12:32 PM
9:11 AM
It's ALMOST Friday, why not...
7:24 AM
Back from the Grave?
Noticed in Reuters/Hollywood Reporter/Yahoo News:
Hammer Films has risen from the grave
By Stuart Kemp
Reuters - Friday, May 11 12:13 pm
LONDON (Hollywood Reporter) - The coffin lid for cult British horror label Hammer Film Prods. has been pried open once again, this time by a group of European investors.
(Advertisement)
The consortium -- which includes such industry players as Dutch reality-TV mogul John de Mol and Hollywood producers Guy East and Nigel Sinclair -- plans to resurrect the dormant label and put it back into production for the big and small screen alike.
No financial details of the deal, which includes Hammer's 295-title library, were given, but those close to the deal said it was in the millions of dollars.
The new management team is headed by former Liberty Global European executives Simon Oakes and Marc Schipper, with East and Sinclair of Los Angeles-based label Spitfire Pictures on board as non-executive directors.
Oakes said in an interview that the business plan will concentrate on making films under the Hammer banner rather than initially trying to resurrect some of the old titles.
Hammer, founded in 1949, is best known for its gothic horror productions in the 1950s and 1960s. The banner was responsible for the classic movie series of Dracula, Frankenstein and Quatermass, forever imprinting its "Hammer House of Horror" slogan here and abroad.
Oakes said East and Sinclair would give the company entree in Hollywood and "access to the best writers and talent" looking to make horror films.
Prior to the deal announced Thursday, Hammer had been in advanced negotiations to join forces with independent production firm Ealing Studios .
That deal fell apart because of concerns surrounding Hammer's valuation of its film library. The other problem facing any new owner is a rights horror story. Several high-profile titles such as those starring "Dracula" and "The Werewolf" are tied up by studios, including Warner Bros., Columbia and Universal, with remake rights and ownership of characters a legal minefield.
Reuters/Hollywood Reporter
Attribution: Copyright 2007 Reuters Inc.
6:42 AM
Thusly:
2:26 PM
Red Actions! Interventionist Scenario,
Setup and Turns 1-3
Last night we converged on La Casa Markley to setup a new RED ACTIONS! scenario, a rather speculative one based upon Red Russians and Poles versus Interventionist French and Americans. It made no sense historically, but it certainly was fun to play. Alas, with all the setup (and emergency mounting of my new Chekha units), we were late getting started, and could only play until 10PM. We made some progress. This is not a proper battle report, as we didn't get more than somewhere into turn 3 or so. On the other hand, we did test extensively the new revisions to RED ACTIONS! that (mostly) the Markley brothers have been working on. We managed to implment Leaders, Mob Rules, and refined elements of the combat sequence. When we finish up in two weeks or so, I will post a proper battle report.Initial Setup:
Looking South towards the Alliance (Reds and Poles)
(Americans, left. French right and in Trench lines. Militia in farmhouses up forward, left and right)
The Red Russians (my command). 2 units, conscripts. 1 unit, Regulars. 1 unit, Chekhists, 1 Gun, 1 MG, 2 units Cav (one Cossack, one Konarmiya). I gave the Konarmiya to John to balance out the turn better.
The Poles arrive. A mix of Conscripts, 1 Cav to start, 1 Gun, 1 MG, 1 Haller unit.
The French await the Poles and Russians in their trenches, beyond barbed wire. The conscripts in the farm houses are merely speed bumps to break up the attack of the Reds and Poles.
We didn't get far enough to report on much. We shelled the conscripts in the forward positions, somewhat ineffectively, thought we did manage to put on a few TERROR markers. They shot long range with an Infantry gun and Artillery pieces. My Chekists retired back into the woods, then streamed out and let out a devastating stream of gunfire on the conscripts in the farm houses. That extra firepower modifier comes in handy when you have six stands at start (one of the few times I've rolled on the 25+ table!). The conscripts lost a platoon. Then a cavalry close in infantry attack caused the to fall back, then fall back again. On the right, I was a bit crowded with the Reds so I advanced the Regulars up the right to try to flank the Conscripts in the blue jackets. They took such a hit from cannon fire and long ranged potshots that they retired away from me pretty onstantly. I moved my conscripts up, using the new MOB movement rules. They shot at stuff, not very well. The Chekists hardly had to do much but form a large fire group in the woods and blaze away (that's the closest thing to elite I have!). The Cossacks positioned themselves for a charge on the blue-coated conscripts (on the right) and caused them to retire in the face of fire. And that's about where it was by turn 3, where we had to put it on hold for the night. More on this battle when it gets completed, but for now I will leave you with this slideshow.
 | Cool Slideshows |
By the end of the evening... the conscripts had been pushed back dramatically without grevious losses, and were falling back on the American position on the Russian right, while the other conscript back was hanging out in the air after being charged by cavalary and shot up.
A most satisfying evening, I look forward to completing this one.1:06 PM
For Your Amusement
The Friday Caption Contest Returns. Please scroll down to the COMMENTS hyperlink on the bottom of this post, and leave a caption for the following photgraph:
(Click on photo to expose all of it. yes, it's a chest thumper and kind of corny, but I love it)
12:20 PM
Airfix Charades: A Proposal for Useless Figure Poses
Introduction: growing up in the hobby, most kids in Europe or North America who liked plastic soldiers became familiar with the products of the venerable (and now sadly defunct) Airfix plastic figure company. Airfix manufactured (primarily) HO or 1/72 scaled figures for collectors, toy soldier enthusiasts, and wargamers. For most of us, Airfix was that magical stepping stone into the hobby. There wasn’t any other figure company back in those early days, especially for poverty stricken children. Fortunately, the Airfix catalogue of figures was huge. Almost any period you can imagine was either represented or could be created with kit-bashing and even a mediocre paint job. I often wonder how many sets of the famous kepi-clad ACW UNION CAVALRY became Chasseurs D’Afrique, or Mexican Cacadores, or some other obscure regiment. Airfix figures were so versatile, so broad in application, and such great value for the money, that even to this day older hobbyists are both sentimental about the line and possessed of an encyclopedic knowledge of the subject matter.
Which is an appropriate segue to the titular subject of this article. There was ONE department where Airfix had somewhat spotty results in—poses. To be effective in either a diorama or wargame, a line of figures has to be cast actually doing the fighting. Airfix sculptors of the period differed widely on the application of some of their poses; most lines had a decent complement of soldiers doing the stand up “shooty things”; yet every box had its contingent of… let’s say “whimsically conceived” poses. These are poses that are extremely distinctive, highly original, generally specialized… and almost useless for wargaming. It is to those poses.. the crawling union infantrymen that could never be displayed in a line, the grenade throwers that look like they are performing aerobics, the legion of troops doing an overhead bayonet stab or clubbed musket butt, that this post is affectionately dedicated.
Miniature gaming now has its own cult game—AIRFIX CHARADES.To play, you will need a circle of friends with a somewhat encyclopedic knowledge of the Airfix line and some sort of reference work that will authenticate guesses. I suggest printing out the Airfix section of the TOY SOLDIER REVIEW page (http://www.plasticsoldierreview.com/Airfix.html) as it is somewhat authoritative.
At the proper convention, getting a circle of Airfix geeks together might be easier to do than you think. A flip chart might be a good addition, to record the guesses made. A referee, to ‘call’ someone on a bogus pose, should stand by with the reference materials (such as that printout from the plastic soldier review).
Airfix Charades can be played in teams or singly, there’s no particular driving reason to do either one. Lastly, add a lot of beer to the mix. Or don’t. The core of the game is to stand up on your hind legs (or sit, or crawl, as appropriate) and mimic the pose of a distinctive and memorable figure (in your judgment) from the Airfix line. It is important that the figure NOT be pointing, firing, reloading or otherwise doing something useful with his primary weapon (if it is a gunpowder weapon). If it is a non-gunpowder weapon, then the distinctions become a tad more subtle about what is “useful” to a wargamer and what is not. So the rule of thumb should be the stiffer and more unnatural the pose, the better. Of course, if the figure hails from one of the many non combat series produced by Airfix, such as astronauts, marching bands, Tarzan, etc., this will certainly count as “a pose not useful for wargaming”
How to Win the Game:
“Scoring” and “Winning” are rather elastic concepts here—the real value of this game is having people make fools of themselves by getting into the poses suggested by Airfix. However, given the inevitable clamor for structure inherent in wargaming, someone will want to know how to win. My suggestion for keep score is very simple. One might record the number of guesses per pose, with the lowest scoring team winning the round. Subtract 1 for a sitting down pose (they are harder) and 2 for a lying down or crawling pose (even harder). Answers must be given in the form of a description of the figure, and what box he is from. E.g., Crawling Union guy with his butt in the air, UNION INFANTRY set, If this scoring and winning method doesn’t work, make up your own. Otto is taking a look at the idea and will probably expand on it.
9:33 AM
The Unofficial Story of TriaDCon, part 4 of 4 and Finale
IV. THIRD TIME’S A REAL CHARMER
BY Ben Trovaro
Once again I awoke in my living room!
Again in my old familiar couch, with the old familiar crumbs in it. But now not even the test pattern was gone and it was pitch black, and there was no shimmering light streaming up from the basement!. I looked, and then I saw it! I looked again and in the strange nether-world of the night- in the dark black on black of deepest witching hour I saw SOMETHING oozing out through the crack on the basement door– but this time, instead of light it was DARK! Great eddies of fearsome blackness billowed out in great oily curls and sunuous eddies– ugly, sooty, oily waves of a malevolent presence overflowed from around the edge of thedoor.
With deep foreboding I went over to the door and opened it. But I knew what to do! I knew how to play this game, having watched all those horror movies entitled “The terror from the Water Tank!” “Or the Furnace Room Horror!” I tried the light switch and it didn’t work – where it had worked a mere hour before with the Spirit of Conventions Present! But I knew what to do from those movies where the owner of the house is enjoined “Don’t go down into the basement!” The light wouldn’t work, the stairs were dark and treacherous and I had the words of the terrified neighbors ringing in my ear, as I went downslowly, step by step- chanting the magical mystery mantra of great power– “Hello? – Hello?– is anyone there?”
No gun, no knife, no plasma generator, no force field, not even a suit of armor! This is the way it’s done, right!? I was soon at the foot of the stairs and I saw across the room a huge black abyss yawning in front of me! It seemed that the dark was deepening, moving, mutating. I suddenlyremembered where I was and what was happening. It was the time of the third spirit, that the spirit of conventions future. It was fast was fast rushing upon me even as the future rushes upon us all in its remorseless, immutable, ineffable strength and fury! I began to fear. I sensed a presence far off coming towards me and I resolved to put mybest face forward and hurl resolution in the face of adversity.
"Spirit," I said, "I fear you more than all the other shades I have met this night,but I am willing to learn and be instructed by you.”
Nothing happened. I felt a distant rumble -- a tremor – great disturbance in the force–the future was rushing down upon me - the advance of that momentous unknown that is descending upon us all was racing to this spot. It was cascading down like a runaway avalanche- and I had the urge to turn and flee, but I stood. My heart and stomach though did not see things that way and they made arace for my tonsils. It came with the roaring of a thousand angry beasts! It came as the beating of the waves of the ages upon the beach of eternity. It came as the thundering of the mother of all thunderstorms upon therocks of ages. It screamed and clattered and set my teeth ajar, and suddenly from the right of my room, out of the great gaping abyss of darkness it thundered across the floor- smashing away as the insignificant impedimentia of themoment, all the things that lay before it. It blasted apart half of theroom and my far wall and my wargame table as so much trivial kindling wood. It threw the old love seat who knows where, and my wifes’ record collection was shattered to smithereens, and my collection ofblack-velvet string art went up in smoke and a blaze of yearning eyes that would no longer follow you around the room. Even my efflatulent dog vaporiszed in one last odiferous eternal fart. I wondered if this was the moment! I wondered if this was the end of it all! I wondered if my life would pass in front of my eyes! I wondered if I could meet my deductable! The creature had a single great glowing eye in the top of its forhead andI saw the number of the beast and it was “666” And upon its brow waswritten blazing fly-specked letters – “Kinarsie- Perdition, FUTURECONS and Kukkamonga!” The train screeched to a stop with the the mournful shriek that betokeneda thousand dammed banshees and a non-existent routine maintenance program. The portal opened.
A voice , dull, low, metallic, monotone,with no inflection or emotion beckoned my hypnotically to enter the door of doom- to enter the belly of the beast:
“Pleas - step -to - the - cen-ter - of -the car- and - hold- on- firm-lyCar - makes sud-den starts - and stops- keep - yur - eyes- open- and -yur- hands - to - yur-self - or - I - will -smash -you-with- my-inter-planetary - dis- rup-tor ray-"
I entered the car. It was empty except for a lone figure sitting on oneof the seats, slouched down a little, his one leg crossed over the other, reading the New York Times Book Review. He crossed and uncrossed hislegs, and I saw a small movement by his side that I took to be his familiar. A dog! – A great shaggy dog! the spirit looked up at me over his gold rimmed glasses and said, in a smart-ass tone-- “What! You were expecting the polar express maybe--?”
The shaggy dog looked up at me with its soulful eyes and said “So this priest, a minister, and a rabbi walk into a bar...”
His demeanor was startling and I stammered out:
“Well I was, er ah– thatis– I you see– well I thought– ”
“Hoo boy ! I got me an intellectual this time!– Come on Sonny– , spit itout – What – ya got freakin’ Old Timers disease?" He said.
I screwed up my courage and said: “Well I expected you to be tall, at least 7 feet – with a large voluminous black robe that covered all yourform except a boney hand, and your face hidden, and that you wouldn’t speak, and that you would just gesture with a skeletal hand...”
He made a face like someone had just laid a turd in the potato salad a tthe church picnic and said - ‘Harumph!!!!– Too many Ingmar Berman moviesyou been watching.”
The spirit was of medium height, wearing a pair of dress slacks, and shirt, – a most un-wargamer like shirt- oxford button down, and a TIE! He was of medium build, quite unremarkable, with the steel-rimmed glassesmost beloved of gamers and a normal, somewhat tired face with close cropped hair and narrow blue eyes, and a prominent nose, but his mouth seemed in a perpetual frown, and the corners of the mouth seemed downturned and disparaging even when he smiled, which I would see on occasion but for the most he had the look of something one would expect on Mr. Miserebee the school guidance counsellor. I soon realized that even when he was happy he looked like he was pissed off, and that when he was unhappy he looked like a malevolent toad.
After a pause he folded up his book review and said: “So– kiddo– what’s the deal! You want in or not?”
“Ummm– In?” I asked.
“The whole convention thing- what you fall asleep again! Jeez Louise!–You damn gamers have the attention span of a hamster.”
“Well um!! Yes, I guess so!”
The spirit made that face again lounged against the seat.
“That’s the spirit that got Mike Dukakis Elected! That’s – that’s the spirt that carried the French Army through 1940! I can see you with Dewey at Manilla Bay! “Torpedoes!– Torpedoes!! What Torpedoes!!! Send mean e-mail!!!! It’s not my fault!!!!- Ok, it’s your funeral but don’t sayI didn’t warn you.”
“Umm– what do you mean?” I asked.
Seeming to ignore me, the figure proceeded right on, just as the powerful engine that he rode seemed to ignore all that was around it and move on, and I saw that the train was even now leaving the station.
“Well, “ I began, “I want to create an old-time war game convention.”
The figure rolled his eyes and let out a large “Psheewwwww...” in obvious annoyance: ”Like you don’t have enough to do with your kid needing praces, your wife turning into a wargame widow and making moo-cow eyes at herpottery class instructor, and you ignoring that pain you just got in a place you didn’t even know you had places! You need a wargame convention like you need the cancer and a DWI conviction! You need a wargame convention like ...Well-“ he said -“ go on.”
“Well I’d like to have boardgames– “
”Shake and bake crowd!”
“And I’d like to have games like Euro-games.”
“Eurotrashers! “
“And role playing games.”
“Elf weenie whackers!”
”And of course good old Miniature war gaming as well.”
“Look, lemme tell you ‘bout that lot–” he said, and launched into a long monologue which began “Ya got three types of gamers-- Ya got Vamps,Tramps, and Mules–“ and he proceeded to lay out all the ills and pitfallsin clubs, groups, and persons in general. With each new point I felt as if a great hammer was whacking me in the head and my heart sank ever downward with each blow. His advice was insightful but depressing, and Ibegan to lose hope. Each comment made the job ahead of me seem harder and harder and even more impossible of attainment. Again and again. wheneverI brought up some point the spirit, a veritable conjurer of contradiction, shot holes in it.. Each fond childish hope was shredded like Mr. Quaker does to his wheat. I started to regret the whole thing. At long last I sat there silent and at rock bottom and asked the fearsome question:
“Is there no hope Spirit? Have I journeyed so far to find only failure–that it cannot be done?”
“Naah– piece-a-cake” he said.
“Really?” I was surprised at such an off-hand bit of optimism from this nattering nabob of negativism.–
“Surely It will take a lot of money!" I added,.
The figure once again made a face and said:
“Phewwww– Money- shmoney–money you can get– it’s the work that’s the hard part, and gettingpeople to do the work!”
“Really!??” I said– “I had no idea?"
“Obviously!” The conductor of condescenion commented. “Yeah– oh yeah – you can do it all yourself but then you don’t get to have the fun in your own convention. The key is to get a lot of people involved all doing a few things so they can enjoy the whole convention experience, and that comes from three things, going and playing games at a con– putting on games for other people to play at a con, and working onthe con itself.”
“Hmmm..– what you say makes sense Spirit..”
“Of course it makes sense!” he said angrily “I thought of it!– Call mePete- Pete Zaria.” he said, holding out his hand to shake mine.
“Gee, Pete, I had never thought of it that way -- I guess – now that I think about it– that’s going to be the hardest of all- How do I find them?”
“You ask.” Was his reply.
“Gee – but I don’t even know who to ask.”
”Oh don’t worry-“ the spirit said– - “There’s lots of people who will help.”
“You don’t say!” I marvelled.”That’s certainly not something I would have thought.”
The spirit looked at me with an incredulous look like he was eying a rather dim college student who could not figure out the sum of 1 plus 1.
“What – you been asleep the past few hours? Didn’t you see all those disgruntled people when the Con spooks before me dragged you around? Who do you think will help you?”
“Hmmm, I see your point.”
“By the way, the answer is 10.” He said.
“What? The answer to what?“ I asked
“You were making that metaphor about 1+1- any fool knows it’s 10.”
“It is?” I wondered. “That’s certainly an unusual arithmetic, spirit.”
‘Depends on your frame of reference, just like the people who will help you and by the way, call me Warren Peace.”
“Hmmm -- OK Warren– I see -- so the first thing is to talk up theconvention....”
“Right, but talk is cheap that’s why gamers spread it around so thickly-for most of em- that’s all they got.”
“Hmmm– I guess I’ll have to figure out some by-laws and get a constitution and figure out how the plan of the organization will work,and get rules of order.” I mused.
The spirit evinced a look of pure disgust and said:
“Hey – Ben, – c'mere,you got some schmutz on your head.”
I came close and bent over and hisarm flew up and whacked me on the back of the head. “OW! – That hurt!” I yelled, more in surprise than pain.
“You stupid schmuck! Ain’t you learned nothing tonight! Don’t worry about that crap — get something going first then figure out how to run it later. That’s what the Walwrus basement crowd did! Besides, by thetime you figure out you need to figure out how to run it you will have figured it out already and it’ll run by itself.”
“Ummm.. yeah that may be true– Thanks Spirit.”
“No problem,” he said, adjusting a large name badge on his chest that said “Jackson Jills.”
“Now let’s move on. You got a plan?”
“ Well er no.. I...”
“Yeah thought so, you gamers are all alike, don’t know how to make a plan if it ain’t painting troops, building terrain, or reading rules. Cripes, that’s your plan for games, conventions and getting laid! I tell you,you’re all alike- can’t pour piss from a boot even if the instructions were on the heel– can’t tell his ass from his elbow--- "
“Umm spirit I don’t think that’s fair.”
“Fair-Shmare!” he shot back, “ya wanna make this thing work?”
He dropped something on the floor, I saw it was a business card. As he picked it up I saw the name “Jim Borrazo” on it. I thought for a moment and said:
“This is a tall order spirit, it looks like I have a lot of work to do and will have to spend a lot of tim efinding people to work with me– that’s daunting–“
”Naah, remember piece of cake– and I’ll help.”
“You will?!” I was shocked.
“Yeah sure, by the way, call me Holden, Holden McGroyne.”
“Wow that’s very good of you– ummm— Holden.”
“Don’t mention it. Least I can do, Always happy to help. “
He pulled outsome things from a rumpled old bag.
“Let’s go down to the next car to meet some of your staff.”
“Staff!??” I said, astonished.
“Oh yeah, I started working on some stuff when I first got the word you were coming?”
“Really! – my goodness– why– why– I’m honored but how did you know I was going to accept.”
The spirit shrugged and made gave me yet another sour look and said-
“If it wasn’t you it was only a matter of time before some other dumb schmuck came up with the idea.”
We entered the next car and it was a veritable bee-hive of hubbub and hullabaloo as strange creatures and people flitted here and about. “OK Gang– here’s the guy!" the spirit commanded with obvious and over blown imperiousness which was absolutely ignored by everyone.
“Hi– “ I piped up- “My name is Ben and I’m a wargamer.”
Not the slightest reaction was seen from anyone. “My goodness spirit– they don’t seem to pay you the proper respect due their boss.”
“I ain’t their boss, they don’t work FOR me, they work WITH me!”
“Oh do you mean they are--???”
“Exactly– Volunteers.”
I mouthed a silent OH!! He went to one guy sitting in the corner, a large heavy-set man with a neatly tripped head of black hair who was working on some tables of registration and slamming at the keys of a keyboard working on some websites. He wore the standard wargaming garb of jeans and T-shirt but on his head he had a large Japanese Samurai Helmet. I was intrigued by the figure.
“That’s the first lesson, the spirit said “whenyou get volunteers you gotta do one thing.”
“Supervise them carefully?” I asked?
“No– let em do what they want to do otherwise they won’t do anything.”
“But what if they don’t do what you need them to do!?” I asked.
“Find someone else who will, do it yourself or figure out how you can do without! The key to handling volunteers is this- thank them often and repeatedly and kiss their ass. You need them, so welcome them, and remember you can’t fire them, and if you do you fire them you retire them with full pay and benefits and the work doesn’t get done.”
“That’s very wise of you spirit!” I said.
I stole a glance at the figureover whose shoulder we were looking and I noticed the Samurai Helmet wasnow replaced with a tricorne.
“No problem- call me Myasis Draggin” he said.
I greeted the person the spirit had directed me to and he sat there busily working away. I asked him a few questions, but he seemed to have his tasks well in hand. He spoke about them briefly, but as the Spirit seemed satisfied, I determined I was too.
The guy then said to me: “I should let my wife handle this, she’s Japanese you know and squeezes a nickel so hard the Indian comes out the other side riding the buffalo.”
He then started getting into other areas which I really thought I should not hear. I thought I should go and noticed that the tricorne was now replaced by a Roman Centurion's helmet.
“Excuse me Mr.... Mr...” I stammered out..
”Waldberg” he said– “Jake Waldburg. Pleased to meet ya- now take my wife– please—want some octopus? Live?– she eats it all the time– puts me and the kids off myfeed!”
I didn’t quite know how to respond to this and resolved that discretion was best.
“Please tell me why do you have so many umm- hats..”
“Why not? part of the fun of games is being a general and you’ve got to have the right hat!”
“Ummm that seems rather silly doesn’t it?” I asked.
“Any sillier than grown men playing with toy soldiers?”
“I see your point ..”
I turned to look for the Spirit, and Iimmediately bumped into a large rotund oriental gentleman with a tape measure spread across my back.
“Oh sorry, measuring you for your T-shirt?”
“My T-shirt?!!”.
“Yeah, your convention T-shirt– every convention has to have a T-shirt!.”
He wrote down a size and I was a bit taken aback and said “I don’t think this is right, I’ve lost a lot of weight lately.”
“Yeah and I’m Brittany Spears.” he said.
I had just turned around and untangled myself from the flying tape measures and the color swatches the T-shirt guy had buried me with and was faced with a tall solid figure who shoved a check into my hands.
”Here’s the seed money- I started ordering tables and they’ll be delivered Friday- we have to set them up- that would have cost $300 more- and I also started lining up vendors for our dealer area.”
“Tables?” I gasped “Vendors–-“ I wondered– “ but who are you?”
“Your treasurer- I’ll also handle the IRS papers and tax forms.”
“But I don’t even know your name” I said but the figure walked off andignored me, intent on his job. “But I don’t even know the where or the when? “ I pleaded.
There was a tap on my shoulder and a young thirty-something guy said “Here’s the where and when., We took care of that while you were getting un-drunk at the merry unbirthday party with the white rabbit.”
I stared in wonder at the paper and the new person, who introduced himself as my facilities coordinator said “Oh yeah you need someone to run the flea-market also.”
“There’s a flea-market?”
But it was too late for him to answer- he was off working again. The spirit of Conventions Future came over and shoved a bunch of papers under my nose.
“Here’s the various agreements you need for us to startyou off! Just sign.”
“What’s this spirit?”
“Oh, facility contracts, advertising agreements, proofs of Pels, advertisements, stories, blurbs to go on e-lists- notices registrations,and of course our own private agreement .”
My goodness there is a lot of work you’ve done already.
“Someone’s got to do it! We all can’t go around chasing tarts in bottles and mooning around memory lane.”
I took the pen and went to sign it and it wouldn’t write. It was out of ink. I turned to the spirit and said “Umm spirit – the pen seems dry.”
The spirit took it, looked at it and said “Hmmm so it seems – I’ll fix it– ”
At that moment another person came over and said “I got this great idea for an event–Meet the designers.” and he proceeded to tell me. “Yeah you can have red, you can have blue, you can have green–“ T-shirtman said... Suddenly I felt a sharp pain in my right arm– I looked and I saw the pensticking out of my arm and its ink resevoir filling with blood..
“There –– now it’l work just fine ...” the spirit said.
I asked , a bit dazed and absent-mindedly "What did you say your name was again.”
“Oh, I have so many names” came his sly reply as I signed – and for the only time ever I saw the spirit break into a genuine grin. I turned to look at my arm and saw that I had almost no scar at all- noblood, no mark, no nothing.
“Magic!” I a gasped.
“Elmers” the spirit said, “Every gamer uses it so much it works itself into his skin and veins– you could shoot an arm off and it would seal upin half a minute. “
The train gathered speed and at various stations I would see glimpses of conventions to come. All of them bright, shining and inviting. Soon my mind whirred and reeled with the surfeit of them., the possibilities of them- only occasionally did the scene slip off its rollers and reveal itself as an endless tape rotating on a frame outside the window. As I turned back from the viewing of the passage of the train through thevarious stations that were future conventions. I saw more and more people appearing in the car, which grew and lengthened to accomodate them.
“Spirit- who are all these people?” I asked.
“Some of them you know and some of them you will know.” he said, “Those are all the people who will be working on the convention you have started, and who will come to the convention- and they are people whowill form their own conventions and do new things on their own. "
“Is it to be a success then?” I asked
“Got me champ! As I said – it all depends on the work you do, and if you keep your head clear and on straight and don’t get sidetracked.”
“But Spirit– I don’t know what you mean–“
”Neither to I, but it seems to work.”
I was amazed wandered through the car. I saw old friends working and planning, I saw people who I felt a strong attachment to but did not know, and I realized they would BE friends in the future. I was in adaze.
“Spirit, this is all happening so fast. I can barely take it in! My mindreels!?
The spirit looked at me with his usual look most people reserve for idiot relatives who have just piddled on the floor in front of company on holidays and said
“Low sugar- here- have a milk shake..“and the trainhurtled on.
I wandered into another car and found the First two spirits sharing a sixpack and having a rousing game of Kingmaker, along with the Rabbit, the ToothFairy, the Shaggy Dog, and the Fairy God-Mother who with her come-hither stare and low cleavage promised an officer no one could refuse! I noticed that both spirits had several cards stuck up their sleeves and in their back pockets. The Spirit of Conventions Present rolled the dice and moved a large stack of cardboard counters on the board and said “The Electric Company!– I’ll buy it!” The Spirit of Conventions Past rolled the die and shuffled some papers and laid down a few cards and said “Fleet Heligoland suports Army Kiel to Holland!”
The White Rabbit turned to the Fairy Godmother and said “Base for a Base?” and the Fairy Godmother said“ Dunno– I’ll roll on my strength and use my +2 magic pasites!” As I watched this bizarre game of all games I turned and saw a horrifying sight! There at the far end of the car were the Ratsass and the Bad Hatter! The Hatter no longer had all his hats, and the Ratsass not his blades but it was them- unmistakably!
I raced up to the front car to find the spirit, sure that the minions of the Dark Lord were even now seeking to overturn the convention to come. I babbled out the warning to him, but the corners of his mouth just wentsouth even more.
“The Ratsass!! The Ratsass!! I said!
The spirt looked at me blankly and said “Yeah so?!”
“But they’re HERE!”
“So tell me champ– what part of playing games don’t you get?”
“Ummm– I don’t follow you.”
“Let me ask you this– if you lose a game do they take you out and shootyou?”- NO! “ he replied, answering his own question emphatically.
“Because they do some dumb things – does it make them evil people?--NO!” “Do you think that it means anything if you’re the big cheese of somebig-time show?- NO! And even if you are– do you think anyone out there gives a damn!– NO! All you do is run a convention where people play toy soldiers and othergames that mean nothing.”
“But– But–“ I tried to protest “The Ratsass– The Ratsass”
“But- But– Ifs and buts, – If Ifs and Buts were candied nuts it’d be Christmas all year long --. If we had ham we could have ham with our eggs if we had eggs. Look Young Hero! The first thing you have to learn is that these people are your friends. You can fight them in a game, argue with them in a club, debate them on the net, but you all play dumb stupid games about war and being generals and push toy soldiers around on the map in your mind. It don’t get much better than that. Lose that and ya got nothing! That’s what I meant about keep your mind focused on what’s important!”
The spirits words did not soothe and I came back at him -- “But the Hatter– the Hatter—“
“Remember the part the second spirit told you about losing their way? They’ll be just fine in a few years when they get the whole power tripthing out of their system! They’ll be back to being just good ole gamers and that will be that. This IS the Futurecon train and you ARE looking at the images of what MIGHT be, not the images of what MUST be. It’s all up to you buckie– if you want to make it better, it will be better. So cut them some slack! They’re not really a bad bunch of guys - they can be a lot of fun– when you get them in a game. Don’t forget that – it’s about games– and fun!”
The spirits words of hope and the future were so unlike his demeanor and character I was silenced. “Ummm– I think I see your point..”
The spirit began again– “Look your stop is coming up! We don’t have much time left. Just remember, it’s a game, its a hobby, you’re here to have fun, get some yuks, and toss down a few Buds with your buds. You’re not here to prove you’re a great general or come up with some grand vision. So work hard, have fun, give games, play games, buy stuff, eat, and remember that these guys are your friends.
As the train slowed down and I saw the dawn breaking over my neighborhood and I began to enter the long tunnel into my living room, I thought.
“Ummm, that’s a tall order But Gee spirit– it’s so SIMPLE! Why didn’t you say that way back at the start?”
“You’re the guy who liked complicated rules!– So! – You want success?”
“Yeah sure!”
“Well you know how you are?”
“Yes spirit?”
“Don’t be like that!”
These words of the spirit sank in as the train slowly pulled to a stopand the door opened to allow me to unload my stuff.”
“Come on– Come on– make it snappy.” the spirit said “I got a lot of appointments to keep?”
“Really!– Are there so many others hankering to make new conventions>?”
The spirit again rolled his eyes and gave a hearty “Pishh.. The stories I could tell–“ I felt good a and uplifted, even through the spirit just told me to get off.
“Oh yeah–“ the Sprit said–“Speaking of getting off- - The Lamp--.”
“What” I asked, “what do you mean.”
“You got yer three wishes!” he said, “fork over the bottle with the babe in it.”
"But -- But” I stammered...
”What are you– an outboard motor?” the spirit asked tartly...
“No– but what do you mean!” I only got my first wish!”
“Naah you used em all up! Says so right here in my “wishes used spread-sheet program.”
“But But!”
“Hey yer second wish was to be 18 again!– right?!”
“Well er– yeah—“
”Well you got that with the spirit of Conventions past!”
I had to admit the spirit had me there, for a short time I was 18 and felt very, very young again.
“So it’s yer own damn fault for farting around at game convention sinstead of getting laid.”
“Hmmm a bit of sharp practice- I’ll admit but now that I know who you REALLY are I guess I can’t expect much more from the likes of you– But what ABOUT that Jeannie! I protested- what about my third wish!”
The figure smiled one of those small smiles that still left the corner of his mouth turned down, as if he was smiling but frowning at the same time:
”Well let’s see you asked the Genie of the Lamp for an old time war-game convention, like you used to have-! Like when you were young!”
“Yes that’s right! But...”
“You said that you’d really love to attend one and have it like you did in the old days?”
“Yes that’s true spirit but..”
“And you got that wish only you’ve wound up having to work on one like a demon– I mean– uer–ah dog? So instead of just going to one like some lord you now have to do all the work to bring one about and get it together.”
“Well um– yes but...”
With a sly smile again the Spirit spoke
“Sounds to me like you’ve already got your screwing from the Jeannie of the Lamp.”
And the little voice from the martian on the Bugs Bunny cartoon came onand warned me off- the door closed and the train roared out of the station and as it disappeared down the long tunnel of time I saw the lamp swinging on the back platform of the train, with several small candles burning inside and from the dim airwaves of the ether I heard the strains of a long forgotten sitcom. I stood there watching it for a long time and resolved that I would do what I had begun– finish what I started -- fight the good fight – stay the course – hold the line– , suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune-- I felt a tap on my shoulder and I turned to see a tall luscious blonde standing behind me with long wavy hair, big green eyes, in a provocative witch outfit with the skirt slit up to the thigh and a neckline plunging to her navel complete with a witches hat.
“Howdy Sailor!” she said “My name’s Samantha– Wanna see what I can do whenI wiggle my– um– nose?”
I ran like hell.
9:28 AM
12:38 PM
Mr. Otto Schmidt responds
To a recent post I made relaying a piece in an Ohio newspaper about the "greying of the hobby" and other such nonense (oh, dear, there I am again, editorializing). Thanks for this, Otto!
IS THE HOBBY DYING?
I’ve heard it all before, in fact I heard it back pretty much since the days when the hobby was aborning.
Today we are awash with people that wring their hands and weep and wail and gnash their teeth about “the graying of the hobby”– “the decline of the hobby store”– “the collapse of the war gaming world as we know it.”
Yet– it’s hard to square that with the ever exponentiating number of figures and periods available to the gamer. The proliferation of wargame groups on the internet, the growth of clubs, and the simple fact that if you tell a complete stranger “I play war games” the odds are pretty good that they will know at least what you are talking about, (or pretty close), where before they would have stared at you in open mouthed befuddlement. This doesn’t mean that the articles will stop and I’ve written a few of them in the past– let me fess up to that up front. But I’ve reconsidered my opinion.
One thing is obvious to me as I look back on those days is that wargamers are graying. I am graying. Some of my war game friends have already shuffled off this mortal coil. I think a lot of this talk about “graying” of the hobby is merely one more version of the “After me– the deluge-“ speech which has been given long before Louis XV made it famous by actually being right for once. It’s hard to credit Louis XV with anything remotely approaching profundity or foresight- so we must consider his prediction, as so many others, under the rubric of “even a busted clock is right twice a day.”
It also ignores the large numbers of kids coming we see at the games, tearing around Historicon, disturbing the old farts at their games with their new toys and style and noise. We notice these young ‘uns more because we are no longer young. When we were young we were them and didn’t notice much of anything- except the games. Someday we too shall die and someone will get out stuff, but I don’t think it’s going to be the end of miniature gaming– even miniature gaming as we know it.
If the hobby store is dying it’s not due to the lack of persons willing to spend money on the hobby – it’s more likely due to Walmart and others who have pretty much gutted the center of most American towns and destroyed whole species of family mom-and-pop business’ which were so much the venue of the “old time” hobby shop we knew and loved. We’re too "nichey” a market to appear on the radar of “The Rag Shop” or “Michaels” – they’re more arts and crafts-and chains that do like “Hobby House”usually give short shrift to miniatures or war games. Besides, meeting at a hobby store may be nice for a group, – at first– but you reach a dead end there quickly- that dead end being when the owner wantsto bang-up-shop and go home, and you’re not even coming to grips on the table top– or when he wants to bang-up- space normally given to miniatures for something more lucrative.Hobby stores catering to miniatures go out of business not because of the graying of the hobby but for the good ole’ reasons of under-capitalization and the lack of impulse buying being able to sustain the store. So they weren’t that conducive a venue anyway. Basements and attics, garages and spare rooms have always been the domain of the game and it looks like they will be for a long time, so if your gaming shop goes bust– set up a table, any table, in your own home. Sure it takes work but everything worthwhile does.
In fact, if you look at it, miniature gaming hasn’t changed all that much since– well– H.G. Wells, and computers have had a minimal impact if any upon it. The games have changed, they have grown more detailed and complex, and they have grown less so again as groups like Society of Daisy and Old School Wargamers grow up to draw us back to our “roots.”
Some persons from the more rural areas of our South would pronounce “roots” and “ruts” which may be more evocative of the relatively unchanging nature of games, but that is neither here nor there. If a convention like TriaDCon shares space with boardgamers, wargamers, eurogamers, and role playing gamers, that simply speaks to the proliferation of the “gaming” hobby into other areas from the time when “games” consisted of Monopoly and chess and not much else. We hearken back to conventions where it was us and the board gamers and see in these new venues diminishment, but ignore the fact that the pond has gotten bigger, and likewise ignore the fact that the guy across the table who’s playing Archduke Charles to my Napoleon I met over Settlers of Caitan a few years ago.
There will be some board gamers who will always view miniature gamers as despicable “lead-heads” as the whole thing as grown men childishly playing with toy soldiers. There will be mini gamers who sneer at the “Shake the Box” crowd, and many in both venues will want their own special conventions but that in no way means the hobby is graying or dying.
So I’m quite skeptical of this whole chicken-little “it’s the end of wargames as we know it” thing.
Besides– you ain’t seen nuttin’ yet!
If I’m going to make ANY predictions it will be this one. You will soon see a quiet revolution in gaming. I’ll call it the Revloning of the hobby. The women have started coming in guys– and in the next two decades it’s going to turn into a torrent. What has been an almost exclusivelymale past time is becoming increasingly infiltrated by the women as girls begin to understand that games- even war games- can be fun, and that they too can stand around a table with the best of us. It’s too late to stop it– and if you want to do the chicken-little thing about anything then do it about that- but I’ll tell you this– it’s too late to cry “Jenny Bar the Door!” Jenny’s in the basement rollin’ dice and pounding your Old Guard Grenadiers into snail-snot with her Elf-Amazon Hell’s Belles!
But that’s all in the lap-dance of the future.
-- copyright 2007, Otto Schmidt
12:18 PM
The Body of Christ...
Nervously glancing upward...
10:18 AM
Two More Players Needed
We seem to have more interest in a standard game than the Chinese Treaty Ports game I posted on a while back. That's fine!I have the following players lined up for DIPLOMACY:
Mike Reed (US)
Klaus Knechstern (GE)
James Spurny (US)
Rich Low (US)
Andy Turlington (US)
We are two players short, unless we play with a deactivated TURKEY and ITALY variant.
We need to fill
ENGLAND
GERMANY
FRANCE
ITALY
AUSTRIA
RUSSIA
TURKEY
9:58 AM
I'm no fan of Fast Zombies
From a recent article reprint in SLATE by Josh Levin:How did Movie Zombies Get So Fast?
sections copyright, 21 MAY 07, Slate Magazine and Josh Levin
It's not for nothing that zombies are called the walking dead. In George A. Romero's classic Night of the Living Dead (1968), a group of shut-ins sits in terror, watching television for the latest updates on the creeping undead menace. "Are they slow-moving, chief?" asks a reporter. "Yeah," the cop says wearily, "they're dead."
Romero's canonical trilogy, which also includes Dawn of the Dead (1978) and Day of the Dead (1985), emphasizes the zombie's drag-ass nature. Corpses shuffle so slowly that a potential victim can fall, brush herself off, remove her pumps, and set off again without being touched by a necrotic finger. Max Brooks' book The Zombie Survival Guide, a tongue-in-cheek tutorial for surviving the living dead, notes, "Zombies appear to be incapable of running. The fastest have been observed to move at a rate of barely one step per 1.5 seconds."
But in Zack Snyder's new Dawn of the Dead remake, the zombie has a newfound vigor. In the film's opening scene, a vacant-eyed zombie girl charges through a wooden door and into a couple's bedroom. After the zombie savagely bites her husband in the neck, Ana (Sarah Polley) escapes and drives away, only to have her recently deceased-and-undeceased husband keep chase with a full-out sprint that calls to mind Terminator 2's superhuman killing machine.
The rest of Mr. Levin's article is HERE.
Even though the article is somewhat tongue in cheek, and how could it not be, given the subject matter, I found myself pondering this one. Why fast zombies, indeed? Oh, one can make the point that the fast runners in 28 DAYS were actually infected humans, but they were clearly LOOKING like the undead. And the new DAWN OF THE DEAD, despite the fact that I found it tremendously entertaining, certainly was a shock with zombies that could beat a human in the short sprint.
What has changed with the horror movie going public that fast zombies became popular? Diminished expectations, increasing cynicism, or the willingness to approve of such horrendous tinkering with the Zombie Coda? Maybe a mix of all of these. The great thing about Romero-esque movies was that you could always outrun zombies, and they were dangerous only in mass attack situations, and when you run out of ammo. With FAST RUNNING zombies, it's a wonder that the human race isn't wiped out in no time flat. Zombies are a metaphor for plague-- slow, inexorable, patient.. They aren't an assault weapon. Zombie movies of the Romero era had hope-- sure the situation sucked. Undead rising and all that.. but as long as you had a shotgun, some guts, and the ability to keep moving, you would win out in the end. With these new zombie movies, there's no hope at all. I guess I'm old fashioned at heart.
6:05 AM
Continued
(this completes the portion of the previous post that was truncated)
Suddenly the Hatter stopped and said in his Oatmeal-inflected nasaltone:
“I want a clean cup!– Let’s all move one place on!”
He moved on as he spoke, and the Sphinx followed him: the Ratsass moved into the Sphinx’s place, and I , rather unwillingly took the place of the Ratsass. The Hatter was the only one who got any advantage from the change; and I got off a good deal worse than before as the Ratsass had left his place littered with empties, spilled stale beer, and randomly flying bits of innuendo and insults. The Hatter took another hat from the clean plate and flopped it on top of the already teetering pile, the hat of Grand Master Convention Director
of All Policies and Keeper of the Keys to the Bank account and called out “YAHTZEE!– Spin the magic twanger Ratsie!”
The Ratsass bent down and spun again and his daggle-toothed grin was plastered on his face. “We’re BROKE!” he announced tiumphantly!”
The Hatter slammed his fist down on the table. “Right at Last! O Lord Right at Last! Raise the fees, raise the dues, change the location!”
At this the White Rabbet to my right, who had at least a clean plate, as I had not a thing at all, said to me “Seen enough sport?”
“Definitely!” Was my immediate reply.
“Then let’s beat feet!”
And so we trotted off down the road – over the river and through the woods, past a gingerbread house with two young juvenile delinquents tossing a senior citizen into a flaming oven, an old man molesting a goosey-goosey gander in my ladies chamber, and past a black sheep doing the dirty work for his Master and his Dame and pimping off his sister “the little girl who lives down the lane.”
12:27 PM
The past conventions the spirit had taken me to seemed to stretch on foror hours, so imagine my surprise when I awoke in my own familiar room and the clock said that barely an hour had elapsed since Teeny Tink first whacked me with her wand. I was in my own familiar living room, on my own familiar couch, with my own familiar test pattern on my own familiar
TV testifying to the lateness of the hour. My own familiar dog was there as well, to me in his own familiar way that people food ought not to be dog food by the odiferous flatulants he emitted while he slept..
The room should have been quite dark, even with the hypnotic test pattern on the television, but there was a strong light cascading into the darkened chamber from somewhere and I quickly saw that it was streaming past the crack in the barely opened door to my basement. It was a bright, yellow, glowing light and it radiated with a purposeful earnestness that was like water spilling over rapids on a rushing river. I opened the
door and was fairly knocked over by the strength of the light cascading up the stairs from what I took to be my wargame room. My basement below seemed a swirling sea of light and color and from below came a deep hearty voice calling out to me.
“Come in and know me better, man.”
Warily I descended the steps, placing each foot carefully as if I were walking on eggshells. It was not until I was full in the basement that I as able to discern the second spirit, who beckoned me with a huge haymaker wave, and a hearty
“Come in and know me better- man!” – and added on “Got time for a game?”
The basement was now NOT my own familiar basement, or at least it might have been were it not for the game charts and diagrams and orders of battle that seemed plastered choc-a-block on every wall, and between them were posters of past conventions, prints, pictures, paintings, and gayly colored banners and flags. The flags even dripped from the rafters and
the lights casting a cheery glow and blazing the usually drab cinder-block and stucco. It was a veritable riot of memorabilia in collage- as if a game shop had exploded!
The figure sat in the center of this on a huge mound of game materials, so stacked and piled – heaped and mounded so as to form a veritable throne with arm rests, leg rests and recliner seats! So many games, boards, boxes, maps, counters, minis, terrain pieces, houses, rulers,
measuring devices and bags and bags and boxes and boxes of miniatures of all types and style. There were game-masters screens and huge overflowing cornucopia of dice and likewise overflowing cups of concupiscence and cacophony. There were books, painting guides, rules,
and boxed games of all descriptions. Stuck between them as mortar on the bricks of a bulding were all the delicacies and delectables beloved by gamers : including steaming McBarfburgers in their shimmering silvery wraps, large slurpies, cans of Choka - Cola and Poopsi of all flavors and comvinations! There were containers of punch and fruit drinks, six packs, coolers of wine, bags of chips, salads, pig roasts, roast beef, and everything that one shovels down ones gullet at a game when the blood is up and the sugar down.
The spirit himself sat atop this throne was a large heavy set man of middling age yet unmistakable youthful countenance and presence, who beamed out at me with a broad smile from under gold rimmed glasses on his obviously Irish mug, set in the center of a virtual halo of hair indifferently combed but which gave to the face a comfortable and familiar hominess that bespoke that this was exactly the person one wished to sit down at a game table across from. He was clothed in old sneakers and a pair or ragged khaki shorts purchased long before middle age had outrun his youthful metabolic rate to burn off calories. He wore a XXL Sweat-shirt with some picture from the Spanish Civil War and a COLD WARS 2004 emblazoned on top. From his belt was a cell phone and out of his pocket depended the run-away tail of a tape measure, and the other pocket was likewise deformed by the obvious gaggle of dice of all shapes and sizes, with notes of game ideas in the other pocket similarly overstuffed and overflowing. The figure had in one hand a pair of chopsticks and in the other, a white cardboard container of some sort which he held out to me as he said
“Great Moo-Shu Pork– want some?”
I declined the offer. One should never accept candy from strangers or Chinese food from spirits one has just met. and not yet been properly introduced to.
Summoning up all my courage– which was now quite a great deal as my time with the spirit of Conventions Past had made me bold, I asked.
“I presume that I am in the presence of Conventions Present?”
“Right you Are– Old bean!” He responded, “Let’s rock-n-roll!”
“But spirit!” I said “There is no convention going on now!”
He laughed a great booming laugh and his whole form jiggled with mirth and he said
“Ah-- my lad! There’s always a convention going on – SOMEWHERE!– Large, small, game days, minis, board games, role playing, serious, comical, long, short, somewhere in the world at any moment there is a convention going on and if it is I’ll be there!”
“Really!?” I gasped. “I had no idea there were so many and you must have racked up abundant frequent flier miles in attending them!”
"Not at all my friend, for every game is a convention even if attended only by one- yes even a solo game- anywhere where the spirit of fun and friendship, camaraderie and good fellowship prevail with a game nearby there I will be. Eager anticipation is my calling card and pleasant memories my thank you notes, and while I linger I bring a magical time where you get to live for yourself and yourself alone- to enjoy existence for itself- you live not for your wife or kids or family or job or boss or country, or even God, you live for yourself. I bring the freedom of the mind and the imagination. I bring the now!”
“My goodness, Spirit” I replied “That is remarkable! I had never considered it in that manner!”
The spirit beamed and said “You like it? I borrowed a few ad writers from Santa Claus. They did a bang-up!.”
With an obviously affected air of absent-mindedness he turned and said. “Now let me see– where did my assistants go to!”
Suddenly there was a great squeal and a high pitched scream, but not one of horror but of pure joy and two small urchins leaped from the pile- no– it is more correct to say that they magically metamorphized from the pile– from the games themselves. One of them carried a vast volume, at least as large as he was, and he lugged it over, practically falling flat on his face with it but nevertheless his face beamed with delight and the burden did not seem heavy to him at all. He was a small boy but with bright red hair in a bowl cut and he seemed hyper active and super-animated as if he just could not contain humself. He giggled and
laughed as he struggled with the tome. The taller blonde haired girl stood silently next to the spirit and she was one of the sweetest little urchins you ever did see. She had big green round eyes and they looked at everything. She was quite demure and reserved otherwise and all I heard her say at one point was an almost whispered “Oh Wow! Neat!”
“Spirit–“ I asked– “I take it these are your offspring?”
The spirit smiled and said “They are– these are my assistants, my valkyries, my ravens, my messengers, my familiars, my agent-provocateurs.. The girl is “Sense of Wonder”– that in us which stirs our hearts at a fabulous table top or grand and beautiful components of a game, and the boy is “Spirit of Play” that joy in life, that willing abandonment of common sense and propriety to throw ones self wholly and whole-heatedly into the pleasure of make-believe, yes even as you each of you found it as a child. These are my bodyguards and my evangelists, my henchmen. Where they are, I am.and there are all those good things we know in the game.”
“But tell me Spirit, ” - again I asked for as I said my time with the spirit of Conventions past, and obvious geniality of this one had made a bit presumptuous– “But what is that monstrous compendium that the boy carries?”
“It is the PEL!” He beamed.
“And it is out on time! --Magic!!” I said whistfully!
“My goodness, with such a table of events you are a busy spirit.” I ventured further.
“I’m number two I have to try harder. and I can fly with the speed of the wind, the swiftness of light, I can be here, there, and everywhere at once!”
“My goodness what an extraordinary ability! Pray how can you do this?”
“Oh it’s this neat new cell-phone and raspberry I got, let’s you receive calls, make reservations, broadcast pictures, do Blogs , and interfaces with everything from your television to your coffee maker.”
“Amazing!– still it is a busy job and a large task. But tell me spirit are not all games such? Do not all games have these two children as their first participants?”
“No, Ben – sadly.– there are many who are not . Some gamers lose the way and become enmeshed in the cares and pomposities and pretensions of this world and lose the influence of these children and turn into something quite unpleasant. They lose the joy of the game and the good fellowship and sportsmanship of playing with their friends and instead they war with their enemies."
”Are there many like that?
"All too many~” the spirit said with a sense of foreboding menace.
The spirit waved his hand and the brilliantly lit and decorated room shimmered and slowly vanished, then the light came up again and we were standing by the vestibule to a large convention hall. The spirit worked his way past the crowded tables, and every now and then would dash out with his container of Moo-Shoo Pork and from its open maw would fly a
sprinkle of irridescent stars to land on the participants. Instantly there was a brightening of the mood, and when he came up to two of them, who were having an argument on the rules, the spirit again extended his arm and the sprinkle of powder flew out and they both smiled and one said “Ah why argue, let’s just dice on it! “ The other said- “Naah- you’re right probably, let’s do it your way!” And they left off their wrangling and commenced to game. At another table the spirit did the same, and two players who had sat there listless and morose seemed brighten and start to smile and have fun.
“What is that bit of concoction you have there?” I asked.
“It is the joy of being among friends, of being with other people like you. It adds zest to the barest games and makes the pleasant ones better– for when you are a geek among geeks you are no longer a geek.”
“Really!One could no doubt make a bundle if one could bottle it!"
“Perhaps” the spirit said "but there are those upon whom all of it would be wasted– and besides" he continued, “the government would tax it to hell and then the Chinese would make a cheap knockoff of it and it would have about the potency of a mix of sawdust and dandruff.”
We had arrived at a corner of the hall where two gamers standing there talking. One of them I knew very well, a noted author of a semi-popular set of rules. He gazed out at the assembled throng of the convention over his long straight nose perfect for looking down at you with and said--.
"I am always overwhelmed at these conventions by one overriding phenomenon!”
“And what is that?” his companion, another gamer so popular that he has coteries of friends to trash his enemies and cast carping comments about everything on various web lists.
“The smell of arm-pit!” The first one said. The two guffawed at the persons comment.
His friend who littered the e-waves with his comments said
“Can’t they have a cattle-washing stand for them to pass through on the way in.”
Again a pair of titters and smirks.
They went on- “Well another convention at The Host, “ one said taken up by yet a third who joined him who added “The Roach Motel of the East!” The man was another famous figure known to me.
“Why spirit isn’t that the publisher of ...”
The spirit cut me off with his own terse comment– “Pewter Porn!” The two took up their refrain.
“This is the only hotel that would have this bunch of overfed hogs with their putty mugs and atrocious table manners!”
Said Mr. L and Mr. I took up
“Yes and the food! I wouldn’t feed it to a dog. It’s dripping in cholesterol and is probably the worst I’ve ever seen! And to watch these guys eating!”
The third nodded agreement making various terse comments upon the mental deficiency of the gamers and their taste in clothing which he was of the opinion was acquired at Salvation Army discard bins. Of course it is to be noted that he made just as much fun of those who were neatly and nattily dressed.! I shuddered to hear their real opinions!
“You always were easily duped Ben” the spirit said. “They are, however, to be pitied rather than despised for they have placed self before self enjoyment, their sense of wonder is only of themselves, and their spirit of play is of the order as those people who get their jollies by torturing small animals.”
“Is there no reformation or hope for these then spirit?
The spirit thought a minute. I saw his head incline slightly as if he was studying the future and the possible outcomes thereof, sifting the sands of time for a few kernels of hope, for a bright outcome to the murky time to come, a light at the end of the tunnel that was not an oncoming freight train.
At long last his countenance brightened and his smile returned
“Naah– not a bit– Ahhh F**k em!”
He said and he called to the boy spirit of play and whispered something in his ear. The boys eyes went wide and he squealed a wild squeal of delight such as had never been squealed before. I saw the boy run off and returned with, in each hand a large piece of aluminum foil such as wrap the burgers much despised by the two peevish commentators. In the center of eacht were the scraps of a few half-consumed burgers and over it all was a superabundance of lettuce, cheese pickles, onions, catsup, mayonnaise special sauce, and in short anything that will stain. The boy gingerly placed the concoction upon the chairs just behind the standing carpers. The spirit then gestured with his chopsticks towards them and the one gamer was instantly seized by fatigue in his legs and an irresistible urge to sit down, which he did. It was not a mere touch and jump, or a squish and schooch, but a full hearty squat down directly into it that flattened the piled semi-liquid mass into the weave and fabric of his immaculate ecru slacks. It took a full moment for him to yell out a few choice words and jump up. His cynical friend felt the urge to sit too, but warily leaned against the
table that was near at hand. He smiled at his friends misfortune. The now stained bottom rules publisher cursed and swept off the goo which was starting to set up, with a napkin nearby but that only increased the mess.
“You are letting the other guy off??? that’s not really fair, is it?"
The spirit smiled and said “No I’m not, The table he’s lining on is really dry and cracked and splintered, and infested with wood eating mites. He won’t notice the mites for twenty minutes but a dozen of them are working their way into his pants and will be in his underwear and he’ll go through the rest of the day with them lightly jabbing and scratching his ass and balls every time he moves. Then everyone will be saying in a few days “Hey I saw that great windbag Mr. I scratching his ass at the convention.”
“Hmmm... I thought you fat people were supposed to be jolly!”
“We are, Lad, Jolly– but mean – Jolly and mean. “
We moved on to another “convention” a small game day half the way across the country. It was a large table with more than half a dozen people around it. It looked very impressive and well done, and I saw off to the side the little girl “Sense of wonder” looking at it with eyes the size of saucers. Even I who was no stranger to such things and had done many handsome set ups myself was impressed. The other boy, "Spirit of Play" was nowhere to be seen though.
“Where is your other companion.” I asked.
The spirit said “He knows what is to come.”
But I saw another diminutive form. His eyes were almost as wide as the girls and he moved swiftly, excitedly around the table, He said no word to us but I could see the glee of the assembled pageantry in front of him, the anxiety lest he be left out, and the eager anticipation that he would be allowed to play.
“Mister -- Mister – “ he pleaded “Are you full? Do you have a position left I can play in?”
The game master had just finished telling someone the game was set for 12 and he had six open slots, but as he looked at the boy his face darkened and his eyes got small and mean.
“Ummm.. Are you fully conversant with DPW edition 23, with the tournament version..”
The small boy was a bit taken aback and cast his eyes downward – hesitantly– he answered .”No...”
“Harumph.." the man said “Well have you read James McGoogoo’s history of the 1862 Chimichanga war?– and especially the battle of Chalupa?” The small boy’s face fell a little more “No...” But he was so darling and so eager.
“Sprit.." I began to inquire
” Be silent and observe” the spirit said...
"But I want to PLAY!” the boy insisted.
The GM rolled his eyes and said "Well OK, you can sit here and have these troops",
pointing to a few ratty moth-eaten units on the side of the field, put there because no one else wanted them.” But listen to your wing commander.”
The wing commander himself was about as happy as being given the boy as a subordinate as to hear a report from his doctor that he had good news and bad news, the good news being that he was going to die in two weeks, and the bad news being the doctor forgot to phone
him 14 days ago.
“Suddenly in a rush I recognized the boy!” Why it’s Dondi! IT’s Dondi Draino” Why look at the boy! How big he’s grown.”
I watched as the now lovely son of Ginger Vitus was up at the table, his face full of eagerness and glee at being included in the game. But I also watched as the game unfolded and turn by turn he was told to wait, stay put, not move, be quiet, and only allowed to roll die, with other gamers only paying attention to him to yell at him, or make fun of him, or take
advantage of him because he didn’t know the rules. They moved his troops, made his decisions, and eventually rolled his dice, reserving for him only the blame for what misfortunes came his way. I saw the eagerness slowly depart from his face, the excitement drain from his heart and his eyes go still, leaden and get that vacant stare known to people who have undergone the barrage once too often. I realized that I was seeing the crushing of the spirit of play and I realized why that little minion of the spirit was nowhere to be seen. I
suddenly had a terrible premonition of the future, that I was watching he death of a gamer’s desire.
“Spirit” I asked– “Will Dondi Draino be back next year? "
“I see an empty chair at the table, and at home, a roaring fireplace with a trail of scattered cardboard counters leading up to it. "
I hung my head and stifled a sob.
There are besides .– empty shelves, and a box of half used paints on the bargain table at the Salvation Army. and a dealer in the dealer area packing up half a dozen games that would otherwise have been bought.
“Spirit – you do not mean– it is– death!??”
“No, – Survivor Philadelphia.”
I shook my head to fight back a tear.
“Can nothing be done?”
“Only if you don’t vote yourself off the island..”
“The Island??” I asked.
“Yes the Island– The most dreaded place in all the gaming universe, the black hole of spirit, the veritable slaughterhouse of excitement– the dark realm where all these grim shades are concocted and from which they receive their orders and inspiration.”
“You Don’t mean – “The Lair of the dark Coterie!?”
“Yes, but do not speak of it here, it is part of knowledge man was not meant to know. It is our next stop.”
“Spirit–“ my boldness now having deserted me–“Is there no way we can avoid this place for I fear it more than all things. "
“No – sorry champ– it’s part of the tour- you signed up for the whole weekend and the whole weekend you will see!”
“But...”
“I sorry– that’s our conmvention SOP!”
Resignedly– my shoulders slumped and I trembled a little. “Lead on spirit.” I said.
The spirit was silent for a moment and said “Ummm- wrong-oh. Actually I’m not going, cause you see I’ve been there and there’s only one to a customer and I’m forbidden by union rules from doing anything there, and it’s not in our policy book, and besides —“ he said, waving a bright chartreuse badge that hung from his neck
“I’m staff and don't have to follow the rules that everyone else does, so I don’t have to go. Besides I forgot -- I gotta get to a game I’m signed up for! Love to talk more but I gotta do this.”
“But spirit! what about!”
“Don’t worry it’s all taken care of, you’ll be meeting a rep from a consulting firm we magical creatures use to space ourselves out– don’t worry you’re in good hands– the rabbit knows what to do!” And with a poof and a final spray of Moo-Shoo stars he was gone!
“White Rabbit, I mused, this is curious, yes things are getting curioser and curiouser!”
And it was then that I felt a very large presence nearby and I turned to see a great hulking white Rabbit behind me. He was dressed in a waistcoat and had a long fob with a watch on the end of it, and he introduced himself.
“Hi, I’m Harvey Flish and I’m with the firm of Through the Looking Glass Inc., a wholly owned subsidiary of Uansapponatime Industries, a division of Whanuwisha Ponnastar communications, in partnership with The Magic Kingdom LTD., A corporate outlet for Engulf & Devour.”
I shook his paw, a little non-plussed.
”Oh my goodness, I feel so giddy, so light headed, as if I was falling...”
“You are- we haven’t got the elevators working quite right yet- remember to jump just before you crash.” the rabbit said, not very helpfully! I was completely at sea to know when this moment was, but the rabbit was most helpfull for he suddenly began to sing. “Little Bunny Hop, Hop, Hop...” and on the third time we hit the ground and I was luckily off the floor and the whole elevator shattered into smithereens, along with the elevator shaft, giving a panoramic view of a pleasant English countryside. The only thing that reminded me of the the late fate worse than a fate worse than death that I had just escaped was a cloud in the sky which had a running crawl banner come across it saying:
“Warning! Performed by fantasy creatures in a fairy-tale environment in a closed course under controlled conditions. Do not try this trick in your own home or reality. Serious injury and death could occurr and any survivors will tell your wife and family what an idiot you were and they will live with that till your dying day.”
The rabbit then abruptly turned on his heel and trotted off on a small path, humming a martial air--
“Here comes Peter Cottontail
Hopping down the bunny trail...”
We came to a table set up under a tree, in front of the house, which is what the cafeteria area had on its walls as an excuse for wallpaper, in the side room off the back where the membership meetings were usually held, walled off and in secret so no one would even know it existed. At the table were the Ratsass and the Bad Hatter who were having tea.. For those of you who have never had occasion to meet these singular creates, the Ratsass had the appearance of a large Rat with typical rat-like features and a long nose weaseling out from under his glasses, and around his middle was a large brace of miseracordia, stillettoes, and
innunedo’s was hung.
He was drunk as a Lord.
The Hatter was unremarkable from the usually representative of the breed, save this one had a vast profusion of hats stuck on his head, one after the other, and they could be discerned to be, for they were stuck in profusion in a huge unwieldy pile, a perfect cacophony of functions and tasks, from a Presidential stove-pipe to a secretarial green eye-shade,
from a chapeau of a treasurer to a crown of the field marshal of the world. He was indeed a major and imposing figure, and had huge epaulettes each with golden oak leaves all over them..
The Sphinx was fairly unremarkable save that he seemed to speak even less than the one they keep in Egypt and did not even grace us with a smile. The Sphinx was sitting between them silent and unmoving and the other two were using it as a cushion, and a footstool, a nosewipe, and an ash tray, and rested their elbows on it, and using it to wipe the icky stuff off the bottom of their shoes that they had acquired on the trek through the executive session. The table was a large one, but the three were all crowded together at one corner of it. “No Room! No Room!” They cried when they saw the Rabbit and I approaching.
"There’s plenty of room!” said I as I sat down in a large arm-chair at one end of the table.( My time with the spirits had made me VERY bold, and I realized it had something to do
with the fact that I had been literally doused with the contents of the Moo-Shoo Pork barrel of the last spirit.)
“Have some Scotch!” The Ratsass said, his wobbling and tipsy hand offering a large bottle which he made to pour into my cup, but he upended it fully and not a drop came out!
“I don’t see any Scotch!” I said.
“There isn’t any!” said the Ratsass, and as he fixed my gaze with one of his beady little red eyes I saw him slip a stiletto out of its sheath and try and work it around my back. But he was too blitzed to follow through and the blade clattered to the floor.
“Then it wasn’t very civil of you to offer it!” I said angrily.
“Then it wasn’t very civil of you to sit down without being invited!” said the Ratsass
“I didn’t know it was YOUR table,” I said- “It’s been laid out for a great many more than three.”
At this the Ratsass jumped up and said, very agitated and almost screaming– “You’ve no right to say that– I’ve been coming to every membership meeting since the Walwrus’ basement, in fact I built the Walwrus’ basement– me and Al Gore!!!...”
The Hatter replied, taking out a huge pile of papers, motions, codicils, points of order, proposals, mission statements, proposals, and application forms. “Yes it is!” We had a motion, – Okay?!– it wasn’t my motion of course, it was someone else’s – Okay, Okay ?!– , and everyone agreed that we would be elected to the table and appoint whom we wished to fill the other seats – Okay! Okay!?– and we are at present deciding who shall fill these seats. Okay, Okay, Okay???!!!” He spoke in a low boring monotone, with a verve and lilt to his voice that reminded one of a person masticating half a mouth of oatmeal.
I shook my head in wonder. The Ratsass had tossed the empty bottle of scotch over his shoulder after squeegeeing out the inside with his tongue, and pulled out a six-pack from under the table. He began to chug a lug them. “Want a beer!?” He asked.
“Don’t mind if I do!” I asked.
“Ooops– all gone! You should have asked sooner!?” He said.
The Hatter shuffled through the piles and said “Balance sheet, Profit Statement, business Plan! What is the balance, what is the balance?” And he seemed to fasten on one, scrying it eagerly. The Ratsass produced a little plastic spinner and whacked the needle.
“$232,401,119- give or take a few hundred thousand!”
“Wrong!” The Hatter pronounced defiantly! "I should have never let you cook the books!” he said. “What happened!”
“I used butter and bourbon!”
‘Well it doesn’t work!” The Hatter said. Try again!
The Ratass gave it another spin- ‘A buck three-eighty!” he announced in triumph!
“Still Wrong!” called the Hatter.
“But it was the very Best Butter and Bourbon!” The Ratsass said.
“That’s bullshit!” I quipped.
“We didn’t think of using that” the Ratsass said.
“Why are so many tea-things put out here?” I asked.
The Hatter replied with a sigh! ”It’s always tea-time and we’ve no time to wash the things between whiles!”
“Then you keep moving round, I suppose?" I asked.
“Exactly so,” said the Hatter, “as the things get used up.”
“But when you come to the beginning again?” I asked.
“Then they’re be a reckoning!”
“That’s the trick, to never begin at the beginning, but just work to the end?”
“And if that fails?”
“Resign, give a new version of the “Old Soldiers never die” speech and fade, fade fade away like the Chesire cat.”
“Suppose we change the subject?” The Ratsass interrupted, trying to gut me with a misericordia below the table!”I vote that we resolve to extend the meeting to seven hours.”
“I second the motion” the Hatter said, "and I’m prepared to draft a memo as preliminary to a formal proposal to design a working group to form a subcommittee to frame the guidelines for the tentative drafting of a format for an SOP for that eventuality!”
In all of this the Sphinx sat motionless, only its eyes flickering back and forth testified that it was yet among the waking and the living..
“Please excuse me, but what does the Sphinx do?”
“He’s in charge of entertaining visiting Japanese Admirals at our convention.”
At this the Ratsass and the Hatter began to punch and kick the Sphinx who remained quite impassive.
“See here!” I said “That’s rather savage– leave off there! Why are you doing this.”
“He’s a life Member we can abuse him however we wish! He’ll never get a free hotel room from us!”
Suddenly the Hatter stopped and said in his Oatmeal-inflected nasal tone
