Paintball and Camping: A Recipe for Pain and Discomfort

When I told people I was going camping and playing paintball for the first time this past weekend, it was received with eager eyes and a healthy dose of "can't wait to read the blog!" I was surprised at first, but then I realized something. My life, and especially my shortcomings, makes people laugh. Now that I fully understand that, it makes sense that friends and family would voraciously anticipate my involvement in activities where plenty could go wrong. But seeing as this was the bachelor party for my wife's cousin's fiance and he's a really nice dude, I decided to partake. Here's how it went...

We were to arrive at the paintball site at 8:00 on Saturday morning. Seemed a bit early for pain, but there was little I could do to fight that fact. I drove in with two of my wife's cousins, Jorge and Diego. We had a hard time finding the entrance to the place as we drove down Weaver Rd. in West Milford, NJ. And as we found ourselves at the end of the street, we knew we'd somehow passed it up.

"That one long driveway back there seemingly leading to nowhere, that couldn't have been it, right?" Diego asked.

"Dude, there was a big sign out front that said, 'Keep Out. No Trespassing.' I certainly hope not!" I answered.

So, of course that was the place.

We pulled in and were greeted by even more ominous signs.

Private Property

Speed Limit:  5  (the number in front of 5 clearly was eliminated with the help of White Out)

Trespassers will be prosecuted

At this point, I started interpreting "prosecuted" to mean either "shot in the face" or "raped in the face." Seeing a security checkpoint up ahead did little to calm those fears.  Luckily, we were spared. But I still have no earthly idea how an entity that's technically a business makes a profit posting such signs.

Soon it was time to start the games. To say that I was a little apprehensive would be an understatement. Considering I manage to injure myself while helping my son change into his pajamas, the likelihood of a very painful (and humiliating) incident were quite high. I went to Modell's and bought a cup (not one you drink from) specifically for the event. It had it on as soon as I woke up that morning. I was as ready as I was going to be.

Our "session leader" was this overly vulgar strawberry blonde named Candy. She made at .least 38 sexual analogies when explaining how to protect yourself and use your gun. She later went into detail about  how to cook bear meat.  I felt like I'd been stereotyped by a stereotype.

The whistle blew and I ducked behind a thick tree. I heard other guys on my team whispering strategies to one another. I had exactly one strategy: don't die. And for those who've never tried paintball, know that it very much feels like you're at war, in a real battlefield. I was sort of hoping it would be Disney-themed, with Mickey Mouse faces painted on the guns. But this was as far from my regular environment of Nickelodeon and ice cream cones as I could get. I contemplated faking an injury, but even if I did that, walking back to base camp would almost ensure a real one. So I peered my head out from behind the tree, only to be tagged instantly with a bullet (paintball going 190 miles per hour) in the collarbone. And...it wasn't so bad! It felt like someone had lightly snapped a rubber band on my chest. I raised my arm to indicate I was hit and hustled back to base camp. While I was relieved the pain was minimal, I now had to sit and wait (with mask on) until EVERY SINGLE PERSON was eliminated and back at the base. I must've sweated out 20 pounds. Having my fogged up prescription sunglasses on UNDER the mask didn't help either. I'd already decided this paintball thing wasn't something I'd do again...and we had two more hours of it.

In games 2 and 3, my fears came to fruition. In both instances, my gun jammed. And in both instances, I was shot in the head. And yes, it hurt. What made matters worse was the second time I was shot in the head, I fell, landed on a rock, then was shot twice more while I tried to get up. For the remainder of the games, I curled up in a fetal position behind a wall. So, if that's something you like to do, you should definitely try paintball.

For the last event, the bachelor, Fernando was to "run the gauntlet." And if I didn't already question his sanity, I certainly do now. This involved 13 of us lining up in a row, Fernando running at full speed through the woods, and us shooting him as many times as possible. It yielded this result:

And this was just a fraction of the total damage.

Afterwards, we all sat around and surveyed the damage. One guy excitedly asked, "Wait, who was the guy who got shot in the head, fell down, then got shot a few more times?!" Yup, that was me. "Oh man, you got pounded!" Indeed I did.

So, in summary, if you enjoy wearing heavy camouflage gear and a mask you can't take off, hiding behind trees and having objects shot at you the speed of a race car, you should definitely try paintball. 

The group then went to lunch before heading off to the camp site. I pretended I forgot my bag home, allowing me to shower, see the kids, and not get eaten by bugs for a few hours before I made an appearance outdoors.

Compared to sweating while getting shot, going camping for the first time was a walk in the park. Sure, driving through the campgrounds and seeing broken down trailers and oddly decorated cabins was pretty unsettling, but I didn't have to wear a mask and get shot at anymore. At least I hoped I didn't.

After a few drinks, I got brave and decided to jump over the fire. People looked surprised, saying I'd be an idiot to do it while wearing flip flops. So, that guaranteed I was doing it.

The new poster in my bedroom.

After somehow clearing the fire and rocks, I had some more to drink, noticed there was a music shortage and attached my iPhone to the player and put on Nine Inch Nails. A few minutes later, I'd forgotten about my playlist responsibilities and frantically ran back to make a change once the Fresh Beat Band disastrously followed. And I learned a valuable lesson: Don't drink and DJ. My kids, they're always with me, one way or another.

As I made my way to the tent at 1 a.m., I felt a fair amount of pride in knowing that I'd faced two fears and hurdled a fire that day. It felt good. I felt inspired to conquer the world. Then I realized someone else was using my pillow and I didn't have the heart to wake him up. And of course, I woke up the next morning with a ruthless hangover. Such is life.

Hangover and all, I got home the next morning at 8:45 a.m. My four-year-old was waiting on the top of the stairs, and he looked sad. He met me halfway and we hugged. When I asked him if he'd missed me, he solemnly nodded his head and wrapped his arms around my neck. Suddenly, the paintball wounds (and my throbbing headache) didn't hurt anymore.

Thanks for reading, as always. I've only just begun.

Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
Follow me on Twitter here.

The California Trip

I've never been a calm traveler. From as early as age 8 when I took my first trip to Disney in Orlando, I've been a tentative, anxious flyer. It comes from being the son of a mother who had anxiety issues and a father who formed an ulcer in his mid-30s. Bottom line, I'm a worrier. If you've read any sentence I've ever constructed, you likely know this.

The night before our flight, my typically calm father-in-law (who was joining us on our trip) noticed that my anxiety level was peaking. So he leaned in and said, "Hey, don't worry. If we die, we die." Which is easy to say when you're in your 70s! I, however, wanted to live. Breaking Bad starts up again in August! So, I did my best to remain calm despite every inclination to think otherwise.

The morning of our flight, we got to the airport almost exactly two hours before our scheduled departure, which gave us just enough time to suffer through the security checkpoint and have my wife's breasts fondled by a guard because she'd brought containers of squeezable fruit that weren't transparent. It's cool, though. The guard was a woman. It was actually kind of nice, for me.

We reached our gate an hour before boarding time. And like a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow, there it was...a bar that was opening. My wife, in-laws and two sons were all sitting either drinking coffee or eating bagels when I saw my opening.

"I'm gonna go get a sandwich for the plane," I said.

Of course, by sandwich I meant Jack Daniels with rocks. It was 8:55 am, and even the bartender looked impressed. I overheard the hippie guy next to me say he was on the next flight to Los Angeles. So I decided to make a friend. Turns out he grew up in Jersey but had lived in LA for close to 20 years. After hearing that I had two small children flying with me, he instantly bought me a shot of Jack, while jokingly stating that he hoped my kids weren't sitting anywhere near him. He wasn't really joking, of course.

I ended up getting back to my family 25 minutes, one glass of Jack on the rocks and one shot of Jack later. I was carrying the sandwich. Hey, it was a long line. It turns out that what I drank was the perfect amount of alcohol to settle my nerves and effectively make me a more efficient parent to my sons. I was laughing with them, pointing at the little houses that were visible from the window seat, etc. Midway into the flight, my friend from the bar came stumbling down the aisle, wearing a drunken grin and holding a tiny airplane-sized bottle of Jack...which he gave to me! I was flattered, but more importantly, I was still thirsty. While I opened the bottle, the guy joked with my wife, played peekaboo with my kids and at one point, stood there awkwardly while nobody said a word. Then, he picked up my younger son Nate and joked that he wanted to take him back to his own seat. Even as drunk as I was, I raised an eyebrow. And just as he was about to make an awkward situation even more awkward, the stewardess came over and told him he needed to go back to his seat in first class. He looked sad and lonely. I felt sorry for him until I realized he was going back to his seat in first class. And until the tiny bottle of Jack gave me a massive headache.

It looked so inviting. Most catastrophes do.

By bringing two car seats on the plane as checked items, we saved ourselves nearly $200 on rental car fees. Having to carry them from baggage claim to the shuttle bus to the rental car? That's when I needed that tiny Jack bottle the most. Even if you use one of those luggage carts, the car seats are awkwardly shaped and force you to hold them in place in tandem while pushing forward. It's like trying to give someone a high-five while both of you are skydiving. It's just uncomfortable. And it gets even more uncomfortable when you rip your jeans at the crotch while trying to snap the car seat into the rental minivan, which happened, of course. I wouldn't have it any other way. And apparently, neither would my jeans.

Arriving in California was surreal. I always envisioned my first trip to Los Angeles would be as a single man pursuing an acting and/or writing career. But instead, I was living the antithesis of that. At least I didn't have to fit a screenplay into my pocket.

Going to Disneyland was about as terrifyingly expensive and magical as you'd imagine. In fact, I literally shielded my eyes away from the total price on my credit card receipt. I eventually did see it, though. It was scary...$369 for my family. Want to hear something even scarier? Nate's admission was free! And speaking of scary, we should've done some research before taking our sons on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride. Either this attraction is drastically different from the one in Orlando or I'm not fully remembering it correctly, because it definitely wasn't suitable for an almost two-year-old. There were three pretty significant belly drops, which left Nate screaming for mercy and Sonia did her best to cover his eyes. There were also houses on fire, eerily real-looking puppets shooting each other, and a dramatization of "wenches" being purchased as wives. I felt like DYFS would be waiting when we exited the ride.

We later got this shot to make up for it. You can tell the boys were still thinking of the wenches, though. And so was I.

We'd planned to go to the San Diego Zoo on a different day. But it closed earlier than we thought it did. The only good thing about that is it allowed me to check something off my to-do list.

                      It was quite good, but if you've had Five Guys Burgers, you're not missing much.

Since our hotel room had two full beds, Sonia and I took one and we put Antonio and Nate in the other. It was the first time they'd slept in the same bed. Considering Antonio kicks in his sleep and Nate turns his body sideways, this was the perfect plan, we thought. On the second night of the trip, we were awoken by the sound of Nate crying. Sonia found him on the floor. Apparently, he'd rolled off the foot of the bed. Sonia brought him to our room, which angered Antonio for some reason. So, we made a clean swap, with me staying with Antonio and Sonia staying with Nate, consoling them for entirely different reasons. About 15 minutes later, everyone had fallen back asleep, until a loud thud woke us up. I looked to my left and noticed I was alone. Then, the crying started. This time, Antonio had rolled off the bed. I held back from laughing until I ensured he wasn't seriously injured. He didn't see the humor in it, though. After that, we started putting couch cushions around the perimeter of the bed every night. Of course, neither of my sons fell once we did that.

The Hollywood Walk is about as touristy as you might imagine. Sure, there's the appeal of finding the star of a celebrity you actually care about, checking out the hand and footprints of the Marx Brothers, etc. The real show is when the aggressive street performer dressed as Batman photobombs your family picture and insists on a tip. Or the random group of mostly Asians marching by, preaching the words of Jesus.

 

They're a persistent, whacky group, those Californians.

The original purpose of traveling to California was to attend the wedding of Sonia's cousin who I hadn't met. Three days removed from the trip, I still haven't met him. Whenever he was around my table, I was taking a piss. Whenever I was at the table, he was getting married. I felt like Steve Martin in Father of the Bride. The only difference was nobody knew or cared who I was. At least I got to eat.

While the wedding was pretty fantastic, it was adult-only. To accommodate people like me who'd have nowhere else to dump our kids, professional babysitters were on site. They facilitated activities like face-painting, crafts, movies, etc. And having them in the same building was extremely convenient. Turns out it was TOO convenient. Being the guilty parents we are, Sonia and I felt this incessant need to check up on them, even though we knew they were with their cousins and having a blast. Just goes to show no matter how close you are to your kids, you always worry about them. Even if you're paying people so you don't have to!

                                                 Taken at the welcome reception. 1912.

While going through the security checkpoint on the way home, we were informed that our cans of Double Espresso Shots from Starbucks weren't allowed to pass. So, we did what any rational adults with two tired children and a double stroller would do. We each held one of our kid's hands while downing the drink in 10 seconds. And later I wondered why the two Xanax I swallowed didn't work.

In the end, I didn't get to do some of the things I wanted to do for myself (Iron Sheik Roast at the Comedy Store, visiting with local friends, stalking Lemmy from Motorhead at the Rainbow Bar in LA), but it hardly mattered. As a parent, I understand that sacrificing my own personal desires is part of the gig. At least when my kids were awake. Regardless, the Santa Monica Pier was heavenly, I got 657 pictures of myself in front of the Hollywood sign, and I finally understand why the Red Hot Chili Peppers write about it so much.

Till next time, California.

-Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
Follow me on Twitter here.
My comedy fiction book is available for Kindle here.