Letting That Character Go

Okay, this one is for the gamer geeks... or the people who are curious about the way a gamer geek's mind works.

Or the people who THINK they're gamer geeks and need a serious re-evaluation of their gamer geek status... as well as, possibly, their lives.

I've been involved in the same ongoing Dungeons & Dragons campaign for the last six years.

...man, look at you all scatter.

For those who don't know, Dungeons & Dragons (or D&D) is a table-top role-playing game. What that means is, simply, a group of people sit around a table with some pens, some paper, and some dice. One of them, the Dungeon Master (DM) creates a story to tell -- sort of like a choose-your-own-adventure book -- and everyone else creates a character to play, who will live through the events of the story.

Imagine your favorite movie. The DM is the bad-guy, the supporting cast, and the world-shattering events... the players are the heroes.

The DM is Sauron, Saruman and an entire army of orcs... the players are the fellowship of the ring.

The DM is Darth Vader, the empire, and the ewoks... the players are Luke, Leia, Han, and Chewie.

Make sense?

Okay.

I've been playing one of these games for six years.

It has been, at turns, the most riveting, mind-blowing, frustrating, emotionally draining, and creatively satisfying experience of my life, so far. In many ways, it has been like a marriage; albeit one of creative synergy. I imagine it must be like the writers room experience on a great TV show. Except, in this, we are the writers, the actors, the directors, and composers. Six people sitting around a table to tell a story together, feeding off each other's ideas and passion to create something singular and amazing. I have had the privilege of sitting along side five of the most talented writers and actors to never see screen or print.

Certain creative professionals often talk about those projects that will stick with them for the rest of their lives. The ones they felt lucky and blessed to have been a part of. Peter Jackson & Co. have the Lord of the Rings... Joss Whedon & Co. have Firefly... Simon Pegg & Co. have Spaced...

We have this. And we didn't even get paid for it.

The game is going to be ending soon. In a matter of months. Two of us are moving to another state (that'd be me and RC), two of us are getting married, and the DM is preparing to draw to a close the story he's been building in his head since he was a kid.

Our characters have been put through every dramatic wringer imaginable -- and if you'd ever doubt how much of a strain that can be on the player, imagine the work of every actor who's ever shed real, honest tears for the camera, just to make that fictional scene as real as possible. We can go through that every time we play, except the audience is only ourselves. We're not performing for the millions, we're performing for the six. Our reward is the creative charge, the inspiration, the knowledge that, as storytellers, we can give as good as we get.

I don't know that ANY gaming experience has ever been as intense as this one has been for us. There are times when I feel like we take it a little TOO seriously. We place too much weight on the outcome. We can fight and argue and offend each other while discussing the most insignificant of details. We've had screaming matches -- actual screaming matches -- about the exact wording of a rule. There have been tears shed over the outcome of a dice roll. There are times we've gone WAY beyond reason and far over the falls of depression, because this fictional universe was just a little too real for us.

Sometimes, we have to step back and remind ourselves that it really is just a game... that the level of unhappiness it can breed is often far outweighed by the joy we feel between spats. We remember that we love this thing. That we only fight because we care so much about the story and the characters.

Like I said, it's like a marriage.

And it's ending soon.

I've already said goodbye to one character -- yes, in this game, we have left the main characters behind to play entirely new ones, because you don't just follow Frodo and Sam all the way to Mordor... Aragorn and Gimli have to have their say too -- and the feeling is bittersweet. Like any writer would, I had to get inside this guy's head, get inside his heart, and figure out exactly what made him tick... and though I played him the LEAST amount of time, I still get that hollow feeling when I think about not playing him again.

His name was Caid. He was a musician, and during the game just prior to the one where his part in the story ended, he played, literally, the performance of his life.

One of the many things that makes our game special is the emphasis that's placed on music. The DM combs meticulously through his music collection to compile a list of songs that complement not only the characters, but the scenes, the themes, and the overall arch of the story. Each character has their own band (or bands) to act as their musical "voice", and during the game, the effect is often like living inside a movie with the perfect score. Our DM uses music the way an expert filmmaker would -- to touch the audience on a level that the action and dialogue can't. It makes the experience that much more rewarding.

For Caid's final performance, I was challenged to compile the list of the songs he would play. What I put together seemed to tell a story at the time, but it wasn't until after the game that I realized that, in their way, the songs actually told the story of Caid's life. It was a brief life, for reasons only five other people know.

This is the list of songs I've been sharing with you.

Hope you enjoy them.

And a special thanks to Dave Grohl and Tim Reynolds for giving Caid his voice.

The Good, The Bad, and the Unfortunate

To think, when I woke up this morning, I wasn't sure what I would write about for this week's blog...




For most of the week, my wife's parents have been away at a wedding in Las Vegas. Because we're awesome (well... really because SHE's awesome, and I'm a follower), we agreed to bird-sit for them while they're away. This consists of visiting the house once a day and making sure that their birds (two parrots and a cockatoo) get some attention (ie: someone to scream at with impunity) and have their water and food bowls restocked.

Today was to be the day they returned from their trip, so we were doing a last minute check on everything. My wife saw that their pool water was a little low, so she went out back to fill it up, and because that sounded way more rewarding than staying inside with the birdnoise, I followed. So, we're outside, and the door is left open behind us, and the birds start screaming. My initial thought was, "Maybe I should just close the screen door," but once the screams start echoing out into the neighborhood, I think, "Yeesh, maybe I should just close the main door."

So I do.

And the security lock slides into place.




Now the back door is locked. And the front door is locked and dead-bolted, because we came in through the garage door...




...which I closed as soon as we entered the house.




It's noon. RC is still getting over a bad back, and has no shoes on. The birds haven't been fed -- and, because we woke up late, neither have we. And her parents are coming back today... iiiiin about five hours.

We check windows, we check side doors; no good. We decide it's time to call a locksmith.

Now, I was a locksmith dispatcher for two years, and even wrote an article for a local apartment-owners magazine on what to do in JUST this situation. Sadly, that was so long ago that I can't really remember all of my own advice. Luckily, I shouldn't have to! Because I know tons of locksmiths! I can just call my old company and they'll be able to get us back into the house lickety split! Right?

Oh... yeah... except, then I remember how busy they could get over the weekend, and I realize we'll probably be waiting outside for at least an hour. So I just dial 411 and call the first company that's listed in our area.




And when nobody picks up there, I shrug, dial 411 again, and take down the SECOND name that comes up.




It takes about a half-hour for the locksmith to arrive, and when he does, he uses every single trick in the book... EVERY. SINGLE. TRICK... to try to get us for $125.

"Oh, you used to work in the industry? Okay, I'll give you discount. $110."

He tries to explain to me that over time, with the cost of gas and inflation, prices have gone up.

(DOUBLING what it used to cost? What is this, the comic industry?)

He tries to tell me that, because it's a deadbolt, it's much more difficult to pick.

(which is true, but an exaggeration, and never changes the price of a lockout unless you're dealing with a high security lock -- which this wasn't)

After I tell him thanks but no thanks and offer to just pay the service call,

(which is only fair, because that covers the time and gas getting out to us)

he finally... magnanimously... agrees to only charge us $100.

(which is still bullshit, but I'm impatient by now)


When he finally gets his picks in the lock, he rattles them around and puts on a concerted effort to show us just how difficult it is to pick a deadbolt. He even breaks a pick off in the lock, JUST to show us how difficult it is. And he's hoping that, with all the commotion, I won't notice that he's NOT PUTTING ANY PRESSURE ON THE TENSION WRENCH. AT ALL.

~*~*~*~

For those who don't know, there are two essential pieces to a lock-pick set. One is the pick itself.




The other is the tension wrench.




Without going into too much detail, while one hand is raking the keyhole with the pick, the other is supposed to keep constant pressure on the tension wrench. That way, when the lock finally pops, the barrel will turn before the pins fall back into place.




With no tension, you can rake the pins all you want, but you're not opening the lock.

~*~*~*~

"Oh, this lock is too old. I might have to drill."

I know these games. I had to deal with them for two years. I know locksmiths who are so charismatic that they can make you feel completely at ease paying $200 for two minutes of work, and leave you with a smile, a business card, and all the confidence in the world that you'll never call another locksmith again.

This guy was not that. This guy was not only bad at his job, he was bad at faking it.

In the end, I paid him the $45 service call ($10 more than what we charged four years ago, but whatever) and sent him on his way.

Then I called my old company.

"Hi, how much for a lockout today?"

"$65."




We wait another hour-and-a-half. When the guy shows up, we recognize each other. We exchange pleasantries. He sticks a dummy key in the lock, taps it with the end of a screw driver, and the door pops right open.

"You used to work for them."

"Yeah."

"And you're letting them charge you $65?"

"S'better than the alternative."

We shake hands, he drives away, and I feel monumentally stupid for not calling them in the first place.

And that was our day. We ate breakfast at 5:30 in the afternoon. It was Outback Steakhouse. We felt we'd earned it.

I'm gonna end this post with the lockout article I wrote back in 2006. I've updated it a little bit, and removed references to being a landlord, but otherwise, it's pretty much unchanged from its original publication. If you want a fun drinking game, try taking a shot every time you see a piece of my own advice I didn't follow...

~*~*~*~

"Dude. Where're my Keys..?"

After you've finished reading this piece, here's what I want you to do. Print it out, fold it up and put it in your wallet. Because, when you need this article, it will be locked inside the house, and you'll be outside, kicking yourself for not following the advice in the first paragraph.

Now that that’s out of the way… you‘re locked out. The first and most important step is to NOT PANIC. This sort of thing happens to the best of us and is no reason for anyone to lose their cool.

Second step, go try the obvious alternatives. Back door? Windows? If you've taken your home security seriously, these might be too secure to sneak back into. Good for you! (Now might be the time to start thinking about investing in a store-a-key box or something of the sort to keep outside so you don't get caught in the same predicament twice.)

If step two doesn't pan out, get your hands on a phone book and a telephone. Don't worry if you're standing at a pay-phone in a bathrobe and boxer shorts (what were you doing outside dressed like that, anyway?) and have no money on you; most locksmiths have an 800 number that costs nothing to dial. If you’re lucky enough to be locked out with your cell-phone, just dial 411 and ask for a locksmith in your area.

Whether the locked door is on a house, an apartment or an automobile, these tips should help guide you through your moment of need:

- The locksmith you choose should be licensed, bonded, and police-permitted. These are the legal requirements all locksmiths must meet before they are allowed to practice the trade (though some try to slip past them).

- When you speak to the locksmith, the first question you ask should be if they are local to your area. This doesn't necessarily mean they will have an office in your neck of the woods; most locksmiths venture far from their main office in the course of a day. This is how they get work. However, the proximity of the van to the location of the lockout can be the difference between a $55 charge and a $155 charge. (The time of day will also effect the price you're quoted. Later will usually mean more expensive, but keep your eyes open for the golden deal. It's out there!)

- Get at least three different quotes. Play them off of each other. Try to get the best deal you can. Remember, EVERYTHING IS NEGOTIABLE.

- Some locksmiths will ask you for a credit card number. This is a security measure to make sure you'll still be there when they arrive. If you don't feel comfortable giving out your information (or if that's locked inside as well, etc.), simply reassure them that your only option is to stay where you are and wait for them. If you've offered them every possible reassurance and they still want your credit card number, their van is probably nowhere near you and you should call another company anyway.

- Lastly, if this is an emergency (child locked inside, oven left on), please call the police or fire department. As much as a locksmith wants your business, they are not willing to accept responsibility for your house burning down just because they were caught in traffic.

If you follow these steps, you should find yourself safely inside your home (or car) and out of the cold in no time. Now, aren't you glad you followed the advice in the first paragraph?

~*~*~*~

Happy Easter.

I'm in love with... RC

No, silly, not that one.

The RC to whom I refer is the same person who, three years ago today, decided it might not be such a bad idea to sign over half her life's possessions in return for a pretty gold ring and... well, pretty much just the ring.

That's right, folks, today my wife and I celebrate our leather anniversary.

Now, I've never been much for tradition; quite the opposite, in fact. I've always seen tradition as a collection of obligations and limitations imposed on us by people who don't have to live our lives. I chafe at tradition, so it's just as well that nearly every aspect of our relationship, from the way we first met, to the nature of our courtship, right up to the marriage itself... was the very definition of "untraditional."

RC...

..yeah, still not the right one...

...(actually, back then it was RS) and I met the way most hip, young, modern folks do nowadays... in a fantasy role-playing chat room on AOL.

That's...

...fantasy.

Not...

...fantasy.

The progression was pretty natural; two characters having an interesting conversation in the chat room led to two people have an interesting conversation in IMs, and before we knew it, we were the best of friends. Nevermind that I thought she was a guy for the first two weeks...


Yes, you read that right. I thought my wife was a man when I first met her. A very nice, very friendly, very funny, very gay man.

Such is the beauty of anonymity on the internet.

Needless to say, my assumption was soon corrected and I was free to pursue my interest in this person without needing to reassess my sexual orientation (which was a lucky break, because I don't think my ego could have taken that kind of scrutiny).

A few months of "Maybe we are... but it could never... but it feels so... but it's long distance"ing were followed by a weeklong visit out to the Left coast (I was on the Right one at the time), wherein we would finally see if whatever sparks existed between our voices could translate into tangible reality.

Luckily for me, she was every bit as awesome in person as she was over the phone, and I was finally free to admit to myself what I'd kind of known from the moment she first told me, "Dude, I'm a chick."

I was in love.

Fast forward another year. I finally moved out to California, partially to explore the possibilities of a film career, and partially to be with her. Once we were actually able to occupy the same physical space on a regular basis, we quickly fell into the type of routine that suggested we'd been together all our lives. We couldn't even conceive of a time when the two of us weren't together.

I still can't.

After five years of "dating", and an additional year of living together, we decided to finally make legal what we'd kind of always felt.

We got married under a copse of trees overlooking the Pacific Ocean in Monterey. The wedding party consisted of the two of us, a reverend, and a photographer. It was a bright, sunny, windy day. She was beautiful and I was doofy and it was perfect.

So, now, here we are.

Three years after the wedding...


Four years after moving in together...


Eight years after jumping coasts...


...and nine years after admitting we were crazy about each other, and I still feel like the luckiest son of a bitch on Earth.

(sorry, Sam)

So, if you're single. If you're spoken for. If you've lost all faith in love, or if you're just positive it'll never come. And if you can only take one thing away from our story, let it be this...

I thought my wife was a gay dude when we first met.

Anything is possible.

Don't worry, Arcee. You'll find someone.

Post-Modern American Cooking: Hotdog Surprise Soup

Here begins a series of articles I'll be doing from time to time detailing the various kitchen creations that keep my wife and I fed on my more... creative nights. As this is the auspicious first installment, I've chosen to share with you a beloved dish from my childhood: Hotdog Surprise Soup.

(unfortunately, due to a complete lack of foreplanning on my part, I have no images prepared to post with this entry. Instead, I'll be using the closest approximations I can find with Google Image search)

HDSS, as I decided to call it just now, was originally conceived by my father sometime in the early-to-mid-80's. Pop was a former military man and professional musician, so had quite a knack for keeping himself fed when there wasn't a lot to work with.

One night (I remember it well), Pop took it upon himself to make dinner for the family, but because grocery stores had not been invented yet, he could only use what we had in the fridge. An unopened package of hotdogs caught his eye... and a legend was born.

Now, the recipe I'm about to share is slightly altered from the one my father begat all those years ago, but it was borne from the same spirit of laziness and MacGyver-like ingenuity.


Let's get to it, then, shall we?

~*~*~*~

The bowl before you contains a steaming, barf-brown liquid filled with little green specks of broccoli offal, and diced hotdogs surrounded by pale, jerry-curled spaghetti.

You approach it with your spoon steady, wary of whatever dangers may lurk beneath its murky surface. You plunge the utensil in, waiting... waiting.... When nothing yanks it out of your hand, you are somewhat heartened. You lift a spoonful of the steaming sludge to your mouth, close your eyes, and taste...

OW! You burn your mouth. You should have waited for it to cool off first. I TOLD you it was hot! I even used the word "steaming" TWICE! You lose two HP.


INGREDIENTS:


4 Hotdogs (5 if they're short)



8 cups of Water



4 packages of Beef Flavor Oodles of Noodles

(if you don't have Oodles of Noodles, you'll need 3 Beef Bouillon Cubes instead, along with the noodles of your choice -- but I'm going to assume that, if you're even considering making this, you're likely to have some Oodles of Noodles lying around)




1 cube of Vegetable Flavor Soup Seasoning





1 package of Frozen Vegetable Soup Mix

1 package of Frozen Asian Vegetable Mix
(or Stir Fry Vegetable Mix)
(or any two packages of frozen vegetables you want, really)


Creole Seasoning
(if you don't have creole seasoning, shoot yourself)

Yeah, that'll do.

~*~*~*~

STEP 1
Fill a medium saucepan up about 2/3rds with water and set it on the stove. Drop the hotdogs in.

If the hotdogs were already thawed, bring the water to a boil, then take them out.

If they were frozen, bring the water to a boil, wait 5 minutes, then take them out.

Dice the hotdogs into whatever shape diced hotdogs make, eating no more than three of the resulting pieces under the auspice of "quality assurance."


STEP 2
Fill a bigass soup pot...

...with 8 cups of water. Set the stove heat to about 7 (Med Hi). Bring to a boil.


STEP 3

While the water heats up, open the Oodles of Noodles packages. Remove the four packets of Beef Flavor seasoning, place them on the side. Also set aside two of the noodle bricks (broken up or intact, your choice).

Take the other two noodle bricks, place them in Ziplock bags, and put them away; you won't be using those this time around.


STEP 4
When you see bubbles forming along the bottom of the pot, but before the water is actually boiling, because you're impatient, drop the frozen vegetables in. Bring to a boil.


STEP 5

Yeah, right. A couple minutes after you put the vegetables in, you start wondering if you should add the seasoning in now while they're still cooking. Nah, you should probly wai-- fuck it, you add the beef seasoning; all four packets of it (be sure to shake the packets out first so that the powder is all packed to one side and doesn't explode all over you when you rip it open).

(it already happened, didn't it?)

At this time, you might as well also add the vegetable cube.

IMPORTANT NOTE: The vegetable (and beef, if you didn't have the Oodles of Noodles) bouillon cubes are incredibly hard and painful to crumble in your fingers. You may want to hammer them into submission first before adding to the soup...

Stir everything up until you're sure no more solid fragments of the cruel bouillon cube remains.





STEP 6
Drink a Gatorade. You're doing hard work.






STEP 7
Let the soup heat up. No, seriously, let it heat up. That shit's gotta cook.

STEP 8
You're hopeless. It's been two minutes. Dump the hotdogs in. Wait a couple more minutes.

At this point, your soup should look nothing like this.

STEP 9
Remember how it says on the outside of the Oodles of Noodles package...

?

That's why we saved the noodles for last. The soup should be close to boiling by now. If it's not, turn the heat up, you haven't got all day. Once it starts to boil, drop the noodles in. Then lower the heat to 5 (Med), cover the pot (if it doesn't have a lid, use tin foil).

Let it cook for about 5 minutes, or until you're tired of waiting.

STEP 10 (Optional)
If the Oodles of Noodles packets didn't season it enough for you, try adding some Creole Seasoning. Not a lot -- you've already got plenty of salt in there. Just enough to get some of that spicy flavor.

Taste your soup to make sure it tastes right.

You burned your mouth again, didn't you?

Dumbass.


AFTERMATH
Remember those two noodle bricks you Ziplocked? Here's the deal... You're gonna love this soup. No, I'm serious, it's like crack. Even my wife agrees. Right honey?



"Yes, dear."





So, when you're ready to make the soup again, instead of picking up more Oodles of Noodles from the grocery store (you have no excuse -- they exist now!), just pick up the beef bouillon cubes to use with the leftover noodles.

Ta daa!


ORIGINAL RECIPE
If you want to do things the old fashioned way, all you really need to do is omit the extra Veggie seasoning cube (which I use because I like the flavor it brings), replace the noodles with frozen french fries (Pop really was a pioneer), and just use a straight frozen veggie soup mix. Oh, and he didn't use the Creole Seasoning. Disgraceful.


Happy cooking!

I’m in love with… Karen O

Even if you haven’t heard of her, you’ve almost certainly heard her. If not singing with her band, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, then with her side band, Native Korean Rock, on the Where The Wild Things Are soundtrack as Karen O And The Kids, contributing vocals to songs by groups like The Flaming Lips and N.A.S.A., or making her own music, like the song featured in this Adidas commercial by Spike Jonze:

Since entering the public eye with the Yeah Yeah Yeahs' critically-lauded debut album, “Fever To Tell,” she’s become something of a Renaissance Person. Aside from her various musical pursuits, she has also tried her hand at directing music videos, and serves as a makeshift guinea-pig/fashion model for her designer friend Christian Joy.

That’s all well and good, but OUR sordid love affair started when I saw the music video for the Yeah Yeah Yeah’s song “MAPS”. I’d been a fan of the song ever since it hit the radio waves back in 2003, but it wasn’t until recently that I actually thought to seek out the video on YouTube. Everything that follows, does so because of this...

Echoes of Sinead O’Conner’s “Nothing Compares To You” video notwithstanding, this video truly captivated me. There’s something happening with her right there on camera that can’t be faked -- and you can tell, because she tries. She stands her ground with an admirable “the show must go on” resolve, but seems to rely on the carefully considered and choreographed motions of her performance to carry her through. Maybe because if she surrenders to the music, she might just lose herself completely. And even as the sadness wells up and the tears start flowing, she soldiers on to the end. This lead singer is laid emotionally bare for everyone in the world to see; immortalized at perhaps the most vulnerable of moments. It's real, and it's raw, and it's fascinating.

Now, this could just be a byproduct of my being a typical guy suffering from a terminal case of Knight In Shining Armor Syndrome, but the minute you show me a woman in tears, you’ve pretty much got my attention for the duration. It doesn’t hurt that the woman in question is captivating in her own right. Unconventionally beautiful (of mixed Korean and Polish descent) and apparently unafraid of baring her soul on stage -- or in this case, on film.

So, I did some research. First into the origins of the song, but that eventually became research into the band themselves, and that led to a dawning infatuation with the woman up front. Eventually, I found this video, which sealed the deal:

Look at that smile. Listen to that voice. The little dance she does. The way she gives herself over to the music, just enjoying the hell out of herself.

I was smitten.

(as was Letterman, it would appear)

I started watching every video I could find, and I soon discovered that the Letterman performance was only the tip of the iceberg. During the band’s live shows, without the expectations and regulations of network television, Karen O becomes like a force of nature. Raw, uninhibited, even playful. She owns the stage, and she owns the audience.

And, it all makes perfect sense once you understand...

...she’s fucking crazy.

See, it’s Karen O’s philosophy that, at a Yeah Yeahs show, the audience should be able to lose themselves in the music. Just completely go with the flow, the way she does! Problem is, she knows that most people have insecurities about letting themselves go in the company of strangers. Always worrying about what the person next to them might think. So, she takes the stage wearing the most colorful, garish, outlandish costumes that one could imagine; alternatingly sexy as hell or laughably ridiculous (sometimes both).

She does this, not to shock the audience, but to free them. They see her on stage, completely unafraid, dressed like a piece of living pop-art, and they feel less worried about themselves. Less restrained. Why worry about the person next to you when all eyes are on her?

This philosophy does not end at her fashion sense, either. In the course of a show, she flails, she screeches, she spits water at the crowd, breathlessly converses with them, and generally makes an unbridled spectacle of herself. If you were to combine the most notable exploits of Joan Jet, Iggy Pop, David Bowie, and Elvis Presley, you might start to get an idea of what this woman is like on stage. A true modern day rocker goddess. You watch her just to see what she’s going to do next, because you never know when it’ll be this…


Of course, this isn’t her ONLY stage persona. She seems to shift facades with each project she takes on. Sure, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs' Karen O is a total wild-card, but Native Korean Rock Karen O is a much tamer creature...

And then there’s Where The Wild Things Are Karen O...

...who’s just adorable.

Now, before you start worrying that I’m about to leave my wife to run off and spend the rest of my days as a groupie lapping at the heels of Miss O, let me assure you…

I’ve only considered it once.

But I love my wife more than life itself, and no matter how many strange and gorgeous celebrities throw themselves at me in my daydreams, I would never even think of leaving her side.

Besides, even if I had a chance with Karen O, I don’t think I would take it. Truth be told...

...she scares me a little.

My admiration stems only from a place of… well, admiration! As an artist. I feel like I can follow this woman anywhere. She’s a pure entertainer, and whatever project she takes on next, I know she’ll make it interesting.

Hawt.