The Pun Also Rises

"Logistical Difficulties"

    One of my favorite things about role-playing games is that you get to do things that you can't do in real life. When my hero of might and magic goes adventuring, I often ponder the wide range of skills he has that I lack. Some of them, like Necromancy, I feel I could have acquired myself given sufficient study. But in a world of mythical creatures and sorcery, naturally there is one skill my hero possesses that I would never be able to acquire in the real world.

    I'm referring, of course, to Logistics. I believe that even given years of study, I would never master the art of logistics. In fact, on a logistical scale of one to ten, I would rate myself a three.

    I should probably take a moment to define logistics. In a game, Logistics lets a hero travel faster through the land. In real life, Logistics not only does this, but also lets you iron out all details of your plans, arrange to make good use of your schedule, and avoid being crippled by a paralyzing fear whenever called upon to travel. Those who are completely devoid of logistical capability would be better off staying at home. This makes sense if you consider the root of the word "Logistics", which comes from the Greek words "Logios" ("On a log") and "Stickyos" ("Stuck").

    As I was saying, on a logistical scale of one to ten, I'm a three. This means that I'm somewhat nervous about my upcoming trip to New York because it will require taking various trains and meeting people at different places at different times, in spite of the fact that most New Yorkers do this every day. A five is your average person who can ride trains without worry but does have to check the schedule. A seven doesn't even have to check the schedule. My friend Ethan is a ten, which means he will not only routinely fly from Ghana to Mongolia to Iran with less stress than I have taking a train in New York, but will also manage to meet old friends for coffee during his one-hour layover.

    Sometimes I get envious of people with more logistical skill, but then I remember to be thankful that I'm not a one. A one will forget that the bus doesn't run on holidays, then return home and find that he's locked himself out of the house.

    Actually, logistics is a bit broader than just travel. If I wanted to plan a party, as a three, I'd probably manage to pick a date and invite most of the people I meant to, but forget to buy extra food or drinks, lack decorations, and not have places for everyone to sit. A five would remember the food. A seven would also have decorations. A ten would manage to host the entire party during his layover. And a one would schedule the party for when he was on a train to Poughkeepsie -- even though he was trying to get to Florida.

    You can apply this logistical scale to everything. A nine could organize and send out 3,000 letters and organize a protest given only a week's notice. A two might not make it to the protest down the street, because he has the wrong day. A ten could go hunting blindfolded and still bag an 8-point buck just by knowing the deer's schedule. A one might mistake his septuagenarian companion for a very large quail, and empty a load of birdshot into his face from short range.

    As they say, you can prove anything with logistics. Or maybe that's statistics. I don't really pay attention 37% of the time, so I'm not sure which is the case. But I'm beginning to get frustrated with the fact that my imaginary hero has basic life skills that I lack. And I think I'm finally going to do something about it:

    Starting next week, I'm taking up Necromancy.

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    Seth Brown is a local humor writer who makes grave mistakes. His website is www.RisingPun.com.

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