Navimie made me cry: Please go read this story.
Ah, Mataoka, you little morale booster, you!
Thanks for inspiration, Dahakha: we were talking this morning about my thoughts on bringing over one of my girls to the Horde side, and if so, which one?
It would never, ever be our intrepid shaman, Mataoka…her devotion to Anduin Wyrnn and all the Dwarf clans is unsullied. Not the King, you ask? No…but his son, and the Dwarfs…have always been steadfast of their loyalty to her and hers.
And oh my gosh I have thought this so many times:
|Sh*t – do the writers at Blizz think that no one else grew up watching Johnny Quest? FFS.|
Okay – sorry – off track…
When I have time, I would like to design a propaganda poster ala Starcraft for Matty:
In the meantime, consider the pin-up girls from the 1940s:
I ignored Dahakha’s quip about my being a ‘filthy Alliance,’ and thought I would do my part to get him to join the ‘right’ side! Come on, girl! Show those boys what they’re fighting for!
I have two posts today: one is a straight-up rantfest, and the second…not. I need to get this one off my chest piece first. You may just skip it altogether if you wish, but there are some good nuggets and links, so, stick around a little bit, okay?
At the Matty-shack there is an expectation of independence. For the most part, it works extremely well, and creates an atmosphere of functionality, harmony, and domestic bliss. In other words, we give each other space.
There are occasions, however, where the old maxim, “If momma ain’t happy, no one is happy” comes into play.
I am the momma, if you haven’t guessed.
For weeks now, my Mac has been awful. The game play is bizarre, lagging, choppy: for example, even when I am in the Shrine the music soundtrack sounds like a skipping record. Every spell I hit is muddy, every cast time a lie. When I bring this up to the expert in the Matty-shack, one C.D. Rogue, he shrugs, grumbles, and tells me where to go to figure it out for myself. He does this with the intent of creating an independent person.
Meanwhile, it will be 90 degrees here today, and the A/C is working great. Subtext: his priority to get it fixed, not mine. I am sitting here in a sweatshirt. But that’s okay. Part of his health issues means he runs warm, and keeping him comfortable is important.
|Haanta tried Galleon this morning, and due to the glitchy nature of the computer, was left with nothing but bones and haunted mementos. Postmaster recovered her item, though. It wasn’t a new computer.|
And a confession: the Wrathion Thunderforge quest that was giving me fits? I had to call in young leet druid to save the day. Young Leet Druid has been playing since he was about three days old, and watching him move a character, even one he is unfamiliar with, is like watching Bach play, as opposed to my clumsy chopsticks. He is a virtuoso. And even he said, Matty, your mouse is awful, your computer is a mess — you really should fix this!
Yes, I guess I should.
Every time I log off and on, every time a player taps his foot waiting for my slow-ass splash screen to load, every time I lag and miss a shot or cast, every time I stutter and stall my way through Azeroth I get more and more frustrated. It’s not that I can’t figure this shit out, it’s that I DON’T WANT TO. Maybe it’s a woman thing — oh, I’m being sexist. Trust me — both genders are equally capable of understanding computer programming, technology, etc. One of my favorite first games, Phantasmagoria, was designed by a woman. But even that game play stalled out on me long, long ago. But damn, it was fun as hell while it lasted. It’s not a woman thing, it’s a me thing – I just want shit to work. I am not a tinkerer–I want the ink to never run dry, and the pixels to flow freely.
Everyone except Young Leet Druid and myself has been playing Kerbal Space Program obsessively. Okay. Who doesn’t want to pretend they’re John Glenn or Neil Armstrong or Sally Ride? Come on now! And they all stayed up till the weeeeeeeeeeee little hours of orbital joy so there is no one who can advise me on computer repair this morning.
Now, if I were a bitch, scold, nag, harpy, shrew, fishwife, etc. I would yank a knot in their chains and get them down here to fix this shit. But alas, I must admit —- there is no small part of who I am that doesn’t value my independence. If I fix it myself, I’ll have the knowledge and power. Alas, sometimes, though, I just want someone else to do it.
|I actually own this magnet. True.|
As I am looking over Facebook just now, a link to a John Hodgman post sparked my interest. Think about it — a NEW BREED OF HUMAN!?!?! I want to consume MORE!
So, just know today I’m going to be doing some investigating on my end of what I can do to clean up the mucky bytes. I just want to play.
Here is a multiple-choice quiz: How happy can one enhancement shammy be?
A. She is served a perfect lime margarita by a cadre of Daenerys Targaryn-esque “advisors” on the beaches in Maui with her tummy looking like it did when she was 17*
B Said shaman meets both Jon Stewart and John Oliver and their wives and they all go out for the best dinner in New York City and they all think she is the funniest woman alive
C. She gives up to the gods the chances of her ever being a well-equipped shaman, has a sweet conversation with another enhancement shaman in a dungeon, and begins to feel special all on her own, because she is a rare breed. Later in LFR, The weapon drops. Share news with best game friend, Señor, and shares a /cheer!
If you chose “C” you would be right! A+ for you!
This is a terrible screenshot, but the best I could do in a pinch (and yes, it’s mogged)
Now, where is that lime margarita?
*Loch Ness, chupacabra, and the flat tummy of my youth….all legends of years long gone….
Theme Song: Just Like Heaven/The Cure
Once upon a time there was a man who lived in the middle of the valley. Every time he tried to move to the north, the cold winds blew him back. On sapphire autumnal days he tried to live east, but the morning sun betrayed him. To the south, the warm salty air dried his eyes, and the west shunned her back on him every night. The mountains of the earth did not cradle him, but trapped him where he stood. When he was a babe, the stone stood sentinel, but now the slate and slag imprisoned. As a young man, he tried to go through the mountains, burrow under, find a way: the mountain always pushed back. If he climbed over, footing would slip and he would fall and bring the whole of the mountain down on everyone in the village.
Since the north, east, south, and west did not care which direction he went, he did not move. Neither over the top or through the heart could he move. In the deep valley he stayed, praying the snow would stay frozen on the mountaintops so no flood. Nonetheless he drowned. He drowned in the dawn when he did not see the sun till it was almost noon, and he drowned in the moon when she would not show her face. If he kept his eyes straight ahead he saw the sides of the mountain, and if he looked up, celestial treasures on display for others in the world, but not for him. Always out of reach.
One day, in the middle of the year, in the middle of the field, in the pinnacle of the day, he prayed. “Dear gods, I am a simple man. I only wish to see the world.”
The moon hid, and the sun coy. He tried again.
This time, an odd breeze chucked him under his chin, tickling the whiskers on his face.
But the moon hid, and the sun coy. He tried again.
On the third day, he felt the breeze tickling his whiskers, and a voice in his ear. “Turn around, man.”
Behind him grew a field of daisies and poppies as far as the eye could behold. The pleated perfection of daisy petal, and sultry sirens of poppies made for a wondrous sight. As if to guard the two and prevent flower class warfare, hedges of lavender provided bees and breezes delights. The man gathered some of the flowers, and took them home and put them in a mug of water.
That night he went to sleep as normal, but his dreams were etched green and gold. Something came uncomfortably in the house, unsure of itself, he sensed it. Eyes opening, the dark huddle before dawn, and silent–whatever came in, he wanted it to stay.
(to be continued)
Tome! Tome! Tome! Pay attention to me! I’m yelling on the Internet! Tell Ironsally to check her mail!
My Azerothian partner-in-crime knew we were trying to get you that Coilfang, and prompted a few trips on our AltArmy (yes, very similar to the Salvation Army –strange uniforms and a lot of bell ringing–) and see what we could do. I discovered that being ranged is far more helpful with reaching those tainted things, by a mile. My grand buddy Turk had lent me his so I could get the achievement (I have a post about Tito later), and I’m still in need of one, but no biggie. Señor and I have it down to a swift and sure dance. Lady Vash’j is no match: she now ‘sleeps with da fishes,’ if you catch my frisbee.
I think I’m going to check in with Hunter Kellda from time to time on that PVP server of yours. Shake things up a bit.
Postscript: Tome, Señor made sure that you would get this one and I wouldn’t keep the first drop. Keeping me honest, dammit!