Fallen Earth: End of the World and Beginning of New Career!

About three and a half years ago, I joined the development team working on Fallen Earth. I'm pretty sure some people thought I was making it all up. I'm not sure what they thought I was doing instead. Panhandling for coins and WoW time cards at Maynard and Chapel Hill Road? Working nights for the CIA? Infiltrating the Keebler Elves cookie factory? WELL! Look at the picture! Proof positive that I have, in fact, not been making it up all this time.

The game is now a reality, complete with a box and everything.

Do you own your copy yet?

No Excuses...

It's been nearly two months since I posted in this blog.

I blame Twitter and Facebook, ultimately. It's very easy for me to exhaust most of my random thoughts and musings via those outlets. I haven't bothered to expand on them here and I should.

So, my goal from now on: Use Twitter and Facebook like a scratch pad for ideas. Then take a bit of time to flesh out the premises here.

In other news: I've really been exceedingly busy working on Fallen Earth and the games at Jointhesaga.com this last couple of months.

Fallen Earth is available for digital download now. It should be on store shelves tomorrow.

OtherSpace and Necromundus are chugging along!

The Oaks at Weston: Thieves

Some months back, late in 2008, I got a letter from the Oaks at Weston - my apartment at the time - which indicated that my current lease was up soon.

We didn't have any intention of renewing but, naturally, didn't want to close the door on the possibility if we didn't find somewhere new. We found somewhere new about a month before the lease expired. I figured it didn't make much difference one way or another, since our lease was running out, but I told the office folks that we'd be moving out.

And this is when they explained that we couldn't just let the lease run out. See, there was a clause in the fine print that indicated that, unless stated otherwise, the lease would renew upon expiration. It's the sort of logic that belonged in the George W. Bush years.

We moved to our new place, paid the Oaks for the time we lived in the apartment, and no more. Naturally, that didn't satisfy them. This week, two months after we've been out of the Oaks - and plenty of time for them to get new tenants in the old place - we got a letter from a collection agency demanding money. Then the agency called my cell phone and my office.

I spent a good 45 minutes on the phone with a hapless fellow who gave his name as Steve Sims, using a colorful selection of epithets and comparisons to extortionists and kneecapping thugs, which had the effect of making him act all butt-hurt and tell me that I "wasn't very pleasant."

Well, Steve, fuck you. It's not pleasant to have to deal with strong-arm tactics from the hired dog of a faceless corporation that's out to take money it hasn't earned from my limited resources. So, you'll just have to cope with the fact that someone you're trying to rape financially puts up a fight and makes you suffer a knock to the nuts in the process.

My tirade also yielded a better deal on the "settlement," which, if paid immediately, would prevent a hit to our credit rating and rental history. So, I'm glad about that much. And on the offchance we take legal action against the Oaks, it's better to pay and be done with it, then argue the ethics of it later.

As I close that chapter, let me share some of my thoughts about The Oaks at Weston, currently owned by the Steven D. Bell Corporation. I lived there for three years. Here are some key recollections:

* There's one dumpster for hundreds of residents. Every Sunday evening and Monday morning, the place looked like a Mumbai slum piled high with trash bags and tossed furniture.
* The smoke detectors are cheap pieces of shit with a tendency for beeping incessantly.
* Maintenance responsiveness was, with rare exceptions, atrocious.
* Parking? A fucking joke.
* Rent costs? Too high for what it got you.
* They dicked me over previously for the carpet in the first apartment, before we moved into the new place. They made me pony up cash to replace all the carpet, claiming Huck's fur had ruined it. Bullshit. A good cleaning would have done the trick. But we were already moving into the new place, so they had me over a barrel nice and neat. I should have known right then that they were lying thieves.
* They did a shitty job of keeping track of package deliveries. I had to ask on several occasions to get packages that had been dropped off weeks earlier. Some of those items had been perishable goods that Karen had ordered.
* They misrepresented or lied through omission about lease contracts, especially when they had the advantage.

Ultimately, it was an advantage that I gave them. My advice: Never sign a contract with an apartment complex unless you've had someone familiar with rental contract law look it over first. Make sure you have fair terms. Save yourself some money and heartache. Be smart.

The Big Move

As I write this, I'm sitting at my computer table in the office of our new house in Breckenridge. We're on the outskirts of Morrisville, within easy reach of I-540 and pretty much everything from Durham to Raleigh.

The last few days have amounted to one long slog of me and the Juicebox playing pack mule, but I have to say: It's been worth it.

Huck's not going crazy because someone in the next apartment over slammed their front door. We're not being awakened in the middle of the night, every night, by the same neighbor who can't seem to control their car alarm. I don't come home from work to play Parking Lot Lotto, wondering if I'll actually be in front of the apartment or walking from a block away.

Elsa and Sienna weren't too thrilled during Moving Day. They had to spend about 12 hours locked in the apartment bathroom while the Mayflower guys hauled our stuff from the Oaks to Breckenridge. Elsa's a champ, though. Once we got the cats over here, Elsa came right upstairs to say hello, while Sienna huddled down behind the Raiders of the Lost Ark poster I still need to hang. Sienna didn't get the gumption to wander much until this morning.

The kitchen is nice - it could use more counter space, but Karen seems to be making the room work the way she wants it. We need a few more lamps, but those will come soon enough.

She made her first meal there tonight - a delicious meat and pasta dish with salad on the side. Yum!

Good to be home.

ALAS, JUICEBOX - Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the DMV

It was getting on toward April and, as usual, I had procrastinated.

Last week, I took the signed title for the Scion xB that my stepfather gave me and proceeded to the DMV office in Southhills strip mall, off Buck Jones Road. The last time I made this trip was to make the old Honda Accord a legitimate North Carolina automobile. It had cost me about $90.

So, on the way to the DMV this time, I withdrew $100 in cash. They don't take debit cards at the DMV - just cash and checks. I didn't bring a checkbook. See, I was in the Cub Scouts, but only for about a week. Preparedness is for the weak!

In all fairness, Karen didn't think my logic was too sound when I told her that I'd only take $100 to the DMV. She thought the title transfer cost might be based on the value of the car. The Scion is much newer than the Honda and could actually yield a higher fee.

Did I listen? Well, I listened, sure! But did I do anything about the contingency?

Heck, no!

I arrived at the DMV at about 8:45, right after they opened. This would give me plenty of time to make it back to work for the scrum meeting at 9:30. The line? Non-existent! I walked right up to the counter, handed over the title, my driver's license, and proof of insurance.

Everything was going along just fine. The clerk had the new tag and registration, all ready to shove into my grubby hands. Then she told me it'd cost $280.

Well, that's the price of throwing caution to the wind, isn't it?

"I don't have that much on me," I confessed. "Is there an ATM nearby?"

She directed me to the kiosk in the corner of the room. Excellent! I walked over, slid my card in the slot, and asked for MORE DAMNED MONEY.

But the ATM cried out: "No hiding place!" Or something to that effect.

I ran the card through a couple more times. No luck.

"Is there ANOTHER machine?" I asked the clerk.

She directed me down the hall to the next ATM. I slid the card in the slot of that machine. But the ATM cried out: "CAN'T DO THIS NOW!" I repeated the effort again and again. Nothing.

Now I'm getting pissed.

Back to the DMV, where I tell the clerk I'll be right back. There's a Suntrust Bank in the outparcel of the strip mall. I jump in the Juicebox - the Scion - and scoot on over to the bank. It is now about 9 a.m. I run the debit card through the slot. But the ATM cried out: "CAN'T DO THIS NOW!" It could not do this now several more times.

Now I'm seething. But I know there's a Bank of America branch about two miles away. I get back in the Juicebox. A few minutes later, I'm standing at the BoA ATM at Walnut and Maynard. But the ATM cried out: "CAN'T DO THIS NOW!"

At this point, I'm theorizing that the banks are REALLY holding on tight to MY money, so I go into the bank office itself. I walk up to the teller and explain that I'd really like to take my money to the DMV so I can get my license plate out of hock.

The teller confirms that I've got the money available. She's certainly willing to hand over the cash. But FIRST she wants to tell me about some senseless new bank account initiatives that will somehow make the bank money in the long run. All I want to do is get back to the DMV so I can hopefully make it back to work in time for the sprint meeting.

As I'm driving back to the DMV, my iPhone rings. It's an automated recording from Bank of America whining about irregular activity from my debit card. The message, which I'm listening to without benefit of paper or pen, insists that I call back and enter a specific alphanumeric code to deal with this matter. If I don't deal with the problem by April 1, well, the recording indicates that a hold might be placed on my account.

Well, now I'm just plain furious.

I return to the DMV, hand over the cash, take my change and license plate, and then I head back to work. It's 9:40 by the time I arrive, so I've missed the sprint meeting.

I'm not sitting in my desk even 20 minutes before I get an email from Bank of America. Rather than waiting until April 1, they've decided to go ahead and place a hold on my debit card. It's for the good of us all, apparently. The email indicates I have to call a special number to confirm the strange activity came from me.

All full of hope that I'll get to call a real person and go blue in the face shrieking at them, my dreams are thwarted by another recording. Essentially, I'm just required to hit "1" over and over again as it runs down every single attempt I made to take money out of my account that morning.

Not much satisfaction there.

But the Juicebox is now really, seriously, no kidding officially mine now. Huzzah!

Over the Oaks

I was just about ready to give up and accept that we were just going to have to live here in the Oaks at Weston for another year.

I'm tired of this place. It's been a good home, all in all, but lately some things really aggravate me.

First and foremost, the parking situation. People who run out of parking spaces in the apartment buildings to either side take up the spaces in front of our building, leaving people like me to have to park half a block from home. (I know, boo-hoo, I have to walk and get a little exercise, but this really sucks in the winter or in the rain.)

Second, the stairs. I'm tired of having to climb stairs just to get into the main part of the apartment. (Again, this is kind of whiny. The exercise is useful. But it gets old and it's hard to keep those carpeted steps clean.)

Third, we need a bigger space to live in. Karen has made admirable use of the subpar kitchen, but she needs more.

Fourth, I'd like to have fewer things to freak Huck out. Having neighbors on either side or below means we always hear doors closing, water flowing, and occasionally people talking. This just wigs him out. That leads to lots of barking. No one has ever complained about him, but it makes ME cranky when it happens.

So, we've been hunting for a new place for the last month or so: A detached rental home with its own garage and enough space for us to be comfortable.

We thought we'd found it in Holly Springs/Apex, but the owner there sold it while keeping us on hook and line for renting it.

We thought we'd found it in Macarthur Park in Cary, but the owner there rented it before we made up our minds to take it.

But then we really did find it in Breckenridge in Morrisville. We got approved for it, I put the deposit down on it, and hopefully tomorrow I'll be signing the lease for it.

The next few weeks are already going to be crazy at work. Now it'll be crazy at home too as we gear up to move.

Be careful what you wish for!

Stpd mktg XTREME

I'm at work, hanging out at the Global Game Jam, and I pick up a can of Mountain Dew...uh, no, wait

mtn Dew

The brand has gone l33t! What the hell?!

Were those extra five letters such a hardship on hypercaffeinated brains?

Did they add so much to production costs?

Stupid.

Blurgh.

Last weekend, I was sitting on the couch, minding my own business, and then I sneezed. Something went K-PLOING! in my right side. I left it alone, took some Ibuprofen, and over the next couple of days the pain subsided.

On Friday morning, I was sitting at my desk at work. I sneezed again. This time, it was like I'd been shot in the right side with an arrow. I spent the rest of the day trying to be cool, but in all honesty it was torturous. I left as soon as I could, which turned out to be a little after 4, so I could stop by CVS and pick up an ice pack.

I went home. The gel for the ice pack needed to freeze for an hour, so Karen stuffed bags of frozen peas into the pack so I could apply it to my side right away. The cold helped.

We went to dinner at Niklos' Tavern. I enjoyed the food and the company, but I grew increasingly uncomfortable thanks to the pulled muscle. When we got home, I re-applied the pack - now with frozen gel inside. I grabbed a nap for an hour, watched "Battlestar Galactica," and then hit the sack for the night.

I woke up Saturday morning feeling much better. The pain is back to a dull ache rather than feeling like agony. I'll keep it on ice as much as I can today.

An Irritating Day

So, Tuesday really pissed me off.

There's a line from Clerks: "I hate people but I love crowds. Isn't that ironic?"

I'm the opposite. I get along fine with people for the most part. However, when I'm thrown into crowds, I become surly.

On Tuesday, I got my fill of crowds after vowing that I wouldn't get into crowds much at all during this vacation.

First, we were late leaving for the IMAX theater to see The Polar Express. I'm particularly anal about getting to movie theaters early so I can make sure to get a decent seat.

The theater was in downtown Raleigh. So, of course, all the street parking was taken. We had to go to a parking garage about a block from the IMAX. The garage was pretty full. We ended up parked on Level 5.

We picked up our tickets with about 15 minutes to spare. Inside, I saw the line was already queued five rows deep. I needed a snack and some caffeine, decided that we weren't going to get a decent seat no matter what, so I got into line at the snack bar.

Unfortunately, I was in line behind three women ordering snacks for about six kids each. When I finally got to order, one of the women heard me getting Sour Patch Kids for Stefan and immediately slid back next to me to tell the clerk she needed one of those too or she'd "be in trouble." He handled her additional order while my credit card receipt sat in the printer waiting to get signed.

We were the next to last group in line to see this showing of The Polar Express. But as we came to the usher and prepared to give him our tickets, this couple with their elderly mom slid in front of us and handed THEIR tickets to the usher. The usher then had to spend a couple of minutes explaining that their tickets were dated for Tuesday, Dec. 30 and that, no, he couldn't honor them early because this show was sold out.

Finally, we get into the theater and, yes, the seats sucked. We were stuck in the neck-craning front row. Another couple wanted to move past us to get further down the row - one of them knocked over Karen's Diet Coke, which I bent over to rescue before it could go rolling off the edge and into fizzy oblivion. I got it, but managed to get a knee in the head by the passing man. "Goddammit," I muttered, settling back into my seat.

The movie was all right. Eventually, I convinced myself the seats weren't so bad. I forgot about the crowd and how much I hated being in it.

And then the movie ended.

We walked back to the parking garage. We rode the elevator up to Level 5. I took out my debit card so I would have it ready to give the attendant as we paid for parking. I drove down to street level. I was the first of the IMAX audience to get to the parking kiosk area. It was a three-lane affair. One lane came in. Two lanes went out. The middle lane appeared to be for cardholders only. The right lane, however, was currently blocked by an orange cone. There were two people inside the kiosk. Neither was telling us what the hell was going on. Meanwhile, the rest of the crowd from the IMAX movie was building up behind us in their cars. Karen suggested that maybe we should take the middle lane and she could pay through the passenger window. I hated doing it that way, but I also wanted to get out of there sometime the same day. So, I did it. I took initiative and moved into the middle lane, abandoning my spot at the head of the right lane. And THAT is when one of the clerks came out of the kiosk and said: "You have to pay in the right lane." They wouldn't take my money and clear us out. We had to go back to the end of the line.

When we finally made it back to the kiosk, I said to the guy: "Maybe you could work on a better way of communicating what's going on around here. Something better than an orange cone. Something like a sign that says 'Stay in this lane, we'll be with you as soon as possible.'"

His response: "Do you want a receipt?"

So, maybe now I'm starting to hate crowds AND people.

We followed this up with a trip to the Crossroads shopping center to pick up a Honey Baked Ham for Christmas. Naturally, the place was packed. We nearly got hit at least twice by SUVs zooming through the lot. Then we had to go through the line for about 20 minutes. And then traffic leaving the shopping center blocked me from going the way I wanted to go, forcing me to get on the frustrating loop that leads to I-40.

I wasn't fit for company by the time I dropped off Karen and Stefan at home, but I assured her none of my frustration was her fault. I still needed to go make my evening visit to the Jolley household to feed their cats. This put me back out in rush hour traffic on Chapel Hill Road and Maynard, but I felt myself decompressing a little once I got the feeding taken care of. I hung out with the cats for a bit.

When I got home, I still had an hour before the online seminar I'd planned for developing theme behind one of the races that players will have to choose from on the new OtherSpace game. I sent out emails to remind people about the seminar. And then I lost Internet. It came back about 30 minutes before the seminar. I logged on and told people we'd have the seminar in 30 minutes. And then I lost Internet again.

Karen called Time Warner Cable and learned that an outage in our area would be fixed within 90 minutes. So, after yelling from the rooftops that the seminar would happen on time at 7, I'd be a no-show.

She ordered pizza and wings, making the best of a bad situation. And she assured me that we'd still get the seminar done that night. She was right. The Internet was back up before 8 and I managed to run the seminar.

I was fairly frazzled, though. Sadly, I don't think I'm done with crowds at all, though.