World peace, end of poverty, reduced carbon emissions, yaddah, yaddah, yaddah…
Now for the stuff that I *really* want, deep down in my apologetic consumerist, American capitalist, covetous heart.
Game
About eleven months ago, as I was taking the pony I was given for Christmas 2008 to the glue factory, I was thinking, “Gee. A board game is very different than a pony. A board game would fit much more easily in the basement. A board game would not require feeding, nor would it require a shovel for the post-feeding exhibition. A board game would not bite me, or kick me, or make me doubt my upbringing as a Texas country boy. A board game is just what I want for Christmas.”
Alas, my greedy heart could not wait for Christmas. I bought Fantasy Flight’s Arkham Horror soon after my pony’s cries for pity and vengeance stopped echoing in my ears.
Of the expectations I noted above, I can honestly say that only one of them has been fulfilled by this game: it does fit more easily into the basement than that poor pony.
Since purchasing and playing this game, I have been forced to feed creatures out of nightmare with my own raw, tender dreams. I have had to use a shovel to clean up the mangled flesh of their victims as they gibber and cavort about my den. Occasionally, they bite me, inducing manic spells; then they kick me, and I’m returned to the reality of their ghoulish invasion. The warm little town of Marquez, Texas is far from here; it is a myth, and childhood is a taunting memory.
I want the expansions…
Arkham Horror is a nifty collaborative/role-playing boardgame in which you and your companions take on the roles of citizens of Arkham, Massachusetts. (Or is it Connecticut?) Arkham is being assaulted by strange and sinister forces—it is your duty as upstanding (or not so upstanding) individuals to put a stop to the madness by seeking clues, closing otherworldly portals, and destroying fiendish monsters. Arkham is based on H.P. Lovecraft’s novels and shortstories—so expect a lot of pulpy, macabre fun.
(If you call being driven insane by the Black Goat of the Woods “fun.” Ia, ia! Shub-niggurath! The goat with a thousand young…!)
Arkham is expensive—I picked it up from the local gaming store for $60. It’s worth it, though, especially if you, like me, have a gaming group that meets regularly. The game play can be confusing at first, but quickly becomes intuitive. If the game has a flaw it’s that the final battle—when the citizens inevitably release the Big Bad Ancient one—is a little anticlimactic.
Book
I have been asking for The Anatomy of Melancholy, by Robert Burton, for five years. No one has yet taken me seriously.
“It’s from 1621. Did they even write books back then? I think it’s a fraud.”
“Ha, ha, Dad! Very funny. What I think you want is a new cell phone. Can I have your old one?”
“Grandma got you a pony. Why don’t you ask for some books on horseshoeing?”
Look, I *like* old books. And Melancholy is, like, the eccentric’s eccentric old book. It’s a treasure trove of old sources, old beliefs, superstitions and wrongheaded scientific theories.
“Glenn Beck has a new book out…”
The reason I want Melancholy has to do with needing a resource for how people back in Burton’s era viewed the world. I am fascinated by art and images from that time; that was an age when the world was beginning to just discover itself, when science and superstition met and mingled, and slipped off into the boudoir for some eyebrow raising scandalous behavior.
Melancholy was written in a world that was savage and refined; proper and vulgar. It offers a taste of the kind of world I want to write about.
Video
In 2007, the first episode of ABC’s Pushing Daisies appeared. I’m afraid I missed most of the first season. That alone is reason for the punishment I now face at the hands of inscrutable, incomprehensible Arkham monsters.
I caught the second season. The fact that it never made it beyond two seasons is testament to the fact that the television industry—or at least ABC—is run by Satan. Here was a show so witty, so strange, so delightful, it made Seinfeld look like Full House. Of course Satan didn’t want it on the air. He hates happiness.
I mean, it had Kristen Chenoweth. Singing. Singing the Bangles’ Eternal Flame. That right there? That’s known as audible awesomeness.
The show centered around the misadventures of a pie-maker, Ned, who had the ability to bring people back from the dead when he touched them. Unfortunately, if he didn’t touch the recently-revived person within one minute to put them back to rest, someone else would die. For reasons which should be pretty apparent, Ned kept his talent a secret—until his unrequited childhood love, Charlotte, was murdered. Ned brings her back to life, and they have all sorts of wacky adventures with their detective friend Emerson Cod, and Ned’s waitress-gal-pal Olive Snook.
The show was marvelously inventive, tightly executed, and hilarious. If you’re in a giving mood, you could send me the DVDs for both seasons.
No need to wrap it. The vibes from its uncovered box will drive away the shoggoth, and allow me a moment of respite.