vs. The Black River

August 30th, 2010

Six intrepid adventures set out for a mission this day, a mission which took them deep into the oft-frozen wasteland of Wisconsin.  It took them past birds and trees and rocks and things, where there were sand, and hills, and rain.  It took them over highways and through dells, until at last they came to a place known as North Bend.
It was at this place that a strong Omen came.  The drive had been exquisite, sun and fun and lots of camaraderie.  True good times for all.  Devo kept talking about how cursed everything was around Melrose… and I didn’t listen.

Then I got out of the car.  I looked around.  It was a nice place, big old log structure for the business, a ton of canoes sitting near some vans, a happy family playing about near the water, coming up out of the river.  There was a butterfly, and a good smell in the air.  The sun was on my face.

The sun was also on the back of a big white van with a canoe rig attached to the back.

Also on the back of that sun-lit van was a simple label.  It froze my heart.  It said:

“Deliverance 2.”

Yeah, I just about turned and walked back to the car right there.  There are certain things you should mess with in life, like co-workers, or friends, or that corn-starch liquid thing with the speakers… it’s pretty cool, look it up, but I digress.  One of the things you should NOT mess with in life is anything that even resembles a redneck who may have once owned a banjo, and who may have said, through their life, both the words “squeal” and “piggy.”  This is me, and I don’t go there.

Thou Shalt Not Squeal.

But I fucking girded up my goddamn loins, put my anal dentata in, and squared for the journey ahead.  The Guy (never got his name) was extoling the virtues of our choice of weekends, how the weather was perfect, there weren’t any clouds forecast (fun fact: I’m a redhead!), the temp was supposed to be 80s all around, and the sunset time was a nice, happy 7:30 PM-ish. So obviously I had nothing to worry about, right?  Except, perhaps, my back.

We, and by we, I mean my wonderful wife and I, packed WAYYYY too much shit.  Next time we do this, I do the goddamn packing, and we actually rough it.

Coleman lantern?  Not roughing it.  I digress.  (And the damn thing was incredibly useful, I’m just bitching.)  I’m also the guy who got mocked for bringing his cell phone on a river trip.  MOCKED.

One of the things we were very proud of was our punctuality with this trip.  We’d intended to get out the door and up to the drop point by 1 pm.  We got there by 1 pm.  We planned to get out the door itself by 11 am.  We got out the door at like 10:45 am.  So we were kicking the ass on this trip.

We got signed up at about 1, got on the road to the drop point at about 1:30, got to the drop point at about 2:15, got in to the water at about 2:45.  We had decided on the 2 day canoe adventure, which would involve about 3 hours hard rowing, or 5 hours coasting to get to “the best camp site” on the river.

Once we got on the river, our Navigator, a man known as RJ, realized that he’d made a miscalculation.  We were totally stoked to know the wind was blowing south at about 2 to 4 miles per hour all day.  Just a nice, gentle breeze to push us along.  Well, unfortunately, The Guy had mentioned that this was THE ONLY GODDAMN PLACE on the motherfucking Black River that the bitch flowed northwards.  Yeah.  I know, right?  Perfect day, and just the perfect amount of breeze to use my fat ass as a sail and make my progress that much more of a snail’s pace.  So we get in the water, stare headlong into this nice, gentle breeze that was now all that we hate in reality, and dip our paddles in.

We row for about thirty minutes.  We get out and swim.  We row for another while, get out and swim.  We row, we swim, we laugh, we talk, we wonder were the goddamn bridge is.  See, this whole fucking trip hinges on us finding this mythical goddamn bridge.  It marks the half-way point on the trip.  We’re supposed to get about an hour past it, and make camp at The Best Damn Camp Site On The River (TBDCSOTR) in order to have an easy journey for the next day.  At about our fourth stop for swimming, we realize it’s kinda getting late.

Why do we realize this now?

Because not a single manjack among us can do fucking math, that’s why.

We’re watching the sky grow dimmer as we pass these chuckleheads on the beach, camped up and having a grand old goddamn time.  We ask, politely, where the bridge is.  This dick in a turtleneck says it’s about two hours down.  No, I’m not kidding, he was wearing a goddamn turtleneck on an island adventure.  We complain and whine and bitch and moan, and then he laughs it off and says “nah, it’s just around the corner.”

Our Spirits SOAR!  We’re almost there!!

About forty five minutes of paddling later, we realize the son of a bitch was a lying dirtbag that I have invented four new special hells for.  We mush on.

Thirty minutes later and light is not so much dying as fleeing for its fucking life.  We pull over to a beach, unload our canoes, and after we start to set up a tent we realize we aren’t alone on the island.

One of the cardinal fucking rules of canoe camping is that you don’t invade someone else’s island.  We had no arm strength left, we were all drunk, and no ambition to push onward even though one of our pleasant fellow campers suggested that we move down river because there are nicer spots just a ways down.  We told them we had nothing left to row with, and we we’d try to keep it kinda quiet… which was, as they say, a bald faced lie.  They were about 200 feet down the beach anyway, so we were pretty sure we could be loud and not disturb them.

We were right.

What happened that night shall not be spoken of, but shall always be acknowledged with sly grins betwixt each other, coupled with knowing nods and perhaps an immediate hormonal rush.

The next morning, we untangled ourselves from the tents and stumbled out for breakfast… which was godly.  RJ is a damn good camp cook.  I gave him extra XP for that shit.

Somewhere midway through breakfast, Bonnie, the Chief Morale Enforcer, came upon a startling revelation.  We hadn’t reached the bridge yet.

This was not seen as a good thing.

Until she explained to us that we could call the goddamn company and have them come to the bridge and pick us up… at which point we all got very, very horny.

About an hour later I fish my cell phone out of the ziplock bag its in and make the most goddamn important call of the summer.  Guess who was mocking me now?  That’s right, NOBODY.  I hardly get any reception, but they understand that someone wants to get picked up from somewhere at some time.  Okay, at least it’s progress.

After prepping for the rest of the journey (IE: drinking heavily), we load up the canoes and head downriver.  We’re on that fucker for no more than twenty fucking minutes before we see the damn bridge.  Then we see the white van with “Deliverance 2″ on the back go over the fucking bridge… and then come down on the dock on the other side.

We race, we paddle, we scream and holler, and after another two hours, we’re back in our car, headed for home.

This trip was so breathtaking in beauty, and so awesomely epic in scope, that I am going to write a Zalanthanized version of it for all of my gamer friends…

If you haven’t ever seen the Black River, they aren’t lying.  It’s not a creative name.  The fucking water is BLACK at any depth greater than 3 feet.  Below 3 feet, it’s blood goddamn red.  I’m not kidding.

The River of Blood.  So epic.

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For a glorious woman, Ms. Amanda Greathouse:

August 2nd, 2010

Chin up, gorgeous. You’re better than anyone in life can understand other than yourself, for the moment. Ask the sun, the moon, and the stars why you feel this way, and you’ll receive the same answer. Ask time how long you have to wait, …and you’ll hear the same thing. Don’t keep your pain in. Scream it out, cry if you have to, bleed if you must, but the only thing that anger will do is tarnish your ever present beauty.

Keep walking, sister, and know that the sun herself is envious of your glory.

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Getting back in the saddle

July 23rd, 2010

So some of you may know I have  a reputation as a fairly competent storyteller/game master.  Some say I’m practiced, other celebrate me as the end-all-be-all of campaign gaming (to which I say “Dude, put down the pipe”), some say I’m just lucky (this is most likely it.)

This is a picture of a kitten with a gun, to make my link more clickable.

No matter how good I have been before, I discovered something last night…

I’m a fucking Noob.

I haven’t run a game in, uh, like 7 years.  I mean I’ve run single shots here and there.  I think the most I did was a double-nighter about four years back, but I haven’t actually run a campaign since I trailed off on my epically epic ShadowRun campaign that spanned about six or so years… or more.  I don’t know, I suck at math.

Anyway, I’m out of mental shape, and I realized that last night.  I found VERY simple tasks to be challenging… simple tasks like keeping the players on track, naming NPCs without having to stutter and stammer a volley of ‘uh’s and ‘ahhh’s, and not contradicting the shit out of  myself.  In my defense, the last one happened because I was quoting first ed rules vs. 3.5 revised, but still.

I don’t see why it didn’t occur to me that I’d need some period of readjustment.  If you’re a soldier, and you take a slacker desk job for several years, you can’t immediately throw yourself into combat and expect to perform as  you’re used to.  The same with almost any profession, from NASCAR drivers to Tech Support Operators to Alcoholics to Whores… if you aren’t in shape, you aren’t going to have an easy time int he profession.  You need to be used to the abuse your body, mind, soul will take when you are performing.

So I took it a bit slow, and to their credit, my players are completely awesome.  They knew I’d not done this in a while, and took it easy on me.  Questions were kept mostly succinct, people stayed in character conveniently, only hopping out for clarifications, and the distraction chatter was kept to a minimum.  I’m sure next session will be much more blood thirsty, especially after the ’secret reveal’ of the campaign start last night.  The glare I got from the player of our Magistrate was completely worth it.

Anyway, I digress.  What I’m trying to do here is kind of single-handedly brainstorm some ideas on getting back into mental shape for table top running.

Unfortunately, I’m not coming up with anything… so I’m going to have to not single-handedly brainstorm.

Any suggestions?

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The True Story of Bush’s Downfall

July 12th, 2010

The air swirled thick and heavy above the Resolute Desk as small eddies played between the two men.  George Walker Bush flipped the folder closed and threw the half-inch thick stack of information back on to the center of the desk.  His aged, wrinkled eyes narrowed in a suspicious gaze towards the balding, weasel-faced individual standing across from him.  His wedding ring clad left hand moving casually, he lifted the hookah hose to his mouth and took a thoughtful drag.  Rove stood like a statue across the desk, regarding the Commander in Chief as the water and smoke bubbled and danced.

“Turdblossom, this is the most fucking retarded thing you’ve ever put on my desk.”  Rove frowned as the President leaned forward and shoved another whole bud into the large platinum bowl atop the hookah.  Shifting his hand towards the file, he righted it on the desk then flipped the top open.  His finger stabbed towards a blurry undersea photo.

“Mister President, we’ve confirmed the images.  Several experts have been called in, and we’ve used the latest in photographic imaging techniques to remove all probability of mistake.  Even after that, we double checked, and sent down a probe with four scientists just to be certain the automated sub wasn’t somehow pulling in false data.  What you see here is…” the President cut him off with a quick series of coughs, and a fluttery hand wave.

“Damnit Turdblossom, I heard you the first time,” the President chuckled at his own nickname for his Adviser.  “And I believe in faerie tales as much as I did last night when I woke up from that dream about Angelina Jolie and Kate Hudson.  Don’t tell my Laura, heh heh.  Anyway, I’m not buying it, there’s just no way this is true.  And if it is, we can just bomb the shit out of it, right?”  Karl pulled in a deep breath to steady his nerves, which only served the opposite purpose as the THC in the air reacted badly with his already stressed mind.

“Mister President, this is the most valid threat to the entire world ever recorded.  If this threat rises, there will be no one left.  We have to act now!”  Karl inwardly cringed at the passion that rose into his voice, knowing it may very well have lost him the fight.  His face let no hint of his inner turmoil through as he continued to stare back into the narrow, blood-shot eyes of his boss.

George took a long, hard drag on the hose, and let the silence build as he considered his Adviser’s words.  The air in the room suddenly grew a bit colder, causing the smoke to slow and shiver in the air.  George took another hit, then spoke words of roiling smoke laced in a lazy Texan drawl.  “So what yer sayin here, TB, is that some pencil necked, well funded geek found a bunch of rocks at the bottom of the ocean.  He sent a high-priced doo-dad down to take a peek, then took three more peeks after talking with a bunch of other pasty white fellers with too much money and education, and then him and his nerdy buddies took a field trip down there to have a grand old time?  Then they came back and said we have to invade Atlantis?”

Rove’s shoulders sagged imperceptibly.  Another breath, not so deep this time, and he pushed right back into it.  “Mister President, the men in question were not all nerds.  One of them regularly played football, another hunted, and a third is James Cameron, so…”

“You mean the Aliens guy?”  George sat forward in his chair, suddenly interested.

“Yes, sir, the Aliens guy.  He’s turned his fortune towards underwater exploration.  He was the only one to return from the expedition.  Two of the others were dead before they surfaced, and the third was so mentally compromised that he now eats and shits through a tube.  This is a serious situation, sir.”  The hookah bubbled mockingly as George took another long draw, then laughed.

The sound of laughter was shot dead in the air, falling still in the smoke and landing with a soft thud, like a dead quail, on the Resolute Desk.  The shadows behind and to the right of Rove slowly shifted and regurgitated the slightly bulbous, ebon-clad form of Dick Cheney.  George’s fine buzz was immediately harshed.  Reflexively, he threw another bud on the bowl, and took the mirror out from the left hand drawer of the Resolute Desk.  The mirror had been a gift to Nixon from Castro, and held a matching mirrored tube as well as a quintet of thick white lines cut across the surface.  Cheney waited for the President to be done powdering his nose before his voice bubbled forth.

“Mithtaw Pwesiteth, if Ah…” something struggled within Cheney’s deep black hood, and George cut the Vice President off with a deep scowl.

“Damnit, Big Time!  Swallow the kitten and then git on with your… whatever.”  With the back of one finger, George did an under-nose sweep.  Dredging up a thin layer of snow, he did a tongue gum and watched his grotesque second-in-command finish his foul business.  Rocking back in his chair, George put his feet up on the back of his deaf midget sherpa, and signaled for Turdblossom to light the bowl again.

As Karl leveled the lighter over the bowl, and Bush continued to suck, the balding man took the initiative and spoke.  “Mister President, the situation, as I said, is serious.  We don’t even need to bomb anything for this to be the greatest strategic victory all of mankind has ever experienced.  You would literally be saving the world.  All we need to do is smother the region with some form of toxic liquid tha…”  Bush exploded into a coughing fit, sending a massive drift of smoke over towards the shadowed corner in which the Vice Unspeakable Thing lurked.

After a few small wheezes, Vice broke again into speech.  The liquid bubbled and roiled, expelling wisps of smoke from within his chest, creating the wet sounding words punctuated by what could only be the screaming of kitten souls.  “Mister President, it appears the reports are correct.  Satellite images, undersea dive teams, Nostrodamus, and James Cameron all agree that we are about to experience the most cataclysmic event ever foretold, but you have the power to stop it.”

“By bombing Atlantis.”  George Himself wasn’t even stoned enough to believe this.  “Oh, and you have a claw on your lip.”

With pudgy, slightly green fingers, Cheney removed the tiny kitten’s claw  and savored it with a lick of his tumorous tongue.  He gibbered and cooed, then nodded.  Stepping forward, he clasped his hands humbly before his belt of orphan skulls and addressed the President again.  “Sir, it’s not Atlantis, but something far, far worse.  Our fears were proven by the reactions of the science team when they went down to investigate.  James Cameron only survived by hiding his face within the remains of another researcher’s skull after it had exploded.  This leaves us with little doubt that this is &$*@^@.”

Bush thrice crossed himself and uttered a barrage of Hail Marys against the Blasphemous Word Never Uttered By Man.  Rove did the same thing, but in reverse.  For emphasis, George slammed the file on his desk closed, then turned his attention to another rail.  His finger quivered as it jutted towards Cheney.  “Now you listen to me,” he began, until Cheney dropped his cavernous black silk hood to better expose his bat-winged ears.  “Put it up!  Put your hood the fuck up, Big Time!”  The Commander in Chief produced a Desert Eagle 50 caliber handgun from below the desk and rocked the slide back, aiming the aperture directly at Cheney’s mutated, unclean features.  The Vice President did so, and stepped quietly back into the shadows where he belonged.

With a trembling hand carrying a devastating man portable weapon, the President started again.  “Listen to me, I’ve got a lot of shit to do today,” his gaze fell to the mirror upon the Resolute Desk.  “I don’t want either of you two coming to me with tales of faeries, or fish people, or anything else for the rest of my time in office.  Whatever the problem here is, it can be handled by the next chump stupid enough to take over this desk.  You can both go fuck a squid… or whatever it is this old wive’s tale is about.  You aren’t pulling one over on old Gee-Dub today.  Heh heh.”

Rove saluted, picked up the file, and turned for the door.  He cast a gaze at the shadowed corner were Big Time once stood, and shook his head at the miasma of sulfurous gas and singed kitten fur that hung sickly in the cold air.  The door to the Oval Office thumped closed behind him, and he shelved The Most Important Thing Mankind Could Ever Do until the next presidency.

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Petroleum and You (The More You Know!!!)

June 10th, 2010

Written by a good buddy of mine, Craig Mackles.  Posted with his permission and blessings.

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We, as an industrialized society, have an obsession with this black goo that comes from far underground. We use huge pipes and rigs to bore into the crust of the planet in a bid to reach pockets of this goo and suck it up for gigantic plants to refine. We use this goo more than most people actually realize yet we’re extremely quick to demonize the entities that are willing to spend the resources on a gamble that the well they’re currently drilling will contain none other than oil.

Black gold. Texas tea. Just like the stuff Jed Clampett got after he fired a shotgun into the ground.

Is our obsession with oil unhealthy? You bet. Do we need to reduce our dependence on it? Absolutely.

Before people start going all tree-hugging hippy on the rest of us, they should learn just how many things oil and the wells they come from provide for them.

Asphalt, you know to create the roads you drive on.
Gasoline to power the car you drive across them.
Diesel to power the tanker trucks that carry the gasoline to the service stations.
Propane to fuel that portable gas grill you cook your burgers on in the summer.
Lubricants to help all those mechanical things keep moving.
Plastics, which affect every aspect of your life in some fashion.
Sulfur, which is a critical component of sulfuric acid which is in your car’s battery.

Petroleum coke is also created in the refining process which by itself isn’t useful to most of us. It is, however, used in the steel and aluminum industries and as a solid fuel to power some boilers. Petroleum coke is mostly carbon which can be obtained by burning a piece of wood. Without petroleum coke, which is derived from petroleum (oil), you wouldn’t have the steel frames for your car or the aluminum cans for your soda.

Even though a “big, evil oil giant” pays my bills, I’m an advocate for alternative energy. The so-called “green movement” although I’m not as retarded as many of its followers. We can reduce our dependence on petroleum but it doesn’t start with creating a bunch of windmills or throwing solar panels on everything. It doesn’t even start with not using anything petroleum-based anymore, riding your bike to work or “watching your carbon footprint” like some moron that needs to be shot.

It starts with recycling.

All those plastic bottles? Those plastic cell phones you don’t use anymore? Even the plastics of the old television set you’re throwing out. All of that plastic can be reclaimed and recycled.

The scrap metal from this and that? Your old clunker of a car? It can be stripped and melted down, all of those metals reclaimed and reused. All of those aluminum cans you toss out after you finish your case of Mountain Dew? Yep, those too.

Find out if you have recycling facilities in your area. Get enough people together to petition the county/parish government to include recycling pickup in addition to regular trash pickup. Not only would it help recycle more stuff but it would also create more jobs. Sure you’ll pay a little extra, probably as much as you pay for trash pickup (look at your water bill if you’re on municipal water – it’s usually there) but ask yourself if you think it’s worth it. I’d like to think that it is. And don’t start whining and moaning about having to sort your garbage and blah blah blah. If you can throw that Pepsi can into the regular trash bin, you can just as easily toss it into a recycle bin.

We have the technology to propel our cars without using a drop of gasoline or diesel. It’s been done by small teams by using solar panels, kinetic to electric energy conversion and reclamation, and battery storage. Fully electric, solar-powered cars with a plug-in backup have been created and road tested. The Nissan Leaf? Ever hear of that little gem? Look it up and you’ll be surprised.

We even have a way to get away from using petroleum lubricants. Synthetic oils, anyone? I put them in my car’s engine all the time. They work just as well or even better than their petroleum-based counterparts for most applications.

The kicker is, we would still need that petroleum to help create the “green” (god I hate that term) alternatives. We need some way to produce the solar panels to slap on your roof. We need some way to produce the aluminum and steel, even through reclamation, to frame your electric cars and house the internals of the electric motor to propel it. We still need a way to produce plastics as the demand increases.

If we can reduce our need for gasoline and diesel, we can probably eliminate our need for foreign oil and move not only toward energy independence but also better take care of our home.

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vs. Cops and Oregon (at the same time)

June 7th, 2010

Unless you’re some fucked up dreadlocked hippy hottie from Portland, you most likely don’t know what the fuck I’m going to be talking about.

Which is kinda why I’m talking about it.

There’s this place in Portland Whoregon called The Red and Black Cafe.  Apparently it is well known that this particular cafe is not ‘Cop Friendly.’  Now there’s this big hoo-rah about it being Anti-American, and segregationist (really?) and all this other crap.

Personally, I can agree with both sides of this issue.  The Cop (in this case the officer in question is named James Crooker… a last name I will make no joke about) had the right to step in and order a cup of coffee.  The cafe had the right to provide him with the coffee.  The cafe also had the right to turn away his service.  Most businesses have a sign that says “We reserve the right to refuse service for ANY reason” or something of the like.

Most of the time they only use this when people are being disruptive to the workers or the patrons.  FEW businesses use it in a discriminatory fashion, but that does seem to be what is going on here, until you look a bit deeper.

The time line goes approximately thusly:

Police Officer James Crooker enters the store, and presumably lingers in line amidst cries of “babykiller” and “hatemonger” as the unwashed, patchoulli smelling masses rally.

P.O. James Crooker (hereby known as “The Cop”) buys  a cup of joe, and begins to enjoy said caffeinated beverage.

The Cop is approached by Cornelia Seigneur, who is a freelance blogger who sometimes works with The (wh)Oregonian.

Cornelia thanks The Cop for his work in keeping the streets of Portland safe and putting his life on the line so that hippies can drink coffee in safety.

It was shortly after this that Co-Owner John Langley (hereby known as “The Dick”) approached The Cop and asked him to leave the establishment.

The Cop leaves.  The Dick is lifted up on the shoulders of fellow anarchists as a vicious blow is struck at The Man.

Cornelia goes off and blogs about it.

A whole bunch of people get panties in bunches and have things stuck in their craw because of what The Dick did to The Cop.  Like it even impacts them, or something.

As a few of you know, I served in this nation’s military.  I went in to protect freedom of speech and freedom of decision.  I went in to protect the KKK’s right to be asshats in public.  I went in to protect the Westboro Church’s ability to piss an entire nation the fuck off.  I went in to protect Dick Cheney’s right to shoot his friend in the face and then have him apologize to Dick for getting in the way of his shot.  I went in to protect your right to read this blog, and my right to say you’re a dumbass for spending so much time reading this blog.

I went in to protect The Cop’s right to get coffee from a shop that doesn’t like him, and I went in to protect The Dick’s right to kick The Cop out of the shop.

Argh.  Another unfinished post.  I’ll try for more later.

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The Muse is not the problem…

June 7th, 2010

“I wish the muse would strike me.”

“Has anyone seen the muse?  I need some inspiration.”

“I just got hit by the muse!  Got 3000 words out today!!  Time for skittles.”

“Hey, anyone got any muse?  I need, like, at least an eighth of kind muse.”

I see this stuff periodically from my author/creative type friends… it always bugs me.  Not because I don’t believe in the muse, understand, but for quite the opposite reason.  I do believe in the muse.  I, however, do not subscribe to the theory that the muse is flighty and mean spirited.

I believe that the muse is always lurking.  Sometimes it is lurking in the front of you head, grabbing your eyeballs by the cords and jerking your vision around to what you need to see, and doing a little tapdance on your tongue to make sure you get the wording right.  I believe sometimes the muse takes up a position on the back of your head, grabbing your ears and twisting your face towards some inspiring moment which may be painful or pleasurable, but always inspiring.  And I believe that the muse, sometimes, takes a day off and goes and hangs out near your heart, confident that you can pilot on your own for a while but making sure that if anything important comes up that you feel it deep down in your rib caged thumper.  Sometimes it gets bored, and takes over your legs, making you take an evening walk where the air is oh so right (or wrong) and seeing that sunset/sunrise/misty morning murder that you needed to see to get your inspiration.  Sometimes it takes root in your urethra as you decide to put some interesting new pattern in the snow.

Regardless of where it is, however, it’s always with you.  Singing, dancing, cursing, smiling, crying, fighting and fucking, the muse is always there, always giving you what you need.  Now let me tell you a little somethin’ somethin’…

More You Know

The Most Overused Image on the Blogosphere

The thing that must be defeated is the Fugue Troll.  This is the gnarly, ugly, rancid-haired bastard who has a stalker fetish for your muse.  If the Fugue Troll sees you spending too much time with “his lady” he’ll go all ballistic on your punk ass and step in.  He’ll barricade the doors, bar the windows, slash your tires and blow up your bridges trying to keep you from that elusive inspiration.

Then he’ll sit back and laugh at you.

You can’t talk to the troll.  He doesn’t listen.  You can’t outwit the troll, because he’s just as cunning as you, if not more so.  The Fugue Troll knows exactly what you’re going to do and when you’re going to do it.

The only way past the Fugue Troll is to pay the Incompetency Tax.  You have to use a combination of bribery and blind rage to get past the Fugue Troll, and you’ll hate yourself for what happens when you do.

All writers have shitty days.  We spend 4 hours working at a few thousand words that we UTTERLY HATE at the end of it.    This, my friends, is the Incompetency Tax.  You have to prove to the Fugue Troll that you’re willing, and able, to let these droll, drab, useless words fly out of your fingers; that you’re willing to do the dirty in order to get to the glory.  That you’re willing to use semi-colons in a potentially improper manner.

When the Fugue Troll has you, there’s only one response.  You have to go on a bender of some sort.  Whatever your vice is, indulge in it.  Go drinking, go smoking, go play video games for 20 hours, go driving to another state and scream from the top of a mountain, buy a bunch of hookers and blow, go skiing or canoeing or hiking.  Have a barbeque, a cook-out, a bonfire, or a motherfucking moonlit orgy.  DO WHATEVER IT TAKES to gear yourself up for the Task At Hand.

The Task At Hand is to write.  It doesn’t matter what the hell you write about.  The Fugue Troll, for all his grim, ugly, dangerous appearance has about as much in the nutsack as Rush Limbaugh after a weekend in a Thai boy whorehouse.  He’ll quail and run as soon as you churn out just one little work.  Take that bender you were just on, and flip that event into something that, most likely, will be a terrible work of literature.  Your BBQ?  Zombie BBQ.  Went canoeing?  Ninja Canoe Attack!  Hookers and blow?  Talk about how Dick Cheney showed up and got all pissed off that you were horning in on his supply.

All it takes is for you to step up and say “Hello, ugly Mr. Trollface, this is my work of literary terrorism.  It is horrible, useless, and will never be looked at again in the light of day.  Can you please take it as my Incompetency Tax so that I may get on with my fucking life?”  Then, slowly, the Fugue Troll will stand up out of the pool of filth he sits in as he guards Musetopia, and he’ll lumber off with your bunch of words and munch on them for a while, leaving you and Ms/Mr. Muse to go traipse around fields of dreams and have raucous sex that would make even Zeus sit up and take notice.

Of course, there’s always the chance that whatever you mindpuke out for the Troll will actually be something useful and marketable at a later time… but don’t hold your breath.  Most likely it’ll suck.

But it’ll do the job.

Bewbs

Or you can just sit there and stare at fake boobs all day.

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Review: Google’s new game release: Destructonator vs. The Incredinauts

May 21st, 2010

Wow.

I couldn’t believe my eyes when I first started up the game.  For those of you who follow my posts, you know that I’m a video game aficionado, and I hold very high standards to anything I play with.  I believe my hands to be sacred instruments of the future of gaming, so I only risk sullying them on the very best.

Give me the damn code for the beta test, you bastard!

Google has provided me with this ‘very best.’  I believe I may have my hands bronzed in this position, to prevent them from every touching anything which lacks the incredible purity of Google’s new video game:  Destructonator vs. The Incredinauts – Back In Action!

Yes, this game has torn me crotch to crown by providing me with a truly amazing gaming experience.  For those of you who are not up on The Know, let me break this game down for you, starting with the technical aspects.

System Requirements:

Anything.

That’s right… this game can play on any computer.  Anywhere.  Any time.  No matter the system, even if you have an Apple IIe that is somehow on the internet, it can play this game.  Google has been very careful to not exclude any potential players, and since it knows exactly what computer everyone has, it was a relatively simple process for them to convert the game.  Using an extraordinary amount of flash animation and swift download tricks, the game is playable, as I said, by anything on the internet with a screen.

Players:

Anyone.

That’s right.  This is the first MMO type experience that includes ANYONE who plays the game.  Anywhere, anytime, it doesn’t matter.  The people on the ISS can play this game at the same time that you are, and though it may appear on your screen that there are no other players, in truth you are playing with anywhere from 10 to 500,000,000,000 people at the same time.  Since you all have a common goal (to destroy the Incredinauts), and you are all on the same series of servers, this has, in ONE DAY, become the biggest MMO sensation anywhere.  Ever.

Meat and Bones:

The game itself is absurdly complex, and defies description, but I’ll do my best to simplify it.  I warn you that the incredible details I am glancing over make this description akin to explaining quantum kinetics by asking a caveman to both beat a lizard with a bone and not beat a lizard with a bone at the same time.  It just doesn’t work, but, again, I will do my best.  For you.  My readers.

You are thrust into the guise of the world saving hero known as Paul Antonio Carter, a Man who has seen everything he loves turned to ruin.  Once a thriving pioneer in the biotech and cybernetics field, Paul was deep below the ocean in his private undersea lab when The Event happened.  I can’t explain to you what The Event is, due to the fact that it is a mystery that is unveiled during gameplay, and I have promised you no spoilers… but believe me that it’s pretty fucked up and world changing.  When he came back up to the surface six months later, he found that no one else was left on the world, and all of the cities had been deconstructed to produce massive walls that ran amok in odd formations, much like the Labyrinth of Greek legend.  Through this twisting, insane mask that has been applied to the Earth, the villains (I call them The Event-ors for the purpose of this article, because to use their real name would give you a hint at what had happened) have dropped the debris of our hero’s fabled experiments and other ruins of mankind.

It is through this hellish place that Paul must race, dodging left, right, up, down, over and through to get past the obstacles betwixt him and the insane Event-ors who have changed, forever, the world he so loves.  The Event-ors were not without caution, however, and have noticed Paul’s movements at the start of the game.  They have dispatched the spirits of his loved ones to murder him, using a psychotropic control mechanism which only affects the energies of the restless dead to get them to do their heinous bidding.  Luckily for Paul, within the debris and ruin of the twisting lanes are strewn bits of technology (some of which he invented) and biology (pictured below) which can help him ‘Power Up’ and consume the souls of the departed, which he keeps within his body until he can again build them a new form to live within the corporeal world through.

Technology you can't even dream of.

The closer Paul gets to his goal, the harder the spirits try to stop him.  No matter how many souls he reclaims for the good of mankind once he frees us from the tyrannical overlords, more are ready to take their place and do their best to hinder him.  The Event-ors have placed Resurrection Boxes throughout the lands, cunningly putting them near the center of many of the most troubling sections of convoluted passageways.

It is up to you, my reader and dearest player, to guide Paul Antonio Carter to freedom and victory.  It is you who must pilot this superman’s body, using only your feeble mortal mind, and reclaim the world from The Event-ors who have taken it from us.

Do your best, my friends.  It is not an easy task.

This game gets 11 crits out of 10.  A “Nat 20″ if you will.

I suppose I should include a screenshot:

Actual Gameplay. It's okay to cry.

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vs. Goddamn Vampires

May 19th, 2010

Okay. Um. I hate Vampires.

I think most of you probably know that. This stems from a number of factors, the least of which is not the LARP. In fact, I think that’s probably the most major factor. The fact that I helped start that LARP drives wickedly barbed, white glowing iron spikes of shame and pain into my balls and out through the top of my skull every time I think of Marla and Corey Gilman walking up to someone and saying “I’m seductive enough to (blah).” I almost wretched just typing that. That’s how bad it is.  THAT is how much I hate what the LARP around here has become.

I hate vampires sooooo badly that I had my eyeteeth removed with a pair of rusty barn pliers just to make sure that I bear no resemblance to them. I cover myself in the mud of the mighty Mississip so the dyes and pollutants will change my skin from the pale shade it is cursed with. I avoid red wine whenever possible. I sleep on my roof, and my alarm clock is the sun, who’s radiance I bask in, naked, for an hour each morning while singing the Star Spangled Banner.

You get the picture. Me + Vampires = Antimatter Enema.

But this True Blood shit is really goddamn good. The writing for it is pretty stellar, and while there have been a few slips in the acting, most of it is damn good. The angsty love… well, it’s not really a triangle, more of a trapezoid with some unconnected points, is really done very well (even though love stories or slants to a plot tend to make me sick). I do have to say that my two favorite characters aren’t the main interests of the story. Vampire Bill (yes, Bill) is really well done, very well acted, and puts himself forth in a semi believable manner (I mean, come on, he’s a vampire). Sam the probably werewolf maybe mage guy is very interesting, and true to form, follows the main female around like a puppy dog in heat. I can’t even remember the main fema.. oh, right, Sookie. Yeah, we won’t get into her, she’s a telepath, and a virginal… blech. Stereotype. So, yeah. No, my two favorite character are, hands down, Tara and Lafayette. Tara is a complete hardass who says what is on her mind, usually in a brutal fashion, and Lafayette is a very deep character who has a great many problems but coasts through them with an almost uncanny grace… and can really throw down in a fist fight as well.

Anyway, I could go off on this series all day. It’s really goddamn good. If you know me, you know I’m an entertainment snob. This series is set to top some charts, I’m pretty certain. It’s taken my #2 favorite position, because nothing, nowhere, nohow, can beat Dexter.

Sorry, Penn and Teller’s Bullshit, but you’ll just have to cope. Try some more titty next time!

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vs. MoveOn.org and Left-Wing Idiocy

May 19th, 2010

You know me, you know I’m not the biggest fan of the GOP. Hey, that’s just how I roll. If you’re a GOPper, great, cool. If it’s what you believe in, stick with it, I’m not arguing. It doesn’t work for me, however, and I hope you respect that like I respect your decision. We’ll talk about it, maybe even argue, but at the end of the day, I respect you, you respect me, we live and we’re happy.

That’s how America fucking works.

It’s a country formed on the idea that people can agree to disagree. It’s a country formed on the idea that your opinion may not always be right. Different people, with different paths of thought, coming together for a common goal and surpassing expectations.

We didn’t like the British. They didn’t expect us to leave over it. We did. They didn’t expect us to move to a whole new continent. We did. They really didn’t expect us to start forming colonies and get successful. We did. They -REALLY- didn’t expect us to begin a revolution. We did. They absolutely never saw it coming that we would whip their sorry asses in a fair fight. We did. They were completely unexpectant of us throwing a bajillion and a half tons of fucking tea into a damn harbor and then pissing over the rail of the ship while telling them to tell their Queen to check the dresser for the money we just left and that last night was memorable. We did that too.

That’s what we do. We’re Americans. Each and every single one of us. Republicans, Democrats, Nazipunks, Potheads, Bros, So-hos, Rednecks, Gangbangers and Juggalos. We don’t always agree. Sometimes we fight. If you tell me I’m an idiot, I’m likely to tell you you are one too. If you tell me you’re going to kick my ass, I’m going to inform you after the fact that I just broke your damn nose.

And then, after that, we’ll move on.

Which brings me to my point. MoveOn.org is supposed to be about bringing the country back over to an even keel. It’s supposed to be about righting some wrongs which have been made.

The last eight years saw Lady Liberty and her french fucking dress thrown over her head, bent over a pork barrel, as the GOP formed a rape brigade and hollowed her out like the chunnel.

The fight is not over. I realize that.

The focus of MoveOn.org seems to be about defaming and ruining the Republican structure. I don’t see that as a good concept.

America is in a world of fucking hurt right now, primarily because of the Republicans taking so many liberties with the lady, and because of this war we’ve been hurling money at. If we continue this fucking in-fighting that the Dems and the GOP have been going at, we’re going to screw ourselves sideways.

MoveOn.org is using that fact to drive a -larger- wedge between any factions that exist, using it to tout the correctness of the Democratic movement to the exclusion of others. THAT IS NOT WHAT WE FUCKING NEED RIGHT NOW!

What we need are for people of differing viewpoints to stand up, walk together, agree to disagree for the moment, and to get the hell out of this mess so we can go back to in-fighting on comfortable ground. Yes, we, as Americans, like to punch each other in the nose. If we’ve been friends IRL, most likely I’ve told you my theory of nose-punch diplomacy. If not, I will some other time. Suffice it to say that when the ground we stand on (our nation) is literally falling apart, it is not the time to worry about kicking the other guy off. It’s the time to worry about holding the ground together and applying some financial superglue. After that, stand up, on your solid ground, and crotchkick that bastard to Mars if you can.

But. Not. Right. Now.

MoveOn, it’s time to get off of your damn high horse, and try to help people figure out how to get out of this damn problem, and not worry so much about defaming the Republicans. Yes, we know they caused this. Yes, we know they are to blame. WHAT WE DO NOT KNOW IS HOW TO FIX IT.

You obviously have some good brains. Use them. We need a direction that doesn’t include “Republicans are bad.”

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