Ravaging Philcon

This past Saturday, I demoed Ravaged Earth at Philcon, a science fiction convention based in Philadelphia but now held in Cherry Hill, New Jersey.

I first ran Ravaged Earth at Philcon back in 2006, when the game was mired in development hell with a fledgling publisher who couldn’t get it off the ground.

Since then, two editions of the game were released. I spent four panels at this Philcon promoting the hell out of the second revised edition. Grasping my copy of the game like a mouthy infomercial pitchman, I attended every panel and plugged the book, the publisher (Reality Blurs), and explained to strangers in a conference room at the Crowne Plaza Hotel everything I could think of about the luxurious and ever profitable world of game design.

     The infamous sign-up sheet, taped to the game suite door. Names have been painstakingly redacted to protect everyone's identity.

For my demo, which I was

scheduled to run from 8 p.m. until midnight, I wouldn’t be caught off guard. Like any good Boy Scout, I understood preparation is key. Before the convention, I busied myself gathering the essential tools every Game Master should possess. I fashioned a GM screen from two binders and fastener clips, bought a BattleMat, printed and cut out Disposable Heroes line of paper miniatures.

If I ran an RPG, I’d go in with both barrels fully loaded and triggers cocked. I’d blow the kneecaps off the players with my awesome pre-made character sheets, and dazzle them with my brain-shattering GM skills.

In short, I’d be an indestructible Teflon-coated game mastering juggernaut, a polyhedral dice-throwing stud.

However grandiose my ambitions, reality widely diverged from my Walter Mittyesque fantasies. At that point, I was running on fumes, as I’d attended a staggering four panels that day, starting with an early one at 9 a.m. Four panels, each separated by one hour increments, doesn't give you time to rest. If I wanted to unleash the fury, I'd have to recharge my spent geek batteries.

By the time 8 p.m. rolled around, I had taken a brief afternoon nap and was refreshed, invigorated and rarin’ to go. Earlier that day, I noticed the sign-up sheet for Ravaged Earth was filled. Players were coming. All I had to do was deliver.

As 8 p.m. rolled around, I set up in the gaming suite at a large table. It would serve as the arena for my carefully woven pulpy tale.

There’d be action, thrills and heart-pounding adventure.

Oh, yes.

There’d be adventure.

However, as 8 p.m. turned into 8:10 p.m., no gamers showed up. Would I have to cancel the demo and slink back home, head hung low in defeat? What happened to all of the players who signed up? Did they get cold feet? Grow bored? Latched on to a decadent private party elsewhere in the hotel and were doing bodyshots off an 18-year old elf princess in a chainmail bikini?

What happened?

If I was going to run the game just for my girlfriend, so be it. She showed infinite patience with me and supported my writing endeavors. Girlfriend played Ravaged Earth in the con games I’d run before and excitedly recounted her exploits from the gaming sessions. This time, she even came dressed as her character, Fun Yi, a.k.a. The Black Lotus, fabled avenger from Shanghai. She ordered a red silk cheongsam adorned with peacocks. The dress was a little too tight, but she squeezed into it for the convention.

Fun Yi would not be denied her night of glory!

Fortunately, Fun Yi wouldn’t be alone. Other players arrived and joined the game, much to my relief. Heroes included the aforementioned Fun Yi; Dr. Blake Cutler the gadgeteer; Captain Lightning, a superhero; and Mr. Automatix, a robot butler. A fifth player who portrayed the Amazing Renaldo, a magician, briefly joined and cut out early. More on this dude later. 

The heroes began in New York City in the summer of 1936. A mysterious red light erupted in the night sky several weeks before, suspended in the atmosphere over the city. As the days pass, New Yorkers have grown accustomed to the object, which the newspapers dub “the Red Star”. One night as the heroes are out, they witness a bright flash of light burst from the Red Star and plummet earthward, crash landing somewhere in the city. The heroes decide to investigate and inquire about the object. A newspaper vendor tells them the object fell somewhere in the Manhattan’s Upper West Side. Following up leads, they arrive at Paterno Castle just in time to hear a woman screaming. The heroes knock on the door and a weary-eyed butler greets them. Mr. Automatix finagles his way past the butler and the others follow. The heroes search the house while the robot keeps the butler busy. They stumble upon the maid’s body in an upstairs closet, then see a Martian probe digging in the garden. They confront the Martian probe and destroy it. Captain Lightning summons his contacts at the New York City Police Department, who arrive on the scene. The heroes learn the Martian probe was digging in the garden, possibly searching for something. Grabbing shovels from the garden shed, the heroes start digging and find a small piece of Aetherium buried deep in the soil. Dr. Cutler takes the metal back to his laboratory for further study.

A peculiar advertisement runs in the newspaper the following day, seeking anyone who witnessed the strange object fall from the sky the previous night. Inquiring about the ad, the heroes travel to Colombia University and find Dr. Dunphy, an eccentric professor interviewing the witnesses. The heroes recount their tale to Dunphy, who tells them about a dreadful cult of Martian worshippers called the Children of Phobos. Dunphy suspects the cult is behind a recent spate of murders occurring after the Red Star first appeared. He tasks the heroes with finding his contact, Officer Simmons of the NYPD. Simmons had been investigating strange Martian glyphs found in the New York City sewer tunnels underneath Manhattan when he vanished.

Armed with their wits (and a few flashlights) the heroes descend into the dank sewers. After dealing with a swarm of sewer rats Captain Lightning quickly dispatches by slinging lightning at them, the heroes encounter Officer Simmons’ battered cadaver.       

Without giving too much away, the heroes meet a femme fatale, discover the cultist’s lair, and manage arresting the ringleader in one huge boss battle involving robed cultists and mutated superheroes. When the battle ended, the players wanted to quit.

Yet more of the tale remained, additional adventurous tidbits I’d yet to entice them with. I started explaining the police found additional information in the cultist’s lair pointing to Dr. Richard Pierson of Princeton University.

At the mention of that, one player perked up.

“That’s the guy from War of the Worlds,” he said. “Let’s keep playing and see where this is going.”

With that hook, I launched into the second act, where the intrepid heroes met Pierson in his observatory doing what academic astronomers do best: peering through a telescope at the heavens. Pierson notices jets of blue flame bursting from Mars’ surface. He attributes them to natural weather phenomenon on the Red Planet, until the radio program of orchestral music is halted abruptly and an emergency news report reveals an object crash-landed in the small farming community of Grover’s Mill nearby.

Sound familiar? 

Orson Welles’ rendition of War of the Worlds is a playable scenario in Ravaged Earth!

Pierson takes the heroes in his car to Grover’s Mill, with Captain Lightning flying above. On the road, the Children of Phobos attack Pierson’s car and a chase ensues. Fun Yi, Mr. Automatix and Dr. Cutler manage to shoot the tires on the cultist’s vehicle. Captain Lightning swoops down, lands on the cultist’s car and crashes through the window, terrifying the hapless mooks.

In Grover’s Mill, Martian tripods assault the small farming community. The trundling fighting machines surround the old mill as the State Police arrive. I used the BattleMat and minis for the climactic battle. Captain Lightning entered the mill, found the millstone and pried it loose. Grasping the millstone, he flew through the roof and soared over one of the fighting machines. Making a flawless Agility roll, he dropped the millstone on one of the tripods, crushing it. Dr. Cutler used his telekinesis helmet to jostle loose the bolts on one fighting machine’s spindly leg. The tripod whirled before tumbling onto a house. Meanwhile, the remaining fighting machines incinerated half the cordon of State Troopers. Mr. Automatix fired his zapgun and scored tremendously insane damage, which fried one of the fighting machines, sending it toppling into Grover’s Mill Pond. Fun Yi used her martial arts skill to shimmy up one of the tripods and vault onto its hood. The Martians fired their heat ray and Fun Yi suffered two wounds and fell shaken. Captain Lightning flew to her rescue, seizing the avenger from the tripod, just as a combined flurry of Mr. Automatix’ zapgun and Dr. Cutler’s telekinesis helmet crippled the fighting machine. A bombardment by the heroes and State Troopers felled the final mechanical horror onto a parked car.

The Battle of Grover’s Mill ended with scorched earth, widespread ruination and crushed Martian tripods.

The players were overjoyed, and I felt reinvigorated. Pulling off a good game is one thing. Keeping people hooked and interested requires a unique talent. From their reaction, they enjoyed Ravaged Earth and their new pulpy personas. They investigated murders, scuffled with cultists and took on Martian invaders, all in the span of four hours, my allotted game time.

Onlookers who wandered into the gaming suite gathered around the table throughout the night to observe. They were likewise enthralled with the game and asked about it afterwards.

The player who assumed the guise of the magician returned following the game. He apologized for cutting out early and said that was his first tabletop role-playing experience. He peppered me with questions about the game and I told him where to find it. Pretty cool of him to let me know that. Kudos, mystery man, wherever you are. 

After a day of shilling the game and finally running a demo, I was ready for a little rest. My girlfriend and I played a game of Cards Against Humanity for an hour with about ten people, and had a profanity-laced good time.

I’ve run Ravaged Earth before at Gen Con and Philcon, and in a local game store. I’ve explained it to gamers, game designers, fellow writers and the uninitiated multitudes I work with. This was one of the best gaming sessions I’ve ever had. Chalk it up to the intimacy, the relaxed atmosphere or the late hours.

Despite being in a near state of zombielike catatonia, I forged ahead and ran the game. For that determination, I should at least get a medal/steak dinner/back rub. 

Thanks to the players who showed up and played Ravaged Earth at Philcon this year. You were a very enthusiastic and fun group. An additional thanks goes out to the Philcon staff who worked with me in the gaming suite.

I’d like to do it again, say next year?

What other exciting tales of adventure and intrigue await?

Tune in to find out!

Sandy, One Year Later

One year ago, Hurricane Sandy blew into my life, flooded my apartment and uprooted my comfort and security.

Time heals all wounds, yet the pain of Sandy still lingers. Over a foot of water sloshed around my apartment, soaking my books and furniture, drenching and invading my personal space.

Private living space should be a sanctuary, a respite from the outside. Sandy barged right in, flooding the neighboring streets and seeping under the door cracks, rolling over the carpeting and creeping into low-lying cupboards and drawers.

Waterlogged mattresses, sofa cushions and bookcases. Sandy spared nothing, leaving me with a grim task of sorting through my possessions. A hurricane rendered me homeless, made me a victim.

I hate Hurricane Sandy.

Hate the fact I had to call a shoddy moving company to move my few remaining boxed personal effects one cold November night. Fat men with clumsy hands and dinosaur feet clomping through the dark rooms because the electricity was cut off. Flashlights stabbing the blackness, breaths foggy as the chill crept in.

Hate the idiotic moniker "Superstorm", as if it was forged from Olympus and charged with superhuman atomic thunderbolts.

Hate living without 80 percent of my possessions for a year. Boxes piled in a monstrous heap inside a metal storage facility. Paying over $100 to shelter my belongings while I stay in temporary lodgings where I’ve clearly overstayed my welcome.

Feeling helpless and immobile.

Seeing the town slowly rebuild, watching homes jacked up higher. Constructing taller than base flood elevation because the Federal Emergency Management Agency decrees it. It’s all about flood insurance, about reimbursements, grants and cash making people whole again.

Soup eaten in restaurants, eking out meager sustenance while the downtown digs out, scraping mud from floors, steam-cleaning carpets saturated with briny stench, noticing a sheen of scum where the high water mark receded.

How do you survive something like this?

The loss.

The new reality, where you’re a victim.

Landlord can’t rebuild the apartment. Walls removed, down to bare studs. Fans dry everything, preventing mold and mildew from creeping back. No renter’s insurance means nothing you have is covered.

Everything’s gone.

A FEMA worker from Tennessee apologizes as he records your information. Uncle Sam cuts you a check for your troubles, for another month’s rent in another apartment which you don’t see because you’re too proud to look.

Too proud to admit anything is wrong.

Fixated on fleeing far from this island, this resort town which brims in the summer, choking with tourists frolicking on the Boardwalk.

Yet the Boardwalk is deserted. Badly eroded beach, bereft of sand, which spilled onto the neighboring roads.

Front end loaders, dump trucks, debris. Downed power lines, furniture piled in gargantuan mountains on curbsides.

Gov. Chris Christie in his blue fleece, hugs teary residents, tours the coast. The state uses federal funds to tout how resilient the Jersey shore is, a phoenix rising defiantly from the ashes.

“Stronger Than The Storm.”

We weren’t stronger than the storm. If we were, the storm wouldn’t have gutted our homes, turned us into bitter wanderers, crippled our sense of security and purpose.

A year after Sandy, we’re still putting our lives back together. We’re still frantically searching for new homes and grieving for our old ones. FEMA’s red tape strangles us all, and those who can’t rebuild, sold their homes and moved on. Developers gobbled up crumbling houses, razed them and rebuilt condos and duplexes.  

Sandy was kind to the development community and construction trade.

Champagne corks popping round the clock for them.

How’s my life been this past year?

I still feel like I’m anxiously waiting for something to arrive. Mingled depression and frustration at my inaction. Sandy left me in limbo, in a place where things run molasses slow. I’ve largely had to do without what I escaped with. When you suddenly lose most of your stuff, the books and music and objects which give your life comfort and meaning, you realize how banal and trite materialism is.

On a personal level, I’m making do with less, streamlining existence. Spartan living with a few books, movies and creature comforts. In this stark absence there’s simplicity and less clutter. Nothing is burdensome, tempest-tossed bookshelves, brimming with volumes and CDs.

Life is very Zen right now. Less is more. Minimalist in the extreme.

I still have my girlfriend, and her love and support have weathered Sandy and every troubling storm since. We’re living together, far from our former lodgings. It might not be closer, with the same conveniences, but it’s become our sanctuary.

She wonders when we’re going to move. She wants new furniture, a new place.

I’m not ready to look just yet. I’m trying to save money to upgrade my apartment. I worry about the neighborhood, about crime, about our future.

Everything drowned in Sandy’s icy waters last October. Part of me sunk, pulled down never to emerge.

Political hyperbole and axioms do little to quell the pain or stave the losses.

Resentment, sorrow, bemoaning our malaise. We’re uprooted, torn asunder, flung to the wolves. Traumatized and angry, blaming FEMA, the state, our own ineptitude to plan better.

We were caught up in a historical storm which tore a rollercoaster from an amusement pier, pushed sand into beachfront homes and turned quiet neighborhoods into canals. We saw nature’s wrath and fury up close, witnessed widespread devastation and began the slow task of rebuilding. Amid the chaos and anger, we saw strangers helping strangers. Whether assisting an elderly neighbor, cooking hot meals or helping someone move, the best of humanity revealed itself following Sandy.

Though Sandy destroyed our homes and property, it didn’t damage true goodness. Selfless acts of kindness came through, amid all this suffering.

We huddle for warmth and give thanks. 

Sleepwalking Through America

           At 12:01 a.m. on Tuesday, Oct. 1, the federal government shut down after the Democrat-controlled Senate and Republican-controlled House of Representatives clashed over a federal spending bill.

The House and Senate reached an impasse, when House Republicans passed their version of the spending bill which contained an amendment delaying enforcement by one year of the Affordable Care Act’s “individual mandate” requiring all Americans to buy health insurance.

The legislation also appointed Republicans to attend a Senate budget conference, which Democrats previously requested.

The Senate flatly rejected the proposal, requesting the House pass a bill absent of the provisions. Democrats called for the passage of a “clean bill”, absent of Obamacare provisions. The Republicans flatly refused, saying Obamamcare’s healthcare exchange marketplaces, due to open Oct. 1, would usher in a thousand years of darkness, cause baby Jesus to weep and break up more marriages than Internet porn.

In less flippant, cynical times, such posturing would be met with a bare-knuckle scrum at the feet of the Lincoln Memorial, where Senators, locked in death-embraces, rip each other apart like wild dogs.

Today, we’re the victims of an omnipresent media, turning its nattering pundits loose across the airwaves, ramping up the spin-machine and mass-producing bullshit.

Now the finger-pointing.

Now the incessant carping.

For this, the hoi polloi are rewarded with no functioning government.

We’ve passed the threshold of kindness, America. We’re plummeting off the deep end, hurling down a bottomless chasm ringed with ads for Taco Bell, Crocs and Duck Dynasty.

This country is becoming more and more like a trailer park, but not the fun kind of trailer park with immaculate lawns, happy-go-lucky neighbors and friendly grandmas who leave warm apple pies to cool on the windowsill. No, it’s the kind of festering trailer park inhabited by shifty, inbred rednecks staring blankly at you with narrowed eyes and tilted brows while polishing their shotguns and guzzling cheap beer.

In his farewell address in 1796, George Washington said “However [political parties] may now and then answer popular ends, they are likely in the course of time and things, to become potent energies, by which cunning, ambitious, and unprincipled men will be enabled to subvert the power of the people and to usurp for themselves the reins of government, destroying afterwards the very engines which have lifted them to unjust dominion.”

Washington’s dreaded premonition is our current reality.

America is a happy dystopia, populated with unwitting dupes too apathetic or lackadaisical to challenge the entrenched oligarchs who blithely gobble every last morsel of freedom from the people’s plate.

Politics has grown nasty, a blood sport akin to bear-baiting or bull fighting. It’s gladiatorial combat with thousand dollar plate dinners, where the same trite partisan hackery and rhetoric passes for insightful wisdom.

It’s not so much the blind leading the blind, but the blind who think they can see, leading people who are only nearsighted.

It’s like sending out a bunch of invitations for a celebrity dinner party and having only Charles Manson and Pauly Shore show up. The only ones who appear are deluded, bloodthirsty maniacs or complete nincompoops.

Hate speech isn’t so much a crime but a national pastime. Political campaigns, unrestricted in the amount of donations they receive, are free to engage in duplicitous behavior, hurling accusations against opponents and perceived “enemies”.

In short, our leaders are assholes.

Assholes with power are the worst kind. Both parties are power-hungry in their pursuit of domination, even subverting the Constitution to get their way.

The last concern a politician has is for his fellow man. Chiefly paramount is his own welfare, the strength of his political party and how he can gain an advantage over the secular, the intellectual, the free-thinker. His goal is to cause dissention and strife, to reap a whirlwind of shit and dismantle all unity in favor of chaos, to drive the hopeful into hopelessness and the secure into insecurity.

In short, his goal is to win.

The shutdown is not a coup de grace. It’s not a win for Republicans. Not a victory for stalwarts who “made a point” by closing the federal government’s operations.

It’s a failure for all the smug, conceited, Limbaugh-listening, round-gutted, Hummer-driving conservative stereotypes who use Obamacare as an excuse. Congressional Republicans tried killing the law over 40 times since it was signed in 2010. Despite being as jumbled as a dyslexic spelling bee, Obamacare is the law. It's a clusterfuck, but it's America's clusterfuck.

Instead of accepting the law's inevitability, instead of educating the citizenry on the Affordable Care Act's specifics, our leaders gave us fear-mongering, outright distortions and disinformation.

The absence of true leadership leaves a vacuum, one filled with ugly attacks.

Blame for the shutdown rests squarely on the Republicans. It’s bad political theater, complete with histrionics, posturing and nutjob pronouncements of a party in its early death rattle. It’s time to admit the batshit craziness of the Tea Party subverts any good the GOP once had. For the long-term survival of the party, it’s time to cut these guys loose and return them to the shack in the swamp.

Slash and burn tactics are desperate. Both parties claim moral ground, yet their desire to reject compromise shows how ineffective they are at working together to solve problems. Instead we're burdened with acrimony and stubborn representatives willing to carve a name for themselves in blood from the well of the House Chamber.

Washington D.C. used to be a town where the future course of the nation was established, where men clung to their principles, espoused creeds and prayed for wisdom. They cherished liberty and the gift freedom affords us. Now it's is a playground of vindictive tyrants, K Street lobbyists in Battistoni wingtips, gawking sycophants tapping on Blackberries, and alcoholic corporate journalists banging out their latest screeds on their MacBooks.

Not so much a shining city on the hill, but a ghetto of Section 8 housing with high-class escorts and an unprincipled spending habit.

What did America do to deserve such a collection of incompetent, recalcitrant hucksters, thieves and con-artists?

It’s like every school bully you knew growing up entered Congress, where they proceeded to torment America with wet-willies, wedgies and swirlies, before confiscating our lunch money.

Now it’s not their fault they’re so damaged and botched, these egocentric sociopaths devoid of scruples. It’s not inherently in their genetic makeup to behave so irrationally with no regard or empathy of humanity. It's not their fault they succumb to the temptation of  campaign donations and are led on a leash by their corporate masters.

It's not Congress's fault they have abysmal approval ratings.

It's our fault. It’s because we let them get away with it. When you see something wrong and don’t report it, chances are it will continue.

Congress’ bad behavior, its partisan bickering, vile rancor and outright naked greed is all our fault.

We allowed these botched villains to run the country through our indifference and apathy.

By supporting either Democrats or Republicans, we enable their gridlock. By paying their salaries, we allow their shenanigans to continue. My advice: change the management. Vote out all incumbents and start fresh.

Until then, we're just a nation of somnambulists lurching slowly towards the precipice, lost in our own dreams. 

Promoted

Journalism is my love-hate relationship. I love the ability to chronicle the folly of man, the absurdities of existence. When everything clicks, when sources call you back before deadline and you score that essential document nobody else has, the universe clicks.

It’s all gravy.

You feel like a 100-foot tall Woodward and Bernstein, ripping the city’s foul heart asunder, punching through city hall roof and scooping up errant bureaucrats and public servants in your fists.

Other times, the sense of futility is deafening. The mundane conversations, pouring through line-by-line of legislation, a panging notion everything you write will be misunderstood.

They’ll think you have an agenda. Biased. Member of the liberal media elite.

A subversive.

So you dust yourself off, rise from the barstool and continue writing.

You do it because getting the facts and putting them on the record is essential, lest the propagandists grab the public’s ear.

Honest, straightforward reporting is going by the wayside, leaving partisan commentary masquerading as journalism.

Corporate media with an agenda.

Making fat stacks.

Whether the public is informed is irrelevant.

Fox News, MSNBC and CNN. The demise of print. A wellspring of Internet news sites, blogs and electronic delivery of news.

After nearly 20 years of reporting for various newspapers, both daily and weekly, I received a promotion.

I am a managing editor. Some of my co-workers said the promotion was long overdue. As much as I’d like to live in a cabin by a lake and write novels, journalism is my bread and butter. It’s how I survive, and if I knew how rough it would be, I’d be doing something else, like teaching improv to drunk hipsters at the Unitarian church on Friday nights. Maybe cleaning toilets or washing dishes in a biker bar.

You know; something more profitable and dignified. 

The older I get, the more I realize we’re all clowns shoved into one comically tiny vehicle. Each of us struggling and clawing for breathing space before we suffocate or snap our necks. Pressing against each other, arms knotted like pretzels, there’s nowhere for us to go. We’re stuck in that stupid car, venturing together on the same journey. We’d better learn to like the cramped conditions and enjoy the ride.

Another bonus about growing older is my bullshit detector is finely honed. I know when I’m being lied to, used or otherwise patronized. My proclivity to be painfully forthright, to the point of brusqueness, shocks many.

This is why I’m never invited to parties.

As managing editor, I’m responsible for editing stories, writing headlines and (eventually) pagination. Quite a responsibility, but I’ve prepared myself for this. Professionally, it’s a dream come true.

I’ve got several ideas I’d like to see, including a return to investigative journalism and an expanded online presence. Harnessing social media such as Facebook and Twitter.

Newspapers should remain viable medium for mass communication, but acknowledge the Internet is not some looming threat. The Internet is another broadcasting tool publishers can use to spread their content out to the world. Before, we relied on the physical product, the newspaper which needed to be printed and distributed manually. Now our words are read on screens to everyone with a computer, cellphone or tablet. How is this a threat? It should be embraced.

Solid objectivity, research and superb writing are in short supply. We plan to give this to the public. There’s a real draught in well-told, local stories. We shouldn’t regurgitate facts, but put them in some kind of perspective, making issues relevant to readers. Newspapers inform, entertain and educate. Great newspapers, the stately broadsheets that have stood the test of time, do this and more. 

My mission as managing editor will be to produce a quality product, one the staff and community can be proud of.

Press Release

When I receive a press release as a Word Doc instead of a PDF, I can change its content easily. Because I can alter its content easily, stuff like this happens:

                                                                   Clicken to Embiggen!

Don't let stuff like this happen. Send only PDFs as press releases. Thank you.

Motherhoodwinked

Proving CNN is at the vanguard of supplying the world with relevant information, the network's website ran an essay by writer Zoe Zorka today, where she bemoans her difficult decision not to have children.

Double Z's gripes stemmed from her own feelings and views on child-rearing and motherhood, and how stigmatized she is for not wanting her vagina to be a two-way street instead of a vacant cul-de-sac.

I know plenty of women who don't want children. It's their personal choice, and I respect that.

Time Magazine tackled the subject in a cover story entitled "Having It All Without Having Children", which includes the following: "The decision to have a child or not is a private one, but it takes place, in America, in a culture that often equates womanhood with motherhood."

But Zorka, 27, takes it too far, comparing herself to a civil rights champion persecuted for choosing not to plop out a few kids.

Read her crazy screed here: http://www.cnn.com/2013/08/01/living/parents-irpt-zorka-no-kids/index.html#cnn-disqus-area.

I know, right?

Pretty self-absorbed and delusional, even for a Millennial.

When I first read this, I though, "Oh, I see what you're doing, CNN! You're putting stories from The Onion on your news site! Quite a jape, you scurvy knaves!"

However, it's no joke. She fancies herself as an activist facing discrimination:

"I've had women tell me that I was a horrible person, a horrible wife and a horrible American because it was my "duty" to reproduce. I was shocked to hear such a statement in 2013. I was born in the 1980s -- what I thought was an age of enlightenment in which women no longer were pigeonholed into such archaic stereotypes."

First, the 1980s were far from an "age of enlightenment". Ever hear of The Thompson Twins? Rick Astley? Kajagoogoo? Don't fling yourself before us as some martyr for a greater cause. Choosing not to do something doesn't make you a victim of injustice. Being excluded from doing something others do makes you a victim of injustice. Perspective and context matter here. Civil rights activists of the 1960s fought an unjust system for black equality and fair treatment. They suffered death threats, beatings and some were murdered. You're bitched at by some redneck North Carolina housewife and suddenly you're Gandhi?

I don't see black-clad government troops surrounding your uterus and seizing it. There's no Department of Fertility and Infant Creation. When the feds strap you to a gurney and pump you full of fertility drugs and the sperm from Nobel laureates, then you can complain. Until that horrific dystopia arrives, you're just another entitled, over-educated young American turning a personal choice into a controversy.

"I identify with many of my gay and lesbian friends in that I've always felt I should be honest about who I was. I don't think it's right to have to say, "Well, we'll have kids someday," just as I don't think it's right for a gay man to have to say, "Someday I'll meet a nice girl and settle down." Like him, this is simply who I am."

Here's where the argument really veers into Crazyland. Gays and lesbians face prejudice and ignorance every day, and some of it not ending well. Remember Matthew Shepard, that 21-year old gay man tortured to death in Colorado? Or Mark Carson, a 32-year old gay man shot in the face in New York? Or any of the 30 gay, lesbian or transgender victims murdered by hate crimes in 2011, the highest in one year? With the exception of the Middle East, where are childless women tortured to death or killed outright? The self-righteous brittle old busybodies giving you the cold shoulder because your desire not to have babies are not the Mujahideen or the Westboro Baptist Church. They're just Slimfast-drinking, stretch mark-covered bimbos who believe Jesus puts babies in their naughty parts so they could feel less dead inside.

"Like the equal rights crusaders before me who have challenged the beliefs of society with regard to race, gender and sexual orientation, I realize that my views will not always be popular. I just wish to do my part in creating a society that allows everyone, regardless of personal choices, to be accepted and able to express themselves freely without fear of judgment."

I'm sure the real civil rights crusaders who have done and who still do risk their lives fighting oppression think your manifesto is a load of self-absorbed, narcissistic navel-gazing designed to rationalize your petty decision. Choosing not to breed is a personal choice, but it's a choice. Society might judge you and your husband for that decision, and you might get sour looks from country club biddies, but so what? Nobody's burning crosses on your lawn or calling you "faggot" or "queer".

Certain religious affiliations are opposed to your choice because hedonistic lifestyles - such as sex without reproduction - are verboten. Since this isn't the Middle Ages, where the church held considerable influence, who cares? People judge every decision you make. It's 21st Century America, where everyone's restless, bored and opinionated. Whether these opinions rely on common sense is another matter. People undoubtedly called you selfish for not wanting kids. So? It doesn't mean you should turn it into a rallying cry for women shamed by breeders. It's your life and your decision. Don't label yourself an oppressed minority striving to right a social wrong.

Again, I have nothing against women or men who don't want kids. More power to ya. My objection is this whiny bitchfest, a constant carping and cry for attention. Use your creative energies for more important things and stop hogging space on CNN's website; they have to return to providing their audience with more conjecture and pseudo-journalism.