A Literary Duel with my Greatest Oponent
In fiction, people occasionally have a Nemesis; an enemy that dogs their every move and opposes them at every turn. These grand enemies not only provide conflict for some of our greatest heroes; our heroes are often defined by the quality of these opponents. Sherlock Holmes has his Professor Moriarity. Luke Skywalker has his Darth Vader. James Bond has, well, buckets of them, but they’re mostly embodied in the organization known as S.P.E.C.T.R.E. Batman has the Joker (among many others). The Nemesis as a plot device has been used to drive storytelling for as long as there has been storytelling. However, as the actor Benedict Cumberbatch made quite obvious during his visit to Sesame Street, real people don’t actually have Nemeses.
The weird thing, though, is that I’ve been someone’s Nemesis before. Well, not really me, but a fictional version of me. Someone once became so convinced that I was doing everything in my power to ruin his life that he laid the full responsibility for his every defeat and failure at my feet. I could only imagine a little anime’ version of me sitting on his shoulder, constantly directing him to do the wrong thing and laughing at his misfortune. It didn’t matter that I simply don’t have the time and energy to be someone’s Nemesis… can you imagine? All the hours of planning, the phone calls and e-mails, the driving from place to place before he would get there to set up his next catastrophically bad decision… it would be a full time job. Never mind that I had no intention of doing any such things (which I didn’t), but the logistics alone would prevent someone of my limited means from engaging in the mind control and utter mastery of fate and destiny that such a task would take.
Granted; I’m stubborn, opinionated, often overly verbose, and strong-willed. I dress up like a supervillain for fun, and there’s ample evidence on YouTube of me struggling to take over the world, as well as trying to make evil “Quick and Easy Chicken Kiev.”
Still, even though it intruded into real life, the Nemesis version of me is entirely fictional. I’m not really a Supervillain; I just play one on YouTube. In fact, there is only really one person to whom I might be an actual Nemesis. There is only one person that I will honestly take the time to plague and ruin every chance that I get, because this person’s life consumes me, and I can’t stand to see it go on unchanged.
That person is myself. I am my own Nemesis.
Oh, I’m not setting any bombs up in my shower or taking my family hostage unless I meet my demands. That would be crazy. No, I wreck myself in far more subtle (but terribly effective) ways. Usually when I’m writing.
I work for myself, which gives me ample time to set up tasks in my office that I will most likely fail at. I often say that my boss is kind of a dick, and I’m not just whistling “Dixie,” there. I don’t believe I’ve set a reasonable task or deadline for myself in the past decade I’ve been my own employer; I certainly haven’t hesitated to let a project get so big that it overwhelms me. One time, I tried to write a light joke product for the RPG market that would be nothing more than some racy pictures and some numbers to roll dice against. It turned into a four hundred and fifty-four page book that has spawned over a hundred supplements.
(It’s also currently priced at “Pay What You Want,” nudge nudge wink wink).
In order to thwart my evil Nemesis (that being me), I need to constantly rise to these ridiculous challenges and try to produce not only the work that is required, but more work at a better quality, improving all the time so that I’m ready to take on the next deadly challenge.
Of course, then I (as my Nemesis) raise the bar even higher.
I’ll do things like leave myself a pile of cover images and titles with no other information whatsoever, and expect a whole book to spring whole-cloth from this “inspiration.” It’s worse than having a blank page, because a blank page, while daunting, has some “wiggle room.” It can go anywhere and do anything. Writing to the spec of a title (often one that I came up with over a month or two ago) is a shackle… the work MUST conform to this title and this cover. It’s absolutely diabolical.
I’ll give myself a word count (say, ten thousand) and a deadline (say, by this evening). These are occasionally reasonable, but usually they’re not. My deadlines are lethal traps (“write this supplement with statistics for a hundred different animals THIS WEEK! BWA HA HA HA HA!”), traps that often defeat me. Then they hang like weights on me until I finally work through them, having to deal with other projects the whole time.
It’s a duel; a duel to see if I can bring myself down or build myself up. Ultimately, I have to believe that my Nemesis (me) is doing this for the purpose of self-development. I have to hope that this is all some grand scheme to build my skills and speed, and develop me into something that performs to my highest level. After all, a Nemesis means conflict, and through the resolution of conflict we find experience and growth.
Then again, maybe my Nemesis is just being a dick.
Either way, the duel goes on. It’s not like I can give up and walk away from my greatest enemy; he’ll always be right here. Oh, but those times when I win one of our little skirmishes; those times that I complete a goal and kill a deadline, when I slay a dragon of unreasonable expectations and stand on it’s corpse… those times almost make it worth it.
Like writing a blog post, for example. Hey, wait a minute…
VICTORY! Suck it, evil me!
No, I Didn’t Eat a Four-Pound Steak
“It’s not about the food.” -Lisa Davey
As with my last post, I’m still travelling eastward across the United States towards St. Louis, Missouri. As I type this, St. Louis is currently under one of the worst, deepest, coldest winter storms it has seen in DECADES. I’m not there, yet. No, tonight finds me in Amarillo, Texas.
If you have ever traveled across Texas via highway 40 (which takes you across the panhandle), you have seen the same billboards that my traveling companion and I did. In amongst all of the billboards for horribly defunct Stuckeys and a thousand places to buy moccasins, you will be invited to visit “the home of the FREE 72 Ounce Steak!” The name of the restaurant doesn’t even appear on the billboards for the first couple of hundred miles, but you learn it eventually.
It can be no place but the Big Texan Steak Ranch. Lisa demanded that we would be visiting this place… we passed it on our trip out in October, and I’d eschewed stopping in favor of making better time through Texas. Since we planned a stop in Amarillo, this trip, it seemed like this was destiny. We’d driven the relatively short hop from Albuquerque, New Mexico early in the day, so we arrived in Amarillo with plenty of time to plan a dinner excursion.
The concierge at the Comfort Suites Inn, upon hearing that Lisa really wanted to go to the Big Texan, arranged a Limousine for us, free of charge. The Big Texan runs a free limo service to most of the local hotels, so it was easy enough. Let me tell you something, though… after a day of driving for hours, the words “your limo will pick you up at seven” have an incredible ring to them.
I’m going to try to describe the Big Texan as best I can, but I’m going to fail. It’s scale and scope defies description; it is so much bigger, and so much better, and so much madder than words alone can convey! Where my other dining adventures along this trip have been wondrous excursions into holes in walls that have hidden dining halls, this was… beautifully monstrous.
I didn’t get a really good look at the outside of it; I was on the wrong side of the limo for that. The driver had spent the fifteen minute drive giving us the history of the place, the story behind the famous challenge, and a listing of points of interest. I didn’t get to see the full enormity of the giant lit-up cowboy statue or the giant lizard on fireworks sculpture; I barely got to see the huge red barn-like structure surrounded by lights and signs. If you dropped this establishment in the middle of the Las Vegas strip, people would look at it and say “wow, that’s kind of garish.”
The Big Texan used to be a stop on Route 66… when they built highway 40, they moved it, giant cowboy and all.
Stepping inside, there’s a giant stuffed bear, huge moose and deer heads on the wall, a brightly-lit gift shop to the left, and a fudge counter with forty varieties of freshly-made fudge directly ahead. To the right, the restaurant.
Moving towards the restaurant, there is a display on ice. There is a salad, some sides, a shrimp cocktail, a dinner roll, and a seventy-two ounce steak; that’s four and-a-half pounds. This is the challenge… eat all of that, and do it within one hour, and the meal is free.
Yeah… no. It looked good and all, but damn. No. My “four pounds of steak at a sitting” days are well past me, thank you.
The dining room is HUGE. We were seated next to the stage; a raised platform with a table set for six or so. This place was featured on an episode of the Travel Channel’s “Man Versus Food,” and they play that up a lot. There’s a big kitchen, open to the dining room, and six massive timers mounted over the stage. The challenge is a huge draw, obviously. There’s a second level of balcony seating. Everything is done in old-west theme, right down to the cowboy hats and sheriff stars on the wait staff. The room is HUGE… like a big school gym huge. It’s brightly lit, the walls are decorated with more animal heads, the chandeliers are wagon wheels, the whole bit. Can you picture the biggest western-movie set ever? Do you have a picture in your head? Hang on a second.
It was still decorated for Christmas.
Lights in all colors blazing from garlands strung along the balconies and chandeliers, huge glowing snowflakes, Christmas trees suspended upside-down from the ceiling… my head almost exploded. I was raised in front of a 28″ Zenith television set, my favorite colors are whatever hurts my eyes from a distance, I think neon is a fashion accessory, and this place was TOO MUCH for me.
It was GLORIOUS. I was in Meat-Disney. The menu hurt my eyes, and I never wanted to stop looking at it. Lisa and I had previously agreed that we were going to bite the bullet, so to speak, and start with a half order of the “Rocky Mountain Oysters.” For those who might think those are seafood, that is the euphemistic name for bull testicles; deep fried in this case. Yes, I ate balls.
Aside from a little chewiness, they were amazing. They had flavors of beef and oysters and the breading was done just right. A little cocktail sauce and/or ranch dressing, and they were a perfect appetizer. I wish we’d have gotten the full order.
Lisa ordered the Prime Rib, and I ordered the T-Bone. I didn’t see the T-Bone on the menu, but the waiter told me that they’d added it recently.
This will be the last time I will order something that isn’t on the menu.
Aside from being a steak house, the Big Texan is also a brewery. Lisa got a flight of beers to sample; when we discovered that the Raspberry Ale and Chocolate stout mixed well, she ordered a full-sized mix of the two. The staff was happy and accommodating; I’m not a big beer drinker, but damn. That was both complex and rich and it was a perfect companion to the meal.
Our meals arrived, and they were beautiful. I mean, seriously Beautifully prepared, rare as ordered, and accompanied by well-prepared sides. I need to digress for a moment… bear with me.
I’ve mentioned my friend Lisa often in this blog; I’ve just gotten her permission to discuss this. Lisa lost her husband Gary three years ago, a man of particular tastes and wonderful appetites. The Prime Rib she ordered was his favorite dish, not hers, and it was ordered as rare as he would have liked it. Gary had a particular song that he enjoyed and identified with; “Man of Constant Sorrows.” You may have heard this song performed by a group called the Soggy Bottom Boys when they performed it for the movie “Brother Where Art Thou.” Lisa identifies this song so strongly with her memories of Gary that it was played at his funeral. This becomes important.
Back to dinner. We receive our meals and take a moment to meditate on them; Lisa states that this one is for Gary. Her Prime Rib is incredible; among the best I’ve ever tasted; both the Horseradish sauce and the Au Jus served with it had a master’s polish to them.
My 30 ounce T-Bone was like a museum of particularly ruthless gristle.
I HATE sending food back. I will go to some pretty impressive lengths to finish something rather than complain about it. After five or six bites that I could neither chew nor swallow, though, I had to call over the waiter and let him know that the T-Bone was unsatisfactory. He took it back without any problems; the service here is top notch, all the way around.
I was informed within a few minutes that the chef had gotten three of the 30 ounce T-Bones returned that night, so they suggested I take the 20 ounce portion instead. I’d rather have a small steak that I can eat rather than a big steak that I can’t, so that was fine.
Half of the replacement T-Bone was incredible, a remaining third of it was passable, and the last fraction was inedible. With the proper application of sweet cole slaw and yeasty dinner rolls, it was a meal. I will give the Big Texan kudos for having a BUCKET of butter on the table when I sat down; that went a long ways towards making things better.
I’m sure that most of the steaks served at the Big Texan are amazing; no one else seemed to be having anything other than a great time and a good meal. Again, that’s the last time I order something that isn’t on the menu… if it doesn’t have the restaurant’s confidence, then it probably shouldn’t have mine.
We looked over the dessert menu and decided against it; the beer had been plenty bad for my blood sugar already, and while the offerings looked tasty, they also looked kind of common. I can get a big cookie ice-cream sundae lots of places; we decided to keep this meal special.
After dinner, we had a bit of a wait for our limo to take us back (they were only running one limo, but it was late at night on a Sunday. Totally understandable). There was PLENTY to keep us busy, though! Lisa bought a growler of the mixed raspberry and chocolate beers, we shopped in the gift shop and visited the real live rattlesnake in a terrarium, we both took a turn in the Shooting Gallery, and we were about to head back to try out the comically over-sized rocking chair when it was time to go.
How did I like the Big Texan? I loved it. I would go again. I’m already craving another helping of Rocky Mountain Oysters. The Big Texan Steak Ranch relies on a LOT of pageant, shock-and-awe, and hoopla to get your attention. That’s all right; if you’ve ever driven through Amarillo on highway 40, you know that it has one metric crapload of competition. Free limo rides, cartoonish food challenges and a carnival atmosphere are all perfectly acceptable means of getting my ADHD attention.
I’d have liked to have tried a different steak; something established on the menu. I have no doubts it would have been better. Still, I had two steaks; one completely unacceptable, and one mediocre (on the average).
I will gladly recommend the Big Texan Steak Ranch; if you’re near Amarillo, or even driving through on highway 40, you’ll never forgive yourself if you don’t give it a try. It’s not cheap, but with wise menu choices, it’s affordable.
Oh… one more thing.
As we were dining, there was a cowboy band walking around and taking requests. When they got to our table, Lisa asked for “A Boy Called Sue” by Johnny Cash. They didn’t know that one. Me being me, I asked for the theme from “Rawhide.” They didn’t know that one either.
Then they said that they had once done a song for a movie, and it had been pretty popular, so they’d play that for us.
The band was the Soggy Bottom Boys. They played “Man of Constant Sorrows.”
I’m not going to tell you that you’ll have a metaphysical experience if you go to the Big Texan Steak Ranch. I’m just telling you that we did. Your mileage may vary.
Barbecue So Good It Made Me Cry
I find myself on a road-trip from Los Angeles, California to St. Louis, Missouri. Long story. It wouldn’t be a trip through Arizona, though, without a stop in Williams, Arizona. The Gateway to the Grand Canyon, Williams is an absolute MUST as a stop along Highway 40, about thirty miles outside of Flagstaff.
There are ample reasons for a stopover and/or a stay in Williams, Arizona. It’s a genuine small town, but it serves a highly-traveled tourist route, so there’s a LOT of motels, shops, and restaurants. It’s a place that celebrates its position along the old Route 66, so it’s packed with history and personality. All of these things are reasons alone, but the food is something spectacular.
While there are a couple of sub-par “purely for the tourists” spots, there’s a restaurant that I never fail to stop at when I’m here. I’m talking, of course, about the famous Rod’s Steak House. I’ve been visiting Rod’s since I was seven years old, and I’ve never had anything but an incredible steak there. They have their own ranch where they raise their own cattle, and that brings a unique level of quality. I LOVE Rod’s steak house.
On this particular trip, however, they callously stabbed me in the back.
So, that was it, I figured. I would have to simply go to one of the other places in Williams, of which there are plenty, and have something other than the incredible $10.00 Rib Eye Steak lunch special, with a steak so tender and so perfectly seasoned and prepared that it practically liquefied on the tongue…
My traveling companion (my friend Lisa) did some internet searching, and found us another place to eat. She had to call and make reservations to “make sure we could get ribs.” That, right there, caught my attention.
Ladies and gentlemen, boys, girls, and children of all ages; if ever you find yourself in the state of Arizona, and you are blessed with the opportunity to be within driving distance of Williams on a Friday, Saturday, or Sunday, you will be doing your very soul and injustice if you do not visit the Singing Pig BBQ Restaurant.
Oh. My. Goodness.
We got our reservation and arrived a little early. It’s the off-season, so nothing here in Williams is busy. The Singing Pig looked like a little hole in the wall Barbecue place, which was fine. I’ve had a lot of good barbecue in little holes in the wall. Then I noticed something; there was a rough-hewn wooden bench on the outside of the building; a bench that ran the whole length of the block. How many people does this place serve in the peak season?
Inside, a single long table and a window into the kitchen. Nice, small, cozy… but wait. There on the white-board, it mentioned seating in the kitchen, the saloon, or the theater. Was there more to the Singing Pig than met the eye? Then another item on the white board caught my attention. They were having a special on Pig Balls.
Pig Balls?
We were seated in the Saloon… a little hallway in the back of the little entrance took us into a well-equipped, folksy, country-and-western bar. Now, that’s not the kind of place that I usually frequent; I’m not a big fan of country-and-western music or loud bars. This one, though, was homey and welcoming. On a cold night, it was warm and inviting and I got a little tingle.
I was in one of THOSE places. I was in one of those places that only a very few people know about. Oh yes… I was someplace special.
Lisa and I looked over the menu, and it was fairly simple. Barbecue ribs, chicken, burgers, pulled pork, and french fries. A few other little options. Nice and clean, nothing fancy. Lisa and I opted for the rack of ribs, as I’ve never had a barbecue chicken that wasn’t dry or tough or simply overcooked. The waitress assured me that the chef had chicken down, though. I’m not going to turn down an assurance like that; we got the ribs and chicken dinner, and started with a small order of Pig Balls.
Oh. My. Goodness.
The Pig Balls turned out to be beef and pork meatballs, deep-fried and drizzled with the house’s home-made barbecue sauce, and served with french fries. Crispy. Meaty. Juicy. The sauce had that smoky/sweet/spicey mix that you only get when someone knows what they’re doing. The Pig Balls didn’t last long.
The meal itself arrived, and something inside of me snapped. I need to digress for a moment, please bear with me.
We lost my father three years ago this month; I’ve shared a bit about that here. My dad was a man of his appetites; he was legendary for his love of food. We once drove eight hours to go to a hole in the wall rib joint in Illinois and then drove right back. Dad was like that. There wasn’t much he loved more than a rack of ribs, juicy, well-sauced, properly seasoned, and melt-off-the-bone tender.
Back to my experience at the Singing Pig; I got a chunk of chicken on my fork, and bit. For a minute, all that I had in my head was the phrase “Shut my MOUTH.” I couldn’t say it out loud, however, because my mouth was full of chicken. Juicy, succulent, amazing barbecued chicken. I’ve never had anything like it; it was RIGHT. I’ve eaten a lot of very close attempts at barbecue chicken from a lot of big, fancy chain restaurants and little holes in the wall alike. Chicken is a cruel mistress when you’re doing barbecue; it’s all too easy to let it go a moment too long, to turn away at just the wrong second. This chicken? The Singing Pig’s chicken? DAMN. There, I said it. DAMN. It was like grading a hundred tests, and seeing a lot of people get D’s, C’s, and the rare B’s, but never an A… and I finally found the A. They nailed it.
I was good, at that point. Between the Pig Balls and the Barbecue Chicken, I was happy. Then, I grabbed a rib. It pulled off of the rack without a touch of resistance; it was so tender that the only thing holding the meat on the bone was gravity. The babyback rib melted in my mouth, and it was GLORIOUS.
I transformed in that moment… I wasn’t merely Scott Corum, but Scott, Son of Bill. I fully channeled my father as I devoured the majority of the rack; it’s a good thing that Lisa was quick enough to get a few ribs for herself and pull her hands out of my way. I haven’t eaten that much food in a long time, but I could not stop. I literally could not stop eating those ribs as long as there were ribs on that plate. I almost ignored the other two items there.
There was another order of the french fries; hot and crisp and the perfect edible napkin to capture the sauce that I was flinging around. Then, there was the coleslaw.
It was NOT normal coleslaw; when I actually started to tire of eating the ribs, I had a fork-full of the wonderful stuff. The slaw sauce was tangy and had a clean, burning bite to it; it cleansed my palate perfectly and sent me back in to the ribs. I’m going to dream about that coleslaw.
I mentioned to our hostess, Kathi, that this was some of the best barbecue that I’d ever eaten, and that the chicken was, bar-none, the absolute best. She sent out the chef, Kevin. It wasn’t the first time that I’ve met a great chef and discussed food and my enjoyment of it, but it was the first time that I bonded with a chef.
1-3-2014
Lisa snapped the pic, and I had to share. Kevin, along with Kathi, are the hosts of the Singing Pig. I couldn’t get him to share how he kept the chicken so amazingly moist; I’ll just have to keep coming back to see if I can figure it out for myself.
We were already in an indulgent state; we finished our meal by splitting a deep-fried Twinkie, which was also done precisely right.
On our way out, since we left past the kitchen, Kevin gave us a sample of his pulled pork. Just a little bit, in a paper cup with a plastic fork. Now, while I’m a somewhat prideful man, I will freely admit that the pulled pork was the last straw; I cried.
My dad cared about food like this. My dad enjoyed food more than most people I know, and I’ve inherited quite a bit of that. The incredible pulled pork (cooked for 14 hours) hit home hard; this was a place that my dad would have dearly loved. It would have been like a second home to him, a place that he’d absolutely have to go to every so often.
That’s what it’s like to me, now.
The Singing Pig is open three days a week, on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. You’d best call and make a reservation when you go, ’cause when they’re out of food, they’re out. They’ll turn away a hundred people a night, but that’s the way it is. It’s a place where they make food because they WANT to, not because they HAVE to. It’s not just about a love of food, it’s about a love of doing it right.
Yes, you want to go. If you do, tell them that Scott, that crazy guy who cried over the pulled pork, sent you.
No Resolutions, but Simply Being Resolute
As I write this for future publication, it’s the very last day of the Year of our Lord two thousand and thirteen. I’m not really sorry to see this year go; it wasn’t the worst year I’ve ever had, but it wasn’t in my top ten. The very fact that my years can be categorized in multiple groups of ten is a little depressing, truth be told.
Traditionally, this is the time of year where people review where they are at in their lives and establish goals for moving forward. It’s the end of the year and a new year is going to start; it’s time for New Year’s Resolutions.
I don’t think I’ve ever kept one of my “New Year’s Resolutions.” They’re generally well-meant, and they are either common sense things I should have been doing all along, or unrealistic goals that are next to impossible to keep anyway. “Eat less sugar.” Obvious. “Eat no sugar.” Unrealistic. “Be more active.” Obvious. “Lose eighty pounds.” Unrealistic, at least within the space of a year.
The whole “New Year’s Resolutions” thing is kind of obligatory, these days. It’s not uncommon, at this time of year, to ask someone what their resolutions are. It’s expected that you’ll make a few; it’s how you show the world that you’re trying to move forward and improve your life. Whether you’re actually moving forward or not, we all like to seem like we are. I have a problem with the obligatory nature of New Year’s Resolutions, though. I don’t need an additional obligation towards improving the state of my life. I already have a big bucket of reasons that I need to improve.
I’m a forty-six year old man with less-than-controlled Diabetes, a chronic weight problem, and about three-quarters of an intact spine. I’m still struggling to make a living wage out of my writing and art. When it comes to self-improvement, I’m a one-man boom town. It’s kind of like shooting fish in a barrel, actually; statistically speaking, it’d be nigh-impossible for me NOT to improve over the course of a year. That’s what I need to improve, though. The more important part is why I need to improve.
I have a wonderful wife that would like to grow old with me. In order to hold up my end of that, I have to grow old. I have a wonderful son who would rather have a father than a memorial. There are things in my son’s life that I REALLY want to see. I want to see him graduate high school. I want to see him decide on college, and pursue his dreams and goals. I want to see him grow into the man he’s going to become.
I have people in my life that I want to be there for. I want to be around to help my mother, to keep and eye on my brother, and to keep touch with my family. I want to be around to be a presence in the lives of my friends, most of whom are as close to me as family. I want to see new things with them, visit old things. I want to run games for them, play games with them, and join them in creating things of all kinds.
I have things I absolutely need to write. I’m not done writing gaming books yet – not by a long shot. I want to write a series of self-help books, and some more novels. I want to get my name out there on the market as one who writes things.
There’s a WHOLE lot of life left to have, as it turns out. I want to see Peter Capaldi play Doctor Who. I want to see what J. J. Abrams does with the Star Wars franchise. I want to see what new things come up over the horizon of the future.
I want to live long enough to see full-body prosthesis and the preservation and transference of consciousness into non-volatile media. I want to see Mars colonized, and true artificial intelligence. (Technology permitting, I’d like a new spine in the meantime).
I want to see if mankind can overcome the plagues of greed and selfishness, of the corruption of the natural world and the degradation of the human spirit. I want to watch that struggle, and I want to make my voice heard in commenting upon it. I want to contribute.
If I’m going to achieve any of this, much less all of it, I will need more than a once-a-year set of Resolutions. Rather, I must become Resolute. Resolutions are things that can be broken; they are goals that I can fail to meet. Being Resolute, on the other hand, is the means by which goals can be achieved. A Resolution is a temporary thing; a gimmick that we use to illustrate a path towards improvement when the calendar flips over. Being Resolute, however, is a lifestyle. It’s where one determines that they will succeed. If a task is difficult, one must be Resolute. If there are obstacles, one must be Resolute. If it looks like you’re not going to be able to make it, one must be Resolute anyway. When the world says “all reason and logic says this isn’t going to work; stop now, and settle for less,” it is a state of being Resolute that allows one to respond with a “f*ck you.”
For the sake of the season, I’ll phrase it in the form of a New Year’s Resolution.
“This year, and in years forward, I shall remain Resolute. That which I must to to improve myself, I shall. When it becomes unpleasant, I shall remain Resolute. When it becomes difficult, I shall remain Resolute. When it becomes painful, I shall remain Resolute. And when being Resolute is no longer possible… I shall remain Resolute.”
There. That will probably have a bit more utility, resolution-wise. Tune in next year to see how I did.
The Obligatory “Duck Dynasty” Post
It isn’t often I throw up three icons in front of a post, much less having “Political Scott” and “Ranty” up at the same time. Here we go, though.
Note: If you’re sick to death of reading posts about the media fiasco surrounding the opinions of Phil Robertson, the patriarch of the Duck Dynasty clan, GOOD FOR YOU! You’ve already won the prize in the bottom of the Crackerjack box. Feel free to continue reading if you like.
So, if you’ve been existing under a rock or on the moon, or otherwise keep yourself blissfully unaware of the turmoils of modern news and media, here’s the short, short version of what it is I’ll be chatting about.
There is a hugely popular reality show called “Duck Dynasty.” It follows a family of self-made millionaires from the deep South who have made their fortune by making high-quality duck calls and accessories. It has made them even wealthier, with their names and faces on many popular products. The father-figure of this family (their actual patriarch), Phil Robertson, was interviewed by GQ. During this interview, he made some disparaging, dismissive, and entirely disrespectful statements about homosexuals. The media exploded, liberals condemning his less-than-inclusive-and-tolerant statements, conservatives defending his right to say things that they agree with.
You can’t swing a synthetic facsimile of a feline of the deceased persuasion (made without products that use animals, animal by-products, or products produced via animal cruelty) without hitting an impassioned opinion about Phil Robertson’s statements or the impassioned reaction to them. Whether it’s a segment on a news program, an energetic Youtube video, or even a post on social media or (like this) a blog, there’s a LOT of stuff out there talking about this.
One of the things I notice as a common factor in just about every post or segment I’ve seen, though, is that about three-quarters of them start off with “Now, I never even knew about this show before, but…”
So, here’s a potentially unpopular opinion that I’m about to voice. A deep south, conservative Christian was asked about his views, and he gave them. I’m hard-pressed to see what the interviewers were expecting, other than the responses they got. He didn’t just give a negative opinion about homosexuals and homosexuality; he did it in the laconically witty and folksy manner that he uses to dispense all of the “wisdom” that he has become known for on the show. If you use this manner of speaking to talk about, say, the humorous aspects of getting an alligator away from your pot of Gumbo, that’s good television. If you use it to talk about a group of people who are still fighting for their equality and, in some views, their person-hood, that’s going to sound a lot like hate speech. However you look at it, though, it’s one man’s opinion; an opinion developed from the culture in which he was raised, and the teachings he has been given his whole life. Phil Robertson’s statement was Phil Robertson’s opinion; one which was fairly predictable given his background. I do not agree with his opinion, but he was invited to voice it. GQ gave him a public forum in which to speak, and he used it as he saw fit.
So, is it a tragedy that he said what he said? No. No, it really isn’t. It may have been unfortunate, but it’s hardly a tragedy.
The reaction to the voicing of this opinion has been explosive. Calls for Mr. Robertson to be fired or fined or imprisoned or worse have resounded from many, which brought equally powerful responses in his defense. Heck, Sara Palin stepped up to say that she was totally behind him, even after admitting that she had never read the interview and had no idea what people were so upset about.
So, is it a tragedy that people have become massively polarized around this one man’s opinion? You know, it really isn’t. It’s not like people with these powerful opinions weren’t looking for something to get polarized about. Many of them are coming down off of their “Miley Cyrus” outrage, and needed the fix.
There. That’s the tragedy. It isn’t the opinion, it isn’t the reaction to the opinion. It’s that we’ve given this thing as much attention and time as we have.
Let’s look at some of the other things we could be discussing.
The government of the Philippines is on the verge of collapsing in the face of revolution. Syria is STILL embroiled in a horrific civil war. The government of the United States of America, home of the free, has been violating the fourth amendment rights of, well, EVERYONE. Corporations have been granted all of the rights of person-hood, but bear none of the responsibilities. It has been established that, in American politics, money equals speech. The United States of America has the most economically broken system of caring for the injured and sick in the civilized world, and its government has spent all of its time trying to prevent the implementation of needed improvements.
The world is going to Hell in a handbasket, and we’re talking about what a redneck duck-call maker thinks of gay sex.
I’m not going to suggest we stop talking about the popular culture things that spark our interest. I’m just going to suggest that, maybe, we prioritize a little. Maybe it’s time to take the approach that you can’t eat your dessert until after you’ve finished your vegetables. Sure, we can discuss Miley’s tongue or Phil’s views on man-to-man intercourse, but can we PLEASE work on unemployment, climate change, and the government’s intrusion into our private communications first? Perhaps spend more time (MUCH more time) on slowing the handbasket down, or perhaps preventing it from going to Hell entirely, before we become incensed that a guy said pretty much what he could be expected to say?
On the Act of Public Writing
Today, I’m one of THOSE people. I’m sitting here in my favorite Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf shop with a big, iced, heavily-caffeinated drink. I have my laptop open, my headphones on, and I’m writing in public. There are all kinds of perceptions that people might have of a person busily typing away on a laptop in a coffee shop, not all of which are positive. Mind you, I’m only one of, like, eight people here doing the same thing; the free wi-fi at Coffee Bean is kind of awesome. Still, when you walk into your average trendy coffee shop, and you see someone busily tapping away at a keyboard, one often has to wonder if that person is writing in that particular place so that they can get recognition for being a writer.
Unlike a lot of other vocations, writing can have a lack of social perks. It’s a solitary pursuit, peer groups and signings notwithstanding. The vast majority of a writer’s time is spent in the singularly personal act of writing. There are ancillary tasks to writing of course, like research and the eternal search for inspiration. Still, these tasks are often just as solitary, if not more so, than the act of writing itself. For the most part, when I’m writing, I’m in “the command center.”
I call it “the command center” because, over time, it’s come to be like some kind of super-villain lair. I’ve been blessed by angel investors with the kind of equipment that I could only have dreamed of a few years ago. There are two big computer monitors, each slaved to a different desktop system. One of them is the workhorse for the creative work, and the other is my communications server; it also handles my entertainment. The communications server also drives the flatscreen television up on the wall, in case I need to watch (or show) a movie or something. The creative server also drives a big ol’ Wacom Cintique monitor/tablet. Because a lot of the creative work has me flowing from 3D graphics to Photoshop to writing to page layout (often all at the same time), it would strain the creative server to also be handling my web browsing, music, media, and e-mail. It’s all incredibly useful, and I couldn’t do the work that I do without it. It’s also a very solitary workstation.
It’s tucked into a corner. I have a window, but I’m usually facing straight into the corner, surrounded by walls. I love my big armchair recliner that I work in (mostly because it coddles my ruined spine), but it all just contributes to me focusing straight ahead. I don’t do well with distractions, it seems. I blame my ADHD; as long as I can hyper-focus, I can get things done. Still… lonely. Even when I have someone else in the office with me, they’re either too distracting to allow me to work properly, or I ignore them completely to work.
I love “the command center,” and I have to leave it every so often. Today is one of those days. I finished a project this morning, but I’m still on the creative “jazz.” I’m trying to get back up on the horse after having been off for a few weeks, so the more I write the better. So, here I sit, in a coffee shop, on a laptop.
I call the laptop “Away Office” because it’s meant to be a little travelling creative server. It has all the software capabilities of the creative server in “the command center” even if it doesn’t have, quite, the hardware. No drawing tablet, just the touch-pad for kinesthetic input, but it runs all of the software. It’ll even do the detailed 3D rendering, if I give it a while, leave it plugged in, and make sure it’s on a cooling pad. It’s an excellent tool for doing the work I need to do; thanks angel investor! (She knows who she is).
“The command center” is a tremendous working environment. It’s also PACKED with distractions. The communications server is great for surfing the web, which gets me hung up on Facebook and Reddit more often than not. The creative server? AMAZING at running high-end games. Oh, sure, I can tell myself “I’ll only play ONE round of Strike Suit Infinity, or go to just the NEXT save point in Bioshock Infinite,” but with my obsessive personality, that’s not going to be the way it goes. More, my office is full of books and toys. FULL. I’m never more than a few seconds away from Legos, Micronauts, comic books, a hundred RPGs, science fictions novels, and a score of textbooks I always meant to read.
Not to mention the fact that my computers serve the same purpose as the “daddy’s sock drawer” of old, which is distracting in an entirely other fashion.
I’m sitting in front of a huge window that looks out onto Hawthorne Boulevard, one of the busiest streets in the country, only ten feet away. There are more than twenty people in this shop laughing and drinking and talking and existing, it’s a bright sunny day in December, and these are FEWER distractions than I find in my office. Plus, there’s a limit to how many bad habits I can engage in while I’m here.
(Incidentally, there’s also a photographer randomly shooting a study of the whipped cream on my coffee drink. Still less distracting).
Some people might think that I’m writing here to have an audience for my writing, which may not be entirely incorrect. There’s very little recognition for the act of writing while you’re doing it, unlike the practice of sports or many other business-based vocations, and a little recognition is nice. Heck, the baristas here know how much I’m planning on writing in a given day by how many shots of espresso I order (today is an 8 shot day).
The much larger reason that I’m writing here isn’t because I want an audience, but because I actually want to be under the social restrictions that I would be free of in “the command center.” It’s not so much that I want an audience to spur me on as I want an audience to keep me focused.
* * *
Incidentally, I mentioned that I got a new product done?
It’s a fantasy adventure called “Assault from the Sky.” I’d invite you to have a look, if that’s the sort of thing you’d find interesting!
In the meantime… Aloha!
A New Idea, Starting with Three Free Products
Normally, when I put up a new RPG product for sale, I’ll post its sale page to Facebook and Google+ to get it some exposure. This time, it’s a little different. For one, it’s not just one product, it’s three of them. For another, they’re absolutely free. I am literally giving away some two hundred and twenty-eight pages in the hopes that I can encourage people to want more of what I have to offer.
The products started as an idea from a friend of mine (Lisa, to be more precise). What if you had everything you needed to just play an RPG in one product? Just BOOM… the characters and the adventure, right there, pick them up and go.
I did one better, and included a truncated, condensed version of the Victory System rules. The results? The Party Packs.
Each of them contains the condensed, truncated Victory System rules, a dozen characters, an adventure, and a fully-realized villain with his minions. Everything is fully-compatible with the Victory System (and, therefore, also with Hot Chicks: the RPG). For exactly zero dollars and zero cents ($0.00), one can get a taste of the Victory System, roll a d20, and beat up some bad guys. Just add dice!
It’s my hope that people will get their taste and maybe want to do some character advancement, or get their character some different/better gear. Maybe they’ll want to make up their own characters, or a GM will want to make up their own adventures. There’s plenty of links to The Victory System Core Rulebook right there in the free .pdf; heck, there’s even a link to the Victory System Equipment Manual, if people want to play with modifying or creating their own gear!
As time goes on, I’ll be producing more Party Pack material based on these products (and the characters within). These will be short little adventures with maybe a vehicle, a base, or a few gadgets to play with. They’ll also be fairly inexpensive… I want to make a lot of them, and have people collecting them to add to their Party Pack fun.
When the bigger Campaign Setting books for the Victory System come out, the material in the Party Packs will be canon for those worlds; it’ll all build on these foundations. You know what I like about this particular design model?
It’s like action figures. I was a HUGE action figure collector as a kid. I’ve collected G.I. Joe, Super Joe, Microman AND Micronauts, Big Jim, Matchbox’s MAC, and a host of others. Heck, I still pick up the odd action figure now and then. I think that’s where the Roleplaying Games really started for me, with the imagination play that only a good set of Action Figures can give you. The Figures, and of course, the Accessories.
You couldn’t just get the Six Million Dollar Man figure… you needed his extra arms and legs, the space capsule that turned into a Bionic Diagnostic Center, and Maskatron, the Enemy! Big Jim needed a big black pickup truck with a camper that turned into a secret base, and the MAC toys… well, each of those came with his own vehicle, and then there was the giant rescue truck and the Secret Mountain Training Camp. I probably had too many toys as a kid. I know I have too many as an adult.
That’s the spirit I’m reaching for here, I think. Here, have some characters… your own virtual action figures! Some of them have Kung-Fu and some of them have special guns, and there’s a Ligthsaber in there, somewhere. Now, how about a flying boat, or a private jet, or a spaceship for them? Maybe a hidden base with lots of secret compartments, or a set of armor and weapons that give them extra abilities?
Yes, I’m still really just a big kid, at heart; and I’m pretty sure that I’m not the only one.
So, HERE is the Fantasy Starter Party Pack...
..HERE is the Near-Modern Starter Party Pack…
…and HERE is the Space Starter Party Pack.
Grab one, or grab all three. Try ’em out, kick the tires, pass ’em around. Let me know what you think of them, and what you might like to see for them! A bunch of my fans and friends told me they’d like to see books of weapons and gear… those are coming. Oh, yes, those are coming.
And here’s where I ask for a favor. If you like this idea, like my products, or just want to lend a hand, share this post. Pass it around. The more people who see it, the more people I have a chance of introducing to my game system and my products. I don’t do a lot of marketing, but here is me giving it a try.
Thank you for your time. Now, let’s have some fun!
Far from Home on Thanksgiving
Home currently rests about two thousand miles to my West. I’ve got a lot to be thankful for, though, and I guess that calls for a blog post.
I am thankful for my family; for the generations that have gone before mine and the generations up and coming. I was lucky enough to know my maternal great-grandmother and great-grandfather; from the incredible example of a proper loving family life given to me by Ines and Guy Saltzgeber, through Floryl and George Reiber and Ellen and William Corum, I am thankful for the love passed from one generation to the next and the next. With my wife Annalisa, I hope that my son Andrew will continue to take this love and carry it into the future. No pressure, though.
Likewise, sharing this example with me is my brother Steve and his wife Linda, and they carry forward with their children Jennifer, Heather, and Danae, and THEIR significant others and children. Good lord, I’m a great-Uncle.
I am thankful for my friends, including (but in no way limited t0) Lisa, Kyrene, Vic, Alan, Josh, Dave, the other Dave, Mike, Ross, Brian, Harry, Paul, Wayne, the other Wayne, Cameron, Jacob, Jeremy, Nick, Rachel, Sharon, John, Sean, Carinn, and the scores of people who have sought me out as the result of the documentary I was featured in. My family (see above) taught me to treat people as my friends, and my friends as family. I am thankful for all of these people in my life; for their counsel and companionship, for their example and their inspiration.
I am thankful for the life I am able to lead at the moment; though it lacks a certain amount of the financial success I would like, it is a life that affords me the freedom to explore my creative pursuits and the freedom to travel extensively to help friends in need. I am thankful for the generosity of those who contribute to my professional pursuits, and I am thankful for everyone who has ever bought any of my work. And those people that aren’t entirely kind or considerate when they voice opinions about my work on the internet? I’m thankful for them, as well. I may not always like to hear the criticisms, but I will always try to use them to make a better product.
I am thankful for the many cultural contributions to my personal inspiration; for the works of fiction and non-fiction in film, television, and literature that drive me to continue to create, and keep me filled with excitement and hope (I’m lookin’ at you, Doctor Who…)
I am thankful for the doctors and medical administrators who work to keep me alive and heading towards being healthy; I’m apologetic that their work is so hard. I’ll try to not eat more pie than is absolutely necessary, this evening.
I am thankful for any attention that this blog receives, and so thank you, dear readers. Now I’m going to go be thankful for a warm fire in a cold back yard, a telephone with which to call my family, and old episodes of Top Gear on Netflix.
A happy and thankful Thanksgiving to you all!
Farewell to The Old Flesh; Long Live the New
I’m not entirely sure what it is about being in St. Louis, Missouri that drives me to post to my blog. One thing’s for sure; I’m going to have to post to this thing a lot more. No point in having a blog if one doesn’t use it, now is there?
So, I’m in the midwest again, once again to help an old and dear friend to get her house in order. This time, I’ll be here over Thanksgiving, which is an issue. Oh, it’s not an issue that I’m in the midwest over Thanksgiving; the issue is Thanksgiving itself. The Holiday season is historically bad for people trying to control their eating habits, and Thanksgiving itself? Well, it’s all about the food.
It’s actually pretty appropriate that my “Foodie” icon has a skull in it; food will likely be the death of me. I’m an out of control diabetic that is struggling hard with diet. It isn’t that I don’t know how I should eat; it’s that I never seem to get around to doing it right. I should be eating mostly vegetables and proteins, with little (or no) carbs or starches. For my beverages, there should be water or unsweetened tea. There needs to be a complete absence of cookies, pastries, candies, and all sugary treats. My fruit consumption should be very limited; there’s as much sugar in a grape as in the average drink of soda.
So, when my lovely host asked me, this morning, if I wanted the Sweet Potato pie made with sugar substitutes, I squared my shoulders, set my resolve, and said “Hell no. If you’re going to make a Sweet Potato pie, make a Sweet Potato pie.” Then, I determined that I will consume said pie in extreme moderation. Tomorrow, of course, after the rest of the Thanksgiving meal, a red mist will descend over my eyes when the pie hits the table. I’ll take up three forks (one held between my teeth) and attack the pie as though it were an invading army come to pillage my home town. When the red mist clears and the forks hit the table, I will likely have consumed half of the thing, leaving only the tell-tale layer of whipped cream on my eyebrows as evidence. Well, that and my enormous blood sugar level.
Food is one of my greatest passions. If I could see food as mere fuel, to be measured carefully and taken in regular doses, I’d be much better off. Heck, if I could do that, I wouldn’t be a type 2 Diabetic, right now. I should be drinking only water and tea, but there’s a Cherry Coke Zero next to me as I type this. True, it’s a diet soda, but those really aren’t much better for me than a sugared soda. In most other areas, I’d say I have average to good willpower. When it comes to food, though… yeah, not so much.
There are whole books of advice written on this matter; I know, I’ve read most of them. Again, it isn’t that I don’t know what my problem is, and how I should be eating. There’s always one more thing coming along, though. “I’ll eat right after this trip.” “I’ll eat right after I hit this deadline.” “I’ll eat right after this job is done.” “I’ll eat right after this holiday.” Then we get right back around to “I’ll eat right after this trip,” and the cycle starts all over again.
So, in response, I’m not going to make a New Year’s resolution; those have never worked out well for me. No, here’s the deal that I have to make with myself.
This is my last Cherry Coke Zero. This is my last diet soda. I have had my last sugary snack. I have eaten my last piece of candy, I have crunched my last cookie, I have attacked my last cake.
I’ve been pretty good about balancing low-carb and high-protein, of late; if I can just chase out all of the extra stuff I put into my body, then I’ll probably be doing much better.
If I add to this a daily walk (no matter how cold it is outside, like today), then I’ll improve my chances a lot. It’s time to treat myself like I treat my RPG Characters; all of the willpower and determination I attribute to my fictional selves needs to come home to roost in my actual self. So, what do I give myself as a reward if I manage to do these things successfully?
I get to live.
Keep watching this space; I’ll let you know how it goes. This is going to be an interesting ride.
And Here I Sit in St. Louis, Again.
I can talk freely about why I arrived in St. Louis. I can’t talk quite so freely about while I’m STILL in St. Louis. It’s a complicated situation with a lot of twists and turns, and it’s eventually going to make for a much more entertaining and informative blog post. I haven’t put anything up here, however, since my LAST trip to St. Louis. I hate having a nice blog space and not using it.
So, I finally convinced my wife to take a family vacation. it wasn’t easy, but wife Anna, son Andrew, and I boarded a plane and came out East to St. Louis. My dear friend Lisa hosted us, and we had a good twelve days of doing far, far too much on a daily basis.
Neither Andrew nor Anna have ever been to Missouri, before. It was, in fact, Andrew’s first plane trip, and despite some fears and misgivings he managed to really enjoy it. It was kind of an emotional experience for me, really; I got to involve Andrew in the physics and engineering of the plane the same way my father involved me when I had my first flight. Andrew got it pretty fast, actually; faster than I did.
The family vacation here was intense. We visited St. Charles at the height of a craft fair, visited the riverfront and the Gateway Arch, toured Meremac Caverns, spent most of a day in The City Museum and had lunch at Fitz’s Root Beer on the Del Mar Loop. Anna and Lisa spent hours… actually days… visiting thrift shops and craft stores, We went past my old house, visited the mall I used to hang out at, and hit most of my favorite places to eat. Every time a meal happened, we would all smile at one another and intone our mantra; “it isn’t about the food.”
It’s totally about the food.
I mean, if it wasn’t fried catfish at Hatfield & McCoy’s, it was White Castle burgers (Andrew loved them, Anna hated them), Steak & Shake, or Balducci’s pizza. There was even an all-you-can-eat family-style fried-chicken dinner at Eckert’s Peach Farm. Nothing quite compared, however, to the sandwiches at the Crown Candy Kitchen. You may have heard of this place if you happen to watch much Travel Channel… Adam Richmond visited a couple of times. Once was the five milkshake challenge (no thank you), but the other was to sample their BLT. We had the BLTs. I may never eat another one anywhere else. You just can’t beat a full pound of deep-fried bacon on white toast with lettuce, tomato, and Miracle Whip. Adam Richmond, somehow, chose a different sandwich as his most favorite sandwich of all time, and that boggles my mind.
The butterscotch malted was pretty darn good, too.
There was a great deal of very good food had, is my point. A lot of good food. Lisa prepared some of her classics at her home, too, and those were all, without exception, amazing. The peaches that were picked at Eckert’s became cobblers and a pie, there was home-made biscuits and gravy… amazing. All of it has been incredible.
There will be another post about the downside of all this wonderful eating.
Andrew got a few things that he was hoping to get (although not nearly as much as he claimed he wanted), and Anna got some items she simply could not have gotten anywhere else; mostly crafty items. Anna was like a blonde Finnish hurricane the whole time she was here, always clearing or cleaning or organizing, all things she enjoys doing a great deal. It was, all said and done, a great family vacation.
Then, I put my family on the plane and sent them home a few days ago.
There are some things here which need doing; help to be given, things to be organized, business to do. It’s going to take a little while, this time, which I thought would be something I could handle easily.
I am SO not handling this easily. There are a lot of things that I’m not dealing with well at all.
I call my family often; I miss them a lot. That happens when I’m away, though. Anna and I have kind of adapted to it. Andrew and I will have some quality time when I get back, and we’re keeping in touch in the meantime.
I miss my friends; I’m missing quite a few sessions of gaming and my regular weekly time with people dear to me. I’ll keep touch with them as best I can, but there’s a lot going on here, and I’m super busy. Folks know that I’m up to my eyeballs in getting stuff taken care of, and that helps. There’s bound to be some get-togethers and such when I get back.
Where I’m rapidly going into fetal position, however, is the fact that I’m two thousand miles away from my technology. I’ve put a lot of time and effort into the hardware and software that allows me to conduct business and express myself properly. It’s the keyboards and trackballs, the monitors and the huge Wacom tablet/screen, the Gigabytes of 3D models and textures… it’s hard to be away from. I know that sounds superficial and materialistic, and maybe it is, a bit. I’ve had to really look at myself, and why I miss these things quite so much.
I guess it goes all the way back to my learning disabilities and my frustrations as a kid. I could never, quite, get the thoughts in my head out of my head. I couldn’t share them in a meaningful fashion, couldn’t let other people see or understand what I was imagining. It felt, very much, like I was trapped inside of my own skull, and it drove me six kinds of crazy., Well, all right, only two were diagnosed, but it sure felt like six.
From my first Commodore 64 that I had right here, in St. Louis, I’ve come to rely on my technology to bridge the gap between my mind and the rest of the world. It’s become an increasingly complex array of technology, all of which I really rely on. It’s personal expression, communication with people I know and care about, entertainment, business, career, and profit. It’s there when I wake up in the morning and it’s the last thing I’m with before I retire to bed.
You throw my bad back into the picture, and there’s also the ultra-comfortable chair that I use that actually corrects my spinal position and relieves my pain while I’m sitting at my computers. I’ve had to sleep in that chair more than once when the herniated discs have acted up.
(Sigh)
All of which is to say that I’ve been acting like an ass here, and there’s still quite a bit of time to work though. My host and dear friend Lisa has loaned me her laptop, and we’ve added a properly ergonomic keyboard to it (hence, this post). It’s a good stop-gap; a very good one, in fact. I can get some things done.
So, this is a bit of self-exploration, a reporting of where I am and what we’ve been doing, and a public apology to people who may have had to be dealing with me. Yes, this means Lisa.
Because I’m kind of whiny and useless when I’m away from my tech.
Matters of deCorum 