I have always known birthdays as a time of punishment.  Once a year, your friends exorcise whatever grudges they are holding against you in the guise of celebration.  The words, “It’s your birthday, were we going out?” tend to be the last thing that the poor bastard who already has to deal with being one step closer to death remembers. And yet you go every time.  Knowing full well that an arsenal of weapons will be pointed at you, hell bent on your imminent demise.  You can try and pace yourself but it is in vain.   Eventually someone says, “Come man, we are doing a birthday shot!”   And the next day, while you may wake up only a day older, you feel twenty years older, if not on the deaths door its self. So you can imagine my surprise when I met the Baroness for her birthday dinner (No we didn't get to wear the costumes but that is not because I didn't want to.  I am like a damn three year old and his favorite Spiderman jammies when it comes to those things.).  I didn't get off work till six while her and her two friends had gotten started at about four.  It took me about thirty minutes on the metro to get to where they were, so basically I am coming in about 2.5 hours behind.  In any birthday scenario I had dealt with previously this would mean that the birthday person would be good and proper pissed. The bar they were in was relatively quiet, which is unheard of for DC, and they were back in the corner giggling.  There was a nearly empty bottle of wine in the center of the table and all of their glasses were in various states of full.  As I sat down I asked, “That bottle number two or three?”  A dismissive laugh and a few exaggerated agreements were all I got for my wit, however I was being serious.  The conversation carried on civilly why I waited for my drink and I quickly realized that if they were drunk, they were damn good at it.  I began to feel uncomfortable, faced with such a direct violation of what I had come to know as the modus operendai for an appropriate celebration of the anniversary of your parents humping nine months and whatever amount of years previously.  I panicked, needing to get this on familiar ground, and fast.    “Who is shooting what?” I asked as the waitress looked like she was making her way to our table. The Baroness and her court proceeded to inform me that they were not really “feeling” shots tonight.  They may get another bottle of wine in a little bit.  The worst part is that suddenly I felt like the drunkle.  I was just acting the way I knew, which apparently is not what is done in other circles. Needless to say, this night would shatter all of my preconceived dogmas concerning birthdays.  While the Baronesses did end up “tipsy”, which is apparently the female word for drunk, from the wine at dinner, it was not a good, dehabilitating drunk.  She could still communicate without slurring and had no problems walking home with me from the metro stop.  I ended up not drinking after my first bourbon at the bar.  I was having a hard enough time wrapping my brain around being at a bar for 2.5 hours and only almost finishing a bottle of wine, let alone still having your pants on.  I can only assume that the rest of this strange ritual will sink in as chunks of understanding, the new notions of excepted birthday behaviors going down thick and jagged. In other news, I painted my favorite miniature in the GW line this weekend.  You ever done this before?  It is pretty fucking amazing. A little back-story here.  Way back in the day, maybe even before mortal man had comprehended the notion of passing time, but most defiantly before the passage of time was catalogued in the form of a calendar, Momma and I played a game called Warzone.   This was back before this game, and its world, were passed around different game companies like your favorite tranny at that “Roman” themed party you went to last weekend.   We were young and enamored of a world that, to our limited experience within the genre, led us to believe, was totally original.  Don’t get me wrong, the Mutant Chronicles has some cool shit, the only brand of “hot-chic” assassins I have ever bought into were Bauhaus’ Etolies Mortant.  Either way, as is the case in most futuristic worlds, there is a dominant and crusading church that fights mutant demons.  This group of theocratic ass kickers were known as The Brotherhood.  Momma played them more then I did, as I was a Capitol (Imagine Space Marines, like “Aliens” style mixed with blue blooded American expansionism and you are pretty much on the mark.) man, but I had small Brotherhood force.  I liked the Brotherhood cause they were only guys who had magic, besides the bad guys, and their wizards were called Keeper’s of the Art.  I was not happy with the Keeper model, though in retrospect I am not sure why, as he was kinda cool, so I went looking for something else. I went to the mall and went into what was once Hobbytown, which, if I recall correctly, was located in what is now Super Happy China Pokemon Heart Star Exclamation Point Buffet, and talked with Trevis.  This was in a time even before Zextelmon, if such a thing can be comprehended.  Trevis basically said I didn’t have a chance in hell of them ordering Warzone stuff and that I should go look at the GW section, it wasn’t even close to the iconic wall it is now back then.  I did as I was told and was basically unimpressed.  I was flipping through all the books and ready to write WH40k of as gay when I picked up the Angels of Death codex. Eventually my eyes fell on the Dark Angles hierarchy sculpts, and specifically on my boy.  Needless to say I bought him, and then wanted more, so I talked Momma and my buddy Aron into playing WH40K with me.  In an interesting side note, Momma, Aron, and I choose a payday to go get an army book and a mini for the army we would play in WH40k.   Sure as shit, we all ended up with an Angels of Death codex and some Dark Angels model or another.  Aron actually won out in the end cause he had bought the Dreadnought, and we felt bad for him spending the most money. Anyway back on topic, sort of.  Painting ‘Zeke was in a lot of ways monumental for me.  I am somewhat self-deprecating when it comes to my painting skills and do not take compliments well.  This equation equals me thinking I am a sub par at this hyper-important aspect of the hobby.  What this low opinion of my own capabilities normally breaks down into is a notion that I will paint the models I like the least first.  This will accomplish two things, in my mind, I will get the stupid minis out of the way and I will have a chance to hone my skills so the minis I like will get the best paint jobs.  What this becomes in practice, however, is hours of work on crappy looking minis, basically killing any drive I may have to finish, well, anything.  In the entirety of my gaming career I have only painted two hero choices, no Lords, and until this weekend, no HQ’s.  I steered clear of what I considered the most important, thinking I would do them last.  Went a different route this time, and I am pretty happy with the results. More so then overcoming a personal handicap, painting my favorite mini “Got my mind right.”  It is so easy, and I am plenty guilty, of bagging on Games Workshop.  They are the winner, and like other winners, they are everywhere.  They have been doing the mini thing along time, and no matter how much you or I hope, they aren't going anywhere.  It is so much easier to maintain number one then to get there.  But the truth of the matter is that nearly everyone that frequents this board plays, or has played a GW game.  And when you are painting your favorite mini, or one that drew you to GW, you are reminded of why you started playing in the first place.  You are whisked back in time, before you became jaded or had any notion of how much fucking money you would spend on that companies’ product.  It was a time before concept art betrayed models in your mind, before price hikes lambasted your limited dork fund, and ill conceived marketing practices made you loose faith in your pewter pusher.  As I painted the ‘Zeke model, and of course made the noises that his physic powers must make (Making noises, be they guns, magic, assorted whirs and clicks, etc is integral to a good paint job.  The practice of auditory enhancement of your work is highly recommended.), all the anger slipped away for a time.  I was in painting Nirvana, and I was actually sad when the mini was done. In an attempt to hang on to that bliss I put it to you all to share your own inspirations here.   Let me know what your favorite model is, and/or what model drew you to GW.  Shout it out boyos, represent. Lastly I want to share my bliss with you.  Take time this week to paint your favorite mini.   Even if it isn't for the army you are currently playing.  If you don’t own it, head to S&P and pick it up (Pending of course it is available as I know there are quite a few veteran gamers whose favorites probably aren't readily available), tell them it is your favorite and the Baron sent ya and they may even hook ya up with a little discount (No promises here, they may look at you like you are retarded and punch you in the ear, as this normally how I am treated.).  Paint it up and post it, no matter your skill, if you aren't digital photo savvy I am sure there are a number of people around who can help you out. I have showed you mine, now you show me yours.   Von Awesome Glossary: Drunkle (n)- A contraction of  the words “drunk” and “uncle”.  Often refers to an archetype popular in humor and fiction based around families. BACK