Some students in classes with me have recently taken it upon themselves to talk to me and get to know me. This is clearly a foolish mistake on their part, but that isn't tonight's topic.

Today I was asked to decribe myself using only ten adjectives... why I was asked this is beyond me, but there you go. Certain words came up, quite naturally... deceitful, egotistical, technophillic... The one which seemed to capture people's attention was my describing myself as egotistical. This descriptor struck the nice students as being a bit odd, since I had seemed to be a perfectly considerate and nice person... a bit cold and aloof, but not self-centered. I was not, to put it simply, treating them as inferiors.

If they only knew.

I brushed off the question at the time, cunningly changing the subject, but the question is one which I have been asked once or twice in the past, and thus merits attention in this Journal, particularly on a day when I have nothing else worth talking about. In brief: there is a fine yet underappreciated line between egoism and stupidity; to my knowledge I have yet to cross it. One of the symptoms most commonly seen in the egotistical (and what makes me better than them, while we're on the topic) is the irrational belief that other people ought to immediately recognise their superiority.

When I say that I'm egotistical, this is a statement of fact. I believe myself to be more important than nearly anyone else around me; if you look up the definition of egoism in the dictionary, that's what it is. I am also self-centered, and again, this is based solely on having read the dictionary. In my mind, it's just so obvious that I'm a superior life form that the issue hardly seems worth giving consideration. That being said, one thing I have never been is delusional, and unlike the average two year old (and more adults than I care to consider), I have learned one very important lesson: the fact that I know something does not mean that other people know it also. Of course I believe I'm superior... this is based on years and years of careful observation, comparisson, objective testing and intelligent debate. If I deserve to label myself as a superior mind, though, I ought to be able to understand that if my certainty is based on years of scientific observation, then people who have not made these observations cannot be expected to have reached the same conclusion. Why this is such a difficult concept for so many humans is beyond even my vast intellect.

So, to sum up... the inability to understand why others don't grasp one's own greatness is not an inherent failing of the egotistical personality, but is rather an inherent failing of the chronically stupid. It is completly possible to be certain of one's superiority without 1) treating others as being inferior and 2) requiring that others treat you as superior. As long as I'm convinced of my own superiority without treating others as inferiors as a result, egoism is, in my own opinion, more of a vice than a character flaw, and as long as I don't have hallucinations or ridiculous beliefs along with belief in my own superiority, it's an adaptive trait and not a maladaptive one.

So, getting back to the original question, why do I say I'm egotistical if I act perfectly nice? Quite simply, it's because I can afford to be nice... I am, after all, superior.

If you've found this entry interesting, mail Eric about it.
If you didn't find this entry interesting, go to hell.

And now, an apology.

For the benefit of the few readers who didn't make the connection between the announcement back in Entry 74 and last Entry, last Entry was a part of the worldwide effort on the part of weblog, livejournal, and other self-soapboxing writers to celebrate the birthday of Lewis Carroll by filling their normally sane, sensible writings with nonsense for one day. I have done some browsing of journals in the days since and have decided the event was a vast sucess -- meaning, of course, that I was able to find a single other person who took part besides myself. Some celebrants chose to fill their entries with poetry in the style of the great mister Carroll, by which I mean, poetry which is largely devoid of meaning and sense, and others, like myself, chose to celebrate by taking the generally truthful journals and making them, for one day, a chronicle of things which did not and could not have happened.

It has been wisely observed that writing nonsense is not a great stretch for me or this Journal. But I digress.

It came as a small surprise to me that, after writing Entry 78, I received a letter from an old... aquaintance... from my long-ago days writing fanfic (Yes, I used to be part of the fanfic community; I am not proud of those days) commenting that he had been reading the Journal for a couple of weeks and was shocked and apalled to see that not only had I written a brief bit of prose which was below my usual quality of writing but that, sin of sins, I had stuck myself into it. The low quality of the "story" is explicable by simply stating that I did not have the time (or the motivation) to write something better for this short piece of fiction; that said, my prose has never been of top-notch quality, which is why I restrict myself to writing mostly essays and column-format these days. However, inserting myself into the story... "Mary Sueing" as my old friend called it... is something which I absolutely hate doing and have always looked upon with contempt. It is with every right that this old aquaintance called me out on the grounds that I had done it. The aquaintance in question had missed the point, of course, which is that, as an impossible version of a day in the life of Myself, the story had to star Me, and thus he was promptly smacked with the Hollow Buckram Cylinder, but the criticism was still one I understood.

As a writer myself, I believe strongly that there are several sins which an author should never ever commit (with a few exceptions). These sins include some of my well-known Most Hated Things, such as apostrophe misuse and "it was all a dream" surprise endings but also include some lesser-known things which I have ever despised, such as characters in a story talking to the reader (god damn you, Noel Hynd!) and, of course, Mary Sueing. Like all sins, these can sometimes be done well and for good cause. Hari Michaelson in the two brilliant books "Heroes Die" and "Blade of Tyshalle" speaks to the audience, but the reason why is jusitified in the book and the character's voice is superbly well-written. Similarly, an author inserting himself into the story can have a very entertaining effect, as shown by John Byrne in his time writing the Fantastic Four. *Generally* speaking, however, these sins are things which authors do and which the vast majority are incapable of doing well... what Germany did to Poland and Frederick Bronski did to Hamlet, Mary Sueing has done to literally thousands, perhaps millions of stories and apostrophe use has done to ten times as many sentences.

Presumably by now, even readers who are not writers themselves will have deduced that the phrase Mary Sueing refers to an author inserting him(or her)self into their own story. Typically this is done in as tasteless a manner possible and without any thought to the literary implications -- the author wants good things to happen to them, no to their character. This is not simply a case of putting elements of oneself into a character, which nearly every author does, but consists of actually naming the character after ourself, giving them your behaviours, appearance, attitude, and manner of speaking, often coupled with shameless "improvements" which the author adds to themselves in the story. As meditative and philosophical excercises, putting yourself into a story can be an interesting experience, but from a literary point of view, particularly if the story in question is meant to actually be seen by anyone besides the author, doing this is tasteless and really makes the author look just plain stupid, nine times out of ten. Generally speaking, I will never ever insert myself into a story, although sometimes the change made to a character is as simple as changing the name.

As last Entry demonstrates, however, even I sometimes Mary Sue. On occasion.

To sum up, let me assure my readers that making myself the main character in the story presented last Entry was deliberate, considered, and for clear literary and thematic purposes, and was not merely a case of writing about myself for its own sake. Furthermore, readers may rest assured that it will probably be a very long time before they are again forced to read my attempt at story-writing, since rants are easier to plot, faster to write and generally better received by my readers.

Eric stopped typing.

If you've found this entry interesting, mail Eric about it.
If you didn't find this entry interesting, go to hell.

       January 27th, 2005. Maybe.
       He awoke to the feeling that something was wrong. This in itself was not unusual, as he awoke to this feeling most mornings. Normally, what was wrong was easily spotted, and on most days, it was the realization that, despite all efforts, he had once again returned to reality, which invariably felt wrong. On other days he would awake and not feel like he was himself, implying perhaps that he was someone else that day; this too was usually a cause for feeling wrong. Today was different, however. Today he had awoken feeling like himself (so far, so good, he thought) and had awoken without the distate for reality he had learned to live with long ago. No, he reflected, what felt wrong today was something else entirely.
       He had awoken in a bed which was not his. Furthermore, he had awoken in a bedroom which was not his. To further add to his confusion, he had awoken in a body which was not his.
       It's going to be one of those days, thought Eric to himself.
       Slowly, Eric slid from the bed and stood, moving carefully as he adjusted to several inches of height he hadn't possessed the night before. The flagstones beneath his feet were cold, information he took in only slightly faster than he processed the strangeness of a flagstone floor, which in turn met stone walls and a stone ceiling. Tapestries, covering arrow-slits in place of windows in the walls confirmed his first guess... he was in a castle, though how he had gotten there was a mystery.
       A quiet knock at the door forestalled further questions. Eric lifted a robe from the edge of the bed and slid it on, noting the medieval cut and coarseness of the cloth, and opened the door. The imp-thing on the other side came up to his waist and grinned up at him, the very image of smarminess save only for its daggerlike and crooked teeth.
       "Mathter thee you now," the imp-thing croaked. It took Eric a moment to process the sounds; lisps like that rarely occured outside of books.
       "Master?" Eric replied, scarecely noticing the Olde Englishe accent to his own speech in the face of all the other absurdities. "What master? Where is this?"
       "Mathter explain all," the imp grinned back, and turned to hop-waddle down the hall without looking back. No other options presenting themselves, Eric followed.
       The castle, it soon became apparent, was the very model of fantasy architecture. The dark grey stone might have been carved from the very walls of Rohan or Roogna; the suits of armour which stood at attention every ten fet ran the gamut of Europe's history. Out of the thin, widely-spaced windows flat, green plains rolled out in every direction and the castle's towers were clearly visible. There were also more imps - quite a lot, in fact, scurrying about inside and outisde the castle, straightening and polishing the armours, hanging tapestries and generally looking busy save when they paused to watch as Eric was led past. The long hallway branched many times, but they marched straight, ever straight, until the very end where they made a quick right turn and stopped before an immense wooden double-door.
       "Mathter inside," hissed the imp; it was so excited now, it had forgotten to lisp. "Mathter waiting."
       With a shrug, Eric stepped back, and the imp pushed open the door. He debated looking in from the doorway but considered the setting and decided the best thing he could do, under the circumstances, was to act in character. He stepped boldly through and into the throne room.
       It was brighter in this room, due largely to the sheer amount of gold off of which the sunlight from the windows was able to reflect. Gold adorned every surface to some degree; the hangings were of golden thread, the armours were of gold, the roof held an immense gold chandelier -- imps still clinging to it and polishings furiously -- and the throne appeared to have been forged from a single auric block. Even the throne's user appeared to have been shaped from gold, a faceless and featureless humanoid figure with rudimentary indentations for eyes and with nothing else to give the impression of lines or details upon its body. Imps stood to either side of Eric, armed with wicked-looking pikes longer than they were.
       "You look puzzled," the creature on the throne said. It lacked a mouth and thus did not produce words, but its voice echoed in the room and seemed to come from every surface within the chamber.
       "Confusion is a holy state," Eric replied, but it was purely a rote response. The whole situation had left him nearly speechless, and he had the distinct feeling that, had he been reading, he would have had to skip back several pages by now to figure out where he had lost track of the plot. "This won't be a guessing game, will it? I hate those."
       "I detest games," replied the golden thing. "I will tell you where you are if you but ask." Eric stoood patiently. Twenty seconds lapsed by in silence before the golden figure grew uncomfortable and continued. Its words held the sound of a didactic speech which had been long rehersed. "The technical name for this is an astral meta-psionic incursion. Your mind has been secured within this subconcious construct and your body will be used to open gates within the prime material plane, allow-"
       "We're in my head?" Eric interrupted. The golden figure shifted position, clearly upset at its villainous exposition being throw off track.
       "Yes. Your body will be used to open gates within the prime material plane, allowing us to open portals and take over other minds on your plane. You will be held prisoner here until-"
       "We're in MY head," Eric repeated, again interrupting the entity. He began to look around the room with interest.
       "Yes, you stupid human, now stop interrupting. You will be held prisoner until such time as you hand over control of your will to-"
       "My head," Eric said again. A slow smile spread across his face.
       "That is quite enough. Imps, hit the human until it continues interrupting me." Enthusiastically the imps raised their pikes and swung the weapons' butts towards Eric.
       There was the sound of wood hitting metal. There was the sound of metal hitting imp. There was the sound of imp hitting stone. There was a heartbeat of no sound at all.
       "Please stop calling me human," Eric said, stepping lightly over one of the unconconcious imps. Flanking him, the two armoured figures matched him step for step and brought up the weapons with which they had dispatched the imps. The metal quarterstaff of Virrar Crysthalus glowed with its own magical light while the similar testsubo of Cantrel Foolsbane, imp-blood on the tip, swung backwards and forwards protectively in front of Eric. Eric's own robe had been replaced by a silvery exo-skeleton, bearing a large happy-face on the front and trailing a flowing red cape from the back.
       The golden creature stared, dumbfounded.
       "It's a funny thing," Eric said, "but I've always had a very independent imagination." Virrar gestured contemptously at the ceiling, and imps flew from the chandelier in all directions, striking the stone walls with bone-breaking force. More imps, rushing in through the wooden doors behind the trio, found themselves staring into the slavering jaws of a hulking wereweasel and had a few short moments to regret their career choices before they ceased to have such simple and living concerns.
       "No human has the will to do this!" shrieked the golden figure, rising from its throne and striding forwards threateningly. "You will not be allowed to-"
       Hard steel met soft gold with a wet clang. The golden figure slumped back, the perfect cast of Eric's fist stamped into its face, and sank to the floor. From outside the throneroom, the sounds of gunfire had joined the sound of swinging weapons and impish-cries of pain. To Eric's sensitive hearing, it was music.
       "No human, maybe," Eric said, nudging the golden body with his boot as it was lifted by his Imperial Guardsmen and carried towards the hungry looking woodchipper which had appeared in the room. "Me, I'm something else entirely." The throneroom shook, to the accompaniement of what Eric had always imagined orbital bombardment would sound like; he drank in the chaos with happiness he rarely felt.
       Briefly, Eric considered not leaving; this place gave every indication of being somewhere he would enjoy staying, and there were probably more of the invading outsiders to be found if he searched. But he had seen no computers in the castle, and even if he created some, he doubted they would connect to the Internet outside of his own head; he would also get bored, he knew, with no stories but his own to read and watch.
       Reality might have little to offer compared to the joys of his own mind, Eric reflected, but at least it offered people to talk to whose dialogue he wasn't writing himself.
       And the castle walls slowly melted away.

If you've found this entry interesting, mail Eric about it.
If you didn't find this entry interesting, go to hell.

Psychological research has long shown that people make a very big deal about symmetry in their faces. Below the level of concious attention, we are keenly aware of symmetry in the faces of others, and some research has even suggested that the more symmetry a face has, the more attractive it appears. Psychobiological research has also shown that pretty much no-one has a truly symmetrical face, but that our brains generally ignore the tiny differences we see in the sides of the faces of others. Despite this, though, it has been shown that people are more likely to watch certain sides of others' faces (although the specific side changes from person to person) and that facial expressions are more likely to be displayed on the left hand side of a person's face.

A normal human is generally unaware of all these things and, by and large, could not care less. To a creature whose primary purpose in life is self-understanding, however, even these seemingly useless questions must ever be pursued, examined, and, if possible, made fun of. To this end, we today examine the two faces of Eric Lis.

Eric, circa winter, 2002:

It is furthermore interesting to note that the right hand side looks almost identical to the full face image, while the left side looks clearly different, at least to me. Hypothesis: I, at least, focus more on the right hand side of faces (or of my own face). What makes this particularly interesting is the fact that while I can see plainly that the right hand side picture looks more similar to the full face image, I find that the left hand side image looks more like how I picture myself. As more astute readers already know, my self-image does not actually have my face, so this fact may be explicable.

So there we have it. There is, as they say, two sides to every face, and if anyone in the world is going to be two-faced, it may as well be me.

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If you didn't find this entry interesting, go to hell.

Now that the game for which this character was created has officially ended (or at least, we haven't played in just over two months), this secret origin can at last be told.

In the 41st millenium, it is sometimes said, there is only war. It is a truism in the blasted pits of the Death Worlds, it is true on the battlefronts that lie between the Imperium of Humanity and the alien scum which surrounds it, and it is true even on the relatively peaceful worlds which are home to the untold billions of humans who live, work, and die in service of the Divine Emperor. On such worlds, it is the Imperial Guard which stands between order and chaos, between Humanity and Chaos, and in the Hive Cities, where humans are so numerous that they live like ants, layer and layer upon each other, it is the Imperial Guard which acts as police, prison, and gibbet.

Hive City Nocturnus: one immense city which covers the whole of an entire planet deep within Terran space. Multiple regiments of the Imperial Guard control the planet and maintain the order without which the Hive City could never exist. It is one such regiment, the Imperial 21st, known colloquially as the Broken Shards, that police the lower middle levels, the levels occupied by laborers who live at the bottom of humanity but still exist above the mutants who operate the city's deepest depths. The 21st has always attracted some of the Hive City's best and brightest; it has never risen to enough prominence to be reassigned to a higher level, but its continued survival over centuries is a testament to its ability. It is the 21st which has often times operated with the greatest efficiency and which has taken the greatest chances. One such chance was the Kill Teams. Kill Team: a colloquial designation within the Imperial Guard for a small group of highly trained soldiers, strong enough to take on a much larger enemy but small enough to operate where a larger force could never get. It is a two-sided name; the teams insert themselves into enemy territory to kill their targets, but the teams have a nasty tendency to get killed themselves. The kill teams of the Broken Shard are made up of the best of their regiment - the most effective small squad leader commanding the most intuitive technician and the deadliest sniper.

Enter Gavlan Therreus, citizen of Hive City Nocturnus.

For generations, the Therreus family had believed that the military was the key to rising in society, and for centuries a Therreus had been in the Imperial Guard. The strategy had worked, by and large; most died, but for every one who was torn apart by an Ork or Tyranid, another received promotion, higher pay, and housing in a better part of the level. Thus was Gavlan Therreus born and raised to the lasrifle. Before he could walk, Gavlan could shoot. Before he could run, he could hit the bullseye. Before he was old enough to join the Guard, he was a better marksman than established soldiers. Gavlan's skill was noticed and he was enthusiastically recruited by the Guard when he came of age. Gavlan received all the training of a normal guardsman and then some; many extra hours he spent on the training fields until he could hardly miss the target unless he tried to, and his talents were such that he was gifted with a cybernetic implant to improve his already deadly skills. No sooner had Gavlan Therreus completed his training in the guard then he was recruited into one of the Kill Teams, and there did he exceed even the expectations of his trainers. For every enemy a teammate killed, Gavlan Therreus brought the Emperor's justice to five. He became a master of demolitions, of stealth and silence, and in a few short years was inducted into the lofty ranks of the Imperial Assassins.

But in the dark future, there is only war, and war at last came to Nocturnus. It began with an Ork invasion. They were driven off, and Gavlan Therreus himself slew ten times the Greenskins as his companions, but the Orks left behind their spores, and the spores grew into feral Orks anew, as did their spores, and the spores of their spores. The Imperial Guard was mighty, but its resources were limited. At last, the lower levels were burned away entirely to remove the alien taint; a dozen layers of the city's bowels were wiped away in fire, exposing the very surface of the planet which ahd not been seen by mortal eyes in a thousand years.

Beneath the surface was a temple. Within the temple was a star-god. Within the star-god was a hunger. The Necrons arose from their long sleep to claim Hive City Nocturnus as their own.

The weakened Imperial Guard was no match for the onslaught. Their numbers were legion, their name was death, and their star-god lead them, slaughtering Guardsmen with every swipe of its taloned hands. The 21st shattered before them along with every other regiment. As the battle lines collapsed and the Necron forces swarmed out into the broken city, it was the lasgun of Gavlan Therreus which slew their star-god, and in the explosion of energy which was the monster's death cry, Gavlan Therreus himself was wiped away.

Thus did Gavlan Therreus pass. He died as he would have wished, in the Emperor's Name, and went to sit at the Divine Majesty's throne, the only reward desired by a true servant of the Emperor.

If you've found this entry interesting, mail Eric about it.
If you didn't find this entry interesting, go to hell.

Since time immemorial, a single game has dominated human conciousness. It is a game of many pawns and vital units. It is a game of two sides sitting across a complex table of squares, of such complexity that players fight to stay five, ten, or dozens of moves ahead of their enemies, of such beauty and strategy that true masters can win or lose a game before the first moves are even made. It is a game of such wonder that innumerable people have watched as Death Itself played for the fate of souls in the gloom of the underworld.

Battleship.

I've always had a semi-irrational love for Battleship. Battleship contains all the elements of classic boardgaming - random chance, strategy, reading the other player, pattern recognition and the thrill and terror of the one missed moved that costs you the game - but all in moderation, so that while the game is fairly random, you can't win or lose by random chance alone if you know what you're doing, and having a master's grasp of strategy will help you but not shatter your opponent outright. Battleship lets beginners win while also providing a challenge not found in other "simple" games. In fact, the only thing about Battleship that I can really look upon as a flaw is the tragic lack of dice, but even this weakness is offset by the presence of tiny plastic warships.

As gamers, it's easy for us to forget some games over time, and somehow Battleship has been relegated over the years to the "forgotten" pile by many people. Chess get more respect, but it doesn't have plastic boats; Zombies!!! has the toyetic factor covered but doesn't involve second and third-guessing the other player. There is no reason why Battleship has floundered in the public eye while less worthy games - Candyland, Life, Checkers - have thrived, and it is my hope that the future will see a ressurgence of respect for this, one of the great games of human history.

The solution: house rules.

Yes, the two little words which strike fear into the hearts of gamers everywhere. Whether it's Nuclear Chess, Klingonese Scrabble or Full-Contact Monopoly, every gamer has their horror story to tell of house rules and the tragedy they have caused. Used with caution by wise gamers, however (HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!), house rules can be used to bring new life and new civilizations into a game, to boldly bring it into the center of the game room, and to make it into a game which no man (or "no one") has played before.

House Rules Battleship: Battlefleet

Movement: Each turn, all ships may move 1 square forward or back or may rotate 90 degrees centered around any one square occupied by the ship. The ship may not advance, withdraw, or rotate through a square which has been fired upon already, and ships may not come in contact with or rotate through each other.

Damage table: When a ship is hit sucessfully, Roll 1d10 and consult the table below. Make a new check for every sucessful hit a ship takes in a turn.

• 1: Explosive Decompression. The ship fails to seal off the damaged section in time, and takes an additional point of damage. Roll again; ignore the result and stop rolling unless the roll is another 1, in which case, a third point of damage is dealt an the die is rolled again.
• 2: System damage. The ship which is hit may not move or shoot next turn.
• 3-8: No special effect.
• 9: Shields holding. The damage from the hit is negated; the attacker still knows that the square contains an enemy ship, however.
• 10: Triangulate THIS!: The shields hold and all damage from that shot is negated. In addition, some clever tech was watching where the blast came from. The attacker must pick one quarter of their board and tell the defender how many ships are in that section. The quarter chosen does not have to actually have ships in it.

If you've found this entry interesting, mail Eric about it.
If you didn't find this entry interesting, go to hell.

Announcement 1:Last Entry was the fourth in a row following a single coherent thought-trail prompted by reader responses. This Entry is not number five, for which I blame all of you.

Announcement 2: To writers of other Livejournals/blogs/misc: I have been told about the upcoming celebration for Lewis Carroll's birthday, January 27th, wherein Livejournal writers the world over intend to fill their personal spaces with utterly ficticious and largely nonsensical entries in honour of He Who Dropped Acid For Us All. I am considering taking part in this event -- it has been observed to me that I primarily write nonsense anyway -- and I'm curious if any of my readers who maintain journals plan to do the same. Let me know.

People who know me tend to hold the erroneous belief that I collect one or more of the following things: happy/smiley faces, penguins, action figures, comics, or dust. Each of these beliefs is incorrect; while my Stuff includes a certain amount of items themed to these categories, none of them can be fairly called things that I collect. Case in point: I do not collect happy faces, and the majority of happy-face themed merchandise is of no appeal to me. I do own a small fotune worth of happy face merchandise, but that is because of the individual items, and not merely the smileys on them.

Everything I keep on display in my room falls into one of three categories: my art, characters I identify with, or gifts I've been given which are significant and displayable. My artworks are not immediately apparent to the uneducated observer -- this category includes plastic wrestlers fused together, a horribly disfigured Robocop figure, a Heroclic embedded in a hemisphere of solidified white glue and other such disturbing works that I call my sculptures. Art is, after all, a matter of perspective. This category also includes such things as painted miniatures and a few pieces of gaming terrain. The third category includes items which are of inferior meaning to me in and of themselves but are gifts I particularly value; among these, I include a near-life-size R2-D2 3D puzzle and several dragon statues which I would never have bought for myself. I place great value on these things... even though I don't always like them. The second category is the interesting one, and the one which the educated observer would probably spend the most time looking at. The majority of the toys and other display pieces in my room are pieces which speak to me on one level or another, and usually represent facets of my personality (or deliberate exagerations thereof). There are a lot of items in this category, but on the other hand, I've been collecting for a long time. Selecting items which belong in this category is extremely difficult and is, generally speaking, not possible for anyone other than myself to do with any real chance of sucess. I cannot be fairly called a toy collector because no theme visible to anyone outside of me is visible in what I collect.

Other people collect toys. I collect myself.

The canny observer at this point might point out some of the items which might be more interesting, considered from this perspective. For example, what might be the significance of someone who prominently displays alongside each other Peter Puppy (in monster form), Prince Xizor, and Kosh Narranek? Perhaps more significantly, what can we say about a person whose collection of personality-evoking items includes more Boba Fett memorabilia than any other single character or series?

Perhaps these will be issues discussed in future Entries, but they won't be answered now... I have toys to go play with.

If you've found this entry interesting, mail Eric about it.
If you didn't find this entry interesting, go to hell.

This fourth Entry in a row to follow a single line of reasoning attempts now to answer a question prompted by Entry 72, wherein I was asked by two people (one of whom actually wanted an answer) exactly how much of the stuff that gets into Entries (such as for example, the rating scheme by which I classify my friends) is made up on the spot and how much is stuff I actually believe. This is an excellent question, and I wll enjoy answering it because 1) it's highly relevant to this Journal as a whole and 2) because it won't take long and I have less than 15 minutes before I have to go to class.

In theory, everything written in this Journal is at least 80% true. On the face of it, this may not seem like much, but by the standards of my universe, 80% is really quite high. When you consider that I lie to people in nearly 50% of all social interactions, a truth value of 80% (and that's the minimum) is impressive. Basically, if it gets put into this Journal (and it isn't obviously a short fiction piece or a character portrait or something) then generally speaking the Entry is composed of my actual thoughts and opinions. If it appears here, then it is, basically, true.

That said, if I'm doing my job right, nobody should ever be 100% sure that I'm not lying; when I tell my name to people who have known me for years, there ought to be that single moment when they have to think about it... just in case.

In the case of last Entry, the Entry itself began with the disclaimer that the ROYGBIV Hierarchy was made up on the spot, and the truth is that, a basic idea in mind, I sat down and off the top of my head (with music in the background, of course) created a system by which those nearest and dearest to me are reduced to levels of security clearance. What's more, without doing any preparation or planning beyond rereading what the electromagnetic colour spectrum is, I did a pretty good job of writing it, in my own opinion. The question is: does the fact that I wrote it make it true? Yes and no.

The truth: I do classify nearly everybody I know into a ranking system kind of like the one presented below. Some people exist outside of it because they can't be properly classified, but that's really only one or two people out of the hundreds I know. Do I use that precise grading system? No, I do not, which is why I had to make it up on the spot. The levels below are generally analagous to the way I actually do classify people, although they are not exact. That's most of the truth.

The second half of the truth: since writing the Entry, I have been finding myself beginning to classify people according to the ROYGBIV system, which I had not done before. Prior to writing the Entry, I had a vague, half-formed and largely imaginary ranking system for my associates. After writing the Entry, I have not only codified a system of assigning security clearance to the people around me, but I've come up with a system that actually works, and more importantly, just feels like it's accurate. What we have here is therefore one of the phenomena which has driven my life for the last five years: life imitates art.

The implication: Before writing Entry 72, I didn't really classify people according to any coherent system... and now, it seems, I do. The fascinating thing is that I didn't create the scale based on how I rank people; I began ranking people according to a scale I'd written previously.

So, getting back to the initial question behind this Entry: most Entries have a fairly high truth rating, and while you might never be absolutely sure how much of what I write is true or not, most of it is truth. Furthermore, stuff that might not be true initially has a funny way of becoming a truth once it's been written down. After all, is not one of the founding teachings of the Path of Forsteri: a lie told for long enough becomes true?

There. Not a bad job for 13 minutes of work.

If you've found this entry interesting, mail Eric about it.
If you didn't find this entry interesting, go to hell.

As of a couple of days ago, this Journal can now be located through Google by unsuspecting people seeking actual information. Google's spiders are usually about 1 entry behind, so at the time of writing this, 71 complete Entries can be found by people who are typing in random keywords, doing research, or looking for Stuff. Already I have received two letters, one asking if they could use my essay on D&D for one of their classes (I said no) and one asking if they could use some of the designs I painted on my Necrons (I said yes). Suffice it to say, neither of these people are likely to become regular readers.

So anyway...

Last entry, like the entry before it, prompted some feedback from people. Now reassured that I don't consider them to be beneath me, some people have begun to worry if there is anyone else I consider them to be beneath. Apparently, there is now some slight competition among a few people to guess who my single best friend is (acting on the assumption that such exists). In response to these people, I shall now set down, in writing, The Schema of Sceurity Clearance, by which I rank everyone I know into clearly defined levels of trust and friendship, and which I made up just now. Remember, if you're ranked low on this scale, it may be your own fault, if you're one of the people responsible for making me make up a scale in the first place.

It may be apparent to more educated readers that I have just recently been reading the rulebook to Paranoia XP. People who requested this sort of Entry may be annoyed to find that no names are given, when names are precisely what they wanted to know in the first place. Live with it.

Infrared: Also known as: Mundanes; Normals; Humans; Them. The lowest possible level of clearance, this level includes approximately 6 billion people. At the Infrared level, these humans have earned no trust, friendship, duty, honour, or consideration. While they clearly possess all the value of any human and are due to commensurate amount of respect, this level of respect is very low. They can be lied to freely and usually will be, just because. It is innacurate to attempt to label them "friend" since by and large they have not even been met yet.

Red: Also known as: Oh, it's you; morons; enemies; Mundanes; Normals. The first level of actual aquaintance, the Red level includes people who have actually been met, but are not particularly liked. This broad category, which includes several hundred individuals, and contains all people who have merely been met, all people who are not liked, and all people who are actively disliked, despised, or hated. Like Infrared, Red level clearance ensures no trust, truth, aid, respect, or even acknowledgement, and in fact is likely to lead to even less truth being told than if the individual was of Infrared clearance. The sole advantage which Red level clearance has over Infrared is that a Red level individual will probably not be simply ignored when contact is made; for individuals who are classified as Red due to stupidity, this may not be an advantage.

Orange: Also known as: Pawns; the Useful. Orange level individuals are those with Red level who are tolerated because they are either currently useful or potentially useful. People who have been met who are expected to end up in prestigious or useful careers, current co-workers who lack other redeeming qualities, students in group projects and other such near-detritus are classified as orange. Orange level entitles an individual to respect and (usually insincere) friendly behaviour, as their good will is being passively maintained in case they end up being needed. They are still likely to be lied to shamelessly, but will generally receive truthful answers and willing help when needed, just because it's easier that way.

Yellow: Also known as: Boss; teacher; superior-ranking co-worker. Yellow clearance is held by people who are not only currently useful but also provide valuable goods or services. Yellow individuals must not only be kept placated but must also be actively made happy and friendly, the better to ensure that goods and services continue to flow. This level is the lowest level at which genuine respect and consideration is guaranteed, although such things may erode over time if an inferior individual is granted Yellow clearance. Yellow level clears an individual for access to truth in response to most inquiries they make but is generally commensurate with there being one area or activity in which non-truthful answers are more or less guaranteed, the better to ensure they perceive what they ought to be perceiving. Yellow level is also the lowest at which, if a task or favour is requested, it will probably actually be done.

Green: Also known as: Casual friends; friends/family of friends, friends of family. Green level is a middle-level which exists to a certain extent as a corrolary to other levels. At Green clearance are the individuals who are generally likeable and pleasant to encounter, though often only in moderation, and who are treated well not only because it is useful to stay in their goodwill but also because, to a greater or lesser extent, they deserve it. Green level individuals are typically encountered only once every few months at most, and as such they are treated with considerable respect and defference but probably receive little or no truth.

Blue: Also known as: Respected others. Blue level clearance is assigned to individuals who distinguish themselves to the extent where genuine respect is felt for them. For intelligence, wisdom, humour, or other exceptional ability, they have demonstrated competence and an absence or at least deficit of stupidity. Blue individuals are afforded respect and treated well and will generally receive truthful answers to any not-overly-sensitive inquiry. This is the lowest level at which such topics as religion, phislophy, and morality will be discussed in detail or without altering answers to please the individual. Note also that this level is the only level besides Infrared to include people who have never been met, as there are many individuals deserving of respect but with whom no contact has been made.

Indigo: Also known as: friend. The lowest level to which the word "friend" can be honestly applied, Indigo individuals meet the criteria of 1) having been met more than twice, 2) having distinguished themselves in one or more abilities, 3) have demonstrated themselves to be philosophically compatible and 4) have demonstrated (or at least faked) an apparent desire to be a friend and not merely an aquaintance. This level includes approximately 20-30 people at any time and Indigo individuals are treated with high level of respect and warmth. Indigo clearance entitles an individual to truthful answers to nearly all questions and at least the opportunity to ask any question. However, this level of clearance also implies sufficient familiarity that an individual is more likely to be deceived that those at most levels of clearance simply because deception is fun (and is assumed, usually correctly and sometimes incorrectly) to be fun for both parties.

Violet: Also known as: good/close friend. Consisting of approximately 6-10 people at any time, this level includes those who have earned not only friendship but also actual trust. Having operated at Indigo level clearance for a period which is sometimes as short as weeks but usually as long as several years, a Violet individual has earned trust in addition to friendship and will receive truthful answers to nearly any inquiry unless they appear to prefer being lied to. In addition, Violet individuals are in nearly all cases given the opportunity to partake of the One True Question; particularly trusted Violet individuals may even be allowed more than one. Violet level clearance, like Indigo, entails an increased rate of deception, but at this level individuals are usually practiced enough to understand the lies as a friendly act and not a hostile one.

After last Entry, some people sent me letters to the effect of "I know you don't think *I"m* inferior to you, but..." It may (or may not) be surprising to some readers that even among my closest friends, there are some who believe, in their darker moments, that I look down upon them as I look down upon most humans. It is a testament to their goodness and not to my own that these people choose to be friends with me despite the fact they sometimes worry that I feel that they are inferior to me. At times when my feelings towards humans are most plain, people sometimes look at me out of the corner of their computer screen and wonder... "Eric isn't including me in that... is he?" Last Entry was apperently one of those times when some people worry that I don't hold them on equal footing.

Such fears are totally unfounded. Generally.

Let me first restate on of my favourite sayings: I'm wonderful. At the very least, *I* consider myself to be wonderful, and empirical, objective testing has thus far validated my hypothesis. I am very, very smart; I'm the chosen servant of a small god; my wisdom puts to shame nintey-nine out of any hundred under-30's North American humans; I have a gift for comedy in any form other than stand-up joke-telling; I write extremely well, barring the occasional erorneo errrorr erroneousnessness typos; I am in excellent physical shape, especially considering my lifestyle and chronic health problems; and while I'm barely sub-clinical on several mental scales, my self-esteem and general psychological well-being are above reproach. In essence: I'm nifty, and pretty damned nifty. Of course, I'm also a little arrogant, a little egotistical, and perhaps just a bit sociopathic... but I happen to think I possess these traits in just enough moderation to be charming. Others may disagree, but that's to be expected... they aren't me, after all.

The point of repeating all this (it's repeating because regular readers of this Journal have heard the speech before... several times) is to underscore the next point: I don't associate with inferiors. I have never been one to suffer fools gladly. Quite the opposite, fools have a nasty tendency to suffer around *me*. In most social situations I am quite adept at hiding the contempt I feel for the humans around me, and many are the high school, cegep, and university students who have been with me in group assignments or worked on projects with me blissfully ignorant of the scathing comments I fought not to say. However, in long term social exposure, it tends to become quite obvious who I do and don't like, because there's only so long I can hold in things that are so much fun to say. Telling who I merely don't like from those I truly dislike is much harder, since I typically abuse both catgeories. The point is, if I dislike or don't like a person, and then spend more than a few hours a month with them, it tends to become obvious how I feel... very, very obvious.

The implication: you might be someone in one of my games, or one of the few friends I see socially for non-gaming related purposes, or even just a casual aquaintance I cross paths with at, for example, new years parties... but if I treat you with even an ounce of respect, let you finish sentences, nod to show that I'm aware you're speaking or even simply refrain from sabotaging your furniture and food, odds are good that I don't dislike you. If I actually initiate talking to you, even once in an evening, it means that I don't not-like you either. And if you're someone I've allowed to actually join my games and didn't make your character's existence pure suffering for months on end, it means that I actually approve of you.

I am led to understand that I am somewhat difficult to read and thus I can understand if people sometimes worry that maybe I'm only pretending to be nice... this is a valid worry, since the majority of people I interact with are people I tolerate only because I think they might be useful some time in the future. Rest assured however that if you fit into one of the categories in the last paragraph, if you're in my games, or even if you're reading this Journal (at least at the time of this writing, when the list of readers is pitifully small and made up exclusively of people trying to be nice to me), it means I like you. And under no circumstances do I tolerate my inferiors, which is why I have so few friends.

Of course, some friends are less inferior than others, but that's a discussion for another time, and probably not for public consumption.

If you've found this entry interesting, mail Eric about it.
If you didn't find this entry interesting, go to hell.