Merry Christmas

Hi all,

We will be taking a break over Christmas week, though we will be posting a holiday image.

Wayfarer's Moon will return with regular updates on January 1st!

There will be training, traveling, and cool magic. The lovely Haith will appear, along with some new faces, both friend and foe.

Merry Christmas,
-Jason

My Christmas List: Part 3

A Solid Cat-Stance
I train Hung-Ga style kung-fu. I’ve been at it for a while now, yet can’t quite do a proper cat stance. I can get my thigh parallel to the floor, but I’m just not solid and comfortable with it. Oh well, with more stance training I’ll get it eventually.

Prime Rib
A nice 24-oz Prime Rib with mashed potatoes, bread, and some sort of vegetable that I’ll ignore, followed by a hot-fudge sundae. Yes, I know it will kill me, but sometimes, you just gotta go for it.

World Peace
It would be nice.

Merry Christmas,
-Jason

My Christmas List: Part 2

Someone to Please Explain to Me Why Halo is So Popular
I don’t get it. Halo isn’t a bad game by any means, but it’s not fantastic. I happen to be an FPS fanatic and I play ALL of them, even the weird ones that come out of Eastern Europe, so believe when I say it simply isn’t that great. It definitely doesn’t rank up there with Half-Life, Call-of-Duty, the original Unreal, or even Marathon, Bungie’s first FPS. I find it very confusing.

To Finish My D&D Campaign
I’ve been DMing a D&D Campaign for almost 14-years now and its getting really close to finishing (as in the entire story arch has been completed). It started in California with three players, moved over 700 miles to Redmond, WA and ballooned out to 7 players, with the three original players still participating. For non-nerds out there, finishing a campaign is the Holy Grail for a DM. Most campaigns peter out. It’s like what would happen if the Fellowship of the Ring got bored and gave up. Another couple of years and it’ll be done (I hope).

A Vacuum Cleaner That Will Pick-Up Cat Hair
Seriously. I have never had a vacuum that could pick up my cat’s hair. I have to rake the carpet to get it up, which defeats the entire purpose of vacuuming in the first place. Granted, that would destroy my excuse for not vacuuming, but even I get tired of having a crunchy carpet.

Tomorrow: The Conclusion

My Christmas List: Part 1

My mother has been bugging me to give her a Christmas List. This is part of our annual tradition. She wants to buy me things. I procrastinate and eventually name a couple things I would like. I typically name a few movies or albums, along with the ubiquitous ‘a nice shirt’ or ‘a sweater.’

This is all well and good, save that I am completely lying when I make my list. These are things that would be nice, but not necessarily things that I want. You see, I need to keep the list relatively short, reasonably affordable, and above all, things that she could actually acquire. Mom can probably get me a Jackie Chan movie, but the life-size model of Kate Beckinsale’s bottom is probably a bit out of her reach (she would try though, which is why she is such a cool mom).

So here it is. Things I really, actually want.

Pecs
I have, if I may be immodest, great arms. The rest of me is decent. However, the one thing I’m missing is a chest. I have no pecs. Despite thousands of push-ups, bench presses, and vats of modeling clay, I have nothing. My chest is like a black-hole. Exercises go in, but are never heard from again.

A Suit of Armor
Yes, I’m a nerd. I’ve wanted a suit of armor since I read La Morte D’Arthur in the 3rd grade. And not just any old suit, I want a battle-ready suit of Maximillian armor tailor made for me. I do know where to get one. I simply lack the many thousands of dollars it would take to get it made.

Tomorrow: Part 2

What Would Brian Boitano Do?

I happened to be reminded of a classic song from the South Park Movie today.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gh-G_PJZzw0&feature=related

What would Brian Boitano do?

Cheers,
-Jason

UR Savior

A truly funny short cartoon sent to me by my buddy Ugdo (no, I'm not kidding).

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

Cheers,
-Jason

Operation: Panting Debutante

Operation: Overlord
Operation: Barbarossa
Operation: Desert Storm

What do all of these things have in common other than that they contain ‘o’s? They’re all names of real military operations and they’re all rather macho. It does make sense, I suppose. You want your troops to be all fired up and therefore you need call your operation something suitably ‘tough.’ Operation: Flaccid Porpoise isn’t really going to inspire your men to victory.

However, at some point, we’re going to run out of suitable nouns and adjectives. I suppose we could venture into verbs and adverbs, but they can be a bit obtuse. Operation: Running Quickly or Operation: Gently Massaging are more likely to cause ‘huh?’s rather than ‘hurrahs!’

That being said, here are a few operational names I like to see:
Operation: Beanie Baby
Operation: Kawaii!!!!!
Operation: Blue Light Special
Operation: Blind Drunk
Operation: Nipple Ring
Operation: We Have No Pants
Operation: Zombot
Operation: Dirty Old Man

And my personal favorite: Operation: Public Mastication

Cheers,
-Jason

Stories of the Cape and Cowl: Origins: Part 2

The Major waited for his next beer, as the Urchin spun back and forth on the barstool. Lloyd deposited the fresh Guinness and took away the empty glass, as the Major took a sip.

“Kid,” said the Major. “That was the single worst, most convoluted origin story I’ve ever heard. What’d you do? Take the top ten origins and mash them together?”

“But . . . no! It’s totally true!”

“C’mon? You were raised by hyper-intelligent sea urchins? Both your parents were amazingly athletic research scientists? A rogue government agency?”

“Yes!” the Street Urchin half-rose. “It’s all completely . . . “ He looked at the Major, who was shaking his head. “Completely made up.” The Urchin sat back down with an audible thump.

“It’s okay, kid. Everybody lies about their origin. The trick is to lie just enough.” The Major patted the young man on the shoulder. “Look, what’s my origin?”

“Uh, you developed your amazing mental power at puberty and then traveled to Tibet, where you were trained by an obscure sect of ninja-monks.”

“I stuck a fork in a plugged-in toaster when I was 12 while holding a Speak-and-Spell.”

The Urchin’s mouth dropped open. “No way!”

“I did go to Tibet, though.”

“Did you train with ninja-priests?”

“Well, I was on a tour and saw some priests, but no, not really.” The Major shrugged. “I did see a movie about some ninja-priests once though.”

“Was that American Ninja-Priest in Paris? That movie totally rocked!”

“Uh, yeah, I think so. But that’s not the point. You need to tone down your origin a bit. What really happened?”

“When I was nineteen, I had some bad sushi and a couple beers. Well, fourteen-odd beers. And some shots. And a couple pieces of week-old pizza. And then I passed out. In a swamp.”

The Major nodded. “Yeah, that’ll do it.” He thought for a moment. “How about this? Your parents were research scientists working on irradiated sea urchins. You fell into the tank, got stung, and presto, instant powers.” The Major paused. “So, what are your powers anyway?”

“I can project spikes out of every part of my body.”

“Well, that explains the outfit.”

“Yeah. I don’t actually like dressing like this, but when you shred your clothes once a week, you gotta make do.” Urchin made a face. “I don’t know about that origin. It’s kinda . . . dull.”

“But it’s easy to remember and it’ll keep nutjobs from trying to help you find your parents.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “You see Madame Mystery over there?” The young man nodded. “She made up a bit about her parents being murdered and she’s got no fewer than three crazed fans trying to find the killers. Trust me, you don’t want the headache.”

“Huh.” Urchin took a sip of beer. “So, does everyone lie?”

“Pretty much. I mean, how many people are hit with omega rays, were raised by aliens, or witnessed their parents deaths at the hands of a crazed rodeo clown? Not everyone gets a dramatic story, kid.”

The door banged open both of them glanced over. An almost skeletal man with a distinctive green tinge to his skin, a lot of old stitches, and what looked like robot parts bolted to his body shuffled in, hanging up his coat and hat with an immense robotic arm that would have looked more at home in a car plant.

“Hey, Bill.” Said the Major, as he passed. “How’re the kids?”

“GOOD. AND HOW IS MARGE?” He replied, in a deep, mechanical voice.

“She’s great.”

“GLAD TO HEAR IT. EXCUSE ME, I MUST DRAIN THE LIZARD. AT LEAST, WHAT IS LEFT OF IT. HA HA HA.”

The Major nodded. “Funny.”

Street Urchin stared at the man as he moved away, mouth agape. “That was Zombot!” he finally stammered.

“Yeah.”

“But . . .you two are mortal enemies!”

“This is the Cape and Cowl, kid. Neutral ground. No fighting or powers inside. Besides, you battle someone long enough, you get to know them. Hell, our kids had play-dates.”

“Wow.” The Urchin turned back. “So, I never did hear what his origin was.”

“Zombot? Oh, he was the result of a horrible experiment where a necromancer and a mad scientist tried to create the perfect killing machine. The scrounged together a bunch of body parts and machinery, put them together and reanimated the whole thing. Thing is, the process drove ol’ Zombo mad and he butchered them both before embarking on a reign of terror.”

“Ah. So what’s his real origin?”

“That is his real origin. That’s exactly what happened.”

“Really?”

“Yep.” The Major sighed. “Man, I’d kill for an origin that good.”

Cheers,
-Jason

Stories of the Cape and Cowl: Origins: Part 1

Major Headache walked into the Cape and Cowl and shook off his wet overcoat, letting the door swing shut behind him. He waved to The Punter and Madame Mystery as he hung up his coat and flipped off Kid Vicious, who returned the gesture with both hands. He walked over to the heavy oak bar, leaving a small trail of wet footprints on the worn tile floor.

“Evenin’, Major” said the bartender, glancing up from the mail.

Major Headache nodded and sat down. “Hey, Lloyd. How’re things?”

“Not bad. You missed the excitement. Red Hot got sick in the corner booth.”

The Major glanced over. The corner booth was taped off with an ‘Out of Order’ sign. The worn red leather on the left-hand bench was scorched and twisted and a burn mark extended almost six-feet up the oak-paneled wall, completely obliterating an old, framed newspaper clipping, one of the many pieces of hero and villain memorabilia that decorated the bar.

“Ice Queen put it out pretty quickly,” Lloyd continued. “But then she wanted me to wipe her tab.”

“Villains,” said the Major, shaking his head. “What’d you do?”

“I gave her a free Cosmopolitan. She was happy with that. The usual, Major?”

“Sure thing.”

As Lloyd turned to draw a Guinness, the door opened again and a young man in a black leather jacket, jeans and combat boots entered. His entire outfit was tattered, as if he’d been rolled on by a spastic porcupine. He hesitated, as most everyone in the bar turned to look at him. The Major looked at Lloyd, who shrugged.

“Hey, kid,” said the Major. “Who’re you?”

“Uh, I’m the Street Urchin.” The Urchin suddenly focused on the Major. “Whoa! You’re Major Headache!”

“Yep.” The Major waved him over. “C’mere, have a seat.”

The Street Urchin practically leapt the 10-feet to take the stool next to the Major. “This so cool!” he said, “I used to have a poster of you in my bedroom!”

“That’s nice,” said the Major, as he took a pull of his Guinness.

“Wow! I can’t believe I’m sitting here talking to you!”

“Kid?”

“Yes?”

“Calm down. We’re all capes here.” The Major gestured at the bottles at the back of the bar. “Let me buy you a beer.”

“Yeah, right. Sure.”

“Another beer, Lloyd.”

The bartender nodded and drew a Guinness, placing it down in front of the Urchin.

“So, kid, how’d you get into the hero game?”

The Street Urchin half-choked on his beer. The Major waited patiently for him to regain his composure. “Well,” began the Urchin. “My parents were marine biologists who were experimenting with the neurotoxins found in sea urchins. When I was just an infant, a rogue government agency broke in one night to steal their research and surprised my folks. My dad happens to be an ex-Navy Seal and my mom was an Olympic kick-boxer and sharpshooter, so in the ensuing fight, there was an explosion which released deadly delta radiation that infected the urchins, making them super-intelligent. My parents were eventually captured by the government agents, but the urchins, realizing the danger, hid me and raised me as their own, teaching me the way of the Urchin so that I could one day find my parents and avenge them.”

“Ah,” said the Major. “I’m gonna need another Guinness after that one. Lloyd?”

Tomorrow: Forks and Toasters

Rikki-Tikki-Tavi

Here is the complete 1975, Chuck Jones Rikki-Tikki-Tavi cartoon narrated by Orson Welles.

http://www.ifilm.com/video/2804454

This is a marvelous story and one of my all-time favorites.

Enjoy!

Cheers,
-Jason

Crates and Such: Part 2

I don’t know in which video game crates were first used to store goods (I’ll guess Doom), but it has become a staple of both RPGs and FPSs. In many games, you cannot walk ten feet without seeing a crate, barrel, (or occasionally) chest that you have to open. And when I say ‘have to’ I mean it. You don’t know what could be in there. There could contain health, money, or the crown jewels. You simply don’t know. It’s like an Easter Egg hunt where you can find bullets. So, of course, you must open everything.

The best part is that the things/monsters/people you’re fighting don’t actually open the crates themselves. All too often, a bad guy will come charging at you with a sword when there’s a perfectly good laser rifle inside a crate 10 feet away.

You’d at least think they’d be curious enough to take a peek.

Why anyone would store anything in a crate is beyond me. Think about it, what if you went to your financial planner and he recommended putting all of your money into easily accessible containers and then leaving them outdoors?

-----------------

“So, Mr. . . . Janeeecki, is it?”

“Well, close enough.”

The man adjusted his glasses with a thick finger while he flipped through the sheaf of papers. “It says here that you work with video games?”

“That’s correct.”

“Hmmmm.” He brushed an errant hair from his Armani suit. “Interesting. And you wish to invest?”

“Well, I’d like to diversify my portfolio and start saving for retirement.”

“Capitol, capitol.” The planner looked over his glasses. “That was a joke. Capitol. Investments. That sort of thing?”

“Ah, I see.”

“Apparently not,” he mumbled. “Well, Mr. Janeeeskivi, I have one word for you.”

“Plastics?”

“Sorry?”

“A joke. The Graduate.”

“Indeed. No, I am speaking of crates.”

“Pardon?”

Leaning forward, the planner laid out the papers, indicating a column with a gold-ringed finger. “Crates. What you need to do is purchase a goodly number of crates, barrels will do in a pinch, Mr. Jayeneesinky, and secure your remaining wealth in them. Then spread said crates around the countryside at random, preferably along well-traveled routes.”

There was silence.

“What?”

“Tell me, Mr. Juneivskyanitti,” he said, steepling his fingers and peering through them. “Which of us is the financial planner?”

“Uh, you are.”

“Correct. And if I tell you that spreading your money about the area in individual, easily accessible containers is a good idea, then you may trust that it is, in fact, a good idea.”

“Well, if you say so.”

“I do, Mr. Jianskwkqqqeikssyitsy, I do.”

-------------

Don’t laugh, why else would there be money squirreled away in those things?

NOTE: The author is neither a financial planner nor a financial expert and is generally considered to be dim by those that know him. Do not listen to his advice unless you’re really dense.

Cheers,
-Jason

Crates and Such

The other day I was walking up to a Home Depot and noticed a stack of crates sitting innocuously along the wall next to the store. Being an avid gamer, I walked into the store, purchased a crowbar (I left mine at home – a silly mistake), and upon exiting the store, proceeded to vigorously smash said crates.

It was disappointing, as not only did no gold, items, or health packs pop out, but the Home Depot employees seemed somewhat vexed by my actions. After much shouting, a lengthy footrace, and a narrow escape across a train trestle, I was able to stop and ponder what had occurred.

It seemed unthinkable, but video games had lied to me. Crates are not full of goodies and people seem to take it poorly when you smash them open.

NOTE: Obviously, I did not smash open a bunch of crates at a Home Depot with a crowbar. This was a small fabrication on my part. I used a tire iron.

Tomorrow: Barrels, Are They Just Round Crates?

Apologies

Sorry, but I'm feeling under the weather and will not be posting a blog today.

Well, anything other than this, as this is something. Not much of a something granted, but this is most definately a thing.

'Nothing' was orginally an insult in Old English, though they spelled it 'Nithing.' It meant that you literally did not exist, you were a 'no thing.' Those were fightin' words, so to speak.

They also had a wonderful insult about having sex with a troll. I'll save that one for the next time I'm feeling ill and slightly loopy (or loopier, as the case may be).

Anyway, there will be humor tomorrow, promise. Hint: Crates.

Cheers,
-Jason

Fast Driver

Here's a really bizarre Speed Racer spoof called Fast Driver.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sacx1WZQv3I

Cheers,
-Jason