GainsClockWork

Batter, My Heart

2009-05-26T16:57:21Z

This has been my favorite opera aria since I heard the Met broadcast.

Sung to the a-bomb.

Empty town

2009-03-09T17:27:25Z

Mostly because I know Jenn loves this stuff, here's a series of photos taken in Pripyat. This town on the outskirts of Chernobyl was evacuated in two days in 1986 when the fire broke out at the power plant. It's safe to visit now, but the town is still abandoned.

Take a look.

Thermodynamics

2009-02-12T21:26:55Z

I've learned an important lesson about my notebook PC; Beth. The fans move so much hot air out to the left side that I can set my tea mug there and it will stay warm much longer. Likewise, I have to put any soda can on the right side if I want to avoid heating it up.

If you were not aware . . .

2009-01-08T18:27:21Z

Over the past few months the_stalwart has been working toward the release of his newest RPG, Serial Homicide Unit. A story game in which the players follow the lives of the police chasing down a serial killer, and the final days of the soon-to-be-victims.

It's a unique game for many reasons. First of all, it is an audio rule book. That's right, you don't read it.
A recording of the rules guides you through the game as you play.

Even more interesting is that the voice belongs to me.

Further adding to the interesting, there's some title music to start off the recording, also by me.

So, since my grubby mitts are all over this game, I recommend you go and buy it. (Playtesters should already have an e-copy. If you didn't get one, let me know and I'll pass the word along to Michael.)

Michael has asked me to work up an advert for the game. Once that is ready, I'll post it here.

And Again

2008-12-18T15:42:51Z

This one too, is one we tried out in high school but I didn't actually get to sing in concert until Westminster. Only years later have I noticed that my high school choir director put some pretty challenging stuff in front of us; lots of polyphonic works and old Renaissance stuff. I think it's because he was largely left to his own devices.

In geek news, I heard a few good things about the Battlestar Galactica board game from a post by gillan. I decided that I'd seek it out. Then, I made the mistake of watching a few episodes online to get into the spirit of the game. My long dormant love of space opera/conspiracy drama was activated and suddenly I want to watch all the episodes of the show and make any and all available friends play this game. So, thanks Brett. It took me 7 years to overcome the space opera bug after Star Wars was ruined, and now I'm right back in. Hooray. Sigh.

Another one

2008-12-17T20:20:16Z

This one takes me back. I first worked with this piece in high school. Our director was feeling out the choir at the start of the semester, to see what we could handle. Though we only gave this piece a few try-outs it stuck immediately as one of my favorites. Just hearing the part at 22 seconds, when the full chorus harmony hits still gets me, even after having heard this one maybe hundreds of times.

This one is also an actual Renaissance work by Thomas Luis de Victoria rather than a modern re-imagining.

gainsclockwork @ 2008-12-16T09:29:00

2008-12-16T14:42:38Z

Here's another English composer rewriting an old classic. Ralph Vaughn-Williams "Wassail Song." Wassailing is one of those great old words. Carousing without the seedy undertones. Eat, drink, sing, and be merry.

That high pitched sound is crappy audio encoding. Sadly, this is the best video of the song I could find.

As a side note, I've posted a few religious works so far but there's no subversive intent here. The concept of a "war on Christmas" was invented by a neo-nazi, so I don't buy into it. If you hear God in this music, that's your thing and you're welcome. I'm just here to point out that medieval style polyphony sounds good.

gainsclockwork @ 2008-12-15T09:27:00

2008-12-15T14:32:16Z

Benjamin Britten is another of my faves. His modern choral works ran throughout my school days from the first Chapel Choir class my freshman year. He was also a lover of the old tunes of medieval Europe and loved to reset texts in Middle English. Here's a choice selection from the "Ceremony of Carols."

Balulaloww.avi
by j_najy

The only thing better than a Middle English Christmas carol is one being redone by a twentieth century composer.

It's also fun to see the faces the kids make, wringing as much pathos from 1'15 as is possible.

Keep your Christmas in your way, and let me keep it in mine!

2008-12-12T15:20:50Z

I think somewhere around 1950 they stopped making good Christmas music. And even then, I feel we were in decline for about 2 or 3 centuries. If there's one thing I'm a snob about it's my Christmas music. So, go listen to some modern pop diva butcher "Let it Snow" and then come back here and watch this.

See, that's what I'm talking about! Crazy turn-of-the-century British man rewriting Elizabethan carols.

I don't hate other Christmas music. Along with Benjamin Britten's "Ceremony of Carols" I've also sung some great jazz arrangements of "Walking in a Winter Wonderland" and the Westminster Singers traditional "Twas the Night Before Christmas." I'm just saying, is it too much to sneak in an occasional "Hodie Christus Natus Est" among the others?

If this makes me a crotchety old man, it makes me a 500 year old crotchety old man.

Depression

2008-12-05T15:11:44Z

My office laid off 33 people yesterday and we've been told that until the end of the fiscal year we should expect further cutbacks and consolidation. In fact, the organization wants to cut spending by 50%. I guess I'm lucky to still be here, what with my lack of marketable skills. Today the entire building is a funeral parlor and I seem to be the loud-mouthed idiot who doesn't know how to behave.

I keep trying to discuss things in a "business as usual" tone and bring up plans for future projects, mostly about doing things like replacing costly business trips with web seminars and other things that I think are good for us keeping our jobs, and then I'm told I really shouldn't think about the future with so much uncertainty in the organization. So I'm the optimistic one.

Me? C'mon.

Maybe I'm too much a sociopath to feel the zeitgeist of the office. I mean, I caught myself not whispering while a guy cleaned out his cube on the other side of the dividing wall and that's a major faux pas today. So, I'm caught between being disrespectful to the "dead" by trying to think about the future, or looking unproductive by sitting around waiting for other people to want to work again. Scylla and Carbides.

Either way, I really want a double bourbon.

Dead Space not Dead Enough

2008-12-03T16:10:26Z

I haven't posted about a video game in a while, so why pretend I've actually been productive?

I could say that Resident Evil 4 is my all-time favorite game. It's the only game I've played through more than five times, and I unlocked the crazy upgrades, playing through with an infinite supply of tommy-gun ammo, dressed in a black pin-stripe suit and billowing silk scarf. Dead Space is the next logical extension of that trend. Staying in the same genre with similar interface and gameplay, but taking the action into the bleak world of deep space mining.

So here's the question. When does this game get difficult? I played Normal difficulty to start and equipped a high armor suit I downloaded because I expected to get thrashed and wanted to at least see the end of the story. By the end of the game, I had upgraded all my gear and I was still swimming in credits. I had abandoned all but two of the guns, the flying buzz saw launcher and the laser cannon, and when I finished the game and got a reward of extra credits and so on for my second play through, it was such an embarrassment of riches that I couldn't make myself do it and started a fresh game on Hard mode instead.

I decided I would not use my powered up armor suit and buy upgrades through the game like a common peasant. I saw there's an achievement for completing the game with only the plasma cutter side arm, so I decided to see how far I could get before I'd break down and buy a force gun, or return to my old friend, the ripper.

At level 7 out of 12, I'm still fine. Sure, I get ganked occasionally, but I know enough to retreat from mobs and that the best firing order is still 2 shots at the lead leg and then one at the lead claw arm to level most bipedal creatures. Some of the frights still make me jump and my heart rate climbs when one of them uses the ventilation ducts to get behind me but none of the other guns are really that appealing and I've got enough cash to buy an armor upgrade when it becomes available.

Maybe I'll change my tune when I get to the destroyer and the speedy ones start to gang up on me. I haven't upgraded my "not so fast buck-o" stasis module yet, but since I know they're coming up, I probably will by that time.

So, is it my mad skillz0rz from hours of RE4, or just a lack of game balance that make Dead Space less Deadly? I suppose we'll see what Impossible mode has to offer.

In other news, I've begun naming computers around my office. I think it started with my new laptop, since it was bigger than I expected I called it a behemoth the first week. That was shortened to Beth. Now I'm naming the servers I prep Ida, Thelma, Helen, etc. Perhaps I hope they will treat me better if I can call them by name.

What is essential? Civic duty. Done.

2008-11-04T16:48:18Z

It's done and I feel sick. I will feel this way the entire day. Yes, I know that even Karl Rove is calling it for Obama but The Fear has gripped me that all the pollsters were lying the whole time. As usual, my thoughts turn to time machines as the only certain way to quell anxiety.

So. Suicide pact, anyone?

Happy Halloween

2008-10-31T16:32:29Z

I'm re-wearing an old costume this year (boo) because I couldn't get the right supplies to make a mask that matches the one I made for Jenn. Just look for posts with the tag halloween if you want to see the costume; it's from a few years back.

In honor of a day cherished by most of my fellow Silent Hill fans, I'm presenting a short story written in the setting of our favorite ghost-plagued, monster-ridden, hell-on-earth resort town. Now, I'm no expert, but this may constitute fanfic, a thing I usually try to avoid. But if you can get an audience riled just by writing "Toluca Lake," it's silly not to use it.

The Lake

Toluca Lake has no bottom. That's what I heard when I was a kid. I'd never been there but a lot of other kids would go to a resort in the summer with their parents. Every Fall there was a new story about a kid who had gone swimming and didn't come back up. When I got older I figured that they were blaming the lake for any kid who moved away.

I still thought it could be bottomless and a bottomless lake was just what I needed. Water closing overhead until the sun goes dim and the pressure squeezes into your head. No sounds, no smells, only cold and your vision going black.

I had a hard time finding the place. An old bridge had collapsed and from the signs, it didn't look like anyone was ever going to repair it. I had to drive up into the mountains on some winding back roads to find a way over the river. In the end, I was using the compass on my dash to navigate until I finally saw a sign where the road forked between the Toluca Lake Resort and a town called Silent Hill.

The fog got thicker as I drove down from the mountains. I figured that meant I was getting close to water. It had rained earlier that day but the sky was clearing. The fog was glowing white. In a few hours it might boil off and leave a damp layer over everything. But it was still thick enough that I had to slam on my brakes when I saw the sign out in front of the resort's drive. The car started to fishtail, but caught it's grip in the gravel. I drove on, much slower now.

I couldn't tell if the resort was closed for the off-season or if it had been abandoned as I rolled toward it. An old new-england style building. Long and low with broad porches and tall windows. When I got closer I could see the peeling paint and the missing window panes. Left to rot. It was just as well.

There was a small boat dock just off the parking lot. I guess that was for people to drop boats in from their trailers. I pulled up at the end.

I popped the trunk and pulled out the cinderblocks, stacking them on the wet wood, and the chain. It slipped out of my hand and rattled along the rim of the trunk. The loudest sound I'd heard since I stopped the car. It was still too wet for birds or insects to be out, but I couldn't hear any frogs or ducks either. Maybe it was too late in the Fall for that? I picked up the chain.

At first I didn't think I was hearing footsteps. By then I thought every sound I heard was inside my head; that's how quiet it was. After I'd drawn the chain through the holes in the blocks the footsteps were loud enough that I glanced up. What would I say to someone who saw this? There was a young boy, preteen, wearing worn jeans and a striped polo shirt. His hair was dirty blond and a long stain down the front of his shirt showed that he recently had a nosebleed. There was a little dirt on his face but no tears. He was staring at me, a knot of indecision on his face. Talk to me? Or turn aside and skirt around me?

"Mister? Um, are you okay?"

I fumbled with the chain and tried to cover the blocks somehow. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just surprised to see anyone up here."

"Oh. I'm lost."

He was afraid to tell me that, but he squeaked it out.

My sighing was a little too loud and he looked away from my obvious disgust. What was I supposed to do? I came here to be lost and now this?

"Are your mommy and daddy here?"

He squirmed a bit.

"Were you camping or something? Did you come up here to go on the lake?"

"I think," He squirmed more. "I think they're inside." He turned and pointed to the resort building.

He was surprised again when I stood up and moved beside him. Jumpy little guy.

"Okay." I put aside the obvious questions about what kind of people would take their kid up to a crumbling building. He was scared and he wouldn't know anyway. Besides, maybe they were like me. Here for a selfish reason. Here to do something horrible. Why should I go looking for them? Was it curiosity? I wasn't worried about the kid but I wanted to know what happened. I started toward the hotel.

"Well, let's go find them." He followed a few steps behind me.

The place was worse off than I had thought. Planks in the stairs were old and rotten and squished instead of squeaking in the wet. I balanced myself carefully at the edges of the stairs and tried to walk on the support beams of the porch, following the nails but mindful of the rust brown ones that jutted from the wood. I was startled to find that the door was actually shut and locked. Its window had been broken away long ago though, so I reached in past a moldering curtain and flipped the catch. The door stuck at first but squeaked open on near frozen hinges when I leaned into it. Paint chips and dust and splinters rained into my hair. No one had been through this door in a long time.

"Are you sure they went in here?" I said while wiping the debris from my hair.

He gave me an uncomfortable look, like he was going to tell me something bad and embarrassing, like he'd wet his pants or something, but then he straightened up, sniffed, and said:

"Yeah. I remember that hall. I think they're in the room at the back."

I blew out another deep sigh. Okay. What could it hurt? I'd play along for a little while longer and when I was more annoyed than guilty I'd yell at the kid to leave me alone. Besides, If his parents really were in here I didn't want them to come wandering out while I was still messing with the blocks and chain.

The inside was better kept than the outside. Water got in, but it hadn't rotted out all the boards in the hall. I walked past an old front desk, layered with dust. There were still some crumbling papers on it. A couple stuffed chairs, eaten hollow by insects and animals flanked a coffee table that had given up to rot and collapsed in on itself. As I walked down the hall I glanced into the rooms on either side. In 102 there was a dusty collection of old furniture. Pulled in from other rooms and piled up. 103's ceiling had collapsed and old plaster had formed a crust over everything, soggy and soft in the rain and dried to powder in the summer. 104 and 105 were shut. I reached over and tried the door to 105 and the knob turned part way but then stuck and stuck hard. The lock must have broken. I stopped for a second to look in on 106. The entire roof had given way over this room. The shingles and beams lay in a tangle over the crushed furniture but the opening to the sky had let more light and rain in. There were seedling trees growing from what had been the bed. Moss and some grasses grew from the dirt of crushed building materials. Mushrooms spread out into the dark corners of the room.

The kid's footsteps behind me shook me out of the trance and I kept on down the hall.

107's door was missing and someone had moved the wardrobe from the room up against the doorway. They must have left through the window. And then we came to 108 and the end of the hall.

"In there?"

He nodded.

It was crazy. There was no way anyone would be there. Just thinking about how stupid I had been by indulging the kid this far made me angry. The smell of the rotting wood and dust and mold was getting to me as well. I turned the knob and the door stuck fast.

"See. They can't be in there."

His nosebleed has started up again. Now there were tears welling in his eyes. "But they've gotta be in there! That was where they went last time!"

I was angry but not angry enough to tear into him. I slammed my shoulder against the door. I did it again and heard the wood creak. Again and the door budged inward. I started to feel the pain of each impact on my shoulder spreading up and down my arm. It was good. It made me angrier. Again, and the door slipped, then stuck. Again. The pain brought red flashes behind my eyes. Again. The door opened with a squeal like a tortured animal and I tumbled in.

The floor didn't give like wood under me. I felt the sharp sting of metal against my already bruised shoulder. Rust scraping. The smell was engine grease and electrical fire. Burning plastic. And meat. I went blind for a second and as my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I saw rust streaked concrete, bent sheet metal, chain link fence, pipes leaking ooze. I had gone mad.

The kid ran past me into Hell. "No! Daddy! No, no!"

I pushed myself up and turned to see what he was screaming about.

Where the bed would have been, there was what looked like a butcher's block or an altar, streaked with dried blood. There was a body stretched across it. A woman, I guessed from the hair and what was left of the arms and legs, their feminine curve. The rest was a mass of wounds. Of flesh scraped from bones. Muscles flayed away. Organs split and scattered. I retched and looked away. When I turned back I saw the rest of the nightmare.

It was a machine. A machine of muscled flesh and greased pistons. It was shaped like a man, bent forward over the body but too large and misshapen, with a hunched back and bulges of metal attached with huge screws. The thing was built around an over-sized butcher's knife, held over the body. It was the brightest thing in the room, polished to a sheen. The machine worked up and down, stabbing the knife into the body and drawing it out like a murdering sewing machine, a terrible grunt and grinding clash of metal with each thrust. I thought that the body lurched and tried to twist away under each blow but that just wasn't possible.

The kid ran up to this monstrosity and pulled at what would have been its leg. Still pleading for his daddy to stop.

The machine-man did stop, turned from the bed and a light of recognition came into its eyes, like it had just noticed us in the room. The knife slid or rotated in its hand and swiped up in a long arc. The kid fell away and I could see the stream of blood rise, bead in the air, and stretch into drops falling to the floor.

Then it turned toward me.

It lunged and that smell of freshly cut meat swelled. I heard it grunt as it sailed over my ducked body and hit the floor with an awful, slapping sound.

I scrambled up, ran, and dove over the bed, trying to put some separation between us. The thing had a hard time standing. It couldn't loosen it's grip on the knife.

I had to find some escape, some way to get away from this thing. The door I had passed through was . . . gone. It it's place I imagined I saw a mouth, closed in a grimace. I blinked and it was still there. Teeth of polished obsidian. At the head of the bed there was a gap in the chain-link fence that made up that wall. Between the links I couldn't see anything more than darkness. I leaned out and looked through. Nothing. Just nothing.

As I pulled myself back in the bed shifted as I pressed against it. The meat-woman twitched. Tried to turn to me. I felt like I would throw up again but fear of the man-machine kept me from it. The bed slid toward the gap as I stumbled away. The man-machine looked up at me from its struggles and when its eyes met mine, I could see something human. Fear? A pleading look? It picked itself up slowly and made a few sideways steps. "Let's not be too hasty."

I shoved the bed again and the man lurched forward. The woman made a gurgling noise but I shut her out. It took a few steps forward, knife lowered.

I'm not a fool. I could see what it wanted. There was no bargaining here. No deal. I stepped toward the foot of the bed and it mirrored me. When we both stood there, me just outside of striking range I saw the little twitch of its lips. I threw all my weight against the bed.

It slid easily on grease and drying blood with a sound like a metal drawer opening, and I landed at the edge of the metal grating and watched it sail down into the dark below. He flew past me in some sort of desperate scramble. Flailing after what he had lost. His purpose. His function.

I threw up again, and my vision blurred.

When I came to, the room was just a room. The door hung open. I pushed myself up and saw the top of the bed. Deep brown stains. Cuts all over the mattress, like someone was trying to chop all the way through it.

I'd almost forgotten about the kid. When I saw him, lying there with his guts hanging out in a pool of blood it was like ice water hitting my stomach. My god. It happened. It really happened. He was still breathing, but shallow. I knelt down next to him.

There were tears. He tried to curl up but the pain shot through him and he fell limp. He managed to hiss "It hurts" through clenched teeth.

I thought maybe I could do something but that was so stupid a thought that it was gone as soon as it formed. He was past helping. He was dead and his body just hadn't caught on to the fact. Now all he had was a few minutes of agony before it was over.

I decided that those few minutes were too long. That he didn't deserve to suffer more for what his father had done. I put my hands on his throat and found the spots over the arteries and veins. He relaxed into me as I squeezed. Soon he went limp. I held on for a few minutes longer, to be sure.

I carried him back to my car, wrapped up in my jacket. I don't know why. I guess I still felt sorry for the lost kid. When I got there I saw I'd left the trunk open and a breeze had blown the hood all the way up.

He was lying there. The plastic sheeting had shifted somehow on the drive out here and his cold eyes looked right up at me. I dropped my empty jacket and stared at the bruises my thumbs had made on his throat.

I hadn't thought about his parents when I picked him. Had he shown me what they were? Had I imagined this to calm myself? Did I save him from something even more horrible than me?

I walked past the car toward the short dock. I scooped a stone off the ground and threw it out into the lake, hard as I could. It vanished in the fog and the sound was muffled into silence. The ripples didn't reach out to me on the shore.

They say Toluca Lake has no bottom.

Are they right?

©2008 by Russell Collins

Imaginary Morality

2008-10-29T16:22:30Z

Fallout 3 rocks. I feel like I could spend a long time playing this game.

I've noticed a pattern in my Fallout playstyle. When I start the game I always plan to try being the bad guy. Steal whenever I can, don't answer questions of the NPCs, take some opportunities to rack up bad karma by doing a few deeds for the devious denizens. That never happens.

I already knew about an early quest in which you can wipe out a settlement in a matter of seconds. It's a nasty thing to do, but I thought it would be interesting to try it. But then I went to the town. Maybe it was my high charisma stat, but people were generally nice to me. They told me about their lives before settling down. I met the Sheriff's son. Joel Creel told me about his adopted daughter. In no time I was doing errands for the people and when the sinister businessman shows up to invite me to destroy the place, I sicced the Sheriff on him and then blasted him. After he had killed the Sheriff unfortunately.

Then I went to the Sheriff's house and spoke to his son. There's this weird feeling of regret, that I should have been faster on the draw, or that I shouldn't have involved the Sheriff and taken out the bastard on my own. It probably doesn't help that the kid looks like one of the other kids I grew up with in the vault. One of the ones who didn't punch me when I wouldn't give him my birthday present.

It's always this way when I play an RPG. Even tabletop. My bad-ass jerks turn into supportive people who are eager to help and smooth over troubles among the PCs and NPCs. In subtle ways if not openly. Playing a Lasombra vampire with the intent of making him a pirate eventually resulted in me becoming a mediator between two other characters who bickered constantly and being spokesperson for the group as a voice of courtesy and respect.

Perhaps my personal morality isn't something I want to escape from when I'm playing an escapist game. Games without choices never get at me like this, but when there are consequences, I want to play like I would act in real life.

It's sobering in a way. I find myself actively fanning the flames of my misanthropy, especially in an election year, but when it's time to act on something, I'm back to being pleasant and helpful, even if I do it begrudgingly.

Anyway, my brother Steve wants to play his character in the manner of Ken from Fist of the North Star, so I'm trying to work up a build of stats, tags and perks for him. I wish him luck in focusing on melee and hand-to-hand combat against rabid bears and slavers armed with shotguns, but Fallout was supposedly made to be played however you want, provided you play with determination.

PS_ Another side effect is that I want to GM Tribe 8 again. For serious this time!

Late to Never

2008-10-16T16:01:53Z

Jenn is hosting my non-plussed with hot dog entry, along with lots of photos of the Blackwell v. Axelrod wedding. It has already earned my vote for Wedding of the Year, but I may be prejudiced by my inclusion in the wedding party.

I'm trying to find a single photo of the event where I don't look like I'm about to collapse from exhaustion. It's funny because I felt great that day. I'm beginning to wonder if my default expression is one of soporific stupor and I just never noticed before. Still, it adds to the brooding effect.

I missed the debate but I heard it went swimmingly. All the same, the desperation and despicable tactics of the opposition still sicken me. I need to put myself on news blackout again. Every time I see a republican talking head on TV, I hear a shakily sampled voice from the old Space Hulk video game ordering the space marines to "Cleanse this place with fire."

Absolutely Horrifying

2008-08-07T14:02:55Z

Jenn's very busy with a job, so I'm going to step in and do a bit of promotion for her.

Later this month we'll be hawking her wares at the Monster-Mania Horror Movie Convention on August 22nd, 3rd and 4th. I'll be attending a wedding on the 23rd, so lady_tyrael will fill in as Jenn's lovely assistant. The Lost Boys reunion will be part of this convention, so if you've had your eyeballs scorched by the recent Lost Boys sequel it may bring some small comfort.

So if you're local, or not local and want an excuse to visit sunny New Jersey (too sunny for my taste) come on down, visit our table, get Robert Englund to autograph something and have a drink with us after buying one of Jenn's prints.

Dexcon and Contract Work

2008-07-30T14:50:14Z

Dexcon was great. Which it has to be when we have such imaginative and friendly people in abundance. Though I was only able to play in one game of Carry (blackwell has some cool things to say) I ran four playtest sessions of Contract Work.

All of the sessions went off, which is a testament to the strength of the Indie Explosion at Dexcon. That both friends and strangers are willing to play with an incomplete game at a convention is really special. I mean, I once offered to pay someone to playtest and here we have people paying to be at the con and then playtesting. Pretty cool. More names on the Hit List.

Things are good with Contract Work. I think the mechanics are solid and the flow of gameplay is settling in. I made some tweaks to the endgame, copy/pasting some rules from elsewhere when I realized that consistency wasn't going to hurt anything. After the first two sessions, I had lots of notes about tweaking the rules to account for all the maybes but by the end of the second session I just crossed all of those out.

Now that the mechanics are good, I need to organize the rest of the game. The story side of a story game. I think of this stuff as the DM's guide. The PHB is the mechanics of character creation and interaction and the equipment list. It's the DM's material that builds a setting, organizes scenes and pacing and puts other bodies into the world so that the interactions go beyond numbers. That's something I need to devote myself to, now I know the numbers don't need quite so much tweaking.

I love Vietnamese food. I love eating it with friends. You guys are terrific. jenniferrodgers has some more photos of the event in recent posts, or page around the Flkr links from the devilishly handsome man above.

Why so serious?

2008-07-27T14:19:53Z

You didn't need to hear how great it is from me, but for those of you keeping score . . .

As of last night, I've seen The Dark Knight 3 times.

Also, as a sort of apology to everyone, I got caught up in some great end-convention conversations and forum threads but then I found out how hard it is to steal wi-fi on the shore. I'll catch up soon.

That Cracking Noise You Just Heard . . .

2008-07-16T14:02:43Z

Was me clicking the "pre-order" button for this game hard enough to crush the desk under the mangled remains of my mouse.

Please note that the robot seems confused about what to do with the power tool attachment. Also Father's face while the Vault Tec rep. is discussing the future with Daughter.

Since the first Fallout game, I've found their incongruity of Mad Max post-apocalyptic bleakness with 50's kitsch and pop culture well worth the price of admission. I'm already asking myself the heavy questions:

Do I want to play like my first run at game 1? Go all out with Mad Max leathers and shoulder armor, trade in any gun that doesn't look like Decker's Blade Runner pistol, reload any save that keeps my dog alive? Or is it time to go Brotherhood of Steel? Powered armor, miniguns, paranoid racist propaganda, wholesale slaughter. Maybe I'll just headshot some Brothers and take their stuff . . .

Good thing I broke down and bought that 360.

Murder, anyone?

2008-07-15T14:47:10Z

Yes, I'm running 4 sessions of Contract Work this weekend at DexCon. I've trimmed down some of the dead branches that resulted from the last big rules changes and I'm happy with what I have. If you decide to play it you will find that the game is better streamlined and more intuitive, with a GM who remembers when to add color and when to crunch numbers instead of ignoring one of the two for the entire session.

I've also added some more "table business." A lesson learned from the better modern boardgames I've played; tokens that represent and reinforce the rules are always welcome. I'm not littering the place with miniatures or anything like that, but like the map/board of Candyland, a good visual layout of the game's events goes a long way toward motivating people.

Plus: Chalk outlines.

I always mention this stuff late because I'm still fiddling with the rules up to the last minute and don't feel ready to present the game to people. A sort of anti-marketing. I'm confident in this iteration though (revision 8,645) so it's time to get serious about making it a product instead of just a game.

No trash culture . . .

2008-07-08T01:03:23Z

Like the Jersey shore.

Jenn has the photos.

This was a fun mini-vacation before I take the full week off end of this month. We met many, many more cool people and got to enjoy the ability to walk a block to the ocean and drive a few blocks to the boardwalk. It was a great time and Jenn and I were very happy to be invited by Manning and Ben.

I'd only been to Wildwood once before, years ago. I remember my girlfriend at the time thought the entire place was disgraceful. While talking with Manning, I told him that I thought of Wildwood as a less trashy Seaside Park. He seemed surprised such a thing could exist. I'll take some photos when I'm there in a few weeks, and we'll do some compare and contrast. Both offer grease-sweating pizza, crappy rides and plenty of refreshing ocean breeze.

If I get some more time to walk on the beach in the dark, before being chased off by cops, then it'll be a lovely time.

Wham, Blam, Thank you Ma-BANG!

2008-07-01T13:58:24Z

Did you see Wanted yet?

Why not?

Every film I see directed by Timur Bekmambetov makes me think "Fcuk The Matrix. Here's a crazy CGI action flick with characters you can actually CARE about!"

There is no mood tag for Aghast.

2008-06-29T21:01:56Z

Doctor Who? Don't. Just don't.

It's like you're waiting for the nurse to stick you with a needle and instead she punches you in the stomach.

See you next week, Andy!
_____

As a diversion, here's some more fiction from my Sorrows setting. Not really any rules in this, just some color to give the Citadel atmosphere. (I have worked out most of the rules, so I may be able to organize and offer them soon.)
_____
Harrowell loved the engineering of the Citadel. Though many others found these meetings of the planning council dreadful and boring, sending surrogates in their stead, he saw the demolition and construction as a marvelous puzzle.

The Councilman's chambers were piled high in paper and dust. The huge room was dominated by a long, high table with reams of notes, curling maps and plans and thick books covering its surface, layers deep. The high bookcases that lined the walls stood half-filled with disused texts and rolls of paper. Piles of split-backed books and loose pages moldered into scraps on the floor.

The Citadel had changed so much, and the courtiers so little that most records were forgotten or useless.

Harrowell took his usual place at the table and pushed back the tide of papers that had drifted or settled toward the open space in front of his chair. He swiped the dust away with a handkerchief and rolled out a fresh map of District 18, an area that had been hit in the latest shelling by the enemy. Elise, one of the only others to take an interest in the workings of urban planning sat to his right and gave a prim, wrinkled smile. She was apt; always knew the details of the Citadel's current status, but Harrowell would rather she were a subordinate than a supposed equal. She would talk too much if he didn't interrupt her.

Other courtiers who made up the council drank quietly and played cards.

"We needn't reinforce the conscript housing in that district. It has never had a strong enough population to justify re-opening."

Elise nodded with vigor. "Probably because that district's recruits are slated to join the ranks of Lady Eleana's forces. I expect a poor man would rather walk half-way across the city to get to work. Better that than to be awoken out of bed one night and told to report to the barracks for those brutes she calls generals. Have you seen the attrition reports? I think they might've forgotten that it's the enemy that need killing, not our citizens."

"Were there many fatalities when the shell hit?"

"Well, it was a change in work shifts. Most of the men and women had just returned from labor duties. Children had been dispatched to school-"

Ah-ha! Harrowell smiled. "A large number of the survivors were children? Orphans now?"

"Yes. Most were just kept in the school houses over the night. Some were sent home to relatives or neighbors. Obviously the youngest weren't out at school when the attack took place so-"

"How much of the neighboring block was damaged?"

"One or two collapsed houses. Just superficial damage beyond that. I suppose they were the lucky ones. Their neighbor's homes a smoking ruin, while they just need to sweep the glass away and throw kindling on the fire. It was-"

His smile spread. "That's enough I think, to condemn the other buildings on that block."

"What? But why? I just said it's superficial damage. If you are doubting the report of my investigators, and have some other source of information, I demand you bring such evidence forth-"

"No doubts. But we'll need a full two blocks to house an academy."

"Oh. I see."

Harrowell was lost in his vision; he did not notice the terse response. "The new construction will serve the dual purpose of housing the orphans of that district, while preparing them for conscription when they are of age." It would be a marvelous structure. Multi-tiered training halls, basement barracks, parapeted classrooms to study the enemy from afar. "Perhaps the deaths of family will also serve as greater motivation for their morale as they yearn to strike back against the enemy!"

Elise sighed. "Do you know what the current age of eligibility for conscription is?"

"No," Harrowell cocked an eyebrow.

"It's just as well."

A Message to the Producers of Doctor Who

2008-06-23T03:07:56Z

Mr. Davies, etc.,

I humbly request that you stop showing "coming episode" trailers until such time as you are able to provide time travel conveyance that would allow me to see said episode immediately.

Bad Wolf Bad Wolf Bad Wolf,
Russell Collins

Been a while . . .

2008-06-11T15:18:32Z

Piece of very short fiction that has been pestering me to be written. The narrator and his opinions about religions and states is not me. But I like the idea of someone who thinks this way.
___

I'm terrified of ghosts. Not in the usual way though. Not in the "blind revenge from beyond the grave, possess your cat, throw all your stuff around the living room" kind of way. I'm afraid that their existence is proof of an afterlife. If ghosts exist, then there's proof of a soul. Proof that you will go on throughout eternity in another state of being. And that's absolutely awful.

What do you think this afterlife would be? Sitting on clouds happily singing praises while you watch the great events of the universe spin by? HA! We're people. We will transplant the bullshit of our lives into whatever place we occupy. That's right. Eternal "keeping up with the Joneses." Eternal "My car needs to be bigger." Eternal record contracts, internet scams, underage factory workers, supermodel break-ups, reality TV, non-smoking bars, Californians!

You think divorce rates are bad now?

How can you get away from it? It's not like you can kill yourself to end it all, you're already dead! Do you think with all of eternity to spread out we won't saturate whatever world exists there? Do you think with all that time we won't find easier, more wasteful ways to do everything? "This New New New New York is boring. Let's abandon it and get started on New New Chicago." It's not like pollution is going to kill anyone anymore.

Somehow, I have to live forever. It may be the only way I'll ever get any peace and quiet! Once everyone else has moved on, I'll be happy here living by myself. Watching all of the crap we left behind melt away. Finally assured that no one is going to make fun of my haircut, ever again.
___

In other news it is too goddamn hot for me to enter my studio. I haven't written any music all week. I suppose that's for the best anyway because the tremendous fever to re-play Bioshock gripped me last month and I broke down and bought an XBox. *sigh* "Would You Kindly" forgive me this indulgence?