Black Friday is a ludicrous “holiday.” The retail industry might as well call it “Putting All Our Eggs In One Basket” Friday, because that’s what it represents: everybody watches the indicators and economic markers, as if this day represents some kind of yardstick for the entire health of our economy. OH MY GOD IT’S THE BIGGEST SHOPPING DAY OF THE YEA– wait, what? It’s not? Really? Really. Did you also say it’s not a very good indicator of overall sales? Are you somehow suggesting that this “eggs in one basket” approach is not healthy for the economy? But aren’t I getting great deals? Sure, if you get all hot-in-the-panties about limited quantities and derivative models. And so on. And so on.
Hey, I’m not saying you can’t score some sweetness on this most Blackest of Fridays. You can. But more often than not, the deals are illusory, and you can probably still find equal or better online. Plus, Thanksgiving is awesome. It’s maxing and relaxing with a belly full of bird. Why ruin the warm glow by wading out into the gibbering throngs of shop-till-you-dropkick-a-baby-in-the-head cultists? Feh! Fie. Pie. Mmm. Pie. Mmm. Bird.
Anywho, what I’m saying is, let’s blow this bird’s feet off with a load of steelshot — it’s Painting with Shotguns 13. FOOM!
- I know, I keep prattling on about this whole “getting an agent” thing, but I’m fackin’ pumped about it. I’m a lucky little egg over here, and feeling only luckier now that they’ve gone and put my name up at their website! Hoo! Good times.
- By the way, speaking of my name, man, that is just not a good writer’s name, is it? I mean, for one thing, nobody can spell “Wendig.” Not that I blame them — I couldn’t spell it until I was 23 years old. Every day at the post office is a new array of “Wending,” “Wedding,” “Windig,” “Wingding,” “Wangledangle,” “Whaledong,” whatever. An endless parade, a ceaseless cavalcade. I really should just go with a pseudonym. “Charles Weaver,” perhaps. Or, if I want to infer a sense of mystery about my gender, “C. D. Weaver.” Or, if I just want to go total shithouse: “Buck Shovelsworth.” Problem is, my audience — all 11 of you — know me by my one name. I can’t change now, lest I confuse you people. In this place you’ll suddenly see the blog of “Chaz Manstrong,” and you’ll come at the site with machetes and steak knives, and you’ll stab me to death. Live. On the Internets. For all to see again and again.
- I now have a Tumblr. Or a Tumblr page. Or a Tumblelog? A Tumblebug? A Stumbletumblenuts? I don’t even know. Just go there and stare at it. I’ll sometimes dump media links there: videos, images, that sort of thing. I don’t know why I even have it. But I do like it. I blame Will and Guy, honestly. Somehow, I am captivated by its Zen simplicity and ease. Do I need it? Jesus, no. I need another social media experiment on top of here, Twitter, Facebook, Livejournal, and Flickr? No. And yet, I slather another layer upon this mad pastry. Anywho. Over yonder, you’ll find some Muppets, some Guernica, and some Video Game Weak Points.
- Will can haz haiku. If I were clever, I’d have written that as a haiku instead of going for a lame LOLHindmarch joke.
- So, if you know David Hill, you’re already ahead of the game. David did some work for me on Werewolf: The Forsaken, and from there it’s been a wild explosion of word count for him. His latest gamesplosion comes in the articled form of his increasingly popular convention seminar, which goes through the entire “designing an RPG process” in one hour. The article — at the ever-esteemed Escapist — is right over hee-yah. ‘Tis titled, “Stop Complaining And Make Your Own Game.” It’s a sentiment I can get behind in general. Stop complaining. Do something awesome, or shut up about it already. No more whining — only doing. Didn’t Yoda say something like that? “Do, or do not. There is no, ‘hurts, my pussy does.'” I think I remember that.
- In fact, both David and Filamena have blogs over at alltern8.com, now. Lots of game-talk going on in their corner.
- Rob Donoghue has a pretty cool post over at his Blogspot, Some Space To Think. It’s about Geist: The Sin-Eaters, a game for which I did a goodly bit of work (and I developed its single supplement, Book of the Dead, coming out… er, soonish?). His post, titled “Sleight of Hand,” posits the idea that Geist is in many ways a game about the people who play these games. I think he’s onto something interesting, there, in that… well, I’ll let my comment there say my part:
To be clear, this isn’t something we actively put in it. 🙂
It’s not an inaccurate interpretation, though. For as much as the game is seemingly about death, it’s really about life. Or, more specifically, the uncertainty and the mystery of life.
And, those gamers in their dorms and houses are often on the cusp of experiencing the full frontal mystery and mad uncertainty of living and existing, which is I think why you find that in there.
- One more quick plug, speaking of Game Love — Fred Hicks has carved out a nice hunk of web for himself, a very clean-reading, nicely typographical blog called Deadly Fredly.
- You’ll note that here I’ve also gone and tweaked the font size a little bit, just to give it a bump. On the one hand, I like the minimalism of a small font — but, on longer posts, it feels like a recipe for eyestrain. And when you get eyestrain, you invite madness in the form of Dagon’s Gelatinous Eggs planted in your brain. I think that’s how it goes? I think that’s what my doctor told me.
- The episode of Psych known as “Shawn (And Gus) Of The Dead” is one of the best Psych episodes ever. I almost peed myself laughing. *checks self* Oh, correction — I totally peed myself. And since that was yesterday morning, I’ve been pickling in it for like, 24 hours, now. You’d think it would’ve dried by now. Unless…. I’m still peeing? *checks self* Yes. Yes, I am still peeing. Mystery solved, everybody! Take five.
- Funny Psych clip! (See, this is the type of thing I should be Tumblng. And yet, here it is. I’m so confused. Clearly an amateur.)
- You know what? Fuck it, I think that’s it. I think that’s 1000 words of Chuckshot, straight to your dome. Smell you later, turkeys.