Post 60

Do you like my original title? Since this is my sixtieth post, it fits, of course, but I was also going for that Hollywood/Pop TV feel--you know, "Studio 60" or just "300" or something. Like, maybe I should rename Mardi Gras 3000 to "3000" or "CCG #3000." I like that last idea because then it would be like I had 2999 other games.

Gotta tell you guys, if I had 2999 games, I might just take my royalty, you know? ;)

Work on the Second Generation of MG3K items won't begin until late April so right now I have a waiting time. It's actually really nice. Gille Hawkins has been named Managing Editor of MG3K Online and she's making (fast!) incredible changes to the system. She got a lot of feedback from the players (147 subscribers right now) and found numerous holes in our original expansion plans. One of the nice things about Gille: She a tech head that never makes you feel stupid. Gotta love that.

So...

What should I be doing now? I kept asking myself on Monday and Tuesday. I want to be fresh and positive when the MG3K work begins again. I want to be on the ball. I want to have crazy fast skills (that's what Jennifer told me I have to have). Solin said, "Do something else."

Ahh, yeah. Right. Something else. But what?

"Anything. But nothing about Mardi Gras 3000," she clarified.

Oh.

Hm.

Is that possible? I gave it a day. Today.

I have a new game. It's 9 PM. I started at 7 AM. And I have a new game. I'm breaking now to blog, eat chocolate, have a steak and some coffee, kiss my mom on the cheek, give Solin a hug, and retreat again to zip up a prototype on cardstock.

This... is... incredible. Baby, I am high. The kind of high that doesn't come from drugs or sex. The kind of high that lasts. The kind that makes you wanna pull a DiCaprio:

"I'm king of world!"

(Because "queen" of the world just doesn't cut it.)

E.J.

Hardcore Players

I know from my inbox that many of my blog subscribers are not MG3K players. Today’s blog is not for them. Here’s a little note for them (special): “Send chocolate.” ;)

For all of you MG3K players (which means you support me and my publisher by buying decks, cards, boards, etc.), this blog is all about the future of the game. The nitty gritty. The juice bits of news. So keep reading. You’ve earned an “in.” Oh. And, I love you more. So there.

Two weeks ago, the MG3K backer backed out for a sweet real estate deal. There has been some crummy stuff going on since then but nothing that held a candle to that. In the end, I’ll just have lots to whine out at www.FullofPigs.com on March 20 (you *know* I already ordered by hoodie). The truth of the matter is: Windstorm doesn’t usually fly with investors. Jennifer is a Virgo (control freak, fast thinker, smooth talker, smart cookie, tough as nails) and she pretty much doesn’t answer to anyone (except God). So losing Mr. Money wasn’t so much of a downer, I just would have appreciated a nice phone call from him instead of a cold email. But, hey, I’d rather have chocolate than flowers but who ever listens, right?

Because Mr. Money is all gone, Jennifer had to rethink what to do. I asked her (in my tiny, little girl voice) if she wanted to drop the game. She answered, “Don’t be an idiot and talk normally.” That snapped me out of it. She asked me to give her twenty-four hours to make a new game plan. One day later she called.

Here it is:

MG3K will grow over the next year to include a d20 rpg, a video game, a board game, an even better online version, an official, fully interactive website, and a card game (a one deck game, like Uno). Fiction feeds and published novels will be added to the line up. All of these supporting items will drive players toward the core game—the Mardi Gras 3000 Customizable/Collectable Card Game.

This is how Windstorm works: Create a body of supporting products around a core idea. It has kept them alive for 17+ years while dozens (literally) of other indie presses have folded. The plan for MG3K had been much simpler—publish the first wave of cards (the Limited Edition) and then, with the clout of Mr. Money and his money, pitch the game to a bigger, traditional game publisher. No way now.

I was honestly afraid that Jennifer would say, “I love you, sweetheart, but I’m a book publisher. I’m thirtysomething years old and I’ve been in this business 60 hours a week since I was sixteen. I don’t have any interest into morphing into a book and *game* press.” It’s an answered prayer that Jennifer sees every new hurdle as a new adventure. God bless her over-achiever soul.

None of the new MG3K items (with the exception of the online game—MG3K HSOL—which is now under the management of Gille Hawkins justonegrrlathotmaildotcom for more info) will launch until the Second Generation launches.

Second what?!

We’re now classifying products in the MG3K line in generations. Here's the definitions and when (and what) you should expect in the future:

First Generation products are what all of us have right now. A complete list is below. These products ship in 9 x 12 sheets. There have been three editions of the Starter Deck in the First Gen. The decks and boosters in the First Gen will sell out and then not be reprinted. The Challenge Boards, Standard Boards, Vinyl Board Cover, Boxes and Notebooks will stay in print in their current form. (Boxes will *not* be available through retail outlets.)

Second Generation products are what will be coming out in the summer of this year. This includes almost all of the First Gen products, repackaged with retail stores in mind. This means that the Starter Deck will be packaged smaller and will include a bound Player's Handbook. The dozen+ boosters will be grouped into "decks"—Terrapyre Expansion Deck, Celestial Expansion Deck, and the Universal Expansion Deck (inclusive cards). Expansion decks will come packaged with bound excerpts from MG3K fiction (cool!). Second Gen products will stay in print. See list way below. So, basically, the First Gen products will be boiled into concise decks.

Third Generation products will be packaged with retail stores in mind and will include all new products. This includes a series of Jump Boards, randomly packed boosters of Instants, themed Starter Decks, etc. A partial list of these products is way, way below.

I value Windstorm’s ability to be flexible. They are never rigid. They always seem to be able to morph and adapt. Don’t confuse this with weakness. Remember the adage of the best sword blade—it must have just the right amount of give.

FIRST GENERATION

Starter Decks
Starter Deck: First Edition (8x8: 76 cards and board)
Starter Deck: Second Edition (9 x 12: 110 cards)
Starter Deck: Third Edition (9x 12: 112 cards)

Celestial Boosters
Celestial Dreams Booster
Celestial Gold Booster
Celestial Royale Booster
Celestial Armor & Weapon Booster
Celestial Morph Booster
Celestial Flora Instant Card Booster
Celestial Single-Character Life Force Booster
Celestial Six-Character Life Force Booster

Terrapyre Boosters
Terrapyre MyPyre Booster
Terrapyre Visions Booster
Terrapyre Armor & Weapon Booster
Terrapyre's Companions Booster
Terrapyre Nightscape Booster
Terrapyre Prayers Instant Card Booster
Terrapyre Single-Character Life Force Booster
Terrapyre Six-Character Life Force Booster

Inclusive Boosters
Armor Booster
Skill Booster
Transportation Booster
Weapon Booster
Lair and Outpost Booster
Something Wicked Booster

Terrain Boosters
Terrain Booster: Road & Lava
Terrain Booster: Pines & Leaves
Terrain Booster: Snow
Terrain Booster: Rocks & Rubble
Terrain Booster: Grass, Soil & Swamp
Terrain Booster: Water Terrain & Bridge Instants
Terrain Booster: Water & Sand
Terrain Booster: Road & Oil
Terrain Booster: Roof Tops

Level Boosters
Level Combination Booster
Level One Booster
Level Two Booster
Level Three Booster
Level Four Booster
Level Five Booster
Level Six Booster

Expansions
Challenge Board: Brimstone
Challenge Board: Fast City

Boards
Clear Vinyl Board Cover
Purple Mist Board
Red Mist Board
Blue Mist Board
Green Mist Board
Pink Rays Board
Pink Graffiti Board

Boxes
Rock Trading Card Storage Box
Brick Trading Card Storage Box

Game Notebooks
Got Game? Game Notebook
Celestial Game Notebook
Terrapyre Game Notebook

SECOND GENERATION

Starter Deck: Fourth Edition
(5x7.5: 78 cards, player's handbook, and playing grid)

Celestial Expansion Deck
(5x7.5: 78 cards, bound excerpt from “Bloodlines”)
To include:
Celestial Dreams Character Booster
Celestial Gold Character Booster
Celestial Royale Character Booster
Celestial Armor & Weapon Booster
Celestial Morph Booster
Celestial Flora Instant Card Booster
Celestial Six-Character Life Force Booster

Terrapyre Expansion Deck
(5x7.5: 78 cards, bound excerpt from “Angelus”)
To include:
Terrapyre Edge Character Booster
Terrapyre Visions Character Booster
Terrapyre Armor & Weapon Booster
Terrapyre's Companions Booster
Terrapyre Nightscape Character Booster
Terrapyre Prayers Instant Card Booster
Terrapyre Six-Character Life Force Booster

Universal Expansion Deck
(5x7.5: 62 cards, bound excerpt from “TBA”)
To include:
Armor Booster
Skill Booster
Transportation Booster
Weapon Booster
Lair and Outpost Booster
Something Wicked Booster
Non-Player Character Booster
Prop Booster

Celestial Power Up Expansion Deck
(5x7.5: 180 cards)
To include:
Twelve Celestial Life Force Sets
Eighteen Level Card Sets

Terrapyre Power Up Expansion Deck
(5x7.5: 180 cards)
To include:
Twelve Terrapyre Life Force Sets
Eighteen Level Card Sets

Terrain Expansion Deck*
(5x7.5: TBA)
To include:
Road & Lava
Pines & Leaves
Snow
Rocks & Rubble
Grass, Soil & Swamp
Water Terrain & Bridge Instants
Water & Sand
Road & Oil
Roof Tops
4D Clover
Ice Tunnel & Snow
City Tunnel & Oil

*The Terrain Deck may be broken into several decks by theme.

THIRD GENERATION

Themed Starter Decks
TBA

Jump Boards
Junk Yard Dogs
Sewer Rats
Warehouse
Rumble!
Graveyard
Night Club
Arboretum

Challenge Boards
Deep Blue Sea Challenge Board
Space Station Challenge Board

Instant Boosters
Randomly packed groups of eight to twelve Instants. Booster type *may* be designated Terrapyre, Celestial and Universal... or they may not ;)

This is a lot of change and a lot of work, everyone. But I’m excited and hopeful and positive. Want to get more involved? Want to do layout, image selection, grouping, or...? Email me. I’m serious, okay?

E.J.

This Is Just to Say

I have finished
the cardamon
that was in
the cupboard

and which
you were probably
hiding
for guests

Forgive me
it was delicious
so wild
and so rich

in my
early morning
coffee
with your friend


E.J.

Tick Tock

Got a new pen today. So fine it allows me to write cursive when I’m printing, never picking up the pen, creating fine, interconnecting webs between each and every letter, word and line.

I am wasting breath to murmur that a keyboard will never replace this feeling, like another part of me, lost then found, the feeling of a new lover, companion, muse alight on my fingertips, resting in my hand. The possibilities are endless and she is beautiful.

There is a cup of coffee on my desk and a palette drying on the window seat. I last slept early Monday morning. I am thinking a lot. I am remembering.

I am wondering where you are.

I am glad you are near.

I am alone without you.

You are always within reach.

“If you stay so accessible you will never be respected.” Who told me that? It was in an email. A generic Hotmail account with a string of letters and numbers. I think it was spam. Randomly targeted cyber vomit.

If you could email Bill Gates or Donald Trump or George Bush and know that he’d read your message, what would you say?

It rained today, long and hard, and flooded my mind with thoughts of water. Bubble bathes, chi tea boiling, wet highways, drowning, baptism. I thought about the sterilization of humanity. The changing structure of everyday life.

I thought about falling in love. About spiritual responsibility. About whether or not the soul has memory before and beyond life here. I wondered why you once told me, filled with sorrow and in a dark car driving no where to see no one, that you didn’t believe in the soul.

I have more important things to do.

Like breathe. And sleep. Cook for a friend. Call my congressman.

And precisely because I have more important things to do, I will, instead, sit here and allow myself to be romanced by the simple, honest, satisfying movement of pen across paper. To be amazed by the truth that somewhere right now, in the darkness of this night, you are sleeping—or not—you who would do anything for me. You who seem God-sent. Because you see me fully and have turned me, like a marble, in your hand. I am just what I appear to be. I am who I say I am. I walk as I say I walk.

There is no luck. There is only Divine strategy.

Thank you. I love you.

I know.

E.J.

Ratbert

When I worked for a year as an intern for my now-publisher Windstorm Creative, one of the duties I pulled was "production." Imagine if you will the loud rumble of many giant machines, the scent of industrial adhesive and strong hydraulic lubricant. Imagine ear plugs and goggles, sweaty people crammed together and a break-neck pace. Now stop imagining and I'll tell you what it was really like:

I recently read on the B.G.D.F. (Board Game Designers Forum) that standard royalty is 5% on monies received. I get 15%. Actually, all Windstorm authors get 15%. Windstorm can do this because unlike what the drama-addicted idiots that run the supposed watchdog sites (read: sites where rejected authors get to complain and publicly get their mad on) insist, you don't have to have a freaking office in New York City to be a legit publisher. Founded in 1989, Windstorm didn't even have an office until 1999 and they've had regional and national bestsellers--books and games.

That office is beautiful but it's only 800 square feet. Literally surrounded--almost swallowed--by evergreens. Inside the ceiling towers at 20 feet and there's a cherry-wood catwalk across the back wall lined with books. The catwalk leads to storage on the left and the production room on the right. The central room is filled with soft, warm, auburn leather chairs and a couch around a heavy treasure chest-style table. A small green pellet stove warms the space... which includes two small white, silver spotted rabbits in a large enclosure. The room smells like pine and books and the antique typewriters that line another wall.

Go up the stairs to the catwalk and exit to the right. You're on a little landing now looking down the long production room. It's ten feet wide and twenty feet long. In houses a book binder the size of a small car, a general table, a hydraulic cutter with a 24 inch blade that 1.5 inch thick, a server, a laptop, and three massive printers. One person works in this room at a time. One person and one stereo. Cranked. The truth of the matter is, a shift on production is a cakewalk. A vacation. A dream come true job.

I can't tell you how many times, especially during my summer time there, that Jennifer (the *CEO* of the company!) flipped coin to see which one of us got to work production. Jennifer health isn't so good now, but back then she was in full-on boxing form and she's work for ten hours straight, bobbing to classic '80s and '90s rock and roll, in blue jeans and white tee, her braid bouncing against her back (when I watched her jealously from the landing). She still holds the records for the number of flawless books bound and trimmed in one day--602.

I was never so calm. I brought in a backpack full of CDs and wound up playing DJ for my ten hour shifts. I sang at the top of my lungs (because the machines *are* loud), played "drums" with metric rulers, and was known to time the cutter blade to the bass line.

One of my favorite things about the production room is that--day or night--the room is all windows and looks out on solid forest. Birch, pine, spruce, oaks. Raccoons. Deer. Bear. Greenmen. Jennifer's kids add to the wonderment because in the depth of these great woods is their homemade pirate ship play structure. Like little wild animals, those two play! "Argh!"

Production rules were very, very strict. You mess up a book? You pay for it at cost. Jennifer always said: "Work quickly and perfectly. I can do both; so can everyone else." She had no problems poking her head in and calling out, "Faster, E.J.! There's 500 more galleys waiting out here for you!"

Pinned to one of the windows, in the very bottom corner, was a "Dilbert" cartoon cut out from a newspaper. In it, Ratbert is sitting on the corner of a desk. The Pointy Haired Boss approaches. "In the short time you've worked in Quality Assurance, you've found a huge number of flaws in our prototype," says PHB to Ratbert. Ratbert smiles, "That's my job!"

PHB is furious, "You're destroying our schedule! We'll miss our deadlines. The entire project will fail and it's all your fault!"

"How is it my fault?" exclaims Ratbert.

PHB explains, "If a tree falls in the forest, and we've already sold the tree, does it have quality?"

"How many angels can dance on your head?" Ratbert counters.

This cartoon has been pasted to that window since the office was built in 1999. It shows so perfectly Windstorm's attitude: Print in small quantities, quickly and perfectly, because if, at any point, an error is found, it *will* be fixed. Jennifer would rather have a product delayed by months and have it be perfect, than have shoddy items with her company's name on them. Jennifer challenges us all to be Ratberts... and she's one mean Ratbert herself.

This year, she took it a step further. This year there will be an official Ratbert Award given to one staff member. To win it, you must not only catch a mistake but fix it. And *there* is the heart of my blog tonight :)

Jennifer calls it, "Errors without offers." This is the biggest sin at Windstorm. Find an error or problem but don't offer a realistic solution. At Windstorm, you not only have to be the perfect, positive, happy Ratbert but you also have to have the know-how, or know-who, to fix any problem you find. Oh! And you have to know the difference between a problem and a complaint. That was a big one for me. "A problem," Jennifer told me, through gritted teeth after realizing I'd wasted eight hours "fixing" something that, in truth, wasn't broken. "Is something that *more* than one person has."

I've been very lucky so have some pretty amazing Ratberts in my life. MG3K players and authors who find errors and fix them. Who point problems out politely and calmly and then talk with me about solutions, and offer of their time and knowledge. Gille, Launa, Chris, Lunah, Brianne, Cris, and, of course, Jennifer. "Mardi Gras 3000" is, after all, my *first* game. There is a learning curve. I'm far from perfect... no matter how good I look grooving to the music between the binder, the big silver file cabinets and the hydraulic cutter.

Thank you, Ratberts, for making my stomach drop every time I see an email from you. And I mean that in a good way... kind of ;)

E.J.

Gamer Grrl

When my publisher first asked me to create this blog, I wondered (aloud) what in the world I would write about. "Just write about your work day," I was told. "Testing die-rollers and new cards, trying out different sizes of packaging, reading countless articles by "industry professionals" who know pretty much nothing, nada, ziltch outside the cardboard box of the traditional, musty gaming industry that hit its ceiling so long ago that renaming "Park Place" makes the WSJ.

As all of you, my loyal, dedicated and tolerant readers know, I actually found quite a bit to talk about but little of it has had to do with the gaming industry and be, as a chick, in it. Mostly I write about what informs me, my games and my life as a designer. Mostly I try to talk with you as I would with a friend. Because, truth be told, not many friends will pay $16.99 plus shipping, plus boosters to hang with you. Most friends just ask for a freebie. Which makes all of you extra special... and worthy of more than thin, weak, pointless blogs about deciding whether or not the Starter Deck should ship with stack clips.

Okay. I know *some* of you want to hear about details like that but *most* of you don't. I mean, unless we're talking about the metallic green, pink and pink clips that are all shiny and punk and neo-black... then, really, how interesting can clips be? Unless, of course, they're holding up your twelve-card stack of Elijah and all her human companions and a bunch of modifiers and a Hummer. We can talk about *that* clip any time. It would be lavender. Duh.

Seriously, tonight I decided to write about gaming for once and for all. Specifically about the wonderland of Instants. Instant cards, in Mardi Gras 3000, make up the heart of Advanced Play. They elevate the game beyond the Basic Rules and shake everything up. According to how you play, hold, and stack your Instants makes and breaks your game.

Right now, on the market, are the first generation of Instants. Some Instants are only for Terrapyres. Some are only for Celestials. Some are inclusive (any character). The choices are pretty much balanced. But looming on the horizon is the second gen of Instants. A balance of all three types. What will they be? What will they do? How can they be powerful enough that players want to buy them but not so powerful that they are undefeatable?

Wait! Go back! First gen Instants. Are any of them useless? Any too strong? Do I see a recall or clarification in my future?

Baby, I need a bevy of writers in leather pants or Carnival masks telling me exactly what these elusive immortals need.

All during this brainstorming (which means while my brain storms around making a mess), I am haunted by the movement among the MG3K players: Luck or Learned? Some players say MG3K can be won on luck. Like, your four year old brother can whip your butt if he rolls high for movement and low for battle. Now this argument *almost* disappears in Advance Play but more on that later. Back to Basic Play...

So some complain about luck... after they've been unlucky a few times. And I worry, you know? I don't want the game to be all about luck. But now, about six months into the release of the game, I'm starting to get some very aggressive messages from "expert players." These are players who literally play several games a day. I mean, like they've played 1000 or 2000 games, seriously. Some of these players are undefeated. Does that mean they're very, very, very lucky?

Pip Anderson, winner of the "All Girls Tournament" (www.windstormcreative.com/angel/tournaments.htm) and a current front-runner in the March HSOL online tournament (www.mardigras3000.com), is undefeated and insists that this has to do with how you set the board and the paths you make and don't make for fast movement. She talks to me about finding the pathways in a preset boards, and looking for traps. She talks about how being aggressive is never a negative thing when you're playing a peer. She has a move for every possible die roll and every possibly moment. Good roll? Great. Bad roll? There are no bad rolls.

So...

Who do I ask about Instants? What kind of player do I cater to? Hardcore players like Pip? Casual players who feel that Instants remove/reduce the luck factor? Hm. These are questions that are fabulous to ponder with your ultra-cool mom and her childhood girlfriend over mocha ice cream. They are also perfect questions to impress a buff, closet-gamer red-head at a rave. But even though both these situation conversations (sit cons) are pleasant and fun, they don't answer the real question:

How am I going to create forty new Instants in thirty days?

Failure, darling, is not an option.

E.J.

Where Have You Been (All My Life)

It wasn’t supposed to be a date.

That said, when a certain kind of man (the kind that owns ten or eighty d20) sits across a small table from a certain kind of woman (the kind that knows what to do with ten or eighty d20), for ten hours, with nary a break, three pots of Turkish coffee, two six-packs of Coke, three pounds of beef jerky with cumin and a plate of hand-rolled dolmati with rice, yogurt and Greek olives, *things* might just happen.

Like long (in this case, one-sided) wistful gazes. Like leading questions. Like proposals of cohabitation.

But what if, like the song, you’re a grrl who just wants to have fun—and probably not the kind of fun that the song implies but rather the kind of fun that involves cards, dice and strategic thinking? What if your idea of fun is playing fourteen games of Mardi Gras 3000? What if, despite your penchant for raves and motorcycles, you don’t drug, drink or have casual sex?

I’ll tell you what, my friend: You get called a “geek” by a geek ;)

We weren’t alone on this “date,” of course. And this delightful, self-described “scrawny gamer guy” was a long-time family friend (though one I had never, personally, met before). We talked constantly while we played MG3K and he liked to pepper his sentences with phrases like, “seriously, anything I say that you like, just use it, take it, it’s yours—no credit to me, okay?” This kind of annoyed me and I told him so. He laughed and popped another Coke.

My mother, the forever elegant (and possibly immortal) Pahmela Angel, she of almost-undefeated Celestial fame, kept flitting in and out of the kitchen (where we were) on the cordless with Gamer Guy’s mom, no doubt. I never heard what she said but it was probably like this, “No, no, Doris, they don’t seem to be getting along in *that* way. Yes, I am starting to wonder if she even likes boys. I mean, she seems to like them well enough when she plays online games, you know? Yes, you’re right, maybe I should take her motorcycle away.”

That day and evening, as we played game after game, we talked about taking over the world with MG3K. Creating versions of MG3K in every single genre known to God and man and woman. Board game? Got it. Diceless, MTG-like play? Yep. Tabletop game with figures? All over it. Online Flash play? RPG OGL rules? Virtual world? Daily fiction feeds? Clothing lines? Jewelry? Virtual pets? Yes. You bet. Absolutely.

Nothing was fully fleshed out or even beyond white, skinny bones but it sure got me thinking BIG. And he only put his hand on my thigh once. For .0045 of a second. I have never heard a grown man say “Uncle!” so quickly.

The evening would actually have ended pretty well if it weren’t for my easel. Remember how I paint? Those nice commissions and stuff? Well, even when my parents decided to join me in Washington, I reminded them that the house was still *mine*--that means I can leave my stuff where I want it. And I want my easels kind of... well... everywhere.

Gamer Guy tripped. It was a twisted mess of skinny pine and, well, my skinny guest. We wound up at Harrison Hospital (in Silverdale because I like him more than to take him to HH Bremerton). From the screaming, Mom and I assumed it was broken but it was just a sprain (“Bad sprain!” I’m reminded, when I run this blog by Mr. Guy). What a night.

Oh. By the way. The final score was 10 to 4. My favor. Is that what they call “insult on top of injury”? ;)

E.J.

Gather No Moss

I used to be so laid back my parents thought I was on drugs. Okay. My father never thought I was on drugs but my mother wondered if I was an alien or adopted or somehow contained genes that had nothing to do with her.

My father ran a small, fine furniture store. First he worked under the owner--a huge man with a very white face and a very red nose--then he bought the business and worked under the wealthy people who bought his wares. I cannot count the times my parents would have heated discussions about that store--my mother insisting that my father did not deserve to be trod upon and my father repeated endlessly, "But the customer is always right, Pahmela."

My parents were not laid back (nor are they laid back now). They weren't reclined in anyway, actually. They were talkers and doers. They didn't roll with anything. Yes, like good Christians they accepted everything but they settled for nothing they could change with hard work. Even if it was an enormous amount of hard work. "God does for those who do for themselves," my mother was proud of coining, usually followed by, "Now, go (fill in the blank with anything near impossible), E.J.!"

I was the kid who got bullied at school and shrugged it off. The bullies would stop because my unaffected stare bothered them. I was the teen that dated casually, didn't really mind getting "dumped" or lied to. Hey. No big. A shrug. I diffused any high drama around me. No one ever told me to chill out... I was already carrying ice cubes.

With this ultra calm (hey! who said apathy?!) came an interesting bedfellow. I trusted people. Everyone. I was never suspicious. I was never hesitant. If I was invited to a party by a stranger (and you know I love to dance), I went. Alone. I never gave it a second thought. Want my cell number? Cool. Wanna meet up and go for burgers? Heck, why not?

What happened?

Life happened.

Those of you who know me now--through work or gaming or raving--know that I am so far from laid back I may have a steel rod tied to my spine. Yeah, I can still go dancing. I even still occasionally date--when I'm not buy dancing, or working, or painting--but the world looks differently to me now. It's still as exciting and delightfully dangerous and full of good and/or challenging surprises, but it's also full of ugly tidbits in the most unexpected places. These tidbits are never tasty and they always have teeth.

Who is to blame if a long time friend gives your phone number to a new friend who puts down her cell phone and a guys picks it up and gets your number and runs it through the reverse-directory and finds your house, where you live alone, without an alarm or a gun or a dog, and knocks on the door and introduces himself and you smile and he hits you and the next thing you know you're waking up on the floor and all your stupid valuables are intact but you aren't?

I believe that Camille Paglia would say I'm to blame. I've tried hard but I can't really disagree.

I start to see life through my mother's eyes. I start to see, yeah, you roll with it just the same (or you die) but you don't have to be *okay* with it. You don't have to just nod and shrug off every load of carpe diem that culture, fate, life, whatever throws at you. It is so freaking okay to get angry.

And you know what? If you think I'm only talking about women and rape and other issues like that, that have become so common they're powerless, toothless cliches (and that's the real danger, by the way), you're mistaken. I'm talking about so much more. I'm talking about the twentysomething man beaten down by his over-bearing girlfriend until not only is he completely emasculated but a nonhuman. I'm talking about the thirtysomething anyone working at a job that means nothing to them but bills getting paid with all hope and expectations tied entirely around what stranger wins another humiliating round in a reality TV show. I'm talking about the companymen and women who get a pink slip after forty years of service; the ignored and silenced parents of autistic children told again and again that their instincts are bogus because they aren't supported by the leading scientific research, and I'm talking about every other small, medium or large injustice that we've all told ourselves is okay, just part of life, not a big thing.

When is it okay to get angry?

Even Christ got angry.

My publisher has this cool Rabbit Atrium. A walk-in deal where you can check out these beautiful rabbits all running loose and very happy. Then some loose dog comes and kills them all. I told you all this tale before.

The State of Washington is taking the owner of the dog to court. Meanwhile, my publisher's mailbox is getting blown up and egged and tagged. Because *they* (my publisher) are the good people, right? They are the ones following the law. Paying their taxes. Playing by the rules. While their mail carrier and their neighbors say nasty things about them (to their faces and behind their backs). That kind of garbage wears on a good person. Heck, it wears on any person.

So what is the healthy way to get angry?

Don't tell me to mediate or connect with my inner infant or something. Talk to me about Christ flipping tables over and work me down from there. Talk to me about the sheer aggression I can channel into an eight- by twelve-foot canvas. Talk to me about taking back not the night (love the night) but my own darn life. Step off the road to no where and stop, sit your butt down, and ask yourself what is my impassioned path? What am I supposed to be doing? Who will it effect? How will I feel with myself when it's all done?

The rolling stone gathers no moss. Nothing clings to the rolling stone. It knows how to move forward. And it also knows how to find the right path, crush obstacles, remain insanely strong and listen to nothing that and no one who tells it to stop, slow down, that can't be done, there's just no way.

My bedtime prayer: Jesus, going into this month, when our financial backer for the project has pulled for a bigger fish, when sweet Jennifer has sworn her loyalty until the end, when my father is MIA, when the bills--mortgage, property tax, income tax--are looming, when detractors and naysayers bite at my supporters, let me roll on strong and sure, like a stone. Even if I move slowly, allow me to move. Allow my path to be clear.

With you... all of you... all things are possible.

E.J.

Do You Still Love Me?

Nervously, the twentysomething in the blue jeans and black combat boots steps out onto the dark stage. She never did sleep with a nightlight, but this stage is *dark.* She tucks in her white tee-shirt. Across the chest, in black typewriter print, the shirt reads "GamerGrrl" and now she wonders if she should have worn the black shirt with the words "For Their Own Redemption. To Save Their World." You just never know...

Suddenly, she's struck with a cold, bright light. That type of pale, white spotlight that they never use in theatre because it makes everyone look like a corpse (even brown grrls like this actress).

She clears her throat. Her voice is kind of deep like her mom's. (Should that be "like her dad's"?)

"There's no excuse," she begins, at first looking down. "Really there isn't." She's silent for a moment and then she frowns, shuffle-kicks one boot at nothing, and looks up, directly out over the darkness engulfing the rows and rows of chairs. "I was busy, yeah. I was swamped, sure. But you're right, I abandoned you. I left you hanging. I didn't tell you anything, you know? I just... well... disappeared into myself. Did my own thing."

Her hands come up out of the depths of her pockets and find their way to her hips. "No, I didn't get hooked up or have some fling or sink into a depression or some other asinine reason for ditching your fanbase and your friends. I just fell into my work and I didn't, you know, come out. For a while. For two months. And some extra days." Her eyes dart to the side for a moment. "Not that I was counting... or anything."

She looks down again. Then mumbles something. Then says it again more clearly, "I still don't have a Chia Pet."

And she walks off stage.

Only her very dear and loyal readers will know what the heck she's talking about.

"I'm back..."

E.J.

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