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Topics - Don Coyote

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Literate Chaotic / Artificial Entertainment
« on: Today at 09:13:17 pm »
This game is artificially difficult

Spoken without awareness?
Spoken from a place of irony?


This game is a construct
   An edifice of artifice
All games are constructs
   All edifices of artifice

Donít cry
   Difficulty isnít
      You not having countless powers

Artificial Difficulty
Would be
Perfectly balanced
That wreck
Your shit
Would be
Perfectly balanced
That have
No chance of failure

Compared to?
         Just as logical to
         Your game is
         Artificially Easy

Thinking about post this on a friend's wall in response to her shitty reposting of the "poor EMT doesn't get paid enough so fuck the entitled burger flippers" meme.

Well a minimum wage job is supposed to keep people above the poverty line, but that when bye bye a while ago. Unless you're also saying that burger flippers deserve to live in poverty because they choose to flip burgers because there are so many well paying jobs available.
I mean sure that makes complete and total sense. I remember all of the job offers I got living in Ridgecrest when I was looking for work. Oh wait that's right, I couldn't even get a job flipping burgers in Ridgecrest, and to be honest I couldn't afford to move. I had help leaving R/C to Ventura, where I did get a min wage (temp) job and then a job making 10.50, which wouldn't have been able to pay for rent and college at the same time.
So the burger flippers want a min wage that they can live on, which is the original point behind the min wage, but you think that because it's generally unskilled labor and an entry level job they don't deserve to live above the poverty line and also deserve to pay for the barest minimum of health care.
Let's compare burger flipping to my favorite entry level unskilled job, the Private 2nd Class E-2. An E-2's montly pay is $1,734. Break that down into 40-hour weeks, because you don't get overtime pay in the military, and that is only a paltry $10.83 an hour. That's crazy you must be thinking. Outrageous even. However, the E-2 gets free health care, which includes dental and eye and covers all manner of expensive shit, worth at least $50 a month because that's what I pay as a reservist; free housing, looking the prices in Lakewood, WA that's worth between $500 and $1,500 a month, call it $800; three free meals a day, and not fast food garbage, actual food, which is currently valued at $367.92 a month. Everything other than the base pay is a benefit, and even if this private is drawing the monetary equivalent of those benefits, housing and food, those are not considered income and not taxed.
Monthly gross income would be approximately $3000, hourly wage of $18.75.
I'm also not factoring in the annual tuition cap of $4,500 or the annual clothing stipend which is between $306.00 and $464.40.
But then there is the justification that this private is signing their life away to possibly die, we lose more soldiers to mental health problems or auto accidents than in combat.
But that is also neither here nor there because not everyone CAN join the military even if they wanted to, in some cases for minor things that don't impact normal life, like being too near-sighted, or just not quite "smart" enough to pass the ASVAB.

Literate Chaotic / Army Time
« on: May 21, 2015, 02:35:52 pm »
Army Time

Army Time is Sideways Time
It is time bent folded compressed
Stored slammed shoved into
Green canvas bags

Army time is hook and loop
Frayed, barely serving its functions
Abused, over-used long past its prime

Army time is tan briefs
No one wants them
Everyone gets them
They fall apart before their time
Caked with sweat and piss and shit
Stained with semen and blood

Army time is Sideways time
Compressed until it cracks and oozes
Spreading everywhere uselessly
Compressed until one hour is one day
One becomes two
Two become more
Units become meaningless

Army time builds up
Trapped in your guts
Compacted, impacted

Army time wants to be your time
It wants you to want it

Army time hitches a ride home
Coiled in your bowels
Like a dragon in an epic

Army time makes you suffer
Sometimes silently
Sometimes with sound and fury
Signifying nothing but also something

Army time
It stinks

Literate Chaotic / Cyborgís Quandary?
« on: March 19, 2015, 07:13:08 pm »
Your meat is you
Youíre your meat
The meat is you

You equal meat
Without the meat
There is no you

Without you
Your meat is just

You equal meat
You plus meat also
Equals you

There is no


Meat does there need to be?

A soldier without a leg
Is still a soldier

A person blinded by an accident
Is still a person

A heart can be replaced
But not a brain

Is that all the meat
You need
To be

Stripped of organs
And flesh

Brain encased
In shining steel

Does that you still
Remain you?

Even with eyes that see
Beyond human sight?

Even with limbs with strength
Beyond human might?

What if immortality meant giving up

What does it mean to be
Human then?

Youíre meat
Your meat

It is yours to do with
You can do with you
As you wish

How will your brain react
Without the cavalcade
Of self-administered

Literate Chaotic / To slay a jabberwocky
« on: January 06, 2015, 12:00:13 am »

Before the sun rises, my retainers ready me for battle.
My panoply in its full array, or cap-a-pie as they say in days long gone by,
Is in a form so archaic as to seem antique,
Yet in construction anything but.
From my cap to my shoes, to include doublet and hose too,
Of spiderís silk, of maidensí hair, of ancientís kevlar, and of silver spun,
And with magics woven within to be proof against beam and blow both.
All to stanch the hurts I shall certainly receive,
To blunt the blows of my beastly foes,
And to save my flesh from searing blasts
Of both beams of light and breaths of dragons.
My armor is as black as the shattered ship from beyond the heavens
Its ore wrestled from walls of metal harder than iron.
With gold and iron it is inlaid,
Glyphs, runes, and symbols in formulae and equations
Describing geometries possible and impossible,
Inscribing names of demons, elementals, and angels,
Reminding all named of pledges and allegiances hard won
By generations beyond number with blade and with book,
Blessings of war, of strength, of luck, and even against rust.
Strapped to my arm and suspended from my neck, my shield.
Stories told by elders long past
From the door of an ancientís war machine it was cut.
An inch of ancientís steel, solid and massy,
A bulwark of my body as I am shield to my people.
A field of green, a tower crossed by lance and sword,
The blazon of my clan is painted thereupon.
A squire lays in my hand my long lance,
Thrice three feet of ash.
Once white wood now long stained scarlet,
Once more ready to drink deeply of dragonís heartblood.
Girt at my waist, a sword and a dagger,
A pair matched they are not.
The dagger, short and stout,
Ancient bronze, nicked and notched,
Only one sapphire remains of the rumored thirteen,
Twelve lonely cavities like empty eye sockets leering along the blade as adornment
Opposite rests her adopted sister.
A weapon I won in a card game as a wager.
The mysterious masked loser of it remarked,
ďMoth wings, moon beams, and rathe that were mome
Forged and folded until the form of a blade they were fixed,
Or at least that were what the man what sold me it said.Ē
To my eyes like plain steel it seems,
But upon advisement of a sage, into battle
I shall wear it. For
      Tis grand
   To against a dragon fight
   In defense of people and of land.
   Prepared to strive day and night,
   I stride out of the gate with lance in hand.

Beaming brightly the sun beats down as I stride to meet the beast.
Five fathoms, or more, or less, its form hard to see,
It stands shrouded in silvery shadows stinking of smoke and sulfur.
Rearing to deliver its challenging roar,
From its gullet a thousand gears rattle, if not more.
Upon shield with spear, I bang out a reply so thunderous as to sunder windows.
(This monster for a month has people and stock massacred.)
Lifting its head and lithe body sucking in air
I brace myself behind my bulwark to receive
The blast the beast is about to breathe.
A sickly-sweet smelling smoke
Of thick shadows spew from shaded maw
Hammering my ecranche as it holds fast guarding my flesh from harm.
My feet dig into the cracked and dried earth, pounded dense by decades of traffic,
Tenebrous tendrils twine around my targe
Trying to entangle my arms and feet.
I discover to my grim amusement, this dragonís breath can feel pain,
As an engraved invocation to an illuminating angel blazes into solar incandescent
Beating it back with the a sacred heat greater than any brand,
Screaming and sizzling the shadows and smoke retreat.
I speak my thanks as I speed to the great serpentís side.
Blinded by the bright blast of light, the beast should be easy enough prey.
I cast my spear like the gambler tosses dice, with the hope that luck is at my side.
Crimson spar flies from my fingers.
Whether due to lady luckís love or long lanceís blood-lust
Deeply into its side my long dart digs
Stabbing between the serpentís shinning segmented scales.
Yet now is not the time to call ďCalloohĒ or ďCallay.Ē
      It is not dead!
   Sans lance the beast I must slay?
   From ground on to spear on to head
   I leap like a game I must play.
   And hope after this blow the dragon is dead.

Stout spear unsprings to fling me upwards.
Like a bolt from a crossbow, I fly to bring my quarrel
To the rattling ravagerís high head to finish the deed my lance began.
Wraithly ropes of shadow-stuff, thick as a wrist, in the air writhe.
Sprouting from the serpentís scales like hair,
And entwining together to impede my serpent slaying endeavor
They weave a net, trying to wreathe me in the wind.
With gleaming glaive cleaving gashes through gellid shade
I force my way through the wraith-rope forest
Hurtling ever down to the fiendís head.
Frigid foliage can barely check my flight.
How far away the sunís hammer heavy heat grows.
Gladly battered by the sunís bold light would I be
Than feeling the clammy caress of this creepy hair
The sun soon left in the distance, as shadows screen out the light.
Not prepared for the this flight
Nor expecting the loathsome serpent to violate
Natureís laws as much as manís.
Distance and time distorted by this damned thingís presence.
Had I expected this, from ground to lance to head I would not have lept.
Much more pleasant it would have been to keep pugilistic heroics grounded,
Than cut through this nightmarish net of nasty congealed shadow-stuff
Yet at the time I thought it
      Would be fun,
   And even if I should die
   A grand poem might be spun.
   Even if my folk think this a lie
   Iíll tell this tale when all is done.

I marveled in the dark, at how sharp moonís light looks.
In songs and stories how soft they say moonlight is.
Here, now, smothered by serpentís smoke and shadow
What seemed simple steel, now like hard edged moonbeam slices the shadow.
Softly, slowly, a sound beyond sound grows.
First one, then two, then more, much more
Soft moth wings? No, hard moth wings.
As if against a billion windowpanes batter a billion moths.
It surrounds me. Slams into my skull.
Make it stop. Make it stop.
Sword slams into serpent scales
Sibilantly shearing slices free.
Shards of armor, cogs, gears, cable, conduit
Flying freely far into the fetid dark.
Deeper I hack. Harder I slash.
Mothwingís maddening melody grows louder.
I have begun monologuing.
I am outside myself.
I report about myself.
My body has found its own rhythm.
Hack and slash, cut and chop
Madness melody moves my body metronomically.
One and two. One and two. ONE and TWO.
A ragged rent through the ravagerís hide
Has my moonbeam blade battered beneath its head.
Wiping sweat from my brow seeing for the first time
The swarm of moths within steel
Trapped beneath the swordís surface, the source of the maddening song.
Now I understand what the ragged gambler said of this sword won as a wager.
Scores of moths flittering furiously added fervor to my blows against the fiend.
And my face is bathed in moonlight scattered by moth wingbeats.
Crisp illumination shines in the wreckage of my path.
Pooling around my ankles are the putrid petrochemical laced
Fluids seeping and flowing from ruptured veins, conduits, and pipes.
Caused by the sizable hole I cleaved through the ceiling?
Dozens of these damned monsters I have destroyed,
Yet this serpent is significantly more strange than any I have ever slain.
Above, the gaping hole knits back together; gobs of shadowstuff binding scales.
Scintillating moonlight shed by my sword shows my only options,
Each way looks just as likely to lead to somewhere.
Curiously curved and pulsing walls of metallically colored chitin enclosing me,
I carry on down, deeper into the bowels
      Of the beast.
   With pulsing metal sheened walls
   Picking my way through its last feast
   Wondering at how the beast is so unsmall
   And how much further to go, at the least.

Long did I walk downward, deeper within the dragonís body,
With my mute companions: sword, dagger, and shield,
Lance left lodged in the lithe dragonís side.
Were it not for the blade of moonlight and mothwings,
As bright as full moonís night,
A dark and treacherous walk it would be.
The weird winding passage is much larger than the witch-thing seemed from without,
Filled with the foul fumes of its seeping phlogistons,
And the over-ripe remnants of cattle,
As well as rubble from houses and keeps.
(This beast, is as fond of houses as horses and humans.)
Clearly seen are these chunks of men, beasts, and buildings,
Yet hard-edged shadows, provide for superior places to slink.
Their sneaking muffled by the burbling of the beast, they had me surprised.
A chitinous collection of their clawed tentacles gave only a chatter of warning
Before I heard a whine long unheard by me,
Hot beams of light ionized the air as they lanced out from all around me,
How this beast became host to drones with lasers I did not stop to wonder.
Fortunate it was this morn against such arms I girt myself,
Despite no reports regarding the ravening beast possessing such dangers,
A sage named Prudence advised, ďProtection from laser would be prudent.Ē
Time for thought I did not have,
But monsters demanding to be slain in abundance I did.
Scarlet, crimson, and other shades of red beyond counting lit up the long hall.
Shield discarded, a crawler crushed beneath,
Armor scored with searing bolts.
Turns out a blade made of moonbeams can bat those back.
And a dagger cast of ancientís bronze deeply digs into metal-woven chitin.
A dozen split open from dagger, spraying shadow-stuff-blood
A dozen more blinded by reflected bolts,
(Why anything would shoot lasers from its eyes, Iíll never know)
A great battle on any other day it would be,
But today it was an annoyance,
For soaked through were my boots with ichors.
And close to the hellish beastís heart I hoped I was getting,
Or doomed to walk within winding ways I feared.
But now alert for more chittering, my advance slows.
Dragon slaying is not supposed to be
      This hard
   Not this trudging within the beast.
   Although I am the peoplesí ward,
   Iíd rather be enjoying a feast,
   At least I am not bored.

Its heart, my swordís anvil to hammer upon.
Gore like flint-fire sparks and flies from my blows.
Each hewing strike echoes down quaking corridors.
Thin rivulets flow, grow into rivers.
Raging torrents of quicksilver and oils
 Rushing from fissures riven by my reaping blade.
To the bone I am chilled, bathed in the blood of my foe, by combat rebaptised.
Are my sins washed away by the expungment of the monster?
Or merely compounded with its crimes of reaving my lands?
The beastís body around me rumbles
As the chitinous walls of its corridors begin collapsing.
Now Ďtis foolish to do anything but flee
As the crumbling walls seem to be caused by the recompression of the creature,
Else I am expanding from a size I did not know I attained,
For the walls are closing in, much more so than they are crumbling.
Reverie interrupted, once clear upon this I will contemplate.
And so,
Through waist deep blood I wade
To hew upon the nearest walls
   With my gleaming moon-blade.
   Under which the chitin falls.

Before the sun rises, I ready my child and heir for battle, and reflect
Back on the strangest of serpents I had to ever slay.
Although I have aged long past anything considered prime
My decrepit condition is more caused by the cancers
Flooding my body from my ill-fortuned bath in filthy phlogistons.
Whether Ďtis right to right wrongs with weapons,
Despite decades of slow death,
A dragon had to be dashed till it lay destroyed
Such as my doom is to die in defense of land and people.
Even as it is that of my doughty daughter.
Whether the beast was evil or was a mere beast,
The woe it wrought, wrathful or not, had needed stopping.
In the end it matters not,
Although its ruin repaired it still had its revenge upon me.
      But now
   My tale may be ending
   But hers is just starting.
   And so with grace and little pain
   I yield the stage, content to not be main.

I've decided to delurk and apologize for my immensely shitty behavior directed at Nigel and Roger.

All this jazz about jazz has got me thinking that I have no hip-hop or rap in my possession, and I have no idea at all what is or isn't a good place to start.

I think holist might be confusing "authentic" with "music that means something to me, subjectively."

That I take as a valid suggestion that I shall have to consider carefully.

Except what about all the music that I consider to be authentic but hardly ever listen to because it doesn't say anything to me, subjectively?

But I don't mean that as a rebuke, you may still have a point there. There may be some sort of overlap.

Starting to think my original assessment "authenticity is meaningless" is completely accurate.
I agree,  but then again I think "art" is meaningless with regards to classifying cultural artifacts.

I don't really have much to say about this.

I think part of the reason I don't like things being called "art" is because it implies a dichotomy between "art" and "craft" when as someone who has made "art" know that doing "art" well usually entails having a grasp on the fundamentals of the "craft" of the art. This is not to say that I think that "art" is bad, because I don't. I rather like art. However, I think that classifying only certain things within something called "art" is pointless to the point of stupidity. There are many examples of cultural artifacts from cultures other than our own that we classify as art when the native culture did not classify it as "art". Examples of which are basically all examples of Japanese art, of which historically the creators did not consider themselves to be artists making art, but were craftspeople practicing a family craft. Another example closer to home is WOMP. WOMP isn't art. It's just WOMP. But I know if I were to get anyone's WOMPs and put them on canvas in a frame and hold a gallery opening, I wouldn't even need to put forth the effort to spin that they are "art" because we all know that there are people who would consider WOMP to be deep and full of meaning.
But if I were to look at this from the viewpoint of "art is up to the viewer to decide" I guess I really have nothing to say that can adequately refute that.

Maybe I don't quite understand what "ethics" and "morals" mean, but.....
I would think our ethics and morals as those "sworn to defend the Constitution" should like.....

Include the Bill of Rights....

And I don't really know why....

The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Camp Gyno vs Flo
« on: July 30, 2013, 06:05:23 am »

their commercial is adorable

Or Kill Me / Paula Deen mini rant
« on: July 02, 2013, 02:31:58 am »
Just an FYI, Paula Deen did more than just say "nigger" 25 years ago. There was that whole thinking it was a good idea to 1) have a southern plantation themed wedding with all the blacks dressed like house-slaves, and 2) say that they were going to be dressed like house slaves, or the whole her and her brother owning businesses with conditions hostile to minorities and women workers.
But no lets get outraged over a black man not getting fired by his record label for doing something that you find objectionable and make excuses for a racist white woman.

Or Kill Me

The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Schlongs of Skyrim
« on: June 18, 2013, 02:47:51 am »
So there is a mod, that allows you put dicks on male characters in Skyrim, because dicks amirite? NSFW link
SOS - Schlongs of Skyrim is a mod intended to work as a framework for customized, animated and dynamic assignment and management of male genitalia. Although the mod started by only aiming to provide it only for male characters, due to demand, it soon shifted to a full framework, capable of managing it to any possible race/gender. Currently it features a base male body to work with, and 3 distinct shape Addons. We expect with further development, to extend the shape "database".

My understanding is that not only does it add dicks, but you can control your character's dick with keybinds, because why the fuck not?
 Evidently a large number of people were highly offended by this mod, because dicks are terrible but vaginas and gigantic boobies are perfectly ok.



First up, African minis for Spears of Dawn

Some paladins.

Then Sir Yames (my first paladin) and Tenten (my wife's koblod rogue) who despite the fervent wishes of the rest of the part, were not in fact a romantic couple.

Now some random mages

Some gnolls

And finally, some monsters from Hordes that some kind of corrupted evil dragons.
I'm painting them garish yellow and purple, because monsters.

Literate Chaotic / Coyote's Shitty Poetry Dump
« on: June 05, 2013, 03:05:38 am »
As I tie my boots

Up and over
In and out
Something something
Blah blah blah

Every morning-I cinch my laces
     Knot and tie and tuck the waxed and braided

I feel their snug embrace
   Around my feet and calves
The weight of the soles
The flexibility of the canvas

It reminds me of life
Simple at times
Tedious at others
Weighty and constrictive yet flexible

RPG Ghetto / Coyote's random RPG ideas
« on: May 12, 2013, 04:52:13 pm »
The first: The party will be knights in a post apocalyptic world without horses. Instead of horses, knights use mecha powered by ancient nuclear whatsits. I will be using a combination of Basic Roleplaying and Pendragon.

The second: The party will be a group of teenagers that pilot giant mecha to fight giant space aliens. They the powers of dance and magic to combat the invading space mimes. They are powered by Man-Grit and Fabulousity. Ridiculous over-the-top combination dance moves will be the killing blows. This will have to almost whole cloth made.

The third: The party will be a group of players in a full immersion MMO. They are trapped inside. There is no-one else except the computer controlled NPCs.  I will be using 4e DnD  :lulz:

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