I want a commemoration that lets me honor and mourn the dead and doesn't carry overtones of, "Wars ROCK! We should have a bunch more! Lockheed Martin IS patriotism!"
Maybe it's time to visit our local Quaker or Brethern congregation.
I'm going! I've never been to any RPG con before, and now I'm going to one of the biggies!
I'm actually a little scared about what all is involved. I'm trying to look up advice online, and I feel I need to explain something to the Internet.
When I say "roleplaying game", I expect to see the following things: dice; pencils; paper; other players at my elbow; and a gamemaster across the table, whom I can look straight in the eye as I put on my most earnest face and say, "Actually, though I would very much like to oblige you, all the leading sages agree that gnomish flesh is quite toxic to dragons."
If there are computers present, it is not roleplaying. No software can catch that little tremble of sincerity in your voice and give you a +2 on the Con roll.
Big jam jars should be broad and squat. Jam jars should never be taller than the blade of a butter knife.
Why can't the world figure these things out for itself? Why do I have to tell it everything?
Now and then, I respond to an acquaintance's forwarded e-mail rumor with a link to the appropriate snopes page. I don't think I've made many converts to the cause of truth, though.
It is so easy to fact-check a rumor these days. Why in the world doesn't that seem to matter?
Actually, there is frankly no need to bother with snopes. If it uses ALL CAPS in the subject line and urges you to forward it to everyone you know, I promise that it is false.
The Valkyrie just ordered a shipment of carbon fiber to do some electronics fabrication research with. Only after the package was underway by FedEx did she notice that the supplier is here in semirural Ohio... in our zip code. Walking distance from our house, actually.
It's a close runner-up for the most bizzare coincidence of our life.
(Of course, FedEx has taken the package to their distribution center, about 25 miles away.)
For my fortieth birthday, I went to Macy's. I found a beautiful pair of pumps there. They were $299.
So I circled the globe, gathering funds and distributing supplies. I stared down hard-eyed guerrillas to shepherd aid convoys to their destinations. I invented brilliant appropriate-technology solutions and helped local cooperatives manufacture them. I microfinanced. I tapped native horticultural knowledge to test and spread pest-resistant crop varieties. I inoculated and I educated. I drilled wells and passed out mosquito nets. I reforested and reclaimed. I was tireless; I was a machine. At last, world hunger and extreme poverty were eliminated.
Finally, it was a world where I could pay that much for shoes. I made it back to Macy's just before closing.
"Oh, I'm sorry", said the saleslady. "We don't carry wide sizes."
The Valkyrie is (among her many talents) an aspiring writer.
Being an aspiring writer is like being a mother to many children. Every one of whom gets splattered by a truck the first time they leave the house for the first day of school.