roll d20 and save versus retcon

The latest episode of the D&D Penny Arcade/PvP/Me podcast went up yesterday. I listened to it while I was driving to and from this awesome job I was explicitly prohibited from describing in detail, and I loved it.

This party is on fire! Literally… and as if that weren’t bad enough, Binwin is drawn into an iron maiden. (Remember: just because you can double-move doesn’t mean you always want to.)

Combat ends… but that just means it’s time for some serious healing — and for a new map to hit the table. Two great sets of iron doors seal off the next area, but once opened, they reveal a room filled with an iron cauldron and great piles of colored skulls. What do they portend? And is the DM your ally… or merely a trickster and purveyor of lies?

Listen and decide!

The artwork is, once again, sensational. And I’m not just saying that because it features Aeofel and a bubbling cauldron.

Books I Love: Hyperspace

When I was 19 or 20, I realized with some alarm that my knowledge and skill set was very specialized and very limited. I knew a lot about acting, filmmaking, and just about every other practical aspect of the entertainment industry, but I was beginning to feel like I didn't have anything to fall back on, if the acting thing didn't work out for me. I had always enjoyed reading and learning about things, so I started spending a lot of time in book stores and libraries, doing my very best to expand my world. Much of my reading stayed focused on the arts, though, as I read magnificent books like Goldman's Adventures in the Screentrade and countless collections from W.S. Burroughs and other beat-era writers.

As I entered my early twenties, I made a commitment to expand into something else, and I chose science. I had always loved science, and being on Star Trek made me science adjacent for all of my teens, but I quickly found out that most science books were way over my head, or written in a style that wasn't engaging enough to make it worth the effort. After a few frustrating months, someone (I think it was my brother) suggested that I read A Brief History of Time. I picked it up, read it in just a couple of days, and realized that my life could be divided into before I read it, and after I read it. On my next trip to the bookstore, I went straight to the science section, and looked for something – anything – to continue my education.

My eyes fell on a book with an interesting cover, and a provocative title: Hyperspace: A scientific odyssey through parallel universes, time warps, and the 10th dimension. It was written by a guy called Michio Kaku. I pulled it off the shelf, and after just a few pages, I was hooked.

There's a story in Hyperspace, right at the beginning, that I'm going to paraphrase. It's the story that grabbed my attention, captured my imagination, and fundamentally altered the way I thought about the nature of existence. I already had "before and after" with A Brief History of Time, and when I got to the end of this story, I had "before and after I read about the fish scientists." The story goes something like this:

In San Francisco, there's this botanical garden, and near the entrance there is a pond that's filled with koi fish. Dr. Kaku describes standing there, looking at the fish one day, and wondering what it would be like if the fish had a society as complex and advanced as our own, but the whole thing was confined to the pond, and they had no idea that there was a whole other world just beyond the surface of the water. In the fish world, there were fish scientists, and if a human were to pluck one of them from the pond, show it our world, and return it to the pond, it would go back to the other fish scientists and say, "Guys! You're never going to believe this. I was just doing my thing, and suddenly, this mysterious force pulled me from our world and showed me another, where the creatures don't need gills to breathe, and walk on two legs!"

The other scientists would look at it, and ask it how it got to this new world, but it wouldn't be able to explain it. They'd want the scientist to recreate it, but it wouldn't be able to. The fish scientist would know, however, that the other world was there, and that there was something just as complex as life in the pond on the other side of some mysterious barrier that they couldn't seem to penetrate.

I'm sure I've mangled the story, but that's essentially what I remember from it. I thought, "Well, shit, if there could be a world like that in the pond, maybe we are in something else's pond!" I didn't know if it was possible, I didn't know if it was just science fiction, but I didn't care. It was this incredible possibility, and my world opened up again. I felt like I'd been granted membership in a secret society. I devoured the book, and I began to think about the nature of existence in ways that I'd never even considered before. When I finally read Flatland a few years later, I was blown away that Abbot had written essentially the same story a hundred years earlier, in 1884, and I was thrilled that I could actually understand it.

I got a chance to interview Dr. Kaku one of the times I hosted The Screen Savers. I nervously told him how much his work meant to me, and he said that Star Trek was similarly important to him. That was pretty cool.

next time: a fantastic voyage

everybody has to start somewhere

I have yet another crazy idea (different from the other crazy idea I was talking about yesterday) that involves digging through very old archives to see if it will even work. So while I was doing that earlier today (and cringing a lot at how much I needed to mature as a writer) I came across this, from September of 2002:

Remember how so many readers have been telling me to write a book? Well, I listened. Watch this space for details on how you can get it in about a week or so, maybe two. Know what’s in it? The end of SpongeBob Vega$ Pants, baby!

I was talking about Dancing Barefoot, which I’d decided to put together from material I cut out of Just A Geek. Jesus, that seems like a lifetime ago, and I can’t believe that I got here from there.

Books I Love: Open Net

This week, for Things I Love, I've picked out some books that were extremely influential to me in one way or another. Yesterday, I got my geek on. Today, I'm putting on the foil, coach.

I was never an athletic kid, as I've documented clearly (and painfully). When I was 16, though, I got it into my head that I really wanted to play hockey. I guess the chance of injury in baseball just wasn't great enough, or something.

I wasn't that big, so defense was out, I wasn't that strong, so offense was out. I was quick and flexible, though, so I decided to get some gear and learn how to be a goalie.

I know, I know. The thing is, over the years I've learned that some of us were just born to be goalies, and it's something that can't really be explained to people who haven't blocked a net in some sport. In fact, we can't even explain it to each other; it's just something we do because we can't not do it.

What makes this seemingly insane decision kind of noteworthy is that I was a scrawny geek who did all of this while living in Los Angeles, which isn't exactly known as a hockey town. Many of the rinks we played on were only half-jokingly compared to driveways with crushed ice thrown over them (Van Nuys, anyone?) or so small it was a real possibility that a goalie could score a goal for his team (North Hollywood, anyone?)

I loved hockey with a fever that no amount of cowbell could cure. The only thing I liked more than playing hockey was watching it, and when I couldn't watch it, I read about it. Because I had a subscription to The Hockey News. Which was delivered to my house in Los Angeles.

I wish I could remember exactly how I came upon the book Open Net, by George Plimpton. I think my dad may have given it to me, and even though I'm not sure, I'm going to imagine that it happened this way:

I was sitting in my bedroom, playing Dark Castle on my Mac while Morrissey sang songs about how nobody understood me.

There was a soft knock at the door, and then it opened.

"Do you have a minute?" My dad said.

"Hold on." I clicked my mouse furiously, throwing rocks at divebombing birds. I miscalculated and my little adventurer guy Duncan died. It was my fault, and I knew it was my fault, but I sighed heavily and acted like he'd messed me up. I dramatically pushed my hair out of my face and turned around. My dad held something behind his back.

"I found this book that I think you'll like. It was written by a journalist who would play professional sports and then write about them. He played baseball, football, golf, and …" he revealed the book. The cover showed a familiar-looking guy wearing a Boston Bruins jersey. "…he also played hockey with the Boston Bruins."

He handed the book to me. I realized that the guy on the cover was the same guy who was in all those Intellivision commercials and hosted Mousterpiece Theater, a show I wouldn't ever admit still loving to my peers.

"He played goalie, just like you," my dad said, "so I thought you would like it."

My carefully-crafted appearance of bored indifference cracked and fell apart. I spent a lot of time convincing myself that my parents didn't get me and didn't know anything about me, but with one gesture and six words, my dad turned that all upside down.

"Wow, that's really cool! Thanks, dad!" I forgot to be sullen, stood up and hugged him. It meant more to me than I could express that my dad had given me something like that, which he knew would really matter to me. I quit my game, opened the book, and read until it was time for dinner. After dinner, I read it until I had to learn lines for Star Trek, and then I took it with me to the set the next day. In fact, I took it with me everywhere, until I finished it the following week. I loved it so much, I read it again a few months later, and again about a year after that.

I loved how George Plimpton could transport me right between the pipes with him. I loved how he could turn a phrase, and how he always wrote like we were equals. I wondered if, some day, I'd be able to write about cool stuff that I'd done.

In a part of my mind that I didn't even know was there, a seed was planted and, very slowly, began to grow.

You know, now that I think about it … not that it matters, but most of that is true.

Also, I would be greatly remiss if I did not link to this wonderful song about George Plimpton by Jonathan Coulton.

Tomorrow: the tenth dimension

in which wil has a good day

Today was, as the song goes, and the movie says, a good day.

I woke up before my alarm, feeling rested and relaxed. My dog met me before my feet hit the floor, and followed me to the kitchen, wagging her tail and nuzzling at my side the entire way. I grabbed a cup of coffee and wrote for about two hours, before I headed down into Hollywood to have breakfast with an old friend who I never get to see as much as I would like.

We talked for a couple hours, and then he had to go meet a director.

"I love it that I get to say, 'I have to go to Hollywood to meet a director,'" he told me.

"Yeah, when you get there, he'd better be wearing a beret and holding a megaphone, or I'm going to be disappointed."

It was wonderful to see my friend, who I'm keeping anonymous because I didn't ask him if I could blog about hanging out. He's awesome, though, and it meant the world to me to get together and catch up.

When he went to meet his director, I went to meet my friend Shane for lunch. Shane and I met at the ACME Comedy Theater years ago, and we've been friends ever since. I also don't get to see Shane as much as I'd like, but I always love it when we get together.

Lunch was awesome, and when it was over, Shane said that he was going to send something to Twitter about it.

"Dude," I said, "we have to do a coordinated message. It'll be hilarious."

We looked at each other for a second while we thought about it.

"Where do we start?"

I opened my phone and started typing. "How about … Having lunch with @ShaneNickerson. Cleverly coordinating tweets."

We giggled like idiots.

"That's funny," he said.

"But then what? Is it only going to be funny to us?"

We both looked up and typed simultaneously. "This is only funny to us."

"I still have a bunch of characters left," I said. "What are we going to do next?"

We thought about it a lot longer than we should have, and kept laughing about it the whole time.

"Let's take this to the writer's room," I said.

"Yeah," Shane added, "and we'll see how we can punch it up before we take it to the network."

We were really giggling like fools, now.

"How many characters do you have left?" I asked.

"Fourteen."

"I only have six."

"Wait. How do I have more than you?"

We looked at each other's phones.

"Oh," I said, "because my Twitter name is shorter than yours. Dude, you totally win at Twitter."

We shared a look, and knew what we had to do. We both erased whatever it was we thought we were going to send, and entered the new text.

"This is only funny to us, right?" I said.

"Probably, yeah."

"That's the best reason to do it. Okay, it's 3,2,1 and then we post it."

We steadied ourselves, and got ready to go.

"3, 2, 1, send!" I jammed my thumb down on the send key, and Shane did the same.

Here's the result, as seen by Twitteriffic (click to embiggen):

Simultaneous tweeting

We walked back to Shane's office, working on one of my Crazy Ideas on the way.

"What are you going to do with this thing?" He said when we were done with it.

"I have no idea, but I really, really like it."

"Yeah, it's awesome. I totally love it."

We approached some paparazzi, who were staking out a film set.

"For about two minutes in the 80s, I was a guy who those jerks
bothered. I don't ever want to be that guy again," I said. "It really
sucked. I do not understand why people crave that kind of attention."

We passed them, and I resisted the urge to say anything. They're just guys doing their job, I guess, and standing on the sidewalk is certainly less intrusive than ambushing people at the airport.

"You know who they don't care about?" I asked when we were about a block away.

Shane held his hands out wide and pointed his thumbs inward. "These guys," we said in unison.

We waited for a light to change, and I looked around. We were right near Sunset and Gower, and had walked past Hollywood and Vine just a few minutes earlier.

"I love being here," I said. "Even though it's a dump, it feels like it's my dump."

Shane looked at me.

"That didn't come out the way I intended."

Shane looked at me again.

"Poop."

Yes, we're hilarious comedians (in our own minds) when we get together, and poop jokes are gold, Jerry. COMEDY GOLD! As the light changed and we walked across the street, I continued. "I mean that coming down here recharges my batteries, and reminds me why I haven't completely given up on being an actor."

"I know what you mean," he said.

"Even though going on auditions is like Sideshow Bob versus a dozen rakes."

I was quiet for a moment while every frustrating audition in my life flashed through my minds in a matter of seconds.

We got back to his office.

"It was great to see you today, Shane."

"Thanks. Good to see you too."

"Let's get together sooner than later, okay?"

"Yeah, totally."

I drove home, along the same route I took to get to Paramount in my teens, and drama school in my early 20s. Though my thoughts kept drifting to youthful dreams unrealized, I couldn't feel too sad. I don't have the acting career I wanted, but I have a writing career that's pretty awesome, and today I got to see two people who mean the world to me. When I got home, my dogs nearly knocked me over, and my family greeted me with open arms.

It was a good day.