Wednesday, December 21, 2005

The Long Way Down

I drove home about four days ago, generally a ten hour drive. Well, most of the way home. I crashed at my sisters place, which happens to be along the route on the way home. Hurrah for siblings. Anyway, the trip in and of itself could be said to be fairly uneventful, but then I'd be lying. I'm driving along the highway, in winter season with only seasonal tires. This means that I'm staying at or below the speed limit and being overly cautious because I like being alive. Well, it also gets dark early, so even though it might be only a little after 7 PM or something, it's pitch black.

So, driving along when some asshole who's speeding comes up behind me. We're on a straight stretch, no cars coming in the opposite lane at all. I thought the guy would pass me and be done with that. I mean, had he wanted to, I would've slowed down a little more and pulled to the side to let him by. Nope. He pulls up right behind me, tailgating me, then turns his high beams on right in my mirror blinding me.

While I'm blinking away spots, my initial reaction is to, of course, slam my foot as hard on the breaks as possible, just to make sure their working. Nearly made the guy run off the road (which is overlooking this lovely river down below on the side of a sheer cliffside I might add. Canyons are FUN! So, he breaks too, but after that little act of being a fucking asshole, he kept his distance for the most part until I hit a passing lane. Then he shot by me, honking his horn. I'm pretty sure he was cussing me out too, but I don't care. Fucking jerk does that to me, what does he expect?

Rest of the trip was pretty uneventful. Got snow tires (very important), got home, and now I'm stuck with the same problem I have whenever I come home. I've been running on so little sleep that suddenly my face is like a raccoons, I can barely keep my eyes open and I'm exhausted beyond the beyond. Just so fucking tired I want to bash my head into a wall and enjoy the sweet embrace of unconsciousness. Course, it's the holidays, so family and friends are over, so whatever sleep I want to get is interrupted by this. Although, I can't say that I'm not at fault for this problem of no sleep. I keep odd enough hours that it makes getting the sleep I'd otherwise need is near impossible. I really need to re-think that sleep schedule of mine.

On the up-side, though, is that I'm kept more than busy enough that I rarely go on the computer anymore. Probably a good thing. I'm breaking my addiction! Not really...

Monday, December 19, 2005

"After you, old chap." "No, no, after YOU."

It's funny, when you think about it. Dueling is all about trying to defeat your opponent's character. In any realistic situation, this would mean an all-out brawl, everyone for themselves, no holds barred. Not so in the RP world, where there are rules to follow and etiquette to observe. All this formality may be counter-intuitive, but it's there for a reason: to keep things as civil between the duelists out of character, even though they may be at each other's throats in character. While there are several good sites which explain the rules of dueling, the finer points of etiquette may not be as obvious to everyone. While there's technically nothing written in stone, I thought I'd take some time to share some of what I've learned about courtesy in a duel.

In every duel, there are at least two participants, of course. With the notable exception of tournament dueling, every duel has one party that makes the request and another that accepts. If you're the one asking for a duel, try to be as polite as you can. Don't be brash, cocky or downright impertinent unless you want to duel with an imaginary friend: no one likes a braggart for an opponent, no matter how good you are (or think you are). If you'd rather your opponent make the duel topic and the intro post, state it in the first post of your request whenever possible: not everyone likes writing intros and some may not even accept to duel you if they have to start it off. If you have any preference for settings, duel types, experience and the like, don't forget to mention those, as well. The more information you give potential opponents and the more courteous you are in your request, the more likely you'll find someone willing to battle you on your own terms. And once the duel has started, one way or another, try to be as prompt with your posts as possible: you're the one who asked for it, so part of your job is to make sure you can actually keep up with your own request. An acceptable pace is at least one post every 24 to 48 hours. If you are unable to post for a certain amount of time (hey, it happens to all of us), mention it in the duel in OOC, state whether you want the fight to continue or not, and, above all, be gracious to your opponent for his or her patience.

If you're accepting a duel, there are also some rules of etiquette for you to follow. Again, be polite when accepting a request. Don't act as if you're doing the other person a huge favour: remember, most people don't like to duel assholes. If you've been asked to post the intro, try to be as prompt as possible and respect any other requests and preferences your opponent may have stated beforehand. As the one accepting the duel, it's your responsibility to go along with the request and its conditions. And again, try to be as quick as possible in coming up with posts. At least a post every 48 hours is fine. If you can't post for some reason, you should also warn your opponent and be polite.

If you're relatively new to dueling (or even entirely new) and are asking for a duel, then you really need to be courteous. I'm not telling you to glue your lips to a veteran RPer's rear end; however, I am suggesting that you respect the experience they have. Make an effort to learn from the veteran, take and ask for constructive criticism on your performance during and after the duel, and just generally be gracious. If you're new to dueling and are accepting a duel, mention it in the topic where the request was made. Some duelists prefer to battle experienced RPers sometimes, so if your offer to take up a duel is turned down -- politely, of course -- don't be discouraged and try asking for one yourself. Conversely, if you're a veteran and asking for a duel, you may want to mention your relative level of experience if you're looking for a specific challenge. Don't let your own experience get to your head, and remember to be courteous in your request. If you're a veteran accepting a duel from a newbie, be extra polite. Offer some friendly advice during and after the fight, gently point out errors in OOC if you must, and don't act condescending under any circumstance whatsoever. You are the one with experience, but you should also remember that you are teaching, not proving superiority.

Duels of all kinds, whether they've been requested or predetermined as part of a tournament, more or less follow the same basic rules. Be polite and be prompt, and your duel will be pleasant. I think this quotation from Sir Winston Churchill describes forum dueling etiquette quite nicely: "When you have to kill a man, it costs nothing to be polite."

 

- Lachesis

Thursday, December 15, 2005

It's a Bird! It's a Plane! It's not as cool as Batman!

So, the other day I went down to Walmart. I wander into the electronics section like any male in my age bracket with a little cash and immediately check out the video games, some DVD's, and of course the electronics. But, as I'm meandering my way through the DVD section eyeing up the new releases, what do I see? Batman: The Animated Series Volume Four. I nearly had a heart attack and died then.

But, not to far away from it, I spied Batman & Mr. Freeze, Batman: Mystery of the Batwoman and Batman: Mask of the Phantasm. Now, this was orgasmically good enough to spy all this in one section all at once. What made it better was that the movies were to be had for under ten bucks a pop each. I grabbed them all, trying not to salivate like a mad man as I made my way to the counter, clutching my prizes. I was pretty sure I looked like a raving lunatic--nobody got in my way for my mad dash to the checkout.

I have since binge-watched them all. Well, nearly all of them. I had to pry myself away to at least glance over notes for my last exam tomorrow to say that I studied, pack my stuff, since I'm heading home tomorrow, and write this blog entry. I'm already feeling the withdrawal symptoms.

I grew up watching Batman: The Animated Series as a kid. Its awesomeness cannot be denied, and anyone who does just doesn't realize just how cool Batman is. Suffice to say, I will no binge-watch the rest of episodes now. God, I need to clean my monitor off again. Just splooged all over. So, I can basically say I'm the proud owner of Batman: The Animated Series Volume 1 - 4, plus the three movies. I think there's some more out there to be had yet. Either that or I hunt down the Justice League/JL Unlimited seasons on DVD. Wonder if I can get those...

Tuesday, December 13, 2005

I Can't Hear You

I had my Canadian Forces entrance exams today. The good news is that I passed. There are no words to convey the amount of elation and exuberance I have at this joyous news. Gleeful doesn't quite cut it, either. I'm bouncing off-the-wall, giddy, sugar-high-like happy, that's how over-joyed I am at this news.

The tests themselves were straightforward. I passed the aptitude with exceptionally high scores, apparently. Physical I passed flying colors. interview went well. In fact, you think there wouldn't be a hitch at all considering how high-flying I was. And then I hit the medical, something I didn't think would give me any problems. Now, I've always known I was kinda hard of hearing, but apparently "hard-of-hearing" doesn't quite cut it.

My hearing is damaged, mostly in my right ear, it seems, but also partly in my left. Now, I know where the damage stems from. A friend of mine put an air-horn to my ear when I was six. No, I do not advocate doing this, no matter how funny the idea might seem to some people. Anyway, with my hearing as bad as it is, I was classed an H3 for hearing--it goes H1 - H4, H4 being deaf as a doornail or some such. To get in, I need to be an H2 or H1.

Well, the Doc looked it over, found updated material for what the hearing requirements were for entries into the armed forces, especially in the trade I wanted to get into--Infantry Soldier. The new specs basically ignore my high-freq. hearing disability (can't hear high-freq. noise, apparently), thus putting me into the realm of H2. Therefore, I get in, barely scraping by, but in nonetheless. The only consolation to me is that when my parents or anyone else tells me I don't listen, I can safely say that it's because I can't hear them yapping away in the first place.

All in all, a good day. Also, the riling up I went through with the anxiousness/nervousness was a waste of time. The worrying got me nothing; I passed, I'm glad, it's good. I've got decent chances of getting a call sometime in January with a job-offering. I can't wait, really.

Monday, December 12, 2005

WPCA - Story Something Vol 1 (cont)

There's a breeze, not like warm summery with the sun shining down and you think of crappy commercials featuring demented teddy bears, no, I'm cold. It's coming from a window, open, with a pale crescent of a moon casting a sharp glow across a land outside that window. My head is tilted just enough I can look up and out the window, see the starts. I can actually recognize constellations, so that even despite my jump into an alternate reality, which I hadn't figured out at this point, I believed myself to be someplace normal, someplace like home, some place within the twenty-first century of the Earth I knew. I didn't think much of this, nor the plain blanket, nor the fact someone had stripped me down naked under the covers. I just lay there, content and drifted back to unconsciousness.

When next I woke, my eyes spied a young woman, possibly in her late teens, maybe early twenties, a shapely form. I was peering through these slits between my lashes, slowly inching my way up onto my elbows, getting my face up in hers. She was in my room, but I didn't know why. Why the fuck is this chick in my room?

Her hazels go wide upon recognition that I am, in fact, a member of the human race, alive, breathing and very much awake with a scowl creasing my forehead and lips. In fact, were this Christmas time, I would have looked the spitting image of a Scrooge.

The girl gets up and dashes away before I can say anything, and as I move to get up, I suddenly feel very, very naked. I lift the sheets, shocked to see that I am nude, pull them down and clutch them like a security blanket. I hear voices, girl squawking away someplace. I think I hear the brat's voice from the truck ride, and Pa once more. Aw, kind folks had taken me in. Have to wonder why they'd do something for me.

Pa walks in, bright smiles, cheery, good-natured, that image of morality and humaneness that just oozes all over him. He's balding, graying, decaying and dying by the looks of him. Pa is an old man. Weathered and wind burnt, seasoned, past his prime yet still fit. Not an inch of flab about him, all muscle for all his age. And he looks at me, looks me right in the eye like he can see my very soul, and I think for a moment that this man must be God or something.

"Gave us a start when you started shaking on us," Pa says. "Gone shat yourself, too. I'll get you some clothes if you don't want your old ones."

I can only nod dumbly. Sweet, fucking shit, I'm speechless at this man. I want him to keep talking, because the moment he stops, I feel this impending silence. My eyes flash every which way, nervous paranoia sprung from some deep place. I see Brat and Cute Chick in the doorway, watching me, both anxious in different ways.

"You gotta name?" Pa asks me.

That was the second time. First time I had turned all crazed on him, a real fucking retard banging his head on the wall looking for attention and making himself dumber in the process--the ultimate pity party. I'm broken, please give me attention like the whore I am. I felt like that now, a tongue-tied retard trying to whore for attention. I thought I might give in the shakes again. I fought it off, managed to mumble my name. Force it out like I was vomiting up something cruel. My name rose to my lips like bile.

"Jared," I blurt, "Jared Walsh."

Dear God, I am not Irish. Actually, I'm part Irish, only a small part mind you. And yes, I could probably drink a good many people under the table, but I live in America, so I don't love soccer, or football, so much, so I don't riot. And yet even as these thoughts plague me in connection to my name, this man is looking at me. In fact, the look in his eyes is one of reverence almost. Reverence for a shit-eating, cock-sucking mother-fucker who hates his wife, hates his job (that I had remembered quitting only the day before in some deluded fashion) and wants the world to end.

How in the hell does someone have reverence for me, especially in my completely gone state? I found out. I didn't like finding out, but I found out anyway.

Wednesday, December 07, 2005

WPCA - Victim to Another Level Chap 1

It Rained

It rained. Figures hustled through the near dark, moving from one pool of light to another, seeking out cover. He found himself under one such flickering streetlamp, the near-dead bulb on its last legs of life. Rivulets of water ran off his fedora and an orange glow lit his face as he inhaled through the cigarette.

A person walked past, bumping him, jarring him from his thoughts only to present a polite smile. Resentment was returned in favor for the unsettling of his stance. Anger was the response, followed promptly by a "Fuck off, asshole."

They slide like ghosts in the darkness. Dead, cauterized to a world of pain. An interest only in themselves, their lives, and the small circle of single-serving friends they might have. Portions put together by corporations, designed so that we all take in what we need and throw away what we don't.

He was sure that was a line from a movie somewhere, burnt into the back of his skull at some point. It was always those chance encounters with an eccentric that left some brand on your life. Made you think past the bounds you would normally never set foot past. He blinked, remembering a bus station in a city and approaching midnight, pining about the woes of sleepless nights. "Sleep when you're dead," someone had said. It stuck. He would sleep only when he had put the last nail in his coffin.

A long drag followed by the exhale of fumes into the night air. Hovered there, light and breezy with a noxious odor before dispersing into the fall air. That was it, wasn't it? It was autumn. But there were no leaves on the trees. No, autumn leaves and winter was set to enter. But you wouldn't notice this, not in the twilight.

Turning, he strode forward, polished shoes sloshing in puddles. Past huddled figures, their breath hanging in the air. No respect, no time, no acknowledgement of existence except to move out of the way when you pass by. That was it; that was life. He knew it well--an existence of working, of sleeping, of eating, of buying and of dying. A cycle. Lather, rinse, repeat. The talk of love, of peace, of fun and enjoyment were lies spread by the companies, force-fed to the masses that hadn't the gray matter to see the opposite. It didn't matter.

A brush of air and a door. The sign says "push." He forces entry, walking in out of the rain. A bored clerk eyes him from over a magazine, and then goes back to it. The light hurts his eyes a moment, but just a moment. A convenience store, stocked with candy, with pop, with slushy machines and ice cream and sports drinks that describe how "X-treme" they are and the people who drink them. All in a glance it's taken in and then summarily discarded.

"Where's Harv?" he asks.

"Out back," the clerk replies, not even looking up.

He walks toward the door, twists the handle and enters. There's a rustle, a clicking noise, and as he walks in, three men stand there armed with weapons pointed toward him, their faces blank like the dolls for sale on store shelves. He puts his hands up, all pink and alabaster flesh at once, face just as stoic and blank as the gunmen.

"Ah, Jace, you're here," Harv says, coming from a side door.

His name isn't Jace, but he doesn't bother to correct Harv. There's no point.

"Do you have it?" he asks.

"But of course," Harv replies, all smiles. "And for you, my friend, I give especially good deal."

Harv is his dealer, but not of drugs or weapons, but technology. Harv has some kind of mantra against the selling of weapons or drugs. He didn't care, just as long as Harv delivered on the promise.

"Can I see it?" he asks.

"Ah, but money first, my dear Jace. You know this game, don't you?" Harv says, his voice like vapor in the air.

He reaches into a coat pocket producing a roll of bills. He tosses out on the table and a blank-faced doll sits to count it, eyes opening and closing artificially as he counts.

"It's all here, boss," the gunman says almost mechanically.

He thinks they're all machines, cogs in a network, fulfilling a role. Except these lifeless creatures that thrive on money and drugs and death are far more alive than their legal citizen counterparts who feign life in a consumerism mantra of "die buying."

"Good man, Jace," Harv says.

Harv holds up a small case, like the box that comes with a wedding ring. He knows he'll be married to that piece of technology. Without my rifle, I am useless. A mantra...a creed to something about guns and uselessness and war and death and everlasting...something. He disregards it as fast as it came to his mind, taking the small box from Harv's hand and flipping it open to peer at the chip within.

A small thing, no larger than his thumb-nail, but far more powerful than any desktop PC on the market by far. He would equate it to be powers upon powers more powerful. Better, stronger, faster, but definitely not harder. He'd heard that somewhere, a buzz-word he thought. A pale, thin-lipped smile of politeness was exchanged, followed by the required "Pleasure," and "business with you," words that meant so little. The money only mattered, the consumerism, the need for power. More, more, more. It was all about the 'me'. Me, me, me.

He flipped the top down, turned and walked out of the back, slipping the box deep into an inside pocket on his jacket. He'd put it to use soon. Anything that could control the polymorphic metals the military built that actually fit into your hand cost billions. He had just gotten one for a steal, a cool twenty-five thousand.

He bought a bottle of water and a candy bar on the way out, munching in the darkness. The mute sky peppered him with tears and all he could do was smile. A black and white sky, lit by the alien laminations of the central city to the East. With that twisted grin plastered on his face like a bad rash that wouldn't leave, he hunched his shoulders and moved like a ghost, floating from one streetlamp to the next. Like a citizen, legal and desperate for shelter from the cold and the rain and the darkened night. But unlike the citizen, he relished himself, relished the life, the tech, and the illicit things that he had done and did and would do. To be alive, to be free--it was to be on the wrong side of the fence. And truth be told, the grass truly was greener...green with money.

Been There, Done That

So, you got the road map, you're planning this grand vacation for yourself and friends of family. You've got it all set. You're gonna hit landmarks everywhere, except, when you say Grand Canyon, one says: "But lots of people go there every year! What's to see, just a big ass canyon!" You take it with a grain of salt and suggest some other major attraction, which is met with the same response. People have been there, people have already done it, so what's the point of doing it again?

This is like the cliché. They've been done over and over again that everyone has seen it of heard of it and knows what it is. Now, it everything has been done before, where are the new ideas? Sad to say, there are no new ideas truly. There is only old ideas and creative ways to use those old ideas. You can't use an old idea in a new way, as it's already been done somewhere along the line by someone. So, you must be creative with it.

We throw around buzz-words like originality and creativity like we're hot cats knowing all that. If you stopped to ask someone what they meant by that, they'd stop short. You'd stump them. They couldn't tell you what's original or creative, just that you have to be it. New and old players to the realm of dueling and RPing toss those words around, trying to ascribe some feeling to it, but if you stopped to ask them what was truly creative or original and they'd stop flat-footed in their tracks and be hard-pressed to answer this challenging question.

We're told clichés are bad, stay away from what someone has already done before. Tell that to the millions of people who are accountants. You wouldn't go up to one of them and say, "Dude, someone already has done what you did. Get a new line!" You wouldn't say to the soldier in the army of any sort that millions have already done their bit and they should try something new and creative, right? So why do we instantly jump down the throats of people new to it using every cliché they've seen and thought cool?

Let's look at the word creative itself.

Creative:

(Adj.) 1. Having the ability or power to create 2. Productive; creating 3. Characterized by originality and expressiveness; imaginative.

(N.) One who displays productive originality.

Well, when we write posts, surely we are being creative, as we have the ability or power to create such posts, so check, and surely we are being production in such creation, so check once more. But what of the third? Originality? Are we being original with the writing?

I'll take a look at a fellow role player that I have a lot of respect for and many people have heard of: Dispeyr. Dispeyr is an interesting fellow, able to create outstanding pieces of literary art, expressive and imaginative both. But here's the kicker--they're not completely original. Now before you suddenly cry blasphemy and turn into a raging mob, hear me out. Dispeyr, for all his good writing, using a wraith, a character of the same name--Dispeyr. In his depictions of Dispeyr, he is dark, ominous and deadly. Fair enough, he's a wraith. But if you stop and look back over the course of all Dispeyr's writing concerning that character, you'll see very glaringly that he reuses the same ideas again and again and again, each time switching up the way they're presented. They suddenly appear new, original and wonderful. Fact is they're not.

I myself commit this same habit with some of my own characters, Amarouk, for one. After a while it grows stale, and even if you're a good writer, it gets old pretty quick.

So what does this mean? It means that yes, you can use clichés, and I encourage you to use them, but don't over do it. Use them in an interesting way in possible, something that captivates. If you think it's wonderful and creative, somebody else might not think so. A harsh lesson, yes, but one to be learned nonetheless. But as with any kind of cliché, you need to be careful in their use otherwise you might just be considered another know-nothing newb.

 

- W. Visarett

Merry Fucking Christmas

It's the season to be jolly and happy and give and be given to and show affection and kindness and wonder for all things! No, wait, scratch that. I feel frustration, annoyance; I'm not in a good mood, I'm pissed off and I want to throttle the retard who stands in front of me in a line at a local Walmart because they won't use a Credit or Debit card and are scrapping around for the last few pennies in their change purse.

The holidays, we talk about how we should show our families that we care. We're bombarded on TV by Christmas specials and on the radio by Christmas songs, all of them proclaiming in one way or another about the joy and wonder of Christmas all over the world. And then the drive by foundations and charities asking for money to help those less fortunate.

And I pull my hair out and scream at the whole thing.

The gifts make you broke. You can't find a parking spot, and whatever it is that some nephew or niece or son or daughter or friend of lover or spouse wants, you can't find, or it's sold out because it's the newest, most awesome thing to hit store shelves this year!

Bills and more bills and credit lines stretched thin and tempers flaring and frustration and hate for our fellow man. No longer a spirit of good will, but one of anger. And then somebody out there feels they're not getting the best of it and decides to end it all in tragedy with the belief that nobody will care that their end came and passed. It's Christmas! Let's all be happy!

I have a friend who works as a 911 call operator. What kind of calls does she get this time a year? Noise disturbance, drunks, suicides, woe, desperation--all that Christmas-y Cheer seems to have been spread thin and people can't take it anymore.

What am I getting my family this year? Something simple, something they can use and appreciate and won't be discarded once the festivities are done and tossed into some back closet and forgotten or mistreated and sold years later at a garage sale where mindless junk gets put. But we all want the shiny stuff, the extravagant stuff, the things that have no purpose and no value and no meaning and costs a fortune. The corporate logo of Christmas: "I want YOU to spend a lot. To prove you love your family.

Bah Humbug, I despise the season.

Tuesday, December 06, 2005

WPCA - Story Something Vol 1

I go back, and I try to remember a time when it was all good, when it all made sense and I wasn't just attempting something mindless and worthless as the pursuit of home. I remember hearing somewhere that home is where the heart is. Well I had mine torn out, so now I was trying to find just that, home. In a realm of horrifically real sci-fi b-movie quality realities and dimensions, I traversed them all, looking for that one place that was home. I saw demons and angels, men and machine, beautiful and horrific creatures both. I amassed knowledge as I slid away to become another of the forgotten, slipped through the cracks of reality. Falling from one realm of what is real to the next, always gaining a kind of mass and yet never exploding. Feeling like I was being pulled inexorably toward some kind of black hole that sucked me dry, and still I wasn't more than the husk of my former self. And I stop, staring at some barren wasteland of an Earth I never knew, and I remember.

It began like most mornings where bad things happen, as depicted in Hollywood movies that all can understand and empathize with--I woke late, I was panicked as I rushed for work, I spilt coffee on my favorite shirt. No, stop, rewind, it was tea, I don't drink coffee. And it wasn't on my shirt, it was on my lap. I purposely scolded my nutsack in the hopes of feeling the pain to divert my frustration at being late and to give myself a better reason for being late other than to say to my boss, "So, yeah, like, I overslept. And I fucking have this witch of a wife at home, and she drives me fucking insane."

Only, he doesn't want to hear about my personal problems. Not about the wife who doesn't love me. Five years unhappily married. What the fuck was I thinking when I jumped in with that whore? But back on track. Late to work, boss reams me out, tells me I'm the usual--a dickless wonder that should be grateful for the job I got, despite the fact that I work my ass off for peanuts. Fucking peanuts! I'm not some bloody circus elephant he can wave a baton at and make do tricks! I'm not a fucking animal, but by then I'm roaring back at him. Screaming something along the lines of, "Fuck you, asshole. Take this job and shove it up your ass! Oh, wait, it won't fit 'cause your head's already stuck up there!"

I walked out.

Bad day just got worse. I ended up driving around hitting on every chick I saw that day. I didn't go home, either. Not to that cunt of a woman. Fuck, I'd rather cut my cock off than see her slimy, greased up face. Nor that hair, or her body. How could I have ever actually said I loved her? Where did I go wrong? Was there some higher power wreaking havoc on me for some past transgression that I didn't get the memo for?

I ended up on the University Campus. Don't ask how. I had hit up a liquor store somewhere along the line, gotten myself pissed drunk. I'm still surprised I remember that much. Most of it's a blur. Went to the bar, hit on chicks, made out with chicks, vomited on chicks, got kicked out of the bar sometime around two in the morning. Time to go home?

Doing that probably would have saved me more than a new, complete lifetime of woe. Instead, I decided I should commit arson and vandalism and get picked up by the cops. Then have them call that bitch of a woman I'm supposedly married to and have her haul my ass outta jail so she can tell me I'm a worthless human being and that I should be grateful for the small ounces of pussy she gives me in the off chance she actually wants to have sex with me. Uh, no thanks, cheque please!

I did, however, commit the vandalism. I smashed some windows like some rowdy punk who's had too much to drink. Expected. What else? Broke into the theoretical physics lab, some high tech place. Bad idea, right? You can just feel the sci-fi b-movie music playing at this point, like something out of the Twilight Zone, just eerily playing. There's me, on stage, smashing shit with a crowbar, pushing buttons, vomiting and puking my guts all over the flow. Surprise, surprise, its human! How it is able to walk while intoxicated, I haven't the faintest of clues.

This is probably the highlight of my day about now. You can hear the violins screeching away as though this had turned horror and something's about to jump out and rip my still beating heart from my chest and devour it before my eyes. If only life where that simple. I get up off my ass, slip on my own puke, bury the crowbar in some highly technical gadgetry, mashing my fingers along buttons before, low and behold, the grand portal of dimensional jumped grandness jumps up before me.

Too drunk to know what the fuck it is, I think it's a cop with a flashlight. I walk towards it, hearing that proverbial voice saying, "Step into the light!" I did, and I disappeared, and I regret it. It just gets worse.

 

***

 

The ground came up in a rush, black asphalt rising to meet my face and give it a good and proper greeting. Scarped my forehead, my hands, wrists--I was in a bad way. I rolled over then, starring at that vista of blue sky, cloudless and pure, and thought, 'Well fuck me, I must have reached heaven!' Then I remembered the whore of a wife I had, and recalled that any place not with her was heaven, or paradise.

Slack-jawed, I hauled my drunken ass up, getting those wobbly pairs of legs under me and began the slow process of locomotion by which I shoved one leg in front of the other like a robot, jerky spastic motions with grinding limb action in need of some oil. My head lolled to a side like some sick doctor had removed my spin as I waddled hunched over, tongue hanging out and slobbering down all over my dress clothes like the mentally retarded idiot I was.

It was night of the living dead, for I truly would have turned on my fellow man and munched on the scrumptious brains at about that moment. My eyes, I'm sure, had the kind of dead, semi-sentient look seen in zombies, although nobody I know can verify that fact.

Not sure how far I walked. When next the call of consciousness came to me, I was being bumped and jostled like so much meat in the back of a pickup, circa 1930's, a dog sitting their whining away giving me mopy eyes that just scream, 'Love me.' Only, it has the opposite effect on me and I sit up getting ready to lash out when a voice calls from the front cab.

"Hey, Pa, look, he's awake."

I turn me head spying this so-called "Pa" and his brat. Pa wears what you expect a gritty, down-to-earth man who spends his life farming where he to live in the 1930's. He's got a look of trust about him, dependable, stalwart, a wonder of humane morality. His son is freckled, red hair, blue eyes, scrawny with a straw hat. He seems to look at me and think I've got to be God...or Satan, and he's hoping that whichever I am, he wants to buy in and get a plane ticket outta this hell hole. Sorry kid, I don't do jack shit for nobody but me.

"What's your name, sir?" Pa asks.

Now this, folks, is where my cognitive functions fail me, my tongue somehow becomes molasses in my mouth and someone decided it was time to play "Put acid in the fuckers mouth and listen to him try to enunciate his A, B, C's." Lotta fun that was. So, here I am, the mentally fucked and retarded fucker making noises like a squalling brat in the rapture of some God-Forbidden seizure, shaking all over as I try to say my name. The kid starts screaming, Pa pulls over to wonder just what the fuck went wrong with the machinery that is me and I go limp like someone sucked my bones out or turned them to powder. Damn, I wish I had that for a super-power.

I black out. End phase one infiltration into new land by being morally corrupt idiot. Check.

Sunday, December 04, 2005

Act your age, not your shoe size

Of all the elements in a traditional character sheet, I think the one that gets overlooked the most by ordinary RPers and duelists is age. Think about it for a moment. You take time to come up with a really awesome sounding name; you pore over your character's personality; you give tons of detail when it comes to describing hair, build, facial features, weapons and armour; you painstakingly develop a deadly arsenal of fighting techniques and/or spells for your newest badass hero or heroine; you may even decide to create an entire new race, complete with history, for your character. But let's be honest, here: when it comes to your character's age, most of you just pick a number, any number, usually between 15 and 25 for humans. While there's nothing technically wrong with a small army of teenaged wunderkinds fighting each other to the death, it's worth noting that there's also nothing technically wrong with variety, and that it can actually help improve your skills at the same time.

A character's age can have a lot of influence over many other elements in a signup sheet, from personality and description to techniques and history. By far, the most obvious element influenced is a character's looks. Usually people get wrinkles and grey hairs as they get older, unless your character goes in for hair dyes and Botox injections. But beyond the superficial aspect of it all, there are other things to consider. Can your 15-year-old really wear a full suit of armour? Can your 75-year-old really swing around a heavy spiked mace like nobody's business? Issues such as these tie in with a character's history and abilities. Young characters should normally have limited experience in fighting, unless you were an abandoned orphan found outside a dojo and were trained in martial arts since the age of 2. On the other hand, older characters may have the necessary experience in times of war, but might be plagued with physical difficulties such as arthritic knees and lessening strength. And then there's personality: usually, people get more conservative and, for lack of a better word, wiser with time. If your character is not human, of course, then your character may have different age milestones depending on the race you choose. If so, think about the race's average lifespan, coming-of-age, middle age, old age... Think about your character's general personality, description, training, and so on; then you can peg an approximate age in human years and adjust it to fit the race's scale accordingly.

Of course, there are exceptions to every rule. There are plenty of healthy older people around today, just as there are relatively sensible young kids. But the trick is knowing when to break the mold and when to go with common sense. If you think your character is too ordinary (even with kickass powers), then you may want to go against the norm in one aspect of the character sheet. Go with your instinct, here, and keep in mind that too many exceptions make a character look too good to be true.

In closing, I'd like to share an anecdote about this particular subject. I've been RPing for the past four years now and I've known several RPers who managed to get away with the silliest things because they were long-time RPers and had somehow gained respect. Many of them had characters with the most exorbitant ages imaginable, but one really stood out for me. This particular character had many... issues that I had problems with, but I'm sure at least one reader can relate to my frustration when I found out he was over 9 billion years old and looked not a day over 19 -- and actually acted about that age, too. That's something to think about when you think you can get away with your age because it looks cool on paper.

Thursday, December 01, 2005

The General Malaise of Spreads and Cheezes

God-Modding. Cheeze Wizzing. Omnipotent. If you've been dueling on GameFAQs for a while, you've probably heard of those terms at one time or another. They're catch words, key phrases we're told to memorize and given a vague idea as to what they are. As we progress in our dueling careers, we begin to understand more and more what they are, what distinguishes them from ordinary attacks and why they are the bane of dueling. All three words can be summed up thus: over-powering.

Over-powering is the act of making your character far stronger than your opponents, generally in the middle of the match when both parties (or more) are committed to it. However, there are instances where one can be 'cheating' without ever using one of those words, yet we use them to describe it. I'll give an example.

I'll approach the problem from a widely understood True style, in which no auto hits are allowed. Were I to be battling against an opponent in the True style and I were to grab his wrist to use as leverage for an attack, I would thus be over-powering, God-Modding, cheeze wizzing, etc, and would promptly be called foul for the act; the duel would fill to the brim with OOC's complaining about wha I had done and die shortly after. However, were this same tactic to be approached in the Mix style, it would be allowed--in fact, it would be expected and no one would complain about it at all.

Same motion, two different instances, two different answers. A strange phenomenae, this over-powering. It seems to be subjective to the style of a duel, or perhaps it is subjective to the amount of power a character wields in battle, or perhaps both?

Another example.

Suppose I am using a technological armor set capable of launching dozens of missiles at once and I'm fighting against, say, a simple warrier incapable of magic and only uses a sword. In the True style, you could consider this God-Modding. Now, substitute my opponent for someone who also uses technological armor like me and has shields and the means to defend against such an attack. It is no longer God-Modding, is it?

Amusing that the same character was used, but in the two different situations under the same style, yet there were two different outcomes. God-Modding, over-powering and their ilk are completely situational, tied to the circumstance of the duel, to the characters and the attacks unleashed. When you fight toe-to-toe with an opponent on equal terms with equal abilities, your opponent can't, or shouldn't, cry wolf on you because you can keep up. It's asinine and childish of your opponent. However, were you to fight against an under-powered opponent with your max abilities available to you, you would then be God-Modding.

 

- W. Visarett