I've spent a great deal of time in my life, making characters.
Whether for stories, games, or just sheer boredom, I love building a character from the ground up. I've written back stories for characters that will never be revealed, they just exist in a different world that will be referenced on occasion. It's how I roll.
I play WoW, and I write long, detailed backstories to every character I play. Every. One. Through this they have a sense of self, and a motivation that many never understand, but to drive it home, I never spout it out at the first chance given.
For some, a backstory is a platform to leap from, for others; it's a secret without being a magical twist later on.
One of them, has a long history of pain and suffering, brought on mostly by their own bitterness. It's not a redemption story, and he never "finds peace". He simply finds a measure of contentment and goes on with his life, when asked why he does things, he simply replies "because."
I've met people who spill their life story like a toddler with a cup at the slightest provocation. Which is at the same time strange, and sort of realistic. But not this guy, he refuses. Even to people who know him, who understand him, he just doesn't talk about it. He has a friend, who does however, so his story is out there, but you'll never get it out of him.
That is depth, that is how one creates a character that isn't two dimensional, by giving them a motive for life beyond plot development.
From the "Iron Rose", a few of the characters follow this mentality, the way of having their own story that's bursting at the seams, but never is quite spelled out.
No one knows why Izo so willingly quits his job and signs up with Rose.
No one knows why Hafwen lives alone, and has no other friends, despite all her positive qualities.
No one even knows Rose's parents names.
The beginning of this thought train came from a video game I recently bought; Prototype. Its' narrative is... confusing at best, it gives literally less motive for anything your character does than anything I've seen since the first Mario Bros.
You wake up in a morgue, two guys say your name and run away. The military kills them, and then sees you, a walking corpse, and shoots you. You don't die, because you're fucking Zeus. No really, their codename for you is Zeus.
While all that would cause a game to be terrible, this game gets one thing right above all others: you feel like everything they say about you is spot on. You move through the city with an ease that makes Spider-man jealous, while you're not invincible, you may as well be if you're clever.
You can lift a truck, and freerun with it up the side of a building, and throw it two blocks.
It all fits, you're amazing, you're god-like, and it just fits the story (what little you get to know about) so very finely that you forgive it's shortcomings.
It's like the Doctor Who of super violent games.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Writers and Magicians
When you say "I'm a writer" people tend to nod their heads, and ask what you've written.
When you say "I'm an aspiring writer", most people tend to take a second, to figure out what aspiring means, before asking what sort of stories you write.
There's a difference in there, that there's a measure of respect that comes with the first one, that makes all the difference. In the second, they ask it out of politese, and pray you don't actually answer. A simple "oh this and that..." is what the vast majority want to hear.
When you're a full fledged author, it's different. There's a respect in their question, even if you wrote a children's book about "not poopin' in the tub!" it's an achievement they respect.
And they're right to.
Writing is easy, it just sort of happens when you think with your hands. If you've ever spoken in your life, you've written something in words. It's that simple. The various degrees of difficulty come in when you actually expect the rest of the world to give a shit.
Because they don't have to.
John-boy was told "it's an arrogant thing to be a writer, to assume that the world wants to read what you write" and it's very true. I was bored at work, so I wrote a story while wandering around an art museum. Years later, I'm working on publishing that very story. Imagine that.
I actually will require people to give me money, to be given the privelage to read 580 pages born out of my boredom. Good Gravy, that's some ballsy balls right there.
I was bored, threw this together when I couldn't sleep, you should pay me for it. Damn...
While it's not that bad, it's in a sense very much that bad. But it's also that good. The difference between a writer and a aspiring writer is that the former's bored, inscesent ramblings actually entertained someone.
Or enriched their lives, with is the point of writing when you get down to it. Writing shouldn't be about making you smile for twenty minutes, it should be about giving you a moral, or a hopeful story that one can hold in their heart for years to come. It should shape you as a child, and temper you as an adult. Writing shouldn't be about a worthless halftime show crammed some where between eating and sleeping.
It should be a magic show; where something is pulled from nothing, and amazes the world. The audience should feel a part of the show itself, because they very much are. Every person knows magicians are just performing elaborate tricks, but while you're sitting there, watching them do impossible things, you believe.
That's what writing is about, it's about believing in the impossible, the mundane, or simply the weird for a time. Because everyone knows that the realm of magic isn't really there... but in this book it is, and if it can be there in this book, maybe it can be outside of it as well.
It's reasonable doubt for imagination, not because the writer said so, but because the audience said so.
That's what the audience do for the magic trick, without them reading the story, living the story, there's no trick if there's no one to show it to.
They make the difference by reading, the difference between an aspiring writer, and an author.
When you say "I'm an aspiring writer", most people tend to take a second, to figure out what aspiring means, before asking what sort of stories you write.
There's a difference in there, that there's a measure of respect that comes with the first one, that makes all the difference. In the second, they ask it out of politese, and pray you don't actually answer. A simple "oh this and that..." is what the vast majority want to hear.
When you're a full fledged author, it's different. There's a respect in their question, even if you wrote a children's book about "not poopin' in the tub!" it's an achievement they respect.
And they're right to.
Writing is easy, it just sort of happens when you think with your hands. If you've ever spoken in your life, you've written something in words. It's that simple. The various degrees of difficulty come in when you actually expect the rest of the world to give a shit.
Because they don't have to.
John-boy was told "it's an arrogant thing to be a writer, to assume that the world wants to read what you write" and it's very true. I was bored at work, so I wrote a story while wandering around an art museum. Years later, I'm working on publishing that very story. Imagine that.
I actually will require people to give me money, to be given the privelage to read 580 pages born out of my boredom. Good Gravy, that's some ballsy balls right there.
I was bored, threw this together when I couldn't sleep, you should pay me for it. Damn...
While it's not that bad, it's in a sense very much that bad. But it's also that good. The difference between a writer and a aspiring writer is that the former's bored, inscesent ramblings actually entertained someone.
Or enriched their lives, with is the point of writing when you get down to it. Writing shouldn't be about making you smile for twenty minutes, it should be about giving you a moral, or a hopeful story that one can hold in their heart for years to come. It should shape you as a child, and temper you as an adult. Writing shouldn't be about a worthless halftime show crammed some where between eating and sleeping.
It should be a magic show; where something is pulled from nothing, and amazes the world. The audience should feel a part of the show itself, because they very much are. Every person knows magicians are just performing elaborate tricks, but while you're sitting there, watching them do impossible things, you believe.
That's what writing is about, it's about believing in the impossible, the mundane, or simply the weird for a time. Because everyone knows that the realm of magic isn't really there... but in this book it is, and if it can be there in this book, maybe it can be outside of it as well.
It's reasonable doubt for imagination, not because the writer said so, but because the audience said so.
That's what the audience do for the magic trick, without them reading the story, living the story, there's no trick if there's no one to show it to.
They make the difference by reading, the difference between an aspiring writer, and an author.
Friday, December 9, 2011
Sex, Drugs, and Lack Thereof.
Read an article today about children, and one of the points that stood out to me, was about how to talk to them about drugs. I had to comment on this, and I never comment on forums.
My father won this part of my childhood, with a simple short speech.
No matter where I was, what I had done/taken/broken, one call and he could come get me. My own personal extraction team in a beat up two-door. If I was drunk, high, bare-assed naked and running from the cops, one call was all it took to get me home.
My father was a Hearthstone.
He told me that he wouldn't yell, punish, or even question what I was doing... until the morning, but by then I'd of had time to think of a decent excuse... and it better have been decent. This is also the man who accepted: "they were damn hot" as an excuse.
Here's the weird part; it worked. I was never big into drugs or alcohol. Hell I was a full fledged adult before I even tried a drug, or smoked (it was at the same time as well).
Somehow, having the support and trust of my father, made it really easy to just brush off peer pressure. I didn't even have the fear of "if I do this, I ruin that trust..." because you always think "by even coming here I've broken it..." you're a teen, you're angsty, it's a tailspin.
But not me, I knew that all I had to do to secure and prove that trust was well kept, was to simple call him, and let him bail me out. In one small paragraph of dialogue, my father out witted an entire generation of shit-headed teens who tried to get me to be shit headed with them. He basically said he'd be an accomplice, to whatever I did, a getaway driver.
As to the Drug incident, I was out of college by that time, I was with two hot girls who said "hey, you should try this" and I did. I did it for really two reasons, number One being that I wanted to know what it was like, before I told my kids whether or not to avoid it. Then Pot failed me. Here are the top three reasons:
3: It tasted like trying to deepthroat a car muffler. Hot, smokey, and sharp. Three things that should never go down your throat.
2: It didn't really "enhance colors and sound", because the movie I can't remember, is not remembered as "enhanced."
1: with a bullet: it didn't lead to a threesome. We watched a forgettable movie instead. Seriously, a recreational substance cannot fail you this much, and still be fun.
I've had a better time with gummy worms: They tasted like candy, because they were. They were brightly colored. And my girlfriend at the time like to use them as weird making out accessories.
So you see, future spawn of mine, Gummy Worms completely pwn Pot. They're also cheaper, and you don't have to talk to a sketchy dumbass to get them.
My father won this part of my childhood, with a simple short speech.
No matter where I was, what I had done/taken/broken, one call and he could come get me. My own personal extraction team in a beat up two-door. If I was drunk, high, bare-assed naked and running from the cops, one call was all it took to get me home.
My father was a Hearthstone.
He told me that he wouldn't yell, punish, or even question what I was doing... until the morning, but by then I'd of had time to think of a decent excuse... and it better have been decent. This is also the man who accepted: "they were damn hot" as an excuse.
Here's the weird part; it worked. I was never big into drugs or alcohol. Hell I was a full fledged adult before I even tried a drug, or smoked (it was at the same time as well).
Somehow, having the support and trust of my father, made it really easy to just brush off peer pressure. I didn't even have the fear of "if I do this, I ruin that trust..." because you always think "by even coming here I've broken it..." you're a teen, you're angsty, it's a tailspin.
But not me, I knew that all I had to do to secure and prove that trust was well kept, was to simple call him, and let him bail me out. In one small paragraph of dialogue, my father out witted an entire generation of shit-headed teens who tried to get me to be shit headed with them. He basically said he'd be an accomplice, to whatever I did, a getaway driver.
As to the Drug incident, I was out of college by that time, I was with two hot girls who said "hey, you should try this" and I did. I did it for really two reasons, number One being that I wanted to know what it was like, before I told my kids whether or not to avoid it. Then Pot failed me. Here are the top three reasons:
3: It tasted like trying to deepthroat a car muffler. Hot, smokey, and sharp. Three things that should never go down your throat.
2: It didn't really "enhance colors and sound", because the movie I can't remember, is not remembered as "enhanced."
1: with a bullet: it didn't lead to a threesome. We watched a forgettable movie instead. Seriously, a recreational substance cannot fail you this much, and still be fun.
I've had a better time with gummy worms: They tasted like candy, because they were. They were brightly colored. And my girlfriend at the time like to use them as weird making out accessories.
So you see, future spawn of mine, Gummy Worms completely pwn Pot. They're also cheaper, and you don't have to talk to a sketchy dumbass to get them.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
The myth of Originality
I thought about writing about "writers block" today, but my mind got swept up into this topic, as it is wont to do.
I don't believe in originality, and right now, thousands of writers across the globe hate me.
I just don't believe with all the Jungian archtypes in the world, that an Original concept is possible, especially with the numbers that humankind have risen to.
My first thought into this came from the realization, that I have a few stories with heavily common threads between them:
Man finds a violent women tied to something in a desolate area, frees her, and they travel.
In one story, it's a romance novel following a wild pict, and a displaced farmer, trying to get home. In another, she's a ghoulish creature in a post apocalyptic wasteland, and he's basically a henchman sent to find her. In another, he's a mercenary, and she's an imprisoned goddess.
Wildly different stories, but similar concepts. To make matters worse, if you replace "woman" with "Male" you get a Conan story. It's a simple thing really, I read Conan as a child and loved it, it inspired me in ways I'll never fully comprehend. It rears its head in nearly everything I write, just like everything else I've seen, heard, tasted and felt.
Probably one of the least Original artists of all time, is van Goph. Again, thousands of people hate me.
But it's true, he drew what he saw. Not special things, not events that would never happen again, he simply looked at things, and painted them. Why is he considered possibly the greatest painter of all time? Because of one word:
Presentation.
That's the difference between everything in the world, how it is presented. In all the thousands of years of human history, presentation is the only thing that changes.
We love certain things, we have fetishes and weird ways of looking at the world. That's the point of writing, to show the world how we stand where they stand, but we see something else.
"What's the difference between a villain and a Super villain? Presentation!" Megamind.
I don't believe in originality, and right now, thousands of writers across the globe hate me.
I just don't believe with all the Jungian archtypes in the world, that an Original concept is possible, especially with the numbers that humankind have risen to.
My first thought into this came from the realization, that I have a few stories with heavily common threads between them:
Man finds a violent women tied to something in a desolate area, frees her, and they travel.
In one story, it's a romance novel following a wild pict, and a displaced farmer, trying to get home. In another, she's a ghoulish creature in a post apocalyptic wasteland, and he's basically a henchman sent to find her. In another, he's a mercenary, and she's an imprisoned goddess.
Wildly different stories, but similar concepts. To make matters worse, if you replace "woman" with "Male" you get a Conan story. It's a simple thing really, I read Conan as a child and loved it, it inspired me in ways I'll never fully comprehend. It rears its head in nearly everything I write, just like everything else I've seen, heard, tasted and felt.
Probably one of the least Original artists of all time, is van Goph. Again, thousands of people hate me.
But it's true, he drew what he saw. Not special things, not events that would never happen again, he simply looked at things, and painted them. Why is he considered possibly the greatest painter of all time? Because of one word:
Presentation.
That's the difference between everything in the world, how it is presented. In all the thousands of years of human history, presentation is the only thing that changes.
We love certain things, we have fetishes and weird ways of looking at the world. That's the point of writing, to show the world how we stand where they stand, but we see something else.
"What's the difference between a villain and a Super villain? Presentation!" Megamind.
Friday, December 2, 2011
The Irish is Strong in this One.
(Two posts in one day? Don't get used to it.)
I'm Irish, and when I say that, I don't mean I was born in Ireland. I don't wave the green, orange and white around, I don't pretend to have an accent to get laid. I'm married now, she knows.
But, I come from a very Irish family, with Irish traits. Dear God... we practically bleed green. To drill this home;
Fathers side: I'm the fourth Gen from Ireland, so yeah...
Mothers side: South Boston Irish Catholic mother, recovering Alcoholic.
Yep, if Irish was a job, there's a winning resume.
Someone brought up the whole dumbass controversy of "Merry Christmas" as opposed to "Happy Holidays", which I will sum up in this next sentence.
December has Twelve Holidays, it's not sacriligious, it's efficient.
Anyway, this is about the Irish way of greeting people, or seeing them off. Because I've noticed, we do it sort of differently than most. When I worked at the Chinese place, my boss used to stare at me for how I replied to him. I would head out on a delivery, he'd say "bye" or "hurry back", someone else would go, I'd say "good luck". As if it was some sort of challenge.
Part of me wonders if this is because of that most Irish mentality of telling things to fuck the hell off. I've noticed that my family, and my Irish friends, tend to look at weather, problems, or daily tasks, as a bold face challenge from whatever we have to do. It's personal now.
Like the drive itself is out to get you, we're wishing you luck on kicking that drives ass with your car and appropriate sense of direction.
Another common one was the "have fun" and its' like. While it's not so much a parting farewell to someone who's going to an arcade, it's sort of us telling them that they should enjoy what they're about to go do. It's not even sarcasitic, but a bit sadistic. We're telling them to find some sort of enjoyment in what they have to do.
Remember every stereotypical Irishman in every movie you've seen one in, they always have the same response to things; "Fuck'n hell man, that was an intense gun fight! I've only been shot twice, God I hope there's more of 'em!"
I wonder if this preinclination to challenging inanimate objects and desire to find enjoyment in everything, leads to our bred-in violence. I remember talking to a guy I work with about my nephew Kalen's first fight.
Kalen was on the slide, big kid was being a dick, pushing the other kids off, including Kalen. Finally, he "done goofed" and pushed the girl Kalen decided was cute enough for his attention, and this angered him. So Kalen went back up the slide, threw the kid off, and beat him on the ground.
To every Irishman out there, Kalen just got a salute, and possibly an offer of a beer. To the guy I work with (Louisianna French... didn't know that was a thing), this was horrible, he actually vilified Kalen, praying he'd never see the kid in school because he "obviously over reacted". To me that just seemed stupid, the kid obviously hit first, and Kalen did what ever PSA ever said "just walked away" and WHOA! The big kid did it again! It was almost as if he was rewarded for being violent, and it made him do it again! I'd go further into this subject, but I don't have the time for a ground breaking thesis in the field of psychology.
Basically, this post really doesn't have any meaning behind it... it's my day off and I'm bored, read me rant.
I'm Irish, and when I say that, I don't mean I was born in Ireland. I don't wave the green, orange and white around, I don't pretend to have an accent to get laid. I'm married now, she knows.
But, I come from a very Irish family, with Irish traits. Dear God... we practically bleed green. To drill this home;
Fathers side: I'm the fourth Gen from Ireland, so yeah...
Mothers side: South Boston Irish Catholic mother, recovering Alcoholic.
Yep, if Irish was a job, there's a winning resume.
Someone brought up the whole dumbass controversy of "Merry Christmas" as opposed to "Happy Holidays", which I will sum up in this next sentence.
December has Twelve Holidays, it's not sacriligious, it's efficient.
Anyway, this is about the Irish way of greeting people, or seeing them off. Because I've noticed, we do it sort of differently than most. When I worked at the Chinese place, my boss used to stare at me for how I replied to him. I would head out on a delivery, he'd say "bye" or "hurry back", someone else would go, I'd say "good luck". As if it was some sort of challenge.
Part of me wonders if this is because of that most Irish mentality of telling things to fuck the hell off. I've noticed that my family, and my Irish friends, tend to look at weather, problems, or daily tasks, as a bold face challenge from whatever we have to do. It's personal now.
Like the drive itself is out to get you, we're wishing you luck on kicking that drives ass with your car and appropriate sense of direction.
Another common one was the "have fun" and its' like. While it's not so much a parting farewell to someone who's going to an arcade, it's sort of us telling them that they should enjoy what they're about to go do. It's not even sarcasitic, but a bit sadistic. We're telling them to find some sort of enjoyment in what they have to do.
Remember every stereotypical Irishman in every movie you've seen one in, they always have the same response to things; "Fuck'n hell man, that was an intense gun fight! I've only been shot twice, God I hope there's more of 'em!"
I wonder if this preinclination to challenging inanimate objects and desire to find enjoyment in everything, leads to our bred-in violence. I remember talking to a guy I work with about my nephew Kalen's first fight.
Kalen was on the slide, big kid was being a dick, pushing the other kids off, including Kalen. Finally, he "done goofed" and pushed the girl Kalen decided was cute enough for his attention, and this angered him. So Kalen went back up the slide, threw the kid off, and beat him on the ground.
To every Irishman out there, Kalen just got a salute, and possibly an offer of a beer. To the guy I work with (Louisianna French... didn't know that was a thing), this was horrible, he actually vilified Kalen, praying he'd never see the kid in school because he "obviously over reacted". To me that just seemed stupid, the kid obviously hit first, and Kalen did what ever PSA ever said "just walked away" and WHOA! The big kid did it again! It was almost as if he was rewarded for being violent, and it made him do it again! I'd go further into this subject, but I don't have the time for a ground breaking thesis in the field of psychology.
Basically, this post really doesn't have any meaning behind it... it's my day off and I'm bored, read me rant.
Ponderin' the Normies
So, it's early, and I'm wondering something: what's it like for normal people?
Now, I'm not saying I'm not normal, I'm not a guy, and I don't do guy things. Whole other concept here. Because I noticed something a day or so ago; people listen to music for the music.
Mind was blown.
I don't think I've ever listened to music because it was, in fact, music. Usually when I hear music, I immediately start creating a scene in my mind that fits the music. Some of my favorite things have been written this way.
Now, this got me thinking... what do they think about all the time? If you look at me, at any given moment, I'm most certainly thinking of a story. Be it a new one, or one I'm working on, or just going over an older one in my head. If you see me, I'm daydreaming about a brand new story. Whether I'll save it, write it, or just store it away in my brain.
No matter when, where, or what I'm doing. It's probably why I tend to forget things, I'm never really fully focused on anything. I remember playing Zelda, and making up my own lines for Link, his own reasons for why he did anything. Everything was being written in my own head as I played. When I played games like Elder Scrolls, or really any RPG that you make your own character, I didn't just play along with the story; I made the story.
So, it's weird is all I'm saying. Thinking about how people might think... are they thinking of what they'll do today? What they did yesterday? What about laundry? I can't be bothered to focus on that, I've got this great idea in my head that's bursting at the seems about a sniper...
... who hunts vampires...
... after the apocalypse...
Now, I'm not saying I'm not normal, I'm not a guy, and I don't do guy things. Whole other concept here. Because I noticed something a day or so ago; people listen to music for the music.
Mind was blown.
I don't think I've ever listened to music because it was, in fact, music. Usually when I hear music, I immediately start creating a scene in my mind that fits the music. Some of my favorite things have been written this way.
Now, this got me thinking... what do they think about all the time? If you look at me, at any given moment, I'm most certainly thinking of a story. Be it a new one, or one I'm working on, or just going over an older one in my head. If you see me, I'm daydreaming about a brand new story. Whether I'll save it, write it, or just store it away in my brain.
No matter when, where, or what I'm doing. It's probably why I tend to forget things, I'm never really fully focused on anything. I remember playing Zelda, and making up my own lines for Link, his own reasons for why he did anything. Everything was being written in my own head as I played. When I played games like Elder Scrolls, or really any RPG that you make your own character, I didn't just play along with the story; I made the story.
So, it's weird is all I'm saying. Thinking about how people might think... are they thinking of what they'll do today? What they did yesterday? What about laundry? I can't be bothered to focus on that, I've got this great idea in my head that's bursting at the seems about a sniper...
... who hunts vampires...
... after the apocalypse...
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Yes, this happened...
So, I leave work after a terrible day, one that solidified my vendetta against AT&T. Those bastards.
Anyway, I'm heading out to my car when I realize the unavoidable truth: I can't find my keys. I search on the car, around the car, me and Jared search from the car to the break room and back. Neither hide nor hair of them, not even a mechanical dropping.
Nothing.
What's a man to do? Call the wife and admit I failed completely? Not unless I can scrounge up a story about ninjas. Call AAA with the money I don't have? Not... well that sentence explains itself. Luckily for me, Jared's friend arrived with a trunk for of seemingly irrelevant items.
"Sorry Tom," Jared said, trying to contain his good humor, "Kevin's trunk is basically just filled with irrelevant items."
"Jared" I said to him, because it's his name, "items are only irrelevant to those that can't see the links between them."
Yeah, sometimes, this shit just comes out of me, I swear.
So, newfound determination in stock, I take what I'll need from this trunk: a plastic coat hanger, a Nerf gun bandoleer, and a flashlight. Then, like any true man, I start to hum the theme from McGuyver.
Five minutes later, with the adaptation of a hairtie, I've got a passable hook on a cord flat enough to make it through the slightly open sunroof. Let's kick this pig.
Sadly, it's impossible to see through the sunroof, except for a tiny spot where the flashlight shines, and then only when it's from the sides not the top... So I'm flying blind. The bandoleer also can only go in on one spot, which is about a foot from the cup holder where the keys are. Also, the sunroof has some give to it, but I can't hold it up evenly, and still use the hook... unless I had some seemingly irrelevant item that could do that...
... like a box of industrial paper cores, perfectly sized to fit there. Fuck yes, bacon for fucking all.
Ten minutes later, to the cheers of the two men next to me, I'm pulling up a set of keys to a car. To hell with AAA, to hell with calling the wife, to hell with things that were not exactly what we just did.
Moral of this story: nothing is impossible if you look deeper into it, to see that tiny things that connect to make a whole...
End Tally:
Man Card: +5
Nerd Card: +3 with permanent +3 to Dex rolls.
Anyway, I'm heading out to my car when I realize the unavoidable truth: I can't find my keys. I search on the car, around the car, me and Jared search from the car to the break room and back. Neither hide nor hair of them, not even a mechanical dropping.
Nothing.
What's a man to do? Call the wife and admit I failed completely? Not unless I can scrounge up a story about ninjas. Call AAA with the money I don't have? Not... well that sentence explains itself. Luckily for me, Jared's friend arrived with a trunk for of seemingly irrelevant items.
"Sorry Tom," Jared said, trying to contain his good humor, "Kevin's trunk is basically just filled with irrelevant items."
"Jared" I said to him, because it's his name, "items are only irrelevant to those that can't see the links between them."
Yeah, sometimes, this shit just comes out of me, I swear.
So, newfound determination in stock, I take what I'll need from this trunk: a plastic coat hanger, a Nerf gun bandoleer, and a flashlight. Then, like any true man, I start to hum the theme from McGuyver.
Five minutes later, with the adaptation of a hairtie, I've got a passable hook on a cord flat enough to make it through the slightly open sunroof. Let's kick this pig.
Sadly, it's impossible to see through the sunroof, except for a tiny spot where the flashlight shines, and then only when it's from the sides not the top... So I'm flying blind. The bandoleer also can only go in on one spot, which is about a foot from the cup holder where the keys are. Also, the sunroof has some give to it, but I can't hold it up evenly, and still use the hook... unless I had some seemingly irrelevant item that could do that...
... like a box of industrial paper cores, perfectly sized to fit there. Fuck yes, bacon for fucking all.
Ten minutes later, to the cheers of the two men next to me, I'm pulling up a set of keys to a car. To hell with AAA, to hell with calling the wife, to hell with things that were not exactly what we just did.
Moral of this story: nothing is impossible if you look deeper into it, to see that tiny things that connect to make a whole...
End Tally:
Man Card: +5
Nerd Card: +3 with permanent +3 to Dex rolls.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Tale of the Iron Rose
So, while part I of the Iron Rose has been shipped off to my friends and family for test reading, and I sit here eagerly (read: terrified) awaiting response... I've arrived at the thought that they may just have the slightest confusion as to how someone like me, ended up writing a coming of age story of a small feral girl in a post war fantasy world.
Here's how:
Originally, Rose wasn't Rose, she didn't have a name. The book was to go through the entire first part, never naming her, because at the end she died. She was not the feral race she is, in fact her race was never clearly defined. It was a book about the eventual outcome of racism (not color, but non-human) in fantasy worlds, that this girl would either end up someone's fetish in a brothel, or dead.
This all changed one day at the art museum.
I came across a sketch, one I've searched for during all the years since and have yet to find. It stood next to a large painting by the same artist. The painting, was a long mural of a dance hall, in it were dozens of girls around eleven years old, as well as their matron. All of them wore cat masks, and they prowled and played on a stage.
While this would have simply been a charming picture, there was one more thing, another girl. She looked older, possibly about thirteen or fourteen, more mature than the others. She wore a dress, and held her mask in her hand. She leaned against the pillar, and smiled at the viewer in a sort of shy and coy way.
It showed the tranisition from playful child, to young woman in a way that transfixed all who walked past. The girl was small, thin, but the way she held the mask, sort of like being stuck between two worlds, wild youngsters and mature adults, just clicked for me.
Then there was that sketch, like Esher had gotten drunk while watching anime. A world set in the sky, populated by beastial people (furry ears, eyes, tails) dancing wildly naked in the possible night. All of them looked feral and dangerous, yet they danced like children.
Seeing the two of them changed the way I wanted to portray my girl, I wanted some of that in her. That wild demure, crazy calm. I also liked the color of the girls hair in the painting, so Rose became a redhead, hence the name "Rose".
Even the name of her race changed, Cho'tahn, which is found out in another book "Joker and the Thief", which takes place in the same world, but two-hundred years earlier on the other continent (River's End, that place), to roughly translate to "Children of the Moon". Showing that in this book, her people are the children in the dance hall, and the creatures in the floating forest, and Rose is between the two.
The conflict was never Rose trying to fit in with her new people, but Rose trying to fit in with herself. If -anyone- figures out the secret behind the story... you literally win at everything.
But in order to do that, you'll have to think really hard about figuring it out.
Here's how:
Originally, Rose wasn't Rose, she didn't have a name. The book was to go through the entire first part, never naming her, because at the end she died. She was not the feral race she is, in fact her race was never clearly defined. It was a book about the eventual outcome of racism (not color, but non-human) in fantasy worlds, that this girl would either end up someone's fetish in a brothel, or dead.
This all changed one day at the art museum.
I came across a sketch, one I've searched for during all the years since and have yet to find. It stood next to a large painting by the same artist. The painting, was a long mural of a dance hall, in it were dozens of girls around eleven years old, as well as their matron. All of them wore cat masks, and they prowled and played on a stage.
While this would have simply been a charming picture, there was one more thing, another girl. She looked older, possibly about thirteen or fourteen, more mature than the others. She wore a dress, and held her mask in her hand. She leaned against the pillar, and smiled at the viewer in a sort of shy and coy way.
It showed the tranisition from playful child, to young woman in a way that transfixed all who walked past. The girl was small, thin, but the way she held the mask, sort of like being stuck between two worlds, wild youngsters and mature adults, just clicked for me.
Then there was that sketch, like Esher had gotten drunk while watching anime. A world set in the sky, populated by beastial people (furry ears, eyes, tails) dancing wildly naked in the possible night. All of them looked feral and dangerous, yet they danced like children.
Seeing the two of them changed the way I wanted to portray my girl, I wanted some of that in her. That wild demure, crazy calm. I also liked the color of the girls hair in the painting, so Rose became a redhead, hence the name "Rose".
Even the name of her race changed, Cho'tahn, which is found out in another book "Joker and the Thief", which takes place in the same world, but two-hundred years earlier on the other continent (River's End, that place), to roughly translate to "Children of the Moon". Showing that in this book, her people are the children in the dance hall, and the creatures in the floating forest, and Rose is between the two.
The conflict was never Rose trying to fit in with her new people, but Rose trying to fit in with herself. If -anyone- figures out the secret behind the story... you literally win at everything.
But in order to do that, you'll have to think really hard about figuring it out.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Dear Grammar,
I know we've been together for a long time, but you need to realize that sometimes, I need my space. On occasion, I don't want to be confined to just "your needs." I'm a writer, I've got needs of my own.
I love your ways, your comma's and dear God I love the way I can make a sentence turn into a senseless ramble by simply placing things in their perfect order. Or not. It's beauty, it's fun, it's what I do.
But... sometimes I want to do things that don't always meld with you. Like maybe I want things to be awkward, maybe I want them to be short. Some days, I want to start a sentence with "and". And not have to care if it's correct.
So what if you take it out of context it makes no sense, just don't take it out of context. If you take it out, you lose context no matter what. A single sentence from the Iron Rose could be used to make it sound like erotica, or gore porn. Or incredibly boring.
Once in a blue moon, I want preposition for a sentence to end in. And I just can't take you getting all controlly on me. You have to live a little, get out there and let someone try something new, it's what made you the balance of words and dots you are today, up from cave paintings.
I still love you,
~Tom
P.S., spelling is still a given, unless I need to make a new word.
I love your ways, your comma's and dear God I love the way I can make a sentence turn into a senseless ramble by simply placing things in their perfect order. Or not. It's beauty, it's fun, it's what I do.
But... sometimes I want to do things that don't always meld with you. Like maybe I want things to be awkward, maybe I want them to be short. Some days, I want to start a sentence with "and". And not have to care if it's correct.
So what if you take it out of context it makes no sense, just don't take it out of context. If you take it out, you lose context no matter what. A single sentence from the Iron Rose could be used to make it sound like erotica, or gore porn. Or incredibly boring.
Once in a blue moon, I want preposition for a sentence to end in. And I just can't take you getting all controlly on me. You have to live a little, get out there and let someone try something new, it's what made you the balance of words and dots you are today, up from cave paintings.
I still love you,
~Tom
P.S., spelling is still a given, unless I need to make a new word.
Now what...?
To start this one off, allow me to say this: I'm not a Democrat, haven't even been, doubt I'll ever be.
But in light of the events of the past four years, I doubt I'll ever vote Republican. Here's why:
Years ago, I was in school when Bush won the office, we were cool with that, the smear campaigns ended and we all went on with our lives. Remember you adults out there; I was a teen, TV and internet (new as it was) were my life. I saw every commercial, every add, every chain letter.
When things went down on 9/11, and the man stood up and took action the world would later give a resounding "Well... alright, not bad", we all stood behind him. Even the Democrats I knew. Did they like him? No. Did they devote their existence to hating him? Not remotely.
Then, we he proceeded to basically become what would be considered for my generation the embodiment of evil by: destroying out economy, crushing our standing in the world, revoking rights in a way not seen since Alan Moore penned "V for Vendetta", sending thousands of our friends to die in a war he couldn't give a straight answer as to why, we got a little pissed.
Then he was voted back in, we threw our arms up and collectively got angry. After another four years, we went out and voted and turned the wheel over to Obama. This is about when I lost faith in Republicans. Not for the actions of Bush, but their actions post-Bush.
They never stopped the anti-Obama war, like some sort of internet dick measuring contest, they kept going way past the point of everyone standing around awkwardly with their pants off.
To quote my mother during the Bush administration; "It doesn't matter who he is, what party he's from, you always support the man in charge. If you don't like what he's doing, vote him out later, but you don't disrespect him."
Same woman who now refers to him as "Nigger in Chief".
Then, they stonewalled him, refusing to let any of his ideas even see light until they had hacked them to bits, or refused them completely. They refused to report on anything he did that was positive.
In essence, they basically have had a four year streak of the worst bad sportsmanship in history.
Obama has not been the best president, obviously, but he's better than his predecessor... which isn't really a way we should be judging our president. "Not as bad as the guy we associate with Hitler and Trump." Yeah... not the best standard of measurement.
So, I'm not a Democrat, nor a Republican. I'm also not naive enough to ever believe we'll get in a third party candidate until the baby boomers die off. Basically, my choice is.... well non-existant.
My vote means little, considering that while I'm an educated, mildly level headed person who can go week to week without maxing six credit cards or setting my house on fire, there's someone out there, who's done all that, and is going to vote as well.
I have no say besides shouting as loud as I can along side the entire population of America as well... and neither do you. I could get a sign and protest, or to support a candidate, but that only converts the clergy as it were, I've never known anyone to drive by a bunch of supporters and go "Well, if those guys who have nothing better to do on a saturday than stand here shouting for a man they've never met, well damn I'll just have to vote for him!"
So now I stand, with my choices being somewhere between Anarchy and Apathy, and I wonder...
... now what?
But in light of the events of the past four years, I doubt I'll ever vote Republican. Here's why:
Years ago, I was in school when Bush won the office, we were cool with that, the smear campaigns ended and we all went on with our lives. Remember you adults out there; I was a teen, TV and internet (new as it was) were my life. I saw every commercial, every add, every chain letter.
When things went down on 9/11, and the man stood up and took action the world would later give a resounding "Well... alright, not bad", we all stood behind him. Even the Democrats I knew. Did they like him? No. Did they devote their existence to hating him? Not remotely.
Then, we he proceeded to basically become what would be considered for my generation the embodiment of evil by: destroying out economy, crushing our standing in the world, revoking rights in a way not seen since Alan Moore penned "V for Vendetta", sending thousands of our friends to die in a war he couldn't give a straight answer as to why, we got a little pissed.
Then he was voted back in, we threw our arms up and collectively got angry. After another four years, we went out and voted and turned the wheel over to Obama. This is about when I lost faith in Republicans. Not for the actions of Bush, but their actions post-Bush.
They never stopped the anti-Obama war, like some sort of internet dick measuring contest, they kept going way past the point of everyone standing around awkwardly with their pants off.
To quote my mother during the Bush administration; "It doesn't matter who he is, what party he's from, you always support the man in charge. If you don't like what he's doing, vote him out later, but you don't disrespect him."
Same woman who now refers to him as "Nigger in Chief".
Then, they stonewalled him, refusing to let any of his ideas even see light until they had hacked them to bits, or refused them completely. They refused to report on anything he did that was positive.
In essence, they basically have had a four year streak of the worst bad sportsmanship in history.
Obama has not been the best president, obviously, but he's better than his predecessor... which isn't really a way we should be judging our president. "Not as bad as the guy we associate with Hitler and Trump." Yeah... not the best standard of measurement.
So, I'm not a Democrat, nor a Republican. I'm also not naive enough to ever believe we'll get in a third party candidate until the baby boomers die off. Basically, my choice is.... well non-existant.
My vote means little, considering that while I'm an educated, mildly level headed person who can go week to week without maxing six credit cards or setting my house on fire, there's someone out there, who's done all that, and is going to vote as well.
I have no say besides shouting as loud as I can along side the entire population of America as well... and neither do you. I could get a sign and protest, or to support a candidate, but that only converts the clergy as it were, I've never known anyone to drive by a bunch of supporters and go "Well, if those guys who have nothing better to do on a saturday than stand here shouting for a man they've never met, well damn I'll just have to vote for him!"
So now I stand, with my choices being somewhere between Anarchy and Apathy, and I wonder...
... now what?
Friday, November 4, 2011
You just made that up...
When you're a child, Adults are wingless gods here on earth to show you, the simpleminded knave, the true path to enlightenment. Your dads' job description is punching out Nazis and making pancakes for Batman. Your mother is at once a wisewoman and a damned shaman. She literally takes cans of things you can't even figure out how to open, and makes dinner out of them that's bigger than all the cans put together as one big "fuck you" to Science.
Your teachers are at once President and Budda, knowing everything and controlling your little life with a gesture of their hand.
A famous quote from the movie "The Crow", was "Childhood ends the day you know you're going to die." and that's true, you're no longer a child, the day you realize death for you isn't something so far away you can't even begin to believe it, but something just around the corner in the grand scheme of things. But after that, comes some really weird stuff.
Like the day you realize Adults are just phoning it in. Literally just making it up as they go along, hopping you won't notice that they don't actually have your nose, and the quarter was behind their fingers and not your ear.
If we all think back, just like fetishes and phobias, we can find the day it all started for us.
Mine's was in the second grade.
I was an early mental bloomer, reasoning and deductive skills were natural to me where math wasn't. This came to a head in the second grade, when we all were brought into another room to learn about dental health. As I held that tube of glittery toothpaste, I remember wondering "Wait a minute, they say -not- to eat glitter..." So, I asked the obvious doctor who had of course taken time out of his busy schedule of saving lives and using those paddly things George Clooney practically slept with, was it safe to swallow this stuff?
Not intentionally, mind you, but if I happen to swallow some while in use, would it be a problem? His answer: "Well... umm... you don't have teeth in your belly do you?"
Had I not been currently in a daze about what this meant, I'd of replied "Bitch, I'm eight not two, is this shit toxic?"
But I was far too busy having an epiphany, an adult didn't know the answer. Not just on a random subject, but on the exact subject he was supposed to be the expert on. This man just did some classic redirection and went on with his lesson. That day, I realized adults were not the gods I had worshiped in the past. Later I would learn to more effectively read the label on the toothpaste and learn for myself... which did little for my faith in that dentist/homeless guy the school paid to give the lesson.
To properly explain the feeling that left me with, I would go with relieved. TO know that in the future, I wouldn't be expected to literally be able to quote everything ever done, was a lot off my eight year old shoulders. I could get by in life by being mediocre, and since I had no plans to be anything but fantastic, well, life would be a better place.
That mans' unfortunate lack of improve skills may have helped shape my life.
On a side not, I managed to get through a whole thing on "glittery toothpaste" without a single Twilight semen joke!
Goddammit...
Your teachers are at once President and Budda, knowing everything and controlling your little life with a gesture of their hand.
A famous quote from the movie "The Crow", was "Childhood ends the day you know you're going to die." and that's true, you're no longer a child, the day you realize death for you isn't something so far away you can't even begin to believe it, but something just around the corner in the grand scheme of things. But after that, comes some really weird stuff.
Like the day you realize Adults are just phoning it in. Literally just making it up as they go along, hopping you won't notice that they don't actually have your nose, and the quarter was behind their fingers and not your ear.
If we all think back, just like fetishes and phobias, we can find the day it all started for us.
Mine's was in the second grade.
I was an early mental bloomer, reasoning and deductive skills were natural to me where math wasn't. This came to a head in the second grade, when we all were brought into another room to learn about dental health. As I held that tube of glittery toothpaste, I remember wondering "Wait a minute, they say -not- to eat glitter..." So, I asked the obvious doctor who had of course taken time out of his busy schedule of saving lives and using those paddly things George Clooney practically slept with, was it safe to swallow this stuff?
Not intentionally, mind you, but if I happen to swallow some while in use, would it be a problem? His answer: "Well... umm... you don't have teeth in your belly do you?"
Had I not been currently in a daze about what this meant, I'd of replied "Bitch, I'm eight not two, is this shit toxic?"
But I was far too busy having an epiphany, an adult didn't know the answer. Not just on a random subject, but on the exact subject he was supposed to be the expert on. This man just did some classic redirection and went on with his lesson. That day, I realized adults were not the gods I had worshiped in the past. Later I would learn to more effectively read the label on the toothpaste and learn for myself... which did little for my faith in that dentist/homeless guy the school paid to give the lesson.
To properly explain the feeling that left me with, I would go with relieved. TO know that in the future, I wouldn't be expected to literally be able to quote everything ever done, was a lot off my eight year old shoulders. I could get by in life by being mediocre, and since I had no plans to be anything but fantastic, well, life would be a better place.
That mans' unfortunate lack of improve skills may have helped shape my life.
On a side not, I managed to get through a whole thing on "glittery toothpaste" without a single Twilight semen joke!
Goddammit...
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
A World at War...
When I was a child growing up in the city of Nashua, I remember going to war...
To explain this event, you must first learn of the make up of my neighborhood and the surrounding territories. We'll start with the Center, a five way intersection in a residential area, where the main roads to each of the territories met. It was usually free of cars, but we rarely spent much time there... but it was the hub of our childhood world.
Little Florida, the outermost, a cul-de-sac of tenish streets, all named after Florida cities, with only one long winding road in. They were literally the Sweeden of our place, about a half a mile from the Center. They stuck with themselves, since they had a river behind them where someone had built a dirt bike track, so they were sort of the unexplored country for most of the different lands.
Aside from them was the Freemont st kids, who were a formidable lot because of the fact that they owned the only playground in the whole area. You had to live in a small condo to be able to use it, so being their ally gave you permission.
Just around the corner from Freemont, was a long dead end road named Paxton Terrace, which was sort of a super suburban road, nearly identical duplexes as far as you went. To this day I do not believe I went to the end of there... but there was a reason for that.
If you followed Freemont away from the main road, and did not take the road to the Center, you took around about way through a few back secluded houses, that lead to a mill/corperate building, this was sort of no mans' land, a free port if you would. there were a few, unallied people there, most of whom stayed away from us, and we them. But that road led down to the lower income places, some were right dangerous to the un-allied.
Sadly, the street that was the child hub of that area's name escapes me to this day, we simply called it "Where Aaron Lived," another kid lived there two, but he was un-allied.
Whichever road you took from there led you up a hill, the highest point in the area known as Beacon St, home to a large two apartment buildings, one a quadplex and the other a complex, but the street was just rise and a fall of the hill, at it's hight was a Court. Beacon Ct.
It was the highground, the safest and most defensible place in the whole of the neighborhood. With a terrain of cliffs and rock walls scalable only to those who knew them well, it was a fortress, with an unlimited hidden entrances and exits. A place where you could escape to, and no one dared follow.
This was my domain.
It is not pride that I remember it as that, but fact. I inherited it from Joseph, who had moved away a year after I moved there. I had taken the neighbors yard (they had no kids therefore it was unclaimed) from the kids across the street. I had defended it against the invading Frost family, through many a black eye and split lip. This was my castle on the hilltop.
It was in my third year of rule, that the great war started...
My friend, Eliot, a denizen of Freemont, informed me of a fight between a citizen of Freemont, and some rabble from Paxton. It started out like any fight, but nether would conceed defeat, so they left to gather allies. We at Beacon Ct, much like the Celts of old, took a break from fighting our long standing enemies, the kids from Beacon St. to help our combined ally.
Freemont was allied with us on the Beacon, not just for their covet playground or our hedge mazes, but also in a shared love of riding bikes across the big wooden bridge between Freemont and Little Florida.
Through us at Beacon, they were allied with "The place where Aaron lived", but not with the kids just past him, they were allied to none.
We grabbed a few allies from no mans' land, and a few from the road between Freemont and Beacon, where the old people lived. Also, we grabbed the kids who lived on the hidden U, which was "not a thru street" but held a strange lot of able solders ready to fight for Freemont. They were not allied with Beacon, but in this fight, we all were.
Paxton, however, had been busy. They held the largest free standing army, their road was bigger and prone to the same age bracket of children, they also held an Alliance with Little Florida, who despite their size, only a small portion of their army had ever surfaced. To this day, many theorize that should Little Florida ever risen up in force, none of us could have held them back. They all literally own ten speed mountain bikes.
Our battle field was the Ravine, the large grassy drain between Freemont and the house that was between Freemont and the Playground. I couldn't count the numbers of those that had shown up.
The rules of engagement were made clear, no projectiles of any kind unless magical. No melee weapons, unless otherwise allowed. No hitting Nichole, the latin vixen that lived in that separating house, we all owed allegiance to her. No one would cease fighting until one side was clearly the winner.
Also, we decided the theme should be Star Wars, since the remastered edition had just hit theaters.
I, to the eternal honor of my clan, was elected to be Boba Fett. With appropriate honor, I trounced IG38, and offered some help against Darth Vader. I believe Eliot may have been Chewbacca, we just chose characters, not sides. Leave the old war where it was, ours was about heroes.
It last two, grueling days.
At the end, someone won, I don't remember, the ice cream man had figured out there was a war going on and stopped by. I would have called my brethern back to combat, to finish what was started, but Goddamn I love Bottlerockets.
So, the war was ended, likely the two offenders were dead behind us, crying because they fell on something pointed. But we had won through the day, and Paxton retreated vowing revenge, and Little Florida retreated vowing... to one day figure out who any of us were.
To be sure, there were other wars, abductions, and one impressive siege where I put aside my differences with the Hongs; Paxton turncoats, and held off a fort we had build on a dirt hill from a group of Paxtons with a tree fashioned into a dirtbomb catapult.
But no war ever stands out as clearly as that one... there I nights I wake up in cold sweats... for completely different reasons, but there's definently some times I remember that war of the Ravine.
In that war, I was a general, I fought beside my allies with honor, I lead my people bravely and I was also Boba friggin' Fett, which was totally awesome.
To explain this event, you must first learn of the make up of my neighborhood and the surrounding territories. We'll start with the Center, a five way intersection in a residential area, where the main roads to each of the territories met. It was usually free of cars, but we rarely spent much time there... but it was the hub of our childhood world.
Little Florida, the outermost, a cul-de-sac of tenish streets, all named after Florida cities, with only one long winding road in. They were literally the Sweeden of our place, about a half a mile from the Center. They stuck with themselves, since they had a river behind them where someone had built a dirt bike track, so they were sort of the unexplored country for most of the different lands.
Aside from them was the Freemont st kids, who were a formidable lot because of the fact that they owned the only playground in the whole area. You had to live in a small condo to be able to use it, so being their ally gave you permission.
Just around the corner from Freemont, was a long dead end road named Paxton Terrace, which was sort of a super suburban road, nearly identical duplexes as far as you went. To this day I do not believe I went to the end of there... but there was a reason for that.
If you followed Freemont away from the main road, and did not take the road to the Center, you took around about way through a few back secluded houses, that lead to a mill/corperate building, this was sort of no mans' land, a free port if you would. there were a few, unallied people there, most of whom stayed away from us, and we them. But that road led down to the lower income places, some were right dangerous to the un-allied.
Sadly, the street that was the child hub of that area's name escapes me to this day, we simply called it "Where Aaron Lived," another kid lived there two, but he was un-allied.
Whichever road you took from there led you up a hill, the highest point in the area known as Beacon St, home to a large two apartment buildings, one a quadplex and the other a complex, but the street was just rise and a fall of the hill, at it's hight was a Court. Beacon Ct.
It was the highground, the safest and most defensible place in the whole of the neighborhood. With a terrain of cliffs and rock walls scalable only to those who knew them well, it was a fortress, with an unlimited hidden entrances and exits. A place where you could escape to, and no one dared follow.
This was my domain.
It is not pride that I remember it as that, but fact. I inherited it from Joseph, who had moved away a year after I moved there. I had taken the neighbors yard (they had no kids therefore it was unclaimed) from the kids across the street. I had defended it against the invading Frost family, through many a black eye and split lip. This was my castle on the hilltop.
It was in my third year of rule, that the great war started...
My friend, Eliot, a denizen of Freemont, informed me of a fight between a citizen of Freemont, and some rabble from Paxton. It started out like any fight, but nether would conceed defeat, so they left to gather allies. We at Beacon Ct, much like the Celts of old, took a break from fighting our long standing enemies, the kids from Beacon St. to help our combined ally.
Freemont was allied with us on the Beacon, not just for their covet playground or our hedge mazes, but also in a shared love of riding bikes across the big wooden bridge between Freemont and Little Florida.
Through us at Beacon, they were allied with "The place where Aaron lived", but not with the kids just past him, they were allied to none.
We grabbed a few allies from no mans' land, and a few from the road between Freemont and Beacon, where the old people lived. Also, we grabbed the kids who lived on the hidden U, which was "not a thru street" but held a strange lot of able solders ready to fight for Freemont. They were not allied with Beacon, but in this fight, we all were.
Paxton, however, had been busy. They held the largest free standing army, their road was bigger and prone to the same age bracket of children, they also held an Alliance with Little Florida, who despite their size, only a small portion of their army had ever surfaced. To this day, many theorize that should Little Florida ever risen up in force, none of us could have held them back. They all literally own ten speed mountain bikes.
Our battle field was the Ravine, the large grassy drain between Freemont and the house that was between Freemont and the Playground. I couldn't count the numbers of those that had shown up.
The rules of engagement were made clear, no projectiles of any kind unless magical. No melee weapons, unless otherwise allowed. No hitting Nichole, the latin vixen that lived in that separating house, we all owed allegiance to her. No one would cease fighting until one side was clearly the winner.
Also, we decided the theme should be Star Wars, since the remastered edition had just hit theaters.
I, to the eternal honor of my clan, was elected to be Boba Fett. With appropriate honor, I trounced IG38, and offered some help against Darth Vader. I believe Eliot may have been Chewbacca, we just chose characters, not sides. Leave the old war where it was, ours was about heroes.
It last two, grueling days.
At the end, someone won, I don't remember, the ice cream man had figured out there was a war going on and stopped by. I would have called my brethern back to combat, to finish what was started, but Goddamn I love Bottlerockets.
So, the war was ended, likely the two offenders were dead behind us, crying because they fell on something pointed. But we had won through the day, and Paxton retreated vowing revenge, and Little Florida retreated vowing... to one day figure out who any of us were.
To be sure, there were other wars, abductions, and one impressive siege where I put aside my differences with the Hongs; Paxton turncoats, and held off a fort we had build on a dirt hill from a group of Paxtons with a tree fashioned into a dirtbomb catapult.
But no war ever stands out as clearly as that one... there I nights I wake up in cold sweats... for completely different reasons, but there's definently some times I remember that war of the Ravine.
In that war, I was a general, I fought beside my allies with honor, I lead my people bravely and I was also Boba friggin' Fett, which was totally awesome.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Yonder bitches, they are most assuredly excriment.
Having seen the travesty that is Facebook grammar, I've had to explain grammar too many times, and had the reply be "we dont need grammer," or the best "no1 cares i wont eva no it so y tri"
If you cringed at those words, you cringe with the rest of us. I've tried to point out that without grammar, you lose context, and with out context things don't make sense. Or they do, but it's not the sense you meant.
Like the ever popular phrase; bitches ain't shit. If you think about it, it's a phrase fully depending on context. If the previous line is "bitches are amazing!" It is basically saying "Oh ho, my good man, these bitches are in fact, nothing of the sort! Quite the different, they are not even on par with droppings." Or something of the sort.
But, were you to say "These bitches be shit," why, it's a stalwart statement in defense of those poor women.
We all know the funny statements that mislead because of a lack of grammar, usually somehow proclaiming their fondness for sodomy. I don't make the unseen laws of the internet, but I'm held to them like the rest of you.
If you cringed at those words, you cringe with the rest of us. I've tried to point out that without grammar, you lose context, and with out context things don't make sense. Or they do, but it's not the sense you meant.
Like the ever popular phrase; bitches ain't shit. If you think about it, it's a phrase fully depending on context. If the previous line is "bitches are amazing!" It is basically saying "Oh ho, my good man, these bitches are in fact, nothing of the sort! Quite the different, they are not even on par with droppings." Or something of the sort.
But, were you to say "These bitches be shit," why, it's a stalwart statement in defense of those poor women.
We all know the funny statements that mislead because of a lack of grammar, usually somehow proclaiming their fondness for sodomy. I don't make the unseen laws of the internet, but I'm held to them like the rest of you.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
It's hot.
I've always wondered why people need to point out the obvious.
Do we do it out of a need to belong?
Do we really think someone may have not noticed it?
Is it our way of expressing interest/discomfort without whining?
Are we idiots?
The first question, I came to the answer of: probably. We like to know that we're not the only ones who are effected by something. If it's hot, we like knowing that someone else is hot as well. Instead of asking them, we think it nicer to make a statement, and see if they agree or challenge.
I've heard that down south, saying "it's hot out" is usually met with an immediate challenge of "what you can't stand/don't like it here?"
As for the second question, I've always figured it's a way to make a generalized statement, that is pretty much easy to agree with. When we've run out of things to say, stating the obvious keeps our mouths working, or else are brains kick in.
Saying "it's too hot" can be taken as whining, and up here, we tend to hate whiners. There's an old saying here "if you don't like the weather in New Hampshire, wait a minute, it will change" and while it's funny, they made fun of it saying "If you don't like the weather in New Hampshire, go back where you came from."
I've always thought the second one was closer to our actual thoughts.
All in all, I'm far too hot to do anything right now but eat chips and watch Doctor Who.
Do we do it out of a need to belong?
Do we really think someone may have not noticed it?
Is it our way of expressing interest/discomfort without whining?
Are we idiots?
The first question, I came to the answer of: probably. We like to know that we're not the only ones who are effected by something. If it's hot, we like knowing that someone else is hot as well. Instead of asking them, we think it nicer to make a statement, and see if they agree or challenge.
I've heard that down south, saying "it's hot out" is usually met with an immediate challenge of "what you can't stand/don't like it here?"
As for the second question, I've always figured it's a way to make a generalized statement, that is pretty much easy to agree with. When we've run out of things to say, stating the obvious keeps our mouths working, or else are brains kick in.
Saying "it's too hot" can be taken as whining, and up here, we tend to hate whiners. There's an old saying here "if you don't like the weather in New Hampshire, wait a minute, it will change" and while it's funny, they made fun of it saying "If you don't like the weather in New Hampshire, go back where you came from."
I've always thought the second one was closer to our actual thoughts.
All in all, I'm far too hot to do anything right now but eat chips and watch Doctor Who.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
The Tales of High Adventure...
Conan. Seriously, Grammar? I hope you're listening, because between "Conan." and "I am." Conan is the more perfect statement.
God man... Conan, seriously hero of my childhood, adulthood, and pretty much every hood I've had. The wild barbarian, brilliant tactician, thief, pirate, and probably a fine cook, Conan has literally been the inspiration for more novels, characters, and ideas than anything I'll ever write.
Note: Doesn't mean I'm not going to try to surpass it.
I even based one of my own characters off him; Rose, a character who's fighting style shifts freely from "clever, subtle and sneaky" to "hit me until you're tired, bitch"... that might actually end up being a line for her. Both were unhandsome, blunt and honest characters, making decisions based on intellect and not ego and the need to further the plot.
I love Conan, I loved the movie as well.
Note: I'd say movies... but well... Destroyer? Meh...
So, a new movie on Conan? A remake? I promise to the world I will do my very, very best to not come off as a fanboy, or let nostalgia cloud my vision when I go see this.
By the way, here's the plan: I'm going to see it at Chunky's, so I can have a beer and meat, because there's no better way to see Conan than at a long feasting table, with pilfered car seats, shouting along with him. I may go in a loincloth, not sure yet.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
A STAPLE (in the scrotum) OF MANLINESS.
I, being twenty-four, have yet to do something that nearly all men do, or have done, by my age. I never really thought about it, but tonight it sort of dawned on me.
I've never had a beer with my dad.
When I was about seventeen/eighteen, my mother emerged as an alcoholic, and for the years after, I completely gave up alcohol. Only on the rarest of occations, such as special events or my twenty-first, would I imbibe. I told the world I was being strong and supportive... but in truth, I was scared.
I remember my mother as one of the strongest people in the world, part of the reason I enjoy strong female characters, to see something break her, terrified me. So, under the guise of helping, I swore off drinking.
In the recent years, I'd come to realize that fear, and since then have come to enjoy a drink now and then. I still hate being drunk, but I always have. Bad stomach, doesn't play well with excess. So, on nights I will pour myself a drink into my Medieval Manor tall glass, and have a sit, sipping away on my beer and watching something. Tonight is Doctor Who.
Now, before I ramble off again, know that my mother is at around three years sober, a good achievement I'm proud of her for.
But, I've never sat down in a bar, next to my dad, and had a beer. We've never played pool, loser paying for the drinks. I'm married, a responsible adult looking towards life as a long road I ride down, and I've yet to start off in that way.
My brother was the one to take me out on my twenty-first, bought me drinks, played pool with me, explained about bar fights. I don't even like bars, but I listened.
I suppose I'll have to ask my father to go sometime, me, him, my brother, all of us. The Hart boys off to the bar, for possibly the first and last time. We're Irish, we might end up singing, but that's a risk we'll just have to take.
I've never had a beer with my dad.
When I was about seventeen/eighteen, my mother emerged as an alcoholic, and for the years after, I completely gave up alcohol. Only on the rarest of occations, such as special events or my twenty-first, would I imbibe. I told the world I was being strong and supportive... but in truth, I was scared.
I remember my mother as one of the strongest people in the world, part of the reason I enjoy strong female characters, to see something break her, terrified me. So, under the guise of helping, I swore off drinking.
In the recent years, I'd come to realize that fear, and since then have come to enjoy a drink now and then. I still hate being drunk, but I always have. Bad stomach, doesn't play well with excess. So, on nights I will pour myself a drink into my Medieval Manor tall glass, and have a sit, sipping away on my beer and watching something. Tonight is Doctor Who.
Now, before I ramble off again, know that my mother is at around three years sober, a good achievement I'm proud of her for.
But, I've never sat down in a bar, next to my dad, and had a beer. We've never played pool, loser paying for the drinks. I'm married, a responsible adult looking towards life as a long road I ride down, and I've yet to start off in that way.
My brother was the one to take me out on my twenty-first, bought me drinks, played pool with me, explained about bar fights. I don't even like bars, but I listened.
I suppose I'll have to ask my father to go sometime, me, him, my brother, all of us. The Hart boys off to the bar, for possibly the first and last time. We're Irish, we might end up singing, but that's a risk we'll just have to take.
Friday, July 1, 2011
So... I think it's officially time to cut back on the "blockbuster" movies... we're past them as a people.
Some of our best movies are not these massive, money grabbing multi-genre flicks that offer nothing more than the mental equivalent of a Big Mac, tons of processed meat, fake flavoring, and enough salt (titties) to kill a horse. I watched two movies yesterday, Black Swan, and Drive Angry, (I seriously think Redbox thought I was dicking with it) both of which were A: not blockbusters, and B: fucking amazing.
Black Swan was a exquisite, twisted mind fuck that never, ever, intended to let you in as a confidant. You were an outsider for the whole movie, just a voyeuristic viewer, here to see the show. It was beautifully done.
Drive Angry was an action flick that knew why you were watching it, you wanted to see Nick Cage kill people with demonic... stuff. To hell with a "plot" tits and guns, and someone being set on fire.
Then, after you sit down ready to watch this freak show... somewhere along the line it whips a plot out of nowhere, showcases a truly strong female character who exhibits NONE of the Hollywood tripe we're usually forced to have. She'll fight anyone, fires first, looks for hot people to screw, and beats the hell out of the main villain. She's what Hollywood usually only allows a male actor to be: useful. Then, a symbolic plot rears it's head, even going as far as to use the "Lucifer is merely a Warden of Hell, not some evil being" theory, without sounding like a tool. It all works well.
These two movies, not blockbusters, didn't make ten billion opening weekend, yet should be must sees for people. In all this grabbing for money, paying actors so much they could get together and fill the national debt in a year. Hell I'd give them a hell of a tax break if they did. We've basically lost what made movies good.
Those people who say "But, maybe I don't want every movie to 'be' about something, sometimes I just want a distraction." That's akin to saying "not everything I eat needs to be 'healthy', sometimes I just want food."
Diabetes and obesity are near epidemics in this country, the former being over 60%. And if you need to see the morbidly obese, go to Wal-Mart. As for how this metaphor moves to movies... just watch Jersey Shore and see if you can tell me that "we don't need no education" with a straight face.
We should save the blockbusters for stories that deserve it, ones that already bridge huge gaps without needing to be whitewashed for "maximum appeal". True epics like Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter, hell, even Twilight, as much as I hate it, it -had- a massive following before the movies. I can hate it all I want, and I -can- and -will- talk smack, because I can. But, I will not deny that people liked it for all the right reasons: They enjoyed it, they read the series, they made informed opinions about it.
If they're going to do that, they deserve to like it. We still get to make fun of them, that's part of being American, but you still have to allow them to like it... and get their damn movies.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
The Three Mild Suggestions of Robotics.
In a current project of mine, Sand in the Gears, robots have a prominent role. One thing however, I've noticed, is that I've completely written out any of Asimov's Three Laws, because frankly, humans will NEVER create robots that follow those laws. Ever.
Some may say "but, when we build super strong, fast, dangerous robots, we'll want those laws!" Well, you're already wrong.
First Law: A robot may not injure a human being, or through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.
Some of our first robots, will likely be designed to kill our enemies. Half of our robotics are already designed to do so, only with minor human input like in unmanned aircraft... as soon as the army can remove that, they will.
Second Law: A robot must obey any order given to it by a human being, as long as it does not conflict with the first law.
"Go into that store, and bring me out expensive stuff, make sure no one is hurt." I attribute this to Asimov not spending a lot of time on the internet, where robots will be hacked and made to tie their masters down, and tea bag them for hours on end.
Third Law: A robot must protect its' own existence, unless it conflicts with the first and second laws.
Actually... this is probably the only one we'll keep to, because robots are expensive.
In the story, "Kale" a robot designed by the main character, is basically built with a duel processing system (not like a computer), meaning that whenever one thought is made, an immediate opposing thought is made as well, and Kale is allowed to believe both at the same time. (This is actually when one of the other characters accepts that Kale is a "Female" robot, because she has "fuzzy" logic).
Here's a fun example:
Elry: So, which came first, then? The chicken or the egg?
Kale: The Chicken.
Elry:... but where did the chicken come from?
Kale: In all probability, another chicken.
Elry: So... an egg?
Kale: Yes, it would appear so.
Elry: So, the egg came first then?
Kale: Yes, it would appear so.
Elry: But you just said the chicken did, you change you mind already?
Kale: No, if either choice predates the other, then both are first, and both are second.
Elry: That doesn't make sense Kale... the question is designed to be infinite.
Kale: The question is flawed, there can be no infinite in a finite universe.
Elry:... so if a tree falls in a forest...
Kale: One would not know, One has never been to a forest.
Some may say "but, when we build super strong, fast, dangerous robots, we'll want those laws!" Well, you're already wrong.
First Law: A robot may not injure a human being, or through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.
Some of our first robots, will likely be designed to kill our enemies. Half of our robotics are already designed to do so, only with minor human input like in unmanned aircraft... as soon as the army can remove that, they will.
Second Law: A robot must obey any order given to it by a human being, as long as it does not conflict with the first law.
"Go into that store, and bring me out expensive stuff, make sure no one is hurt." I attribute this to Asimov not spending a lot of time on the internet, where robots will be hacked and made to tie their masters down, and tea bag them for hours on end.
Third Law: A robot must protect its' own existence, unless it conflicts with the first and second laws.
Actually... this is probably the only one we'll keep to, because robots are expensive.
In the story, "Kale" a robot designed by the main character, is basically built with a duel processing system (not like a computer), meaning that whenever one thought is made, an immediate opposing thought is made as well, and Kale is allowed to believe both at the same time. (This is actually when one of the other characters accepts that Kale is a "Female" robot, because she has "fuzzy" logic).
Here's a fun example:
Elry: So, which came first, then? The chicken or the egg?
Kale: The Chicken.
Elry:... but where did the chicken come from?
Kale: In all probability, another chicken.
Elry: So... an egg?
Kale: Yes, it would appear so.
Elry: So, the egg came first then?
Kale: Yes, it would appear so.
Elry: But you just said the chicken did, you change you mind already?
Kale: No, if either choice predates the other, then both are first, and both are second.
Elry: That doesn't make sense Kale... the question is designed to be infinite.
Kale: The question is flawed, there can be no infinite in a finite universe.
Elry:... so if a tree falls in a forest...
Kale: One would not know, One has never been to a forest.
Mini-Post: Hot and Steamy...
My friend Pie and I were talking about drinks, tea in particular, and how we love it hot. Coffee, tea, and various other hot drinks are best steaming hot... but we'll discard them once they cool. However, if they're really, really cold, we love them just as much.
We arrived at the conclusion that we really in truth just did not like our drinks the same temp as the room. Unless that room is in a volcano, or at the north pole.
We arrived at the conclusion that we really in truth just did not like our drinks the same temp as the room. Unless that room is in a volcano, or at the north pole.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Because Fuck You, that's why...
Seen above: the Irish reasoning behind defiance.
Explaining this to the wife, since she's the wife and all. My family has two real mottos, "No good deed goes unpunished" and the one above, and yes, we're Irish. It's a funny thing really, but it's a sentiment that goes bone deep.
One of the things we love about my grandfather in law is that he pretty much follows the same creed. Man got colon cancer, which in case you don't know what the word "Cancer" means, it means you die a horrible death. Unless you turn to your own ass and say "Fuck you cancer, I will punch you in your malignant faces!" Which is what he did.
Even after the overdose of chemo, and the removal of body parts, the man's still going, cancer free. As his wife put it, he was simply too stubborn to die of it. It's a good trait to defy such things, even in the face of death itself.
And not for some macho "laughing at death," no, you can be bedwettingly scared, but you still take the shot. It's about gritting your teeth and suffering through hardships, never giving in to pain and suffering or even self doubt. To always move forward, with the mentality that you may not make it through alive, but you will sure as Hell not go down without resistance.
When the zombies come in on you, and you've got one bullet left, you fire it at the lead zombie, and then try to kill as many as you can by pistol whip, why?
Because fuck zombies, that's why.
It is a basic rule of our lives, to press on, in a bad economy, in a war torn world, in a rural area with no water. We keep moving forward, heedless of the easy way out. So next time you stand before the end, and search your soul for a reason to keep fighting the inevitable, remember: it's not about how many it took to bring you down, but the fact that they had to bring you down, because you refused to do it for them.
All it takes for them to win, is for you to do nothing. So always do something, no matter what, stand up, be counted, shout loudly, hide behind the scenes, be subtle, walk softly and carry that big stick, because it matters not if you succeed, or if you fail, but that you tried. That when your cause was lost, you still went for it, throwing the ball from across the court in the last seconds in a final effort to score a point, with the score 60 to 0 them. Why?
Exactly.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
What wood you do?
I wonder, if trees are sentient sometimes... they seem to be. Almost malicious at times. This line of thinking started earlier, so I'll begin with that...
Imagine talking to a tree, could you invite a human sized tree to your home? Likely not. Your floors would comprise of the flesh of their people, your walls; crudely painted body parts. Your favorite chair a throne of skulls. Hell, you might heat your house with their remains. Switch it around, with a tree person making his house from the dried flesh of humans, eating off them, burning them to warm him... and you've a horror tale.
I imagine that household plants must think themselves captives in some sick house of hell where they might be the next to die.
Look around your room, and see what is made of wood, simple wood. You could explain the house, but what about that cribbage board? The cutting board? Good God, what if you own a wood working workshop? How impressively awkward.
On my wall, I've a sword made from the bone of a swordfish, the blade is its' nose bone, and its' hilt wood. There's now two races I can't invite into my home with that still showing.
Seriously, I had wooden toys... as macabre as a child having a toy hand, made into a doll.
So, I have no wonder as to why trees are quick to grow and break down buildings, ruin streets, or especially brick houses. I'm sure they view it as purging the wicked from their land.
"If trees screamed, would we still cut them down? Probably, if they screamed all the time, for no reason."
Imagine talking to a tree, could you invite a human sized tree to your home? Likely not. Your floors would comprise of the flesh of their people, your walls; crudely painted body parts. Your favorite chair a throne of skulls. Hell, you might heat your house with their remains. Switch it around, with a tree person making his house from the dried flesh of humans, eating off them, burning them to warm him... and you've a horror tale.
I imagine that household plants must think themselves captives in some sick house of hell where they might be the next to die.
Look around your room, and see what is made of wood, simple wood. You could explain the house, but what about that cribbage board? The cutting board? Good God, what if you own a wood working workshop? How impressively awkward.
On my wall, I've a sword made from the bone of a swordfish, the blade is its' nose bone, and its' hilt wood. There's now two races I can't invite into my home with that still showing.
Seriously, I had wooden toys... as macabre as a child having a toy hand, made into a doll.
So, I have no wonder as to why trees are quick to grow and break down buildings, ruin streets, or especially brick houses. I'm sure they view it as purging the wicked from their land.
"If trees screamed, would we still cut them down? Probably, if they screamed all the time, for no reason."
Thursday, June 23, 2011
The only kid on the street with a special effects budget...
So, during our move to the new apartment, I found a small box of some old toys. They currently reside in the basement with my workshop supplies, because after all the battles those toys and I fought... couldn't toss them. Also, to hell with giving them to some charity, I'm not greedy... but these were my -men-. And women. But mostly men, since back in the 90s, female toys were ether the one female G.I.Joe, or strange Japanese ones that my parents didn't think I was old enough for.
Currently, on my desk, is one of my toys. This guy... well, he didn't have a name when I got him. Found him at a flea market, he literally just looked too cool to pass up. He was in an Asian (can't tell the make) package, and is some sort of robot warrior I've never seen before. So, I had to develop a story for him as a child... and remembering it got me thinking about how I write, so I think I'll share it here:
To describe him when I got him, he was about six inches tall, and in a time when GIJoe were "super poseable" this guy had double jointed knees ball socket hips... he was a ninja from that point on. He was a bright, shined copper with silver highlights, with a big blood red piece in his chest. His chest was a secure mix of parts, so he wasn't just painted different, he -was- different parts. Awesome. He came with three weapons; a shield thing, a gun... and a big, fuck-off copper straightsword that could stab through triple ply cardboard. That sword also stuck nicely in the hands, so no dropping it if he fell down.
He also came with a motorcycle that turned into a robot...
Since I was nine and didn't know about anime power armor yet, I figured he was something from "The Internet" like a badass Freakazoid. I named him Cyberfox, because of his little, foxish ears and that whole internet jive.
Cyberfox had the ability to travel through electrical lines, and besides being the "guy with a sword" he was a Commander rank in my army. This man answered only to Spawn, and the White Ranger.
Currently, Cyberfox shows the wounds of his days, his color is now a faded rosegold, and all the silver is dull black, and his left arm is missing. Lost in a terrible battle in the pantry. His sword is still bright, and I take that as a metaphor for his overall spirit, since this man was the bastard son of Clint Eastwood and a Gundam.
I look at him and remember what I was like as a child; incredibly detailed with my toys. I was not Andy from Toy Story, I did not make up new things each time. I had a long, continuous plotline, filled with twists and turns and defection, betrayal and romance. I shunned playsets to build my own out of cardboard and pilfered styrofoam from the trash, so I could blow up things and punch through walls.
I also used explosives in my black ops missions, one sticks out to me:
A fright truck, carrying munitions to the enemy base in the frozen wastes (outside in the snow), barrels down the slippery highway. Spider-man, Link and Medival Spawn race along side to overtake it. Spider-man manages the jump over, his leg (broken falling down the back stairs, and glued/taped back on) slowing him, allowing the Silver Surfer to ambush him! (He was a villain... I don't know why). They fight atop it, unfortunetly Spider-mans' back up are two men from the dark ages trying to drive a all-terrain vehical, and they nearly skid out. Link clings to the bumper! Then, riding up on his cycle, comes Cyberfox! Sword held this back by a elastic, he leaps as his cycle changes, and jams an explosive (mildly illegal Black Cat firework) into the wheelwell!
The truck flies down the highway (porch roof) Link releasing and sliding to a stop on the icy road as the satchel detonates, blowing the wheels off the left side! The truck catches in the ice and starts to roll, Spider-man barely leaping free and catching hold before watching the truck, Silver Surfer still aboard, sail over the railing and crash to the mountainous abyss below...
Cyberfox picks up Link on his way to Spider-man, and asks, "You called for back up?" (I was nine, catchphrases were hard...)
With fire, real explosions, and the desire to buy and assemble a model truck simply for that... is it any wonder my toys carry battle scars? Also, most of them had costume changes, like Spider-Man's bandana to hide a knife wound (yeah...) with his sweet hat, Link's black ninja armor, and Cyberfoxes... everything.
It's also safe to say, I didn't play well with other kids... since they didn't get why my entry teams planted explosives for their exit out of the styrofoam base, in two places in case Plan A failed.
Plan A, always fails.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Woman, I'm a cat-MAN.
Today, I was comparing martial artists, to cats. We're very much alike. For all of you women out there who date/marry us, this is your comprehensi-... completely half-assed guide to dealing with your new pet.
Because we're nothing more than pets really.
First of all, think about how cats act. Most of them are sort of metro in a "don't care about fashion, or appearing manly, in fact we'll wear the damn sweater if you'll make dinner." They don't seem to care for loud animals, preferring to be quiet and probably laying comfortably on something soft. So, I guess we'll start the comparisons now:
Most martial artists don't try to be "butch," while some guys who take a martial art can be, most who qualify for "martial artist" are truly against the strutting that other men do. Sort of like the previous observation of cats.
Most martial artists tend to find mates that are, well in a word "tough." We're not content with women/men who are whiney, inept, or basically incapable of surviving the zombie apocalypse. No, we want people who are in someway our equal, or at best, our better.
You may ask yourself "Tom, you tall drink of water for the unquenchable thirst, this doesn't sound like my cat..." Well, you're wrong there, because that mate, is You. The evidence: we, as martial artist/cats, tend to make our mates/owners put up with all the random toys we own. Which no matter how we care for them, will be left on the floor or somewhere you -will- step on it or knock over. We tend to occasionally be inherently messy, and forgetful with hiding away our toys.
We bat things around. Punching bags, speed bags, jut boards, fighting dummies, focus mits, kick shields, or everyones favorite, small children. We knock these things about with a mix of power and gentile violence, all at once trying to cause the most harm, yet not break it. Imagine your cats' play place, little dangling things hang down that it uses as part exercise machine, part combat training device, part hilarious pastime.
We're mildly sadistic. For many martial artists, a small change happens when it takes root in your soul; you start enjoying hurting others. Not in a sexual way (well maybe, not judging you), or a crimi(ok, I lied, I'm judging the Hell out of you)nal way, but in that little prickish way that cats do. Bat that little mouse around, or how about waiting till you're not looking... then BAM! right in the back of the head as you pass the stairs. Nothing painful, just letting you know we -could- have torn you in two. Like when a cat uses the claws... just a little.
Who could forget their first time hearing the words "here, throw a punch at me, no it doesn't matter where..." as they were immediately shown a new, excruciating move, that leaves the martial artist going "now if I do this, your arm comes off..."
Or that eyebrow raise when someone pretends to throw a few mock punches, the obvious come-on of "try it... it'll be funny..." akin to the cat tail twitch?
We're damn cute, and it's damn lucky we're cute. Because when you get home, and we're COMPLETELY IGNORING THE MASSIVE DENTS AND SWORD SLASHES IN THE CEILING, it's lucky for us that we look good topless... and that we're so damn adorable when we're wild eyed and looking for violence.
We could be outside, fighting off the Mongolian horde, but once the smell of dinner is in the air, we're suddenly in the kitchen, getting completely in the way as we try to see what's up.
You basically get us, show us off to your friends, indulge in our inane ways, spend cuddly time with us, put up with our loud, obnoxious friends, and buy us expensive equipment/scratching posts so we don't damage the furniture.
Let's face it, the only reason you pick us over cats; we can open jars.
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