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1960s Horror Movie Poster Letters:

ATTACK OF THE KILLER TOURISTS!

After several months' hiatus, I'm playing that game again...

I requested a random character, and got a lousy tourist, arguably the weakest, solely-for-shits-and-giggles-est character types in the game... I decided to play her, just for larphs...

*Blink*--Level 2--*Blink*--Levels 3,4,5--
*heartbeat*

*Blink*

Before I knew it, I had *real weapons*, as well as a Blessed +1 Hawaiian Shirt, Elvish Mithril-coat, Elvish cloak and boots, +1 orcish helm, and sweetest of all, gauntlets of power...

*Blink**Blink*--Level 7-- Completely dominating the dungeon, with a lowly Tourist!

At this point, I'd even escaped near-certain-death several times, like that lousy cursed scroll of create monster which filled the room with baddies... Luckily, the wise tourist always keeps the proper tools handy: in this case, an unidentified spellbook so far beyond this tourist's comprehension that the mere act of reading it causes (involuntary?) teleportation. In this case, snatching victory out of the jaws of a bugbear, a roomful of Mordor orcs, a rothe or two, and other assorted nasties. Slinked behind a closed door to heal, then hid in a narrow hallway, ambushing the monsters one by one as they had to go after me single-file...

But alas, some things are just too good to last... a duo of nymphs began swiping my hard-pillaged swag, and I was literally tearing up the level to track them down (thanks to my trusty pickaxe), and eventually, in my carelessness, I stumbled into a floating eye, and was paralysed and summarily torn apart by a roving pack of jackals.

Still, level 8 is not too shabby for a tourist, eh?


Disclaimer: If you had absolutely no idea what I was talking about, I implore you: do not ever play a wonderful, twisted little game called Nethack! It will gobble up your spare time faster than Pacman on crack....

"Abandon all hope, ye who enter"...


Update 29 March 2002: A new tourist reached (xp) level 10, thanks to a wand of wishing, gauntlets of power, blessed +2 GDSM, blessed +3 elven broadsword, blessed bag of holding, and some other goodies. Again I was undone by a nymph, and died while trying to recover my armor. Grumble. Next time I find a b?oG, I'm typing n!

Imagine waking up every night terrorized by things which become imperceptible the instant you awake. The feeling that you're becoming horribly detached from yourself and from everyone else. Your heartbeat becomes more erratic day by day, pain arcs through your back and lungs; you feel like you're bleeding internally - and who knows, maybe you are bleeding internally. The beams upon which you've built yourself slowly twist and fatigue from overuse and disrepair. You're caught in a feedback loop of physical and psychological degradation. Welcome to depravity, population: you.

Sunrise over Los Angeles

I wake up on the couch in the house in Silverlake. I listen for movement in the house. Nope. Everyone who went to the Good Luck Bar last night are either sleeping or gone. I look outside the big window above my couch that faces the Hollywood sign. Everything’s light blue, like the sky is drawing its breath for the sun to rise. I swing my feet onto the hardwood floor, put my shoes on, and walk out the door.

There’s a flight of concrete stairs down from the house to get to the street. I check my head before I go down the steep steps. Nope. No headache. Clear senses. The scent of the night blooming jasmine planted two houses over is gone. The smell of the city is starting to replace it. I check my head one more time, hitting it a little. Nope. Still clear. Lucid, even. The Hollywood sign gleams as I trot down the stairs to Hyperion Avenue, where my car waits.

I get in my car and pull out west on Sunset. The clock on the radio says 6:00 a.m. I pass the Circus of Books on the right, purveyor of fine quality pornography and whipping cream canisters that’s open late and opens early. I turn left onto Santa Monica and see the short line to get into the Saturday morning afterhours at The Garage. I always wonder about the people lined up to get into a club at 6 in the morning.

Driving down, I pass Jay’s hot dog stand. There’s a Santa Monica Blvd. bus stop and bench in front of the stand, and the bench faces a mural on the side of a 7-11. Two flamenco-looking dancers in red dance in front of a clock, on top of a Mayan face that becomes foliage at the edges. It’s entitled Clockworks, and stands without explanation.

I turn left onto Vermont and stop to gas up. The sky is starting to burst into orange and yellow. Bright. The sun’s about to come up. Pulling onto the South 101, rows and rows of palm trees are silhouetted against the bright orange sky. It’s a moment of clarity, both for the city and my head, and I watch the sky turn brighter and brighter. I take the South 110, under the bridges downtown, and the skyscrapers, the few lonely buildings that hold court over a hundred solid square miles of metropolis sprawl wait for the sun to rise. After I get out of downtown, I look out the window to my left and see the sun. And more palm trees silhouetted against it.

The sun rises behind me on the 105. From this high, flat vantage point, I can see the whole sky changing colors. Too quickly, I get to the 405, which brings me back to the Inglewood exit towards the beach cities. Stopping at the light at Artesia, I look out to my left. There’s a compact car with three surfboards on top. Inside is a family, Dad at the wheel, Mom sitting shotgun, and three kids, all pre-adolescent, sit dazed in the back, like they’d just woken up.

Pulling into my driveway, my head is still clear as I walk home. The worries and voices are there, on the fringes of perception, waiting to burst into full cacophany, but for now, the rising sun keeps the clarity in place and the internal monologue away.

lyrics: Anthony Kiedis

Palestinian gunmen shot at least 35 people in the northern Israeli coastal city of Netanya... (CNN)

While the TV was covering that, a bomb went of in a cafe in Jerusalem.

I am truely sick of this shit. Fuckit people have all these "problems" damn blind to the real problems.

I sometimes feel this will never end.

"I really have to get out of this fucking country"

We all do....

Last night was supposed to be a good time. It was supposed to be my first time drinking with my friends. I was going to enjoy myself. Last night was supposed to be our grand party during spring break, our last blast to remember as we finish the final weeks of our first year of college.

All of my close friends were there. The ones who I had hung out with the majority of my high school years. These were the people who I respected, who I cared more about than anyone.

Everything started out fine. I went out to dinner followed by walking and talking at the most beautiful vantage point in Pittsburgh with my best friend, and a special someone, but that's for another node. I was having a spendid time before the party had even started. When we got to my apartment, with all the alcohol, we were planning on continuing a great time. That's what it was.

I knew that my friends had been drinking ludicrous amounts of alcohol in college. I had never witnessed it, and as such, their ignorance was unknown to me, and I still respected them. Something happens to that respect whenever you are wiping vomit from their bare body. Something happens to that respect when the people you cared about, the people you looked up to, the people you wished only the best for, are voluntarily killing themselves. This is what happened to the grand time that I was having.

While I was walking my special someone home, my best friends were drinking themselves silly. They looked fine, until their body decided that the 15 drinks in about an hour and a half was not something that it wanted to deal with. My best friend, the one I would discuss anything and everything from philosophy to women, couldn't put two words together to save his life. He sat there in the most sorry state I have ever seen. The kid who told me to live like I'll die tomorrow, was unable to remember anything about the 'fun' that he was having at the moment with his head hanging over a trash can containing the alcohol he had 'enjoyed' not half an hour before.

I still love my friends, as they are my friends. We have been through it all. But as I think about the events that had transpired, I don't believe I had the grand time I was expecting. I instead think about how I had to care for my friends in their most fragile state. But what hurts the worst is that I cared for them while it appears that they couldn't care less about themselves.

And, once again, we are pleased to present, another installment of Irregular Zymurgy - batch number 02-3

Igloowhite says It’s never just “let’s crack open a beer” with you, is it?

This Wurm had left a note on misuba’s palm, “3/1: tell ouro to brew beer for the april-nodermeet.” Owing to misuba’s fine personal hygiene, or the fact that he upgraded his palmtop, this reminder was delivered yesterday.
This morning I awoke with a start, “There was no time to spare”, I thought to myself, “I must brew today if it is to be ready for April 13.” I drove out to the brewing store and bought supplies.


    A tea of
  • ½ lb chocolate malt (grain) and
  • 1 lb crystal 40L malt (grain)
    was made by allowing them to steep in 3 gallons of water as it came to a boil. Once at a boil, the grains were strained from the tea, and
  • 4 lbs dark malt extract and
  • 2 ½ lbs light malt extract
    were added and stirred, along with
  • 1 ½ oz northern brewer hops.
    A vigorous boil was maintained for 45 minutes, then
  • 2 oz tettanger hops
    were added, the pot covered, and the heat turned off. These finishing hops were allowed to steep for about 15 minutes. The wort was then strained and poured over cubed ice. Once at a suitable temperature, it was decanted into a carboy and inoculated with Wyeast strain #1007 “german ale”.
At this point, I gave it a blessing, using filtered tap water that I had dropped on an aligned altar.

This dark ale, which should display a spicy hops aroma and a mildly bitter taste, damn well better ferment in 8 days, so that it can properly condition and be ready for the second weekend in April.
Hopefully, it won't be exploding in anyone's freezer.

I arrived at the Secondary College...alone. There were a couple of guys out the front smoking cigarettes. They were wearing long jackets, and nodded at me as I approached. They looked trustworthy enough so I went closer. The taller one said "Something funny's going on in there". I didn't like the sound of that. Peering in the door to the VCE wing, I noticed that the study hall was dark, and appeared empty.

The tall guy was suddenly beside me. "Keep looking", he said "you'll see it in a minute". I strained my eyes, trying to see into the darkness, and after a few moments, I caught a brief glimpse of something moving around.

"What was that?", I asked, immediately suspecting supernatural goings-on.
"Normals" comes the reply. The shorter guy has spoken. "We don't know where they came from".
I dared to ask the question. "What's a Normal?"
"As far as we know, they're regular people, just like you and me. Except that they've got powers". He drags on his cigarette. He's so tense he doesn't even notice that he's down to the filter.
"Powers?"
Tall guy fills you in. "You know...short clean hair...a nutritious diet...not a tattoo or piercing to speak of........they don't even know what a D12 is".

Silence falls as the gravity of the situation sinks in. All three of us stood there, wondering what the Normals were doing on OUR turf. What did they want? What other ungodly powers did they possess?

*cue spooky music*


I finally plucked up the courage to goto a local Roleplaying group last night.. I used to rolepaly when I younger, and had thought that alot of 'the guys' had more than a few screws loose... I often just thought it was because they were late teenagers and I was younger..

now i know it's just they are anti-social gits with nothing better to do than hang out together. *sigh* and I was there... with them ...

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