Cindy and the Sasquatch

Playing in the backyard of my mom’s house with friends or brothers. I am a nine year old girl named Cindy, even though I am in my own body. As we are playing near the woods- it’s unclear whether these are the original woods from my childhood or the current “just enough woods so the old folks who live in the new subdivision on the other side can pretend they don’t have neighbors”. We are playing chase games, when suddenly the boys are all screaming about a bear in the woods and fleeing. I run to hide in a stand of pines and watch through the branches. The creature coming out of the woods is huge, and walking on its hind legs… do bears do that? As it gets closer, it becomes clear it is not a bear, but a sasquatch with a hugely wide, squat body (unlike the often lanky appearance traditionally ascribed to bigfeets) and cone-shaped head, long auburn fur like a baboon, and an expressive, if bestial, face (Actually, now that I think of it, he looked something like Ludo, the rock-calling monster from Labyrinth). I am afraid that it will notice I am in the trees. I have the strong suspicion it already knows I’m there. Then I hear it mutter something.

“…not a bear.”

It… can talk? Well, with classic fairy-tale logic, I determine that anything that can speak can be reasoned with and should be treated like a person. Children don’t know any better, they have to be taught prejudice, after all. So I step boldly out from the trees and walk up and introduce myself.

“Hi! My name’s Cindy. What’s yours?”

The creature’s name is Grunda, it turns out. He likes shiny things and pulling up trees by the root. It turns out I also like shiny things, as I have a handful of bottle caps and suchlike in the pocket of my overalls. When I show these to Grunda, he snatches them from my hand. He doesn’t hurt me, but his strength is irresistible, like a machine. I object and try to explain that he can’t just take things from people. This seems to confuse him, because, obviously, he just did. I try to explain that it’s impolite as Grunda munches on a tree he’s uprooted, but like an animal or a faerie creature, the great shaggy beast appears… not stupid so much as amoral. As far as he’s concerned, there’s no difference between having pried them from my hand and having picked them up off the ground. He saw some shinies, he got the shinies. What’s the problem? The boys, who have crept closer now that I haven’t immediately been eaten, all want to run off and bring their own shiny collections to appease the beast. I am having none of it, and excoriate both them and Grunda up one side and down the other, but nobody is listening to me.

This infuriates my nine-year-old sense of fairness, instilled by innumerable parental lectures and petty sibling rivalries. At the earliest opportunity, I steal back all off the trinkets and hide them in one of the garbage cans by the barn, then run inside to the basement to find a weapon. And by “weapon” I mean the kind of thing a 9 year old would see as a weapon- a cardboard packing tube, maybe a rake. I finally settle on a pair of long, stripey socks from the laundry hamper. They have the advantages of being both long and stinky. And I can dual-wield them.

I run back outside to find Grunda and challenge him to single combat, only to discover that a council of sasquatches has been convened in my backyard. Grunda introduces me to his wife, Yamba, who is the leader by the simple virtue of being louder than any of the others. I do my best to negotiate with the tribe, which ends with me shrilling at the top of my lungs,

“YOU DON’T WIN AN ARGUMENT JUST BY OUT. LOUDING. THE. OTHER. PERSOOOOOOOON!!!“

My shriek is apparently literally ear-piercing to sasquatches, because they all cringe and cover their heads, and Yamba immediately, if grudgingly, concedes to my demands for a treaty that will henceforth fairly distribute shinies between both human and sasquatch denizens of the area. I leave them one of the smelly socks as a token of the agreement.

The human community, predictably, sets up a long fair tent full of volunteers at computers to serve as a temporary administrative bivouac until something more permanent can be established. I go there, remaining sock in hand, and everyone kind of winces when I poke my head through the flap. Having done my part, I am apparently now expected to fade into the background. I’m a brave little girl, yes, yes, but this sort of thing is best left to the adults now, okay? I am a bit miffed, so I toss the sock in the middle of the tent and leave. If they want to take over as holders of the treaty, that’s fine with me. I’d rather go play with my shinies, anyway.

80’s Cartoon Lovefest Part 2

The postapocalyptic setting for this show was fantastic, and really lent itself to a wide variety of scenarios and tropes. Plus, the hero wields a lightsa- er, I mean, sun-sword! How can you go wrong with that?

*

I still think this show holds up better than most older cartoons. I’ve been playing 4th Edition lately, and now that I watch this again, I’m kind of jealous- I never got hooked up with a level 20 artifact weapon at 1st level. In fact, the 4E rules more or less prohibit it. Lame. Also, in 4E, those weapons would be intelligent, and would probably bail on these chumps after about a week. Still fun to watch, though.

*

The intro to this one isn’t that exciting, but I loved this show’s unique premise and quirky variants of the standard set of protagonists.

*

I’m realizing that “standard set” of protagonists shows up in a lot of heroic-ensemble fiction. You’ve usually got some combination of the Luke (plucky male hero with a destiny), the Han (gruff male companion with a shady past), the Leia (strong willed female who can take care of herself, thank you very much), the Chewie (animal or beast companion, sometimes scary (Ookla), sometimes goofy (Niddler)), and the Kenobi (wise mentor, often not part of the main group, but whose advice, planning, or last minute rescue saves the day when the heroes are outmatched).

Hm. I wonder if that’s older than Star Wars… I bet it is.

In the Bloodlands

In the Bloodlands, wishes can come true… for a price.

Julia envied the birds, so she lured them to her windowsill with nectar and seeds, caught them barehanded, and ate them, still wriggling and shrieking, until she found she could raise her arms and lift herself from the ground.

Julia envied Maria her husband, so when Maria was walking along the cliffside with a satchel of ripe plums at her hip, a flock of birds flew at her face and pecked at her until she lost her footing. Only, instead of tumbling into the sea, never to be found, the satchel caught on a root and broke her neck, leaving her dangling there for Matthew to find when he went to see why she was so late returning from the orchard. Dangling, with the marks of a hundred tiny beaks pocking the skin around her eyes.

Matthew’s grief festered within him until it turned to rage. He buried his newborn son with his wife, and when the next morning found a stalk growing from the grave, with a single blood-red plum dangling from its end, he ate it, and fell into a fever that lasted for three days. He awoke alone, tied to a tree far from the village. Snapping his bonds as if they were rotted vines, he stumbled back toward his home. As he fell beside a clear stream to slake a thirst deeper than he had ever known, the face he saw in the water was that of a monster, as much reptile as man.

Julia has taken to wearing a cape that drapes under her arms like the wings of a bird, as she floats through the fields, on the verge of flight, but never quite breaking the shackles of the earth. Tiny messengers land on her shoulders and tell her Matthew is returning to the village, and she pirouettes, five feet off the ground, and goes to meet him.

Matthew sees Julia approaching from where he lurks at the edge of the wood, just shy of the light. A bird alights on his shoulder and whispers in his ear, and he knows. Bellowing a roar no human throat could contain, he charges from the woods, his clawed feet churning up the moist earth. She barely has time to lift her arms, five feet, ten feet; but he is faster than a man now, and he leaps up to catch her legs in a crushing embrace.

And suddenly they are soaring, above the clouds, the sun blinding, the wind deafening in their ears, spiraling across a sea of white foam, her avarice and his rage forgotten in this sudden moment, her exultation and his fear.

When again she swoops down, through the clouds, across turbulent waters, it is to a coast neither of them recognize. She is suddenly tired, and cannot quite veer away from the strange trees. His body weighs her down, her legs numb from his unfailing grasp. They crash into the straight boles, but he swings his legs out and they shatter under the impact of his armored shins.

When they at last touch down, tumble apart, to lay on the wet grass, suddenly exhausted, they stay there, unmoving, for a long time, listening to one another’s breathing.

*

She pauses, thoughtfully, her black quill hovering over the rainbow streaks she has painted on the page. Each serpentine line she has inked connects on part of the story to another, one band to the prior and the next.

“What now?” she muses, the end of the quill between her teeth.

“Well, obviously, when they are touching, their power is doubled. What happens if they find another?” I ask.

“Hmm.” she dips the quill and starts another line.

A rant that won’t make any sense because it’s cut and pasted from a comment on someone else’s blag.

Because killing and collecting can be fun. That’s why thousands of people play those games.

A lot of the gripes about similarity between classes and general meh-ing of 4E are valid. It’s fun, but it’s a very particular kind of fun, and doesn’t really support any other kind.

Here’s what I’d like to see in my killing and collecting games: a system whereby the characters face greater and greater challenges, which they can overcome not just through increased character power, but primarily through increased player skill. Increased character power is not the only way a character can change, but it is a valid one. But maybe getting *stronger* is less interesting than getting *broader*, and having more options. Knowing how to best use those options only comes through PLAYER experience.

Also, finding a magic item should be 1) Rare, and 2) Freakin’ Awesome. It should not happen every level, or every game, or even every campaign. When I find a magic sword, it should be a major event. And that sword should be 1) A plot device, and 2) Freakin’ Awesome. A +1 vs Undead is not a bonus. I do not give a rip about a 5% or even a 10% bonus against one type of enemy. That’s not a magic item. I want the White Hammer of Aarda to VAPORIZE the undead. And I want Vrrgonath the Dark Lord of Kittens to sit up and take notice and realize he’s got a problem, and set about making my life difficult.

4E is essentially a WoW clone converted for tabletop play. And that’s fine. It does that well. And I’d rather sit around a table with minis and a pizza and my friends than in front of a screen knowing I pay 15$ a month for this experience.

But it’s definitely not the only game I’m gonna have fun playing.

Wow, that was… almost completely incoherent. Sorry ’bout that. There’s a point in there… somewhere. I think. =\

Halloween Themed Playlist

In no particular order:

1. Trioxin / Zombies! Organize!
2. Necromancing / Gnarls Barkley
3. Crash My Car / Supra Argo
4. Wandering Ghosts / Michiru Yamana
5. Boogie Woogie Wu / Insane Clown Posse
6. Hometown / Akira Yamaoka
7. Blood Red Sandman / Lordi
8. Burrow Your Way to My Heart / Darkest of the Hillside Thickets
9. Living Dead Girl / Rob Zombie
10. Life Burns / Apocalyptica (feat. Lauri Ylonen)
11. Transylvanian Concubine / Rasputina
12. Run Down the Devil / Alice Cooper
13. Prey / Seraphim Shock

I could come up with more, probably (okay, definitely), but 13 seems like an appropriate number of tracks, eh?

Feel free to suggest your own Halloween tunes!>

homeward bound

a band of men in line at a police station. they are strangely dressed, anachronistic, in leathers and fur and scraps of mail. I stand with them, fingering a talisman on a thong around my neck, whispering a prayer to the Horned Lord to lead us home, to save us from this strange land and its noise and smoke and impossible towers.

and then, He is there, walking among us. we turn as one to follow him, as the walls of the police station fade behind us. we know better than to pay too close attention to what surrounds the Straight Tracks by which our god leads us- those few who have braved a glimpse of the dimensions between have gone mad or worse, although after what we have been through we may all be a little mad.

then, suddenly, the Horned Lord pauses. and just as suddenly, we all feel a great, crushing lethargy sweep through us. even the wild god sinks to one knee as behind him our motley band collapses where they stand, unable to move so much as a finger or utter a single moan of despair. around us lies a barren plain pocked by craters and fissures, uninhabited save for two great woolly mammoths. one is white as driven snow, the other black as basalt. from across the plain they charge at one another, their trumpeting roars echoing across the desolation. they crash together and the white behemoth throws the black one to the ground, which shudders beneath us.

a storm-tossed sea rises about us, crashing waves and whirling clouds, spears of light forking between them. vast terror grips my heart, but I can barely draw breath to cry out, so powerful is the sapping effect that crushes us. through this elemental violence, two monsters swim- plesiosaurs, though I knew not to name them at the time. their fins churned the water, leaving whirlpools in their wake as their ponderous jaws swung to and fro at the end of impossibly long, muscled necks. they tore great ragged chunks from one another, blood pouring from their wounds to stain the frothing wave-caps red.

with no small effort of will, I looked to the Horned Lord, who watched the battle of the titanic creatures with an intensity I could not fathom. by some intuition, I realized that the white beast, as before, represented his will, locked in combat with some dark force that threatened to overwhelm us all. even as this thought came to me, I saw the white sea-dragon lock its jaws just behind the head of the black, and the sound of that bone-crushing bite was audible even above the twin thunders of the waves and sky.

we sank beneath the waves now, into the trackless depths, and although I thought myself at the limits of fear, the ice that now enveloped my heart was greater still. deeper and deeper we sank until no light penetrated and no surface nor bottom was visible. through this silent blackness swam two whales of such magnitude that they could have swallowed whole the sky-scraping towers of that strange land we had thought to be rescued from. one white, one black, these leviathans moved with terrifying grace for all their size, ramming into one another with no weapon but their huge blunt noses. somehow this was more awful to behold than the creatures armed with nature’s weapons, as over and over again the whale-monsters circled us and came together in the nightmarish silence beneath the waves. I poured all my will toward our ghost-pale champion, manifestation of the will of the wild god whom we called our protector. I had no illusion that my small and faltering courage would tip the scales of this battle one way or another, but what else could I do?

Dan Savage- Dealing With Horrible Things, So You Don’t Have To.

ambitions

a young ambitious priest, dreams of power and influence.

hours of research leads him to his church’s relic- the fingerbone of a saint known for signs and miracles. machinations and bribes secure him the hiding place of this artifact, which he steals and fashions into a pendant, which he wears on a thong around his neck, next to his skin.

at night the saint whispers to him in his dreams. every night… and sometimes during the day. but the voice is faint, and the secrets tantalizing but vague.

the first time he swallows it, he pounds it with a mortar and pestle into a fine powder and mixes it with holy water. the next day it passes from his bowels- once more intact.
after that he simply snatches it from his bedpan each morning and swallows it whole. he no longer needs any other sustenance. and the saint now appears to him in visions, with promises and premonitions.

finally, he straps his left arm down to a board and grips a thick strip of leather between his teeth as he flays open his hand, resurrectionists anatomical diagrams on the table beside him. with infinite care he prises loose the bone from his finger and replaces it with that of his otherworldly guide. before he can even reach for the needle and thread to sew up the mess he’s made of his flesh, the pain rolls his eyes back in his head and he collapses into darkness.

the following morning he wakes to bloodstained frock, tools, and table, but his arm is flawless and whole. the saint is with him now- they are one.

he smiles, and goes out to greet the new day.

caretaking

helping to take care of a little girl who may have been part or full alien

foster family raising her engaged in sexual activity with her, which she seemed to enjoy. they claim she is some kind of messiah. are they one of those cultish religious sects? or the beginnings of one.

we are in court, I am trying to get her away from them. she is no messiah. she is extremely sensitive to vibrations, not supernaturally, but in the manner of autistic children whose senses are overpoweringly focused. she can feel the heartbeats of those around her. she can sense moods, and was a kind and compassionate child.

old men at store. they doted on each other.

later a compound surrounded by a mesh fence.
we were trained to keep outsiders out. we were told they were aliens, or zombies, monsters. we armed ourselves with spray cans and lighters. as we set upon the first group trying to get in and lit them ablaze, it became apparent that they were just other people, trying to get to a safe and warm place.

Olaf Stapledon’s Last and First Men

Last and First Men by Olaf Stapledon

My rating: 3 of 5 stars
Man, oh man. It’s been a long time since I had to renew a library book because I wasn’t done reading it. I have to admit, this was a slog. Olaf Stapledon has an incredible imagination. His works inspired many of the great names and most enduring concepts in SF (Dyson spheres and racial overminds, for example). He’s an unending font of insightful observation, interesting speculation, and far flung extrapolation.

He is not, however, a masterful writer. His prose soars at times, and I found myself jotting down notes for things I wanted to refer back to, because they sparked my imagination or offered unique and unapologetic insight into human nature. But in between these lofty peaks are long, dry valleys where I had to force myself to continue.

Some day, perhaps, I will read the sequel, Last Men in London. I think, nay, I hope, it is told on a more personal scope, and may therefore be a bit more approachable. But for now, I think, Mr. Stapledon and I will be taking a vacation from one another. At least for a while.

View all my reviews >>

I, For One, Welcome Our New Robot Overlords…

Bishop will be doing his knife trick before you know it.

And then, can 8-Man be far behind?

The Dark Cristal

(stolen with thanks from Glyphpress)

Flashbacks

Back in grade school, but taking college level classes. Found Dwayne and I had a class together- “Game Design 101: Introduction to Games and Gaming”, taught by none other than Brennan Taylor of IPR. The seats were too small for my adult body, which was annoying, but I squeezed myself in. Prof. Taylor was in the middle of the classroom sitting crosslegged at a very low table that was covered with a smattering of toys and games- Legos (Mechaton, woot!), HeroScape, Warhammer Minis, who knows what else. Once the class got started, however, he put on a movie on a widescreen tv. It was very disturbing, but I don’t remember what it was about.

Later I went out to dinner with an AI. It checked my email for me while we ate. There was some important reason, but I don’t remember that either.

Then I was in an unfamiliar bathroom in someone’s home, and there was a HEWJ knobby knee’d spider. I found a can of Lysol or something and sprayed it. It tried to flee under the door but couldn’t quite fit, so it ran back toward a box of… something, I’m not sure what. The box featured a smiling woman on it- some kind of household product. The spider climbed onto the box and the woman on the box reacted to it by looking upward at it in alarm. She picked up the box (don’t ask me how that worked) and carried it- with herself still on it- to the trash can and pulled the box down into it. Apparently the trash can was over a faucet, because I then turned the faucet on to make sure the spider was not coming back.

*

On another night, it was the future, and there was this guy who claimed to be the Second Coming of Christ. He dressed in robes like Jesus in a play, and for some reason much of the world bought into it. He practiced ovomancy, reading countless dozens of eggs and doomsaying. I was, for some reason, on his staff, but the crazier he got and the more doom he portended, the more skeptical I became.

There was a town meeting at the public library to discuss what to do about these prophecies. I went there, but they were only letting loyalists in, and somehow they knew I was no longer one of them. I flashed my staff badge and started to bullshit my way in.

Later, I was with a doctor of some kind. I had procured a sample of one of these prophetic eggs, and he was going to run tests on it. My stepfather was there for some reason, and admonished me for my lack of faith.

Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone

Not bad. I still think Dumbledore is clearly biased towards Gryffindor in general, and towards Harry specifically, to a degree that is both unfair and unbecoming. We get a little more insight into Snape’s deal than in the movie… or at least I don’t remember it from the movie, maybe it was in there. He’s kind of the most interesting character to me, and I felt he got very unfairly treated by the most recent movie… the book version was probably better, but I doubt I’ll read them all to find out. I’ve heard the 7th book was crap, which makes me not want to get into the series at all.

Also, the wizard world, while exciting to juvenile-me, is totally unworkable to adult-me. If magic works, there’s no way it’s not a part of EVERYBODY’s everyday life. Humans use what tools are available to them, it’s our nature. Also, these powerful wizards have a responsibility to solve the greater problems of the world, rather than futzing around in their towers waving their wands and pretending they have real problems.

Also, if Harry & company got through the gauntlet of spells at Hogwarts as easily as they did, they wouldn’t have posed any kind of obstacle to a real wizard.

And finally, if House Slytherin produces all the dark wizards… SHUT IT DOWN ALREADY, YOU MORONS! Or at least have more careful monitoring or SOMETHING.

Personally, I prefer magic systems that are well thought out and internally consistent rather than magic-as-plot-device. When magic can do whatever you need it to do at any given moment, it’s really difficult to maintain any kind of suspension of disbelief. Like, if there are cloaks of invisibility, then the school would have Invisibility Detectors around important rooms, etc.

I’ve said this before, and it bears repeating: In a world where magic works, MAGIC IS TECHNOLOGY; and like any technology, is subject to market forces.

Detachable Penii…

I had a dream about aliens (or future humans?) whose genitalia are actually separate creatures that can detach and maybe even move around on their own. People have no gender when they are not symbiotically linked with a gender-entity. Very strange, but I don’t remember anything else about it.

Chicago Pillow Fight Club: Under New Management

I have somehow fallen into the position of organizing the Chicago Pillow Fight Club, the main event of which is the local staging of World Pillow Fight Day in April.

I have inherited MySpace and Facebook and all manner of crazy web 2.0 crap that I know nothing about because I am old and behind the times.

What have I gotten myself into?

SMB Cola FTW.

see more Fail Blog

You will soon have your God, and you will make it with your own hands.

Morpheus: You are a planned organism. The offspring of knowledge and imagination, rather than individuals.

J.C.: I’m engineered. So what? My brother and I suspected as much while we were growing up.

Morpheus: You are carefully watched by many people. The unplanned organism is a question, asked by Nature, and answered by death. You are another kind of question, with another kind of answer.

This game continues to be engaging, literate, and thought provoking.

80s Cartoon Lovefest!

I loved the intro music to this show. Also, Wheels & Roady were the bomb. And they appear in that video for that Black Kids tune!

This one also has compelling theme music. I think that’s a common denominator of a lot of my favorite shows from back then. Also, a pirate ship that could fly through space, a giant psionic goldfish, and plant monsters that grew from seed to biomechanical death-dealers in minutes. C’mon, what other setting has vegeborgs??

And of course, the ultimate:

Man, that theme still gets my blood pumping every time I hear it.

Mr. Deity and the Magic

Penn Jillette works for Lucifer. He admitted it.