A little background. My MMC2100 class, Writing for Mass Communication, offers a 25-point bonus chunk of extra credit if we get a story published in a reputable publication, the Gainesville Sun or the Alligator (though that publication's status as "reputable" diminishes daily in my mind, they practice rotten journalism). One of these publications, suggested to us in lecture, is the online magazine "Newsies."
Today in lecture, the professor mentioned that Newsies was having a meeting tonight, in which they would consider new business and hold nominations for elections. She said that it was a good opportunity to bring a story to them, so as to maybe get it published. So I went, thinking, what a good idea.
They were indeed holding nominations. The offices were:
2 Executive Editors
Treasurer
Secretary
2 Historians
Social Chair
4 Group Editors
People came up in front of the room and gave short speeches on why they thought they deserved one position or another. The funny part was, when it came to Social Chair, nobody offered. Nobody even raised their hand when the current editors asked who wanted the nomination. I thought this was a bit odd.
At the end of the meeting, after I found the appropriate person and gave her the copy of my Large Hadron Collider story that I had brought for her to review, I approached one of the two executive editors, Allysen.
"Nobody tried for Social Chair?" I asked.
"Yeah, nobody," she said. "I guess one of the freshmen will take it, or else we'll just have to leave it vacant."
"Well..." I said. "I'm not technically a member of Newsies, and have in fact never been to one of these meetings, but if nobody else wants it, I could try for Social Chair."
She eyed me critically. "You?" she said.
"Sure," I said. "I'm taking MMC now, and passing it, and the story I gave to Alexandra [I think it was her] should prove my, er, journalistic merit."
Allysen stared for a second, but smiled. "Well, bring some ideas as to what you might do as Social Chair to the next meeting, and we'll consider it," she said. "If nobody else wants it, you'll probably get it."
So I went to the first meeting of Newsies I've ever been to, and walked away nearly elected to office in that organization.
It's kind of funny.
Today's Luke-Approved YouTube Link of the Day is http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OOXT22Ghouw featuring Captain Jean-Luc Picard pretty much owning everybody around him. As he is wont to do. And in today's Luke-Approved YouTube Second Link of the Day, a rare treat, we have http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=98iNFU0IDo0 in which Data completely dominates one of his insubordinate officers during the brief period in which he is a starship captain. Data owning people is such a rarity, when I saw it, I had to include it.
REPLIES.
Kelli: Oh. Hi again. Yes, D&D will be grand, if I can manage not to throttle my players up here. When the objective is to retake the castle, burning it down is not a victory option. Neither is blowing it up. Neither is shifting it into another plane of existence, and damn if I know how they'd pull that off at 6th level. Stupid players.
Vic: I'm lookin', I'm lookin'. As for MMC...well...I forgot the address where I posted the picture. If you could help me out there, that'd be grand. And I'll check my schedule as to when we can do another Game Night.
Dad: I don't pretend to be as good a speaker as Bill Clinton. I saw a video of that speech...it was fairly epic, I think. I'll show you the video when I come down. And I've been improving on the radio pretty quickly.
Mom: What is this piano music anecdote y'all keep telling me about? I don't remember it at all. And yes, D&D is fun.
See you.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
The Events Of The Last Few Days
Last week was not especially memorable. No, it was not. I mean, there were a few things, like...hmm, there was...ooh, the D&D game, that was good. But overall not much happened.
Oh, yeah, I found some apartments/houses with Apartment Hunters. But we - that is to say, myself, Mike, and Matt, who are going to be sharing this apartment/house - are still waffling on which one to take. We had our eye on one, called La Mancha, but I've been told by others that there is something of a major bug problem in those dwellings, so we'll have to see for ourselves.
But regardless. There are a few things I want to talk about in particular:
1. The D&D game
2. The game of Twilight Imperium on Saturday
3. The play I watched (and performed) on Sunday
4. My radio gig on Monday
The D&D game. I like the Eberron setting, if only because I get to be a cool mechanical/organic construct known as a "warforged." Not only that, I get to be a psion, so my character is technically known as a "psiforged." His name is 01. I can be healed by either cure wounds or repair damage spells, so that's neat. I don't sleep, I don't eat, I don't breathe, and as a roleplaying feature I decided that I would begin all of my sentences with the type of sentence it is. For instance...
"Query: You and what army, meatbag?"
"Assertion: Try it and I will personally crack you open like a boiled lobster."
"Inference: So that means...what...you're gay?"
It's a lot of fun, really it is. Especially since I bought that enormous bag of dice at Megacon. But now I know the pain of everyone borrowing my dice and not giving them back and mixing them up in other peoples' dice pools and unnnngh. It's a good thing I memorized how many I have of each type so as to avoid confusion over who owns what.
In this particular adventure, we got lost in the undercity of this one, er, place (I was a little unclear on the setting), and when I missed a step, I fell hurtling downwards on a very slippery slope, taking the cleric with me. We landed in knee-deep guano, which didn't affect me as I don't breathe and, ergo, don't have a sense of smell. We were then immediately grappled by some horrors, I don't know what. I blasted 'em with a cold spell (psionic evocation, whatever), but I unfortunately hit the cleric too, dropping him to negative HP and making his magic plate armor go to bits. (The DM later ruled that he could repair it.) So his player held a grudge against me for most of that session. It was helped by the fact that the druid, a new player, "just happened" to join the party when the cleric needed healing the most.
When we were all rejoined and somewhat healed, we discovered that the only way to advance would be to go through underwater tunnels. The druid wild-shaped into a dolphin, and most of the other characters clung to her. I just plodded along. They were all fussing about breathing or some such ridiculousness, but me, I didn't care. We had to fight an aboleth, which is a big psychic fish-thing, but we (and by "we" I mean "mostly me") damaged it enough to force it to retreat. I had to blow five Action Points, a sort of bribe-the-GM currency that's actually in the rulebook, to make the monster reroll his successful saving throw until he failed it.
Twilight Imperium, now, that was a game. There were only six of us playing this time:
Louis, whose race were basically space Nazis.
Victoria, who again started as the aggravating race that starts with a War Sun (Death Star analogue).
Mike, who was the University, but realized too late that that -1 to combat rolls makes a big damn difference.
Matt, who was...heck, I don't remember.
Danny, who was someone even more forgettable. (I tend to only pay attention to my side of the table. Whoops.)
And me. My race were space pirates. That is fun to do.
We divided the galaxy into two halves, and Victoria, Louis, and I all ended up on one half and the other three on the second. Us, the warmongering races, quickly made a temporary truce and banded together to crush the techie book-learners, a fact which they were quick to complain about. Bah, too bad. All this malarkey they gave us about "winning the game" and "getting victory points." I don't play Twilight Imperium to satisfy the byzantine requirements of getting victory points, I play it to amass a gigantic face-crushing space fleet and by God crush some face, am I right?
Louis ended up winning, but not before I scored a decisive victory against Danny (I obliterated half his fleet and only lost one Fighter) and nuked Louis's homeworld in a questionably intelligent backstab attempt. I still lost, but I had fun doing it.
The play. Ah, the play. You may remember that I posted said play several weeks ago. I showed it to my teacher and he liked it so much that he had me put it on stage at the Acrosstown Theater after his An Evening with Harold Pinter. This was fun, but nerve-wracking. With about a million minor edits made, I distributed copies to my fellow actors, rehearsed the lines a few more times, got it all straight in my head, took a deep breath, and then went and threw up in the bathroom. But I felt much better afterwards.
The actual execution of the play...well. We had just finished the initial scenes, where I (I played Kevin, naturally) declared that Joe (played by Mallory, we play fast and loose with gender roles at the Acrosstown) could stay as long as he liked...then, we hit a snag. One or both of us got tangled up in the dialogue, and we ended up accidentally transitioning into the scene near the end, about the masturbation joke. I managed to improv us back to where we were supposed to be, through use of the fact that people can think really, really fast in a crisis.
Mallory's line was "You're not making any sense," but this was not immediately clear on account of I had just done a few lines of improv to get us back on track. Her eyes implored me to come up with something. So I came up with:
"I know what you're thinking..." I waggled my eyebrows conspiratorially. "You're thinking that I'm not making any sense, aren't you?" Pause for dramatic effect. "Well, I understand everything I'm saying." Which was my next line. We got back after that. Hoo boy, I can't believe I actually had the stones to pull that off.
We proceeded along fine - naked terror had hotwired my brain into perfect delivery - but still the hole in the script loomed. We could not, could not, repeat a scene, especially a scene that had dramatic weight to it (at least, as much as I could possibly instill). So both of us managed to sort of hop over the pit that had been created, and got fine on track for the ending.
It turned out surprisingly well. My teacher came up on stage to congratulate me (he knew what I had done, he was reading the script) and told me that I had managed to get people to laugh during my improv bits. So that's something. And when I spoke to my old roommate, Victor, he said that he had no idea that we had deviated from the script and were basically ad-libbing. Good news all around, then.
Then we get to my radio gig last night. I went on the air again from 2-3 a.m. This time, I was ready. I was prepared. I did not have a nervous breakdown like I practically did last time. (Possibly, my nerves were still shot from Sunday night, and needed to cool down before they could overheat again.) I went on-air three times, and each time I was cool, confident, and unafraid.
So I strolled into the office today and showed Mr. Guscott my tape. He popped it in and had a listen.
"Your recordings aren't here," he said. "This is all old stuff."
In horror, I seized upon it and listened myself. Indeed so - my perfect recordings from last night were gone.
"Did...something happen?" I stammered.
"Let's find out," Harry said. We went to the studio and popped in the tape.
DISC READ ERROR, it said.
"Odd," said Harry. "We'll try a new one." He went back to his office, unwrapped a fresh tape, and popped it in.
DISC READ ERROR
"I think you broke it," Harry said. He was smiling, and he immediately afterward reassured me that he was joking, but for just a split second a bolt of terror arced down my spine and earthed itself in my soul.
So, no record. I'll try it again on Wednesday night, I suppose. Deep, deep, deep sigh. But this time I'm even more prepared.
The Luke-Approved YouTube Link of the Day is http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SlSbTLzfKiA It's the Scorponok sequence from the 2007 Transformers movie. Out of all the really awesome scenes in the movie, and there were many, this one stands out as being completely jawsome.
REPLIES.
Jake: I know it did. It was awesome. And, er, I think I have a picture. I'm going to put up an album...one of these days.
Vic: I'm working on it, I'm working on it. And no, I have not yet found your blog. Email me the link or somethin'.
Mike: Good comic.
Steve: The first and second are still the best. The fourth is just kind of weird.
Dad: I figured as much. Boa was hostile that last day, I didn't like it. It felt like it was betraying my trust. And, er, thanks.
Mom: Yes, well, my bones took a pounding once or twice. I tried to ski one of those slightly off-slope through-the-trees paths, only to discover why you cannot do this. I taped all but the last 20 seconds or so of the play, at least, Victoria did with my camera. That thing devours batteries, by the way.
I don't think I can deconstruct the sequels as easily as I did the prequels. The sequels were actually mostly well-written, which gives me trouble. And, well, I'm working things out with girls...I guess.
(Jake's phone number is our area code, 792-6527.)
Bye.
Oh, yeah, I found some apartments/houses with Apartment Hunters. But we - that is to say, myself, Mike, and Matt, who are going to be sharing this apartment/house - are still waffling on which one to take. We had our eye on one, called La Mancha, but I've been told by others that there is something of a major bug problem in those dwellings, so we'll have to see for ourselves.
But regardless. There are a few things I want to talk about in particular:
1. The D&D game
2. The game of Twilight Imperium on Saturday
3. The play I watched (and performed) on Sunday
4. My radio gig on Monday
The D&D game. I like the Eberron setting, if only because I get to be a cool mechanical/organic construct known as a "warforged." Not only that, I get to be a psion, so my character is technically known as a "psiforged." His name is 01. I can be healed by either cure wounds or repair damage spells, so that's neat. I don't sleep, I don't eat, I don't breathe, and as a roleplaying feature I decided that I would begin all of my sentences with the type of sentence it is. For instance...
"Query: You and what army, meatbag?"
"Assertion: Try it and I will personally crack you open like a boiled lobster."
"Inference: So that means...what...you're gay?"
It's a lot of fun, really it is. Especially since I bought that enormous bag of dice at Megacon. But now I know the pain of everyone borrowing my dice and not giving them back and mixing them up in other peoples' dice pools and unnnngh. It's a good thing I memorized how many I have of each type so as to avoid confusion over who owns what.
In this particular adventure, we got lost in the undercity of this one, er, place (I was a little unclear on the setting), and when I missed a step, I fell hurtling downwards on a very slippery slope, taking the cleric with me. We landed in knee-deep guano, which didn't affect me as I don't breathe and, ergo, don't have a sense of smell. We were then immediately grappled by some horrors, I don't know what. I blasted 'em with a cold spell (psionic evocation, whatever), but I unfortunately hit the cleric too, dropping him to negative HP and making his magic plate armor go to bits. (The DM later ruled that he could repair it.) So his player held a grudge against me for most of that session. It was helped by the fact that the druid, a new player, "just happened" to join the party when the cleric needed healing the most.
When we were all rejoined and somewhat healed, we discovered that the only way to advance would be to go through underwater tunnels. The druid wild-shaped into a dolphin, and most of the other characters clung to her. I just plodded along. They were all fussing about breathing or some such ridiculousness, but me, I didn't care. We had to fight an aboleth, which is a big psychic fish-thing, but we (and by "we" I mean "mostly me") damaged it enough to force it to retreat. I had to blow five Action Points, a sort of bribe-the-GM currency that's actually in the rulebook, to make the monster reroll his successful saving throw until he failed it.
Twilight Imperium, now, that was a game. There were only six of us playing this time:
Louis, whose race were basically space Nazis.
Victoria, who again started as the aggravating race that starts with a War Sun (Death Star analogue).
Mike, who was the University, but realized too late that that -1 to combat rolls makes a big damn difference.
Matt, who was...heck, I don't remember.
Danny, who was someone even more forgettable. (I tend to only pay attention to my side of the table. Whoops.)
And me. My race were space pirates. That is fun to do.
We divided the galaxy into two halves, and Victoria, Louis, and I all ended up on one half and the other three on the second. Us, the warmongering races, quickly made a temporary truce and banded together to crush the techie book-learners, a fact which they were quick to complain about. Bah, too bad. All this malarkey they gave us about "winning the game" and "getting victory points." I don't play Twilight Imperium to satisfy the byzantine requirements of getting victory points, I play it to amass a gigantic face-crushing space fleet and by God crush some face, am I right?
Louis ended up winning, but not before I scored a decisive victory against Danny (I obliterated half his fleet and only lost one Fighter) and nuked Louis's homeworld in a questionably intelligent backstab attempt. I still lost, but I had fun doing it.
The play. Ah, the play. You may remember that I posted said play several weeks ago. I showed it to my teacher and he liked it so much that he had me put it on stage at the Acrosstown Theater after his An Evening with Harold Pinter. This was fun, but nerve-wracking. With about a million minor edits made, I distributed copies to my fellow actors, rehearsed the lines a few more times, got it all straight in my head, took a deep breath, and then went and threw up in the bathroom. But I felt much better afterwards.
The actual execution of the play...well. We had just finished the initial scenes, where I (I played Kevin, naturally) declared that Joe (played by Mallory, we play fast and loose with gender roles at the Acrosstown) could stay as long as he liked...then, we hit a snag. One or both of us got tangled up in the dialogue, and we ended up accidentally transitioning into the scene near the end, about the masturbation joke. I managed to improv us back to where we were supposed to be, through use of the fact that people can think really, really fast in a crisis.
Mallory's line was "You're not making any sense," but this was not immediately clear on account of I had just done a few lines of improv to get us back on track. Her eyes implored me to come up with something. So I came up with:
"I know what you're thinking..." I waggled my eyebrows conspiratorially. "You're thinking that I'm not making any sense, aren't you?" Pause for dramatic effect. "Well, I understand everything I'm saying." Which was my next line. We got back after that. Hoo boy, I can't believe I actually had the stones to pull that off.
We proceeded along fine - naked terror had hotwired my brain into perfect delivery - but still the hole in the script loomed. We could not, could not, repeat a scene, especially a scene that had dramatic weight to it (at least, as much as I could possibly instill). So both of us managed to sort of hop over the pit that had been created, and got fine on track for the ending.
It turned out surprisingly well. My teacher came up on stage to congratulate me (he knew what I had done, he was reading the script) and told me that I had managed to get people to laugh during my improv bits. So that's something. And when I spoke to my old roommate, Victor, he said that he had no idea that we had deviated from the script and were basically ad-libbing. Good news all around, then.
Then we get to my radio gig last night. I went on the air again from 2-3 a.m. This time, I was ready. I was prepared. I did not have a nervous breakdown like I practically did last time. (Possibly, my nerves were still shot from Sunday night, and needed to cool down before they could overheat again.) I went on-air three times, and each time I was cool, confident, and unafraid.
So I strolled into the office today and showed Mr. Guscott my tape. He popped it in and had a listen.
"Your recordings aren't here," he said. "This is all old stuff."
In horror, I seized upon it and listened myself. Indeed so - my perfect recordings from last night were gone.
"Did...something happen?" I stammered.
"Let's find out," Harry said. We went to the studio and popped in the tape.
DISC READ ERROR, it said.
"Odd," said Harry. "We'll try a new one." He went back to his office, unwrapped a fresh tape, and popped it in.
DISC READ ERROR
"I think you broke it," Harry said. He was smiling, and he immediately afterward reassured me that he was joking, but for just a split second a bolt of terror arced down my spine and earthed itself in my soul.
So, no record. I'll try it again on Wednesday night, I suppose. Deep, deep, deep sigh. But this time I'm even more prepared.
The Luke-Approved YouTube Link of the Day is http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SlSbTLzfKiA It's the Scorponok sequence from the 2007 Transformers movie. Out of all the really awesome scenes in the movie, and there were many, this one stands out as being completely jawsome.
REPLIES.
Jake: I know it did. It was awesome. And, er, I think I have a picture. I'm going to put up an album...one of these days.
Vic: I'm working on it, I'm working on it. And no, I have not yet found your blog. Email me the link or somethin'.
Mike: Good comic.
Steve: The first and second are still the best. The fourth is just kind of weird.
Dad: I figured as much. Boa was hostile that last day, I didn't like it. It felt like it was betraying my trust. And, er, thanks.
Mom: Yes, well, my bones took a pounding once or twice. I tried to ski one of those slightly off-slope through-the-trees paths, only to discover why you cannot do this. I taped all but the last 20 seconds or so of the play, at least, Victoria did with my camera. That thing devours batteries, by the way.
I don't think I can deconstruct the sequels as easily as I did the prequels. The sequels were actually mostly well-written, which gives me trouble. And, well, I'm working things out with girls...I guess.
(Jake's phone number is our area code, 792-6527.)
Bye.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Spring Break RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAWKS!!
For it does, my friends. It has the Rawk Hawk seal of approval. (Hm, do I own Thousand-Year Door? I need to buy it.) Spring Break was extraordinarily awesome.
First, there was Megacon. Boy, was there ever Megacon. But I have already pontificated at length on that very subject, so nothing new there. Skiing is far more interesting news, as well as a summary of that darned project I've been chipping away at all break.
So. Skiing. We skied for four days. The conditions were surprisingly good. I mean, the temperature lingered in the 40s most of the time we were there, and yet the conditions were awesome. It was packed powder, and there was some ice, but it was on the whole very manageable. The really weird bit is that the conditions actually got better as the day wore on as opposed to getting worse, as they normally do. The crust on the ice melted and made for good skiing, when the sun came out in the afternoon and heated things up some.
This was most demonstrated on one particular run, where there were big trees shading parts of the run. As I skied over the sun-drenched parts, I could hear the crunch of powder, and as I went over the shaded bits, I could feel the scrape of the ice. This switched back and forth about two or three times a second, at the worst of times. But given that it was fairly flat at the time that those conditions occurred, it was more interesting than outright dangerous.
I'd just like to mention here, again, that No Country for Old Men was a great big piece of, er, rotten cinematic experience. The villain had no personality beyond being a walking blob of sociopathy taped to a trigger finger, the main character dies two-thirds of the way through the film offscreen and at the hands of minor characters, the other main character is completely pointless and never actually manages to involve himself in the plot, his only contribution to the movie being sardonic comments and droning conversations with other old men, and everyone who was even mildly interesting dies. Often offscreen.
But I digress. I was simply reminded of it. It sucked. Skiing was lots of fun. My father and I went out to eat at a myriad of places and had many interesting discussions. His careful side-to-side sweeping ski technique differs greatly from my slight-curves down-the-mountain bombing run technique. (This is only partially voluntary, those patches of ice make it mighty difficult to turn effectively or even slow down.) We found several good runs over the first few days, including a number of blue square slopes that were no tougher than a difficult green circle. And green circles are easy as pudding and pie. There were short bits of incredible steepness, but with large flat zones underneath, there were no problems.
Then we found one slope called Boa. It was up an enormous lift that took us into multiple double black diamond territory. Basically, when we got off at the top, a sign pointed us to Boa and about six double-black slopes. Don't make a wrong turn, if you value your lives, was the clear message behind the sign. But we gave it a go. Holy mackerel, was that an amazing run. I mean, I don't think I've had so much fun skiing in all my life. It was steep, certainly, but it allowed for great speed without punishment. There were very few irregularities and almost no bumps or imperfections in the hillside that would generally punish for going quickly. Not to say that I went straight down - that's suicide - but I did have me a lot of fun. We went on that one many, many times.
We would have gone snowmobiling, as we generally do, but the concierge informed me of the prices. $120-$140 each for a two-hour tour. As for dogsledding, which I've always wanted to try, it was $350. I didn't have the heart to ask whether that was total or for each person, because really, did it matter? So we decided that the only thing we would do besides skiing was tubing. There was a nice tubing hill nearby, which we went to go to on Thursday.
Ah, Thursday. Let me pause in this story to tell you about Thursday. On Thursday, it was snowing mightily by the time we got up. We were overjoyed at this, for fresh powder is the skier's best friend. Eagerly did we get on the lift and up to the top of the mountain, for we were anxious to experience all that there was.
Aggravatingly, it was the worst skiing of the whole time. Not that powder in and of itself is a problem, it makes for good if somewhat slow skiing, but the inconsistency was killing me. There were lumps of powder dotting an otherwise icy slope, resulting in a patchy and inconsistent run wherever we tried to go. Skiing on powder and skiing on packed/ice are very different concepts, and switching between them multiple times per second is an exhausting task. Hail did start falling about halfway through, though, to my entertainment and amusement. Generally, though, I was too tired and beaten down to continue past about 1:00. Even Boa failed me, for many humps and hills appeared as a result of the inconsistent powder allotment. This demoralized me, and I went to the bottom and sat out. But I still had high spirits, for tubing would take place later that day.
Except, not. When we got there, we were informed that the snow was too much, and the tubing facility was closed. Well, shoot. We had dinner and went home. Next day, we went home. I chatted with a nice girl named Stephanie who I sat next to. I found her situation interesting, as even as we were returning to Florida after spending spring break in Utah, she was leaving her home in Utah to spend spring break in Florida. We talked, it was fun. The headphones the plane supplied were really terrible.
Back in Gainesville (as nothing extremely of note occurred on Saturday or Sunday, that I recall, we played Travis's D&D campaign which was fun), I spent all of yesterday trying to get interviews for my news story assignment about the Large Hadron Collider. Getting up at 5:00 a.m. was the first part of this, as I needed to call CERN in Switzerland and account for the time zone differences. I was answered by a very nice woman who was quite helpful, by giving me two phone numbers. One of them, however, was never answered...and the other one was a University of Florida professor. So much for getting up early. Deep sigh.
I did get three interviews, from the eminent Drs. Acosta, Avery, and Matchev. Each of them explained to me carefully how there was absolutely no chance of the world being swallowed by black holes or converted into strange matter by the LHC, on account of if that were going to happen as a result of the energetic collisions inside the LHC, the far more energetic collisions that constantly take place in the atmosphere from cosmic rays striking Earth would have done so billions of years ago. So no troubles.
I like my final story. Then I played Super Smash Bros: Brawl all night. Then I woke up, tried to find a house to live in unsuccessfully, unsuccessfully petitioned the housing office to find out why I hadn't gotten an RA letter of either confirmation or denial, went to class, had lunch, took a shower, and here I am. Good business. But still I am busy.
Oh, yes, nearly forgot: I got another date. I shall not nearly be so manic or whatever about this girl (a rather nice girl named Amanda in my Writing for Mass Communication class) or this date, as I have seen what my desperation has wrought. I am finally beginning to figure out how to speak to women in the sort of fashion that leads to asking them out, though. So, uh, good business all around. She has tattoos, which I would normally consider a major turn-off, but they're more unusual and interesting than trashy. For instance, on her ankle, she has a hot-air balloon. If nothing else, I at least want to know the story behind that.
Here's the first part on my essay on why Star Wars: Episode I really sucked. It's fun. I'll complete it soon.
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Anakin Skywalker: A kid, ten years old, with absolutely no training, manages to build both a working pod (and a pod that is, in fact, much faster than most of the other pods on the circuit, if you noticed) and a droid that knew six million forms of communication (check IV-VI for that), which is, at my count, 5,999,998 more than he did. With parts scavenged from a junk dealer (Watto), without the dealer noticing. In his spare time from being a slave. He knew mechanical engineering, electrical engineering, software engineering, artificial intelligence, never mind the robot brain of C-3PO that had to have been built at the molecular level for the information it held and its size...and we’re supposed to swallow all this because he’s the Chosen One? Does the Force give advanced technical knowledge, now? Sure, Jedi build their own lightsabers, but not working pod-racers or droids. When they were pre-adolescent.
Speaking of Anakin having lots of free time, did his mother do absolutely anything for Watto? If he owned her, you’d think he’d have her breaking her back fourteen hours a day in his shop. And why did he and his mother have their own multi-room dwelling instead of a grimy corner of the shop? Isn’t that a little much for slaves?
The Gungans are a race of idiots. If they breathe air, why do they have underwater cities? Do they breathe both air and water? If so, why are their cities entirely aerated? And why did Jar-Jar panic when the bongo he and the Jedi were in started leaking? Yes, he’s moronic even by Gungan standards, but that wasn’t a stupid mistake, that was raw terror. Why pick that big fat idiot, Boss Nass, to be their leader? One can understand his rampant xenophobia, because some people are just like that, but why did he turn around and make Jar-Jar a general? He picked not only the most incompetent of his race of idiots, but a former exile and one who would have been executed if Qui-Gon had not interceded on his behalf. And for what? The fatso said that Jar-Jar brought the Gungans and the Naboo together. No he didn’t, he led the Naboo to the Gungans. That’s hardly bringing two races together. Queen Amidala brought them together. Jar-Jar is a guide, not a diplomat. Not that he’s any good at anything that he does.
Oh, Queen Amidala. Where shall I begin. Why is a queen an elected position? And why did the Naboo, who are apparently as idiotic as the Gungans, elect a thirteen-year-old girl to be their supreme leader? Not that she did any leading to speak of. And I can understand why a person in that position might need a decoy, or a bodyguard, but everything in the movie and Eps. II and III indicated that the painted-white girl was always a decoy. The girl who was performing high-level negotiations with the Trade Federation? The girl who spoke in front of the entire Galactic Senate? A decoy. Isn’t that marvelous. Sure, Padme was right there nearby all those times, but still. And why did this decoy order Padme around so much? Making her clean R2-D2, sending her off on an unspecified errand (when Anakin came to see her before going off to the Jedi Council)...the decoy seemed pretty free about making Padme do the manual labor. And let’s not forget Padme trooping around on Tatooine, vulnerable to the first mugger or sneak thief that Qui-Gon was too busy dealing with Watto or someone to deter. She is thirteen, though. Her judgment isn’t the best.
Back to Watto, let’s get on a sort of prevailing theme of the movie. Blatant racial stereotypes. Watto was the typical haggling Jewish merchant. “Mind tricks don’t work on me – only money.” Did you notice his scruffy black beard and oversized nose? Hell’s bells, in Episode II he was wearing what was basically a yarmulke. And he’s far from the only one. The Trade Federation people, the Nemoidians, were “Chinamen” in the most offensive sense of the term. They might as well have offered to make Queen Amidala some hot and sour soup before they invaded. And then we have the Gungans, simple-minded Jamaican stereotypes to a man. Er, to a horse-lizard-fish thing. Come on, was George Lucas actually trying to get angry letters about this movie?
The battle droids. What’s with them? Aside from the fact that they’re “easier to kill than carpenter ants,” according to Mike Nelson’s (the MST3k guy, if you haven’t seen MST3k, you’ve lived a barren life) riff on the movie, they didn’t seem to even follow their own internal consistencies. Either they were all directly hardwired to the main battle-computer on the ship – as was evidenced by the fact that when the control ship was destroyed, they lost power – or they were on independent circuits – as was seemingly evidenced by the fact that they were picked off by the dozens by the Jedi without thousands of reinforcements pouring in after them. But what am I saying? Asking for consistency from Lucas? That’s crazy talk. I’m crazy for even thinking it.
The Jedi are dumber than the Gungans. I could write a whole essay just on the idiocies of the Jedi in Eps. I-III, but let’s focus on The Phantom Menace. Their rejection of Anakin, for one thing. His midichlorian (side note: aaaaaargh) count is higher than any Jedi in history, and he was Force-sensitive and extrasensory before he knew what the Force was. So of course they’ll reject him off-hand for being too old. If you’re the Jedi Council, and you see a youngster out there who’s already unbelievably powerful for his age and training (that is: none), and who clearly has the potential to be one of the most accomplished Force-wielders ever, you either train the living daylights out of him or you kill him to stop him from going to the Dark Side. You don’t cast him aside and let him freewheel around the galaxy, especially since you just received evidence that the Sith are back. Think they’ll reject someone like him for being a few years too old? Think he’ll turn down their offer, bitter as he is about being rejected by the Jedi?
Oh, let’s not forget “Fear is the path towards the Dark Side!” Since when is fear a terrible emotion to be eradicated? Fear is a natural and healthy part of any human, or humanoid, or whatever. Do the Jedi really expect there to be no fear among their candidates? What does that do to a “fight-or-flight” situation? It turns it into a “fight, or, uh, fight some more” situation. Part of courage, which I’m pretty sure is mentioned as being one of the essential ideals of a Jedi, is having fear and overcoming it.
Why, why, why did Obi-Wan not stop back by Tatooine after the events of Ep. I and not pick up Anakin’s mother?!? If fear truly is the path towards the Dark Side, how about eliminating that particular wellspring of fear, not to mention winning Anakin’s undying loyalty that no amount of Palpatine whispering in his ear will ever overcome. They could have resolved the entire difficulty by a one-week jaunt to Tatooine. It would have been a trivial matter to change Republic credits for whatever currency exists on Tatooine, or simply buy some commodity that Watto will accept. The only difficulty that exists here is that by doing this, the plots of Eps. IV-VI would have been erased, and any amount of plot-induced stupidity is worth preserving those cinematic gems.
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I'll post the rest later.
Today's Luke-Approved YouTube Link of the Day is something I am going to have to search for right now. I don't know what I'll pull up, but...hmm, wait a minute. I think I have something. Instead of youtube, today will be collegehumor. Four links, making fun of the street magician David Blaine.
http://www.collegehumor.com/video:1722057
http://www.collegehumor.com/video:1753653
http://www.collegehumor.com/video:1795488
http://www.collegehumor.com/video:1804052
The first two are great. The third is okay, I haven't seen the fourth. There's some bad language, but above all it's just hilarious.
REPLIES.
Jake: I have hidden depths, as you well know. And, er, I don't think I actually took any pictures of your Alucard costume. Uh...sorry. I'll tell Vic, though.
Steve: Believe me, I have always kind of hoped, but the odds against it are insane. Since I don't even remember her name or what she looked like, I could know her right now and see her every day, and never know that it was her. And yes, we met on Saturday.
Mom: I sent the story to Linda. She loved it. As for your Megacon interview, it was your interjection that Dad "especially" enjoyed seeing the teenage girls in costume that had him slightly miffed.
Dad: Anything I could write here, we already discussed. So, uh, yeah.
Vic: I contend still that the difference between this story and The Things They Carried is that I don't try and present the story as fact, and I especially don't try to fill the reader's head with some nonsense about "story-truth" or "happening-truth." That author makes it sound as though he honestly believed his stories were true. I know most of what I wrote isn't true, but I just like the way it sounds.
Ciao.
First, there was Megacon. Boy, was there ever Megacon. But I have already pontificated at length on that very subject, so nothing new there. Skiing is far more interesting news, as well as a summary of that darned project I've been chipping away at all break.
So. Skiing. We skied for four days. The conditions were surprisingly good. I mean, the temperature lingered in the 40s most of the time we were there, and yet the conditions were awesome. It was packed powder, and there was some ice, but it was on the whole very manageable. The really weird bit is that the conditions actually got better as the day wore on as opposed to getting worse, as they normally do. The crust on the ice melted and made for good skiing, when the sun came out in the afternoon and heated things up some.
This was most demonstrated on one particular run, where there were big trees shading parts of the run. As I skied over the sun-drenched parts, I could hear the crunch of powder, and as I went over the shaded bits, I could feel the scrape of the ice. This switched back and forth about two or three times a second, at the worst of times. But given that it was fairly flat at the time that those conditions occurred, it was more interesting than outright dangerous.
I'd just like to mention here, again, that No Country for Old Men was a great big piece of, er, rotten cinematic experience. The villain had no personality beyond being a walking blob of sociopathy taped to a trigger finger, the main character dies two-thirds of the way through the film offscreen and at the hands of minor characters, the other main character is completely pointless and never actually manages to involve himself in the plot, his only contribution to the movie being sardonic comments and droning conversations with other old men, and everyone who was even mildly interesting dies. Often offscreen.
But I digress. I was simply reminded of it. It sucked. Skiing was lots of fun. My father and I went out to eat at a myriad of places and had many interesting discussions. His careful side-to-side sweeping ski technique differs greatly from my slight-curves down-the-mountain bombing run technique. (This is only partially voluntary, those patches of ice make it mighty difficult to turn effectively or even slow down.) We found several good runs over the first few days, including a number of blue square slopes that were no tougher than a difficult green circle. And green circles are easy as pudding and pie. There were short bits of incredible steepness, but with large flat zones underneath, there were no problems.
Then we found one slope called Boa. It was up an enormous lift that took us into multiple double black diamond territory. Basically, when we got off at the top, a sign pointed us to Boa and about six double-black slopes. Don't make a wrong turn, if you value your lives, was the clear message behind the sign. But we gave it a go. Holy mackerel, was that an amazing run. I mean, I don't think I've had so much fun skiing in all my life. It was steep, certainly, but it allowed for great speed without punishment. There were very few irregularities and almost no bumps or imperfections in the hillside that would generally punish for going quickly. Not to say that I went straight down - that's suicide - but I did have me a lot of fun. We went on that one many, many times.
We would have gone snowmobiling, as we generally do, but the concierge informed me of the prices. $120-$140 each for a two-hour tour. As for dogsledding, which I've always wanted to try, it was $350. I didn't have the heart to ask whether that was total or for each person, because really, did it matter? So we decided that the only thing we would do besides skiing was tubing. There was a nice tubing hill nearby, which we went to go to on Thursday.
Ah, Thursday. Let me pause in this story to tell you about Thursday. On Thursday, it was snowing mightily by the time we got up. We were overjoyed at this, for fresh powder is the skier's best friend. Eagerly did we get on the lift and up to the top of the mountain, for we were anxious to experience all that there was.
Aggravatingly, it was the worst skiing of the whole time. Not that powder in and of itself is a problem, it makes for good if somewhat slow skiing, but the inconsistency was killing me. There were lumps of powder dotting an otherwise icy slope, resulting in a patchy and inconsistent run wherever we tried to go. Skiing on powder and skiing on packed/ice are very different concepts, and switching between them multiple times per second is an exhausting task. Hail did start falling about halfway through, though, to my entertainment and amusement. Generally, though, I was too tired and beaten down to continue past about 1:00. Even Boa failed me, for many humps and hills appeared as a result of the inconsistent powder allotment. This demoralized me, and I went to the bottom and sat out. But I still had high spirits, for tubing would take place later that day.
Except, not. When we got there, we were informed that the snow was too much, and the tubing facility was closed. Well, shoot. We had dinner and went home. Next day, we went home. I chatted with a nice girl named Stephanie who I sat next to. I found her situation interesting, as even as we were returning to Florida after spending spring break in Utah, she was leaving her home in Utah to spend spring break in Florida. We talked, it was fun. The headphones the plane supplied were really terrible.
Back in Gainesville (as nothing extremely of note occurred on Saturday or Sunday, that I recall, we played Travis's D&D campaign which was fun), I spent all of yesterday trying to get interviews for my news story assignment about the Large Hadron Collider. Getting up at 5:00 a.m. was the first part of this, as I needed to call CERN in Switzerland and account for the time zone differences. I was answered by a very nice woman who was quite helpful, by giving me two phone numbers. One of them, however, was never answered...and the other one was a University of Florida professor. So much for getting up early. Deep sigh.
I did get three interviews, from the eminent Drs. Acosta, Avery, and Matchev. Each of them explained to me carefully how there was absolutely no chance of the world being swallowed by black holes or converted into strange matter by the LHC, on account of if that were going to happen as a result of the energetic collisions inside the LHC, the far more energetic collisions that constantly take place in the atmosphere from cosmic rays striking Earth would have done so billions of years ago. So no troubles.
I like my final story. Then I played Super Smash Bros: Brawl all night. Then I woke up, tried to find a house to live in unsuccessfully, unsuccessfully petitioned the housing office to find out why I hadn't gotten an RA letter of either confirmation or denial, went to class, had lunch, took a shower, and here I am. Good business. But still I am busy.
Oh, yes, nearly forgot: I got another date. I shall not nearly be so manic or whatever about this girl (a rather nice girl named Amanda in my Writing for Mass Communication class) or this date, as I have seen what my desperation has wrought. I am finally beginning to figure out how to speak to women in the sort of fashion that leads to asking them out, though. So, uh, good business all around. She has tattoos, which I would normally consider a major turn-off, but they're more unusual and interesting than trashy. For instance, on her ankle, she has a hot-air balloon. If nothing else, I at least want to know the story behind that.
Here's the first part on my essay on why Star Wars: Episode I really sucked. It's fun. I'll complete it soon.
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Anakin Skywalker: A kid, ten years old, with absolutely no training, manages to build both a working pod (and a pod that is, in fact, much faster than most of the other pods on the circuit, if you noticed) and a droid that knew six million forms of communication (check IV-VI for that), which is, at my count, 5,999,998 more than he did. With parts scavenged from a junk dealer (Watto), without the dealer noticing. In his spare time from being a slave. He knew mechanical engineering, electrical engineering, software engineering, artificial intelligence, never mind the robot brain of C-3PO that had to have been built at the molecular level for the information it held and its size...and we’re supposed to swallow all this because he’s the Chosen One? Does the Force give advanced technical knowledge, now? Sure, Jedi build their own lightsabers, but not working pod-racers or droids. When they were pre-adolescent.
Speaking of Anakin having lots of free time, did his mother do absolutely anything for Watto? If he owned her, you’d think he’d have her breaking her back fourteen hours a day in his shop. And why did he and his mother have their own multi-room dwelling instead of a grimy corner of the shop? Isn’t that a little much for slaves?
The Gungans are a race of idiots. If they breathe air, why do they have underwater cities? Do they breathe both air and water? If so, why are their cities entirely aerated? And why did Jar-Jar panic when the bongo he and the Jedi were in started leaking? Yes, he’s moronic even by Gungan standards, but that wasn’t a stupid mistake, that was raw terror. Why pick that big fat idiot, Boss Nass, to be their leader? One can understand his rampant xenophobia, because some people are just like that, but why did he turn around and make Jar-Jar a general? He picked not only the most incompetent of his race of idiots, but a former exile and one who would have been executed if Qui-Gon had not interceded on his behalf. And for what? The fatso said that Jar-Jar brought the Gungans and the Naboo together. No he didn’t, he led the Naboo to the Gungans. That’s hardly bringing two races together. Queen Amidala brought them together. Jar-Jar is a guide, not a diplomat. Not that he’s any good at anything that he does.
Oh, Queen Amidala. Where shall I begin. Why is a queen an elected position? And why did the Naboo, who are apparently as idiotic as the Gungans, elect a thirteen-year-old girl to be their supreme leader? Not that she did any leading to speak of. And I can understand why a person in that position might need a decoy, or a bodyguard, but everything in the movie and Eps. II and III indicated that the painted-white girl was always a decoy. The girl who was performing high-level negotiations with the Trade Federation? The girl who spoke in front of the entire Galactic Senate? A decoy. Isn’t that marvelous. Sure, Padme was right there nearby all those times, but still. And why did this decoy order Padme around so much? Making her clean R2-D2, sending her off on an unspecified errand (when Anakin came to see her before going off to the Jedi Council)...the decoy seemed pretty free about making Padme do the manual labor. And let’s not forget Padme trooping around on Tatooine, vulnerable to the first mugger or sneak thief that Qui-Gon was too busy dealing with Watto or someone to deter. She is thirteen, though. Her judgment isn’t the best.
Back to Watto, let’s get on a sort of prevailing theme of the movie. Blatant racial stereotypes. Watto was the typical haggling Jewish merchant. “Mind tricks don’t work on me – only money.” Did you notice his scruffy black beard and oversized nose? Hell’s bells, in Episode II he was wearing what was basically a yarmulke. And he’s far from the only one. The Trade Federation people, the Nemoidians, were “Chinamen” in the most offensive sense of the term. They might as well have offered to make Queen Amidala some hot and sour soup before they invaded. And then we have the Gungans, simple-minded Jamaican stereotypes to a man. Er, to a horse-lizard-fish thing. Come on, was George Lucas actually trying to get angry letters about this movie?
The battle droids. What’s with them? Aside from the fact that they’re “easier to kill than carpenter ants,” according to Mike Nelson’s (the MST3k guy, if you haven’t seen MST3k, you’ve lived a barren life) riff on the movie, they didn’t seem to even follow their own internal consistencies. Either they were all directly hardwired to the main battle-computer on the ship – as was evidenced by the fact that when the control ship was destroyed, they lost power – or they were on independent circuits – as was seemingly evidenced by the fact that they were picked off by the dozens by the Jedi without thousands of reinforcements pouring in after them. But what am I saying? Asking for consistency from Lucas? That’s crazy talk. I’m crazy for even thinking it.
The Jedi are dumber than the Gungans. I could write a whole essay just on the idiocies of the Jedi in Eps. I-III, but let’s focus on The Phantom Menace. Their rejection of Anakin, for one thing. His midichlorian (side note: aaaaaargh) count is higher than any Jedi in history, and he was Force-sensitive and extrasensory before he knew what the Force was. So of course they’ll reject him off-hand for being too old. If you’re the Jedi Council, and you see a youngster out there who’s already unbelievably powerful for his age and training (that is: none), and who clearly has the potential to be one of the most accomplished Force-wielders ever, you either train the living daylights out of him or you kill him to stop him from going to the Dark Side. You don’t cast him aside and let him freewheel around the galaxy, especially since you just received evidence that the Sith are back. Think they’ll reject someone like him for being a few years too old? Think he’ll turn down their offer, bitter as he is about being rejected by the Jedi?
Oh, let’s not forget “Fear is the path towards the Dark Side!” Since when is fear a terrible emotion to be eradicated? Fear is a natural and healthy part of any human, or humanoid, or whatever. Do the Jedi really expect there to be no fear among their candidates? What does that do to a “fight-or-flight” situation? It turns it into a “fight, or, uh, fight some more” situation. Part of courage, which I’m pretty sure is mentioned as being one of the essential ideals of a Jedi, is having fear and overcoming it.
Why, why, why did Obi-Wan not stop back by Tatooine after the events of Ep. I and not pick up Anakin’s mother?!? If fear truly is the path towards the Dark Side, how about eliminating that particular wellspring of fear, not to mention winning Anakin’s undying loyalty that no amount of Palpatine whispering in his ear will ever overcome. They could have resolved the entire difficulty by a one-week jaunt to Tatooine. It would have been a trivial matter to change Republic credits for whatever currency exists on Tatooine, or simply buy some commodity that Watto will accept. The only difficulty that exists here is that by doing this, the plots of Eps. IV-VI would have been erased, and any amount of plot-induced stupidity is worth preserving those cinematic gems.
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I'll post the rest later.
Today's Luke-Approved YouTube Link of the Day is something I am going to have to search for right now. I don't know what I'll pull up, but...hmm, wait a minute. I think I have something. Instead of youtube, today will be collegehumor. Four links, making fun of the street magician David Blaine.
http://www.collegehumor.com/video:1722057
http://www.collegehumor.com/video:1753653
http://www.collegehumor.com/video:1795488
http://www.collegehumor.com/video:1804052
The first two are great. The third is okay, I haven't seen the fourth. There's some bad language, but above all it's just hilarious.
REPLIES.
Jake: I have hidden depths, as you well know. And, er, I don't think I actually took any pictures of your Alucard costume. Uh...sorry. I'll tell Vic, though.
Steve: Believe me, I have always kind of hoped, but the odds against it are insane. Since I don't even remember her name or what she looked like, I could know her right now and see her every day, and never know that it was her. And yes, we met on Saturday.
Mom: I sent the story to Linda. She loved it. As for your Megacon interview, it was your interjection that Dad "especially" enjoyed seeing the teenage girls in costume that had him slightly miffed.
Dad: Anything I could write here, we already discussed. So, uh, yeah.
Vic: I contend still that the difference between this story and The Things They Carried is that I don't try and present the story as fact, and I especially don't try to fill the reader's head with some nonsense about "story-truth" or "happening-truth." That author makes it sound as though he honestly believed his stories were true. I know most of what I wrote isn't true, but I just like the way it sounds.
Ciao.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Short Story: The Girl From My Past
It is 11:27 p.m., local time. We have skied all day, it was great, I'll post about it later. My father stirred from his slumber long enough to gruffly remind me that I need to sleep. I told him that it would just be a few minutes, which it will be.
Another story idea has come into my head. This is the second time in two weeks that a story has occurred to me, fully formed, while I should be getting sleep. I like this trend, but it doesn't exactly promote restfulness on my part. So I'll get this done soon. Not to say I'll skimp on the writing...but it won't be very long, is all.
This is a style of writing that I've never tried to do before. I'm writing a fictional account of a true story from my own past. Here's the backstory...
I think this would be ten years ago. Possibly eleven. Myself, my sister, and my parents' good friends Fred and Linda Marsh and their son David went to Vermont, to a little resort called Smuggler's Notch. (Those of you who read my story about Fred know about my half-baked recollections of the place.) It had water slides, pools, a forest to tromp around in, and I got to socialize with a bunch of people who were my age, or thereabouts. So I thought it was grand fun.
While I was there, in the group I was in was this girl. For the life of me, I cannot remember her name. I can't remember almost anything about the whole encounter. Let's call her...Sarah, that's a nice name. I remember a few key details. Fragments of conversation. Activities. Feelings. I remember the feelings quite well. What I remember most, above all else, was...I think she was the first girl I ever loved.
It sounds ridiculous, even as I write it. I was eight or nine years old. We knew each other only for a handful of days. And yet...the memory stirs in me feelings that are unmistakable, now, that I look at them through the lens of time and experience. There can be no doubt. I loved her, even if I didn't know it at the time.
The following is a dramatization of the events that occurred. I don't remember nearly anything. This is how it happened, or how it should have happened. This is how I think it happened. This is what I felt.
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I was bored. Bored, bored, bored. Fred and Linda took me and Michelle and David up to this place, what was it called, Robber's Creek or something. Smuggler's Notch, that was it. It had water slides, and it was pretty fun, but we were promised that we could go to see Niagara Falls, and we didn't get to make it. I was bitter about that.
I never dealt well with lots of structure during my leisure time. I always liked to be able to spend my time with as much flexibility as possible. It's why I never took to summer camp or things like that, I wanted time to laze around and play my own games and just generally do my own thing. But part of the nature of this place was that I would shack up with a group and do activities with them, and it promised to be at least kind of interesting, so I went. Our first activity was going for a swim in the nearby pool.
I was idly kicking rocks, waiting for the rest of the people to show up, when I saw her. She was sitting by the side of the trail, looking as bored as I felt. I ambled over and sat down next to her. She looked up from whatever reverie she was in, and smiled politely.
"Hi," I said. "I'm Lucas."
"I'm Sarah," she said. "Nice to meet you."
"Where are you from?" I asked.
We talked, a bit. She told me that she was staying up here with her parents, that she was from New Hampshire, that it was her third time there. She knew all the fun things to do, on account of she had done mostly everything before.
"Don't go for the bird-watching," she warned. "It's just sitting around being bored, passing around a pair of binoculars. Even when you see a bird, it's like, big whoop, it's a bird."
"Thanks for telling me," I said.
She smiled again. "Are you good at swimming?"
"I know how to swim," I said, a little defensively.
"Yeah, but how good are you?" She cocked her head to the side and smirked a little. "I'm a really good swimmer. I can do a lap in my pool back home faster than any of my friends."
"Cool," I said.
"I'll show you when we get in the water," she said.
The rest of the kids had trickled in by then. The counselors were calling everyone over to get in the pool, the shallow end first. Some of the more enthusiastic kids had already jumped in and were scudding around near the medium part. Whistles were being blown.
Sarah stood up. "Let's go, they're going," she said. I stood up as well. She turned and started walking towards the pool.
"Oh, uh..." I said. She stopped and turned back, a questioning look. "What, uh, what was your name again?" I said lamely.
She giggled a little. "Sarah," she said. "You're Lucas, right?"
"Yeah," I said. She turned back and ran for the pool. I jogged over as well. She dived in - she wasn't kidding, she was outpacing the rest of the kids dramatically.
I jumped in and tried to catch up, but she was pulling away way too fast. I didn't have a chance.
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"Hi again," I said, putting my lunch tray on the table next to hers. She looked up, blankly at first, but recognition dawned on her face.
"Oh, hi, Lucas," she said. I swung my legs over the rough wooden bench and sat down.
She smiled again, but there was a spark of challenge in her eye. "Do you remember my name?" she said, a little mockingly.
"Yeah!" I said, slightly too loudly. "You're Sarah."
Her smile remained, but her expression softened. "Yeah, that's it," she said. "What did you get?"
"The hamburger," I said. I pulled it open, and made a face. "Eew, there's stuff on it."
"What?" she said.
"It's got, like, lettuce and ketchup and stuff," I said, pushing my tray away. "I hate that stuff."
"You don't like any of it?" she asked.
"No." I snatched my roll off the tray and gobbled it down. "My mom says I'm a picky eater."
Sarah looked at my tray. "I guess," she said. She glanced at her own. "You want my hot dog, instead?" she asked. "There's nothing on it. I was gonna put ketchup on it, but there's nothing on it now."
"Really?" I said, hopefully. My stomach was grumbling at the prospect of only a roll and a carton of milk to last the day.
"Yeah," she said. "We'll trade." She switched our trays and put the top bun back on the hamburger. She took a bite. "It's okay," she said.
"Thanks," I said gratefully. I picked up my hot dog, and was about to start eating, when I noticed: she hadn't eaten her roll yet. "You, uh, want this back?" I said, holding up the roll.
She looked over. "No, it's okay," she said. "I didn't really want it anyway."
"Thanks," I said. I took a bite and chewed thoughtfully.
"So what are you doing after lunch?" Sarah said.
*
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"All right," the counselor said. "For this activity, everyone will divide up into teams of two. Then you'll come up with as many names of animals as you can in thirty seconds, and write them down on these pieces of paper." Sheets of notebook paper were handed out to each of us, and stubby golf pencils were parceled out almost as an afterthought.
"The first team will be Shelby and Jake," the counselor said. "The second team-"
"Wait!" I cried. The counselor stopped and looked at me. "Can I be on Sarah's team?" I asked. "I just wanted to, y'know...be on her team..." I mumbled, trailing off.
The counselor looked puzzled for a second, then grinned. "Sure, why not," he said. "The second team is Sarah and, uh..."
"Lucas," I said.
"Sarah and Lucas," he finished. "The third team..."
I had already tuned him out. I skipped towards Sarah, who was looking surprised but pleased at this turn of events.
"You asked to be on my team?" she said questioningly.
"Yeah," I said. "You're my friend, and, uh, I wanted to do this with you."
"Great!" she beamed. "How many animals do you know?"
I was about to answer when the counselor's voice boomed out. "All right, teams are set, now...go!"
I immediately started rattling off animals. "Elephant, rhino, cat, dog, mouse, uh...aardvark...how do you spell aardvark?" My dull pencil scrawled along at double-time, marking down the names I had chosen.
"I don't know," Sarah said. "Uh...eagle, fish, cow, pig, unicorn..."
I snorted. "A unicorn isn't an animal!" I said.
"It is too an animal," she said defensively.
"Not a real animal," I said.
"Fine," she said with an irritated huff, crossing out unicorn on her list. "Zebras," she said after a moment's thought, jotting it down as well.
"And lions," I added. "Lions eat zebras."
We traded animal names, scribbling them down on our paper, until the counselor's voice rang out again, informing us that time was up and we should name our papers and hand them in. Sarah gave me hers to give to the counselor. As she passed me her paper, her hand brushed against mine. I had to turn away quickly so she wouldn't see my smile, or my blush.
*
*
This one is true. As true as I can remember.
We were told to walk through some woods, and at the end of the woods, there would be a large pool with water slides and all that sort of thing. The problem was, the counselor "lost" the map, and we had to find our own way through the various paths in the woods. They really all led to the end, but it was just a question of how long it would take.
Our group apparently chose the longest route possible. I was fine for the beginning part, but it was a hot day and I was beginning to get tired and overheated. And when I got overheated, I got cranky.
"This stinks," I said. I slouched forward a few steps.
"Yeah, kinda," Sarah said, trudging beside me.
"I'm getting really angry!" I yelled. "I want to go in the pool!"
"Calm down," Sarah said quickly. "Calm down. Don't yell."
"I can't hold it back," I said. "I'm gonna blow."
"Just stay cool," she said. "I'm hot too, y'know. Just stay cool."
We walked on for a bit more. I complained some, just to keep in the mood.
"I'm getting angrier," I said. "This is gonna be it."
"Calm down," she said. "Keep it cool."
"I can't contain myself," I said. "Rage...increasing..."
"No more rage," she said, trying to sound authoritative, but giggling a little as well.
"I'm getting angrier!" I said again, louder, but I started laughing too.
"My feet hurt," she said, but she was laughing too hard to be taken seriously.
We walked along, playing our little game, pausing to laugh like the dickens, starting up again when the tail end of our group hurried us along. We eventually made it to the pool. It was very refreshing.
"No more rage," I said.
"Good," she said.
*
*
"I like you," I said to her, while we were standing in line for dessert.
"What?" she said, turning slightly.
"I like you," I repeated. "You're neat."
"Thanks," she said. She blushed a little. "Most boys don't like girls like me," she said. "They only like other boys."
"Those boys are dumb," I said. "You're really cool."
"You think so?" Sarah asked.
"Yeah," I said. "I like you."
She blushed more, and turned away so I wouldn't see. But I did.
*
*
"Here," I said, thrusting a foil-wrapped Hershey's bar at her.
"What's this?" Sarah asked. She looked at it, but made no move to take it.
"It's chocolate," I said. "I'm giving it to you."
"Oh, uh, thanks," she said, reaching out and taking it from my hand. She frowned slightly, the back was partially torn open. "Why's it open?"
I cast my eyes downward. "Oh. Uh...I was gonna eat it myself, but, uh, I thought maybe you would want it instead."
She smiled. "Thanks."
"I thought of you," I mumbled, looking at the ground.
She smiled.
*
*
"It's my last day here," she said to me. We were standing outside the building I was staying in.
"I have two more days," I said.
"Well, uh, bye," she said quietly. "It was fun, talking to you and stuff."
"Yeah," I said. "I'm glad we met. You're cool. I like you."
I did not say "I love you." I did not embrace her and meet her lips to mine in a passionate kiss. I did not fall to my knees and proclaim my feelings for her. I did not even ask her her last name, or her phone number, or anything. I did not tell her that I had fallen in love with her.
Because I was eight years old, and I didn't know what love was yet.
She took my hand briefly. "Well...bye, Lucas," she said.
"Bye," I said. She walked away.
I watched her go.
*
*
*
*
*
The story is mostly a fabrication. But the feelings were real. I know it. My poor memory notwithstanding, nothing can take that from me.
Anyway, on a lighter note, the Luke-Approved YouTube Link of the Day is http://youtube.com/watch?v=T6Ozfh9ou5k It's called "Gym Class." It starts off boring, but, well, just watch. It gets exciting fairly quickly.
REPLIES.
Anonymous: Which one are you? Daniel? One of the people up at Gainesville? Either way, grats on the first comment, I guess. Next time, sign your name.
Steve: I know, I know, but a man can dream, can't he? I just wish Geno or Mega Man had been in, either of them could have been adapted for Brawl in a flash. If you're still in town next Saturday and Sunday, I'll be back in town Friday night. Yes, Brawl does rule.
Mrs. PH: Well, this is astonishing. If you read this, mind telling me how you found my blog? Were you reading it beforehand and pleasantly surprised to see yourself mentioned? Or did you just search "megacon pyramid head" or similar and my blog popped up? What inspired your costume? And yes, Megacon was great this year.
Dad: Replying to this is somewhat pointless, since you're pretty much the only person I'm talking to for the next few days, but whatever. I'll have to watch this Max Headroom. Did you see the trailer for Get Smart? I'd like to see the eye-flashing pseudodragon familiar thing.
Jake: Yes, and yes. It wasn't you? I thought it was...might have been Nolan. Or maybe Matt disguised as Nolan. You remember that whole exchange. Yes, I remember your "save for half" line, and as you recall I gave you credit for it on a couple of occasions. Btw, Pocky rules. ;-)
Vic: You were understandably pissed, though I am glad that it didn't turn out to be my fault. Besides, the cut-price tattoo was funny. I can almost certainly get a ride to you on Sunday evening. What time?
Mom: Harley Quinn was a good costume, but I didn't see the Tusken Raider. I assume that any golden sword would be a magic golden sword, enchanted not to bend like Play-Doh on the first strike, or something. Dad told me about the interview, and about your contribution, which he was less than pleased with.
Until next time.
Another story idea has come into my head. This is the second time in two weeks that a story has occurred to me, fully formed, while I should be getting sleep. I like this trend, but it doesn't exactly promote restfulness on my part. So I'll get this done soon. Not to say I'll skimp on the writing...but it won't be very long, is all.
This is a style of writing that I've never tried to do before. I'm writing a fictional account of a true story from my own past. Here's the backstory...
I think this would be ten years ago. Possibly eleven. Myself, my sister, and my parents' good friends Fred and Linda Marsh and their son David went to Vermont, to a little resort called Smuggler's Notch. (Those of you who read my story about Fred know about my half-baked recollections of the place.) It had water slides, pools, a forest to tromp around in, and I got to socialize with a bunch of people who were my age, or thereabouts. So I thought it was grand fun.
While I was there, in the group I was in was this girl. For the life of me, I cannot remember her name. I can't remember almost anything about the whole encounter. Let's call her...Sarah, that's a nice name. I remember a few key details. Fragments of conversation. Activities. Feelings. I remember the feelings quite well. What I remember most, above all else, was...I think she was the first girl I ever loved.
It sounds ridiculous, even as I write it. I was eight or nine years old. We knew each other only for a handful of days. And yet...the memory stirs in me feelings that are unmistakable, now, that I look at them through the lens of time and experience. There can be no doubt. I loved her, even if I didn't know it at the time.
The following is a dramatization of the events that occurred. I don't remember nearly anything. This is how it happened, or how it should have happened. This is how I think it happened. This is what I felt.
*
*
*
*
*
I was bored. Bored, bored, bored. Fred and Linda took me and Michelle and David up to this place, what was it called, Robber's Creek or something. Smuggler's Notch, that was it. It had water slides, and it was pretty fun, but we were promised that we could go to see Niagara Falls, and we didn't get to make it. I was bitter about that.
I never dealt well with lots of structure during my leisure time. I always liked to be able to spend my time with as much flexibility as possible. It's why I never took to summer camp or things like that, I wanted time to laze around and play my own games and just generally do my own thing. But part of the nature of this place was that I would shack up with a group and do activities with them, and it promised to be at least kind of interesting, so I went. Our first activity was going for a swim in the nearby pool.
I was idly kicking rocks, waiting for the rest of the people to show up, when I saw her. She was sitting by the side of the trail, looking as bored as I felt. I ambled over and sat down next to her. She looked up from whatever reverie she was in, and smiled politely.
"Hi," I said. "I'm Lucas."
"I'm Sarah," she said. "Nice to meet you."
"Where are you from?" I asked.
We talked, a bit. She told me that she was staying up here with her parents, that she was from New Hampshire, that it was her third time there. She knew all the fun things to do, on account of she had done mostly everything before.
"Don't go for the bird-watching," she warned. "It's just sitting around being bored, passing around a pair of binoculars. Even when you see a bird, it's like, big whoop, it's a bird."
"Thanks for telling me," I said.
She smiled again. "Are you good at swimming?"
"I know how to swim," I said, a little defensively.
"Yeah, but how good are you?" She cocked her head to the side and smirked a little. "I'm a really good swimmer. I can do a lap in my pool back home faster than any of my friends."
"Cool," I said.
"I'll show you when we get in the water," she said.
The rest of the kids had trickled in by then. The counselors were calling everyone over to get in the pool, the shallow end first. Some of the more enthusiastic kids had already jumped in and were scudding around near the medium part. Whistles were being blown.
Sarah stood up. "Let's go, they're going," she said. I stood up as well. She turned and started walking towards the pool.
"Oh, uh..." I said. She stopped and turned back, a questioning look. "What, uh, what was your name again?" I said lamely.
She giggled a little. "Sarah," she said. "You're Lucas, right?"
"Yeah," I said. She turned back and ran for the pool. I jogged over as well. She dived in - she wasn't kidding, she was outpacing the rest of the kids dramatically.
I jumped in and tried to catch up, but she was pulling away way too fast. I didn't have a chance.
*
*
"Hi again," I said, putting my lunch tray on the table next to hers. She looked up, blankly at first, but recognition dawned on her face.
"Oh, hi, Lucas," she said. I swung my legs over the rough wooden bench and sat down.
She smiled again, but there was a spark of challenge in her eye. "Do you remember my name?" she said, a little mockingly.
"Yeah!" I said, slightly too loudly. "You're Sarah."
Her smile remained, but her expression softened. "Yeah, that's it," she said. "What did you get?"
"The hamburger," I said. I pulled it open, and made a face. "Eew, there's stuff on it."
"What?" she said.
"It's got, like, lettuce and ketchup and stuff," I said, pushing my tray away. "I hate that stuff."
"You don't like any of it?" she asked.
"No." I snatched my roll off the tray and gobbled it down. "My mom says I'm a picky eater."
Sarah looked at my tray. "I guess," she said. She glanced at her own. "You want my hot dog, instead?" she asked. "There's nothing on it. I was gonna put ketchup on it, but there's nothing on it now."
"Really?" I said, hopefully. My stomach was grumbling at the prospect of only a roll and a carton of milk to last the day.
"Yeah," she said. "We'll trade." She switched our trays and put the top bun back on the hamburger. She took a bite. "It's okay," she said.
"Thanks," I said gratefully. I picked up my hot dog, and was about to start eating, when I noticed: she hadn't eaten her roll yet. "You, uh, want this back?" I said, holding up the roll.
She looked over. "No, it's okay," she said. "I didn't really want it anyway."
"Thanks," I said. I took a bite and chewed thoughtfully.
"So what are you doing after lunch?" Sarah said.
*
*
"All right," the counselor said. "For this activity, everyone will divide up into teams of two. Then you'll come up with as many names of animals as you can in thirty seconds, and write them down on these pieces of paper." Sheets of notebook paper were handed out to each of us, and stubby golf pencils were parceled out almost as an afterthought.
"The first team will be Shelby and Jake," the counselor said. "The second team-"
"Wait!" I cried. The counselor stopped and looked at me. "Can I be on Sarah's team?" I asked. "I just wanted to, y'know...be on her team..." I mumbled, trailing off.
The counselor looked puzzled for a second, then grinned. "Sure, why not," he said. "The second team is Sarah and, uh..."
"Lucas," I said.
"Sarah and Lucas," he finished. "The third team..."
I had already tuned him out. I skipped towards Sarah, who was looking surprised but pleased at this turn of events.
"You asked to be on my team?" she said questioningly.
"Yeah," I said. "You're my friend, and, uh, I wanted to do this with you."
"Great!" she beamed. "How many animals do you know?"
I was about to answer when the counselor's voice boomed out. "All right, teams are set, now...go!"
I immediately started rattling off animals. "Elephant, rhino, cat, dog, mouse, uh...aardvark...how do you spell aardvark?" My dull pencil scrawled along at double-time, marking down the names I had chosen.
"I don't know," Sarah said. "Uh...eagle, fish, cow, pig, unicorn..."
I snorted. "A unicorn isn't an animal!" I said.
"It is too an animal," she said defensively.
"Not a real animal," I said.
"Fine," she said with an irritated huff, crossing out unicorn on her list. "Zebras," she said after a moment's thought, jotting it down as well.
"And lions," I added. "Lions eat zebras."
We traded animal names, scribbling them down on our paper, until the counselor's voice rang out again, informing us that time was up and we should name our papers and hand them in. Sarah gave me hers to give to the counselor. As she passed me her paper, her hand brushed against mine. I had to turn away quickly so she wouldn't see my smile, or my blush.
*
*
This one is true. As true as I can remember.
We were told to walk through some woods, and at the end of the woods, there would be a large pool with water slides and all that sort of thing. The problem was, the counselor "lost" the map, and we had to find our own way through the various paths in the woods. They really all led to the end, but it was just a question of how long it would take.
Our group apparently chose the longest route possible. I was fine for the beginning part, but it was a hot day and I was beginning to get tired and overheated. And when I got overheated, I got cranky.
"This stinks," I said. I slouched forward a few steps.
"Yeah, kinda," Sarah said, trudging beside me.
"I'm getting really angry!" I yelled. "I want to go in the pool!"
"Calm down," Sarah said quickly. "Calm down. Don't yell."
"I can't hold it back," I said. "I'm gonna blow."
"Just stay cool," she said. "I'm hot too, y'know. Just stay cool."
We walked on for a bit more. I complained some, just to keep in the mood.
"I'm getting angrier," I said. "This is gonna be it."
"Calm down," she said. "Keep it cool."
"I can't contain myself," I said. "Rage...increasing..."
"No more rage," she said, trying to sound authoritative, but giggling a little as well.
"I'm getting angrier!" I said again, louder, but I started laughing too.
"My feet hurt," she said, but she was laughing too hard to be taken seriously.
We walked along, playing our little game, pausing to laugh like the dickens, starting up again when the tail end of our group hurried us along. We eventually made it to the pool. It was very refreshing.
"No more rage," I said.
"Good," she said.
*
*
"I like you," I said to her, while we were standing in line for dessert.
"What?" she said, turning slightly.
"I like you," I repeated. "You're neat."
"Thanks," she said. She blushed a little. "Most boys don't like girls like me," she said. "They only like other boys."
"Those boys are dumb," I said. "You're really cool."
"You think so?" Sarah asked.
"Yeah," I said. "I like you."
She blushed more, and turned away so I wouldn't see. But I did.
*
*
"Here," I said, thrusting a foil-wrapped Hershey's bar at her.
"What's this?" Sarah asked. She looked at it, but made no move to take it.
"It's chocolate," I said. "I'm giving it to you."
"Oh, uh, thanks," she said, reaching out and taking it from my hand. She frowned slightly, the back was partially torn open. "Why's it open?"
I cast my eyes downward. "Oh. Uh...I was gonna eat it myself, but, uh, I thought maybe you would want it instead."
She smiled. "Thanks."
"I thought of you," I mumbled, looking at the ground.
She smiled.
*
*
"It's my last day here," she said to me. We were standing outside the building I was staying in.
"I have two more days," I said.
"Well, uh, bye," she said quietly. "It was fun, talking to you and stuff."
"Yeah," I said. "I'm glad we met. You're cool. I like you."
I did not say "I love you." I did not embrace her and meet her lips to mine in a passionate kiss. I did not fall to my knees and proclaim my feelings for her. I did not even ask her her last name, or her phone number, or anything. I did not tell her that I had fallen in love with her.
Because I was eight years old, and I didn't know what love was yet.
She took my hand briefly. "Well...bye, Lucas," she said.
"Bye," I said. She walked away.
I watched her go.
*
*
*
*
*
The story is mostly a fabrication. But the feelings were real. I know it. My poor memory notwithstanding, nothing can take that from me.
Anyway, on a lighter note, the Luke-Approved YouTube Link of the Day is http://youtube.com/watch?v=T6Ozfh9ou5k It's called "Gym Class." It starts off boring, but, well, just watch. It gets exciting fairly quickly.
REPLIES.
Anonymous: Which one are you? Daniel? One of the people up at Gainesville? Either way, grats on the first comment, I guess. Next time, sign your name.
Steve: I know, I know, but a man can dream, can't he? I just wish Geno or Mega Man had been in, either of them could have been adapted for Brawl in a flash. If you're still in town next Saturday and Sunday, I'll be back in town Friday night. Yes, Brawl does rule.
Mrs. PH: Well, this is astonishing. If you read this, mind telling me how you found my blog? Were you reading it beforehand and pleasantly surprised to see yourself mentioned? Or did you just search "megacon pyramid head" or similar and my blog popped up? What inspired your costume? And yes, Megacon was great this year.
Dad: Replying to this is somewhat pointless, since you're pretty much the only person I'm talking to for the next few days, but whatever. I'll have to watch this Max Headroom. Did you see the trailer for Get Smart? I'd like to see the eye-flashing pseudodragon familiar thing.
Jake: Yes, and yes. It wasn't you? I thought it was...might have been Nolan. Or maybe Matt disguised as Nolan. You remember that whole exchange. Yes, I remember your "save for half" line, and as you recall I gave you credit for it on a couple of occasions. Btw, Pocky rules. ;-)
Vic: You were understandably pissed, though I am glad that it didn't turn out to be my fault. Besides, the cut-price tattoo was funny. I can almost certainly get a ride to you on Sunday evening. What time?
Mom: Harley Quinn was a good costume, but I didn't see the Tusken Raider. I assume that any golden sword would be a magic golden sword, enchanted not to bend like Play-Doh on the first strike, or something. Dad told me about the interview, and about your contribution, which he was less than pleased with.
Until next time.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Megacon: The Verdict? Awesome!
Very, very awesome. I mean, totally. I can't even describe how awesome this event was. The highlights:
Everything.
Well, let me encapsulate. I ran into a lot of interesting people and took a lot of interesting photos, those including:
- Ninja Babes from Space
- The Gears of War crew, in full regalia
- The King (the Burger King)
- A Predator
- Peach and Zelda from Super Smash Bros. Brawl
- Spider-Man
- LEGO Darth Vader
- Ghostbusters
- General Grievous
- The entire Team Fortress 2 crew, minus the Heavy
- Pyramid Head and, well, Mrs. Pyramid Head
- People from 4chan protesting Scientology
- Ghost Rider
- An enormous Kirby
- Ashley J. Williams
- Kakashi holding a "Naruto Sucks!" sign
- Two separate Luigis, one holding Yoshi, one holding an invincibility Star
- Tifa Lockhart
- A girl with a sword that was way bigger than she was
- Master Chief in a fetching blue MJOLNIR suit
- Transformers
And lots more. Those are just the highlights.
I spent a lot of money, but I expected to, so it was okay. I still have a good bit left to get me through to the end of the semester and the beginning of summer, assuming I avoid any more $100 trips to the mall for stuff I don't need.
I got to paint a figurine. He was a dragon knight, I decided, since he was in totally insane full-plate with a kickin' cape. Black armor with silver trim, faded purple cape, gold helmet with red plume. I decided that he would have a golden sword with which to slay the golden dragon. This spurred a debate with Travis over the fact that gold dragons are good-aligned in D&D and whether or not a golden sword would harm a gold dragon. I short-circuited the discussion by stating that he had a golden freaking sword with which to slay the goshdarn golden dragon and that was all there was to it. Sometimes an author of fantasy must put his foot down.
I bought, oh, what did I buy? Many things. I got a picture of what should have been the 36th character in Brawl, Fawful, of Mario and Luigi: Superstar Saga. He has fury. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ukxfzIoB7AA is a good example, but not my Luke-Approved YouTube Link of the Day, that'll come later. Look at the way he talks, and you'll see why I like him. I also got a short portrait drawn to my specifications of a couple of characters from Fullmetal Alchemist.
An big bag of dice was another thing I bought. They were selling dice from an enormous bin, where you could scoop out a random mug of dice for $9 or a hand-picked mug for $13. I went for hand-picked - how could I not? Picking the dice was the most fun part. I got, what, 8 d4s (I was searching for 4-sided dice, muttering "d4s, d4s" to myself. Jake leans over my shoulder and says "May d4s be with you, Luke." It was all I could do not to hit him in the face.), 20 d6s, 10 d8s, 13 d10s, 4 d12s, and 12 d20s. I will never again have to pillage my various board games and beg dice off people for enough dice to create characters.
I also got a 24-sided die that looks just like a big 20-sided die ("And I roll, what's that, a natural 22. That's a critical hit if ever I saw one."), and several special d10s. I got many that count off in ones and three that count off in tens, but I got one for hundreds, thousands, ten thousands, and hundred thousands. If I ever need to roll damage for a nuclear bomb, I am now ready to do this very thing.
I have been looking for a particular Magic card, Murmuring Bosk, for some time now. It's very expensive, but I need four of them, so I reluctantly bought one for $17. I did not want to buy four at that price. I bought several packs of Morningtide from this one group that was selling them for $3, which is a good value. Also I ventured many dollars on dice rolls. There were four d6s that you would roll at once. If you got a 4 or a 24, you won a free box of Morningtide packs, which I very much wanted. I didn't win any, to my annoyance, but I got several grab bags for my trouble. If you didn't win a box, you got a grab bag of random cards. Good stuff there.
The funny part, at least to me, is this. At the end of Saturday, I ventured $5 on five rolls of the dice. My last roll was 1, 1, 1, 6. If that stupid 6 had landed on its opposite side, I would have won a free box. But instead they gave me a pack of Morningtide, which I opened to reveal: a Murmuring Bosk. So that's two, I only need two more.
My costume was great. At least, great on average. I was Scar from Fullmetal Alchemist. My clothes weren't too difficult, just a long yellow shirt (should have been a jacket, but I couldn't find one), white undershirt, and black pants with white stripes (Victoria sewed the stripes on). And black boots. I begin to understand why people like boots. I had my hair bleached, and my highly skilled friend Lauren drew an incredibly complex and awesome tattoo on my right arm that my character uses to destroy anything he touches. It was very, very awesome and lasted all Friday...but it came off. I got caught in the rain when Vic's car broke down, and the ink ran right off. So I scrubbed off what remained and had Matt replace it with "COMPLEX TATTOO GOES HERE" in blue. I got less pictures taken, but more people thought it was funny. And yes, I did get pictures before and after.
That's about it. I'll post updates of my ski trip over the next week or so. The Luke-Approved YouTube Link of the Day is http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e-yldqNkGfo It's called "Food Fight." It's a history of American-centric wars over the last half-century or so, using food to demonstrate. There's a link explaining what foods represent what countries, but see if you can puzzle it out on your own. It's fairly self-explanatory, but some messed me up.
REPLIES.
Karen: Too bad to see you won't be posting for a while...does that mean you won't be reading the blog? Does that mean you won't see this response? I hope not. I'm working on the blog when I can, and I'll keep updates semi-regular. Trust me. I wouldn't miss out for long.
Jake: Well, yes, that would have just been foolish and against all the genre conventions. I'm going to write another story with that character, probably by the end of this week, maybe not. My costume came along great.
Mom: It all pretty much came out at once. I went a-wandering, as I am wont to do during the evenings, and came up with that plot and that story all in one rush. As for why nobody could remember, the protagonist ensured it, which I forgot to put in and edited in later.
Steve: I stretched a bit far, but I think it went well overall. You and your fruit rush. I ate most of the fruit I got, giving some to others. Pumpkin-flavored flax. I swear. And I know Brawl is amazing, I played it on Saturday at Megacon.
Bye.
Everything.
Well, let me encapsulate. I ran into a lot of interesting people and took a lot of interesting photos, those including:
- Ninja Babes from Space
- The Gears of War crew, in full regalia
- The King (the Burger King)
- A Predator
- Peach and Zelda from Super Smash Bros. Brawl
- Spider-Man
- LEGO Darth Vader
- Ghostbusters
- General Grievous
- The entire Team Fortress 2 crew, minus the Heavy
- Pyramid Head and, well, Mrs. Pyramid Head
- People from 4chan protesting Scientology
- Ghost Rider
- An enormous Kirby
- Ashley J. Williams
- Kakashi holding a "Naruto Sucks!" sign
- Two separate Luigis, one holding Yoshi, one holding an invincibility Star
- Tifa Lockhart
- A girl with a sword that was way bigger than she was
- Master Chief in a fetching blue MJOLNIR suit
- Transformers
And lots more. Those are just the highlights.
I spent a lot of money, but I expected to, so it was okay. I still have a good bit left to get me through to the end of the semester and the beginning of summer, assuming I avoid any more $100 trips to the mall for stuff I don't need.
I got to paint a figurine. He was a dragon knight, I decided, since he was in totally insane full-plate with a kickin' cape. Black armor with silver trim, faded purple cape, gold helmet with red plume. I decided that he would have a golden sword with which to slay the golden dragon. This spurred a debate with Travis over the fact that gold dragons are good-aligned in D&D and whether or not a golden sword would harm a gold dragon. I short-circuited the discussion by stating that he had a golden freaking sword with which to slay the goshdarn golden dragon and that was all there was to it. Sometimes an author of fantasy must put his foot down.
I bought, oh, what did I buy? Many things. I got a picture of what should have been the 36th character in Brawl, Fawful, of Mario and Luigi: Superstar Saga. He has fury. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ukxfzIoB7AA is a good example, but not my Luke-Approved YouTube Link of the Day, that'll come later. Look at the way he talks, and you'll see why I like him. I also got a short portrait drawn to my specifications of a couple of characters from Fullmetal Alchemist.
An big bag of dice was another thing I bought. They were selling dice from an enormous bin, where you could scoop out a random mug of dice for $9 or a hand-picked mug for $13. I went for hand-picked - how could I not? Picking the dice was the most fun part. I got, what, 8 d4s (I was searching for 4-sided dice, muttering "d4s, d4s" to myself. Jake leans over my shoulder and says "May d4s be with you, Luke." It was all I could do not to hit him in the face.), 20 d6s, 10 d8s, 13 d10s, 4 d12s, and 12 d20s. I will never again have to pillage my various board games and beg dice off people for enough dice to create characters.
I also got a 24-sided die that looks just like a big 20-sided die ("And I roll, what's that, a natural 22. That's a critical hit if ever I saw one."), and several special d10s. I got many that count off in ones and three that count off in tens, but I got one for hundreds, thousands, ten thousands, and hundred thousands. If I ever need to roll damage for a nuclear bomb, I am now ready to do this very thing.
I have been looking for a particular Magic card, Murmuring Bosk, for some time now. It's very expensive, but I need four of them, so I reluctantly bought one for $17. I did not want to buy four at that price. I bought several packs of Morningtide from this one group that was selling them for $3, which is a good value. Also I ventured many dollars on dice rolls. There were four d6s that you would roll at once. If you got a 4 or a 24, you won a free box of Morningtide packs, which I very much wanted. I didn't win any, to my annoyance, but I got several grab bags for my trouble. If you didn't win a box, you got a grab bag of random cards. Good stuff there.
The funny part, at least to me, is this. At the end of Saturday, I ventured $5 on five rolls of the dice. My last roll was 1, 1, 1, 6. If that stupid 6 had landed on its opposite side, I would have won a free box. But instead they gave me a pack of Morningtide, which I opened to reveal: a Murmuring Bosk. So that's two, I only need two more.
My costume was great. At least, great on average. I was Scar from Fullmetal Alchemist. My clothes weren't too difficult, just a long yellow shirt (should have been a jacket, but I couldn't find one), white undershirt, and black pants with white stripes (Victoria sewed the stripes on). And black boots. I begin to understand why people like boots. I had my hair bleached, and my highly skilled friend Lauren drew an incredibly complex and awesome tattoo on my right arm that my character uses to destroy anything he touches. It was very, very awesome and lasted all Friday...but it came off. I got caught in the rain when Vic's car broke down, and the ink ran right off. So I scrubbed off what remained and had Matt replace it with "COMPLEX TATTOO GOES HERE" in blue. I got less pictures taken, but more people thought it was funny. And yes, I did get pictures before and after.
That's about it. I'll post updates of my ski trip over the next week or so. The Luke-Approved YouTube Link of the Day is http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e-yldqNkGfo It's called "Food Fight." It's a history of American-centric wars over the last half-century or so, using food to demonstrate. There's a link explaining what foods represent what countries, but see if you can puzzle it out on your own. It's fairly self-explanatory, but some messed me up.
REPLIES.
Karen: Too bad to see you won't be posting for a while...does that mean you won't be reading the blog? Does that mean you won't see this response? I hope not. I'm working on the blog when I can, and I'll keep updates semi-regular. Trust me. I wouldn't miss out for long.
Jake: Well, yes, that would have just been foolish and against all the genre conventions. I'm going to write another story with that character, probably by the end of this week, maybe not. My costume came along great.
Mom: It all pretty much came out at once. I went a-wandering, as I am wont to do during the evenings, and came up with that plot and that story all in one rush. As for why nobody could remember, the protagonist ensured it, which I forgot to put in and edited in later.
Steve: I stretched a bit far, but I think it went well overall. You and your fruit rush. I ate most of the fruit I got, giving some to others. Pumpkin-flavored flax. I swear. And I know Brawl is amazing, I played it on Saturday at Megacon.
Bye.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Short Story: Song of the Heart
I was going to post a regular post tonight. Actually, I was going to post a bifurcated post, a post in two halves. A humorous half and a serious half. I was going to tell you of my events this weekend and discuss an anxiety I had upcoming.
But I went for a walk just now, and an idea came into my head that more or less demanded that I commit it to words. And I am happy to oblige. I only hope that I can truly capture the essence of it in my head and put it to paper, or to text, whatever...that I can do it justice.
It's the first in my "Protector of the Universe" series, about a man who acquires godlike power, and his dealings with this world. If you're thinking "Great, another Marty Stu epic," don't. The power is only a storytelling device. Just read, and I hope you feel the majesty that I felt when I had this tale well up inside me.
*
*
*
*
*
I stepped off of the crowded subway car. People spilled out behind me, running every which way. They reminded me of ants, sometimes, swarming in and out of tunnels, always in a hurry. I took a few steps off the yellow-striped danger area, and glanced around. Yes, this appeared to be my stop. Good thing, too - I had missed it last week, and had to catch the next subway heading back the way I had come.
I normally got around with...shall we say...more unconventional means of transport, but this was my first time in New York City. I mean to say, my first time on the ground in New York City. I had certainly buzzed the skyline once or twice during some of my mad flights, back when the power was new and fresh. I wanted to experience the subway, and I had. It was pretty much how everyone described it - dank, smelly, and full of people who you should never ever look in the eye.
I was about to head for the staircase to the street when I heard something. A few notes, haltingly played. A squeak. A fast ascension. My music sense told me that this was clearly a violin limbering up. I don't need my powers to tell me everything. I could just barely hear it over the crowd, but I set off in its direction.
At the source was an old black man. He had on a weather-beaten jacket, scraggly at the edges. His pants had holes and bare patches. His feet were shoeless, but he had thin, stained socks. His green woolly cap was a bit threadbare. His eyes were milky and unfocused...he was blind, I realized. A white cane, slightly splintered, lay next to his instrument case. A dented tin cup stood before him, a few small coins looking pitiful and alone at the bottom.
He held in his hands a violin. Now, I've seen some magnificent instruments in my time. Real works of art. Let me tell you, this was absolutely nothing like any of them. Part of the body looked like rats had nibbled on it. The strings were beginning to fray. A water stain covered half the front part. His bow had split strings dangling. Life had not been easy to this man, and it had spared none of its hardships for his instrument, either.
Having limbered up, he began to play.
At the first note, the breath caught in my throat.
...How shall I describe it? How can I describe it? The English language has no words that can...
...well, let me try.
I have listened to the great operas of our time, the finest Stradivari and Amati playing the most exquisite of notes.
I have gone back in time, to hear the great masters showcase their work firsthand. I have sat in the front row and watched Beethoven, Mozart, Chopin, Haydn, Tchaikovsky, and heard their mellifluous tones shine into the world for the first time.
I have visited other worlds, and heard music I could not dream of, on instruments unlike any designed by men. I have seen the finest that galaxies have to offer, interstellar divas offering melodies that ring out among entire systems.
I have spoken with stars, and heard their language...they speak in a song of light. I have heard the harmony of the spheres, and the grand majesty of an endless burning spirit.
So why is it that the few simple notes that the man began with seemed to resonate in my very soul? Why did I freeze, unable to do anything but let the music pour into my being and fill it with light?
Why could I, who has seen the miracles of existence, only stare at the man with the awe of a newborn child?
The music was a song of wonder. A song of fire. A song which took the very thread of my being and caressed it like a harp-string.
It was like if joy and sadness and amazement and elegance had become nothing but pure sound, the sound that hummed from the man's worn strings, the sound that had become my entire existence.
The notes washed over me like a tide. Words like "brilliant" and "beautiful" and "astonishing" would shame this music to describe it. How could I use those words which have been used to describe other forms of art - other songs - which are but discordant twangs compared to the marvel of this music?
It was incomparable. It was sheer Music, untarnished by fumble-fingered alteration by those who supposed themselves to be masters.
It was the very paragon of artistic excellence.
It was perfection.
I was overcome. I could not remain standing. I fell to my knees, in the middle of the grimy station with busy pedestrians milling all around me, as the old man played a song which burned like a fire in my spirit - a blazing pyre that immolated me like nothing before or since ever has.
With a final descension, it ended.
I realized I was weeping. In joy, to hear such a treasure - or in sorrow, to have it vanish so soon? No power in the universe could recall that music. My best attempts would have crushed me with shame at my imperfect imitation. I could not allow myself to take such purity and destroy it with my attempt at realization.
With a jerk, I came back to myself. The old man was just placing his violin inside his battered case - more carefully than a woman laying down her own child. He had just closed the lid when I found my voice.
"Wait!" I yelped. I swallowed, my throat had gone dry. "Wait," I said in a more normal tone. The man raised his head to acknowledge me, but did not move.
"Would you...please...play that, just...one more time?" I stammered. A few coins materialized in my hand, and I dropped them with a clink into his cup.
The old man smiled. His smile was playful, almost as if he and I had just shared a secret. "Why, certainly, young man," he said softly. He reopened his case, retrieved his violin, and carefully set it against his chin. He tightened his bowstring a tiny bit. He raised his bow, in preparation to play.
I raised my hand.
Nobody else in the station seemed to have heard the man play. Blind fools, I cursed silently - did they not know art when they heard it? They were all very busy, rushing in and out of cars and stairways, bumping into each other, crushing against each other, hurrying everywhere they went.
They never slowed down. They never looked up. They never heard.
I would make them hear.
I could not be so selfish as to keep this marvelous gift to myself. I would share it with all those that would hear, and more.
Above and around, sound gently faded. The honking of car horns outside diminished to a murmur, the rumble of the subway dwindled to a purr, the trampling of feet waned to a whisper.
Silence reigned.
In the vast, soundless void, the old man began to play.
As the first few measures started, I heard a great sigh, as if ten million people or more were overcome as one. They were.
Across the world, all that was to be heard was the old man's music.
In every building in the great cities of the world, at the top of eighty stories of concrete and steel. In small homes, row by row, all the same. In the mountains and the lakesides, in small settlements and single tents. In secret areas where young people went to be alone. In areas of war and strife, where all that was ever heard was gunshots, and explosions, and suffering. In prison cells, cut off from light and warmth. In the endless plains and the vast forests and the wind-swept deserts. In the deepest, darkest places of the world, where no sound ever penetrated, where no man yet was present to hear, echoing in the very bones of the earth.
Nine minutes and thirty-seven seconds. That was all it lasted. Nine minutes and thirty-seven seconds. For nine minutes and thirty-seven seconds, the world stood still, and the world listened. For nine minutes and thirty-seven seconds, the world was at peace.
As the old man's last note faded, sound began again. Once more, the world resumed - and a faint whoosh, as if the world drew breath all at once. As if everyone, everywhere, had not dared to interrupt by doing anything so base as breathing.
None would remember the song. I made sure of that. It would be impossible to explain. None would remember the music that drew fiery trails across their souls. All they would remember was a single note...and the peace that they felt. They would carry that with them forever, in a small corner of their minds...a few minutes of pure, unsullied peace.
The old man packed away his instrument. His dirty fingers picked up the coins I had put into his cup, and placed them inside his pocket. Taking his case in one hand, and his cane in the other, he rose and began to tap the ground softly, walking away slowly.
"Wait!" I cried. He stopped and turned slightly. I rose as well. "I could help you," I said quietly. "I am a very rich man." (It's a good cover story. People think that the rich are all-powerful. Only one is.) "I can help you," I continued, taking a few hesitant steps forward. "I could get you a better instrument, some new clothes...you could get out of this filthy subway and play in concert halls." He turned around fully to face me. I moved in close. "I can help you more than you know," I murmured.
He grinned, and chuckled. "Thanks all the same, young fella," he said. "But I like it down here. There's no pressure to perform. I can just play whatever I feel like playing." I nodded at the wisdom of his words, realizing even as I did so of the futility of my gesture.
"Here, though," I said. Taking a money clip from my pocket that had not existed ten seconds previous, I held out twenty $100 bills. "At least buy yourself something nice to eat...and some shoes," I mumbled.
He looked at me, or vaguely near me, for several seconds. At last, he reached out a crabbed hand and took the money I was offering. "Thank you very much," he said, smiling. "I'll do just that. My feet've been starting to hurt. These floors are mighty cold." Turning back around, tapping his cane, he walked away. I stood still, watching him go. A few seconds later, I turned around myself to leave.
"Oh, young man?" I turned my head to see the old man facing me once more. He was looking directly at me, meeting my eyes perfectly.
"Thanks...for the audience."
I blinked several times, in wonder. When I looked back, I was not at all surprised to see that he had disappeared into the crowd.
*
*
*
*
*
It turned out...well, not as good as I would have hoped, but I like it. Tell me what y'all think. I'll post what I was going to post on Tuesday night.
I'll reply to comments tomorrow. I need to meet my professor in...oh...four hours and forty-five minutes. I should have gone to bed sooner, and in fact I was planning to, but you know how writing is. Sometimes, you just have to commit it to paper. I would never forgive myself for losing this story.
[EDIT: Made minor edits. Will post replies very soon.]
Today's Luke-Approved YouTube Link of the Day is this freakiness from a kinetic sculptor called Theo Jansen. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FMqftVhOuTw You...er...really have to see these to believe them. They're wind-powered, and move like animals. I know that if I saw something like that headed towards me, I'd probably wet myself and flee. And this guy wants to build herds of them. Sigh.
REPLIES.
Vic: Good to see you commenting again, and gratz on getting the 'puter back faster than you thought you would. I was listening to Brian, and we had a conversation on the phone, where he took the stance I wrote down.
I'm Kevin. The play plans to have Mallory playing Joe (rewritten to be a girl) and another guy named Adam playing the closeted girl (rewritten to be a guy). It's complex, and I think my character is gay now. But them's the breaks. You will need to get a ticket, but they sell them at the door right up until it starts. It'll probably be $5.
Steve: I like sleeping. So sue me. I may not need meat, but I sure as hell want meat. That's my story.
Jake: I'm continually making edits. I rolled up all the soldiers. Did you know that a 6th-level fighter can get four attacks per round, using only core rulebooks and no prestige nonsense? Good luck at Subway.
Steve, again: I'm going to spend a good long while on this. I already have, in fact. Don't go on at me about organics vs. non-organics. I'll eat whatever won't kill me and whatever tastes good. But I'm working on eating better. I've been masticating my way through all that healthy food you made me buy, but I still haven't tried the pumpkin-flavored flax. For some reason, it terrifies me.
Mom: I'm excited, too. You buy your tickets at the door. Actually, the captains will be the best and the brightest. If you were to run into lieutenant mooks, then they'd be dumber than mud, but the captains in this army are the best and strongest warriors, and dumb people don't generally ascend that high. And there will almost certainly be sympathetic NPCs hiding in the castle with you. I don't really eat red meat daily, just, y'know, when I can.
Bye.
But I went for a walk just now, and an idea came into my head that more or less demanded that I commit it to words. And I am happy to oblige. I only hope that I can truly capture the essence of it in my head and put it to paper, or to text, whatever...that I can do it justice.
It's the first in my "Protector of the Universe" series, about a man who acquires godlike power, and his dealings with this world. If you're thinking "Great, another Marty Stu epic," don't. The power is only a storytelling device. Just read, and I hope you feel the majesty that I felt when I had this tale well up inside me.
*
*
*
*
*
I stepped off of the crowded subway car. People spilled out behind me, running every which way. They reminded me of ants, sometimes, swarming in and out of tunnels, always in a hurry. I took a few steps off the yellow-striped danger area, and glanced around. Yes, this appeared to be my stop. Good thing, too - I had missed it last week, and had to catch the next subway heading back the way I had come.
I normally got around with...shall we say...more unconventional means of transport, but this was my first time in New York City. I mean to say, my first time on the ground in New York City. I had certainly buzzed the skyline once or twice during some of my mad flights, back when the power was new and fresh. I wanted to experience the subway, and I had. It was pretty much how everyone described it - dank, smelly, and full of people who you should never ever look in the eye.
I was about to head for the staircase to the street when I heard something. A few notes, haltingly played. A squeak. A fast ascension. My music sense told me that this was clearly a violin limbering up. I don't need my powers to tell me everything. I could just barely hear it over the crowd, but I set off in its direction.
At the source was an old black man. He had on a weather-beaten jacket, scraggly at the edges. His pants had holes and bare patches. His feet were shoeless, but he had thin, stained socks. His green woolly cap was a bit threadbare. His eyes were milky and unfocused...he was blind, I realized. A white cane, slightly splintered, lay next to his instrument case. A dented tin cup stood before him, a few small coins looking pitiful and alone at the bottom.
He held in his hands a violin. Now, I've seen some magnificent instruments in my time. Real works of art. Let me tell you, this was absolutely nothing like any of them. Part of the body looked like rats had nibbled on it. The strings were beginning to fray. A water stain covered half the front part. His bow had split strings dangling. Life had not been easy to this man, and it had spared none of its hardships for his instrument, either.
Having limbered up, he began to play.
At the first note, the breath caught in my throat.
...How shall I describe it? How can I describe it? The English language has no words that can...
...well, let me try.
I have listened to the great operas of our time, the finest Stradivari and Amati playing the most exquisite of notes.
I have gone back in time, to hear the great masters showcase their work firsthand. I have sat in the front row and watched Beethoven, Mozart, Chopin, Haydn, Tchaikovsky, and heard their mellifluous tones shine into the world for the first time.
I have visited other worlds, and heard music I could not dream of, on instruments unlike any designed by men. I have seen the finest that galaxies have to offer, interstellar divas offering melodies that ring out among entire systems.
I have spoken with stars, and heard their language...they speak in a song of light. I have heard the harmony of the spheres, and the grand majesty of an endless burning spirit.
So why is it that the few simple notes that the man began with seemed to resonate in my very soul? Why did I freeze, unable to do anything but let the music pour into my being and fill it with light?
Why could I, who has seen the miracles of existence, only stare at the man with the awe of a newborn child?
The music was a song of wonder. A song of fire. A song which took the very thread of my being and caressed it like a harp-string.
It was like if joy and sadness and amazement and elegance had become nothing but pure sound, the sound that hummed from the man's worn strings, the sound that had become my entire existence.
The notes washed over me like a tide. Words like "brilliant" and "beautiful" and "astonishing" would shame this music to describe it. How could I use those words which have been used to describe other forms of art - other songs - which are but discordant twangs compared to the marvel of this music?
It was incomparable. It was sheer Music, untarnished by fumble-fingered alteration by those who supposed themselves to be masters.
It was the very paragon of artistic excellence.
It was perfection.
I was overcome. I could not remain standing. I fell to my knees, in the middle of the grimy station with busy pedestrians milling all around me, as the old man played a song which burned like a fire in my spirit - a blazing pyre that immolated me like nothing before or since ever has.
With a final descension, it ended.
I realized I was weeping. In joy, to hear such a treasure - or in sorrow, to have it vanish so soon? No power in the universe could recall that music. My best attempts would have crushed me with shame at my imperfect imitation. I could not allow myself to take such purity and destroy it with my attempt at realization.
With a jerk, I came back to myself. The old man was just placing his violin inside his battered case - more carefully than a woman laying down her own child. He had just closed the lid when I found my voice.
"Wait!" I yelped. I swallowed, my throat had gone dry. "Wait," I said in a more normal tone. The man raised his head to acknowledge me, but did not move.
"Would you...please...play that, just...one more time?" I stammered. A few coins materialized in my hand, and I dropped them with a clink into his cup.
The old man smiled. His smile was playful, almost as if he and I had just shared a secret. "Why, certainly, young man," he said softly. He reopened his case, retrieved his violin, and carefully set it against his chin. He tightened his bowstring a tiny bit. He raised his bow, in preparation to play.
I raised my hand.
Nobody else in the station seemed to have heard the man play. Blind fools, I cursed silently - did they not know art when they heard it? They were all very busy, rushing in and out of cars and stairways, bumping into each other, crushing against each other, hurrying everywhere they went.
They never slowed down. They never looked up. They never heard.
I would make them hear.
I could not be so selfish as to keep this marvelous gift to myself. I would share it with all those that would hear, and more.
Above and around, sound gently faded. The honking of car horns outside diminished to a murmur, the rumble of the subway dwindled to a purr, the trampling of feet waned to a whisper.
Silence reigned.
In the vast, soundless void, the old man began to play.
As the first few measures started, I heard a great sigh, as if ten million people or more were overcome as one. They were.
Across the world, all that was to be heard was the old man's music.
In every building in the great cities of the world, at the top of eighty stories of concrete and steel. In small homes, row by row, all the same. In the mountains and the lakesides, in small settlements and single tents. In secret areas where young people went to be alone. In areas of war and strife, where all that was ever heard was gunshots, and explosions, and suffering. In prison cells, cut off from light and warmth. In the endless plains and the vast forests and the wind-swept deserts. In the deepest, darkest places of the world, where no sound ever penetrated, where no man yet was present to hear, echoing in the very bones of the earth.
Nine minutes and thirty-seven seconds. That was all it lasted. Nine minutes and thirty-seven seconds. For nine minutes and thirty-seven seconds, the world stood still, and the world listened. For nine minutes and thirty-seven seconds, the world was at peace.
As the old man's last note faded, sound began again. Once more, the world resumed - and a faint whoosh, as if the world drew breath all at once. As if everyone, everywhere, had not dared to interrupt by doing anything so base as breathing.
None would remember the song. I made sure of that. It would be impossible to explain. None would remember the music that drew fiery trails across their souls. All they would remember was a single note...and the peace that they felt. They would carry that with them forever, in a small corner of their minds...a few minutes of pure, unsullied peace.
The old man packed away his instrument. His dirty fingers picked up the coins I had put into his cup, and placed them inside his pocket. Taking his case in one hand, and his cane in the other, he rose and began to tap the ground softly, walking away slowly.
"Wait!" I cried. He stopped and turned slightly. I rose as well. "I could help you," I said quietly. "I am a very rich man." (It's a good cover story. People think that the rich are all-powerful. Only one is.) "I can help you," I continued, taking a few hesitant steps forward. "I could get you a better instrument, some new clothes...you could get out of this filthy subway and play in concert halls." He turned around fully to face me. I moved in close. "I can help you more than you know," I murmured.
He grinned, and chuckled. "Thanks all the same, young fella," he said. "But I like it down here. There's no pressure to perform. I can just play whatever I feel like playing." I nodded at the wisdom of his words, realizing even as I did so of the futility of my gesture.
"Here, though," I said. Taking a money clip from my pocket that had not existed ten seconds previous, I held out twenty $100 bills. "At least buy yourself something nice to eat...and some shoes," I mumbled.
He looked at me, or vaguely near me, for several seconds. At last, he reached out a crabbed hand and took the money I was offering. "Thank you very much," he said, smiling. "I'll do just that. My feet've been starting to hurt. These floors are mighty cold." Turning back around, tapping his cane, he walked away. I stood still, watching him go. A few seconds later, I turned around myself to leave.
"Oh, young man?" I turned my head to see the old man facing me once more. He was looking directly at me, meeting my eyes perfectly.
"Thanks...for the audience."
I blinked several times, in wonder. When I looked back, I was not at all surprised to see that he had disappeared into the crowd.
*
*
*
*
*
It turned out...well, not as good as I would have hoped, but I like it. Tell me what y'all think. I'll post what I was going to post on Tuesday night.
I'll reply to comments tomorrow. I need to meet my professor in...oh...four hours and forty-five minutes. I should have gone to bed sooner, and in fact I was planning to, but you know how writing is. Sometimes, you just have to commit it to paper. I would never forgive myself for losing this story.
[EDIT: Made minor edits. Will post replies very soon.]
Today's Luke-Approved YouTube Link of the Day is this freakiness from a kinetic sculptor called Theo Jansen. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FMqftVhOuTw You...er...really have to see these to believe them. They're wind-powered, and move like animals. I know that if I saw something like that headed towards me, I'd probably wet myself and flee. And this guy wants to build herds of them. Sigh.
REPLIES.
Vic: Good to see you commenting again, and gratz on getting the 'puter back faster than you thought you would. I was listening to Brian, and we had a conversation on the phone, where he took the stance I wrote down.
I'm Kevin. The play plans to have Mallory playing Joe (rewritten to be a girl) and another guy named Adam playing the closeted girl (rewritten to be a guy). It's complex, and I think my character is gay now. But them's the breaks. You will need to get a ticket, but they sell them at the door right up until it starts. It'll probably be $5.
Steve: I like sleeping. So sue me. I may not need meat, but I sure as hell want meat. That's my story.
Jake: I'm continually making edits. I rolled up all the soldiers. Did you know that a 6th-level fighter can get four attacks per round, using only core rulebooks and no prestige nonsense? Good luck at Subway.
Steve, again: I'm going to spend a good long while on this. I already have, in fact. Don't go on at me about organics vs. non-organics. I'll eat whatever won't kill me and whatever tastes good. But I'm working on eating better. I've been masticating my way through all that healthy food you made me buy, but I still haven't tried the pumpkin-flavored flax. For some reason, it terrifies me.
Mom: I'm excited, too. You buy your tickets at the door. Actually, the captains will be the best and the brightest. If you were to run into lieutenant mooks, then they'd be dumber than mud, but the captains in this army are the best and strongest warriors, and dumb people don't generally ascend that high. And there will almost certainly be sympathetic NPCs hiding in the castle with you. I don't really eat red meat daily, just, y'know, when I can.
Bye.
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