Tag Archives: personal

So Many Things, So Little Information

AUGUST 13th???

No, Cody, that’s just unacceptable.  That’s three weeks with absolutely no new exciting content!  But what to do?  Oh, whatever to do to rectify this grievance?

I can rant!  Hmm, let’s see, what’s pissing me off right now…

The Ground Zero Mosque!!!  Well, I mean, it itself is not pissing me off, the controversy is.  But I don’t really like getting all political.  Besides, Keith Olbermann already covered the issue much more eloquently than I ever could.

So if not that, then what?  Could I criticize some movie?  Could I heap praise upon a movie?  Could I make my own movie???

No.  I mean, I suppose I could, but I don’t like making comments on things I’ve seen once (or never, for that matter), and the only movies I’ve seen recently are The Lion King, Spaceballs, and 8 1/2, two of which I feel no need to comment on at the moment, and while watching the other I was too distracted by the fact that the dialogue did not sync up to the actors’ mouthing of the lines, only to find out later that this was in fact not my computer being its normal bellyaching self (Bellyaching?  Really?) but rather the practice of recording the dialogue in post-production, which was apparently quite common for Italian films of the era, especially those directed by Fellini.  Clearly, I am referring to Spaceballs here.

Yeah, this is some good stuff.  We’ve got some pretty sweet stream-of-consciousness going on here.  What next?  How about a picture? Yes!

Bam! Dylan!

Hmm, music?  Yeah, I recently came into possession of quite a few splendid albums, among them the above-mentioned’s Blonde on Blonde, The Mars Volta’s Frances the Mute, Ida Maria’s Fortress ’round My Heart and Mumford & Sons splendid Sigh No More.  Currently, in order of preference they are rated, in my mind thusly:

  1. Blonde on Blonde
  2. Sigh No More
  3. Fortress ’round My Heart
  4. Frances The Mute

Although they are all fairly great for what it’s worth.  Plus I slipped in a numbered list there, and numbered lists always grab my attention, so maybe as a result of including a numbered list I will attract NEW READERS and some of them will be ELIGIBLE ATTRACTIVE WOMEN some of whom wouldn’t mind dating a DEEPLY FLAWED BUT SELF-AWARE ABOUT IT SEMI-ATTRACTIVE OVERLY-CRITICAL D&D-OBSESSED UNPOPULAR BLOGGER.

Why don’t we embed a video now? (Do you like that I included you, the reader, in my plans?  Respond in the comments!)

There’s some Mumford & Sons!  They’re British, and quite awesome.  And they have a dedicated banjo player.  And no dedicated drummer.  And they are awesome, but I believe I already made mention of that fact.


Sorry, lost my mind for a moment.

So how ’bout that D&D? Well, currently, both books that compose the B/X series are sitting on the floor to the left of me, along with modules B2 and X1.  I really don’t know why.  It’s not like I’m going to be running anything other that 3.X any time soon.  Which is a shame, since I’ve been itching to run a game in which the PCs are colonists of a new world and go on spaghetti-westernesque adventure across the countryside, which I simply can’t fit into the established framework of searching for a lost city wherein they hope to find a large quantity of gold. (Yet…)

Also, ChicagoWiz has been posting some awesome concept fiction for a modern D&D game, which is just stimulating my imagination like a beast.  But noooooo, we have to continue following the antics of george THE forge and Obtaria and the fluxtuatingly-named halfling and the currently-absent-thanks-to-the-demands-of-study-abroad Charlg as they plod along with their Unicow and Mysterious Eggs Which They Don’t Know What They Do Yet But I Do And I’m Looking Forward To Them Finding Out.

Meh, maybe I’ll be fine running 3.X for a while.


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From the Mouths of Babes

I am well aware that this is not an actual frame from an actual Batman comic, but dammit I wish it was

Pic Unrelated

As a roleplayer, and as a hobby enthusiast in general, there is a unique pleasure in introducing a fresh face into the hobby, especially when said face takes to it with gusto and enthusiasm.  I’ve had this experience twice this past year, once with a group of four people completely new to RPGs at college (playing 3rd edition, for the sole purpose that it’s how I got my start and as such running it for me requires much less flipping between tables and page references which could bore or turn off a new player), and once just a few days ago with my brother, who just so happens to be six years old.

For him, I used the Basic rules as edited by Tom Moldvay, which I was thrilled to purchase on eBay along with the corresponding Expert rulebook (including Keep on the Borderlands and Isle of Dread, naturally) for a cool $10 a few months ago.  His character, who had abnormally high ability scores (for which I was glad, as the tyke can develop quite the temper pretty fast when things don’t go his way), was a fighter, a red knight specifically, whose name was… Red Knight.  Later he told a group of gnomish adventurers he found in the dungeon (“What do I tell them?” “Whatever you want to tell them.”) that he came from the kingdom of Red Knight and, after some deliberation, decided that he was named after the kingdom, not the other way around.

Being a knight he was, of course, sent on this mission by his king.  And although from a more experienced gamer I would severely scold this kind of behavior, it warmed my heart a little when he tried to pull things like “Does my sword have those three jewel things on the handle?” “Sure, if you want it to.” “OK, those are all bombs.” and “Oh no, the king made a mistake and he accidentally gave me his own magic sword!”  To those antics I simply responded “nuh-uh, if you want magic items, you’ll have to find them the old-fashioned way!”  It’s only a matter of time before he starts recording things on his character sheet when I’m not looking, trying to make like he’s always had ten iron spikes to climb out of that hole with.

The second session (for we played two days in a row, mostly because DMing a game of D&D is much easier for me than having him boss me around in LEGO Star Wars for the Wii) ended with him losing all five of his hit points in one trap, which I ruled rendered him unconscious, as I was in no mood to deal with that kind of backlash.  There is, of course, more to report, but it would be unwise to do so, as it would spoil portions of this dungeon which I have crafted for my group this Sunday, and if any of them read this (which is, granted, highly unlikely do the fact that mostly beautiful sexually deprived women between the ages of 19 and 24 read this blog) well it would just be a disaster, now wouldn’t it?

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Lack of Things To Write About…

…has led to a lack of written things on this blog.  So, instead of a real, insightful (ha!) update, I will instead post a list of some of the things I have been thinking about since I last updated:

  • Glasses make everything so much clearer!  I honestly thought that things were supposed to be kind of blurry far away, but everything is so crisp now!  It’s like I’m playing Fallout 3 all the time, and just waiting for my computer to crash.
  • I love the fiction behind Warhammer and Warhammer 40,000, and I really wish I could get into it, but when the smallest legal Chaos Space Marine force costs $50, plus $25 for the Codex, plus the baffling amount of $57.75 for the core rulebook, the prospects look slim.
  • But I’ve got to find some sort of proprietary war game to scratch my itch.  Maybe Warmachine?  Don’t know much about it, except that it’s relatively widespread, and cheaper than Games Workshop products.
  • Writing an informative, yet not-too-self indulgent, yet entertaining review of The Beatles’ Revolver is harder than it first appeared.
  • I’m fine with Blizzard taking as long as it wants on Starcraft II, as long as it doesn’t go the way of Ghost.
  • Maybe if I actually played through games, I would have something to write about.

So, that’s that.  A few other interesting tidbits to tide you over until I find something more meaty to write about:

Currently Reading: Cryptonomicon by Neal Stephenson

Most Recently Viewed: The Hurt Locker

Recently Obtained: The Beatles – Past Masters Volume 1

Most Anticipated Thing: Elemental: War of Magic (and my God, how I’m anticipating this game, you, like, have no idea)

Now, please go do something productive with your time, because God knows I’m not.

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Apparently I need them.  The optometrist described it as feeling like “it’s a whole new world.” So far away things aren’t supposed to be that blurry after all.  (When my five-year-old brother found out, he started pointing to things around the house and asking if they were blurry, before asking me what blurry means)  It all makes sense now.

This might account for why 3D movies were hard for me to watch (in fact, it almost certainly does).  I haven’t seen any feature length films in 3D, but whenever I watch a 3D show in, say, Disney World, characters that are close to me always split into a double image.  I just chalked it up to a limitation of the technology, but maybe, if other people haven’t had similar experiences, it’s just my faulty old-person eyes.  I would test it on Up, but they don’t seem to be showing it in 3D anymore, meaning I can now safely write a review at some point, knowing that I have seen the movie as it was intended to be seen.

On a side note, the optometrist noted that I passed my driver’s test because all the letters were very big.  The woman fitting me for frames told me that they would help for night driving.  How little they know.

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I’m Back!!!

From my Mediterranean cruise that is.  Also, my birthday was this past Thursday.  I won’t tell you how old I am, but to give you a hint, if anybody wants to send me any risque photos, it is now perfectly legal (well, depending on the photos).

As for now, I have nothing to write about.  I’m still pretty jetlagged, andI haven’t been in any position these last couple of days to put down anything coherent.  In fact, I don’t think I’m even in that kind of condition right now.  Sometime later this week, I might start dissecting some albums, or talking about some games, or going through the Star Wars series from Episode I and detailing why they suck (because a true Star Wars fan hates Star Wars, or so I’ve read).  I might talk about Up, or the new Harry Potter movie or Transformers 2: Revenge of the Fallen (Revenge of the Stupid more like).  In the mean time, please enjoy the following picture (warning, language):

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On Hiatus…

…until I get back from my ten-day Roman Empire cruise on July 18th.  I have been in Michigan for the past week, and today is my only full day back home, hence the lack of updates.  I don’t know what my internet situation will be, and even if I have it I will likely be too busy relaxing away from the grind of farting around to write anything substantial.  Until I come back, here’s a story for you to mull over:

Martin was a boy once.  Now he’s a man, as most little boys become one way or another, but this story is not about that part of Martin.  This story is about the eleven-year-old Martin who went to see his father for the very first time.

You see, Martin’s legal last name was Schumaker, a name which none of his blood relatives shared.  His mother, a Paterson (such a well-respected Christian family), was nineteen when Martin ceased to be a fetus, and would be thirty had she lived past that moment.  His father, a retired Mormon minister of the family Henderick, went on a drinking binge one night shortly after his first wife died in a car crash and he lost his faith and his will to live.  Hence Martin.

Mr. Henderick (that was what Martin called him) insisted that they meet.  He paid for Martin’s flight and everything.  An impressive feat, considering he was trying very hard to hold two unsteady jobs at the time, a situation he had grown used to over the past eleven years.

Martin arrived at the Toronto airport at 10:51 that Friday night.  Of course, he proceeded directly to the baggage claim.  He waited for the luggage to travel over the conveyor belt once.  Then again.  Then one more time.  At this point, there were only three bags left, none of them Martin’s.  Being young and inexperienced, he didn’t know what to do.

Really, this is something that the airlines should have figured out by now, right?  I mean, the first manned fixed-wing flight was over one-hundred years ago.  Rail companies never lose luggage, now do they?  Sure, fatalaties are higher, but to go somewhere by train you’re paying significantly less for a more predictable ride, with no tacked on “checked baggage” fees or whatever, and nobody ever walks away from a train without a bag unless they leave it there in their own stupidity!  It doesn’t matter how many airlines I transfer between, when all the flights are one time, when the airport at which my suitcase was supposedly left had a layover of two hours, the airlines should be able to figure out a system of, oh, I don’t know, reading the tags and then putting the bag onto another plane like every other bag?

But no, two airlines is too much work.  Switch from United to Northwestern and no amount of procedure is going to help them geta suitcase onto another plane.  It’s not even as if there are a bunch of planes all packed in one space, there’s one gigantic plane, and it’s the only one going to Detroit, and this is Indianapolis for God’s sake!  How screwed up does the system have to be to lose a bag in Indianapolis!

And now we have to pay to check bags.  This particular bag cost twenty dollars to load underneath the plane, as opposed to the zero dollars it would cost had a brought the same weight in a slightly smaller package onto the plane and put it above my head.  Before, losing bags was somewhat acceptable, as checked bags were more of a convenience tacked on at no extra charge.  No guarantees, right?  But now, it’s crossed the line into a service.  And, this is how services work: you tell me what you are offering, I give you the amount of money agreed upon prior to the transaction, and then you perform the service as advertised.  If that transaction is not carried out to the extent of the previously-agreed-upon deal, one of the parties has a right to file a lawsuit against the other for unlawful business practices.  If I give an airline twenty dollars to take my luggage from one place to another in eight hours, and it’s not there, I should get a refund, and they should figure out how to get the thing out of Indianapolis on, say, one of the planes to Detroit!  There were three today, it was on none of them!  How much time do they need?

I’m just glad I had enough books in my backpack to get through the cruise.  Cryptonomicon, 2001: A Space Odyssey, The Illustrated Man, A Pebble In The Sky, I think these will be enough.  Hopefully.

Anyway, what was I talking about before?

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The Journey Of A Thousand Miles Begins With A Single Step

Here I stand, poised at the base node of an infinite decision tree. The future, as it stands, is currently uncertain, by most schools of thought. There is a perpetual haze cast over what awaits just around the corner. What is revealed when the haze clears is determined by my decisions on the tree, along with those of countless trillions of people, animals, insects, and bacterium, not counting any potential extraterrestrial life that chooses to interact with our civilization (which of course they’ve been doing for hundreds, if not thousands of years, it’s just that their language has been misinterpreted by scientists as something called “static,” with the far-fetched hypothesis that it is residue of the universe’s creation).

Yes, the future will be decided by an infinite amount of decisions on an infinitely variable tree. My first decision on this tree, and that which is most relevant to practically anybody who should read this, is to register for a blog. Not a nice blog, mind you. I’m not spending a penny to host this, so far, which is one decision that I think will contribute to the non-inclusion of the “have drawn-out discussion about morality and the value of a dollar with parents, whose credit card I have made illegitimate use of to purchase online property of questionable value,” node of my future tree.

Upon embarking on this particular path, thereby collapsing an infinity of possible quantum realities (I sure am using that “i” word a lot, aren’t I?), the second major split in the tree involves choosing a name. This name will have far-reaching consequences, I realize. A boring name, like the standard “Karmuno’s Blog,” broadcasts nothing save for the fact that my name is Karmuno, which in and of itself is a falsity. On the other hand, an overly pretentious or exciting name like, for example, “The Bedrock of Sisyphus,” displays not only a fundamental misunderstanding of Greek mythology, but the implication that the author will, in some way, have some things to say about the myth, about mythology in general, about mindless toil, about the human condition, about geology, or some combination of the above, which I most certainly do not (and I if I do I am most certainly not conscious of it). In pondering this decision, I momentarily went over my list of potential band names. I quickly came to the realization that “Baunzhaüs,” “The Time-Traveling Neanderthals” and “Anal Byproduct” were all terrible names for blogs (with the possible exception of “Anal Byproduct”). So instead I turned to my other musical source of inspiration, potential album titles. Specifically, the title of my first EP which I am hellbent on one day writing, recording, and releasing to universal praise by everybody (redundantly enough). That album is “…duck, duck, DIE!!!

It is at this point worth noting that my first EP will not actually be entitled “…duck, duck, DIE!!!”, although there is a distinct possibility that I will one day release a “…duck, duck, LIVE!!!” LP, chronicling a three-day tenure in some dingy club where I first made it big. Keep in mind that I do have a title for my first EP, and you may even find out what it is some day (a few already know).

So now, with the vast sea of infinities (there it is again!) boiled down to slightly fewer infinities (though nowhere near the scale of the reduction of, say, aleph-two to aleph-one), I proceed. Instead of a sea, I surf the Internet. Instead of a board, I ride my words, my wit, and the seventeen dollars in my pocket. Instead of eloquent, concise, pointed thought or critique, I bombard the reader with incomprehensible, 1 o’clock am-written, bloated, pretentious, unfocused drivel. If you have bothered to read this far, welcome to paradise. You haven’t heard the last of me.

Unless of course I completely abandon the blog after this post, or if you are revisiting this post after my insanely popular articles on the values of various dishwasher detergents comes to a sad, tear-filled end, or I suppose if you simply go on to another site and never visit this page again, as I suppose the vast majority of my readers will. Or if you die. So it goes.

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