Sunday, February 27, 2005


Just a quickie to let y'all know -- I'm not dead or in jail. I just hate ComCast.

I've been working 10-12 hours a day, and every time they come to fix it they don't show up when they're supposed to and I have to go on to work and say to hell with 'em.

So I will be back in action sometime next week if the stars align properly. I miss you all, and I'll fill you in super-soon. When I can.

In the meantime, FUCK YOU COMCAST. Lovies to the rest of ya!

Thursday, February 17, 2005

I am Geek (See Me Roll For Damage)

In a paean to the game I'm not playing due to the illness of my DM, here is a rough character sheet for yours truly, IRL.

CH NM: (parcequilfaut)
RACE: honky
CLASS: hippie
SUBCLASS: natural philosopher
ALIGN: chaotic/good

STR: 10 (adjusted max press to 35 lbs)
DX: 6 (-2 on all hit dice rolls, -1 to all fine motor skills)
CON: 12
INT: 14
WIS: 12
CHR: 15

LEV: 10 (next levl at 100,000 XP)

WEAPON PROFICIENCIES: dagger, bola only (see character class restrictions)

NONWEAPON PROFICIENCIES: reading/writing (2 slots); religion (1 slot); smoking (1 slot); Spellcraft (1 slot); land-based animal (1 slot/feline only); cooking (1 slot); sewing (2 slots). Next proficiency at 12th level.

SECONDARY SKILLS: fisting (DM: See "The Lesbian's Handbook" for special rolls and items related to this specialization, pp. 68-72).

1st level: Beastfriend, Edit Paper, Create Resume, Tie Headwrap.
2nd level: Bigby's Uncontrollable Laughter, Tongue of Scolding, Create Collage.
3rd level: Create Mix Tape, Retain Information.
4th level: Read Tome, Create Ritual
5th level (no fifth level spells until ch. reaches 12th level).

Non geeks should leave a comment if they need an explanation. Geeks should advise me on my next proficiency slot.

Wednesday, February 16, 2005

Your Hippie's Not Mean (She's Just Adjusting)

Sorry for the impromptu sabbatical, folks. Stuff on the real-life front got very complicated this week, plus I'm stuck with a combo of shanks' mare and public transportation (not what it should be; Nashville is a driving town. As Waylon Jennings once told Kinky Friedman outside a Nashville laundrymat, "Walkin's bad for your image." It also makes you really tired and tempts you to spend most of your post-work hours in a stupor of small snacks and hot baths and going to bed at 9 pm.

Still haven't heard about the New Job. If I'm going to get it I'll hear by the end of the week. But they're hiring three people in the department this year, so even if I don't get it on the first go-around I'll just try it on the flip. A bit more good vibeage thrown this way wouldn't hurt.

Also, my Internet was out for 2 days, I have to go to court to keep my license (over a non-moving violation ticket I thought I paid 2 months ago), and my car still isn't fixed. I have until April 8 to get insurance. And I am not getting any cash back from the government this year. In fact, I owe them $35.

So it's pretty much balls to the wall over here; I'm working overtime, trying to get my house in order. If I disappear that's probably why.

Anyhow, I am going to bed for now. Tomorrow I'll try to make more sense.

Wednesday, February 09, 2005

Who the F*** Is Alice?

Today has sucked so fucking incredibly much from 9:30 a.m until 8:30 p.m, and my life has thrown such a bitchy little tantrum, that I have sent them both to their respective rooms to think hard about what they've done. So no one is going to hear about my day today, except a quick aside to note that I have an interview for the job I want at the company. They called me at 9 a.m. on the morning after the applications period ended, so I have various appendages crossed. End real-life info, I'm just going to blather. And you have to read the blather to get the media, because that's how it is today.


Things That Fucking Rock

Arlo Guthrie's The Story of Reuben Clamso. Mad cool points plus a 10% cool points bonus and +1 to his Charisma to the Artist for finding this track while a'huntin the original Alice's Restaurant. Similarly, hurrah for The Pickle Song, the 14-year update to The Motorcycle Song. I think what I'm trying to say is that Arlo Guthrie is one of the ten coolest people alive.

Kinky Friedman's Kinky Friedman's Guide to Texas Etiquette : Or How to Get to Heaven or Hell Without Going Through Dallas-Fort Worth. I love Kinky Friedman. A lot. I read that and then laid down and forewent a nap to reread Steppin' On A Rainbow, which is what I will read tonight until I fall asleep. McGovern Lives!

My kitty family. They are the greatest little folks in the world. If I had a camera phone, which I pray God I never will, I would use it anyway to show you two very fat cats spooning each other on top of the chiffarobe. But you wouldn't be able to hear the snoring, which is the best part without a doubt.

Oh, poor old Reuben Clamso!
Clamso, me boys, Clamso...

I'm serious, you guys. It kicks all the ass that ever there was in all the world.

The fact that Chinese New Year and Ash Wednesday are on the same day this year, and that it's the year of the Cock, which could explain a lot about the suckage and fuckage in the life I'm not discussing today.

Bitch and BUST. Y'all know I spend time on BUST all the time, but I got my first issue of Bitch today, and, while I'm not a slavering devotée just yet, it was cool enough that I lent it out immediately after finishing it.

Because he was so dirty
We gave him five and thirty
Clamso, me boys, Clamso!

Shame to say it, but the Kid Rock version of Feel Like Makin' Love. Not that it's as good as the original, because it isn't, but it's longer, and very Traffic Jim's Party At the Moon Tower-esque. (For those of you who haven't taken advantage of RealPlayer-stream at WRVU despite the umpty times I have told you how awesome TV Time is, I will explain TJPatMT. But you totally should. Friday at 1 am EST. It's friggin' hilarious and the highlight of my week.)

In fact, TJPatMT rules enough to get its own entry in the things that rock. See, TJ is part of the regular crew on TV Time, and sometimes when the spirit moves him and either the slot ahead of or behind the show is empty, he will throw an impromptu Party At The Moon Tower, which is basically an hour or two of the music you would hear were you lucky enough to venture out to Portland, Pegram (Pegram Posse Represent!), or any of the other Podunks and East Jesusi around here for a field party. Lots of redneck anthems. Sweet Home Alabama and sometimes Free Bird for a change of pace. It's awesome and never announced ahead of time (much like a field party), and it's like performance art. I love you, Traffic Jim. I love TV Time too, and Me Versus You. I love basically everything these guys produce.

I love the people at the Metro Non Emergency Line for being ten shades of cool.

I love that I get to do my taxes this weekend and (hopefully) get enough money back to pay off a significant portion of my credit card.

I love my big purple comforter and my little apartment, as tornado-stricken as it may appear to be.

I don't think my job fucking rocks, quite, but it's pretty damn awesome and this promotion would be even more awesome. No more perverts!

When Debbie Harry sings in French, it fucking rocks.

My friends rock. The idea I have to decoupage my sewing machine table is awesome.

My Elvis Twin has rockin' in the genetics, just like me.

What is a moral issue? That site's whole outlook rocks my scared and sad little heart.

Jerusalem Syndrome (the blog, not the disorder). Hissyfit. Ellen Degeneres (the song by the Butchies, specifically, although Ellen's pretty nifty her own darn self).

Girl's Bike Club, the t-shirt. PvPOnline, although I recommend you look at the regular strip and not the early college stuff he's showcasing this week -- I like it, but the regular strip R0XX0R2. Queen of Wands. (Link is the strip that made me fall in love.) The adventures of M. Giant, M. Tiny, and Trash. The fact that I have an entire TWoP recap -- newest C.S.I. if you care -- which I waited to read until I was done telling all of you about stuff that's great instead of stuff that sucks, because doing that too many days in a row just drags you down and me too.

And, as always, D&D rocks, and I rock at it. (Seventh level, baby, and with my pluses I don't have to split-class until twelfth level! Which means I get to whup some hierophant azz, then settle down and become a Ranger.) It's so easy to plan your life in D&D. I love it.

What do you think Fucking Rocks? Tell me, tell me. Or if you're Janis Joplin, Tell Mama. But leave a comment in any case.

**ETA: I need to add a formal apology for being somewhat less in my Fucking Rockitude for having overlooked the beautiful, lovely, and gorgeous Tes' contributions, because I am bad about reading my archives. But she fucking rocks my world.***

Tuesday, February 08, 2005

Hey Mr. Driver Man, Don't Be Slow

I blame the cat for any typos that may ensue, because he doesn't ever want to sit on my lap unless I need the wireless keyboard in the exact same spot. But he's so cute, and fuzzy...I just can't bear to kick him off my lap and watch him stalk away, all insulted and shit. He has two of his legs and his face on the keys. I think I need a third arm.


It was a weird day.

I have a new manager. Again. But that came toward the end of the day and wasn't that weird, just a little bit. How I found out was weirder, but let's get chronological.

I woke up early again to face the walk to the bus stop, but on the way upstairs I ran into PRB's Punk Rock Mom, who drove me downstreet.

While I was waiting for my bus, a man in a silver SUV with a baby in the backseat asked me repeatedly to let him drive me to work (it was just barely misting and not really cold). When I politely demurred, he pointed at the child seat and said, "I have a baby" like "a baby" meant "a certificate of not-a-creepitude" and I should be ashamed.

Telling this to CDHSarah on the way home from work, she was incredulous and I pointed out how much better it would have been if I had said, "Yeah, but you're still a stranger." Hellloooooooooooooooo.

And then I felt bad because there was the off chance that the guy just felt bad for me in the mist and the cold, with my headwrap and backpack, waiting for the bus, and wanted to do something nice. It's kind of sad, because the Artist and I have been known to pick up hitchhikers -- but I don't do it when I'm alone because you just never know. The difference in freakytude, I think, is that hitchhikers are soliciting a ride, or at least obviously don't have one, while I was standing next to a bus stop sign in a street-facing grocery store parking lot. But they tell you to trust your instincts, and this just felt hinky, and it's been weirding me out all day. It also set the theme for my morning.

So I got on the bus, with the usual really-awkward bus stop issues, got to the mall terminus, walked my two mile walk, got my biscuit, got logged into the phone, and realized that God had declared it Creepy Perversion Fat Tuesday.

I work for the Network of Selling. It has its advantages and disadvantages. One of the latter is the fact that the number that connects you to me is broadcast on cable, all day. This brings about a.) prank calls (and when did an excellent prank call become "hey, let's call the NoS and call the lady a bitch!") and the far, far worse b.)....Dirty Old Dudes.

**note: the cat has tired of me and all the gross mistakes from here on in are mine**

You don't usually get the DoDs on first shift. Unless, of course, you are selling exercise equipment.

I literally hung up on more perverts during the first hour -- heavy breathers, mumblers, and one guy who made me look up about ten things before asking me if the women on air were wearing underwear -- than I made sales. It kind of spoiled my nice and happy phone aura all day. I was getting snippy -- nothing worthy of getting fired, just snippy -- where I usually just mock.

Maybe the old perverts have to get a lot of perverting done today because they're Catholic and giving up perving for Lent. We can hope.

Also, I hate it when I get my last break an hour and a half after lunch, because I start getting antsy before I leave, and today I did an extra hour of overtime so I was really freakin' antsy by the time I hit the road. And I hate it when the set guys put spare set pieces in front of our bay where we can't see the TVs -- not that I usually care because I have a book, but when I can't even see the show being broadcast, it puts me at a disadvantage. Plus, Law & Order was on. (Does it piss anybody else off that the morning L&O eps are the SAME EPS from the night before? Dammit, it's not like they're going to run out.)

About half an hour before I left out, I checked my email; it was a daily team report from Melissa with the team members in the TO field and me in the CC field.


I had a moment of panic-flight where I thought I had been caught out logging out for breaks (I'm just supposed to idle, but that doesn't always happen) and this was a list of the suspended folks with my name added on. But it was just a daily report -- conversion, add-ons, and the actual calls vs sales numbers with which the conversion rate is calculated. Idle time and logout times weren't even in there. The disclaimer was there because our commissions are based on shipped items and the MTD numbers take all sales into account.

This confused me a lot more because, while I've been talking to Melissa (who sits at the top of my row) since I came back, William had told me he was my manager my first day back on the floor, gone out of his way to introduce himself and everything, and the oddness was just compounded by the fact that I wasn't in her distro, but separately CCed.

I got her number and called her and asked about it. She was all chipper as usual, chirping, "You're on my team!"

The only thing I could think to say was "Since when?"
(It occured to me after this came out of my mouth that it was probably not the most diplomatic question ever, but I was very, very confused.)
"Since I got promoted!"
"Oh...well, William told me two weeks ago he was my new manager, but...OK, cool!"
"Uh huh, and I'm on his distro and his MTD lists. I even sent him my call-in forms this morning."
"I'll have to talk to him about that. But you're on my team!"
"Cool, then. Sorry! I was just kind of...confused...."

God, I hope she doesn't hate me forever because of that. We kidded about it later, so I assume not. (She had come out and asked me about my time sheet on Saturday right before I left, which I thought at the time was weird, but William wasn't there and those have to get done over the weekend, so I had just let it go. She seemed to think it was funny.)

I still am kind of confused. I had to go by William's desk at the top of the other bay on my way out, and he told me that they had switched me when I went back to full time, because I was working six hours in first shift and had to have a first shift manager. That made more sense. I just wish he had told me that, oh, this morning, instead of letting me put my foot in my mouth.

Speaking of managers, and work, I went by and saw Pat today, who was my manager from hire until my last medical leave, and she said she'd send an email pumping me up for the internal hire I'm gunning for, so W00T! for Pat. Pat is the bomb-diggity. I felt kind of weird asking her about it since she isn't my manager and technically hasn't managed me in six months, but she managed me for my first year and a half and neither of the other two have worked with me for any significant period of time, so it seemed right to ask the person who had done all my evaluations and put me in for raises and seen all those perfect QA scores marching across the board before I got sick. Let's continue to cross appendages, though, OK?

I just called a lady old enough to be my granny the "bomb-diggity." I feel kind of dirty.


Design School Homie (who, for the curious, actually graduated from design school a few years ago) and I had a seriously divisive conversation this evening via cell phone while she was waiting in line at the cheap gas station.

For the record, this is a reconstruction.

"What's up, dude?"
"Not much, just got the Neon a tuneup and now it's time to go to yoga."
"What's The Fisherman's phone number?"
"My phone number. He doesn't have a cell phone."
"I meant at the house."
"He's not there, he's with my dad at a trout fishing meeting. Why?"
(do not ask about the trout fishing meeting, I am NOT going there.)
"You're going to the gym and I thought I'd see if he wanted to take me to go get something to eat if I bought him a beer. CDHSarah had to rush because she goes back to work tonight so I didn't pick up Subway when she drove me home."
"Oh. That sucks."
"Yeah. I can't walk to the Subway either, because there's no shoulder at all crossing the bridge and I would totally get hit by a car. And I can't walk to O'Charleys because to eat there I'd need to go to the ATM, which is just too four extra miles."
"Do you have anything at the house?"
"Yeah, but nothing I really want -- I haven't gone to the store because of the car, so all there is that doesn't require milk is hot dogs, no buns, or chicken noodle soup."
"Noodle soup is good!"
"Yeah, but I don't want it. I don't even have any cheese."
"Did you say 'cheese' ?"
"You put cheese in chicken noodle soup?"
"Hell yeah, dude! Just, like, a slice, and then you melt it in the microwave, or sometimes I put in pepper jack..."
"That is the grossest thing I have ever heard and if I ever see you actually do it I will hunt you down."
"Yeah! My whole family eats it that way! I mean, cheese, chicken, noodles..."
"I don't know, dude. I mean, it's not THAT gross, but it's definitely suspect."

Then we went on to talk about the argument I got into with my mom about socialized medicine and Jesus. (Again, don't ask. That's just too painful and freaky to go over again, because even thinking about it makes me want to beat my head into a wall.) And then she went to yoga.


What I'm Reading

I just finished Still Life and go to Babel Tower as soon as I get done with this and go to bed. This is the only novel in the Frederica Potter books I've read multiple times. I remember being confused at how much A.S. Byatt seemed to take for granted about her character histories when I read it the first 5 times in the hospital, so probably now I'll grok more than I grokked before.

If I decide, as seems likely, to spend some time marinating in the bath before going to bed to nurture my poor, abused leg muscles with their hurties, I will probably re-read the fifth Harry Potter instead, because I can't hold a hardback in one hand while soaking in hot water without courting disaster. I'm going to have to start getting hardbacks of the rest of the Potter books though, because The Virgin In The Garden is in two pieces.

What I'm Hearing

I'm listening to Steven Wright at the Artist's recommendation and enjoying it.

What I'm Doing

Dr. Eddie, who is a BASTARD, just called from Florida to tell me about his new apartment and his job and the fact that it feels like a Tennessee summer down there, and how he lives across Tampa Bay now. I love you Dr. Eddie! I want to come stay at your crappy studio apartment and hang out with the cute Brooklynite you work with! WAAAAAH!

Monday, February 07, 2005

So Much Drama In MNT

That's Metro Nashville, TN for the uninitiated.

PapaJay, AnDar's Dad, says it'll cost about $80 to get the part for the van. That is doable but not right away. Luckily, The Network of Selling doesn't tow employee cars. (Isn't that neat?)


A pre-Valentines Day Story, dedicated to my Elvis Twin and her niece.

A few years ago your humble narrator had a very part-part time job working for a used bookstore. My job was to look through her stock and compare prices on, placing items that might move there more quickly or for more money. In a town as small as that one, a bookseller doesn't need to know about rare editions as she does the hottest bodice-rippers and the number of Westerns in stock. It basically gave me pocket change that I immediately turned into books, but it also gave me a plausible and tax-deductible excuse to sit in a bookstore for a couple of hours every day and treat it like my personal living room. Mostly we sat around and ate nachos and half-watched CNN (only because this was just post-9/11, when EVERY business with a TV and cable kept the thing tuned to the news.)

The week before Valentine's Day I happened to wander over to the display of children's books, not an area of the store I spent a lot of time in, and saw The Day I Traded My Dad for 2 Goldfish. It caught my eye because of the year I spent hanging out with The Amazing Rand-O and listening to Counting Crows' This Desert Life, which has a detail of the book cover on the CD sleeve. I saw Neil Gaiman's name. I checked the price a mint copy was going for on eBay as soon as I had had a moment of silence for the Amazing Rand-O and his continuing absence from my life.

I told the owner what I had found in her stock, excited that I was proving to her that this Internet thingy was a good idea. She nodded and told me to put it online.

When I left out that afternoon she gave it to me.

I tried to give it back to her. At the time that was a forty-dollar book, easy, and I didn't think that was right. She smiled at me and lit a cigarette and told me that without my input, that book had only been worth seven, and I should take it. When I still wasn't, she said, all right. Call it a Valentine's present. And I couldn't say no again.

I went off the deep end shortly after that and I haven't spoken to her since then. Mostly out of shame, but somewhat out of leaving her in the lurch. But I've kept that copy in as good a condition as it was the day I got it, and for me that's saying something.

So Happy V-Day, Bookstore Boss Lady. Maybe sometime this year I'll get up the courage to come see you, and get my copy of Alice in QuantumLand, which I'd bet $5 is still on the top of the glass shelf.


What I'm Reading

Still Life, the second of the Frederica Potter books. (I was wrong; Babel Tower is the third.)

I finished The Virgin In the Garden last night and read the first fifty pages of the Artist's copy of The Moon is a Harsh Mistress to have something to do this morning before I came home. (His copy used to be mine, the one we read out loud together, and is in serious need of repair.)

What I'm Seeing

I remedied a serious gap in my education this morning, especially given my love of Idoru and the other William S. Gibson so-called "cyberpunk" novels, and watched Hackers with PhilTar. Angelina Jolie. Matthew Lillard. And enough WSG references to choke a dancer addict. Lord, Lord.

What I'm Hearing

I've switched out Bill Hicks for a while and have been listening to Mitch Hedberg's comedy. But right this minute, I'm listening to the good old Ginsberg/illyB track, End The Vietnam War.

"At ease, when I mob with tha Dogg pound...", leave a comment.

Saturday, February 05, 2005

Call The Doctor

I didn't have to. The Doctor called me.

The Doctor, the Doctor. The friend I've known longest, all the way from Sunday School and church camp to lines and pipes and raves and the mental hospital.

Mi dottore.

It's been a long year (well, nearly) since I last saw the Doctor in the flesh. He's always been the center of attention, always been the spark of the party. I missed him. And after several false alarms, he's back. Sort of.

The Doctor ran away a year ago. He walked out my front door, told me he'd call the next day, and I didn't see him again until he pulled up outside my work this afternoon.

He's gone, now. He had to drive back to where he lives, two hours and a time zone away, in time to be at work at midnight. Supposedly he'll call.

It's sad when a nasty and disloyal part of me starts writing him off as soon as he fades from sight.


My car has a broken starter and I am not speaking to my dad. It's been too stressful and icky and full of badness around here this week to make with the funny or interesting; three people on the periphery of our social circle have died, Imbolc was cancelled for one of the funerals, and it's basically been D&D and ride-bumming and work, and nothing else. I haven't been home to do more than sleep in days, and I missed TV Time again this week because I...wait for it...forgot it was Friday. And that was my dad's fault too.

Oh, and for the record, Dad, you're an asshole.


DMing is the new black around here. PhilTar is DMing an evil party in the other room, a campaign I would have loved to join, but would have had to flake on as I don't have reliable transport and this one's being held forty-five minutes from my house. The Artist is still DMing the campaign where the original Erin Wolf died, and is getting ready to release a terrasque (for the non-nerds in the audience, a terrasque (pronounced TERRE-ass-queue) is a creation originally made in D&D to kill off PCs who have gotten too powerful) because he's sick of most of the people still alive. In order to kill a terrasque you need to first get it to negative 30 HP (which is dam'near impossible, as they regenerate VERY quickly) and then have a Wish spell hanging around in order to make it stay dead. CDHSarah is DMing the campaign with EW Two Point Oh. StarFucks Man is DMing another campaign that's getting ready to fizzle because his wife is having so much fun DMing her Quest to Kick the Necromancer's Azz.

So I've come up with my own secret plan -- The Not-That-Humanoid Campaign, where all the PCs have to be distinctly nonhuman intelligent creatures: young dragons, dryads, satyrs, treants, centaurs, giants...stuff like that. Now I just have to figure out why there needs to be such a party and what they're going to do. I need to read the Handbook of Villains and some of the subsidiary Handbooks (Humanoids for one).

There won't be any free players until at least a month from now, so I have some time. I've actually never managed my own campaign, always sat in as sub-DM or as a PC. I'm excited.


I applied today to become Quality Assurance, which would basically mean listening to calls and telling people what they did wrong and right. Crossed fingers would be appreciated -- I could use the raise. And I've had 100% QA for the 2 years I've worked there despite 6 major overhauls, so I have more than a fighting chance.


All right, bitches, here you go.

What I'm Reading

The Virgin In the Garden, because my brain stopped hurting too much for A.S. Byatt.

This morning I finished off The Jewish Book of Why, which was excellent and made me want discretionary funds with which to purchase the sequel. Yesterday I reread Chuck I-Can't-Spell-Your-Goddamn-Last-Name-But-You're-The-Guy-Who-Wrote-Fight Club Pahlaniuk's Diary, which is SO incredibly fucked up and SO incredibly amazing, like William S. Gibson got depressed about being categorized inside his categorization that he went over to Kurt Vonnegut's house with multiple bottles of Goldschlager...whereupon the two of them ended up getting so sloppy and sad that they called Stephen King at the suicide prevention hotline, then decided to write a book instead of offing themselves on his advice.

What else have I read in my brief hiatus? Oh yeah, I reread I'm the One that I Want by Margaret Cho because it usually makes me feel better about myself. I think it worked. At least today I'm not throwing shit and yelling "Fuck it" at the slightest provocation.

What I'm Eating

This is here solely because I found cheese danish at the store, which I can never seem to find when I want it, and I am going to do terrible things to it as soon as I digest my fajitas. Meat, bread, cheese, sugar. Life is good.

I would like info from someone in the know on how the "Amazon pays you a very small fee if people use your links to buy things" program works.

I would also like for you to leave a comment.

Wednesday, February 02, 2005

There Are No Good Songs About A Dodge Caravan, So I Got Nothin'

To quote Strong Bad, however passé it may be to do so in this day and age, "Oh crap!"

My van is Skeksis-free. It is also forward-motion free, and engine-turning-over free, and sitting in the parking lot at my work, more than likely becoming home to the gang of hooligan feral cats who live in the scrub woods behind the building. When the car started making the horrible machine-gun noise that my father says is the sound of the starter not getting a spark (but as he picked out special the van that has now eaten 2 radiators, a transmission, and a heater core in a year, I'm continuing to call that sound the "Alternator Fart", a sound I became uncomfortably familiar with the day the Artists' van shit the bed on the other side of NashVegas from home), I was convinced for one tremendously bowel-loosening moment that one of the cats had crawled up inside the P.O.S. van and been mauled by the fan, which is something that might be an urban legend, but still is enough to make me shudder.

There is currently a virtual prayer circle going on trying to force the Universe to make the problem be only in the battery, and not also the alternator or the starter.

I love my van. I love it. I just want it to run right.


I went to sleep at six p.m. due to car breakdown blues and I-stayed-up-waaayyy-too-late-playing-D&D sleepy vibes. As usual when I sleep in the early evening, I had dreams I know were really cool and can't remember a bit of them. I have to go sleep for real shortly, as tomorrow is group day, Imbolc, and probably another marathon session. We didn't finish CDHSarah's dungeon last night, but in our defense the power went out twice and (as you do) we ended up playing by candlelight.

Let me repeat this portion of the show. We played...a pencil, paper, dice role-playing candlelight. Like Abe Lincoln if he were a modern geek instead of a dead one. So things took for-EVAH because we couldn't really see where the doors were on the map due to the darkness and the drunkenness (theirs).

Usual fanwank disclosure, blah.

I don't think anyone took advantage of the candlelight to buffer their rolls (which is called CHEATING unless you're a DM trying not to kill your characters), but I did get a witness called on me last night for the first time in five years, after I successfully rolled to detect hidden doors (1 or 2 on a 1d6) about ten times in a row. The Artist witnesses my rolls for me. And we pissed CDHSarah off really bad at least once last night by picking on her DMing, but I think she had forgiven us by end of session.

I got a Ring of Wishes, which I've always wanted, and got kudos for not using it first to raise my ability scores (I need +1INT to take the kit I want to take, but I'm going to move it up to racial max so I can take all the Druid special languages, and then splitclass to Ranger at level 10 -- a Ranger who already speaks centaur, pixie, nixie, treant, dragon, and so on? Booyeah. I'm using the Druid's Handbook rules for Natural Philosopher with this character.) I got a Staff of the Woodlands for freeing a sphinx. I got a lot of shit last night. And because even my D&D characters are hippies, I used the first wish to bless the harvest of a fishing village whose priest was being a fuckaround about making with the Resurrect on an NPC. (He was all bitchin', because Resurrect takes 3 years off the caster's life expectancy, and since he was old and had no acolyte he talked about payment before making with the spell, which is a priestly no-no.) And if things keep up the way they're going, I may have my own Druid Local (Druids have a worldwide network according to the PH and DH, which we express in our campaigns anachronistically in union terms) -- I'm answerable to Druid Local 517, in a subtle shout out. I already made friends with a wood giant in a blighted region with no Druid of its own.

Oh my god. I am never going to get laid again after writing that last. Of course, StarFucks God is married to CDHSarah, gets laid with reasonable frequency, and knows what page of the Priest's Handbook lists that issue, so maybe hope is not lost for the po-po-mo Dungeon Freak.


There are hibernating kitties all over the house, curled up in fuzzballs of various sizes. None of them, however, want to sit on my lap. If this were the summer and the last thing I wanted was a furry rug on my stomach or side, I would be so popular among the feline set as to deny reason. I'm a Leo, I shouldn't be surprised.

OK, OK, the media.

What I'm Reading

The Virgin In the Garden, which as I suspected is proving too nuanced and lit'ry for my current state of mind. I'm missing the allusions because my brain is too tired for cross-referencing, which with A.S. Byatt means I need to put that book aside. This morning I re-read Cause Celeb (again with the comfort Fielding) which is about my intellectual level right now.

What I'm Hearing

Bill Hicks, live in Chicago 1989.

"The door is a jar." Now leave me a comment.