Notes and brain rumblings

To His Grace, Darren H., Duke of Parma:

We received your missive yesterday afternoon with much joy and gratitude and are looking forward to the day when we might employ the information contained. Please accept our thanks and the highest compliments of our meager court. The Baron is fortunate indeed to have such an able and honourable fellow as yourself in his employ.

With warmest regard,
featherynscale
* * * * *

I intended to make up a grand flourishing name for myself in the above note, but my brain doesn't seem to have any gender-neutral titles in it other than Dr. and Rev., and neither of those seem appropriate for the circumstances. The grand flourishing name does not work without a title. Curse you, European history.
* * * * *

Election day was so unreal to me yesterday that I didn't even check the results until this morning, and I am, as a rule, a compulsive election clicker. As it turns out, our guy will not be the next Mayor, which is sort of a bummer, but I figure the other guy is okay too. They were the two best of a weird lot. And, they didn't vote back in the local rep who keeps getting indicted for fraud and then claiming that she wasn't aware she was defrauding people. So that's something.
EDIT: Or not. The paper is calling the mayoral race opposite to what I read from the election board this morning. So who can say, really?
* * * * *

Lois McMaster Bujold, although initially very compelling to me, has fallen off of my list of authors to be excited about new releases from. I just finished the first volume of her new series, and I'm disappointed. You sold me a romance, lady! Not that it wasn't a well-written romance, as these things go, but still. I'm looking for great, world-altering drama, and the biggest challenges Our Heros faced was a one-shot monster and a bunch of farmboys who try to run off a foreign suitor. Booooo-rrring.
* * * * *

Tonight I have no meetings to attend, no classes to teach, no particular obligations. (Well, I have to be around to take a phone call, but that's it.) Holy crap, people, I might get some laundry done.

Notes and brain rumblings

To His Grace, Darren H., Duke of Parma:

We received your missive yesterday afternoon with much joy and gratitude and are looking forward to the day when we might employ the information contained. Please accept our thanks and the highest compliments of our meager court. The Baron is fortunate indeed to have such an able and honourable fellow as yourself in his employ.

With warmest regard,
featherynscale
* * * * *

I intended to make up a grand flourishing name for myself in the above note, but my brain doesn't seem to have any gender-neutral titles in it other than Dr. and Rev., and neither of those seem appropriate for the circumstances. The grand flourishing name does not work without a title. Curse you, European history.
* * * * *

Election day was so unreal to me yesterday that I didn't even check the results until this morning, and I am, as a rule, a compulsive election clicker. As it turns out, our guy will not be the next Mayor, which is sort of a bummer, but I figure the other guy is okay too. They were the two best of a weird lot. And, they didn't vote back in the local rep who keeps getting indicted for fraud and then claiming that she wasn't aware she was defrauding people. So that's something.
EDIT: Or not. The paper is calling the mayoral race opposite to what I read from the election board this morning. So who can say, really?
* * * * *

Lois McMaster Bujold, although initially very compelling to me, has fallen off of my list of authors to be excited about new releases from. I just finished the first volume of her new series, and I'm disappointed. You sold me a romance, lady! Not that it wasn't a well-written romance, as these things go, but still. I'm looking for great, world-altering drama, and the biggest challenges Our Heros faced was a one-shot monster and a bunch of farmboys who try to run off a foreign suitor. Booooo-rrring.
* * * * *

Tonight I have no meetings to attend, no classes to teach, no particular obligations. (Well, I have to be around to take a phone call, but that's it.) Holy crap, people, I might get some laundry done.

Nothing rhymes with airship pirates!

anachrotech is often full of excellence, but today, robert_from_ap is soliciting help for a song about airship pirates. Ever-helpful commenters want to know, "Is the song pro- or con- airship pirates?". This cracks me up for no good reason.

Another thing that cracks me up for no good reason, which also happens to be related to airship pirates is Tradewinds Legends. This is a shiny little commodities game in which you play one of four ship captains and trade, fight, and snark your way around the mythic Middle East. I lost much time to it this weekend. You start with a single ship, then build a fleet, and eventually trade your sailing ships for dirigibles and mystical flying dragon boats. On the way, you play with characters like Scheherazade and Sinbad, hook up lonely genies, steal phoenix eggs for the omelettes of sultans, and so on and so forth. Wildly funny. The character I'm playing with currently is searching the world for his missing "brother", who, it gradually becomes clear, is his 'brother' the way that Patroclus was Achilles' 'cousin'.

Also, only vaguely related to airship pirates, I'm becoming very enamored of the concept of a sort of retro-biomechanical tattoo. I'd like to have something that looked like a cutaway to reveal steampunkish gears, dials, and pipes. I've thought of this before, and it still seems like a good plan, but I'm still working out the finer points of where that goes and how to express it. Suggestions gladly accepted.

Nothing rhymes with airship pirates!

anachrotech is often full of excellence, but today, robert_from_ap is soliciting help for a song about airship pirates. Ever-helpful commenters want to know, "Is the song pro- or con- airship pirates?". This cracks me up for no good reason.

Another thing that cracks me up for no good reason, which also happens to be related to airship pirates is Tradewinds Legends. This is a shiny little commodities game in which you play one of four ship captains and trade, fight, and snark your way around the mythic Middle East. I lost much time to it this weekend. You start with a single ship, then build a fleet, and eventually trade your sailing ships for dirigibles and mystical flying dragon boats. On the way, you play with characters like Scheherazade and Sinbad, hook up lonely genies, steal phoenix eggs for the omelettes of sultans, and so on and so forth. Wildly funny. The character I'm playing with currently is searching the world for his missing "brother", who, it gradually becomes clear, is his 'brother' the way that Patroclus was Achilles' 'cousin'.

Also, only vaguely related to airship pirates, I'm becoming very enamored of the concept of a sort of retro-biomechanical tattoo. I'd like to have something that looked like a cutaway to reveal steampunkish gears, dials, and pipes. I've thought of this before, and it still seems like a good plan, but I'm still working out the finer points of where that goes and how to express it. Suggestions gladly accepted.

zomgsqueeCLANK!

I would like to think that I am not susceptible to acute fanboyism, that I can sort of play about with fandom, and not really get sucked into it. That I could go my entire life without ever penning a fanfic, or getting angry over an argument about the technical specifications of a fictional starship, or clamoring for a useless prop from the production of whatever, or treasuring an autograph.

And yet. When I look deep down into the oubliette of the shadow parts of my soul, down there at the bottom, there is a squeeing, mouthbreathing, pimply fanboy who desperately wants to own Neil Gaiman's ghetto-ass clacky keyboard. I'm gonna go check the cover on that oubliette right now.

zomgsqueeCLANK!

I would like to think that I am not susceptible to acute fanboyism, that I can sort of play about with fandom, and not really get sucked into it. That I could go my entire life without ever penning a fanfic, or getting angry over an argument about the technical specifications of a fictional starship, or clamoring for a useless prop from the production of whatever, or treasuring an autograph.

And yet. When I look deep down into the oubliette of the shadow parts of my soul, down there at the bottom, there is a squeeing, mouthbreathing, pimply fanboy who desperately wants to own Neil Gaiman's ghetto-ass clacky keyboard. I'm gonna go check the cover on that oubliette right now.