The Society for Creative Anachronism—SCA for short— is, well, I'll let them tell it. The following is their mission statement:
The SCA is an international organization dedicated to researching and re-creating the arts and skills of pre-17th-century Europe. Our "Known World" consists of 19 kingdoms, with over 30,000 members residing in countries around the world. Members, dressed in clothing of the Middle Ages and Renaissance, attend events which feature tournaments, royal courts, feasts, dancing, various classes & workshops, and more.
-From the SCA website homepage
This...is the answer to the question of what Owen does in his spare time. As the greasy upper-lip on which the top of his goatee began to curl upward into a toothy grin of glee at the opportunity to drag someone into the unwashed kimono folds of his "real" life, I swear I felt a dog collar tightening around my neck, and the slightest waft of blood, shit, and the musty air of the Italian countryside riding on a glistening index finger passing under my nose, pointing my attention towards a man with a gigantic cock who was about to sodomize me for the sick pleasures of a nihilistic torture orgy.
Where that thought came from I have no idea. It was weird.
And oh my god, Owen fucking the SCA. In fact, I think the reason his black Matrix ninja trench coat always appeared to be within a particularly defiant stitch of bursting at the seams is because Owen was as comfortable in the real world as the bug in Men in Black walking around in an Edgar skin. Now you might not know this, but while the rest of us live in "Colorado", Owen and the rest of his SCA buddies actually live in the magical kingdom called "The Outlands". This is neither a joke nor a Berkley Breathed comic strip. This is real life, and this little map actually exists in our universe.
Unbefuckinglievable. You probably also recognize Texas, Arizona, etc., and I am assuming that massive immolating tower of ruined humanity in "Argonia"—Jesus I hate this life sometimes—is Juarez, and given the current sociopolitical climate of Mexico these days, it's the only fairly accurate representation of the real world on the damn thing.
Incidentally, Juarez is where Michael used to go with his friends to drink when he was growing up in Texas. The reason for this is that the drinking age in Mexico is "Tengo dinero para un cerveza, for favore", and according to Michael there is not a single thing in that town that is not for sale. He once told a bartender that he thought a picture on the wall was cool, and the guy excitedly started bargaining with him even though Michael was too drunk to even respond.
This is typical Michael, for anyone who forgot the little airport thievery story, and once he even got beaten up by a Mexican cop fifteen yards outside the US border with the US agents watching the whole thing. Finally, his friend kicked the cop in the balls, drug Michael to his feet by the scruff of the neck, and they ran towards the security checkpoint like Secretariat and Man O'War on speedballs with severe kidney sweats. The guy came running after them, screaming and waving his gun around, and just as he is about to catch them they streak past the border patrol agents. Apparently they didn't say a word. All Michael said he and his friend heard as they crossed the border was the sound of between two and seven shotguns being simultaneously cocked, followed by dead silence as they tore off into the night towards the car.
Anyway, the whole point of the SCA is that its members are attempting to recreate the world of the Middle Ages right here and now in the 21st century. When I asked him if they also try to recreate the Plague and small pox, he informed me with a condescending chuckle that no, they are not recreators, but rather they are attempting to reinterpret the idealized Middle Ages as they wish they had been, and how they had read about in the Arthurian Legends. Hence, "creative anachronism." Its a combination of a perpetual Ren-fair combined with a real life version of Dungeons and Dragons, and when I say "Ren-fair Dungeons and Dragons" I am dead serious. According to Owen, once you cross out of US soil and into the rented campground for an SCA event, very much unlike Michael and his friend you only going to see a gun if you break character.
Ah. I didn't mention the most important part. You actually create your own character, and you have to have your name and coat of arms registered with the SCA governing board. Sorry, that is not correct. You have to register with your Kingdom Seneschal and have your coat of arms approved by the Herald.
For anyone who is curious, if you live in Arizona—excuse me, the Kingdom of Atenveldt—your Seneschal would be a lady by the name of Posadnitsa Natal'ia Deikove vdova Rabynovicha. Or for those of you who don't speak bullshit, Denise Walcott.
God dammit...
Once approved, you will then be put in touch with a Chatelain who will serve as your liaison for your journey backwards from the the front edge of the arrow of time to the mystical and magical world of Camelot. Probably with the same number of showers and indoor plumbing.
So you pick a name like Mudtongue Balltwaddle or what the fuck ever, register your own coat of arms (which probably looks really, really ridiculous with light sabres and shit on it) and go to SCA events and speak in a shitty Gaelic accent. OK. Fine. That's all perfectly fine as I'm concerned. I'm not going to judge decent, ordinary people because they have a particularly quirky hobby, and for most of them it's probably a perfectly harmless diversion that is the equivalent of me watching ten episodes of Archer and drinking three-quarters of a bottle of gin. I consider my experience superior because they have to drink mead made in a hollowed out tree trunk trough and I can enjoy the finest beverage ever crafted since the dawn of time, but that's me. I also don't get to have an orgy with Guinevere and her lusty wench handmaidens, so maybe it all evens out.
In fact, many of the people who participate do so because it's an environment where they can do business and participate in their passion. One highly redeeming thing about the existence of the SCA is that these are the only people on Earth who know how to make really cool armor and swords that are historically accurate, so when you see armor in movies it was most likely made by an expert craftsman who is in the SCA. Some of them are also highly consulted experts on obscure and interesting historical shit with PhD's. Frankly, I would probably really enjoy sitting down for a flagon of Belgian home brew with a few of them.
But then we come to Owen. Because we have to. Because he's insane.
Owen loves karate and martial arts, but he doesn't want to be Thor or Odin. As we've established, he wants to pretend he's a ninja, or even better actually be one. Japan doesn't have a ninja-based SCA because people in Japan make robots and work 80 hour weeks. So apparently he "exhaustively researched" (read, watched fifteen Jackie Chan movies between Medieval poon trolling sessions online) the history of samurai soldiers who lived in the Middle Ages, albeit on the other side of the planet, and found a way to convince the powers that control the SCA that it was feasible that a samurai technically could have somehow traveled across the continent of Asia to Europe at this time, and therefore should be included in the vast assortment of characters available to be licensed. Keep in mind that these are people who are already reaching in elbow-deep to pull this shit out of their asses, and for Owen to have to go to incredible lengths and file all kinds of paperwork to get approval lets you know exactly how badly he wanted to eat that red pill and take a header down the rabbit hole of marginally socially approved craziness.
I can't remember exactly what he told me his official name was, but it was something like Shuzukiro Botswana or some shit like that. Needless to say, by the end of the conversation I had precisely zero questions left about the greasy pony tail, trench coat, bad personal hygiene, and total, utter confidence in his ability to place his delusions in front of a gigantic steel stapler being hurled at him by the person on the planet who most wanted to see him get knocked unconscious. No wonder he doesn't have any concept of reality. Imagine you are Michael Jackson and believe you can create Neverland for real in your backyard. What does reality mean? If you have so much money that literally every single person you associate with happily agrees that you have done precisely that, for all intents and purposes you may as well have actually done it. This is the pathology of Owen, but unlike Neverland being a realization of a dream, but for Owen?
It was only the beginning.