New Music: Judgment

 Tried some Sonic Youth stuff on an old guitar. It didn't work out.

A heavy rock song with some cut and paste trickery going on. Improved vocals and reverb courtesy of my new house and its high ceilings and wooden floors. Listen to Judgment on SoundCloud here.

Excerpts from the Hillsdale Paranormal Society Log

All entries recorded by Gordon P. Weaver, president and record keeper of the esteemed Hillsdale Paranormal Society, widely respected in the field since 2013.

April 25, 12:00 a.m.
Meet with my bros Trent and Art at the old Goldstein place around midnight. Trent brought the advanced spectrometer he bought off of Ebay. The thing has like two telescopes attached to a stand, and we can't figure out how the hell we're supposed to use it to see ghosts. Art says that we got screwed and that we can't see ghosts with a spectrometer, but then I retort "why would they call it a spectrometer if it can't see specters?" Predictably, the jabroni has no answer.

1:00 a.m.
The Goldstein place has been abandoned for years, but it takes us only about ten seconds to find a window we can jimmy open. Inside it smells like somebody took a sack of cat assholes and lit said sack on fire. We put on our night vision goggles and sure enough, there's like a herd of cats roaming about the place. One of them comes up to Trent and throws up on his shoe. It just stands there afterwards, like it wants a reward or something. I name it Cronus to honor its warrior spirit.

1:35 a.m.
Spend about an hour waiting for ghostly contact, but nothing happens, so we resort to Plan B. I strut about the place, thumping my chest, telling the ghosts that they're bitches if they don't come out and play. I get no immediate reaction, but like thirty cats start following me about, meowing at me. One tries to jump on my head like a facesucker from Aliens, but I dodge at the last second and it lands on Trent's face. We spend twenty minutes trying to pry it off.

2:45 a.m.
Advanced spectrometer is a big disappointment. We finally see some ghostly shadows (though Art claims it was a passing car; he's such a dumb ass) but they vanish before we can get the spectrometer over to them. Trent hears a ghostly wailing upstairs and suggests that we check it out. We record the audio, and its playback is clear. This could be the big one that catapults the Society into national recognition. Into the great unknown we venture.

3:30 a.m.
So we go upstairs and there's about a million more cats up there, and they're all meowing and caterwauling, and it smells like there's a river of cat pee flowing somewhere, but intrepid adventurers that we are, we persevere. Trent starts crying that he's nervous, and I tell him to either man-up or go home and pee his bed there. I decide to further antagonize the ghosts, so I start saying bad things about their mothers and their sense of fashion. Art theorizes that maybe the cats are possessed. I yell at Cronus, strongly implying that his mother was a hoodrat and a floozy. He gives me the stank eye and farts. I didn't know a cat could fart. It smells worse than I can describe.

4:00 a.m.
Turns out we really fucked up this time. After thoroughly investigating the upstairs, we come upon a room with a shut door. Trent says that the bad presence clearly lives there, so I tell him we're going to make the presence show its bitch ass. I bang loudly on the door, and immediately there's a noise, so I karate kick it in, and we all burst in with our cameras flashing, and lo and behold, there's an old lady in her nightgown, screaming and throwing her cats at us. We turn tail and run out, though Trent trips down the stairs and another cat attaches itself to his face. We pull him out while she follows us, still throwing cats. That lady has a hell of an arm, must've been a softball player or something. We hide out in the woods for a while till the cops leave. I ask Art where he heard that the Goldstein place was abandoned, and he shrugs his shoulders. Still not convinced the place isn't haunted. Art rightfully points out that it is impossible that that old lady feeds all of those cats. Ghost cats then? I make a note to investigate further.

Hanging with the Goon

Hey ya'll, this is da Goon, and I'm gonna tell you whats up in dis wild crazy ass life of mine. Just yester me and my brotha Slack got off work at the apple orchard and drove down to da crick with a .22 and a sack of mushrooms that Slack stole from Ponderosa. Now, don't be getting me wrong, we ain't the thieving types, cept for Willy and Remy, considerin' both of thems in the jail for petty larceny, but anyways, Slack says them mushrooms should be good for smoking once we dry them out, which we tried to do by putting em in a frying pan and heatin' em up over some crick rocks. While we's waiting for them mushrooms, Slack gets the bright idear to start shootin' at squirrels since we ain't had a good fried squirrel in what must be eons. He hit one of them basterds right between teh eye and it fell in the crick aways down, and Slack being Slack, he start hollerin' at me to go get it 'cuz he thinks I'm his gopher or something. I get on down in the crick up to my briches and there's teh squirrel all floatin' and shit, so I reach out to grab em and the little fucker bats his eyes at me and sinks his teethers into my vulnerable hand. I start hollerin' and Slack is jumping up and down like a prancing pony, he's all chorkling and hee-hawing, and I'm a waving around dis squirrel who's got a death grip on my finger. Finally I killed it by beating its head against a crick rock. Slack den tells me I got rabies. I tell him he got sifaless, and he says he don't inbetween outbreaks. We skin the squirrel and have ourselfs a nice squirrel meat feast. Later we try to smoke the mushrooms but end up nearly dead with gooey mushroom in our noses.

Today I got up out of my sack and went flounderin' in the kitchen lookin' to stir up some grub. I open the frige and find nothing but beer and eggs. My uncle Thom is always comin' in our trailer and loadin' the frige full of eggs 'cuz he gots like eleven-hundred chickens or something and theys always pooping out eggs. I take a handful of eggs and throw them against the wall, 'cuz sometimes your just tired of eating the same damn thing every day, specially if its eggs. I looked at the wall real good and I couldn't tell wheres I threw the eggs cuz theres so much shit on our walls from Slack trying to become a master chief and get on Top Chief. He makes bacon and eggs and flay-me-on and some queer french dish that nobody likes. It involves a goose which you feed a bunch of crap until the goose won't eat anymore and then you force feed the goose 'cuz he don't know any better, and I tell ya, its pretty funny watchin' Slack try to stuff Cheeseits down a goose's throat, and all the while the thing's beatin' the hell outta him with its wings and honking like a sonofabitch. Everybody felt sad for that goose and didn't want to eat it.

For are final story I'd like to tell how my Uncle Thom taught Rebus the coon how to dance. There he is above jumpin' up and down with Rebus trying to teach em the stutter step. Rebus can twerk pretty good, and I guess he's got plenty of practice 'cuz Thom is always trying to proach em from behind and teach em who is the boss. I tell Thom that's exactly how I treat the ladies, that is, when I'm lucky enough to catch one and bring her back to the trailer. Thom gets this queer look in his eye and says "Don't I know, son, don't I know," and I don't know what the hell he means but he always looks down at his arms and there's a hell of a lot of raccoon scratches all over em. Slack says Thom really does have rabies and its making him mad. I hope I don't get rabies or sifaless. That's all I got to say about that.

Mini Review: Godzilla

Never shall the twain meet.

All I ask of my giant monster movie is to have giant monsters in it the majority of the time. If a movie is entitled "Godzilla," then I expect to see a lot of Godzilla. Sadly, this is not the case with Legendary's reboot. It is far more concerned with following the trials and tribulations of Mr. Boring Bland-face, which is what I'll call the male lead who is not Bryan Cranston, since I can't remember his name. The humans receive an awful lot of the focus in this picture, which is odd. The old Godzilla movies were corny and campy, but at least they delivered on their promise of seeing giant monsters battle awkwardly. The fight scenes between Godzilla and the MUTOs, his insectoid nemeses, are brief and obscured by smoke and darkness. Just when you think you're about to witness some honest to god monster action (oh yeah), the damn movie cuts to Mr. Boring Bland-face's kid watching the fight on television. We see more of Mr. Boring Bland-face's wife than Godzilla. She's pretty, but she's no Godzilla. He's a supporting character in his own movie. There are brief moments of spectacle. The size of the marauding beasties is impressive, and you get a real sense of scale at times. The auditory clicks and rumbles of the MUTOs are strange and alien, and Godzilla looks pretty cool. Unfortunately, this movie shares a lot of similarities with Cloverfield, another giant monster movie that focused too much on its boring human characters while showing too little of its main attraction. In a horror movie, it pays off to hide the monster. It builds fear and lets the imagination go to work. Godzilla's not a horror movie. It's not about fear. It's about giant fucking monsters beating the shit out of each other. I don't know how the film makers didn't understand this.

Verdict: Red Delicious--somehow, someone missed the point, and you just bit into a piece of cardboard.

The Diary of Mitch R. Singer

Mitch, circa 1966.

Good friend and loyal Pointless Venture reader Mitch R. Singer, best known for his eccentric folk music and his tenure as the host of reality show People Watching People Watching People, has volunteered to share excerpts from his diary. Mitch has a habit of not writing down exact dates, so we can't be certain when these entries were recorded.

Summer solstice, beneath a reaper moon, probably a Tuesday
Woke up in a field, with the wheat beaten down all around me. Smelled like sulfur and rotten feces. Strange markings cover my arms, some sort of hieroglyphics or possibly just a bad tattoo. Saunter about wheat maze for at least half of the night. Eventually reach the summit of a nearby hill, and upon sunrise, discover that beaten down wheat forms an immense crop circle. Looks kind of like a hot dog. Spent rest of the day wandering about, until reaching a small village. The inhabitants speak an unfamiliar dialect and poke me with sharp sticks. I am forced down into a pit, where children pelt me with rotten vegetables and cast the evil eye. Old gypsy woman urinates in hole and I am drenched. After awhile their gibberish starts to make sense, and I learn that they are preparing a funeral pyre. A grotesque old man with one eye and a peg leg says that only fire will cleanse the evil that stagnates within my being. I tell him that I just need a good bath, a warm meal, and perhaps some female companionship and I will be on my way. He spits at me and heaps dung down into my hole.

 ...

Month of May, the red eye of the sun high in the sky

Woke up in a ditch, flies buzzing around my head, the stench of the water soaking into my nice pea coat. Bloody taste in mouth that never goes away, no matter what I eat or drink. Walk along side the road, thumb up, waiting for a car that never comes. The woods seems to be full of crickets and a crashing noise like trees falling. Find a dead possum and contemplate the meaning of life. The possum has maggots crawling from its eye sockets. After several hours a pickup truck stops. It is driven by a gnarled-faced old hillbilly clad in a pair of overalls and a straw hat. He smells of fish and tells me to get into the back. I somehow fall asleep lying on a lumpy burlap sack that feels as though it contains bones. He drives for hours and hours.

... 

Midnight, indeterminable time of year
Come to while with a girl in a car overlooking a river. She smiles at me and asks to see my hands, says she can read palms. I don't recognize her, nor do I have any memory of how I got here. Her eyes glimmer and gleam dark secrets from my soul. I ask her if she has any food. She hands me a bag of beef jerky that I devour in seconds. A deep ache fill my loins as I listen to her talk about milking cattle. Something screams in the night, and I find myself running from the car, a fire burning in my chest. The girl calls and calls my name in a language I cannot speak. The air has a sweet sour smell to it like fresh blood.

...

No idea of time or date
Bright lights bring consciousness to me. I am bound to a chair in a dilapidated bathhouse, cracked white and black tile all around. A man incessantly pounds his fists against the raw torso of a cow hanging from a hook. A naked obese gentleman approaches me and offers me a cigarette. I take it and thank him, but he says nothing for a long time. Eventually he asks if I am the Gotham Creeper. I tell him that I can't recall what I had for breakfast. The man in the background keeps punching the cow carcass. There is an itch on my neck that I cannot scratch.

...

Sometime in December, midnight, I guess

I blink my eyes and people are before me, enraptured by the words coming out of my mouth. I am on a stage, dressed in black, a guitar in my hands. Snow falls outside, steady and white as milk poured from a bottle. Someone requests a cover of Freebird and I tell them to go to hell. The rest of my set is composed of Burt Bacharach tunes. I sandwich a song devoted to Cthulhu between Rain Drops Keep Falling on My Head and A House Is Not a Home. No one seems to notice.

Retro Review: Thief 2

An arrow to the face is never healthy.

The reboot of the Thief franchise awoke a desire in me to replay the original trilogy, starting with Thief 2: The Metal Age, the only game in the series I'd never finished. I wanted to see if my memory of the high quality of the originals was accurate, or if I was viewing these old games with my nostalgia glasses on. Nostalgia is a powerful feeling; too often we feel that because we loved something in the past, especially when we were young, that that thing is truly great and worthy of our fond memories. We become biased. We think Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles was a classic cartoon/comic book, and how dare Hollywood and Micheal Bay touch our precious memories? TMNT is a pretty fucking stupid concept. The original creators even admitted as much. But for some reason, we're obsessed with the preciousness of our childhoods, and that includes all the junk pop-culture we mindlessly consumed as adolescents. I guess it's because youth is something we cannot recapture; therefore, anything that reminds us of our formative years become a fetish, and we paw and mishandle said thing, futilely grasping for that "teenage feeling." Whatever, I don't know. Let's not mistake ravings and quick conclusions for anything concrete.

Thief 2 was the last game Looking Glass Studios ever made. It was released in 2000 and somewhat rushed by Eidos, its publisher, because of the commercial failure of Ion Storm's Daikatana, a truly terrible game that I might replay/review someday out of a masochistic desire to understand the late Nineties video game industry. Nostalgia rears its ugly head once more. Anyway, Thief 2 flew under my radar when it was released, probably because I was fifteen and more interested in playing multiplayer mods for Half-Life and Unreal Tournament than messing with a first person sneaker. Thief invented its own genre, with its only real descendent being Dishonored. The object is to hide from enemies, and either avoid them all together or knock them out with your blackjack and drag their bodies to a nice hiding spot, all while collecting loot. Avoid loud surfaces like tile and gravel; stick to carpet, grass, and stone. The shadows are your friend, though any quick movement, even in total darkness, can render the unwary thief seen. It's a deep, atmospheric game, with complex sound and visual systems that the player can influence with a variety of unique arrows. Moss arrows dampen sound, allowing you to cross noisy surfaces, where water arrows take out torches, giving you more darkness. Noise arrows distract guards, while fire arrows relight torches, and rope arrows provide vertical access to otherwise unreachable locations. The complexity of these systems makes Thief 2 an adult game; I know I didn't possess the patience or understanding as a teenager to appreciate the series. Nostalgia, it seems, is not always wrong.

The aforementioned systems of light and sound manipulation are preserved to some degree in the 2014 reboot. What that game missed, however, is almost everything else. Thief games take place in a dark fantasy universe influenced by the Medieval and Victorian periods, with dashes of Steampunk (anachronistic steam-powered machines and tech--think Jules Verne, or even Brisco County Junior) to finish off the cocktail. This universe features two opposing religious groups: the Pagans, a collection of wild people and monsters who worship the Trickster God, who is a sort of amalgamation of Satan and Pan; and the Hammerites, a strict, industry-obsessed order (think the Medieval church) who pray to the Master Builder. These factions are overseen and secretly manipulated by the Keepers, a magical secret cult who read the future by interpreting glyphs. Everything takes place in the City, a sprawling feudal society built upon various versions of itself. This is a pretty dense stew, yet Thief 2 adds another faction, the Mechanists, who split from the Hammers and are able to build steampunk security cameras and giant combat robots. So there's a lot of mythology created in just the two original games, a mythology that serves to flesh out the experience of playing Thief 2. As a writer, I've always admired world building. I play video games to be transported to another world, and Thief 2 does this better than its newest relation.

 Not quite 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, but close.

The early Thief games are exploratory experiences. They are nonlinear; the player proceeds through large, labyrinthian environments with nothing more than a crude map and a compass. Thief 2 features some amazingly large levels. There are sprawling estates, a huge bank, a lighthouse and submarine, a trip across the roof tops of the city to climb up a towering fortress. I am reminded of Tim Burton's Batman while exploring Thief 2; there's an Art Deco look to some of its architecture. The freedom to be set loose, without a thousand hand-holding prompts to look at this or go here, is a feature sadly missing from modern game design. The player is not trusted in Call of Duty; you can't even open a door without a buddy. You're a sad sack along for the ride, just there to mindlessly shoot at foreign caricatures. Thief trusts the player, and such trust was an essential element to Looking Glass Studios' games. Dark Souls is the only game I've played recently to bring to mind the sort of exploratory freedom inherent to the Thief series (though almost completely missing in Thief 2014). 

Angelwatch. Nice Art Deco angel. Looks like something Batman would roost on.

The plot focuses on Garrett, player character, master thief and former Keeper initiate, who becomes entangled in the schemes of Karras, the lispy, genius inventor who commands the Mechanist order. Karras seeks to wipe out all organic life; he thinks that he is a prophet and performing the will of the Master Builder. This sort of religious fanaticism is interesting, for it's uncommon in games, which usually tend to be apolitical or jingoistic (Call of Duty), whatever will sell more. Garrett ends up looking to the Pagans for help, despite them being the antagonists of the first game. Garrett is a likeable antihero. He's a thief, and not above killing (though killing humans results in mission failure on Expert difficulty level), though he grows enough as a character to keep our interest, while still maintaining his roguish self-serving charm.

Missions proceed as a list of objects, most of which can be accomplished in any order the player likes. One cool thing about Thief is that you almost always have to find your way out after completing your goals. Most missions take over an hour to finish. According to the game clock, Thief 2 took me over fourteen hours to complete, but that's not counting deaths and restarts, of which there will be plenty. Thief 2 is difficult, but less so than Thief: The Dark Project. The AI will jump on you if you mess up, either by being too careless in your movements or too obvious, though they are easily thwarted by climbing a ladder or a wall. There's an important balance to keep in mind when making stealth games; you don't want too-smart AI, or otherwise the game wouldn't be fun, yet you don't want AI you can literally dance around. Thief 2 strikes a good balance. The 2014 reboot does well with AI, though it sometimes tows the line between too unforgiving and just smart enough.

A tree beast, a Pagan monster. These things are scary as hell. The sound design of Thief 2 is beyond compare.

New gamers might be put off by the lack of direction. The inventory system is hard to navigate, for you essentially have to cycle through all your items before reaching the one you need. The graphics aren't good, though you can improve them with a readily available fan patch.  The ending leaves a little to be desired, which is why I think I never completed it years ago. You have to repeat the same level, Casing the Joint and Masks, an obvious sign that Looking Glass was rushed, and then you embark on the epic scavenger hunt that is Soulforge, with its harsh architecture and legions of waddling robots. Yet, all together, these are small flaws that do little to distract from the core quality of the game.

Immersive Sim is the term used to describe Thief, System Shock, and Deus Ex. Games like this aren't really being made anymore--the newest Deus Ex is good, but it doesn't have the freedom of the original, and neither does Thief 2014.  Those looking for well-written, atmospheric entertainment who have somehow missed the Thief series should check it out. It's usually available for under ten bucks on Steam or Good Old Games.

Final Rating: Honey Crisp-sweet, crunchy, and filling like any good meal.

 

Book Review: Frankenstein

Henry Fuseli's The Nightmare, the cover art on my copy of Frankenstein

Over the past couple of years, I've been trying to remedy a history of lazy reading by going through the classics. As a writer, it's important to have a constant diet of literature to serve as inspiration for one's own work, not to mention the knowledge and experiences gained through reading in general. Since I've been interested in both the horror and Gothic genres, I decided to tackle Frankenstein, and wow, I don't think I've disliked a book this much since my freshmen high school English teacher made us read Toni Morrison's Beloved.

The story of Frankenstein has been bastardized and rewritten almost beyond recognition ever since cinema started adapting the novel, therefore bringing it to the public consciousness. One of the most common errors made is referring to the monster as 'Frankenstein'; Victor Frankenstein is the creature's creator, and his creation is never given an actual name but instead referred to as the 'daemon' or 'fiend,' as well as countless other negative epithets. The monster has no bolts emerging from his neck, and the particularities of his creation are glossed over, so there's no throwing of the switch, no electrical life-giving, no shouting "it's alive, it's alive, it's alive!" The metaphor of man abusing science is preserved, however, and it's this theme that's probably Frankenstein's greatest legacy. The Island of Dr. Moreau, Jurassic Park, and countless others have played with the same basic story, and it's important to recognize this, despite the work's other failings.

So, during the epistolary introduction, we meet Victor Frankenstein, a haggard, beaten young man, who, after being found marooned on an iceberg, relates his life story to the naive leader of a failing Arctic expedition. Just a few years prior, Victor was a passionate college student, influenced by ancient apocryphal texts as well as new advances in the sciences. He learns chemistry and eventually discovers the secret of life, which is never revealed. Victor uses his knowledge to construct a new being, the creature, an eight-foot tall idealized man. When he brings his creature to life, however, he is immediately stricken by his ghoulish appearance (the creature is described as having taut, translucent skin that reveals all of his inner workings), and subsequently flees, abandoning his nascent creation. Victor, I think, is supposed to be a sympathetic character, but it is at this point in the novel that the reader first experiences disbelief. Victor has been working on this project for months; his health has suffered; he's neglected correspondence with his family, and we're to believe that he'd run away like a little ninny after achieving what would be heralded as the greatest scientific feat of all time? Victor retreats to his friend Henry's care, and is more or less bedridden for half of a year by what amounts to a panic attack. Our protagonist's delicate constitution shall reveal itself throughout the novel, to the point where the reader has grown quite tired of Victor's fragile health. I don't know, maybe it's a Victorian thing; pre-antibiotic times were tough, I'm sure, but I couldn't help coming away with the conclusion that Victor is a pussy, especially considering his later actions.

So after recovering from his women's ailment, Victor returns to his home country of Sweden, essentially forgetting about the eight-foot tall monster he's created. Cue suspension of disbelief. Victor doesn't even really try to look for his monster; he visits his lab, shrugs his shoulders, and off to Sweden he goes. Mary Shelly must have had it in for scientists, because Victor comes off looking like the the world's dumbest, most irresponsible human-being. When he gets home, Vic discovers that his brother has been murdered, with his family's harmless nurse Justine the chief suspect. Upon investigating the scene of the crime, Victor spots his monster, who flees. He puts two and two together and figures that the creature is to blame. YET HE DOES NOTHING when Justine is put to trial and convicted, on the basis that no one would believe him. She dies because of him, he knows she's innocent, and he chooses to remain silent. At this point all of the reader's sympathy for Victor has vanished, since he's revealed himself to be a selfish, self-pitying asshole. Oh God, the whining. Victor whines, complains, and cries woe is me constantly after this point in the novel. Our suspicions that he is a pussy are confirmed, and it is only the allure of the monster that keeps us reading.

After the trial, the creature confronts Victor, and reveals his past. Awakening dumb and innocent, he wanders into a village and is driven away because of his fearful appearance. He lives in the woods, eventually moving into a wood shed, where he can watch a rural family. From their interactions, he learns to speak, and he teaches himself to read after finding a copy of Paradise Lost. There are references to the aforementioned work throughout the novel; Victor is compared to Satan, the creature to Adam. When the creature works up the courage to introduce himself to this family, whom he's fallen in love with, they attack him and drive him away. He subsequently vows revenge on Frankenstein for bringing him into a life of loneliness and misery; hence his murder of Victor's brother and his framing of Justine. The creature tells Victor he'll stop killing his family members if Vic will make him a female counterpart, and Victor reluctantly agrees.

The creature is an interesting character; despite his brutal actions, the reader can't help but feel sorry for him, since he never experiences a positive interaction with humanity. I feel like the novel should've been told from the creature's perspective. Instead, we get asshole Victor.

Victor isolates himself on a remote island somewhere off the coast of England after journeying there with his buddy Henry. He builds a laboratory and commences work on a second creature, only to suddenly renege when he becomes conscientious and fearful of the consequences of his actions. He theorizes that the two creatures would breed and produce a malevolent race that would wipe out mankind. I don't really know what kind of scientist Victor is. A dumb one, I guess. How two creature could produce enough progeny to challenge the human race without inbreeding, I can't imagine. All the presupposed malevolency of his creature is an imagining of Victor's--his creature has known nothing but violence and hatred, so how else should he act? I think the creature's deal was very fair, yet when he shows up at Vic's lab, our wonderful humanitarian tells him the deal's off. The creature, predictably, is pissed, and tells him more or less that he's going to kill everyone Victor loves. Victor, somehow, misinterprets this, especially the line "I'll be with you on your wedding day." Vic takes this to mean the creature will kill him when he marries his sweetheart Elizabeth, despite the fact that the creature has done nothing but strike at Vic's friends and family, while leaving him to suffer. His friend Henry is soon murdered, and still he does not connect the dots. He proceeds with his wedding to Elizabeth, vowing to kill the creature, keeping a pistol on him; yet he allows her to retire by herself immediately after the wedding. The creature murders her. At this points the reader has had enough of our brilliant scientist, and we wonder how the hell Vic was smart enough to bring the creature to life in the first place.

The fact that Shelly glosses over the creature's creation raises many questions. For instance, did he simply reanimate dead tissue like in the movies? If so, why doesn't Victor ever consider using his knowledge to bring his murdered family members back to life? Probably because all Victor can do is think of himself.

So Victor vows to kill the monster (Christ, why'd you wait till he killed everybody?) and that's how he ends up in the Arctic. The conclusion is disappointing; Victor dies of pussiness (he really does; he dies in the ship's cabin from some unnamed ailment, unable to confront his monster) and the creature finally gets his revenge, though we're left uncertain to his fate.

This is the first book of Mary Shelly's I've ever read; she's known mainly for Frankenstein and nothing else. Did she mean to make Victor so unlikeable? Is his arrogant and selfish nature a commentary on scientists of her day? Her main theme, that science is a dangerous tool, is not quite conveyed to the reader, since Victor's problems could have easily been prevented had he but not abandoned his monster. I guess not every classic is truly a classic.

Final rating: Red Delicious. 

Apophenia Chapter Two

School 8/16/08

Hoover University does not have a beautiful, idyllic campus. There is some pleasant landscaping and a slender clock tower that stretches two-hundred feet into the sky, but for the most part it’s a nondescript environment. All the buildings are utilitarian and brick, flat-roofed, with sterile insides and windowless classrooms. There are kids riding their bikes, walking around with headsets, moving in great crowds like the migratory herds of African megafauna. I fade in and march with the stream, flowing down the main strip, heading toward the Victor B. Tooms Liberal Arts Center, a hulking rectangular structure. There is a mulberry tree near the entrance, and a stick-limbed boy with disheveled hair is reaching into the branches, plucking berries and tossing them into his mouth. He sees me staring and nods, murmuring to himself. His lips are purplish-red, and he’s gotten stains all over the collar of his yellow-green soccer shirt. His backpack is tiny and pink, like a little girl’s. I want to punch him in the throat, but the odds aren’t with me, so I walk past and enter the Tooms building. My classroom is the first door on the right. I sit down at a desk and stare at the diminutive form of Peter Gibbons, professor of Creative Writing extraordinaire, AKA the Great Communicator, a friend to students, a lover of discussion and its inherent chaos.

            “Hey Leona!” he says. We are the only people in the classroom. “I think, uuh, I’m afraid we may have an issue.” Professor Gibbons has a nasal voice, thick beard, and wide-rimmed glasses. He’s dressed in black jeans and a black turtle neck, looking quite the poet, I must say.

            “What do you mean?” I ask in my most innocent voice.

            “Apparently you, uumm, assaulted Chad Arroyo outside of class yesterday. I found him gasping for breath and holding his throat. He wrote your name on a piece of paper.”

            “That’s odd,” I reply. “I don’t recall punching Chad, and I don’t really understand why anyone would want to.”

            “Come on, you, uuuhh, you have to admit that you and Chad don’t agree on much, and your disagreements are rarely civil,” he says, his eyebrows arching. Gibbons is a frequent devotee of the filled pause, a curious habit, I guess, for a professor.

            “Can you see me hitting anyone?” I ask, showing him my tiny fists. “These are women’s hands. I can rarely find gloves that fit them. They aren’t made for fighting.”

            “Leona, I can’t, uuuhhh, verify this incident, but I feel like you should resolve your differences with Chad before the situation, you know, escalates.”

            “Let me ask you something: did anybody see me hit Chad? Were there any witnesses? Where’s the evidence, I guess, is what I’m saying.”

            Professor Gibbons shakes his head, his shoulders rising spastically. I can tell he doesn’t believe me, but other students have entered the classroom. He doesn’t have anything on me, just a scrawled name, and I’m not about to confess to hurting Chad Arroyo, who walks in and takes the seat right next to mine. He’s looking at me, trying to bore a hole through my head, but I open my notebook and begin to mindlessly doodle. “Leona,” he whispers. A featureless face has taken nascent form on the paper before me, a great head with owl-like eyes. “Hey, hey! Excuse me!” says Chad. I give the thing a bloated torso and stubby limbs. Its eyes are disquieting. They are dream eyes, eyes that stare out from blackness, empty and cold. They say things to me, things I can’t recall while conscious. A hand appears on my desk, fleshy, covered in fine hairs. It is a well-manicured hand, one that does not know hard labor, and once again a violent urge seizes me and I almost stab it with my pencil.

            “What do you need, Chadwick?” I ask, still working on my drawing.

            “Can you look at me while I’m talking to you?” he says.

            “I would rather not,” I reply.

            “Why did you hit me yesterday?” he asks.

            “You must be mistaken,” I say. “I would never hit someone.”

            “You know, I could’ve reported you, and then you might have been expelled.”

            I look at Chad. He’s short, oval-faced, his hair combed off to the right side of his head, giving it an almost toupee appearance. His jeans are too tight, and he’s wearing skateboard shoes with no laces and no socks.

            “You’d tell administration that you got beat up by a girl?” I say.

            “I didn’t get beat up. You punched me in the throat.”

            “So do something about it, you pussy,” I say, looking back at my drawing.

            “Besides report you? What do you mean, like hit you? You think I should’ve hit you?”    

            “Or go tattle. Whatever. It doesn’t matter.”

            “There’s something wrong with you,” he says, moving to another desk.      

“How is everybody today?” says Professor Gibbons, his voice modulating upward. “What did everybody do over the weekend?” Gibbons always starts off class like this; he gets all excited and energetic, like he feeds off of sunny vibes and reckless youth, and suddenly the ums and uhs vanish, and his sentences rattle off like machine gun fire. 

            “I played the new Fallout and kind of forgot about life,” says Dexter, last name unknown, some starched shirt wearing, long-legged, wannabe poet.

            “Me and my sorority sisters went up to Chicago and ate pizza and hit the bars and visited family, and like, totally drank too much, and, you know, had like a great time!” says Roxanne, clad in pink sweats, hair in a bun, her eyes too far apart.

            “Fuckin’ A,” says Chad.

            “To be young. Yes, the exciting adventures of youth! Language, though, Chad,” says Gibbons.

              “There’s some dude eating berries off of the tree by the doors,” says Chad. “Did anybody see this weirdo?”

            “Yeah, that guy does that like every other day,” says Robert or Rupert, I can’t ever remember. He’s a fat kid with an enormous toad-like head who always wears flip flops no matter the weather. I loathe the sight of his pasty white feet, large-nailed, soft and translucent.

            “Let’s talk about poetry!” yells Gibbons. “This is creative writing, remember? Everyone get out a piece of paper and write twenty words. No thinking, just do it.” This is a typical exercise, one that the prof likes to use about once a week. He loves free-writing, just absolutely adores it; I am fairly certain that if given the option, he would spend his days vomiting out onto the page one disparate sentence after another, the end result being a pretentious mess of incomprehensible nonsense.

            “Chad, read what you wrote,” says Gibbons.

            “Punk hardcore twee remodifier, twisted at the hip, nailed to the cross, cigarette in the pocket: I’m blessed. Love: Mom.”

            “Yeah, that’s good, yeah, uuummm, excellent!” says Gibbons. “This is what I tell you people: you don’t have to labor over art. You don’t have to rack your brain and cut off your ear. I mean, that might help—passion’s great and all—but the amount of time spent on a piece doesn’t necessarily ensure its quality. It’s subjective, of course, what exactly constitutes great art. People have wildly differing opinions. Britney Spears and the Beatles, you know, which is better? I have my opinion and you have yours.”

            “But my opinion’s the best,” I say.

            “How is it the best?” asks Chad.

            “Well, you like Radiohead, for instance, as everyone here well knows. I can give you a million reasons why they suck. Thom York looks like a sleepy-eyed gnome, and he caterwauls to no end, and after Ok Computer they started putting out tuneless nonsense. Kid A sounded like B-sides married to Aphex Twin drum beats. They don’t play their guitars much anymore. Thom exchanged them for Pro Tools.”

            “Leona, would you please…” begins Gibbons.

            “And the Beatles are objectively better than Britney Spears, who came from the Mickey Mouse Club and MTV, and who had like a billion songwriters working side by side with marketers trying to figure out how best to sell her sex appeal to adolescents and make her record company millions. She can’t sing, she can’t write, he’s just hot,” I finish, not knowing why I’m so agitated.

            “The Beatles are overrated,” says Robert/Rupert.

            “I’ve never been too fond of them,” responds Dexter.

            “The Velvet Underground are the indie Beatles,” states Chad.

            “So what you’re saying is that her art lacks integrity,” says Gibbons. “Is that right, Leona?”

            “Yeah, I guess,” I say.

              “And you don’t think the Beatles made music for money?”

            “Well, no, I know they did, but they wrote their own stuff and played their own instruments,” I reply.

            “So all music must be written by performers in order to be good?” asks Gibbons.

            “No,” I say, while knowing where he’s going with this.

            “When you have a piece of art, you divorce it from its creator and the creator’s intentions,” says Gibbons. “You judge it on its own merits.”

            “Why can’t you have criteria for judging art?” I ask. The rest of the class sighs; they’re tired of my arguing and my contrarian disposition. I don’t particularly care.

            “A good piece of art is successful in doing whatever it was created to do. By that criterion, Womanizer is a fine song. You, Leona, obviously have your own criteria by which you judge art. Is your opinion better than mine? Who decides? Writing music or poetry isn’t like building a bridge or solving an equation. Do you understand what I’m getting at?” asks Gibbons.

            “Maybe you should be a math major,” suggests Chad.

            “Maybe you should stop wearing women’s jeans,” I say.

            “Okay, discussion time has ended,” says Gibbons. I listen to his lecture for a while, but I soon start to drift into the hazy netherworld of the daydream. Doodles fill my notebook, surrealistic creatures and geometric shapes. I manage to draw a decent caricature of Diesel, his head a football-shaped moon, saliva dripping from his yawning maw. Most of the class is paying attention except for a boy in a green army jacket. He always wears a Stetson hat with a turkey feather emerging from the band, and he has this hat pulled down low; his hand moves fast over a notebook, a large hand with big knuckles and protruding veins. He could be drawing the same things that I am—maybe he even has a brother named after a type of engine. I read an article the other day that suggested it was possible and maybe even probable that we are all living in a simulation based on mathematical laws. Like, there’s some advanced posthuman civilization that decides to simulate life using unimaginably powerful computers. Since simulating the entire universe on an atomic level would require an infinite amount of energy, it is reasonable to assume that they would look to conserve resources, hence, this could all be a show put on for my benefit. Professor Gibbons, Chad, Stetson hat guy, they’re all shadow people, zombies, and if I go and look at Stetson guy’s notebook, drawings will magically appear. A connection will be forged on the basis of randomly generated data. Of course, maybe I’m the shadow person. Maybe I don’t have thoughts. Maybe this is the first second of my life, and as soon as I walk out of this classroom, I shall cease to be.

            The rustling of papers disturbs my reverie. I hear the tail-end of a sentence from Gibbons mentioning that there will be a quiz on Wednesday, which is interesting, since we never have quizzes. I look around to ask someone what he said, but there’s no one sitting next to me.

            Arroyo flicks a wad of paper at me as he gets up for the door. It hits me in the tits. I unroll it and discover a ten digit code that I presume to be a phone number. Instead of throwing it in the garbage, I stuff the paper in my pocket.

            “Leona,” says Gibbons as I prepare to leave.

            “What,” I say.

            “We can’t have these frequent, um, distractions every, uuuhhh, class. I know you have strong views on, uuumm, art, but we can’t rehash the same conversation. I’d appreciate it if you kept that in mind.”

            “What are we having a quiz over?” I ask, figuring I can’t fall any lower in Gibbons’ eyes.

            “Stalin’s Mustache,” he says, looking at me shrewdly from behind his thick frames. The aforementioned volume is a two-hundred page collection of poems written by the prof about, you guessed it, Joseph Stalin’s facial hair.

            “Any particular poem I should read over?” I ask.

            “Just read as many as you can,” says Gibbons.

            “Sure,” I replying, wondering how many cups of spiked coffee that will take.

…

            I’m sorry to do this to you, dear reader, but I have to insert one of Gibbons’ poems. You need to suffer as I did. Imagine reading a small novel of this stuff.

Stalin’s Mustache: An Affirmation

It wasn’t unexpected, you furry wet leach, that your sexy shimmering shaking would lead to something of an affair, which, now don’t get me wrong, brotha (reduced to the vernacular, yet again) I enjoyed as much as a man/boy/woman/transvestite could, especially when considering the rather fecal circumstances that you are undoubtedly loath to remember, seeing how you shat spanked cummed your way through the interview, filthy hobo that you are, you dirty girl/boy/baby, you ridiculous fat swine, you smelly flee-bitten poopy-eared Commie, you hairy twat, you stinky taint, you delicate beautiful busty whore, I really, really, really, really want to forget/preserve/consume/digest you, but alas, the Dictator prevents it, he is always getting in the way of our bristly porcine love, and I like to think that some day, you and I shall walk together, man and mustache, hand in hand, foot in mouth, genitals joined in whiskery abandon.

A Poem from Apophenia

What am I but an extension of my mother’s labyrinth,

 a creature meant to bend and slide through corridors of refuse,

walking on the chipped pavement till my shoes rot away and my soul touches the grimy earth that yearns to swallow me as it has swallowed millions like me,

 women teetering on the tremulous, sharp edged blade of time,

 turning out their pockets for cigarette stubs,

 shrugging off advances and bills and weak paychecks and everyday people who would

eat your heart if they could,

 slice it up and spice it up on a plate,

 the inevitable pull of currents dragging us downward,

 pregnant and dilapidated, maids to trolls, keepers of the brood,

 a sorry lot of bed-wetters, prospective alcoholics,

 future drug addicts and wife beaters,

 little boys and girls who just weren’t able to be happy,

 just like their mothers, just like their mother’s great sprawling messes,

 abysses that yawn and call for more and more and more,

 their stomachs as endless as the company I keep,

 my kin, my kind, my home.

Music: Lover's Story

I wrote this song today. I think it is pretty. That is all. Listen on Soundcloud.

Video Game Review: Thief (2014)

One thing is certain, Thief is pretty.

Thief is the sequel to the classic first person stealth games developed by the now defunct Looking Glass studios. This is a series frequently cited to be among the greatest games of all time, so the expectations for this new title, which is a reboot, are high. Like the Looking Glass games, you control Garrett, a master Thief who has the ability to disappear in darkness, and who disdains combat as a sign of amateurism. The game, however, still leaves you capable of dispatching your enemies with a variety of arrows, though combat is certainly discouraged. Sneaking up behind enemies and bopping them on the head with the blackjack to render them unconscious is a better idea, or just avoiding them all together. Though the previous games let the player use the blackjack, I wish the game would differentiate between knocking a guard out and killing them, since, in both cases, the end result is the same. Guards could wake up after about three minutes and resume their search, and if the player knocks them out again, it could be lethal. But alas, that might make a hard and unforgiving game, which Thief can be.

 Hey, a Keeper Library. But where are the Keepers?

For a game that wants the player to pay attention to its story, Thief's narrative sure is incomprehensible drivel. During the prologue, Garrett loses his protege, an unlikable noisy, murderous thief named Erin, when she falls to her apparent doom from a roof top into a mystic ceremony involving a magic MacGuffin called the Primal and the city's leader, a totalitarian old fart called the Baron. Garrett is knocked out, somehow for a year, and when he wakes up, he's got a piece of the Primal lodged in his eye, which is the game's explanation for his Focus ability, which lets you see traps and loot easier. Soon, he's involved with Orion, a populist leader who wants to recover the Primal for some reason that's never explained. Nothing gets explained with this game: the only character that isn't a half-written cliche is Garrett's fence Basso, who disappears before the game's third act. The narrative reeks of rewrites and stitches; I wonder how many times they tried to cobble this story together from disparate parts. The end result is an unsatisfactory tale. So what, you might say. This is a video game, not a novel. As long as the gameplay is good, who cares? Well, it matters because the original Thief games had excellent plots with well-developed characters, and it's a shame the reboot is such a mess, and, as I stated before, this game takes its plot seriously, and its discombobulated narrative affects gameplay. Their are plenty of cutscenes which take control away from the player, as well as odd free running sequences in which you aren't certain whether or not you are controlling Garrett. These sequences will be hard to tolerate if you're a fan of the Looking Glass games, for the previous titles emphasized player choice and agency. In the old Thief, Garrett usually had to find his way out after infiltrating a bank or castle; in new Thief, the game pushes you along during its missions, and back tracking is usually impossible. 

Hey, a Hammerite Cathedral. But where are the Hammers?

In-between missions, Thief places you in the City, which is intended to be a playground for Garrett, full of side missions and secrets. This doesn't work like the Assassin Creed games, however, because the City is divided into numerous loading zones, each represented by a glowing window or a pile of stacked debris. Navigating the City, which should be a blast, is therefore a tedious chore. You have to figure out which zone connects to which zone because it's not always apparent on your map. The original two games did large levels very well; Thief 2014 takes after Deadly Shadows, the third entry in the series, which featured a higher level of detail but shoe-box sized environments. I'm assuming this was a concession in order to fit the game on the last generation consoles. In any case, the City is a failure, although many of the side missions are fun and more reminiscent of the previous games' style. 

Hey, burricks. We haven't seen a live one since 1998.

Despite their numerous sins, the developers did get the essential feel of Thief right. The stealth systems work well; you have a light meter with three different settings, and you're only safe (relatively) in complete darkness. Garrett will be heard if he runs or if he steps over broken glass or alerts a caged bird. Guard AI is impressive, and on Master difficulty, challenging. They investigate opened doors and thrown objects, and with a couple slashes of their swords, take Garrett's life. Swoop, a new addition that allows Garrett to glide quickly with a push of the space bar, feels powerful and satisfying. Garrett always moved like a lumbering tap dancer in the previous games; here, he feels more like a master thief. Guards are pretty much your only enemies besides Freaks, supernatural monsters who are blind but have heightened hearing. They are also vulnerable to light, which is a cool reversal of usual gameplay. 

Basso, I wish the entire game was about you and Garrett's adventures. That would've been interesting.

Thief isn't a terrible game. It's a solid modern stealth game that you'll enjoy if you're able to look past its many faults. But we have to compare it to its excellent predecessors, and average doesn't quite cut it. It's a shame they got rid of the dark fantasy lore that was the series hallmark. The Hammerites, an industry-obsessed religious order, are no more, and the Pagans, a creepy bunch of woods people who worship the Trickster God, are never mentioned. There are no Ratmen or Haunts or zombies. Thief has been stripped of its outlandish elements, and what remains is gritty and grim-dark, but ultimately less interesting. 

Final rating: Red Delicious--tastes like cardboard, mushy texture, yet will do in a pinch.

An explanation of Pointless Venture's rating system: We use a five apple system here. A classic is Gold Rush, excellent is Honeycrisp, average is Golden Delicious, poor is Red Delicious, and awful is Winesap. Try the aforementioned apples and see if you don't come up with the same rating.