But...

As a social misanthrope, one of my deepest instincts is the will to speak freely regardless of the consequences. This grew into a compulsion with me at a young age through a repeated behaviour from my grandfather, my father and those bullies whom I went to school with, whose tactic was to silence me by lifting their fist and threatening me with it, and occasionally going the next step. As such, as I got older, and this is a thing that many find, the willingness to take a blow became stronger than the fear of getting it, so that I began in my late teens to respond to threats with, "Oh yeah? Well, go ahead, I'm going to say what I have to say."

The issue is that it requires a tremendous amount of anger and resentment to overcome the fear inherent in being struck, and especially dogpiled by more than one person, something I've also experienced. My friends were mostly those who had learned to speak in soft, controlled voices, whose habit was to look at their shoes when spoken to, who could not get dates with girls because they could not find the courage to overcome the possibility of their saying no. I had their choice as evidence of a solution that did not really work, but I don't think I ever weighed the rationale of being them or being myself. I was simply more volatile, more hot-blooded, more reactionary... and as such, in my teens, I became worrisome, frightening, even evidently irrational. The nature was "baked in," so to speak, in a way that was not only inherent, but extremely rare, as was evidenced in the way that teachers and other authority figures reacted to me, as I intimidated them.

And because I spent a lot of time alone, apart from taking part in sports (where, again, my volatility both served and handicapped me, depending on the situation), I read voraciously. The reading enhanced my vocabulary, the resource of my knowledge, my perspective, my understanding of what others would try to say or how they would say it... which led me into things like debate and public speaking... where, again, that volatility both served and handicapped me. It is one thing to have the will and the fearlessness to stand in front of 500 people at 18 and scream about the injustice of the cruise missile being placed inside Canada, which I did in 1982 during that controversy, but that same fearlessness does not benefit one in small rooms with people who have enough power that they're not intimidated. The sequence of events in play, therefore, put me in places that others have never gone, while not contributing to those things that would have benefitted me: an ability to kowtow when kowtowing was called for. I simply did not have that skill because it had been trained out of me.

Of course, the bullies disappeared... and when I was nineteen and stood in front of my father when he came at me to beat me again that "All right, let's fucking go," in a stance that said, yes, absolutely, I was ready to fucking go, then he backed down and that was the end of that. My grandfather was too old and too far away and I was not visiting him anymore as a boy dragged to Regina by my parents, so I did not have any scary enemies left to fight... and I did not go out looking for them, taking swings at cops and bouncers and anyone I could find, because I had become well-read and I had concepts of social justice and I believed in John Stuart Mills and Thomas Paine with regards to what justice was. So I didn't get a criminal record, I didn't become a social problem, I didn't act out against the state, I didn't break the law.

But the resentment with respect to being silenced has remained. The resentment against any injustice or any unfairness remains. And when I say "resentment," let me be perfectly clear. I may be not quite 62 now, just two months shy, but as I write this I feel a boiling white hot anger that is still recognisable, still there, and still boils up when someone starts talking about the wrongness of foreigners in the country or my province making noise about leaving Canada, or anything to do with persons in an LGBTQ frame, or pretty much anything where I see money and power railroad someone out of office without evidence, on hearsay, for reasons, and voices I trust suddenly start talking as though this is reasonable. My poor partner, who has learned to tolerate my outbursts on these subjects, when I simply cannot keep the lid on them any more, suffers the shouting and then hugs me when she feels I've settled. That's what living with me is like; not a person who is physically violent, but one whose violence remains intellectual, verbose, searing, confrontational and, yes, loud.

Age and maturity have, however, convinced me that all this anger is purposeless. It has no listener. There's no future in stepping into a political sphere to "change things" because I am not oblivious to what a political sphere is, or what it is there for. I quit my street marching days when I realised nothing was being accomplished and when, in private conversations, I learned that the leaders of such movements were doing it so they "could sleep at night." I wanted change, not a good night's sleep, but that wasn't going to happen, so I stopped. I turned to journalism, wrote editorials, made a lot of people mad and felt I was doing what I could. But even that, now, does not sustain me in the least way. I'm far too old a bunny, as I like to say, to indulge in such fantasies any more.

All this is to say, though, why it is so hard for me to let go of a bone when I have it in my teeth. It explains why it is so hard for me to sit and listen to someone spew unsupported, obviously emotionally derived garbage when actual, rational, supported, methodical arguments that demonstrate evidence find no ground to stand on. This blog has demonstrated, with examples and detailed accounts, wrongdoings related to D&D in a hundred different ways — which yes, is a strange hill to choose to die on, but hell, there's no one else here on this hill anyway — but to what purpose? Only to the occasional listener who finds themselves nodding their heads and accepting that someone, somewhere, finally, is going to say that thing. That is the sum total of this blog's value. It occasionally connects with someone.

Yet, it is certain that what's said here is not going to connect with a vastly larger audience, many of whom disagree with every word printed here. Some are going to find that my willingness to die on this hill is so absurd that this in itself demonstrates me to be a deluded, unreasoning, warped and even repulsive individual. And some are going to tell me, in various ways, that I'm wrong, or that I should shut up, or that I have picked the wrong word to make my argument, or any of a thousand what-is-seen-as-legitimate arguments to make, sustained by the fact that many thousands of people out there in the culture believe what they say, while I have merely dozens who can do more than "not agree with everything he says, but he's interesting." That is the sum total of the push-back here. I'm not exactly wrong... I'm just not really in a position to be right.

My tone is excessive, I am bitter, I am unfair, I misunderstand what people mean, I am technically correct but I've missed the spirit of the thing, I'm attacking people who are only trying to have fun, I'm making too much out of things that are trivial.

All of these things are, in essence, true.

It is my childhood, and not my training, not my love of D&D, not my self-interest, that urges me to answer every accusation rashly. Because my mind has embraced this idea that if someone does not actually address the subject at hand, the thing that's being discussed, the point of the article, then in a way it is them lifting a fist at me as if to say, "I've just made a semantic argument, so you'd better shut up now."

Consciously, I know the reader can distinguish between a good answer to my post and a bad one. Consciously, I know that my point is stronger if I don't back it up. I can recall my professor Dr. Barry Baldwin telling me, when people lost their shit at me about the editorials I wrote for the university paper, "Don't answer them; it makes them look weak and desperate, while you look indifferent and superior." I know it does not good to answer. I know it's the wrong approach.

But dammit, I still see that fist in my mind's eye and I still...

In 1971, an independent filmmaker who felt exactly as I do, before I was old enough to feel as I do, made a film about it. I did not see the film until I was fifteen and when I did, for a time, one scene was my bible. Most people remember the scene with the foot. That's the scene that fed the masculine male model... but in that scene, the character is smiling. He's contemptuous and he's silent. It's the scene that came before that spoke to me, because in the scene that came before, the character is speaking rationally through gritted teeth. He's speaking about anger. He's speaking about how overwhelming and unrelenting that anger gets when he sees cruelty and wrongheadedness and abuse. That is the scene I felt when I was in my middle of my adolescent, unrestrained, uneducated mind set. And watching that scene is like putting on a very familiar set of old clothes. It is a time machine.

https://youtu.be/-SlD4KqDDUM?si=TMOk9cBitf8XYnea

The problem is, see, is that the anger only appears irrational. It comes from an irrational place, an unwillingness and inability on the part of those in authority to be rational. But the anger itself, channelled, informed, cultivated, patiently reviewed again and again as I am doing here, without anger, in this post, which has no business being here in a D&D blog, is not, in fact, irrational. It is not irrational to expect people to respond to the context of a blog post as opposed to some frivolous detail that has nothing to do with the point, because they need to feel important enough to oppose something, for the sake of opposing it, in a place that is not theirs, simply for the sake of their ego. It is not irrational to call them to account for that. It is not irrational to say, "All right, aside from that bullshit, what did you think of the post?"

But... okay. Serenity to accept things I cannot change.

Like the man says, I try. I really try.

I've already soured my popularity with this blog in ways that can never be taken back... and it doesn't matter any more. I've come forward and said things about myself that nobody should say publicly. I dunno. Just the lot we get, I guess. We don't get to pick. We don't get to decide if we're rich or poor or volatile or what. I think the only thing any person can do is be honest. Say what they feel and let it be. In the end, it's all ashes anyhow.

Alone with My Principles

Sometimes a comment is written that sincerely wants to help me see the world in a light that will give me strength and hope to change my perspective, and possibly cease to be less bitter and therefore make the kind of money others are making doing what I'm doing. That, I think, is the sentiment with Icosa's comment here. It references my biathlon post of last January as if to say, "See, you could live some of this dream." It encourages me to open my mind and learn something from a successful designer. It argues that there's a "good game" in me, arguing that it could plausibly be of the size and scope of AD&D. It even states that the commentor would buy this game from me.

When I was in high school, I had a good friend Rob who wavered between becoming a performing electronic musician in the vein of Throbbing Gristle, or possibly an electrical engineer. Alas, his brilliant musical career ended and he became the latter. But during those younger, heady days, whenever the subject of selling out came up, he would raise his hand and say, "Me. I'm ready to sell out. Tell me what line to get into."

He didn't mean it, because he didn't sell out. But he did recognise that was the only chance of his music (see above) having any commercial success. Which it did not.

Selling out describes the act of compromising one's personal values, artistic integrity or principles in order to achieve financial gain, popularity and mainstream success. Not everyone who has these things achieved them by "selling out." Sometimes, if I were to pick a band I once personally knew, the Red Hot Chili Peppers, they don't have any of those things to sell. Rather, they had a willingness to get on stage a lot, to keep practicing together and, as chance would have it, a sound that worked well in the 90s (once an engineer worked on it, that is. If you had ever heard the Chilis at the National here in Calgary in the late 80s, there's no way in hell you'd have ever believed they'd get a record contract.

Artistic integrity describes an individual's commitment that the art they are producing — which I'll widen to include any creative work — remains true to the vision, value or creative principle by which they make that art. Integrity reflects an individual's genuine ideas, the emotion they connect with those ideas and the style in which those ideals are rendered, in my case in text, in the case of others, in visual or audial measure. Essentially, it's about maintaining authenticicy in one's art, prioritising personal expression over external approval or material gain.

When I created yet another wiki, I considered a number of names to call it, finally landing on "Authentic" as the best possible expression for what I was trying to accomplish. The wiki doesn't represent "a" set of rules about role-playing, it represents what I think are best possible game tested rules that can be made... that are subject to change when, like science or design, something is better understood, or might be more effectively constructed.

As such, I don't run "a" role-playing game, I run the one that best expresses everything I've learned about role-playing games these last almost 47 years... in which I've watched many, many, many role-playing games rise, become popular for a while and then fade away, to be played by a small dedicated following until they cease to be mentioned even on the internet. Once upon a time, in the 1980s, when a new game would emerge, I'd anxious rush to look at it, to see how the designer constructed their metrics, to see if there was something I could steal and import into my own game... but by the time Steve Jackson churned out GURPS, I was constantly disappointed. It was all rehashes from there... endless, awful, even sometimes painful rehashes of old rules in some way made worse and repackaged as a game that would "supersede D&D at last!" Only to, of course, not happen. The last game mechanic that I lifted from a designed game originated with 3rd edition; I can't even remember what the original mechanic was called, and it needed a lot of work to make it function. I used it to construct my action point rules.

After 18 years of writing this blog, and 47 years of playing D&D, the most inauthentic thing I could possibly do would be to suddenly declare D&D secondary in my opinion to my own game system, and then take the much more rational constrution of presenting game rules on a 21st century wiki and compiling them into a 15th century technology that would, obviously, be less valuable to the user. Further, the construction of said book would involve my giving money to a third party, so I could charge people I've authentically and freely provided a system for, as a means of literally betraying my own choices in order to, yes, sell out. 

Without much chance of succeeding, mind, because I have allowed myself to be an honest, outspoken, resilient, vicious pitbull about the game I love these last 18 years on this blog. To succeed in business, one must have business friends. Those willing to talk up one's kickstarter, or talk up one's business. I don't have those things. I have never priortised those things.

Further, for my own soul, I would find it grossly inauthentic to copy the game construction of ANOTHER GAME produced 50 years before my own, and sell it as something I "created," when clearly I did not. That is something that apparently people in the OSR can do, without much compunction, flat out ignoring that the mechanics, referencing, concepts and dimensions of their games are cheap "Gocci" knockoffs of legitimately designed originals. I may hate Gygax and his logic, but he didn't rip off a game exactly like his own that was published in 1925, and played for nearly fifty years, then pretending he hadn't done that.

So yeah. I have a few issues with that life choice.

Until just a few weeks ago this blog had the tag line, "I Love the Game of D&D."  Some have expressed their surprise and approval that I was willing to come right out and say that, without reservation. Some have recently expressed their dissatisfaction that it's gone, in favour of something that "sells" my story as a means of getting to know me better, thus enabling some to get up to speed with my approach to the game without having to read through 4,000 posts. I am not making money from this change and yet the disapproval is there. Others also love D&D. I like that. And I like that I'm enabling them to find better ways to play the game.

And I would rather have this experience than the money that Kelsey Dionne has made doing what she's doing.

That can be confusing for some people. In fact, on occasion, I had those, off-line, in real life, before the existence of the internet, call me a "loser" for having these principles. So this is hardly new.

Perhaps I can explain it this way. My father was an engineer. He was a good engineer. He graduated with honours from the Colorado School of Mines and he worked for Gulf Canada as a practicing engineer, never opting for management, until 1995. He used to talk about the difficulties of keeping up with technology changes in a heavily technological field, when the half-life of his engineering degree ceased to be, as he would have described it, relevant by 1965. That means he spent 30 years keeping up with technology changes on his own. At any time, he could have done what his peers did. He could have accepted a promotion as a manager and gotten more money. But he didn't want to be a manager. He wanted to be an engineer, because he loved being an engineer. It's what he'd wanted to be when he was 14 and for him, being one all his adult life, was living the dream.

In 1978, he was picked as one of two people to investigate the practical value of a concept called "enhanced recovery."  Now, I've talked about this on the blog before, but what the hell, let's just do it again. I'm an old man. Old men tell stories more than once.

No one at the time believed in this concept. It was in fact cutting edge oil recovery technology, involving the injection of gas, oil or water, and later other materials, into an existing pool in order to increase the pressure within that pool in order to force more oil out of a pool that had ceased producing.

See, when drilling came into existence, there was no solution for the problem that when you drilled down to get the oil from the ground, the condition that enabled that oil's extraction was underground pressure. But as you removed oil from the well, the pressure would drop, and drop, until finally, there wasn't enough pressure left to force the oil up the pipe. It meant that the field would "run dry"... except, in fact, it didn't. Everyone knew there was as much as 40% of the oil still down there, but it was wholly unreachable. And by the 1970s, areas that had once been major oil producing centres were now suffering from this problem.

When this boondoggle, which is what the company thought of it at the time, landed on my father's desk, no one else wanted it. There were small teams in companies all over the world working on the same problem, without any certainty of how it might be solved. The joke at my father's office was that he and the other fellow, I believe his name was John H., last name withheld, were working in "enchanted recovery." That gives a sense of the faith most had in the project.

Enhanced recovery didn't just become my father's field for the rest of his life, it resuscitated the world's oil industry. In the 1990s my father took a month long trip to Russia to explain the concept to Russian engineers. He did likewise take a trip to Indonesia. When he retired, at an age younger than what I am now, he had spoken with engineers about the technology all over the world.

Did he make more money on account of that? No. He never spoke to me about getting any special raise from the company he worked for, though to be truthful, even my mother never knew how much money he actually earned, because he was very 1950s that way. Did he start his own oil company? Did he become a freelance consultant instead of going on working for Gulf? Could he have? Of course. But he didn't. Because, in reality, he was never in it for the money. He was in it for the science.

Over the course of my father's life, doing a few calculations based on his probable income over the years of his being an engineer in the five decades that he worked, I'd estimate he made about ten million dollars. He didn't make it in one place, he made it steadily over the years... but the speed at which money is made isn't the issue, is it?

If I measure my own success in dollars against that, counting what I've earned from various sources, including writing, cooking, office work... I'm not in my father's league. I'd call it about three quarters of a million. Course, I don't have that money now. It went to cost of living and buying stuff that wore out and had to be replaced with other stuff. But I'm throwing these numbers around to stress that point that I don't think like a 20-year-old with regards to money any more. I don't see $3,148,567 in the way that a young person does. I see money that comes in and then goes right out again. I see money that floods a system and then retreats, forcing one to return to one's old way of just working for it. I see 8 persons on the title page who are not Kelsey, plus The Arcane Library, and Boda Games, and recognise that a lot of that Kickstarter money is not flowing wildly into one person's pocket. I don't view business like a child. I see it like it is: a thing that makes a lot of money, and spends a lot of money.

So I'm not all agog at these things. I see the world in terms of what authentically matters to me, and my goals, and things I'd like to design, create and give time to.

And none of those are a new, derivative role-playing game with a title that doesn't, in fact, mean anything. Is there a shadow that isn't technically darker than the space around it?

Getting to Know Me

If the reader will look to the tag line, it's been change to read, "New to the blog? See here."

The explanation for this is in the link, but it's been explained that there's too much "me" for a complete newcomer to actually find out who I am or what I've done. So I've created a page on the wiki that describes me... but the Gentle Reader shouldn't worry, because any sense of ego on my part has been completely sabotaged by my being an asshole with my opinions. That's something I didn't want anyone to miss.

If you honestly can't think of any comment you'd like to attach to this, may I humbly ask you to write in when you started reading me, why you still read me and why my nature isn't sufficiently curmudgeonly to actually drive you away. That would really sincerely help me. I could use the support. Writing this content about myself, I feel like I've performed seppuku.  

Kicking the Can

This is a very frank conversation about aging. Do not read if your age says you're not old enough to get on this ride.

As someone in my early 60s, I'm supposed to be concerned about the future and the changes that it's going to bring. Just as I was supposed to be confused about the internet, and confused about the youtube, and then streaming, I'm likewise expected to be frightened of A.I. and whatever else might follow, because I'm an old man.

Of necessity, I found myself stumbling over the use of Discord, which I've had to engage with in order to make the online D&D campaign work. And no, I'm not especially good at it, or experienced with it, or anxious to become experienced with it... and it's a bit of a joke with the experienced players, which I don't mind. Where technology is concerned, I've always been a step or two behind the curve.

That does not make me afraid of the curve.

A few days ago my partner and I fell into one of those conversations that people in their 60s have... what is going to happen to us when we can no longer do the dishes, drive to the store for groceries, keep up with the bare minimum of housecleaning and so on. We're not so wealthy that we can hire someone, our younger family are very busy being a young family and obviously, there's a desire not to burden people we care about. I know from experience that there are people our age who have the attitude, "Well, the young will take care of us, that's what they're good for."  This, of course, is evidence of these people having totally forgotten what it was like to be young. It wasn't just that they didn't care, it's that when they were in their 30s, they were telling their friends, "No, I can't go to the bar, I really need this done because we desperately need me to keep this job."

Yet now, these same people assume other 30 year olds will drop the bar and the job to go vacuum their carpets. It's a little funny.

All this is to confirm that, for the most part, people aren't prepared to be in their late 60s, should they live so long. This despite having thirty or even forty years to prepare for it. There's too much resistance, too deep a desire to just argue that no, we're not getting old, or that when they do it can't be that bad, or whatever, to actually sit down and think, this body has a best-before date. Maybe that's something I should consider.

This hits a wall when we find ourselves having a combined ten visits to the hospital, doctor and lab all in the space of a month, ending in nothing actually being "fixed." Because this is the reality of hitting this particular stretch... the stuff that starts to break down does it in a way that can't be corrected. It can only be managed. That is very sobering.

I met this wall when I was 30, when my daughter was aged six, and when my first wife's multiple schlerosis reduced her to a quadrapelegic. This is where I did my training in "no-solution medicine." It was more than sobering, it was catastrophic. Comparatively, every horror I've faced since has the edges smoothed off. That's a part of what makes me me.

Life, if you'll pardon the expression, is essentially kicking a can down the road. When you're young, can-kicking is fun. As you age and start to work, that can-kicking feels awful at first, then you're so busy you've forgotten that it's what you're doing. But then, steadily, as things fall away, as your children move away from home, as your parents die and leave you the pater or mater familias, as friends go, as the places you hung out go, as the things you liked to do once and can't any more, or have simply ceased to be, go, there you are, still kicking that same can, wondering how long this part is going to go on. After all, realistically, I could live to be a hundred. A hundred is the same distance from me now that 24 is. This gives me an awful lot of time to kick a can with not that much else to do.

A different game that my generation likes to play, that my parents generation did without much hope, is this: "How far will technology progress before I'm really old?" That matters, particularly with medicine. My mother had a heart valve installed in 1977, when she was told that it might give her "two or three years, perhaps more."  The valve did not in fact fail until 1995, when she was still alive... and long enough to get a better heart valve installed in another operation, and this time with the adjoiner, "We don't know how long this is going to work."  My mother lived until 2012. She did not die of heart failure. Which is what makes this game, "Will technology keep me alive?" so much fun to play at this age.

I understand that at present, the fastest growing job market — where the numbers of actual workers are increasing at the fastest rate — is aged care. Looking after the old and dying is, right now, a big growth industry. I brought this up with my partner, which inspired the usual discussion called, "Why the fuck we don't want to end up in an old age home," an old favourite, complimented by this technology thing. Usually, as soon as a lot of people start working in a particular growth industry occurs, there follows a desire to automate that thing because there's more money to be made there. I'm sure the gentle reader has noticed there's quite a lot of discussion about robots right now.

Let me walk you through that thinking again. When a sector swells, it attracts capital. When capital arrives, it looks for ways to reduce dependence on labour. The needs of the ailing and the dying are minimal. An 90-year-old does not need a robot to help her prepare for a big party, or anything complex like that. She needs something that can move a spoon to her lips. And change things. And be able to lift her, so the bed can be made. The needs of a 90-year-old makes a very limited yet practical number of things that a robot can be taught to do.

None of those being commit euthanasia, but I know you young people. That's where you all went.

Tamara and I have agreed. We would rather have a robot take care of us in our later years than a person. A robot doesn't make assumptions such as, "You're old, of course you want to watch Wheel of Fortune and Fox News with the other old people here."  A robot doesn't care if you don't conform. A robot can be programmed to just adapt to the patient, unlike a human who recognises, "Hey, the patient is helpless, they can adapt to me."  These are things, trust me, that you'll think about one day.

Oh yes, of course I know that most people my age would cringe in horror at this idea. They live in this fantasy land where "care" means warmth, company, presence, concern... but we're under no such delusions. People suck. Having a person in your home, making decisions for you, about what you need, and what you have to accept now, I did that in my early 30s with my first wife's nurses. And it SUCKS. They are not reasonable, they are not human, they are "educated" with a set of precepts that say, in essence, "my life is really fucking hard, and you're sick, so shut up and make my really hard life easier."

I still bounce against this in hospitals. I did just 6 days ago. I don't mean to disparage nurses, we all depend on them. But they aren't reasonable as people. What they do for a living precludes any possibility of them being that.

On the other hand, a robot is like a toaster. It doesn't work without effort, but when it works, it does not tell you what to think, or what tone to speak in, or what expression you ought to have on your face. You are never judged by your toaster. You don't stuff bread into it at 1 AM to have it carp, "How come you're not in bed yet? I can't be expected to make toast at this hour? Why don't you behave like a responsible person?"

I'm at a point in this post where I want to tell as story about something I said to a nurse before the surgery I had in 2008 for when I snapped my quadraceps tendon on a diving board. She asked me a personal question about my sex life, the question being on her clipboard, and I gave her a wholly blase answer that offended the ever royal shit out of her. She immediately turned to me and SCOLDED me for answering in an inappropriate, albeit joking manner. I won't write the line here. I'm not ashamed of it, its only that in all my trafficking around the internet, I still haven't heard this phrase yet. So I guess, yeah, I'm kinda still out there.

To give a fairly parallel example, George Carlin once did a sketch back in the 70s based on answers you don't give to your parents, though you think of them at the time. It consisted of the parent saying cliche things and then him giving the answer he said he did not give when he was a boy.

One I remember had the parent saying, "How many times do I have to tell you?" and Carlin smugly answering, "Seven."

Oh, how I wish I could have said that to my father. He'd have beaten the shit out of me, quite literally. Anyway, that's about the level of my answer to the nurse.

All this is to say that locking me up in a care centre where the same people feed me, change my diapers and help wheel me into a room where I have to watch a news feed that's obviously tainted with the other old people isn't going to go well. I'm not going to shut up and that means I'm going to lay there in filthy diapers a lot of the time, subject to some nurse's passive aggressiveness. Not looking forward to that.

See? I'm already talking about things in an ordinary blog post than we're all supposed to pretend doesn't exist on the internet.

Yet if I say the words to a robot, one assigned to my actual home, not a care facility, because the government finds it cheaper to house me in my own home than in a grand whatever, well damn, bring that future on, I'll love it. The robot can carry me to my keyboard and I'll spend them morning hitting a key when I can, taking weeks to finish a blog post this long. Sounds like heaven.

The robot might even be programmed to answer, "Oh Alexis, you're so funny."

Sand-eating

So, you're a group of aliens and you're watching the earth... and you notice that while the earthlings are interested in throwing up these satellites in order to help themselves show pictures of cats and share lasagna recipes, while carping about urbanisation, they don't occasionally send out a ship and circle their own moon. This is puzzling for you, but its also convenient, because here's this terrific real estate opportunity for you to build on, so you can set up your lab station to study these earthlings and maybe grab a few now and then for testing.

Then, lo and behold, after fifty years, a group of earthlings decide, in not really a lot of time, to throw a ship around the moon for reasons that aren't clear, but mostly seem bounded up in the same sort of performative political points that encouraged them to do it back in the day. But the noise of culture rolling up from the earth is just that, noise, so you miss it until nearly the last moment. And now here you are, base about to be in plain sight, as the earthlings go by in this year's version of a flying tin can. What do you do?

The beginning of My Dinner with Andre includes this in the opening monologue, in which Wallace Shawn explains his view of the world at the time he made the film, following his inability to get enough work in New York.

"I've lived in this city all my life. I grew up on the Upper East Side; when I was ten years old, I was rich; I was an aristocrat, riding around in taxis, surrounded by comfort... and all I thought about was art and music. Now, I'm 36... and all I think about is money."

The film worked for him.  You can watch it here.  The IMDb trivia page for the film is interesting and should be read by anyone who wants to be a filmmaker, because not only was this intensely low-budget film a success, it did something that successful low budget films almost never do on their own merits: it changed the way intellectuals talk about film-making. The film was stupidly successful on an unimaginable scale for 1981, and is the only reason why Wallace Shawn was able to wrest his career from obscurity to the place where now we all recognise his immortal connection with the word "inconceivable."

I think the film is terrible. It came out in 1981, when I was 17 and surrounded by musicians and artists and other writers, who all gushed about the genius of the film in the same way they gushed about Jean-Luc Godard and Frederico Fellini, whose films I had seen and knew well enough to stay the fuck away from, since they were filled with a fascination about the tiniest most obvious parts of life as a way of avoiding talking about anything that actually fucking mattered. My Dinner with Andre addresses a familiar point-of-view that most anyone drifts into at some point between the age of 20 and 50: "I thought my life was about this, but now I realise that it's about that." But it's not "intellectual," it's pseudo-intellectual. All the clever, amazing things that Andre tells Wallace in the film amounts to tin-foil hat logic, not especially useful unless, coincidentally, you want to sell something to someone by telling them that life isn't about pain... a line, incidentally, I get from the writer of the book that contained the word "inconceivable" that Shawn would become famous for later.

It's not that Andre is stupid. He's not. He's passionate, he's rich with detail, he's anxious to explain and be understood and to delve deep into the thing that fascinates him, while Shawn provides a counterpoint that makes the film watchable because it's well-written. But it's a sham. It's all empty-headed nonsense. There isn't a single thought expressed so well in the film that can be applied to anything except to explain how the My-Pillow guy made millions. And for me personally it frustrates me to death that even now, 45 years later, comments under the film include, "I watched it for the first time years ago and it has truly made my life better."

Yes, exactly. That's what it's supposed to do. You're dying of thirst in the desert and this film gives you sand to drink... and you drink it because you don't know the difference between sand and water.  From a film directed by the guy who directed Wallace Shawn when he said the word that made him famous.

For such people who write such comments, an alien base on the far side of the moon sounds plausible.

It is for this reason why repeated exhortations about what "adventure" is fail. And why admonishing the fudging of dice fails. And why point-by-point demonstrations of the execreble writing of the white box set fails. Because no matter how passionate one is, or how precise with language, or how specific one's structured examples, or the demonstration of evidentiary success vs. staggering failure one provides, it never comes down to the listener listening and weighing the two points of view to come to a thoughtful conclusion about what to believe.

The only measure that ever counts is what the listener feels. Which the writer has no power to change. My Dinner with Andre does not succeed because it was well-written or exceptionally shot or because it came out at the right time or because the performers were artists. Those things are all true, for their time, but they aren't the reason why the film was successful. It was successful because it didn't ask anyone to change their mind. It offered them a bunch of patterns that people recognised, that pseudo-intellectual recognised, and then waved them about for 90 minutes in a way that made the audience feel smart to be watching a film like this. Which worked beautifully.

A DM who fudges does so because early in their development in that role, they attached themselves to the idea, most likely because they could not help themselves. It was just too hard to actually kill their friends, or even strangers, because their nature forbade it. So having attached first, like a limpet, all that was needed after was to rationalise it. That rationalisation varies but mostly its to "create a good game" or "to make sure the game stays fun," or whatever. The tendency of the intellectual is to argue with the rationalisation, but in fact the rationalisation is incidental. It could be anything, so long as it sounds plausible. Because the issue isn't whether or not it makes a better game, the issue is that, inside, they can't keep themselves from doing it. Fudging possesses them, not the reverse. They aren't strong enough, as human beings, to stop fudging. So argument is really just a waste of time.

This is the one lesson I've never been able to learn. And my recent understanding, lately, that I haven't learnt it yet, is embarrassing for me. This blog has been to construct an argument about this or that or the other thing, just as JB's post is, just as is any post about D&D or any subject that I respect, because I walk away from such posts and such videos with an awareness I did not have before. Because I am an intellectual, and not a sand-drinker, which is what makes me formidable and scary. Because I won't argue decently, respecting the listener's feelings about what this is or isn't or should be or feels better or what fits the pattern and hey, you can't actually prove there aren't aliens on the far side of the moon. I don't accept premises like those. But because I don't, I'm also unkind, and abusive, and cold, and rude, and any number of other things that sound like I'm in your house telling you that you've put your sofa on the wrong end of your living room. It's what makes me intolerable.

Because, seriously, if you were in a desert and you saw someone who was thirsty enough to drink the sand, you'd try to stop them, wouldn't you?

And if you couldn't succeed, and you had to just stand there watching them do it, that'd get pretty aggravating after, say, to pull a number out of my hat, 61 years.

But what makes it truly worse is the guy on my right who has realised the solution is to sell the drinker more sand. And he's making a killing at it.

All this is the reason why intellectuals tend to retreat from the system as they age rather than continue to fight it to the end. They get tired. They don't tire of the facts or the arguments or the wish to rigidly figure out the sense of a thing... but they do get tired of the quiet expectation that, "if you're not going to sell the sand, you could at least provide it for free."  Which is the role I should have adopted with this blog if I wanted it to be successful. I should have just called it "Free Sand" and then shovelled it into the mouths of my readers, making them all happy. I failed to do that. And therefore, demonstrably, I failed.

I am an excellent writer. Anyone here who thinks I couldn't have used that skill to proffer the sweetest-looking, brightest, most soft-grained sand imaginable is a fool. If I truly despised and disregarded my fellows, I could have built a sand-selling palace here, with vaulted ceilings and music playing and every kind of sand one's heart could desire. Because honestly, seriously... straight-talking it here... people aren't really that hard to lie to. They really aren't. And anyone who has read a few books, who has gotten through grade school and watched the way that bullies operate up close, comes to a point early on between knowing that you can either fuck these people over or serve them... and as it happens, all the money is in the former.

And mind, it's more than just the language. It's the intuitive understanding that underlies it, the comprehension about why the sand is being eaten and what for and why it's hard to stop and how deep the desperation goes, that encourages the fellow with sand in mouth to garble through the sand what an asshole I am in telling them to spit it out and drink water. Those are all little buttons, with little labels under them, arranged in a neat little row, and all it takes it to reach out and touch the one that works right now... and just like that, Johnny eats the sand he's told to eat.

If I am a rigid asshole, if I am inflexible, if I'm not ready to "see the argument" or "understand," it's bitcoins to donuts that I'm keeping my hand off the button that would pour out the sand you want me to pour out. I learned how to do that in High School, to subvert teachers, to placate principles, to get around bullies, to survive. It is so easy... you have no idea. Once you really understand how little is needed to manipulate a person's perception with lies — a small concession, stroking their ego, a little feigned uncertainty, some carefully timed sympathy, silence because the person needs to "stew," a little false seeing their point — they melt just so. But all that created in me when I tried it early in life was contempt... and I didn't like that feeling. I didn't lean into it. I didn't decide, "Hey, but it'll let me fuck people over and get paid for it."

And I shouldn't be telling you this now, but hey... I'm already an asshole. Not for doing this, obviously, but for not doing this.

So, lately, I haven't felt much like writing. Anything. Figuring this one out, I think. Getting pretty tired of yelling at the void. Lost a good friend over this kind of thing, whom I thought was a good friend and I haven't recovered. Lost a good friend over this last year, too. Seems I'm always doing this. I might just as well lie, all the time. Churn out some slopware. Or just walk. Because except for the prospect of running D&D tomorrow night, which is really why I love D&D, I just don't seem to be able to give a fuck whether people want to eat sand or not.

Status

Tamara came home safe and sound, she is doing well, rapidly improving and much better than she was before the procedure. I, on the other hand, have successfully produced an infection in my toe... all the running around at the hospital... and am laid up.  I'll have a proper post tomorrow.

Interesting Times

I do not think that I'll shall manage all the reportage that I have this week, because I am simply tired. I shall start with the troubles that have occurred, which I shall preface with the statement that I am, this Monday night at 9:32 as I write this sentence, well.

The reader may remember that while I working on The Lantern last, finished a Sunday ago before yesterday, that I'd been interrupted by a toothache, which led to a temporary filling, an extra days rest, antibiotics and a scheduled root canal, this Wednesday last.  Well, a week ago today, the large toe on my right foot began to pinch in an unpleasant way, that increased steadily until my Tuesday evening, I was in a fair bit of distress about it. Therefore, while my appointment with the dentist was at 2 p.m. Wednesday, I called my doctor and had an appointment with him on Wednesday morning at 10 a.m. This is a strange thing, I must tell you, to see a doctor about one thing, come home for lunch, then head out (in a blizzard) to see a dentist about another.

The toenail was identified as ingrown and the nail cut back from the side of my toe, bringing relief. The canal was filled, bringing relief. Thursday and Friday progressed well, I ran D&D on Discord Friday night and yesterday I should have given an account of that running, but... well, I'll explain.

My partner has been having bladder problems of one kind or another since May of 2025. Several measures were tried, until finally she was scheduled for a surgery that was to take place today at 11 a.m. Thus, the weekend was spent managing my partner's distress here and there, getting us both ready for the "big day" at last. In Canada, yes we wait, but we also don't pay.

Saturday, I unwrapped the bandage from my big toe, which had been bothering me off and on, such that I'd been applying polysporin. What I found was an enormous blood-and-lymph blister that had formed alongside the cut toe, in the space of about five hours. It grew bigger until midnight, when I spoke to a nurse on the 811 emergency we have in this country. At 12:30 a.m. I lanced it, pushed the blood out, and it felt much better. But, unfortunately, as Sunday, yesterday, progressed, it got increasingly worse so that...

Today, after getting my partner to her surgery, and getting her comfortable, and making sure everything was going to go according to plan, I was forced to leave her before her being taken away and go over to the emergency myself to have my toe looked at. This took a wait of about two hours, in which it was observed that yes, it was bad, but no, it probably wasn't severely infected, despite it leaking and some of that leakage having a suggestive yellow (pus) hue upon my sock I wore. The toe was bandaged, whereby I hurried back to the Day Surgery to find my partner's surgery had gone fine and she was now in recovery. I had ten minutes to eat lunch before fetching myself up to her and meeting her upon her coming out of recovery.

Is that all? No.

While the surgery went well, and will probably be fine, my partner's reaction to the small amount of botox used to manage the infection she had pretty much seized up her bladder. The rest of today has been spent comforting her, easing her experience while limping around on my experience, culminating in her being kept over night there. Now I am home, having had an "interesting" day, after an "interesting" week, and I could go with some "boring" for a bit.

This is a perfect place to immediately insert, ironically or facetiously, take your pick, the details of Friday's game. But I'm not going to. I'm tired, I have to hie my ass out to the hospital in the morning tomorrow and I trust everything there is going to be well.

Frankly, at my age, I felt I held up fairly well. Thanks be to my daughter, who helped make everything possible.

Aloe

Using this blog as a diary.  Here's a pic of my aloe as it was the end of last October, 2024:

And here is the same aloe today:

Crazy, huh?

Surgery

I'm okay.

Interruptions

Well, I'm afraid no wiki content today.  And for a little while, there's going to be no content at all.  Come Tuesday, I'm going in for surgery.  Not a big deal, it's a hernia in my belly button; seems a loop of my intestine has popped in there and has taken up residence these last three years.  It's not considered overly essential, but is still covered by healthcare... but essentially I've had to live with it for some time while waiting for a table.  I settled the date in late January, and now it's coming in four days.

It means a total anesthetic, so there's a 1 in 10,000 chance, or probably less, that I might have a bad reaction and if so, that's the ball game.  The doctors like to be very clear about that, though the chances are minimal.  The surgery itself, I'm told, isn't that serious; but I'll likely be laid up for a few days, mostly because I won't want to do anything.  Since its right in my belly button, sitting at a computer working is probably going to be low on my priorities.  I'll try to have someone drop a note that says I'm okay, for those who want to know.

Meanwhile, I'm just going to take it easy.  There's two projects I'd like to get up before I go under.  Mostly, though, I want to feel rested, strong, not stressed, not beholden in general, and positive.  Like a vacation.  For some time afterwards, I'll feel none of those things, so I want to enjoy myself while I can.

None of you get worried.  I'll be fine.

Spoons

About four times I've tried to write this post today, unable to... hm... get up the nerve.

Yesterday's gift truly threw me for a loop.  Starting in reading it has been, well, um, humbling.  And I've struggled to identify some benchmark I could turn to as a way to grasp this unusual, rather overwhelming kindness.  It's disrupted my thinking so that both yesterday and today, I've been at a loss to produce anything creative.  I've been working around the house, applying myself to physical labour, getting things that should have been put to rights months ago, because my head is in a whirl.

This morning a worthy connection came to mind; it's from the 1955 John Ford film, Mister Roberts.  If you don't know the film, it's difficult to explain exactly how this scene comes about.  Essentially, for decency rendered as an officer, for sacrifices given and for actions taken, specifically tossing a palm tree overboard, the crew decides on their own volition to demonstrate their gratitude to Mr. Roberts.  See the film, if you can.  It's a damn sight better than any other film except for Marty, which deservedly won best picture... and the two of them are close.

This is how the book that was given makes me feel.  If you want to see my face; or hear my voice; and know how hard it's hit me... watch the link.

I'll never watch this film the same way.

So, in lieu of something else, I'm going to take a moment to talk about spoon theory.  This is a metaphor proposed by Christine Miserandino, "describing the amount of physical or mental energy a person has available for daily activities and tasks.  Miserandino applies it to chronic illness and it's logically designed for that, but after a conversation yesterday with my daughter, who brought this to my attention, I think it accurately describes the reality of creative endeavours and our capacity to invent.  In my daughter's case, where I'll begin, it relates to the time she has, as she progresses through the creation of her family unit.  She is, at present, pregnant with her second child.

As she tells it, every day is limited by the needs of her husband, the disabled cousin that lives with them, her not-quite 4 y.o. son (birthday September 28th) and certain medical difficulties arising with the pregnancy.  She has become, in the last four years, increasingly tired of those younger, childless, marriage-less, free spirited persons of her own age who, as my daughter explains, are ready to "take her spoons" in the way of time and favours given, but they don't give very many spoons back, for reasons that obviously don't have to do with the time they have.  I think many of us here can relate to this.  It's not that we don't like our friends.  It's not that we don't want to be there for our friends... is that our friends, particularly those without sincere responsibilities, don't seem to understand that we only have a set number of spoons available to us each day.  And that, when we give a spoon to someone else, because they need us to come help them move, or because they haven't got their rent this month, our sacrificing a spoon means there's something we can't have now for ourselves.

Which is perfectly fine... if now and then, someone comes and helps us clean our house, or move our junk, or clean our carpets, or look after our children, surrendering their spoons so we can use ours for those things we usually don't have time for.

This, however, affects me less than her.  I am only looking after a grandson now and then, and we're grateful that he's collected just as we're running out of the spoons we need to watch him.  Most of the time, I have plenty of spoons when I wake up each morning.  I can spend them on my responsibilities and the things that I enjoy, most of the time.  My issue is a creative scarcity, not a physical one.

Quite a lot of the time, I wake up in the morning without a single creative spoon to my name.  I want creative spoons.  I just don't happen to have any.  I cleaned my carpets last Wednesday with my daughter and when Thursday came around, the one spoon I had was used for the blog post I wrote that day.  I felt it was a good use.  I would have needed two or three spoons to do any serious writing, I didn't have them.  In fact, I haven't had them all week, because realistically, I just don't have the body I had when I was 35.  When I was 35, I didn't have the brain I had now.

Which means, more or less, when I was 35, I had no spoons because I was stupid, and today I have no spoons because I'm tired.

But, I take a rest, I accumulate spoons, and I try to use them as best I can.

Yesterday, by surprise, Osterman, Maddox, Becker and Joslyn sent me a whole freaking bucket of spoons.  I am hip deep in spoons.  I'm just trying to process it.

So, when I feel down; when I have doubts; when I'm not motivated... I know exactly where to go to get myself the spoon I need.  Fellas... thank you.  You cannot guess what it has meant to me.

Uh...

My friends, my good people.  I am touched.

These four have sent me a book in support of work and myself.  I've had only time to read the forward; and that has been enough to put me on the verge of tears.  And let me say, after much pain in my life, it hurts to cry.  That never comes without having to climb over some very big hurdles.

It'll take me some time to read this... but bless you all.  Thank you.  You've really put your fingers on my heart.

Not in Harness

My 60th birthday is coming up next week, on the 15th September... and yes, I know, for months now I've been calling myself 60 years old, but that's only because I've been closer to 60 instead of 59, and somewhere along the time I was 12, I decided it was perfectly reasonable to round my age up, when it wasn't for school or some other legal purpose (or when talking to my parents, who were completely unreasonable about such obvious things).

It also happened on my 12th birthday, which I remember I didn't enjoy very much, that I had an epiphany that what I wanted to be was a writer.  Now, some here may recall that this is 3 years before I'd ever heard of D&D, the 45th anniversary of which was yesterday, for the record.  At the time, I thought this obviously meant my becoming a novelist, as I had read many novelists and thought how cool it would be to have that job.  In fact, that very night, I took out a sheet of paper and began writing my first novel, which I wrote all through grades 7, 8 and 9, until growing up before entering grade 10 and reconising that it was a garbage idea for a novel. 

[yes, I remember the intended plot and I won't recount it]

With the arrival of D&D, I did try to write fiction associated with the game, but the substance of such fiction was so terrible and my ability to write could not possibly lift it from that muck, so I turned my mind towards writing more esoteric, albeit, failed projects, though I did manage to write a performance scene that got me into a city-wide competition (I lost), I was published in three years of high school student-literature booklets (in-house end-of-year things) and I did enjoy the experience of having more than one teacher sit me down for a heart-to-heart in order to explain, for my own good, that I'd never be a writer, that I was wasting my time, and that if I would just realise where my real talents were, I'd be a much more successful person in life.

They meant well.  For all I know, what they said might have been true; one nice thing about being this age is recognising that the really awful things that were said to us as children, however misdirected, were also probably true.  Still, I don't think I'd have been happy as anything but a writer.

Writing, which I've done for 48 years, represents a long string of failures for me, punctuated by just enough successes to make me fruitfully stubborn.  It so happens that I've been able to apply the skills and interest I have in the practice to D&D these last 16 years, since finding this blog, but I hurry to explain to the gentle reader, this blog and my internet presence are in fact a thin wedge of the life I lead away from this keyboard.  Just as what I say here hardly represents all that I have done with my life, all that I have been interested in, and all that I wish to achieve.

What it says on the back of my book, Pete's Garage, is 100% true.  I did participate in mosh pits, I did listen to industrial music, I did watch musicians of every kind play.  I did watch them argue, sitting in their little apartments and drinking their beer as they shouted at each other.  I followed them around to their gigs and schlepped their shit, often for no pay but for a seat in the van on its way to another city.  I did buy them dinners and let them sleep on my couch, and I did marry one.  She was the mother of my daughter, the daughter of a musician, and right now I have her piano with her music books and her notes in those music books in my apartment right now.

But how much time have I spent, here, talking about music?  How often have I debated the merits of arranging and preparing for a gig, of getting an album or a CD made, of selling them, of getting on spotify, of all the various aspects that it would take to put a band together and make them practice and find them a space to play?  How often have I spoken about the many hours that I have stood in front of a live audience at talent nights and sang, back when the writing wasn't going so well and thinking maybe the path for me might be a different one?

I know that it probably feels that I can't be talking about me, because I'm the D&D guy, I'm the one that makes all the maps and the game rules and ran all those thousands of hours of campaign-time.  There's just no way that I could have done all that and had any interest in being a musician.  After all, I didn't start singing in the church choir until I was 13 years old, and around campfires when I was a camp counsellor at 15, with a bunch of 8-year-old brats to look after.  I used to sing to myself nearly every time I had a chance to walk alone; I had a repertoire of a hundred songs I knew by heart, though I admit a lot of those are gone now.

But I'm the D&D guy.  I've found my niche, right?  My place.

But then, I was also an actor, wasn't I?  Wrote, produced and directed my own plays, performed at the Edmonton fringe festival.  I could go, right now, since I have the money in my bank account, and get my head shots and pay my fees and join ACTRA, start going out for auditions.  I still have some connections with people in the theatre scene, some of whom owe me a favour or two; I've got the energy to play a father or an old man.  I have a deep, rich voice and I can still hit the back tiers of a big auditorium... which would only get better if I applied the practice.  Might be a fun, social sort of activity.  When I was just 25, those performance companies were always rounded out by 60+ men and women, outgoing, friendly, none of whom expected to win an award but they were there for every rehearsal, doing it for the sheer pleasure of the activity.

Sounds all right to me.  I'm not going to get on Stephen Colbert with my next D&D-based book.  All the 5e players in the world aren't going to change their playing style because I turn out a group of essays on starting a trading town, tackling a dungeon like a military campaign or inventing a guide that tells all the things players can buy.  I've had my run at fame, and it ain't comin'... not for D&D, not for all the fiction novels I write, not for the music I've sung or the boards I've trod.

The only thing that's left, the only thing that really matters, is if I'm having fun or not.

Now, if the people supporting me on Patreon aren't happy because I'm not staying in my lane, I send my deepest apologies.  You know, there's a tale I tell about two hyper-rich businessfolk I saw at the symposium once, about ten years ago.

The first says, "I have to tell you, my business depends on creative people.  Without creative people, I don't have a business.  They are the heart, the soul, the substance of everything that I am able to produce and sell and make money from, which is why I treasure them.  I really respect them, and what they can do, because I know that I'm not like that and I can't do it myself."

And the second one says, "Exactly.  That's exactly right.  And that's why I say to entrepreneurs when they ask how to get started, get yourself some creative people.  The way to make a business work is to gather these people together, harness them to the cart of the business and let them take us where we want to go."

Whereupon the first adds, "Yes, I so agree.  The future begins with harnessing the talent that exists in the world, in order to ensure that our companies perform the best they can."

And so it goes.

Moody

So, here we are... some months out from having lost my campaign, wondering what D&D holds for me.  I have books in progress; no doubt, I'll imagine others.  I can't suppose that after this much of my life spent thinking about this game, I'm just going to stop.  But there's a transformation going on, certainly.

I've meant a couple of times to write about how conversation about D&D is, at least for me, dead.  I've never been the "let's talk about old modules" guy.  I'm not the warstory-teller either.  5e has effectively killed rule-based discussions.  For-or-against conversations have died on the vine, at least in my experience.  It's been at least a year since anyone in any post I've read has even mentioned "alignment."  I seem to have accumulated a number of people who want to tell me about their worlds or their campaigns... but to be honest, guys; how much about the actual gameplay of my own world have I talked about on this blog?  I have done it, but mostly because I was encouraged to do it.  But for myself, hearing about how other people are going to run other people... really, I wish you the best of luck.  I'll answer questions if I'm asked, I'll try to get you out of a corner you've painted yourself into.  I swear, I'll do so with the zeal of a neighbour lending you his garden hose if your garage starts on fire.

But just to shoot the shit about it?  

I always marvelled how it was possible for golfers to go knock 18 holes in four, five hours, and spend the entire time talking about golf.  And plainly in a way that showed this is all they ever talked about, despite playing twice, three times a week.  Particularly in that going back to the club, getting a couple of beers, they'd spend that time... still talking about golf.  I like golf.  I think it's a pretty good game.  I've had some very enjoyable summer afternoons playing it, talking about history, ethics, the development of art in Europe in the 18th century... but this obsession with talking about golf.  Eh.  But apparently golf provides enough to keep hundreds of thousands of grown adults talking about it every weekend, all day, for years.  Perhaps it's because no one, in the last 150 years, has felt the need to produce "2nd Edition" golf, as a way to build the market.

I picked the wrong hobby.  I should have gotten into gardening, running or filmmaking.  At least if you show up to watch birds, the birdwatchers you call to show up actually show up, because they actually LIKE birdwatching.  But half the time, what do I hear about D&D players?  They don't show.  They call, they agree to show, and then they don't.  They get colder feet than a first time sub for a prodomme appointment.

So I understand people throwing their hands in the air and saying, "I'm done."  I used to pat myself on the back for having such dedicated players, that they always showed up, that I could count on them... HAH!  I hope every person on this blog is raising a glass right now and saying, "Cheers, you old bastard."  If not, get your ass out to your kitchen and get a beer.  You are owed the privilege of drinking to my inevitable humbling.

And so.  Amidst this... mood I'm in.  Don't know if I'm going to DM again.  Don't know if I care.

I feel like I'm on the edge of something important.  Something life-changing.  I say that because its something I've felt before.  It's like climbing into a rocket that's going to blast off at some point, but we don't know when.  And we don't know where it's going, or even whose rocket it is.  Just a feeling.

Can't remember when I had this before.  Or what happened when it did.

Here's a little advice: life is too short to waste your time.  So don't.  If you want to do something, do it.  Don't hedge, don't equivocate, don't measure, don't weigh.  The more you plan, the more time you spend figuring out the best way to get started, the more certain it is that you actually don't want to do it at all, and that you're just wasting your time pretending you're going to do something, because in your head you're thinking, "I've got to do something."

Don't just do "something."  That is absolutely the worst thing you can do.

The Halfling and the Knight

Time I addressed this point from a recent post; hands up, anyone who knew what I was talking about:

"Much of the time, I believe, people have little understanding of what purpose in the game a rule serves, or how that purpose is compromised, leading to a less robust system, when that rule is casually tossed aside. For me personally, whatever a DM may feel about the presence of experience or encumbrance, and the "inconveniences" they bring, casting those things aside does not improve the game. The game is worse without them.

"Yet this is hardly understood, and even less appreciated. Of course we can still play D&D without those things. Of course the players can still move from place to place, they can still fight, they can yet role-play and even accumulate status and influence upon the game world. But these things — and this is almost impossible to explain to the average player — ARE NOT THE GAME. They certainly seem to be; and most would argue with me on this point ... vehemently. But they'd be wrong."

We don't need to count runs to play baseball.  We don't need teams.  We can still pitch, bat and run the bases without these things, if that's what we want.  We don't need a king to play chess.  We can move the pieces around on the field, attacking one another, deciding the game ends when there are no pieces left to kill, or the opposing player's move assures that a kill can't happen.  We can choose not to race sprinters against one another, having them run without a clock while five judges hold up cards to decide how the sprinter did, like figure skating.  We can play scrabble letters without numbers, ignoring any "score," on a blank lined board, until the board is filled.  We can throw out the property cards of monopoly and just roll dice to move our pieces around the board.

With children, we teach chess in a manner that a modern gamer recognises as save scumming.  Make the wrong move, see the consequences, take it back.  Thinking back 28 years, my daughter moves her rook, I take it with the queen ... then I put the rook and queen back to let her try again.  I let her put her finger on the bishop, deciding if she's going to move it, but I don't make her move it, because she's seven and I don't care if she wants to move the knight instead.  We learn games like this.  We see the consequences of our actions.

Then, as we grow more serious about the game (my daughter didn't, but I did), we don't want those breaks.  We want to win for real ... because we grow to see that it's a measure of the standards against which we hold ourselves.  We put ourselves in situations that aren't comfortable, specifically because the rewards are greater.

There's nothing in my life right now that says I have to walk onto a stage and risk public embarrassment ... but if I had the chance to do it again, to play Uncle Vanya or Dr. Stockmann, I would.  There's no money in it for me.  I have no urge to take up acting as a career (though, admittedly, because no opportunity to do so has presented itself).  But I would do it because I've done it before, because I've challenged myself in that way, I've put my soul and my commitment on the line in a theatre before paying customers ... and received good reviews.  There are no take backs; there's no way to save scum a few seconds before delivering a seven-minute monologue.

I know that the way the vast majority of people play D&D is "entertaining."  Enjoyable.  It must feel good for many to save scum, with getting rewards without risk, to talk their way out of difficulty, to get experience for showing up ... to shirk combat or, to always win, without that much trouble.  Always knowing that the character I have at the start of tonight's session will still be mine at the end.  Never feeling that raw, brutal panic of a die that has to go the right way ... or the plunge of heart that strikes when it doesn't.

But —

I don't want to take my knight back.  And I definitely do not want to play with those who insist on having it that way.  I'm not playing with children.  No, let me put that another way, because it could be misunderstood.  I have no interest in having adults who want to be children play with me.  If you want your knight back, when you lose your knight due to your inability to play, this says more about you than you realise.

Yes, I said inability to play.  D&D is a game with random elements, that a good player knows are there, accounting for them ... expecting them ... so there's no reason to whine or have a fit when they don't go our way.  That is the game's play.  When the player shirks from that, trying to reconstruct the game so as to avoid those consequences, instead of taking them on the chin like an adult ...

The collapse of my game centered on one player who did not like that her 5th level 60-lb. halfling druid wasn't a "fighter."  She chose to be a druid.  She chose to be a halfling.  She chose her spells.  She liked the sound of being a druid.  She liked to make the cute little jokes about being so light that many of the bigger characters could carry her without an encumbrance penalty.  She liked the pretty-sounding spell names, with words like faerie, shillelagh, goodberry ...

But every time a fight came up, she didn't like having to put her trust in that 20-sided die.  She knew there was plenty of power in the party to manage the monsters, to protect her little child-like body, but she didn't like knowing they were going to kick ass and she wasn't.  She didn't like depending on them.  She'd had plenty of opportunities to put out a good spell and help turn the tide of a battle, but that wasn't good enough.  She didn't want to be a team player.  She didn't want to take a bow at the end with the team.  She wanted to shine.  And she didn't have the class, the spells, the hitting power or the experience level that would let her do that ... and she was getting tired of waiting.  Every time she'd miss with that d20, the feeling of failure gnawed just a little deeper.  She didn't need to actually die as a character.  She didn't need that much to push her over the edge.  What she wanted, and what she hadn't earned, was to make the game ... not a game.  To make it into something that would serve her will.  That would obey her.  And when that didn't come out of the things her character could do, she decided it would come out of her inventiveness with the spells, reinterpreting them as she needed them to work.

When I countered that, she tried harder.  She invented more desperately.  She insisted more emotionally.  When it was her turn to throw that d20, she stalled, staring at her spells, sure that they'd be some way to weave them into an action that would get the result she wanted.

And when I put my foot down, one of the other players, a shining white knight, came to her rescue. He chose that moment to tell me how to act.  And what tone of voice to use.  In no uncertain terms.  In my game.  In my house.  And I rose to the occasion, because I don't let people talk to me that way.

The desire not to play a game, but to make the game suit the player's moods and wants, is the insidious poison at the heart of 5th edition and all that the company has done to D&D these last 20 years.  I love the game of D&D.  I do not love the shambling, mawkish doppleganger that is called D&D by nearly everyone ... and I have no idea what's going to become of the game I love.  The game I love.  I expect it to die along with the undead ghoul that it's spawned.

With four weeks gone, I remain uncertain about the future.  The majority of the crowd walked in support of the halfling and the knight, but I think that's an oversimplification.  There is a whiff that remains in my thoughts that the game itself had ceased to satisfy the needs of the party; and as I read the accounts of others lately, I'm detecting that same whiff in their games.

My head feels clearer.  There's a measure of anger.  Of betrayal.  Of the cheapening of this thing I love, which darkly bites at the memory of myself discovering this game as a boy, and thinking of it as a brutal, consequence-ridden thing, like the chess I played, being the greatest game in the world.

Which it isn't.

Anymore.

What do you do with a Dungeon Master?

Let's catch up.

My offline campaign exploded two weeks ago and the fallout has been absolute.  I have no more offline campaign.   Before that had happened, I was planning on going on a vacation at the end of May, and then that didn't seem to be working out ... and then I made an arrangement with my work and I've been slaving at that since, oh, Thursday last week, and now I can breathe and I'm going on a six-day break.

I wrote a couple of posts last week that caught my feelings for then, which I thought I'd continue but now there's nothing left to say except that I disagree with some who say that the being in the present can only prepare you for the past.  I don't think that's true.  We can't know what's going to happen in the future, but the present, and the past, helps up build a better seat-belt for it.

The last time I had a game blow up on me, I was 29.  Less than half the age I am now.  That seems incomprehensible to me ... that all the chaos and confusion of those first years of D&D, between 1979 and 1993, represent less than a quarter of my lifetime.  It's easy, when you're 29, to assume that when your players walk out (they had a meeting among themselves and then I was informed), that obviously you're going to keep playing the game, obviously you're going to find another party, obviously it's no big deal, because as people age into their 30s, they often think they should stop doing the things they did when they were kids.

But here I am, not quite actually 60, and it really isn't so obvious that there's going to be another game party in my future, or even that I want one.  This is a sobering thought.  I have thoughts of the game, which I love, and the concept of the wiki, which I love, and the maps, which I love ... and the cold, stark, inflexible reality that for the present, for this moment, I have no immediate application for any of these things.

So.  I'm thinking.

I came to a conclusion last Christmas that it would be stupid to stop writing this blog, so I'm not going to do that.  The Streetvendor's Guide is a brilliant book, which has to be written, so I am going to continue writing that.  The wiki is the conduit of the experience I've accumulated through years of living and playing D&D, so that's not going away and deserves my attention.  Making the maps just feels good, in a way I've tried to explain, but which I know many cannot understand.  Nonetheless, I've found an outlet in that direction for a consciousness I like owning, so I'll continue to make maps.

But for the present, I'm in limbo.  What do you do with a dungeon master when he stops being a dungeon master; what can you do with a dungeon master who retires?  Who's got a game for a dungeon master, when he stops being a dungeon master ... 

There are always ways to keep busy, of course, and I'll follow them.  Patreon has invented a chat room, which I've pitched here before.  There are just four or five of us altogether, from the much larger number that support me to the tune of $3 a month.  It would be a better format for running an online game than either a blog or a wiki, but I can't say I'm interested.  Somehow, the online process has left me cold.  I assume that presently, after some time has gone by, that I'll get itchy for a game ... but there's always some public club, if I want to let a bunch of 5e players boss me around.  Gawd, I'll have to be pretty hard up before I jones that hard.

Sorry.  "Jonesing."  To have a strong desire or craving for something.  I'm very old.

And so are you, if you didn't need the definition.

Still, I'm here for the weekend.  I figure I've written some 28,000 words in the last 6 days, and edited about 40,000 more.  I may take a couple of days and do a jigsaw puzzle or something.

Doings

The Streetvendor's Guide has been keeping me busy, so that as I've waded through the various wooden articles used to make tools and crafts, up to but not including musical instruments, I haven't had any time to map make or much else ... beyond the day job, naturally.  Not even for writing blog posts here.  But, it's been a good day, written a full page, edited nearly two full pages, worked some on the book's table of contents, worked some on the book's index, and even found time to continue my piano practicing today.

I haven't been able to take any video or audio of my learning piano, because I haven't any kind of stand and merely posing the phone on the edge of a table or on the piano itself gives very poor coverage.  For anyone who might wonder, I've learned from the internet how to do scales with both hands, with my eyes closed, and how to play Twinkle Twinkle little star, again with my eyes closed.  I practiced today to play the harmony with my left hand while playing the melody with my right, but while I get the concept, and can hear the positive effect pressing the right keys delivers, I can't do that at speed yet.  I can work my way through the song a few times to try to impress the pattern, but it's still patting my head and rubbing my stomach at the same time.  I'm in no rush.  I've had the piano just three weeks.  I do practice for a few minutes every day, longer if I get intrigued.  Did about half an hour today, struggling with Twinkle Twinkle and also trying my hand at Wenceslas.

I keep an eye on Patreon's chat window multiple times a day as well, which isn't difficult and which, for the most part, is empty of residents anyway.  Thinking about those erstwhile days a hundred years ago when I met Tamara in a chatroom, I used to dominate those conversations by typing quickly, forming my thoughts quickly, having way too much to say and basically drowning out those who might try to disagree.  I haven't written this yet, but Tamara got interested in me when she watched me disassemble a fellow online that was browbeating her; I didn't know her, but I rushed in, took the argument on and buried the chatter ... and she and I had a long talk afterwards, that day and every day, until we agreed to meet.  It's been 22 years now, since those events I wrote about here.

I'm saying I'm probably not much fun to talk to.  I must thank those people who contributed to the raising of my mood after my writing the last post.  I have a D&D running tomorrow night, I intend to record it, and hopefully do better in a few ways.  For one thing, the child is being given away to the other grandparents for the evening, so any conversation is going to be neglected by his personal take on things.  There should be more players there as well, and possibly some combat if things go as I expect.  The last running actually ended with the players arriving in Tomis and debating whether or not to shop there.  I imagine we'll start with a purchasing sequence tomorrow night.

Little has been said about the mapmaking feature in the background of the audio posts I've made.  My original recording actually goes right up to the completion of the area around Przemesyl, I just haven't obtained enough audio to reach the end of that work.  I'm rather surprised that it takes me so long to sketch these things out, since the time just flashes by while I'm engaged.  Anyway, I noticed with this video that I failed to put a village in a type-4 hex, and looking at it now, it's evident that I didn't do so in the as-yet-not-posted part of the video.  One of those things to be fixed in post, I guess.

Beyond these things, there's not much to say.  If any of my supporters wants to know what I'm doing, or why I'm not posting, it's the easiest thing in the world to go find me on patreon's "community": https://www.patreon.com/user?u=3015466.  Frankly, I'm surprised that some enemy doesn't pay $3 just to have the privilege of telling me to go fuck myself to my face.  Maybe I've run out of enemies.  If so, this is a good time to increase my youtube footprint.

Soon

For some time, I've progressed away from a format of dungeon mastering tutorials towards the more sustainable desire to just show off my work.  For many of my viewers, this hasn't been a positive development.  As such, those who cared about how to deal with troublesome players, or how to describe a dungeon, or how to encourage role-playing or whatever, have simply drifted away.  Those who remain of that kind know the tutorials are all still here, floating in the enormous backlog of my posts over these last 15 years (if they can be found).

For myself, I got tired of producing these sorts of posts ... less because I began repeating myself and moreso because they received, on the whole, either resistance or passive agreement.  Once upon a time, back when angry birds roamed the earth, these posts garnered a lot of attention and produced excellent discussions that ran for thirty or forty comments; but those days, along with the "blog" I suppose, are gone.

We're in a place now where discussion has lost it's verve.  And for the record, "what can you show me" is a better path.  It removes the casual blatherer from the fore, putting the worker, the operator, "creator" in front.  Of course, there are still performers and hustlers, but steadily in this experiment we're calling the internet, ephermeral things are on the decline.  They'll be with us forever, no doubt.  But there are only so many cat videos we can care about; so many kids dancing well in their living rooms we have time for; and so many people spewing out yet one more diatribe on why the right way to play D&D is ...

I'm rather comfortable shucking off that shirt and dropping it on the floor, where it can be laundered should I want to put it on again.  I have little left to say.  Steadily, I move further and further from the world of game modules, D&D online social events, even the desire to visibly see other people play the game.  I just don't relate.

Recently, JB posted a series of posts detailing numerous modules that were part of some contest.  I couldn't bring myself to read past the first sentence of each post.  In retrospect, I've been running a single "module" for 15 years now, taking place on Earth, where the various boundaries and choices within the module steadily drift from location to location, occasionally upon a specific theme and occasionally just to fill a few runnings with whatever the players are interested in at that moment.  If I need something to happen, I invent it out of my own head.  I don't steal it from other creators because what they're creating is ... of absolutely no use to me.

The trouble, naturally, is that when I'm in a state of creation, I post on multiple platforms and there's new material every day.  And when I'm not in that state, as with the moment ... there's really nothing to say.  I talk about myself.  I talk about my discontinuity with everyone else.

My houseguests have departed as of Sunday.  There are less interruptions, there's no 3-year-boy laughing and running back and forth, back and forth, in what I could only describe as the desirable manner.  I'm finding myself able to think again.  I'm just sort of kicking ideas around.  Working at the job and thinking about getting started on serious stuff.  But for now, just enjoying the quiet.  At my age, quiet is a wonderful thing.

For those waiting, I apologise.  Soon.  That's all I can say right now.  Soon.

These Simple Days

Again, I've had a long, difficult, unsatisfying week, where my own intentions and plans have been repeatedly put on a shelf.  This week worse than most, it seems.  No maps, no posts, no book writing, with five of us living here the house looks a disaster, and as of right now, I haven't any questions or answers for tomorrow's Q&A.

In self-defense, Tamara and I took a drive around eastern Alberta, visiting the badlands by Drumheller, the dinosaur capital of Canada, and then tooling through the pot and drumlin country between there and Stettler to the north.

Took this picture of Tamara yesterday; she's the smaller one at the bottom, just in front of the world's largest dinosaur's left foot.  For the record, 86 ft. high.  Tamara wasn't impressed; but she did love the appearance of the landscape, of which I'll post elsewhere sometime soon.

It was just a day trip, nothing very special, except that we enjoy each other's company a lot and we don't have any trouble talking continuously for 10 hours, even after all this time together.  I've been working on a story about her and I from way back in 2002, as the next post for Shifting Sands.

I've been enjoying that experiment, and there's evidence of it catching on.  I need a little practice writing non-argument, non-thematic content, but that'll come.  My biggest concern is that a lot of the stories I have to tell make me sound either irrational, like a fool, or contains too much of what my daughter calls my "assholicity."  It's a pity that in retrospect, so many of the moments when I stood up for myself, or went to war to die on a some hill or other, ends up after so many years with my thinking, jeebs, what the hell did I think I was accomplishing.

It may be different for other people, or maybe not.  Of course, other people quietly put those stories in a mental closet for permanent storage, in the hopes that the key to that closet might be lost as soon as possible.  I can't say exactly why I'm not doing that; or why I want to roll stuff like that out.  It won't be to make myself look good, I can tell you.  In fact, I'm very conscious of that.  All the stories I've told so far are fairly neutral, being things that happened to me, as they might happen to anyone.  I'm telling these in the hopes of building some credence for when I write a story about some moronic thing I did, or when I caused hurt to someone, or in fact failed as a human being.  I figure I'm bound to tell a certain number of those stories, before I tell even one story that puts me in a good light.  The last thing I want to accomplish here is my own self-aggrandisement.

Yesterday, travelling along country roads and highways in those parts, I talked to Tamara about hunting partridge and pheasants with my father, and the canoe trip I took down the Red Deer river, which we  crossed on our journey yesterday four times.  Tamara's not from around here; she spent her youngest years in a place called Hickman, Kentucky, on the Mississippi river, in the 1960s.  So everything we saw yesterday, especially the badlands, was new to her.  Most people can throw a rock across the Red Deer.  It's not the Mississippi.

But ... just now ... not in the headspace to write any story tonight.  I'm finding this post a trial, as I fuzzily await the end of this weekend.  My daughter and son have keys to their new place, and so begins the removal of furniture and other things from our environs to theirs.  They have a far harder weekend ahead of them than Tamara and I; we're given an exemption from these things as the "kids" have plenty of help from their friends, and don't need us old people.  Our job is to manage the grandson, whose in a state of confusion and panic because he hasn't had a proper home in more than a month, as this is the first time he's been old enough to understand what moving actually means.  I didn't encounter what Julian's encountering now until after I'd finished high school.

No, I'm writing this post in support of the fiction that I haven't died, and that I'm still in possession of my faculties and self-will ... neither of which seems, at the moment, remotely believable. There will be no Q&A tomorrow.  I trust I can get my wits together to return to work on my book, so that for the first time in four weeks, come the 22nd, I'll have a preview to post on Patreon.  And maps to post.  And blog posts.  And my sanity.