Now I'm explaining to him how he's the official spokesperson of the youngs everywhere, to which he answers, "honestly dad I stopped listening like 10 minutes ago."
My 12-yo would have me believe that while the youngs today really do say "heck [x] right in the knees," they never add, "it's really chapping my chaps."
Also a little boring? But believe me that's FINE.
The ol' discography has cycled on to New Order and honestly it's a psychological relief.
I mean stop the presses but Closer is a heck of an album.
All I'm saying, brain, is that there's probably a reason why Joy Division isn't our usual Sunday morning listening. But you're the boss.
It never fails. I see the words "Vancian magic," and my brain leaps up with excitement that somebody's read Vance carefully and has something insightful to say about whimsy, wonder, danger, and irony.
I know that as I grew up, whenever I'd do something that my dad didn't understand or agree with - which was often, and more often the older I got - he'd think about this. He'd take it as perspective on my choices and it would help him accept them.
Now he's gone and it's one of my prayers: may this be true of me.
Before I was born, my dad had a dream about me.
I was grown. I was sitting on a rock in the sunshine, reading a book and eating an apple.
A mule walked by, pulling a plow. There was no one working them.
I'd never seen a plow. I watched the mule go. I watched the plow bounce and drag on the ground behind it. I watched for a long time, my dad said. I watched until I understood.
Then I set my book aside, righted the plow, put my weight to it, and got to work.
John Trudell says that when you begin to think and act coherently, the next step will become manifest. Idries Shah says that when you make yourself a worthwhile student, a teacher will find you. I find a catch in myself, that I always hold my full intention in reserve.
Hey, over on the King Is Dead Kickstarter, we're previewing a couple of the complete minigames. If you've been curious, check it out!
I somehow successfully arranged my life and affairs so that for legit business reasons I got to watch Wings of Desire this evening, for the first time again in probably 20 years. Now I'm all, Als das kind kind war.
I hate everyone and everything from now on with the pure and exhausted hate of a self-employed small business owner who's filed their taxes with only 2 hours left on the clock.
I feel like screaming, throwing up, and bursting into tears. Instead I'll go calmly help get my kids to bed.
Nighty night, friends.
More like smacks day.
Ugh. Some kind of deep down, I don't understand why I can't just pick up a pencil and draw like Moebius.
One of my players has been using a hybrid (hehe) playbook I put together for him, that's a cross between @lumpley's Quarantine and @wurzel's Remnant. It's slightly setting-specific, and obviously tailored somewhat to the player in question, but I still kinda like it.
If anyone's curious, here's how it works:
See, thing is, I need to be doing my taxes, not binge-designing a whole new dang game.
But guess which I'm doing.
I find when I publish a game that it doesn't seem real. Even when it's really, really real, like when there are cases of physical books in my living room and I'm putting them in envelopes myself and physically taking them by 10 and 20 to the post office, it seems imaginary somehow. Even then, like the books appear and disappear, not like I made them and they're real and I'm sending them to real people at real destinations. It's strange.
So much moreso, running a Kickstarter.