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by Nidol Slazar, WU poet in residence
Once upon an internet,
Lived a group of ruthless trolls,
Whom began to pose a virtual threat,
With their vile and treacherous souls,
This vast collective of hate,
Wearing masks of anonymity,
Feared not one place to desecrate,
With their state of unanimity,
Unknown to the public eye,
Existed the people behind the screen,
That could be anyone nearby,
Part of the internet hate machine,
by Artfox Daviau
oh btw atm im in IM
and a noob at it imho it seems
cos the ppl in here chat in shorthand
omg wtf does it mean?
ni went 2 the puter this am
and the msg in there that i seen
cd a bin abt ne ol topic
omg wtf does it mean?
o skuz me brb bbl
want 2 c if the postman has been
visits rarer and rarer each day now
omg wtf does that mean?
now i no u r rofling about me
im 2 old 2 converse 2 a teen
my hds r in english u c
pls dont lol wtf does it mean?
copyright (c) 2008 - Artfox Daviau - used by the gracious permission of the author.
by Dazz Anvil
I was running low on lindens
so I tried to get some cash
when it failed I went get some help
and the simulator crashed
It took an hour to log back in
cuz the asset server’s down
and there were no mentors anywhere
Just a newbie dressed in brown
-----------------
Second Life is borked again
Yeah what else is new
My clothes don’t wanna stay on now
And I can’t attach my shoe
My inventory’s all messed up
and hippos are my friends
but the blog says all are happy now
according to the trends
------------------
Lately I’ve been wondering
How long will this lag last
I just teleported
Now my hair’s stuck in my ass
I downloaded the new RC
with the dazzle color suite
now my avi just won’t stand up straight
I can’t even see its feet
--------------------
by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate
The call of the sea is deep and strong,
Stronger than ale or beer;
But not as strong
As the siren's song
and the call of the privateer.
Pirates and corsairs sail the seas
Along with the buccaneers;
But the noblest rogue
Who's still in vogue
Is known as the privateer.
Yes, on the sea of Antiquity
We sail without doubt or fear;
For the Navy falls
Short on balls
To the call of the privateer.
copyright (c) 2008 - Kris Dibou - used by the gracious permission of the author.
by Nidol Slazar
When your life is spiraling downwards,
after you've fallen through the crack,
At the bottom there is nothing,
and there's no way of getting back,
When things begin to lose their meaning,
As your personality goes astray,
People hate you more and more,
As you live through another day,
When the feelings pick apart your soul,
I'm sorry to say there is no chemo,
Perhaps you should stop kidding yourself,
And admit that you are an emo,
by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate
There was a little man in a gloomy little house,
He wouldnt talk to you and he didnt have a spouse;
But he had a 'puter and an account to old SL
Where he became a man that could raise a little hell.
He made himself so strong and he made himself so young,
A pistol in each hand and he made himself well-hung.
He taught himself to build and he taught himself to sell;
He opened strings of shops and he loved the ladies well.
Through SL he went like a sled upon a glacier,
Trying everything and going against nature.
His friend list was so heavy and his groups were all maxed out;
You had to leave him notes cuz his IM's wouldnt route.
His mansion was so full of many tortured prim,
He had so many things that there was no room for him.
He had to block his friends and the ones he left behind;
In the pressure of this world, he nearly lost his mind.
So he moved his handsome avi into a gloomy little house,
He wouldnt talk to you and he no longer had a spouse;
But he had some land here in old SL,
And here he sat, a man, in his brand new virtual cell.
copyright (c) 2008 - Kris Dibou - used by the gracious permission of the author.
by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate
For a year and a half I lived in the world
Of they who cannot be named
I sang of the joys, I sang of the beauty
In the place that cannot be named
And as I learned, I helped to build
This world that cannot be named
I believed when they said that I was now one
Of they who cannot be named
And how proud we were of this wonderful world
This world that cannot be named
Created by the users, that makes us the owners
Of this place that cannot be named
And just like the parts of the body who claimed
Sovereignty over the whole
When one part locked up the rest found out
The ruler was the asshole.
copyright (c) 2008 - Kris Dibou - used by the gracious permission of the author.
by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate
abbacddcefefgg
The edge of reason being very near
And all the people gathering to see
What appears to be insecurity
As I am pixels on my monitor
And here in generated body stand
I but not the way that you would think of
But in the way that generates my love
And spreads it out without the touch of hand
Would it be felt around the rl earth
Through cables on the ocean floor lying?
Or through the universal mind in verse
Imagined in your mind, there undying?
And would this love pass back to me in time
Or was it always there before the rhyme?
copyright (c) 2008 - Kris Dibou - used by the gracious permission of the author.
by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate
A captainless ship flew past my watch,
A sign of things to be;
Where once the ship sailed straight and true,
Where once she sailed free;
She wanders lost on ragged seas
And seems to lose her way;
And she never sinks beneath the waves
No harbor found, nor quay.
That she floats, is it enough?
Can that be all she needs?
Or is it best that she should sink
and keep her dignity?
by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate
Feeling creative, forceful, and bold
I sought out the server code
Onto my harddisc quickly it lands
Tip-tap, clicking with my hands
What did I have when I loaded it
Down? What the hell is this shit?
OMG this really sucks the big
One, I think I need a cig...
Wait a minute, I don't smoke those things;
Not menthol, filtered, or Kings...
by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate
Have you ever wondered if, when a pair of avies mate,
If the owners on the other side sit and masturbate?
When the avies join as one in order to copulate
Are they really getting a sandwich and watching News at Eight?
Is the girl whose name is Pam a big fat hairy man?
Is the 'boy', who we'll call Roy a closet lesbian?
And if these two do what they do, not knowing any more
Were to find the truth behind the others closet door
What label now, could someone give to lovers in that fix?
Encompassing more than metro-sex and, no less, chix with dix;
I suggest when you request to know the secret intellectual
Perhaps nice generic name might be Meta-sexual!
copyright (c) 2008 - Kris Dibou - used by the gracious permission of the author.
by Ms. Penance Sautereau
So here it is, my last article. It's due today, and I still can't really think of a particular subject to cover. I've been sitting here staring at the edit page for an hour now I think. A few ideas have popped into my head, but most I dismissed.
I pondered writing about the good things Prok has done on SL as a follow-up on my last article. I decided against it. My little Anti-Fan Club here would just accuse me of pretending to care about her sanity to serve my own interests. (Though I really can't imagine what self-interest I serve by trying to help someone so universally loathed on the Herald.)
I considered maybe writing a third Religion in SL article. I never did get to finish my series. But the research was draining and I can't be bothered to write one knowing the Herald loudmouths will just dissect it as an attempt to ignite debate. The point of that series was to try and showcase spiritual diversity and foster more tolerance. It was a point no one seemed to get, so it isn't worth a third attempt.
I thought of just asking Pixeleen to post that last fluffy "How-To" piece I submitted in November as my last article. But it'd be frilly and pointless, and I feel like I owe the whole whopping 4 people who like my stuff better than a canned fluff piece as a goodbye.
So I sat here. I pondered. I looked over my past submissions and read the reactions to them. I self-analyzed how I reacted to trolls, evolving from the angry bawing they wanted to just mocking how sad they are. I smiled at the 15% of comments that were nice, appreciative, and supportive. I laughed seeing old comments from people like Candy Lemmon telling outright obsessive lies about non-existent in-world harassment supposedly happening well after she was muted and forgotten. I grumbled at the Effite Diction robot's obsession with trying to fix my writing and ignoring the point of what I'd written. I smiled sadly reading comments from Artemis and D3adlyCod3c, wondering how different things might be if not for initial misunderstandings (Artemis) or if cooler heads had prevailed much sooner (Cod3c).
Continue reading "Op/Ed: So Long - Thanks For All The Fish" »
AAP awards Best in Media and Cultural Studies - WTF?
Yes, the infamous Doomsday book (The Second Life Herald: The Virtual Tabloid That Witnessed the Dawn of the Metaverse) penned by literary lions Ludlow and Wallace has shocked and awed friend and foe alike for months now, and the reviews have gushed over its Mark Leyneresque prose and its Quentin Tarantino plot stylings, but now even the academic publishers and their fellow travelers have weighed in with a simple message: this is one of the greatest works of something or other in weeks! really - at least two or three weeks!!!
In a press release dated Feb. 7, the Association of American Publishers (APA) announced that their Professional and Scholarly Publishing Division were giving a 2007 Award for Excellence to the Ludlow/Wallace masterpiece in the category of Media and Cultural Studies. And who can really blame them? To this end they join a chorus of fanbois, fangrrrls, and assorted fluffers who are all on the same page about this one deep truth: The Second Life Herald is not only the greatest online virtual tabloid covering virtual bukkake and griefer-on-furry drama in the metaverse, but the book is even better than that!
As the award committee said might have said: "If you haven't read it, your life is fail."
DATELINE: Fri Feb 15 16:05:21 2008
PrimTIme News Service
Fed up with clubs and shopping? Want some excitement in your pathetic Second Life? If getting banned was beyond your creative reach - Griefing for Dummies might just be the answer you were searching for. From old-school flying penises to bringing the grid down, everything is covered to ensure your enjoyment of your SL in spite of being lousy at cyber.
I’m Keiko Ketsugo and I approve this message, as I'd rather crash than tolerate you little people’s tedious conversations.
by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate
In order to escape the naggage
I came here without baggage
The women have no saggage;
I love to watch their waggage,
The major cause of laggage.
by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate
He thought he found himself in heaven
When all his dreams he seized;
All he wanted for the taking
Or creating, as he pleased
The months flew by and all he tried
Grew tiring in the depth
And degree of concentration made,
To max the width and breadth
Of all he ever fantasized
In this life or the next
Until he cared not for his life.
The governer, he did text:
by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate
On a lavish textured slope
With megaprim tree, built;
My lover, sweet, lay in my arms,
Couple 10 in kilt.
And we commented on the moon
And stars that dripped like honey;
I made a joke and she chuckled as
If she thought it funny.
I carressed her cheek with words formed sweet
As I was want to do;
Seduced her mind and soon, in time,
Seduced her body too.
by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate
Sitting at the counter tapping
Fingers, just this side of napping;
Pondering at trip back in to
Secondlife once more.
Is she sitting somewhere waiting?
As we speak she's contemplating
The blue button, taking her to
Secondlife once more.
Metaversal mem'ries clinging
To the real human being;
Would it be safe for them back in
Secondlife once more?
by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate
Did you fall asleep last night and dream of avatars;
Your metaversal image taking over what you are?
Walking on a new frontier where none have been before
Torn, the fabric of the life you thought you had before
Your definition of reality must be replaced
Where you thought your soul was hid has just become displaced
Vampiric is the force that takes you from your daily grind
Feeding on the life you had and syphoning your mind
Did you fall asleep last night and dream of human beings;
A race that once existed in an avatar's bad dream?
copyright (c) 2008 - Kris Dibou - used by the gracious permission of the author.
by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate
I sleep by the luminous light
Of my laptop, left on all night;
As closer I drift towards the place
Of digital time, life and space.
Evolution's next step for man?
The digital body's at hand!
When at last we move without keys;
No sickness, death nor disease.
Are not our streets paved with gold
Like in the stories of old?
Will we have eternal life,
Immune to the rifle and knife?
by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate
Across the sea in Antiquity
Where steam punk engines churn;
The royal navy set about
The task that we shall learn.
To protect the merchants and their ships
And the casual sailor, too;
They searched the sea of Antiquity
For pirates, mighty who
Attack and burn without a word
Or warning cannon shot;
And vanish soon without a trace
'Cept burning flotsam, hot.
A trap was set to close a net
On the wiley pirates there;
The decoy sat on water that
The wind avoided, where
tune by, and apologies to, David Bowie
by Faerie Hax
It's a God awful small affair
To the girl with the purple hair,
But everyone is yelling, "No!"
And her friend has told her to go,
But her friend is no where to be seen.
Now she walks through her sunken dream
To the seats with the clearest view
And she's hooked to her little screen,
But the sim is sadd'ning bore
For she's explored it ten times or more.
She could spit in the eyes of fools
As they ask her to focus on
Campers
Fighting in the dance club.
Oh man!
Look at those cavemen go.
It's the freakiest show.
by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate
For a fist full of lindens
I invested in a bank;
I watched my portfolio
As its value tanked.
For a few lindens more
My nest egg I had nesting;
Gambling's not illegal
If you call it all 'investing'.
Good, bad and ugly,
The levels jumped around
Until the virtual line
Hit the virtual ground.
I climbed a virtual building
And took a virtual dive;
I landed on my head
But I'm still alive.
Now that I am broke
My friends all hit the road;
But next month will be different-
I bought another load.
copyright (c) 2007 - Kris Dibou - used by the gracious permission of the author.
Failure of PN's rumored friday griefing raid causes super hero to wax poetic
[GreenLantern Excelsior sent this tale of online heroics to the Herald offices via the mojo wire saturday, with a note saying "I was inspired to write this after the big PN raid last night ended up fizzling like a wet firecracker". Is the heroic epic poetic tradition is being updated for the new media? -the Editrix]
Banned griefer's ghosted avatar stuck in a walking animation is decorated with props in Sandbox Cordova
by GreenLantern Excelsior
The Great PN Raid of November '07
Was planned to be vicious and mean,
With sim-crashing style,
And "lulz" by the mile,
The worst Second Lifers had seen.
The Green Lantern Core and the great Justice League
Were prepared to observe and report.
With their shields charged to max,
They'd AR the attacks
By the griefers they'd promised to thwart.
The Lindens were ready, their steely eyes steady.
The Grid was in perfect repair.
At the first sign of trouble
They'd move on the double,
Protecting the residents there.
Continue reading "Green Lantern Core's Heroic Epic Poetry" »
by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate
I was lying on my back, looking at the stars
When an airship passed between myself and Mars
Gracefully it drifted in the moonlit night
All it's sails full, it's balloon was glowing bright
The wooden ship that hung from the large balloon
Had lanterns all alit, and I could hear a tune
Played on violin drifting through the air
I lifted my spyglass and saw the captain standing there
by Tiny Newt
[last week's episode is here]
Banished earlier from Sanctum Sanctorum Island by the owner Baron Greyson, King Fish Overdrive was ignobly forced to wait offshore in his leaky ship. King Fish was a cocky, powerful fighter whose only admitted vice was the demon rum. He had smuggled two full barrels aboard his ship against orders, presumably to celebrate their almost certain victory. During the long uncomfortable wait in ambush, Overdrive fumed. Now elevated to the lofty position of “Captain”, he believed deeply in the principles of democratic rule aboard his vessel. His cutthroat crew, banished and humiliated one and all, delighted in joining their captain in sampling the grog barrels long, hard and repeatedly.
When the signal to attack finally sounded, Overdrive and his bleary eyed crew literally staggered to their battle stations. Their mission; to sail a flanking maneuver designed to surprise the enemy, By now their presence surprised no one. Longjohnson seeing them so uselessly out of position and moving slower still, vowed to make them rue the day they ever signed articles with the likes of Longjohnson Swindlehurst. He would deal with those %^$*#@ blackguards later.
“Two points off the wind and coming fast!” cried the Endeavour’s lookout pointing to the southwest.
As if on cue, the skies parted for a moment and a hot sun blazed down
on the proceedings silhouetting the Endeavour against a forbidding blackened horizon.
Continue reading "YAAR! The Pirates of Sanchon - Two Points Off The Wind And Coming Fast" »
by Tiny Newt
[last week's episode is here]
Meanwhile, on the Island of Sanctum Sanctorum, eighty leagues due west by south of Sanchon, Longjohnson Swindlehurst stood by the cracking fire pondering his next move. The ruined castle of the Baron Grayson made a perfect hideout for the old seadog Swindlehurst. The accommodations were sumptuous by any man’s lights. He liked the fact that visitors naturally assumed he was the owner. Bit on the chilly side some nights, what with the bloody roof gone and all, he chuckled.
“Everything”, it seemed, turned on the upcoming meeting with Doctor Apocalypse. Swindlehurst knew, as soon as Dr. Apocalypse spied the “EYE of TRUTH” symbol on his half of the treasure map, the ol’ doc would be willing to fund the two ships needed for the ambush. Chasing down the Endeavour and Commander Newt would be child’s play, Longjohnson mused. The ship was slow, sorely undermanned and pitifully under gunned. What the man saw in that bit of flotsam he would never know.
Swindlehurst struggled awkwardly with his greatcoat, then, fearing he would be late, grabbed his crutch and trundled down the steep underground passage. A light rain fell as he exited the base of the mountain through the well hidden cave opening. The old cripple swore a steady oath as the tangled underbrush tugged at his coat-tails and leggings. Presently, the uneven ground opened onto a flat rock. He paused momentarily to catch a raspy breath and admire the husky square- rigged ship that lay before him. Getting down the steep cliffs to the boarding ladder would tax a sound sailor. By tying his crutch to a lanyard the old sea dog made his way down -half crashing- half falling and always cursing he scrabbled his way down landing in a heap of leaves, twigs and gritty dirt.
Continue reading "YAAR! The Pirates of Sanchon - Longjohnson Swindlehurst Ponders His Next Move" »
by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate
The cowboy said 'Draw your piece'
And he blew me all to rags;
My gun went off when he had left,
I die while Linden lags.
I flew into a secured land,
I had 1 minute to pack my bags;
Now I'm banned from my friend's land,
Alone while Linden lags.
The pirates will do battle today,
My cursor zigs and zags;
But my avatar will not move,
I sink while Linden lags.
by Tiny Newt
[for those joining us mid-story the previous episode is here]
“YOU’LL PAY DOUBLE FOR THAT!” Sin Trenton’s Slovakian accent was thick with threat. The Navigator was beside himself with fury.
“Save yourself for the melee. She’s the a wily one.” Tiny cautioned.
As is the custom with the pirates of Sanchon, the sea battles culminate in on-shore hand-to-hand combat. The weapons, fitted with Fleet Admiral Chase Speculass’ fighting system, register saber and musket hits on bodies.
One dies by degrees here, thought Robin Sprocket. Robin, wearing the pith helmet and tan digging outfit of a paleontologist, adjusted her blue-tinted glasses and listened carefully as team captains chose sides. The crew from the Endeavour along with Mango Birdbrain and GJ Hennessey, repaired downfield to the Vagabond Sailing Club facilities. Admiral Willis, Commander Beverly Salming, the other lady pirates, Deevah Torok and Malibu DuPont, and the men, Cambell Cochran and Lt. Kris Krivez, occupied the ground in front of the dilapidated Ben-Bow Inn.
“Robin, Sin, set yourselves to ‘always run’,” Captain Newt ordered. He drew his flintlock with his left hand and took a few practice swings with the saber in his right.
“Don’t forget to kick.” You can score also by kicking,” He reminded them. Dueling is tricky. The avatars are steered with the arrow buttons as mouse clicks activate the saber swings. The flintlocks may only be aimed and fired in ‘mouse look’ mode.
Sin Trenton was spoiling to attack Commander Beverly, but was only armed with a Blunderbuss which put him at a decided disadvantage. However, so be it, if that was his weapon of choice.
Even at this distance, Robin noted a strange weapon in Beverly Salming’s hands.
Continue reading "YAAR! The Pirates of Sanchon - You'll Pay Double For That" »
by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate
Come writers and artists, designers and geeks;
Builders and gamers, lovers and freaks;
Those whose dreams have been trampled and burned;
The hated, the ugly, the crippled, the spurned.
Come now all people from all walks of life;
From every nation, come husband and wife.
Come singles and widows, come partners who bide
In small apartments or houses and ride
Into the cities to toil through the day
Or those still at home looking to play.
There is a place where you can still dream
And bring in to life what you could have been.
by Tiny Newt
[the Herald's literary thursday tradition levels up with the resumption of the Pirates of Sanchon series - now a continuing weekly feature - the Editrix]
The captain and crew of the barque HMS Endeavour, a 400 ton SL replica of Captain Cook’ ship of 1860, find themselves press-ganged into fighting a series of sea battles aboard pirate brigantines purely for the entertainment and amusement of the pirate Admiral Benson Willis. During a sword swinging melee ashore the Endeavours become cornered in the old Ben Bow tavern. In the ensuing dust-up Clasico Cassini’s foot crashed through rotten floorboards to reveal a rusted strongbox . Back on board, the crew pried open the strongbox to discover an ancient map.
Later that evening, having successfully foiled an unwanted midnight visitor the crew realized their secret possession of the pirate’s treasure map has been discovered.
Gunner’s Mate Robin Sprocket worked furiously, mumbling to herself as she went about her duties aboard the HMS Endeavour.
“Look at this mess! Where am I supposed to find spare parts for
this junk?” Secretly she enjoyed the old armor. The smooth surface of the heavy muskets caressed the palm of her hand. The beautiful inlaid scroll-work amazed her. One shot, that’s all you get! she thought, shaking her head. In today’s world, one could spray one or two hundred rounds in the time it took to load, fire and reload these ancient firearms. It was all face-
to-face back then, none of this killing from a distance crap She picked up her sword and applied the cutting edge to her tongue. Ten thousand nerve endings testified to the gleaming steel’s sharpness. Satisfied, she wiped the long blade with an oily rag, careful to avoid the gut hooks along the ridge-back of her sword.
“Captain Newt…” Robin greeted the Captain with furrowed brow.
“Yes Robin?” he asked, hefting a pair of heavy muskets.
“It’s about this “shindig” you have planned, Sir. Do you really think the pirates will attend unarmed she asked. Having his ear, she rushed on.
“And our cannons!, Sir, they are woefully inadequate, to my way of thinking, she said.
“And what if they decide to show up en masse with their fleet?
Face facts Robin, even their brigantines outgun us. We are at their mercy, and they are well aware of it. As I’ve said before, I think they are all honorable men and women. I hope they will respond to our “Bon Voyage” invitation and attend, unarmed”.
“But Captain, what about the treasure map? Do you actually believe they will let us just sail out of sight with their map in your pocket?”
by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate
I rezzed my ship on a clear blue sea
Under midnight stars and tranquility
Surrounded me and my solitude
Refreshed my mind and attitude
Then I set sail around the sim
Where mountains stand and fishes swim
I heard the splash of pixelled wave
The electronic call the seaguls gave
And when I shut down for the night
My pulse was slow and I was quite
Relaxed and ready for the bed
With dreams of peace, my tired head
by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate
Across the sims of Second Life
A story has been told
Of Teddy29 Barthelmess,
(Jerry Matthew Gold).
How, in despair, a young girl there
Was thinking of the end
When Teddy29 sat by her side
And became her closest friend
From the pits of despair to SL, where
He showed her heaven, painted
With particle clouds and setting sun
That never will be tainted.
‘Twas only a week, but time flies fast
When living in the tech age
And one day Teddy did not come on
He left no note nor message
by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate
Over the many roads they travelled
While they were far apart
With many tongues that babbled
And beatings of the heart
The calluses then forming
Protecting feelings, bare
Changing skins and textures,
Their clothing and their hair
And into the pits of Hades
Up the purgatory roads
With gentlemen and ladies,
Furries, bots, and toads
by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate
Like the lyrical path
Of an unwrit song
She walked through my life
But wouldn't for long
She lifted me up
From the wandering crowd
And held me aloft
On silver-lined cloud
And we soared through the world
On magical boards
Danced in the stars
Away from the hordes
And there were our souls
All glowing and bare
And we held to each other
And comfort was there
by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate
I keep my love in a memory stick I hang about my neck
I plug her in to my PC and begin to hunt and peck
'Til she appears on my LCD full of life and charm
And reaches out to take a hold of my digital arm
Then off we fly where adventure lies beyond my keyboard, clicking
We change the colors of the skies and the fog there that is thickening
'Til at last we land were we began and type our sad farewell
And I put my love about my neck while she sleeps in memory cells.
copyright (c) 2007 - Kris Dibou - used by the gracious permission of the author.
"The last thing I remember, I was running for the door...."
That was eight months ago, at the Aloft. The fog clears, and memory comes streaming back to me, gushing across my eyes like an enthusiastic actress in a hard-to-believe-it's-real stag loop. But as the drugs finally wane, I begin to question. Where am I? Where have I been? Whatever happened to Gideon Television?
Continue reading "He's Baaaaaack! The Return of Gideon Television." »
[The nautical brigands of Sanchon sim are a violent, bloodthirsty, and literary group given to celebrating their epic battles and mêlées in word and song. Here is warrior poet/pirate Kris Dibou's latest work. - the Editrix]
The Battle of Sanchon
Through mist covered seas with sails unfurled
In the wee hours in this part of the world
Came a dark-hued ship with captain and crew
Its cannons were out with freshly made fuse
So quiet they moved in light SL wind
Into the harbor of Sanchon, my friend,
Where glory awaits beneath misty-white shroud
"Or death on the sea", the captain did vow
The crimson-red stains remained on his blade
From many a battle and many a raid
His eye was fixed hard on the ship up ahead
Soon the wood planks would be covered red
Aware of the wind and his nautical speed
The captain gave orders, and the crew, they did heed
'Til broadside they were, with the red and gold brig;
Vollies of death flew into their rig
by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate
I’ve heard it time and time before,
“I’m leaving SL, this time for sure”
And when he logs in the very next day
He says that he’s there only to say
Goodbye to all he missed before
And he left some things there on the floor
And oh, there’s some business to settle first
I’ll be leaving SL, I guess, now on the 1st
And the 1st, it comes, and then it passes
And all that was wrong, through rose-colored glasses
Now looks just fine, it was just a small glitch
“I guess I will stay, right here in my niche”.
And how many times married, there in SL?
“I’m on my fourth wife”, if I really must tell.
How long did they last, the marriages there?
“Less than three months, for each of the pair”
by Kris Dibou, warrior poet/pirate
They called her The Tringo Kid
If she had money, then that's all she did
Should they interrupt her game
She'd send them home lame
Be they human, furry or squid
She wore her gun low on the hip
A cigarette hung off from her lip
Her finger'd be itching
Her eye'd be twitching
And her drink, slowly she'd sip
One day as her score did climb high
Appeared right in front of her eye
Between she and her card
A fellow rezzed hard
And we all knew that soon he would die
The gun then appeared in her hand
So fast, we could not see when
And as smoke filled the room
To darken his tomb
The stranger was blown limb from limb
They cleaned up the floor that same night
Then got one hell of a fright
Implanted between
Where his eyes should have been
Was a push-bullet lodged in him tight.
And he lies there to this very day
A warning to all that would play
If you come in between
The Kid and her screen
Kid Tringo will blow you away.
copyright (c) 2007 - Kris Dibou - used by the gracious permission of the author.
by Fiend Ludwig
It is a pond and I live on the surface tension.
I suspect that the same is true, too,
For the New Priests:
The blogger-kings and scripter-czars,
The kulaks and uber-griefers and Linden-spawn.
Drilling through the boundary at will,
Extracting enrichment and inspiration.
Submerging only if pressed,
While the uninitiated drown amongst the choke of weeds.
It has not always been like this.
I was once tethered to the heady barometer of exploration,
For it was a place that I could learn.
A place that I could encompass.
The elusive edge of the world was tangible.
A destination. A reason.
Lost.
In its place multiplicitous dull facets.
Unimaginative yearning.
Tedious banality.
It is never truly gone, though.
The edge.
Soon,
Or perhaps a long time from now,
One of those drownlings will slip the weeds and pierce the skin.
And a wave will form.
And the surface tension will splinter.
And I will sink into the waters,
Refreshed.
[Author's note: When I became a resident of Second Life, one year ago today, there were 165,000 others just like me. Today, there are over 4.8 million. Rise drownlings, rise!]
as told by Morgdah Graves
[This story is told around the campfires in Avilion - the Editrix]
There was this Duke of a large parcel of land, he had servants, slaves,
women at his beck and call. He was known to be the hunter of all hunters.
His great hall was full of trophies
The trophies were of many many creatures
he had boars heads, elephant tusks, pelts of Lamia.
He also had creatures in cages, small pixies, kept in terrariums, and even
an orc in his kennels.
This great hunter had a trophy of almost every wild creature, and had his
dealings with every race, Elves, Dwarves, Gnomes, Humans - he was well
known throughout the land.
He had heard one day that there were people living in the forest to the
west - a people who were believed to live with the wild wolves of that
forest.
He had to have a hunt, to fetch one of the pelts of the wolves, and gain a
foothold in this people's land.
Little did he know that the people who lived there were Werewolves.
They were civilized - as much as such a creature could be civilized.
These werewolves called themselves the Wolvers of Western Wastes.
They lived in packs in Dens, not in villages or cities.
The Duke, Marcarn, Took his 50 finest fighters.
They rode into the Woods,
their horses barded for battle with the Supernatural.
[Yes yes, I know, we last left Gideon Television in the Big Brother contest, but that was so long ago and we at the Herald are so in the now, and more than that I'd like to think that Gideon was still there getting decorating tips from the Gorean mistress. So today we fast forward to Gideon's visit to the Hotel Aloft. I dunno, maybe we'll come back to Big Bro or maybe not, but you can also find the history of that debacle at gideontelevision.com. -Uri ]
After the humiliation salvation of being kicked from Big Brother, I needed to get away. Some time far from the madding crowd, to get my head straight.
And where better than Second Life's premium hotel destination, The Aloft. What a nice surprise. Bring your alibis.
Continue reading "Fear and Loathing in Second Life Part 9: Gideon Stays in Starwood Aloft!" »
as told by Morgdah Graves
[This story was told around a campfire in Avilion. Magical Affairs correspondent Curious Rousselot was given permission by Morgdah Graves to bring this story to our readers - the Editrix]
Once, a long long time ago, there was an Above Ground Elvin family of the Sidhe. They lived in peace and harmony with the world around them, and knew many histories of the nearby lands. Their Son was quick and adventurous and their Daughter was soft spoken and quick with a word.
The Son longed for the open road, but his Sister knew the tales of what lay outside of their borders. She would talk him out of going off into unknown lands, but he would train with the swords and bow regardless.
They both came of age, for they were twins, and the Brother would not listen to the words of his sister any more. So she gathered her things and followed him as he made his way out toward the mountains.
They made camp in one of the large caves one night, for it was quite cold, and there was a storm brewing. The Brother took a torch and made his way to the back of the cave. The next thing the sister knew was that she heard a scream, and felt the pang of loss. She was distraught so much that she didn't feel the needle bury itself into her skin.
She woke in shackles, being carried down, deep into the cave. She knew that the stories of the drow were true. She spent many years in the deep caverns, deeper than any human could travel.
Ah, yes it was so long ago -- centuries by the high speed adrenaline rush passage of time that is Web 3.D, but we keep up as best we can, and you *do* want the skinny on what *really* happened in the Big Brother in SL hypervent don't you? What if I told you it inolved all sorts of X-rated debauchery and our faithful correspondent Gideon Television was smack in the middle of it? Last week we published Gideon's first report from the griefer-infested beginning of the contest. Today, he leads us throught the Sodom and Gomorrah that was Big Brother in SL. -Uri
I awake the next day, the machines buzzing in my head, as I stare at the droning ceiling fan. "Big Brother. My God, still Big Brother".
While I was out, more pointless furniture had been installed and one contestant had been sent to the emergency ward. But none of that compared to the dawning realization that there's was something different in the air, something.... sapphic.
by Gideon Television
This note should be pretty easy to understand.
All the warnings from the Second Life immersion courses over the months since my first introduction to the shall we say, ethics involved with online relationships in virtual worlds, it's proven to be very true....
Continue reading "Fear and Loathing in Second Life, part 7: To whom it may concern..." »
Zee delivers crowbar-enhanced newspaper
by Inigo Chamerberlin
[On the previous episode of The Cappuccinos: Street-smart Zee, having just joined "The Family" is eager to prove himself one of the goodfellas, and starts looking for an informant to whack while working the family numbers game. Philip visits the consigliere and returns quiet and subdued - but quickly resumes his normal upbeat wiseguy demeanor. A Cappuccino family administration meeting is called and as the clock strikes 3:00 and the our story continues... - the Editrix]
Phil: OK– now, not all of you are made men but everyone is part of this thing of ours - are we cool dudes or are we cool dudes?
All: We ARE cool dudes Phil!
Phil: Always remember that - you are all part of the family! Now, first order of the business: Wossname? Sunshine? Spin Monkey? erm….
Cory: You mean Torley, boss?
Phil: That’s the one! Torley is getting kinda frayed round the edges and Robin’s been giving me hell about it – I want suggestions for a new phrase to imply everything’s fine. ‘Fixed’, ‘Resolved’ - they just aren’t cutting it any more. We need something else, preferably something that suggests everything’s OK, without committing us to fixing anything on any time scale.
Brent: -snigger-
Phil: Thank you for that helpful contribution Brent, Now, while I think of it, about this idea of yours that unlimited logins of a potentially unlimited number of users while the grid still can’t handle more than about twenty thousand concurrent logins being a self regulating gizmo? Well it’s causing problems, pal!
Brent: Uh, how so boss? I mean, like, uh, when the lag and database issues become bad enough they start logging off in droves, the online figure drops and the problem stabilizes. Uh, where’s the problem? It is self regulating.
Linden Blog infected - citizens seek poetic justice
by Pixeleen Mistral, National Affairs desk
A highly infectious strain of Haiku has struck the official Linden Lab blob - affecting residents whose immune systems may have been weakened by chronic exposure to disappointing performance in their game world. As editors scrambled to find a new way to report the usual news - teleports aren't working, avatars are sometimes invisible, L$ account balances are wrong, resident profile information is not loading -- the outbreak of a new Haiku strain may be a blessing - at least for those in the news business. Sources suggest that this outbreak may also help secure funding for a rare breed of Epidemiology/English Literature researchers searching for trendy new research topics.
Official sources report that Boss Melnitz suffered the first documented case of Haiku at 3:46 PM PST with this comment on the blob:
Teleports, Linden$,
My virtual nards shriveled.
Concurrency sucks!
by Gideon Television
Forgive me, children, for I have sinned. It's been two weeks since my last confession, In that time I have taken hallucinogenics, I've had impure thoughts about my neighbor Lanna, I've fornicated many times (with both women and animals) and become an apprentice to the current fad of guerilla bukkake. And frankly, that's just the tip of the iceberg.
But now I have seen the error of my ways, I have found the light. And in doing so, have built a shrine to my revelation, high on a green and pleasant hill in Second Life.
Come join with me now, in The First Church of Gideon Television, (Superstar)™.
Continue reading "Fear and Loathing in Second Life, part 6: My rod and my staff" »
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