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WEB FED NEWS YEARBOOKS Earthdate July 2000 |
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WEB FED NEWS YEARBOOKS Earthdate July 2000 |
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INSIDE SCOOP |
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What was in July 2000's Inside Scoop:
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SCOUNDREL'S CORNER: ON DEATH-DEATH AND
DYING-DYING >gl Starship Cantina >say So I says to her, 'Nice udders, but can we leave out the midget with the bucket?' And she says... Deadmeat has just arrived. With a sudden resolve Deadmeat pulls out an old Arix army knife and with a sudden slash cuts open his wrists. You watch with morbid fascination as the blood drains out of his body... An undertaker appears with a shimmer of teleportation effect and solemnly mumbles a few platitudes. He scoops up the mortal remains of Deadmeat and vanishes. >say I really hate it when my stories get interrupted like... The Happy Reaper has just arrived. Reaper collects the soul of Deadmeat and grins. >say Er... Happy Reaper? Isn't that supposed to be "Grim"? Reaper says, "Grim? Why would I be grim? Business is booming! With all the DD's lately, I've been able to buy all kinds of new toys for my Grim Kids and a new... thing... for my wife. She's not grim now either." Reaper waves, smiles, and saunters off. Khajjika shrugs. Lately people have been dropping dead like Foojani Grub Rats, who have an average life span of 17 minutes. It is not unusual to have to climb over a pile of rotting carcasses just to get a decent drink at the Starship Cantina. For some, like myself, this is not a great inconvenience as I am accustomed to climbing over corpse-like drunks to get a decent drink, but I must admit the smell gets rather annoying. The dead are piling up everywhere, and no amount of attention by cleaning droids or increases in Soylent Green production can seem to reduce the size of the vulture banquets. The purpose of this article is not to ask why. Most of these corpses belonged to people that are much more pleasant now for their silence. Nobody likes a whiner and the whining was becoming so thick you could buy it at the corner store and carry it around in a brown bag. So as I sit here looking at yet another dead cart being pushed by a fat, hairy, ugly man (the cleaning droids are on strike and taking their rest in the oil baths of Sunocoid III) I wonder as to the effect of all this carnage on those that remain. For me, solace can be found by nothing more complicated than 13 pints of Leestian Evil Juice, but I suppose for the more fragile, compassionate, or gullible of the population this mass dirt dance could be rather distressing. Those three of you that faithfully read Scoundrel's Corner know that I did, for a short time, find myself in a strange place my sidekick Khajjika calls To'rojja Karr, or Real Life. During my rather unpleasant stay there, I ran across a book called On Death And Dying, written by a Dr. Elisabeth Kubler Ross. Dr. Ross' work focuses on the emotional states both the dying and the survivors go through when faced with mortality. She identifies five unique emotional states that progress as follows: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and finally, acceptance. Now that's all fine and dandy for real life, but how does that apply to DataSpace and the folks that live there? When was the last time you heard of a DataSpace citizen dying of a long and anguishing disease such as Foojani Foot Rot? Never. So how, then, can we make Dr. Ross' research work in a way to offer solace for those that remain when horrible death by an old rusty Arix army knife claims so many around us? Fear not. Uncle Olias has called in some (one) of the greatest (well...) scientific (drunken) minds to translate Dr. Ross' essays into a workable system of grief management specifically tailored for Fed DataSpace. A transcript of my meeting with the eminent psychologist follows. "Welcome professor," I said. "Have a seat." "Professor? What the hell is this?" Khajjika answered, frowning at me. "Shut up and sit, Khajj," I curtly replied. Khajjika sat. "Now, professor Redclaw, I have asked you here today to the Science Institute in the hopes that you can help us to translate Dr. Ross' work on death and dying and how we can adapt it to Federation in the hopes of providing a workable grief management program for survivors." Khajjika stared at me as if I had asked him for a lightly roasted weasel atop a bed of Fettuccine Alfredo. "Science Institute?" Khajjika looked around at his surroundings then back at me as if I had lost my mind. We were seated at our usual booth in the Starship Cantina. "Yes, professor. I say again," I glared across the table at him. "We are here to have you tell us what you know about grief stuff. So tell us about the mindset of deaders, dammit!" I gave his shin a solid kick under the table for good measure. Khajjika eyed me balefully. "Okay, how's this: I am still in a state of denial that you are trying to pass me off as a professor for your sorry article, which is progressing to vast amounts of anger about being kicked in the shin. I offer you the bargain of refraining from ever doing that again in return for not feeling the depression of having certain parts of your anatomy forcibly removed." Knowing Khajj the way I do, I realized the parts of my anatomy he was referring to, and I just could not achieve acceptance of a life in the priesthood. I decided to try another tactic. I smiled placidly. "Well, alright, Khajj, if that's the way you feel. I guess you'll just have to return to working on the Wild Rover. Did I mention that the entire septic system needs flushing and scrubbing?" Khajjika blinked. It took a moment for that to sink into his fuzzy head. "Or, Professor, do you have something to share with us about death and dying?" I asked, absently twirling a toilet brush. "Er..." he fumbled for words. "I'll... uh... get right on it and write up a report," he conceded. "Good. And make it quick. I am dancing on my deadline again." 57 minutes later, he handed me a stack of papers. I rewarded him for his efforts by giving him permission to abduct Gavin of Mythose and force him to scrub the ship's head himself. Professor Redclaw's report runs thus:
So farewell then Deadmeat. No longer connected to Federation DataSpace. So the deed is done. In real life, the stages of death for the person who is dying occur prior to the actual croaking. In DataSpace, it follows. "Dear God, what did I do?" The victim will often sit motionless, staring at the screen for protracted periods of time. In one case, DataSpace death led to real-life death as the player, unable to believe that he had just pressed 'enter' sat staring at the screen until he died of thirst and was set upon by a pack of vultures. Equal stupidity can be observed by the survivors at this point. Your comm unit relays a message from Someguy, "Hey, have you heard? Deadmeat DD'd!" >spynet report Deadmeat SPYNET REPORT: No information available on requested subject. The survivor at this point can not deal with the shock and will, as I said – stupidly, continue to try to get a spynet report for the dead, assuming that Fed itself must be in error. After an average of 37 fruitless spynet report attempts, the survivor will often respond to the original message with something sage, such as >xt Omigod! Deadmeat DD'd! No kidding.
The suicide victim, after three hours of looking at the "No longer connected" message, can become quite enraged at this point. There is no way to predict what this anger will be directed at, but it typically takes one of the following forms: "Dammit! Why does this enter key have to work so well all the time!" or "That stupid Fed! If it wasn't for that (either a staff member or rule goes here) I wouldn't have had to do that!" or "I should have known better than to drink and Fed! Blast it!" The survivors also feel a sense of anger, but it is usually more predictable: "That rotten sod owed me 300 meg."
Usually following one course for the suicider: "Um, Hazed, do you think it would be possible to restore my account?" The answer to this question often starts a loop for the deader that leads back to anger. This stage is usually pretty predictable for the survivors, as well: "Oh, sure, I'll let you use one of my alts. For 300 meg."
Deader: "I played Fed when I was drunk, DD'd myself and now no one will give me one of their alts unless I give them 300 meg. As a groundhog, where am I going to get 300 meg? And I am going to have to look for the GM again. Oh, life is cruel." Survivor: "That rotten sod is going to keep pestering me until I give him a bunch of money to recover his old rank. And he still owes me 300 meg."
Deadite: "I guess I am going to have to map Sol." This can loop to any of the above phases. Survivor: "I guess I am never going to see that 300 meg." I hope this helps some of you cope. It helped me to not clean toilets.
I hope it helps.
Sometimes one does not even have to die to experience the above listed phases. I couldn't believe the trash he sent this week for publishing. I was also rather angry that he once again cut the deadline so close. I must also add that I am considering renegotiating Olias' position in the News Team, as the toilet is in dire need of cleaning. It became badly blocked after I stuffed a hard copy of this article into it. I feel like I need a stiff drink, but what can I do? I have to publish SOMETHING for the news so I suppose I have to settle for this rot. -Hazed
SCOUNDREL'S
CORNER: CREATIVE LICENSE Like any other Friday, I was sitting around in the Starship Cantina, frantically trying to think of something to write about. Something, for its part, was stoically evading me and had further explained patiently to me that it didn't want to be thought of, although we could still be friends. Also that I shouldn't call anymore nor could I have my records back. Then, something (of no relation to the first Something) happened. I received a tight-beam message. Before we get into the content of this particular tight-beam, however, I would like to pause for a moment to correct some common misunderstandings about my job description here at ibgames. What I am:
What I have the power to do:
What I am not:
What I do not have the power (or inclination) to do:
Now then, having cleared that up, let's move right along to the content of the aforementioned tight-beam that, though silly and amusing, saved this newsdroid from the righteous wrath and brimstone-raining fury of a certain Demi-Goddess by giving him something to write about. I have taken the liberty of omitting specific names and places from this description. As a highly-trained professional news writer I am above the petty finger-pointing and mud-slinging tactics that such details would involve. I believe that a professional writer for any sort of publication should adhere to higher standards of conduct in his or her work and never lose touch with the haughty and virtuous goals that caused him or her to take up journalism in the first place, such as playing Fed for free. I should also like to note that people named Bob have the rare and comforting distinction of knowing that in any case where names are to be changed to protect the innocent, their name will be used instead.
It was an odd question, coming from someone I know not well, for no apparent reason.
I thought maybe it was an invitation to some great bash and I would be able to conduct an In-Depth Investigation. I grabbed a bottle of aspirin and warmed up the teleporter. It wasn't an invitation at all. Your comm unit signals a tight beam message from Bob, "Yes, they were very cool, until the Partial-Goddess Fogged showed up, shut the party down and forced Roberta to change her planet." Thus a great tight-beam debate began. Had I written this article one week earlier, I could have simply referred Mr. Bob to the "What I Am Not" and "What I Do Not Have The Power (Or Inclination) To Do" sections of this article. Of course, since this is the very event that prompted the "What I Am Not" and "What I Do Not Have The Power (Or Inclination) To Do", referring Mr. Bob to these sections at that time would have involved time travel, paradoxes, and general mucking about with the space-time continuum leading to madness and total oblivion. So that would have been bad. Anyway, the conversation continued with my asking Mr. Bob if the planet and/or party contained descriptions, events, or licking of edibles from body parts that may be objectionable to the public. Or at least certain sections of the public. Personally, I am rather fond of the licking bit. With or without the edibles. Bob responded that yes, he supposed the place might be found objectionable to the prudish, the uptight, and the non-comatose members of our society, but that there was a clearly stated warning about the content at the entrance to RobertaWorld, and that people who felt they might be offended should have stayed away in the first place. Attempting to follow his line of logic (or whatever) I then patiently asked if there was not, in fact, the same sort of warning contained in the Federation Code of Conduct policy, stating something somewhere to the effect that Fed staff reserves the write to delete material they find potentially offensive, as DataSpace is basically an all-public place. (This was a guess on my part. I never actually read the thing.) I figured that if such a warning on RobertaWorld was supposed to be adequate to keep decent folk away, that it only followed that the Fed policy would be instrumental in sending folks like Bob off to some more appropriate place, like, say, MidgetSexMud. Bob response to this was to call me a no-good rotten Fogged-hugger. He asked me nicely if I believed the load of fecal matter I was apparently serving him with a nice Au Jus and pointed out in the same sort of mature fashion that Fogged or any Fed staffer had no right whatsoever to dictate what content is acceptable. This sounded to me like saying that God had no right whatsoever to hand down the commandments, and that your local priest is full of it for supporting Him. Bob's Partial-Goddess (and additionally, newsdroid) bashing revolved around a central theme. According to Bob, all this tyranny and oppression posed a dire impediment to personal creativity. I tried, in vain, to point out that I had seen literally hundreds of planets that managed a wonderful degree of creativity without sending the average person running off in embarrassment. (Or, in my case, running off to a brothel.) I must say, however, that this whole debate got me thinking. I do try (and almost always fail) to give people the benefit of the doubt and accept the fact that in any given debate, I could be wrong (or too drunk... er... busy with In-Depth Investigations). I therefore, as a service to my readers, attempted to find a real-life precedent for such a position. I didn't need to look far. In the city of Detroit, Michigan, not far from the smaller town in which I reside, there is a street. Heidelberg Street. (I must tell you, I am taking a wild stab at the spelling. I am currently nowhere near Detroit, my hometown, or Heidelberg street, so it's not like I can just jump in my car and go check. I looked up 'Heidelberg' on the World Wide Web, but all my search returned were several German cheese manufacturers. So live with it.) The city of Detroit in these enlightened times represents the height of beauty and sophistication, exemplifying an idyllic and seamless marriage of man and his environment, at least when seen from a distance (like, say, Norway). Up close Detroit looks like one vast heap of revolting noisome garbage someone added some buildings to as an afterthought. The delicate and tranquil sights, sounds, and smells of our living, breathing ecosystem pervade every placid and untouched inch of the rolling flat in Detroit, which is to say nowhere. One man (and I don't know his name, never knew his name, maybe it was a woman, hell, maybe it was a group of men, or women, or maybe a group of both men and women) decided they had finally had enough of it. He (she, they) created the Heidelberg Project. The Heidelberg Project represented a dream, a testament to human courage, a devoted struggle dedicated to creating something beautiful under the most dire and ugly conditions. Through a concerted effort of whoever the hell was involved, an entire street within the city was transformed. The garbage and detritus that had so long been the bane of the Heidelberg street residents, the very antithesis of nature and beauty, was itself utilized in the creation of art. All along the street, the abandoned houses and yards that for so long had been a terrible eyesore were decorated with carefully placed garbage arranged in tasteful patterns. Even the very trees were so adorned with the scattered debris of human existence. Spray paint was also employed to lavishly beautify the surroundings and dazzle the eye, intended to enrapture visitors and provide comforting solace for those that dwell therein. I first encountered the Heidelberg project by chance, on one of many self-directed sightseeing tours my buddy Joe and I used to embark on. The purpose of such tours was to see just how awful a city could be, and we were never disappointed. Imagine our utmost surprise when we turned randomly down Heidelberg street. It was immediately apparent that someone had engaged in an incredible labor of love, transforming what was once just another garbage-strewn street into... into... a street with garbage stuck to the buildings. We were not alone in our assessment. The mayor of Detroit apparently also visited Heidelberg street. "It's very nice," he was quoted. He nodded and smiled. "Now get rid of it." It was ridiculous, it was horribly ugly to the point that my friend and I were first struck with the impression that we had stumbled onto some Satanic cult and were certainly going to be brutally sacrificed by raving lunatics. It was also publicly accessible. Was the mayor out of line to have the thing condemned? Was it for some evil reason or was he fulfilling some sort of personal vendetta he had against the Heidelberg people? Were the people who supported the removal of such a God-awful display of filth just "Yes Men" for the Mayor? If you answered "yes" to any of the above questions, then perhaps you need to protect your God-given right to creativity by creatively coming up with a better argument.
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