I’m perusing Fark, as I am wont to do, and decide to see just how severe these severe wildfires out west are. A few paragraphs into this article, something catches my eye.
YOU MUST SAVE THAT MOUNTAIN, CALIFORNIA.
Fiction and otherwise from southern Wisconsin.
I said I wanted to get some writing done on my in-progress Wilson story, and I guess you could say that I succeeded. What ended up happening, however, was that the piece I wrote fit so well on its own that I pulled it over into a standalone vignette. Two reasons I’m happy about that.
One, it means I get to come up with a new title, which is always fun. I’ve decided to go with Customer Service is Job One.
Two, it means I no longer have to go to work and then come home to write about a thinly veiled version of my workplace. This is a relief, as I like not thinking about work when I’m not there.
That’s all for now. Think I may go play World of Warcraft.
Writing’s going slowly. My free time is spent dreading time at work and distracting me from reality a bit. I have tomorrow off, so hopefully I’ll get to some writing then. In my head, Cliff’s Part 2 is awesome. I’m hoping it lives up to it on paper.
I recently discovered that Nathan Fillion, the hero of so many Whedon works, has finally found a show where he hasn’t been cancelled – Castle, on ABC. Ever lured by Mal’s inescapable charm, I caught an episode on the Hulu webnets.
It’s… a wonderfully generic show. Maybe I’m spoiled – I only ever see Fillion in Whedon works and there’s always such a personality to those. This feels like pretty much any cop drama, except that one of the cops isn’t one – he’s an author, which gives him the ability to be all zany and wacky and rich. Even his name, Richard Castle, betrays the influence of Gregory House. Not quite as curmudgeonly as House, though he does call a prostitute in the episode. At least when Castle does, it’s to help the case’s progression.
His co-star, Cuddy the detective he’s researching for a book, is Independant Lead Female #24048. At least from the pair of episodes I saw. Like I said, the episode’s wonderfully generic. It’s a fine show, but a tad predictable. Here’s your snark, here’s your sexual tension between leads, et cetera, here’s Nathan Fillion face numbers 1 through 5.
And because Castle is a writer, there are times you can see someone vaguely geeky, in that LA way, sitting at a table with a laptop going, “See, he knows humanity because he writes the human condition! He knows reality better than the police do!”
All this doesn’t stop the show from being entertaining, it just makes it a little transparent at times.
…it’s been nearly a month since I published something. That’s a scary trend. I felt a little burned out at the end of AHTSY but now I have ideas for the sequel, as well as about 45% of an idea for another Wilson story. My time off this week is limited but I still wanna work on getting -something- written, even if it’s just another small thing like Riposte.
Seeing that Lan’s commissioned pic is complete (by someone who is a much, much, much, much better artist than myself, but that won’t stop me from saying that her legs look weird) it made me realize that if I’m going to take this whole writing kerjigger (that’s a technical term) seriously, I should expand my horizons hate that phrase work on writing a bit outside of my comfort zone that one too usual area of expertise. And since there aren’t any WoW fansite writing contests, at least that I know of, I’ll have to take matters into my own hands. As such, if you, the reader, are interested in having your character as the subject of a story, be it serious, romantic (in a twisted way), self-aware, or simply (hopefully) funny, let me know! I do not have the skill or the ego to charge commission rates, so consider this your free chance.
Taylor Vincent. Your one stop shop for all things WoW, humor, and English related.
P.S.: In the interest of crosslinking, I also got part of the idea from this interview with Jonathan Coulton, which I got via his twitter account. It’s always so encouraging to hear things like this, especially for schmucks like me that don’t want to have to put pants on.
So I’m getting my Tiger Woods on in my entertainment center, and by ‘entertainment center’ I mean I back my chair away from my desk about a foot and swivel so I’m facing the TV. The familiar tone sounds that indicates that I have a tweet, and since BlizzCon’s going on and WoW.com’s twitter feed won’t shut up about it, I assume that’s what it’s about. I swivel back to face my monitor and see this.
It’s one thing to report leaks. That’s journalism. It’s entirely another to take your leak and shove it in someone’s face.
Dear WoW.com and whomever you have representing your organization at BlizzCon. Your attitude doesn’t make you look cool. You’re rubbing the fact that one of Chris’s employees broke his NDA, or whatever the employee equivalent is, in Chris’s face. That’s downright high school.
So keep being a smug little bitch, WoW.com tweeter. I’m unfollowing you immediately.
Look out, Icecrown. Argent Champion Varendil Dawnblade’s about to heal your face off.
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. Ha ha ha ha.
Scroll down to the animated .gifs in the replies for free bonus humor.
I’m going to go take some shotgun mouthwash now.
So that WoW story’s on hold, at least at the moment. However, I have a treat for everyone in the form of a sneak peek at Wilson 4, also known as Cliff’s 2, also known as We Value Your Business.
The old woman was frighteningly thin, with dark, beady eyes hidden beneath old, droopy eyebrows plucked clean of hair. Her pursed lips and wrinkles made her look as if someone had shaved a pug and stretched its skin out. The woman also looked vaguely pissed, as if she resented having been shaved and stretched out. Regardless, Clarice was pleasant. “Your total is six dollars and thirty cents,” the girl said with a smile from behind the register.
The woman handed over a twenty. Clarice punched a couple of buttons and the cash drawer popped open.
“ Thirteen seventy is your change, ma’am,” Clarice said, holding out the money.
The woman never even made eye contact. She was eyeing something in her purse. “Is that with the senior discount?” she asked.
You know damn well—
“Um, no, it’s not,” Clarice said, innocently.
The woman’s eyes came up and seemed to stare through the girl. “I wanted my discount,” she intoned.”
I’m not giving this old… thing an inch.
“Oh, I’m sorry, ma’am. You have to ask for the discount,” Clarice said, tamping down the venomous urges.
“I’d like my discount,” the woman said again. The talonlike fingers of one hand curled up slowly and she put her fist on her hip.
“With all due respect, ma’am, on a six dollar order the discount’s only going to amount to… about thirty cents,” Clarice said. She tried to make eye contact, but couldn’t; the dark beads staring back were too intimidating. “For a transaction already completed, I’ll have to go get my boss, if you’ll—”
The woman suddenly made a wordless sound of contempt about three seconds late. “Don’t tell me how much it’ll be, you little brat.”
For the first time since she’d started her counseling in seventh grade, Clarice Hoesly snapped.
“Brat?! Listen, you hag, it’s thirty flipping cents. It’s not worth my time, it’s not worth your time. At the rate the food here will kill you, that thirty cents will matter even less.
The woman twitched almost violently, shuffled backward and turned to find a seat. Clarice, the red mist fading, realized what she’d done, gasped, turned, and ran into the back of the restaurant.
Twinkie was working the next register over, helping a family of five. As Clarice ran off, he blinked for a moment. He then turned to the seven-year-old boy across the counter from him. He leaned down. “Hey. What’s your name?” he said with a grin.
“Billy!” the boy replied, smiling.
Twinkie smiled and reached out, hoisting the boy over the counter and setting him down in front of the register. He looked up at the family. “Billy will be taking the rest of your order. I have to run,” he said, darting back after Clarice.
And Clarence, watching one more employee snap at a customer via the security cameras in the office, simply began to laugh.
He was breathing heavily. It had been too long since he felt the touch, the feel of cotton of that presence within him. He would not have to wait much longer. It was a chance look that saw it, the glint in the connectivity indicator in his taskbar. He looked again in disbelief. Would he feel that sweet caress once more?
His hand trembled as he moved to grip his mouse – gently, fingertips running over it. The touch was almost electric, and not due to any kind of short. The warm, vibrant orange and blue logo lay before him, inviting, tantalizing. He wanted to savor the moment, but his desperation had driven away any kind of self control. He plunged in with his cursor and clicked wantonly. His fervor was at a peak, and it would not be long before his browser responded, flooding his eyes with the sight of his homepage, the colors pouring out between them. It was not ecstacy when he finally reconnected to the hive mind, but relief. Things were as they had been so long before; the schism had ended, and the two were one again. His fingertips slid down his keyboard gently, and a smile crept across his lips.
Yeah, so my internet’s been off for about 24 hours. It’s sucked. The only downside of it being back up is that I was about to start writing when I noticed that my connection had returned, so this pleasant surprised has robbed me of the opportunity of writing a bit more of Defenders of the Light, which I’ve decided to Braid a little less because I don’t really have a big secondary narrative to tell out-of-order.
Oh, anyone who can place the lyrics that form the title of this post without the use of Google or other search engines wins one internet. I really should listen to that band more often.
Did you know that there’s a journalist out there stating that you may need insurance for your blog? It’s true!
Oh, wait. Anyone who’s taken any journalism classes knows that for something to be slander/libel, it must be
And that it’s incredibly hard for celebrities to prove libel!
The idea that a journalist, of all people, would write a piece like this, just shy of advocating free speech insurance, almost seems treasonous to his own profession. People might not want to go through the hassle of going to court for things they’ve put on their blog, but it’s probably a laughably bad idea to pay someone money for the privilege of going to court and saying a little more than what I just did.
Whole thing is, well, the title of this post.