Genealogy of The Royal "They"

"My bum is on your lips

My bum is on your lips

And if I'm lucky you might just give it a little kiss

And that's the message that we deliver to little kids

And expect them not to know what a woman's clitoris is"

 

Eminem - The Real Slim Shady

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"Listen closely, LotA: You need to step off the third-person high-horse. [...] If you want to be treated like a person, then don't correct people when they treat you like they treat each other."

 

Schlock Mercenary 2008/11/21

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Though largely lost in our wider media circus (what with the nonsensical warring and the surrender of all society to robber barons and the primitive superstitious backsliding and suchlike) a court case popped up on the news here in the states as redundant proof that men should avoid women as much as possible. (At least they caught this one before she moved on to killing her children as well; just a man dead, no harm done.) Granted, the age-old 'bitch bites man' headline of a wife poisoning her husband for the cash would have raised no eyebrows if not for the very modern twist of her then going on to publish a (ghostwritten) children's book about suffering through the grief of his death. Now that's the 21st century we know and love! (And you're still whining about the Brothers Grimm being too gruesome for modern audiences? Let mommy soothe you with the tale of murdering daddy if he's not useful enough to her, then playing the victim.)

 

It's all about the sympathy.

 

On a completely unrelated topic I've been revisiting the webcomic Questionable Content, which  instead of regaining some perspective seems to be doubling and trebling down on its woke idiocy with not one but two storylines in the past year pushing, of all things, personalized pronouns. In the latest morality play, two teens start throwing stuff and putting another in a choke hold - for what offense, you ask? 'Misgendering' one of them, it being a 'they' of the male persuasion. We then proceed with a soulful heart-to-heart on the moral imperative to support and coddle tha pwecious fee-fees of the retarded trash physically beating their peers for nonexistent insults. Then the boy they choked out is made to return to beg forgiveness and voice admiration of his assured betters, only to be mocked with an eye-rolling "ugh, boys!" chorus behind his back. Ta-dah. The (apparently happy) end.

 

How do you deal with an entire 'left' wing turned self-justifying petty tyrants and champions of schoolyard bullies? It's been fifteen or so years since the politics of those posturing as progressive ceased resembling anything like equality and dove headlong into a mad gambit to fabricate a new aristocracy pervading our entire society, with its own hagiography and honorifics, entitled to claim offense at a whim and mete out arbitrary punishments. There's a difference between calling yourself a 'they' freely, without retribution, and forcing everyone else to play along with your delusion. There's a difference between getting called a 'faggot' by others as an insult and demanding to be called one as a mark of respect. It's the same insanity we were supposed to be combating by no longer forcing children to pledge allegiance to some magic sky-daddy in the clouds. (Which, oddly enough, we never got around to rectifying before new pledges to new allegiances were tacked on.) A right to live your own life is not the same as a right to dictate others'.

 

Of course, in QC's case, it hopped that crazy-train thirteen or more years ago, when it paired up its old main protagonist with a transsexual. One of their relationship upgrades, for instance, consisted of them sharing a hotel room, and the self-appointed female crawling into the theretofore straight male's bed during the night. Though the tranny was the one breaking social norms, when the other tells the story to his own friends, he's the one reflexively put on trial as a possible sexual predator. Well, that's how you market to an entire generation raised on the likes of Nimona. This is Dick Cheney shooting another man in the face then making him publicly apologize for getting shot. This is Saddam Hussein charging his victims' families for the bullets used in executions. This is every nobleman over the centuries caning a servant then docking his wages for breaking his cane. And it's now the official stance of every right-thinking leftist.

 

Best of all, you need no special qualities to join the ranks of such a superior breed. No analytical skill, intellectual integrity or creativity, no virtues except adherence to a quasi-articulated creed. But it's worth remembering where all this snowflakery started, the reason it has consistently fallen back on ginned up sympathy for the cute, for the easily offended, for the mentally infirm, for men claiming to be women, for those claiming intrinsic protections beyond those available to their fellow apes. Where does, where has rested the stronghold of weaponized, unquestioned victimhood all throughout history? Based on which social divide do we inherit a mentality splitting us innately into those who must provide and protect and those entitled to benefit from those efforts? Did not the damsel wail for violence to be committed on her behalf in every children's tale? Scratch just a few slogans beneath the mob's pentimentod placards and you will find this modern insanity hearkens back to women's primordial entitlement to exploit men, and to dispose of them if profit dictates, all while playing the victim.

Hey, what do you call Sanrio's North-American market share?

Trickle-Dow Nekonomics. 

Game as Service Outage

"She takes a litle time

In making up her mind

She doesn't want to fight against the tide"

 

Garbage - The Trick Is to Keep Breathing

 

 

Let's see, where were we? Night City? 

Nice place to visit but I wouldn't want to live there. I've been jumping in every so often this past year, as one does in these big open world games, but find myself unmotivated to advance in any way. At least in Skyrim, despite putting the main quests off for... almost forever, I could get momentarily jazzed by exploring a new dungeon, crafting new weapons, potions and enchantments, building up my homestead. Cyberpunk 2077's level scaling sours both the combat and crafting, its apartments can't be customized (and once I found the delightfully shabby Northside one I lost interest in others) plus I already got the only car I want.

Quit snickering, it gets three million pixels to the gallon!

The high point so far have been the side-quests, which not only display some nice, professional level design but contain just enough flavor text to each paint an entertaining vignette of life in the city. But as I've been clearing those off board after board, I've been gradually losing interest in mercenary work altogether and launching the game for ten or twenty minutes at a time to just wander around and take in the numerous slices of Night City life, like kids playing virtual hopscotch.

Oh come on, a piece of chalk must cost, like, a fraction of an implant, economize ya lil' shits! Anyway, overall, a modern setting offers less room for the more involved delving of a single, unitary "dungeon" so there's no real feeling of escalation to any of it. Escalation takes more planning.

 

I never did get around to trying Vagrus' new zone. When I left off, I'd just finished a massive inspiraling sweep of the map, polishing off Finndurarth, Nedir and Harvek's companion quests at the same time as cashing in a lot of smaller contracts, battles and investments.

Excess livestock: the best problem.

Gotta appreciate those 400 silver wallet bumps. But knowing I'll need to devote a fair bit of focus to my next twenty-step plan to avoid forgetting crucial details, I parked my comitatus back at newbietown with an empty inventory and clear ledger, and there it's been awaiting my triumphant scheming return for half a year. I'll be saddlin' up some giant ant mounts next time! If there is a next time...

 

There are many issues with the DLC-spam business model as a subset of the game-as-service, microtransaction mentality writ large. Its popularity spread with multiplayer games which ensured almost universal playerbase buy-in. Everyone else is buying the new expansion. Do or get left behind. But single-player lacks that social network addiction as a crutch, leaving only the game's quality as incentive for the next buy-in. How sure are you of your appeal?

 

Then of course there's the issue of demanding your customers pay full price for the bare skeleton of a product, which is why I bought Europa Universalis 4 a decade after its release.

 

Then there's the diminishing returns angle, as latter DLCs get more and more sparse to keep bleeding a supposedly addicted audience with the least effort, which is why I haven't bought the last few years' worth of Stellaris DLCs.

 

At the conjunction of the previous two points you find the limitation of tacking extra features onto a basic system not made for them. I've addressed at some length D&D's problem trying to sell extra classes, modules and settings, when what it so obviously needs is to break down the primitive min-maxing, over-randomized fighter/wizard/thief setup from half a century ago - but the fanboys would never stand for it. Age of Wonders 4 has been scraping that limit with its latter expansions, deftly interspersing yet not touching the core limitations of its six magic affinities.

 

Worse (here we reach my eventual point) you're damned if you do and you're damned if you don't, because in electronic-land, a full revamp will probably not be playable with older content. These days, that's a problem. Last year when I joked about needing spreadsheets to keep track of various options I've used (or not) as I jump between games every few months, I started by complaining Frostpunk 2 had killed my last city with its heat management patch. Now that seems to be ramping up into a trend. Low Magic Age (one of those perpetually "in beta" types) has barred my level 13-ish party from continuing. Darkest Dungeon 2 wiped my existing "confession" (a.k.a. campaign) at some point. Worst of all, my excitement at a new Mount&Blade expansion (Bannerlord's got vikings now - on boats!) was severely dampened when it forced me to retire the Marquis of Baltakhand, aged though he now be. Even porn games are starting to nuke old saves, and if you think an RPG party wipe is anti-climactic, try getting caught mid-thrust! 

 

While I don't deny the financial necessity for start-ups or fringe developers to literally buy themselves more development time with piecemeal content, add nuking players' saves as further evidence of post-launch content's limited tenability, no matter how well it worked for No Man's Sky. This is especially true as strategy/RPG campaigns have stretched longer and longer. A Frostpunk city represents a couple days' worth of gameplay. Bad enough. But the likes of Rogue Trader or Baldur's Gate 3 boast 200-hour campaigns. Not an option for them. If the basic idea is that such expansions will come after players have had a year or three to get bored of their existing characters, I refer you to my Vagrus example. Some concepts are playable only by extended, devoted effort, after which you might let the experience marinate for a bit before jumping in again. Not because you're bored, but because you're savoring it... or maybe precisely because you tell yourself you'll play once the next DLC comes out, not realizing it'll murderize yer marquis.

 

So, two or three main issues:

 

1) Micro-doses of content can much more easily be added to dumbed-down gamplay where you just end up wandering aimlessly about, as in Cyberpunk. I don't know if those hopscotch brats were there from launch, and I don't have to care. Even if they did anything it wouldn't affect my trade run... because there is no trade run. No planning. Just mindless twitch-FPS dust-ups. But if I saw a DLC drop for Vagrus when my character was mid-circuit, I would deliberately delay buying it, possibly by months (and it went on sale) until I was safe in town with no outstanding warrants and able to accommodate any landscape changes.

 

2) One of the big problems with post-launch content has been training your customers to refuse buying anything at launch pricing on the assumption they'd only be missing out on later stuff 'n junk anyway. Now pile that on with conditioning them to actively dread expansions killing their characters. Bad enough to market a pig in a poke, but when the revealed cat claws your face off...

("Lately, I'm not the only one

I say never trust anyone") 

 

3) As the entire industry is presumably re-tooling to fill games with spammed, dirt-cheap AI slop as content, the artsier fringe must at long last bite the bullet and start marketing itself not as low-budget small-time indie side-show attractions, but as more expensive, artisanal interactive media. Go organic. Advertise your Amish hand-crafting. Charge more. Take more time to develop. Put out singular, coherently-crafted campaigns from start to finish. Move on to the next and hope your work was good enough to earn you name brand trust. Low prices and DLC spam will soon be synonymous with The Slop.

AoW4 Factions, 10

AoW4 has managed the odd feat, unequaled since City of Heroes, of inspiring me to not just write up a character bio but constantly create new factions and give them all more or less whimsical flavor text. So here they are, one by one:

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Like I said, dragons don't particularly inspire me, and this faction was made just so I could play around with an order dragon. Goats too, for some reason. Didn't like making it, didn't like playing it, can barely remember it.

 

Well, they can't all be winners. 

Le Mot Justified Alignment

"An honest propagandist for any Cause, that is, one who honestly studies and figures out the most effective way of putting over his Message, will learn fairly early that it is not fair to ordinary folks--it just confuses them--to try to make them swallow all the true facts that would be suitable to a higher class of people. And one seemingly small but almighty important point he learns, if he does much speechifying, is that you can win over folks to your point of view much better in the evening, when they are tired out from work and not so likely to resist you, than at any other time of day."

 

Sinclair Lewis - It Can't Happen Here (note, that's his villain speaking)

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Hmm, where shall we start tonight's peripatetic prose on conning? Maybe with the prosaic conman-in-chief? Various Democrat-aligned American comedians have been pulling material in spades from Trump's decline into senility, but as usual, chasing momentary profit masks the more salient, wider point. This is not a 2026 issue. He was a laughing stock even in the '90s. Old or young, Donnie is, was, has always been an incoherent babbling buffoon. Even while he retained "the gift of gab" said gab contained zero substance. At his utmost cogent, he might verbalize a platitude or truism. In any decade, any rational mind listening to a couple of sentences of his verbal diarrhea could spot in him an overeducated moron, a spoiled rich brat never called out on his mistakes, a transparently obfuscating blowhard with a third-grade vocabulary and a three-year-old's grasp of causality. No animal which communicates in that chimpanzee swagger will ever be anything more than a troglodyte. But for that to matter you'd need a public capable of distinguishing the loftiest prose from chimp grunts, and it's not as though Obama's vapid "hope and change" mantra held more meaning than "make rabblerousing great again."

 

On a completely unrelated topic, it was trendy from the late '90s to the mid 2010s to proclaim that women speak twice or three times more than men, with a knowing wink intimating this merely confirms the mental inferiority of men as dumb animals incapable of verbalizing* and presumably communicating in nothing but primitive grunts like Tim the Tool Man. Studies both back then and last year have tended to deflate that otherwise unproven assumption, with, yes, okay, women speaking consistently more, but not by much. Ten percent? Twenty at most? So now if you look up the issue you run across feminist complaints that the trope of women verbalizing more was nothing but patriarchal propaganda to put down women as chatty... even though it was the feminists and daytime talk shows of 20y.a. who popularized it as superior communication. Their revisionism is likely prompted by another realization from the intervening years which appears to have been expunged from search engines in the interest of women's dignity: that their excess speech was not, in fact, communicating anything. It comes from an increase in mundane chatter, the hi-how-are-you-hi-I-am-fine-how-are-you-also-fine-great-bye-bye droning background radiation of social life. Women just feel a need to "touch base" more. Give a guy <A TOPIC> and he'll talk your ear off too.** But for a couple of decades nobody thought to question whether the speech in question was meaningful or not. Meaning is extraneous.

 

So. This is a post about chatbots.

 

I'm seeing more and more exasperated nerds and nerdettes trying to point out that even if a bot can instantly write you a ten-page commentary on any topic, that in no way implies it's logically constructing a coherent analysis. Well, sure, thinks I, what else is new? LLMs are cut-and-paste machines, working at stunningly finer pixel-scale grain than any such effort in history, but by necessity still just outputting a probabilistic extension of a sequence. Ask a bot's opinion on a movie and it will output strings of "cinematography" and "scintillating" and "emotive" and anything else you're accustomed to hear out of a critic's mouth, precisely because you, the asker, are accustomed to hearing them. Ask it to make a movie and it will paste predicted figures onto a standardized backdrop and animate them in accordance with the maximum likelihood of such arrangements. At no point is actual creation involved. At no point does the output reflect reality any more faithfully than the topic's match to existing content. The more a culture interacts via such automated output, the more it will, by necessity, both contract toward the lowest-common-denominator and lose its grounding.

 

But if you take issue with this, be intellectually honest enough to admit the problem is not the supply. It's the demand. The "reality" TV-watching public is too stupid to detect the gradual degradation of communication and cultural capital.

Not uneducated.

Not constrained. 

Not victims of circumstance.

Stupid.

Humanity appears to have achieved Orwell's versificator, a useful tool for placating the proles, the subhuman cattle comprising the overwhelming bulk of the species. Gabbing. Limitless, prompt and bountiful gabbing. Is that a bad thing? Yes, but not for any of the humanitarian reasons you'd like to boast as moral high ground. The people don't want your help. They want the platitudes. They'll never know the difference. They will likely live happier lives for it. So why is the versificator bad? And it is. Disastrous.

 

But admit to yourself where exactly your anger should be directed.

 

 

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* Seriously though, 1800 pages, do I look like I have trouble verbalizing my thoughts?

** I'm pretty sure that if you look closer at men's speech, you'll find the prosocial platitudes replaced with slogans, chants and catchphrases. Sorry, bros, but "wazzaaaaaap" is still very much not a word. All of this is, by-the-by, not getting into the issue of gossip, of the invasive personal/interpersonal nature of women's chatter, which I'm guessing is where the difference and the mis-perception of talking "more" actually lies.

Fullmetal Passerine

No hawk's getting through THAT!

Broodhollow

"I never heard of a sawmill with a night shift. Explain that to me!"

 

The Sinking City's prohibition-era setting reminded me of one of the endless dead comics littering teh interwebz - but one of the few I really wish would have continued. Kris Straub seemed reasonably famous among the cartoonin' crowd in the 2000s for his space comedy Starslip, but I never warmed up to it. Cheesy romantic over-arching premise with heavily Futurama-derived main characters (Zapp, Bender, Zoidberg) but too one-dimensional and straining at flimsy plots even by parody standards. Through the 2010s however he ran Broodhollow, a far more creative and coherent story which died mid-rising-action after two chapters and 249 pages.

 

A jittery Roaring '20s encyclopedia salesman inherits a haunted antiques shop. He is joined by a plucky ginger love interest, a giant miniature (space?) animal companion and a hero's mentor spouting vaguely off-brand Freudianisms. Comedy ensues, chiefly from the quaintness of the titular town in which the shop is located: its quaint period jargon, its quaint speakeasy serving fake liquor, quaint non-stop string of town holidays, quaint giant mutant flying swarms and skeletons in various closets...

 

As an (aborted) example of storytelling, Broodhollow demonstrates several points easily forgotten these days.

First, that you need not take a setting too seriously to render it believably and tie it into your story's theme. It's easier to place conflicts of tradition and self-reliance, belief and truth-seeking at the onset of 20th-century modernism. (It's also easier to believe so quaint a town might stay off the radar before the electronic era, but that's another conversation.) Its more farcical elements retain proportion and relevance to the characters' plight and thus never feel like "lolrandom" filler.

Relevant to the medium, while a lot of cartoonists have been rushing to incorporate fancier (quasi-automated) detail, shading, and so forth, Broodhollow's level of visual competence just above the early 20th-century newspaper comics it apes allows it plenty of room for goofy cartoonishness ramping toward splashes of higher detail for dramatic scenes.

Also, competent female characters can be portrayed without the need to defeat men for validation at every turn. Aside from the love interest's own efforts, a major threat in the plot is subverted by a not only elegant but quintessentially feminine solution, without resorting to out-doing the menfolk.

On a more philosophical point, it portrays the terror of madness not as violence or perversion but as blankness, erasure, Hollowing, the grotesquery inherent in mental influence as implicit destruction of the individual.

 

But the biggest success of those 240-odd pages comes by portraying horror not only by hauntings and huntings, but in their impact on the mundane. Horror invades the characters' lives, twisting or effacing universal habits and sentiment, infecting with wrongness. The quote above comes late in the story, and hits particularly hard for reminding the reader (who's likely been mentally chasing flashier manifestations) how easily he has brushed aside the low-key pervasiveness of evil influence in Innsmou- sorry, I mean Broodhollow.

 

All in all, denser than it appears and worthier of attention than much longer comics.