OtherSpace: It’s not for everybody

Games like OtherSpace aren’t for everybody.

They require the sort of person who:

* Likes to read.
* Likes to write.
* Likes to experiment with cause and effect.
* Likes to fly by the seat of their pants, crafting dialogue in real-time.

It’s like a LARP – live action role-playing game – in that participants assume roles that evolve over time. It’s like a tabletop game in that the game’s staffers act as referees or “dungeon masters” for the participants. It’s like theater in that the participants are actors performing roles – sometimes dramatic, sometimes comedic, and sometimes tragic.

But LARPs may meet once a month or so. Tabletop gaming groups might get together once a week. Theater groups may put on one or two shows a season.

OtherSpace is online around the clock every day. Our participants come from all over the world. Events occur in real-time. One day in the real world equals one day in the game. When major story arcs are in progress, missing a few days might result in returning to find the universe fundamentally changed or, at the very least, embroiled in some kind of crisis that potentially affects where your character can travel. So, above all else, you’ll find that OtherSpace differs from all these other forms in that it requires a commitment of attention, creative effort, mental flexibility, patience, and time.

That makes it an acquired taste for a rather limited audience.

However, if you’re willing to make the commitment, it can pay off in the satisfaction of creating a memorable character who experiences epic space opera adventures while making friends with strangers from across the globe.

“Where did you get your Sharpie?”

I had occasion to discover an amusing graffiti exchange in the men’s room of the Snug Harbor jazz club in New Orleans last week:

YOU ARE ALL SCUM-SUCKING CONSUMER WHORES.

Where did you get your Sharpie?

SHOPLIFTED IT.

The Road to World Conquest: Goin’ to Carolina in my car

I’ve survived several killing attempts by Alabama.

It couldn’t take me out with tornadoes. The ruthless heat waves didn’t melt me. And I made it through the gall bladder crisis largely intact.

But I can take a hint.

So, on July 25, the movers arrive to haul my stuff to the place I’ll be sharing with Catherine in Durham – back in North Carolina.

I met some great people while working at Bit Trap. I’ve had the opportunity to reconnect with my cousin Donna and her family. But life’s taking me back to the Eastern time zone and away from the crazy weather of the Tennessee Valley.

Before leaving, though, Catherine and I are taking advantage of our geographic base of operations to launch a road trip to Birmingham, Mobile, and New Orleans. We’ll pack Huck in the Juicebox and spend about a week on the road. I’m looking forward to it!

Then, once we’re back, we prep the apartment for our departure. On July 26, I should be back east of the Smoky Mountains in my previous stomping grounds.

What happens after that is up in the air. I’ve got several opportunities – some in journalism and public relations would keep me in Durham. One would keep me in the video game industry, but would require me to move to Austin, Texas.

One adventure at a time, though. I’ll worry about that situation once the road trip’s done!

The Road to World Conquest: Hot time in the old town

Really, I’ve got no one to blame but myself.

When I bought the tickets to the U2 concert in Nashville, I did so with full awareness of the show date (July 2) and its location, in an outdoor football stadium that would be packed with about 44,000 people.

It was hot all damned day. It was hot when I walked Huck around the Belle Meade plantation west of town that morning. It was even hotter when Catherine and I roamed the streets of downtown Nashville, stopping in honky tonks and barbecue joints along Broadway. Granted, it was somewhat cooler by the time we joined the throngs on the field around “The Claw” for the U2 show, which would kick off with Florence and the Machine around 7, but it was still damned hot.

They didn’t provide chairs in the general admission area. We were on our feet, mostly, although there was one hippy couple that brought a blanket to spread on the ground in an admirable (but largely vain) effort to establish their own little patch of turf. Catherine offered to get drinks while we waited. I asked for a Powerade. This probably wasn’t a great idea, in retrospect. After she got back, the stadium continued to fill. We were about 50 feet back from the outer ring of “The Claw.” Not a bad position from which to view the show, really!

But then the problems started.

First, we had the people weaving their way up to the front, stopping every once in a while to pretend to look for their imaginary friends way up at the front.

Second, we had a brief encounter with Vomit Woman. She was a short woman with stringy hair, a cup of beer in each hand and a loopy look in her eyes as she approached me and Catherine and promptly coughed-snorted-spewed chunky brown liquid on us. It got on my socks and the right leg of my shorts. It splattered Catherine’s shirt.

“Sorry,” the woman managed to blurt, still clinging desperately to both beers and not worrying so much about whatever grossness was dangling from her right nostril. She pushed her way past us toward the back of the crowd while Catherine and I just sort of stared at each other in disbelief.

I tried cleaning some of the gunk off Catherine with my shirt, but it wasn’t working, so she departed to get a rag and water from event staffers. While she did this, Catherine informed the staff to be on the lookout for the woman, who might be in dire medical straits.

A little while later, about two rows up from us, a woman fainted. Her boyfriend helped her up and started leading her back toward the first aid station. She made it about 40 feet before passing out again. People nearby assured us that she hadn’t been drinking, but may have been overcome by the heat.

Florence and the Machine came out and played their set. I wasn’t too familiar with their stuff, but I enjoyed what they played. When they were done, U2 crew members started prepping the stage and lights for the main event. We were about 10 minutes from showtime when I told Catherine: “I think I could use another water.”

She gawked at me and said, “We need to talk about your timing.”

I nodded. Then I tried to explain that in the past few minutes, I’d felt drained. Hot. Everything … everyone around us … seemed to be closing in. I felt astonishingly claustrophobic. A little dizzy. I didn’t think I could wait until after U2 began their set. I needed to get out of the crowd now.

I don’t remember a whole lot about the next minute or so, except that Catherine got a very determined look on her face and helped me stagger and weave my way through the crowd toward the outer perimeter of the field, where people could buy beer, water, and pretzels. I’m pretty sure I stomped all over whatever the hippies with the blanket had spread out for their pleasant evening at the show. I felt vaguely bad about that. I would’ve felt worse if I had fainted on them.

Thin crowd on the perimeter, thankfully. We found an empty keg where I could sit for a few minutes, breathe deep, regain my bearings, and wait for Catherine to pick up another bottle of water. When she returned, I poured some water over my head, then drank judiciously. I soon felt better, well enough to relinquish my keg chair so that I could stand on the outskirts of the crowd with Catherine and watch the show.

From our vantage on the perimeter, we got to see at least a dozen other people falling prey to similar issues. One guy was rolled out on a gurney. Another left in a wheelchair. A husband helped his pregnant wife to our area, and she looked as miserable as I must have.

I went through two more bottles of water before the show was over. I really enjoyed seeing U2, but I could have done with just the one encore this time.