Lifestyle
Dungeons, Dragons and shoulder pads: Why I loved D&D as a closeted teen
Dungeons and Dragons game pieces, photographed in 1986.
Joel Congdon/Getty Images
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Joel Congdon/Getty Images
Dungeons & Dragons turns 50 this year. The tabletop role playing game (TTRPG) has gone through a slew of revised editions, expansions and hack ‘n’ slay imitators, weathered a Satanic panic or two, seen itself replaced in the hearts and minds of the nation’s nerds by games like Magic: The Gathering and Pokemon, only to experience a bold popular resurgence in recent years, thanks in no small part to so-called Actual Play TTRPG podcasts and web series like Critical Role, Dimension 20 and The Adventure Zone.
In other words: As a pop culture phenomenon, it’s been hacked, but it still slays.
I played my first game of D&D in 1978, just four years after its launch. I was 10 years old; it was summer. My friend down the street invited me over to his house, which usually meant forcing me to play catch with him in his backyard (read: He’d whip a baseball at my face, I’d flinch and let it bounce off me, I’d pick it up and toss it back so it landed in the grass 3 feet in front of him with a woeful thud; repeat until dinner time). On this occasion, to my surprise and delight, we sat on his screened-in porch as he took out what I have since learned was the box of rulebooks and polyhedral dice known as the Dungeons & Dragons Basic Set.
I loved it from the jump, largely because everything about the game was so deeply indebted to my beloved Tolkien (Wizards! Halflings! Orcs! That titular dragon on the box cover, atop its pile of gold!). But it didn’t last; my neighbor started at a new school in the fall, and we lost touch.
I didn’t start playing my first real, sustained D&D campaign until three years later. My friend David wanted to try his hand at being a dungeon master and invited me and three other kids I didn’t know to form an adventuring party. When I arrived at that very first session in David’s bedroom, they’d already created their characters — a fighter, a thief and a ranger. They urged me to play as a cleric, who could hang back and heal them whenever they got beaten up. I liked the idea of staying out of the heat of battle and just being the guy who patched my friends up, earning their deep and abiding gratitude. Feeling needed, appreciated. It was tempting, I admit. But then destiny, in the form of my nascent queerness, intervened.
David invited me to look through a thin paperback D&D supplemental rulebook called The Rogues Gallery — page after page of ready-made characters I could choose from. I flipped through the clerics, but nothing grabbed me. But then, on page 12, just above the chart of a class of characters called Illusionists, I saw it. Him.
The Illusionist in question.
Advanced Dungeons & Dragons: The Rogues Gallery, by Brian Blume with Dave Cook and Jean Wells. 1980, TSR Games.
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Advanced Dungeons & Dragons: The Rogues Gallery, by Brian Blume with Dave Cook and Jean Wells. 1980, TSR Games.
It was a pencil sketch by illustrator Jeff Dee. A tall, thin male figure stands facing the viewer. In his right hand he holds a staff, while his left is open, palm up. He holds his arms slightly away from his body, and sets his shoulders at a rakish tilt — the resulting stance is somewhere between that of an insouciant shrug and a hearty “ta-DAHHH!” He is surrounded by a thick fog — the spell he is presumably casting — out of which leer several monstrous faces.
I liked that. But what I loved, what moved me, what sealed the deal for my young, closeted, queer self, was his outfit.
Thigh boots, for one thing. I mean, what was I, made of stone?
Plus, scandalously tight pants set off by a belt and dagger. And clinging to every ridge of his slim, muscular torso, a sleeveless tunic — a tank-top, basically — that still somehow managed to boast kicky shoulder pads.
This is the important bit, the part you must understand: I’m not just talking thin, epaulet-like shoulder bumps. No, these were dramatic, flared, Ming the Merciless meets Julia Sugarbaker shoulder pads.
The other stuff — the parted-down-the-middle blowout, the cheekbones, the diadem, the big chunky necklace? Icing on the cake. Superfluous. I’m self-aware enough to know that it was that tank top with shoulder pads that did it.
“I want to be an Illusionist,” I said, firmly, which caused my fellow players to roll their eyes and mutter the first of what would turn out to be a sustained pattern of homophobic slurs in my general direction. I didn’t, and still don’t, care. I was fierce, and I was fabulous.
I fell hard for the game, then. I subscribed to Dragon magazine, and regularly pestered my mom to schlep me to Dragon’s Lair, in a sad strip mall just north of Wilmington, Del., where I dutifully bought more rulebooks, more dice, more dungeon modules and a steady stream of lead miniatures that I painted very, very, very badly.
It wasn’t easy. Just as I was entering my heedless, full-bore devotion to the game, the Philly paper ran an article in its Sunday magazine which cited “experts” about the game’s purported Satanic roots. An article that, the following Sunday, caused the sweet, kindly pastor at our sleepy suburban Grove United Methodist Church to launch into what was (for him, anyway) a fire-and-brimstone sermon decrying the game. About the same time, novelist Rona Jaffe published Mazes & Monsters, an extended bout of literary hand-wringing over the game’s supposed deleterious effect on the youth of America, which was promptly made into a profoundly cheesy, absolute hoot-and-a-half of a TV movie starring a young Tom Hanks as a dude who suffers a psychotic break attributed to the game.
This article in the Philadelphia Inquirer Magazine (July 26, 1981) came down generally positive on D&D, while devoting several column inches to psychologists fretting that players used it to escape reality, and to religious figures who warned that the game was a work of Satan. The cover alone may have been enough to fire up our pastor.
Today, the Philadelphia Inquirer Magazine/ via Newspapers.com
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Today, the Philadelphia Inquirer Magazine/ via Newspapers.com
Over the handful of years I played D&D in earnest, back then, I had to talk my parents off the ledge every time some new magazine article or 60 Minutes segment came out spotlighting the entirely manufactured “controversy” around the game. It was exhausting. But I kept at it; I had to. I needed to.
Because there was this one time? When my friends and I were being rushed by a phalanx of orcs, and I cast an illusion of a deep pit on the ground in front of us, filled with bubbling acid and metal spikes, and the orcs failed their saving throws and believed they fell into said illusory pit, and impaled themselves on the illusory spikes, and dissolved in the illusory acid and thus died actual deaths?
That? That was cool. And, for just those few fleeting seconds, down there in the deepest, most tortured throes of my closeted, excruciatingly awkward puberty, so was I.
Ta-dah.
This piece also appeared in NPR’s Pop Culture Happy Hour newsletter. Sign up for the newsletter so you don’t miss the next one, plus get weekly recommendations about what’s making us happy.
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Bruce Campbell
I’m Battling Cancer
Published
Bruce Campbell has revealed he has cancer, but says it’s a type that’s treatable, though not curable.
“The Evil Dead” actor shared the news Monday in a message to fans, writing, “Hi folks, these days, when someone is having a health issue, it’s referred to as an ‘opportunity,’ so let’s go with that — I’m having one of those.” He continued, “It’s also called a type of cancer that’s ‘treatable’ not ‘curable.’ I apologize if that’s a shock — it was to me too.”
Campbell said he wouldn’t go into further detail about his diagnosis, but explained his work schedule will be changing. “Appearances and cons and work in general need to take back seat to treatment,” he wrote, adding he plans to focus on getting “as well as I possibly can over the summer.”
As a result, Campbell says he has to cancel several convention appearances this summer, noting, “Treatment needs and professional obligations don’t always go hand-in-hand.”
He says his plan is to tour this fall in support of his new film, “Ernie & Emma,” which he stars in and directs.
Ending on a determined note, Campbell told fans, “I am a tough old son-of-a-bitch … and I expect to be around a while.”
Neve Campbell in Scream 7.
Paramount Pictures
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Paramount Pictures
The OG Scream Queen Neve Campbell returns. Scream 7 re-centers the franchise back on Sidney Prescott. She has a new life, a family, and lots of baggage. You know the drill: Someone dressing up as the masked slasher Ghostface comes for her, her family and friends. There’s lots of stabbing and murder and so many red herrings it’s practically a smorgasbord.
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Abriana Vicioso is the host of the Flower Hour, which takes place monthly.
(Jennifer McCord / For The Times)
Each flower carries a personal history. For Abriana Vicioso, the calla lily was her parents’ wedding flower — a symbol of her mother’s beauty. “She had this big, beautiful white calla lily in her hair,” Vicioso says. “I love my parents. They’re the reason I’m here. I’ll never forget where I came from.”
The Flower Hour begins with Vicioso announcing, with a warm smile: “Today is about touching grass.” The florist-by-trade gestures behind her to hundreds of flowers contained in buckets — blue thistles, ivory anemones and calla lilies painted silver — all twisted and unfurling into the air. “Tonight is going to be so sweet and intimate,” Vicioso says, eyeing the beautiful chaos at her feet. A grin buds across her face.
Moments before the workshop, participants sit at candlelit tables exchanging horoscopes and comparing their favorite flowers. A mention of the illustrious bird-of-paradise flower elicits coos and awe from the women. Izamar Vazquez, who is from Jalisco, Mexico, reveals her fondness for roses, which make her feel connected to her Mexican roots.
Vicioso hosts her flower-themed wellness workshop near the iconic Original Los Angeles Flower Market in downtown L.A. In January, the first Flower Hour event sold out, prompting her to make it a monthly series. Vicioso describes the event as a “three-part journey” where participants are invited to drink herbal tea, smoke rose-petal-rolled cannabis joints and create a floral arrangement. “The guide is to connect with the medicine of flowers,” Vicioso says.
Rose petal joints, tea and flower arranging are all part of The Flower Hour event’s offerings.
The event is hosted at the Art Club, a membership-based co-working space. “The Flower Hour is really beautiful. Everyone gets to explore their creativity while meeting new people,” says Lindsay Williams, the co-owner of the Art Club.
The idea for Flower Hour came to Vicioso during a conversation with her mother. “We joke all the time that flowers were destined to make their way into my life,” she says. She works as a florist and models on the side, even appearing in the pages of Vogue. Vicioso grew up in a Caribbean household, where flowers and offerings were part of daily life. “In my culture and religion, a lot of my family practices — an Afro-Caribbean religion — we build altars.”
Like many cultures, flowers carry sentimental value in her religion. “I’m Caribbean, so a lot of my family practices a Yoruba religion, which comes from Africa. In the Caribbean, it’s well known as Santería.”
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After a difficult year and a breakup, Vicioso wanted to marry her love of flowers with community building. Because Vicioso uses cannabis medicinally, the workshop naturally includes a smoking component. “My family has smoked cannabis for a lot of reasons for a long time. It’s a really healing plant,” she explains.
In the workshop, even the cannabis gets the floral treatment. Vicioso presents her rose-petal-wrapped joints on a silver platter at each table. She rolled each by hand. “If you’ve never smoked a rose-petal-rolled joint, the difference with this is it’s going to have roses that have a slight tobacco effect,” she announces.
During the workshop, Vicioso stresses the importance of buying cannabis from local vendors. The cannabis provided was purchased from a Northern Californian vendor. The wellness workshop aims to reclaim the healing ritual of smoking cannabis. “This is a plant that has been commercialized,” Vicioso says. “There’s a lot of Black and Brown people who are in jail for this plant.”
The resulting workshop is what Vicioso describes as “an immersive wellness experience that is the intersection of wellness, creativity, community and an appreciation of flowers.” The workshop serves as a reminder to enjoy Earth’s innate beauty in the form of flowers — including cannabis. “It’s this gift that the universe gave us for free and that I have this deep connection with,” Vicioso says.
Conversation cards to generate discussion among participants (top, letf). The workshop serves as a “third space” for Angelenos to engage in tactile creativity and community building outside of traditional nightlife settings.
After enjoying lavender chamomile tea and smoking a joint, Vicioso introduces the flowers to the group before inviting them to pick their own. She emphasizes each flower’s personality traits, describing green dianthus as a “Dr. Seuss” plant. Then, there are calla lilies with their “main character moment.” It gets personal. “Start thinking of a flower in your life that you can discover,” she says. “If you’re feeling like you need inspiration, you can always remember that these flowers have stories.”
Vicioso infuses wisdom into her instruction on floral arrangements: There are no mistakes. Let the flowers tell you where they want to go, she urges. Intuition will be your guide — the wilder, the better.
“Hecho in Mexico” reads a sticker on a bunch of green stems. “Like me,” says Vazquez with a laugh. “They’re all doing their own thing. Like a family,” she says later, arranging stems.
The Flower Hour participants and Vicioso, center, chat as they build their own floral arrangements at the sold-out event.
Two participants — Vazquez and Rebeca Alvarado — are friends who run a floral design company together called Izza Rose. Like Vicioso, the friends have a connection to flowers through their Latin American culture. They met Vicioso in the floral industry and were overjoyed to discover her workshop.
“This is a great way to connect with other people,” says Vazquez.
Alvarado agrees, adding: “You’re getting to know people outside of going to bars. You can connect in different ways when there’s an activity.”
Vazquez uses flowers to stay connected to her Mexican heritage, adding that she prefers to support Mexican vendors. In recent months, the downtown L.A. flower market has struggled to recover from ongoing ICE raids. “Some are scared to come back,” says Vazquez.
Hand-rolled cannabis joints wrapped in rose petals are presented on a silver platter at The ArtClub (top, right). The Flower Hour aims to reclaim the healing rituals of cannabis and flowers.
Another participant, Barbara Rios, was attracted to the workshop for stress relief. “You can hang out with your friends, but it’s nice to do things with your hands,” she says. “I work a stressful job, and it’s nice to have that third space that we’re all craving.”
On this February night, the participants were predominantly women, save for one man. In the future, Vicioso hopes that more men learn to engage with flowers. “There’s a statistic about men receiving flowers for the first time at their funerals, and I think we have changed that,” she says.
To conclude the workshop, Vicioso encourages participants to build lasting friendships and incorporate flower arranging into their daily practice — even if it’s just with a small, inexpensive bouquet.
“Get some flowers together, go to the park, hang out with each other and hang out with me,” she says. Participants leave with flower arrangements in hand. In the darkness of the night air, it briefly looks as though the women carry silver calla lilies that are blooming from their palms.
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