I had an epiphany. On the toilet. For some reason, the gods of enlightenment prefer to strike when I’m taking a dump. I think they just like watching me try to scribble manifestos out on toilet-paper. At least it’s two-ply.

So I’m sitting there—squatting there actually (Squatty Potty FTW). Part of me is thinking about how to best console my wife, who is upset about not going to the protest, while another part of me is obsessively scrolling the Facebook feed, clicking article after article reporting the same things in slightly different ways, and reading comment after comment saying the same things in slightly different ways.

Then, suddenly, I enter a zen-like trance where, to the comforting drone of a bath fan, I find clarity. I leave my body and look down upon myself, perched naked on the throne, hunched over the Kindle Fire, scrolling and flicking, liking and clicking. At that exact moment I see things as they are. And slightly after that exact moment the disembodied me slaps the bodied me in the back of the head and says, “What the fuck are you doing?”

I’ll tell you what I was doing. I was doing exactly what Donald Trump and the media want me to be doing. We all are.

* * *

Gapers’ Delay is defined as a traffic jam caused by the people who slow down to look at an accident on the other side of the road. It’s easy to identify. Oncoming traffic is light and sometimes peters out completely while your side is all jammed brakes and honked horns. Then, off on the horizon, you see the emergency lights and you know. Your fate is now in the hands of a commuter horde of fucking rubberneckers.

Seriously, you think, what is so hard to understand here? Can’t we all just agree to not gawk out the window while idling past an accident? You steel yourself, resolving to take a stand and drive past without looking. Yep. That is exactly what you will do—or not do, to be more exact. You get closer.

What’s that, though? A second fire engine? Oh wow, you think, there are four ambulances up there. Stop it! Just drive by. All you have to do is drive by. But is that a stretcher? It is. Don’t look. Don’t look! Here we go. You’re pulling up next to it. Don’t… God dammit…

You looked.

* * *

Donald Trump is a car accident. He can’t help it. Sure, he probably doesn’t have to tap dance naked on top of a flaming Winnebago but at least we know what he is—an attention-seeking wreck.

The media are the first responders—the cops, the paramedics—and first responders respond to wrecks. That is their job. Sure, they probably don’t have to flash all the circus lights and sirens…or accept payment for every commuter head that turns. But at least we know what they are—money-grubbing barkers.

And we are the drivers. We are in control of where we’re going, and what we look at along the way. If we’re sick of the traffic jams we have to exercise collective self restraint. We can’t gape at every minor fender bender we come across.

The media could step up and display some social responsibility but I wouldn’t hold my breath. No amount of mock indignation can change the fact they are cashing in on this national freak show. If, for some odd reason, they are willing to sacrifice some profit though, I’ve got a couple ideas.

Stop giving the microphone to liars. Let Conway spout her alternative facts in the shower, not the national stage. Don’t dispute Breitbart claims, just ignore them, and certainly don’t link to them. You know what the White House press secretary is without the press? A fucking secretary! And, for the love of God, let Trump’s 140 characterless characters live and die on Twitter!

For the rest of us, I propose the following Pledge of Inaction:

I ______________________ do solemnly swear, to:

1. Not obsessively scroll the Facebook feed, because every flick of my finger shows my monetary support for all the shit I’m scrolling past.

2. Not ‘take a stand’ by commenting on articles or, worse yet, commenting on comments, because every moment I spend doing that creates free content to further line the pockets of assholes.

3. Not slow down to gape at accidents.

4. Not not vote enablers out of office on November 8^th, 2018.

There’s something more important than any of this though. Something that transcends politics and the media. Something greater than free will, self control, and abstinence pledges. The one message I hope you can take away from all of this is: When you use the bathroom, don’t leave just one sheet of toilet paper on the roll. Who does that??

**This bug has been patched on all platforms as of May 2014. This post is now for non-patched games and archival purposes only.**

I watched a Youtube video about farming gold chests with active blocks. I also watched a video about farming dead goldfish with a crab-statue trigger. This is what happens when you combine the two tricks.

To Farm Gold Chests:

• Lay out four active blocks
• Run wire to a switch
• Turn off active blocks
• Place gold chest on the active blocks
• Put any item inside the chest
• Flip the switch

To Automate Using a Crab Statue:

• Place crab statue
• Box it in, leaving only one block of open space beside it
• Put pressure plate in open space
• Run wire from active block switch through the pressure plate and to the statue
• Flip the switch

I’m sure there are ways to increase the output by constricting the crabs more or using 1-second timers. Tweak it up and see if you can get a non-stop fountain of gold chests (and gold coins)!

Be careful when you’re selling the chests though. I really did accidentally sell my Hamdrax, and when I went to buy it back all I saw were tons of insanely overpriced chests.

Happy Farming!

I read Joe Nocera’s article “Notes from a Gun Buyback” in the New York Times today regarding a gun buyback and amnesty program in Newark that essentially put into action a plan I outlined in my earlier post “Let’s Complicate the Killing Spree–Buy the Killers’ Guns.”  Nocera writes that critics of the buyback plan claim it only eliminates guns that would have never been used in a crime anyway. That got me to thinking about what type of person would actually make use of a “sell your gun to the government so they can destroy it” program and the type of person likely to use a gun to commit a crime. Here’s what I came up with:

Unlikely to Sell Guns to a Buyback Program:

• Gun Collectors would not sell their collections knowing the guns would be destroyed.
• Active Hunters would not sell guns they may want to use. They also wouldn’t sell at a discount to the government when other hunters and collectors will pay full price.
• The Anti Anti-Gun Crowd would not sell their guns to any program they see as an affront to our 2nd Amendment rights.
• The Cold-Dead-Hand Crowd would never sell their guns to the government, period.
• Responsible Gun Owners legally purchase, register, maintain, and ensure safe storage of their guns–and they own guns for a reason. Why would a responsible gun owner suddenly decide that protecting their home is no longer important?

Likely to Sell Guns to a Buyback Program:

• Fiscally Irresponsible People would sell their guns on Tuesday for hamburgers today.
• Impulsive People bought their guns on a whim so why wouldn’t they also sell them on a whim?
• Drug Addicts always need their next fix but they aren’t stupid. Why would they commit a high-risk crime like armed robbery for $50 when they could sell their gun for $500 at zero risk? Also, aren’t drug addicts going to be more worried about their next hit than what will happen on the eleventh hit when they are no longer able to commit armed robbery?
• Thieves steal things and sell them. Who are they selling them to? I guarantee they would jump on the prospect of getting more cash at zero risk than being gouged by a fence or jacked when they try to sell to another criminal.
• Desperate People. What’s the prime driving force behind most desperation and crime? Money. Paying desperate people for their guns decreases their desperation a bit while eliminating tools that are very dangerous in the hands of desperate people.
• Troubled Youth may enjoy swiping their parents’ guns and shooting at signs but I imagine they would also enjoy selling their parents’ guns and buying some weed. So what type of parents would have their troubled children selling their guns for weed? You got it–
• Irresponsible Gun Owners, although in a more indirect manner. Gun owners that have troubled, desperate, thieving, fiscally irresponsible, drug addict children with access to their guns are no longer responsible gun owners. If their kids can take their guns and sell them they probably shouldn’t have owned guns in the first place.

And here’s the big one–the irrefutable iron-clad group of people that got me writing this post in the first place. Drum roll please…

• Gun Owners that never wanted the guns they currently own! The widower that had a gun-loving spouse. The woman whose ex-husband left a box of guns in the closet. And, most importantly, the man that just inherited twenty guns from his deceased father. Without a gun buyback program, what do we think will happen to those twenty inherited guns? Yep–they’re getting sold. Twenty guns will be sold to a friend, or a friend of a friend, or a pawn shop, or a gun dealer, or on Ebay, or on Craigslist. Then they will be sold again, and again, and with every sale those guns wind up in different hands. Almost all of those hands will be unknown and almost all of those transactions will be invisible. The one thing we will  know about many of those transactions, though, is that the current hands on those guns belong to people who actually buy guns on Craigslist, or Ebay, or from a friend of a friend, and who have no problem making that type of private transaction. Do we really want guns trickling down from responsible but deceased gun owners to inheritors that want to sell them to buyers that prefer private transactions? I don’t think so.

The critics claiming gun buyback programs are ineffective, because they are only destroying legal guns that would never be used in a crime anyway, are just plain wrong. To be correct they would need to prove that a gun acquired through government buyback has never come from the hands of a person on my “Likely to Sell” list. I say never because having just one desperate person, or troubled youth, or drug addict tossing a gun in the shredder makes the entire program a success. It does only take one. Sandy Hook is indisputable proof of the damage one person can deal.

C’mon. Let’s go make us some expensive metal shavings. Or bracelets. Jewelry For a Cause is melting guns down into bracelets.

One day, Not-A-Good-Movie strolled into a costume shop and flipped through the racks looking for something to wear. There, nestled in between The-Vietnam-War and The-Holocaust, it found a cute little number that fit perfectly—9/11. At the checkout register, Not-A-Good-Movie stumbled on the pièce de résistance for its new costume—a golden plastic badge imprinted with the words BASED ON TRUE EVENTS—and it was even on sale. So Not-A-Good-Movie slipped into the 9/11-Movie costume, pinned on its TRUE-EVENTS plastic badge, whipped open the door to the costume shop, and stepped out onto Critical Avenue, where all the cars honked and their drivers cheered at the sight of a 9/11-Movie-Based-On-True-Events. Not-A-Good-Movie smiled and waved and skipped off in full masquerade.

 First, to the ruse—which I admire and admonish from behind the wheel of my psychedelic 1968 Chevy Van, where the windows don’t roll down and the horn only works when I thrust all my weight into it. It’s from this vantage point I notice that True-9/11-Movie is wearing bright orange Crocs that clearly clash with the rest of its ensemble. Now where have I see those Crocs before? It’s coming to me. Ah, yes, Not-A-Good-Movie wears shoes just like that all the time! And as meddling kids are prone to do, I was about to rip off the costume and reveal the imposter’s true identity when I saw the badge. ZOINKS! Trouble ahead, gang! But never fear, I will do just about anything for a Scooby-Snack.

 I’ll just have to be extra careful about pointing out how the brutal torture in Zero Dark Thirty looked more like a gym-class depantsing with an inside-out version of the old “ask a guy a question, dunk his head in the bathtub, rinse, and repeat,” because water-boarding is a true event you know—seriously. I have to tread lightly because 9/11 is charged with emotion, and there’s a debate about the ethics of using torture to gain crucial evidence, and it was nominated for Oscars, and… Ah, screw it.

 Zero Dark Thirty is not a good movie, and here’s why:

 The main character, Maya, is a 2-D cardboard cutout of the typical Hollywood female protagonist. She is a pretty, young, awesome-at-her-job, “girl,” tossed into a story bleeding bull-headed testosterone to the quiet snickers of “she’s just a girl.” And how do all movies with Maya clones end? You got it, with a big fat “I told you so.”

 Maya’s character is a fearless, friendless, humorless, sexless, emotionless CIA agent hell-bent on catching the 9/11-masterminding, American-killing, real-life, Islamic extremist symbolizing the abstract concept of “terror,” which the most powerful country on earth has been at war with for a decade. Maya is a machine that’s been on an “I’m 100% certain,” mission for ten years. She’s kind of like the Terminator—except the Terminator is likeable—and an actual character—and, thank the gods, Maya won’t “be back.”

 The director must have known Maya wasn’t likeable because she somehow made room in the nearly three hour movie dramatizing a three minute event for a humanizing scene at a cafe that went a little something like this:

 JESSICA (the not-as-young, not-as-pretty, not-as-awesome-at-her-job, woman that was snubbed by Maya): Hey, Maya, did you bang your boss yet?

 MAYA: No! I work with him.

 JESSICA: You really should let loose and have some fun.

 MAYA: Mmmhmmm. [SIPS WINE]

 JESSICA: Do you have a boyfriend?

 MAYA: Uh…

 JESSICA: Any friends at all?

 [UNCOMFORTABLE SILENCE]

 <DIRECTOR’S NOTE: God, just blow up the damned cafe!>

 [CAFE BLOWS UP]

So the director gave up on helping viewers relate to the protagonist. Happens all the time. At least she gave us one salty little tear in the last scene, one droplet of human emotion showing some sort of life-changing growth, right? Nope. It’s a drop of oil leaking from a robot that has served its purpose and doesn’t know what’s next. Maya is not a character. Or is she? The movie’s BASED ON TRUE EVENTS after all. Real-life Maya, if you’re really out there, I’m sorry—I know being a cyborg sucks.

I’ve been safe so far because I know Maya’s a falsie. Now to tread on ground I haven’t swept for mines. So I apologize in advance to anyone out there that may have actually lived through the possibly-true scenes I’m about to mock—actually taking part in a conveniently implausible, completely cliche, Hollywoodized event must be excruciating.

1. “Ok everyone. This guy claims he’s a mole and he sent this video of himself talking to bad guys to prove it. I think he’s legit, so let’s gather all our top guys and stand by our headquarters tent to greet him. Now we don’t want to spook him so let’s tell all the guards to turn their backs and open the twenty gates so two unknown Arabic men can drive their dusty, oddly low-riding, Ford Festiva right up to our doorstep.”
2. A random soldier shouts, “Hey! There’s no reason I should know this but I’m pretty sure this guy’s not supposed to have a limp! He’s got a limp guys! Guns up! We have to have a moment of tension and then horrible realization because us just getting blown up out of the blue is–” BOOM
3. A high-ranking desk-jockey at the CIA walks into an open hangar in Area 51 and addresses a bunch of commandos. “Men, you’re probably wondering why a high-ranking desk-jockey from the CIA came down here to talk to you. Well, I’ve been watching a lot of CSI and I like how those guys are always hands-on and in the thick of it. So I came down to introduce you to the person who’ll brief you. She’s a girl.” Commandos huff and roll their eyes. “Maya, you brief’em while I go make sure the rotor-nuts are tight on these choppers over here.”
4. The guard on sentry duty waves to Maya as she gets in her car. “Let me just buzz you out there, Maya. Now, I know my job is to guard you and watch the gate and stuff. And I probably should be telling you about the two creepy guys in the green Mercedes parked right outside the gate here for the last hour, but…”
5. “Okay SEALS, let’s move in fast and silent. And let’s blow all the doors open with C4—I love the little shot of adrenaline I get when I’m watching a scary movie and there are sudden loud noises covering for the fact there’s nothing really scary in the movie. So go ahe–” BANG. BANG, BANG. BANG.
6. “Honey, I think I heard a noise.” A Pakistani woman shakes her unresponsive husband. “There it is again. And Again! It’s like loud explosions or something. You need to check it out honey.” The husband mumbles and rolls over. “Crap! Honey! That sounded almost as if an experimental military helicopter crash landed right outside our door! Please check it out.” Begrudgingly the husband rolls out of bed, pulls on his slippers, and flips on the light. “Alright, woman! If it’ll make you happy. Now where’s my cricket bat…”
7. The likeable American torturer (he’s American and a torturer—he doesn’t torture Americans—I think) coos at his caged monkeys and feeds them bits of his snowcone then, later that day… “Maya! They killed my monkeys! Why? Why, oh why did I even have those monkeys? Why did I feed them my tasty frozen treat? And now they’re killed! My purposeless monkeys, that were probably just a bumbling attempt to symbolize torture, are killed, Maya!” Torturer cries then looks up. “Oh, and Maya, I’ll see you in a few years when I’m inexplicably invited to a high-level CIA meeting just so I can ‘softly’ shoot down your ideas for no apparent reason. You should have banged me, Maya.”
8. “So, where do ya want to go lady?” Long introspective moment. “Uh, lady? I asked you where you’re headed…” Long introspective tear rolls down Maya’s face. “Listen, lady, you got me standing here just looking at you and we ain’t going nowhere till you say where and, frankly, it’s getting a little uncomfortable. You know, kind of like when you’re at a cafe and someone asks if you have any friends and you don’t say nothing and then

BOOM!

Zero Dark Thirty presents us with 160 minutes of shallow, unlikable characters, traversing the contrived, implausible Hollywood spin on an emotionally charged subject—a subject that just happens to be capable of drawing patriotic American blood from a Communist potato. That 9/11-Movie is protected by the badge of being based on true events. It’s exempt from criticism because viewers think they are watching an unusually action-packed documentary. We can’t see the film’s flaws because we are blinded by that cheap plastic badge. If only we had something that could nullify the power of that badge—a wet rag maybe. A monkey could toss the rag over that badge and then I could rush in, yank the costume off, and reveal to the world that Zero Dark Thirty, the 9/11-Movie-Based-On-True-Events, is actually that crotchety old Not-A-Good-Movie looking to pull a fast one. If I could do that then maybe spending the last three hours writing yet another review for a movie I didn’t like would be worth it.

Good thing I have a monkey. Now where’s my damn Scooby-Snack?

What will happen to the Bushmaster .223 semiautomatic rifle that was used to murder twenty kindergartners in Newtown, Connecticut? How about the 10mm Glock the shooter used to absolve himself of responsibility? I imagine they will be locked away in an evidence locker—stored until storage space is at such a premium they wind up going through some industrial shredder. Regardless, those guns have fired their last bullets. And there is no Bushmaster understudy waiting in the wings to take the lead’s place. Deprived of its Glock, the cold, dead hand is not going to reach into a magic Glock-box and pull a replacement from an infinite supply. Friday morning there were X number of guns in the world. Friday night there were X minus three.

The United States is a mind-boggling cornucopia of guns and ammunition, which is not surprising when gun ownership is directly equated to freedom. This has led to heated debate as the advocates for gun control seem to directly equate freedom with not being shot. Political leanings aside though, just about everyone will agree that blood and crayons simply do not mix—and there is nothing we can do to guarantee with 100% certainty a Newtown or Columbine will never happen again. But doing something to chip away at a huge problem is still better than doing nothing.

I’m proposing an Anonymous Gun and Ammunition Buy and Destroy Amnesty Program. AGAABADAP may not have a catchy acronym but it is politics-free and will unquestionably decrease incidents of gun-related violence. It’ll go a little something like this:

Years ago, Bob bought a Glock of questionable origin from his buddy and put it in a shoebox under the bed. Bob got married. Bob had kids. Now Bob’s kids want a Wii-U that doesn’t quite fit in the family budget. Bob hears about AGAABADAP on the news. Bob wraps his Glock in pretty orange plastic-wrap and carries it to the local AGAABADAP office. Bob meets Jim, a federal government employee.

Jim says, “What have you got there?”

“A Glock,” Bob replies.

Jim unwraps the gun then runs his finger down a price-list. “$350,” Jim says.

Bob is ecstatic. “Sweet! Let’s start the paperwork.”

“No paperwork,” Jim says. “Would you like cash, money-order, or direct deposit?”

“Money order I guess,” Bob says, squinting his eyes suspiciously. “Don’t I have to sign anything?”

“Nope.”

“Aren’t you going to run a background check, verify the serial number, dust for fingerprints, look at bullet striations under a microscope or anything?” Bob asks. “I could have stolen that gun or committed a crime with it.”

“You certainly could have.” Jim hands Bob the money-order then tosses the gun into a shredder, which grinds and clunks a minute before spitting a handful of metal shavings out the other end. “Have a nice day.” Jim says. “Next!”

Bob drives to the nearest Gamestop.

Incentive. If we want to eliminate guns without trouncing our constitutional freedoms then we have to give people a compelling reason to get rid of guns on their own. And what better incentive than no-strings-attached cash coupled with anonymity?

So let’s just buy the guns. Heck, let’s buy the bullets too. We can use a sliding scale of potential death and destruction for the pricing. Grandad’s rusty old .22 rifle could only bring $50 but the woman secretly selling her creepy ex-husband’s modified AR-15 and a box of grenades may walk away with thousands. What would happen if instead of using his pistol to mug someone for $30 the junky destroys it for $300? How about if the kid that’s had just about enough sells all his mom’s guns and takes off cross-country instead of using them to go out in a blaze of highly-publicized and glorified carnage?

In my plan cash is important but anonymity is the key. When a ten-year-old walks in with a bazooka my primary concern is smashing that bazooka. Of course I’ll be curious where he got it but if the cost to destroy a bazooka is $3000 counted out into the hands of a nameless middle-schooler from who-knows-where I’ll gladly pay.

Buy and Destroy will carve out a huge chunk of the existing stockpile but we also must take into account that new guns are being manufactured every day. Since the main point of my plan is to not infringe on anyone’s freedom, the brunt of the responsibility and accountability regarding new gun purchases falls on the manufacturer and supply chain. An illegal transaction must occur before a new gun falls into the hands of a criminal or becomes “untraceable.” At some point a box of new guns has to “fall off the truck,” or the owner of a gun-shop has to sell one under the table. A requirement for better tracking of a product’s trip from manufacturer to final owner will help determine which trucking companies are losing packages and which retailers are missing guns the computer says they should have.

The Buy and Destroy program will also have positive trickle-down effects. The decrease in existing supply will result in an increase in prices. Current gun-owners will see the value of their collections increase. Manufacturers will enjoy an increase in unit sales as well as an increase in gross profit as they are able to charge more for their products. Irresponsible gun owners will be more likely to liquidate their assets to fund other irresponsible endeavors. And the plotting psychos will have to make due with fewer guns and bullets because plotting psychos are often on a pretty tight budget as it is. Imagine if the Columbine shooters had to save up their allowances an extra few months—a few months can work wonders on the pubescent mind.

So who’s going to pay? We all are. We already were. We’re just going to have to convert our currency from blood to USD. As a country we need to suck it up and accept the fact that progress is inherently hindered by beliefs and politics and math at the bottom line. But I would rather justify a seemingly insurmountable red number to my six-year-old son than try to explain how the world now has X minus twenty kids just like him.

This article was initially going to be an in-depth analysis of why Blizzard created a Real Money Auction House (RMAH), all the steps they took to protect and nurture it, and how those steps destroy Diablo 3, but it was turning into a dissertation about virtual economies and black markets, ignorant company executives, and what players really want in a video game. I scrapped that idea and decided to focus on a point I haven’t seen forum posters making or tearing to shreds. I have come to believe that rampant cheating, botting, duping, and the black market were the reasons Diablo 2 has flourished for so many years. Diablo 3 is failing because the execs at Blizzard have focused completely on preventing cheating, managing virtual supply, and crushing their RMAH’s prime competition–the black market.

This fact started dawning on me when I began to reflect on why I kept coming back to Diablo 2 even after all those years had passed. Why did I run multiple games and have dozens of pack-mule characters? Why did I trade for (and sometimes buy) what I knew had to have been duped items? Why did I use cheats to deck my single-player toons out in all the best gear the game had to offer?

The main reason, of course, is that Blizzard made a great game. The second reason shocked me a bit though–I realized I played Diablo 2 because I could cheat. Blizzard tried hard, or at least went through the motions, to prevent cheating, dupers, and bots in Diablo 2 on the grounds that it “wasn’t fair.” They had no financial interest in black market transactions and they had made all the money they were ever going to make on sales of their boxed product–Diablo 2 has no monthly fee. Blizzard maintained the Battlenet community for all those years but had no financial reason to do so besides keeping gamers happy enough to buy Blizzard’s next $60 release. Luckily, they completely failed to prevent cheating in Diablo 2. That failure is what actually kept people playing and caused unprecedented sales figures at Diablo 3′s release. And now Diablo 3 fails because Blizzard is doing a much better job at preventing cheaters from “ruining” the game.

It all comes down to the ZOD rune in Diablo 2. It was the rarest, most insanely improbable item to get. It was impossible to farm for. The drop rate was originally one in forty-million (much improved today of course) and rune drops of any kind were uncommon to begin with. Players had a better chance of winning the lottery–the odds of winning $100,000 or $200,000 in the Illinois Little Lotto are 1 in 575,000. I could win the Little Lotto about seventy times before I would see a ZOD rune drop in my $60 video game. The ZOD–and VEX not far behind–runes were but a fool’s dream and yet they were required to craft the best items in Diablo 2. Blizzard actually created items that, without the benefits of cheating, nobody in the world would have ever been able to see–ever. So the ZOD rune was rare and yet here I was logging into a public game to pick up the ZOD rune I had just bought for a quarter–could have gotten ten of them for $2. I was only able to play with a Breath of the Dying weapon because I had knowingly just cheated. I purchased an item that I knew had been illegally duplicated. I traded for them too. Granted, I didn’t have to. I could have just loaded up the single player cheat trainer and given myself one. There is one thing I know I never could have done though. I never could have legitimately found one and played with a legitimate BoTD. And the reason I still played Diablo 2 after all those years? To swing around the best weapon in the game, of course.

Fast forward to today. Blizzard releases Diablo 3 to much fanfare, then roars of anger, then silence. With an always-online requirement, authenticators, transaction waiting periods on impulse buys, anti-cheating measures, and patched responses to features gold farmers were “taking advantage of” (like killing purple monsters and opening chests), Blizzard was able to take great strides toward a “legitimate” gaming experience. However, the best items in Diablo 3 are now all like the ZOD rune. It’s true that somewhere in the world a few of the 6million players are finding uber items–heck, a handful of uber items are probably found every day. And Blizzard created their own Real Money Auction House so the unlucky folks could legitimately purchase one of those legitimate uber items. Everyone’s happy, right?

Blizzard’s critical error in design–or one of them–was that they were thinking of the entire player-base–6million strong–as a single player. The entire player-base could find a bunch of legendary items and a few truly uber items every day. Blizzard figured those items would go up at auction and sell for a fortune at first but as that “1hour=6million hours” megaplayer brought in more great items the prices would eventually go down to the point where even the poorest sap could afford a decent item. Right? Here’s a tip for Blizzard: Your player-base is made of individual players–and individual players want to have fun. Being a tiny cog in a monstrous, crowd-sourced, item hunt is NOT FUN. I don’t give a rat’s ass if five great–legitimately great–items go up for auction every day. I don’t care about the “true” achievements of the Diablo elite–or even care to be one of those elite. I just want to have fun finding items in a game where all you can do is find items. And I want to cheat.

The funny thing is that the RMAH is actually fully sanctioned cheating, and when duping is thwarted one entity completely controls the supply. From my perspective–the individual player–the only difference between me giving some guy a quarter for a duped ZOD rune and me winning a RMAH auction for a $25 bow is that I’m handing my money to a different person–and my $25 bow is going to be slightly above average–and I’m spending $24.75 more on it. In the illegitimate game I am paying $0.25 to become uber, obliterate those pesky denizens of hell, and find other legitimate uber items that I can use to create experimental specs on different characters. In the legitimate game I’m paying $25 to become nominally better than I was, die a little slower than I died before, and not find anything at all for characters I don’t care to level up to their destiny of being mildly troublesome fodder for whatever goblin decides to take a swing at me as I’m sprinting my ass away.

Let us cheat Blizzard, let us cheat. Wearing honorably crappy gear and getting slaughtered by monsters (that frequently cheat as well) is NOT FUN. My pockets aren’t deep enough to have fun in your game today. I play games to escape Real Life, and Real Money, and I don’t care to have my video games remind me that Real Life winners have lots of money and hard work often amounts to nothing.

Though I have been a Radiohead fan for thirteen years, since 1999, I have never been to a Radiohead show before, something I had always sought to remedy, I wouldn’t miss this for anything, even the long drive, and the fact that my next day begins at 5:00am.

Radiohead: June 10, 2012 setlist. (You can listen to the songs via this website too)

The Show: From the stellar 24-song setlist to the vibrant LED lighting apparatus and twelve moving screens the show was as amazing as I had hoped for. Thom Yorke is the focal point for the whole show, as he spreads himself across a fantastic range of moods and styles. Always transitioning between guitar and keyboards, and if engaged with neither, he gyrates, shimmies, and boogies while he sings his heart out. The other members on stage simply do their thing, always a presence but not the focus. The dual percussionists, consisting of the band’s drummer Phil Selway, and the new addition on this tour, Clive Deamer (plays with Portishead) positioned on either side of the bassist Colin Greenwood, are engaging for the whole show as well. The two other guitarists, Ed O’Brien and Jonny Greenwood, remain on each side of the stage providing backing vocals, and other various instrumentation. The complexity of many of the songs is amazing to witness when performed live. I simply must try to see them every time they come around from now on. I had heard they were playing a few songs I just adore, “Paranoid Android”, “Pyramid Song”, and “Where I End and You Begin (The Sky is Falling In)” this time out, but they did not play them tonight. Totally doesn’t matter though because we got the full songlist from King of Limbs (2011), two new songs—”Identikit” and “Full Stop” which got its live debut tonight, and the show closer “Street Spirit (Fade Out)” from as far back as the band’s second album The Bends (1995). This vid is from the night after (it has a better view I think).
I thought I could help my faulty memory by bringing my voice recorder and call out the setlist, but I assumed I would never get it into the place. So I brought a notepad. Holy crap, not only were my entries wrong, but they were illegible and for the most part written all over each other. I didn’t even notice the first encore. I swear only Thom left the stage and it was for about thirty seconds. I hooted my head off for the second encore though. This was an amazing experience for me. I was surprised we could get tickets for this and I would say for anyone who is a fan of this band, get to see them live.

The Venue: The experience at the First Midwest Bank Amphitheater was excellent. I would imagine it may vary from act to act, but Radiohead fans seem a most laid back, and non-raucous bunch. In the VIP area, and throughout the venue, every employee I encountered or had any conversation with was exceedingly friendly, polite, and seeming to be enjoying themselves. The VIP bathrooms look like a large port-a-potty, but they are very nice inside with finished walls, and a sink with running water, I wasn’t expecting anything like that so it was a nice addition to the experience. Other than the sound up in the second level skybox, and the prices of refreshments, I have zero complaints about the place.

The Drive: Was nothing. 75 miles, straight shot, no traffic.

The Value: The skyboxes are a little too high and far away for the high price of these seats. Our box was the highest and farthest over to the left of the stage before you can’t see the stage anymore. This may have something to do with the muddy sound quality. When I hear the sound quality of the videos taken of the night, “Full Stop” in particular, it’s clear the acoustics all the way up on top and to the side are very muffled. I couldn’t understand one word Thom Yorke said all night. If I was unfamiliar with Radiohead, I wouldn’t have been able to differentiate much from song to song. I realize seeing Radiohead is expensive regardless of where the seat is, but I won’t try to see them anywhere but on the main floor from now on.

Some extra commentary: I gave this show a few days to percolate, and I am glad I did. My interest in Radiohead waned a touch after the 2000 release of Kid A, and sadly, it was for superficial reasons. Luckily, things don’t go away just because I think I don’t like them anymore. I shallowly surmised that OK Computer (1997) was the band’s pinnacle, and they should embrace it as such. I still dutifully purchased their new albums as soon as humanly possible. On October 10, 2007, I charged to their website with furious glee to purchase In Rainbows, and pay what I thought it was worth—I was immeasurably flattered by this daring gesture and gracious opportunity from such a creative group of people whom I respected greatly enough already. Here in Chicago, I remember the old days of the Annoyance Theater and their production of “Co-ed Prison Sluts” when they let you in to see it for free, and you paid what you thought the play was worth on the way out. Well, at the Radiohead website, I must have gotten my currency conversion tables confused, and while in my head I thought, “Shit, I’m going to make their day,” and pay something crazy like $20 for In Rainbows, an extra thank you right into the band’s deserving little hands—damn straight! Oh and from the mountaintops did I brag—until I saw my credit card bill… Wait for it—how much do you think?—nope, more—I paid $45 bucks for In Rainbows! After a brief “holy shit” moment, I was still pleased as pie, and tremendously thrilled to be part of their experiment.

I know I liked Kid A, but it was weird. Its electronic notions were cool and it helps that I like a lot of Brian Eno, in particular his ambient stuff (compare Ambient 4: On Land (1982) with “Treefingers”), so I could appreciate this more experimental approach, you know, briefly. Now with Amnesiac (2001), an extension of Kid A, and then Hail to the Thief (2003) I had the feeling the band had gone too far from what I thought I liked about them. I dismissed the albums, and I am irritated by my shortsightedness. Both Nicolai and I kept saying to each other, “Maybe they’ll just grow on us.” I don’t remember exactly when it was that I realized how much I loved Amnesiac, and Hail to the Thief, my guess is around late 2005. I’d call that a huge amount of wasted time when the treasure is sitting right in your lap! So the real point to all of this is, upon seeing Radiohead live, I have a whole new and much stronger perspective on them and what they have done. I can be as hard on myself as I want about my lack of vision, but from here on out I know how to view this band, and it is a wonderful feeling. It would be easy for fans to say that King of Limbs is another Thom Yorke solo album (check out The Eraser (2006), it is awesome!), but when an artist’s voice is so indelible from an already passionate mindset, irrational comparisons are inevitable. This could be perhaps a whole separate article.

In the last few days, I have tried to play catch-up on my time of dismissal by immersing myself in everything I can find by Radiohead, and have come out of it with an appreciation for an artist I haven’t felt in a long time.

Here’s to many more years of new stuff from Radiohead!

Fratto 6 14 12

P.s. 6 16 12

Well wishes to all involved with the tragedy tonight in Canada. What a terrible set of circumstances.

**If it’s possible to spoil something already rotten then I suppose I should warn you that this review contains spoilers.**

Why?

That one word is the theme of Ridley Scott’s summer lackluster, Prometheus. It’s a great question too—one I have been asking myself all afternoon. Why didn’t I follow suit when the kid from Powder—who apparently got all jacked up on steroids—offed himself before the title sequence ended?

This question must have also played a crucial role as the committee of scriptwriters—cloistered in the choicest  booth and chugging the choicest coffee Denny’s has to offer at 2AM on a Tuesday night—Frankensteined Prometheus’ plot and dialogue together in a manner reminiscent of children gluing Jelly Bellies and little green army guys into their diorama on cloud formations because Jelly Bellies and little green army guys are cool.

A decade ago, M. Knight Shyamalan’s movie Signs taught us that “everything happens for a reason.” Little girls don’t just leave dozens of half-full glasses of water around the house for no reason—they do it because they are going to need a glass of water handy to exploit the alien invaders’ Achilles heel—water—and save the world. Duh. Like Signs, all the happenings in Prometheus have reasons—lots and lots of unimaginably stupid reasons.

Why did the android sneak a can of alien goo onboard the ship unbeknownst to anyone? Because he needed some alien goo to poison a member of the crew.

Why did he poison a member of the crew? Because the main character’s boyfriend needed to be infected so he could impregnate the main character with an infected baby.

Why did the main character need to carry an infected baby?  We needed to make use of the Surgery-O-Matic machine. And because she’s infertile. Isn’t it ironic?

Why did the Surgery-O-Matic machine need to be used? Because it’s cool. And because we need to have a fast-growing alien baby trapped in the Surgery-O-Matic section of the self-sustaining emergency escape townhouse.

Why? Because the main character needs to inadvertently lead the creator alien t o where he can be impregnated by the fast-growing alien baby.

Why? Because the whole damn point of the film is to show the miniature version of the alien from The Good Movies being born. It’s a frigging prequel you know.

Why did everyone in the film act like complete state-the-obvious idiots the entire time? Let’s not talk about that—wasn’t it cool when the Alien burst out of that guy’s belly at the end?

Why did I pay $13 to see Prometheus? Because it’s Ridley Scott. It’s Charlize Theron. It’s Aliens. It’s a summer blockbuster, baby, what could go wrong?

I would love to believe that Ridley and the Prometheus project started out with good intentions but, like many creations, the good ideas wound up going awry and turning into something unexpectedly awful. The buff Powder guy at the end of the film was just as spot-on as the one at the start. He saw that his human experiment had turned out bad and tried to do what any self-respecting creator would do under those circumstances—abort, abort. I want to believe that Ridley Scott saw the abomination he had birthed and tried to abort it as well. Perhaps the reason Prometheus wasn’t aborted was because an obnoxious, homely, plan-thwarting archaeologist was standing around with nothing to do.

The movie wasn’t all bad, though. Android-guy was well-played. There were eight seconds I truthfully enjoyed too. Five of those seconds were when Mowhawk Geologist-guy got acid sprayed on his helmet and it looked like someone had slapped a giant, half-baked Shrinky-Dink in his face. The other three seconds involved Charlize Theron’s clingy white robe and what happens to the human nipple when it gets a bit chilly. It’s a shame Charlize had to get squashed trying to run away from the skyscraper-sized rolling horseshoe. I wonder why she didn’t just hop a few feet off to the side like the homely, plan-thwarting archaeologist did.

Bah, who cares. I mean, did you see how that baby Alien came out of the giant albino’s chest at the end? Did you? I thought so. I wonder if Ridley has started the prequel’s sequel yet…

Everyone who writes likes to know how he or she is doing.  As you start out, no matter how well you think you are writing; chances are good you still harbor the dreaded trappings of what John Gardner calls—The Amateur.

Before reading The Art of Fiction, I did not consider the “READER” as a factor in my writing output. It was all about word choice, and creative ideas. I had the pleasure of taking a critical look at The Art of Fiction for a creative writing class assignment dealing with a teaching instruction. Of the many titles assigned, I chose this book because of the high regard it had with my professor. I figured my instruction to the class might not simply be a recital of facts, and a glance at the table of contents, made one thing very clear—particularly Part 2—I was definitely going to be learning from this book, not just reciting for class—and learn I did.

In his book, The Art of Fiction: Notes on Craft for Young Writers, Gardner directly explores and illuminates the mindset and techniques of effective fiction writing. Truthfully, the examination is at times a hard pill to swallow and the reader/writer may find himself or herself worriedly ruminating over their abilities as a writer. Gardner displays his skills and knowledge with a fine precision; he points out and then routs out common misconceptions and errors in beginning writers and writing in general. The reader will know quite intentionally if they are “an amateur”.

For myself, I consider my writer’s skin to be thick enough to receive constructive criticism. Upon diving into The Art of Fiction, its effectiveness hit me at once as Gardner’s direct examples of amateur writing played across page, reflecting into my eyes—the exact kind of writing I was doing at that time! I had to question honestly, whether I had ever tried to learn anything about writing and storytelling. Certainly, I know words, and I make sentences. With these communicative tools, I say the things that I want the reader to know about my writing (not to mention make me feel good about myself as a writer).

However, thus revealed, is a standard misconception (and ego issue) a beginning writer is likely to hold on to—for dear life: The Reader must know that I am a great Writer.

The book addresses the serious question; how exactly will the writer (beginner or veteran) convince the reader (avid or casual) that he or she is a great writer? Is “convince” even an effective approach? Here begins my journey with this little book.

For example, bringing all my cohesive contemplation to bear on any prodigious project, I might expend extraordinary effort on word choice, only manifesting considerable focus on the grandiose for its effect, with nil perusal on dross—this reflective endeavor thusly generating due awe.

Seriously, yuck! Alliteration, consonance and some assonance aside—that is some unwieldy writing—no part of that sentence is reader-friendly. If I were to consider a few of the guidelines Gardner lies out, and swallow up my ego, that sentence could simply read:

For example, I used to think too much about my snappy word choices.

All this showiness brings me to my greatest discovery while reading The Art of Fiction. Gardner implores the would-be writer, for the reader’s sake, to hold on to the notion that good fiction is the result of the writer subverting his or her desires as a writer, and simply telling the story they mean to tell as if recounting an “uninterrupted, vivid dream.” This core concept came over me so simply I thought I must have read it wrong. It was, for me, the first time I had ever felt the total obliteration of a paradigm in my own head with a complete, immediate, and new cognizance of writing concepts I thought I fully grasped.

Suddenly, all my previous writing was irrelevant and I knew exactly why! This should have horrified me, but it was joyous!

Even the pieces I had turned in that week for a grade. They were full of me being full of myself. Bludgeoning the poor reader (my professor) again and again with how verbally and verbosely great I thought I was. These works were, at the time, the best I could do, and they were terrible and there was nothing I could do about it.

Well, there was one thing to do—get writing! Which I did, and am doing now. My writing feels new and fresh to me and I never once feel my ego plastering the walls with bravado and contrivance. (Even when the very thing I am writing is a contrivance!)

The lasting aspect of The Art of Fiction seems, to me, to be its wealth of scope.  It is not a very long book, but it is so packed with what a writer needs (whether they will like it or not), and it is always engaging the reader with meat, no fat here at all. I expect to read, and re-read this book many times (three times as of this piece (four times as of this revision)) regardless of my skill as a writer. I have spent time with writing books in the past, but none hit me so hard and so close to the mark I needed to be aware of to produce the kind of writing that makes me happy to be writing.

Consider this book to be a wrecking ball, a parachute, and a safety net all in one. Imagine that scene in The Matrix when Neo lies back in the machine, a neophyte nobody (Gardner would perhaps prefer just the word “fledgling”), and when he stands up after the machine does its work, rather than saying, “I know Kung-Fu,” he would instead say, “I know how to write.” I would say The Art of Fiction has done this for me.

This review and slight essay blossomed with all the precepts I picked up from the book in discussion, and I know after looking this article over I would have never settled for such easy diction and clear prose. My omnipresent old tendencies, some would call it skills, would have gloriously kicked in, and I, the claxon of written words would certainly arise to you the reader, a babe of humble experience, then precipitate to prove my superiority with relentless, forceful adjectives and obscure words of abstraction buttressing many harrowing sentences with far too many comma splices and concepts ranging all over many nebulous ideas while never really coming home on any particular point leaving you, the reader, feeling like somebody just shook your head very fast while spinning you quickly around at the edge of a cliff to let you wobble on its precipitous edge dangerously close and very certainly to plummet into the chasm, dashed upon the hard rocks of my terribly constructed, and blustery prose—Ahhhh. . . . At one hundred and thirty words I just can’t go on, sorry Mr. Gardner! (Page 203: Exercise 3: Write three 250 word sentences.)

NOTE: Scroll down if you are just looking for solutions to problems with this bike.

NOTE: This bike does not come with a kickstand. Google “adjustable kickstand” and pick one up. They are $7 at Target.

Empty-Grave Review

My sons (4 & 6) are eager to be on two wheels so we went shopping for bikes. We wound up at Toys R Us and my sons wanted the same bike. The store only had the floor-model (of course), and that looked like it had been around the block a few times, so I decided to order online and assemble the bikes myself.

Both bikes arrived undamaged and with all the required parts, although after I assembled the first one I discovered neither bike had a kickstand–apparently a common practice on children’s bikes. Buy an adjustable kickstand, preferably before assembling the bike as it is handy to have the bike stand on its own as you put the seat and handlebars on.

I quickly discovered the first major problem with this bike. The Y-Fork that secures the front wheel to the bike chassis was not wide enough to fit where it was supposed to on the front axle. After much frustration I jimmied it on with a flat-head screwdriver for the first bike. The second bike, though, was so far off I had to use a 2×4 to bend the steel fork enough to fit the wheel on. Scroll past the review to see photos and the solution.

The brake cables for the handbrakes were way too long and, even properly routed, they were hanging out all over the place. Since my sons were both used to just coaster brakes I decided to remove the handbrakes and put them on at a later date when they were both comfortable riding two-wheelers. That led to the second major problem–the hand-grips, which might as well have been glued on, had to be removed to remove the brakes. That was  a blister-inducing ordeal. Although not that big of a problem, the back brake line is also routed through a steel hole on the chassis that is just large enough for the cable’s girth so I had to cut off the nub at the end of the excess line to get it to feed through.

The bike isn’t all problems though. The tool-less adjustment of the seat height was extremely nice and when I took off the reflector the seat actually went down low enough to accommodate my smallish children. The handlebars went on easily and the final assembled product feels sturdy and looks great. The $79.99 price-tag was also well under most of the other offerings. If you want to save yourself the hassle you can purchase an assembled model for $10 more at one of the Toys R Us stores, although I recommend you read the instructions and go over the bike yourself and tighten all the nuts anyway because the bikes on display in the store were not all assembled correctly.

Solutions to Model-Specific Problems

Chassis Y-Fork Issue

The chassis Y-fork gap is not wide enough for the wheel axle. It appears that the C-shaped plates are supposed to go on the innermost part of the screw post since that is the only way they fit but they are actually supposed to go on the threaded part of the screw post–the fork is just not wide enough for that to happen. The gap on my first bike was only off about a 1/4″ but on the second bike it was off nearly 3/4″. The red arrow below shows where your Y-fork probably fits. The green arrow shows where it is supposed to go.

I fixed this issue on the first bike by using a flat-head screwdriver to lever the C-shaped plate over to the threaded area. The gap was so wide on the second bike, though, I had to brace it by placing a board over one prong of the fork, standing on that board, and using the leverage of a short 2×4 to bend the steel a bit. A little goes a long way so make sure you check the gap frequently. My gap wound up being a little wider than it was supposed to be but the locking-nuts tightened it up regardless.

The Handlebar Grips Won’t Come Off

If you decide to remove or change the handbrakes or even just change the hand-grips themselves I’m sure you’ll find that the existing hand-grips might as well be super-glued in place. After quite a few blisters and blown forearms I found that running the rubber grip under scalding hot water for a while causes the rubber to expand a bit. When heated up, the grip can be simultaneously twisted and pulled off with about a tenth the effort.