Paintball - Can't We All Just Get Along?

It was the best of times; it was the worst of times. My community lived in relative peace -- shopping, sunbathing, recreational surgery -- while in the hills of Simi Valley underage kids were being gunned down by paintballs.

I'm a pretty peaceful dude. If I were king, our troops would shower the Middle East with LSD until they all discovered oneness. There would be no Us and Them, just Brothers of the Blue and Green Marble.

"This is the dawning of the Age of Aquarius..."

You can see, then, why I might balk at the idea of paintball, and by "balk" I mean make the sound of a chicken. Still I showed up at Paintball USA, where players poured in wearing camouflage and motocross helmets. I looked for, but could not find, Mad Max.

Mike Schwartz, owner of Paintball USA, Close Encounters, says that it's like playing G.I. Joe but in real life. I myself was into PlaySkool, and casualties were rare. Weebles wobble, but they don't fall down.

At the sign-in desk we found Art, head referee. Art would not divulge his surname but swears that he is not running from the government. Art, in fact, had the hyper-organized feel of a Green Beret and probably knows the truth about Roswell.

Art wasn't the tallest guy in town, but you got the feeling that should you cross him, he could skeletonize you by hand. Remember Vavoom from Felix the Cat? The one who started avalanches with his voice? That's how Art covered the rules.

"DO NOT SHOOT THE LIZARDS. THEY WILL DIE."

Art led the way to battle, his Lieutenant Dan to my Forrest Gump. He was already splattered with paint and looked like Abstract Art (buh dump bump). We arrived at The Jungle Field, which teemed with the abandoned tractor tires that are indigenous to Simi Valley.

Twenty-six-year-old Mike Corral had driven all the way from El Monte to kill me.

"Don't worry," he said. "You'll barely feel it."

At which point Ventura native John Bonzagni revealed a jawbreaker-sized welt pulsing in his neck.