world enough and time

So, this post isn't for everyone.

Carljoe, my classmate and fellow felon in the racket writing life, is stamping his blog with thoughts and such about an addiction from which those who tried it never really quit: Magic: the Gathering (MTG). You need disposable income to play it--you need to buy the cards. You need time to burn on it--you will lose sleep trying to assemble the best card deck to beat other people's card decks. Like kids building large robots to fight against other kids who build their own large robots. Only here, winning the game between two card players takes on so many forms, and losing also does not "just" happen. MTG is like chess, only you get to choose the pieces and how to win; and in tournaments, you get to see people pilot their own created decks, with different ways to win, pit those decks against other created decks. God this is so hard to explain.

Which raises the question, why am I trying so hard to explain this? Because I like the game, too, and I played tournaments for which I couldn't win--the cards were hastily acquired and the decks just-then assembled, the play testing group were my fellow friends who had jobs, and little time to spare. My kind are reduced to casual players, those who follow the game from time to time, lose track of it, rejoin, and talk about the old days, get hooked up again, and then remember they have bills to pay and lives to live.

If one had world enough and time, world enough and time. I'd play Goblins! Weeee!

Owen Turtenwald

4 Bloodstained Mire
4 Wooded Foothills
4 Wasteland
4 Rishadan Port
4 Mountain
3 Taiga
23 land

2 Siege-Gang Commander
4 Mogg Fanatic
4 Goblin Lackey
4 Goblin Piledriver
4 Gempalm Incinerator
4 Goblin Matron
4 Goblin Warchief
4 Goblin Ringleader
2 Tin Street Hooligan
1 Goblin Sharpshooter
33 creatures

4 Aether Vial
04 other spells

4 Pyrokinesis
4 Tormod's Crypt
2 Krosan Grip
2 Pyroblast
1 Red Elemental Blast
1 Goblin King
1 Tranquil Domain
15 Sideboard Cards

Ah, Goblins. The deck above got as far as runner up to the recently concluded Grand Prix Columbus, where the format was Legacy, my favorite--because you could play your pet decks and stick in almost every card in existence. The deck that topped the tournament could win from turn 0 to turn 3, with no disruptions, that is--I'm not going to explain that as I am not a fan of that deck, efficient as it may be--and Goblins beat some decks just like that, before losing to the same deck it beat in the semifinals. Ah well.

I had always loved aggressive creature decks--even though my first complete deck was Stasis-- but had always hated the empty-hand and your non-survival from mediocre draws. Ah hell.

But back to Goblins. The deck above surprised me by its use of four copies of Gempalm Incinerator and four copies of Rishadan Port. The usual deck lists only include two Gempalms. If you draw Port and Wasteland on your opening hand and you have no Aether Vial, you cannot cast anything; which is why I had been thinking of using only two copies of Port.

Owen, the guy who piloted the Goblin deck to second place, won his games even after mulliganing to four or five cards. His solution was aggressive and smart mulliganing. The four copies of Gempalm also helped in the dual creature removal and cantrip function. This guy Owen has playtested a lot. Something I probably can't do, since my Legacy buddies are all sucked in by their jobs.

A Goblin deck combines aggressive combat damage from creatures with the interaction other Goblin abilities in the deck provide--like card advantage (Goblin Ringleader), creature removal (Gempalm Incinerator, Siege-Gang Commander, Goblin Sharpshooter), creature finding (Goblin Matron), creature pump (Goblin King), direct damage (Siege-Gang Commander, Goblin Sharpshooter), artifact destruction (Tin Street Hooligan), and combat damage multiplying (Goblin Piledriver).

It's a nepotism deck. If you're not a Goblin, you can't be part of the club. Unless you're a deck thinner (fetch land), mana disruptor (Wasteland and Rishadan Port), and artifact trickster (Aether Vial smuggles in creatures into play by cheating casting costs).

Did I mention that I love this deck?

So, Carljoe, man. World enough and time. If you blink, forget to think, settle with a mediocre draw, or cite other excuses raw, you'll see red all over. I'm a Goblin, too.

stoopid third installment: spiderman 3

It was an origin movie that set the bar for comics-to-film standards. I was talking about the first Spiderman film. Peter Parker was having problems and the first, and also the second film, was all about that: the basic and effective plot of how a character can change. Adolescent coping were both themes in the first two installments, and a theme many can touch-base with. Even without powers, we've all gone through such growing up doubts as Peter did. And even if Peter had powers, he was still human like us: confused, pulled by his desires, forced to make mature decisions.

I have no idea what was mature in Spiderman 3. Peter was there, Aunt May, Mary Jane, and some villains. The absurd but tough, harsh but funny Manhattan ambiance was gone. Take out the Spidey costume and the Spidey tunes and the whole thing would be a Christopher Reeves-Superman movie. New York loves Spidey, right. J. Jonah Jameson has been reduced to an obligatory counterpoint (although his first scene I found funny), and Peter, with the scriptwriter paying no attention to how time works in this universe has "mastered" his life: top of his class (how can he attend classes and study with a near-fulltime vigilante job?), has a police scanner in his room (how does he choose which to respond to?), and seems to be able to make his rent payments on his photographer job alone (something he was barely able to do in Spiderman 2).

For a fulltime photographer, he doesn't seem to be carrying his camera in most scenes. But these are the small things.

The real problem is that there is no plot to talk about. Hence, nothing to hurl a deep character against. Doctor Octopus in contrast was allotted time and dialogue and definitive scenes, enough to make you connect with him, and somewhat hate and later forgive and respect. Can you say that to any of the buffoons Parker fought against in this film?

And so we come to the subproblem. Character development. Forget about the fight scenes in the end. If you give Harry Osborne and Parker a wand each, it would be a Harry Potter movie. Promise.

So first action scene, with Harry and Parker fighting, seemed impressive at first, but only because I had thought it was a seed for complication: Parker was fighting and shooting web and swinging--in his civilian outfit. A witness with a camphone could record it and sell it to the Daily Bugle. Wonder of wonders. It didn't happen.

Oh yeah. Character development. While Spiderman 2 took time to explain Doc Oc's mechanical arms, like how it worked and how it served to be Doc Oc's character flaw (other than pride that is), Spiderman 3 explained nothing about the alien symbiote and how a man can be merged with sand and afterwards become conscious and be able to control the sand.

Giving a sample of the symbiote to Dr. Connor, Parker's Physics teacher doesn't count. Like Connor said himself, he's not a biologist. Plus the scenes where her explains the symbiote's characteristics seen forced. Forget about the Sandman. When he got mixed with water, he adapted and became Mudman, and later on Swampwater man, and when he dried up he was back to being his sand self. Please.

Spiderman 3 tried the formula that brought the downfall of the Batman enterprise (the one with Michael Keaton in it): more villains, less of a story, more fight scenes, lousy dialogue, and mood forced by a musical score.

The cheapest thing by far is Parker's voice over in the beginning and end; cheap in that instead of telling the story through scenes, the scriptwriters chose to sum it up in words.

Over two hours, this film, and so many parts can be deleted, like Parker's dancing acts, and even Mary Jane's scenes.

Oh crap. This movie botched it up. The story will always hold the film together, but instead we get action scenes and bad dialogue. I should not have gone to the theaters to see this. I had not wanted to believe the reviews. But there it is.

A bad script killed the spider.

i need a weapon

Have your read those Robert Ludlum novels on Jason Bourne? Bourne kept saying, "Sleep is a weapon." Now that I'm working night shifts, Bourne gets to tell me--and I won't argue--a crisp, "I told you so."

Been getting after midnight headaches at work, since I don't get to sleep much after the clock passes the 12 noon marker. Something about noisy neighbors' kids breaking the kid-a-shriek sound barrier. I want those kids dead. Really. But every time I say this, complete with theatrical venom in my voice, my wife shushes me for having even those thoughts.

Ok, how about I poison them all instead, but not lethal enough, just enough to give them tummy aches for two hours, which will make them cry, and make their mothers panic, and then rush them to the baranggay clinic, leaving me alone in the afternoon, just quiet enough to sleep?

The mothers of course will start apportioning blame, will eventually hawk up some bad memories about each other, to establish motive, forgetting they all opportunity, and singe each other with words enough to tear the family apart. Oh who would not love some family obstacles to deepen their bonds of love?

No?

C'mon, Darling! I want them [insert venom here] D-E-A-D. Sige na please.

No?

I'll be a very nice Herod, please. No.

All right. (Ayen whistles obnoxiously, looks away, types www.mambabarang.com on the address line of Firefox, punches in his credit card number.)

i'm still writing

Odd. At 11 pm on an election day, I am typing away, during my break, for a blog entry. In a few minutes, I will return to churning out my quota of articles, and I'm going to be doing this until sunrise.

I remember being hemmed in between the workstations of two old people in the office where I used to work. Listening to old people is nice. They're old. Some of them are nice. What is not nice is when they don't notice that they are shoving down your throat their cynicism about life, as they know it. Nobody needs that emotional burden, especially when writing takes from an emotional fount within.

My boss back then had me move out of that particular set up, into a more quiet area, where I was left deliciously alone, until I left that place entirely.

Now, I am still writing. A shift in content and format and purpose, yes, but writing still. I actually thought I'd have to try out a call center life and wait till my throat and tongue cramped up. Never thought there'd be a night writing gig like this one.

I could always go back to freelance if this one doesn't work out. Or even teach somewhere. But the odd thing is that I have never really tried another job other than writing.

i can't remember my name

Eating: what I've been doing other than copping out articles in my nightshift writing job. Eating. I move my pursed lips right, left, my tongue inside thick with the aftertaste of coffee. Oreo cookies, coffee candies, strawberry-filled small bready things, my packed pre-midnight meal, chocolate thingies with a peanut-butter core, my post-midnight packed meal. As I reach for them absent-mindedly, they have no names; all destined to be consumed. The Starbucks one elevator trip down has lost its appeal. My friends are not online on a weekday dawn like this. I feel fidgety and the keyboard on this PC is like a crusty old man: unbending, resistant to speed-typing, cramps when you least expect it. So I end up poking the keys hard at times, which tires out my hands; I watch words stream in all capitals on the screen, even when I only pressed Shift once. I am bringing my own keyboard next time.

Day five of my first week in this job. I've just finished the first batch of articles. I have two more batches just in. If I don't speed up and get used to things, I'm leaving by next week. No point in wasting the boss-dude's time. I might not just be for this article speed-manufacturing business. I notice too much the flaws in the essays, and I try to improve them, which can be time-consuming. If this gig doesn't workout, I'm on to that demo teaching appointment in June. Better to mess up college children's minds than to disappoint the boss-dude who seems to like my writing, but if only I could write faster.

I stretch my arms, rub my shoulders, twist my waist. I don't yawn, my need to pass out and lie down is greater, but I can't. Back aches and I miss my sofa bed at home. I tend to rest my back by lying down face first. In this old office, I am using someone else's PC, someone else's desktop settings, and I have to change everything just so I can feel at home. I installed fonts, changed the wallpaper, the menu colors, the shortcuts to programs I use, and save all these as my own settings, overriding the previous one, which I had also saved. I feel like working on borrowed time, in a borrowed place, on a borrowed PC, with an article quota I am only beginning to meet.

I have to become a machine: I've never worked-horse like this before.

framed and remembered

A lingering headache is not so much a symptom that your brain may have a tumor, but that the only thing that tumor has, for company, is your brain.

This is me, quoting myself from way back 2004, where my Yahoo 360 blog carried that quote on my shoutbox status. Enduring the writing life remains no different from keeping a disease company.

So it goes.