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WEB FED NEWS YEARBOOKS Earthdate September 2000 |
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WEB FED NEWS YEARBOOKS Earthdate September 2000 |
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INSIDE SCOOP |
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This is sick, people! Could someone explain where all the free time in the world went? Did it slip out through the ozone hole when we weren't looking? And apparently at some point, it comes back! This is confusing, isn't it? Now that you're probably wondering
if I haven't been taking my medication, maybe I should
slow down and explain. At the moment, I have a But, I could call your attention to the numerous occasions we've sat in bars on various planets and did nothing more than scientifically determine what happens when you drink 54 shots in ten minutes. (The answer to that question being a very unpleasant one... if you've seen "The Exorcist," you have a good idea of it, though.) So, at some point, the free time magically reappeared. The simple answer would be that one of the Cleaner's predecessors is accidentally vacuuming it all up right now, and later on, when it's disassembled, all of the free time will come whooshing out, and the margarita industry will become rich beyond its wildest dreams. Unfortunately, the Cleaner Company was unable to find any sales records from the 20th and 21st centuries because they'd been vacuumed up by the cleaner, too. So that'll remain a mystery. Looking back, I apologize about this article... it was supposed to be a humorous account of how I accidentally backed my ship into my house and brought the whole dang thing down, but somehow I got off track. However, I'd just like to provide you with a little bit of wisdom that could help you recapture your free time, and that is that things are always where you least expect them. Imagine that; all the free time of the world lost in sofa cushions. Since I may have finally lost my last marble, I can't guarantee I'll be able to get back to any of you in a prompt manner if you email me at Horatio_TheWriter@excite.com, but I will definately try... and I'd love to hear from you!
C.U.J.O.,
Part V Hopefully the last re-cap I have to do for a long time: C.U.J.O. began to hunt me down, eventually blockaded my own planet. I sought to enlist help from some of the fighters in the universe, but came up blank, so I devised a plan of my own to finally end the madness. My plan was pure genius and inspiration, coming together in my head almost immediately. The only problem was I had to do a little bit of research and work first. So I headed back to an old standby: the Mercury Central Library. But first, I needed a ship. Another 10,000 IG wasted and I made it to Earth. Jarrow’s was painless as usual. Well, painless except for the hole it put in my wallet. Once again with my own ship (doubtless to be sold within a few hours as the last five or so ships tended to do), I headed to Mercury. After some walking to the north, finally I arrived, entered, and noticed the old man was still on the floor moaning and attempting to get back up. I thought about being compassionate and helping the aged, but that thought quickly faded. Settling down into a terminal, I took care of my business quickly. All I had to do was download an image of Pugwash, the Sexiest Fedder ever to grace the universe, and transfer it to my ship’s computer. (NO, not for that purpose you sickos!) Once that was complete, I stood up and exited (but not after giving the old librarian a nudge in the wrong direction for good measure). Once I reached the Hub though, I remembered something. The Imperial Travel Agency I had visited after my first trip to the library. I walked by and peered through the window. One of the younger travel agents had grown substantial amounts of facial hair, deepened his/her voice considerably, and had many features either masculine or feminine. I laughed as I left and told myself I should perhaps pick up some sex-change gas canisters for the next time Olias visits. Now, the final part of my plan. Holos. Lots and lots of holos. Where to get them though? Mythose didn’t sell them, and if it did, C.U.J.O. wouldn’t let me land to load them. So I decided to promote some inter-duchy trade. I made a quick check on holos in Altaria. As luck would have it, Baron Kian’s planet of Palo was selling holos for a low, low 160 IG/ton. Finally, a price that wouldn’t send me into debtor’s prison. After loading up my bays, I chuckled to myself. Palo was a decidedly environmentally-friendly planet. PETA would definitely stay off my back if I supported the economy of a nature planet. Just as long as they never found out about the ivory on Mythose, I’d be safe. C.U.J.O. is enough, I don’t need PETA on my tail too. So I had all the parts of my plan, but to combine them to get the desired result was something simply not within my range of skills. So I called on the best damn mechanic I knew: Khajjika Redclaw. He was on Emancipation’s landing pad, tweaking Olias’s ship and no doubt fixing dents from one of his reckless, drunken landings. Fortunately, Olias was not there as well. Avoidance of an embarrassing and awkward Olias confrontation is the best course of action, always. So I approached Khajjika casually, real friend-like. "Hey Khajj, old buddy, whatcha up to?" I asked in a warm voice. He bared his teeth. Not good. "Two steps closer and I’ll show you what these teeth can really do. I’m not in a good mood." I still tried to play it off. "What’s wrong Khajj, anything I can do to help an old friend?" He snorted, at least he made a sound I would assume Kitterians make when they wish to express the emotions conveyed with a snort. "Tell ya what, Gavin. You wanna help? Take this spanner here, get under the ship, and re-adjust the hydroboilers so that the port nacelle align drive is set to a calibration level of 7.5." I stared at him. "That’s what I thought. Olias thought he could fight, he was drunk at the time of course, and ended up getting Tomyris, Sholuvr, and Quiv to blast his ship into a smoking heap. Rather then shell out cash to repair it, he asked me to fix all of it. He’s off resting and recovering from the "emotional damage" the incident caused," explained Khajjika. He growled. "Then I suppose you wouldn’t be willing to do me a small favor?" I asked. "The answer is no already, but humor me, and tell me what it is you want," Khajj replied from underneath Olias’s ship, The Wild Rover. "Well ya see, I have all these holos, and I was wondering if you, being the best mechanic in the known universe, perhaps had the parts and the time to turn them into a projection devise where I could project an image into space," I told him. Already, I was starting to feel a little upset and worried because he wouldn’t help me. "No, no, and no. I can do it, it’s not too hard. But no. I don’t have the time, I’ve got this piece of crap to work with," he scowled and then muttered, "Life debts are sometimes a pain in the ass. Actually, if I did have the time, the answer would still probably be no," Khajj told me plainly. Then, unexpectedly, I started to cry. Balling my eyes out, right there on Olias’s landing pad. I was sick and tired of running from C.U.J.O., trying to stay one step ahead of them, and they had my planet completely to their mercy. I couldn’t take it anymore. Olias would’ve killed to have this recorded. Khajj heard the sound, came out from underneath the Rover, stood up, and then began to get worried. He looked left and right, began wringing the oily rag he was holding, and then, in a hushed voice, he pleaded for me to stop, "Gavin! Cut it out! If anyone sees this... this definitely will look like I’m violating my parole. I got locked up for awhile after killing three people, a man and two of his friends, after one of them called me a dog. I don’t wanna go back to the pound. I’m not a dog. But come on Gav, if you quit the waterworks I’ll make that projector for you." I looked up, and in between sobs asked, "You will?" "Yeah, sure, Gavin, just please stop," Khajj said hurriedly. I willed myself to stop, and, after a few tissues, looked and sounded much better. I opened the hold for Khajj and he went to work with the holos. I ventured a little farther into the planet and grabbed a drink at the nearest bar. Although unexpected, the crying got something to finally go my way. After a short wait on Focauld’s Landing, Khajjika commed me and let me know it was all done. I got back to the landing pad, Khajj showed me how to project an image from the ship’s computer into space, and wished me well. While I was feeling triumphant, he went back to grumbling and cursing about Olias’s mess. Going over the final parts of my plan in my head, I went off to Mythose. After exiting hyperspace, I immediately made a mini-jump about 5/6 of an Astronomical Unit toward Grantos, Mythose’s sun, before the C.U.J.O. ships could detect me. Then, I inputted some data in my ship’s computer, took a deep breath, and punched the ‘Project’ button. After some noise in the back of my ship, an image shot out and, in five hundred meter high spatial glory, was an image of the breathtakingly beautiful (and sexy) Pugwash. It was directed a very long distance away from my ship in the direction of Grantos. Not long after, as expected, the C.U.J.O. ships, drawn to the image of a journalist they hate, appeared. Immediately comm traffic picked up. "Pugwash, back again!?" "Is this like the Kintaro 78/79 scandal?" "Ignore Gavin for a minute, getting Pugwash gone for good is much more important!" The idiot C.U.J.O. members, so drawn to the thought of Pugwash being still alive, ignored the fact that Pugwash was merely an image and not even inside a spaceship in the cold vacuum of space. They quickly made strafing runs on the image with no luck. Instead, hundreds of missiles and laser beams were enveloped by Grantos. Like indigestion after a bad pizza at Diesel’s, this did not sit well with Grantos. Soon, a solar flare erupted and the vaporizingly hot gas washed over the image and all the C.U.J.O. ships attacking it. Once the activity calmed down, my ship, which had been at a safe distance, flew a little closer and examined what was left: nothing. Absolutely nothing. Not even a trace of anything C.U.J.O. ship related. Inside my ship, I started jumping up and down, screaming, hollering, and probably looking a little bit odd, but I didn’t care. C.U.J.O. was gone, and gone for good. The End
DANNY
BECOMING OBSOLETE: POPULATION STEALING HIS JOB MARS, SOL - In years past, whining was a limited commodity in DataSpace. Those who felt compelled to whine left DataSpace for something they enjoyed more, and those who didn't feel compelled to whine had fun. But without whining, the universe ceases to function. So to bind the universe together with strings of complaints was Danny, always ready to step in and complain at a moment's notice. This system worked well for hundreds upon hundreds of stardates, until recently. Now people who feel compelled to whine don't leave, they stay and whine about everything from rules to hauling to other people whining. Even worse, some leave only to come back the next day and pretend nothing happened, other than the new whining. The people who didn't feel compelled to whine do now so, as they should, they leave. This may affect those of you who stay and whine instead of go and find something you don't feel you need to whine about. This also may affect those of you who leave instead of put up with it from everyone. But who does this affect most? Danny, cornerstone of Fed existence for years. That's right. What's he supposed to do? After all these years of whining for the good of humanity he can't just not whine to keep the balance. He's becoming obsolete. So, here are some words of advice for the unwashed masses. If you don't feel compelled to whine, don't, stay and enjoy yourself. Those of you who do feel compelled to whine, don't, leave and find something you like more. Please, leave the whining to the professionals. Proper whining takes years of training, if amateurs start taking up the trade the whole balance will fall to pieces. Do your part for DataSpace, and DataSpace will do its part for you.
FED
OP-ED: THE NAMING OF NAMES I promised you more name origins, and here they are. Some were e-mailed to me, while others I asked (begged) for. So here they are, me included! Drexxell: "Mine came from my AD&D character's name. He is a half-elf cleric." Jelly: (Me!) "My name is Jeanne and people called me Jeannie as a nickname. My friends started making interesting variations on it, such as Jeannie bean and I somehow ended up with Jelly as a nickname from there. So, I just used my nickname as my Fed name." Neecerie: "hehe... mine is from my rl name as well... my name is denise... well say denise... add ureeee on the end.... my mom used to call me that..." Roguespear: "Actually, I got the computer game rogue spear, and I liked it, but in the manual it said a rogue spear was a buncha terrorists who got their hands on a nuke, so I was like, hey, that sounds kinda like me, just me bein stupid instead of evil and all." Fancy: "My Fed name was chosen after Fancy-Fancy, the girl-chasing tom cat in Top Cat's gang in the Top Cat cartoon series." Barb: "Nothing particularly interesting about Barb - it's what Hazed told me to use for IB staff. My Fed name is Freya. That's a name I have always used online, and it's still my personal Fed persona's name. It's the name of the oldest female germanic/norse diety that anthropologists know of, btw." Wampastomp: "Eh... ah... Jeesh, It was my AOL name. I've used this name for online for almost 8 years. I don't remember why." Cten: "Well I used to play paintball and c110 was my call sign on my team. On the field it was easier to yell c 10 instead of Hey c110 so it sorta just changed to c 10 or cten. Which is my new name."
TOP TEN
THINGS NOT TO DO WHEN PLAYING YOUR FRIEND'S CHARACTER So, your good pal is heading out of town for a bit and asked you to tend his Fed character. You say yes, of course, you'll keep the planet open and help out in any way you can! But it's possible you could do more harm than good, so here are a few hints on what not to do, to keep your friends when they return. (Thanks to Thulium for the idea for this column!)
And finally, don't use the teleporter if you aren't familiar with it and don't forget to reinsure if you die! Coming back to find yourself DDed would be most unpleasant. Any good roleplay or ideas for a column about you? Email Bizcarp@aol.com and we will get it here.
Folks, things are getting out of hand. It used to be tolerable - mostly - but now it has gotten completely unmanageable. And worse, this source of tragedy continues to spread death and unhappiness unchecked! Something must be done, don't you agree? I guess now would be a good time to tell you what I'm talking about. Earlier this week, I was peacefully flying through Sol, just sightseeing, when I accidentally had a little fender-bender. Now most people, when they get hit by a spaceship that was only doing 4,000 miles per hour will just ask for a little restitution and that's that. However, I ran into someone who was - let's tap our collection of metaphors here - a grand high supreme jerk. Some clown who called himself "Pegasus." This space rage thing is getting out of control, people! If you make the slightest little goof out there, somebody's going to shoot at you nowadays! If that were the society I'd prefer living in, I could just as easily move to Miami and deal with it daily. Now I'll be the first to admit I may have handled the incident poorly. As far as I know, "Pegasus" was just going to leave it at the one mag-gun round he fired into my ship. But instead of just saying "thank you" and going on my way, I got upset (I'd just had the ship detailed!) and unfortunately traced his lineage all the way back to the trees, with a number of unfortunate (and uncomplimentary) invectives about his heritage. So, I woke up in the hospital. Twice. So if we are to glean some knowledge from this encounter, it should be thus: 1. Pegasus has NO sense of humor I think a good rule to live by, both in space and nearly eveywhere else, is to just not be a jerk. Of course, for some people, being a jerk is an inevitability, so we must strive to be just a slice above them and no matter what they do, speak kindly and courteously to them. While at the same time warming up the missile rack. Now, I'm beginning to think sticking this thing on the end of my column each week is a waste of pixels, because hardly anyone ever uses the link, but term this a triumph of hope over experience. If there's anything you'd like to share with me - thoughts, comments, questions, mild invectives - send them to Horatio_TheWriter@excite.com and I'll read them, probably get back to you, and maybe even write about it!
REPEAT
AFTER ME CLASS: DDs ARE BAD If Feducation existed, this would probably be one of the first things taught in pre-school. The teachers would explain to their little GroundHogs-to-be that, "DDs are bad. You do not want to DD." Unfortunately Fedeucation doesn’t exist, and despite my infinite knowledge, that simple fact seems to be lost on me. For you see everyone, I DDed. Dead-dead. No insurance. Gone for good. To fully capture the moment, I would like to take you all back to Saturday a week ago, around 11.00pm eastern. You’ll read about all this in the Chronicle in a few minutes I’m sure, but since the Inside Scoop comes before Event Reports, you read it here first! The event was Blood Zone. The host, Tomyris. I decided to give fighting a go that night. Little did I know how fateful it would be. There was a scarcity of combatants, but we managed to scrape together two teams. On one side, the Warriors, consisting of Sholuvr, Apollo, and Eaglewing, vied for the Blood Zone title. On the other side, the Britney Groupies (and in my opinion, the smarter, more attractive, better at fighting, more likely to DD, and generally more teen pop princess inclined team), consisted of Quiv, Hello, and myself, the ill-fated Gavin. With only two teams in a double-elimination contest, it essentially was a best of three match. The first fight was easily taken by the Britney Groupies, even though I died. However, heeding Tomyris’s warning, I reinsured. By employing some primitive form of strategy, somehow the Warriors managed to take the second game from us. Here is where things took a turn for a worse. I am sure Tomyris told me to reinsure, but being the incompetent NewsDroid-trying-to-fight that I was, I neglected to do so. I was of course unaware of this. So once again, we took to the skies, yelling we were going to win this one for BRITTTTTNNNNNNNEEEEYYYYY! (::gets smacked by Tomyris:: OWWW!*). Maydays filled the comms, and a pilot or two plummeted back to Karma. Eventually during this contest, Eaglewing managed to send my hull strength down to zero. At this point, I received a message (the gist of it involving a death sans insurance), that many of you I am sure have seen over the years. The end of it telling me I had gone into the void, wishing only that I had remembered to purchase insurance. As soon as it came up, I didn’t see it. There was so much scroll from firing too much and the game trying to catch up, that only after a second or so did I see the message. It took another moment or two before I could digest and believe it. But instead of a worse reaction (some of which I will not share here, and save for perhaps one day at a Meet and Greet, hint hint), I got a very bad feeling in my torso, decided (right away, first instincts of course) it would make a great news article, and resolved to make merchant before midnight. I logged back on, carefully made sure to type Gavin correctly, adjusted my stats as I always do (even if they would be maxed out an hour later), and headed into Fed at the Meeting Point on Earth once again. Immediately tuning to 10 (I had to know who won the fight), I don’t even remember exactly what I said. Nothing dramatic, nonchalant almost. Something like: >xt Hey everyone, I just DDed. Btw, who won the fight? Now, before I continue any further, I must make note of one fact: The Britney Groupies won!!!!!! BRITTNNNNEEEYYYYYY!!! How do you like that Tomy? (::gets smacked by Tomyris again::) It also means I am somewhere near the top of the Fighting League rankings for the beginning of the season! Sure to drop to last by next week, but it’s nice to be at the top of the pack, even if for just a day or two. But back to the part about me DDing. There was disbelief all around, followed by mass amounts of offers for help. Everyone was so incredibly helpful this time around it jarred me. The last few times I DDed, I got some help inside Mba, but nothing anywhere near as great as this. Perhaps the WebFed community is a little bit closer than AOLFed because of the smaller number of people, a positive that maybe many people overlook. I’m almost ashamed to admit it, but many of the people who helped me I didn’t know except by reputation or I had never even met before in Fed. That could mean I should pay more attention and be more social, but I think it means more that people are so generous, they are willing to help someone they hardly know out when they DD. It truly is a nice thought. With all the help barraging me, it actually took me a minute before I was able to move without having to respond to someone every second. So I quickly made my way down to the Office Block (who could ever forget how to get there?), added to the Galactic corruption, and walked off singing a happy tune and clutching my ship-owner’s permit. Jarrow handed me my standard piece-of-crap Commander ship, and then came the long (in this case short really) haul. (Quick side note: I’m going to list everyone who helped me in a public ‘Thank You,’ but two people stood out more than anyone else, and they will be getting extra mentions because their help was so monumental it simply can’t be helped to refer to it when describing my DD and the subsequent rise through the lower ranks.) Wolfyn immediately jumped to help me, and using the ingenuity of macros that I am only mildly familiar with, quickly got me to Adventurer using Puppydogz to offer quick runs from Mars to the Moon. Then, using my new-found freedom (and having been there before, avoiding the fatal shock involved with being allowed to go anywhere in the universe that I wrote about so many months ago), I traveled out of Sol. Wolfyn supplemented my modest bank account from hauling with a large gift of groats. I hugged her, repeatedly, for that. (::hugs Wolfyn again for good measure::) Then came a TB from Demelza. She was waiting on Mars LP with the coin and the diamond for me. I was completely surprised by this one. I’ve never met, or even heard of Demelza in my life. Either way, thank you very much for your generosity. I didn’t want to keep her waiting, so I rushed trying to find the GM, hoping, praying, and cursing that he didn’t end up in the ruins or in the last location of the last planet I checked. I’m sure some remember the last GM I had, I ended up slugging in the face. This one was much nicer. Maybe he learned his lesson from last time. He happened to be in the Casino on the Moon. My kind of GM if I’ve ever met one! He hurriedly took me to his study, handed over my trading permit, and quickly returned to feeding his roulette habit. (I left hearing his voice, "Come on lucky red! Papa needs a new teleporter!") So I was ready to make it to merchant. Thanks to various cash gifts, I could easily afford it, I just had to do the puzzles. Demelza, in her infinite kindness, handed over the diamond and coin, along with a nice sum of cash. First things first, I took a nice, relaxing break from all the rush and enjoyed some "quality time" with Diesel. Then, probably a bit famished from all the bedroom exercise, I engorged myself with some shredded wheat. Next, I engaged in a training course with Feelda Burne’s fast-track program to beef myself up after proving my worth in the Selena City Sports Complex’s high-gravity gym. Finally, in an event of stupid resulting in intelligence, I got myself lost in the grizzle caves, managed to make it to the lower level, and then pulled a lever and shocked myself, frying my wallet. All in all, it was a good day to be a trader. I followed by maxing out all my stats, and then entered the final stretch before I could relax. I had to get a company, twelve facs, get them running, and then settle down for awhile. Still in a rush, I quickly named my company (cheesy, yes, I know, but I was under stress) "C.U.J.O. killers, Inc." The offers for facs had come much earlier, and I had already promised the first few people I would take facs on their planet. So I had facs. I purchased them, set wages on all but four (a mistake I wouldn’t realize until about 24 hours later), forgot I needed to log off and re-log to get them started, took care of that problem, and then sat down, exhausted. It had been a short, but thoroughly tiring run to get to merchant. With a chance to just let the facs run, I chatted with a few people, and typed <di company> every two seconds, seeing how I was coming along. I made JP somewhere in the wee hours of Monday morning (I believe I was online almost all the time since Saturday night). Then continued to macro (with all 12 facs running) through to Tuesday evening. GM finally came somewhere in the early hours of Wednesday morning (I don’t know exactly when for sure, I was macroing). No sooner did I have time to take care of things than I hauled 5,000 tons of goods out, hauled in my link commods, added once again to Galactic Administration corruption, ordered my planet, and begin to build my link. The time passed slowly (as it always does), and finally the link was complete. But I was not going to enter Fed again with some generic mini-planet. No, I had to delay the whole process by another half an hour or so and upload Mythose into the workbench from Genesis! Finally, I was able to <online Mythose>.
FED
OP-ED: ME! As some of you may already know, I was a member of the Checkmate duchy. As more of you probably know, THE Duke Ryno is leaving Fed. Because of this, I (sadly) was forced to switch duchies today. In doing so, I had an idea to interview someone changing duchies, and who would be a better subject but myself! So here is an interview with the one, the only, (slightly schizophrenic), Jelly: What was the hardest part about leaving Checkmate for you? Typing. Excuse me? Typing. Could you explain that better? It took me dern near SIX hours to type seceed, er, sucede, er, nevermind. Let me reword that question. What caused you the most grief when you left THE duchy of Checkmate? Jetlag. Um, okay. How did you like your very short stay in Sol? Q. Hey! I ask the questions here. Did anyone say you could ask questions? A. ::looks down:: No. Q. Good, now sit there and answer my questions. How did you like your very short stay in Sol? A. It was quite interesting, I think. Q. What do you mean you think?!? A. Actually, to be honest, I slept through the whole thing. Q. ::smacks herself in the forehead:: You know, you aren't a very good interview subject. A. Was that a question? Can I answer that? Q. I said I ask the questions here! A. ::looks down again:: Sorry. Q. ::suddenly points her pencil:: Is it true you showed workthingies in an unfair fashion during your trip to show people what WTs are really like? A. What? Um, Yes! I mean, no! I mean, talk to my lawyer! Q. Sorry about that, sometimes I forget I'm not Barbara Walters ::sighs sadly:: A. You're scaring me. I think I'll be leaving now. Q. Wait! Let me ask you your opinion on— A. ::gets up and slams the door in her face::
SCOUNDREL'S
CORNER: AGE OF INFORMATION It has been called the Age of Information. Never before in the course of human history has such a massive global communications network existed for the instant exchange of information with virtually anyone, virtually anywhere. Never before in the course of human history has the average individual been offered such a wide variety of equipment and services to stay connected. Never before in the course of human events have songwriters had such a pain in the butt. What I wanna know, baby / If what we had was good / How come U don't call me anymore, yeah? / Oh anymore The lyrics above, by The Artist Once Again Known As Prince Formerly the Artist Formerly Known as Prince, are fairly straightforward, and flow well within the song. Let us suppose for a moment, however, that The Artist Once Again Known As Prince Formerly the Artist Formerly Known as Prince (hereafter referred to as TAOAKAPFTAFKAP) had written this song today, in the Glorious Age of Information. What I wanna know baby / If what we had was good / How come U don't call me, page me, beep me, leave me a message, email me, download my files, instant message me, send me online greeting cards, play Fed with me or web cam me anymore, yeah? / Oh anymore This was one verse. Imagine what would happen if we applied this sort of modernization to the following: Why can't U call me sometime, baby? / It's just one lousy dime, baby / Why can't U call me sometime? / Oh, no no / Why on Earth can't U just pick up the phone, yeah? / U know I don't like 2 be alone {fade out} / Why, why must U torture me baby? / Why U gotta treat me so bad? The song could easily turn into a congressional filibuster. Worse, it could turn into a three-hour infomercial that invades your dreams because you fell asleep on the couch again while watching the Sci-Fi channel: Why can't U call me sometime, baby? / It's just one lousy dial into 1-800-COLLECT and it would save you at least a buck or two (based on a similar call placed with AT&T) and it's easy / Why can't you call me sometime? Of course, it could be worse. They certainly couldn't have had it much better in other eras. Consider the following, from The Artist Formerly Known as the Ancestor of the Artist Once Again Known As Prince Formerly the Artist Formerly Known as Prince (TAFKATAOTAOAKAPFTAFKAP): What I wouldst learn of thee, baby / If what we had was good, i' faith / Why hast thou sent not thy messenger pigeons in a fortnight, yea, verily? / Oh fortnight, yea verily Prithee, Why dost thou not write? / It is nary more than one lousy messenger, baby / Why dost thou behead him thusly? And send me the head? / Oh, nay nay / Why on Earth canst thou just pick up the crossbow bolt with the message attached I didst shoot through thy chamber window, yea, verily? / Thou dost know that solitude I like not {fade out} / Why, why must thou stretcheth me on this rack so, baby? / Why need thee treat me so badly? Huzzah? Unwieldy and cumbersome, no question, but the bards, minstrels, and singers of song of that age somehow managed. Of course, the people of that age had it good. They didn't have radios to contend with. A radio is, of course, an electronic instrument that can receive transmissions in the form of radio waves and convert those radio waves into sound waves that the human ear is capable of hearing. A variety of radio stations exist in any given area, increasing the chances from "miniscule" to "highly unlikely" that a person may find one that doesn't utterly suck. For people interested in performing penance for their various sins, there is also a variety of stations one can select from the AM band. What is less well known about radios is that by Federal regulations and factory standards, each is installed with a 100-watt telepathic grief amplifier. It knows. And it hates you. That baleful little black box is eyeing you, waiting. Watching. Waiting for something tragic to happen. It knows that she left. It knows that he died. It knows you just accidentally ran over your dog with the lawnmower and that you are secretly glad to not have to clean up the droppings anymore. It knows anything that might be giving you grief. And it has a song for you. You left me just when I needed you most... I wish I could have told him in the living years.... I'm lookin' over my dead dog Rover that I overran with a mower... And most of all, it knows you've been sitting by the phone, computer, pager, cell phone and mailbox. What I wanna know, baby / If what we had was good / How come U don't call me anymore, yeah? / Oh anymore Just another benefit of living in this, the Age of Information. Where you can be completely in the dark in new and exciting ways. Isn't it great.
If you plan to give me any guff about my formula of 600 tons of livestock roughly equaling 4,000 cows, I don't want to hear it at Olias7@aol.com.
ALSATIAN'S PLANET REVIEW: DOG IN A MOUSETRAP >who litterbox >land >alarm 30 >act snores Canines are inherently narcoleptic. When it's time for a nap there's no negotiation, no prying open of eyelids and hanging on to consciousness for a few more minutes. On this day I at least had enough presence of mind to check for lurking demi-goddesses who might insist I Stay Alert and On The Job, but already my thought processes had suddenly and unexpectedly slowed to a crawl, my body cloaked in a mantle of lethargy. Well, maybe not unexpectedly – it had been a good hour since my last snooze. With a sigh of appreciation that this uninhabited planet was nearby in my time of need, I sprawled out on the cool floor of the drably painted corridor of my ship and glided off into the world of puppydog dreams. A half hour later I was rudely snatched from my nocturnal fantasies (mostly involving that cute little mongrel on Discworld and unprintable in this publication) by the beeping alarm on my collar computer. I rose, stretched out each hind leg in turn, and initiated one of those refreshing hound shakes that began at my nose and traveled the length of my torso all the way down to the tip of my furry tail. Dislodged fleas, dander, and shed hair littered the corridor after that one. It was time to find the nearest canine convenience station and freshen up a bit. >look At the south end is a hatch leading to the cargo bay, while the command center is at the north end. >out Rubbing my now-smushed muzzle, I tried to understand this turn of events. This had never happened before; my ship portal had always opened with that reassuring little 'whoosh' sound whenever I wanted to exit. This time there was no little whooshing sound, no egress, and my nose felt like it had endured one of Hazed's thwaps from being the first part of my body to encounter the cold steel of the closed exit door. Muffled twittering and giggling could be heard from outside my ship. Cocking my sensitive ears and straining to listen, I made out something else that caused my hackles rise with indignation – there was definite mewing going on out there! Well, there are more ways than one to skin a cat and exit a ship. Or so I thought. >south South you can just make out the outline of the cargo doors - but they can only be operated from outside the ship. >south What kind of fool would design a ship with doors that opened only from the outside? If Jarrow's remade the movie "Texas Chainsaw Massacre" they'd probably use weed eaters. With a huff of irritation I decided to just take my leave of this wretched, feline infested planet. >orbit >buy fuel >act scratches the tick on his ear and ponders his next move. >teleport sol 245 At this point I engaged in a few rounds of mud slinging, name calling, and general abusive language on the comms. The cat factions responded by banning me from their duchy, knowing full well I couldn't go anywhere. Soon after I fished the last dog biscuit out of my cookie tin, they started torturing me by waving aromatic bowls of Nine Lives Liver Flavored Dinners outside the air intakes of my ship. I used all my past issues of the Chronicle for canine Port-O-Lets. I couldn't stand it anymore; I was starving, the forward areas of my ship permeated with the disgusting yet tantalizing smell of cat food, the rest of the ship smelling like a too-small kennel on a hot summer's day. It was time for that dreaded last resort. >quit
I've finally unearthed the problem with the comms. No, it's not the nightly discussions of bodily functions, but that's not a bad guess. The problem, at least as I see it, is that there's too much talk, and no music. And I really do mean "music" - the drunken singing at three in the morning doesn't count. Maybe I'm a little more sensitized to this because I actually work on air for a radio station now. Then again, it could be because hauling is just no fun without some music to listen to. Think on that a bit: whenever you're doing a lot of driving, what makes your trip? Your radio. And whenever a really good song comes on, you turn the radio up nearly as far as it can go and proceed to dance while going 70 miles an hour. Now I will grant that this could be a potential safety liability in Fed. Dancing at 70 miles an hour is one thing, but dancing at 70 MILLION miles an hour is quite another. The upside is that, thanks to the vacuum of space, nobody will have to listen to anybody else's music, a common red-light malady. So maybe this isn't a good idea after all. And besides, if you do get bored hauling, you can always turn on channel 9 and listen to the wit and wisdom that flies around on a nightly basis. Yes, wisdom. Such as "beer and Bon Jovi don't mix." As always, if there's anything you'd like to share with me, feel free to email it to Horatio_TheWriter@excite.com! Anything at all!
FED
OP-ED: FUNNY BONES This week, I decided to ask a planet full of willing Fedders (the planet: Britania) this question: "What is your funniest experience ever in Fed, and describe it." Let’s see what made them laugh:
Rasal: ::chuckles:: "Mine must
be when the CM Vixens maliciously attacked me on Dyamond.
And all over a little remark." Calodia: "Mine was the time I caught Ryno wearing some... interesting clothing when going to pick up Aylisa's alimony. ::giggles:: It was something about not knowing where THE duke ended and THE artist began... ::was nice enough to tell everyone what she saw when he got back from changing:: I was shopping on spacemall with Aylisa and Bix. It was a fun day." Bront: "Hmm... The funniest thing I remember in fed. That would probably be the time I watched as Tomyris, Goldie, and Deertears tied Preach up and... tortured him, in the Tara bar. It was funny with Preach trying to find ways to escape, and the girls all had fun preventing him." Bront: "Oh, one other funny moment in fed. A friend of mine found a typo in fed, that, apparently has been there since fed started... It's when you starve... Here it is... You feed very hungry! A wave of weakness washes over you... It should be you FEEL very hungry." SirBuck: "I would have to say me strip dancing for Kao, Uno, and Ferreri." Jeblt: "The first time Red stole my boxers :)and put them up for auction" Redspice: "There have been food fights. There have been those that we covered with chocolate..." Rere: "Who had the funniest
reaction to having their boxers stolen?" Rere: "Oh there was Duchess Aylisa... when she first got her duchy... she was running around with an ice cream truck, selling yummies for groats. She'd come around ringing her bell lol" Bront: "The Boxer contest on
Celi was funny too..." Bront: "So, what you're saying, is that Fed has been your funniest experience?" I would just like to end with this double quote Redspice: "Fed has made me
laugh a lot. Sometimes we get too serious. We forget to
laugh... Or we let the world around us bring us down. Fed
is a place where we can find the funny side and
laugh."
ALSATIAN'S PLANET REVIEW: LITTERBOX LAMENT Last week I was telling you the story of my interment on Litterbox – trapped in my ship with no fuel and doors sealed shut with some evil adhesive that looked suspiciously like clumping kitty litter. My cookie jar was empty and most of the past issues of the Chronicle I kept stashed in the cargo bay had long since been sacrificed for use as canine convenience stations. After a week it smelled pretty bad in my ship. The situation didn't smell much better. Outside I could hear a cacophony of ghastly wailing and screeching as the felines celebrated their insidious antics. It sounded like they had drawn reinforcements from all over Fed by now. Even my poor fleas had begun begging for release. Then inspiration hit me square on the snout. Fleas, mosquitoes, rumors, and the smell of a skunk just turned to road kill all have one thing in common – they can pass through any barrier, even the pressurized hull of a Fleet-Class spaceship. I don't know how this happens, but it's proved every time Hazed has a slow morning in Fed. She'll take to her hands and knees, scrubbing and exterminating every inch of my ship and I wake up to find there's not a single flea in the entire vessel. By the time I waddle through the Sol link they are lined up like can-can dancers from the cargo bay to the command center. Somehow they get in. Well, if fleas can get in this hermetically sealed flying doghouse, surely they can get out! I massed my troops together and the smells wafting through the area were momentarily forgotten as we planned our strategy. Excitement mounted; not only would our plan result in our escape – it might well rid Fed of most of the feline population! I took a moment to envision the globe on Mars, newly restored and engraved with fitting thanks to yours truly, the Pied Piper of a future catless Fed. Picking among flea volunteers, I squashed one, said a few words over his now lifeless body, fed his DNA sequence into my ship's atom-reducer, and set the programming for exception. There wasn't a dry insect eye in the house as we acknowledged this brave flea's contribution for the Greater Good. My eyes grew a little misty as the troops lined up and gave me a 288-leg salute. Then they scattered. I clipped a clothespin to my nose in defense of the now-overpowering smell, turned on my viewsceen, and started counting to one thousand on my toes. On the first paw I lost track when I stopped to ponder if dewclaws were supposed to be counted as a whole toe. Hopefully my friends had enough time by now to reach their objective. Ready or not, it was time to put the plan in action. I carefully aimed the atom-reducer at an especially nasty looking black specimen that bore a suspicious resemblance to Felina. Turning the power to maximum I squeezed the trigger. A nanosecond of atom scrambling later the cat was reduced to a pitiful specimen just a little larger than a pinhead. A specimen much smaller than the flea sitting on her now crushed neck. "Whoo-hoo!" I howled as I swung the device towards my next target. There, another black one with a little pink tag swinging from her collar. I could barely make out the word "Catspaws" on the tag before I shrunk the kitty so small she barely made a snack for the flea standing over her! Back and forth I swung the atom reducer. Some of the fleas had chosen their waiting spot well – by burrowing behind the ears of an unlucky feline they were cushioned by the fur and bones of the neck they crushed when the cat suddenly shrunk in size. Some preferred to loom over their kills and enjoyed a vision of feline terror just before they executed the victim. I liked those best. A dozen cats were eradicated. Then a score, a hundred. After a thousand a fine layer of tiny cat corpses paved the LP. Survivors stood rooted in disbelief, but were quickly picked off by my keen canine eye and steady paw. We ruled the day! Soon all of Fed would be chanting my name in praise! Alsatian would go down in the Chronicle archives as the dog that rid DataSpace of the Feline… "Ashkellion! What in Ming's name did you feed that dog for breakfast!" I bumped my skull on the bottom of the table when Hazed's voice startled me out of my morning snooze. "Just some leftover marsrat chili, and a little ale to wash it down." Ashkellion reached under the table and patted my throbbing head as he recited my breakfast menu. "Well, would you please take him out for a walk. Right now. And don't ever feed that dog chili again, it's going to take a week to air out CDs!" Hazed waved a hand in front of her face in a vain attempt to stir the aroma of my digestive discharges. Ashkellion looked a little sheepish as he apologized to the demi-goddess, attached a lead to my collar, and led me out for a constitutional. I stumbled along behind, yawning and shaking off yet another cuisine induced dream. The point of this story is that when no players send in planets for review or puzzles to write catchy bylines for, I don't have anything to do but eat chili and stink up CDs.
TOP
TEN WAYS TO GET THE ATTENTION OF EVERYONE IN FED So, you feel ignored? No one pays attention to you? No one notices whether you haul or not? Almost all of us feel that way from time to time. But fear not! Your intrepid Duchy reporter has the answers - ten of them! Ready, here they are.
P.S. Speaking of Lotus, lots of {{{{{{{}}}}}}} to Gaminglady, who been under the weather and missed by everyone! She has been in the hospital but with any luck, she should be back with us soon! Best wishes for a quick recovery GL!
ADDICTED
TO FED Your lights are on, but you're
still home You can't sleep, you can't eat Whoa, you like to think that you're
immune to the stuff, oh yeah You see the screen, but you can't
read You can't be saved Whoa, you like to think that you're
immune to the stuff, oh yeah Might as well face it, you're
addicted to Fed Your lights are on, and you're
still home Whoa, you like to think that you're
immune to the stuff, oh yeah Might as well face it, you're
addicted to Fed
FED
OP-ED: MOBILES AND ME This week, I decided to investigate an issue that I'm sure all of you have been thinking about. Yes, the answer is finally here to the question wondered about so many times: "If people could be any mobile in Fed, which would they be and why?" Bigmac: "I think it'd be Pegasus because no one can leave Sol without seeing her at least once and admiring her. I know that's not funny, but ya gotta admire the Pegasus and respect her." [Editor's note: Pegasus is a "Him", not a "Her"! Mind you, it's not exactly safe to get close enough to do a gender check...] Roguespear: "um... I'd say my frisbee mobile. I'm not sure why, I just like frisbee :)" Archangel: "Pegasus, because I could deliver my Godly wrath on the sinners of Fed 0:-)" Penterkar: "Having forgot most of em :::chuckle::: I'd have to say the German shepherd cause he gets to eat all those chocolate chip cookies :)" [Editor's Note: Actually, they are chocolate ginger biscuits.] Squeeky, "Too bad there aren't any mouse type mobiles in Fed :) squeek but i wouldn't mind being a Zilthworm so that way the cats in Fed wouldn't be chasing me all the time :)" Galinfenner, "mmm... Pegasus. Cuz he's the baddest mobile in the game." Schnitzlebank, "the tourist. I like to make a racket." Maribella: "I really don't know... probably the cleaner because it always seems to take the good stuff from you." Witchdoctor: "The old Sol drug squad, because they used to get all the good items !" Well, it looks like Pegasus is the most popular choice here. (However, Frisbee DID win some votes from our judges for originality. Wait, what judges? Never mind.) What's my choice? If I could be anything, I would be the piano player in Chez Diesel. Why? Well, then I can blend into the background all while creating a great atmosphere for those there. (I also heard the tips are great!) Are you itching to know what the average Fedder thinks about something? Do you desire to be considered an "average Fedder"? Want to complain about my column? (Compliments are also welcome…) Suggestions? Sent an e-mail over to Jelly@columnist.com.
ALSATIAN'S PLANET REVIEW: I ONLY HAVE EYES FOR YOOOUUUU... I began to suspect that a review of a well-done planet by yours truly carried with it the lick of death, the drool of doom, and the howl of heartbreak. Several times I'd reviewed a planet, giving it my highest howl of praise, and within a few weeks said system would shut down tighter than a wood tick on a dog's tail. Hazed had even starting asking if I was digging holes and burying the planets instead of the awards. Thera closed soon after I slobbered praise and left behind a Walrus as well as a few other miscellaneous presents. To my relief the planet reopened this week and Triton assures me that the shutdown had nothing to do with the sudden influx of fleas on his real estate. Welcome back, Triton. The rest of you go check out Thera. Meanwhile, in the manner of most science fiction phenomenon, the results of my marsrat chili induced indigestion managed to cross firewalls and the space-time continuum. The people at AboveNet finally had enough one morning and moved aside the Fed computer to try to find out what had died underneath the chassis. Of course nothing was found but my bad dreams. They placed a couple fans around the area, Fed was only down a short time, and I apologize to all those I inconvenienced. Hazed has promised me a lamb and rice diet the rest of my life.
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STEALING HIS JOB