Damned lies.

Interesting conversation in guild-chat recently, about the validity of Recount. As far as measuring pure numbers, it's great.

But the quote, "There are three kinds of lies: lies, damned lies, and statistics." --Mark Twain fits with this moment.

What it can't measure is the fifth element, the human factor: Recount cannot measure exhaustion, fumble fingers, stress, or sleep deprivation.

Just consider: if you are throwing around Recount numbers, you may not be seeing everything there is to see. You don't know everything, and when you assume...you know...you make an ass out of you and me.

Just sayin'.

Postscript: To be clear, I am not referring to my numbers only. Far from it.

This will take just a moment:

Fan-fiction writing pal wrote this:

http://archiveofourown.org/works/208700

Suicide blonde.

Part I

Nothing like that new dragon smell.
A few nights ago, had a less-than-satisfying run in Zul'Aman. And normally, my stubbornness or "stoic patience" would have won out, but I hit the wall, BIG TIME. (This will be an important detail later.) I'll take full responsibility for my play skills and actions. (I know I can do it - the first time I went through Zul'Aman was with a PUG and we did it in about 30-45 minutes, and I didn't die, or at least maybe once, but not...) Not sure what I was doing wrong a few nights ago, but it was kind of like being at a cocktail party for a fundraiser I didn't believe in: free booze, but damn, couldn't find common ground.

But literally, the moment I needed, nay -- HAD to go to sleep, I left, and wouldn't you know? The last boss dropped my helm I need: Headdress of Sharpened Vision. No Valor Points. No Helm. Nothing. Zilch. And I am pretty sure the group had a good laugh about it. Don't blame them. Irony is funny. But I made the call: four hours of Zul and many deaths are enough for any player, and I was about 300 gold poorer, and I am not sure the wiser: we all have had our Bataan Death marches, overstated, over-extended game play experiences.

Next night, got called off the bench for Throne of the Four Winds. I don't know what the hell I am doing, and what I did do was made a lot of mistakes. This earned me a permanent spot in the Stupidest Shaman Moves of All Time, a heart-to-heart with guildmaster, and a critique and review of my player skills from a new guildmate tonight. During a PUG. There's no "I" in team, but there is also no "I" in STFU either.

And, before some the ill-fated dungeon runs, good friend started off a conversation with, "Do you mind if I tell you something and you won't get mad" talk. Three different players, three different communication styles, three different ways to look Matty up and down, and think, "What the hell is wrong with that player--she's geared, but she sucks?"

Gentlemen: I totally get it. That must be so frustrating. It's got to be like watching an ugly woman drive a Ferrari, wrong on so many levels.

The award for best, most straight-forward talk: Guildmaster.

For gentlest, kindest talk: Priest.

For "this is not the time" talk: Guildmate.

And, thinking about it this morning, I was a suicide blonde yesterday. Took my guildmaster's observations of times when I'm a badass and decided to be that badass, or at least try, and I died so many times in Deadmines last night that I was the dead being mined, my armor went to the red, and I couldn't find the number for the suicide hotline. Literally at one point, I jumped over the railing right into the ogre boss trying to take a shortcut. Instant splat. (I used to jump off of stuff when I was a kid: earned me one broken foot at age 7.)

Now, I'm not sure what it is about me that I love to run to the fire. Sprint, even.

The advice I receive is meant with good intentions. And I promise: I am not complaining or apologizing. In fact, I listen to the play style of a guildmate I admire, and she is so funny and sarcastic, that I really do appreciate her moxie. The word 'moxie' was invented for her. And that voice! (Oh, you should be in broadcasting. A million men would tune in to listen to you.)

But I'm about to pack up that little shaman and send her to Horde camp. Not because I'm insecure, apologetic, or otherwise. But point of fact: she doesn't belong to you. These next few weeks, about three of them in fact, I have some real life stuff sitting on me like a virus. If I don't have time to go to Mr. Robot, or hit the target dummies, or grind Deadmines for my bracers, or make a chart about what gear goes where, it's not because I'm ignoring your well-intended advice. But I have to put it on ice for a bit. I will chip away at her, her resto spec, and her "get out of the fire" skills when I can. I'll get to it. Or I won't, for now.

Part II

But--

sometimes I get lucky.

I know how to type /roll

Not sure why Lady Luck threw me this dragon bone, but here she is: The Black Drake from Sartharion's death. And a new title.

Happy Dragon

And she is beautiful. And I will be glad to go help anyone else who wants to roll for one. I'm good for it.

Postscript: A landslide enchant and a feathered-hug from a druid will help any girl sleep.

Theme songs:
Part I: Suicide Blonde/INXS (godspeed Michael Hutchence)

Part II: Pretenders/Brass In Pocket

Inside Joke.

"Gratz, Toilet!"



Best line, ever:
"Everytime you kill Ingvar the Plunderer, a Toilet gets his wings..."




Theme songs:
Harvey Danger: Flagpole Sitta
"I'm not sick, but I'm not well.."

Rolfe Kent/Desert Ride/Men Who Stare at Goats

Postscript: I would love to continue this journey of leveling with you, but I know schedules and life may demand otherwise. If I could have materialized chicken soup, hot compresses, juice, and tea you know I would have. But damn, you are funny when you're all hopped up on cold meds. I am not interested in leveling Lupe fast, or on her own; I learned more about tanking in those dungeon runs with you than any other resource. Healer, heal thyself - get well soon, and let's see if we can get our own 'gratz toilets.'


...and: the true heroic gratz to you for being the hero to the one who needed a printer cartridge when you were in that condition. Truly a champion, my friend.

Lore Noob, redux

Two more book recommendations:

The Psychopath Test by Jon Ronson

Geek Love by Katherine Dunn

...and no, I don't get Amazon kickbacks.

Story Time: Chapter 2

Black & Blood Dress

Blackberry Winter

-2-

Matty woke up in her own room.

Guarf may have said their living arrangement was conditional, but his actions belied this sentiment. In this room, he had the mattress stuffed weekly with fresh straw, the windows washed, and the dressing tables and wardrobes free of minutiae. And though his territorial mess marked the rest of the house, this room—this room was a fresh as a daisy in a lion’s den.

None of this happened by magic, except for the magic of money. Guarf was thoroughly thrifty. He pried open his vault and spent a few silver coins to a goblin girl who lived down the way to discreetly keep Matty’s room orderly. Mat knew the dwarf created this room to be her sanctuary, but also knew it would embarrass him if she revealed his kind secret.

The morning rained green and grey, draining the fuscous winter. The air vibrated in the contrasting lenticular patterns of leaves, droplets, leaves, stir, bend, droplets, showers, wisp, leaves, arch, droplets, twist, leaves. She had nowhere in particular she needed to be, but it was time to go. It always felt time to go. She heard Guarf snoring in his room, the cool muted morning made for perfect sleeping weather. His vigil over the house, hearth, and her, and maneuvering her gangly frame to her room, was taxing. He was a good friend, but he was no nursemaid. She slept in her clothes. She peeled them off, and lay back down, pulling covers over her, unmotivated to pack bags, but not going back to sleep either.

If she didn’t step hoof-to-floor soon, the will to go would dissipate, and then, she would be snared by a nesting memory, entwining her thoughts.

She stretched the wrong-way over the mattress: like an irritating pea, a lump bubbled up from underneath. She reached in and pulled out a black dress. She had shoved it in there months ago, after one of their few encounters. She wished she had burned it. What a stupid idea that was, how humiliating it was now. She was such a fool. As if wearing a dress could keep him near, as if she was enough. 

The crimson-iron black of the silk dress, cast in vats of boiling, angry Northern blood, came in a scarlet-satin lined box, with stitches of heartbreak and cut on a bias of lust. The silhouette revealed more than it protected. Who was it that said the space between the notes made the music? The siren dress sang its song to a succumbing audience. His reaction was worth a few pints of Vkyruls’ blood.

The tone of the day was revelations: her priest demonstrated his ability to hold her in leaps of faith. The dress box gave the prize it promised. And jovial crowds flexed and sported in sunny courtyards. She found a place, right outside the Keep’s courtyard, a ledge, where she could sit undisturbed, watching the far sails swirl on the maelstroms, and the comings and goings of the human kingdoms, small and large. To end the day, he showed her uninhabited pockets, hidden right in front of everyone’s eyes, down alleyways and behind shops. She showed him the dress – “Wait, please, one moment – let me change…”

But for all the day’s illusionary control by the inhabitants of this world, she felt the gods shuffling Fate’s cards. Heard the snap of the deal. Flicking the two of hearts in a cup.

Time was up. The cathedral bells rang. The boat would be departing soon. She leaned in, but like a misfire, missed the moment for a kiss. He was so strong that moment: he held her, and then let her go. He meant what he said. He could not control the gods, but he could control himself. 

(Writer's Note: Not inspired by a dress, but a pair of 501 Levi red-tab jeans and a pair of boots.)

Saddle up.

This is timely: http://wow.joystiq.com/2011/06/02/the-overachiever-mountain-o-mounts-from-professions/

Really trying to catch 'em all so I can get the Blue Dragonhawk. 

Still wish I could ride my seahorse on dry land. Or as my friend said, just put a fishtank on wheels.

Theme song: Ride/the Vines

(damn, I love that song)

Broken.

The mail armor crumpled like penny dust on the ground. The weapons, dulled, wouldn't cut butter on a hot plate. Her bags emptied of gold from the repair bills, the merchants smirking behind her back. She crawled into bed, exhausted, spent, and cut. Like a bad playground fight, the best thing would be to retreat.

Sometimes the words "good night" are the only magic you'll get.


Theme song: Breaking the Girl/RHCP

Message received.

Curse you Oceanic time zones, always being a day ahead and garnering the sun's love before the rest of the world. Even though the Dutch and a hefty chunk of Captain James Cook are responsible, I blame Queen Victoria, with her sun-never-setting-on-the-British Empire form of manifest destiny. It is because of her that I am suffering from sleep deprivation this morning. In other words, English is spoken in many other time zones than England. Which means, when I put out the call to English-speaking friends around the world, it may not be on my padded, wimpy schedule. And if Greenwich Mean Time wasn't enough to spring a cog in my clock, to make matters worse, it is a rainy, sleepy morning here in the great northwest: the sun doesn't show much love to us here regardless of time zones. Azeroth does not recognize circadian rhythms as scientific fact. However--when I put the call to adventure out there, I won't grouse when it is answered on someone else's punchcard. Especially when considering the advice and guidance I received are invaluable.

(I am a blathering idiot in any language this morning, and my coffee is getting cold...)

My friend: I did take notes. Everything you shared makes a lot of sense. I will practice. I will stand strong. Be confident. Your lessons will aid me whether or not we will meet again soon.

Luperci practices her listening skills...

Like any role we play or job we take on, there are two layers: the physical and psychological. The physical, or the actual mental and kinetic skills are one area: this takes practice, training, and education. The psychological: guess that just depends on our mood, or who we are at our core.

Ironically, during a training dungeon run, encountered a shaman, an enhancement shaman no less, named Diiva, who was less than ladylike (but was very diva-like, so Dickensian named). Scoping her out on the armory, I see since a few hours ago she has even gone up a few levels, and she was already a few levels above Luperci. She had a few things to say. But what she didn't know is that Luperci has turtle wax on her shoulders, so a lot of trash is going to roll right off. It has to as a tank. Diiva, and others like this character, should be proud of their ability to have amazing DPS, but not proud of it when it comes at the expense of the group, its safety, and success. If you're pulling aggro and killing un-targeted mobs to get your Recount score higher, okay. Fine. But you can't put that on a resume.

However, DPS ducklings: I swear, if you make it tough on my healer, ever--we're going to have a one-sided chat. I'll be right, and you'll be wrong. I can be pretty damn concrete when I need to be. (I'll leave the abstract-random nonsense to Matty.) But warriors, death knights, and shamans: understand this: My kindness is my strength. My compassion is my armor. And at my core, I can be a great defender. Queen Victoria and I have a bit in common perhaps.

Theme song: Two Against One/Danger Mouse

Gratz!

Cheers, and Hail to the Knight, for Kay and Isa finishing their Glory of the Hero achievements! Guarf, Ruby, Tyrwin and I are right behind you. The increase in colorful drake population will be raised significantly by this amazing crew...!

Couldn't do it without you, Kay -- send a screen shot!

Matty