The Baroness's articles
If RCM Was A Kindergarten Class (Valentine's Edition)
Feb 14th 2018
Everybody knows that RCM doesn't celebrate Valentine's Day. What we celebrate mid-February is the 15th, or what is commonly referred to as Half-Priced Chocolates Day. But that doesn't mean we were ALWAYS like that. Before Cupid was stupid and adult life reared its cynical head, our staffers were once innocent little schoolkids who just wanted to share affection and arbitrarily sugary treats in the middle of a school day.
If the RCM staff were members of a kindergarten class....
1. Varyar's valentines to the class would definitely be this:
Some idealism
Dec 31st 2017
It was the font that gave it away.
As an amateur scholar of propaganda, I’d seen the cartoons and style frequently enough to know what she was reading about from the photo she took of the page. But it was the font of the page number that helped me recognize exactly which book she was looking at. I remembered admiring it the first time I opened my copy.
“Is that Dr. Seuss Goes To War?â€
Hello Darkness, My Old Friend
Dec 13th 2017
“Remember, I’m pullin’ for ya. We’re all in this together.â€
So goes the closing line for one of the regular segments of the Red Green show, and the words have been reverberating in my mind a lot as of late. Part of it is just the time of year: the days are cold and dark, the flu is going around, and everyone (well, most people) are trying to juggle the normal stresses of work and life with the added stress of holiday obligations. The feeling of wanting to hide in bed and sleep until March is a fairly common complaint at the moment. I at present don’t have the day job factor, and though I’d planned for this interim period and made sure to keep busy (first with being in England for a month and then with tackling the plethora of house and creative projects), not having the normal Monday through Friday work week has been a lot weirder than I’d expected. I am not one of those people who should be left to their own devices for too long, and doubly so if (like for the past five days) I’m sick and spending a good chunk of time in bed thinking about things.
Thanksgiving, in particular, is a rough time for me. Though it’s heavily touted as my favorite holiday now, it takes on a new dimension when one realizes that favoritism was created by an obsessive desire to eradicate the nightmarish memories I had of it growing up. I mean, who doesn’t want to remember the year they watched their mother get smashed through a window, or forced to gather her children around and sob about how she was a whore because someone else had made a pass at her and somehow that was her fault? Never mind that nothing came of it, it was clearly important that she serve as an example to her 9- and 8-year-old daughters that things that happen to them are their fault no matter what.
Those Who Wander: A Journey Begins
Oct 25th 2017
An introduction
I do not come from a family of travelers. Everyone lives within a roughly 30 mile radius of the towns my great-great-great-grandparents and their siblings helped settle when they arrived from Ireland and Germany in the 1880s and haven’t really left since then. As Gram explains it, we come from a line of simple farmers, and farmers tend to stay on the farm.
There are a few exceptions â€" roughly one per generation who inherits that wanderlust the others then live vicariously through while staying safely at home themselves. During the Second World War, my grandmother’s aunt was married to a high-ranking Allied naval officer; we have photos of her christening new ships being sent off to war and stories of her filling my Gram and her siblings’ heads with tales of adventure. One of those siblings, my mom’s uncle, joined the Air Force and was stationed in West Germany through the Cold War, retiring to Texas soon after the Berlin Wall came down (we have pictures of him helping chip at the wall). My mother’s brother, my own uncle and godfather, moved to the Midwest for the comparatively tame adventure of medical school and decided to go native.
AP: Summer Nights
Jul 24th 2017
Three months later, she found her footing again.
It is the perfect end to a perfect day. RivalCon wrapped up this morning. I spent the rest of the day with one of my favorite people on the planet shopping at my favorite treasure store in the world, buying fancy dresses for the sole purpose of lounging in them on the cabana of my favorite hotel in greater Cleveland.1 2 The evening was spent alternating between talking business in the hot tub and bullshitting outside while watching the sun sink down, the fireflies twinkle dancing their happy twinkle over the lawn. Now I’m snaking home through the summer night along my favorite drive. I’ve got the windows down, the radio up, and no traffic to temper my pace. Every season has its perks, and summer’s are nights like this one: warm but not stifling, the air pregnant with possibility and adventure.
I haven’t felt this good in a long time.
The Accidental Podcaster: Roads Less Travelled
Apr 28th 2017
It’s 3 am once again.
I am in a cabin on the side of a mountain, deep in the woods surrounding my hometown. It’s one of those places so quiet that one is fully aware of every sound: the clicks and pings of the heaters, the loud hum of the fluorescent light in the kitchenette, the faint but ever present hum of trucks on the interstate a mile over the ridge. From down the hall comes the much louder but more sporadic snoring of my mother. An occasional jingle of dog tags warns me that I’m about to be dive-bombed by an alleged beagle-corgi mix who we’re all fairly certain was the really the result of an illicit affair between the breeder’s bitch and a neighborhood mutt.
It’s a very noisy quiet.
The Accidental Podcaster: Dead Pigeons
Mar 2nd 2017
I murdered a pigeon the other morning.
I didn't mean to. I was just driving along, minding my own business, listening to a Lou Bega song that had just come on the radio. Then all of a sudden I see this large, kinda bluish chunk of (I thought) debris getting kicked across two lanes of freeway. It landed on its feet, its clearly broken wing flapping awkwardly beside it as it madly hopped into my lane. For a split second, I caught the expression in its bird-eyes: the pain, the terror, the confusion as it tried to grasp what what happening.
Then it was over. A horrific series of thunks starting on the inside of my front passenger wheel, bouncing the undercarriage, and finally kicking up and off the back wheel sent the ill-fated avian on a quick trip to whatever lies beyond this realm. The cloud of exploded feathers in my rearview mirror assured me that death was instantaneous, so at least it didn’t suffer. And there was no way it could have been avoided - the poor thing was bounced from the opposing lanes first, already battered and injured, into an area it had no hope of rescue from and would have died slowly even if it had somehow managed to pull itself off the road. Probability said that the bird was slated to die of its grievous injuries; chance just decided that the vehicle would be mine.
AP: Half-Truisms
Jan 26th 2017
So I am insanely excited about the fact I am two payments away from completely paying off my student loans. For a 30-something, this is an event tantamount to one’s wedding day or the birth of one’s child, except weddings and children are damned expensive and the eradication of loan debt means HOLY SHIT I WILL HAVE EXTRA CASH FOR A CHANGE. I imagine this joy is similar to what it must feel like to win the lottery.
So what to do with this new fluidity of funds? Like most people who are moderately insane, I’m starting to give consideration to celebrating my newfound financial freedom by incurring even MORE educational debt by going back to grad school again. Partly because I want to thwart Killer’s ritual call of â€doctor†with “what?†(“That’s DOCTOR She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed to YOUâ€), but mainly because I’m very interested in propaganda. As a subtle influence that seeps into every facet of life, it’s interesting to see how propaganda both has and hasn’t changed over time, exploring the science behind how it works and the artistry behind how to work it well, and looking historically at how propaganda influenced popular opinion to shift world events. I’ve often stated that more damage can be done with a well-placed paragraph than the contents of an entire military arsenal, and I hold that to be accurate - the study of propaganda techniques and application through the centuries shows how far reaching those tactics remain even generations later.
Throughout the past few weeks, a quote from an old Doctor Who episode kept coming to mind:
The Accidental Podcaster: Nice Guys Finish Last
Jan 19th 2017
Today is a day that should have been spent holed up in a blanket fort.
So Dee made a Robot Me for his playthrough of Fallout the other day. It’s pretty sweet. It has claw hands that look kind of like Lego people claws, but they also have a taser-like shock thing to them so RoboMe can zap people. This pleases me. He also gave it svelte robo-legs so that it can do robot dances, at one point I had a turtle helmet (I love turtles), and colored its metallic exoskeleton and armor green. Because BaronBot had nukes and could not be trusted1, I of course had to be given three times the nukes. Because it’s a robot based on me, it immediately became an overachiever, refusing to leave Dee’s side, pestering his character for assignments when Dee the player would get up for a few minutes to use the restroom, and announcing frequently to anything in earshot how it “requires no sleep†and “is ready to serve.â€
There are times when I wish I were more like a robot, switching off emotions and operating solely on logic and programmed order. Not being depressed when something doesn't go according to plan. Not worrying about all the minutiae that goes along with navigating complex social constructs. If the GPS has a route plotted out and the driver makes an adjustment, the GPS doesn’t freak out (usually), it just pauses a sec to recalculate and, if the driver is me, tells me to turn off the high point of a bridge (have I mentioned I hate my GPS?). If you load a schedule table into a program designed to give you the most efficient options based on which things a client needs, it’s going to spit out what that most efficient option is without giving a crap about whether the client prefers a Monday or a Tuesday. It doesn’t care that someone prefers manually sticking coins into a vending machine versus running a credit card. It’s not going to be annoyed that some jacknugget pushed in front of it in line at Panera and took the last spinach feta souffle that the robot specifically went in for, or that said jacknugget then bitched incessantly at the Panera workers about said souffle the entire time the robot had to stand there waiting for their breakfast sandwich substitute. The robot would simply wait until the jacknugget made a threatening gesture toward the Panera worker, or until his voice reached a certain decibel level, then it would roll saunter over on its svelte robot dancing legs and raise its little Lego Claw of Death and it would incapacitate the jacknugget per its programming. Because like the honeybadger, RoboMe would not care. RoboMe would not give a f---.
The Accidental Podcaster: The Best Laid Plans
Jan 11th 2017
So the decision was made a few weeks back to attempt to capture and domesticate a feral cat we’ve taken to calling Little Friend. Little Friend was one of a litter of kittens born under our back deck shortly after we moved into the house. While the others wandered off after they got big enough, Little Friend decided to stay, taking refuge first in a corner of the dilapidated shed at the back of our property. When the remainder of the roof finally caved in, she moved to a spot under our front hedge and, rapidly, a spot in our hearts. Warm summer evenings found her snoozing under the bushes while I lounged a few feet away, pounding at NecroLappy’s keyboard (specifically, scenes about a grey and white faced tabby with a chunk taken out of her ear living in a certain web ninja’s hedge). If she wasn’t already waiting for us when we got home, she’d come running from between houses when she heard her name being called. When the weather got colder, a little house was built on the porch and reinforced.
In other words, it was only a matter of time before attempts were made to move her from the cardboard and cloth house into the brick and siding one.
A trap was set, and a sanctuary cordoned off. She steadfastly refused to play game, so before he headed out to meet his dad at the movies Scott thought some catnip might help move things along. In retrospect, we probably should have known something was up when not a half hour had gone by before a terrified grey and white face was stuck in the tiny metal cage. Even before we let the poor creature out in the sanctuary room, Scott was concerned it wasn’t the right cat. Of course it was, I argued, it looks just like Little Friend. You’re just panicky because you weren’t expecting this so quickly. Go see your movie, I got this.