Round 1: blaaaaargh!

January: I walk along the tram tracks on Flinders Street, because I can.

February: FIRST: Deb will be in Melbourne this weekend, just in case you missed it and wanted to make the most of this rare opportunity to observe her in the wild.

March: Herr Bear

April: When I raise the blinds, I see jellyfish.

May: Here's the deal: instead of 7wishes, you get MS Paint doodles.

June: Somewhere, there is a committee, and that committee decided that security was paramount, and while Britain’s emulation of Orwell’s 1984 is a sterling effort, it isn’t enough.

July: never say yes to garlic sauce. even when it's free.

August: I’ve been thinking about vengeance.

September: Philip Glass will be performing at the Melbourne International Arts Festival in October.

October: “I beg your pardon,” the ButlerBot says.

November: What a pleasant day!

December: Come closer, I have something to tell you.

Methinks I need to exercise my wit around the first of the month more often, or pointless summations such as this fail to even be passingly amusing. Got caught by less nightshift exercises than I thought. I'm very partial to November, there.

Maybe I should declare themes for each month of 2009? "This month is the month of Vegemite Sandwiches!" and the like. See how I totally fail to live up to a month of vegemite sandwiches.

Well, a month of vegemite sandwiches is just not sensible. BUT! This the perfect excuse to go out and buy more finger puppets, one for each month. WHAT MY LIFE NEEDS IS MORE FINGER PUPPETS. YOUR LIFE NEEDS MORE FINGER PUPPETS. SO DOES THE INTRAWEBZ. Clearly, this is my destiny.



"NEVAAAR! THIS IS MY BLAAARGH! MIIINE!"

Shut up, shark puppet. You look like a right twat with a finger up your cloaca.

Find Your Way

While it wasn't probably wasn't included in design concepts at the time, hypertext is a choose your own adventure. The back button on browsers is a hell of a lot more painless than keeping one whole hand of fingers marking the pages of your last decisions, which is limited to five. The internet is one giant CYOA. Sometimes you die. Sometimes you find goatse. Sometimes you make it out alive.

I've actually done a proper one before, ish. I wrote out a html maze. Mapped it out on grid, inserted random numbers and lines, made sure there was actually a path from beginning to end, and then wrote one html page for every grid square, and made sure they all matched up, no matter what direction you came from. That was on geocities (anyone remember that?) back in 1996. YES. THAT IS HOW LONG I'VE BEEN FIDDLING WITH MY JUNK ONLINE.

Blogger being set up the way it is, I don't have the means of setting up a true, stand-alone static CYOA. Well, I could, but it'd be right pain in the ass getting all the urls set up.

The restrictions of doing a sort of live-action CYOA (a LARP CYOA? LOL? WTF?) worked to my advantage in this case. With each stage being rolled out once a night, the means of turning back, reneging a decision and choosing an alternate path are removed, which takes a huge load off. The fact that players won't see anything but the one path they choose is also a load off, as I discovered.

Here's the map of the first;



Which, as you can see, was a process of trial and error and I actually made it so I knew what I was doing, not you. And I still had no idea what I was doing.

At first I was skeptical on the idea; writing seven choices with branches, is that seven squared? Do I have to write 42 events when they'll only see 7? That's a lot of writing no one will see. To cut down, I started angling choices so that two different responses could lead to the same outcome - the ButlerBot completely ignoring you was useful for that. Using a scenario that was bare-bones simple - a conversation with only two participants and very little activity - was vital as well.

I also learned that at each level, the same information needs to be revealed, regardless of the decision that brought the reader there and what actually happens. Which I totally screwed up with the whole Lords of Heegurkurkur taking over the world thing.

Originally, there was only one way outcome out of all choices in all branches that saw you become a superhero, but I changed that at the last minute, for the hell of it.



Having learned all that, I was better prepared for the second one. The trick is actually to work backwards - establish the end point, and then deconstruct the steps to get there. Hence the narrative in this one made flowed significantly smoother. I also worked around having two streams with two sets of decisions by writing responses to each choice, and then having an overall 'next step' which all responses fed into, thus keeping it from branching out all over the place. Whether or not the pirate arrr!ed, dodged or shot the cowboy, the outcome was the same.

That said, bringing the two streams together meant I had to wait till the last night to actually write the end, and discovered I didn't want to do terrible battle with either, 'cause I liked them.

The last rule I couldn't break was inserting any choice that would see the reader die before the alloted time was over. My most powerful memory of reading CYOA in primary school was picking the book up and being dead within three page turns. Which kinda ruined the whole book and I didn't seem much point trying again after that. Although I would have liked to include some sticky deaths. It'd be easy to insert some, now I think about it. Just reveal you're dead, go back and repost according to the runner up choice. Hmm.

Anyway, there you are. I learned it so that you may use it. Now someone else write one! I want a go!

SexyBack

I've called time out on my errand/chore slaying to bring you an amusing food item found in the local supermarket.

It's a "piggy back" filled with lotus paste.


And it falls into an enormous uncanny valley. It isn't an impression of a pig, it's molded to look like a pig, a freaking dead pig laid out on the table and ready for roast, complete with buttocks. The eyes are closed because it's DEAD. It's laying down because it's DEAD. It's kinda creepy. I ate the face first.

There's nothing in the plastic base other than a couple of moisture-eating packets. It's peculiar and confronting and I'm not thinking it'll move from the shelves fast. Although you can't go wrong with lotus paste.

Hang on, the Year of the Pig was last year. How old is this thing?

[Not] Omelette

Oh.

You know, I was about to write about seagulls, and then I checked my mail and found this piece of spam, and I think I'm going to copy 'n paste it and burn the fucker into your eyeballs.

1943: BERCHTESGADEN

Hitler gasped f or air. His left ha nd held a g l ass jar over the head
of his penis. His body suddenly spasmed against the plush of the
soft leather couch. A primeval scream p ar tially suppressed
through clenched teeth resounded through the room. The sound
was deadened by the rich tapestries that covered the walls of
the se m i-dark office.

Still breathing heavily, the leader of the Third Reich held the jar
up t o a light and studied the sticky substance s lowly sliding down
the insides of the container. He stood, screwed the cap into
place and set the jar on his desk next to the untouched
photographs of nude women in various provocative poses. He
fo r ced his still semi-erect penis into his pants and buttoned
his fly.

He looked down to see if his clothes were in proper array.
Satisfie d , he bent over and picked up the pictur e of his mother
t hat had fallen f r om his lap during the final moment of ecstasy.
He s l id the picture into the inside breast pocket of his tunic
making sure it was deeply seated. H e then pressed a buzzer
and left the room.

Moments later, Colonel Ludwig Schmidt, wearing the uniform
of the elite SS guard, enter e d and gathered the photographs.
He placed th e m in an envelope that had been lying on the desk.
The e nv elope wa s marked "TOP SECRET" in bold red letters
across its front and back. The Colonel then took the jar and
placed it in an insulated steel cased box packed with dry ice.
He closed the cover and secured it with a heavy brass lock.

From his pocket he removed a small candle and cigarette lighter.
After lighting the candle he held it so that the hot wax dripped
into the keyhole and the surrounding area of the lock. He then
pressed the face of a signet ring he was wearing against the still
soft wax. He then left the room taking the envelope and the box
with him.

;

THE BERMUDA TRIANGLE, ONE YEAR L A TER

& n bsp;

The submarine's periscope cleaved the warm waters of the
Caribbean Sea exposing no more than two feet of camouflaged
metal above the lapping waves. It slowly rotated, scanning the
horizon through the splash caused by the mild tropical winds.
The b r ight moonlight ma d e the lone freighter on the horizon
stand out in bold silhouette.

"Down periscope," the Captain said, smartly folding the handle
bars. He turned to the young blond militarily erect man dressed
in ordinary seaman's clothes and said, "Come Colonel Schmidt,
let us go to my quarters and go over the plans for transferring
the pers o nnel to the freighter."

 

Sitting at the steel planning desk in the cramped quarters the
Captain faced the Colonel and said, "It i s no secret the war is
going badly. The Allies are dominating the sea lanes and I have
grave doubts about my ability to get this sub and its crew back
to the Fatherland. It is one thing to die for the Fuhrer in battle;
it is quite another to play nursemaid to a dozen pregnant women.
Can you not tell me as officer to officer what this is all about?

I promise you the information will go no further than within this
room. It would make our fate more bearable if I knew the
sacrifice was of consequential importance." The Colonel studied
the su b marine's Captain across the desk before ans w ering.
"The twelve women are pregnant with the Fuhrer's children."

The Captain sat dumbfounded. Finally he said, "Gottimhimmel!
How is it possible? All twelve? W hy are they on this U-boat?
What is this all about ?& quot; As he starte d to speak, the Colo n el's
voice ros e from low key to a hysterical crescendo. "As you
observed, Captain, the war is going badly. Our Fuhrer is a
brilliant man. He sees far beyond the immediacy of today's
b a ttles—won or lost.

He p l ans only for the u l timate domination of> this globe by p u re
Aryans. The twelve women represent the best of German
womanhood, each the purest Aryan. Each selected for breeding
qualities of health and intelligence. Each from families that bore
predominantly male offspring.

“Through th e use of eugenic s e lection and artificial insemination
it is the Fuhrer's plan to father a child in his own image.
A c hild who would possess his genius and deter m ination.
That child will be raised in America and ultimately rise to a
position of pow e r. In America he will plant the seeds that will
mature into the Fourth Reich. He will become—The American Fuhrer.

That is quite possibly the best piece of spam I've ever had the misfortune to receive. Why couldn't it have arrived before the close of the Weird Tales Spam Fiction Contest? Now I'm going to inebriate myself and do the dishes. Love you / air kiss.

here's to another year getting accustomed here

Around the age of 10, I realised I would never get to go to the moon.

It was one of those 'oh,' moments full of heart-break, not unlike being dumped, not that I had any idea what it felt like to be dumped when I was 10, but I did have a crush on this boy, who in turn had a crush on my best friend, which is probably a better analogy, because the moon is all about unrequitedness.

It still upsets me, because I'm the broody type.



At least once a week I paw through the gallery at The Deep, looking at the same photos over and over. I love these beasties, I really do. Knowing that they exist gives me that giddy delight that causes me to grin for no obvious reason.

But this act of looking at the photos is really a creepy stalker thing, because I know they're another moon, and I have even less chance of seeing these little fellas in the deep ocean than I do of playing leap-frog on the lunar surface, and looking at these photos is like timing yourself to stand on that certain street corner at a certain time hoping to catch a glimpse of someone who doesn't know you exist, which isn't healthy behaviour at all, but you carry on doing so anyway, and you never see them.

The world needs more ghostly octopuseseses.

Disclaimer: Nightshift, okay? I absolve all responsibility for any peculiar character traits I may be exhibiting. If you mock me, I will cry at you. It will be snotty. Nightshift does that, you know. I cry at the thought of being faced by dinner. Dinner, I can't handle dinner, why would you ask dinner of me? I CAN'T DO THIS.

You have no idea.

Have a not-so-peculiar chaser;

Around 2am I discovered kawaii not, a little webcomic of cute every day items being unsavoury. The following strip made me cackle.



Actually, the whole archive made me cackle. The poor banana dipped in chocolate.

I love the ninja turtles. I buy every issue, and then I go buy the collected books of all the issues I've already bought. I eyeball the toys, and sometimes end up with them too. I eat the DVDs (the current cartoon series is surprisingly good). It's that childhood love that won't die a dignified death.

That said, I think I've discovered my limit.

Lifted from the official site:

Edible Arrangements just signed a deal to produce TMNT-themed fresh fruit bouquets! The next time you want to express your love to someone, send 'em a kick-butt (and highly nutritious) Ninja Turtles fruit basket - and everyone wins!

...I don't think they're taking the whole walking, talking, butt-kicking neenja reptiles thing seriously.