My house always smells like cinnamon and nutmeg. Sometimes a touch of cumin or vanilla. Always warm, inviting and open. The word “clutter” was never allowed to enter into my vocabulary. Maybe because as a family we were always traveling (one small suitcase or rucksack each) or maybe because we valued each other more than any object we might own.
During the Spring, I called two of my biker friends and the three of us helped my father plant fruit trees and flower bulbs throughout the yard. I didn’t want him digging eight two foot deep holes or hauling around trees with giant root balls. So I made Nic and Jess do it.
My mother brought strong iced tea out for us at one point. My father put his arm around her waist and motioned to the three of us, still digging. “I’m surrounded by beautiful women today. No wonder so much is getting done!”
I like to buy myself flowers. At least once a week. Roses aren’t my favorites. I like carnations, mixed arrangements, baby’s breath, eucalyptus, mums, lilies, irises, straw flowers. I place bouquets around the house in simple glass vases. I “weed” regularly, removing anything wilted, and sometimes I dry them for more permanent collections.
On stormy days (gray, rainy, windy) I place bright flowers on the wide window sills. I love the contrast of color and form. The wild two tone of movement outside and the vibrant rainbow of the still life inside. Sometimes I can just sit with a hot cup of coffee on days like that and stare at the scene – color and storm – and find such clarity of thought. Everything becomes very clear. Very distinct. Ideas come to me fully formed.
It seems like such a simple thing. To buy flowers. It seems too simple. Maybe even a waste. But all I have to do is skip a mocha or latte out to have that bit of extra spending cash... and the rewards are so much more tangible.
A friend emailed me. He was feeling down. He had “writer’s block.” He's doing everything he should (singular focus on the book, attention to his goals and deadlines, immersing himself in the music and images that originally inspired him) but he feels panicked. His apartment is a wreck, he wrote. Dishes are piled in the sink. There’s no clean clothes. The fridge is empty except for yogurt and dill pickles. He takes frequent breaks but every where he goes he just sees distraction and chaos.
I showed up with broom and mop in hand, groceries on my hip. A new lined journal and $8 fountain pen were at the top of the brown paper bag. As were an arrangement of autumn flowers -- orange, red, brown, yellow.
After the “remodel” of Bo’s apartment, I walked six blocks with him to a café/coffee house he’d never visited before. I ordered a coffee for me and a Green Tea for Bo. I got us a huge chocolate brownie and two forks. We sat silently, eating and drinking, for about thirty minutes. The lined journal and fountain pen lay on the table between us. After a while more, I started to causally cruise the sexy barista and Bo started writing.
What is your external writing space like? It will influence your internal writing space. Seem too simple? Only as simple as bright flowers against a gray sky. Still colors against raging black and white.
E.J.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Monday, October 30, 2006
The Race Race
I have yet to read a novel involving human first contact that works for me. It seems so simple, right? Humans are visited or contacted by an alien race. Changes occur. But the sheer magnitude of those changes – the ripples throughout all of society from what you think when you open your refrigerator to what you feel when your preacher opens his mouth on Sunday morning *will* forever be altered. To be blunt, because we haven’t experience first contact as a species, we are fundamentally unequipped to write about it. We limit ourselves to what we’ve seen in movies, on television and in novels. We *think* we know but we simply can’t.
One ripple I often muse about is the way we see one another. Would the introduction of a new species eliminate our disgusting need to segregate and categorize each other by our race? To an alien race, we’re all just human. I really don’t think they’d care what color, height, attitude or flavor we are. We’re all human. The ultimate equalizer. Us. Them.
History, of course, repeats itself. In America (and elsewhere) various non-majority groups fight for the same darn rights in turn. They rarely band together or share past experiences or resources. Us/Them is in full force. Differences can be found more easily than bellies with stars when the Us/Them evolves (de-volves?) into the Haves/Have-Nots. “We deserved our rights. You don’t.” Wow. The Oxford English Dictionary needs to change the definition of the word “equal.” At least so it matches what the State courts are doing coast to coast.
I saw a bumper sticker today: If you aren’t angry, you don’t know the truth.
Emails I get from players and authors casually say, “I understand that you’re trying to bring religion to the masses.” I’m not. I’m a designer who simply folds more of what she is into her games. I’m not as interested in a complete departure from reality. I can play for escapism and still feel like my moral core is kicking butt with me. Like all good SF, I can comment on society from the safe confines of make-believe.
There is no race in Mardi Gras 3000. There is species. Human. Terrapyre. Celestial. Angel. No black, white, brown, red, yellow, etc. The rainbow has been reconfigured to categorize only by base genetics.
Dear God, I wish it were true.
I went to see friends last night (a twelve-year “married” couple who can’t be legally married). We drank Green Tea with ginger and spoke quietly while their two children (who are unbelievably beautiful, intelligent, well-behaved and Christian) watched “Cinderella.” I wasn’t really paying much attention to the musical until the four year old girl said to her six year old brother, “The real Cinderella is so much prettier than the cartoon one.” He agreed and I looked over. They were watching the musical version of the fairytale where the actress and singer Brady plays Cinderella.
I stopped mid-conversation with my adult friends and just watched with the kids. What a difference one film can make. What if the media showed as many brown-skinned princesses as there are “pink-skinned” (as the kids say) ones? Living in an area that is primarily inhabited by “pink” people, these kids might equate an African American young woman with Brady’s tough and honest Cinderella or an Asian young woman with smart and brave Mulan. Since their parents have several brown-skinned friends, they have real world examples, too, but if you ask them to draw a princess or a girl warrior, her skin color will wind up pink as often as brown as often as blue. Are they color blind? No. They just see race like hair color or cultural tradition. These kids see humans as a species. The only Us/Them in their lives are Humans and Spiders... which, to be honest, they aren’t very fond of.
Wouldn’t that be a great world? Humans. Terrapyres. Celestials. Angels. And Spiders. I could live with that.
E.J.
One ripple I often muse about is the way we see one another. Would the introduction of a new species eliminate our disgusting need to segregate and categorize each other by our race? To an alien race, we’re all just human. I really don’t think they’d care what color, height, attitude or flavor we are. We’re all human. The ultimate equalizer. Us. Them.
History, of course, repeats itself. In America (and elsewhere) various non-majority groups fight for the same darn rights in turn. They rarely band together or share past experiences or resources. Us/Them is in full force. Differences can be found more easily than bellies with stars when the Us/Them evolves (de-volves?) into the Haves/Have-Nots. “We deserved our rights. You don’t.” Wow. The Oxford English Dictionary needs to change the definition of the word “equal.” At least so it matches what the State courts are doing coast to coast.
I saw a bumper sticker today: If you aren’t angry, you don’t know the truth.
Emails I get from players and authors casually say, “I understand that you’re trying to bring religion to the masses.” I’m not. I’m a designer who simply folds more of what she is into her games. I’m not as interested in a complete departure from reality. I can play for escapism and still feel like my moral core is kicking butt with me. Like all good SF, I can comment on society from the safe confines of make-believe.
There is no race in Mardi Gras 3000. There is species. Human. Terrapyre. Celestial. Angel. No black, white, brown, red, yellow, etc. The rainbow has been reconfigured to categorize only by base genetics.
Dear God, I wish it were true.
I went to see friends last night (a twelve-year “married” couple who can’t be legally married). We drank Green Tea with ginger and spoke quietly while their two children (who are unbelievably beautiful, intelligent, well-behaved and Christian) watched “Cinderella.” I wasn’t really paying much attention to the musical until the four year old girl said to her six year old brother, “The real Cinderella is so much prettier than the cartoon one.” He agreed and I looked over. They were watching the musical version of the fairytale where the actress and singer Brady plays Cinderella.
I stopped mid-conversation with my adult friends and just watched with the kids. What a difference one film can make. What if the media showed as many brown-skinned princesses as there are “pink-skinned” (as the kids say) ones? Living in an area that is primarily inhabited by “pink” people, these kids might equate an African American young woman with Brady’s tough and honest Cinderella or an Asian young woman with smart and brave Mulan. Since their parents have several brown-skinned friends, they have real world examples, too, but if you ask them to draw a princess or a girl warrior, her skin color will wind up pink as often as brown as often as blue. Are they color blind? No. They just see race like hair color or cultural tradition. These kids see humans as a species. The only Us/Them in their lives are Humans and Spiders... which, to be honest, they aren’t very fond of.
Wouldn’t that be a great world? Humans. Terrapyres. Celestials. Angels. And Spiders. I could live with that.
E.J.
Friday, October 27, 2006
Look, Mom! No Board!
Thank all of you for your amazing patience and support while I've been away (from the forum especially). Yes, I can blog remotely by sending in my blogs by email but I've missed visiting the forum and talking with all of you. I missed reading the incredibly fun, unique and saucy "On the Waterfront" online RPG, too! I've become kinda addicted, I must admit.
I'm back now though (and Master Donny will lift the hiatus on the RPG). This time away really allowed me to think through the stumper of a problem about the game. That being: Should I develop a way to play the game without a board?
Most of you who are reading this blog already have your copy of the Starter Deck. It shipped between October 6 and October 9. The Limited deck is now in your hot little hands. You now see firsthand how important and exciting and exacting setting the board is. Every game you build a new board and that board informs and shapes all the play that comes after. "Building" the board is building the game. You see how much part of the game it is. But I'm really driven about this. I want to be able to give this to you. Play rules without a board. It saves space and a bit of time... and it creates a CCG experience more like what most of you are used to.
And guess what? I did it. With help from four excellent play-testers (Donny, Nick, Alison and Sarah), the rules envisioned, reworked, smoothed over and finalized. And you know what? They rock. They'll allow you to play without a board but without losing the importance of building the board. The Skills are still balanced. All cards are still used. I'm going to create a PDF with the rules and a few quick charts and post the URL at the forum. The download will be free, of course.
I want to add one small bit here and say thank you to everyone who helped make this possible. Down in Los Angeles: Donny, Nick, Ali, and Sarah, you guys were amazing and supportive. Back home in Washington: Launa and Chelyn, thanks for keeping the forum running smoothly; Jennifer and Cris, thanks for setting me "free" for these two weeks without worries that you'd need to call on me. All of you have given me a gift... and a gift to every MG3K player as well!
Thanks again, everyone. You all rock. I promise not to go away again any time soon.
Um... by the way... how many messages are waiting for me in my inbox? :::gulp:::
E.J.
I'm back now though (and Master Donny will lift the hiatus on the RPG). This time away really allowed me to think through the stumper of a problem about the game. That being: Should I develop a way to play the game without a board?
Most of you who are reading this blog already have your copy of the Starter Deck. It shipped between October 6 and October 9. The Limited deck is now in your hot little hands. You now see firsthand how important and exciting and exacting setting the board is. Every game you build a new board and that board informs and shapes all the play that comes after. "Building" the board is building the game. You see how much part of the game it is. But I'm really driven about this. I want to be able to give this to you. Play rules without a board. It saves space and a bit of time... and it creates a CCG experience more like what most of you are used to.
And guess what? I did it. With help from four excellent play-testers (Donny, Nick, Alison and Sarah), the rules envisioned, reworked, smoothed over and finalized. And you know what? They rock. They'll allow you to play without a board but without losing the importance of building the board. The Skills are still balanced. All cards are still used. I'm going to create a PDF with the rules and a few quick charts and post the URL at the forum. The download will be free, of course.
I want to add one small bit here and say thank you to everyone who helped make this possible. Down in Los Angeles: Donny, Nick, Ali, and Sarah, you guys were amazing and supportive. Back home in Washington: Launa and Chelyn, thanks for keeping the forum running smoothly; Jennifer and Cris, thanks for setting me "free" for these two weeks without worries that you'd need to call on me. All of you have given me a gift... and a gift to every MG3K player as well!
Thanks again, everyone. You all rock. I promise not to go away again any time soon.
Um... by the way... how many messages are waiting for me in my inbox? :::gulp:::
E.J.
Friday, October 20, 2006
Did I Scare You?
Let’s get personal, yes?
So my ex calls me a year, one month and four days after I was dumped for a blonde bombshell who paints toe nails for a living. Hey, darling, I know what you’re saying, “How could that be, E.J.?! What fool would leave you for a toe chick?!” Hey, what can I say, pollution is destroying brain cells in record numbers.
Okay, so my back pocket vibrates and I answer my cell without checking the caller ID. “Hey, >>insert my first name here<<...” ...pregnant pause... “Saw your game in a store up here.” “Up here” being Vancouver, B.C., where Exie is shooting a show (don’t you dare be impressed). “It’s counterfeit,” I growl. “Play testers sold the tester cards.” Laughter. “Sneaky >>insert vulgar adjective<<...” ...mouth breathing... “So, who’re seeing?”
Let’s stop here and rewind two years. Two year ago is now present tense. I meet Exie through a friend. Exie is thirteen years my senior (which is about my usual dating range) and is an employed sushi chef / unemployed actor. Exie has a thirteen year old daughter from a previous relationship (the biological mother died in a motorcycle accident ten years ago) and a crummy little house that’s literally falling apart (the front porch is wrapped in yellow caution tape). This is a dream come true for me. A ready-made family that needs me. I can cook, clean, and be a prime bread winner. Yeah, painting and gaming don’t pay a ton but I have a real knack for keeping my finances in order. Not only that but I’m a great tutor for pretty much any jr. high or high school subject and I *love* kids. I’d have twelve of my very own if I could just found a guy who could keep up with my reproductive libido (hey, that’s a joke, no emails!).
We start dating. I start cooking, cleaning, and bread winning. Daughter’s grades go up. Porch gets torn down and rebuilt. Ant and roach problem get zapped into oblivion. Many candle light dinners ensue. Much bliss as I begin to think that This Is It.
Then Exie gets cast in a TV show. Reoccurring character. Full season commitment. Most likely more. Sushi chef job goes bye-bye and so does Exie who flies home on the weekends. I hadn’t moved in but I do now because I don’t want daughter to be a latch-key kid. After a month, then two, I decide maybe we should stop renting and buy a place. Safer neighborhood. Little bit bigger. Exie agrees. I search and I buy. My earnest money and the loan in my name. Daughter and I move.
Exie starts to skip coming home on weekends. Exie starts to call Daughter but not me. Hm.
Exie comes home. It has been two weeks. Smiles. Knock out smile. Kisses me. Knock out kiss. Then says, “We need to talk about what you’ve been eating.” Snorts and walks into the kitchen to get a beer.
Okay.
Exie comes home. Candles are lit. Chicken marsala with capers. Garden vegetables. Rice and mushrooms. I’ve been prepping and cooking for three hours. Even bought a bottle of excellent red wine (though I don’t drink). Daughter is thrilled with helping and all the wonderful smells filling the house. Chocolate mousse for dessert. Exie says, “Good God, what’s that smell? Come on, Daughter, let’s go grab a burger.” Loyal daughter runs to Exie’s side and before I can move, standing in the middle of the dining room like an idiot, I hear Exie’s car roar to life and off they go.
Fine.
Exie comes home. I’ve been kinda stressed about the relationship. Raising a teen-ager alone is hard. Looking me up and down over the rim of a RedBull, Exie comments, “You know, if you keep dropping weight the first thing to go will be your t*** and a**, and that would be a God d*** shame.”
Done. These, of course, are only the *publishable* stories. And yet I felt devastated and betrayed when I was dumped. Why is it that American girls allow ourselves to be beaten up like that? What is that *about?!*
Fast forward and resume playing the phone call.
“You have some gall calling me,” I find myself saying with an incredibly steady and very angry voice. “After everything you’ve said to me, all the ugly, hateful, misogynistic things you’ve done, I’m stunned you could even *fantasize* that it’s okay to call me. I don’t harbor a single kind or forgiving thought toward you – maybe, like, twenty years in the future, when I’m laying next to some gorgeous creature and our kids are curled up with us, maybe then I’ll be able to wish you weren’t tied to a concrete block and dropped into the sea! But that’s not now. It’s not even near now. Now is when I’m still feeling that you have a serious social apathy thing going on where you think it’s a-o-k to get close to someone, find out all their little hidden insecurity buttons and then push every one of them just to watch someone break. I don’t feel sorry for you but I feel sorry for anyone with you, including your daughter, and I feel sorry that I allowed myself to be blind to your nature for so long!” I pause and remember to breathe. Exie sighs. I scream, “Are you still there?! What kind of idiot would stay on the phone through all that?!”
“Look,” Exie sighs again. “Besty and I aren’t getting along so well and I was just wondering, you know, if you were available.”
For a moment I am utterly and completely and unbelievably speechless. Then, “No. I’m not available. I’m sleeping with my publisher.”
And I hang up.
LOL. Forgive me, Jennifer, I just had to do it.
E.J.
So my ex calls me a year, one month and four days after I was dumped for a blonde bombshell who paints toe nails for a living. Hey, darling, I know what you’re saying, “How could that be, E.J.?! What fool would leave you for a toe chick?!” Hey, what can I say, pollution is destroying brain cells in record numbers.
Okay, so my back pocket vibrates and I answer my cell without checking the caller ID. “Hey, >>insert my first name here<<...” ...pregnant pause... “Saw your game in a store up here.” “Up here” being Vancouver, B.C., where Exie is shooting a show (don’t you dare be impressed). “It’s counterfeit,” I growl. “Play testers sold the tester cards.” Laughter. “Sneaky >>insert vulgar adjective<<...” ...mouth breathing... “So, who’re seeing?”
Let’s stop here and rewind two years. Two year ago is now present tense. I meet Exie through a friend. Exie is thirteen years my senior (which is about my usual dating range) and is an employed sushi chef / unemployed actor. Exie has a thirteen year old daughter from a previous relationship (the biological mother died in a motorcycle accident ten years ago) and a crummy little house that’s literally falling apart (the front porch is wrapped in yellow caution tape). This is a dream come true for me. A ready-made family that needs me. I can cook, clean, and be a prime bread winner. Yeah, painting and gaming don’t pay a ton but I have a real knack for keeping my finances in order. Not only that but I’m a great tutor for pretty much any jr. high or high school subject and I *love* kids. I’d have twelve of my very own if I could just found a guy who could keep up with my reproductive libido (hey, that’s a joke, no emails!).
We start dating. I start cooking, cleaning, and bread winning. Daughter’s grades go up. Porch gets torn down and rebuilt. Ant and roach problem get zapped into oblivion. Many candle light dinners ensue. Much bliss as I begin to think that This Is It.
Then Exie gets cast in a TV show. Reoccurring character. Full season commitment. Most likely more. Sushi chef job goes bye-bye and so does Exie who flies home on the weekends. I hadn’t moved in but I do now because I don’t want daughter to be a latch-key kid. After a month, then two, I decide maybe we should stop renting and buy a place. Safer neighborhood. Little bit bigger. Exie agrees. I search and I buy. My earnest money and the loan in my name. Daughter and I move.
Exie starts to skip coming home on weekends. Exie starts to call Daughter but not me. Hm.
Exie comes home. It has been two weeks. Smiles. Knock out smile. Kisses me. Knock out kiss. Then says, “We need to talk about what you’ve been eating.” Snorts and walks into the kitchen to get a beer.
Okay.
Exie comes home. Candles are lit. Chicken marsala with capers. Garden vegetables. Rice and mushrooms. I’ve been prepping and cooking for three hours. Even bought a bottle of excellent red wine (though I don’t drink). Daughter is thrilled with helping and all the wonderful smells filling the house. Chocolate mousse for dessert. Exie says, “Good God, what’s that smell? Come on, Daughter, let’s go grab a burger.” Loyal daughter runs to Exie’s side and before I can move, standing in the middle of the dining room like an idiot, I hear Exie’s car roar to life and off they go.
Fine.
Exie comes home. I’ve been kinda stressed about the relationship. Raising a teen-ager alone is hard. Looking me up and down over the rim of a RedBull, Exie comments, “You know, if you keep dropping weight the first thing to go will be your t*** and a**, and that would be a God d*** shame.”
Done. These, of course, are only the *publishable* stories. And yet I felt devastated and betrayed when I was dumped. Why is it that American girls allow ourselves to be beaten up like that? What is that *about?!*
Fast forward and resume playing the phone call.
“You have some gall calling me,” I find myself saying with an incredibly steady and very angry voice. “After everything you’ve said to me, all the ugly, hateful, misogynistic things you’ve done, I’m stunned you could even *fantasize* that it’s okay to call me. I don’t harbor a single kind or forgiving thought toward you – maybe, like, twenty years in the future, when I’m laying next to some gorgeous creature and our kids are curled up with us, maybe then I’ll be able to wish you weren’t tied to a concrete block and dropped into the sea! But that’s not now. It’s not even near now. Now is when I’m still feeling that you have a serious social apathy thing going on where you think it’s a-o-k to get close to someone, find out all their little hidden insecurity buttons and then push every one of them just to watch someone break. I don’t feel sorry for you but I feel sorry for anyone with you, including your daughter, and I feel sorry that I allowed myself to be blind to your nature for so long!” I pause and remember to breathe. Exie sighs. I scream, “Are you still there?! What kind of idiot would stay on the phone through all that?!”
“Look,” Exie sighs again. “Besty and I aren’t getting along so well and I was just wondering, you know, if you were available.”
For a moment I am utterly and completely and unbelievably speechless. Then, “No. I’m not available. I’m sleeping with my publisher.”
And I hang up.
LOL. Forgive me, Jennifer, I just had to do it.
E.J.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
If You’re a Hypocrite Raise Your Hand
Here’s my post from the Mardi Gras 3000 forum:
“Subject: Prepping Your Deck
“Unlike other CCGs and exactly like the best table-top gaming props and other cardstock models, the Mardi Gras 3000 Starter Deck and all the boosters need to be prepped. As I wrote in the sourcebook and in my blog, this shouldn't be a big deal for the gamer set who enjoy painting their Warhammer figures before a big game or building a scale model of the Death Star
“The cards ship in 9 x 12 sheets (they're 2.5 x 2.5 each) with clear, white cut lines. They're easy to cut apart--trust me. I've prepped more than fifty decks myself (my record is twenty minutes). After the cutting is done, you punch holes with a standard hole punch (the round kind) wherever you see a white circle. The whole thing is fast and easy. And, of course, you only have to prep a deck once.
“The MG3K Starter Deck comes with a Standard Gaming Board (purple on black ships with the SD but other colors are available for very inexpensively). The Deluxe Gaming Board is very expensive but it is what I use. The Deluxe is one piece, 21 x 21, high gloss, laminated. The Standard, though not as shiny, is just as good for play however. It comes with the SD in four pieces. Simple cut out the four big squares and lay them together. Instant 21 x 21 board. I like to slap four little pieces of tape on the back of the board pieces to hold them tight but this is required.
“Personally, I would prep my new deck before my friends arrive to play just so there's no wait on the fun beginning.
“So, just so we're all clear, the things you'll need are:
“Scissors
Hole punch
Six sided die (d6) -- one per player is optional
Pennies (one per player) or another type of coutner
Roll of tape (optional)
“Thanks everyone!”
I’m asking people to do something no other CCG publisher or designer has ever asked them to do. Basically, build your deck yourself. That kinda sucks, no? With other CCGs you just rip off the shrink wrap with your teeth, shuffle, deal and play. With Mardi Gras, you rip off the shrink wrap with your teeth (you beast), cut out the cards, punch some holes, shuffle, deal and play. You only have to “prep” your deck once, of course, but still, this is pretty darn different than the norm.
The decks ship as “Flat Decks” in sheets of cards. Those sheets have skinny white cut lines. Snip, snip. Then there’s these white circles. Punch, punch. Voila! You have nifty square cards with round little holes. Slices of kick-butt futuristic Swiss cheese... uh... or a cool deck of ninetyplus cards good to go.
I don’t think of it as such a big deal but I know that others will so I am kinda stuck on it for a while. I keep thinking about the whole OGL argument. You know, most of role-playing games are based on the OGL operating system which is basically the old D&D system. So you can go pick up an all new game (the world, setting and adventures) but already know all the rules and how to play. It makes everything easy for everyone.
Same deal with the Deckmaster system of playing a CCG, right? You can pick from lots of different settings – Pokemon, vampires, wizards, whatever – but the basic system of tapping and paying with energy cards etc is the same and familiar.
I like to buy OGL games. Okay. Actually, I *only* buy OGL games. I’ll buy *any* CCG but that’s only because I’m a CCG junkie. But I won’t even pick up a RPG unless it has the nifty little d20 or OGL icon stamped on the cover. I’m raising my hand. I’m a hypocrite. I’ll only buy OGL but I’m asking everyone to accept prepping a deck as a given and learn the Stacked system to boot.
I am such a punk.
Does it make it any better if I say “please?” How about “pretty please?” Okay, okay. I’ll do a strip dance. Hang on a sec while I prep the strips.
E.J.
“Subject: Prepping Your Deck
“Unlike other CCGs and exactly like the best table-top gaming props and other cardstock models, the Mardi Gras 3000 Starter Deck and all the boosters need to be prepped. As I wrote in the sourcebook and in my blog, this shouldn't be a big deal for the gamer set who enjoy painting their Warhammer figures before a big game or building a scale model of the Death Star
“The cards ship in 9 x 12 sheets (they're 2.5 x 2.5 each) with clear, white cut lines. They're easy to cut apart--trust me. I've prepped more than fifty decks myself (my record is twenty minutes). After the cutting is done, you punch holes with a standard hole punch (the round kind) wherever you see a white circle. The whole thing is fast and easy. And, of course, you only have to prep a deck once.
“The MG3K Starter Deck comes with a Standard Gaming Board (purple on black ships with the SD but other colors are available for very inexpensively). The Deluxe Gaming Board is very expensive but it is what I use. The Deluxe is one piece, 21 x 21, high gloss, laminated. The Standard, though not as shiny, is just as good for play however. It comes with the SD in four pieces. Simple cut out the four big squares and lay them together. Instant 21 x 21 board. I like to slap four little pieces of tape on the back of the board pieces to hold them tight but this is required.
“Personally, I would prep my new deck before my friends arrive to play just so there's no wait on the fun beginning.
“So, just so we're all clear, the things you'll need are:
“Scissors
Hole punch
Six sided die (d6) -- one per player is optional
Pennies (one per player) or another type of coutner
Roll of tape (optional)
“Thanks everyone!”
I’m asking people to do something no other CCG publisher or designer has ever asked them to do. Basically, build your deck yourself. That kinda sucks, no? With other CCGs you just rip off the shrink wrap with your teeth, shuffle, deal and play. With Mardi Gras, you rip off the shrink wrap with your teeth (you beast), cut out the cards, punch some holes, shuffle, deal and play. You only have to “prep” your deck once, of course, but still, this is pretty darn different than the norm.
The decks ship as “Flat Decks” in sheets of cards. Those sheets have skinny white cut lines. Snip, snip. Then there’s these white circles. Punch, punch. Voila! You have nifty square cards with round little holes. Slices of kick-butt futuristic Swiss cheese... uh... or a cool deck of ninetyplus cards good to go.
I don’t think of it as such a big deal but I know that others will so I am kinda stuck on it for a while. I keep thinking about the whole OGL argument. You know, most of role-playing games are based on the OGL operating system which is basically the old D&D system. So you can go pick up an all new game (the world, setting and adventures) but already know all the rules and how to play. It makes everything easy for everyone.
Same deal with the Deckmaster system of playing a CCG, right? You can pick from lots of different settings – Pokemon, vampires, wizards, whatever – but the basic system of tapping and paying with energy cards etc is the same and familiar.
I like to buy OGL games. Okay. Actually, I *only* buy OGL games. I’ll buy *any* CCG but that’s only because I’m a CCG junkie. But I won’t even pick up a RPG unless it has the nifty little d20 or OGL icon stamped on the cover. I’m raising my hand. I’m a hypocrite. I’ll only buy OGL but I’m asking everyone to accept prepping a deck as a given and learn the Stacked system to boot.
I am such a punk.
Does it make it any better if I say “please?” How about “pretty please?” Okay, okay. I’ll do a strip dance. Hang on a sec while I prep the strips.
E.J.
Monday, October 16, 2006
The Good Ole Tube
What is everybody watching this year? The new shows have pretty much all unfurled and new seasons of favorites have begun. I’m a SF junkie (no surprise right?) so this is like my dream year. Of course, I’m not stupid enough to think all the shows I love will last. I mean, the Big Bad TV Godlings only let me have “Joan of Arcadia” for two seasons. (Critiques said it was “getting too dark.” Uh. Sorry that real life was hard to watch... even with a little walkin’ and talkin’ with God rolled in.)
Here’s my picks for the new season. Enjoy or skip. Your choice.
Jericho
It had me from the mushroom cloud. That little doe-eyed boy standing on top of the roof, his round little eyes half-hidden by bangs. Hello. Yep. That would be most of us adults if we saw that flower of destruction in the near distance. The rainstorm rolling in a day later? There’s suspense. Oh, and the night road littered with dead crows? Nice touch. Eerily. They who fly also fall. I don’t think this show will last though (see reason “Joan of Arcadia” was cancelled above). Which will make me very sad... and very glad I record them to DVD-R.
Shark
Can’t stand crime shows. Have never watched more than a handful of epis of any courtroom drama or procedural. Am disgusted by the justifying of violence as drama that is almost every crime show out there. But I cannot – simply cannot! -- *not* watch a show starring James Woods. Watch one epi. Any epi. I can’t take my eyes off him. “I eat prosecutors for breakfast. They’re my main source of fiber,” he quips, and you almost think he’s serious. But put him up against his sixteen year old daughter’s desire for love-yet-independence and he has met his match. Also, Jeri Ryan is always excellent. She truly plays flawlessly. Must be a joy for such an incredible team to work together.
Heroes
Funny. Melodramatic. Little details. Personal dramas. Big conspiracies. Big ideas. Escapism. Social commentary. Pop culture candy. Dream come true fantasy. A fun show to watch. Depth without being too deep. Watched the premiere with my best friend and editor Cris. She exclaimed over the credits, “That’s the best show this year!” I can’t love it that much... yet... but it is a neat idea with great characters and lots and lots of potential.
Returning Favorites: Lost (been hooked from season one, epi three – actually thought the first two sucked), and Battlestar Galactica (Two words: Mary McDonnell).
E.J.
Here’s my picks for the new season. Enjoy or skip. Your choice.
Jericho
It had me from the mushroom cloud. That little doe-eyed boy standing on top of the roof, his round little eyes half-hidden by bangs. Hello. Yep. That would be most of us adults if we saw that flower of destruction in the near distance. The rainstorm rolling in a day later? There’s suspense. Oh, and the night road littered with dead crows? Nice touch. Eerily. They who fly also fall. I don’t think this show will last though (see reason “Joan of Arcadia” was cancelled above). Which will make me very sad... and very glad I record them to DVD-R.
Shark
Can’t stand crime shows. Have never watched more than a handful of epis of any courtroom drama or procedural. Am disgusted by the justifying of violence as drama that is almost every crime show out there. But I cannot – simply cannot! -- *not* watch a show starring James Woods. Watch one epi. Any epi. I can’t take my eyes off him. “I eat prosecutors for breakfast. They’re my main source of fiber,” he quips, and you almost think he’s serious. But put him up against his sixteen year old daughter’s desire for love-yet-independence and he has met his match. Also, Jeri Ryan is always excellent. She truly plays flawlessly. Must be a joy for such an incredible team to work together.
Heroes
Funny. Melodramatic. Little details. Personal dramas. Big conspiracies. Big ideas. Escapism. Social commentary. Pop culture candy. Dream come true fantasy. A fun show to watch. Depth without being too deep. Watched the premiere with my best friend and editor Cris. She exclaimed over the credits, “That’s the best show this year!” I can’t love it that much... yet... but it is a neat idea with great characters and lots and lots of potential.
Returning Favorites: Lost (been hooked from season one, epi three – actually thought the first two sucked), and Battlestar Galactica (Two words: Mary McDonnell).
E.J.
Saturday, October 14, 2006
What’s Cookin’, Mama?
I never mind the coming of autumn, the season made as a chilly little excuse to snuzzle under four generations of family quilts patched with memories – my childhood, my parents’ courtship, and other bits of cloth that have long ago become arcane, the alchemy of legacy changing them forever.
Winter is always for work in our household. There’s a lot of cooking and visiting and telling of stories and playing of games. Engagements are traditionally made in the winter. Babies are conceived. Projects are begun. Goals are achieved. But more than any thing else, there’s an enormous amount of eating.
My mother is a serious and intense woman with a very strong sense of loyalty to family and friends and very specific feelings about pretty much every issue in the world. She has an articulate and sharply justified opinion about, basically, everything and everyone. She’s spooky into anything from stocks to politics to religion to biotechnology. She was always the mom that the other moms called with problems. I never saw her stumped. Her mother, my grandmother Raye’sol, was the only person who could rattle her and Grandmother took great pleasure in doing so (often winking at me in the process). Grandmother knew that I, in turns, admired and butted heads with my mother, and was always trying to prove that I should choose my own path by showing me that my mother’s path wasn’t as perfect as it appeared. In the end, I learned that neither one of them were infallible and that both of them are a proud legacy for me to follow.
One of the areas where my mother did and continues to excel above all others in my family is in the kitchen. While she’s quoting politicians and sharing her own foreign policies, she can create a meal that is unforgettable. I’ve asked her again and again to do a cookbook with Windstorm but she refuses to write any recipe down. “I cook with what I have,” she tells me firmly, implying that nothing ever goes to waste and every ingredient is precious.
I have started to secretly write down some of her most successful dishes just so I can entertain friends myself (when she doesn’t insist on cooking) and I thought I might share some of my favorites here because a blog is such a safe and secret place. If you try these out and discover, as I have, that they are the tastiest treats under the sun, please credit my mom when you share the recipe, okay? Her name is Pahmela Angel (said Pah – Me – La, though lots of people mispronounce it “Pamela” or call her “Pam” which she puts up with but which my father and I can’t stand).
Here’s her absolute basics that just so happen to be three of my absolute favorites:
“Sunday Morning Satay”
a recipe by Pahmela Angel (as shamelessly stolen by her daughter E.J. Angel)
3 cups sweet white rice, cooked
3 oz coarsely chopped maple sauage
1 cup creamy soynut butter with honey (tastes like peanut butter)
1 cup dark raisins
¾ cup plain soymilk
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1 teaspoon nutmeg
¼ teaspoon all spice
½ teaspoon cayenne
1 teaspoon chili pepper flakes
2 teaspoons sugar
Place all ingredients, in the order listed above, in a pre-heated, lightly buttered (Safflower margarine) frying pan and fold into each other until the mixture is uniformly distributed and golden brown from the melting of the soynut butter. Heat to desired temperature – should be warm throughout – and serve. Feeds three.
“Coffee in the Morning, Coffee in the Evening”
a recipe by Pahmela Angel (as shamelessly stolen by her daughter E.J. Angel)
4 tablespoons freshly ground espresso roast
(Mom uses Starbucks French Roast)
1 teaspoon cinnamon
½ teaspoon nutmeg
Using a Bialetti Mocha Express stovetop espresso maker (9 oz) – or, if you must, a French Press – brew the above mixture. If using a French Press, steep for four minutes.
“Rice Pudding aka The Ultimate Comfort Food”
a recipe by Pahmela Angel (as shamelessly stolen by her daughter E.J. Angel)
3 cups sweet white rice, cooked
1 ½ cup dark raisins
1 1/2 cup plain soymilk
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1 teaspoon nutmeg
¼ teaspoon all spice
1 tablespoon sugar
Cook all ingredients in a pot until smooth and hot. Serve immediately. A pinch of extra cinnamon on top after spooned into bowls gives this perfect “comfort” food an earthy and natural flavor that will make and later inspire wonderful memories.
E.J.
Winter is always for work in our household. There’s a lot of cooking and visiting and telling of stories and playing of games. Engagements are traditionally made in the winter. Babies are conceived. Projects are begun. Goals are achieved. But more than any thing else, there’s an enormous amount of eating.
My mother is a serious and intense woman with a very strong sense of loyalty to family and friends and very specific feelings about pretty much every issue in the world. She has an articulate and sharply justified opinion about, basically, everything and everyone. She’s spooky into anything from stocks to politics to religion to biotechnology. She was always the mom that the other moms called with problems. I never saw her stumped. Her mother, my grandmother Raye’sol, was the only person who could rattle her and Grandmother took great pleasure in doing so (often winking at me in the process). Grandmother knew that I, in turns, admired and butted heads with my mother, and was always trying to prove that I should choose my own path by showing me that my mother’s path wasn’t as perfect as it appeared. In the end, I learned that neither one of them were infallible and that both of them are a proud legacy for me to follow.
One of the areas where my mother did and continues to excel above all others in my family is in the kitchen. While she’s quoting politicians and sharing her own foreign policies, she can create a meal that is unforgettable. I’ve asked her again and again to do a cookbook with Windstorm but she refuses to write any recipe down. “I cook with what I have,” she tells me firmly, implying that nothing ever goes to waste and every ingredient is precious.
I have started to secretly write down some of her most successful dishes just so I can entertain friends myself (when she doesn’t insist on cooking) and I thought I might share some of my favorites here because a blog is such a safe and secret place. If you try these out and discover, as I have, that they are the tastiest treats under the sun, please credit my mom when you share the recipe, okay? Her name is Pahmela Angel (said Pah – Me – La, though lots of people mispronounce it “Pamela” or call her “Pam” which she puts up with but which my father and I can’t stand).
Here’s her absolute basics that just so happen to be three of my absolute favorites:
“Sunday Morning Satay”
a recipe by Pahmela Angel (as shamelessly stolen by her daughter E.J. Angel)
3 cups sweet white rice, cooked
3 oz coarsely chopped maple sauage
1 cup creamy soynut butter with honey (tastes like peanut butter)
1 cup dark raisins
¾ cup plain soymilk
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1 teaspoon nutmeg
¼ teaspoon all spice
½ teaspoon cayenne
1 teaspoon chili pepper flakes
2 teaspoons sugar
Place all ingredients, in the order listed above, in a pre-heated, lightly buttered (Safflower margarine) frying pan and fold into each other until the mixture is uniformly distributed and golden brown from the melting of the soynut butter. Heat to desired temperature – should be warm throughout – and serve. Feeds three.
“Coffee in the Morning, Coffee in the Evening”
a recipe by Pahmela Angel (as shamelessly stolen by her daughter E.J. Angel)
4 tablespoons freshly ground espresso roast
(Mom uses Starbucks French Roast)
1 teaspoon cinnamon
½ teaspoon nutmeg
Using a Bialetti Mocha Express stovetop espresso maker (9 oz) – or, if you must, a French Press – brew the above mixture. If using a French Press, steep for four minutes.
“Rice Pudding aka The Ultimate Comfort Food”
a recipe by Pahmela Angel (as shamelessly stolen by her daughter E.J. Angel)
3 cups sweet white rice, cooked
1 ½ cup dark raisins
1 1/2 cup plain soymilk
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1 teaspoon nutmeg
¼ teaspoon all spice
1 tablespoon sugar
Cook all ingredients in a pot until smooth and hot. Serve immediately. A pinch of extra cinnamon on top after spooned into bowls gives this perfect “comfort” food an earthy and natural flavor that will make and later inspire wonderful memories.
E.J.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Friends with Benefits
You wanna get all interactive with me, or what, baby? So check this out:
The Mardi Gras 3000 Starter Deck ships with six Level One cards (one for each character). These cards allow your character one (Level *One*) attempt to hit or defend in battle. This is referred to as the character’s constitution score. On a Level One card is six white spaces. Every time you beat another player, that player signs and dates your card. When all six spaces are signed and dated, you can swap your Level One card for a Level Two card and your character will then be granted *two* attempts to attack or defend in battle (and so on up to Level Six). You have to keep your Level One card in your stack (at the back) to prove that you’ve earned your level. You’ll also have to show your various level cards before entering a character stack in an official tournament.
Now here’s the rub:
Players don’t sign their names. They aren’t allowed to. They have to sign their Mardi Gras 3000 forum handle. Signing up for the forum is totally free, of course, and it takes literally two minutes (often less). We never use your email address for anything (we don’t sell or rent addresses; we don’t even contact you ourselves). So it’s risk free. When you show up for a tournament (either in the real world or the virtual world) your level cards will be checked against the forum member list. Forum members because the official players of the game.
There are other benefits, too. All forum members who ordered the game before October 1, 2006, got a free pair of scissors and a hole punch sent with their Starter Deck. Any forum member who ordered the Starter Deck and one of each booster got a free Deluxe Board. Just some smooth little thank yous.
Forum members will receive discounts and rare cards not available to anyone else, including an autographed “Eye” card which grants a +2 Presence Skill. They’ll be credited by handle (and name, if they wish) for their Mardi Gras ideas used in the sourcebook and they’ll have direct access to me – the boosters they want are the boosters I’ll do. I’ll even be sending out gold-plated d6 to really amazing players who post incredible games.
And did I mentioned the spicy online RPG that’s running right now? It’s on hiatus between October 10 and October 24 so you have just enough time to catch up (and get ready to read on or join in on the 25th).
Mardi Gras 3000 is all about the interactive universe, right? So why are you reading my blog all alone at midnight? Why aren’t you chatting me up about which is better, brown or black leather jackets? Or whether the T1000 shimmys to the left over 75? Huh? Come on, baby. Let’s talk about everything you can roll a d6 to determine ;)
E.J.
P.S. I miss you, forum friends! I’m away with my editor and a bunch of the play-testers until the 25th of October. I’m sending in my blogs by email but I miss you guys on the forum! Can’t wait to catch up!!
The Mardi Gras 3000 Starter Deck ships with six Level One cards (one for each character). These cards allow your character one (Level *One*) attempt to hit or defend in battle. This is referred to as the character’s constitution score. On a Level One card is six white spaces. Every time you beat another player, that player signs and dates your card. When all six spaces are signed and dated, you can swap your Level One card for a Level Two card and your character will then be granted *two* attempts to attack or defend in battle (and so on up to Level Six). You have to keep your Level One card in your stack (at the back) to prove that you’ve earned your level. You’ll also have to show your various level cards before entering a character stack in an official tournament.
Now here’s the rub:
Players don’t sign their names. They aren’t allowed to. They have to sign their Mardi Gras 3000 forum handle. Signing up for the forum is totally free, of course, and it takes literally two minutes (often less). We never use your email address for anything (we don’t sell or rent addresses; we don’t even contact you ourselves). So it’s risk free. When you show up for a tournament (either in the real world or the virtual world) your level cards will be checked against the forum member list. Forum members because the official players of the game.
There are other benefits, too. All forum members who ordered the game before October 1, 2006, got a free pair of scissors and a hole punch sent with their Starter Deck. Any forum member who ordered the Starter Deck and one of each booster got a free Deluxe Board. Just some smooth little thank yous.
Forum members will receive discounts and rare cards not available to anyone else, including an autographed “Eye” card which grants a +2 Presence Skill. They’ll be credited by handle (and name, if they wish) for their Mardi Gras ideas used in the sourcebook and they’ll have direct access to me – the boosters they want are the boosters I’ll do. I’ll even be sending out gold-plated d6 to really amazing players who post incredible games.
And did I mentioned the spicy online RPG that’s running right now? It’s on hiatus between October 10 and October 24 so you have just enough time to catch up (and get ready to read on or join in on the 25th).
Mardi Gras 3000 is all about the interactive universe, right? So why are you reading my blog all alone at midnight? Why aren’t you chatting me up about which is better, brown or black leather jackets? Or whether the T1000 shimmys to the left over 75? Huh? Come on, baby. Let’s talk about everything you can roll a d6 to determine ;)
E.J.
P.S. I miss you, forum friends! I’m away with my editor and a bunch of the play-testers until the 25th of October. I’m sending in my blogs by email but I miss you guys on the forum! Can’t wait to catch up!!
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Sweet Dreams
Exhaustion lowers my lids and spins my head
one hundred eighty degrees inward
like flotsam down the funnel.
Sleep tugs
many insistent pairs of little hands
children of dreams, drawing me in to play.
What adventures await me?
Riding a carousel with midnight’s children.
E.J.
one hundred eighty degrees inward
like flotsam down the funnel.
Sleep tugs
many insistent pairs of little hands
children of dreams, drawing me in to play.
What adventures await me?
Riding a carousel with midnight’s children.
E.J.
Monday, October 09, 2006
Set It Free
I had no idea how passionate responses would be to Thursday’s post. There was a lot of loyalty and support that I was amazed by and truly appreciate. Thank you.
Among the messages of encouragement was one email that was unsigned. It said, simply, “Sorry about your troubles, E.J. But you should be glad that people love Mardi Gras enough to want to buy any card they can. Maybe you’ll appreciate your success more if you don’t make any money off it.”
Is this the “music should be free” argument? The “artists need to create for the people” position? I hear this a lot whenever I have a group of my peers (twentysomethings) over for a movie or a game. But here’s the problem: Who then supports the artists? How are their basic needs (food, home, etc) met? Or is the argument that artists (like athletes) are paid to much? $200 concert tickets. Million dollar advances.
Those numbers do seem big. Disproportionate to the work maybe. But here’s the rub: A musician tends not to have a career as long as your average Joe engineer or even school teacher (oh, there’s another blog right there). Public interests are changeable and fickle. The majority of musicians don’t have careers as long as, say, Madonna or Sting. The same is true for athletes but now we’re talking about physical burn out – injury, etc.
Now what about painters? This is a career path I know a little bit about. When was the last time you went to a gallery show? Did you see the prices? Four and five digits before the decimal, right? Why? Well, the two NYC galleries that did my only two shows took 65% of my asking price. Not quite as much coming to the painter, after all. Plus, canvas, paints, brushes (which I burn through), fix, etc. Oh, then there’s rent, food, and heat.
So let’s play. Now you say, “Too bad, so sad, E.J. Get a real job, baby! Go flip burgers to pay the rent, punk. Your art – your paintings, your game – should be free to the people. You capitalist pig. Get real. Where do you think the phrase ‘starving artist’ comes from?!”
That’s totally fair. It isn’t correct but it’s fair. I know very, very few artists who don’t have a “straight job” that they work 9 to 5. They do flip burgers or deliver packages or work construction. Some of them even have families. So they pay the bills. They don’t have a savings account. They’re thrifting it for school clothes and supplies. They’re strapped. Car breaks down? Rent goes up? Too bad. Living hand to mouth doesn’t really encourage creativity though. It doesn’t leave a whole lot of room for anything, actually.
So, just a little gentle request. The next time you lend that new novel to all twelve of your friends that are die-hard fans of the series, maybe encourage them to go buy a copy – even used at half.com or where ever, because someone, at one time, at least paid for those used copies. And as for downloading music via P2P... well, I don’t want to tell my “prime demo” to give a flying fig, but, you know, think about it, okay? Just make sure you aren’t downloading as opposed to buying used or on sale just because downloading is so much easier. Yeah, easier is always cheaper. But it’s not right.
E.J.
Among the messages of encouragement was one email that was unsigned. It said, simply, “Sorry about your troubles, E.J. But you should be glad that people love Mardi Gras enough to want to buy any card they can. Maybe you’ll appreciate your success more if you don’t make any money off it.”
Is this the “music should be free” argument? The “artists need to create for the people” position? I hear this a lot whenever I have a group of my peers (twentysomethings) over for a movie or a game. But here’s the problem: Who then supports the artists? How are their basic needs (food, home, etc) met? Or is the argument that artists (like athletes) are paid to much? $200 concert tickets. Million dollar advances.
Those numbers do seem big. Disproportionate to the work maybe. But here’s the rub: A musician tends not to have a career as long as your average Joe engineer or even school teacher (oh, there’s another blog right there). Public interests are changeable and fickle. The majority of musicians don’t have careers as long as, say, Madonna or Sting. The same is true for athletes but now we’re talking about physical burn out – injury, etc.
Now what about painters? This is a career path I know a little bit about. When was the last time you went to a gallery show? Did you see the prices? Four and five digits before the decimal, right? Why? Well, the two NYC galleries that did my only two shows took 65% of my asking price. Not quite as much coming to the painter, after all. Plus, canvas, paints, brushes (which I burn through), fix, etc. Oh, then there’s rent, food, and heat.
So let’s play. Now you say, “Too bad, so sad, E.J. Get a real job, baby! Go flip burgers to pay the rent, punk. Your art – your paintings, your game – should be free to the people. You capitalist pig. Get real. Where do you think the phrase ‘starving artist’ comes from?!”
That’s totally fair. It isn’t correct but it’s fair. I know very, very few artists who don’t have a “straight job” that they work 9 to 5. They do flip burgers or deliver packages or work construction. Some of them even have families. So they pay the bills. They don’t have a savings account. They’re thrifting it for school clothes and supplies. They’re strapped. Car breaks down? Rent goes up? Too bad. Living hand to mouth doesn’t really encourage creativity though. It doesn’t leave a whole lot of room for anything, actually.
So, just a little gentle request. The next time you lend that new novel to all twelve of your friends that are die-hard fans of the series, maybe encourage them to go buy a copy – even used at half.com or where ever, because someone, at one time, at least paid for those used copies. And as for downloading music via P2P... well, I don’t want to tell my “prime demo” to give a flying fig, but, you know, think about it, okay? Just make sure you aren’t downloading as opposed to buying used or on sale just because downloading is so much easier. Yeah, easier is always cheaper. But it’s not right.
E.J.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
Picasso for Hire
When I was in school (in NYC in the ’90s) I shared a loft apartment for a year with a gay male friend who went on to become a successful architect. I mention his sexuality because (1) he always did and (2) ironically, he had a girlfriend.
Justin believed that a person’s sexuality was a matter of genetics and that convenient gene also influenced a myriad of personality and life-skills predispositions. How a person – regardless or in spite of their genes – chose to live his or her life was another matter all together.
“What about love?” I once asked him over steak and French beans in mushroom sauce.
He finished chewing then, “What about it?”
“Can you be in love with a woman if you’re genetically supposed to be gay?”
Justin smiled at me indulgently. “Oh, E.J.. My biological attraction to men doesn’t mean I’m unable to maintain and enjoy a monogamous relationship with a woman.”
“It doesn’t?”
Justin laughed and tossed his white-blonde hair out of his bright blue eyes.
“What if there’s a lesbian,” I proffer. “Who has a deep desire to procreate and have a family?”
“Then she’s not a lesbian.”
Yes, Justin was a lot of fun. A great flashpoint igniter at parties and a loyal friend. Over the years, though, we lost touch. To be honest, I didn’t really buy his “genetics vs. conditioning” absolutes and, to be blunt, I had been raised that sexuality is a non-issue. Whether or not a person is a Christian, whether or not a person is loyal and respectful and speaks with God, one-on-one every day – these are the things that matter. Not who you happen to find attractive.
Then, today, my mom and I are at the mall in Silverdale. I need a suitcase for my trip and I want some flannel pjs because sleeping in boxers and a tank at a semi-stranger’s house just ain’t my speed.
We’re done shopping, sitting at a round table in the food court, chatting over coffee and a shared Cinnabon about how my father loves anything dubbed “American Food” (fried chicken, pizza, burger, mac ‘n’ cheese) and how we’re always wondering why we can’t get goat’s milk in our lattes.
“Angel? E.J. Angel?!”
I look up. Standing in an expensive suit is Amy, Justin’s long-ago girlfriend turned, come to find out, his ex-wife and mother of his two children (shared custody, very amicable, good child support). Without sitting down and without ever acknowledging my mother’s presence, Amy catches me up on six years of her life without pausing for breathe or ascertaining my interest level. Then, with a quick glance at her flashy wristwatch (I notice she still wears her large diamond wedding band) she excuses herself.
I’m about to turn and start laughing with my mom over this bizarre, rapid-fire interruption, when Amy spins back around and asks, “E.J., do you still paint?”
(Justin paid for my first galley show.) This is the first questions I’ve been asked since Amy confirmed my identity. “Well, I’m working in game design now but I still occasionally—”
“Nudes?”
I bite my tongue, then, “Sometimes.”
“How about dinner? Sunday. I have a place in Poulsbo. My parents will have the kids. Is that enough time for you to get what you need? Cost is no object. We can settle in cash. Here’s my cell number. Call me for directions.”
And, with a flurry of black combed silk and four inch heels, Amy is gone.
My mom laughs so hard that people turn and stare. “She wants you,” my always-blunt mother guffaws around the last bite of Cinnabon.
I know I’m blushing. Good thing I’m a brown girl. “I’m a painter-for-hire now?”
Mom is still laughing as we stand to go. She gives me a quick peck on the cheek and takes out her cell phone. “Let’s call your father. He can help you work out an hourly rate.”
I chase her to the parking lot with a plastic fork.
E.J.
Justin believed that a person’s sexuality was a matter of genetics and that convenient gene also influenced a myriad of personality and life-skills predispositions. How a person – regardless or in spite of their genes – chose to live his or her life was another matter all together.
“What about love?” I once asked him over steak and French beans in mushroom sauce.
He finished chewing then, “What about it?”
“Can you be in love with a woman if you’re genetically supposed to be gay?”
Justin smiled at me indulgently. “Oh, E.J.. My biological attraction to men doesn’t mean I’m unable to maintain and enjoy a monogamous relationship with a woman.”
“It doesn’t?”
Justin laughed and tossed his white-blonde hair out of his bright blue eyes.
“What if there’s a lesbian,” I proffer. “Who has a deep desire to procreate and have a family?”
“Then she’s not a lesbian.”
Yes, Justin was a lot of fun. A great flashpoint igniter at parties and a loyal friend. Over the years, though, we lost touch. To be honest, I didn’t really buy his “genetics vs. conditioning” absolutes and, to be blunt, I had been raised that sexuality is a non-issue. Whether or not a person is a Christian, whether or not a person is loyal and respectful and speaks with God, one-on-one every day – these are the things that matter. Not who you happen to find attractive.
Then, today, my mom and I are at the mall in Silverdale. I need a suitcase for my trip and I want some flannel pjs because sleeping in boxers and a tank at a semi-stranger’s house just ain’t my speed.
We’re done shopping, sitting at a round table in the food court, chatting over coffee and a shared Cinnabon about how my father loves anything dubbed “American Food” (fried chicken, pizza, burger, mac ‘n’ cheese) and how we’re always wondering why we can’t get goat’s milk in our lattes.
“Angel? E.J. Angel?!”
I look up. Standing in an expensive suit is Amy, Justin’s long-ago girlfriend turned, come to find out, his ex-wife and mother of his two children (shared custody, very amicable, good child support). Without sitting down and without ever acknowledging my mother’s presence, Amy catches me up on six years of her life without pausing for breathe or ascertaining my interest level. Then, with a quick glance at her flashy wristwatch (I notice she still wears her large diamond wedding band) she excuses herself.
I’m about to turn and start laughing with my mom over this bizarre, rapid-fire interruption, when Amy spins back around and asks, “E.J., do you still paint?”
(Justin paid for my first galley show.) This is the first questions I’ve been asked since Amy confirmed my identity. “Well, I’m working in game design now but I still occasionally—”
“Nudes?”
I bite my tongue, then, “Sometimes.”
“How about dinner? Sunday. I have a place in Poulsbo. My parents will have the kids. Is that enough time for you to get what you need? Cost is no object. We can settle in cash. Here’s my cell number. Call me for directions.”
And, with a flurry of black combed silk and four inch heels, Amy is gone.
My mom laughs so hard that people turn and stare. “She wants you,” my always-blunt mother guffaws around the last bite of Cinnabon.
I know I’m blushing. Good thing I’m a brown girl. “I’m a painter-for-hire now?”
Mom is still laughing as we stand to go. She gives me a quick peck on the cheek and takes out her cell phone. “Let’s call your father. He can help you work out an hourly rate.”
I chase her to the parking lot with a plastic fork.
E.J.
Saturday, October 07, 2006
Amen
When I’m feeling down, I usually want to be alone with God. I wanna go ride. I wanna feel the speed and the freedom that God made it possible for my body to feel when I’m traveling 70 mph with very little between me and the world. I feel so isolated in a car, insulated in a muffled, stifling kind of way. I want to get where I want to go on my own accord, or at least with as little help as possible.
However, sometimes, when I grab my helmet and stomp toward the front door, I hear a soft, baritone voice call, “E.J...?”
My dad is five foot seven which is an inch shorter than my mom. His skin is olive. His hair is brown and feathery and down to his shoulders. He’s slender and has brown eyes that are always smiling even when he’s serious. I’ve always kinda thought he looks like he could have walked with Christ, you know? I mean, he really lives as a Christian. He’s the first to forgive and understand. His heart is always about others.
Poulon (said Paul-Lon) never asks me what’s wrong. He just takes my hand and leads me to the kitchen and puts on the kettle. I’ll lean against the counter, all leather jacket and attitude, not ready to calm down or let go yet. He’ll just talk to me while he makes us coffee. Mostly, he tells me stories from when he was a boy. Often there’s something funny about my mother because they’ve always known each other.
My father believe he is the luckiest person on Earth. He feels blessed by the Divine. “Your mother was the most beautiful girl of all the girls. She was just like you – sharp and smart and confident. But she only had eyes for one person and that certainly wasn’t me.” He laughs. “I was a good runner and a kind boy but I was skinny and hairless and so terrified of your mother that I couldn’t look her in the eyes.”
I usually laugh about now. I know that my father’s mother use to brush his long hair and braid it with strips of leather. I know that once a neighbor said he looked like a young Jesus and was certainly as gentle. I know that my mother was a girl to pick fights and arguments and my father was a peace maker.
When my mother’s family decided to come to America she asked the love of her life to come with her. That person was not my father. But Solin said no. She didn’t want to leave her family’s farm. She didn’t want to come to America. She had lost a leg in an accident when she was a pre-teen and she felt that my mother could “do better.” That two young women trying to make a life and a family for themselves – even in America – would be impossible and full of sorrow. My mother was devastated. Solin said, with honesty, kindness and sincerity, “Poulon is a good man. He’ll be a good father to your children.”
My mother always laughs that she responded with, “Poulon who?” But I know (from Solin) that my mother said nothing. Solin tells that at that moment, she saw pain in my mother’s eyes for the first time. Solin turned away from her because she couldn’t handle that look and because she knew she’s give in and go.
Solin continues to be an important part of my family. Almost like another mom. In a lot of ways, she’s like a female version of my dad – faithful, gentle, calm, impossible to anger. She and my dad have long conversations in Armenian that are full of laughter.
Dad says, “When your world seems the darkest, that is when the Divine places an angel in your life. Selfless, kind. I am blessed among men, E.J., because God has blessed me with a fleet of angels, all when I needed them most.”
Then he hugs me and he pours my coffee. And he tells me a story where the main character is a goat or a pre-teen version of my mother, fifty years younger then now but just as steely and brilliant.
One act of kindness and selflessness created a chain of events that led to an incredible marriage, a deep and beautiful friendship between three people, and an atmosphere of fascinating history, respect, and faith that brought me up to be everything I am today. You may indeed be blessed, Daddy, but so am I. Thank you.
E.J.
However, sometimes, when I grab my helmet and stomp toward the front door, I hear a soft, baritone voice call, “E.J...?”
My dad is five foot seven which is an inch shorter than my mom. His skin is olive. His hair is brown and feathery and down to his shoulders. He’s slender and has brown eyes that are always smiling even when he’s serious. I’ve always kinda thought he looks like he could have walked with Christ, you know? I mean, he really lives as a Christian. He’s the first to forgive and understand. His heart is always about others.
Poulon (said Paul-Lon) never asks me what’s wrong. He just takes my hand and leads me to the kitchen and puts on the kettle. I’ll lean against the counter, all leather jacket and attitude, not ready to calm down or let go yet. He’ll just talk to me while he makes us coffee. Mostly, he tells me stories from when he was a boy. Often there’s something funny about my mother because they’ve always known each other.
My father believe he is the luckiest person on Earth. He feels blessed by the Divine. “Your mother was the most beautiful girl of all the girls. She was just like you – sharp and smart and confident. But she only had eyes for one person and that certainly wasn’t me.” He laughs. “I was a good runner and a kind boy but I was skinny and hairless and so terrified of your mother that I couldn’t look her in the eyes.”
I usually laugh about now. I know that my father’s mother use to brush his long hair and braid it with strips of leather. I know that once a neighbor said he looked like a young Jesus and was certainly as gentle. I know that my mother was a girl to pick fights and arguments and my father was a peace maker.
When my mother’s family decided to come to America she asked the love of her life to come with her. That person was not my father. But Solin said no. She didn’t want to leave her family’s farm. She didn’t want to come to America. She had lost a leg in an accident when she was a pre-teen and she felt that my mother could “do better.” That two young women trying to make a life and a family for themselves – even in America – would be impossible and full of sorrow. My mother was devastated. Solin said, with honesty, kindness and sincerity, “Poulon is a good man. He’ll be a good father to your children.”
My mother always laughs that she responded with, “Poulon who?” But I know (from Solin) that my mother said nothing. Solin tells that at that moment, she saw pain in my mother’s eyes for the first time. Solin turned away from her because she couldn’t handle that look and because she knew she’s give in and go.
Solin continues to be an important part of my family. Almost like another mom. In a lot of ways, she’s like a female version of my dad – faithful, gentle, calm, impossible to anger. She and my dad have long conversations in Armenian that are full of laughter.
Dad says, “When your world seems the darkest, that is when the Divine places an angel in your life. Selfless, kind. I am blessed among men, E.J., because God has blessed me with a fleet of angels, all when I needed them most.”
Then he hugs me and he pours my coffee. And he tells me a story where the main character is a goat or a pre-teen version of my mother, fifty years younger then now but just as steely and brilliant.
One act of kindness and selflessness created a chain of events that led to an incredible marriage, a deep and beautiful friendship between three people, and an atmosphere of fascinating history, respect, and faith that brought me up to be everything I am today. You may indeed be blessed, Daddy, but so am I. Thank you.
E.J.
Anonymous Caller
How is it that deep breathing crank callers always find twentysomething women home alone as opposed to ninety-four year old men with tattoos and no teeth named Bruno? I mean, is there some code for finding our *unlisted* figging phone numbers?! Like divide 1980 by a prime number and – voila! – sexy chick will be found!
I’m stepping out of the shower tonight – no flying joke, here! – and the phone rings. After a nasty break up, I found myself living in a large house all alone until I invited my parents to move in with me (insane but wonderful). But tonight they’re at a friend’s home theater watching “Brokeback Mountain” (yes, I’m serious) and I’m home alone and due for some quiet time working on some new boosters.
So the phone is ringing, right? I’m toweling my hair. The stereo is playing “The Open Door,” the new Evanescence CD. I suspect the call is my mother deciding to share with me that she’ll never let my father pick the movie for “date night” again, and so I pick up the cordless with a jaunty, “Hey there!”
Silence.
Open line.
“Hello? Mom?”
Quiet. Then... a breath... another breath... another.
Hm.
I’ve always preferred the talkative types, so this isn’t really my speed. I hang up. Eeew. Weird. Creepy. Whatever.
I refuse to rush. I go about picking out my comfy work clothes – an ancient MTV tee and a pair of faded jeans. I braid my hair. I put on the kettle for hot water and grind some beans for a bold French press of java. Hey, it’s only 9 PM. Perfect time for an ole cup of –
The phone rings.
No way.
I consider letting the machine get it. But then I’m like, isn’t this *my* figging house? I mean, come on, people, right?! But then I think about this really ugly argument I once had with a close friend (Hi, Sarah! Do you still luv me?) about date rape and whether or not dressing and acting provocatively is truly “asking for it” and who is truly to blame and other evil and sharp issues like that. I think about my blog (you know, this one) and how I don’t censor myself and I have a lot of fun and I’ve been told that there appears to be a lot of sexual innuendo... especially for a Christian girl.
And the phone is ringing and I’m thinking, “Did I ask for this? Is this a message? Because I’m all saucy, is this what I deserve? To be semi-silently harassed by a stranger? Is this a wake up call to a mistake I’m making in my life? A divine call to redirect onto a straighter and narrower path?”
I pick up the phone.
“Hello?” I say, nervously. “God?”
Strangely, the caller hangs up.
Hm.
It must not have been mom. She would have loved being called “God.”
I’m such a kill-joy ;)
E.J.
I’m stepping out of the shower tonight – no flying joke, here! – and the phone rings. After a nasty break up, I found myself living in a large house all alone until I invited my parents to move in with me (insane but wonderful). But tonight they’re at a friend’s home theater watching “Brokeback Mountain” (yes, I’m serious) and I’m home alone and due for some quiet time working on some new boosters.
So the phone is ringing, right? I’m toweling my hair. The stereo is playing “The Open Door,” the new Evanescence CD. I suspect the call is my mother deciding to share with me that she’ll never let my father pick the movie for “date night” again, and so I pick up the cordless with a jaunty, “Hey there!”
Silence.
Open line.
“Hello? Mom?”
Quiet. Then... a breath... another breath... another.
Hm.
I’ve always preferred the talkative types, so this isn’t really my speed. I hang up. Eeew. Weird. Creepy. Whatever.
I refuse to rush. I go about picking out my comfy work clothes – an ancient MTV tee and a pair of faded jeans. I braid my hair. I put on the kettle for hot water and grind some beans for a bold French press of java. Hey, it’s only 9 PM. Perfect time for an ole cup of –
The phone rings.
No way.
I consider letting the machine get it. But then I’m like, isn’t this *my* figging house? I mean, come on, people, right?! But then I think about this really ugly argument I once had with a close friend (Hi, Sarah! Do you still luv me?) about date rape and whether or not dressing and acting provocatively is truly “asking for it” and who is truly to blame and other evil and sharp issues like that. I think about my blog (you know, this one) and how I don’t censor myself and I have a lot of fun and I’ve been told that there appears to be a lot of sexual innuendo... especially for a Christian girl.
And the phone is ringing and I’m thinking, “Did I ask for this? Is this a message? Because I’m all saucy, is this what I deserve? To be semi-silently harassed by a stranger? Is this a wake up call to a mistake I’m making in my life? A divine call to redirect onto a straighter and narrower path?”
I pick up the phone.
“Hello?” I say, nervously. “God?”
Strangely, the caller hangs up.
Hm.
It must not have been mom. She would have loved being called “God.”
I’m such a kill-joy ;)
E.J.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Counterfeit My Heart
I can’t believe I’m even having to write this blog. I was expecting maybe a small post on the forum months from now but not this. Robbery is the highest form of flattery? Spare me.
I appears that some of my more zealous (and entrepreneurial) play testers have kept their decks (which I might be able to look past... though they did sign an agreement to return them) long enough to sell singles to their local gaming stores or online. Not cool, folks. Grass roots buzz is one thing but selling Beta Deck cards is not okay. Here’s why:
1. It is stealing. You did not pay for the cards you are now profiting from. If you had purchased the cards, I would have no problem with you reselling them any where and to any who, you know?
2. The Beta Deck cards are set to a seven basis. The final game is set to a six basis. That means that the Beat Deck cards are not compatible. They will make characters that are too powerful to play fairly.
3. You were paid to play test in exchange for the agreement that you would return the Beta Decks. Did you return your check instead? Hm.
Okay. So, players out there? Be forewarned. There are false cards out there. Don’t get excited if you find a Mardi Gras 3000 Starter Deck in stores before October 10, 2006. The *real* decks ship on October 6. Here’s how to spot a Beta Deck (read: false) card:
1. The Grail has red wine or blood in it. The real Grail holds blue tears.
2. The URL on the back of any weapon, armor or character card must read:
www.windstormcreative.com/angel/ Also, the numbers are boxed in black.
3. There is basically no way to spot the difference between a Beta Deck or final deck Terrain and Lair card. Both Beta and final deck Terrain and Lairs can have either the above URL or www.windstormcreative.com/immortal/ Luckily, these cards are cross compatible.
It should go without saying that people shouldn’t sell or use tester cards. Likewise counterfeit cards (which can be created by anyone with access to a laser printer that can handle gloss cardstock or a quality print shop). I can’t stop you, of course, but I does suck for me if everyone is enjoying the game and I can’t pay my little old bills.
Thanks for looking for and only buying official cards, every one. It makes a difference.
E.J.
I appears that some of my more zealous (and entrepreneurial) play testers have kept their decks (which I might be able to look past... though they did sign an agreement to return them) long enough to sell singles to their local gaming stores or online. Not cool, folks. Grass roots buzz is one thing but selling Beta Deck cards is not okay. Here’s why:
1. It is stealing. You did not pay for the cards you are now profiting from. If you had purchased the cards, I would have no problem with you reselling them any where and to any who, you know?
2. The Beta Deck cards are set to a seven basis. The final game is set to a six basis. That means that the Beat Deck cards are not compatible. They will make characters that are too powerful to play fairly.
3. You were paid to play test in exchange for the agreement that you would return the Beta Decks. Did you return your check instead? Hm.
Okay. So, players out there? Be forewarned. There are false cards out there. Don’t get excited if you find a Mardi Gras 3000 Starter Deck in stores before October 10, 2006. The *real* decks ship on October 6. Here’s how to spot a Beta Deck (read: false) card:
1. The Grail has red wine or blood in it. The real Grail holds blue tears.
2. The URL on the back of any weapon, armor or character card must read:
www.windstormcreative.com/angel/ Also, the numbers are boxed in black.
3. There is basically no way to spot the difference between a Beta Deck or final deck Terrain and Lair card. Both Beta and final deck Terrain and Lairs can have either the above URL or www.windstormcreative.com/immortal/ Luckily, these cards are cross compatible.
It should go without saying that people shouldn’t sell or use tester cards. Likewise counterfeit cards (which can be created by anyone with access to a laser printer that can handle gloss cardstock or a quality print shop). I can’t stop you, of course, but I does suck for me if everyone is enjoying the game and I can’t pay my little old bills.
Thanks for looking for and only buying official cards, every one. It makes a difference.
E.J.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Industry, Oil, and Twelve-Dollar Popcorn
I was going to write about something else today -- namely my evolving plans to fly all over the country and pick the brains of some choice play testers -- but I just can't shake this pesky pest of an idea.
Okay. So it seems that we all accept that the development of electric, solar and other non-gas powered automobiles isn't really moving forward at lightning speed because of the oil industry's financial interest in traditional car manufacturing and vise versa. I mean, I understand that there are some design errors and limitations in non-gas cars that still need some serious research (whatever) but in an age when technological advances are made pretty much daily, wouldn't you think we could whip out a tasty little number that actually looks and runs like a traditional car?
Fine. I'm over it, right? After all, I'm not saying everyone should run out a buy an alternative car and I'm not saying I would. Giving up my T1000 would be like giving up my legs (and I do know that this attitude fights against the industry's willingness to go there). But, I'm just saying, the R&D is stalled because of joint interests.
So, last night I was sitting out on my deck, perched on the triangular little cat bird seat on one corner of the railing. Way, way below is the Puget Sound. I like to sit here and watch the ferries at night. Huge beasts peppered with lights, carrying their young across the black and silent crossing. This is my thinking time. This is where I contemplate life, death, negative-sum, and the process of learning. Yeah, I do live a kinda introspective life sometimes. Yes, I get just as many ideas when I'm riding, or clubbing, or foruming, but my cat bird seat is (almost) my favorite.
So I start thinking what a great shot those night time ferries would be to open a movie with. They can be symbolic of so many things. And I start thinking about how this friend of mine won a short screenplay contest and a distribution deal like four years ago but how she couldn't get her funding together to shoot the thing and the whole deal fell apart. I feel bad for her, kinda sick about it, and then I think about how she should move forward on her own now and release the film direct to DVD because every entertainment magazine is always saying how DVD is where the runaway sales are really made lately. Then I find myself asking, "What's with the movie industry these days, any way?!"
Folks aren't going to the theaters the way they used to. The tickets are over priced, the food is even more expensive transfat wrapped in cheap cardboard and glossy wrappers. The seats are cramped. The audiences are loud and rude (and pretty much uncontrolled and uncontrollable by theater staff). It's hard to find the films you really want to see -- you know, the indies, the thought-provoking ones -- and it seems the stuff that wins all those nifty Sundance and Raindance and Cloudance awards are always only in "limited run" which, let me tell you, doesn't include towns like Bremerton and Port Orchard which are where my "local" theaters are located.
Then there's that whole "digital" vs. "film” argument, which appears to be a leading reason why so many films are in limited figging release in the first place. Last time I checked, producing a copy of actual film – you know, not a digital files that can be beamed via satellite to thirty billion theaters at once but rather huge, heavy, reels of actual FILM – costs upwards from $1800 a feature. That can be cost prohibitive, no? Plus shipping. But, getting every theater set up to screen digital would be massive costs falling on the theater owners. Oh, what a problem!
The enterianment industry has so many shared interests and broken parts I not sure what we’ll see first: a solar car or a pleasant movie theater showing digitally delivered features.
In the meantime, we wind up building our own little theater in the rec room. Big screen TVs are getting bigger and cheaper. Surround sound systems that make me wonder if it’s live abound. Theater-style lighting (wrapping around the ceiling), extra-butter popcorn (jumbo bags are still $10 less than theater bags), and a plush couch for you and your girl, boy, buddy, whatever finish off the charm. All the wonders of the theater in the perfect environment. With enough friends over for the show you can even achieve that whole group-mind I-am-Borg effect. And a month after that blockbuster movie leaves the theater you have it all to yourself on high-def DVD for the price of less than two movie tickets.
Of course, you won’t get the unbridled excitement of Alanis Morisette going down on some dude in the back row... but, heck, some realism I can do without.
E.J.
Monday, October 02, 2006
Counting Down
I’m thinking about taking a few weeks of vacation to work out some questions I have about the game. My publisher is doing their annual beef – adding new distributors, amassing and transferring inventory, checking in with remote staff, gathering progress reports on on-going projects and reallocating end of the year resources and timelines. It sounds fancy but it basically means they shut down for two weeks then come back bigger. It’s like the biological growth cycle of a great alien life form. Only it’s, you know, two great women, their sassy, brilliant little kids, and two dozen scattered staffers.
Just before this deep cyber slumber time of growth and change, the Mardi Gras 3000 Starter Deck will ship. Ooo mama. Not good timing there, but, hey, I’m the one that delayed the ship date by three weeks.
I figure, well, while Windstorm is metamorphoses, I should get away and go sequester myself with a horde of crazy play testers and hash out some of the lingering questions I have about the game. Nah, I’m not talking about playability or prep-ability. I’m talking about things like: Should there be an edition of the game that plays without a game board? (For small spaces or faster play.) Should the Level cards only be legal in tournaments if signing players are registered at the MG3K forum? (To keep folks honest.) Is humor okay in MG3K? Are other religious angles?
Should I wait to ship the game until after Windstorm awakens on October 24?
I know the answer to that. No way. Too many people are waiting for the game. By this Friday, when the game literally packs and ships, we probably have broken the 12K ceiling. It seems incredible to me but I want to see those packages. I want to lay hands on them. Damn. I want to stick stamps and seal envelopes, you know?! That moment is my moment. Normally, authors aren’t allowed to be all up in the warehouse, touching on their books or games or whatever. I *begged* (you think I’m kidding?), I *bribed* (free childcare? dinner? poetry?), I batted my lashes and pouted and recited Shakespeare sonnets and Psalms (hey, some of those are kinda sexy, huh?). Finally Jennifer and Cris gave in. The address to the warehouse was mine. Come Friday, it’ll be just me, alone, with a bunch of pack-and-ship strangers, sending out my babies.
Come Hell or high water, this is it, baby. Something like 98% of the play testers – all ages, races, game experience -- loved the game. That has *so* set me up. May 40% hate the game so much you vomit marshmallows and throw it away. Go ahead and post nasty things on my forum (they’ll be deleted within minutes, of course, I have very loyal admins and mods) and allow your degust to spill out through ferocious typing filled with angry typographical errors. Break my spirit, use sarcasms and witticisms that make you fell big and accomplished and qualified. Then, when you’re through sucking up my universal bandwidth, allow the remaining 60% of the paying costumers to bask in the eerily light of the Clowns.
:::What’s that sound, baby? Did you lock the door?:::
E.J.
Just before this deep cyber slumber time of growth and change, the Mardi Gras 3000 Starter Deck will ship. Ooo mama. Not good timing there, but, hey, I’m the one that delayed the ship date by three weeks.
I figure, well, while Windstorm is metamorphoses, I should get away and go sequester myself with a horde of crazy play testers and hash out some of the lingering questions I have about the game. Nah, I’m not talking about playability or prep-ability. I’m talking about things like: Should there be an edition of the game that plays without a game board? (For small spaces or faster play.) Should the Level cards only be legal in tournaments if signing players are registered at the MG3K forum? (To keep folks honest.) Is humor okay in MG3K? Are other religious angles?
Should I wait to ship the game until after Windstorm awakens on October 24?
I know the answer to that. No way. Too many people are waiting for the game. By this Friday, when the game literally packs and ships, we probably have broken the 12K ceiling. It seems incredible to me but I want to see those packages. I want to lay hands on them. Damn. I want to stick stamps and seal envelopes, you know?! That moment is my moment. Normally, authors aren’t allowed to be all up in the warehouse, touching on their books or games or whatever. I *begged* (you think I’m kidding?), I *bribed* (free childcare? dinner? poetry?), I batted my lashes and pouted and recited Shakespeare sonnets and Psalms (hey, some of those are kinda sexy, huh?). Finally Jennifer and Cris gave in. The address to the warehouse was mine. Come Friday, it’ll be just me, alone, with a bunch of pack-and-ship strangers, sending out my babies.
Come Hell or high water, this is it, baby. Something like 98% of the play testers – all ages, races, game experience -- loved the game. That has *so* set me up. May 40% hate the game so much you vomit marshmallows and throw it away. Go ahead and post nasty things on my forum (they’ll be deleted within minutes, of course, I have very loyal admins and mods) and allow your degust to spill out through ferocious typing filled with angry typographical errors. Break my spirit, use sarcasms and witticisms that make you fell big and accomplished and qualified. Then, when you’re through sucking up my universal bandwidth, allow the remaining 60% of the paying costumers to bask in the eerily light of the Clowns.
:::What’s that sound, baby? Did you lock the door?:::
E.J.
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