PsychicGoldfish Telepathic Transmissions

Thursday, June 13, 2002

Just an update report:
Updated the Psychic Connection with some new games and things. I spent a lot of time playing with HeroMachine (the beta 2.0 version). I'll probably end up updating the Miscellaneous RPG Art section with the results at some point. There's already a mock Polaroid photograph I made with HM ver.1.0 and Photo Shop. Turned out pretty nifty.

Otherwise, life is dull. I found a quarter in a phone booth. That was the high point of my day. It was painted with red fingernail polish. Well, I'm sure it wasn't "red." I'm sure it was "Scarlet Passion," or "Vermillion Fire," or something along those lines. But, in my book, it's "red."

This leads me to believe that this coin was used by a waitress. "Why," you ask? Sometimes, waitresses feed quarters into the jukebox, to keep it running and liven up the joint. Before doing so, they paint their quarters with their own shade of nail polish. That way, the guy that empties the machine can return the marked coins to their owners at the end of the night. I expect that this was more common when jukeboxes were a novelty, instead of a ubiquitous bar accessory.

Of course, nowadays they'll pipe music through the in-house sound system, and have the music selected by paying customers override it on demand. (Generally at 10 times the previous volume.) Add to that the fact that a quarter will generally buy you about half a song today, and you won't see too many painted quarters anymore. There's no telling how long that quarter had been in circulation while decked out in red nail polish. The quarter is from 1979. Could be an interesting ad for Revlon. "Our nail polish lasted 21 years in pockets and parking meters. Think how well it will last on your nails!" Erm... Maybe not.

See? The day wasn't a total loss. You learned something.

Posted at 6:09 PM

Aaaargh! I rewrote that bit about quarters and nail polish about five times. And it still doesn't read right. I hate that! I give up.

Posted at 7:04 PM

Friday, June 07, 2002

Another stupid lunch hour in my cubicle.

The picture above was made with the Lego Mini-Mizer. "Picture yourself in plastic!" Or, if you prefer a more comic book feel, take a look at Hero Machine. Both are great ways to kill time when you are, for example, trapped in your cubicle during lunch hour.

Posted at 1:08 PM

Thursday, June 06, 2002

Well, as I understand it, Renaissance Festival season has finally started in some places. I honestly can't remember if it's already happened here this year or not. (If I only had some kind of... Electronic information source that would allow me to quickly and easily search for this kind of information from home. Nah. Too far fetched.) Usually I at least notice it and think that I ought to go for a second before I forget about it. Not this time, though. Anyway, following is a public service for all Ren Fest goers:

Thirteen Rules for the Renaissance Festival

1. Authentic costumes are optional, and are generally miserable in practice. Not that I am against Chicks in Chainmail. Quite the contrary! (And I've heard the distaff sex speak as highly of Lugs in Leather and Hunks with Halberds.) But unless your interpretation of Renaissance finery follows the Square Foot Rule (that is, it uses no more than one square foot of material), you'll be much happier in a T-shirt, shorts, and a good pair of sneakers.
2. Watch out for men in kilts. Some of them like to prove they are real Scotsmen. This can be unpleasant for all concerned if they are caught in a strong breeze, or sit down carelessly.
3. If you see someone wearing a Star Trek uniform or similar deliberately anachronistic costume, it is not funny. It's been done to death. It's a sad cry for help. It should instead be greeted with large rocks, hurled at high velocity.
4. Bring a camera. A cheap or disposable point and shoot model is preferable, so you won't be heartbroken if you lose it. Learn to use your camera without making a big production out of it. It's called "point and shoot" for a reason. (I'd consider that to be a rule for all outings, really, but especially at the Ren Fest.)
5. If you are wise, the following will become your mantra: "I do not need a sword. I do not need a sword." Repeat as necessary.
6. Bring a cheap disposable raincoat or poncho. An umbrella is virtually useless out in the open.
7. Put on sunscreen. Now put on some more. Repeat.
8. Don't buy Faire Bucks or whatever they call them, as 90% of the booths won't take them.
9. You don't want that enormous turkey leg. Really. You don't. Okay. You don't want that second enormous turkey leg.
10. Expect to walk in mud puddles. Plan accordingly.
11. If you see a fat woman in medieval wench wear and lots of smudgey lipstick, RUN! Trust me on this. I think they issue one of those each for Ren Fests nationwide. Or she could just make the circuit. This is more of an issue for guys, I suppose.
12. Don't dis the RenFest king/queen in front of the character actors. 99% of the actors are reasonable people. The other 1% are psycho Nazi idiots, and will give you a ridiculous amount of grief about it.
13. 90% of what is said by anyone in costume is sexual innuendo or double entendre. The other 10% is probably just well hidden sexual innuendo or double entendre. Keep this in mind.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming.

Posted at 4:58 PM

Rule #13 and l'Espirit d'Escalier

I assure you that each of those rules was hard won. One particular incident stands out in my mind. It involved temporarily forgetting rules #5 and #13, you see. I blame this lapse on the temporary mental and physical anguish caused by the combination of a freak wind, a real Scotsman (rule #2), and the misery extracted by my lunch (rule #9). So, as I was recovering from that double whammy, I ducked into a Starfire Forges booth and fell in love. They had their standard assortment of drool-worthy handmade swords (rule #5), of course, but after a moment of weakness, and some aimless slashing at air, I was strong. Then, my eyes fell upon... The Claymore. Five foot, nine inches of smooth grey steel, heavy as all get out. Mind you, this was the year after Braveheart. Everyone and his dog was selling cheap knockoff claymores made of brass and shiny stainless steel. But they didn't hold a candle to the thing of beauty I found. No fancy mirror finishes or gleaming brasswork. This was a sword made for doing business, not looking pretty. The shopkeeper (smeared a little too evenly with what appeared to be soot from a forge) proudly told me that it was modelled after a 14th century woodcut of a Highland claymore. I couldn't disprove it, but I did wonder how much of an accurate model they could make from a 600 year old woodcut. But I didn't care, either way. Within minutes, much to the shock of everyone around the booth, I walked out of there the proud owner of a huge sword. I didn't know what the heck I would do with it, of course, but somehow I felt... Complete.

After making my purchase, I headed back out to my car, the sword slung like a bazooka over one shoulder. As much as I was infatuated with my fine new implement of destruction, I wasn't about to carry that beast around with me all day. As I made the long walk to the front gate, I was the recipient of many an envious glare and comment. As I was basking in the glow, I again ran across the real Scotsman. (Fortunately, he had managed to tame his kilt this time.) I hadn't noticed it before (I think I was justified in missing it, all things considered), but he was sporting one of the cheap Braveheart knockoffs. He looked at me and my sword, his envy almost palpable. I just nodded smugly and strode on. The effect was marred somewhat by my sword thwacking soundly against a tree as a passed, but I don't think he noticed.

Then, she appeared. She was raven haired and sapphire eyed, petite, and resplendent in her simple serving wench's dress and flowered garland. She took a graceful step onto the path, and turned to face me. She stopped, and looked up at this mighty warrior with his mighty sword. (Uh, that'd be me.) Was that look in her eyes a dare? Or a promise? Or merely the result of a tad too much meade? I smiled boldly, feeling all the mightier as I towered above her. She smiled back, and suddenly I couldn't remember the trick to this walking thing. I knew it had something to do with falling forward and catching myself with the other foot, but I didn't think I should risk it until I was sure of the exact mechanics. I stopped, and rested my sword point-down beside me.

"Sure, an that be a big enough sword, m'lord," said the wench with a saucy burr in her voice and a mischevious gleam in her eye. "But do yeh know how to use it?"

And this, lords and ladies, is where I bobbled it. "Ah... Not yet," said I, sounding to my ears like an earnest squire, and to the rest of the world like an addled twit. "But I'm working on it."

Her radiant smile fell a few dozen lumens as she reviewed my response in her head, doubtlessly running it through several passes of her finely tuned innuendo filters. For a moment, she looked almost incredulous, as she realized that, no, the buffoon with the sword really didn't mean anything by that! She gave one last glance at the sword, perhaps wondering if Freud would have been at home in her assumed time period, and said "Ah... Well, good. Keep at it!"

And then, with a rustle of skirts and a final pitying glance with those sapphire eyes, she stepped around me and disappeared into the throng. After a moment, I remembered that walking is in fact a fairly simple operation after all, and decided to give it another try. After successfully managing to take a few dozen steps, the horrible truth dawned on me. Rule #13! Big sword! Use it! Aaaaarrrrgh! Stupid, stupid, stupid! But, alas, as urbane double entendre about swordplay scrolled uselessly up the teleprompter in my head, I realized it was too late. Oh, not that I expected I would be writing "Dear Penthouse..." if I hadn't had a dramatic failure of my own internal innuendo filter. But, still. It's the principle of the thing.

The French have a name for that feeling: l'espirit d'escalier. "The spirit of the stairway." It refers to the clever things that only occur to you after you've left, and are (metaphorically) heading down the stairs to the street. And, like the rest of the French language, it's evil.

So, you see, there I was. I ended up a few hundred dollars poorer (although I still don't regret it, even though my damage deposit will suffer), plagued by indigestion, tortured by the image of hairy Scottish backside burned into my retinas, and generally feeling like a yutz. All because I didn't remember the Rules. Heed my warning! Heed, I say!

Posted at 6:04 PM

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