Damn You, DFW!

Wednesday morning over cereal I was staring at my bookcase and thinking, "Can't wait for David Foster Wallace's next novel." The last one was Infinite Jest, the best novel of the 21st century that was published in the 20th century. I love that book unconditionally. It is mind-blowing. Reading it makes you smarter and better. But it's been a pretty long time since Infinite Jest (13 years now), and his other novel, The Broom of the System, is not so good. I've contented myself with his essays (awesome) and short stories (very good, occasionally extraordinary). His is a voice that makes an intense direct connection to me and people like me.

Or I should say, "His was a voice...," because David Foster Wallace killed himself yesterday. He was 46.

So Nerdy It's Painful

I'm something of a nerd myself: former D&D player (complete with subscription to Dragon magazine!); video game connoisseur; blogger. But this bumper sticker/t-shirt/dice-bag-embroidery, is so cringe-inducing I want to track down whoever foisted it on the world and smack them upside the head with my +2 baseball bat.

I saw it today on an otherwise normal-looking Honda Civic and had to wonder for the 100th time who would a) pay money for this nerdy, unfunny aphorism; and, b) adhere it to their car to proclaim their complete misunderstanding of the concept of humor.

Let's analyze this phrase. "Do not meddle in the affairs of dragons" -- sound enough advice, I suppose. Dragons are massive, fire-breathing monsters. Their lairs are boneyards, strewn with the picked-clean remains of those who have meddled. Most people in a world with dragons would not need to be advised not to meddle, any more than you or I need to be told not to meddle in the affairs of grizzly bears, or chainsaw-wielding serial killers.

"For you are crunchy" -- are humans crunchy? I mean, we have bones and all... but crunchy? Would you describe a pig as crunchy? A hippo? I guess one could argue that dragons are big enough to eat humans whole, in which case we'd be crunchy in the same way that a game hen is.

"And taste good with ketchup" -- this is what seals the awful deal. A dragon with a bottle of Heinz 57 on top of its treasure pile? For God's sake, dragons are cool! Ancient, wise, fierce, gold-hoarding, nearly-unstoppable killing machines that breathe fire and fly! But a dragon crunching on a knight or hobbit after drenching it in tomato ketchup is stupid and uncool and the inclusion of that image makes this the worst bumper sticker in human history.

Every time I think about it, I want to switch sides and become a bully.

Soapbox

No, I'm not going to get up on a soapbox and rap at ya. I'm gonna talk about the 2008 Portland Adult Soapbox Derby, which happened today. This is the third I've attended, and for some reason the magic was missing. The first year I was knocked out of my socks and into a bubbling whirlpool of awesomeness -- how could I have lived in Portland so long and not been hip to this most cool event? People making incredible non-motorized cars and careening down Mt. Tabor, an inactive volcano, at top speed? Not only were the cars absolutely mindblowing (in both categories: Art and Science), the atmosphere was the epitome of southeast Portland greatness: cool families, scurvy hippies, blondes with dreadlocks, shirtless skaters, eight million bicylists of all stripes, the occasional square from the west side, and everyone clutching a sweating can of PBR and having a blast.

Last year I also had a good time but I was in the midst of a non-drinking period and that took a bit of the fun out of it -- but not much. Instead of pounding brewskis, I made a movie.

This year was the first that Barb could attend (as in past years she was working retail which means Saturdays) and, of course, Elizabeth Rose. It was fun, still, but not as magical as in the past. Maybe it was the weather: HOT. It's almost 6pm right now and it's 99 degrees out (90 inside). Plus, the baby was fussy and couldn't be calmed. We left after maybe an hour or so because she became inconsolable.

There's always next year.

Dearth of a Salesman

Ugh. I just got done writing my KSAs for a job application. If you don't speak bureaucratese, KSAs (which stands for Knowledge, Skills, and Abilities) are the essay part of a government job application. E.g., "Describe your experience applying Federal, state, and local laws, regulations, policies, guides, procedures and judicial determinations to the veterans benefits programs."

Sounds like fun, huh?

I hate applying for jobs. However, here I am doing it. I'm afraid to get complacent, so I'm applying for a job I'm not sure I want that might lead to a higher-paying job I'm really not sure I want. Rolling stone, moss, etc.

The thing about job applications is that I'm not a salesman. I hate selling. Just take a look at the sales figures on my movie, Zombie Christ. It's a fun little movie with a killer marketing hook and the people who've bought it have done so almost in spite of me. I don't advertise even in the many free ways the web offers. Or see my various novel manuscripts gathering dust in my basement. It's not necessarily that they can't be sold, it's that I won't sell them. I hate selling -- but I said that already, didn't I?

Hell, I don't even tell people about this blog. My two readers are my Mom and Danielle from New Mommy Rant, and I have no idea how Danielle stumbled upon Awlthat.

Point being, applying for a job is the process of selling yourself. Even though I know I'm a great product, I have no interest in or aptitude for selling the product that is Andrew Larrison.

It's amazing I've made it this far.

The Problem With Cleveland

Cleveland's awesome. I've been here almost two weeks and have another week and a half to go.Today I got out of downtown finally (thanks to Barb), trained over to Ohio City and ate dinner and drank heavily at the Great Lakes Brewery, and had a great time. There's a lot to do here. Sure, the weather sucks -- buried in snow in the winter, drained by heat & humidity in the summer -- but that's to be expected if you're east of the Mississippi.

Cleveland is hip, it's happening, it's got charm, it's got beauty, it's got gravitas, it's got a lot for the young and young-at-heart to do. But by Christ the crosswalks are awful. The goddamn crosswalk sign takes 5 to 7 minutes to change. I'll time it tomorrow for real and report back; but my best guess is 5 to 7 minutes. You're standing there getting old while buses and cars and scooters and fixies fly by. Then you wait some more.

The other day I walked past a dude standing by a crosswalk vending his homemade music CDs.

"Take a listen," he said, offering me a pair of earphones connected to a Discman.

"I've got to get back to work," I said, taking a meaningful glance at my watch.

"Man, this light's going to take forever." I couldn't argue with that, so I listened and ended up purchasing the CD for five dollars. (Barb has since listened to it, and said it's awful. I'm glad I didn't pay what he asked, which was ten bucks.)

Portland is very pedestrian-friendly. Cleveland is not. Otherwise the city wouldn't make the hapless citizenry stand on the curb for eternity in the godawful humidity or homicidal, lake-effect snow.

C'mon, Cleveland, get your shit together.

Holy Effing Ess!

I've finally gotten into The World Ends With You, the game that sold me on the DS. It's by Japanese powerhouse publisher Square Enix (of Final Fantasy fame). It uses the dual screens to unique advantage. It has a compelling, emotionally resonant storyline -- something unusual in games.

Now that I'm into it, all I can say is (earmuffs!) holy fucking shit! The game is good, but the combat is so insanely complex that I'd like to meet the 14-year-old Japanese Ritalin-popping idiot savant who must have designed it. Then I'd like to donkey punch him. (I think -- I'm not sure what a donkey punch is. If it's something pleasurable, I take it back.)

Consider that in combat you play two characters at once. One fights on the touch screen by means of specific motions of the stylus. The one on top fights in a sort of rhythm game where you guide an arrow through a three-prong maze towards a certain symbol. You try to match the symbol at the end of one of the prongs with the same symbol on a card at the top of that screen. Sound confusing? Try playing it and suffer the consequences.

I suppose there must be someone out there, someone born in the nineties, who is really good at this game. I should probably look on YouTube for a video, and stare in awe at someone whose brain revs a helluva lot faster than mine.

It's things like this that make me realize that I'm ... not young anymore.

Experiments in Otaku or, I Think I'm Turning Japanese

So I bought a Nintendo DS. I used the Cleveland trip as justification, but frankly it's just an excuse to wallow in the failure of my Video Game Free 2008. And wallow I have been doing.
How did I decide on a Nintendo over the equally-or-even-more- appealing Sony PSP, you ask? I would love to indulge your curiousity by means of a lengthy explanation!

I have two friends who have a DS. They both are more than willing to lend me games (partially because they're generous people and good friends, partially because the DS -- unlike the PSP -- uses unscratchable cartridges rather than delicate, scratchable, and simply bizarre UMD discs). That means the gaming is cheaper on the DS (which is already $40 cheaper to buy just the device). Plus I felt that a PSP is simply a Playstation 2 shrunk down to handheld size. Wheras the DS is an entirely new system. For instance, the PSP has lots of cool games, but said games are simply ports of PS2 games that work a lot better and in fact are a lot cooler on the PS2. So basically, if you want to play PS2 games, get a PS2. Dude.

And the DS has, uh, Dual Screens. Ever hear of another video game player with two screens? Me neither. And it works. As with the Wii, Nintendo, those clever bastards, decided to just take a flyer on the hardware -- create something unexpectedly new and weird -- and leave it to the software engineers to catch up. And boy-howdy, have they caught up? I reckon they have.

Furthermore, I've been seduced a bit by the whole Japanese otaku thing, no thanks to the embarassingly named website DS Fanboy, which revels in otaku. Very greatly simplified, otaku is Japanese for geek. And were you to talk to a Japense person, they would tell you that otaku is a 100% disparaging word. They are disturbed when Americans such as myself willingly append the work otaku to their descriptions, as I'm doing in this post.

But we're Americans, baby! We make the rules. And you might recall, if you were alive circa 1906, that "geek" was a hideously disparaging term. No one would have willingly described themselves as a "geek" unless they couldn't get work as a madhouse attendant. Now we've got the Geek Squad, geek chic, Harry Knowles, etc. Being a geek is cool... kinda.

I was a bit fearful of purchasing the DS (although not really, because I could turn around and sell it at a minimum loss) because I've never really been into the 2-D gaming. I didn't get really interested in videogames until they got highly proficient at 3-D in 2001 (cf. Serious Sam). But what's cool about the DS is its, for lack of a better word, differentness. I've tried out three games so far and they're all unexpectedly good. Plus, it plays GBA games, of which there are a thousand that are good -- although all of those are old-school 2-D games of the type I might have played on my NES in 1989.

Enough on that. I'd rather be playing Puzzle Quest than writing about it. Let me just leave you with a glimpse at a tiny facet of the multi-faceted gemstone that is otaku:


See what I mean?

The Missing

I'm away from my baby for the first time since her birth: in Cleveland for three and a half weeks to train newly hired service reps for the VA. Cleveland's pretty cool, the extra money is nice, the work is fine -- the only thing missing is my family; especially this beautiful baby!

It's notable how much the missing can really hurt. I saw a fellow traveller here at the hotel step off the elevator carrying a pair of little baby girl shoes and a dart of missing struck my heart. I saw a news story about a local man who allegedly murdered his 2-month-old namesake son and felt a pang of such sorrow... that little baby deserved so much more.

I love my baby girl so much.

Thankfully, we can afford to have Barb and Elizabeth fly out in a week, and stay for the remainder of the trip. Can't wait.

The bachelor thing was fun for a day or two, but the novelty is already wearing off. Frankly, I'm a pretty lame bachelor. I hunker down in my hotel room listening to Built To Spill, drinking beer, and either reading (Lonesome Dove, which is awesome), internetting, or playing video games (see Experiments in Otaku or I Think I'm Turning Japanese, above). Tonight I spent a minute or two looking at the fireworks over Jacobs Field (I'll never call it Progressive Field!), then went back to my beer and my DS.

Baby is My Co-Pilot

Today Barb went to church thence to Robin Burrow's baby shower, leaving me and Elizabeth Rose to fend for ourselves. She's almost four months old, now, but it's been the rare occasion that we spend time with just each other. As if that weren't enough to make Daddy apprehensive, Portland's in the middle of a heat wave (The Surfer's exterior thermometer showed 108 degrees yesterday!) and there were a ton of chores crying to be done (dishes, laundry, unpacking from camping, putting together a couple of Zombie Christ orders, etc.).

We ended up having a great time together. I played with and read to E.R., carried her around a lot on my shoulder (her new carry position), fed her twice, and still managed to get most of the chores done. I came away from the experience feeling that we should make it a regular thing: Daddy-Baby Day. Not only is it great for us, it's a much-needed break for Mommy, who spends so much time with the baby (and will be spending even more, with my upcoming 26-day trip to Cleveland).

Book Review: Rendezvous with Rama

Rendezvous with Rama by Arthur C. Clarke

My review

rating: 3 of 5 stars
Knowing only a little about the plot (humans have a brief chance to explore a huge alien spacecraft as it zooms through our solar system), I was disappointed a bit by RwR. The spacecraft is fundamentally pretty understandable. The human explorers within minutes of getting inside know the basics. It's the details that are mysterious. And Clarke does a good job of keeping them (the details) intriguing, alien, and, ultimately, inexplicable. But I was hoping for an encounter with something truly, mind-blowingly alien. No such luck. These aliens use plates, for instance, and wear belts. They like water and breathe more or less the same type of atmosphere we do. The book ends with the promise of a sequel (two, actually), and I have a feeling one exists. If it does, I'll read it.

Typically of classic SF, the characters are not in any way memorable, but they do the job of proving the reader with someone to identify with in a book that's really about scientific ideas.


View all my reviews.