Quixotica

Soooo...

Game is cancelled, apparently. That's okay; I have a ton of homework to do to rap up this semester, and to be honest I was attending more out of obligation than general interest anyway.

I've been asked on more than one occasion to explain what thought processes lead a man to sit at a table for two to five hours at a time arguing with other (assumably sane) men about the logistical difficulties inherent in the mobilization of a group of nonexistent ne'er-do-wells in a spectral shrine to delusive, displaced deities while piles of brightly-colored dice and worn paper sit forlorn, forgotten in deference to the unbound ego.

For those of you who've asked, let me first equate roughly the level of difficulty in providing an answer that sounds reasonably like the words of a balanced individual as being somewhere between higher-level vector calculus and mud-wrestling an irate silverback gorilla in front of 20,000 sweaty East Islanders. What do you say? I like playing with dolls? Imaginary dolls, no less? If your chosen form of egotistical self-pleasuring fantasy happens to take place almost entirely in your head, is that more or less respectable than the 38-year-old day manager at Target who spends every other weekend suited up in the garb of Brom Darkstrider, dark elf crusader extraordinaire whose foam-coated mop handle, Nightblade, is always at the ready?

It ends up too often descending into a comedy of lies, evasion, and general buffoonery in an effort to distract the poor inquirer from one obvious truth: it's a geeky, off-beat pastime that has little redeeming value. Don't let anyone who spouts off nonsense like "interactive theater" or "live-action dramatic exercises" fool you; anyone who actually believes they're furthering their dramatic proficiency by playing the role of a winsome half-elven princess adrift in a confusing world rife with conflicting ideals and values is obviously not paying attention to the fat kid in the next seat over who's clutching a handful of six-sided dice like an octogenarian at the craps bench in Atlantic City. There's little to no appreciable benefit; at least Brom Darkstrider gets a little sun and exercise every month. It often isn't even that much fun: trying to agree with five other people on what, exactly, constitutes a short sword as opposed to a long sword can be an entertaining exercise in triviality even BEFORE you realize that this imaginary universe you've spent most of the evening in was thoughtfully crafted without benefit of the metric system. When you start getting into how many hands and spans exactly constitute a meter and how many meters define a blade, well, blood has been spilt over less.

In the end, the best answer I've ever been able to give is simply because. Because I enjoy it. Because it's something to do. Because it's cheap. Because the majority of the time, it's just a thin excuse for a reason to hang out without feeling like lazy, underachieving bums. I had a different ending in mind for this account, but as usual I've ended up somewhere far afield from where I'd planned to be. That's half the fun, really; not often taking the time to think about what I'm going to say, it's always an adventure to hear what comes out.

Guess I'd better finish my homework in the morning.



PWND.

Magical negro?

OMGWTFBBQ. Stem cells FTL.

We delved deep into the seedy underbelly of Hollywood, descending discreetly to the very belly of the beast.

And it was delicious.

A dark and dismal trek through a valley of untold horror led me to a magical elysium, called "Glendale" by some.


A veritable cornucopia of licentious delights awaited me once I passed the Gatekeeper's scrutiny.



Inside this hideous den of degeneracy and vice I ventured, careful not to disturb the native inhabitants in their daily struggles.



Just some dude I found earlier with a wicked afro. So jealous. Anyway.



Uhh...

Horrible golden idols to a false divinity lined the walks, polished to a tawny sheen which reflected the hidden sins of a hypocritical society!



I claimed my prize and made good my escape, quietly lamenting my decision to delve into this most secret heart of man.

Perry Bible Fellowship

...crawl-ins welcome?!

Also, fresh mango + green tea = horrible fail.

Tastes like an angry East Islander got together with a big swarthy Japanese guy and just started punching me. Repeatedly. In the face.

There are two muffins baking in the oven.

One muffin says to the other "Man, it's sure getting hot in here!"

The other muffin exclaims "AUGH! A talking muffin!"

"Worry not; my people are merciful."

Sweat covers the young man's forehead in a fine sheen, a damp second skin owing more to the omnipresent desert heat than the fear which roots him to the spot.

"You should never have come. Our cause is just; how can you help but fall before our righteous advance?"

A painful feeling builds in his throat, and he shudders violently for a moment before realizing it is his own nervous reflex, a gulp of terror gone unnoticed. He swallows uncomfortably, making sure to sit as still as possible. His feet are cramping in his one-size-too-small boots, and a tell-tale warmth spreading along the back of his neck and arms warns of a bad sunburn come the morning sun. And yet, the boy feels none of this; his attention is focused solely on the malformed lump of discomfort which has been growing slowly deep in his gut, squirming tendrils of dread which keep him rooted to the spot.

Well, that and the gun.

Blinking a fiery bead of sweat from his eye, the young man's trained eye absorbs itself in the minutiae of his mortality. The weapon's barrel is machine-rifled, as are all modern firearms; but he notices that this particular length has been hand-replaced, for it sports a rather serious gain twist which could only have come from a human machining error. Wondering idly whether the requisite gain in rate of spin from chamber to muzzle will make any difference to his pain receptors, he shifts his weight and does his best to look stoic for the cameras. There's no chance of the misshapen barrel working in his favor; at this distance, the speaker would have to be blind and drunk as a goat to even chance missing such a shot.

Still, hope springs eternal.

"...of your regime of terror. Tremble in fear."

The presentation is coming to a close. It must be after midnight back home; his wandering thoughts cross the barriers of time and space, coasting down the Mediterranean and out across the dark Atlantic, finally coming to rest outside a second-story window in the middle of a desolate two-lane street in Quincy, Illinois. His parents sleep fitfully; his father in particular tosses and turns, back pain a constant reminder of youthful indiscretions that often become exaggerated epics of derring-do when the old man's had a few too many glasses of red. The good-china stories, his mother calls them, for they only seem to reach their true potential in the best of company. Coworkers, school principals and ministers have all graced this venerable dishwear; the young man imagines it will see action once again the night his family receives the news. Can you imagine, waking to hear your flesh-and-blood died half a world away, while you lay dreaming?

The discordant ratchet of a well-oiled rifle bolt heralds the death of hope. The speech is over; the players have spoken. All that remains is for the band to play them off, a catchy showtune or dramatic finish signaling the audience that the end is near. Today, the closing theme is a short burst from an automatic rifle. The ghost of a smile creeps across the young man's lips as the attendant ties the blindfold, contemplating how willfully mistaken is modern theatre.

How many dramatic changes are heralded by grand trumpets in life? How many by gunfire?



Hmm. That came out a bit more overweeningly dramatic than intended. I thought I was pretty weak when it came to narrative, especially concerning realistic dialogue, so I thought I'd try this writing exercise. Essentially, you glance at a random picture and then write about it. Judging from how little I employ actual conversation, I imagine I've got quite a ways to go. Oh well.

Here's the picture, by the way. Hit random in Google Images, don't know where it's from.



Night.

Camera phones for the penultimate win.

THE PRICE IS WRONG BITCH!

Oi! What's all this then?

Tremble, you ivory tower titans.
Your feet are just so much clay before my new-found ability to astound and irritate.
(With optional zoom!)

Camera phones FTW.

Told ya.

My hand courses with the unbridled fury of a thousand pain centers firing as one. Even now, overly eager somatic nociceptors are making my foolishness in attempting to hold up 500+ pounds on the tips of my fingers abundantly clear. I shudder to think of what tomfoolery-engendered agony awaits me tomorrow morning; better to type now, while my metacarpals still function somewhat properly.
I often suspect that the sheer overweening weight of my presumptuous prose might cause it to at some incognizable point actually collapse in on itself, rather akin to a sort of black hole of blatant pedagoguery.
Regardless, I'm beginning to feel any chance I had at a cognizable line of thought quickly slipping away, to the detriment of everyone involved. This isn't terribly uncommon; often I'll feel the need to pontificate at length strike suddenly, typically when I'm driving alone across the tangled urban morass of southern Orange County, desolate metropolitan fixtures basked in the radiance of the waxing moon.
Unfortunately, when I finally arrive home and settle down with a warm cup of (admittedly quite effeminate) green tea, any inkling of narrative substance is quickly lost amid a veritable sea of subtly beguiling style and hyperbole. Whatever clear-cut path I had initially intended to forge becomes murky and uncertain, and this account is no exception.
I had initially wanted to discuss my irritating tendency towards alienation, as well as the rising issue of my own inability to resolve the conflicting feelings I have about my upbringing and the life to which I have become accustomed. Instead, I scroll back to find several short paragraphs of empty prose and wonder if in all honesty perhaps this is my own subconscious working, well, subconsciously.

DELICIOUS!