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October 31, 2007

I'm Dreaming

It’s like spending Christmas in Miami.

As I write this, I’m wearing black pants and a bright orange sweater. It’s not accomplishing much. Young Frankenstein is in the DVD player, vainly trying to strike the Halloween mood. I’m nibbling a Kit Kat bar, hoping to draw in trick-or-treaters through sympathetic magic.

We have one bag of Hershey’s minis for the trick-or-treaters. One small bag. We will eat it all ourselves. We also have three oversized bars ready for the first kids to ring the doorbell. The message is: this house gives the good candy. Nobody gets that message. I’ve grown used to getting no trick-or-treaters, but I will never accept it.

We have neither jack-o’-lantern nor pumpkin seeds this year. Usually, we pick up a pumpkin in mid-October, at the orchard where we pick our own apples, but the weather was soggy every weekend this month. Rain turns the orchard into a sea of mud, so we kept putting the trip off. I planned instead on getting a pumpkin from a more local farm, but found it closed. Even the grocery stores weren’t carrying pumpkins this year, a casualty perhaps of the weather that ruined many crops this year.

Speaking of weather, Halloween itself is a cheery, warm day. It’s hard to think spooky thoughts when sunlight spills over trees remaining unseasonably green.

I left the house twice today to walk the neighborhood, once for errands, once for exercise. I saw two costumes: a kitty and a cowboy waiting for their dad to come off shift at the firehouse.

I can’t even celebrate with Eileene; she’s on an overnight business trip in DC.

I feel like I’m on the business trip myself, in Thailand or Senegal or some other country where nobody celebrates October 31. Perhaps things will get better after sunset, but I wouldn’t count on it. Building a holiday mood takes some time. Besides, these days children are only allowed to troll for candy in daylight; once the sun sets, my holiday is over.

Boo.

Say Hello to My Invisible Friend

I think part of the problem we have with religion in this country is that, although believers are allowed to put forward policies based in their religious doctrine, challenging religious belief for any reason, on any grounds, is considered generally rude. For a believer who keeps his religion a matter of personal conscience, a courteous distance is appropriate, but once a believer enters the political ring, he should be subject to the same rough-and-tumble debate as everyone else. It’s okay to propose a law that homosexuals shouldn’t be married because God forbids it, but it’s not okay to demand proof of this supposed God before enacting the law on such grounds. We are expected to give full credence to the idea not merely despite the fact that someone has decided to believe against all evidence and argument, but because somebody has decided to believe against all evidence and argument. This is absurd, and we need to get past the idea that argument flows one and only one way between church and state.

We might find it easier to get past that hump through a change of label. When we speak of God, whether theist or atheist, we speak of a major component of western history, an idea that enjoys the weight of centuries and the work of some very powerful thinkers. We touch on cherished beliefs; shaking those beliefs can cause discomfort. Stop speaking of God as God in politics. Substitute “my invisible friend” instead. That’s what God is, when brought into political debate: an invisible friend who agrees with the believer, lending all the authority of his omniscient, ineffable wisdom, but never available for direct comment.

Instead of considering the proposal “God forbids gay marriage,” try rephrasing it “My invisible friend forbids gay marriage, and says we should rewrite the Constitution to agree.”

Not so persuasive any more, is it? Try these historical arguments; see how well they hold up.

“My invisible friend says I shouldn’t pay taxes, because I work so hard to share his ideas with people who can’t see or hear him.”

“My invisible friend wants us to stop teaching biology to our children, because it might make some children doubt that he has all the answers.”

“My invisible friend says you can’t give medicine to my sick child, because he will heal her if she believes hard enough. It’s a kind of test. If he doesn’t heal her, she didn’t deserve to be cured.”

“My invisible friend says we shouldn’t let Catholics into the country, because their invisible friend is a lie.”

“My invisible friend says we should do nothing to combat AIDS, because he’s using AIDS to punish people he doesn’t like.”

“My invisible friend says you should give me 10% of your income.”

“My invisible friend says these women should be set on fire.”

“My invisible friend says this man should be stoned to death for daring to speak my invisible friend’s name.”

“My invisible friend says it’s okay for me to kill all these people and take their land. Oh, and take their women as concubines.”

“My invisible friend says the world is flat, and that’s the end of it.”

Sounds very different, doesn’t it?

October 29, 2007

Prairie Mage--a performance review

We finished our latest RPG campaign yesterday, and I am flush with a sense of accomplishment. I’d have to call the campaign a success; the players all enjoyed themselves, I avoided the floundering of my previous “City of the Dead,” and the campaign came to a rousing finale. So well done, me.

I can’t rest on my laurels very long, however, or even very comfortably. Blame it on my perfectionism. RPGs, being works by committee and almost devoid of editing tools, are imperfect at best, and, while the campaign was good, it wasn’t great. Reviewing what worked and what didn’t can be instructive.

My previous campaign, “City of the Dead,” was a dismal failure, bad enough that we simply abandoned it. The noir afterlife story of greed and betrayal left my players floundering, unable to penetrate the tangle of personal motives behind the great and terrible events upsetting Cadavera. I learned too late that nobody but me even liked the noir genre. Oy! Determined not to make that same mistake, I designed a campaign intended to keep things moving, and to encourage characters to action instead of inaction. I relied heavily on Robin Laws’ advice to give the players what they want, above and beyond all else.

1. Making the mysteries easy works.

In particular, my players hadn’t liked sinister mysteries where one misstep spells doom. Oh, they liked the idea of sinister mysteries where one misstep spells doom, but in fact knowing this just frightened them from plumbing the mysteries, for fear of making a mistake. Clearly players don’t always know what they want.

So I made the mysteries obvious. No evil mastermind would expose himself this way, so I eliminated the evil mastermind. The threat lay in a complete breakdown in a secret government facility storing arcane artifacts. Until the PCs got to the facility, nobody would try to stop them from doing anything, since nobody had an interest in maintaining the chaos at the facility, or even reason to think the facility existed.

At that, it nearly failed. The minute the players knew a powerful magical entity (in this case, the legendary Crystal Skull) knew about them and had hostile intent, they immediately tried to hide, stopped using their magic powers—exploring which magic powers were the whole point of the game—and refused to go on the offensive, because that would be dangerous. Attacking whatever was in the facility? Too dangerous when we don’t know what it is. Finding out more about what’s in the facility? Too dangerous when it can catch us doing so. Putting up defenses so it couldn’t catch them? Pointless; whatever it is is way stronger than we are. We give up.

Sigh.

I went into this campaign with a deliberate focus on making things obvious, lest confusion lead to inactivity. I hadn’t counted on players taking knowledge as an excuse for inactivity, as well.

2. Making the story up as you go along works, sometimes.

Your players are not as capable of penetrating mysteries as Sherlock Holmes or James Bond. It’s a simple fact of gaming life. But even if they were, they couldn’t solve yours very effectively, because they can’t see what’s going on the way Holmes and Bond can. All your players have to go on is what you describe, which is vastly less information than literary heroes, being immersed in their environment have to go on, especially since they can instantly distinguish significant clues from incidental background scenery. But your players want to tell stories where they uncover mysteries and foil dangerous villains. How can you give them a difficult mystery to solve without allowing them to ruin it all through their own clumsy investigation?

Enter a strange storytelling device that could only work in RPGs. The GM sets up a mystery, and doesn’t bother explaining it. Hasn’t got a clue what’s going on. Instead, he listens to the players as they speculate, in character and out of it, on the possible explanation. Then he fills in the story as they go, using their guesses. Because the mystery is whatever the players think it is, they come across as skillful investigators, and are guaranteed not to unravel the mystery only to announce, “That doesn’t make much sense.”

The technique has some pitfalls. For one thing, it won’t last the entire campaign. At some point, you have to stop incorporating the players’ limitless ideas and start tying it off into some kind of conclusion. For me, that was about a year into our 18-month campaign. Take the best elements, hammer them into a coherent back story, and drop everything else. Once you reach this point, allow no red herrings, or you’ll never get to the conclusion. Axiomatically, your players will take anything you describe in detail to be significant. Do not let them do this! Once you reach the turnover from spinning out thread to tying off a conclusion, eliminate anything your players get interested in before it’s too late. Kill witnesses with interesting stories to tell, if those stories don’t tie into the conclusion. Reward investigations into the wrong subject with nothing, no matter how good the roll is. I realized this too late, and my players seized on every irrelevant detail as an excuse to avoid the scary confrontation at the climax, dragging out a long, painful stretch between identifying the problem driving our story and doing anything about it.

For another thing, you have to keep the technique secret from your players, or they’ll be dissatisfied to learn that they can’t fail. In their hearts, they want easy victories, but in their heads, they refuse to admit it. Keeping this technique secret means you need to depart from the “whatever the PCs guess turns out to be right” occasionally. Just enough to make them feel that the blind alleys they reach are proof that you’ve got a complete, objective mystery for them to uncover. This balance has nothing to do with realism. Real investigation involves dozens, even thousands of blind alleys for every step forward—ask any cop who has had to study mug shots. Or any doctor chasing down a rare ailment. Or any intel officer who’s had to correlate data from satellite photos. This kind of investigation is not fun; it is dull work. Your players don’t want dull work. Keep the red herrings to a functioning minimum. Remember that you may need to eliminate them, one by one, as your campaign draws to a conclusion.

Finally, I found that building the plot from player speculation left me high and dry when the players wound down. Either they ran out of ideas for the moment, or a few bad skill rolls meant their obvious source of the next clue had let them down. Either way, without a direction in mind, I had no direction in which to give them a friendly push. Keep one step ahead of your players while using this method. Keep a running estimate of what you think is happening, given what the players know so far, what the mystery would be if your players magically discovered it all right now. Be prepared to toss your players a bone from that estimate when they get stuck. If they’re stuck, they will obligingly take it. Also, it is essential to have material like this in case your players ignore whatever you have planned for the evening. It happens. Your players decide they want nothing to do with the creepy old gun in the trench coat, reasonably but incorrectly considering him more threat than information source, or don’t even realize that all will be revealed if they go poking around the broken-down mansion. If you don’t have something else ready, that evening is a dud. If you don’t keep a running estimate of what’s really going on given what the players know or guess right now, you won’t be able to improvise the next step.

3. Demand that your players create characters appropriate to the setting.

Our theme was bored teenagers in the tiny farming town of West Bumble, Nebraska suddenly developing unexpected magical powers, and exploring those powers. One of my players wants to play nothing but bored Irish aristocrats with a penchant for poker, horses, gossip, and snuff, or Cockney guttersnipes, preferably from the eighteenth century. She has very specific tastes. That gives me two options: design a campaign around that very specific concept, a concept which other players may find boring, or compel her to create a different kind of character. I made the mistake of allowing her to play a bored Irish et cetera in “City of the Dead,” on the grounds that just about any soul could be found in Cadavera. That character never did anything, because he didn’t give a rat’s ass about corruption and a perversion of the system by which souls progressed to the afterlife. I created West Bumble in part because I knew there would be neither bored Irish aristocrats nor Cockney guttersnipes anywhere. I put my foot down concerning Cockney exchange students. Had I allowed one, it would have been toxic to the game; my player would have used every excuse to try to avoid the entire adventure and complain that she just wanted to go back to England—as it was, she complained about how she wanted to escape to the excitement of New York or Tel Aviv as soon as possible. Because I didn’t allow bored Irish et cetera, or anything remotely like it, she reluctantly created a character that worked.

In some sense, this policy violated my prime directive of giving the players what they wanted: this player couldn’t play her favorite (only) character concept. But in a larger sense, it was entirely in keeping with the principle; the only way I could prevent such a character from being toxic would be to bore the hell out of everyone else at the table.

4. Let the GM choose the system.

I allowed myself to be talked into using the Mage ruleset, a sort of compromise between what players were familiar with and what everyone could tolerate. Not my first choice. The White Wolf game system is generally pretty good, and excellent when it comes to magic. The method of combining spheres to create magical effects in the Mage game is brilliant. Unfortunately, it is also too complicated for some of my players, so I ended up spending way too much time explaining things to them, despite going to the effort of simplifying the magic even farther and writing up a set of house rules.

At the same time, it employs a lot of story-killing powers: telepathy, mind control, time reversal. In trying to keep these story-killers out of players hands, I interpreted the rules harshly when they appeared. I lost a player halfway through our campaign. He had a very busy schedule, but I feel in part he couldn’t live with my narrative style: he was used to Mage allowing him to do certain things, and I was telling him he couldn’t. We could have avoided that had I chosen the right system to do what I wanted my story to do in the first place, instead of trying to employ a compromise set of rules to do what it was never designed to do.

We also had trouble with botches. Many games include some kind of rules for trying something and really screwing up, far worse than simple failure. Fail an athletics roll, and you strike out in a baseball game; botch, and you get injured in play. Botch a diplomacy roll, and you offend the duchess you were trying to pump for information. Botch a demolitions roll, and…well. The White Wolf game is way, way too rich in botches, maybe five or ten percent, when I find that one percent is plenty. This meant that I often had to stop my players just when they were building momentum: they had a good idea, pursued it, and botched a roll. Suddenly they had to deal with the immediate crisis while the window of opportunity closed. I never figured out what I could do about this; players rightfully insist on rolling their own dice, and they can see the botch as clearly as I can. Overrule the dice, and you let the players know that you’re telling the story, and they’re just along for the ride; their character skills, and their own tactical employment of those skills, don’t mean anything. But the overall effect was to kill the kind of forward action I had done everything I could to create.

Final Thoughts.

I am probably more aware of the campaign’s shortcomings than any of my players. GMs keep most plot elements to themselves, partly to add mysteries to the story and partly to help control elements of pacing. If a villain is to be unmasked dramatically halfway through the story, the GM can’t very well tell his players so in the first episode; that would ruin the surprise. Indeed, events may turn in such a way that unmasking the villain won’t make any narrative sense when the time comes, so it may not happen at all, and the GM might need to rewrite “what’s really going on” where the players can’t see it. My GM prerogative of knowing what’s going on means I know all of the opportunities I missed. When a player is frustrated, he chalks it up to the give-and-take of a dramatic environment; when a GM is frustrated, the game isn’t working right, and it feels like his own fault.

My players remained largely, and blissfully, ignorant of whole story lines that failed to materialize, and of the times I was just floundering. So they had a great time, and felt it was a terrific campaign. Me, I still need to work out more techniques for keeping the action moving.

October 26, 2007

Most Peculiar, Momma

Now, see, this is the kind of thing I’m talking about when I wonder whether I obsess too much over RPGs. An online acquaintance in the Unknown Armies newsgroup describes a dream (or, as he puts it, a “meta-dream”) he had about Unknown Armies, in which the rulebooks themselves are handled with the same occult significance as the world they describe.

Before I go further, you need to know a bit about Unknown Armies. It is billed as a game of modern horror, and it has horror elements, but that’s not the real focus. Unlike other horror games, people are at the center—indeed, are all there is. No vampires, no gibbering things from beyond time, no demons. Well, okay, demons, but demons are the angry souls of dead people, ready to do anything to get a taste of life before hell. So still humans. What supernatural elements exist are a byproduct of an obsessive and probably self-destructive lifestyle. Not just any obsession will do, however; there must be a symbolic tension, a self-defeating nature to the obsession. A flesh-working adept, for example, gains control over the body by mutilating himself, symbolically demonstrating mastery over the flesh and providing a graphic demonstration why you’d rather not have that magical power all in one act. You can have an obsession without the magic, but not magic without the obsession. That explains some of the strange, self-imposed taboos of the mystics.

Unknown Armies can handle any setting, any cast of characters, but the default protagonists are petty hustlers in the mystic underground culture, each trying to make that one, big score, and trading, stealing, or fighting over the arcane resources necessary to satisfy their obsessions in a cosmically significant way.

Okay, so now that you’ve got some context, let me describe the dream. Our hero finds himself dealing with a woman in a dark alley. Her collection of UA rulebooks and supplements isn’t complete, and, as some tiny part of her obsession, she wants the rulebooks the dreamer happens to be carrying. Presumably, she’ll go to extreme and dangerous lengths to get them. Luckily, they’re all spares and duplicates, so he can afford to give them up. He says as much. “Lucky?” she asks. “Yes, because I don’t want to be stabbed today!” And then they laugh like old friends.

The problem is, within the context of the dream, that she can’t just take the books; she has to trade something of value for them. Another self-imposed taboo. So, again out of deference to her pathology, and not for his own profit, he joins her in negotiations over what she can pay him with. In perfect dream logic, this woman who is trying to assemble a complete set of UA supplements has copies of some of the real UA books, the books of secret knowledge to which the UA game, if read properly, leads you, in the fashion of Kabbalah or alchemy or Masonic lore. And oh, these books. They’re like the rulebooks we enjoy in the real world, but…moreso. Deeper. Creepier. Truer.

Here the narrative of the dream breaks off. I don’t know how it ended; if it’s like my dreams, it didn’t end properly, but drifted instead into a confusion of meaningless elements, almost certainly before he got to read the dream books of True Knowledge. And, in the nature of dreams, I’m sure it grew out of thinking about UA. A lot. Obsessively, if you will.

I, too, think so often and intensely about RPGs that I dream about them. I never dream within a game’s setting, however. Instead, I dream about being a player, especially in a LARP. I no longer dream about being on a space ship; I dream about sitting on perfectly ordinary chairs in a convention hall, pretending to be on a space ship with fellow geeks. I no longer dream about being lost in the jungle; I dream about sitting around a kitchen table, discussing being lost in the jungle. When I begin to dream about a fantastic setting, it quickly becomes a dream about role-playing a fantastic setting.

Unlike this guy in the UA newsgroup, I don’t enjoy a direct, if imaginary, experience of a cool world. Quite the contrary: if I begin to enjoy a direct experience of a fantastic world, my brain rapidly translates it into a mundane act of “let’s pretend.” Perhaps this is the easiest way for my subconscious to make sense of some very nonsensical events. RPGs are supposed to be a vehicle for me to experience fantasties more directly. Instead, they become a vehicle for draining the more vivid fantasies of my dreams away, turning them to mundane experience.

There’s a symbolic tension there. A symbolic tension attached to an obsession. But no magic yet. What am I doing wrong?

October 25, 2007

To-do List? Check.

Today, my attention was called to Naomi Wolf’s book The End of America: A Letter of Warning to a Young Patriot this morning. I haven’t yet read the book, but I may need to. Maybe we all need to.

The topic of discussion is a sort of excerpt, a list of ten steps for transforming a free state into a totalitarian one, which forms the backbone of the book. Go read them now; I’ll still be here when you’re done.

The plea toward the end of the page, and the portrayal of a tiny minority fighting an unstoppable wave of fascism feel a little exaggerated, as you might expect from the Guardian. They may be reasonably accurate, but they will turn skeptical readers off. That’s okay, even proper. Whether we have as much to fear from Hillary as from Rudy is arguable—not necessarily wrong, but arguable. The use of the word “fascism” in place of the more general “totalitarianism” may be technically inaccurate. But do not let arguments over the closing paragraphs distract you from the list, and the concrete points it uses to portray a clear pattern of behavior. Remember, too, that these are examples trimmed from a very long list to fit a short essay.

I have little to add to the that analysis. I knew all this stuff before, but the list makes that knowledge tidy and concrete. I only wish to observe that the work of transforming our democracy to a totalitarian state doesn’t even have to be a deliberate effort, or the work of a single organization. Given our short terms of office, it is virtually a given that no single administration will create a dictatorship, so if and when the hammer falls, you can bet Bush and company, if they notice anything wrong at all, will insist they had nothing to do with it, that their programs were good and just and proper, and grossly misused by the tyrants to come. The important point is that emergencies are exploited to remove the guarantees of our civil liberties, the laws remain after the emergency passes (or a permanent state of emergency is mandated), and the laws are then exploited as a matter of convenience for executive authority. Dissent becomes a crime. At that point, there is no remedy short of violent mass demonstrations. Get that fixed in your mind: rights are broadly revoked for the narrow needs of a response to an emergency, even if the emergency has to be manufactured, and they are not subsequently returned. Dissent becomes a crime.

When Eileene and I argue politics, she often complains that she is at an unfair advantage because she is not a student of history. A disadvantage, to be sure, but I’d hesitate to call it unfair: one must have a sense of history to weigh political arguments properly. For that matter, one must have a sense of history to vote intelligently. History is an ethical obligation in a democracy. Well, for those of you in Eileene’s boat, here’s a quick list you can brush up on, if only through skimming wikipedia entries. No doubt the book itself contains far more, and more thorough, examples for your reference.

If you don’t know enough history to judge the threat of totalitarianism, learn. Do it now. Later will be too late. Once you know about the Red Scare and the Japanese internment and strikebreakers and Nixon’s enemies list, you will realize it can happen here. Once you know about the gulags and Marcos’s stalling of elections and the Armenian genocide, you will realize it mustn’t happen here.

Rights are revoked in an emergency, and they are not returned. Fight to have them returned now, while dissent remains, technically, legal.

Grognard

Lately I’ve been spending my evenings listening either to a series of lectures on World War I or an amateur podcast called “Fear the Boot,” which discusses various aspects of roleplaying games.

Fear the Boot is entertaining. The four or five regulars have strong opinions, and they cheerfully disparage all kinds of foolishness in genres, players, and rulesets. But, although they often agree on specifics, especially on techniques carried to excess, they disagree on broad topics, like the virtues of rules-light systems, the credentials of LARPs, and the proper balance of power between GM and players, so rarely do they present a monolithic face. Collectively, they have some good gaming anecdotes to share, and have no reservations about drifting off topic to share them.

Unfortunately, although Fear the Boot is entertaining, it is rarely instructive, at least for me. Partly, this is because they waste so much time in amusing digressions, and thus cannot properly explore in an hour’s podcast the ambitious subjects they take on. Mostly, though, I think it’s because I’m much more experienced than the hosts are.

I base this claim largely on my familiarity with systems. The hosts frequently touch on the principle that different systems perform different functions well, yet call up poor examples of a system that performs a particular function well, or even admit to knowing of no system that fits the bill. Never have they mentioned GURPS, even when discussing the merits of a skill-based system, nor any of the latest generation of trait-based systems like OtE when looking for a more free-form character design. The idea behind Chad’s “one-stat” system, where all tests are made against a character’s one and only stat, is not original with him; I first saw it in TWERPS twenty years ago. When the hosts protest that they’re all about story, and not simply kicking ass in their games, I have to wonder why they insist on playing systems with heavy mechanics and a huge emphasis on kicking ass. Their favorite titles for discussion include Battletech, Shadowrun (a love-hate relationship), and above all Dungeons & Dragons, pretty well the epitome of a game that presumes the measure of a character is how hard he kicks ass, and his preferred methods for doing so. Either they’re not being honest with themselves about their gaming sophistication (a common occurence), or they play D&D because they don’t know any better.

System knowledge, however, is only a symptom. More important, I’ve been around long enough to have seen a lot of techniques. I listen to their advice on how to achieve various narrative effects and nod: yes, I’ve done that. (Or I may shake my head at their off-the-cuff suggestions: yes, I’ve done that, and it didn’t work.) I listen to their war stories about bad play and nod: yes, I’ve seen that; in my younger days, I’ve probably done that myself.

Finding the entirety of a how-to program to be a subset of my own gaming wisdom makes me feel old and wise in the ways of RPGs. I’m beginning to wonder whether I should be making this wisdom available to more than my immediate circle of friends. I’m over the hump of asking for publishers and agents; it’s only a matter of time before I’m published, and I’m looking for a new project. This could be it. Against the idea, I have to weigh the already-published advice of established RPG writers, including some I respect deeply. I wouldn’t say quite what Laws and Stolze and others do, but there’s a lot of overlap. Perhaps I’ll be able to say something new in my freedom to write without a need for it to pay my rent. A desire for it to pay my rent, yes, but not need. I need to think about this: just how much do I have to say that hasn’t been said somewhere gamers can easily find it?

October 23, 2007

Cheer or Sneer

I want to comment on a discussion in my regular politics newsgroup, beginning with a news article about the Lyndhurst NJ mayor and town council. Until recently, every single one was a Republican; as a body, they changed their party affiliation to Democrat. Over half the Republican county committee have done the same. (In New Jersey, counties are more significant than towns for arcane reasons, and have correspondingly larger governing bodies.)

Disgust for the dirtbags who have led the Republicans for the past decade or so has grown so thick that it’s damaging the party’s chances at all levels of government, even for the decent Republicans the Rove-Delay party scheme has allowed to remain in place. Participants in the same newsgroup I mentioned above are increasingly reporting political literature in their locales designed to hide Republican affiliation: blue is quietly replacing red as the color of choice, the word “Republican” mysteriously fails to appear anywhere on yard signs for Republican candidates, and pamphlets have stopped including ways to contact, or even learn more about, a candidate. Giving out a phone number or email address leads to too many pointed questions. At the national level, resignations are epidemic within the party, in part out of disgust for what the party has become, in part out of grim calculation for the chances of re-election.

I don’t know the motivation, or combination of motivations, behind the move in Lyndhurst. Although Lyndhurst is just down the figurative road, it’s not big news even here in Montclair, and gets even less attention in the national press, so finding enough information for analysis is tough. My best guess is that a small-town boss decided to switch, possibly ahead of a personal scandal and in need of protection, taking his cronies with him. I don’t know that the decision reflected national politics in any way, but I suspect that’s part of it. Don’t expect many more mass desertions like this, but individual politicians are switching horses in record numbers.

And I’m not sure whether to cheer or sneer at it.

On the one hand, I can sympathize with Republicans who have simply had enough. Like Republican voters themselves, they may have been betrayed by party leaders willing to sell everything—education, the poor, human rights, free market ideals, ideals of small government, American pride, American world standing, the US treasury, the US army, the US Constitution, a habitable planet, everything—for personal profit. Not only did the jackals now in charge get elected on bad policies, but once in office, they failed to deliver on even those bad policies, substituting wholesale corruption. A voter taken in by Bush in 2000 was foolish. A voter taken in by Bush in 2004 is a damned fool. Still, I can sympathize with disgust for a party that doesn’t even pretend to seek to live up to its ideals any longer. Like a voter, a Republican politician, especially a local one, might never have been part of that corruption in the first place.

On the other hand, this kind of massive party change seems a little too convenient, a little too obvious an attempt to duck responsibility. The time to stand up and be counted was before the mess got made. Waiting until after the mess is made, the mess is discovered, the voters begin to get angry about the mess, and announcing pangs of conscience just before the courts begin issuing subpoenas is not enough. And I think it’s fair to hold our elected officials to higher standards of conduct than we do voters who get bamboozled. The politicians get to see legal sausage getting made on a daily basis, and it’s their job to have a grasp of the issues our government faces.

The winds of politics shift, the tide turns, and suddenly the armbands come off. “Oh, no, no. I wasn’t really one of them. No rioters here, just ordinary people minding their business. No Nazis, just ordinary German soldiers. None of those neocons busy wrecking your country, just good, honest, real Republicans. That claim is particularly hard to swallow in an organization that values loyalty above all else, and has made political hay out of enforcing a party line, and out of handing every government function in reach to someone who could be trusted to place party before honesty, morality, and the law.

The debate in my politics forum is over whether to welcome such party deserters with open arms or whether to hold them accountable for their participation in the culture of corruption. There’s something to be said for both positions, on both principle and expedience. Accepting Republican refugees makes room in our political institutions for discussion, debate, and changing one’s mind. A willingness to change your mind in the light of evidence is no sin in politics; on the contrary, it is a vanishingly rare virtue. More practically, accepting party refugees also allows us to absorb, at least for a while, their voting blocks and political power. On the other hand, democracy cannot function without government accountability. Mistakes were made, crimes committed, oaths violated. The best way to ensure it doesn’t happen again is to hold the bastards’ feet to the fire until they squeak. Let it slide, and you prove that corrupt government has nothing to lose. And, as the current crop of presidential hopefuls proves, a lot of Republicans still consider the Bush agenda of privatization, militancy, and presidential privilege good and decent and politically viable. Almost regardless of individual candidates, this country needs a massive overturning of power to the Democrats—not because the Democratic party is good and noble (it isn’t), but in order to scare both parties stiff of trying to cut themselves lose from accountability. Bush and company will never pay for what they’ve done, but their party can still profit from a good thrashing.

With this in mind, perhaps a sort of compromise response would be better: welcome the Republicans as they bail out, but not really. Accept their support and participation for a rising Democratic tide without returning real support for their further careers. This would have the effect of a big win come 2012 without institutionalizing the freedom to stay in power no matter how badly one governs.

Best of all, of course, would be to weigh each candidate on his own merits. Some ship-jumpers must be decent people, others no doubt only seek to join the winning side. Actually go and look at public statements, private statements when you can find them, and above all voting record. That’s a lot of work, but it’s the essence of a working democracy. Not only is this the only way to separate the sheepdogs from the coyotes, it can apply to both sides of the aisle. Republicans aren’t the only ones seeking to cut themselves loose from participation in the atrocities of the past eight years; a number of Democrats are squirming (or ought to be squirming) now that their acquiescence is beginning to look like it might lose more votes than taking a stand would have lost. A certain senator from New York is desperately hoping you won’t ask why she endorsed a war in Iraq, or even remember that she did. Shamefully, she is not alone.

Although I may vote for Hillary in preference to whichever bastard the Republicans choose to run, just as I may hope the Lyndhurst defections will contribute to a nationwide turn in the very dirty tide of the current presidency, I am no more inclined to forgive her than I am inclined to forgive Republicans who should have known better.

October 22, 2007

Portal to Fun

I saw first a demo movie and then a few screens of actual play for the recent Xbox 360 game Portal. I’m eager to borrow it and try it myself. Although it began as a design augmentation to the beloved first-person shooter Half-Life, Portal is essentially a puzzle game. There are no bad guys between you and the exit to shoot, nor a proper weapon to shoot them with; instead, you must cross various walls, pits, force fields, and similarly immobile obstacles, mostly through the use of your portal guns.

After the first few screens, you are introduced to first one, and then to a pair of portal guns, which you can use to create a linked pair of teleportation gates in the walls, ceiling, and floor. To give a very simple example of how to use the guns, you might need to cross a lava-filled chasm to reach the exit. You could shoot the blue portal gun at the wall behind you, then shoot the yellow portal gun at a wall on the other side of the chasm, then step through the blue portal to appear at the yellow portal. Voila! Naturally, the game is more complicated than that; often, you’ll need to employ chains of well-placed portals to move from point A to point B via points X, Y, and Z. You must also trigger switches to turn various room elements, like force fields and doors, on and off. You can use crates to trigger objects while you go stand somewhere else, and you can employ the portals to manipulate crates and other room elements.

What makes this game so intriguing is the creativity behind it. The whole project began as a new weapon for a shooter game. Like the gravity gun—a sort of telekinetic hook—for the same game, designers and players alike became more interested in what the new toy could do than in the general mayhem which the toy was originally meant to aid. Once they had the code in place to do something simple with the portal guns, designers got sidetracked by all the creative uses to which they could put it. Hey, look at this! I can use a portal in the ceiling to drop a crate on that guy around the corner. Hey, look at this! I can use a pair of portals in the floor to catch that guy in an inescapable loop, falling back and forth between portals. Hey, look at this! I can use two portals to see four copies of myself at once. Hey, look at this! I can use a portal to create a waterfall coming out of the side of that skyscraper.

And so on. The puzzles are neat because they started out as something neat, and a puzzle was built around the idea of taking advantage of that possibility, instead of employing a top-down design of creating the obstacles first, then adding the tools to bypass them. Any trick that was not sufficiently neat either appears as part of the early tutorial screens, or simply didn’t get included at all. Because every puzzle began with “Look what I can do!” allowing a player to duplicate that discovery is fun. Because every puzzle began with “Look what I can do!” there is every possibility for a player to think of some other use the designers didn’t. That’s a real payoff for creative thinking.

Contrast this with a puzzle in which starts with a trench that can’t be crossed, but must be crossed. The designers add a large lever on the wall; pulling it teleports the player to the other side of the trench. Problem solved, but in an artificial fashion that does not leave a player feeling like he’s doing anything more than going through a pre-programmed flowchart. Instead of playing, he’s following directions. Not fun.

This kind of exploitation of an existing game engine to do things it wasn’t really meant to do has a short but glorious tradition—short because computer games haven’t been around all that long. You can see it in the YouTube videos of game characters acting out short comedy sketches, and vehicular stunts initiated by blowing up your own car in such a way that it flips through the air. You can see it in the way the Katamari begins to tear up chunks of the countryside in Katamari Damacy. (I am morally certain that began as an unintended effect, but was left in for being silly and fun.) SimCity began as a utility for designing a bomber plane video game; Will Wright decided it was more fun placing buildings down as he designed the background countryside than it was to fly over them, blowing up bad guys. The mathematical study of cellular automata like Conway’s Life (not, technically, a game) began to mean something only after students began to play with the idea of crashing self-moving shapes called “gliders” into one another in a controlled way. Lord knows how many easter eggs are designed to reward players for doing something just because they can.

This is the essence of computer programs as toys, rather than computer programs as games. Conceiving an activity and building an engine to replicate it may or may not work. Building a robust engine first almost guarantees that you can do something fun with it.

October 19, 2007

Strange US

After a long dry spell, Strange Maps treated me this morning with a massive thirteen new strange maps to look at. This is a neat site, willing to cover all kinds of unusual maps: historical oddities, geological oddities, maps of fictional locations, humorous maps, gross mapmaking errors, maps designed for propaganda purposes, whatever. The map that particularly caught my attention this morning was a map designed for an adventure game set in post-apocalyptic America. However, the map has almost nothing in common with the USA; among other weirdness, Chicago is north of Mount Rushmore, which lies in the heart of the continent, Alaska is an island dominated by a city called “Ice Castle,” Carlsbad Caverns appear in two locations, Missouri is reduced from a state to a city, and the coastlines resemble nothing I’ve ever seen.

The attached commentary observes that the map is something like what you might get if you got a bunch of Japanese game designers together, got them drunk, and had them assemble a map on a cocktail napkin out of what they could collectively remember of US geography. For all I know, that’s how it was, in fact, created, especially since the detailing of sites look like someone’s trip to the Grand Canyon while vast swaths of the rest of the country simply fail to appear. Certainly, it’s a gross miscarriage of geography.

But, to be fair, I had to speculate on what drunken Americans with a cocktail napkin would produce from their collective memory. They’d probably manage to depict Japan as an island—whether they’d get all four main islands is doubtful—but what else?

I could draw a pretty good likeness of the coastline, even while drunk. Maybe I’d draw the main island a little too fat and a little too straight, but the outline would look okay. I could get the angular shape of Hokkaido, including the little hook at the southern tip, Yokohama harbor, the bean-shaped Shikoku, the peninsular shelf Honshu dangles over Kyushu. But after getting the coastline down, what then? I could place Tokyo and Kyoto, probably Osaka. Sapporo, I know, is somewhere on Hokkaido, but where? I’m not sure which island Nagoya is on. Mount Fuji? Uh, it’s in there somewhere. Don’t even ask about other natural landmarks.

And I’m way more familiar with Japanese geography than most Americans. I like maps. A lot. I traced a large map of Japan a couple of times for a home-made adaptation of a railroad game set in the northeast US, and agonized over where to allow bridges and tunnels. I’ve studied maps of Japan as background for a Torg campaign, and as a possible Civ scenario.

Eileene suggests that demanding a cocktail-napkin version of Europe from drunken Americans would be a fairer test on the grounds that we, as a people, see it more often, but I’m not convinced. The Japanese hear a lot of America as a unit in the news, but no more than we hear of tsunami disasters and the Japanese stock market. They may visit more often—or they may not; I don’t know—but I doubt many tourists drive the country; they stick to a single city, or the environs of Disneyland, just like we do. I’ve seen some pretty appalling drawings of the US by Americans. God help us if our drunken cartographers include South Carolinian beauty queens.

I suspect that, forced to draw a map of Japan, with post-apocalyptic points of interest, and not allowed to just leave the paper blank, most Americans, including American game designers, would come up with a comparable geographical travesty. Of course, any decent game designer would take at least ten minutes to copy something out of an atlas, more if they abandoned the rather silly notion that the apocalypse dramatically redrew all the coastlines, but budgets are tight. Sometimes people don’t have ten minutes to look at an atlas. They’re busy coding, or applying makeup, or something.

The map isn’t entirely wrong. As the commentary points out, New Jersey appears to be a hole in the ground.

October 17, 2007

Backlog

Although I’m writing a regularly as ever, you may have noticed my postings here getting spotty: two or even three at a time, with a day’s wait between. The problem lies in our wireless network connection.

We’ve had a wireless system for a couple years. Its practical use has been dubious, since the strength of the connection varies sharply throughout our house, and is, at best, a little erratic, even after an upgrade designed to give better coverage to the upper floors. For proper internet work, I stick with a fixed line to my main computer, but I prefer to use my laptop for writing, so I would still use the Ethernet to upload these essays and for occasional fact-checking on the internet. Doing so was slow but tolerable for such small tasks.

Unfortunately, even this level of performance began to degrade. Eventually, we found out why: one of our neighbors was using our wireless connection. I suppose it’s possible that our security protocols aren’t working quite right, and that our neighbor is simply taking advantage of a big hole. It’s even conceivable that he’s unaware he’s using our connection, and not his own—I’ve heard stories of such crossed signals before, and I’m not always aware of exactly which information channels my computer is using at the moment. But we do have a password to the system, and I suspect a deliberate job of low-grade hackery.

This is a problem for several reasons. One: when somebody else is piggy-backing on our bandwidth, our own performance suffers, often dramatically. Two: neither of us relishes the idea of paying for someone else’s internet service, no matter how innocent. Three: the use may not be innocent, and we can be held legally responsible for someone else’s use of our account. Rightly or wrongly, the more rabid recording company lawyers do just that, hounding internet fraud victims even after they can prove illegal downloads were someone else’s doing. Four: if someone can bypass our security to use our wireless connection, there’s every chance they can pick up sensitive data like account passwords and credit card numbers on our computers, since they share files over that same wireless connection. Pretty scary, when I think about the possibilities.

My father-in-law, who is also our technical expert, didn’t think this was much of a problem, and could easily be corrected, but Eileene and I remain suspicious. We pulled the plug on the wireless network and reverted to cables.

Unfortunately, the girls downstairs had grown to rely on the wireless, since the signal was much stronger downstairs, and Kim didn’t have a cable handy. We gave her the cable I had been using for a direct hookup for my laptop. Until we get a replacement, hooking my laptop up to the internet now involves briefly cannibalizing another computer’s hookup. Eileene uses hers nearly 24-7, and digging around the tangle of wires behind my desktop is a pain in the posterior.

So I find myself putting off journal uploads, especially on days when . We should get a new cable fairly soon, since Eileene makes semi-regular visits to Best Buy, but until then, you might want to check whether you’re getting a double helping of curmudgeony goodness when you visit this page.

October 16, 2007

New Toys

Yesterday, I saw a commercial for a truck—a Toyota, I think—taking place entirely in the World of Warcraft. A trio of adventurers is gearing up to take down a dragon. One announces she’s equipping explosive arrows. Another announces he’s equipping his epic stuff. A third announces he’s equipping his awesome red pickup truck, and proceeds to attack the dragon solo, before his teammates are ready, driving down the beast’s gullet and exploding out of its belly, whooping about how awesome he is.

The commercial had to add the truck, of course, since red pickups do not exist in the fantasy realm of Azeroth, but otherwise, everything was done with WoW graphics. Setting aside some hairsplitting, the dialogue sounds very much like a conversation held in Teamspeak or Ventrilo, and the truck assault is closely modeled on the celebrated Leroy Jenkins suicide attack filmed for Youtube. Anyone who has played WoW will immediately recognize every element of the ad, and will also immediately understand the basic message: The measure of a person is the stuff he owns, and a Toyota pickup truck is the ultimate gear, trumping dragons and teammates alike.

The message will strike players on a visceral level because, while gear is not technically the measure of a player, it’s a decent estimate given a certain minimum competence among players who have reached the level cap—which is nearly everyone. As a rule of thumb, your gear really is a measure of your effectiveness.

It’s a brilliant idea for an ad; attaching one’s product to the idea of reaching the peak of the gear ladder is guaranteed to strike a chord with WoW players. WoW players crave better gear; the whole game is built around the acquisition of better gear. If the ad were better executed, it would be brilliant, too. Still, it makes me a little uncomfortable.

I’m a little freaked out at the thought that so many people play WoW as to comprise a viable market demographic all by themselves. On some level, I already knew that millions of people play, but seeing that measured against an external measure—in this case, ad-worthiness—is odd. More disturbing is the way that Madison Avenue is seizing on our growing gaming culture. The results can be entertaining, as they are in the Coke commercial parodying the extremely popular and ultra-violent Grand Theft Auto video game with a street tough who yanks drivers from their cars to hand them ice-cold beverages and knocks down muggers in order to return old ladies’ purses. (That commercial must be deeply confusing to anyone who hasn’t seen GTA, just as the Toyota ad would be mystifying to anyone who hasn’t tried WoW.) But it also gives me a vague sense that my entertainment has just been hijacked by the establishment.

In their hunger for more eyes, the ad industry has already started placing their ads on virtual billboards in virtual worlds. As you zap bloodthirsty aliens in a post-apocalyptic cityscape, you can pass surprisingly well-preserved Pepsi posters in the post-apocalyptic subway. Now advertisers are seeking to brand themselves with your favorite games. Every time you think of Zork or Half Life or Warcraft, they hope, you will think of whatever drek they’re selling. That’s uncool. It’s like politicians absorbing the branding potential of rock music, or the Gap stocking counterculture clothes, or military engineers making horrific weapons out of nifty scientific discoveries. What you used to think was just plain fun is now someone else’s intellectual property, and it will be used to shape you. To sell you. What used to be your favorite song is now indelibly wed to Bill Clinton’s face, or Mountain Dew, or Verizon Wireless. Welcome to MacWorld.

Postscipt to “The Indignity”:
Congressman LaHood is proving a fertile source of damning sound bites. Another news story reporting on the general exodus of Republicans in Congress captioned a photo of Lahood with the following statement: “I don't like being in the minority. It's not that much fun, and the prospects for the future don't look that good.” Poor baby. Governing is no longer fun when you can’t shaft people with gay abandon. How could he know the House of Representatives occasionally required actual work?

October 12, 2007

Butterscotch September

I’ve recently developed a taste for toffee, eating a lot of Heath and Skor bars, about six over the past two months. (For me, that’s a lot.) I find that, the older I get, the more I enjoy toffee, caramel, and butterscotch, candies I had always associated with old people, largely because both my Grandpas, but especially Grandpa Roth, liked butterscotch.

My developing taste for toffee surprises me. Not because it implies I’m getting old—I know I’m getting old. But I never ranked butter candies particularly high, and never expected that taste to change significantly with age.

Other foods have shifted a bit in my appraisal. This is not surprising; it’s nearly a universal. As we age, and our taste buds become less sensitive, we grow more tolerant of strong foods (although our guts ironically become less tolerant at the same time). Especially, we grow more tolerant of sour and bitter flavors; coffee is a grown-up taste, as are grapefruit. Alcohol takes some getting used to, and we appreciate vegetables a lot more. In a similar vein, we grow less interested in sweets. Many sweets, and especially sweetened cereals, I enjoyed as a kid nauseate me now. Bubblicious is simply vile. There’s also a tolerance for familiarity; we are hard-wired not to experiment with foods as children, because a reluctance to eat something in the ages between learning to stuff dangerous things in our mouths and learning what’s safe has survival value. Two-year-olds, especially, have a crazy aversion to strange changes in their food: cut the sandwich vertically instead of diagonally, and it’s inedible. This is the result of a particularly strong aversion to food novelty when children, first leaving Mom’s watchful eye for minutes at a time, need it most. Later, we learn to experiment, and to appreciate novelty for its own sake.

So I’m not surprised to discover my taste in candy is changing. But why on earth butterscotch and toffee?

October 11, 2007

Snapshots of the War

Ken Burns’ documentary The War hopes to do for the Second World War what The Civil War did for that terrible American event. We awaited it eagerly in my house, and are now a little over halfway through. So far, it has been a disappointment, although to be honest, a lot of that disappointment comes from our own extraordinarily high expectations. More, however, can be laid at the feet of Burns’ insistence on documenting the American experience, to the virtual exclusion of anything else.

I came to the realization that the fault lay with Amerocentrism in a roundabout fashion. First, we both noticed a very fragmentary feel to the narrative: we just get whisked along from battle to battle, and from home front to home front, without enough context to understand why the battles are being fought, or how rough the home front deprivation felt, or whether the results were as striking as the narrator’s tone of voice suggests. Three thousand American troops died in such-and-such battle. Is that a lot? Is that miraculously low? How many Americans were fighting? How many died in the previous battle? How many Germans, Japanese, Russians, or Brits died in the same battle, or in another battle going on at the same time?

Oh, look! Now we’re at Anzio. Why are we in Anzio? If the fighting was that bloody, why didn’t the generals fight somewhere more congenial to an invasion? Look, we won. Hooray! What did that victory contribute to the war effort? Whoops, no time to answer that, we’re back in the Japanese-American internment camps. The documentary is so choppy that I had to check once whether they were sticking to chronological order.

This dissociation is a direct result of writing off the experiences of every country but the U.S. We were in Anzio because Italy was a natural progression from Africa, where we had to go to protect England’s vital supply line to the rest of its empire through the Suez canal. We were also in Anzio because Churchill rightly felt the Russians could not be trusted once the war was over, and wanted an Anglo-American presence in southern and eastern Europe ahead of Germany’s surrender. We were also in Anzio as a gesture of good faith to Stalin, who was, with some justification, complaining that Russia was bearing the whole weight of the war. But none of that is explained in any depth; we hear literally a single sentence, maybe two, on the global context of these historic decisions.

The war itself is given very little explanation, because the documentary starts with Pearl Harbor. When the U.S. joined the war in December 1941, immediately after the day of infamy, the war had already been formally been running for over two years, not to mention another five or six years of pre-war annexations and strategic maneuvers. Because The War only describes American action, and because America was initially most active in the Pacific, the narrative gives the impression that Nazi Germany was a sort of distraction from the main effort. The first battle covered is Midway, and treated as a great turning point—which it was—inexplicably without a prior string of losses to turn. We just see an unbroken string of victories from Midway on. Stalingrad, El Alamein, the Battle of Britain: already over.

In addition to anticipating an Allied victory as inevitable, which I must insist was emphatically not the American experience at the time, the documentary anticipates post-Civil Rights attitudes towards women, black soldiers, and the Japanese internment. Our pride for these groups, or our shame at their treatment, was also not a major part of the American experience at the time, but we hear only from the free thinkers who realized at the time (or claim to) that female laborers and black marines and Japanese infantrymen are as normal and natural as any war institution can be called normal and natural. And we hear from them repeatedly, especially about the Japanese-Americans. Three or four times as much as we hear about the Normandy invasion. From the bigots who made policy, or agreed with it then, we hear nothing at all.

Handling the Civil War, Burns had the luxury of treating only American events. Our civil war was an American event, almost in its entirety. Europe merely looked on with curiosity from thousands of miles away, and participated as trading partners. Asia, Africa, and South America didn’t even go that far. The Second World War was, as the name implies, a world war, and can only be understood in a global perspective. Denying the global perspective makes the American experience seem disembodied, even meaningless.

This weird detachment is magnified by something beyond Burns’ control. WWII was far more varied a war than the Civil War, varied in terrain and weapons and the number of antagonists. A soldier at Shiloh had much the same experience as a soldier at Gettysburg, at least in terms of the minute-to-minute fighting. The same cannot be said of airmen over Dresden, marines at Guadalcanal, tank crews in Tunisia, and submariners scouring the Pacific trade routes. Portraying all these in any depth would be a Herculean task. Add the additional differences of experience for Germans, Russians, Japanese, Brits, and a host of smaller powers, and perhaps the story couldn’t be told at all.

If there’s anything satisfying about the show, it’s the personal interviews. Burns has taken the same care selecting eyewitnesses as he did selecting contemporary writers from the Civil War, and it shows. The ordinary soldiers and civilians taken to represent the various theaters of the conflict are alert and engaging, and do not flinch from sharing the details, even when it’s clear it hurts to do so. Professional actors play a much smaller narrative role, since many who saw the war can still speak for themselves, but are selected with equal skill.

Burns also deserves praise for airing some rare footage, though I’m sure the film record is nothing like he’d wish. A brief shot of a tank skidding sideways along an icy road was a treat. The propagandistic tone of the newsreels is simultaneously transparent and disturbing. Some of the interviewees admit they believed it, others recognized it for what it was, but Burns himself, speaking through an actor’s voice-over, is silent on the issue of propaganda.

Perhaps Burns, in his eagerness to grasp the essentially American experience of the war—which he unfairly confuses with being an essentially American war—sees no irony in the newsreels’ cheerleading. Like them, he skips from headline to headline without stopping to examine the causal relationships stringing them together. Also like them, he skips from photogenic barrage to photogenic barrage, painting an inaccurately optimistic picture of the American experience he seeks to capture.

October 10, 2007

The Indignity

I wish I could claim credit for today’s punchline, but I can’t. By the time I got wind of the news article, other acquaintances on the same newslist had delivered the obvious rejoinder.

“GOP congressmen quit because of five-day work week.

“Nine Republican congressmen have so far announced that they will not be running for re-election. One of those lawmakers, Rep. Ray LaHood (R-IL), complained ‘that the Democrats’ new five-day workweek’ is part of the reason they’re all retiring:

‘I do think the schedule and the flying is a huge pain for people, particularly those who are from the Midwest or even further West,” he said, adding that it’s “probably the worst part of the job.’

‘I think that has played into these retirement announcements,’ said the seven-term congressman from Peoria.”

Congressman LaHood’s analysis notwithstanding, we won’t know for a long while, if ever, why those congressmen are resigning.

They may be in danger of scandal or even prosecution over some appalling criminal behavior, and getting out before it gets printed. Heaven knows there’s enough scandal to go around.

They may be in danger of scandal over a peccadillo, but getting ejected from some voice on high: “Get out before you embarrass us like Larry Craig did.”

They may be cutting their political losses by fleeing what they estimate to be a sinking ship, figuring the public will direct a healthy dollop of rage against Bush and company against any Republican they can find.

They may estimate the pillaging of the national treasury and vital national functions have progressed far enough that it’s time to head for the private sector themselves, go get while there’s still some shred of the federal budget left to steal for themselves.

They may even have suffered pangs of conscience, and look to resignation to absolve their participation in the ongoing sabotage of the Republic. Don’t bet on it, and the time for conscience was before the rape of the Constitution, but it’s technically possible.

Sadly for the candor of our leaders, none of those reasons look too good in print, do they? Better to fall back on the desire to spend more time with the family…now, when it matters most, at LaHood’s age of 61, when the children are in those formative years in their thirties and forties. But why stop there, when you can get in a final dig at the Democrats? That mean old Pelosi and her gang, with their slave-driver mentality, are demanding an actual 40-hour work week.

We’re fighting a war, for chrissakes. It’s the soldiers who should be held in the field indefinitely without leave. Let their families and psyches crack up; that’s what they signed on for. But our poor representatives have suffered enough. They can’t be expected to work hard just because they launched our nation into chaos. And now Clinton is calling for all citizens to get the same medical benefits a congressman does. It’s more than a congressman can bear.

Clearly, as we have been told, there are jobs American’s aren’t willing to take, no matter how good the pay and perks. Why don’t we import some of those greasy wetbacks to fill the seats going vacant? Or even to some Democrats—they’re almost as desperate.

October 9, 2007

Desert View

Three perceptions of the desert to change with my visit:

One:

I’ve heard and read mild protests that the sets of Sergio Leone’s spaghetti westerns, largely shot on the plateaus of Spain, do not resemble the real deserts of the American west. In particular, they claim Spain is too yellow. I simply accepted that claim as given until I saw the area for myself.

Arizona, and especially the territory around the Grand Canyon, is quite red, with a few stripes of green and purple tossed in for variety. But it’s a big desert; there’s more to the Wild West than just the Grand Canyon. New Mexico is drier and more yellow, and quite flat over large stretches. Unlike the Rockies, which are up and down all over, New Mexico’s mountains are small, isolated ridges decorating a broad plain. I thought it an excellent match to Leone’s locations. The New Mexico we saw was thicker with scrub, but not much thicker. A dry pocket could be a dead ringer—although nobody would build a town in that particular spot.

Two:

The desert, even in mesa country, is not thick with amazing rock formations. Cliffs and canyons, yes; bridges and teetering rocks, not so much. Naturally, I didn’t expect the desert to look just like a Road Runner cartoon, but I did expect to see the formations touted in the tourism literature. Those photos you see of extraordinary rock formations are, in fact, of extraordinary rock formations.

Three:

Environmentalists are right: the desert can’t support, or even survive, all the people now living there. Settlement is nowhere near as dense as the Atlantic seaboard, where I live now, or the Great Lakes region, where I grew up, but it’s still too visibly too dense for the land, even to uneducated eyes like mine.

We experienced unseasonal rain in Arizona, in brief but heavy downpours. One man told us it had been seventeen years since Arizona last saw rain in October. Despite this, the dry runs remained dry, although the river beds developed murky streams you could jump across, no larger than the rivulet that runs through a gully along the railroad tracks here in Montclair. There’s not enough water to sustain the cities as they are, much less the building boom that’s underway, so the region is draining its water table. It won’t stop until the water table is gone, and with it the plants that hold the soil together. The problem isn't looming on the horizon; it's here, and has been here a good long while. There’s deserts, and there’s deserts. Shortly the Saguaro will look Saharan.

Sam Kinison famously decried relief to inhospitable regions in a vicious but valid standup comedy routine. “We have deserts in America; we just don’t live in ‘em, asshole!” Just you wait.

October 8, 2007

Plane for Free

We returned from our trip to Arizona and New Mexico last night, a broad arc taking in Tucson, Phoenix, the Grand Canyon, Santa Fe, and the radio telescope southwest of Albuquerque, along with points in between. I don’t want to overdo the details of the trip. As much as I enjoyed seeing them, verbal descriptions of landmarks like the Grand Canyon and Barringer’s Crater never capture the experience for the reader.

Nevertheless, some of what we saw bears repeating, so this week may end up a hyper-condensed telling of our journey.

I’ll start with a story one of the Pima Air & Space Museum’s staff told us. Pima is clearly created by airmen, for airmen; the displays lack interesting details, largely cataloguing the ownership of various planes and jets, without war stories. If you’re not an air veteran yourself, you get to see row after row of well-kept aircraft. But that’s okay, because the staff seems to be composed entirely of retired, and very garrulous veterans, eager for your willing ear. I asked the date of construction of one plane, curious how biplanes could still be around by the time Nazis were stamping swastikas on everything. It turns out the plane was a trainer, which Hitler gave to Finland in appreciation of their efforts to repel the little-remarked Soviet invasion of their country in the late 1930s. I don’t know why the Finns didn’t repaint it, or if they did and the museum repainted it in the original German design, nor even if the Finns used it for training; it might have been more immediately useful as a scout. I didn’t get to ask, because we heard this story instead:

Somehow, a private collector in the U.S. got his hands on this plane, which he used for joyrides. Acquiring the plane must have cost him a pretty penny, making an already expensive hobby even more so. Nor did he get his money’s worth: on one flight—I can’t remember whether it was his first with this plane—he suffered mechanical trouble and was forced to make an emergency landing on Valencia Boulevard, on the southern edge of Tucson. That trick would be impossible today; the traffic is thick and steady. We should know because we drove it. But back then, it was a dirt road, and Tucson was smaller, and had fewer cars per capita, so he managed to land safely. Unfortunately, he couldn’t get it working again, so he hiked off toward the airport, no more than a couple miles away, marched into the museum next door, and announced that there was a vintage trainer plane out on the road, and that the museum could have it if they were willing to go to the trouble of towing it in. And just like that, the Pima museum increased its stock by one plane. It’s hanging in the center of the WWII-era display hangar, given pride of place over several better-known planes.

Pretty amazing, huh?

Like I said, the staff is eager to tell its stories of the planes, but I have a sneaking suspicion that the very best ones can’t be bought for the price of a mere admission ticket. I prefer to imagine that the best, most personal stories are told after hours over a friendly drink, to other veterans.