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.
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.
10:57 PM |
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