theferrett: (Meazel)

Cherie Priest’s Maplecroft: The Borden Dispatches

Lizzie Borden took an axe
And gave her mother forty whacks.
When Cherie saw what Liz had done
A Cthulhu mashup tale she spun

You may remember Lizzie Borden from the jumprope rhymes of your youth, but as with most things you heard on the playground, things weren’t that simple.  Turns out that the trial had some evidence that Lizzie might, in fact, have been innocent – certainly her doctor thought she was.

So naturally, you’d think, “Well, clearly Lizzie chopped up her father and stepmother because they were turning into sea monsters, right?”

Well, you would if you were Cherie Priest.

In the Borden Dispatches, Lizzie Borden is a steampunk scientist and monster-hunter, chopping up hideous creatures with her axe.  Her sister, more classically trained, helps.  And their doctor suspects things are going on in the town of Fall River.  Events draw them together, and Bad Shit happens.

The fascinating thing about this book is that it is simultaneously predictable and compelling, which is one of the hardest tricks to pull off.  This is one of those horror books where the first time you think “Uh-oh,” well, yeah, that’s going to turn out exactly as bad as you think it’ll be.  Pretty much every suspicion you have gets borne out.  And yet the characterization is so wonderful that you keep reading, mainly because Lizzie and her shut-in, sick sister are furiously sympathetic characters – trying their best to help their town, loyal to a populace that thinks they’re murderers, brave and bold in all the best ways. It helps that everyone’s smart, acting in their best interests, even as those interests might be skewed by the call of the Old Ones.

Every chapter is a letter to someone, or a diary entry, each from a different character – and each character has their own distinct voice.  I usually get irritated by missive books because I get confused as to whose viewpoint we’re in, but Cherie cues us in with style.

The biggest problem with the book, sadly, is that the ending left me hanging for a sequel.  Which I don’t have a problem with per se, as this is a two-book series, but the ending is a little anticlimactic and it makes me vexed that I now have to wait some time to find out what’s happening with Lizzie and her sister and the sea monsters.  Still, if I think of it as a series and not a standalone book, I can tolerate a little hang-time for something as entertainingly murderous as this.

Zombie Baseball Beatdown, by Paolo Bacigalupi
I picked this up as a quick-read, a sort of amuse bouche between heftier courses, and stumbled into a happily goddamned deep book for kids.

The plot of this book is inherently silly: the meat-packing plant accidentally creates cow zombies (and eventually people zombies) in an effort to save cash, and only the local little league baseball team can stop them.  So, you know, not expecting much aside from gloriously stupid zombie shenanigans.

But this is actually a surprisingly deep look at race and corporate greed in America.  One of the character’s families is made up of the illegal immigrants who work at the meat-packing plant, though he was born here, and so there’s some great character-rooted looks at what happens when you work illegally.  And the meat-packing plant itself isn’t cartoonish – Paolo actually uses the lawyer’s tactics that actual meat-packing plants use to cover up outbreaks of e. coli.

I thought the focus would be on zombies, or even baseball, but what I got was a happily cogent window for kids into just how realistically shitty corporations can be.  Not that there’s not a lot of beating the crap out of zombies with baseball bats, because there is, but there’s an *ahem* meaty tale wrapped inside this candy-happy cover. Seriously recommended.  (Thanks to Netmouse for recommending it.)

D&D Players Guide, Fifth Edition
I, like many players, did not like the way D&D Fourth Edition got D&D back to its roots, because D&D’s roots kinda suck.  D&D 4E removed most of the roleplaying, and yoinked us all the way back to wargaming, where there was much emphasis on character placement and grids.

The problem is, in 1970, we didn’t have ready access to computers.  Now we do.  So basically, what they wound up making despite their best intentions was a slower, clunkier videogame.  It didn’t go over well in the long run.

D&D 5E is attempting to bring that happy blush of roleplaying out again by having, you know, spells that don’t affect combat.  And they’ve gone balls-to-the-wall on this one; this is by far the most evocative D&D players’ guide yet, with gorgeous illustrations and lots of emphasis on what kind of character you’re going to play.  Not what class; character.  Because there’s an extensive section comparing two fighters with similar stats, except one is a cold, withdrawn assassin and the other is a family-loving freedom fighter.  And each section is introduced by an excerpt from one of the many D&D novelizations to show you what an elf/dwarf/tiefling looks like in the wild, a slam-dunk bit of cross-marketing that’s so effective I don’t know why anyone didn’t think of it before.

And there’s some nice touches.  I like the new advantage/disadvantage system, where if you have an advantage you roll two d20s and take the better roll, and if you’re at a disadvantage you take the lesser roll.  I like that multi-classing is back.  I like that feats seem to allow for a bit more character customization this time around.  I like that you’re heavily encouraged to ask “Why are these people hanging around together, killing monsters?” and to create reasons for that.

And yet for all of that… I’m just not that excited about running a campaign.  Or playing.  There was a time when I fetishized each D&D release, reading every spell, thinking, “Oh, that’s how I could build a cleric.”  But I’ve played too many clerics in my time, and fighters, and wizards, and so I skimmed a good half of this book as I went, “Okay, big list of character stuff, sure, sure.”

What would excite me, probably, would be an interesting world for me to play in – something a little less time worn than Greyhawk and Waterdeep and all the old standbys – but that’s always been D&D’s strength.  It doesn’t have a setting.  You can bolt one on if you want, but the joy of D&D is that kids all over can just say, “Okay, you meet at the inn, you’re in a dungeon” and get down to what they wanted – namely, kicking a dragon’s ass.

It’s power play.  And I’m a little beyond that right now, and after thirty years of imagining the power of fireball spells, that fantasy is a little threadbare for me.  So it works for what it’s supposed to do, but I’m no longer the target audience.

That’s fine.  It’s like Doctor Who these days.  It’s appealing to somebody, just not me.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

If I refuse to argue with you, that doesn’t mean you’ve won the argument. It means I’m not choosing to engage with you personally at the moment.

There is a difference.

The Internet is the refuge for people with too goddamned much time on their hands, and in general that’s glorious.  Do I have time to create, say, a full-on Transformers costume that lets you actually transform?  Or spend time mastering the art of making Walking Dead pancakes?  Hell no.  But I get to turn on Twitter every morning and watch a stream of awesomely unproductive people work their magic for me.

But for every dude/ette who’s spending hours relentlessly filming ping-pong balls, there’s someone who’s devoted their full time to arguing with people.  And they have packed themselves full of facts.  Or things that look like facts, anyway.  They’re certainly taken from web pages on the Internet.

And here’s the thing: they all want to interface with you directly.

It doesn’t matter if you’ve had this argument somewhere else on the Internet, or even have a separate thread on this very blog entry where you’re refuting their points, they just got here and by God they won’t be happy until you personally have debated with them extensively.  And so if you’re not careful, if a blog post gets even a moderate bit of Internet attention, you’ll wind up having the same conversation with a hundred different newcomers, each certain that they will be the sole person who changes your mind on this topic, each much like a cut-and-copy of the ninety-nine other people who’ve come before them.

Worse, this is their version of “too goddamned much time on their hands,” and so they have many facts.  Why is it so hard to debate evolution and make it convincing to laymen?  Because the anti-evolution people have entire encyclopedias worth of factually wrong content that sound convincing until you dig deeper, these scientific “studies” couched in tech-talk, and refuting them isn’t that hard but boy does it take time looking up each link and finding the counter-argument and summarizing it and posting it.

99% of what the creationists are spouting is bullshit, whereas 99% of the evolutionary arguments are factual hypotheses. But again, when you take someone who considers it their full-time job to push this view forward, and they aren’t particularly scrupulous about where they get their data, then eventually refuting them point-by-point becomes like stamping out cockroaches.

Or worse yet, they have actually good data, but you feel their interpretation is skewed, and now you have to read the studies and discuss what you think that really means.

And keep in mind, I believe in interfacing with these people, if you’ve got the energy for it.  Yes, ninety-nine out of a hundred of them are intransigent, and are merely here to spout whatever extensive talking points they’ve scraped up – but if even one out of a hundred is reachable, then converting that extra 1% is the sort of math that changes elections.

Yet my point remains: if you’re a blogger of any significant size, you could spend all the rest of your days arguing with replies on the Internet.  And to quote Mitchell and Webb, “The football will never stop!  The football is officially going on forever!  It will never be finally decided who has won The Football!”

At some point, you have to say, “I might be able to convince this person of the error of their ways, but I have a lover and work and and a fun game to play and other more interesting blog posts to write.”

And you leave.

That decision does not mean that the other person has won the debate.  It means that you refuse to engage, because you have other priorities that individually convincing each person who shows up in your life of the correctness of your decision.

This is the Internet.  There are people with infinite time on their hands, people who will spend an entire week doing nothing but rabidly posting rebuttals.  But “infinite spare time” is not the same as “good logic” or “well-sourced credentials” or, in fact, any of the things that make for a compelling argument.  There are plenty of writers with infinite spare time, endlessly churning out stories, who never get good at writing fiction, because they’re just writing the same story over and over again and never listening to feedback.

“Spare time” is not the defining factor of anything: “quality of effort” is.

And when you go, “Ha!  They weren’t willing to engage me, so they lost!” what you are actually saying is, “The person who has the most time to waste discussing things will inevitably be the victor.”  In which case I’ll just hook you up against an Elizabot, who never tires of arguing Gamergate, and tell you she’s the winner.

“But that bot is stupid!” you cry.  “She always says the same thing!  There’s no chance of changing her mind!”

Yes.  Precisely.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

Just got the notification that my Soylent is on its way.  So we’ll be drinking goop for a week any day now.

You’re in for a treat.


Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

The article refers to him as the “Railway Romeo,” but actually this dude who has picked up over 500 women on the subway is more like the “Subway Stalker.”

But the bigger problem is that he is terrible at dating.

Note that the dude has met over 500 women, and is still not in a relationship.  That’s because his shtick contains this absolutely terrible advice:

“Always war (sic) a suit and carry a briefcase — it communicates strength and security, even if you live with your mom.”

“Wait 60 hours before contacting her. Most men text/e-mail immediately. Throw her off, make her wait.”

Which, summed up, basically reads:

“Pretend you’re someone you’re not in order to get her phone number.”

The problem is, what you get is… her phone number.  And maybe a couple of dates.  And then, because you’re working your ass off to appear more successful and wittier than you actually are, they get two dates behind your canned banter, and you’re back to sucking on straps to try to find that next hit.

Yet this is not unique advice in dating.  There’s all the gags: “Don’t ever fart!”  “Dress up super-nice!”  “Clean up your apartment!”  “Get your small talk good and polished!”  “Stick to noncontroversial topics!”

Yet I, the Tyler Durden of the dating universe, tell you not to do any of that stuff.

The goal of dating is to find out who is compatible with you, as quickly as possible.  Obscuring your central personality traits will get you to date the wrong people for longer – possibly up to and including a hideously dysfunctional marriage – but what it will not get you is someone who is actually good for you.  And you’ll waste months, years, maybe even decades, with someone who doesn’t actually like you but instead has generated affection for this papier-mache facade you have so carefully constructed.

But that facade is not you.

I say, show up to dates dressed nicely, but nicely for you.  If you’re only gonna wear T-shirts to fine dining, well, your date oughtta know that right away.  If you don’t brush your teeth on a regular basis, that’s fucking icktacular, but again – better to find a woman who’s okay with halitosis than to chew gum for a few weeks and then slowly have her realize your raw-onion-chomping habit is a dealbreaker.  If you’re a strident libertarian, don’t downplay that – it’s gonna come out!  Discuss the all-soothing balm of the free market!

And yes.  Many dates will be disasters.  This is not a failure, but a feature: you have successfully discovered that this person is not for you.  Many people will not be for you.  You need to get in, and get out.

Which seems insane, but dating is a lot like trying on clothes in the store.  You don’t put on a pair of too-tight jeans and go, “Well, if I suck in my gut all the time and ignore the tingling in my legs and try not to look at the unflattering things these jeans do to my ass, maybe this will be the perfect fit!” and then wear the jeans for three days straight, trying not to get lasagna stains on them just in case you need to return them, really trying out these terrible terrible jeans before you walk away.

The reason you don’t do that is because a) this would be a hideously uncomfortable way to live, and b) using this “Let’s drag this out as long as possible” approach would take you about four months of trying on jeans before you found a right pair.

No, man.  Dating is about experimentation.  Most dates don’t work out!  So the solution to a failed date is not to present some artificial front to extend the life of a terrible date, but to find more dates.

The subway stalker has 500 numbers and no solid relationships.  That’s because he’s gotten very good at lying to people in order to get them interested in him.  But that’s a lot like saying, “This new soda tastes better than Coke!” and you open it up and find a dead turtle in a can.  Sure, the advertising got them to open it up, but in the end they’re tossing the turtle.

It seems crazy to go, “CANNED DEAD TURTLE, FREE TO GOOD HOME.”  But it’s big fucking world, man.  Have you looked at what sells on Craigslist?  If you’re honest about your deceased reptile status, it may take longer to sell than a nice refreshing Coke, but by God when you find someone who opens your can they will want the dead turtle that is you.

Be honest about your tortoisy status.  Be unafraid to be rejected for who you are.  Because in the long run, it’s a lot better to be rejected for you who are than to be accepted as someone you’re not.

(Written on Fet, cross-posted here.)

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

“She dates a lot of guys!” they cry.  “So why does she freak out whenever I get intimate with someone I like?”

That’s because “dating someone” and “sitting at home while your lover’s out dating” are two entirely separate skillsets, chum.

Both are worth having in any poly relationship.  But when you’re dating, you’re the recipient of all the good times.  You’re getting romanced, you’re getting smooched, you’re having all the fun new conversations of “Oh, I love Smashing Pumpkins, too!” – and the trick is not to get so carried away with New Guy that you forget to come home when you said you would.

That whole “not getting swept up” is a skill.  It’s really tough, remembering that you have existing partners you’ve made commitments to when someone who smells really good is nibbling on your neck.  And yet a lot of people have mastered that.

But suppressing the waves of joy is an entirely separate thing from “Sitting at home, watching Netflix, feeling pangs of loneliness as your partner’s off gallivanting.”  It is an entirely separate thing from “seeing your partner give his lover that special smile that you thought was only meant for you.”

And some people need to train up to that.

Now, as I’ve mentioned, “compersion” should not be the base value of polyamory.  It’s great when you’re all psyched for your partner’s date-times… but for most of us there will inevitably come a day where you’re feeling “bleah” and unattractive, and yet that’s not quite enough reason to say, “Okay, you guys were supposed to go to the U2 concert, but instead you should stay at home.”

So you sit home and suck it up, buttercup.  And learn to realize that “I feel jealous” and/or “I feel insecure” is not a valid reason to HULK SMASH all of your partners’ happytimes.

Yet I occasionally see the pattern of “Well, s/he just freaked out when I had a relationship, so I’ll shove them out the door to get their own partner – and that will solve everything!”  And what you often get is this rancid stew of “ZOMG now my partner has a new boyfriend and they’re so caught up in NRE that they’re punching all my worst buttons, *and still* they are so possessive of me that I can’t date!”

That’s because, as the header of this little essay says, “dating someone” and “watching your lover date someone happily” are not identical skillsets.  If you want to work on your partner’s jealousy issues, then yes, absolutely, do that.  But don’t do it by pressuring them to date someone now, now, now, on the assumption that once they get their own they’ll be perfectly okay.

The danger is, sometimes that is what they need.  But sometimes, that “get ‘em hooked up” puts you into a frantic death-spiral where you’re only good as long as each of you are spinning your own separate relationship-plates, forcing you to pressure the other partner into increasingly bad relationships because fuck it, it doesn’t matter who they’re dating but they have to date *someone* or else I can’t keep sleeping with Luanne.

At some point, most poly folk are going to stay at home to do boring homework while their partners are out watching the fireworks.  That’s how life works.  And the sooner you can learn to be okay with that, the better.

(Written on FetLife, cross-posted here.)

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

This Saturday, I got together with my friend Eric to be extremely manly.  This was not our ostensible goal, of course – the end result was to make a custom-planned bookcase that would fit into an alcove in his attic.  Still, we were hauling out all sorts of power tools and indulging in very focused destruction and resting our hands on our hips as we debated how to approach the next step.

It’s weird for me, being a guy.

I have a lot of hobbies, and most of them aren’t really masculine in the traditional sense.  I write, of course, which is a field sadly dominated by men (also see the need for Women Destroy Science Fiction), but alas, “dominated by men” is not the same as “manly.”  Writing stories was the sort of thing that got you beaten up in sixth grade. As was having pretty pretty princess fingernail polish.  As was playing D&D.  As was discussing fine dining.

But operating limb-severing equipment to make something useful with your bare hands?  I would have been the envy of every sixth-grade bully.  (And those bullies were very concerned that I acted and dressed and looked like A Real Guy, to the point where they’d corner you in the gym and purple nurple you if you weren’t totally heteronormative.  They were society’s underaged enforcers, telling me that real men didn’t wear corduroy pants, they wore fuckin’ jeans.)

My woodworking is but one of several hobbies I have, but it is the one where I am most acutely aware of society’s expectations – mainly because I’m fulfilling them, albeit inadvertently.  I’ve learned to operate independently of society’s desires, because frankly so many of the things I adore are things that mainstream America considers a little freakish.

But when I power up the circular saw and start cutting shelves, a weird thing happens: my happiness at what I’m doing gets layered with a pride that I can discuss this with just about anyone, and have them laud me for my actions.

When I built my arcade cabinet, guys of all stripes said, “Aww, man, I wish I was that handy.”  Because there’s an encoded signal in American society that says, “Men should be handy,” and on some level most dudes feel a little unworthy when they have to call in a repairman.  We are the ones expected to fix and build things, and though that’s a bullshit sexist assumption that closets men into roles and denigrates the myriads of other talents that dudes can have yet not get credit for, it is kinda nice to do something and feel that glow of collective approval.

Yet still I had people going, “Oh, you’re, making, uh… an arcade cabinet?  Okay.”  Once again, I tumbled into the “nerd” role and felt that tiny sadness of confounding people.

But when I make a bookshelf with Eric, I don’t have to apologize for my hobbies for a while.  I can slot it into my “small talk” repertoire, the kind of harmless thing that goes over well anywhere.  Strangers on the bus think this is an awesome thing.  I’m who people think I should be, and having that pivot into alignment with what I naturally do is an intoxicating experience.

For this slim sliver of life, I did not have to answer the question, “Why would you want that?”  And oh God is that a glorious freedom.

And I wonder if the “traditionally” manly guys, the ones who go fishing and hunting and watch football and love cars and do all the things that Budweiser ads quietly imply that they should do, are aware of how much society covertly aligns with their loves.  I feel strangely buoyed when I quietly walk alongside of societal expectations, but that’s because most of what I do is so at odds with them.  Do they feel weighed down when they do something outside of the quote-unquote masculine sphere?  Would they even be aware of that pressure, except as some vague discomfort that they’re not supposed to be doing this?  Or are those guys so confident in what they do that they have ceased to give a damn altogether?

I don’t know.  I don’t walk in those spheres.

But I do know that thanks to having spent the last two Saturdays struggling with a circular saw, there’s a whole breed of guy that I can now carry on conversations with.  I can say, “Jesus, because my table saw only has a rip width of 12″ – twelve fuckin’ inches, man! – we had to spend two hours measuring and clamping down a fence to get one perfect cut with the circular saw,” and have them sympathize as we both indulged in a bit of societally-approved tool fetishization.

I can connect with men I had no interfacing point beforehand, and now we can grasp calloused hands for a brief period of time and discuss how somehow, that board cups or bows or blows out and you have to jury-rig a way to fix it.  I’m expected to be able to discuss that.  And I can.

Then I go back to nerding out on Twitter, and they back off a bit.  Dudes shouldn’t be too into Twitter, you know.  That social network thing.  Being super-into it is a little weird.  And I’ll still be here blogging, even though maybe when I bring up my blog on the bus you can see people struggling to find common ground with you, mentioning that they write posts on Facebook sometimes, even though they don’t really, they just don’t get it.

And society will step back just a little bit, as it always has, befuddled by my desires, unsure what to do.  Until the next time I build something.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

The Escapist just posted their editorial stance on “Gamergate,” which boiled down is essentially this: There’s a difference between “Someone who plays games” and “A gamer.”  Gaming’s gone mainstream, and lots of people twiddle about with Candy Crush – but there’s a difference between dispensable games like that and the sort of deep richness that you have to devote to World of Warcraft before you become a Level 70 Warlock.

So The Escapist focuses on stuff that Gamers care about, man.  The hard-core segment.  The gearheads.  And they will be unapologetic about loving Gamer stuff.

Except I’ve read The Escapist on and off for years, and I don’t recall them devoting one fucking word to Scrabble tournaments.

“But Scrabble isn’t hard-core gaming, man!” to which I say, “You clearly don’t fucking know the hard-core Scrabble players.”  Watch Word Wars.  These fuckers memorize entire dictionaries, spending their days hitchhiking from tournament to tournament, living off the spoils of their gaming – cursing the luck-based segment of this game, trading bad-beats stories, dreaming of the world championships.

What did you do for your World of Warcraft, man?  Sit in a room?  These guys spent $300 they didn’t have on a trip to New York, hoping like hell they’d win the $10,000 prize so they could not lose money on this week’s tournament.  And some of them went home broke.  Some of them couch-surfed for months so they could keep chasing their dream.

That’s hardcore gaming.

…oh, wait, that doesn’t have anything to do with videogames.  And as it turns out, The Escapist will discuss Scrabble, but only if it’s related to videogames.

See, and the issue with co-opting the Gamer tag, as though playing lots of videogames somehow elevates your goddamned soul to the next level of Bodhisattva, is that people are trying to covertly reduce the world of “gaming” to “videogames only.”  If you’re a Gamer, you play lots of videogames.  Because, in this myopic fucking world, videogames are really all that exist.  We get to covertly erase all the other styles of gaming around, to act as though Gaming only involves the shit we want to play.

…except it’s not even really videogames that exist when we’re discussing who gets to be a Gamer.  It’s the right kind of videogames.  Depression Quest, some nerdly little text-based thing, isn’t a videogame!  It doesn’t have bearded guys stabbing people.  No, videogames only really count if they involve hulking dudes slaughtering lots of people in a constant stream of bloodshed, relying on quick reflexes and a smidge of strategy.  You can’t be super into the Sims and be a Gamer – if it’s not violent, it’s not counting, man.

…but wait.  You not only have to play these games, but play them in a certain way.  Because shit, you can’t just pick up Call of Duty with your bros and be a Gamer.  You have to play hard-core – no, not hard-core like Scrabble, but hard-core as in “dedicating a certain amount of your time to beating the game in socially-acceptable ways.”

All these hierarchies and narrowed definitions to become a term that encompasses all of gaming.

Look.  I get the issues we’re dealing with here, because to be honest, beating Shadows of Mordor involves more skill than getting to a high level on Candy Crush.  And if you’re worried about your style of gaming not being catered to, well, shit, I feel you.  I’m a huge pen-and-paper RPG fan, and I’ve just spent a decade watching that hobby die.  It sucked, not having anything new published – and thank God to Kickstarter for reinvigorating that process!  Nobody should have to love a game style and see no one new creating it.

But… Gamer?

That’s the word you’re self-identifying as?

Get the fuck out of here.

The Escapist defensively goes, “Well, look at gearhead culture with cars!  That’s the same thing as gaming!”  And it isn’t, mainly because they’re calling themselves “gearheads.”  They are not walking around accusing each other of stupid goddamned terminology like, “You aren’t a real Driver, man.”  They aren’t, in general, trying to wave off the very existence of all the other people who just get in cars and bop around by claiming they’re second-class citizens who don’t deserve to discuss what they like in cars.

But Gamers?

Oh, they fucking are very much waving off the existence of all other game styles.

See, when I discuss Gamergate and why I don’t think it’s about journalistic ethics – especially since, you know, the core “scandal” that kicked off Gamergate was supposedly about a woman sleeping with a guy to get a good review of her game, even though that guy never reviewed her game, and wrote literally half a sentence in his entire career about her game and that was before they started dating – I have people telling me, “Well, you don’t understand Gamergate because you’re not a Gamer!”

And that’s how Gamer gets used.  To exclude.  To go, “You’re not as deep into this culture as I am, so I am better than you are.”  Except, you know, I just purchased the Ps4 after months of anguishing between that and the XBox One, because I have like 25,000 achievement points on the Xbox that I didn’t want to lose (or 35,000 when you count my adjusted True Achievements score), and I made the wrong choice in purchasing the Atari 7800 way back in the day and so I didn’t want to pull the switch too soon, and I’ve been gaming for the better part of thirty years and apparently I just don’t count.

Look, you wanna call yourself something that indicates a distinction, like “Achiever” or something like that, okay, fine.  But your very terminology is poisoned.  You’re standing in the center of a vast and broad continuum, one that literally spans human history, of all the games that have ever been played, and trying to do a land-grab for that one term so your pathetically myopic vision of How Gaming Works can own everything.

You’re not.  You are inherently a subset.  There is nothing true about your insistence that you are a Gamer.  What you are is a dude who’s decided that these kinds of videogames are the best, and that’s perfectly fine – but you’ve become increasingly strident whenever someone suggests that maybe, just maaaybe, there are other ways to enjoy games and they are just as fulfilling for people.  Even equally as valid.

Except you’re so tied up in your self-worth, because videogaming in this style is really all you have to offer, that the concept that someone else might be having fun in a non-approved way challenges you.  You don’t see other people having fun; you see other people threatening this teetering pillar of your sad accomplishments, because if they haven’t strived all their lives to beat Dead Space on the hardest level, they’re not as good as you are.

To which I say, fuck your definition.

Though I have often lived the Gamer lifestyle (as witness the many hours I put into beating “Green Grass and High Tides” on Rock Band Expert), I reject the hierarchy you’re offering.  I reject this embedded idea that if I can’t game the way that you like to play, then my enjoyment is somehow lessened.  I reject this toxic nerd idea that love is somehow measured in obsession.

I realize that magazines make money off of catering to their clients, and the Escapist is no different.  The Escapist claims that hey, all games are just as good, but then proceeds to devote a lot of time to the sadness of how it is that this culture cannot last as it is, and talks about how great these Gamers are.  And in doing so, they perpetuate the soft idea that hey, This Gaming is the way things should be, just the way that gearheads in car culture are the true worshipers of the flame of fandom, and you should be proud to be here.

No.  You should be happy to be here.  You should be happy to find fellow people who share this narrow-minded vision of how you view games, and can share your opinions with them.  But you shouldn’t be proud, any more than you should be proud to stand next to a guy who also drinks your brand of beer at the bar next to you, because you drinking beer indicates a preference and not a superiority.

Now get off my damn lawn.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

So a lot of people hated the ending to “How I Met Your Mother.”  And what I find fascinating about that is that in the abstract, the ending was a good one.  It’s just that the storylines they’d been pushing that whole final season did not match up with the ending they wanted to sell – and so a lot of people, quite reasonably, rejected it wholesale.

Which is fascinating to me as a writer, because when writers talk about “the revision process,” they make it sound like you just cut out a scene or two, punch up some dialogue, and you’re done.  (Certainly Stephen King makes it seem that way in On Writing, which is otherwise a stellar book on the craft.)

But the truth is that in revision, what you’re doing is making sure that the individual scenes add up to create the story you’re trying to tell.  And How I Met Your Mother is an extremely great idea of this, because individually, the episodes of the final season are good, well-plotted, and heartwarming.  They’re the writer’s worst curse: these are good scenes, dammit, I shouldn’t have to cut them.

A lot of the episodes in that final season sum up the maxim of “Kill your darlings”: they’re clever, they’re funny, they work in isolation, they’ll even be great in syndication when someone who doesn’t know the show tunes in, and they utterly work against the ending the writers were trying to go for.  In a sane world, a lot of those episodes would have been jettisoned to devise something that actually did work, but…

…okay, this is your last chance to leave before I start kicking up How I Met Your Mother spoilers.  Get out if you need to.

So if you’ve never watched How I Met Your Mother, the overall storyline is that Ted is telling his kids about how he met his mother.  Ted is the worst kind of romantic douche – well-meaning, but so in love with love that he’d marry a lamppost if it looked at him sideways.  The Big Twist in the opening episode is that Ted finds Robin, a strong-willed and career-driven newscaster, and falls in love, and then at the end of the episode when you think this is going to be all about Robin, Ted tells the kids that he was dating Aunt Robin, not their mother.

Setting up the big twist of “Who Is The Mother”?

That “Ted is going to meet the Mother any moment now” was dragged out through eight seasons, with all sorts of contrivances, but eventually he did meet the Mother in Season Nine – which was all about the wedding of show breakout star Barney and Robin, who had fallen in love.

Barney is an unapologetic womanizer, who had tried to date Robin before in a disaster, and he is infamously selfish and oblivious to others’ concerns.  (Though because the writers are wise, he has just enough good qualities that you understand why the gang keeps him around – most notably, him saving Lily and Marshal’s relationship anonymously.)  Robin and Barney were either, depending on how you look at it, either disastrously suited for each other (as Barney, who treated all relationships like a game he must win, frequently destroyed people), or really amazingly suited for each other (as frankly, if Barney and Robin were polyamorous, they would have been an amazing teamup, albeit a bit disturbing for mainstream America).

Ted meets the Mother at the wedding, and various flash-forwards show how well suited for each other they are.  And they are highly compatible, which is a strength of the show; I was, actually, rooting for Ted and the Mother to get married.

The penultimate episode of the show has Barney and Robin getting married in a heartwarming ceremony, Ted meeting the mother we were so rooting for him to get together with, and all is happy.

Then in the finale, the mother gets terminally ill and dies, and Barney and Robin turn out to be just as terrible as you’d have suspected, and get a divorce a couple of years later.  Ted grieves for the mother for the better part of six years, dating no one – until his kids tell him to go date Robin, and he shows up on her doorstep in a callback to the first episode.  Roll credits.

And if you look at it, it’s actually a good plot, but the individual episodes kept pulling the punch.  Because the producers of HIMYM didn’t ever want a downer ending, only bittersweet ones at best (and happy ones being the default), and so every episode was contorted to make it seem like Barney and Robin were going to make it.  The Ninth Season was full of “Barney and Robin run into another dealbreaking issue” – which is good!  if Barney and Robin aren’t going to make it, then that needs to be seeded so we’re not surprised! – and then kept backing off by having a big schmaltzy romance with Barney and/or Robin doing something romantic to show us how this wedding would be good for them.

So you had the entire season going, “Hey, maybe you’re a little worried about Robin and Barney – don’t be!  Feel good by the end credits!  We don’t want you to leave this episode feeling bad!” And every scene (with a “scene” being an “episode” here) was actually actively misleading the audience as to what was happening.  If you were rooting for Barney and Robin (and I was), then seeing them crumble in the last episode after so many sweet moments of them kissing was like getting slapped in the face.

And I know that’s the point: that some marriages, no matter how much you want them to work, don’t.  And that’s realistic.  But you don’t serve us well by showing us an entire season of them working out their issues and then having it all collapse in ten minutes of mostly off-screen ugliness.

HIMYM had to do the brave thing of raising the specter of “Is this marriage really going to be good?” and leave that hanging… but then they would have a couple of bad scenes (read: episodes that ended in ways that would have been unsatisfying as the ending of a sitcom episode), and they were fucking terrified of that.  So instead, they inadvertently kept bait-and-switching their audience by making them feel faintly uneasy, and then reassuring them.

Then the “mother dies” aspect of the plot was poorly done as well.  Because we were attached to the mother.  We liked her.  We wanted to love her.   And just as we meet her, and savor the fruit of this long-delayed union, she dies.  And again, because it’s an hour-long finale, she dies in fifteen minutes.  Which is too much.

I heard a lot of people saying, “Oh, Ted learned nothing in the final episode!  He was still a stupid, flighty romantic!”  Which is patently untrue; Ted didn’t date anyone for years, he was so heartbroken by his wife, just concentrating on his kids and making sure they were all right.

But we didn’t see that.

And in truth, as an audience, we needed to see both halves of that – but again, those would have been fucking depressing episodes.  We needed an episode where we got to see Ted and how he handled his wife’s disease, showing us as an audience how Ted had changed, how he wasn’t the dumb romantic, how he’d finally understood the difference between love and infatuation.

Then we needed – and I’ll defend this to the death – another episode where we see Ted grieving.  Just a half an hour of Ted trying to make sense of his life, rejecting random attractions because they’re no longer satisfying to him, living his life without Robin, us seeing the space that Robin would fill – and fill well, now that she was divorced – but Ted missing it because he’s moved on and doesn’t understand that he and Robin could actually work together.  We needed to feel that time the way that Ted did, not a single flash-cut but a long emotional journey that took us along the way from disbelief to grief to the wandering unsurety of “What do you do when you found your great love, and she’s gone?”

And again, that would not play well in syndication, and be hard as fuck to make full of snappy gags…

…but the point of this essay is that if you’re writing a story, all things have to serve the story.  HIMYM had a mandate that every episode was mostly heartwarming or bittersweet, and what you needed to sell this plot was a couple of downer episodes where we got sold, and sold hard, on Ted’s Life After Mother.

No story is more important than a single scene.  But HIMYM kept doing the bad revision error of prioritizing individual moments over cumulative impact, and as such wound up with a finale that was, largely, poorly reviewed…

…even though if they had done that work, and convinced us that Ted was a new guy now, and this wasn’t just a rekindling of the same annoying issues we’d loathed in Ted since the premiere, that ending with Robin would have worked and worked well.  It didn’t work as it was shown, of course, because Robin and Barney were presented, repeatedly, as a Good Couple – but if you want to understand how writing works, you have to strip away the “What actually happened” and look at the bones underneath of how you could have shifted this story around to make Robin and Barney’s wedding not a culmination of happy love, but that uncomfortable moment where two friends you love dearly should not be saying their vows today, and you all have to stand stiffly and pretend it’s all right because you can’t convince them otherwise.

And yes, you could argue that the show needed an entirely different ending… but that’s not what I’m discussing here.  If we’re talking about How To Revise A Story, then what we have is the ending we’re striving towards, and sometimes as a writer you realize you have a great ending, but the individual moments in the tale thus far don’t actually Voltron together to fit to make that ending work.

This ending could have worked.  And worked well.  (Not universally, of course, but that’s a danger in any show; the moment you say “These two people worked out, these people didn’t,” you’ll have rabid ‘shippers who would never be happy unless Ted and Barney got together in a gay romance and did high-fives over massive orgies.)  And if you want to dig how writers think, it’s an interesting exercise to not go with “I hate this ending, I’ll rewrite it” and instead ask, “So let’s assume this ending is good, how could we rewrite the lead-up?”  Because honestly, you do that a lot, too.

Anyway.  It ended.  The ending worked for some people, and for those people, I think they felt that journey of Ted from douche to mature guy and got the implications without having to see it.  But again, that’s what revision is for; you give it to your beta readers, they tell you “I don’t see why Ted’s any different,” and you realize Oh shit, I need a big long post-death scene here to show Ted, without Robin, focusing on the mother he lost.  And you scrap some other scene and shim that one in.  And then more people get what you were going for, although as noted you’re not gonna please everyone.

But yeah.  I maintain the ending, as plotted, could have been a fine ending.  They just needed to build to that ending – which, given the complaints, they didn’t.

Comme ci, comme ca.


Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

Yesterday, I wrote about the game of “Cruel or Incompetent,” where I said that for certain core needs of your personality, it doesn’t really matter if someone meant to transgress those rules or not.  If someone needs to be told “By the way, buying a blowjob from a sex worker counts as cheating in our monogamous relationship,” then chances are really good that they’re full of other hurtful behaviors they’ll need to have explicitly programmed – and are most likely not a good fit for you.

To which I got some concern from people about how bad this was for people with Asperger’s, who often need to have the rules told to them.  The folks with Asperger’s people can’t read emotions, goes the worry, and sometimes they need to be told things.  So if everyone took my advice and abandoned these poor Asperger’s people when it turns out the aspies did not inherently grok their needs, people with Asperger’s everywhere will die alone and unloved and abandoned.

I have good news!


I’m not recanting on my idea that there are some basic considerations in a relationship that you shouldn’t have to explain.  But the people concerned that “You should consider leaving someone if they don’t instinctively get these core values” are missing one vital fact:

Everyone has different core values.

For some people, buying a hummer at the massage parlor doesn’t count as cheating!  And that’s the glory of people: there’s fucking billions of squishy humans, each of them totally different in every way.  If you don’t get the core values of someone you’re dating, well, sucks that you don’t get to stay with that person, but that doesn’t mean that you’re condemned to a lifetime of isolated anguish.

It means you have to find someone whose needs are more in line with your instincts.

Yeah, your aspie friends may have to date more people to find who they’re looking for… but just because one person would find it stressful and harmful to have to explain their fundamentals (and all the ramifications thereof, as I’ll explain in a bit), that doesn’t equate to “There’s nobody out there for them.”  Because everyone has slightly different fundamentals.  Including your aspie friends, who doubtlessly have their own rules they need to feel safe and beloved – and you wouldn’t tell them, “Well, stay with this woman who doesn’t understand what makes you happy because, well, it’d be rude to her to reject her for that!”

Plenty of Asperger’s people date, and find love.  That’s because the truth is, there aren’t that many core fundamentals that need explaining.  Someone commented, “Well, you had to educate Gini on your core fundamentals,” and the answer is that I really didn’t.  We both agreed that people in love who make reasonable complaints to each other should be listened to, and loved. What we disagreed on was the definition “What is a reasonable complaint?” and that’s a debate that, fifteen years later, we’re still having.

But the minute the other partner becomes convinced the complaint is reasonable, no matter how mad they are, we drop everything to fix it.  That’s why we’ve survived.  And that’s something, thankfully, that we’ve never had to explain, we just agreed on it.  Hell, it took me a moment to actually pinpoint what this fundamental was, because in a decade and a half of almost-constant analysis, we have never once argued about that.

The thing about fundamentals is that they seem like one fact, but actually they unpack all sorts of other vital information about you that are also necessary to your functioning.  There are some people for whom really trivial stuff is a core fundamental to them – “You have to call if you’re going to come home late.”  For most people that’s a nice-to-have as opposed to an I’m-leaving-if-you-don’t-do-that-without-asking, so it seems silly to just contemplate walking out if someone forgets to call a time or two.

But wrapped in that single fact are all sorts of other assumptions that people who want to be with you intimately should probably get – “I worry about things,” “I’m big on protocol,” “Unknowns will drive me crazier than any known fact,” “I drift towards worst-case scenarios.”

The thing that differentials these core fundamentals from a one-time lesson is that explaining them to people often means all the cascading lessons that stem from that core value don’t get learned.  If you have someone who goes, “Oh, right.  Okay, I’ll call,” and marks that off, there’s a really good chance they haven’t understood the other things that will drive you nuts – like how you worry, like how you require a certain politeness in your lovers, like how leaving you in the dark will drive you batshit – and because they don’t comprehend all the ramifications they will accidentally step on your worst fears time and time again. You may be in for months of your lover stepping on your nuts with stiletto heels and going, “Oh, crap, kinda forgot you had those.”

Whereas it’s not a guarantee – nothing is – but if one of your core values is “Call when you’re running late,” and the guy calls without being told to, you’ve got a far better chance of having someone who’s synced with you on a really critical level.

And yeah.  It’s totally fucking tough to figure out what your core values are, as opposed to just a thing that can be hammered out in discussion.  Because these dealbreakers vary for everyone.  It’s all fine and well to say “If you’re dating me, you have to realize my kids come first,” but there’s plenty of parents for whom that doesn’t apply at all.  It’s all fine and well to assume that core value of “If we’re monogamous, you have to be faithful to me,” but for many people that actually reads as “You have to not get caught.”  (Heck, there’s plenty of people for whom fidelity and their children aren’t core values at all.)

Unfortunately, that means you have to date around enough to understand which aspects of partner-ignorance can be worked out with a little education, and which things are the sign that whoah, this means we’re not really suited for each other.

And to repeat: if someone rejects you, that means you’re not suited for that one person.  Which sucks, it really does.  But there are thousands of other people in your city, each with different personalities, and with luck you’ll find someone for whom your natural instincts don’t clash with their fundamental needs… and their instincts line up with yours.

Being ill-suited for one person does not mean that humanity is a mass of cookie-cutter ideals and to be bad for one of us means you will be cast out from the herd.  People with Aspergers find love.  Depressive neurotics like me find love.  People with all sorts of really unusual crooks in their psyche find love, and that’s because we should all thank God that no two people are perfectly alike.  You’ll rejected by one person.  Almost certainly several.

But in time, if you work at gaining understanding of who you are and how you interact with other people, you’ll find the partner that works for you.

Or maybe you’ll just stumble accidentally into love.  That happens a lot, too.  Because wow, are there a lot of us, and luck happens.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

A lot of relationship problems can be solved by determining the motivation of today’s fuckery: Did they mean to do that? Yes, they eviscerated me and fed my liver to the pigeons, but was that an intentional surgery?

Yet there’s a relationship game show that just isn’t worth playing, and that show is:

Cruel Or Incompetent?

Which is to say that in any long-term relationship, there are certain things your partner should know about you. These are your baseline values: I’m not talking about the little niggly stuff like, “I want a call if you’re going to be out late,” but rather the core stuff like, “If you lie to me, I’m leaving.”

If you’re a full-time mother, you shouldn’t have to hold a Powerpoint presentation going, “My kids are going to come first.” If you’re in a monogamous relationship, you shouldn’t have to hold a class that outlines bulletpoints like, “Our monogamous relationship precludes getting hummers from strangers at truck stops.”

These aren’t universal laws. But they are the core aspects that people dating you should, on some level, fundamentally understand. If you value harmonious friendships, then anyone dating you shouldn’t have to be debriefed on the reasons why insulting your buddies at parties is Right Out. If you’re someone who needs up-front communication to be happy, then dating someone who goes “it’s better to beg forgiveness than ask permission” will lead to disaster.

And when those earth-shattering transgressions come, and they go, “Well, I didn’t know!” then you have one of two situations:

1) They’re lying scumbags who did know what you needed, and willingly chose to hurt you.

2) They’re people so oblivious to your inner workings that they’ll waltz past the most mission-critical aspects of your psyche unless you take the time to program them like a computer.

And the answer in either case is that you should get the fuck out now. If they’re liars, then hit the eject button.

And if they’re genuinely that clueless about the quintessence of who you are, then their innocence is not a mitigating factor. They may not be evil people, but if they can’t pass that exam of Youness 101 without a tutor to guide them, then chances are good that there are other really vital parts of you they’re not going to get.

And how much time do you want to spend training someone who doesn’t get you on an instinctive level? I mean, I’ve heard of people who’ve trained cats to fetch their morning paper. It can be done. But one suspects it takes way more effort and frustration, and there are many cats who just won’t do it. And while there’s nothing wrong with getting a cat, if “fetching papers” is your goal you’d probably be better off getting a dog.

But there is something potentially harmful about finding someone who has no real concept of who you are, and spending the next few years trying to instill them with instincts that they probably should have come preinstalled with.

So either they’re a liar – always a possibility – or they require so much work to get them to comprehend Relationships With You 101 that they’re probably not worth the time.

In that case, either one would be enough of a sin to say goodbye. Yes, in one case someone’s acting maliciously, and the other they’re acting innocently. But a hurricane doesn’t need motivation in order to destroy your life. And you can walk away.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

It was kind of cool when, in Attack of the Clones, Yoda whipped out his lightsaber and showed us all what a badass he was by destroying Count Dooku.

It was also totally fucking out of character.

The great thing about the original Star Wars films is that, as Saladin Ahmed noted today, characters drew strength from giving up power.  Obi-Wan sacrificing himself to help Luke escape.  Luke refusing to fight his father, setting blood lust aside to remember who he was.

Yoda was the emblem of all of that.  A little green dude.  Harmless.  “Wars make not one great.”  “Your weapons. You will not need them.”  He was not a being of power, but of wisdom, and he scorned all this violence for better solutions.  He was Obi-Wan-plus in that he didn’t need to fight; he wasn’t concerned with who could beat up who, but rather with who was doing right.

Then the prequels threw all that aside.  “Sure, wars don’t make one great,” they said.  “But that’s because Yoda is the greatest fighter of them all!  He doesn’t have to care!”  Which sends the fucked-up message that wars actually do make one great, you just have to be so good at them that you don’t worry about them at all.

Why couldn’t Yoda simply not be a fighting master?

Why, instead of having to face down Count Dooku and save his students from certain dismemberment, could he not have had his students hold back while Dooku approached him, saber in hand?  And simply said to Dooku, with sadness, “Lost your way you have.”  Talked to Dooku.  Had Dooku rage, as he would.  And when Dooku threatened to kill him, Yoda would simply say quietly, “All you will have demonstrated by slaughtering me is that kill an old man, you can. Impressed no one will be.  And one day someone stronger will kill you to take your power.  This is the path of the Dark Side.  But… there are better ways.”

And Dooku would, torn between his ambition and Yoda’s words, threaten him.  Lightsaber to the throat.  Yoda’s neck sizzling.  Yoda, closing his eyes, would take the burn and say: “Any man can kill.  Only a few can acknowledge their errors.  Only the great can rise past them.”

And Anakin, stupidly sensing a threat that his own master did not care about, leaps in and forces a duel to the death.  Robbing them of a potential ally.  Losing the information they could have gotten from Dooku.  Learning the wrong lesson: that Yoda would have sacrificed himself stupidly for nothing.

That would have been a fight worthy of a Star Wars.  Instead, we got a leaping frog, a flash of blades, and the lesson that martial victory is really what counts.


Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

I was supposed to do a signing for my upcoming urban fantasy novel Flex, wherein I would have flown to San Francisco and signed my book for you and almost certainly gone out for drinks with anyone hanging around afterwards.

Alas, my publisher moved the release date, so as opposed to my book being out, say, last Tuesday, it will now be out in April of 2015.

The good news is that I’ll still be doing a signing at Borderlands Books (which is, I assure you, a truly kick-ass shop) – and the better news is that I’ll probably be doing a small West Coast book tour, when I can manage it.  We just don’t know the exact dates yet.

* Not in San Francisco this weekend, though I’d love to be.
* My urban fantasy novel Flex (about crazy videogamemancers and bureaucromancers and perhaps too many musings on donuts) will be out in April of next year.
* I will visit San Francisco and hug as many of you as possible, sometime next April.

We clear?  We clear.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

Occasionally my blog is an update on my psychological processes.  But this past month has seen a radical change in my behavior, and I’m not quite sure where it’s coming from.

As y’all know, I’m an introvert who does a darned fine extrovert impression.  It’s not that introverts don’t like people – it’s that being around people drains our batteries on some level, and we need to go recharge by curling up in a room, alone, with a book or a game or whatever meditative offering we use to become social little monkeys again.

I feel like a broken iPhone, because my introvert batteries aren’t charging any more.

I went to Context, which was a wonderful con where I had a much better time than anticipated, but when I got back I couldn’t move.  I was so low-energy that I called in sick to work the next day, because I couldn’t even answer email.  I felt physically ill.

And that’s been happening everywhere.  Though I love gaming, when my wife had to cancel our usual Thursday date I was thrilled, because I didn’t have to see anyone.  I usually go out a couple of times a week, but I curled up and watched reality shows and didn’t talk to anyone, and by the time I went over to the Meyers to celebrate Yom Kippur with some of my most beloved friends, I thought I was ready.  Ninety minutes later I was screaming-ready to leave, shivering from oversocialization, and just unready in all ways.

I don’t want to be that guy who sits around the house watching Ink Master and playing endless rounds of Civilization, but… I appear to be that guy.  At least this month.

I don’t want to be around people.

There have been numerous theories as to why this is: the usual suspect, the mourning over Rebecca, is of course front and center.  Some have suggested my spring Seasonal Affective Disorder has finally flipped to the fall, which will at least stop stupid people from asking me, “Hey, you’re depressed in the spring, are you sure you’re doing it right?”  And others have suggested maybe it’s the Internet, I’ve been in a few mild scraps with people and though I’m not afraid of going toe-to-toe with people in online arguments that does burn my batteries when it turns from “debate” to “damage control.”

I don’t know.  But I feel strained, all the time.  My battery is not quite broken; I can feel that maddening trickle of charge, hours plugged into my usual recharge sources, watching that little meter ever quite leave the red zone.  Making me scared to leave the house, because inevitably I’ll get somewhere and my socialization will go dead, a flat black, and I’ll be unable to find my way home.

And, as always, when I experience a psychological flutter like this, I worry that this is the end.  I’ve been lucky.  I’ve been swamped by seasonal depression, and bad fits, but what if this is the new configuration of my life?  What if something snapped inside, something battered by Rebecca and my heart disease and the stresses of writing, and now this is the way I’ll be?  How will I adjust?

Maybe I’ll be fine.  But I can’t count on that.  I really can’t.  And so I’m just trying to recover with new videogames, with more cuddles from Gini, with more reruns of Ink Master, but it’s slow going.

This is a month.  It’s a long month.  And I’m hoping my desire for company will return, but right now I just want to crawl into a hole and pull the dirt down on my head.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

As seems to be a sad new tradition, I got my birthday present today.  Yes, my birthday is July 3rd.   But I seem to have picked up an affinity for ridiculous Kickstarters, and so in this new digital age my life consists of a constant stream of emails from developers, promising me that delivery is just around the corner.  I expect I will forever be ordering things I’m excited about today that arrive forever later.

(If you’re curious about my impending Soylent experiment, well, the shipping is delayed.  Still.  Always.)

Anyway, this gift was the Lumo Lift, which seemed like an awesome idea – it’s a step-counter that improves your posture.  Whenever you slouch – and I usually have a spine shaped like a question mark – the Lumo Lift buzzes, reminding you to remove your Quasimodo-like crouch and stand straight and tall!

And early results seem to indicate that it corrects your posture like the Dance Central game teaches you how to dance – which is to say that you can kinda flail in the general direction of things, but there’s no fine-tuned body-sensing and a sad vacuum of feedback.

I’ve taken one walk around the block with it, and thus maybe things get better.  But that one walk was frustrating.

The biggest problem with the Lumo Lift is that it’s supposed to buzz every time you fall out of position.  And that would be great, if it did.  But either it didn’t buzz, or the buzz was so faint I didn’t feel it, so I had to walk around holding my iPhone in front of my face with the Lumo Lifecoach app blaring red at me.

Worse, when you correct your posture, there’s no haptic feedback that I could sense.  So basically, even if it buzzed every time I fell out of position, the Lumo Lift is like having someone tap on your shoulder and say, “Hey, you’re slouching” but that guy never tells you when you’ve got it right.  The app supposedly glows green when you get back into position, but the delay on it was really long at times, and walking around stiffly staring at a phone seems to be a great way to walk into trees.

(Though this is where the Apple Watch would come in super-handy – if the background on your screen was red when you slouched, green when you stood straight, that would be a nice integrated way of sensing where you were.)

Worse to the worse, the Lumo Lift didn’t seem to register some changes in position.  It told me I was slouching for the last quarter-block of my walk, and I kept leaning back and forward, wriggling around like I was trying to get an old rabbit-ear antenna to pick up CBS, and nothing happened.  Eventually I had to reset the Lumo to tell it “I AM STANDING STRAIGHT, DAMMIT,” but that involved pressing twice, or three times, or whenever, because it wasn’t exactly consistent in registering feedback.

On the bright side, it turns out that walking around the block with Shasta is about 1,750 steps.  So I feel fit.  My target is 10,000, and we’ll see if I can get there.

(On the super-plus side, according to the “10,000″ rule, once I achieve 10,000 steps I will be a master at walking.  So I’m psyched about that.)

I’m gonna wrangle with it some more, because I like the idea, but the Lumo didn’t actually provide any helpful feedback on this first run.  I stood straighter, but that’s because I was trying to stand straighter because I paid like $80 for this frickin’ thing and dammit, I was trying to get it to work.  What I need is something that actually buzzes when I’m out of position in a way that alerts me consistently, and I don’t think that does that effectively – or maybe I just haven’t doped out how to use it yet.

Oh well.  I got a dog to walk after work.  Let’s see how this goes.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

A long time ago, I wrote an essay over on FetLife called Dear Wives: You May Be Incompatible With Your Husbands, which was a rebuttal to a blog post I thought said some marvelously toxic things.  And the writer of that essay wrote me, distressed that I had misunderstood her – and so I added this addendum to the essay:

(EDIT: The author of the original piece says that there’s a history behind that piece that’s not coming through in the way she’d intended. I’m willing to believe that; as a blogger, I’ve written some bad pieces where I meant to say X and instead said Y, often to much hullaballoo. At the same time, all I can judge are these words on the page, and what I wrote here is a response critique of those words and the philosophies seemingly espoused therein. Which may not be her intent, and her blog piece is certainly not her entire life, and y’all should be so lucky as to have every piece land the way you intended it.)

One of the recurring themes of this blog is that blogging for a large audience is easy to screw up, even for experienced bloggers.  You mean to say X, and you say the *exact opposite* by mistake.  Which is why I cut people some slack when they accidentally show their ass in public and go, “…that’s not what I *meant* to say!”

Welp, I fucked up yesterday, and I think it’s helpful to examine how I came to say the exact opposite of one of my core philosophies.

I wrote a piece yesterday called Why I Don’t Have Enemies On The Internet (But Maybe You Should), and talked about how I don’t give the people who hate me any power.

That was inspired, in part, by stumbling across a thread of Men’s Rights Advocates discussing what a creeper I was.  Which is why I started out by discussing Gamergate, which is still super-fresh in my mind as a toxic stew of machismo assholes that caused a woman to flee her house in terror.

So to my mind, I’d set the stage properly: When I’m talking about “enemies,” I’m discussing the kinds of guys who believe that rape threats to a woman are pretty damned cool.

But I hadn’t.  I’d merely discussed the people who hate me, without framing who those people were beyond a handwave to events that affected me intensely – I was outraged so much by Gamergate that it felt like the entire world was watching, which it wasn’t – and hadn’t taken the time in the essay to go over the reasons they hated me.  (I could have – there was a section where I said, “[they] feel that I am everything that is ruining men/women/culture/ponies,” but I totally handwaved that opportunity to clarify.)

And I thought I had framed this as an MRA issue even further when I referenced the Anita Sarkeesian incident specifically, and discussed how “being a guy” is like a superpower on the Internet.

…but I didn’t.

At all.

So when I reached the climax of this botched essay, and said, “They’re the opposition, of course.  They’re racist, misogynist, backwater scumholes who I will work to my best extent to stop in their goals,” I had a couple of comments from people who went, and quite rationally:

“So everyone who disagrees with you is a racist misogynist backwater scumhole, Ferrett?  Nice work, bro.”

Aaaaaaaand that’s where you can hear my logic collapsing.

Now, if you’ve read my essays for a while, obviously I don’t believe that anyone who disagrees with me is an asshole, for I go very far out of my way to account for differing opinions.  I mean, shit, if you leave a comment on my LiveJournal page, you have to click a link that says “Tell me I’m full of it.”  Hell, I’ve written whole posts over on Fet on how some people find my polyamory creepy, and one day they’ll write essays to rebut me, and how I sincerely hope they do.  My blogging history is rife with points where I’ve said how people can disagree with me and remain good people, and I think if you’ve read most of what I wrote over the past three years you’ll see that it was a simple misstatement.

But you know what?

People should not be obligated to read my entire history to figure out my fucking intent.

All anyone should have to go on is the words I wrote on that fucking page, now.

And I gave them the wrong words.

So there you have it: I fucked up.  I believe, and honestly, that most people can disagree with me in good faith.  But thanks to a couple of assumptions I casually assumed you shared with me, I accidentally painted anyone who disagrees with me ever as a waste of human flesh.

That’s why blogging is really fucking tough sometimes.  You’re in one headspace, and forget that not everyone’s sitting in your skull with you, and in the absence of context then whoop, there goes the baby.

(That does not mean that there aren’t misogynists and racists out there who disagree with me, of course.  The sort of dudebro who’d go, “Well, Zoe Quinn is an untalented slut who deserves everything she got!” is someone I feel is really beyond interacting with.  But despite the asshole way I came off in that essay, it takes a surprising amount of what I’d consider to be complete idiocy for me to write your opinion off.

(Though, I should add, if you think you should never write anyone off entirely, I’d wager the chances are good you haven’t run a blog that gets even the mild audience that mine does.  There are some people who are pretty vicious and irredeemable, and they show up ten times as often if you’re a woman.)

What do I pay for with my fuckup?  Well, I have a couple of people who took me at my word and now believe that I believe that anyone who disagrees with me should suck the barbed cock of Satan.  Will they believe I spoke poorly?  Will they even read this followup essay?

Probably not.  And so someone will walk away with their opinion of me dramatically lessened.  They’re incorrect about who I am… but given what I told them about me, they’re not necessarily wrong to think less of me.

And that’s not to say that the essay went over poorly in all places, mind you.  There were people who found it as heartwarming as I meant it.  But they found it heartwarming because I think they correctly picked up on the hidden Gamergate subtext, and put the proper frame around it – one that I did not actually add myself, I’m ashamed to say.

In retrospect, I would have framed it much more as “The Men’s Rights Advocates generally think I’m a creepy gamma rabbit, and sometimes write some seriously nasty shit about me, but here’s why I don’t think of them as my enemy.”  Which would have been understood better.

But I fucked up.  It’s good to analyze these things.  Because I think what we often forget whenever the Stupid Blog Post Of The Day hits is what someone commits to the page is not necessarily a complete or accurate view of what they really feel.  Not that they didn’t write something stupid, but that they may have intended to write something entirely different and fucked it up.

Fuckups happen.  If you fucked up, acknowledge it.  But more importantly: if you’re angry at someone who appears to be an asshole on the Internet, recognize that a single blog entry may not reflect who they are.

Words are tricky.  Context is tricky.  And when you get either wrong, you present the wrong impression.

Best you can do is clean it up and move on.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

You can’t write something that people like without writing something that people hate.  For every fan you acquire, you’ll get some idiot going, “God, why does anyone listen to this jerk at all?”

God forbid you write about political or cultural issues.  As Gamergate has shown, writing bad reviews of videogames is a crime that some feel is properly punishable by rape threats and personal, targeted, we-have-your-home-address attacks.

And I have some folks who hate me.  Like, really hate me.  They bitch about me in comments, write osts talking about what a toxic fartbag I am, feel that I am everything that is ruining men/women/culture/ponies, and in general spend some nonzero portion of their week seething that I exist.

These people aren’t my enemies.

They’re not important enough to be my enemies.

And that’s a distinction I draw for my own personal sanity.  The Internet is a nice place, but when you’ve got 400 comments raining down on your head, there’s this tendency to go oh my God, this is so huge, it swells to fill the world like Jörmungandr, the snake that will strangle the world come the end-times.

Then you go get a fro-yo, and not one single person putting sprinkles on their banana yogurt shakes you by the lapels and screams, “Hey, are you the person who wrote that awful post?” and you remember: hey, nobody gives a shit.

Mostly, this is just words on the Internet, and gossip, and people you’ve barely met disliking you.  And I’m not discarding the importance of Internet buddies – I remind you that I met my wife online – but so much of the chaos that gets caused any day is like a Facebook status.  You post it, it gets a zillion comments, and two months later it’s pretty much vanished.

The Internet has the memory of a goldfish.

Now, people: people have the memory of a vindictive elephant with sawn-off tusks and the scent of an old hunter in its nostrils, fetishing the day that elephant will hunt down its own enemy Liam-Neeson style and crash through it’s window and IT’S ELEPHANTING TIME, BABY.  So you have people who’ll never forget.  And they’ll remember all the horrid things you said (whether “what you said” was justified or not), and they’ll bring it up again, and they’ll leave snarky comments everywhere.

Truth is, though, most people read your post, and forget your name immediately thereafter.  There’s a billion squawking heads on the Internet.  You are one of them, and chances are good that the world has forgotten about your awesome (or horrible) post in the same way you don’t remember the name of the person who wrote that article on Buzzfeed.

But me?  I refuse to let some snarky comment from a single elephant-hunter-hunter replace the goodness of, say, an actual hug from my genuine wife.  Or a face-to-face conversation with my daughter about life.

I have made a decision that my Internet life isn’t that important, and while I do actually have people who would prefer I died horrifically in a grease fire, I’m not going to call them “enemies.”

Enemies are people who do more than bitch about me.  My enemies hurt the people I love, undermine my relationships, cause me unwanted physical pain.  To call the author of a nasty blog post my “enemy” is granting them a power over me that, frankly, I don’t feel like giving.

They’re the opposition, of course.  They’re racist, misogynist, backwater scumholes who I will work to my best extent to stop in their goals.  But at the end of the day, I can put that down and snuggle in with my wife to watch another episode of Agents of SHIELD, because in the end, they’re background noise.

That’s how I function.  Because I get exhausted by constant conflict.

But there are those who get energized by battle, and for them, I say, “Go get yourself some damn enemies.”  Because they could be enemies; if they had their way, they’d certainly ensure you were second-class citizens in every way, and if that’s not enough to paint someone with the “enemy” targeting reticule, then I don’t know what is.  (Not to mention that, as the Gamergate has also shown, “being a guy” is like a superpower on the Internet in that if you’re a woman, douchebros will go to great lengths to attempt to dismantle your life in ways that go well beyond insults.  Which would make them my enemies.)

If being filled with seething hatred is what slaps a sword in your hand, then I say drink deep of rage, my friend.

But if – if – you’re like me and find all of this strife to be an effort that you push past in order to try to make change in the world, then you might try stuffing your so-called “enemies” in a box.

Me?  I have the pleasant happiness of knowing that my not-caring drives the opposition mad.  I’m cheerful to them.  I wave hello when I see them trashing me.

And when I finish the day, there I am cuddled up with friends, the haters tucked neatly away, concentrating on what matters to me.  There’s my wife.  And my friends.  And the things I love to do.

Those guys are HTML code somewhere on a server.  They’re not this sweet kiss from my sweetie.

I wouldn’t let ‘em get in the way of that.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

So.  A couple of hours before the convention.  That’s usually when I stress out.  All my social anxiety hits me in one ball of DON’T WANNA GO, and I curl up for a bit by the suitcase and pretend like I’m packing.

Gini comes in.  She hugs me.  I tremble.

“You love me even though I’m a total wreck, right?” I ask.

I hear her silence.  Hear her considering all the ways I’m wrong.  And then she finally says the right words:

“Yes,” she tells me.  “Yes, I love you even though you’re a total wreck.”

And I hold her tight and thank her.

Other partners would tell me that I’m not a total wreck, that I go to conventions all the time and I do well, that I’ve managed to eke out some mild fame out of being a writer even though I’m a neurotic and a depressive and a cauldron of anxiety.  But I didn’t ask, “Am I stronger than I think?”

I asked, “If I’m as bad as I think, will you still love me?”

And she would.

She would.

I’m gathering my things right now.  I’m printing off the chapter I’ll read at the con. And by the time I get there, I’ll be okay.

But if it’s not okay – if I’m not okay – she’ll still love me.

She loves me if I’m a total wreck, and that gives me the strength to be more.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

So I’m currently planning on getting a tattoo, and as such have been mainlining Ink Master – a reality show where ten tattoo artists show up and permanently mangle people’s flesh as part of a contest.  I find it interesting, as I do most reality shows based on a profession, because I haven’t thought about all the challenges involved in tattooing before and now I get to see people fucking them up on a weekly basis.

But it occurs to me that there are two ways of deciding who gets kicked off this week on a reality show, and both of them suck.

You can do the “who did the worst job this week?” vote-off, and that’s unpredictable but frequently unsatisfying.  MasterChef does this, and quite often it takes a chef who’s been kicking ass all the way and tripped.  Whereas a less-adventurous cook can keep chugging along, because maybe he didn’t win but he didn’t fuck up badly enough.  So you often wind up with some more-talented people getting kicked off prematurely, leaving the dregs behind.

Sometimes the dregs make the top four.  And that’s inevitably enraging.

But if you do the “Who’s done the worst job over the course of the contest?” then the endings become pretty predictable.  After the first five shows or so, where everyone’s still learning the craft, most contest shows boil down to two or three frontrunners.  As you kick out the dregs, the frontrunners continue to shine, and the top four are, well, the folks you thought would make it in.

I’m not sure if there is a way to have judges vote off people that doesn’t lead to either talented people getting kicked off for dumb mistakes, or talented people being predictably good at their jobs.  The nature of reality shows is that upsets occur – in that, they’re like sports, weirdly addictive because anything really could happen – so it’s not a guarantee either way, but I am curious if there’d be a way to structure such things to strike a balance between the two.

I can’t think of one.  But y’all are bright.


Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

“I wonder what it would look like if we drew up a chart of who slept with who?” said someone terribly unwise in our social group.  And because we were all stupid, we agreed this would be a fantastic idea.

Now, we were all in our mid-twenties, a bunch of slutty punks, and infamously incestuous.  Also pretty gossipy.   But we loved each other, a wide circle of probably about thirty friends of varying levels of friendship, and we all hung out to mosh at concerts and drink to excess and watch this new “Simpsons” show, you’ve gotta see it, it’s the fuckin’ bomb.

So one of us put up a piece of posterboard on the wall and wrote each of our names down: the “central” members of the group floating near the center, the people we didn’t see that often hovering towards the edge.

We decided on colors to connect these names: blue for dating, a broken blue for dated-but-broke-up, red for a single hookup, green for FWB.

Then we started drawing lines.

It was easy, at first: everyone knew I’d dated Jennie for years, and everyone knew that Bryan had once dated Gracie.  Then again, Gracie was infamously trampy, and proud of it, so when she stormed into the room and drew what seemed like a firework of connections to all her past lovers, it was with a tinge of pride.

And after a bit, the board looked like this:


Which is to say, a fair number of lines, but… comprehensible.  You could see the scope of things.

But after the page had been up for a week or two, people had gotten wind of it, and decided to drop by to see if their personal nexus was accurate.  So we had more visitors to the apartment, and each of them made clucking noises with their tongue.

First, they’d correct their own chart, adding a few lines that we hadn’t twigged to.  And then, invariably, they’d smirk, saying, “Oh, you hadn’t heard about Debbie and Clyde?” and then proceeded to add a few more bits culled from gossip that hadn’t wended its way to our ears.

This happened over and over again, until the chart started to look like a spirograph:


And in that tangle of lines was madness.  We weren’t that slutty, were we?  We couldn’t have been this hungry to fuck, collectively.  I mean, each of us liked having sex, and we’d been friends since high school, but… this couldn’t be a typical social group, could it?  It was like Robert Chambers’ Yellow Sign, a sigil that teased out madness the longer you looked at it… and yet none of us could look away.

The madness grew, because of course there were buried resentments embedded in the chart.  Dayne had slept with Lynn when she was on a temporary break with Phil, but Phil hadn’t known that.  Mike had outright cheated on Liz with Jennifer, and whoops, we’d remembered that Mike had slept with Liz but had forgotten when.  Happy couples who looked at the chart did so at their peril, for their past history was laid out for all to see: all you had to do was hunt down your lover’s name in that tangle of threads, place your finger on them, and follow the lines to every bit of sexual history they had.

Shoving matches broke out.  Couples broke up.  Friendships took huge dents as past betrayals bobbed to the surface.

And I?  I hid, happily, because though being a slut I was a major focal point in that web, I also knew of at least two women I had hooked up with under dubious circumstances… and those connections were mercifully absent on the chart.

If I was missing connections, then others doubtlessly had to be.

This chart, crazy as it was?  Was incomplete.

After enough psychodrama had been churned up, someone – we never found out who – threw the chart out in the trash before it could cause any more trouble.  The people who had yet to see it moaned a little, sad that they’d missed out on such a treasure trove of gossip, but they didn’t complain overmuch.  I think they knew what would happen, and in that they were way wiser than we were.

But I’ve been talking a lot about cheating lately, and all the people who’ve said, “Well, if you sleep around, you’re sure to get caught.”  And I don’t know, man.  A lot of affairs don’t ever come to light.  We shined an dim and guttering lantern upon our own social circle – which was, as noted, admittedly incestuous – and turned up a lot of cheating incidents that would have remained successfully buried for, like, ever, if we hadn’t stupidly decided to open-source our own gossip.  And I had at least two regrettable events in my past that, despite that, never were revealed – and, years later, have never been revealed – which means that others might be so.

When I think of affairs, and cheating, I think that they’re actually pretty easy to do.  And I think that while the consequences of being discovered are dire, the actual number of people who get away with it is far higher than anyone knows.

I think of charts.

I think of madness.

I think that chart was incomplete, and Lord knows that we’ll never get a full picture of anything.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.

theferrett: (Meazel)

A weird thing:

Sometimes I write an essay in response to feedback.  And people go, “Well, I didn’t see that feedback!”

You wouldn’t.  Because I post to my blog at, which gets mirrored to Dreamwidth, which then cross-posts to LiveJournal.  And for most essays I then Tweet a link to it, and my Tweet gets auto-posted to Facebook.  And if it’s a relationship advice post, I often cross-post it to FetLife, which often takes on a life of its own if the essay hits Kinky and Popular.

I think I’m the only person who sees all the feedback I get.  Because I’m scattered across the damn Internet in fragments.  Which is fine, I enjoy it, but it is a little weird realizing that any given post of mine can spawn six different threads.

Cross-posted from Ferrett's Real Blog.


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