PixelVixen707

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Wow. How can I put Funspot into words? It’s a museum with no ropes and a shrine with no rules. It smells like your socks and your dreams. It’s decades of summers crammed in a warehouse-sized recroom with floor after floor of every blinking, beeping diversion ever made, where the very young and the very old while away the rainy days and hope the weather stays bad. The owners brag it’s the world’s biggest arcade and, if it’s not, the other one must be in heaven.

So I’m headed to Funspot this morning. Should get there around the afternoon. I’ve been reading the coverage of the Classic Gaming Tournament over at Twin Galaxies, and well … it looks like Galactic Nerd Meccastock ‘09, but I’m sure that’s what makes it awesome! I quiver in anticipation.

I will be livetweeting this afternoon and evening, so catch me there and say hi! And look for a full report when I get back.

We found it.  We know where my Mr. Do! is.  I won the bet.

My prize?  I have to shlep up to New Hampshire to play it.

(Big round of applause for photog Vincent Diamante)

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Dad and I call to check in. And that’s our first mistake.

I run down my status, and he sounds unimpressed. “This source you’re talking with - I think he’s stringing you along,” says dad.

“He’s a kook, for sure. But I’ll bet he’s just lonely. And he knows where the game is.”

“The lonely ones will kill you on deadline,” answered dad, mentor to rookie. “I think he’s playing you, and you’re running out of time. Should I try to talk to him?”

“I can handle this, dad,” biting off the last word. There’s a pause. “We’re this close. I’m going to meet his terms.”

“Unless you do what he’s asking and he still can’t help. Did he tell you he knows where the game is, that it’s the same one, that it hasn’t moved again – ”

“I’ve got this one, dad.”

My dad fights aren’t like Zach’s. He and his pops go toe to toe. They’re like elks bashing antlers. My dad and I? We’re the quiet, fuming types. And maybe his frustration comes from a good place. But mine doesn’t.

(Photo by, whassisname, Vincent)

Rasping voice: “Do you still hear the lambs screaming, Rachael?”

I’m back on the phone with The Collector.

I ignore him. “I’ve got over a million points here,” I say. “Now clue three. Pony up. You already told me the Mr. Do! is in an arcade.”

“Yes. Wait – I only told you it was in a public place.”

“Yes, you did. But now you just told me it’s in an arcade.”

He laughed. “Well played, Rachael, well played.

“Okay,” he coughs, “so to explain this one I need to explain why I sold the game.”

A story. He warned me there’d be stories.

(Photo by Vincent Diamante yet again; why fight it?)

When last we spoke, I had just tracked down a game collector who used to own my Mr. Do!, but who sold it, circa 2000.  And he’s ready to tell me where it is.  But first, all of us have to score at least 5 million points on coin-op video games.  (To catch the whole convoluted reason why, skim here.)

I started a scoreboard, and you can see how far we’ve gotten.  As I write this, we’re at a whopping 669,297 points.  That’s enough to get the first two hints from the Collector!

But as I sussed out the last time I phoned the guy, the Collector is kind of obnoxious.

(Photo by Vincent Diamante - again!)

Me: “Okay, so let me confirm. You bought the Mr. Do! - the same one I played as a kid - from Duane Webb Holden in 1996.”

This guy I’m on the phone with: “Yes.”

“And you sold it to someone around 2000. And the someone you sold it to still has it.”

“Yes.”

“So you know where this game is, right now, right this minute?”

“Absolutely.”

Jackpot!

… But there’s a catch.

(Photo by Vincent Diamante)

So I’m feeling pretty dumb right now. Not because I didn’t solve the Chicago problem on my own - I knew I’d need a posse for that one, and you guys did not disappoint. In fact, let’s settle that first: the golden trophy goes to Turbofool, aka Jarrett Kaufman. (Read the solution here.)

What’s my problem?

(Photo by Senor Codo)

So my dad and I spent two days doing interviews and researching old newspapers, trying to piece together what happened. And I’m still not sure I know.

Take a look. We tracked the Mr. Do! machine to a band called Dangling Eye, who bought it in L.A. and then took it on tour with them. We’ve learned that the game got as far as Chicago, and then the trail goes cold. So where did it go? I started out with one pretty obvious theory, but after talking with my dad some more, I’m willing to admit that something in the band’s story is not adding up.

(Photo by Suzy S Photography)

So, you’ll pardon me if I’m a little high on myself right now.  Let’s start with the big news: after months of slogging away at my personal blog for my personal fanbase and my personal self-indulgence, I landed a column!  At Suicide Girls!  I’m in with the geekorati - Mur Lafferty, Wil Wheaton, and mobs of naked chickitas.  So check that out!

Zach and Lucas threw me a mini-party tonight in celebration.  They even bought a cake.  And yes, it had boobs on it.  Classy to the end, my boys.

I got something else today: a big box full of my adolescence.