Freebooter Kommand

Two posts in one month?! Buh?!

2012-01-25T09:37:00.000-05:00

It is a difficult thing to forgo one's habits. We find ourselves in the niche of those comforts as have had some effect to comfort us in the past, though they are only second, third, fourth, or fifth best. But we know that they have an effect. Even if the effect is not quite what we need, if it distracts us from or alleviates the stress of life, the cold and the dark, then it is worth receiving and interfacing with. It's the case of being stuck in a hot shower: one knows that life is going on outside the shower stall, that inevitably our skin will prune or the water will get cold or that we will run up the utility bill, but inside that cocoon of hot water and gentle noise life enters an apparent stasis. It is, of course, an illusion; a minor comfort to proverbially wash away the dark and the cold, but those things which we do all we can to avoid are still awaiting us beyond that hazy curtain.

So we have many hot showers, many placebos and opiates, but only one true cure. The cure, as it seems, is far away and through a winding, coarse path that we must carve ourselves, rife with distractions (fair and foul) and pricker bushes and all manner of annoyances. It's the difference between finding a comfortable dugout to sit on a third of the way up the hill and climbing the hill to find a fully furnished cottage with all our favorite things and a gracious host. It's obviously worth the effort but the more time we spend in our dugout the more the cottage slips into a state of myth in our minds and hearts.

It's dry and rather safe in the dugout, much better than being out on the slippery hill, but it's still second best.

So what does it take to get off of one's ass and forgo those comfortable habits for something lasting and wholesome? I can't really say. I suppose the comforts (the dugout, the hot shower) have to fail us enough to motivate us to find the real thing. That, probably, could take a lifetime.

The Moderate Gamer

2012-01-20T09:18:00.000-05:00

I'm confounded by this all-or-nothing attitude toward MMOs. I understand it because I've been there but, sparing myself any Freudian waxing, it doesn't make lots of sense. It seems a very juvenile attitude to have, whereby one is either the "best" or not there at all. These perpetual worlds can be savored slowly, dropped when the enjoyment fades, and resumed when interest is piqued again.

It's not like single-player games where you play through, beat it, enjoy it, play it again when you feel you want to relive the experience (not unlike books). These online games are always growing and changing, there for you when you want to give it another go.

I suppose I just get annoyed when the same people who complain about the game from the outset and devour content like cheap steak decide to make a big fuss about their "leaving" a game, only to return in a few months. Who cares.

The Secret World

2012-01-13T11:53:00.001-05:00

So The Secret World is due out in April. I'm intrigued by its setting: the modern world, with a hugely epic backstory spanning millennia, where every myth, urban legend, and conspiracy theory you ever heard is true, and where secret societies fight for control of these powerful myths. I don't know how it will shake out as a game, but the idea has piqued my interest terribly. I haven't gone in for this sort of thing since I got into Lovecraft back in college. Feeling inspired, I wrote a little story about a character finding his way into the secretive Illuminati of TSW. Enjoy!

“I do hope you’re ready,” said Samuel. “But that really doesn’t matter now.” Without a further word he shoved Harcourt over the edge and waited.

What Harcourt experienced then was a magnificent and terrifying feeling, one of liberation and horrifying truth. He found himself falling, without a scream, and he kept falling and when he thought the earth must have spat him back out, only to let him fall again, and that surely this imagined second fall would end soon, that only the stratosphere was higher than the place from where he’d fallen, he kept falling. Years went by, sleet struck his face like gnats. And then, as quickly as he had been pushed from the top of the Sears Tower, he stopped.

Tabernac, he thought, I hate Chicago.

When he opened his eyes his nose was touching West Adams Street; he stared straight into black pavement under a blacker sky. At his point of stopping he hadn’t jerked, had hardly felt a thing as if he were magically frozen in space.

Magic. The word came into his mind and trailed away like a drop of rain on the windshield of a speeding car.

“Monsieur Dupuis!” said a voice that obviously belonged to a non-native French speaker. “This is something new we have been playing since one of our operatives returned from Papua New Guinea. Shaman there have claimed a bit of magic that keeps men from falling from their tree-houses and into the black night...where the demons dwell. There was some kind of something there and we took it home, contained it, beat it into submission. Now we can do things like this!”

The man clicked some button or other and Harcourt Dupuis fell the last inch or so onto the street.

“This is what you have to look forward to now that you are one of us.” The man, of whom Harcourt could only see his shoes, flicked a clove cigarette on the ground and pulled Harcourt up by his shoulders.

***
It was there, on the ground before stepping into the black Chrysler 300 and speeding off to God-knew-where (There is still a God, right? he thought), that Harcourt Dupuis went back to New York. Specifically he went to his sophomore butchery class at CIA, the Culinary Institute of America. It was there that he met Samuel Siegel, lopping off the head of a duck to the pleasure of their instructor, Romero de Torres.

“Harcourt,” said Samuel, not looking up from his task. He was like an Ivy League, trust fund type who had someone garnered both book smarts and street smarts. As if a punk from 1970s Brooklyn had been raised with money and privilege. He had short brown hair, smartly greased and combed, shaved on the sides like a modern version. He was handsome, high-cheeked, and didn’t seem to care. “I’ve been to Port Harcourt.”

“Nigeria,” said Harcourt.

“Right!” said Samuel, smiling easily. “Now I’m not a very smart man but Harcourt is an English name, not French.”

“My father was Scotch.”

“Your accent could have fooled me,” said Samuel through that easy smile.

Harcourt just gave this brazen American a calm look and went back to observing the butchery. Chef de Torres sauntered by again and examined the duck, now mostly cleaned and feather plucked, ready to be roasted to a perfect golden brown by the next class. He nodded and checked something on a clipboard. An hour later the two of them were walking through the old hallways of the school, making their way to the dining hall.

“Christ, I hope Cooper’s class isn’t making lunch today,” bemoaned Samuel, also whining about there not being alcohol served in the student dining hall.

“There is enough partying after school hours, don’t you think?” chimed in Harcourt. It was the first thing he’d said since leaving butchery.

Samuel nodded thoughtfully, “Maybe. Maybe not enough for me. Business before pleasure, eh Harcourt? That doesn’t sound very French.”

“Maybe that is because I’m French-Canadian,” said Harcourt sardonically.

“Ah! A Quebecois, mon ami! Even better,” said Samuel and ended his sentence with a shove, pushing Harcourt into the dining hall playfully. It would not take long for Harcourt to realize that Samuel was pushy, literally and figuratively. There they enjoyed the worst of Chef Cooper’s freshman preparation class over discussion that would reshape the course of both their lives.

“What’s the dream, Harcourt? Open a little boucherie somewhere? Wife and kids?” asked Samuel with his easy smile.

Harcourt was generally a reserved person and would have shrugged off such a question had it come from anyone else but Samuel was seemingly the most charming person Harcourt had ever met outside of Montreal. It helped that Harcourt didn’t have a friend in the whole country.

“I want an empire,” he admitted.

“Well! Now we are getting somewhere, Harcourt,” said Samuel, his smile fading into interest and mouthfuls of runny parsnip puree.

Harcourt continued with only a hint of reluctance, “More than that I want to be a Chef and a Man worthy of an empire. I am tired of seeing fat American chefs or French chefs or nobodies opening restaurants where anyone can stuff their faces with gruel, with no skill or care for the craft. Food is the start. I will have my home restaurant, a small brasserie in Montreal, from there it is a restaurant with a new focus in every major city on the continent. Then design, fashion, money, influence. Wife and kids? Probably not.”

Samuel was more or less staring at his new friend now, a faint smirk responding to this revelation. Harcourt wondered if he had tipped his hand too early and was about to say “Forget it” when Samuel spoke first.

“I think we are going to be great friends, you and I.”

***

The next semester was a whirlwind for Harcourt, a blur of late nights, butchery and knife exams barely passed, dreams like he’d never known, rides in expensive cars with Samuel into the City and parties like he’d only seen in movies. It was a taste of a life he’d never known he’d wanted. Certainly he had visions of the “good life”, but only after years of intensely hard work to build up the little storefront empire of his imaginings. The scope of things began to set into his mind the night he met Samuel’s father, Grant Siegel.

“Samuel tells me much about you,” said the great man over the stereotypical snifters of brandy. It was good brandy, too. Harcourt only nodded. “A person of vision, he even said. I find that a high compliment! I think of us as men of vision as well, vision beyond the sight of your average person you might say. You see this? All of this around you?” He gestured to the sitting room around them, an impeccable blend of class, sophistication, antiquity, and modern style. Brown bookcases flanked by modern glass end tables and find leather chairs, dangling tapestries of Americana, black and white marble tiling the floor. “It is a reward reaped by men of vision, but a paltry reward I think.”

There were other men milling around the massive Manhattan flat of the Siegel’s. It was one of many properties, Harcourt was convinced, even though he had only seen this place and their home in the Hamptons. The men walked here and there, chatting, peeking into books, getting drunk, all wearing tuxedos. Most were their own age, in their early twenties, some were older, distinguished men in their fourties and fifties. It felt a little bit like a frat party, one said. Harcourt thought he heard the sounds of a fight breaking out downstairs. He did not own a tux; he’d borrowed one from Samuel that did not quite fit. “Work smart, dress smart, play hard,” he had given Harcourt these words as he taught him how to properly tie a bow. He looked good in a tux that complimented his height and broad shoulders, even if the sleeves were too short. Since falling in with Samuel he’d started dressing more smartly, kept his frizzy black hair short and grew a fashionable pencil moustache.

“Paltry indeed,” continued Grant Siegel. He seemed to drift in his mind to far away places, fire ebbing through his veins as he spoke, saying, “The true rewards are power beyond the grasp of men who choose those mortal and fallible means. Politics, corporate greed, and the like.” The sounds of fighting and all else faded now for Harcourt. He only had ears for this strange, rich man whom he’d previously dismissed as a child of privilege, a soft bag of money resting on the laurels of his great-grandfather. His words had taken on a strange tone. “Those aren’t the real ways to power, Harcourt. Those are dead ends, glass ceilings, you see.”

At that point the two men stared at one another, one old and one young, a child of poverty seeing the world through the holes in an empty wallet. It was as if there was communion happening, thought Harcourt later on, inaudible and unspoken words, like he was discovering something about not only himself, but the world he thought he knew. Samuel Siegel stepped into the room through two large oak doors and the elder Siegel broke the silence. “I want to offer your friend a job, Samuel,” he said without looking up.

Harcourt looked stunned. Samuel grinned broadly and said, “Thank you, father”. Had he been in lighter company he would have shouted “Yes!” and pumped his fist. The night would end with the pair of them passed out drunk in that same room, Grant Siegel looking them over before retiring, knowing he had made a wise choice.

***

“Now, I don’t believe in magic per se,” started Samuel. “There are forces in this world that manifest themselves in ways that are hard to understand. That’s why we find ways and means to understand them, control them.”

He was holding a dodecagon, an old and decorative one made of brass with singular dots marking each side. Harcourt had heard of Dungeons & Dragons but had never played and was not interested in starting now, with the wide world opening before him and possibly capsizing his nonexistent culinary career in the wake. In case this whole “global domination” thing did not pan out he did mean to stick things out here at CIA; roleplaying games would not help him pass food science. He kept his mouth shut all the same.

“Did that poor, Canadian public school education inform you of some mythology?” asked Samuel.

“It taught me more than your bunkies at prep school did,” Harcourt shot back.

“Then you know about Pandora’s Box?”

“Where all the suffering of the world came from.”

“That’s right,” said Samuel. “See, the people I’m getting you involved with know the truth about such stuff. We’ve been around some time. We’ve taken the power of that box and...well, weaponized it.”

With that he muttered something and tapped the top of the dodecagon which whirred mechanically, expanded and opened slowly. Some kind of green mist, or was it light rays, issued from the box and lit Harcourt’s dorm room. Just as he was about to kick it over and tell Samuel to stop his fooling, he felt a lump in his throat. It got scratchy, like strep. He felt himself get angry, thought strange thoughts, felt pain in his feet, legs, and up it crept like pins and needles. His breathing sped up, his chest hurt; it was not pleasant and before he could scream the box closed. All that remained was a faint green glow that highlighted the troubled look on Samuel’s face.

“Holy...it worked,” he breathed. “Do you believe now?” His expression was at once triumphant and concerned. He hadn’t wished to harm his friend.

“I’d say I’m almost there.” Harcourt forced the words out of mouth. He was sweating but the pain fled. This was new, this was what he wanted and if these insane people who his college friend had introduced him to could help him get it, well, then he had little choice.

***

By the end of that semester Harcourt had withdrawn, officially, from CIA and was now working for Grant Siegel exclusively. What that job was, however, Harcourt could not say. He spent the next month and a half speeding all over New York City and its many boroughs, through Nassau county and up to Boston, south to Washington DC. Always in a black Rolls Royce, always with some message or to pick up someone or to deliver gifts to seemingly important people. His “work” even took him all the way to London once. It was all tremendous tedium and by the end of the first month Harcourt was ready to go back to CIA.

“This is a joke,” he told Samuel.

“Just hang in there, another month I promise. I’m working on something,” Samuel reassured him. Harcourt nodded and stuck with it, suffering silently. He trusted his friend. Three weeks later he would find himself falling from the Sears Tower.

In the time between he began paying attention, making connections, looking for the reasons why he called on the people he did. He noticed the politicians he escorted to secret parties represented the same states as the CEOs he brought sealed packages to; that the lobbyist whose home windows he had smashed had previously been seen with the same senator, on whose committee the lobbyist depended for certain legal action, he’d brought Grant Siegel to dine with. All very powerful people, all with specific interests, all moneyed and influential. No real puzzle there. The further strands were harder to grasp, the ends harder to discover than the means, but they all arrived at the same conclusion: consolidation of power, control.

The wrench in the machine of his thoughts came the day before he was spirited away to Chicago. He was waiting for an associate of Grant Siegel, a lanky man of 52 years called Carson, on a quiet street in Staten Island. Harcourt leaned against the luxurious Rolls Royce, the care and awe he’d once had for the automobile now a thing of the past, smoking a cigarette. He’d never smoked before attending CIA, but it seemed to him that everyone involved in the food preparation game was a smoker and with good reason; it did help with the stress somehow. It was two o’clock in the morning. As he pondered on whether or not the enjoyment of smoking was worth its related health risks, the door to the shady building he had let Mister Carson into two hours before burst open red and the sounds of thousands of screams filled the air. It was the sound of a small village of young women was being stabbed to death.

Carson walked to the car in a hurry, furtively glancing around to ensure the street was deserted. It was and, as if by magic, had been since they’d arrived. The shock of the noise had startled Harcourt into dropping his cigarette. Momentarily he regained himself enough to open the door to the backseat for Carson, who was clasping a brief case with a bloody hand. He almost shoved Harcourt out of the way to get in, Harcourt stared at his wounded hand. The blood seemed to be some kind of shape he’d recognized but the frenzy of his thoughts and a lightheaded rush had driven any chance of recognition from his mind.

“Drive the fucking car!” shouted Carson and slammed the door. Harcourt rushed around to the other side, smoothing out his suit and jumping in the driver’s seat. The Rolls Royce sped off into the street and Harcourt drove hard, avoiding traffic and praying to whoever would listen that there was still a ferry to take them back to Manhattan. Carson breathed heavily and shakily in the backseat. Harcourt focused on driving but his mind kept wandering back to Carson’s hand. Then it struck him: the bleeding shape was a pentagram.

***

“I won’t bore you with any more talk of power and influence and blah-dee-da,” said the Chicago man. “I think you understand now who were are what we’re about.”

“I’ve an inkling,” muttered Harcourt. The man smiled behind his dark sunglasses. The Chrysler bounced on the quiet city streets where, even if there were a soul to see, no one would have guest the shadowy business being conducted. After his fall and saving stop Harcourt had been lazily led to the car where two glasses of whatever liquor he wanted were waiting. When he protested (“I like beer better,” he’d said) the man laughed and poured him some exotic white rum. Now Harcourt was left to half-listen to what the man was saying and to brood on the dark thoughts the last few months of his life had brought to life.

“Very good, then,” started the man again. “Everyone who’s had an eye on you agrees with me when I say you’ve got the stuff to be of great use to us, Harcourt. When you’re useful to us you’re helping yourself, see?”

Harcourt nodded.

““Right. Well we won’t keep you in Chicago for long. You should be back in New York by this time tomorrow and Mister Siegel will tell you what comes next. We’ve a special task you’ll be assigned to, Siegel has the details. How do you feel about politics?” the man asked calmly.

“I don’t care for them.” Harcourt was too tired to say much more than that.

The man laughed and said, “Neither do I. Welcome to the Illuminati.”

I enjoy the way you lie

2011-11-16T11:34:00.032-05:00

I haven't talked about it much on this blog but I am in love with a show called Deadwood. It only took me a few years after its cancellation, but having spent the summer watching the series twice in a row it has quickly changed the way I feel about television, dialogue, and my beloved western genre. Its insane creator/writer/director, David Milch, I was previously aware of (who hasn't heard of NYPD Blue, even if you haven't seen it?) but I was unaware of his sordid and scary history which involved the 60s, a suspension from Yale, and a lot of drugs. Watching some of the supplemental material and footage from both seasons 1 & 2 (I haven't done 3 yet) and listening to Professor Milch, who does and did actually teach at the collegiate level I believe, I am reminded of a scene from the first episode where one Elsworth is speaking to the hard, subversive, complicated, swindling pimp Al Swearengen, proprietor of the Gem saloon and all around antihero.

Elsworth (whose first name is later revealed as 'Whitney') is reveling in his independence and his working "fuckin'" gold claim, while making it evident that neither the U.S. government (who viewed the Deadwood settlement as illegal in its violation of treaty on Sioux territory) nor anyone else, including the Indians, had better interfere. Al says, "They better not try it here", to which Elsworth replies, "Goddamn it, Swearengen, I don't trust you as far as I can throw ya, but I enjoy the way you lie".

Swearengen famously gives a sly "Thank you, my good man."

This is how I feel when listening to David Milch.

I don't believe the man is a liar or disingenuous, but I have a hard time taking his rambling erudition seriously. Like most professors, he seems to talk only to hear himself talk and prove how well read or learned or wise/sagey he really is. But I enjoy it! I would spend the rest of my life in college if I could afford it; I love listening to overeducated people make connections between the most unrelated things and make it sound as if they could write a doctoral thesis and/or bestselling novel and/or bestselling self-help book about it.

I'd be foolish to deny that there is a vast amount of depth and symbolism in Deadwood. Different characters are case studies and representations of ethnic groups, classes, and societal positions, the historical account as a whole is embellished to serve the greater theme of "chaotic society organizing itself around a symbol". It ties in the ideas that Milch finds fascinating, those being the connectedness of people and the loving scrutiny of America and her history. When you put something like this in the hands of a man made mad by drugs, gambling, other obsessive behaviors, extensive consumption of turn-of-the-century literature (Melville and William James being at the top of his list) and liberal leanings, it becomes unlike anything I've heard of on television. And the man wraps it in so much BS that he convinces us the BS is really candy there to make the pill easier to swallow.

The show's real strength, like that of all the best shows, is that it is about people, their inability to exist without each other, and that community seen thrust into extraordinary circumstances. It was the same with LOST: a group of strangers forced into dependence on one another in a fanciful situation. Deadwood, being more historical, is thusly more realistic; how do people relate to one another on a personal level when they are also faced with decisions that will shape the society they wish to live in? How can you coexist with someone who, while perhaps personally likeable, conflicts with the aims you mean to achieve in the blank canvas that is a town unhindered by law and facing new opportunities with its annexation into the U.S.?

We see people with benign aims, like Langrishe, who wish only to make money off of prospectors and frontiersman in need of high entertainment. Langrishe goes about his work almost stealthily, freely moving between the many groups that emerge in the latter season of Deadwood. He poses no real threat either personally or pragmatically and so his position is unique. Contrast that with someone like Wu, whose aim is his own sphere of power but one sphere that is in abject confrontation with the ways and means of another (Heart/Wolcott's man Lee), even in so small a sphere as the Chinaman's Alley, brings about conflict. Not to mention his ethnic and cultural piece which is in total disagreement with the overwhelmingly White element of the town. So our connectedness is there even in hateful differences.

So Milch's "lies" infect and, whether feigned, genuine, or otherwise, shed a sparkling light on the storytelling possibilities of television. It seems rare that such literary finesse is applied to television; it was there in LOST but the writers/producers of LOST took more influence from graphic novels and high fiction and less from classical, Victorian work that is Milch's foremost expertise (like I said before, he often cites William James and Melville). These influences also apply nicely to the setting of Deadwood as it is a pseudo Victorian setting, meshing those formalities with the rough and tumble ways of the American frontier.

In short, it's really good and the extra element of "lies", that is interpretation, provide more fuel for an already raging fire of storytelling and character development. If I'd known tv could make me a more informed consumer of literature and a better writer, I'd have started up on this brand of programming long ago.

Now, back to the salt mines of NaNoWriMo.

Just write.

2011-11-03T13:50:00.002-04:00

I've been writing for a long time. I'm pretty sure I have been writing, in some capacity, since the third grade when I started making my own comic strips. When I first read Dragonlance I wanted to start writing fantasy. When I read Tolkien I wanted to write fantasy that could change lives and worldviews. If I have ever finished a work longer than a short story or essay, I have lost it.

Time and again I realize that I need words. Words are the way I see the world. Words that make stories are how I understand the world, including myself. At a deeper, more cosmic level, the Word is the foundation for all reality, truth, and life.

But I forget.

So what I need to is just write. Here's what this guy says:

Nobody tells this to people who are beginners, I wish someone told me. All of us who do creative work, we get into it because we have good taste. But there is this gap. For the first couple years you make stuff, it’s just not that good. It’s trying to be good, it has potential, but it’s not. But your taste, the thing that got you into the game, is still killer. And your taste is why your work disappoints you. A lot of people never get past this phase, they quit. Most people I know who do interesting, creative work went through years of this. We know our work doesn’t have this special thing that we want it to have. We all go through this. And if you are just starting out or you are still in this phase, you gotta know its normal and the most important thing you can do is do a lot of work. Put yourself on a deadline so that every week you will finish one story. It is only by going through a volume of work that you will close that gap, and your work will be as good as your ambitions. And I took longer to figure out how to do this than anyone I’ve ever met. It’s gonna take awhile. It’s normal to take awhile. You’ve just gotta fight your way through.
— Ira Glass

My irking comes from the "taking a while". If I had been writing more consistently, maybe I would be a published author. Maybe things would be different. Inversely, maybe things are the way they are because they are they way things are supposed to be. I like that notion.

Commitment

2011-10-31T15:44:00.000-04:00

National Novel Writing Month. Long have you hunted me. Long have I eluded you. No more. Behold! A shred of commitment!

I mean to enter NaNoWriMo this year and I'm concerned. I'm concerned not only because I have a baby due the first week of December who is as like to come onto the scene beforehand (and interrupt whatever writing process I have begun), but because writing 50,000 words is a feat.

My hope is that taking part in this project, and the competition provided in the word-bout between my Atlanta and Seattle, will serve as motivation enough to bang out a full novel of original material. I have some pretty cool ideas and I think I just might do it.

In short, it will be the story of Ferhan: a Turkish engineer at the end of the First World War and at the end of his rope. The Empire he once served so dutifully is no more, his family has been destroyed in the process, and the airships he helped to invent did nothing to turn the tide for his country. Now, with European interlopers descending upon the Middle East in search of the one resource the Ottoman's kept hidden (the one that allows, like, airship and floating cities), Ferhan decides it is his destiny to make a difference and maybe, just maybe, redeem his life.

Writing it like that makes it sound kind of trite but I look forward to doing some historical fiction in a setting I love (Southwest Asia).

I'll post snippets on here as they come for praise or critique.

This is not something you've seen before...

2011-09-16T09:44:00.001-04:00

Lil' Glitch shipwreck

As much as I adore serious things and bear a mile-wide serious streak, I've always held a place in my heart for the silly, goofy, and absurd. If I'm honest with myself it's more in line with who am I. But for as long as I can remember those two parts of me have taken turns: in the midsts of my metal/grunge obsessed adolescence The Presidents of the United States of America snuck in and maintain a dustless space on the trophy rack of my heart; along with countless re-reads of The Lord of the Rings and nameless other fantasy, scifi, historical novels I still break for the comedy of JRH or George MacDonald Fraser; it's a toss up between Young Frankenstein or Momento any day of the week for me as well.

If brevity is your thing, we all need the silly.

So it comes as no surprise to myself that that Glitch has stolen my attention for the time being. In a gaming world of exploding Orks and endless raids a cute, fun, almost combat-free game is as crisp as the fall air that approacheth from the west. TF2, if nothing else, has proven that a little comedy goes a long way in enamoring a bunch of bloodthirsty nerds.

So this Glitch thing...is new.

Alright, so the title of this post and the last statement are not entirely accurate. "New" would imply a feat otherwise undone in the world of gaming, and Glitch is certainly not that. Then again the active verb in the title is "seen" and Glitch is indeed something I have not seen before and that is where it catches you off-guard and forces a decision: either the cute, original, and simply brilliant presentation and art grab you and demand you play among them, or it puts condescending grimace on your face and sends you back to Rift.

The trailer does little to explain what Glitch is and what it is, as I hinted at before, is not anything entirely original. Style and presentation aside, it's essentially a nigh-perfect hybrid browser game/standard MMO; you have an energy bar, mood meter, experience bar, inventory, quest log, skill queue, many of the standard things you expect in one of our beloved MMORPGs. Skills are time-based, like EVE Online, but not as exclusively important as they are in other games; many tasks can be completed, albeit slowly, without the corresponding skills. Quest are different as well. Since there is no (er, minimal) combat in Glitch the quests are generally task completion to help get you acquainted with certain goings on in game.

What's really got me hooked on Glitch, though, is how it makes me feel. There is a giddy, almost child-like feel to the game peppered with some grown up wit and cleverness. It's sly in that regard. Dialogue with NPCs is hilarious, butterflies are milked (not cows), beach bum frogs serve as couriers, and so much more. It should come as no surprise that Katamari Damacy serves as a source of inspiration for the game and that its creator (Keita Takahashi) is now working on Glitch. The creators at Tiny Speck (newly monied by the sale of Flickr to Yahoo) cite the "positive power of play" as a credo and you start to feel that in your time in game. While many games work in humour as an afterthought to lighten things up, Glitch works it as a point of view or mode of being. It's not WoW, where pop references and silly quest dialogue are shoehorned in, it's made with the intent of pleasing and delighting.

Additionally, it is technically excellent. The game is wed seamlessly to its website and the API allows for a staggering number of player created options (despite its ties to Flash).

In short, it's something that's missing in the online game field where we either have something that's too cute (Hello Kitty Online) or way, way too serious (EVE Online and many more). I guess it's not something I've seen before.

I started this post in an attempt to describe the way I feel about Glitch and what a special thing it is, but I still find that difficult to do. I guess you'll just have to try it for yourself and see if the bug bites you too.

Those Little Buttons

2011-09-08T10:51:00.000-04:00

Capital F! Bathroom-type stick people! Radio waves! Little t! Little b!

Squares at 48 square pixels with rounded edges.

White, off-white, blue, orange, punk, and green.

Countless styles, all different but none original.

Those little buttons are changing everything. You see it, don't you? The internet used to be such that hypertext had a place. That you went to a website for that particular thing, that band, that article, or that video game. Sites on the web used to be art. Shittily designed Netscape pages gave way to equally shitty Geocities pages gave way to professionally designed websites gave way to MySpace. But if you were lucky enough to know a designer or clever enough to fudge one yourself, you could have a really cool website. Oh that "blog style" site has been around for ages: rectangular header logo that didn't change, links, and content. But that wasn't what you wanted. What you wanted was a really modern, clean design that communicated information and gave your product a sense of identity.

Now those little buttons are here.

They used to be an addendum to a page, a sort of postscript that said, "By the way, if you want a little more information or to support us on Facebook and maybe get updates a little quicker, check this out". Now the inverse has happened. The website now says, "This is our logo. If you want anything more, click the F or the T or the orange radio thingy."

What does this mean? It means we can leave the designing and the processes to the ones who know best. I can update my blog or my site or my readers as fast as I can type it; no HTML or Java or Flash knowledge required. It also means I can take the easy way out. I don't need a website anymore, I just need a way to communicate to people how they can find my blog, my Twitter, or my Facebook page. Maybe, just maybe, I'll have a logo to go on these things but if not who cares?

Are we sacrificing what has been the art of web design for the convenience of today and its egalitarian communique? Once we were but the learners, the recipients, the chicks feasting on the regurgitated mice-remains sent forth from the beaks of our mothers. Now we're equal, part and partial to the process of sending, receiving, and spewing oftentimes pointless information. It's cheap, it's easy, it's efficient, and everybody has a voice.

But in the end are we losing more than we gain? Are we coming out ahead, breaking even, or being taken to the cleaners? I don't have answers to such questions, I just have a second cup of coffee and a critical eye.

New Podcast

2011-08-29T16:01:00.003-04:00

Well my limited blogging has gone to my new Lord of the Rings podcast. Have a listen!

www.lotrobeneathyourfeet.com

The Plains Need No More Badges

2011-07-25T10:26:00.001-04:00

Once, there were Men
Men not knowing
or greatly steeped in the words of greater Men who preceded them

but Men content to build to find,
No, to search and to find
and wrangle and hold fast that dream of theirs

A simple dream
an honest dream
an American dream

Setting sail for lands unknown
on timbered ships laden with little
and pulled by steer.

For there had been a nation to consolidate
that would not stand consolidation
and now lands to tame whose esteem would not bear it.

Unwanted soldiers of a costly war
sailing West to the Home beyond homes
occupied but theirs to gain

Or so the East swore it to be.
Dangerous but not unkind,
ragged but bountiful was that way.

Cavalrymen and vagabonds
and lawmen and thieves
and hooples and sharks

They all swam that way
to find that Heaven was not there
but Heaven they would make

Heaven, at least, insofar as dirty hands
and thirst for drink
to fill ancient wounds could make.

Grit and worse
Bullet, arrows of hosts to unbidden guests
Spoil and death

All the while the necessity became a dream
Except a dream only to those who knew not necessity
but longed for it

Longed for grime under their nails
a red man to shoot
and a moon for a canopy

Not a four-poster
or a warm hearth
tended by serving women.

Now the buffalo are long gone
replaced by the engine
and the iron shod paw of the Orc

Those Men of fierce resolve
to make something their own
to make new and see buds grow
Have no lot to find.
The gun is now a toy.
Order now made through law

The books now need a face
and the savage is now tamed,
behind glass he sits and stares for pennies.

If the toy guns will not fetch a penny
and the plains need no more badges
hand me my drink, deal me my cards.

Let me go to hell my own way

If such should be we never meet again,
while firing my last shot,
I will gently breathe the name of my wife
and with wishes even for my enemies
I will make the plunge and try to swim to the other shore.

Why I'm Not Very Excited About The Old Republic

2011-06-14T14:07:00.001-04:00

Bioware's first foray into the dreaded lair of the MMORPGer is coming. It's a Triple A game company working with a Triple A intellectual property; in other words, a sure fire way to entertain the nerdling masses and make a few bucks. There has been plenty of hoopla, if hoopla we are to call it, pending the release of this potential behemoth and rightly so. The MMO dreadnaught would not be what it is were it not readily fueled by millions of gallons of crude hype imported each day from the supplies of the Persian Gulf States of the gaming media (Massively, MMORPG.com, and the like).

However, I am not at all excited or impressed by it.

In short, this ain't my first rodeo. Cranking up the production value, putting in some gratuitous voice acting, space combat, and Jedis is not enough to get me back on the hype train that has dropped me off in parts unknown and left me to straggle my way back home so very many times before. Here is a short list of reasons:

1) I'm not a very big Star Wars fan. Oh, I worshiped the 'holy trilogy' growing up and watched it countless times and nearly felt my little boy heart explode with joy when it was re-released in theaters in the '90s. That's about where it ended, though. The prequels were borderline unforgivable. I've heard it said that the reason why so many stalwarts hated the prequels was because we were no longer children and the likes of Jar Jar Binks and weepy young Anakin could find no purchase in the rocky places of our grown up hearts. I just thought they were shit films with inexcusably bad effects. So why should I care about a game that's set there any more than I would another random scifi universe?

2) It's Star Wars WoW. As far as I know (and please comment if I'm wrong) it follows a very similar mold to World of Warcraft: level, get skills, add traits to kind of customize your guy, run dungeons as a group, repeat. It's no different from LotRO, WAR, Age of Conan, or any other WoW-esque MMO in terms of gameplay, even if it is highly polished and exceptionally well crafted. The main differences in all these games are the settings. Refer to #1 for more on that.

3) It's not visually appealing. I don't like the character models, landscapes, or armour/clothing. Yes, I am that shallow.

4) Space combat looks cool. Hey, how'd that get in there? Regardless of how cool it seems I won't be dropping $50+ and a monthly fee to find out when I can just play Freelancer again.

5) Bioware. I do not hate Bioware for any reasons but they are single-player RPG makers. They do this with gusto and could make a 5-star blockbuster RPG in their collective sleep (think Inception). But what they seem to be doing with TOR is making a multiplayer single-player RPG. It is a (mostly) linear story, voice acted, with group encounters. It's not progressing the MMOG as a genre, it's just making a really, really nice one that's more like a single-player game.

So there's my brief two cents. Who knows? TOR could wind up changing the way I think about life and parting the clouds and putting a bit of Ave Maria in my pocket but, from where I'm seeing things at present, it's just another flash in the MMO pan. I will, however, admit that it is a flashier flash than we typically see.

Edit: As an addendum, here are some impressions from PC Gamer that provide some justification for my post...

First up is a 17-hour session with the Bounty Hunter, and the reviewer has nice things to say about BioWare's story-telling prowess ... The lengthy piece touches on combat, grouping (which is described as quite awkward due to the narrative focus)...The author concludes that TOR is worth playing if you're into single-player storytelling. "If BioWare had sacrificed the story-driven aspect of their game, there wouldn't be much reason to play The Old Republic. Other MMOs have better combat models and more impressive worlds," the magazine says.

Source: Massively.com

A Brief Realization

2011-05-05T11:59:00.000-04:00

It seems as though I talk about writing (or complain about my not writing) more than I actually write.

The predicament is that I have apparently lumped writing (something I genuinely love, enjoy, and want to be better at) in with all of those "hard" or unfun things in life that I decide to do all in my power to avoid. That is, things like balancing the checkbook, yardwork, watching PBS news hour, and...well, work.

Maybe if I took away all the distractions that I use to avoid "hard" and unfun things I might actually get them done. Maybe even learn to enjoy them!

Iron Grip

2011-05-02T10:39:00.004-04:00

I'm not the most determined person. I'm too fixated on taking it easy these days and that is probably a good thing. Or not -- in fact, I actually started this post almost five months ago. Anyways, when it comes to games sometimes you have to hang on and fight through the learning curve, failure, and frustration before breaking through and truly enjoying a game. Texas Hold 'Em is a prime example and one that I've explored on this blog before. EVE Online comes to mind as a notorious example, as does Dwarf Fortress. Specifically it is Dawn of War 2 that's been bothering me lately.

In a previous post I expressed my dismay with real-time strategy games, their annoying communities, and my general lack of skill with the multiplayer aspect of the genre. Every so often I go back to Dawn of War and try again, get mad and keep it installed to play as my beloved Orks from time to time. I revisit this question partially because I recently purchased the latest expansion, Retribution, which so far has been sub-par at best. The nagging question, though, is at what point do you just stick it out? When do you grit your teeth and bear it, plant your iron grip until you start winning?

Certainly that's a question of personality, values, and overall grit. Some people live for the challenge of the game, other people just want to have fun. My feeling of late has been that there are enough challenges out here in the real world to deal with and it is generally not worth my time to struggle through the challenge of game unless the game is ruddy good.

On the other hand, however, fun is oftentimes amplified when it is gained at the expense of great pain and toil. It is much more rewarding to have a serious fight on your hands and prevail than to face a glassjawed opponent who will lay down the very moment you bring out the big guns. I would love to lead an army of Orks, stamping and shooting, over a mound of dead Space Marines after a trying and wearying battle and yell out an excited "WAAAGH!!".

The question, then, is that of measure which I will return to soon.

Another place where grip and guts are required is in one's fidelity to a game, especially of the online variety. It's no secret that I am practically married to my beloved LotRO. But like a real marriage it requires dedication! I find that when I look around the internets at those new games that pop up every month, with their glossy new graphics and "innovation", that it draws my eye away form Turbine's Middle-earth. When I follow the many excellent blogs that decry the fun still to be had in LotRO, I am excited to play and continue playing and to stick it out for many play sessions to come. And the time I have in the game is enjoyable and rewarding. However there is still a measure to be attained.

With a competitive game, like Dawn of War, that measure is a simple equation:

Time + Challenge = Reward + Enjoyment

Alright, that's poor algebra (I never made it in calculus, God save me) but I think you get it. The time you put in plus the challenge to be had should be equal to the rewarding feeling and enjoyment you reap. If it's not then you should back away slowly and have your WAAAGH!! elsewhere. With a fairly casual and non-competitive online game this equation equals out with relative ease; I can log in for an hour, play a few quests, see a beautiful sight, farm in the Shire, and log out with some modicum of enjoyment and accomplishment. The levels on either side of this scale are never very high, that is to say there is not much challenge and the reward is not so great, and I daresay that is part of the appeal. When the scales remain balance but are weighed down with greater challenge and greater reward it really works and those moments are worth sticking around for.

Some people get high off seeing the former side of that scale tipped unfavorably and then working their respective asses off to see it balanced. Others, like me, just want enough to feel like you've done something with your time. At the end of the day, sticking it out with a game is as subjective as the kind of pie you enjoy (even if your pie of choice is crumb cake).

The Battle for Teshio-gawa River

2011-04-25T08:49:00.002-04:00

Desperately trying to get those creative juices cooking...

Mjollnir breathed heavily and twisted the spike of his axe one final time. He spat, grunted, and lifted the axe off of the ground, resting in on his heavily padded shoulder again. The fight was over but he had the feeling it would be proceeded very soon. He and his men had been careless. In their joy at finding the island, and the river by which they would traverse it, they had been loud and obtrusive. As soon as they landed to make their first camp they had attracted the attention of a large group of woodsmen, foresters of some sort who were setting off for their days work.

What loud, carousing strangers were these, setting foot on their forbidden land? What barbarous fiends had interloped on their forest?
The woodsmen were not warriors, seemingly, but they fought with the berserker's rage, or so thought Mjollnir. The foresters had caught the Variags unaware and in their surprise one of them, a craftsman named Ulf, had been cut down by the woodsman who attacked with only their forestry axes. His screams filled the small camp before the Variags sprung up to action, donning helm and shield, sword and axe, howling like the fiends the small woodsmen believed them to be.

It was good to feel battle again; the Variags felt this deeply if they did not think it consciously. Many months on the frozen sea was not good for a fighting man, even one so disciplined and seaworthy as a Variag. They had made North and then East from the Finnmark after many weeks travel from the southern fjords. There they stopped and gathered what supplies could be found and shoved off, their longships laden with skins and water and mead and meats. "There is no land left unspoiled to the South," Tuude had said. "Christendom has taken our balls and our pride. It is time we found sweeter fruits to pluck!" And so they left in search of these fruits and now, two months later, they had found a fat land full of strange looking and hostile men.

"On me!" Mjollnir had shouted, and a score of his men fell in beside him. Their line hastily reformed, they charged in against the woodsmen who weaved in between the few Variags who had no heeded Mjollnir's call. Nevertheless the heathens strode in with long-legged gallops like warhorses and caught the remaining woodsmen in an open V formation. The slaughter was great.

By the time Mjollnir had gathered himself he knew that at least one or two of the woodsmen had made it out alive, judging only by the number of dead laying on the ground. The sound of groaning reached his ears. He turned and saw one of the woodsmen, wounded grievously in the side and missing part of his left leg, slowly reaching for a stray sword on the ground. Despite his deepest instincts to go and send the wounded man to be with his Fathers he waited, and watched. The woodsman, slowly and with great pain, took the Viking sword, planted its hilt on the ground as best he could and held it. There, he fell on that sword and slid through with naught but a soft grunt. Shortly thereafter he stopped moving.

"What curious, slant-eyed men are these Mjollnir?" one of the warriors asked. It was Heri with the long braided beard.

Mjollnir only shook his head. The move had unnerved him; was it bravery or cowardice that had moved the man to slay himself? A desire for death? Shame too great in defeat to live?

"I do not know," he said. "But if we are to stay in these lands and make our fortune we had better be prepared to kill them all, for if their laborers fight like this...Odin help us when we meet their warriors."

Real Sports Fans

2011-02-09T11:32:00.001-05:00

First, let us start with the impetus for this post.

I went to my usual, singular Atlanta Hawks' game of the season last night. Our Hawks took on Philadelphia's Seventy-Sixers, whose name I will never understand (oh wait...), and lost miserably. The tempo of the game was set pretty early on, as it took the Hawks about five minutes to score their first goal, which led to them trailing by 30 points towards the end of the first period (a differential they would not be able to make up). It was pretty brutal but unemotional as I am the most fairweather of Hawks fans, and NBA fans in general. However it's the same kind of crap you hate to see of any home team like, say, the Thrashers.

This kind of poor performance by a professional sports team brings out the real sport fans.

I should rephrase that previous statement: Any kind of poor performance by any professional sports team brings out the "real" sport fans. In short, real sport fans love to bitch...actually, real people love to bitch.

I wanted to use this b word for the duration of this post but, in an effort to keep it PG, the word employed shall be "whine" (quetch is another good one) henceforth.

So sitting in our luxurious, court-side seats, watching the Hawks get trounced, my fellow fans are not so much fans as they are out of work, out of shape coaches who have never actually held a coaching position in any kind or form (save, perhaps, on their kids' pre-k soccer team). Regardless of their utterly unqualified situation, they continue to belt out criticisms and poorly worded suggestions such as "move the ball!" or "screen defense!" or "that guy needs some counseling, he needs to stop whining and realize how good he is". While the galletazo continues, they just get more ornery, complaining about how bad the team sucks, what they continue to do wrong, how this is an utter disappointment, and how unbelievable it is that "they expect us to renew our season tickets when the team plays this way".

Perhaps such vocal disappointment is warranted when a winning franchise plays like slugs and you spent a certain amount of time and money to come and see them play. But when a losing franchise keeps losing is where the rubber meets the road. Somehow, the folks on the Atlanta Thrashers message boards have got my poor team's problems all figured out:

the coaching staff does not know how to make adjustments or produce results

the players are lazy and dispirited

the ownership will not put up the money to hire competent, competitive personnel

the team is too bad to support (save, apparently, for daily postings raging about how much they suck)

Even when the Thrashers do well the celebration is short.

So how much of this is warranted in sport? How much do we expect from a professional sport organization? What does it mean to be a true fan of a losing franchise? I don't have the answers to such questions, I just know people love to whine.

One thing I've learned from my time in LotRO is that "if you give a man a sack of gold he'll complain about how heavy it is". People in general are ridiculously whiney, but perhaps nonesomuch as online gamers. Every time content is released for LotRO, or really any other online game, there is a pretty clean 60/40 split for people that just know it will suck and that all the changes are stupid and the content is not enough. Politics will probably never be a positive thing in this country because everyone, pundits and voters alike, are too busy pissing and moaning to really get anything done. Even the seemingly grassroots activist election of so many Tea Party republicans this fall was largely the result of whining, and now there is already whining about those who were whined into office scarcely a month ago.

Maybe I'm too optimistic. Maybe the best kind of love is complaining about how this thing you love so much has to be improved again and again. Maybe it is beyond human capacity to enjoy something the way it is. Maybe it's an American thing: we have been pushing things in every conceivable direction nonstop for the last 150 years or so. I mean, Egypt sat under several oppressive regimes for a few good decades before doing anything about it. Maybe the revolution has just never stopped here and since we can't/won't overthrow our government (that was taken care of some time ago) we just try to revolutionize everything else.

I don't have any answers. All I know is that I may call my Thrashers to forecheck when they don't dump the puck deep enough on a powerplay, I may yell unsavory phrases at them when they give up the neutral zone or refuse to fight along the boards, I may even shake my head in sore disappointment when they blow a substantial lead, but the whining ends there. Games, sports especially, are meant to be enjoyed. So I will choose to utilize my pretension by complaining about complainers, not the things they complain about

A Chance Meeting

2011-02-04T11:49:00.002-05:00

"Hobble Gardenome! It is you! It is you indeed!"

The short, bearded man stopped and turned to face his shouter.

"Hobble...why, no one has called me that in years. Let me have a look at you," he replied. The shouter approached him with a broad grin plastered to his mouth. He looked old and weary; sunken face like a jack-o-lantern illuminated by his glowing smile, an otherworldly smile. He was tall and lanky, wearing a shabby tweed suit and a bowler cap tilted to the left. Mr. Gardenome did not recognize him. Was this a long acquaintance he'd just forgotten? A faceless client he'd passed on after contract was met? Some thief or confidence man out to trick him? His queer gaze gave away his dilemma and the skinny man's grin softened to a mere smile.

"Don't remember me, do you? No, I've lost a lot of weight, you see. I'm a little worse for wear after trouble and hard times," said he.

Mr. Gardenome felt his self-importance eek away as the realization crept upon him like a spider tip-toeing up his spine. The words came out softly, "Garn Blackman. By God it is you, isn't it?" Mr. Gardenome felt obliged to remove his tophat and place his round spectacles in his expensive coat pocket. His hand caught his watch-chain in the process and the timepiece snapped off, falling into a puddle of slush.

"Here, let me," said Blackman. He stooped and picked it up, handed it to Gardenome and dusted his hands off. A smile still adorned his face.

"Look at you," said Gardenome, "Let me buy you a cup of coffee!"

"Only for old time's sake and not for pity's," he replied. "You seem to think I'm worse off than I am."

"Not at all!" Gardenome worked up a smile, clapped Blackman on his back, and they walked down the cobblestone street to the nearest cafe. There they sat. Gardenome had Irish coffee, Blackman only a cup of drip. They sat quietly, each taking in the other for a moment before Gardenome spoke up again.

"What was it? The last I'd heard was cancer. Heard it from some old classmates."

Blackman nodded after a sip, "Cancer, indeed, then diverticulitis and some other GI problems. It was real trouble, I tell you. Didn't think my family'd stick it out but they did, and so did I. Beat the cancer, had half my stomach removed, a year or two of rest and now I'm healthy as a horse - or at least a horse that's had a race with cancer and some mild surgery." He chuckled.

Gardenome sat in silence at that; momentarily the humour was lost on him. It was too severe a situation to laugh at. But he started to laugh for politeness, and then it took. The laughter rose like a hill, burst from him and onto Blackman who could not help himself and cackled aloud, throwing his head back. Now it was not about a horse or cancer, it was about two friends long removed finding each other by chance on a slushy street corner in February. It was about that ability, seemingly lost to grown people who are wound too tightly in their own webs, of reconnecting with another soul with whom you once felt comfortable enough to lean on. The times before, memories of laughter and good cheer flooded like a broken levy and now the two friends were just as they had been; not a man of wealth buying a troubled friend a patronizing drink, but two boys lost in the sheer enjoyment of the other. Long after the laughter ended they talked, dwelling little on present troubles or past, but on the joys of now and the warm pleasure of things well remembered. They talked and talked. The one forgetting his important luncheon, the other his book club. They would talk through the afternoon, through three more rounds of coffee, and go home to their wives with full reports of an afternoon that was more lively than any they could each remember since the first snowfall.

Don't eat the cereal.

2011-01-08T13:31:00.001-05:00

“Hot dog!” he cried as he opened the box of cereal.

There was really nothing quite like brinner, that is “breakfast at dinner” for the uninitiated.

“A new maple candied robo walnut! Cool!” He pulled the trinket from the bottom of the box, exploding bits of cereal everywhere. It was some kind of something: a great steel nut, lightly engraved, with little gears and other bits sticking out of it. He set it on the table, tapped it with his spoon, and the gears began to spin. After a bit of fanfare and some grinding noises, out popped a small silver ball that rolled across the green paisley tablecloth.

He snatched it up, popped it in his mouth and soon his cheeks were bulging here and there as if the ball were flying all over, or he were poking his tongue randomly into the inside of his cheeks. It turns out the latter was true and he soon spat the little ball back out with a dumb smile on his face. It began to smoke. He smacked his lips smoothed his tongue over his lips as if it would somehow stop the rotten taste in his mouth.

He sniffed and soon began to cough. His eyelids drooped lazily. Seconds later his head hit the green paisley tablecloth and he was out.

At precisely the same moment as his head struck the table, the windows in the kitchen shattered, the front and back doors were blown open, a scream was heard elsewhere in the house, and the sounds of rumbling engines filled the room. About a dozen robots were rolling on heavy treads, their heads roughly the shape of walnuts. They surrounded him in the kitchen, paused as lights on their torso blinked rapidly in various colors, as if some kind of communication was happening, closed on him at once and scooped him up to carry him out of the house. One of the machines lingered behind in search. He pinched the machine-walnut and placed it in some carryall compartment where his bum should have been before leaving. The smoking silver ball rolled away.

Another Neu Yeer

2011-01-04T11:11:00.002-05:00

Well, here we are. 2 January, Twenty-Eleven. I'm playing Digital: A Love Story, waiting for a fake person to respond to a BBS message I didn't write, wishing modern operating systems had the option to look like an Amiga emulator. It's times like these you want to stop and evaluate where you are in life, to question the path your on and the direction that path is heading. Let us see if we can find out what it's like to be in the tweens and if it is, in fact, just as it sounds.

Spoiler alert: it is.

Truth be told, it doesn't seem like there's a lot going on up there in that garbage disposal mind of mine. There are a lot of vagaries about faith, life, and the future percolating in there, like sugar being eaten by yeast, but being intentional and conscious in engaging these things seems to get more difficult, if it ever was easy. Sometimes I feel like I just bound around from single point of inspiration to single point of inspiration, bare some half-connected moment with it, half digest it, and move on. This is the plight because there is some part of me searching my place in art and culture, a point at which I can regularly and comfortably create something I feel I'm meant to be creating, and share it with folks.

I had that once; I was in several bands and there was a great joy and fun in creating music (even seemingly pointless hardcore punk rock), presenting it to people, and having it be received with some enthusiasm. There seemed to be a small pocket of joy in each step of the process. There was community, even in that shallow fashion show called a "scene". It was good, especially for that time of my life.

In retrospect, I may have been looking for that place ever since.

But ultimately all purpose and inspiration comes from God. All motivation, all subcreation, all love comes from Him who first created. Trouble is that there is winding path to God (and by that I mean an intimate connexion to him) that I feel has gotten more convoluted in recent years and for which I am not ready to let Him show me the way through. Even writing that sounds silly and sounds as though I've made it out to be a far more difficult thing than it actually is.

How would Hunter Thompson handle this situation?

Do quite a lot of illegal drugs and then write about the experience. Unhelpful.

So the point loops itself back around to the wisdom of Sir Henry Rollins, who said "Do it". But doing it is hard, just as sitting down and listening to God is. There is the urge to reason yourself out of the discomfort and do something immediate and self-gratifying and easy (like, I don't know, play video games or drink beer).

So then, is it discipline I need? Simple, natural, old fashioned discipline that says "suck it up and get on with it! It's not as fun as Streemerz but it's good and right and of far greater consequence!"? I could continue this monologue and find it loop round and round so I'll save myself and you, poor reader, the trip.

A New Year is full of promise. It's a time for all of us, even a cynic like me, to put down the feeling of mundanity and fatalism and pick up a breath of fresh air; to vacate the sprawl, both literally and figuratively. And that, by God, is just what I'll do.

No more dead shopping malls.

Gram, part 8

2010-12-21T14:40:00.002-05:00

Well, now! It's been a while since we've last heard from Gram. I am actually march farther along than I have let on but here is the next bit for your reading pleasure. I'll post more in the coming weeks to catch us up.

It was not much, certainly not by dwarf standards, but it seemed a lively enough place. It was outcropped by a few small hovels with roofs of thatch, placed directly outside a large defensive wall of tall logs (each perhaps 20 feet high), shaved at the top to sharp points. Apparently the town had grown larger than its original design. It was nestled in the woods, set against the backdrop of some small mountain or large hill on the far side, a speck in between two mountain ranges. Beyond the town, Gram could scarcely make out open fields upon hills where farming and herding was done.

There seemed to be little activity out of doors. There were at least two loggers making their way in, axes resting on their shoulders, barely stooped from the wearisome day's work. There was no hesitation for Gram. Almost without thought he made his way beyond the edge of the woods, over a small bridge, and straight on into the town proper. There were no guards to stop him at the gates. The first man to notice him, a female of only a few years, only stared at him. He felt her gaze, keenly aware of any presence now, and turned to meet her look. Their eyes locked for a few long seconds and the girl turned and bolted in doors.

The interior of the town was not so different from the outside. Small homes of wood and thatch, the obvious signs of workmanship, fires, kilns, ovens and the like, and one large house set in the middle of it all. Now that he was here, Gram realized his haste; he'd no idea what to do next, and so he kept walking. With more speed than he would have liked, more eyes turned on him, but nothing happened. Who was this squat fellow with a pack larger than himself and a boar on his shoulders? Gram could sense their dismay, perhaps even their fear. Their stares bore into him like screws into wood; he began to sweat. He had reached the center of the town and by now all of it seemed fixed on him, eyes in the dark peeping out, ready to pounce upon this small rodent for their supper. Had he made a mistake? Should he have kept moving?

Gram would not be intimidated so. He dropped the boar from his back and spun round, looking at the many townsfolk who seemed eager to close in upon him. Before anyone could act, a small, furry creature approached (a dog, Gram wanted to call it), but did not attack. No, it stopped immediately at the dead boar and began to sniff it all over. It even licked at the dead animal's flanks. A sudden realization struck Gram; it was not him they were staring at at all!

"I, ehm," he started, just loud enough for the nearest men to hear him. "I...am new to this country...I was wandering and saw your...lovely...place, here. I hoped I might stay a while. I bring you this...boar as a token of my good will, you see."

Two women in long dresses immediately came forward and took the boar away, cutting his awkward speech off. A man approached him. He bore visible authority but a kindness was about him, Gram deemed. He wore only a brown and red tunic with matching leggings. A mustache hid his upper lip. He reached out a hand to Gram.

"Hail, master dwarf! I am well met indeed!" came the formal greeting.

It took Gram only a moment to snap to, fully in business mode now.

"It is I who am well met, good master! I am called Gram and might I say this is a charming home you have here." He gestured towards the large, central building.

The man laughed briefly before replying. "Were it my home I would thank you for your great consideration, so masterful a craftsman no doubt, to be complimenting a humble dwelling. Nay, my home is thither," he waved vaguely at some place beyond Gram's site. "This is our town hall and the home of the Master of the town. I am called Marsden, liaison and assistant to the Master. I welcome you to Ironvale."

Gram bowed deeply for the courtesy of Marsden. Ironvale. That was a strong sounding name. The dwarf felt an immediate, odd calm come over him. Yes, this place would do indeed.

Thrashing Like A Maniac

2010-12-16T12:02:00.002-05:00

I guess part of the appeal of thrash and the nagging nostalgia felt by all of us (especially those, like me, who didn't live through it the first time) is that guys in thrash bands seem to have it all together. All they do is drink and thrash. It's perpetual youth, it's stupid, it's irresponsible, it's empty but they don't seem to know it's empty. They just keep thrashing and drinking.

The real hell of it is that they don't have to stop, and so they don't. Sure, they get wives and kids and mortgages and savings accounts and, probably, accountants, but then they hit the road and they're 19 again and thrashing and drinking (though probably drinking less). The thought immediately crosses the mind, however, as to why they do this. Certainly it is fun and I quite enjoy thrashing and drinking on occasion, but I wonder when the thrashing and drinking become a cover up for that crushing feeling of remorse when you realize that you live in parking lots and the most important thing in your life is a guitar that's probably worth less than a thousand dollars and fans that only want to talk you so they can show off how much they know about thrashing and drinking.

Or maybe there is more to it than that. Maybe it is a purer lifestyle, in theory if not in moral practice. It's a life dedicated to an art form you believe in, holding no regard for material wealth (in most cases); a modern traveling skald bringing his music to the hopeless masses for a dash of fun on a Thursday night in November. Maybe these guys have it more together than they seem. This is probably not the case, but at least they are having fun and living the dream. Hopefully the dreams run dry later rather than sooner. After the dream, it seems, there's not much but a blur of a youth spent thrashing and drinking.

Metallica is the prime example since they have been so open with their issues (or at least had the only issues worth filming). What's left when you wake up drunk in a pile of money made from thrashing? Why, you spend it and then you yell at your drummer and maybe, just maybe, you'll reinvestigate your childhood, figure out why you can't stop thrashing and drinking, and then stop thrashing and drinking and make bad thrash music.

So leave it to the real thrashers, the youths and the lifers, to provide a soundtrack by which to thrash and drink. Leave it to the professionals.

A Busy Day

2010-12-10T11:14:00.003-05:00

I left my keys on the desk intentionally. No real reason, I just felt I should leave them there. It was to be an adventurous day, a windy day, windy enough to throw caution into it. So I left home without the keys. I got on the bus and rode downtown. I didn’t look before crossing the street and I didn’t wait for the crossing light to change.

I was only honked at once.

I walked through that seedy neighborhood where Julie was mugged instead of going two blocks up and around to avoid it like I usually do. There were no muggers there today.

I went to the donut shop on the other side of that neighborhood and ate three donuts all by myself. I bummed a cigarette off of one of the bakers and smoked while I did it. I had never smoked a cigarette before. I would later have a candy bar for lunch.

I skipped work without phoning in. I decided to go and see a horror movie instead. That proved to be less adventurous and more foolish because I will probably have nightmares tonight. When my editor called and left a message wondering where I was and what the hell I thought I was doing and how I had better be sick I did not call him back.

I was too busy playing craps behind the cinema to hear the phone ring or check the message until later that day. I won $76 and used some of it to buy the candy bar.

I used the rest to get a tattoo of a heart on my left foot. It didn’t hurt too bad and the heart is really cool. It’s kind of artsy and abstract, something I will hopefully not regret.

At dinner time I had a hotdog on the way to the fine art museum. I spent a total of 15 minutes in the permanent gallery. I only went to touch one of the sculptures that I had always wanted to touch but hadn’t the nerve to do so.

I came back home to write you this note so you would know where I was and know that I am extending my adventurous day into two days. Because I did not have the keys I had to come in through the window. I’ll have it replaced when I return. Hopefully I will get this out of my system and return to normalcy by Thursday. By the time you read this I will most likely be on the train upstate where I mean to get drunk and go skydiving, in that order.

Don’t worry, it will be tandem skydiving and they probably won’t let me do it drunk anyway.

Regards.

A Rotten Shame

2010-12-07T17:55:00.002-05:00

There is a difficulty in keeping a blog, or an media for that matter, and the crux of it all is consistency. I find myself trapped by this repetition in writing, and in many other things, and it's a cycle I hope to break very soon. It goes something like this:

Write consistently
Interrupted by life/discouraged by sub-par writing/discouraged by a lack of inspiration
Miss a month (or two)
Continue not to write due to shame of having not written anything/continue not to blog due to shame of not being consistent with the blog
Get inspired
Resolve to write more/better
Return to part 1

A friend of mine convinced me that any writing is better than no writing at all. It's one of those things that I believe in but can't actualize in my life. There is a laundry list of these things that are not worth going into at present. The most asinine part of it is the shame factor. I am, sadly, a creature wrought with shame at any given hour of the day via any impetus but not writing, or not doing anything for that matter, because I am ashamed of its quality or because I am ashamed that I've not been "faithful" to the art/practice is something so beyond foolish that I have not got the skills to express it.

So at this point I would like to say that I am resolved to writing more/better, to putting finger to key and writing, no matter how pointless or silly it is. I'm not going to say that because that is scary and the kind of pressure that keeps from writing in the first place. All I shall say is that I will write. At some point, for some period of time, at any level quality, I will write.

And hopefully that will push me to write more...

and more...

...and...
...more...

...and more...

The Good Ol' Hockey Game...

2010-10-15T07:48:00.000-04:00

Last night was opening night at Philips Arena here in Atlanta; Blueland, after a pretty bad preseason, was packed with rabid hockey fans and non-hockey fans who happened to get tickets from their bosses. It was a grand spectacle, but a little like trying to ride a bike after letting the two-wheeler collect dust in the garage for a good while. Following the action was, at times, an ADD nightmare. Remember the names and numbers of new and returning Thrashers unfitting for my neatly designed mind. The distraction of my fellow fans, so eager to spew out the hockey trivia they had been hoarding all summer, was annoying.

I would not have it any other way (save, perhaps, in Montreal with a big beer and a full plate of poutine).

The Thrashers performed beautifully, as a team now and not as assistants to a big name burdened with the weight of a city full of hockey fans. They worked the way they were supposed to work; supporting each other, making plays for the better of the team and not for the sake of statisticians.

It was a sweet, sweet victory and an interesting turn: in the last home game of the previous season the Thrashers shut out the previous years Stanley Cup winners, the Pittsburgh Penguins. Season opener we beat the best team in the Eastern Conference. The sad truth is that a night later the Thrashers would lose to Tampa Bay (who are having a great start...but still...)

Waiting for Darius

2010-09-29T14:45:00.010-04:00

It used to be that I was not a fan of 4X games. I liked real-time strategy, bro. I needed action, waves of zergs being chewed up by Terran gunfire, endless harvesting and endless rushes. Trouble is, I don't think I really like RTS games. The action-orientation, cultish community, and general mindlessness of it all left be bored and/or overwhelmed. In fact the only RTS games that I've played or owned in the last 10 years have been of the Dawn of War series, and that's mainly because I simply love the Warhammer 40,000 world. Even DOW2, which I thought would be my return to RTS greatness since I didn't have to play "sim base" any more, left me with little more than a great urge to run around my neighborhood yelling, "WAAAGH!!"

I really did like the single player campaign but multiplayer was too much of an e-peen grind. I didn't have the natural talent to compete, the time to get better, or the patience to lose with any sort of quiet dignity.

Part of the reason for my growing distaste for the genre is the fact that there has been little-to-no innovation. I know this is obscene coming from a professed MMO junky. But I just can't stand the endless war microcosm of building a base, harvesting resources, rushing units out, getting killed or retreating. The other reason is that I'm just plain no good at them. Even in my old age, I have the hardest time thinking things through and following a plan. It's a miracle when I can make even a close guess at my opponents plan and act accordingly. I am also a poor chess player.

But I'm coming back around to the 4X thing. I've always liked city-building games and I like the expansion aspect of RTS games. Basing things by turn gives the hamster in my brain a bit more time to turn the wheel and there are options for victory other than following a build order with bushido-like discipline, or watching replays and copying someone else's strategy rote.The dam has finally broken; I bought Civilization V (henceforth called 'Civ 5').

I'm still finding my footing; I'm not that good yet. In fact, I have no reference for what being a "good" Civ player means. All I know is what history has already proven and what Civ has successfully copied from world events: might makes right.

Before going further, I feel I should say that I've never played a Civ game. I am glad for this because, from many sources, I have heard that Civ 5 has the most intuitive interface, snappiest graphics, and is the only version with a fully animated "leader" screen by which George Washington can talk shit right to your face. If I'm not mistaken it's the only version to utilize a hex grid, which I like.

I am currently at the end of my first full game and defeat is nigh. The once mighty empire of Greece has been reduced to two small colonies and the Louvre (culture bomb much?). My only ally and presumed savior, Darius of Persia, is hitting me up for money, even though he has at least thrice the cities. What happened? Where did we go wrong?

Strike 1: The Cruel Hand of Fate
Basically, lady luck screwed me on this one. My starting position was on the coast of a small continent directly south of China. To my west was the rapidly expanding, no crap-taking America. By my very position I was forced into a place of conflict and opposition; another example of historical precedent as many countries are dead in the water by simple location. So, instead of building up my society in peace and harmony with my neighbors I was forced in a thousand year smear campaign and inevitable war.

On the other hand, the great Ramses of Egypt had an entire landmass to himself and thousands of years to grow and explore with no one in his way save the fledgling city-state of Dublin, whom he quickly allied with. More on that later.

Strike 2: The Fence
In no small part did I buy Civ 5 thanks to the impressive demo.The lads at Fraxis did a fine job of giving you just enough to want more and, as well know, Civ games are hopelessly addictive (and MMOs get all the bad press, sheesh!). So my first few games of the demo were a walk of cake and I had most of my opponent empires on the run in under 100 turns.

In my first full game, I flirted with the idea of the peace loving approach: keeping my neighbors appeased with my luxurious trade goods and bribes, free to let my resources and research flourish into the 21st century and beyond unopposed and unhindered. Very quickly reality set in as my first warrior unit was killed by barbarians and Wu Zetian made a fine barrage of snarky quips that drove me to the point of "You're about to get it, sister!"

Trouble was that I was expanding too late and had already begun investing in research that was going to benefit a sea-trade empire, much like the real Greece. Sitting on the fence between peace and war nearly resulted in my undoing. The decision must be made early on and the decision is almost stupidly obvious; the person with the most and biggest guns is going to win. Another sad fact of history painfully adopted into Civ.

Strike 3: Picking a Fight with the Bully
When Ramses, the current superpower of the known world, approaches you and says, "Sorry I attacked your ally. I didn't really want to so hopefully we can still be friends" you don't reply with, "*&^% you, bro! You are way out of line!". Vienna simply isn't worth the trouble. But that's what I did. I was cocksure and proud after a massive victory over America and had no thought of the furious vengeance the lord of Egypr was about to unleash from a continent away.

I spent the next 100+ turns getting abused by this pyramid building, sand sucking fiend until he finally gave me a respite (no peace negotiations would be held) after all of my cities were taken. Simply put, he was further along the technology line than I and pikemen don't stand much chance against warships. Even with my former and future enemy, George Washington, on my side all looked grim.

And then, like the archangel Gabriel coming in the night, Darius arrived with his glorious beard and spectacularly fine Persian accent.

His empire? Huge. His army? Fearless. His beard? Unmatched. He was to be my shining light, the cure to my three opponents here on the far side of the world. I got a little antsy as he deliberated and built his forces for the great and glorious sack of Thebes and I was tired of the trash talking China, so I swiftly and deftly took them down. 30 turns later, with all of China now firmly on my side with courthouses and all that a captured people could want, Egypt strikes again. Sweeping in with anti-tank guns and artillery he stole all of the hard work I had done in the former Chinese state, sending me reeling back to Athens to lick my wounds.

Okay, he would come after I promised to fight Washington. Even though he was breathing down my neck right alongside the Pharaoh, it would be okay: Darius would come, beard and all.

Suffice to say, I was disappointed when, less than 100 turns later, Egypt arrived with gunships and tanks. Athens burned, I was reduced to rubble; only Corinth and Argos, so far away, still stood. Technically I was still at war with America and Egypt as well. Darius turned out to be a paper tiger: if he had done any damage against my enemies it was not to be seen. My savior had failed and, to add insult to injury, he came up less than 10 turns later asking me for some gold. He's a real douche.

I mean keep Greece going, at least rushing through a few dozen turns or so just to see what happens. Egypt keeps proposing ridiculous peace treaties with me. I'd rather lose my land to tanks than give let him whittle me down to one sparse colony and some fishing boats.

As a final note, I really appreciate the historicity of the Civ game. For examples, my Athens fell to the Egyptians. Countless cities and settlements have fallen to empires over the years, oftentimes losing their cultural and historical identities in the process, resulting in new(ish) ethnic groups and nations. Former colonies are cut off and mingle with the indigenous folks, producing subsequent communities and breathing on the continuity of life and nationhood.

Next time, however, Ramses is going to me eating his stupid hat.

"We're in a fix and no mistake."

2010-09-16T13:29:00.000-04:00

There's comes a point in all MMO experiences where you just feel plain lost. You've completed a large percentage of the game's content, your regular groups aren't doing much, you're not terribly thrilled at the prospect of trying new classes; in short, the hobby isn't quite what it was.

Generally when this happens I step back. Other things in life have taken my attention or other games have sprung up, new and old, to tap into my beloved gaming time. Thereafter the interest in the MMO (LotRO, in my case) comes out of rigor mortis and is fresh again in some regard. A month ago, however, I was trying to siphon some enjoyment out of LotRO and it was like trying to find a way into a brick wall.

I don't mean to go into great details on the experience but any gamer can tell you the story; there is some part of you that just has to go back. Like Jack and the Island, or Harry Potter and unnecessary trouble, you are simply drawn to the thing in the hopes of returning to that initial state of enjoyment where everything was beautiful and nothing hurt.

The trouble is that you can't go back.

Anyone whose reread their favorite book, watched their favorite movies over and over again, ate platefuls of their favorite dish, or moved back in with their parents knows that almost always that innocent beginning is lost forever. This is why we're always looking for the next big thing that give us a little satisfaction.

They key to sustained enjoyment, I've found, is not beating your head against that wall until you die or a brick comes loose, but to wait. After a while you'll notice something new about the wall; new curvatures, colors, or even ways around it. So it is with LotRO (and many other games I play or books I read): after a week, a month, or more I find new life in my addiction. It isn't some senseless drive that pushes me to continue adventuring and exploring my digital Middle-earth, it's the fun of it. For me, at present, is is the LotRO store, Enedwaith, and the continued leveling of my Guardian.

It is a point of irritation for me, this vacuous MMOG crowd, so prone to bitching and devouring. They descend upon the latest game, ingest a surface level of content, complain about how short, boring, and terrible the game is, and move on to the next clone. The best is when they stick with a game but continue to defame it at every opportunity. I realize that this annoyance is to do with my personality; I am slow to commit but once I do I am as loyal as an orphan dog newly taken in. There is also something to be said for sticking with a game and wringing out every once of content and enjoyment, forming bonds with other players and growing the community. That's the real pleasure of online gaming.

Howell Nails and the Battle at Grange

2010-09-14T12:32:00.001-04:00

Over a month and no posts! What a lazy guy I am. In truth I have several stories in the works but each is very slow going; Gram has yet to find his place and wake up the dwarves, Gemini is yet to be discovered, the Robot is yet to find himself. Maybe one day all of these pieces will come together. In the meanwhile, here is a very rough piece, inspired by my recent viewing of The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford, along with many other westerns, Nick Cave, and David Eugene Edwards.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Wyoming
1870

“Hey Templeton?”

“I’m busy, Steven.”

“Just...hey, listen. Why’s the Boss so spooked? I mean, we done jobs like this ten fold over, yeah? So why’s he over there goin’ over every little thing with the rest of the boys?”

John Templeton stopped whetting his knife and paused, staring off into the black of night beyond their small camp. He spit into what was left of the fire and wiped his mustache; he was a patient man and one needed patience enough for discourse with Steven Hollister.

“Steven, I do believe you talk just to hear yourself talk. You know damn well what’s going on out there. All these mining towns have sprung up out here, seemingly out of the ground, but there’re only a handful left what can be knocked over by the likes of us without much trouble. And you also know damn well just what’s got the Boss riled up.”

Steven’s head lolled from side to side, considering. Finally he said, “Well yes I do, by God. McRoberts’ out there as well but who’s he? No damned mick can take on Nails and his gang.”

“If you’re so sure why’d you ask anyway, Steven?”

“Well I ain’t so sure, am I?”

Templeton sighed and mastered his growing frustration before continuing, “If’n you don’t know, Nails and McRoberts have got some history.”

***

“You mean to say that the Boss was a federal marshal? I don’t believe that for a damn minute.”

They were riding now, slowly across the rocky plain that would bring them to their target next day.

“By God, Steven, but you are a peckerwood. How else do you think I met Howell Nails?”

“But you was on the chain gang for...” realization slowly struck him, like water coming from a glacier. He laughed for his own ignorance and was quiet. Templeton was thankful for it.

***
“Say, Boss?” Steven was speaking again.

They were camped five miles south of Grange, the mining town they were poised to rob the next day. Howell Nails had chosen thirty of the most foolish and dog-loyal killers and thieves in the plains to assist him in job that was not meant to yield a lot of cash. Rumours had been running wild among the gang, that the Boss was going to be digging into his own coffers to pay the promised amount to each surviving man but no one was sure why. He had only himself, John Templeton, his closest confidant and friend (his “Lieutenant”, he called him), and several bottles of whiskey to keep his men in check.

“Say, Boss, me and Johnny here have been having the most enlightenin’ conversation today.”

“Spell ‘enlightening’ for me, Hollister,” said Nails with a smile. Templeton could not stifle his laugh. Steven forced a chuckle.

“Alright, you got me. But you know a fancy education out aways east in some big city ain’t amount to much out here.”

“Alright yourself, Steven. You know I’m only having a joke with you.”

“Alright, alright. But like I said, we were having the most interesting talk about you and McRoberts and Grange, about federal marshals and Louisiana.”

Nails stopped prodding the fire and tossed the stick down. He gave Steven a long stare. The three men sat around a very small fire, the largest they thought they could make without giving their position away. The fire was set a small ways apart from the main camp of men, now sipping whiskey in hushed whispers against the gloaming light. Most were too anxious to sleep; Nails would not sleep at all that night.

“Mister Templeton told you all of that, did he?” Steven nodded, Nails spat on the ground. He looked at John Templeton, “And why would Mister Templeton do all of that?”

“Seemed only right for...Mister Hollister to know what he was getting into.”

“And what happens when Mister Hollister tells the rest of the boys what’s coming tomorrow?”

Templeton gave Steven one last look, making one final consideration before affirming his judgement. “Because Steven isn’t going to say a word. Right?”

Fear grew on Steven immediately. No longer were these two men bandits, rebels with only a modicum of cause like Jesse James or Hoodoo Brown, but they had quickly become something more dangerous. Steven felt they would have shot him down if he had batted his eyelash the wrong way in that moment.

“No...shit, no, Johnny. I ain’t gonna tell nobody. Hell, I don’t think half these boys would care anyway, crazy and stupid as they are. They just need a target, is all. No matter what it is, you see, just something to fight.”

Templeton laughed. “See, Howell? This is what I mean. Steven here’s more perceptive than he lets on; thought he might make a good fit as part leader of this here...expedition. Anyway you slice, we need a prettier face up front.”

Nails laughed again and shook his head. He didn’t like the idea, but Templeton was better with people he was, especially these country folk who wanted more than anything to escape their shovelling lives and become outlaws, or something like that. Steven joined in the laughter and was followed by Templeton.

“And Steven,” he said with subsiding laughter, “My wife called me Johnny so you don’t get to.”

The laughter stopped.

***
Next morning the gang treated itself to a breakfast of boiled oats and bacon. “Oats for the stomach, bacon for the arms,” claimed Nails. After a brief rest, and more than a few drinks of water to wash away the previous night’s drinking, the men began to saddle up. Howell Nails found himself next to Steve again.

“Boss, one thing I can’t figure. Most reckon this can’t be the most...profitable job, what with the town in question and the state of things as they is with that Grant in office. Fact, nothing’s been much good since the War...” he trailed for a moment before coming back to the point, “Why is it we need so many boys? There some kind of serious law in this town? Lots o’ deputies and whatnot?”

Nails sniffed and looked around, “No, Steven, there ain’t much law in Grange. In fact from all I’ve heard there ain’t no law in Grange. I’ve no wish to hear any more of your questions so I’ll just make right for it: we’re not going to Grange to rob a bank. You say nothing’s been good since the War ended. Well, I’m sorry for you Steven because we’re going to make our own.”

He mounted up and spurred his horse to a trot before Steven could put the pieces together.

I, Robot (Resisting Arrest)

2010-07-25T21:11:00.004-04:00

"Come out, Robot. We have you surrounded! Come out with your hands up!"

Helmet pressed harder against the wall he hid behind. They did indeed have him surrounded; police cars cornered off each intersection of the block and a helicopter swirled overhead. They waited, waited for him to make his move or to stop his resistance. This was the moment of decision, where the Robot would have to end his now three hour police chase. The jig was up, they would say, the Rubicon crossed. He had provided a good fight but there was little left to do. It was time to turn himself in.

Or not.

Fighting all the fear and trepidity welling up inside his metallic chest, Helmet pivoted out from behind the apartment building that barely hid his frame, much to the relief of the residents. He dove out into the street in an attempt to dodge any police fire or something (Helmet wasn't really sure, it just seemed the right thing to do). He crushed a few dozen square yards of asphalt and knocked over no less than three telephone poles and endangered an overpass in the process.

"Shit, here he goes again," was the response from the police captain. "Open fire!"

Again the brave fools of the Atlanta Police Department released a blaze of hot lead against their monstrous steel perpetrator, but it may as well have been a window washer trying to do his job in a rain storm; an exercise in futility. Helmet charged on, away from his assailants and finished the job of destroying the overpass in the process. Most major roadways and surface streets in a 20 mile radius had been abandoned since the start of the chase so there was little danger of manslaughter but the city was quickly approaching the point of disrepair. The police heard the loud, low grumbling that must have been his voice. It was unintelligible but he might as well have been yelling "You'll never take me alive, coppas!" as he fled the scene, stomping down Monroe Drive and clipping the side of a strip mall. Bits of concrete and glass rained down upon the abandoned cars in the parking lot.

"Captain," started one of the officers.

"I know," he replied with growing irritation, "Shut the hell up."

*****

Click-clack, click-clack, click-clack.

Noise, awful noise rang in his head.

Click-clack, click-clack, click-clack.

The same sound over and over. What was it?

The Robot stirred groggily. He could not move, neither could he see. Panic struck him momentarily, then surprise at his own emotion, then the realization that he could not see because his eyes were closed. He opened them. Much to his relative surprise (he had not reason not to believe he was where he was) he was bound, tied down to some strange and heavy slab in a very confined place. He deemed it too dark to determine his actual location. The Robot blinked and the room turned green. Suddenly he could see that there was not much to his little space; it seemed to be built just large enough to contain him. The walls of this box, if box it was, were adorned with curving inlays and strange symbols he did not understand.

His panic had faded. He felt rather calm but could not decide what to do next. Somehow he was stuck in this box with a damned clicking sound looping over and over in his head every few minutes.

‘Well, let’s see...’ he thought.

With minimal effort he lifted his arm and the strap crossing his arms and chest snapped off.

‘That wasn’t so bad.’

Next he bent his knee, which touched with the roof of his box and caused the second strap to pop off with a twang. He wondered what came next.

Click-clack, click-clack, click-clack.

At long last he verbalized. To you or I it would have sounded like a whale gargling wet cement but the meaning was something like ‘That bloody noise...’ Panic began to rise up in him again. The Robot felt trapped. His eyes searched the pitch black space, flipping this way and that for some kind of way out. His eyes stopped on some symbols he could read. Helmet it read in the bright green of his nightvision.

‘Helmet’ he thought, ‘What could that mean?’

This new information distracted him only slightly from the task at hand. Remembering that he was meant to be panicked he swung his great arm up and punched the roof of the box. It gave immediately, leaving a large cracking hole above him and bits of rubble tumbling down. The effect did not register quickly but after a moment or two he punched again and then kicked and then punched until a flurry of blows dug away at the roof of the box and into whatever lay above him. Out of patience and thinking there was room enough, he sat up quickly. Earth shattered and crumbled away, up and up went his torso and within moment desperately bright light blinded him. The Robot shut his eyes and emitted a horrible moan. He went to shield his eyes with his hand instinctively but could not get them out of his box.

Click-clack, click-clack, click-clack.

This bondage was soon remedied as something struck him and with a start he popped out of the box, eyes still closed, startled by whatever had attacked him. With another great moan, this time for effort, the Robot rose to his feet shedding earth and concrete. Great relief took him for his new freedom and the ability to rub his eyes. He remembered something. Blinking, the Robot now saw his surroundings properly; he had risen from a massive hole in the ground. His attacker was not some unseen enemy but a train; he had been lying underneath a train track. Robot rubbed the back of his head with a large metallic hand, causing a great scraping sound, as he focused on the train that had hit him. The first two cars were tipped over and strange, tiny things were running away from it. It was lettered on the side with MARTA. His head hurt so he kept rubbing it.

‘Head...Helmet...I am Helmet,’ the thought struck him like lightning, ‘Helmet is me!’

Overjoyed by his new sense of identity and freedom, Helmet took to exploring his new surroundings.

Muster the Brohirrim!

2010-07-11T23:13:00.000-04:00

Where now the jeep and yeah dudes? Where is the airhorn that was blowing?
Where is the visor and the pink polo and the bright bleached hair flowing?
Where is the hand on the beer pong, and the iPhone glowing?
Where is the spring semester and the hazing and the frat house lawn growing?
They have passed like rain on the mountain, like a wind in the meadow;

The Great Saboteur

2010-07-08T13:29:00.000-04:00

‘...but first, let us toast our great saboteur! To Coster!’

The small group of dwarves cheered and greeted their saboteur with claps on the back as they began to shuffle into their great ale hall. Coster was not at all pleased with this, hating the attention, as the tavern under Thorin’s Hall was especially crowded with holiday travelers and merrymakers. He smiled uncomfortably and looked around. The burglar didn’t care for these dwarves, but their ale was quite good.

‘Marsden! Marsden Cooper!’ came a low shout from across the tavern.

Coster felt his heart miss a beat. He kept moving with the scourge of Ale Association members until another dwarf grabbed his arm.

‘Marsden! What are you doing with this lot?’

‘Do you know this fellow, Coster?’ asked Jónar.

He looked at Jónar and then to the other dwarf.

‘I fear this chap might be confused. Half a moment, fellows,’ he replied.

This seemed to satisfy them and they proceeded into the ale hall with no further questions. Coster stepped aside and drug this newly come dwarf to a darkened table in the corner.

‘Marsden, what is going on? Why are you consorting with Jónar and his lot?’

‘It is good to see you, Usi,’ Coster smirked.

Realizing his discourteous behavior Usi, son of Osmo, rose and bowed with typical Longbeard formality. He took his chair and began his questioning anew.

‘You cannot seriously be in league with this foolish Ale Association, can you? This tomfoolery is Dourhand business or I’m a toad!’ Usi bore the honor of his lineage, a hardy smith from the Lonely Mountain now working to maintain the hardfought peace of the Ered Luin. ‘When I’d heard you were coming West with my father I said, “Grand! We could use a Man with a mind for business here” but now I question my own judgement. You have been off gallivanting and fighting, even to Moria! I shudder to think of what you found there.’

Coster held up his hand calmly, again growing wary of prying eyes. He stood and said in diplomatic fashion, ‘This is no way for two old acquaintances to get on, my good dwarf. Let me get you something...’

With that he fetched two more of the seasonal brews prepared in the tavern, much to the liking of Usi. Then he explained it all: Marsden he was no more, that name left behind with his life in Esgaroth. Usi did not understand but obliged his old friend just the same. Coster had no ill will against the little folk, nor necessarily their brewing craft, and though he held the dwarves in high regard from his time in Lake-town he knew that Jónar was an ass of the worst sort. Nonetheless, a businessman Coster remained. The Ale Association had fantastic brews and the most spectacular ale hall to be found outside of Erebor.

‘In addition,’ he said, ‘Surely an old craftsman like you can appreciate the spirit of competition. And it is a healthy way to exercise my less...tactful compulsions.’

‘Aye, draining beer kegs and accosting my kinfolk! Healthy indeed!’ Usi was not pleased and purposely forewent the Burglar’s new name. ‘I worry for you, Marsden. ‘Twere not for just gold you went away, nor for your entry to Moria. What did you find there?’

Coster was silent for a time and seemed to only be thinking of his drink. After a while he spoke with a forced smile. ‘That is a tale for another day, my friend.’

He rose and began to leave, saying ‘My best regards to your father’, drained his mug and entered the ale hall.

[My.LotRO mirror]

Gram, part 7

2010-06-29T17:39:00.003-04:00

Next day, Gram woke up feeling pleasantly refreshed but wet. He could not figure how this odd moisture, these little droplets of water, had come to cover his back and the grass around him; it had not rained in the night and there was no stream nearby. He decided such questions should remain in their proper place, that is away from him. For all its space, the wide world had its annoyances.

He rose and noted his surroundings; the grove, the stream at its flank, and some kind of fruit that had fallen off of the trees. Gram stooped and picked up the round, red thing, sniffed it and took a bite. He was famished from the prior days long walk. The fruit was crisp and its juices dripped into his beard. The dwarven diet consisted mostly of meat, traded from men or the rare dwarf who managed to keep purchased cattle alive in The Homes, and fungus. Toadstools and other mushrooms kept well in the dim and fortified the hardiest of dwarf-workers. Bread and other baked good fit into the regiment as well, when flour could be counted on, but fruits were a rare treat, only brought in when the trade caravans had some left in season.

Gram savored the apple but still felt a bit peckish and so he had several more and stuffed the rest of them into his pack. The sun was shining and a crisp, winter breeze blew in from the east, down off the mountain. Today would be a better day.

After a fortifying drink of water from the stream he started off, southwards over the low lands of the mountains. His feet carried him over hill and dale, smattered with lush grasses turned newly brown for the winter season. To a bird passing overhead he would have appeared a strange little thing: a stumpy round person with squat legs and massive pack towering over his head. An ant carrying its winnings home to the colony. Gram marched through more groves of trees, and over one more little stream before the landscape began to change.

The mountains seem to recede eastwards, to his left, and a large forest came to sweep in and overtake the lower foothills there. It looked to Gram like a mass of bugs swarming some large, fallen prey. Straight on and to his right, the land dipped away steeply into a large valley below. The next few days saw him passing through this land uninterrupted. He also found that the maps had been wrong; it was not all flat land out southways, beyond the mountains, at least not until after this escarpment. Fogeye and her mountain range seemed to be on some kind of plateau. The sight was intriguing to Gram. He pulled a small blank book, a rare thing most dwarves would never use, and a shard of coal from a pocket of his pack and documented the instance.

No sense in going on this extended trip without something to bring back, he thought. And with that, his excitement overcame him and he rushed to the edge of the plateau.

Gram took a breath and dropped his pack, for the view was simply stunning. The escarpment was far steeper than he had guessed, but there were paths leading down in many directions. In his mindless haste he had managed to miss a river further south that swept around and met the edge. The streams he had so admired had somehow become a raging river and the river a waterfall, far grander than those that served as the water supply of The Homes.

Beyond was a seemingly endless valley, spotted with small forests, more streams, and wide fields of grass. Gram had never seen land so open and beautiful, like a grand dream made real. Beautiful, he thought, but impractical, and after one more look he set off down the nearest path.

The path proved more treacherous than Gram had thought and he took each step carefully over the standing twigs and odd brambles. Only once did he stumble but he caught himself on the rock wall and decided to take things a bit more slowly. It was at that point, while he caught his breath, that he saw it: smoke somewhere out in the valley.

A myriad of possibilities flashed through the mind of Gram: a fire, perhaps a forest fire, a pire burned after a battle, or a kind of settlement. With renewed vigor, Gram adjusted his back and set off down the steep path, his determination keeping him from another stumble. After perhaps an hour's march, he reached the bottom. The path was flanked by a multidude of small creeks weaving between tall pine trees. They were, by all appearances, created by the influx of water from the great falls and, Gram thought, some kind of manual intervention. The streams seemed too precise and their beds handmade. Irrigation, he thought.

Excitement begant to rise again; perhaps his plan would see fruition! The smoke had to be from a township of Man now, given this new evidence. A brief drink from the streams saw him off again, his thickly booted feet moving with ease in the direction of the smoke. The sparse forest made the going painless and he lept over the many creeks without a second thought. But then, without warning, he felt the wind knocked out of him and hit the ground hard, his pack crashing loudly with him.

Dazed, he looked up, bleary vision keeping him from identifying his assailant. There was a snuffling, snorting sound and he felt bristles prickling and tickling his hand. Then a shrill squeal met his ears and pain shot through his hand: he had been bitten!

Gram gave a shout then reached for the hand ax kept in his back. It was no use; the pack was mostly trapped under him and he could not reach it. What an end! he thought, to have come so far and be ended by some feral creature!

As he came out of his daze he finally got a look at the large teeth and tusks, ready to stab and rend him, then take his beaten body to its awful lair for gods knew what! And just as he had given in to fear, so came whistling sound, a thud, and the beast fell over. Catching his breath, Gram sat up and saw, in truth, his attacker. It was a boar. A mighty big boar, mind you, but just a boar nonetheless. He looked every which way to see where the arrow had come from, to find his saviour, and there, to his right, barely visible between two trees, was a short figure. It was cloaked and hooded in dark gray, apparently to avoid being seen by such animals as the boar, and scarcely moved. The only other thing to be seen was the bottom of its bow, of yew wood inscribed with runes. Gram thought it must be a human child, of whom he had seen only a few in his day.

Did men send their children out hunting unattended? How ridiculous.

"Hi! Hullo there!" Gram started. "I was only just about to kill this boar when you beat me to it."

Without so much as a second glance the figure darted away between the trees and was not seen again. A queer look of dismay and offense came over Gram's face. Whereas back home he might have been glad to be rid of any company, here, being alone for nearly two weeks now, he was desperate for some good talk, or at least another body to be near.

The dwarf needed a breather after that and rested for a while in the shade of the pine trees. The weather was not so cold down here; the escarpment blocked any cold mountain wind, leaving only a soft breeze and genuine winter air. Gram thought it quaint.

Having regained his composure, he realized he was hungry and took a mouthful of mushrooms and another gulp of stream water. Then he remembered the boar. Having the time to now take a proper look, he saw the boar was really not so big and probably would not have killed him, at leats not without difficulty. Thoughts of roast pork entered his mind and made his mouth water, for he had not been able to pack any meat in his already laden pack. Not now, he thought. Better to wait until I make camp, or find out what is going on with this town that must be so near.

Gram set off again, boar resting on his shoulders, between his head and his pack, ready to see the day's march through. The scenery changed little; more pine trees, more water, only now Gram began to notice signs of life. There were tree stumps and paths of obvious man-make. He even thought he saw a footprint or two. It did not take long, another hour or so, before he cleared the woods and beheld the outskirts of the town he was so sure to find.

Farming & Grinding

2010-06-23T00:27:00.002-04:00

It's been interesting playing LotRO this summer, as it's given me a different perspective on the game than I'd had as a working man and student. Since I really have a lot of time, I've been spending a lot of time in Middle-earth, pounding out the levels as my Burglar (probably the coolest class in any RPG I've played) and moving along in the "endgame" content. Essentially this is a set of dungeons in Moria and later in Mirkwood that are fun, thoughtful encounters that require you to work as a fellowship of 6 to overcome particular enemies and challenges. These challenges reward you with tokens you can turn in for the best and coolest looking gear in the game.

I hadn't had much success in this regard with my other characters; pick up groups (or PUGs as they're called) never quite worked out and left me frustrated or worse. Somehow I've had great luck with the Burglar with only one really annoyingly irritating group to my record thus far. I am so conquering the evil that plagues us here in the Third Age of the Sun. I couldn't do this during the school year. There's just too much to it.

In addition, proper context serves one well with regard to this endgame stuff. Without it one is left in a rat race without seeing the walls until every out is tried and there is no hole with cheese in it; you realize you've been chasing your tail this whole time, burning through hours of your life in an imaginary world for imaginary stuff with imaginary properties. Understanding that it's just a game and that you're supposed to be having fun is a big part of it and I don't think everyone gets that.

This is true of all games.

Everyone, or most everyone, has been off their rockers over the latest mainstream console release, Red Dead Redemption. I've not played enough of this game to give a proper opinion. It seems very cinematic and cinematic games tend to irk me; if I want to watch a movie, I will. If I want to play a game, I'll do it. Barring that, from what I have tried and what I've read/heard about the game it is a very open world (like the GTA games that came before it) and it draws a lot from the MMO formula. Side tasks, reputation, gear acquisition, exploration, the works. Saddle up your orc and you have Red Dead Warcraft. All of that is to say that even games like this, popular, single player experiences, require the same perspective as an MMO. You should be enjoying yourself or you're really wasting your time, regardless of how many achievements you get or virtual pats on the back you feel.

Now let us contrast this another fun thing in LotRO: farming.

You can literally farm in Middle-earth. It's not terribly involved and feels like Harvest Moon, if it were more immediate. Let's not call it anything Tom Joad would be overly impressed with. This is probably why it's so much fun: you hang out in the Shire, toss out some seeds, up pops a crop of barley. You then sort the seeds and immediately process it for brewing virtual beer to get you virtually hammered (the drunk effect in LotRO is quite good). It's probably as opposite as can be from the endgame: you're not gaining levels, you're not getting cool gear, there is no reward that directly improves your character (unless you fight orcs better drunk), it is not dangerous or terribly exciting. And yet, I'm stuck on it. It's really very enjoyable to watch my little Hobbit grow this stuff and continue on his path to being a renowned brewer. Vicarious dreams aside, this should not be fun. I mean, there isn't even a proper brewing animation!

But I love it; God help me, I do love it so.

What is it about repetition that is appealing and comforting? If it's repeating dungeons to get rewards or repeating the same farming scenario over and over again, there is an odd and blissful mindlessness to it all. While there is an element of skill and competition, it's largely the same with Modern Warfare or any other online shooter. You're running around the same maps, shooting the same people with the same guns. And yet, we can't get enough. There's room enough in this can of worms for a lot of discussion, but suffice it to say that, yes, farming is as fun as adventuring in the most damned places on earth.

It's a strange conundrum and it's one I'm still thinking about.

Who I am rooting for in the World Cup and why...

2010-06-15T21:04:00.000-04:00

This one should be pretty obvious. I'm not a total communist.

I work with a guy from Côte d'Ivoire and he's awesome.

The Lord of the Rings, Flight of the Conchords, and the most peaceful place to live (that's NZ, not Australia by the way).

I teach a bunch of Mexican kids and they were going nuts for the World Cup months ago.

Perhaps if one of these two teams win it may draw new attention to a very crap situation and maybe, just maybe, it will push their political relationship in the right direction. Plus, these short Asian guys are always getting bullied!

Gram, part 6

2010-06-13T17:54:00.002-04:00

Seasons and weather are certainly unfamiliar things to most dwarves. The cold, dark familiarity of subterranean life was something they cherished but none moreso than those who had been abroad and seen the world outside. Rain and snow, wind and shine were uncomfortable nuisances unfit for any reasonable folk. Having to cope with a regular shifting of circumstance was not pleasant nor conducive to an honest day's work, nor the mastery of a craft.

Gram wanted to understand why men would want to live in such surroundings. He wanted to appreciate whatever beauty might be there to enjoy, but he could not. The few men he had met in his life made such a question sound dubious; it would be like asking a dwarf why he made something out of stone. Cross cultural understanding did not come with any ease. The notion was far from Gram's mind at the moment, however, because he was faced with precipitation and did not like it.

He was scarcely a week into his trip and had seemingly experienced all that the outside world could offer: rain, sleet, the brightness of the sun, the glibness of night, wild animals, unfriendly plants with great thorny bushes, and drastically cold water. He had taken some time to look at the few maps he could obtain (the Keepers were closed at best with that kind of information) but they were of little aid. No settlements were placed on those maps, which only confounded his plan all the more, for Gram knew that he must have something to occupy his mind and his arm. He meant to locate some kind of city or town, be it of men or dragons, he really did not care, and take up residence as a smith. Even if the work was by crude means and wholly temporary, it was far better than wandering the wilderness as a displaced foreigner for a full year.

The only beneficial information he gained, and it was mildly beneficial, was that apparently Fogeye was far to the north. The rest of the world was of little import to most dwarves and so it may as well have been some kind of dreamscape or imaginary place; it was to Gram and he knew or cared for little of it. But he did have a direction, and that was south. Hopefully that way would at least get him out of this wretched weather. In the meanwhile, he was footsore and irritated and looking for a place to rest.

What he found was pleasant and peaceful vale on the southernmost slopes of a hill as he finally came out of the foothills of Fogeye. His way would take him alongside the small range of which his home was part and then, if the maps could be trusted, into smoother land of sparse woods and streams. At the ridge of that hill was when the sleet stopped. As the clouds slowly made their way southwards the valley appeared before him as paradisical vision and, for a moment, he glimpsed into what Man saw in the world outside. Green had never before been so appealing, save in the luster of jade or emerald.

Finally reaching the bottom of the slope brought him to a grove of trees enclosing a small tuft of grass drying in the sunlight. This, he thought, was a worthy place to lay one's head. And so he did. Time away from nagging coworkers and ignorant neighbors, time away from the drudgery of daily life, had been liberating for his thoughts. He found that there was much more on his mind than the little annoyances of his relations, but the nagging worry of the dark dwarves that had interfered at the Clapping Hand still resonated there in his brain.

Unproductive, he thought. I must put them out of my mind and take things as they come if I am to survive this year away.

He set his things down, unrolled his sleeping mat, and lazed in the sunlight of the grove. It was not a fair bed of dwarf-make, but it would do, he thought, for the day.

Gram furthered his thoughts on life at home. Had he ever been truly happy there? Had he ever truly allowed himself to be happy? His suspicion was that he had only allowed himself to be a dwarf: that was his duty and, as such, it must be done. Moreover, he was crafting dwarf, a Forger, and that duty was not to be taken lightly. Or was it? For all the joy and pleasure he found in finely crafted things he never let the enjoyment linger. No, he thought, one must not be too caught up in one's own work. That way lay a dangerous, rocky ground of pride and arrogance. But had he been right in his thinking?

He let his gaze drift upwards into that great blue beyond the trees and watched some strange clouds roll by.

The Homes would be as they always had been, but would Gram?

He shook it off. Naught but a week out from under the mountain and he was thinking risky thoughts. Open air may have opened his mind, but he did not care for it. Not yet, at least.

To Holmgard, and Beyond

2010-06-07T11:57:00.003-04:00

"We are plain quiet folk and have no use for adventures. Nasty disturbing uncomfortable things! Make you late for dinner!"

If you've not yet noticed, I am plainly obsessed with The Hobbit and, really, all of Tolkien's work. There are a multitude of reasons for this, but today I think I'd like to discuss the main one, that being the issue of the reluctant hero. I feel like a hobbit most of the time. I don't want to be disturbed. I'd rather be eating than off saving the world. I have a fond interest for things in my realm of experience, and not much else. I desperately wish I was a good gardener. Most of all, I have a Tookish side that can only think of mountains and far away places, but is quickly and severely silenced all too often.

Before I get far into this line of thought, let me preface it all by offering context: listen to this if you don't know what I'm talking about (or, just read The Hobbit. I'll buy you a copy).

So there is a Baggins and a Took in me and, I think, in all men -- probably all women too! The rub comes from identifying which part is talking and which part deserves to be engaged. Furthermore, what part is God bringing out? Which part of me does God want to see acted upon? For the Bible calls us to a quiet life, but also to the adventure of living out our faith, going out into the world and making disciples. God has instilled in us that part that needs to sneak into the dragon's den, or rescue friends from spider webs. It seems futile to interface with this notion without calling up John Eldredge, who said in Wild At Heart, "In the heart of every man is a desperate desire for a battle to fight, an adventure to live, and a beauty to rescue". The man is more believable since he shaved his goatee, and I do indeed believe him in this.

It is part of why I like what I like. I like epic fantasy because it's an easy way to go on an adventure without leaving my own little hole. I like video games, particularly MMOGs, because it is a painless way to brave an adventure and fight a battle without actually doing it. Of course, it does not satisfy but it curbs those hunger pangs before they devour me. I love metal, especially the fanciful sort, because it inspires my imagination and takes me into those lofty, feigned places of adventure while I'm stuck in traffic or out for a run. For all my longings, there is still the Baggins in me who is too worried about being late for dinner to do anything about it.

But what is there to be done? In the mediocre film The Ice Harvest, Oliver Platt's character says that "there's nothing left for men in this country but money and [women]." To an extent, this is true. All of our life's struggles, at least for employed, middle class folk, have been sedated. There is no need to go and hunt to provide for one's family -- it's taken care of. There is no need to struggle with the land -- we have grocery stores. There are no mountains to climb -- they've all been paved. There is no frontier to face and conquer -- it's been turned into a mall. We have started jumping bikes off vertical ramps and base jumping off of ledges because modern western life has been castrated. Who is there to blame? The corporations? The government? The church?

That is a line of thinking for those better read and less inhibited than myself. In the meanwhile, we are left to cry "rather sold as a slave to the Saracen's than chained to your beds! Chained by your lives!"

Suffice it to say that we've only ourselves to blame. Nay, I've only myself to blame. No wizard is going to come knocking on my door and drag me out of Bag End. Indeed, there is a 'calling' on my life (Christianese for the thing or things I am meant to do), and so in a sense adventure is ahead, and I do recognize the journey of life as such. But I am speaking of going there and back again. There is no mountain to climb unless I find it and do it myself, there is long journey in the dark lest I make it. That is the real trouble.

So perhaps this eunuch of a modern life we've been given is cursed in its sterility, but maybe that is for the better. It's true, I would rather have adventure on my own terms than be thrust in to it when the government takes my land or when the Cowboy Gang comes to raid my town. So I'll keep the Baggins and the Took and make my own adventures when the time is right. For I am only quite a little fellow in a wide world after all, and thank goodness!

Gram, part 5

2010-06-03T11:49:00.000-04:00

17 October was, probably, the saddest day Gram could remember. Indeed, he had a hard time thinking up a worse day but he knew there had to be one there in the pages of his life's story. The death of his mother came to mind, along with a few other scant and obvious scenes, but in the moment nothing seemed worse than leaving home. The Homes were all he had ever known and the thought of life apart from them was nearly too much to bear. Were he made of less stern stuff or had he met the situation with less hope and resolve he might have crumbled under the weight. His meeting with Gecy had strengthened him and somehow he hand found a stout will, the kind of strength most dwarves only knew from old stories of the great Wars of yesteryear when dwarves had reason to be more than miners or craftsmen and keepers of lore long rendered meaningless.

He stood at the Hall of Opening, the only entrance or exit to the Homes, with an extraordinarily large pack waiting for him on the ground and his friends, really just Gecy and Faff and a few other Forgers, standing round him. To add to the injury of his banishment he had received the letter in the post; the official royal edict calling for his immediate dismissal for one year and one day. Gram was not overly impressed with the script. It seemed rather plain for the hand of royalty, or at least the hand of servants of royalty, but it bore the unmistakable marker of the Great Lady: an upright, crowned hammer resting atop a cog. At that time Gram had so prepared and so readied himself for the blow that it phased him little. He simply read it, nodded gravely, and placed it on his mantle. His things would remain there in his house, to be untouched for the full tenure of his "trip", as he had begun to call it. The house was to be locked and the only key would be taken with him.

Faff sluggishly approached Gram, seeming meek and sad and uncomfortable. He, for once, did not really know what to say. Dragging his blank stare from the rocky floor, his eyes met Gram's. Gram saw the emptiness there but wished it did not have to be so. But then again, his friend's feelings were not his responsibility. No, he resolved, he would let Faff feel what he would, but he would do his best to show no weakness. It would not suit him.

"I am afraid I should be going now," said Gram.

The others only nodded, some wagged their heads and let their beards sway in disapproval of the situation. If dwarves were indeed the Stonefolk then stone was not especially easy with farewells. It took a great deal of effort for anything at all to be said, and in the end nothing was. Disdain for the injustice, sadness for the departure of so fine a dwarf, anger for the hardness of the world, and lethargy from energy sapped by grief; all were felt but none were expressed. There was only that quiet, unmistakable knowing between them. Nothing really needed to be said, and so it was not.

Faff broke the silence with a single word: "Here." He handed Gram a tin canteen, heavy and full.

"I shall let you figure out what's in it on your own time. You've got enough of it..."

Gram took the canteen, smiled weakly, attached it to his bag, and hoisted the pack onto his shoulders. It fit snugly, the weight of it becoming a part of him as if added to the weight of imminent departure.

With a shout, the guards across the Hall opened the great gates. They would report back to Maud that all had gone smoothly but somewhere, in some corner of the large space would be small and sneaky dwarf, kept by his Lady to ensure that the sentence had been enacted. The gates swung wide terrible sloth until a dull light was visible through the tunnel that led to the world beyond. Gram fitted his hood over his head and turned to leave. He did not take a final look at The Homes but dutifully trudged through the gates and out. The others hung their heads together. Faff may have shed a tear.

'I hope you're happy, Jacob.'

2010-05-24T16:44:00.001-04:00

I meant to take the month of May off from the Kommand. It has proven to be a busy and exciting month as I completed my M.Ed., saw some severe changes at work, and otherwise prepared for a long and hopefully relaxing summer. And so writing took a backseat to brain-juice refinement and creative refreshment. The start of June seemed a logical place to resume posting, and writing in general, but I felt I needed a place to post some of my initial reaction to last night's LOST finale and the subsequent naysaying that so irritates me. A private blog, even unread, is a better venue than that of a blip in a list of hundreds of comments on Jeff Jensen's site or The Transmission.

So here we go.

Suzanne Merkelson wrote a brief and honest review of The End and, I felt, provided a nice closing:

Lost is not a story about an island or a plane crash or a Smoke Monster or some hippie-dippie 70s-era research crew. It's not just a story about a doctor with a God complex and daddy issues or a well-meaning fugitive or a paraplegic with conviction or a conman with great one-liners or an obese lottery winner. It's all that, but it's a also a story about a group of flawed yet lovable people experiencing life and death, pain and suffering, healing and joy in order to experience that moment of Oneness.

I think it's a good launching-off point for any discussion on the mythology of LOST, as it sums up the core of the show around which all the mysteries orbit. It is this core that a vocal minority of gainsayers have neglected as they gallavant over it: LOST is a character story.

I can recall having a discussion about this with my wife some time during season 4, on the drive home from an episode viewing at a friend's. I cannot call up the episode in question but I remember it being more a mythological piece, involving few main characters but delving a bit into the story of the Island. I mentioned how I loved watching LOST for the fanciful or mythological aspects of it; the vague historical references left in clues on the island, the strange 'pockets' of energy, the fact that the island can disappear. I am a fantasy nerd at heart and these kinds of otherworldly notions are infinitely intriguing to me because they put my imagination in a chokehold and pressurize parts of it I did not know existed. I loved the characters but for me, in that moment, they were merely vehicles through which the story of the Island might develop.

My wife, inversely, loved watching the show more for the characters and their brilliant portrayals by the perhaps overqualified cast. For her, and many others, it is the story of these people, feigned or otherwise, and their journey together. The mysteries lie in discovering who these people are, why they are the way they are, and where they are going.

I'm not entirely sure when the shift in my thinking occurred, but I can only suspect that seeing this core of 'candidates', characters I had grown to know and care for over these many, many hours of television, reach the falling action of the story and begin to die (for real this time) put the Island into the periphery of the LOST story. I began to realize my error in viewing the show; that all the mysteries, all of the questions were really the vehicles and the characters the real development.

Perhaps it was the episode Across the Sea that might have put to rest the need to know what the Island is and where it comes from. I really liked the episode and its intentionally vague mythological context. I loved that the Man In Black had no name, that the other people on the Island were just 'those other people', that Jacob and the MIB were twins, that the Light was just the Light, and that the mother did not have and did not require an backstory. It felt very much like a story drawn straight out of European mythology and that was enough for me. Maybe knowing that those were the kinds of answers LOST provided was enough to settle my inner fantasy nerd and draw my focus back to the resolution of these character stories that had become so intense.

Sadly, though, not everyone came to feel the way I do and were sorely disappointed by the lack of closure to the story of the Island itself and all of its mysteries.

I can relate and empathize with that feeling. Part of the reason why I love Tolkien's work so much is that there seem to be answers for everything, one need only search them out. It is disappointing to not have answers to intriguing questions you have invested yourself in. One example are the Reavers in Firefly: we get an answer to their origins in Serenity, kind of, but was it a satisfying one? But not being pleased with this explanation did not detract from my enjoyment of the movie; I just let it go.

So it is irritating, and I know the irritation is my own problem, when I read or hear people say that all brilliant six seasons of LOST were a complete waste because the final season and finale did not answer all the questions that were posed. If you enjoyed watching LOST, by yourself or with friends, each week and enjoyed the characters and the intriguing Island developments, is that not enough? Is the story and its value as a piece of art (or even just entertainment) completely negated because the viewer did not get what he wanted out of it?

To begin, it seems a lot of folks misunderstood, or misinterpreted, the closure of the sideways story. It was not that our heroes were dead all along or that they all died in the final moments of the show (per the cryptic plane pieces in the end credits), it was that the sideways time represented a sort of afterlife or purgatory where all souls reunite after they've moved on. Yes, Kate, Sawyer, and the lot did appear in the church. But, as Christian said, some were already dead and some passed long after Jack did. The point is that, in the end, they were able to join together as one, in peace, and celebrate that oneness without the care and weight of the world. Some have already said that the sideways timeline was a 'gift' from the Island for their service to it. I like this idea, as it is reflective of the Grey Havens, but I am not convinced of it. It's a nice thought, though.

So all the answers were not given, every stone not turned, but perhaps that is what has and will set LOST apart from other television programs as more art and less entertainment; they wrote a story that wove a brilliant web of myths and did not hand an interpretation or explanation to the audience on a silver platter. With that in mind, I'm reminded of Tolkien who once said that he "cordially dislike[d] allegory in all its manifestations, and always have done since [he] grew old and wary enough to detect its presence". Allegory, or really any art with a definitive meaning, is dangerous in that it provides no room for interpretation. It is a form of control, in a sense, and less like art. LOST chose to go against this almost entirely.

Maybe this is why there has been such backlash: modern audiences want everything tidied up.

Ian MacKaye once said that giving the audience what they want is doing them a disservice. The trouble with LOST is that so many people expected so many different things from it. Giving a definitive answer is probably as risky, in terms of audience satisfaction, as leaving things very open. But in the end, as I and many others have said, LOST was a character piece about people coming together and remaining connected. The rest is up in the air.

So here is to six seasons of great television; hopefully not the last of its kind.

When Worlds Collide

2010-05-10T10:16:00.000-04:00

A Casual Stroll to Mordor has posted their interview with Dr. Cory Olsen (the Tolkien Professor).

The best LotRO podcast meets the best Tolkien podcast in a veritable clash of the titans!

Click and listen in awe!

Mirroring Uncertainty

2010-04-30T21:28:00.011-04:00

I kicked some serious poker butt last night. For the first time in a long while, probably in all my live poker career (at least at this tournament I frequent), I got good cards and played them well. People respected my bets and backed down when I was bluffing. I hit big pairs at exactly the right time to call others all-in bets. My flushes panned out. I had Aces at least 5 times. I made new friends. I had fun and I came in second.

Nothing wrong with silver!

It was a huge confidence builder and I mean to play more poker this summer as time will allow me to do so. I watched a video explaining that the appeal of gambling to humans is that it mirrors the uncertainty of life, but condenses it down to a quickly resolved instance. At least that's what the psychologists say.

I agree with this.

The Gathering of the Clouds

2010-04-28T10:15:00.000-04:00

Come 24 May, a lot will have changed in my life.

Certainly not the least of those changes will be my completion of graduate school. I will have achieved a Masters degree of Education in the field of TESOL and I am quite pleased at that. Working and schooling simultaneously is not an easy or fun thing, but it does feel good to accomplish such a feat.

Additionally, my fifth year as a seventh grade teacher will be successfully completed.

Finally, LOST will be effectually out of my life, at least in a day-to-day sort of way. The soup will be eaten and, at some point, I will have to taste it again but I reckon I will need the summer to let the ingredients decode themselves to my senses or, more probably, keep stewing. And that's okay (in fact, it is kind of the point).

Oftentimes, I think about the The Summer of George, the Seinfeld episode where George Costanza utilizes his severance pay from the Yankees to do, well, nothing. This seems like the ideal way to spend one's summer days: playing frolf, watching television and drinking soda freshly chilled from your armchair-refrigerator, taking mid-morning naps, and, perhaps, reading a book from beginning to end (in that order). Oftentimes, I feel I need this state of extreme inactivity but my want to be lazy is often at odds with my want to be productive, strictly for the sake of productivity. There's some old demon in my head that has to prove something to someone; that I don't need to be, and simply am not, lazy, that I can spend my summer making extra money (teachers get paid in the summer) and otherwise not loafing. It is an annoying and troublesome burden, one that I'm actively trying to be rid of. I see no reason to have it around this summer. All I see is a summer with a lot of reading, a lot of writing, and a lot of gaming. Barring some dream job falling in my lap, I shall remain otherwise unemployed save by my own wont.

Oh, there will be 'honey do' lists and other mild responsibilities, but I foresee long and leisurely days. It's the kind of blissful laze that hobbits and sloths dream about.

I think we in the U.S., as it is the only country I can really speak of from first hand account, are terribly overworked. There is an odd duplicity in our culture that says, "work hard and play hard", but we seem to do neither very well. Recently, my wife and I went to Hilton Head Island where we did little besides rest. Oh, we went to the beach a few times, played adventure golf, ate seafood, rode bikes around the beautiful neighborhoods, and otherwise explored a bit, but we also watched a lot of television (it was the end of the NHL regular season, come on) and played a lot of LotRO on the lappy. This is partially so because it's how we like to do vacations; that is, doing very little of anything at all. It was also because we were trying our darndest to make it a cheap trip. But somehow, for me, it didn't seem enough. Certainly it was my own madness reading into people's words and nonverbal cues, but when we talked about our trip somehow our lazy little time didn't seem enough. There appeared an unspoken expectation that you're meant to do stuff when you're on vacation.

'Play hard', it says.

Again, I hasten to add that I am probably wrong about most things, but a simple vacation of waking up, sitting around all day (possibly at the beach) then eating, then sleeping, then doing it all over again seems somehow 'unamerican'. I've had friends speak of such time with a justifying pejorative to their words. 'Yeah, it's very lazy, we don't do much of anything'. It can't just be a vacation, it has to be that lazy vacation we took, where we didn't do anything.

Based on the little I know about European holiday mentality, and the romanticizing I've put on it, our European cousins seem to have it together: more vacation time, less activity. If anything, you might take a bike or car tour around some stretch of countryside you'd not seen, but it probably ends at a villa with a nice meal. They also get more vacation time (by law) but still have a similar level of productivity in the work place -- probably because they're better rested and more relaxed.

As I struggle to find a conclusion, let me say that the Summer of Derek is upon us. With one fist shaking at The Man and the other clutching a cold beer, I bid you all a fond close to the spring season and a better summer, full of frolf and Tony's.

Run, man!

2010-04-26T13:23:00.001-04:00

The Summer of Freedom is nearly upon me! Another year teaching under my proverbial belt, a shiny new master's degree to add to my portfolio, no summer job awaiting, and the finale of LOST far behind me. With that in mind, I mean for the Summer of Freedom to be rich in literacy. I want to read more and write more, especially here. I want to play more games.

In an effort to fulfill this need, I have started writing for IndieReview.tk. It's a small operation at present but I'm glad to get in on the ground level and have a little professional, if voluntary, work to show. My first review is for RunMan: Race Around the World, a wonderful little game released last year. Check it out!

I have fond memories from my youth of blue hedgehogs going very fast. Then there was a fox with multiple tails and a red thing with big fists. Also, a bald man in various, strange-looking space craft with a pension for destroying small animals. Chili dogs have also somehow worked their way into that memory.

While comparisons with the classic Sonic games cannot be avoided, they are not entirely fair. Whereas Sonic was essentially a platformer with a few speedy twists and turns and loops here or there, Runman is strictly about running. Runman cannot die, excepting boss fights. He simply gets set back or jumps out of the precipice you just put him in. I love this approach because it makes the game more forgiving and the faster, uncontrollable parts less aggravating. They are, however, aggravating.

And that is my only gripe with the game: you simply want to go so fast that you can easily start to feel out of control. Oftentimes this works and the stage will carry you through many of its obstacles with only a few well timed jumps and you need never take your finger off the dash button. Other times, however, the obsession with speed steps on any platforming instincts you may have developed over the years (I have none).

Graphically, the game is brilliant in its simplicity. All of the sprites look as though they could have been rendered and designed in Paint, and they may have been. But the charm of the character design overcomes any want for richer graphics or environments. The same portends to the various worlds. Much like another classic game franchise, Super Mario, there are a set of worlds to work through, each with a varying number of stages that go with it.

The music in this game is very special as all of the songs are taken from the public domain. Most of them are classic American country or bluegrass songs which seem an odd choice at first but quickly begin to fit nicely into the overall charm of the game. If I haven't said it enough, the game is freakin' charming. You'll want to keep going if for nothing more than the celebratory cheer of children's voices at the end of each stage. You'll want to push through to the next cut scene because it is so charming and fun. Racing around the world has never been so enjoyable.

RunMan: Race Around the World is available for download from the developers website.
http://whatareyouwait.info/ I have fond memories from my youth of blue hedgehogs going very fast. Then there was a fox with multiple tails and a red thing with big fists. Also, a bald man in various, strange-looking space craft with a pension for destroying small animals. Chili dogs have also somehow worked their way into that memory.

While comparisons with the classic Sonic games cannot be avoided, they are not entirely fair. Whereas Sonic was essentially a platformer with a few speedy twists and turns and loops here or there, Runman is strictly about running. Runman cannot die, excepting boss fights. He simply gets set back or jumps out of the precipice you just put him in. I love this approach because it makes the game more forgiving and the faster, uncontrollable parts less aggravating. They are, however, aggravating.

And that is my only gripe with the game: you simply want to go so fast that you can easily start to feel out of control. Oftentimes this works and the stage will carry you through many of its obstacles with only a few well timed jumps and you need never take your finger off the dash button. Other times, however, the obsession with speed steps on any platforming instincts you may have developed over the years (I have none).

Graphically, the game is brilliant in its simplicity. All of the sprites look as though they could have been rendered and designed in Paint, and they may have been. But the charm of the character design overcomes any want for richer graphics or environments. The same portends to the various worlds. Much like another classic game franchise, Super Mario, there are a set of worlds to work through, each with a varying number of stages that go with it.

The music in this game is very special as all of the songs are taken from the public domain. Most of them are classic American country or bluegrass songs which seem an odd choice at first but quickly begin to fit nicely into the overall charm of the game. If I haven't said it enough, the game is freakin' charming. You'll want to keep going if for nothing more than the celebratory cheer of children's voices at the end of each stage. You'll want to push through to the next cut scene because it is so charming and fun. Racing around the world has never been so enjoyable.

RunMan: Race Around the World is available for download from the developers website.
http://whatareyouwait.info/

On Sports and Their Fans

2010-04-12T08:09:00.001-04:00

Yesterday, the Thrashers finished their tenth regular season (ninth without a trip to the playoffs) and, for once, I feel like a hockey fan. Why? I'm not entirely sure. I think it's because the boys gave an awesome showing, Moose not the least of whom, as they shut out the 2009 Stanley Cup winners and their hated captain, the Penguins. They made Atlanta proud for once in what could/should have been an otherwise ghastly situation: there were probably as many Pittsburgh sweaters in the crowd as there were Atlanta, and Pittsburgh is a superior team. The moron next to me in the Crosby jersey didn't have much to say as Hedberg made miraculous (and probably unnaturally lucky) saves and the clocked wound down to leave the Pens scoreless. None of the Pittsburgh fans had anything to say when Evander Kane, an 18 year old rookie who had been harassed throughout the game, gave one of their scrappers the fiercest right cross I'd ever seen. I followed the play, saw when the Thrashers were controlling the temp of the game and when they were reeling. I kept up talk with my dad. It felt good and it felt fun.

I am, admittedly, a pretty bad hockey fan but I'm trying to be a better one. I've never cared much for sport in my many years; I've been more or less occupied with fiction, video games, faith, and schooling. The playing of such sports as football and basketball were always fun to me, though it was never a set of skills that I sharpened. I functioned enough for the odd neighborhood game and that was about it. I am also in and out of shape quite frequently. When the weather is nice and I feel so inclined (or noticed I've gotten more pudgy than I should like) I'll start jogging on a more-or-less regular basis. Then the weather gets cold or other circumstances (including sloth) interfere and I'm back to my dormant, indoor ways. All of that is to say that I enjoy being active and I even enjoy spectating most sports, especially live, but I've never been "in to" sport as such. I don't often watch SportsCenter or slave over stats or the latest trades. I somehow pick enough in casual conversation to sound like I know what I'm talking about: that's about it.

In comes the NHL. I freaking love ice hockey. It is the metal equivalent of sport; fast, rowdy, full of energy, nonstop, and very exciting. My father is quite the hockey fan and has had regular seats for our Atlanta Thrashers home games. I had been attending these for several seasons, with interest waxing and waning, until recently when I feel like I have crossed the threshold into true fandom. I can't say exactly what put me over the top, save the sheer joy of being interested in something new. I like finding closet NHL fans at work and elsewhere and talking about our favorite teams with them. I love learning new things about the game: how plays or made, what makes some players and coaches good, others bad, and most just plain underappreciated.

I'm also in the middle of Ken Dryden's excellent memoir The Game. It provides such deep insight and thoughtful reflection on life on the road, youth spent as an athlete, the lives of players, how human they are, and the inner workings of a professional sports team. It's like being a fan of typing and then watching Helvetica: you never knew there was so much that went into your favorite font, you just liked the way it looked and knowing more gives you a deeper appreciation of the thing.

So what is the next step? The playoffs! I've already got my playoff beard so I can check that off the list. Until next season, when the hometown boys hopefully procure their heads from their collective arses, there is much hockey to go. It's time to wait and see, to hope the Canadiens can capture some of their former glory, if Ovechkin can live up to the toothless hype or if the Sedin twins can pull something miraculous out of the air. Basically, it's time to watch anyone but the Penguins win the Stanley Cup.

A Certain POV.

2010-04-08T10:27:00.000-04:00

I had been experiencing a bit of a lull in my favorite MMOG (and thus, my favorite game at the moment). There comes a point with these games where you just don't know what to do; leveling up another character sounds bland, maxing out my main character seems like a lot of work, harvesting/crafting/festivals and other non-action oriented content doesn't thrill. With LotRO, however, there comes a great enjoyment from simply being a live in Middle-earth. As I've said before, its literary precedent and source gives it a lot of muscle in the gaming department and so even menial tasks can be fun in the right place, when presented in the right way. But what I've come to find about myself and LotRO is that seeing things the right way adds a new perspective on the game.

For instance, I used to not give two flaming pristine hides about crafting. It was more a nuisance than anything else because in the end it was just refining stacks of raw materials (or, waiting while your character does that), sorting through massive and unintuitive lists of craftable items, and then hoping you picked one that's better than what you have. It has taken me a long time to figure out crafting, in part because I hadn't picked the right sort. My main character is a woodworker and, well, that's kind of boring. You mainly just craft bows but you can also craft instruments. I didn't really care because, quite honestly, you can just sell the wood for some profit and then buy what you want from another player or, better yet, get a friend to make it for free.

But there comes a point where self-sufficiency is its own reward. Hunting down resources and recipes, being able to make what you want, when you want it and have your own little enclave of crafters is just fun and cool and rather dwarvish! What's even more fun is playing the auction house. Not unlike the nuanced, macroeconomic world of EVE (okay, maybe on a much smaller scale), LotRO has its own competitive economy by way of the auction house and its easy to make a few coins there, a practice which my wife has nearly mastered.

Apart from crafting there are other aspects of the game I am only now beginning to try to understand, whereas before I left them untouched because they were "boring". Things like finding the best combination of traits for one's character. This has mainly been inspired by my love of the Burglar and the excitement for trying him in endgame groups (though that is a long ways off). Learning how to play a class better, instead of just blowing through content, is motivation in and of itself. Looking at the various factions, their reputation rewards, and other locales for picking up unique recipes and items; a process I'd previously overlooked as "tedious". There are also countless deeds to be done, skirmishes to be run, skirmish rewards to be seen and taken, soldiers to be built up and more.

I think the lesson here is twofold: in part, my growing enthusiasm for new parts of LotRO comes from outside sources like my wife's vehement newbie enthusiasm or great folks out there in the blog community, like A Casual Stroll to Mordor. Like so many things, we need other people to remind us why we loved in the first place; a different point of view can be fresh eyes even for something that is old and seemingly tired. I am also discovering that things I see as boring or tedious simply aren't; they're just different. They may require a healthy curiosity that I'm beginning to develop in a tired and jaded MMO world.

The Full Maundy

2010-04-01T14:28:00.001-04:00

I have been a Christian for some 10 years now; in fact it's been exactly 10 years, give or take a week. Being born [again] into the post-Wimberian, Michael W. Smith-ified, fauxhawk loving mainstream Protestant sort of evangelical world of Western Christianity I am otherwise unfamiliar with more liturgical traditions. Indeed, I've very much been on the "It's Me & Jesus, dude!" side of the spectrum and it works: I've had a fantastic Christian life so far. However there are aspects of the faith I feel I miss out on. As mysterious and, well, boring as they seem, I think I'd honestly like to know more about the parts that make up a Catholic mass. My mother's side is very Catholic so I attended a few masses with them as a kid, but I am sad to say the only instance I have attended in recent memory was my grandfather's funeral last year.

In a less specific sense, I feel embarassingly ignorant about this upcoming Easter season.

Perhaps that is a disservice to myself. I, of course, understand the holiday and its related biblical stories. Palm Sunday, Good Friday, Resurrection Sunday, the Passover connexion; I could hardly call myself an experienced Christian without understanding these basic tenets of the faith. I daresay what sparked this whole line of thought was today's interest: Holy Thursday. You see, at my church we are hosting an 'Ancient Worship' service, where we kill anything electric, light a bunch of candles, complete call-and-response readings, and sing songs in honor of Holy Thursday. Holy Thursday, as I most recently learned, is more also called 'Maundy Thursday' in other traditions and other parts of the world. I rather like the term. Evidently it's derived from a Middle English word, which was derived from the Latin word mandatum which, if you don't know what a cognate is, means "mandate" or "commandment".

I think I owe Wikipedia some money.

That brings me to the crux of the issue: I had no idea that Maundy Thursday was anything but gibberish until two weeks ago. I don't know if it is because my head is too far up my own arse or if I spend all my time reading about and playing games or if I'm too burned out on graduate school to be bothered with anything else, but I just don't know a lot of this stuff and I take issue with that. I find all other religious traditions terribly fascinating. I teach them to barely interested 7th graders with gusto and often wish my own faith had cool and strangely involved customs to weird out non-believers. The trouble is that we do; even my own church Protestant, non-liturgical trailblazers has its own versions of this stuff. I suspect that, like so many things, we become blind to our own gonzo.

So maybe this summer, when I'm out of school (in both cases) I will take the time to investigate the mysteries of the strange, wonderful, and opposed branches of my faith. Sadly and, again, embarrassingly, I've read very little "extra" material on Christianity. I tend to stick with the Bible, barring some material by Lewis and a few other assorted authors, and so perhaps it's time to explore some classics. Assuming I haven't educated myself stupid by then, of course.

Gram, part 4

2010-03-30T17:54:00.002-04:00

Fortunately, dwarves build most everything of stone; there are woodworkers and carpenters but their wares are almost only used for food-storing purposes. Gram, Faff, and the other dwarves threw some burlap blankets on the blaze and stamped it out with little panic. The only thing to catch fire was hanging tabard with a hammer and chisel embroidered on it. Not an especial loss.

"That's it! I'll find and kill those two myself!" Barne had grabbed a rather large hammer from behind the bar and started for the door.

Gram stepped in front of him, saying, "Now just hold on, Barne! We've no idea who those two are and what business they have here. We don't know how dangerous they really are."

Barne was not easily swayed, "Dangerous? Did you see the fire they started? Idiots! They know as much about mischief as you do, Gram, you...goody-two-shoes!"

"Nevertheless, there could be more of them out there! Do you think two troublemakers from goodness-knows-where just wandered in of heir own accord? There could be a mob! Or they could be...the Vanguard?"

"The Vanguard?" both Barne and Faff were baffled by this.

"The Vanguard! We could be facing...war! A battle! Unclean dwarves from somewhere-or-other come to claim The Homes for themselves! A mischievous, long lost clan of dwarves descended from brigands and ruffians long removed from The Homes for failure to follow the Rules!"

Faff was skeptical at best. He had never heard of such things and didn't care to.

"Whatever the case may be," he said, "There is nothing we can do about it right now. There's been no proper Guard for years so you know what we have to do with this."

Gram nodded, determinedly, but Barne only muttered something and looked away.

***

Gecy sat in a rather large and throne-ish looking chair. It was two days after the fire and she was asleep. As the pace of her breathing evened out, small bubbles of spit percolated on her lips. A little dribbled into the stubble on her chin. One of her servant-dwarves stepped in, noticed her dribbling, and promptly but gently wiped it away. Gecy stirred, her eyes fluttered opened and focused on the large, pimply nose of her servant.

"Hullo!" she bleated, "What is the time, Drub?"

"Gram is here to see you, my lady," he replied, preferring to dodge the question.

"Oh, is he? Must be later in the day than I thought..." she trailed off, seemingly lost in thought for a moment before finishing, "Well now, send him in!"

Drub nodded and spun on his heel to leave. Before he had crossed the threshold out of her sitting room, he turned. "Madame," he started.

"What is it?"

Drub finished with a hand motion over his face, allowing the Lady to take his meaning.

A moment passed before realization sprung to the face of Gecy. "Right!" she said and put her veil down.

Were there a simple definition of what made a Dwarf Lady, and there isn't, Gecy would probably defy it by way of personality. She was not a Lady by blood or even marriage and so the odd and obscure propriety that modern dwarf royalty followed was lost on her, or she was strictly oblivious to it. Her position had been obtained by an informal vote when Lims, the previous Lady of Cog Lamp, had disappeared. Some say Lims had gone down to the Depths in search of treasure or something more metaphysical, others said she had left the Homes to see the ocean, in either case no one was entirely sure of her whereabouts. The day after she had been deemed a missing person was a congregation of the Central Cogs and Cog Lamp needed a representative. Gecy was known to be the most affable dwarf-woman in the community and her congeniality might go far at the meeting (which was typically an affair of nepotism and backscratching). The elder dwarves of the Cog were right and her ignorance and charm paid off in winning Cog Lamp a few favors with the other Cogs and Houses. Gecy liked her job and the rest of her folk liked her; the arrangement was agreeable.

If ignorance had made her an able politician, it did not make her a great councilor but it was customary for the dwarves of any Cog to consult with their Lady in times of distress. Gram had put in the request as soon as he left Maud's but poor organization kept him a few days. He entered her chamber slowly and took a seat, looking concerned and defeated.

"Ah, Gram! Do sit down. Cake?" Gecy offered literally an entire cake to Gram who passed with a wave of his hand. Gecy helped herself.

"What can I do for you today, Gram?" she was barely intelligible through the mouthful of cake.

Gram was not entirely sure himself, "Well, I...I don't know what you can do for me, my Lady-"

"Gecy," she corrected.

"Gecy. I am, well I am in a spot, you see. I have been banished by Maud."

"Banished?" A bit of cake crumb went with her exclamation. "Maud cannot do that! It has to go by the Great Lady! Oh, that Maud. Never liked her, now with good reason..."

"As far as I can tell, She has gone along with it. Maud and her Cog have some kind of clout with Her and the Keepers."

Gecy's response was an exasperated harumph. She sat in thought for a moment before responding. "When do you leave?"

"Two days."

"Not much I can do in that time, my friend," she slowed her speech and suddenly looked very determined. She gave Gram a stern look and said, "This will not stand. You mark my words, friend Gram: I will set this aright. It may not be today and may not be before you leave, but it will be made right."

Gram did not know what to say to that but tried his best to look gracious and thankful. He lowered his head, which Gecy patted, before dismissing him. As soon as he put his hand on the doorknob he stopped, being struck with recollection. He needed to tell his Lady, as one of the only dwarves in authority he could trust, about his theory for the evil dwarves. Cog Lamp had no

"Ah, um, my Lady...I had nearly forgotten. There was an incident at the Clapping Hand today..."

***

Things were not well with Barne.

He had been brooding over a pint, actually several pints, since Gram had left them shortly before the end of the working day, with a steady stream of "I don't like the situation" and "This cannot do" leaving his mouth when it wasn't full of beer. Faff gave him a sidelong and rather fearful look. The dwarf was too frightened to even attempt is typical good cheer on Barne, who seemed wound up tighter than a spring and ready to snap at any moment. Faff thought the look in his eye was like Burner, the great central fire in the middle of the Forger's Hall. Gram's talk of vanguards and invasion had started the gears of his mind spinning, probably out of control, for the better part of four hours now and it did not look to end well.

The usual lot of working dwarves had arrived after the signal of the Clangers but as their trusted barkeep was in a seeming state of shock they were mostly serving themselves and mostly paying what they owed, for most dwarves are a mostly honest and honorable bunch. But for all their merriment and revelry for the success of another working day ended, none said anything after "Hello" to Barne.

Word about the "Battle for the Hand" had spread like a rather damp wildfire, for dwarves are not terribly interested in gossip as much as they are battles, even the invented sort. Once the notion of a fine Battle (or at least a small brawl made out to look like one) at their finest tavern had taken hold there was no stopping it. By the start of the working day tomorrow it would be known from the highest Houses to the lowest of Cogs. What was not spreading, however, was the theory that this could mean big trouble. For all the dwarves knew two ruffians had entered the Clapping Hand, done their best to offend Barne, and most dwarves, for that matter, and were thrown out after a heroic effort on the part of Barne and Faff. Gram was not mentioned in most versions of the story.

What was not spreading was that the ruffians in question did not have the look of any dwarf seen in the Homes. It was also not widely said that they had retaliated by trying to set the Hand on fire, but were seemingly unaware of the fact that it was made of stone. Those who did hear this part were skeptical. "Maybe the fools were too drunk to know stone from straw!" said one, "Surely that can't be right. An exaggeration is all." said another. Regardless, the apprehension was still gnawing at Barne. For his hours of sitting, there was no telling of his condition. That was, of course, until It happened.

"Right!" he shouted and leaped up onto the bar. "Invasion is upon us! The enemy is unknown but he is strong and he is ready! We will not be caught unawares and we will repel him! To me, my dwarves!"

Without effort, he again found the war-hammer from behind the bar and started for the door. But the army of dwarves he had expected to have following him did not muster. Half of them sat, for shock and embarrassment, with beards wagging and heads bowed almost into their glasses. They did not want to shame their favorite barkeep. A smaller lot of them was not so sensible or courteous and openly chuckled, mostly thinking their barkeep had finally cracked. The rest were too confused to do much at all.

Whether Barne was had taken concern at this, or taken any notice at all, was not apparent. He stormed out with no more than the tiniest of glances at Faff, off to defend the Homes against enemies unseen. For a moment it was so quiet you could hear a flake of silver drop. The moment kept on, for all the dwarves there, even the scoffers, now had a choice to make. To believe Barne and, for those who knew of his position, Gram or to go on drinking. Only a few chose both.

Gram, part 3

2010-03-12T15:13:00.000-05:00

"Well if there's a bright side, it's that you don't have to see Maud or that git Tad for a while," Faff was a chummy dwarf if there ever was one. He had spent much of the working day trying to cheer Gram up; he took any excuse to slack off, a quality of his breeding. Faff was a talented Forger but his genius was curbed by his laziness. When he made something it was legendary, but he couldn't be troubled to make anything very often. In fact the only reason he was kept around was because his first ceremonial mattock was so exuberant that it had sold to a Lady for about a year's wage. This wasn't really fact but a product of the ever-churning rumour mill, which was close enough. He made another effort, saying, "And you'll be back before you know it and everything will be the same. You know we dwarves don't change! We're not the Stonefolk for nothing!"

Faff smiled broadly but Gram would not bite. He was sulking, barely focused on his work. He was also drinking on the job.

"You know if Paal catches you, you're gone."

Gram's reply was a blank, annoyed stare.

"Oh! Right...silly me."

Gram took another swig and passed it to Faff. The younger dwarf looked around, a little offended at the temptation but more delighted at the mischievous prospect. They were alone in an isolated end of the Forger's, two dwarves plopped on a rock in the middle of the working day. The Forger's itself was essentially one giant cave, mostly undeveloped save eight rooms branching off of the main cave octagonally. In the center of the great cave was the Forge itself: a controlled pool of liquid magma from the belly of the mountain in which The Homes was delved. To an outsider it would look like an alien irrigation system with red magma pouring into carved lines that dripped the liquid hot substance into individual forges that could be worked by a pair of dwarves, or a single skilled dwarf. The rooms outlining the cave were communal workshops shared by the Forgers themselves. In contrast to the rugged and undecorated forge-cave the workshops were monuments to the Forger's work: statues guarded the large entryways, masterful weapons, instruments, tools, and baubles lined the walls, which were highly ornate and carved. A Forger was proud of his craft and was not shy about sharing it; well, all Forgers but Faff.

He smiled, took a short drink and immediately spat it out.

"What the gods are you drinking?" he shouted.

Gram grinned a toothy grin, "Lickspittle."

"Oh my! You must be depressed indeed."

Dwarves, all except Faff apparently, are not especially picky drinkers. Even those who take up the craft of brewing do not have refined and critical palate of a man as they are more concerned with devising the most exotic draughts and outdoing other brewers, whom they all consider opponents, even enemies. Of course, "exotic" in dwarven terms simply implies high alcohol content and a good enough flavor to get the drink down.

Without a second thought Faff stood and gave the mug as strong a toss as he could. Evidently he had good aim because the mug launched clear across the massive cave and landed dead at the feet of a dwarf working one of the Forges. The worker jumped back, startled, and then began yelling across the cave.

Faff laughed and, magically, so did Gram.

"I knew I'd get you to laugh you old fool!" Faff patted Gram on the shoulder and hoisted him up by his arm, already feeling the effects of his one sip. "Come now, my lad. I will take you to a place where we can get you a proper drink and show you out of The Homes the right way!"

***

The Clapping Hand was the quintessential dwarven pub. The most successful of three taverns located directly on the Drag, it was a monument to all things dwarves loved: the walls were ornate stone pillars, capped with stone carvings meant to look like gears and cogs. Similar pillars were scattered symmetrically across the space with circular, chest level tables surrounding each. Flanking the bar were statues of mighty dwarf fighters clad in fantastical plate mail, each in a tableaux of victory. Whether these were historical figures or just nice looking statues no one really knew but they looked good and gave the patrons a sense of pride. Behind the bar was a replica of the of Fogeye, the mountain in which The Homes resided and hanging above it was a golden anvil, smudged but still proudly displayed. The only mystery was the name of the place, symbolized by the open hand adorning the outside of the entryway (which was essentially a trap door with a sign dangling over it).

Faff and Gram were already there. Since the working day was not yet over their only company was a few dregs who didn't work or who, like them, had skipped out early. The barkeep, a swarthy-looking dwarf who went by the name of Barne, was there as well, albeit in presence only; he seemed to be thinking of far away places and exciting work that did not involve pulling ales and pouring berry-wine for difficult patrons. The pair of Forgers stood around one of the far pillars, talking here and there but mostly enjoying a quiet drink together. Gram was swaying a little bit as he was already feeling quite merry.

"Over served, hey Gram? It's not yet quitting time!"

Gram smiled weakly and, suddenly, he grew soft. A look of warmth and compassion attached itself to his face, looking quite unnatural for a normally sullen dwarf. He rested his hand on Faff's shoulder and stood up straight, obviously prepared to say something profound and earth-shaking.

"You're a good lad, Faff," he said.

And that was all. The intimacy, if it could be called as much, was broken and Gram grabbed his mug and had another swig. It was some stout or other, something dark and foamy to match one's dark, and even foamy feelings. It was the kind of drink a dwarf could lose himself in and feel good about drinking. Not that Gram was overly aware of this: Gram probably would not even remember saying what he did and would deny it either way.

In any case, Faff was encouraged and went to try for another round from Barnes, who was more snappy than usual that day and had a certain dislike of Forgers for hidden reasons. It was at that time that two dwarves walked in who Gram had never seen before. They practically fell into the place, seemingly unused to the trap door and steep stairs that served as the way in. They were dark, even darker than Barne who was dark by dwarven standards, and they wore ebony clothing that looked more like armour than the typical tunics or hauberks worn by the dwarves of The Homes. They had light hair and bright eyes and they bellied up to the bar, cleared their throats (one even spat upon the floor), and pounded on the bar for beers of any kind. Now, it is good to understand the Rules as they apply to spitting: at times of private merriment, such as a party or a sporting match between friends, spitting can be seen as an amicable gesture, one between friendly dwarves and dwarf-women on good terms enjoying time together. In public, however, spitting is a heinous offense and Barne was a heinous dwarf when it came down to it. He was already fuming, but opted to pull the beers anyway. It was a cheap draught. Faff, already there at the bar and being a happy dwarf by nature, tried to defuse the situation and quickly.

"Hello! What brings you two fine fellows this way? Can't say I've seen you in these parts before."

One, with red hair and an especially unkempt braided bearded, sneered while the other replied with a smirk, "Oh, we just come down from the mines, lookin' for a drink. No trouble, no, just a beer a'two for to end the working day."

Faff nodded slowly, "I see. Down from the mines you say? One of Tad's boys are you?"

The dirtier of the two, the redhead, spoke up at this, "Boys you say? We ain't no boys and who is this Tad you-"

His friend cut him off, "Sorry, there. My friend here is newish, you might say, and doesn't know names yet. Yes, we come down from there, right."

Gram's ears perked up at the mention of Tad. He looked at the two and noted their obvious charade but opted to wait and see. Barne, on the other hand, had boiled over.

"Tad! First you come in like two louts and spit on my floor and then you say you work for Tad! Well I knows a liar and foreign folk when I see them. Working for Tad or no you'll be getting out and fast!" He shouted the last word so loud that Faff cringed, unable to quell the storm that the barkeep had unleashed. Apparently Tad could be added to the ever-growing list of people Barne hated. Maybe his dislike for the foreman had even passed his disdain for the Forgers.

It took the two dark-looking dwarves a moment to recover and think up a response.

"We'll be spittin' where we please, you old goat! And if you calling us liars you had best be ready to defend them words!"

The ceramic mug of beer was on its way to meet the head of that dwarf just as soon as the word "goat" had left his mouth. It cracked and exploded in a burst of frothy beer on contact, sending the dwarf from his seat and onto the floor, entirely stunned but conscious (dwarves have thick skulls). Faff tugged his blond beard, gave a satisfied nod and smile; he thought it might be best to deal with the situation himself, lest Barne or the now drunk Gram had a chance to step in. This way, he thought, the fight could end before it began and they could get back to drinking and rest. While it was a valiant effort, it did not work.

"That's the way, Faff!" shouted Barne, "Now for it!"

With that, he jumped the bar and went for the other dwarf with red hair, mug in hand. The swarthy dwarf was too concerned with his fallen friend and did not react in time to stop the blow being dealt by Barne. The mug shattered with a crash, the dwarf fell down. Gram finally reacted, half for drunken stupor and half for the mention of Tad's name. The beers had overran his normal composure and control and he charged the pair of stunned foreigners with a shout. To the great surprise of Faff, and maybe even Barne, he grabbed the pair by their filthy, braided beards and dragged them clear across the room to the stairwell out. He stopped and turned to meet a set of gawking faces, dumbfounded at the display of aggression shown by their normally sedate friend.

"Well, I can't get these brutes up the stairs on my own, can I?" yelled Gram. "Help me get them out!"

Faff shook out of his amazement and rushed to meet Gram. Together they lifted the stunned pair, one at a time, out into the street, dumping them in an alleyway pile of trash before they could recover. Back in the Clapping Hand, they assessed the situation.

"What do you make of those louts, Gram?" asked Barne.

Gram, feeling mostly sober now, shook his head, "I don't rightly know, but I didn't like the look of them. Tad's boys they weren't or I'm the goat. I don't think I've ever seen those two in my life, nor any dwarf who quite looked like them."

"Darker in the skin, lighter in the hair and eyes, black in the heart, or so I thought," agreed Faff.

"Well I didn't like the look of them from the start," said Barne, "This is some trouble, I say! Some new threat to the Homes. Things got too lax and dull here in recent years. We all forgot the old Rules and ways, now we've got dangerous dwarves like them too roaming about!"

Before the other two could reply there was a sound like broken glass and a whoosh of air, like the forges being ignited, thought Gram. The look in the eyes of Barne, who was facing the entrance, confirmed his fear. The Clapping Hand was on fire.

Shallow Waters

2010-03-10T10:49:00.003-05:00

Another post long past due! Let me start by saying, I like nice graphics.

I'm not alone in this either, as any mainstream game would suggest. Graphics are the single most improved aspect of gaming since Mario. Classic game mechanics have remained largely unchanged or modified slightly and innovation comes in short spurts between knockoffs of the last innovation. But, Lor' help us, we like our games to look nice! We like fancy textures, ambient lighting, high poly counts and draw distances, anti-aliasing, reflective surface, nice water effects, smooth animation, particle shading bitmappers with hoozits/whatsits, and we want it all with a sense of style. However, the latter is where a majority of the gaming public become the mainstream dotards that snobs like me love to look down upon. It's a vice, I know, and I'm working on it. Let me come back to the idea of style in a moment.

First, I want to confess my shallowness. There are games I just won't play because they don't look good. Fire Warrior comes to mind. I am a big fan of the Warhammer 40,000 setting and like to get as much of it as possible without touching the loathsomely expensive (and graduate-level nerdy) tabletop version. However, Fire Warrior didn't look good then and it doesn't look good now, especially for a PS2 game. The Tau looked weird, the Imperial Guards looked like rejects from a Halo prequel, and, well, there weren't Orks. There might have been but I didn't get that far. It also did not help that controls were, well, clunky.

Hinterland was another title with absolute shite for graphics. It was a solid concept but poorly executed, amplified by the rancid 1998-esque graphics. I beat it once and refuse to try it again.

There are more examples but I feel it's time to move on.

Let us return to this idea of style. Graphically speaking, a game can have the technical equivalent of used staples and candy wrappers but still have the style of Mos Def. It's a bit like impressionism; at first glance some impressionist art looks more like a colorful inkblot than fine art but once you get it it is a wonderful thing. Cybersolip is a recent example that comes immediately to mind. At first glance it looks like a blurry mess, not unlike some impressionist painters. Spend some time with the game, however, and you grow to see that it teeters more on artistic brilliance than sloppy design.

LOVE would be another obvious example because it looks, well, exactly like the above painting were it rendered on a modern graphics card. This, I believe, is why LOVE will never have mainstream success. Not to say that it was the goal at all, but people like to have nice things to look at and not think about. Who can blame them? In this age of stress, hype, superboredom, and work we need something simple to put our minds on cruise control from time to time. I myself will often skip very good games because they make me think too hard. After a day of work followed by school followed by the stresses of modern life I don't want to solve the problems of a fake world; oftentimes I just want to hack up orcs. The snooty, underground part of me thinks I have to like some of these artsy, progressive games, and most of the time I genuinely do, but it's easy to empathize with the gaming public that goes for the next "big" thing, even if it's just a shinier version of the last big thing.

A game can look great without looking great, but then there are times when a game achieves a righteous balance of both style and accessibility. Perhaps a better example, or one that will give me more street cred, will spring to mind but the immediate example is Katamari Damacy; even though it was on a generation-old system, it looked like a game two generations past. Blocky, polygonal models, a childish color palette, and cheap animation meant the game was far duller than the cutting edge, graphically, but you simply didn't care. The whimsical style looked good enough for its purposes but played ten times that; you simply wanted to roll up more lego people and square clouds. From a technical standpoint this was necessary; a PS2 could not handle so many objects drawn at once when you're rolling up, literally, a world if those objects are highly textured and smooth. So it was practical, accessible, stylish, and damned fun.

I have no real closing so I'll leave you with this thought: Who watches the watchmen?

Caldari Makes Good

2010-03-04T13:37:00.001-05:00

Here is an interesting piece of news! As deep as my ambiguously negative feelings about EVE run, it's pretty amazing to see an MMO gamer earn Olympic silver!

It's not every day you run across an Olympic Medalist in your favourite MMO, much less gank them and take their stuff. For some EVE Online players, that opportunity may be closer than they think. With the conclusion of the recent Vancouver 2010 Winter Olympics, it came to light that one of the medal winners is not just an EVE player but also an avid PvP junkie. Casting off the stereotype of MMO gamers as unfit and demotivated, Kjetil Jansrud is a professional alpine skier at the peak of physical fitness. Competing in this year's Winter Olympics, the Norwegian EVE player took the silver medal in the Men's Giant Slalom event.

Kjetil Jansrud is better known to his friends in "hirr" corporation as "NThraller", the Caldari ECM specialist. As part of Morsus Mihi alliance, he takes part in roaming PvP gangs and full-scale territorial warfare. In conjunction with the news of NThraller's Olympic win, JumpOnContact has taken an interesting look at the demographics of EVE players and MMO gamers in general. According to CCP, the average age of EVE players is around 27 and most players have some kind of degree-level certificate. The EVE community is made up of everything from high-paid professionals to students but did you ever expect to see "Olympic Medalist" added to that list? I know I didn't.

Taken from massively.com

Elevensies

2010-03-04T10:09:00.025-05:00

It is a bit depressing to consider that eating the way I want to eat will kill me. Then again, God probably made it that way for a reason.

You see, I love a nice spot of junk food. I like a thick hamburger with fries, or a fried chicken sandwich, or a big ol' burrito Willy's or, to a lesser extent, Taco Bell. I like fatty foods. Whether this is so because of my American-ness, my healthy upbringing and subsequent punk rock-esque resistance mentality, or, simply, my palate, I don't know. What matters is that I like to eat, eat well, and eat a lot. It's a struggle I've maintained since my youth; the want to eat relatively unhealthy food in large amounts, especially when I'm especially hungry. I'm not obese, though I do maintain a healthy girth, and by the grace of God I did not inherit my dad's high cholesterol. Nevertheless, I want to maintain a healthy BMI and just be a healthy person.

Easier said than done, as I'm a man on the go and the temptations of tasty processed foods are everywhere.

I am, however, not without conscience; I listen to my body. And on those weeks when I've eaten quite unhealthily, either via too much meat or too much junk, my body seems to crave raw vegetables and I certainly oblige it. When I am on such a streak I do feel better, physically and about myself. Still, there remains the appeal of rich food and drink. Where it comes from, other than the arbitrary longings of stomach and palate, I just don't really know.

No Shades Necessary

2010-03-02T09:55:00.001-05:00

How bright is the future for this genre we begrudgingly refer to as MMORPG?

In my narrow and horribly pessimistic opinion, we're are on a steep and slow crawl up the hill. A long defeat, if you will. The Titanic is bound for the glacier, the Rubicon almost crossed. I can say this with some certainty for at least one reason: MMOGs are driven by money. It's an inherent vice to the genre. These games take money to develop, money to launch, money to maintain, and money to promote to get more money.

Of course, games of all sorts have a production budget. You need to pay the sad programmers, the overpaid producers and leads, maybe outsource some animation or something, all to get the product as close to the initial vision as possible. Traditionally this money, for smaller companies, is given by investors or publishers who recoup it with initial sales. If the game is really good, the developers retain some cash and make another game. Pointless and probably false business lesson aside, MMOGs cannot do this. The beginnings are the same, with investors tossing money at visionary developers, but production schedules for MMOGs are notoriously easy to derail. There are countless games that have seen the initial stages of development, or even launched, and then crash and burn into sweet disappointment for the few fanboys who had already climbed onto the hype train. This is to be expected; it's simply the way of things for the weak (or underfunded, at least) to not survive. You've seen Planet Earth.

And so the strong (or heavily funded) survive and procreate and gain more followers and earn more money. Innovation cannot really hold up in this market unless customers are willing to try new things. They cannot try this new things of they do not know about them, and that's probably the second part of this problem, if the first is that innovation doesn't always work.

Let's talk about LOVE, man.

LOVE is one of these innovative MMOG's that will probably never have mass appeal (which may be necessary for a massively multiplayer game). One look at a screenshot turns off probably 50% of the online gaming public and the unintuitive game play will turn off the other 30%. Now let me stop and say that I played LOVE in the alpha stages. It's currently in open beta and probably running much more smoothly, which means I need to try it again, probably once it goes live 25 March. That said, such an open ended and rigorous game would not see a market were it not for the brilliance of its developer. Note that there is no s at the end of "developer". This is because it has been developed by one man. If you have one guy with an army of software slaves at his command vision can be held with a strict vigor, design can be streamlined, and costs can be kept at a minimum. As long as the guy doesn't mind being fueled by ramen and isn't picky about his beer, the budding artistic developer can keep it going on chump change.

This is another reason why I believe MMOGs, as we know them today, will not last.

If there are more pioneering guys like Eskil Steenberg, who have the brains and balls to brave the backbreaking development cycle of such a game (like many of the one-man indie development houses we know and love) then there is room for everyone. If you need a massive (pun intended) development team with an art department, technical support team, advertising, marketing, middle management, snack-getting juggernaut, which you do if you want to break the mainstream egg as World of Warcraft has, then we're stuck with WoW clones. Again, another reason why MMOGs are going down: no online game will ever take WoW off the throne unless they figure out how to make a NASCAR or Dave Matthew's Band MMOG. The mainstream is claimed in the name of Blizzard and there is no British Empire to come and fight this French occupation, if you like. Alright, bad analogy.

Let me finish by saying that I love the promise of the MMOG. I love and believe that this kind of gaming in a virtual community with other players and a wide open world is the future. But from where I am seeing the future is dim. Sandbox games like EVE are too much for we commoners and juggernauts like WoW are too watered down and samey. One day our MMOG messiah might arrive; it may be after the real Messiah does, but I digress.

There is much more that could be said on the topic but I'll save that for another post (goodness, I need them).

Somewhere in Time

2010-02-22T10:43:00.000-05:00

This thing all things devours:
Birds, beasts, trees, flowers;
Gnaws iron, bites steel;
Grinds hard stones to meal;
Slays king, ruins town
And beats high mountain down.

It's also something I'm out of. Well, I shouldn't say that because it's not the entire truth. I have got time but it's all spent out, watching LOST, working, avoiding work, and complaining about work. That includes work work, school work, and house work. There isn't much room for writing when your brain is either occupied or doing its darndest to avoid occupation. There are some more sections of Gram's tale to be posted but short of that things are, obviously, slowing down here at Kommand. When the inspiration and energy return so will the posts. If anyone reads this besides Justin, take the time to tell your friends of the wealth of fun and interesting things to read here.

Otherwise, respond with your finest soup recipes.

Gram, part 2

2010-02-11T10:26:00.001-05:00

That Gram had decided to keep his imminent departure a secret mattered very little. He was coming to the end of the long walk to the Forgers when the first of many interruptions hit him.

"Hi! Gram! What happened at Maud's?"

The day would be very long indeed.

Sadly, Gram really could not recall many of the details of his encounter with Tad, the Foreman. It was such an insignificant day that he thought very little of it until his summons to Maud's. Somehow it had something to do with Firetooth.

Of course Firetooth was the surname of a dwarf named Antti. The title wasn't even familial; the rumour went that there was some kind of accident involving Lickspittle that got him the name. Lickspittle is essentially syruppy and fermented fungus and Antti was fond of it as brewed by some of the poorer families of the Miner's Cog; rancid but more than enough to get one drunk quickly. The drink was especially favored by the lower and less cultured cusp of the dwarven society for its ease of preparation and fast effect. More to the point, Antti was on his second mug of the stuff, alone at home as was his wont, when he took a bit too much. He began to cough and choke. Before he knew it a spray of Lickspittle shot out between his clenched teeth directly onto the hearth. The drink, which might as well be gunpowder, caught fire and incinerated all the way back into his mouth. The validity of this tale was questionable at best but the name stuck.

Name aside, Antti Firetooth was in desperate need of the strongest and most fearsome black-steel halberd ever seen. This, he said, was to be the new symbol of House Firetooth, the grandest family line of his Cog. Unimpressed, Gram agreed to the job along with another of the Forgers.

It was in the Wall Hole that the Incident had happened. The Wall Hole was nothing special, especially by dwarven standards. It was, in fact, a hole in the wall, albeit a big one. While the valuable gems and iron-ore had long been stripped and the Fargoers (Prospectors in more crude terms) had rendered the site exhausted until it was discovered that the wall-rock, the simple stuff that made the cavern itself, had certain inexplicable properties. Properly handled the wall-rock was malleable as molten gold and when fired and refined with copper it solidified into a material otherworldly. It felt like coarse cloth, looked like coal but caught light in such a way that poets had compared it to the crown jewel of the Queen of the Stars, whatever that meant. Using it for inlay work was a common practice among the Forgers.

And so, to capture the magnificence of House Firetooth Gram needed the wall-rock. Another order was not due until after his deadline for the halberd and so he took it upon himself, in typical fashion, to go and retrieve a bit of the stuff to finish the job. There Foreman Tad had found him, chipping away at the Wall Hole, presumably another grunt there to work. When Gram stopped Tad was livid at best.

"Hoy there! Why've you stopped! Back to work if you don't want me taking this hour's wage!"

Gram gave a pause and sigh of annoyance before beginning. "That wall's bearing water. You need to put a stop to any more tunneling you have planned and bring it up with the Dredge."

Tad was now red in the face. "Shut it! I'll have no more lip from you! Back to work!"

"I am not one of your Miners, you dotard! I'm a Forger!"

Tad seemed to calm down momentarily in a strange swoon. It didn't take him long to retort.

"I don't care if you're the sodding Guard of the Great Lady! You'll be getting a summons soon from the Lady Maud. I recommend you obey it!"

Gram had little left after that. No energy to argue with this fool, nor will to complete the job. He felt drained and upset and so he went home. A summons from a Lady could not be contested, save by the Great Lady herself and according to rumour she was about as pleasant as Maud. For reasons inexplicable the old Rules still held the society of The Homes firmly in place; they were effective but entirely antiquated and, at least to Gram in that moment, entirely unfair. The next day, a bit hungover, Gram got the summons and found himself knocking on Maud's door that evening.

If you're not first, you're last...in Space!

2010-02-08T09:10:00.003-05:00

If you've ever seen Tallageda Nights then you may understand how I feel about EVE Online.

You see, EVE is a game where nearly anything is possible but it takes a lot of time and effort to bring that anything to fruition. Time and effort is something I don't really have and kind of don't want to put into a game but let's face it, being a kingpin crime boss space pirate would be pretty cool. Lording over a fleet of Star Destroyer sized capital ships and using them to dominate an opposing faction that you have slowly crippled through the use of espionage, fiscal dominance, and brute force and then watching it all unfold from your mother ship, just like Darth Vader, would be pretty cool too. But the Dark Lord of the Sith had to dedicate his life, lose his wife and kids, and kill a helluva lot of people to get to the top. It's like that in EVE too. You have to spend a lot of real time training your skills and even more real time gaining resources via either mining (as boring as it sounds), ratting (killing NPC ships), mission running, trading, or using people like pawns through corporate leadership. None of these are much of a break from the traditional MMOG grind, save the latter, which is dubious and very difficult. Oh, you can do this stuff with friends and ease the pain, even get with a nice corporation who can support you, but at the end of the day it's a long way to the top if you want to rock in EVE.

Every now and again, though, EVE comes knocking on my door like a drunk ex girlfriend at three in the morning who just got through watching a Tom Hanks/Meg Ryan marathon. The idea of being a space pirate lord of shooty ships sticks in my imagination my popcorn kernel in my throat and I have to get it out. Even after the trial has run out and I'm again convinced that while EVE is a great and interesting game, it's just not for me, it keeps trying to suck me back in. Let's get back to my initial comparison:

Ricky: "Are you in the hot tub?"
Cal: "Answer me this: When you're in spa mode, how come the water level drops in the spa?"
Ricky: "Let me ask you this: Are you pressing the buttons in the back panel or in the kitchen?"
Cal: "I just started pressing stuff."
Ricky: "Hey, don't press all those buttons."
Cal: "I'm getting bored, man. You wanna come over and play G.I. Joes?"
Ricky: "I would love to. No! Come on. You know what? Screw you, man."
Cal: "Ricky, man, you gotta cross over the anger bridge and come back to the friendship shore."
Ricky: "'Cross over the anger bridge'?"
Cal: "Yeah, that's where you're at. You're stuck on the anger bridge."
Ricky: "Can you not see why I'm stuck on the anger bridge? Look, I don't know why I'm talking to you, okay? What is it?"
Cal: "They got bottomless nachos at Bennigan's"
Ricky: "God, a whole mess of nachos sounds good right now. Shoot, you know, I don't have a car no more. Can you come get me?"
Cal: "Yeah, I'll come get you. Which one of your cars do you miss the most. I bring that one."
Ricky: "Well, I miss the Hummer."
Cal: "I'm coming in the Hummer. Are you ready?"
Ricky: "Yeah. No, wait. Okay, our friendship is done. Alright? You hear me?"
Cal: "You know you wanna hang out in your house. Come on."
Ricky: "Screw you, dude. I'm hanging up. Okay, that's it. Bye."

So it is with EVE. I have to start screening my phone calls, change the locks, maybe even take out a restraining order because the appeal of the game is so rich. However, if you want to rule the galaxy you gotta put in some hard time, which I and many others just don't have. Somehow the dirty so-and-so starts to rope me back in. Let's look at the above quote with some modifications so you can see what I mean.

Ricky: "Are you [killing Angel Cartel rats in Geminate]?"
Cal: "Answer me this: When you're in [probe scanner] mode, how come the [power] level drops in the [capacitor]?"
Ricky: "Let me ask you this: Are you pressing the buttons in the [microwarp drive] or in the [probe launcher]?"
Cal: "I just started pressing stuff."
Ricky: "Hey, don't press all those buttons."
Cal: "I'm getting bored, man. You wanna come over and [pirate some ore haulers]?"
Ricky: "I would love to. No! Come on. You know what? Screw you, man."
Cal: "[Derek], man, you gotta cross over the anger [stargate] and come back to the friendship [wormhole]."
Ricky: "'Cross over the anger [stargate]'?"
Cal: "Yeah, that's where you're at. You're stuck on the anger [stargate. You're being camped by reality]."
Ricky: "Can you not see why I'm stuck on the anger [stargate]? Look, I don't know why I'm talking to you, okay? What is it?"
Cal: "They got bottomless [ore haulers] at Bennigan's"
Ricky: "God, a whole mess of [exploded mining ships and riches] sounds good right now. Shoot, you know, I don't have a [subscription] no more. Can you come get me?"
Cal: "Yeah, I'll come get you. Which one of your [ships] do you miss the most. I bring that one."
Ricky: "Well, I miss the [Brutix]."
Cal: "I'm coming in the [Brutix]. Are you ready?"
Ricky: "Yeah. No, wait. Okay, [your hegemonizing of my social life] is done. Alright? You hear me?"
Cal: "You know you wanna hang out in [in the coolest space game ever]. Come on."
Ricky: "Screw you, dude. I'm [canceling my subscription though I'll probably resub next year anyway]. Okay, that's it. Bye."

Sorry EVE, I'm closing the anger stargate. I'm sure I'll be back when Incarna lets me play Hold 'Em in stations and gives my pirate band a home base but until they, stay out of my hot tub.

Gemini: Astro & Taft

2010-02-07T14:09:00.000-05:00

This is the first part of an extended scifi story I'm working on but may not ever finish. The bulk of the text was lost in the Great Crash where a good bit of my own writing and school work disintegrated so rebuilding is a painful process, especially when you think you had some good things going. The idea is to have several separate stories set in the same time period, with a few of them gradually becoming interwoven. I mean to create a picture of a future that is somewhere between post-apocalyptic and pre-utopian. Enjoy the first bit and if/when things start to develop I shall post more!

Bastian Taft hated his job.

Not the usual 'oh, I hate to sit and work but like to get paid and have something to do every day' kind of hate but a genuine, nagging, deep, and terrible loathing for the place in which he currently sat. It wasn’t so much the primitive fluorescent lighting or the taupe-colored walls that sought to sedate him and his miserable coworkers, it wasn’t even that his boss was something out of 20^th century cinema. It was something else, something less explicable and so all the more dastardly. As he pip-papped on his microboard, eyes glazing over as every orange character flashed and swam across the screen to find its place in the endless maze of code that was this years latest delivery confirmation software, his mind drifted.

Dear god, is it Friday yet? he thought. It had better be close. Lords, they even turned the clocks off after Peterman quit…I should leave early.

'Wouldn’t do that if I were you,' came a voice behind him.

Taft frowned. Maybe I should call Tiffany, his thoughts returned. Maybe I will. It’s been a year…

'Why would she want to talk to you? You know the main reason she left you is because no human being should ever be known as "Tiff Taft".'

Taft was getting irritated. If you don’t stop reading me I’m reporting you to the press, Astermencowskiwicz.

He swiveled in his desk chair, a satisfied smirk on his stubbled face as he stood to peer over the cubicle wall at his harassing neighbor. Steve Astro sat there with his arms crossed, frowning. Finally he looked up.

'I had my name changed for a reason, man. I don’t know why you need to bring it up, you know, don’t know why you feel you have to do that.'

Taft’s smirk turned into a grin.

Astro sighed, 'Fine, forget it, let’s get out of here.' He started and picked up his coat before speaking again, 'Only an hour early today anyway…'

“You can dish it out but you can’t take it,” jabbed Taft. His guffaw reverberated through the halls of the lobby and out to the street.

Astro talked fast, “I don’t see why it bothers you so much, I mean, I’ve been doing it for years and you should be used to it by now, you know? Because…”

Taft cut him off, “You just pick the most inopportune times, man. You know I get cranky at work and you know you shouldn’t pick at that scab called Tiff. It’s got to heal, you know? And besides…”

His friend interrupted him in kind, “Heal?” His head cocked back in a laugh as they each waved at the virtual receptionist and passed through the automated doors.

“You’ve been reading that Doc Monk rubbish again, haven’t you?”

Taft didn’t reply. He was stopped two steps out of the office building, a gentle smile spoke more than any thoughts Astro could read. The pair of them stood side by side, snow drifting softly around them like nuclear fallout. But it wasn’t anything like that; what they saw was something stupendous, exhilarating, and much more. What they saw was home.

Happy families of all colors were strolling down old city streets, stopping to pick flowers from a bed just barely dusted in snow, laughing with shopping bags in hand. Hydrogen burning cars silently glided along, their compact ovular bodies like bubbles spewed from the toy of a child. Stories above them airships lazily rolled from place to place over small office buildings and cozy cement shopping blocks; a fine and luxurious replacement for airliners that once roared over colossal skyscrapers. Back down below dozens of soft LED signs adorned the city shops and offices; all a part of system that was null and void now. At least sort of.

Taft looked at his friend, sluggish with the delight of the scene.

“See?” he started, “This is why I never wanted to leave Costa Rica.”

Astro paused for a second before speaking, “Maybe. If by ‘Costa Rica’ you meant ‘Earth’.”

Steve Astro, born Stefan Dawid Astermencowskiwicz, was a psychic. More specifically, he was what scientific journals, and thusly the people who read them, called a “Tea Kettle Psychic”. The name worked because it took this sort of psychic time to “heat up” to people before being able to read them. These scientific journals, however, could not explain why or how this happened; they just gave it name. There were other types of psychic as well, those with far more subtle abilities that only came out in very particular contexts such as an immensely stressful or unsafe situation, and there were those with wildly uncontrollable psychic abilities such as one Keith de la Torre who had broken the minds of his parents before the age of 10, from which age since he has been under state supervision. But Astro was one of the lucky few who had both control of their powers and the ability to keep it secret in public life. This provided an interesting dynamic to his relationship with Bastian Taft.

Taft took another long look at the scene on the street and then back to Astro. His friend was right.

“I don’t think you get it, man. If those bastards hadn’t left Earth, where would we be today?”

“Well, I’d be back in Brooklyn,” said Taft. “Maybe have a pizzeria or something. Live in a little matchbox apartment outside the city. Married.”

“No, you’d be dead. You know everyone who thought like them had this country on a one-way track to oblivion. Climate change, global empire gone wrong, nukes in the hands of Americans and terrorists alike, a genuine meltdown in the world financial markets.” He paused and said, “And I just don’t get why you’re so fixated on this idea of having a family. Look at this!” Astro stopped in the middle of the intersection in which they were walking, arms up like he was calling a football game, face to the sky. “This is snow! In Costa Rica! Don’t you get it yet?”

Taft shook his head, “You’re too pragmatic, man. I mean…everything changed too fast. One day we figure out how to jump a galaxy, the next day humanity divorces itself. At least those who could afford to did. A few years after that those who couldn’t afford it could and now we’re here…leaving snow tracks in Costa Rica.”

The tranquil female voice of the crossing light at the other end of the intersection spurred them on. “Car approaching. Please cross immediately.” The pair started again.

The two were both raised in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. Taft born and raised, Astro just raised. They had been in the same classes all throughout their academic careers but hadn’t sparked a friendship until midway through high school, about the same time as Dellingr I. By this time Astro had decidedly been close to young Taft for long enough to start the psychic tomfoolery that would initiate their friendship and the frustration Taft would have to endure to keep that friendship going. He was the next one to speak as they left the business district of San Jose and into the residential.

“Let’s face facts, okay? Let’s do that. This world hasn’t exactly become what we all expected it to be after they left. I mean, it’s like...” he snapped his fingers. “It’s like Saruman never went to the Shire.”

He left it at that, letting his friend process the little analogy. By this time they were passing street vendors barking for their attention like they were in 12^th century Jerusalem. There were Arabs selling nanobot vacuum cleaners and designer knock-off handbags, locals selling tamales and satellite phone boosters. This was the no-mans land between districts where the municipality let things be. Free markets and laissez faire still worked here, even if the people perpetuating it didn’t quite realize it. The streets were immaculate, even here, but fewer cars slid by and fewer airships cruised overhead. Each building, almost all of them adobe and two-story, had nicely designed holographic signs out front advertising space for rent or travel agencies or the latest news from the galactic frontier; evidently Team Nevsky had claimed another planet.

“Hold on, I want to get a churro,” said Astro.

The small local woman smiled, scooped up two of the doughy things and placed them in a napkin. “Two fifty, please,” was her request, spoken in perfect English.

Astro smiled kindly, “Two dollars and fifty coming up! You know, I just can’t get enough of these things – easy man, two second.”

Taft was jabbing him in the ribs.

“I said two seconds, what the hell…”

Shade covered the block. Finally Steve Astro looked up. Some great object, looking like a mechanical snake, Astro thought, was blocking out the sun, dowsing the block – the entire city in shade. No one really screamed or cried out; the tranquil population simply looked up and watched with fascination like a toddler first sighting a butterfly. The massive ship, as it turned out to be, lolled like a whale through the sky further and further from sight, though this took quite some time as the craft was in no sort of hurry. After perhaps twenty-minutes time naught but its tail was visible on the far horizon. Not a word was spoken. Slowly the eyes of the onlookers found there way down, blank stare meeting blank stare. All turned to the televiewers for aid. Nothing. Shrugs, frowns, and then back to work.

“That was some kind of Explorer…but there were no colors to identify it. Every political entity that sent ships out marked them in some way. That one was just…black.”

Taft still looked up, not hearing his friend. A flick of the ear got his attention.

“Did you hear me? That thing couldn’t have been from Earth!” Astro’s exclamation caught him a few sidelong glances from others on the street but he didn’t care.

“Just stop,” said Taft, “You don’t know what’s going on out there. It could’ve just lost its paint somehow. Probably…trying to get back here…for some reason…and crashed.”

He took a long pause, concern creasing his face. Astro waited patiently.

“But why would they be coming back here?”

Astro smirked knowingly, “That’s the question, then, isn’t it?”

Classing Things Up

2010-02-05T11:26:00.001-05:00

I suspect the major appeal of RPGs and their massive cousins is the concept of classes, or roles. To the unfamiliar, the idea can seem alien at first but one quickly understands that the same theory applies across all of life: people are different and they are good at different things. The characters in role-playing games just have their personalities (at least superficially) carved out for them at the get-go. They are archetypes and archetypes that have been used and reused excessively since Dungeons & Dragons created those molds those many years ago. While a player can take things a bit farther and make his character become more than this archetype, the roles in RPGs are typically shallow and easy to understand. People, on the other hand, are more complex: while a wide receiver may be a role, the athlete himself is much more than a robot who chases balls up and down a field. An Orc Warrior, on the other hand, is just there to hack things up and has little interest in personal exploration, unless he is exploring how much he can drink or how many dwarves he can behead without getting tired.

Of course, that's not how our Orc Warrior is. Ours is a sensitive goon with artistic tendencies and a refined love for the crafting of armour and slaying of elves, who raided his Orc village many years ago and sparked his need for vengeance. But that's you and me: we are the nerd's nerd, the role player, who likes to make sure his Orc or Dwarf or Hobbit fits nicely into the world in which he resides. He has cares, friends, families, preferences. At its core, however, the class it just about utility. The role is simply a means for defining what can we do, and do better than everyone else, so that we fit a role in the party so that we can descend into the dungeon, kill baddies and take their loot, so that we can buy better gear to go into better dungeons and kill better bad guys for better loot.

I'm talking in generalities, of course. The second large appeal of RPGs is the story. We're not just bopping goombas to save some random princess, we are part of an epic tale and the dungeons, and the loot therein, is just meant to progress us forward in that story. Some RPGs are more action-centric (hack n slash) while others are more focused on story, and MMORPGs fit somewhere in between. There's a story, but it's not always crucial. There's a lot of gear...a lot of gear, but there is a lot more to these games besides phat lewt, even if it has become the center of attention for a while now. Even that, the acquisition of ph4t l3wt as such, hinges on the performance of each class and the synergy between them. The class-to-class relationship informs the dynamic of the "dungeon", which informs the gear therein (the carrot on a stick, if you like).

Now I don't doubt that there are some sickos out there who would run a 12-person, 5 hour raid for a single piece of cool armour even if all the classes were the same and every encounter in the raid dungeon were handled the same way, regardless of class or maybe even if classes didn't exist. Most of us, however, enjoy the interplay between classes and the problem solving it creates. That's the whole point of the modern MMultiplayerOG, especially the "endgame" portion where you've gotten really good with your class and you want to try out some rather severe challenges with other folk who are, or should be, good with their respective roles as well. And so, games with good, well designed and distinctive classes have the makings for a great game.

This is one of the joys I'm discovering with LotRO. I am a self-medicating altoholic because I love so many aspects of so many different characters: I love the variations among classes and I love coming up with characters with rich stories, especially in Middle-earth. I've been the same way with other such games. I have to try everything, not just to find out what I like but because I like variety. Some games do this very well, others not so much. Another challenge in creating a game with solid classes is making them different enough to not be a D&D or WoW ripoff while still paying homage to the classic role balance that is key to multiplayer games. This mode has even spilled over into shooter games, with the obvious reference being Team Fortress. Team Fortress 2 has adopted even more than just classes from the RPG mode as there is now crafting and unlockable achievements, complete with loot rewards. Scary and somewhat exciting. On a side note, I find it sad that Gauntlet is less referenced as an originator of class-oriented gameplay, but I digress.

So I have tried many a class in my day, and currently have one of each in LotRO since December's Adventurer's Pack add on. Of course, I've not tried them all extensively but I've found something to love about each one. They're like my digital estranged and oft neglected children. I love them all in their own special way, even the rickety and gaunt looking elf who probably couldn't take a punch from a small gnome. The same applies to the aforementioned TF2: I've played and loved every single one of them (not you). Not all people are like this, though, and would rather stick with one class and specialize in it. I can't do that and so I am a prime target for RPGs and MMOGs.

Now, where is the glass ceiling for this model and have we already reached it?

As video games are a relatively new medium, and online role-playing games are even newer, it is probably safe to say that the surface has only been scratched. Think about something like Texas Hold 'Em; 52 cards in the deck, five cards on the board, two cards in the hole per player, a lot of combination. Each combination of cards, including discards, results in a different play based on suit, card number, player tendencies, bet amounts, and other facets of the hand. Now Texas Hold 'Em is as intricate as any card game, or poker variant, and as complex as any other strategic game for that matter. You essentially have three variables to each table: the cards, chip count, and player strategy. Each of those has a very high number of variants in and of themselves; the random nature of the cards, the size of a player's chip stack and how they choose to bet with it, and the individual play styles, which changes from hand to hand. With basic rules in place and three core facets, one of the most popular, intriguing, and fun games ever has been created.

Think of the card values as classes: 12 in all. Now 12 can be excessive in my opinion, even for a massive online game, but it's definitely been done successfully. The point is that there 12 different cards per suit that can and have to be played differently each time and work better or worse in conjunction with other cards. To continue this analogy, if it's going anywhere, the suits should represent the way each class can be played and customized. This is called Traits in LotRO and Talents in World of Warcraft and, I feel, is one of the keys to providing more utility and fun for the class model. Some games do this well, others do not and each class feels largely the same regardless of their setup options. Then there is the board, the community cards that all players can use. This could be taken in a number of ways but I think this kind of public resource pool could be capitalized in MMOGs; why not have player choices in instances that help regardless of choice but cause drastically different outcomes depending on how they're played? Instances have been moving in this direction of random choice and maneuverability, like LotRO's skirmishes and WoW's new group making technology, but it's based on the same class roles and only changes based on the number of players in the group. How exciting would it be to have the instance tasks themselves change based on the different classes involved?

I'd like to briefly get specific with LotRO, as it's my game of choice, before closing out this long post. Imagine if a skirmish like Trouble in Buckland provided a completely different challenge if you had a duo of Burglar and Lore-master (both crowd control classes) rather than a trio of Hunter, Guardian, Minstrel (Damage, Tank, Healer)? Making an event context-specific per class combination could provide amazing and entertaining challenges that had to be played differently each time, just like a hand of poker. There are many ways this can be explored but I've rambled enough.

In summary, RPGs in general can and should expand play based on class combinations, even moreso than they have already. At present each situation will be handled differently by different sets of classes but tailoring them to specific combinations that play to each classes strengths/weaknesses can provide an even more dynamic experience for those loyal fans.

Ramble on!

If you can't spot the sucker...

2010-02-01T11:18:00.003-05:00

I am a fish.

In poker lingo, a fish is a weak player, losing player, or a straight up newbie. I seem to fall in the middle category, well, all of the time I play live. This is especially irritating because I do quite well online but I can't seem to find the disconnect between online play and my live game.

I have been playing poker, starting with plain old Five-card Draw, since I was a kid. My grandmother taught us how to play and we, being my brother and myself, would play with friends for fun, inspired by westerns like Tombstone, with no real understanding of how to bet or play properly. Eventually I learned Stud and other poker variants but never took it seriously at all; no more than a hand or two at the rare family gathering. I knew of Texas Hold 'Em as the Cadillac of poker games. I'd seen Rounders and a few high school buddies and I even attempted to play a little bit but to no avail. I knew about the big tournaments, I'd heard of the "River", and the cool, semi-criminal, and seemingly dangerous world of the poker player always appealed to me - I just never did anything about it.

It wasn't until about a year ago that a buddy of mine in my graduate program got me into Texas Hold 'Em more or less full time. In the interest of protecting my sources, he will remain unnamed but he played at Full Tilt a lot in class. Apart from one outburst after a tough beat, he kept it pretty quiet and was never called out on his habits save by one rather irritable classmate. It seemed fun and that strange fascination with seemingly criminal, mysterious, or underworldly things was enough to shove me into that strange world of poker. I started on Pokerstars a month or so later and played very badly. I soon found out more people I knew played on Full Tilt and made the switch. It also helped to discover many coworkers played as well.

I had my first live game that summer, at a church tournament where I made a lot of stupid calls and got my proverbial butt handed to me in the second round. What I thought would be an easy transfer of knowledge was not; playing live is a different animal. I have been playing live when I can, at least once or twice a month, and online when I feel like it. I do much better online where the whole table is in my field of vision, with pots and stacks having a numerical designation that I don't have to calculate myself. People also make stupid moves while playing for free chips online so I can capitalize on my ever-tightening style.

I am growing to love the game, especially Texas Hold 'em, because there is a beautiful blend of luck and skill. There is always random chance (that's why it's gambling) but the game is about bending the odds in your favor by playing certain hands, presenting yourself a certain way, and/or acting like the odds are in your favor when they're certainly, and sometimes obviously, not. It's fun to learn and notice myself play better, little by little. Normally, difficult competition pisses me off, especially a game like poker where there is luck to blame and I can walk away, but I feel like I'm over the initial hump and on my way to becoming a solid player and simply enjoying being at the table.

That was proven this week.

I played twice: once at a bar and once at the church tournament I frequent. I said I was getting better but there is still a great divide between what I know to do at the poker table and what I actually do, and thusly my self-proclaimed fishiness. Here's the hand, or at least what I remember:

I'm second to act, my hand comes 9♥ 9♦. At my position this isn't a premium hand but I had been seeing crap all night and had won only one other hand. I was in need of money to pay the blinds. I raise four times the big blind and end up with three callers.

The flop comes 4♦ 7♦ 6♦. It checks around to the button who raises big, enough to put me all in. I think for a second, figure I have the flush draw, straight draw, and a potential set if that magic 9 shows up. I call all-in, followed by one other.

The two in front of me A♦5♦ and Q♦J♦. I lose. In hindsight, actually a minute later, I realized I did have some outs but my most likely one, the flush, would have been outkicked from the start. Not a smart call, but I get to go home early and play LotRO.

The other factor in poker that is annoyingly unpredictable are players who rely too heavily on luck. This was proven at the WSOP main event last year when the final two competitors, not bad players but certainly not the best at that table, seemed to have gotten there almost solely on luck. Two nights after the bar game I'm playing at the church, feeling really good, winning a few hands here and there when I had the cards (which I mostly did not). I even managed to double up once when the chips were getting low. But I was at the table with Maniac. Maniac is a true maniac: he plays most hands and calls most shoves. I'd lost way too many hands to him in the past and so I was playing very tight, my previous double-up had even shown my 10's hold up against his 8's. Finally, I get my best yet: J-J (sorry, I don't recall the suit). I bet three times the Big Blind, get a re-raise and the rest of the table folds. At this point I'm ready to bring the hammer down. I shove and, of course, he calls. He flips to show A-8. I'm thinking I have him dominated, though there's always a chance of an A showing up.

The flop shows A 8 5. What the crap.

And, no, no Jacks arrived to save my day. I mean no discredit to my opponents game; I definitely admire his insanity/ballsiness. He played a very risky hand and won. That's poker, even if it isn't the "right" way to play.

The real victory here is that I didn't tilt and have a meltdown. I had played decent poker and gotten a tough beat. There are always more games to play and it's not like I'd had money on the table so I live to fight another day.

Now, where's that poker MMO...

Mosh Like a Champ

2010-02-01T10:40:00.001-05:00

Taken from CannibalCorpse.net ...

"It takes big balls to jump into the moshpit at a Cannibal Corpse show, but to attempt it in a wheelchair when quadriplegic, that takes balls of steel. "

This is freaking awesome. If anyone ever says a Metalhead is heartless it's because their heart was eaten by a zombie, not because they don't care.

Gimme Fiction

2010-01-27T11:01:00.002-05:00

An interesting discussion at Massively reminded me why I play LotRO and what I wish to see more of in the game: smart, engaging quests that are respectful to the source material. The article, and subsequent discussion, questions the use of Quests and the ubiquitous yellow exclamation mark that have become a hallmark of the "second generation" of MMOGs. For the uninformed, quests are just what they sound like, or perhaps less so; they are tasks given to your character by an NPC (non-player character) that you complete by achieving certain objectives. The prevalent "Kill X" mantra is a recurring theme in these quests. The farmer asks you to kill X number of wolves that are harassing his farm, the sorcerer asks you to kill X number of drakes in the mountains to save the town. Other highly common variants are the "FedEx" quests where you are to deliver a package and gathering quests where you have to collect a certain number of items. You are subsequently rewarded with experience points that advance your character and a trinket or two.

At first read this might sounds tedious and boring and, well, it is.

And so the mold that is the MMOG has been used and reused to the seeming breaking point. I would venture to say upwards of 75% of current MMOGs use this questing/class/experience model (Diku, if you like), and that's being modest. As repetitive as the model can be, semi-mindless repetition seems to appeal to people in their off time and it still lends itself well to great storytelling -- something that both players and many developers have missed. Developers don't write great storylines and players don't read them.There are exceptions to the rule, however, and most online games have utilized some sort of "Epic" story arc that progresses the overall story and advance the lore of the game (or the tangential story to the IP in licensed games like LotRO and the upcoming Star Trek Online). There are also the rare gems you find where a quest chain becomes a very intriguing and genuinely exciting thing to participate in. Again, the model is such that everyone (all player-characters) participates in it and thus the prospect of immersion and true character development is broken, sold off to tell a great story that requires a little ignorance or suspension of disbelief. In actuality, you're not the hero you think you are because, well, everybody is that hero.

This is where LotRO excels. Even the mundane quests are well written and can provide a sense of purpose, even if you're just killing boars or the hundredth orc variant. While it is very linear, as are most games of this sort, the storyline, familiar world, and excellent differentiation of classes makes every new go I have with a new character as enjoyable as re-reading the books it's based on.

But what I want is more. I want LotRO to focus more on exciting stories that are original and respectful to Tolkien's work. The drastic inconsistency of their storytelling has been most evident in the latest expansion, Siege of Mirkwood. For example, there is an amazing and engaging story in the ghost-town of Audaghaim: the wood-men swore fealty to the Necromancer and bought into a lie of progress. Those who rebelled were slaughtered and sacrificed to the Dark Arts, while one oathbreaker, the records keeper of the town, remains in the graveyard as a cursed shade for not doing what was right and standing by those who resisted. Of course the player doesn't know this. The story is uncovered slowly through the revelations of a Ranger you are working with and other clues found in the town. It was one of the coolest quest chains I've ever participated in.

Contrast that with other elf camps throughout Mirkwood that follow the exact same chain of quests: scout the camp, kill the guards outside the camp, kill orcs inside the camp, kill the boss of the camp, repeat. Now this is forgivable as Mirkwood is meant to be in a state of war and in war you take positions in this sort of way. And even though it's clothed in the well-written quests that LotRO is known for, you still find yourself saying "Haven't I done this before...like a lot?" more than a few times.

Now, I will be the first to say there are times when I just want simple "go here, kill that" quests to help level up my character. There is a certain mindless satisfaction, mentioned earlier, that comes from the drone of killing hundreds of orcs and not really getting your brain involved, like a slot machine or a really good action movie with a shit story. You just enjoy the flashy bits and turn off your thinker, save the part that needs to negotiate the myriad of skills your character possesses. Even that becomes muscle memory after a point.

My concern, however, is that games go too far in the direction of pointless and immaterial experience advancing quests. LotRO has to be the vanguard when it comes to story driven games both because of its own history and because of the legacy it has bought into with its choice of franchise. There have to be more great stories to be told apart from the epic books, more great "fan fiction" made more real by its implementation into a virtual Middle-earth.

One more note should be made about the responsibilities of the player, however. A game can only go so far in its use as an entertainment medium and the players have to be able to put a little imagination into their gaming. If a player expects a game, and respectively the developer, to be and provide the entirety of a gaming experience, especially as generic a one as MMOGs are, then they will never get what they want out of the game and will be left to grief the game's forums and move constantly from one gaming buzz to the next, looking for another fix. LotRO has a great community that hosts a lot of social and meta-gaming events where players really make the most of what they have. This brings up the question of role-playing and player driven storytelling. How can it be expanded on by developers? How can the passion and imagination of the playerbase be utilized to, essentially, create content for games? A full exploration of the thought merits its own post but, just as an example, there are mods for World of Warcraft that allow players to create their own books and journals that can be used as quest items. City of Heroes even allows players to create their own quest instances. Exciting stuff that is yet unexplored.

One thing I've realized as I have grown as a person and, for that matter, as a gamer is that I know what I want out of games. I want polished, immersive environments, a good story, and a fine balance between freedom and forced objectives. Sometimes, I want to wander around, sometimes I want to get the high score or save the princess. LotRO seems to offer both. There is a large and familiar world to explore and take advantage of outside the boundaries of the story-proper and there is a very linear path of quests and stories to follow when the mood strikes. Not a perfect balance, nor a perfect game, but close enough for me these days.

I just want more!

Tonight, We Dine on Donkey Meat.

2010-01-21T08:44:00.002-05:00

I recently rediscovered the delights of Dwarf Fortress, the brothers Adams masterwork. The completely alien and retro graphics, the total freedom to build your dwarven society in whatever way you choose, and the simple humour can't help but draw me back in.

By "freedom" I mean just that: you can basically do whatever you please. For instance, today I noticed an alarming number of donkeys hanging around the fortress (the statue garden, specifically), being asses and breathing up all the air. I also noticed that we were getting low on meat and that I had one especially lazy cook. Pets or no, I ordered the bastard to start butchering some donkeys. Much to my delight, announcement after announcement of "The Stray Donkey Foal (tame) has been struck down" came down the pipes and soon we were up to our beards in smelly donkey meat. Dwarves are evidently not picky eaters; in fact, they're not picky about anything. They drink whatever they can find, eat out of barrels, befriend herds of cows, and sleep wherever the pass out (I recently found one dwarf passed out in a refuse pile, the same one used to house the remains of our donkey-meals). The "sim" side of Dwarf Fortress lies mostly in the random personalities given to your dwarves. It's as if a heaping mountain of random personality traits, quirks, and direct quotes from eHarmony were dumped into the code to be spat back out at random to produce the likes, dislikes, tastes, and relationships your dwarves have. The result is something between Engrish and the Gumbys. I might provide some citations later on.

I've had a few fortresses in my day, some overrun by lava or unleashed fire-demons, some trampled by dragons or orcs, my first fortress survived said dragon attack but is now in shambles because the dwarves don't follow orders and choose to wander outside while we're under siege by goblins. My most successful fort thus far is the Abbeybrew. It's a growing colony of lovable dwarves who arrange lots of parties, drop coins and clothing all over the place, get possessed, and otherwise avoid the work I tell them to do. That said, with a lot of ale and some harsh words from the Hammerer (who I assume works, though there's been no evidence of this) we've created an impregnable fortress built into the side of our little mountain. Siege gates, drawbridges, traps, halls of golden statues, fine living quarters, a nigh-completely delved underbelly of gems, a few siege-towers (yet unused); that's to say, the works. Only a few goblin hordes have come to test our mettle and while a few champions have fallen, mainly the ones who don't listen and charge recklessly into battle, our archers are unmatched and whatever remains after the first set of traps are sprung is quickly shot down. The ensuing rout is hilarious.

The wheels of dwarven industry turn slowly and we have produced mountains of crafts, smelted works, hordes of gem, stores of weapons and bolts for our crossbows, enough food to feed a colony of twice as many folk, enough woodcraft to piss of some elves, and a massive jail of capture gobbos. We are in it good.

Now comes the "endgame" of Dwarf Fortress: simply put, there isn't one. Until a megabeast shows up or a demon possesses your finest champion and ensorcells him into slaying everyone, or worse, your kind of left alone to your own civilization. I was about at the end of my rope; a lack of imagination left me with zero goals in a game that's all about using your imagination to do pretty much whatever you want. I was in need of inspiration so, like all of us, I turned to the source: YouTube. There I found a few videos of what other madmen had done with their own forts. The results were quite similar: build hulking towers from which to dump dozens of unsuspecting goblin-prisoners, or build arenas in which to execute, well, whoever you felt deserved it.

Being a rather visual person, I like to be able to see the work I've done so the magical 3Dwarf Visualizer grants me that ability and sets me free to construct monumental works of dwarvendom. So that's what I'm going to do. Our fortress is built into a mountain on the south side of the map. There is an adjoining mountain to the east that serves as a border for that entire side of the map, separated from our own by a narrow canyon. That seems like an auspicious place to construct a massive, tiered arena, cut in between the two ranges and joining them together. It will also be a nice defensive structures should any baddies get wise and try to attack us from the south, though they mainly opted to come in from obvious locations and go right for my perfectly crafted front battlement death trap.

Initial digging has just begin so hopefully I'll have some screens to post here soon.

Until then, kill! Drink! Dig!

Gram, Part 1

2010-01-18T13:06:00.002-05:00

Gram scuttled down the dimly lit side-corridor with hardly a slip in his step. He rubbed a calloused hand over his sunken, grave face; the day had been long at the Forger's House and he was in no mood to deal with what was about to happen. Turning the corner put him on the Main Drag, which was quiet for a Sunday, and the better light shone down upon the lines on his face. He kicked the lamp post, as was his custom on briney days, so the caged glow-worm at its top shuddered and the bright green light flickered and faded before returning to normal.

A few more turns, and a few 'Hello's to passers by on the Drag, and he had reached his destination: Maud's house.The home was unmistakable as one of a great Lady, sitting directly at the end of the little street and flanked by far more modest accommodations built into the walls of the giant cave.

Put lightly Maud was grim. She wasn't even Gram's Lady, but that of Foreman Tad, and Gram was not at all pleased at having to face such a wicked scolding by her. With a great exhale his long mustache puffed out and he gave his beard a quick and frustrated tug. He knocked. The door was not of stone, as is the usual fashion for those dwarves of modest stature, but of fine birch wood inlaid with ivory and jet and accentuated with fine carvings of the heraldry of her Cog. Likewise, the house itself was not dug into the wall or floor of the great cavern, like usual dwarves, but had been carved out of the stone itself and stood like a giant pillar supporting the roof of the cavern. The structure was lavishly decorated, much like the door, and very old for such a house. 'House' wasn't even the proper term, but a profane one hardly sufficing for the Proper term as kept by the Keepers. Despite its greatness this was not a Home, but a comparatively crude place made to be like one.

The door flew open and Gram stood facing a very clean looking dwarf. His coat was smooth black silk and his beard kempt; he'd even sacrificed the hair above his lip to keep it so. The servant sniffed and spoke in a nasally tone, asking Gram to follow him. Gram followed. Through a hall dimly lit by firelight and rooms as ornate as the outside of the home to the receiving room of the Lady. Maud was already there.

In the fashion of all dwarf-women of stature her face, beard included, was veiled save deep green eyes and bushy brows. Maud was as proud as any and had been anticipating this, since Tad informed her of Gram's offense.

'Shut up!' she bellowed.

Gram breathed, ready to remind her that he hadn't yet said anything, but thought better of it.

'Now!' she said, only a little softer, 'What is this I hear of thou, rabble and scum most offensive, refusing to dig with thine pick unto the jet-wall! So sayeth mine kinsman, Thadricaman...' She trailed off into some half-muttered title in a tongue half forgotten to all but the Keepers before finishing off with a twitch of her brow and flash of her eyes.

'Madame, Tad...Thadricaman did not know and would not listen when I said that the wall bore water and that further digging could have flooded the hall. Tad isn't even my foreman; I am a Forger and was only at his dig site in a short search for ore as we were run out.'

Maud stared. She had sent the summons to this swarthy dwarf under the pretense that he'd gravely offended her grand-nephew. This new information changed things but she'd little choice and must save face.

'Insolence! Voyeurism and grandiose lies from thine goblin-tongue!'

Gram sighed a sigh of severe annoyance.

'You have one weeks time! I shall confer with the Grand Lady but shall have no trouble in executing your sentence in that time. At this hour in seven days thou shalt be henceforth banished from the Homes for two seasons hence; a year and a day. Go now and spend your time in whatever way you best see fit. Blaggart!'

***
Gram counted his steps. It was a trick he had learn early on; a sort of distraction to keep him calm when anger would get the better of him. He stumbled over a small rock and remembered that he was a little drunk. Maud's dwarf-servant had offered him a tall draught of some liquor or other and Gram had readily accepted it. It was another odd custom kept by the gentry of the Homes. Its origins were long forgotten but it was still maintained with the vigour of faith and tenacity like greed. Gram had often thought it was the only thing of value left to those sort of dwarves who already had everything, even if they did not understand it.

It was getting late in the day, even as long a day as the Dwarves kept, when he finally left Maud's house and the few strays wandering the Drag were home now. All dwarves had a home whether they wanted one or not. A gong sounded somewhere in the deep, the Clanger's call to officially end the working day. It meant the moon was high enough to see at the High Hole; a small canyon in the northernmost hall and one of the only openings to the outside world.

Down down the Drag he walked, passing a score of anonymous dwarf-homes and holes. Some were ornate like Maud's, only less so; others had more modest designs and curvatures scored on their walls and doors in the lazy fashions of the day; others were plain, the homes of more lazy or poor dwarves. These were the fewest and furthest between as dwarves are an industrious folk and those who could not, or would not, keep to this code were shunned. A few more steps down the road, which grew less paved and decorated as he got further from town, and he finally turned onto Bald Street. There he opened his plainly decorated door, sat in his plainly dressed chair and sulked.

***

Next morning he awoke in the same chair with a shiver and a start. The Clangers were always on time and the deep, echoing gong meant the day had officially begun. With a strip of magnesium and a spark from his flint his stove was lit and he put the kettle on; it was an old copper thing long in his family's keeping. Sleepily he stumbled through his food-stores in search of tea leaf to steep. These were small, wooden canisters, indeed some of the only wooden things he owned. The tea was found with little enthusiasm and Gram had little to do but sit and wait for the water to warm.

Gram was depressed. His friends at the Forgers, though more like co-workers they were, often thought him sullen and serious. His dad was the same; born Grimboldís, his name was shortened to Grim for the sakes of brevity and appropriateness both. They were the solid and rueful foundation of their Cog, always to be counted on in their hardness. Gram, though, was unlike his father in that his seriousness came from a deep care and thought for the beautiful things of the world while his father was only so for the hardness of the world. It was his work that Gram loved: that such lovely things could be wrought by living hands was a joy and wonder that was reborn with every tool or sword or ware he crafted. So it was that his home, though it be small with three rooms only, two square and one round, was a living museum shodden with crafts old (some extremely so) and new. It was not unlike the dwarves of the Homes to so dedicate their lives to their work (or 'marry' to it as some said [mostly unwed dwarf-women]) but few, even among the most skilled, took to it with such care as Gram.

The dwarf pursed his lips in thought after a sip of tea. He was especially depressed because he now had a week to say goodbye. It would be enough time, no doubt, but he had little care for places outside the Homes; he had been abroad only twice in his long life and was not impressed. The first time was a fool's errand to find a fabled vein of silver-ore to the south of the Homes, at the edge of the Fang Desert. He and a small band of Forgers had left with a few hunter-dwarves on a trip that earned them naught but weary feet and disappointment. The second time was to bury his mother. Not an occaision worth remembering. Suffice to say, he did not wish to leave the Homes. Even if his one reason for staying was his work it was more than enough.

Gram stood and with a long and lasting look at his kitchen. Covetous as it might have been he cherished every one of his trinkets, even the poorly made chimes and other insignificant pieces he had never touched since hanging them on the walls. It was home.

And now that tom-fool and his mattress of a Lady had kicked him out.

Fictional Living (an introduction)

2010-01-15T13:09:00.004-05:00

If you've ever watched the Mighty Boosh then you may be familiar with Howard Moon's lasting hope of being a "famous writer". Writing is in his blood; if you cut him, be bleeds ink. Not so with me, though for as long as I can remember I've been writing stories. To this day I have probably shared five of them in my entire life and only kept the ones that somehow made it onto Google Docs. That's at least 16 years of writing with next to nothing to show for it. That sucks.

It has been only recently that this realization struck me, though the reasons are quite clear: I have never been terribly proud of the things I've written. Not they were poor quality or inappropriate, I was simply not proud of writing silly fantasy stories. The closest I've come to reckless sharing of my work was when I was on a bit of a spoken word kick and did some poetry at a few local events. My stuff is/was actually quite good. I think, in my strange little world, poetry was somehow more legitimate than fantasy fiction. But since late elementary school I've been a fantasy nerd and since about that same time I have written a lot of short stories (and long ones) set in my own little worlds with my own little characters and adventures. They were always typed and were subsequently lost when that computer copped it or I deleted them. Not that I cared much; I was actually slightly embarrassed and had little-to-no intention of ever sharing the work. This continued, and has continued, to the present day.

Fan fiction is what has kept me going for some time. I reckon it picked up steam with my old WoW addiction where, piggy-backing on my Warcraft III habit, I got really into...well the world of Warcraft (which I'm told has been tossed aside for game mechanics and silly gimmicks). It was fun. There was a good roleplaying community, which can always go either way, and lots of people who read my stuff. I kind of stopped writing other stories because I had a venue and an audience through which to vent my fictional wont. All of those stories are gone now, a victim of my severance from WoW.

Things picked back up, however, when I started playing LotRO. Tolkien was my new drug and I loved writing stories that, I felt, fit nicely in the spectrum of his feigned history. Again, I had a receptive, low-risk audience with whom to share my silly writings. I had little inclination to write non-fiction or other stuff that was more "acceptable"; I just didn't have the time or interest. I am quite happy with the stuff I've written for my LotRO characters, some of which can be found MyLotRO site. But I still had big ideas and still felt a particular calling to just write stuff, even if it was about Orks and spaceships.

So last year I started writing again. Two stories emerged: one a silly and fun tale about an unlikely dwarf going on a vast adventure, the other a post-apocalyptic, pre-utopian scifi epic. I was writing more regularly and even shared the work with my wife and one of my close friends, both of whom were very encouraging. The words came sporadically but at least in some kind of interval. I have and had no goal of being a published author, though it could be a fun job, I just wanted to get the stuff out there. Then tragedy struck.

If you are an IT professional, please don't take this personally, but IT people can be stupid. They're a rushed, overworked, undersexed lot who probably get a lot less appreciation than they deserve. I can say this with confidence because, at work and home, I'm a makeshift IT support technician. I've built my own computers and been a computer hobbyist for some time, so while I'm far from a genius I know more than the average john out there in the world and get recruited to fix stuff when my coworkers and family members are in a jam. I had been using my work laptop to do my writing because laptops are convenient. I can write on the couch, on the go, even sneak in a few paragraphs or more on the job. It also had Word on it, which my desktop does not, so I could edit if I needed to, though I mainly write in Notepad thanks to some wonderful tips by a certain writer. The lappy had been giving me grief, overheating and performing very poorly so I sent it off for another go with our resident IT fellow. The poor guy works for several schools within the district, though he is housed at mine. He's the most popular fellow on campus.

He took his time with the job, as I told him he could because he's like a pack mule with a degree and I didn't want to stress him out further. The poor, sweaty hulk said he'd run a diagnostic and try a few thing. What he didn't tell me was that he was going to reimage (format) the thing without backing my stuff up.

This was problematic. Actually, it was disastrous: besides losing all of the writing I had done for LotRO and my own stories I lost four semesters worth of graduate school work and an impressive collection of animated gifs. So I was left with fragments of my stories that I'd had on Google Docs and a lot of anger. I've not seen the guy since but I've forgiven him so I doubt our next meeting will come to blows. Luckily, I was going through one of the shared folders on the laptop and found that, lo and behold, some of my dwarf story had survived; actually, most of it. This was grounds for celebration and so, taking no risk, I promptly dumped it into Google Docs, my new writing tool of choice.Yes, I'm taking my chances with the the Cloud. Sometimes I think I should be writing and printing stuff out, or even doing it by hand, should the End come swiftly and Google go under. But I suspect we're all polishing the brass on the Titanic; it's all going down sooner or later. Even if I kept stuff in some sort of paper journal there's as good a chance of me losing or inadvertently destroying it as there is Google servers exploding and losing all of work.

With renewed vigour, I'm writing again. And I'm over myself so I'll be sharing my words with the world (or at least whatever poor souls stumble upon this blog). I mean to post the first part of my dwarf story here in the next few days or so. It's the story of an unlikely adventurer and is an unabashed twofer ripoff of Tolkien and Dwarf Fortress with at least some input of my own. I will post it in parts. It has no official title, only a working title of the main character's name: Gram.

I hope you like it when it arrives.

Roast Mutton

2010-01-12T10:23:00.069-05:00

I had my first burger in five years yesterday.

Specifically, it was a Bison burger with bleu cheese and bacon from Ted's Montana Grill. We (being Mrs. shipwreck and myself) started with some homemade chips or crisps and munched, happily waiting for our sassy waiter to bring us our meat-wiches. I thought about Ted Turner, where the animal I was about to consume came from, how my stomach would react, and if this was a good idea. The conversation, as it always is with my wife, was good and I was now ready to chow down. Soon, very soon, the burger, plated with the usual and probably superfluous veggie additions and fries, was set before me begging for consumption. With this majestic, heaping American goodness now in front of me (there's even a plastic flag in the thing to prove it's patriotism), I picked up the burger without dressing it, sank my canines in, and went to heaven.

I was a strict vegetarian -- that is, lacto-ovo, so maybe not so strict -- for three years. Two years after that I decided fish was okay and, well, a lot easier when dealing with public dining situations so my title was extended to lacto-ovo-pesco. Definitely not vegetarian but for many of the unenlightened that still qualifies so, at least nominally, I kind of was one. Let's fast forward to this past fall, 2009. I was working the kitchen team at church and handling a lot of meat. This was not foreign to me. My wife was never veg so I would, on occasion, cook bacon or chicken for her. My wonderful Italian mother taught me to make a mean meatball so I'd handled beef on occasion as well when cooking for friends. I'd never really wanted to eat it; my initial convictions remained steady and there was very little temptation. Oh, there were instances where a piece of ground beef or other would sneak into my mouth and nine times out of ten it was unintentional. I was, for the most part, a good vegetarian.

I didn't, and still don't, like the way meat is produced in this country, and probably most of the industrialized world. The idea of suffering animals being stuck full of hormones and antibiotics to keep them alive in otherwise shit-infested living conditions is bad enough, but then to put that stuff in one' body...well that seemed even worse. Coupled with a family history of cholesterol issues (I myself have never had high cholesterol) and the ensuing degradation of the environment by massive factory farms and cattle fiends, it was enough to drive my already sensitive conscience to abstinence.

But somewhere down that long and animal protein-less road I lost touch with those reasons. It must have been akin to what a revolutionary feels a year after the monarch has been killed; why did we do this in the first place? The feeling either results in abdication or a tightening grip, using secret police to squeeze ideals out of your citizens for reasons you yourself forgot. Sure, the meat industry in this country is still nightmarish but there are new options. One article I read extolled the virtues of local, sustainable, organic meat; rich in flavor, easy on mother earth, not so tough to obtain. Evidently quite a few of us ex-veggos are following in the wake paved by the foodies: knowing what you're eating, being somewhat in touch with it and appreciating it, especially when it's not ruining the earth of the future, is cool. Even cooler than abstaining from eating meat all together. In a sense, one can have his cake (meatcake, I guess) and eat it too.

At the end of the day, however, it comes down to the palate.

There I was a few months back, watching my friend (a CIA trained chef and veteran of some of the more prestigious restaurants here in Atlanta) stuff a pork loin and roll it in bacon with a side of love for our newer congregates. Why am I not eating this? I wondered, pretty much out loud. To boot, I had just finished Kitchen Confidential and Bourdain has a love and appreciate of all meat products that could make a lifelong vegan flinch, at least for a second, in hesitation. He's also quoted as saying vegetarianism, especially veganism, is a "first world luxury". This idea is certainly not one I agree with but it merits some thought. The other remaining pressure to stay vegetarian was the fear that I would be "selling out". To what or whom I was not entirely sure but it's the same feeling that keeps from listening to popular metal (at least the bands that my discriminatory tastes deem "unmetal" or "metal by numbers") and playing games that everyone else is. However basing ones diet on popular opinion, let alone perceived popular opinion, is a bad idea. The decision was made: I had stopped eating meat on New Year's Day 2005 and decided to start up again on New Year's Day 2010.

So that's where I am. I'm not on a 100% free range, grass fed, local, organic meat diet yet but I mean to get there sooner or later. In the mean time I'm trying to avoid a fully fledged meat binge in my rediscovery of the treat. The burger I had last night was, simply put, spectacular. And Ted's isn't even a top-notch artisan burger! But the finer taste comes with a clearer conscious. I'm certainly not giving into a complacent lifestyle, I just no longer have a reason to make my taste buds suffer on behalf of the cause.

Journey Through The Dark

2010-01-11T17:32:00.003-05:00

Derek Yu is a bit of a madman. Anyone who can make as fun and sadistic a game as Spelunky has a bit to account for. Initially I wanted to make this a post an insightful, comparative essay covering various other, subterranean games (including LotRO: Moria) but, as the after action reports piled up and I found myself loving and hating this game with severe gusto, I opted instead to log my failures in Spelunkyworld. Like Dwarf Fortress and other games like it, being an open, randomized, roguelike game lends itself very well to fictional inspiration. It's non-linear and always new so there's always some wild experience to write about.What follows is an account of my time there in the mines.

Let me preface these accounts by saying I generally suck at platformers to start with and Spelunky is an especially challenging one. As of yet I'm about 50 games in with 0 wins. So grab your whip and start your sobbing.

On one of my earlier adventures the cave was black as pitch. All I had to supplement was a box of torches; unusual but illuminating. I struggled through the dark cave with every step. Thinking the way clear, I slipped off a cliff and cost myself a heart. After dusting myself off I proceeded, finding a little loot to compensate for my earlier fall. Then there were spiders to deal with. Not just any spiders: jumping spiders. The fiends leaped everywhere and it was all I could do to swat them away. I'm not very handy with a whip. The fight cost me 2 of my remaining 3 hearts. This was getting very irritating.

Luckily, a subsequent game led me to a shop on level 2. Not just any shop, but a gunshop. Overjoyed, I quickly found a pistol and bought it without a second thought. Now, feeling much more like a man, I proceeded and soon found myself in a predicament. I had the gal, the caveman, and the gun. What is one to do? If I rescue the caveman and bring him out of the cave with my I'll be heralded a scientific hero, lavished with some kind of Nobel prize and all the riches and women that come with it. If I save the woman I'll be a hero to her and save a human life, directly enriching my story and, again, still coming out a hero. But the gun...the gun would be a more faithful companion. This gun would save me and get me out of this hell-hole in one piece. I would have to go with the gun. Before I could react the caveman snapped out of his unconscious state and killed the woman, me, and probably took my gun. Damn that thick neanderthal skull of his.

A later adventure found me more cautious, taking things at a slower pace and not killing myself over every drop of gold on the level. I was more careful with my drops, more composed with the whip and slashing up bugs with ease. So cautious was my step no trap in town could surprise me: all they got were pots and rocks for targets. And, what's this, another fine shopping establishment! Sadly all the lout had were parachutes and bombs. I opted for the bombs and was on my way. A few more gems and ingots of gold and the ever-intriguing key! I was about to exit when I espied some gold a floor above me. Looking up I saw that the cavern also held the chest to my key, but the space was inaccessible. As I had no stikk bombs I could no bomb vertically but it looked like it could be entered through a point next to the old man's shop. Perfect. I climbed back up and entered the shop, readied the bomb and let fly. At that point two things happened: the bomb bounced off the wall and landed where I wanted it to and the old man pulled a shotgun on me and blew my brains out. Shortly thereafter I had posthumous revenge as the bomb detonated, killing the old geezer and destroying his shop. I guess he didn't like bombs in his place.

I made the mistake of looking at my record. 0 for 29. This is pretty pathetic so I decided a fresh start to be in order. I was feeling confident. Luck was on my side too: the first stage was a simple one with few traps, no tricky climbs, and lots of gold within easy reach. Having to bomb my way through the second level brought me an unexpected treat: a mattock! The path now led me straight to another helpless woman. Easy pickings, more money (though, lucky for her, no altar of sacrifice nearby). We came to a drop and, per usual, I tossed the sturdy young lady down where she landed with a thud in a dazed state. Time for the explorer to head down. Before I could drop, the pick fell from my hands and landed square on the woman. She had to be dead. Luckily it takes sterner stuff to end this little lady, it just looked like there was a lot of blood. She was still alive. Now here I was with the treasure, the woman, and my trusty pick. What to do...

Before I continue this story, know that another exciting and Indiana Jonesian aspect of Spelunky is the golden head treasure which, as you may have figured out, triggers a boulder. The boulder is generally easy to dodge but takes a little preparation. This same level put me in this very situation, but I also had a woman and a pick to think about, not just a golden bust of Dr. Robotnik. With superior intellect, I tossed the helpless woman down the nearer shaft towards the exit where she landed with the usual bounce. Quickly and carefully I grabbed the treasure, tossed it down the shaft, grabbed pick and leaped onto the nearest ledge thinking it safe from the oncoming boulder. Such was not the case. The boulder smashed me, the woman, and the treasure without prejudice.

If you're not quite getting the picture, I'll put it plainly: this game is unforgiving at best.

There were many instances where a failed button press ended in a clumsy, painful death (though I do have a pretty crappy gamepad). I once picked up an item in the shop and instead of putting it down I accidentally threw it, causing the cranky shopkeeper to pull a shotgun and end me, though I was quite sure I'd pressed down properly (though I should think if I kept a shop in some godless cave I'd be a little trigger happy myself). You cannot sluff off: one misstep puts you in a pit of spikes, a careless move and you've been shot with a poison dart from a trap. There were even times I thought I had the drop on a giant spider but jumped too far down and wound up unconscious on the cold cold floor, spider bait. It's a horribly difficult game - remember, I admit to sucking at platformers - and I can't get enough. The randomization, the careful thought, the endless challenge beg for more like a dog at the treat buffet. Nevertheless, this dog keeps getting beat.

Where there's a whip there's a will, my slugs!

Flies and Spiders

2010-01-09T12:50:00.004-05:00

To say that MMOGs (I refuse to use "MMORPG" or simply "MMO"; what is a "Massively Multiplayer Online" anyway?) are the future is bollocks. More on that in a later post. However, I pretty much love The Lord of the Rings Online [LotRO]. After literally more than a decade of playing these MMOGs it seems I've finally reached a point where I can be satisfied by one game. Perhaps a little history is necessary...

I remember seeing an ad for Meridian 59 when I was 12 or 13 years old. It looked like potentially the coolest thing ever: you made a character and fought monsters with other people online. Then you got to go the pub, have a few digital ales and share your tales of glory around the hearth. I was a pretty well established nerd by that point in my life. I read Dragonlance, played a lot of video games, and was just digging into this new realm of "The Internet". It hadn't taken me long to find a Star Wars roleplaying group on AOL. The only rite of nerdish passage that had (and has) eluded me was tabletop roleplaying, and I'm going to include LARPing in that category as well. Transitioning into what I consider the first MMORPG (sorry) seemed a natural thing and so I tried it. I was hooked. Looking back, the game was a serious grind. There weren't many quests to speak of or much storytelling going on but there were beasts [mobs] to kill. Many, many mobs of all shapes, colors and sizes. Then Everquest happened. I bought a graphics card, said my farewells and went to Norrath for a while. Again, much of the same: grinding mobs, grinding reputation, and so on. I myself was all imagination and no action. I never progressed a character very far at all; I simply loved being in the game world and continually thought of new ideas for the next cool character which meant a lot of deleted character slots and little progress. I think my brother actually bought a high level rogue on eBay in a last ditch effort to have some kind of endgame experience (don't tell the feds).

The MMOG wheel turned, I tried out virtually every beta from Everquest to Auto Assault. WoW happened. My time in the World of Warcrack came and went. I went to space. I went to the end of the world with the same results: burnout, aggravation, and deep want for more. The sickest part is that more open, "sandboxy" games like EVE were almost too directionless. I needed a track to run on and, despite my deepest misgivings, I needed a grind. I guess I don't want to have to make life decisions in a game. There's enough of that out here in meatspace; I want to be told where to go next. Looking back as a barely self-aware and reflective adult, a lot of us gamers seem to want to get more out of these games than we can get. So we play a game, complain about how much it sucks, and move on to the next thing in the neverending buffet of development. Madness.

So how am I, a self-proclaimed MMOG junky, now happily wasting time in Middle-earth instead of jumping ship into the sexy, steamy, new, cancer curing, problem solving, world saving messiah-game? Good question. In an attempt to keep this thing short I'll say this: I grew up. I knew it all along but I finally put faith into action; a game won't save me and won't fill the starving Goomba that took up residence in my belly those many years ago. So I picked a game I could love and stuck with it. My foaming frenzy for Tolkien grows daily so being in only virtual Shire out there seemed like a win-win. Additionally, LotRO's game world itself is gorgeous and there is an ambiance and storytelling I've not seen in other games. Getting Mrs. Shipwreck to play it certainly hasn't hurt either.

So let's get to the point: it has been a month and a week, give or take, since Turbine released their most recent expansion to LotRO. The Siege of Mirkwood has taken us across the Great River from Lothlorien and into the darkest, most evil of forests in an Age. The shroud left by the Necromancer (Sauron) remains through the lingering darkness of his earlier meddling and his proxy commanders, the Nazgul. The Free Folk of Eriador must join the Galladhrim armies and their skirmish against the Enemy, which serves as both a preemptive strike against the forces of Dol Guldur and direct action meant to distract the Enemy from a greater task being carried out by Nine Walkers who are heading South.

If you understood what I just wrote then you're either playing LotRO or a big enough Tolkienist to figure it out. Tip of the cap. For the rest of you, all of that is to say that we, the players, have been introduced to some serious shit.

Expansions to these online games are curious things: they give us new toys to play with, new items, more story, more levels to mush through. They also break stuff and introduce changes that piss people off. In a seeming effort to curb the growing plague of revulsion and whining that's been consuming the community for the better part of a year now (and to win new subscribers), the makers of LotRO play things very close to the middle. There is content for the hardcore players who enjoy solving dungeons and defeating massive bosses but there is much more for the average joes, like me, who simply don't have the time or interest and just want to mess around in Middle-earth. It works quite well: even on days when I'm not terribly thrilled with the game I can log in, enjoy a quest or two, complete a skirmish with some friends, have a stroll around Bree, and generally feel like I've accomplished something (the game, like most of these timesink-oriented MMOGs, is all about deeds and accomplishments). But the main thing is that I can put my imagination into the game world. Unlike the generic sword 'n sorcery, built-to-house-a-game worlds I'm grinding mobs and quests and engaging in a fantastic story in Middle-earth.

If you've not played many MMOGs, they're all basically the same. Even the most original ones have similar qualities to the others. So it pays to be in a setting you can connect with.

Going to Mirkwood reminds me why I started playing these games in the first place, which is facing down evil with friends, living to tell about it, and feeling like you're part of your own epic story. The fact that it's the same forest Legolas call home and that Thorin & co. traversed on their way to the Lonely Mountain amplifies the experience for a geek like me.

Braid New World

2010-01-07T19:00:00.001-05:00

I have a tendency to buy games six months to a year after they've been released. Sometimes longer. In fact, the only games in recent memory that I've bought within days of their golden debut were Team Fortress 2 (actually, the Orange Box) and Left4Dead (that would be the original and not the recent expansion pack). I think it's my background with MMO games, which are notoriously sketchy until their first anniversary or so, coupled with my intrinsic frugality: I don't want to drop 50 hard earned smackers on a product that is probably going to leave me shipwrecked (pun intended); I'd rather drop the money on a good meal and a bottle of some kind of ale brewed by Trappist monks. Generally it's after the hype-tide subsides and first hand accounts roll in, along with subsequent discounts on Steam and other online purveyors, that I have my feeding time. Besides being left behind the hordes of zombie-esque consumers the results of my Gamer on a Budget System have been largely favorable. I get cheap games that provide me hours of distraction and I avoid the crowded mainstream per my cynical punk rock tendencies.

All that is to say that it should come as little surprise that I only bought and played Braid within the last month. I haven't even played it that much. The Golden Child of 2008 independent gamedom was irresistible to both my "I'm too cool to do what everyone else is doing" and my wallet at a miserly $2.50 on Steam. I figured, even if it's not all it's cracked up to be, it couldn't hurt. I've spent more money at Taco Bell.

Being one of the more talked-about games of the past year has certainly helped Braid: the company is well-funded and, despite whatever controversy there was, it brought small, independent design teams to the front of the gaming world if only for a short while. Needless to say I had certain expectations for the game. I'm a newcomer to the world of indie gaming but a devotee of Derek Yu & Co.'s TIGSource and have been terribly excited at the prospect of free and creative DIY games (so much so that I mean to promote as many indie games as possible here). Visually, the game took me by surprise; here was a squat little Mario-esque fellow with dusty hair in a leisure suit running around in what could have ostensibly been a modern interpretation of a Monet piece. The music, the setting, the challenges, and the delightful surprise that I couldn't die all dragged me, delighted, into the game world. Let me continue by saying this game is like eight bitches on a bitch boat to play. I realize I'm not the greatest problem solver (I prefer there be many an explosion to the games I play) but Braid has some real headscratchers.

The story, however, has come off as trite at best. I could still be hung up on the few emo albums I listened to 10 years ago but it feels like the same guys who were writing those songs in high school grew their vocabulary and learned to code, then they decided to make Braid. Or maybe they were British literature majors who had to dump whatever vague and pedantic attempt at deep character insight into a game. Hell, maybe the developers just wrote down some heartfelt-sounding bull to piece the brilliant puzzles together. Maybe I'm just cynical but I don't care that Tim isn't over the Princess yet.

It's probably just because I've quarantined my game time into a box labeled "Fun" and so stories that attempt to move me get blocked out.

Regardless, Braid is a great game that keeps me coming back for more even after I walk away in frustration at some of the damndest puzzles I've come across (I honestly think Portal is easier).

I also appreciate what Braid means to the independent game: beautiful, thoughtful, and successful games can be done and can be well received. Braid, at least from my uninformed vantage point, seems to toe the line of independent and commercial quite well and the XBLA platform seems the best possible place for it to have started. I want more. More games that blow my mind and came out of someone's basement.

An interesting story on NPR stated that the U.S. is the largest video game market on the planet. While the public keeps gobbling up multi-million dollar titles there is still reason enough to believe that a movement like the independent video game has and will continue to solidify itself as more than just a space barnacle on the space hull of the Space Hulk that is the video game industry. I like to think it's the hegemonizing fungus that will soon infest the whole ship and crew.

We leave you to your work.

New Year, More Writing

2010-01-05T10:54:00.000-05:00

I stumbled upon my own blog today.

This was especially interesting for four reasons: 1) I forgot I had even started this thing 2) I had only posted once 3) I've been reading many blogs lately 4) I want to start writing more with the New Year.

But friends, a blog is a commitment and that can be a scary thing. Do I shackle my literary integrity to the demands of post counts and public setting or remain tied to my own devices and free schedule (resulting in one blog post every two years)? Will this serve as motivation to write more or will it serve as a vehicle for my cranky punk rock attitude to resist any push to change? Will anyone care?

For years (two, probably) I've wanted to write more and I've wanted to share that writing. I read a lot of crap and I think about a lot of crap mainly revolving around my slight gaming addiction, thrash metal, hockey, fantasy fiction, and food. This crap deserves to be spewed out upon the internet for all to see.

Why not ramble on about my adventures in Middle-earth for the public to see? Why not post that short story I've been sitting on for years? Why not rave about my dormant love for independent games and the oppressive time constraints of full time employment and full time graduate-level education?

It's a New Year, friends, and that always means tepid commitments to things you think you should be doing. I think I should be eating meat again, I think I should be on Facebook, I think I should read all of Bourdain's books.

I think I should be writing more.

I Need A New Hobby

2008-01-18T12:26:00.000-05:00

Or do I?

I feel it, I really do; this nagging irritation to make something. I just don't know what to make.

I've made many things: poems, I've made short stories, songs, web sites, ridiculous images, high video game scores, delicious meals, long drives, plane rides across the seas. But I still want to do something else. I think I'm truly looking for something that is both satisfying and rewarding but still leaves me wanting more. Computing and games seem to do this but there's only so many errors to fix and hours of Team Fortress 2 I can stand. I don't think I want to learn any code language - tried Python with minimal interest - and besides, what would I write? What kind of program could I produce?

And that seems to be the ultimate question; what is there to make? I've thought of taking up gadgetry and hobby electronics but would I make? Diodes light up? I've thought of taking up model-making (read 'modelling') but what is there to make? Tanks? Ships? Baneblades? I've thought of wargaming but Orks are too expensive and damn well nerdy. I've thought to push my culinary loves further but every time the idea comes in it's swept up by a wave of apathy and lethargy.

So I feel stuck. Should I be content to enjoy my games, read more books than I do, and simply rest in doing nothing ala Peter Gibbins? Such is the way of things right now. Any suggestions would be lovely.