Chappy, The Game Was Called Zork

...but it wasn't the first one, it was several generations of Zork down the line.

I've got my guy up to level 8 in LOTRO, but... did everyone playing this game decide to by an elf hunter (I mean, an elf who is a hunter, not one who hunts elves)? Or is it just the server I'm on?

God, I'm such a fucking dork.

But I hafta admit the game is getting more fun. I'm just now starting to grasp the crafting system and the game economy. Actually made a "friend", in that I helped him finish a quest and then he helped me finish one and we added each other to the "friend page" thingy. We went goblin hunting, and since he was also an elf hunter (I'm really uncomfortable with the slipperiness of that terminology, and wish "hunter elf" were used in its stead. See single-sentence paragraph, above.), we could set a couple of traps and then fill the trapped goblins with arrows. And if one broke through, one of us would engage it and the other could keep firing arrows. It worked pretty well. Until there were five goblins, and we were getting our asses kicked, and some sympathetic minstrel wandered by and healed me enough to finish the fight. And it doesn't seem like any of the healing potions work in combat, which is fucking stupid. Or maybe I just haven't figured out what the right equippable item is that heals in combat.

And my character is wearing a silly-looking hat, but I can't seem to find a better replacement. I chose "explorer" as my professional, only to read later that I've essentially doomed my guy to the life of a serf, harvesting resources for others to profit from.

But monster play kicks in at level 10...

So there's that...

In Which We Are Bored By Virtual Worlds

I played Ultima Online for like a minnit back in the day. It was more frustrating than fun. I futzed around with Active Worlds, too. No joy there. That's the summation of my experience with "virtual worlds" or MMORPGs.

But I've just gotten the Internet access back on at Mom's house, and with a shiny new computer and a cable modem (plus an old crazy lady to take care of, which requires, it seems, a specific form of focused inattention) I figured the time was ripe to try another online game. Oops, I mean "virtual world". Cuz an "online game" would be something like Counterstrike or Halo, you know, something fun, whereas a virtual world implies that I have a persistent identity in a staged milieu, you know, like life would be if God were a game designer.*

I knew I didn't want to play WoW, because everyone I know who plays WoW is WAY too into it, so I considered EVEOnline. I'd heard it described as "a spreadsheet simulator...in space" and that sounded rather appealing, actually, because I am a dork.

Then Lord of the Rings Online caught my attention. I'd read Tolkien as a kid, and just as I'd tossed aside my Big Wheel for a real bike I'd tossed aside Tolkien for "real literature". (C'mon fanboys, hate on that. Tolkien took 200 pages and entire geneologies to invoke a sense of wonder, Borges can do it in a paragraph. Who's the better writer? Oh, that's right...Tolkien fans don't read outside the canon.) But I have fond memories of the books, and I liked Peter Jackson's films, and I figured the Middle Earth mythos might weed out a certain percentage of the usual numbskulls (this logic is akin to thinking that the best place to pick up smart girls is at Star Trek conventions -- I think the women at Star Trek conventions probably ARE significantly smarter than their barfly peers, but...there are trade-offs involved).

So I gave LOTRO a spin. Logged on to a newbie server, made (heh...I almost said "rolled up"...I am so old...)an elf hunter, Fithion of Mirkwood.

The server was filled with elf hunters. Elves, at least. OK, that's cool, let's just scope stuff out. I'll reroll a hobbit burglar later, because that's what I really wanted to play, but I figured everyone else would want to play that as well, so I defaulted to elf hunter. So did everyone else. The game begins and NPCs are yellin' at me to do stuff. Huh? I don't even know the controls yet! I'm a console guy -- WASD doesn't come naturally. Plus, having not RTFM, I don't know how to communicate with other players. Where's that window? How do I...oh, I see. Gosh, this is pretty. Ooh a goblin! What's "attack"? Hm. I'm "incapacitated". I respawn. I have a bow. Let's click the red thing with an arrow in it and see what that does. Cool. I have little trouble dispatching the onrushing goblin pincushion with my "Dull Knife". But I still haven't mastered the controls. It doesn't feel right. I wade through a few more goblins. Some dude, elf or human, can't really tell, helps me out when I'm suddenly jumped by a lynx. Thx, I type, or thought I did, when the map comes up. Dammit. The guy stands there for a second, obviously communicating with me in some window I haven't found yet. I really need to RTFM. I find the NPC with the glowing ring over his head, like a perpendicular halo. Hey! I leveled up!

I could go on, but basically I ran around for an hour or so killing lynxes, looting my kills, and practicing basic combat skillz. I see that I reheal over time but my equipment damage is cumulative. I think anything that accumulates damage should have a meter I can see, but maybe I just don't grasp the interface yet. Again, RTFM. I get a quest to bring back lynx pelts. Covered, I think, then realize my inventory consists of lynx PAWS, not lynx PELTS.

Overwhelmed by the semantic distinction and its implications, I log out.

I have Much To Learn. But do I want to learn it? What do I get out of my investment of time and energy (not to mention $$$)?

Here's what I'll do. I'll play the game long enough to master the controls, I'll RTFM, and I'll make an effort to do something besides solo. I may go surf right now and see what I can learn. But initial impressions are not positive.

I mean, I love the idea. I spend half my time online reading about the construction and analysis of virtual worlds, because I do believe that this is a technology in its infancy and we've not yet reached our Buster Keaton, much less our Orson Welles, to push the film analogy until it breaks. But between idea and execution lies...an uncanny valley.

Mama We're All Krazee Now

American culture is schizoid.

We spend billions on porn and preach abstinence in schools. We have draconian drug laws and we consume more drugs than any other country. We "demand educational excellence" and then practice social promotion. We teach our children not to lie or to steal...until they get to business school. We uphold "family values", but we have the highest rate of single mothers in poverty in the developed world. We talk about "freedom" and we lock up more people per capita than anyone on the planet. Beer ads urge us to drink their products...in moderation. But not behind the wheel of that car designed to do 130 mph, 'cause the speed limit is 65. The "Partnership for a Drug-Free America" PSA is sandwiched between adds for Zoloft and Cialis.

All this sprang to mind after I read this. The state of Alabama, Big Brass Buckle of the Bible Belt, in the form of the House Education Policy Committee (their motto: "Keep 'em dumb and fulla cum!") is considering a proposal for "Christian Heritage Week" in our schools.

Feel that icy shiver down your spine?

XBollixed

The gaming press is awash in stories about the Xbox 360's unreliability. Huh, thought I. Mine works fine.

Well, it did until yesterday.

The Red Ring of Death. Three flashing red lights, in a pattern the woefully incomplete manual does not mention.

I call Microsoft Xbox 360 Customer Support. This, I think, will take all day and make for a bleakly funny blog post.

At first it seems my instinct is right. "Max" answers, a creepy electronic voice that oozes the same sort of false bonhomie as the robots at the beginning of "Westworld". Max uses hip, slangy words and phrases like "Gotcha!" and "Great!" and "No problem!". Max soothes me with the promise of help (after regretting to tell me that due to call volume help may be delayed)and offers a list of possible things I can say to make Max keep talking to me. Suddenly it seems very important to keep Max talking to me, as I have now invested a good eight minutes of my life listening to him. I say, "three flashing red lights!", one of the phrases Max has suggested.

"Gotcha!" sez Max. "I can help you with that!" Hooray!

Max walks me through the process. Patiently. Gently. He guides me step by step. Unplug power supply, decouple hard drive, replug power supply, boot, check power supply light, look at console and there should be a pleasing green glow. Turn off, unplug, recouple hard drive, replug, reboot.

Max wants me to succeed. I can hear it in his voice.

"Did this fix your problem?" Max asks.

Max, I have failed you. Three flashing red lights. Max is silent a moment. Thinking, perhaps, or mourning the loss of a brother machine. Max recommends I visit the website and check out document 90345667122345356832345^3. I sigh. Max has turned against me.

"If you would like to speak to an agent, say 'agent'," Max suggests, but now he sounds hesitant, like he doesn't really mean it. Max is giving me mixed signals, and it's creeping me out.

"Agent!" I say, and Max blips me over into telimbo, without so much as a goodbye, a simple humble acknowledgment of our time spent together. Robot asshole, I think.

But before I can even complete the thought there's an actual human being on the line. I marvel at a "hold" actually being a "hold" instead of an "interminable wait until you lose patience and hang up". Kudos, Microsoft, I think.

But before I can complete THAT thought, said human being, whom I can clearly hear breathing and rustling paper amidst the background chatter of the call center, disconnects me.

Click. Bzzzz. "If you'd like to make a call..."

I've worked in call centers. Dropping calls like that will get your ass fired. She should have just muted me and rode the call for three or four minutes before hanging up, or whatever length she needed to shave her talk time without looking like she's shorting calls (which is exactly what she's doing). That's what I would have done. I sigh and call Max back.

"Xbox console Xbox 360 three flashing red lights agent," I tell Max, who must be ashamed of how we last parted, as he is much less vocal this time.

After a similarly short hold, a real person smoothly and professionally gets my registration information and informs me that I have a hardware problem, my console is still under warranty, and they'll send me shipping materials to send it back to them prepaid via UPS.

Oh.

I don't even get to fight about this? I don't have to storm into Best Buy waving my extended service plan and demanding satisfaction? I can just...send it to you and you'll fix it?

OK.

I mean, I have a washing machine that I paid like $130 bucks for fourteen years ago and it runs like a top. It's a wet, spinning electrical appliance, for fuck's sake. You'd expect something to go wrong. Of course, when something DOES go wrong, I'll just buy a new one, since the new ones are probably more efficient and probably still don't cost much more than $200.

But a sleek $399 whangdoodley console, that gets used WAY less than our washing machine (OK, maybe not, but it's close), that's nothing more than an expensive paperweight unless you feed it $60 games, goes tits-up in less than a year. They damn well better make it work!

I don't have an end to this, because the story really isn't over yet - I've yet to receive the shipping materials, so we'll see how this all plays out.

Drunks Against Mad Mothers Gets New Member

Cincinnati cop & recipient of MADD award ticketing for DUI.

Heh.

Orson Whales

Inbred Anachronism Sez What?

The Queen of England is visiting Churchill Downs, and track employees have had to take an etiquette class so as to not offend Her Royal Pomposity.

Didn't we fight a revolution so we wouldn't have to kowtow to royalty?

Let your hair down, Liz. Limber up with a couple of mint juleps, play the ponies, and pretty soon you'll be out back of the paddock sparkin' one up with the stableboys and playing quarters for shotglasses of Pabst Blue Ribbon.

Farm Out!

So I'm clickety-clickin through MetaTalk, the snarky white underbelly of MetaFilter, and I see a call-out for awesomeness, which leads me to a great response on Ask MetaFilter to a question I didn't know I cared about: farm history.

Now that, friends, is what the Internet is good for (and at).

I can't wait for the third installment.

Where Are The NHL Playoffs?

The Buffalo Sabres are locked in an epic playoff battle with the New York Rangers. The Rangers roared back after a thrilling double-overtime win to even the series at 2-2.

At least that's what I've read online. I guess I should be able to find clips of the game with a little googling, but why haven't the playoffs been televised? (At least, anywhere besides some channel in the cable high-number ghetto that isn't included in basic cable?)

I'd really like to be watching the grizzled vets Brendan Shanahan and Jaromir Jagr, together for the first time on a playoff team after a combined 322 playoff games, facing the young, hard-skating, high-scoring Sabres, led by Daniel Briere and Thomas Vanek.

Go Sluggalos!

I hope the Stanley Cup will be on TV, at least.

CBGB's Last Song

Robert Quine Lester Bangs. Peter Laughner. Johnny Thunders. Stiv Bators, Joe Fuckin' Strummer.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I2jhOoJMrZQ&NR=1

"Thirty-three years, that's the same age as Jesus."

You Light Up My Life

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Agl4IvNnQPo

Oh my God.

Your Alabama Tax $$$ At Work

Did you know that if you are a resident of the state of Alabama you can sign up at your local library for access to the Alabama Virtual Library? It's free, and you get access to the online Oxford English Dictionary!

There's also a bunch of databases I haven't nosed around in yet. Much of the site is meant for kids doing research papers, but it's worth a trip to the library for free access to the OED, the second greatest accomplishment in the English language after the King James Bible (suck it, Shakespeare!). That's a savings of $295 per year!

Do other states offer this? I mean, the OE-fuckin-D. How cool is that?

My Wireless "Broadband" Sucks

This is like dial-up, only three times more expensive. Any time I send data from a form like blogger or Metafilter, the connection resets.

Why can't I have nice things?

Earl Greyhound Rocks The Nick

OK, so it's been a few days since the Earl Greyhound show, but I needed time to staunch the bleeding from my ears and to properly assimilate their CD, Soft Targets, before revealing to the world that I have found the Keepers of the Rawk and they are a skinny guy from Brooklyn, a bass player who taught your kids phonics, and a drummer with the biggest bass drum I've ever seen on stage at The Nick, with the chops to match.

Call them retro, call them Zepplinesque, make comparisons to the Black Keys, whatever. These guys were loud, proud, and unbowed. They TORE UP a mostly empty room but the squall stayed focused. The outlines of the song were never far away and like the best blues Earl Greyhound used repetition and variation as a motif, not an excuse for jam-band wankery.

They fucking rocked.

Go see them, and go buy their record.

(They were actually the opening band for Rose Hill Drive, of whom I can honestly say I heard the first two songs and then I left.)

An Overdue Eulogy

One of the myriad of reasons I abruptly stopped blogging last November was the death of my friend, Marty. He died the day before Thanksgiving. He was 39. He overdosed on heroin. He was one of my best friends. You know, you have your "friends" and then your "Friends", and then you have the people that you know have your back and will take a bullet for you. That was Marty. We met many years ago through mutual friends, and our initial attraction was LSD, Captain Beefheart, and hardcore punk. Once we met, we never lost contact. I talked to Marty at least once a month, every month, for fifteen years. When I was unemployed, he hired me on as a plumber's apprentice and kept my bills paid. When he was innit wif Mr. Shizznit, I paid his bail.

For most of the time I knew him, Marty never touched heroin. We smoked weed, maybe sniffed a little blow once and again, drank like fish, and chased wimmin. Marty was six-foot-three and maybe a charitable 350 pounds. He was a force of nature, and I miss him. I wrote this rambling sketch in the hours after I'd heard he passed on:

Fugazi @ Tuxedo Junction

let me piss up yr ass @ The Nick

Jonathan Richman is a goddamn carpetbagger @ Zydeco

"Fajita!"

"Viva Los Santos!" SCOTS @ the Nick

Almost starting a race riot in Montevallo

Destroying Dave's truck

"Friend, let me tell you about Jesus!" in Richard's alley

First let me get the cliches out of the way -- he was larger than life, he lived more in 40 years than most men do in 80, he had a big heart, a big soul, a big presence. I knew Marty for half my life. I never knew anyone like him.

To Marty: you stupid fuck, how dare you check out on your mom like this? She deserves better, and you loved her more than this.

Tattered flannel, overalls, a blown-out cowboy hat and shitkicker boots. A persona deliberately veering into caricature, a plea veiled with a shout. Marty embraced the world and all its weird wonder without fear or flinching because that's what good strong Southern men do -- we stand up and we take it on the chin and we keep swinging, not because it's right and proper and honorable or even smart or advisable but because it's all we can do, it's all we can hope for: our daddies gave us spines and hands and our mommas gave us hearts and minds and its our job to put it all together and shape ourselves and stand for something.

And Marty stood for something -- he was a nexus, a locus, he was a bridge between people. He brought together plumbers and artists, hippies and rednecks, losers, winners, and dreamers.

We all have our demons, and Marty had his share. Like many of us, Marty danced with his demons. We can learn this lesson -- we are not big enough to embrace the whole of the earth. We lack the requisite strength and grace to rise above the snares. But we can learn from his fall -- we can grow, we can change, we can learn from our history and embrace the past by confronting the future.

That doesn't do him justice. I have a story in me about Dave's truck, and that'll be fun to read. I just figured that the least I could do for someone who functioned his whole entire life on Navajo time (that's racist, I know, but I could have said "French time" except I figured the Navajo would be more understanding) would appreciate a eulogy published five months late.

Way To Go Loretta!

Loretta Nall's Kafkaesque nightmare with the Powers of Tallapoosa County is finally over, and for once the good guys won!

A Musical Day

Seeking beauty in my dreary life, today I visited that quaintest of emporia, the CD store. I bought a collection of Bach's solo violin works, a Mastodon record, and Charles Ives' 2nd & 4th symphonies.

I get home and there's a big fat care package from my pal Ace in Yonkers, a belated birthday present that contains CDs as diverse as Yo-Yo Ma playing Bach, the new Modest Mouse, Van Halen I ("Runnin' with the Devil"! rawk!), and some Beck I haven't yet heard; along with artsy ephemera that Noo Yawk intelligentsia must attract like magnets draw iron filings.

So a sonically happy day. Couple that with the fact that I have several good books lined up to read (including Guns, Germs, and Steel, which I've been meaning to get to for more than a year), I'm aurally and intellectually well-provisioned, so bring on the Apocalypse (we won't lose power, will we?).

Hello, World!

Hello?

I'm back.

Didja miss me?

I missed you, too.

I have lotsa stuff to talk about.

I'm gonna leave all the insane drunken posts I made last fall in place, just as sort of an object lesson for what NOT to do. A constant admonishment.

I'll try to more closely craft the longer posts, or at least edit the fuckers before displaying my ineptitude for all the world to see.

I'll start tagging posts, too, having finally seen the light. The tags, of course, will be whimsical and misleading, thereby rendering them useless.

I have (intermittently) reliable Internet access now, which is a delight, having had none for many months. So expect more bilious idiocy to drop at any moment.

You're on notice, Internets.

Proof Joe Theismann Is An Idiot

During the Monday Night game, Raiders QB Andrew Walters tossed a long bomb to Randy Moss, who was double-covered some 40 yards downfield. Moss grabbed the ball away from the cornerback, but a punishing hit by the crossing safety separated him from the ball, and almost separated his head from his shoulders.

Opined Theismann, "They should do that more often. If you throw that ball to Randy Moss five times, he's going to come down with it twice. The percentages are in his favor."

Two out of five is forty percent, you dumbass.

NB: prior post edited to remove material offensive to some readers. You know who you are. Blake.

Yummy Booze!

If you pour a shot of Bushmill's Irish whiskey into an Imperial pint glass of hard cider, you come up with an enticing combo.