Glowing Purple Armor and Questicles

A post from an old friend has brought me out of blogging pseudo-retirement. You should start by reading his post:

http://questproquo.com/2012/07/08/end-game-primacy-introduction/

First off, this is exactly the kind of analysis and game theory crafting that I engage in with my close friends quite often, so finding this blog has been a breath of fresh air--a well-reasoned, intelligent discussion hidden among a virtually endless supply of half-assed, poorly written, mass-produced drivel. Kudos, Cavernshark.

I essentially agree with what's been written, with a few minor differences. The biggest objection I would raise is really just a matter of semantics, but it's an important distinction to me, so I'll make it. The use of the term "end game" generally refers to a point in any MMO that I hate. It embodies the idea of mindless tedium as a means to achieve mostly-meaningless goals. Admittedly, my perception is highly colored by my experience with World of Warcraft, but then whose isn't?

The Problem

Ultimately, I play a game for the journey. That's where all the fun is. With WoW, getting to 60/70/80/85 is one journey, while grinding up gear and raiding is another. For me personally, the first journey was more fun than the second, but that was mostly because the second journey lacked even the facade of a goal. It goes something like this:

1. Grind grind grind, get a piece of gear.

2. Show off your gear to your buddies.

3. Repeat steps 1 and 2 ad nauseum, until you can:

4. Kill Onyxia/The Lich King/A Giant World-Eating Panda or whatever the hell is the current boss of the month, and get a better piece of gear.

5. Kill it again, and again, and again, until all your gear glows bright purple and everyone else standing around, bored as hell with nothing to do at the bank in Stormwind can see how awesome you are.

6. Call everyone else a noob. Congrats, you have beaten WoW.

Now, I understand that there is an entirely other side of the end-game that I never engaged in, which is the PvP side of things. Not my thing, and from what I've observed, it's a relatively small subculture of WoW players that prefers PvP to raiding.

Why do I like the first journey better? It's more dynamic. Landscapes change, questgivers change, and there's a consistent, permeating sense of progression. Now, some of that enthusiasm ebbs when you figure out that this progression, too, is mostly meaningless and arbitrary, and the fanfare at hitting the level cap is quickly diminished when you figure out that it's really only the beginning of tedium. Let's face it: hitting the level cap is rather anti-climactic. You don't hit 85 by completing an epic quest where you slay a waffle-breathing dragon wearing rocket boots. You hit 85 because you were in the middle of fetching 32 boiled newts from the bellies of giant lava slugs for quest giver 367 who you don't give two shits about, and you happened to strike down your Nth lava slug, which magically granted you the expertise of a total badass.

The point that I'm getting at is that all goals defined by the devs in an MMO are usually completely arbitrary and don't actually present the player with a worthwhile objective, because they are never meant to provide a lasting sense of completion and satisfaction. Most MMOs just end for players when they wake up one day, running to generic dungeon number 7 and think to themselves "Why the fuck am I still playing this?" Ultimately, the best goals that motivate players are those that they create for themselves within the system.

(Part of) The Solution

Disclosure: I play (and love) EVE.

Fact: EVE has been around longer than WoW, released in 2003 (WoW released 2004). EVE subs continue to grow year after year.

The reason for this, as best I can tell, is that there are no arbitrary player goals assigned by the game. Players create their own agendas, their own plans, and their own end game. The system is designed in such a way that it provides you with a sense of progression and change for as long as you want it to. If your end game is to take over the EVE universe, go for it. Nobody says it can't technically happen, but be prepared for disappointment.

So when I read that end game content needs to be the primary focus for developers, I think we need to look at end game content differently. End game content shouldn't be just a set of activities that you can do once you jump off the level treadmill, designed to keep the player mindlessly enslaved to your subscription model. End game activities should be an integral part of the game design from the very beginning, when the developers think:

1. What, ultimately, do we want players to do in this game?

2. What epic storylines does our IP allow for, and how can we translate those into meaningful objectives that give players enjoyment and a sense of accomplishment?

3. How can we allow, and even facilitate player-created goals and objectives? *If we've learned anything from EVE, it's that these have the most lasting effect on player motivation

Let's change gears now. I could rant on that for hours, but I want to address some specific things mentioned in the original post.

Player Social Structures, Developer Limitations, and Player-Driven Development

The idea of having flexible player social structures is intriguing to me. I think it's great. I think that it would open up a lot of different possibilities for player interaction. I also think that a prerequisite to implementation for a system like what Cavernshark described would be a single-sharded world/universe, as in EVE. When playing WoW, I often found myself wishing that I could join one or more social circles who played the game but operated on different servers. In this situation, having more than one affiliation would be meaningless if only one social circle existed on a given shard. Still, kudos for an awesome, original idea.

Another point was made in the original post about the limitations of software developers. As an employee of a software company that operates as a subsidiary of a subsidiary of one of the IT industry's biggest players, I can absolutely confirm that we run on a triage basis. We throw tons of money at development, but it's never enough. We have a wish-list of features that's embarrassingly large, and most of it gets thrown on the back burner, because we're constantly switching from Oh-Shit-We-Broke-Something Mode over to Let's-Find-New-And-Inventive-Ways-To-Break-Our-Software Mode and back again. Somehow we end up with a decent product, but it's a never-ending cycle and you just have to live with the fact that development resources are always scarce.

So with that in mind, it seems to me that the Holy Grail of game design is to make something that is infinitely moddable.

Confession: I love Minecraft, and if you don't, then you are a bad person. The thing is, I haven't played vanilla Minecraft ever since I discovered mods. In fact, mods resurrected an otherwise waning appetite for the game and turned it into a raging, uncontrollable hunger that just takes hold of me at unpredictable times. When I have a severe case of the Minecrafties, there's nothing that will sate my appetite other than locking myself away for a few days and pounding away at chunky blocks in 8 bit pixilated glory. When I finally emerge from my Minecraft-induced, caffeine-fueled nerd marathon, I swear never to touch it again. That usually lasts about 6 weeks. I have been clean for 4 weeks now.

It goes to support my point, however, that player driven content is what gives players motivation. In minecraft, my goals are all my own and the means to achieve them is mostly provided by other players. The mods I use are Industrial Craft, Buildcraft, Redpower, Extra Pipes (teleport pipes for BC), and Power Converters for IC and BC. Hundreds of hours have been put into the development of these mods. Mojang, the creators of Minecraft, have spent absolutely nothing in the development of this content.

Similarly, my new obsession is Day Z. Now to clarify, Day Z is actually a mod--not the title of the game that is required to run it; yet I couldn't care less about Arma II. To hell with realistic FPS combat sims, I want to kill zombies. I shelled out $30 to the creators of Arma II just so I could play a free mod that made their crappy game worth buying. Me and almost half a million other people.

Rocket, the creator of this mod which has likely brought in revenues in excess of $10 million for the Arma team, was paid nothing to create it. He made it because he loved the framework that the original title provided and saw its potential. A free mod has generated more sales than 10 DLC packs could ever have done for this game.

My point here is that the MMORPG community has yet to release a popular title that is open enough to be modded, but that is exactly what it needs. You want endless content? Let the community develop it for you. Are there challenges with this model? Absolutely, but I have to believe that the challenges can be overcome. I certainly don't think that it's the only way that a good MMO can be made now, but I really want to see someone take a decent stab at it.

tl;dr

I have awesome armor and you are all noobs.

Abusive Jerks and Betrothed Zombies

A girl called me cute today. This is a problem.

You see, when a girl calls you cute, you suddenly wear the same label as puppies, shoes, old people, little brothers, and every other guy that she will never kiss.

Truth: girls love jerks. Why do girls love jerks? Ask any girl what the most attractive quality in a man is, and more often than not you will get one word: confidence. And jerks have confidence in spades. Nothing says confidence like "I don't need you, or even really want you." And whether or not girls will ever admit to it, they gobble that stuff up--at least at first.

The contradiction comes here: girls are attracted to jerks, but they don't want them. Girls start dating a jerk thinking "He's so confident. Look at him sweep me off my feet in his strong, confident, uncaring arms." The inevitable then takes place days, weeks, months, or years later, when she comes to the sudden realization that all of that confidence stems from the fact that he is in fact a jerk. Cue the tubs of ice cream and phone calls to girlfriends and sypathetic nice guys whom she will never date that all sound like "He's such a jerk. He doesn't love me, doesn't care about me, doesn't treat me right, never does X or Y for me, etc. etc." And always, it ends with "Why can't I just date a nice guy for once?"

Because in truth, girls want nice guys, but more often than not, they are not attracted to them. Nice guys get called "cute", "nice", and "safe", only to get dragged behind girls who aren't interested in them, watching them go through every abusive, uncaring, mentally challenged jock and meathead that has sufficient mental and physical presence to obnoxiously proclaim "I will treat you like garbage."

These guys--these followers--they're suckers. Have I been there? Have I been a sucker? I have. Never again.

I've decided that there are only three kinds of guys that get girls. The first, are the truly nice guys who get incredibly lucky and find abnormally sane women who are actually attracted to nice guys. Empirical evidence collected by yours truly suggests that these are extremely rare and precious women.

The second kind are just plain jerks. Most jerks will eventually find someone to be with for an extended period of time. That's usually either because he's able to clean up his act and become a nice guy, or he cleans up his act long enough to make the woman feel like she's trapped in the relationship once he goes back to being a jerk.

The third kind of guy is the nice guy who doesn't get lucky, who is forced by circumstance to get smart. These are the nice guys in disguise. If you can't be a jerk, you can fake it. The biggest issue is knowing when to take off the jerk mask to reveal that you're actually a nice guy. Timing is everything.

So now you understand why it bothers me that I was called cute today.

It was like I was being accused of being a nice guy, and a nice guy I am not. I have a motorcycle. My inbox is littered with the remains of conversations with girls that I've taken out and never called back. I make fun of sparkly vampires and any movie where women wear gigantic skirts and use the word "betrothed." In fact, if a movie doesn't have zombies, war, a heist, or a wartime zombie heist, it will likely take considerable effort to convince me to even agree to being in the same room while it's playing. The stereo in my car has only one setting for volume: it's called whatever-I-set-it-at-and-I-will-slap-your-hand-away-if-you-try-to-touch-it. Also, the playlist is mine to control, and there is no way in hell I will ever disgrace my car by playing country, no matter how much you beg and plead and attempt to coerce me. I will make every attempt to forget your birthday, your parents' names, and everything you said on our first date. In fact, I'll probably forget our first date entirely. I'll take every chance I can to badmouth you to my friends, and get with all of yours.

So girls, all of that and more I will do if, when, and however I decide, because I'm a jerk--an obnoxious, uncaring, abusive jerk. At least, until you come to your senses and decide you want me to be a nice guy. I can do that too :)

Cake-Pies and Songbirds

I am making a Cherpumple.

"What is a Cherpumple?" you ask.

Wrong question. The right question to be asking is "Why is a Cherpumple?"

I'll tell you why.

The Cherpumple is because society's "size-zero and washboard abs" version of beauty and social acceptance must be fought. The Cherpumple is because now and again we must break out of our health-conscious, death-by-heart-attack fearing mindset, and proclaim loudly to the world "I want diabetes!" The Cherpumple is the epitome of stunt food, in all its glory and deliciousness.

Of course, it is also an extreme food novelty, sure to earn me many quality high-fives at the celebration of Falliday. That is, if it will hold together.

You see, I am no ordinary chef. When I enter the kitchen, birds alight on the windowsill to watch the artist at work and sing inspiration while I create my masterpieces. The knives, dishes, and appliances all greet me with enthusiasm, proud to be a part of the great work about to be wrought by my hands. When I open the spice cabinet, I am met with a cacophony of desperate pleas, saying "pick me! pick me!" Truly, the kitchen is my home, and I am master of my domain.

But with such incredible skill comes a burdensome responsibility: I cannot follow any recipe exactly as it is written. It is my solemn duty to improve upon the recipes of the uninspired, to lift them out of mediocrity, and into the light of tastebud zen. Such is my calling, and therefore, in my decision to take on the great Cherpumple, I have sought to improve upon its already magnificent magnificence.

"How can it be?" you ask. "The arrogance! The gumption! How dare you?" you continue.

I dare, and the cries of pleasure that result from the fruits of my labor shall vindicate me.

The original recipe calls for a pumpkin pie inside of a spice cake, a cherry pie inside of a white cake, and an apple pie inside of a yellow cake. I wasn't terribly impressed with the synergy of the pie flavors, so for my Cherpumple (which likely can no longer be called a Cherpumple, as that name was derived from the names of the pies inside), I have a berry pie inside of a chocolate cake, a chocolate pie inside of a yellow cake, and a cherry pie inside of a confetti cake. Hence, I shall name mine The Cherrocleberry. Cherpumple, you have been one-upped.

However, there is one problem. You see, pies don't stand up to pressure as well as cakes. you take a pie, put something heavy on it, like two other pies sheathed in layers of cake and covered in frosting, and it tends to just squish and ooze all over the place. This is what the berry pie on the bottom layer has been demonstrating to me ever since I put on the second layer, which has the chocolate pie in it. The cherry, also susceptible (I'm guessing) to being squished, is going on top.

This has been a learning experience. The birds abandoned me about an hour ago, and the spices are cowering in fear behind the flour, but I will not be discouraged. The layers are all in the freezer, cooling off and hopefully firming up. Soon I will assemble the top layer and slather the Cherrocleberry in obnoxious amounts of cream cheese frosting, and all will be well in the world. I take heart in the fact that no one seems to be able to make it look pretty. In fact, another blogger described it as looking like "a forbidding white tower, the Soviet Bloc apartment building of cakes."

Mmm... diabetes never tasted so good.

Motor Oil and 1337 Sauce

Brace yourselves, friends, for a tale of joy and sadness! A tale of triumphant triumphs and miniature LED flashlights!

My car needs a new rear shock absorber.

Boo.

Anyone who's ridden in my car recently (all 3 of them) will tell you that, when properly loaded with 300 lbs of computers and associated electronic goodies, 50 lbs of junk food, roughly half a ton of nerdy weekend escapists, and enough mountain dew to give a horse a heart attack, my car makes a sound that most people would describe to their mechanic as "kkrkrrrrrrhghghgghheeeeegheghghggrrrrrkk."

That's usually the point at which your mechanic smiles and says "that's car speak for $600." Then for kicks and giggles, "But just to be sure, could you make that really stupid noise again? I don't think all the guys got to hear that."

Not me. No sir. I'm wise to the mechanic world. I once managed to infiltrate their ranks, and learned all of their secrets.

So I'm going to replace it myself. With the help of handy Mr. Internet, I was able to locate just the parts I needed and found them for a great price. Just to be sure, however, I decided it would be prudent to look at the shocks on my car and make sure they matched the ones I found online.

LED Flashlight, I choose you!!!

I always like to keep one of these things around. Cars are dark, scary places--especially underneath at 8 pm--and LED flashlights (especially those made for automotive use) are conveniently sized to get in and shine where their bulky big brothers fall short. Now, selecting a quality LED flashlight is important, so I made sure to turn mine around and look at it from all angles after picking it up from the display near the cash register. It was beautiful. I took one look and thought, "Baby, you had me from 'press here.'"

Sadly, it wasn't meant to last. The greatest strength of my beloved flashlight may yet prove to be its Achilles' Heel. It's tiny.

I usually keep it in my assorted box 'o tech goodies. This is like a geeky treasure trove that I keep hidden from the world in my closet. You know, I think I'm still kind of a closet geek, to be honest. Based on who's asking, my response to any question about my background with computers will range anywhere from "I dabble in them here and there" to "My (insert WoW character race/class) is so 1337 he totally pwns teh n00bs with wtfomgbbq sauce."

Ok, I probably wouldn't actually say the latter. Probably.

Back to my geeky treasure trove, I've got everything in there. Extra power cables, cat 5 cables, display cables, extra hard drives (possibly shot), extra optical drives (likely shot), old ram, an old graphics card, a 4 port router, a wireless card, headphones... you get the idea. Basically, anything I get my hands on that still works and can be placed into, on top of, around, or next to a computer, it goes in the box. Random assorted techie things can also find a home there. It comes in handy.

But the closet is dark, and the flashlight is tiny. So I was searching through my box when I realized "man, I could really use a flashlight." Then, overcome by the irony of the situation, I decided to pull the box out of the closet.

It was then that I discovered that my dear flashlight had left me.

I am a man in ruins.

Sadly, the ending to this story is unwritten. Like many a terrible blog posting, I have begun with nary an end in sight. Will the two star-crossed lovers be reunited? Will I ever be truly at one with my nerdy self? Will my car continue to plead with me for mercy? Will the world ever know how many licks it takes to get the center of a tootsie pop?

No, Mr. Owl. No it won't.

Corn Dogs and Relationship Maintenance

I realized today that love and I have been apart for quite some time.

I'm ok. I'm not sad.

I just feel bad for love sometimes.

It's been so long since we've even spoken. I haven't written. I haven't called. Love was never much for texting, but I really haven't even thought to do that in quite some time. I just don't think about it much. I know, I'm a jerk. I still see it every now and then, in passing. Occasionally I pass it in the hallways at the university, catch its eye at work, or see it sitting all alone in the food court, eating a corn dog--a touch of mustard waiting to be dabbed from its cheek with a napkin, and no one to dab.

I know it wouldn't take much. I'm sure love just wants to talk every now and then--you know, catch up and spend some time together just talking about what's been going on in our lives. It's not like it hasn't tried. It wouldn't even need to be a romantic thing really. Love has always been like that. It just enjoys spending time together. I mean, we could probably just grab chinese food and a movie from redbox. Sure, we get kind of lazy together, so it would probably end up as ritz crackers and the discovery channel, but that's not what's important, right?

I've just been so busy. I mean, life is crazy, you know? Stuff happens, you lose focus... things that seemed less important become more so, and vise versa.

I should give love a call. Do you think it's been too long? I mean, what if it's moved on? What if it hates me now? What if it got back together with whats-its-face? It's got so much going for it, there's no way it could have waited for me all this time.

Oh what a fool I've been! We had something good, once upon a time. Maybe there's still time. Maybe there's still hope for us. I've gotta believe that. I just have to.

But I've still gotta play it smart. Fools rush in, right? No, if I come running back it'll think I'm desperate. Right there--Boom! game over. No... no, I can't risk that. I've still gotta play it smooth. I can do that.

Afterall, I don't really miss love. I've been this long without it, and I'm ok. I don't really need it. I'm ok. I'm not sad. I just feel bad for love, that's all.

Dill Pickles and West Nile

I live near Utah Lake. Aside from being one of the most polluted, disease-ridden cesspools I've ever had the pleasure of living near, it's also home to enormous populations of mosquitoes.

I hate mosquitoes.

Apparently, I have "sweet blood." That's a lot nicer way of framing the harsh truth that I'm only slightly luckier than the guy who got an extra ear on his forehead from mother nature's wonderful genetic lottery. To say that I attract mosquitoes would be a gross understatement. Forget bug repellent--take me with you into the woods and you are invisible. I am the sun eclipsing your small candle.

I woke up this morning after putting forth a truly commendable effort to deny the sun's existence. Grudgingly, I opened my eyes and turned onto my side, feeling the air from my fan blowing gently across me--singing it's siren song of continued comfort and rest--pleading with me to forsake all thoughts of work and duty and surrender to another snooze-button's worth of blissful denial. I was strong.

I opened my eyes and saw a pillow, thrown aside and positioned about where you would expect to find the head of a second occupant. As I was looking at the pillow a rather large mosquito landed gently, almost casually upon it's surface. Knowing that this mosquito had likely been feasting on me all night long, watching it sit on the pillow, unmoving, unafraid--it seemed to be asking me, "Was it good for you too?"

I killed the mosquito.

I got a free cinnamon roll tonight. That made me happy. Renae made it for me. Apparently, Renae is pregnant. I think she made them for a baby shower... or something. I don't know Renae, but a mutual acquaintance didn't want her neatly packaged, very appetizing cinnamon roll. Always willing to save a delicious treat from Almost-Certainly-Going-To-Be-Eaten-By-Somebody-That's-Not-Me Doom, I decided it was time to take action and volunteer my digestive services to the poor wayward cinnamon roll. It was packaged in plastic kitchen wrap and tied at the top with some string and a note (how craftsy-cute!). The note read, "Thanks! from Renae's bun-in-the-oven!" At first I thought this was sickeningly cute--then after a moment's pause I realized that for the first time in my twenty three years of existence, I was just thanked by a fetus.

Then it was just creepy.

Politics and Parasites

These are difficult times for America. We face very tough and complex issues both now and in the coming months and years. Inflation is up, the economy is down... way down, wars rage overseas, super-viruses threaten all mankind, and mullets still roam free and unchecked within our borders.

And so it is in these times of economic and fashion-related uncertainty that we face the issues and prepare to select a new leader for our beloved country. Many candidates have been scrutinized and found wanting, leaving only two men to continue the race to the end and a wake of broken and defeated hopefuls behind them. The lines have been drawn and the final showdown is commencing.

We have explored and continue to explore each candidate very carefully. We want to know where they stand on key issues and what their plans are to make our country great and keep gas from hitting $34 a gallon. We want to know where these candidates stand on the war in Iraq, on immigration, and health care. And yet, I feel that in the midst of all the rhetoric and debating there is an issue which has been grossly overlooked. An issue which I feel is very important to all Americans and on which we should all place great emphasis. I want a President who will crack down on public breastfeeding.

I'm not proposing anything drastic. A small fine or maybe public humiliation would be good enough for me. I just don't want to see it. Honestly, who does? ...never mind that... I don't want to know. It's awkward!!!

To recap: I work in a restaurant. It's not a super amazingly high-class place, but it's nice. It rides the line between upper casual and fine dining. I can't tell you how many times I've seen women pull out that little blanket and throw it over their shoulders. Yes - thank you for using a blanket, but you've just created a swirling cloud of awkwardness around you and everyone near you in what's supposed to be a nice relaxing atmosphere.

I mean, what do you say to that? Nothing, obviously... I guess. It's just one of those situations that, from a waiter's perspective, you're not quite sure how to handle. Do you ignore it? Make a joke out if it?

"Oh hey looks like you picked up a parasite."
"Yeah I've heard that leeches are great for reducing swelling."
"So I'm not certain about this but I think there's something under that blanket that's eating you alive."

Most of the time you just don't even want to acknowledge what's going on. I've seen even the most outgoing people run from feeding mothers like frightened cattle. You don't even want to look near it, afraid that the mother will suddenly bare her teeth and growl to protect her young. "What do I do?" "Ummm.... ummm.... tune it out! Pretend like everything is fine and it will go away! It senses motion - just don't move and it won't know you're there!"

Yes, nature is beautiful - but it has it's place. Outside. With the hippies.

That is why I feel that this election year we should all be looking for a candidate who takes a strong stand on the issue of public breastfeeding.

We may be divided in many ways, but I think I speak for a unified America when I say, "Candidates, we want lower gas prices, a strong economy, and we want tough policies against mullets, public breastfeeding, and France."

Sticky Hands and Mind Bullets

I love popsicles.

Since when?

Since now.

What's not to love about popsicles? They're cold and sweet and they taste like childhood. Simply delicious.

I wonder why I ate so many more popsicles as a child than I do now. I certainly don't eat less sweets; that's just preposterous. Are popsicles less refined? Have my taste buds become too good for popsicles?

I hope not.

Maybe it's the mess. Or rather, maybe it's the fear of making a mess. I do have a lot of childhood memories of half-eaten popsicles falling off the stick, oftentimes onto my shirt or hands... or just into the dirt. I'm not sure which of those made me the saddest. Probably the dirt. Clothes can be cleaned and hands can be washed, but a good popsicle can only be replaced by an uncharacteristically kind parent (usually I got a "I told you you should/shouldn't have _____, and now you've lost your popsicle.")

Good times. Maybe I can attribute my cavity free childhood to half eaten popsicles. Nah, I'll give that one to my superior genetic make-up. If only my superior genetic make-up had also given me telekinesis.

Then I could have saved my popsicles.

Brimstone and Benjamins

I've decided that there must be a special place in Hell for bad tippers.

If Hell is a hotel I hope the elevator is busted and they get a room on the kabillionth floor. Right next to the ice machine. With busted AC. Oh and I hope that someone's annoying little brat pulls the fire alarm sometime between two and five every morning.

If you believe in karma then I hope that they spend their next lives as Port-O-Johns.

Extreme? Maybe.

This happens to be a subject that I feel rather strongly about, so allow me to enlighten my devoted readers on the subject of proper dining etiquette and tipping practices.

First off, there's a couple things that the general public does not usually know about the people who wait on them.

1. In some states (Utah is one) waiters are paid $2.13 an hour.

This isn't only at some restaurants. This is almost every restaurant. Yes, even the Super-Ritzy one that serves eighty-kabillion-dollar bottles of wine where they have someone called a Maiter D' and they regard children in the same way that they look upon guide dogs for the blind (we'll tolerate it as long as it shuts up and doesn't pee on anything).

This means that if you don't pay your waiter for their service, he/she is making little more than a third of minimum wage. Unless your waiter intentionally poisons you, you will tip at least 10%. If your waiter was decent, but not good, you tip 15%. If your waiter was friendly and made good recommendations and few, if any, mistakes were quickly and graciously corrected, you tip 20%. If you're like me, then you also have a minimum tip that you will give when you are eating in a cheaper restaurant like IHOP where 20% of your bill is still pretty measly.

But if the service was horrible why can't I tip nothing?

You can, but it would have to be absolutely ridiculously horrible and it would have to be all the waiter's fault. Here's why.

2. Waiters must tip anywhere from 3-10% of their gross sales (the money their customers spend) to other employees of the restaurant, depending on the specific restaurant. They pay bussers, expediters, bartenders, etc. for their part of the service.

In order to better explain what this means, allow me to paint a picture for you. Cue the muzak.

You are in a very nice restaurant. The table in front of you is a solid slab of petrified wood taken from the ruins of an ancient civilization whose cuisine is the centerpiece of the evening's dining experience. There are rose petals in your drink and fragrant candles flicker atop polished golden candlesticks handcrafted by the last known descendant of Michelangelo. On a whim, you order a bottle of wine that dates back farther than you can trace your ancestry for a mere $3000. The wine is excellent. You, however believe that it would be absurd to tip your waiter 20%, or $600, and instead decide that a generous tip would be $50. For simply fetching the bottle and opening it, that seems like a very good amount of money. What you don't know is that the waiter, from your $3000 must tip out, altogether, 6% to his busser, expediter, and somalier, which comes to a total of $180. For the service that your waiter has rendered, your waiter is now $130 in debt.

Though most waiters deal with money in smaller amounts, the concept is the same. What it means is that if I have a table tip me less than 3% (the percentage at my restaurant), not only have I not made money, I've lost money! I've paid money to work! And it happens, folks.

3. Sometimes the service is sub-par because the server is overloaded with customers, which can happen for any number of reasons. Management didn't schedule enough servers, servers called in sick at the last minute, or you just happened to show up at an unexpected rush. It happens. You may not be able to see the entire restaurant from where you're sitting, but even though there's only fifteen tables they've been split between two servers or your server's table of fifteen just asked for seperate checks and they're all paying with cash. In a nicer restaurant, any of these situations are more likely to occur than just having bad service because your server decided to celebrate Mediocre Day.

Ok, ok. But some take issue with the tipping system altogether. Why must we pay money to compensate others for taking a job that pays less than minimum wage? Why should we have to make up for the fact that restaurants pay their employees jack squat?

Capitalism, my friends. The free market economy. You want paid waiters? Go to Europe. I lived there. Service is a middle finger and a smile. Often without the smile. It's all about motivation, and money motivates. It's that simple. And you tip percentage because nicer restaurants hire servers that are more experienced, more competent, and more knowledgeable - which boils down to more expensive.

Oh and if you're happy with the service then you should tip well. I know that sounds redundant, but a sincere thank you and a smile doesn't make my car payment or put gas in my tank. You're a nice person but I don't come to work to make lots of friends.

Bottom line: if you can't afford to tip well you can't afford to eat well, or you just might spend your next life as a toilet.

Sunshine and Ravioli

Yesterday I rode my motorcycle for the first time in months. The weather was great. It must've been, like, fifty degrees or something. I know. I was just happy to get "back in the saddle again" so to speak and was looking for any excuse to do it. The warm... okay, warm-ish weather proved a good one as it removed all the killer ice from the roads and made it bearable to ride for short distances.

One such short distance was from home to work, where I had to take some paperwork.

I work at an Italian restaurant named La Vigna. It's pronounced "lah Veenyah." Either we're incredibly ethnically and culturally ignorant (a likely scenario in Utah), or - more likely - people just pretend to be clueless so they have an excuse to giggle like a twelve year old. Get over it people. I know you were paying attention to this part of your anatomy class and there's not enough letters.

While the weather was beautiful yesterday, it was even better today. Today we were treated to a crazy sideways-blowing this-is-what-a-snow-hurricane-would-look-like yet nonetheless rather short-lived blizzard. It was great. I love bad weather. No, that's an understatement. I love potentially lethal almost apocalyptic displays of nature's unbridled wrath. I've never really been in any such situation, so watching from the sidelines in a warm dry place with a roof over my head is just a blast.

Come to think of it, I think one of my favorite memories from Maryland was sitting out on the back deck one summer afternoon with my dad playing chicken with a gigantic looming thunderstorm. We knew we should get inside. Usually we watched the thunderstorms (the really good ones anyways) from inside the house or the garage. This time we wanted a front row seat.

About fifteen minutes before the storm was on top of us we could see it's ominous figure approaching in the distance. It was coming quick. It seemed like only five minutes ago the sky was clear. As it got closer the trees began to shake in the wind as clippings from freshly mown lawns and dandelion seeds started pelting us from all directions. Anticipation was almost tangible as we counted mississippis from distant flashes of light. It's kinda funny, at the back of your mind there's this nagging instinct to go find shelter. It's as if this most natural phenomenon is so very unnatural that despite the knowledge that the chances are very much in your favor for survival, there's some part of you that just feels the energy in the air and it's begging you not to stay outside - and yet you find that it is in the very act of defying this instinct that you feel more alive than ever. Lightning began ripping through the sky closer and closer and sheets of water began cascading down from the heavens. I don't know how long we stayed outside and I can't remember who chickened out first, but it doesn't really matter. The raw power of nature rode into that lazy summer afternoon like a conquering hero. It was majestic. It was beautiful. It was freakin' sweet.

I set out tonight to write more about work, and particularly about tipping, but I kinda got sidetracked down memory lane. ... I wonder if there's a Memory Ln. somewhere in America. I'm sure there is. There's probably a bunch, actually. Sorry, I get easily sidetracked. I'll write more about that later. Promise. Scout's honor. Cross my heart and hope to.... mmm no, not that strong of a promise.