Richard Dansky's Blog, page 17
March 13, 2012
How to get from Durham to Toronto in a Few Easy Steps That Include Detroit
March 4, 2012
Things I Never Expected to Hear
It would be nice, when a project like this came along, for folks to say, "Hey, maybe not all of the stuff I would have chosen, but I think I might just judge it on its own merits", as opposed to taking the typically hyperbolic CD title - seriously, did ANYONE think that this track list was compiled in an effort to be definitive for the ages, as opposed to the CD being given a title that might sell a few more copies - as some sort of betrayal of the Platonic Ideal of Game Music?
I know, I'm crazy. Then again, my favorite game music comes from Colony Wars , so any opinion I have on the greatest game music of all time is probably a little skewed anyway. But in the end, it's neat to hear the Conviction theme get the full orchestral treatment, and I would hope that even the folks who don't think it's One Of The Greatest Games Of All Time, or Some Of The Greatest Game Music Of All Time would at least enjoy the track for what it is.
March 2, 2012
A Charlotte Sportswriter Talks About Depression
As far as the writing goes, it's good, solid writing. There's no poetry here, no Joe Posnanski-esque lyricism or anything like that. It's just one guy talking honestly about what he went through, and how badly he messed up, and how, with some help, he was able to start crawling up out of that hole. And it's sad, and it's scary, and it's hopeful, and I read it over lunch and it hit me harder than anything you get off a site devoting most of its coverage to college basketball small-conference tournament previews had any right to.
So go ahead. Read it, if you want. I'm glad I did.
February 29, 2012
Important Things Learned At Sunday's Settlers Of Catan Tournament
February 28, 2012
Bennett Homestead
For those who think the Civil War ended when Lee surrendered at Appamattox Court House, I have some surprising news. Even when the Army of Northern Virginia laid down its arms, Jeff Davis was still running and Joe Johnston was desperately trying to slow down Sherman's march north.
Neither of these efforts, as you might guess, worked out particularly well. And when it became clear that it was all over but the shouting, Johnston and Sherman met to discuss surrender terms three times at a little farmstead outside of what was then called Durham's Station. They met three times, cut two deals (one of which was rejected back in DC), and ultimately nailed down the surrender of the remaining 89000 or so Confederate troops under arms, under the same terms Grant gave Lee.
In other words, it's where the war ended for real.
These days, the site's tucked in, a few blocks off I-85 in Durham. There's a welcome center, and some woods with a nature trail. The farmhouse is preserved, and the kitchen building where the surviving Bennetts (they lost two sons and a son-in-law to the war) waited out the peace talks, and the smokehouse nearby. There's a "Unity Arch", a small monument commemorating what happened there, and a gazebo/bandstand that got moved there from downtown. Inside the welcome center is a small exhibit, a couple of rooms' worth of densely packed artifacts and explanations, along with a theater for a short Ken Burns-style film and, inevitably, a gift shop. There's also a research library, but I don't think the general public goes in there much.
It was cold, and Dad had been up early that morning, so he stayed at the center talking with the kind folks on staff while my nephew and I explored. He asked me some questions, and I gave the best answers I could, and explained to him that there hadn't been fighting here. There'd been peace, and that was pretty cool.
Inside, Dad was chatting up the folks running the place. One of them had worked on the film Gettysburg, and had stories to tell about a particular actor, his generosity toward the crew (measured in beer), and his godawful fake beard. Nephew Jake ping-ponged around the shop, asked questions about some things he saw, and didn't ask for me to buy him anything. I picked up a book on Civil War troop movements in the Carolinas, and some brochures for other local Civil War sites.
"One of these days, you want to go?" I asked both of them.
Yeah. They did.
February 26, 2012
Updates and Other Stuff
Ray Bradbury's Nemo - the lost script for Bradbury's adaptation of the beloved comic strip, now published at last
Bill Willingham's Proposition Player - in which I do not make a single joke about how all the characters in my old V&V sourcebooks have thighs bigger around than their torsos
Phil and Kaja Foglio's Agatha Heterodyne and the Beetleburg Clank - As you might have guessed, that's a Girl Genius compilation.
Just got the proofs in for The New Hero , the anthology from Stoneskin Press with my story, "The 39th Labor of Reb Palache", in it. I'll have a few more thoughts on that story as we get closer to pub date.
I'll be out in San Francisco for GDC from the 6th to the 9th of March, once again unleashing my game writers' round table on the unsuspecting conference. If you're at the conference - or even in the vicinity of Moscone during the show - drop me a line. We'll have a Nice Cocktail, or some such.
Finished up a story for another anthology, working on two more in between moments. I've also resuscitated my old sports blog Sportsthodoxy in conjunction with good friend and WW-days partner in crime Jim Kiley (of "Kiley's Red" fame from Book of the Wyrm); more on that later as well.
And in the morning, Melinda and I are participating in a Settlers of Catan tournament. Pray for Catan; that poor island needs it.
February 24, 2012
Scary Movies: Innkeepers and The Whisperer In Darkness
This year I only caught two movies, the HP Lovecraft Historical Society adaptation of The Whisperer in Darkness, done as a 40s-style black-and-white horror movie, and The Innkeepers, a ghost story I'd heard good things about. Of the two, The Innkeepers was the bigger disappointment. Set in an aging hotel that's in its last weekend open to the public, the film concerns itself with the two amateur ghost hunters on staff at the place. They're more interested in ghost hunting, getting through the weekend without succumbing to terminal boredom, and each other than they are in the running of the hotel, much to the chagrin of the few guests. One of those guests is a faded TV star now working as a psychic, played with zero glamor by Top Gun's Kelly McGillis, and she handles what could be risibly earnest dialog with enough world-weariness to make it believable. Of course, spooky things start to happen, false alarms give way to real ones, and then, well, there's a case of Sudden Onset Too Stupid To Live Syndrome that takes us to our thrilling conclusion.
That's not to say that there aren't good points to The Innkeepers. Some of the shocks are nicely calculated, and the camerawork makes good use of the hotel's stately yet claustrophobic interiors. Sara Paxton, as ghost-hunting desk clerk Claire, brings to mind Reese Witherspoon, her eyes open Little Orphan Annie-wide throughout most of the film. The dynamic of her relationship with her coworker Luke (Pat Healy) evolves throughout the film; what starts with her tagging along eagerly in his somewhat skeevy wake transforms into his helplessly bobbing along in hers as disaster draws ever closer. Utlimately, there's a lot of good bits in The Innkeepers, but it can't rise above just moments. And in movies like this, SOTSTLS is often fatal for the film as well as the character.
The Whisperer In Darkness, on the other hand, does a dandy job of mimicking its chosen style, right down to the font used in the credits. Based on the Lovecraft short about weird space lobsters lurking in the hills of Vermont, the film takes the source material and expands on it in a way that satisfies both the story's conception and its filmic needs. Yes, the action sequences are a little hokey; then again, they were hokey in the films WiD is paying tribute to as well. And the realization of the Mi-Go, the flying Fungi from Yuggoth that poor, deluded Professor Wilmarth refuses to believe in at first, is both visually striking and original. There are fewer shocks to be had here than in The Inkeepers, but more of an atmosphere of genuine dread. Barry Lynch generates more than his share of creepy moments as the farmer whose letters lure Wilmarth upstate; his wheezing laughter will probably stick with a viewer longer than anything else in the film. Matt Foyer is fine as the intrepid Wilmarth, though is unfortunate resemblance to Alton Brown makes one wonder if space fungi are in fact good eats. Go in expecting a modern horror movie and you'll be disappointed, but go in thinking you just might see James Arness wreaking havoc while dressed as a marauding space carrot, and you just might get a kick out of the thing.
February 15, 2012
Them Melons Is Kinda Horny
It's Sunday. Melinda and I are in the supermarket, doing a fast run through the produce section, and I spot something. Several somethings, actually. They're over in the "weird foreign fruits that we only sell to weirdos" display, and they're fascinating-looking. Bright yellow. Spiky. Oddly shaped. And each one has a sticker on it with a picture of a llama on it.
"What are those?" Melinda asks.
"I have no idea," I tell her, and pick one up. It feels firm, at least the bits that don't feel spiky and pointy. It feels like the sort of thing I can make sorbet out of. I look at the display. There is no label. There is also no price. I look at the fruit again, and at the llama stickers.
"Well, you should try a couple. Maybe you can make sorbet out of them," says my wife, who humors and occasionally encourages my sorbet habit.
I take two.
In the checkout line, the woman at the register looks at my prizes suspiciously. "What are those?" she asks.
"I have no idea," Melinda says. "He bought them. He has a sorbet problem."
"I do," I confirm. The woman frowns. Flips through the book of produce on her register.
"Horny melons," she finally says. "They're called horny melons."
"Great," I say. "Thank you." I can make sorbet out of melons, no problem.
"Honeydew sorbet was good," Melinda adds helpfully.
We buy the groceries and take them home, and then the fun starts.
"What do you do with horny melons?" Melinda asks. I have no idea. I don't know what they're supposed to taste like. I don't know how you serve them. And so I go online and look it up.
This is my first mistake.
The horny melon is not a melon. It is a close but flamboyant relative of the cucumber which has run away from home and joined the circus. There is a picture of horny melon innards on the web page I've found. They are not orange, nor are they fleshy. They consist entirely of large seeds surrounded in what the page - which is pro-horny melon and talks about its wonderful range of flavors - refers to as "slimy sacs".
The page also has detailed instructions for eating horny melons (Cut in half. Take a slimy sac in your mouth. Bite down and savor the slime. Eat or spit out the seed as you wish.) and a video of someone cutting a horny melon in half.
The last time I saw something like that, I was watching an illustrator work on the cover for a Lovecraft tribute anthology.
But I press ahead. This is partially because I bought the damn things, and by God I'm not going to give up before I've actually tried to make sorbet out of them. It's also partially because I'm really stubborn about this sort of thing, and because I have that sort of Lovecraft protagonist mindset whereby insatiable curiosity forces one to go places Man Was Never Meant To Go.
I cut one of the horny melons in half. It makes a sound like "shlorp". I pick up the bisected melon and look inside. Plainly visible are many, many slimy sacs. Gingerly, I grab the melon in such a way as to minimize perforation and attempt to squeeze the innards out into a bowl. For a minute they resist, and then there's this awful, wet sliding sensation and the whole thing goes in one fell "gloop". Carefully, and not entirely sanguine about the process, I do the same for the other half, and then the other deceptively-named-thing-that-is-not-in-fact-a-melon.
This leaves me with a bowl full of seeds in slimy sacs, which is not good sorbet material. The web page offers no suggestions as to how to separate seed from slime, except with one's teeth, so I decide to improvise - ten minutes whisking, followed by a trip through the strainer.
This works. Sort of. Some of the slime comes off, forming a green, frothy liquid. More sticks around. And the seeds remain the seeds. In the end, I have far less liquid than I'm comfortable with using. It's a thick, turgid green, which is also not something I'm entirely comfortable with. And, when I dip my finger in to test, I discover that the whole thing does not taste like bananas, as the web page promised.
It tastes like cucumbers.
I say several choice things, none of which are suitable for my parents to read. Then I go over to the fridge, and look in my drawer of sorbet fixings to see what might go with cucumber. Grapes? No. Strawberries? Probably not. Blackberries? No. Blood orange? Only if I'm an expat in 1920s Paris looking to impress Hemingway with my ability to projectile vomit.
"What goes with cucumbers?" I ask my wife. "Absinthe," she shoots back, and points me at one of her bottles.
I take the hint. And the bottle. "This is going to be awful," I tell her. "You can stop," she replies. "No. No, I can't." And I pour an indeterminate amount of absinthe into the frothing green bowl of cucumbery awfulness. Then I squeeze a lime in, because I need some citrus to help it set up, and I make a small batch of simply syrup, and I heat the whole mess in a vain attempt to boil off enough alcohol to allow the thing to potentially set once I dump it in the ice cream maker.
Fast forward to tonight. Valentine's Day. We've had our usual Valentine's Day culinary disaster - imps possess my kitchen on February 14th. I've messed up PB&J on Valentine's Day, let alone complicated stuff. There are bad moments with cheese. There are bad moments with a tomato that has mysteriously gone from just picked to pommodoro sauce in two days. There are very bad moments with some chicken. You get the idea. But somehow, it all comes out, and we have a nice dinner of chicken breasts and fresh mozzarella and crostini and a few other things, and it's all quite lovely.
And then Melinda asks if I'm done in the kitchen, and I say no, I need to make the world's worst sorbet. And really, it looks like that's where we're headed. The chilled mixture in the fridge has gotten cloudy in the middle in the way one normally associates only with bad special effects from Tom Baker-era Dr. Who episodes. It's still very, very green. And it smells aggressively antisocial.
But we've come this far. So I set up the machine, and start the process. Miraculously, it sets up almost immediately, possibly because it's such a small batch. Melinda comes wandering into the kitchen and asks how it looks.
"Like we're seeing inside the Slurpee machine in Hell's 7-11", I tell her, and it's true. A look inside the ice cream machine shows tumbling blobs of greenish...stuff. It may or may not be sentient.
"Do you want to try it?" I ask her.
"No," she tells me. "But you're going to make me anyway, aren't you."
"You're part of this," I tell her, and hand her a sample spoon.
She tries it. Gets a very thoughtful look on her face. Hands me the spoon, which still has sorbet on it.
"That's...not bad," she says. I check to make sure gravity is still working, and try it myself.
It does not taste like cucumber. It tastes like absinthe, with sweet and astringent flavors running underneath it. Melinda takes the spoon back and finishes the sorbet. "That's actually pretty good. And now we know how to do absinthe and cucumber sorbet."
"We do," I agree, and start bundling up the minuscule amount of sorbet the two llama-sticker-bespangled bright yellow horny melons yielded, in a tiny tupperwear container.
"But no more horny melons." Melinda nods. "No more.
February 14, 2012
I Prophesy Disaster
But I tell you this, friends - some things were simply not meant to be sorbeted. And horny melon is about six of them.
February 10, 2012
The Rich Are Different
I talked to my wife on the phone for a while, and then I ordered dinner and read my book for a while, and then I ate dinner, all in what was essentially solitude. There were a couple of folks a couple of tables over, but they were quiet, and they ignored me, and the waitstaff, once they got my order, was mainly focused on the hockey game. The Flyers eventually won, 4-3. I didn't cheer.
As I was wrapping up dinner, a party came in. A few men, a couple of women, all with the habit and air of being deeply expensive. The women take off their coats; they're wearing very expensive dresses with a very high dollar-to-square-inch-of-fabric ratio. The men are wearing artfully mussed suits. They order cocktails and talk about how they had this amazing vodka that tasted like strawberries every time they went to Prague and fill the room with the six of them.
The folks at the other table leave. I pick up my book at start reading again. Eventually, dessert arrives.
And the lively, lovely folks at the table next to mine, the one carved from a giant cross-section of a tree trunk, the ones whose every utterance drowns out Tom Petty and Roy Orbison and Bob Dylan and all of them singing together, they get onto the topic of the former Victoria's Secret model who has renounced her modeling career that she might save her loveliness for her husband's delectation, and her husband's alone. They debate this very earnestly, and very loudly, and very enthusiastically. They are still debating it as I pay my check.
And as I get up to go, one of the gentlemen says to one of his female companions, who is elegantly dressed and carefully coiffed and furiously trying to explain to him why this particular model was, in the words of another one of their companions, born "sick smoking hot", he turned to her and said, "You know, your face and her body, that would be the perfect woman."
She changed the subject.
The rich, they are different.
