking a midnight drive to the Castle for some Motley Crue, a Anton LeVay Satanic Bible reading, beer pong and mutual masturbation (but not in a gay way… kind of like Liberace was not in a gay way).

So, every West Milford kid was obliged to have a Clinton Castle and/or Road experience – kind of like all New Jersians are required by law to be a Springstein fan. So, one beautiful September afternoon, Johnny (not his real name) drove me up to the Castle. (Being that my tale was on a beautiful September afternoon and not on midnight on Samhain, you know this isn’t going to be creepy.)

I think Johnny may have had some ulterior motive driving me up on that lovely afternoon. Maybe if he scared me with tales of devil worshippers or Nazis I would turn to him for comfort, and maybe let him touch my boob. That was not going to happen. I liked Johnny’s friend, Ben (not his real name, either). I mean Johnny was a drummer, but Ben played guitar…really, who do you think I was going to want more? I was totally smitten with Ben until he switched to bass, and then the attractive waned. (Ben would often regale me with tales of his sexual adventures – for a 17 year old, he was quite adventurous. And all those things he did with Bob [not his real name – dang, I had a lot of weird friends in high school] were not gay – in a Liberace sort of way.)

Back to Clinton Castle on that lovely September afternoon: Johnny started to see that his plan for afternoon dry humping was not gonna happen when, instead of being afraid, I was like, “ooohhhhh, pretty.” So he jumped right away into his tale from Clinton Castle. It goes something like this: The local satanic cult (aka drug addled Ozzy-fans with slightly homosexual tendencies) where having their ritual at the Castle (see: Black Sabbath tape and a big bag o’ weed). The high priest Kevin was all set. Kevin earned that title cos the Anton LeVay Satanic Bible was his. He was also 21, so could buy beer: thus “High Priest”. (He really was a “high” priest – see next paragraph.)

Any who.... this is what Johnny related to me: Kevin had really exceeded his high priest duties that night by bringing not just the beer and black t-shirt, but also the LSD. Our little devil worshippers had piled into their moms’ station wagons and taken that long drive up Route 23 to the dark, mysterious, badly paved Clinton Road. Over the reservoir and through the woods, these bad boys hiked up to the Castle.

Once ensconced at the Castle, the Ozzy started playing and the LSD was handed out. High priest Kevin started quoting Anton LeVay (“It’s good to be bad,” “Christianity is crap,” “I like puppies”.) Moved by the happenings, one of the revelers, Mark, began having visions.

Johnny told me this story with complete seriousness – like he was channeling Stephen King. And this is what Johnny told me: “Mark dropped all this LSD ….and….saw…Satan…in ….Kevin’s….FACE.”

I said, “Ummmmmmmm…what was the first part of that sentence?”

Johnny replied, “Mark dropped all this LSD?”

Me: “Ummmmmmmmm, may that have had something to do with the satanic vision?”

Johnny, shaking his head emphatically, said, “Nooooooo. It was the dark magic.”

No, Johnny, it was hogwash. And when you give another dude a blow job, that’s gay – in a Liberace sort of way.