Quick sketches of some of the many characters I’ve portrayed in real-time online roleplaying (on OtherSpace and elsewhere) over the years:
Tag: Wes Platt
Men Without Hats, Men With Vision
Here’s a goofy essay that I wrote on the web back in 2003. Saving it here for posterity:
In 1983, the United States was under the grip of a brutal dictator with a penchant for jellybeans and happy-go-lucky quips about nuclear annihilation in close proximity to live microphones. Betamax videocassette recorders were the rage. And an upstart network called MTV dared to make a go of showing music videos around-the-clock.
Yes, indeed, the fertile media in that cultural petri dish proved perfect for the adulation due a band known as Men Without Hats and their classic musical missive, The Safety Dance.
Tales from Cypress Knee 2: Punching Shaun
I didn’t punch Shaun Bradley for using me to manipulate Randy.
But I did write an angry letter. Angry for me, at least. I was polite, but firm, explaining that I didn’t appreciate how the process had worked. Toward the end, though, I dropped the gauntlet:
“I’m left with the clear indication that I don’t have any likely opportunities for advancement in the near future. Under the circumstances, I may need to seek employment elsewhere.”
I showed a printed copy to my wife.
“I don’t know about this,” she said.
“I have to let him know how I feel,” I said.
“It’ll make him mad,” she said.
“I’m mad.”
“Yes, but he’s your boss. He can fire you.”
Tales from Cypress Knee 1: Anger Management
“I know why you’re here,” the pudgy blind man assured me from behind his cluttered gray metal desk. “But I’d like to hear you say it.”
“Punched my boss,” I said. After, it should probably be noted, leaping over his desk and trying to throttle him. In retrospect, maybe I overreacted, but it had seemed like an excellent idea at the time.
“No doubt, that precipitated your visit. But why are you here?”
A lot of factors simply didn’t come together, allowing me to make it to the first of three scheduled anger management appointments. I failed to get lost on the way to the Staffer Support annex in downtown Orlando. A wayward jet en route to the airport didn’t drop an engine on my head. Physics hadn’t chosen me, minutes before my arrival, for the gift of spontaneous combustion.
Something told me that none of these answers, no matter how perfectly valid, would satisfy the shrink.
The framed diploma on the pale yellow wall behind him – a doctorate from the University of Central Florida – identified him as William L. Brooks, but he had insisted that I call him Billy Lee.
I sighed. “Look, I had a choice: this or unemployment.” Technically, it was this or jail on battery charges AND unemployment.
Billy Lee, certified psychologist, swiveled his chair to the right so that he could reach the door of the mini-fridge that hummed in a corner of his cramped office. “Mind if I eat a sandwich? Blood sugar.” He didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he plucked a hoagie wrapped in white wax paper from the top shelf and a can of diet Sierra Mist from the second shelf.
Shrugging, I took the iPhone from my shirt pocket and revved up Angry Birds in silent mode.