When personal memory retrieval technology becomes commonplace, and we can revisit our own pasts in immersive detail, there is an evening early in the 1990s I look forward to experiencing again.
College friends of Audrey and I were visiting Edmonton from Killam, and had tickets to something called "An Evening with Ray Bradbury" at Grant MacEwan College. There had been promotions about their upcoming stage production of "Something Wicked This Way Comes", so I anticipated excerpts from that play and perhaps some of his other works, like The Martian Chronicles.
Imagine my surprise when the man himself took the stage and spoke for almost two hours, without notes.
Ray Bradbury, talking about his childhood friend, who was a magician capable of animating toy dinosaurs on film and having them eat your father (Ray Harryhausen!), and of being a starving writer and an affluent producer, and of his love of public libraries, and about the importance of creativity and imagination in our daily lives, especially for children and everything in between. Most vividly, I recall the energy and joy that he effused so effortlessly, despite being in his seventies at the time.
Bradbury's work was often called science-fiction, and often dealt with technological themes like interplanetary travel or computers, but I have always regarded him as more of a fantasist. His stories always focused on how ordinary people react to extraordinary circumstances, but even when dealing with spirits, or monsters, his compassion and humanity were evident. When he passed earlier this year at age 91, I remembered that unexpected encounter with great fondness.
I was reminded of that evening this afternoon when I stumbled across a deadmau5 video based on Bradbury's short story The Veldt. It is well done, using simple animation to act out an element of the story in a way that plays with our protagonistic assumptions, especially for those of us who haven't perused the source material in decades. I wonder if he had a chance to see or hear it before his passing, and if he would have enjoyed it.
I've made creativity and imagination and play as much a part of my life and the lives of my wonderful family as I have been able. I have to wonder if Bradbury planted a seed that evening we saw him, if he merely watered what was already there. Regardless, I am grateful to have had the opportunity to listen to him in person, even if my recollection is vague and imprecise.
An opportunity to return to the GMCC theatre two decades ago and listen again to this masterful storyteller would be worth quite a bit to me.
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Friday, September 7, 2012
Sunday, September 18, 2011
The Play's The Thing
As has been said before, I love games. War games, board games, word games, you name it. When I play them, sure, I like to win, but I don't need to win; people who need to win are typically not fun to be around at the best of times, and what I appreciate most about games is that they give everyone permission to play.
Only the most intelligent and social of animals are seen to engage in play, at least as far as we can perceive. It's entirely possible that bees have a rich but secretive tradition of satire, or that ant colonies devote some small measure of their endless efforts towards devising mathematical conundrums, but it doesn't seem likely. They are too busy following biological imperatives to waste time on frivolities.
Winning is good; winning as a goal gives many games purpose and definition, and tell you when it's over. Like Mr. Worf says, "If winning is not important, then why keep score?" But it's never been critical to my enjoyment of a game, which is good, because I would have dropped Warhammer 40,000 years ago if that was the case.
There are probably those out there who would not bother to play a game they couldn't win, or a game in which there is no winner, and this is tragic because they don't give themselves that permission to play, to participate in something just for the sake of doing it. I remember playing Dungeons & Dragons in my basement as a teen, and how my dad would always regret asking "Who's winning?" as he wandered past.
Think of the games you played in childhood; how did you determine who won a game of tag, or of red rover? It didn't matter, you got together and you played for the sheer enjoyment of being at play, and lived in that moment until the recess bell rang, or the streetlights came on, or you got called in for supper. Playing trumps winning just about every time, I figure.
Recently, I used the website They Fight Crime to engage my friends in this sort of play. The site uses a randomizer to generate a detailed and often bizarre description of two individuals, a male and a female, who fight crime, for example:
It is all to easy to imagine this type of breathless copywriting in an issue of TV Guide, or on the dust jacket of a cheap paperback, and while all of the descriptions are vaguely ridiculous, some of the combinations are absolutely ludicrous.
I sent an e-mail to the attendees of the annual Gaming & Guinness weekend with an example from the site, outlined my proposal, and asked who would be interested in participating; no judging, no voting, no prizes or wagers. My proposal was that I would give each one of them a different tagline from They Fight Crime, and they would have 24 hours to write something up giving the names of the characters, the medium they would appear in, the title of the book or television series or what-have-you, and an episode description or plot synopsis or back cover blurb. I would collect them all and then share them with the group en masse.
To my delight, every single one of them responded in the affirmative, even though a couple of them weren't able to submit anything this time around.
It should be explained that all of my Basement Brothers are rather sharp chaps, and all of them are gifted at expressing themselves in one way or another. A couple of them work with words either professionally or recreationally, while others don't give themselves enough credit in that arena, but because this was play and not sport, no handicapping was required.
The results are both delightful in their whimsy, and terrifying in their similarity to shows we either have seen or will see in the 500 channel (and growing) universe we live in. I have removed their names from their contributions because it might not have been clear that I would share them here, but they can take a bow in the comments field below if they like, and I heartily encourage them to do so. This is wonderful stuff, and just one example of the rewards of using creativity for its own sake.
My thanks to the Fraternitas Sub-Terra for indulging me in this; I am proud to call such creative and funny men my friends!
Medium: animated TV series
Title: Cowboy She-Bop
His name: Ringo Dallaire
Her name: Mary Alice Moore
Synopsis: in the 24th century, animals are full citizens, thanks to the release of the dog-talker virus in 2031. Cows are one of the largest voting blocs, but they still prefer to live in herds, typically in slums called 'calgaries'. The bounty hunters employed by the ANC (Animal Nation Congress) to police these towns are called cowboys. Despite being intelligent, none of the various animals can speak human languages, so specialized telepaths, called "whisperers" are employed to talk to them.
Only the most intelligent and social of animals are seen to engage in play, at least as far as we can perceive. It's entirely possible that bees have a rich but secretive tradition of satire, or that ant colonies devote some small measure of their endless efforts towards devising mathematical conundrums, but it doesn't seem likely. They are too busy following biological imperatives to waste time on frivolities.
Winning is good; winning as a goal gives many games purpose and definition, and tell you when it's over. Like Mr. Worf says, "If winning is not important, then why keep score?" But it's never been critical to my enjoyment of a game, which is good, because I would have dropped Warhammer 40,000 years ago if that was the case.
There are probably those out there who would not bother to play a game they couldn't win, or a game in which there is no winner, and this is tragic because they don't give themselves that permission to play, to participate in something just for the sake of doing it. I remember playing Dungeons & Dragons in my basement as a teen, and how my dad would always regret asking "Who's winning?" as he wandered past.
Think of the games you played in childhood; how did you determine who won a game of tag, or of red rover? It didn't matter, you got together and you played for the sheer enjoyment of being at play, and lived in that moment until the recess bell rang, or the streetlights came on, or you got called in for supper. Playing trumps winning just about every time, I figure.
Recently, I used the website They Fight Crime to engage my friends in this sort of play. The site uses a randomizer to generate a detailed and often bizarre description of two individuals, a male and a female, who fight crime, for example:
He's an all-American guitar-strumming filmmaker fleeing from a secret government programme. She's an elegant extravagent cab driver with a flame-thrower. They fight crime!
|
It is all to easy to imagine this type of breathless copywriting in an issue of TV Guide, or on the dust jacket of a cheap paperback, and while all of the descriptions are vaguely ridiculous, some of the combinations are absolutely ludicrous.
I sent an e-mail to the attendees of the annual Gaming & Guinness weekend with an example from the site, outlined my proposal, and asked who would be interested in participating; no judging, no voting, no prizes or wagers. My proposal was that I would give each one of them a different tagline from They Fight Crime, and they would have 24 hours to write something up giving the names of the characters, the medium they would appear in, the title of the book or television series or what-have-you, and an episode description or plot synopsis or back cover blurb. I would collect them all and then share them with the group en masse.
To my delight, every single one of them responded in the affirmative, even though a couple of them weren't able to submit anything this time around.
It should be explained that all of my Basement Brothers are rather sharp chaps, and all of them are gifted at expressing themselves in one way or another. A couple of them work with words either professionally or recreationally, while others don't give themselves enough credit in that arena, but because this was play and not sport, no handicapping was required.
The results are both delightful in their whimsy, and terrifying in their similarity to shows we either have seen or will see in the 500 channel (and growing) universe we live in. I have removed their names from their contributions because it might not have been clear that I would share them here, but they can take a bow in the comments field below if they like, and I heartily encourage them to do so. This is wonderful stuff, and just one example of the rewards of using creativity for its own sake.
My thanks to the Fraternitas Sub-Terra for indulging me in this; I am proud to call such creative and funny men my friends!
He's a war-weary alcoholic rock star with a passion for fast cars. She's a disco-crazy foul-mouthed soap star who can talk to animals. They fight crime!
Medium: animated TV series
Title: Cowboy She-Bop
His name: Ringo Dallaire
Her name: Mary Alice Moore
Synopsis: in the 24th century, animals are full citizens, thanks to the release of the dog-talker virus in 2031. Cows are one of the largest voting blocs, but they still prefer to live in herds, typically in slums called 'calgaries'. The bounty hunters employed by the ANC (Animal Nation Congress) to police these towns are called cowboys. Despite being intelligent, none of the various animals can speak human languages, so specialized telepaths, called "whisperers" are employed to talk to them.
Ringo is a former soldier, who copes with his PTSD with vodka. He was unable to prevent the slaughter of cows by a pig army, and still wakes up screaming at night. He tells the world the story of the cows through his preferred medium of music, and works tirelessly to prorect the people of the calgaries.
Mary Alice works on the soap opera General Animal Hospital. She had a run-in with the law, and was sentenced to help out at a calgary. No one knows that she can talk to animals, but her ability gets found out by the end of the second episode.
Together, they work to keep meat-pirates, smugglers, and others away from their own private Calgary.
In other words, They Fight Crime!!!
HBO SERIES TRAILER SCRIPT
NARRATOR: Coming this fall on HBO - a new original series from Earl J. Woods, the acclaimed creator of Toilet Chase and Blast Zone. Kristen Bell and Nathon Fillion star in...
Spitting Bullets
NARRATOR: By the year 2150 everything has changed. By the year 2150, nothing has changed.
S/FX: Scenes of 22nd century Mars from orbit, ringed with space stations and starships, many festooned with faux-neon lighting in the style of old Film Noir dives and speakeasies. Zoom down to night on the surface, to small settlements with the same 1940s aesthetic under starry skies. Yellow taxicabs grimy with red Martian dust and retro-futuristic design glide down the streets. Surly outcasts and desperate runaways fight for scraps as the rich and powerful sneer down from their gilt hotels.
NARRATOR: Starring Nathan Fillion as Ed Dick, a man with nothing left to lose and nothing left to prove.
Wheeling down the boardwalk comes Dick, chomping on a cigar, wearing horn-rimmed glasses, a fedora and a zoot suit. He spots the Dejah View, Mars' most notorious strip joint, and wheels inside.
DICK (V.O.): After that fateful night, I'd always ask myself: of all the strip joints on all the worlds, why did I hafta roll into this one....
NARRATOR: Kristen Bell stars as Katrina Vixen, an eccentric and exotic Martian beauty with very feline appetites.
As DICK wheels toward the strip joint's main stage, VIXEN (Bell) explodes from behind the curtain, wearing a shimmering liquid metal costume that slithers like a snake all over her body, revealing everything, yet revealing nothing. Burlesque music roars along with the crowd.
VIXEN: When he rolled into my place, I knew those baby blues spelled just one thing: trouble!
Jump cuts of DICK and VIXEN: A hover-limo full of Tommy-gun toting hoods dries to put a hit on DICK and VIXEN, but VIXEN leaps catlike onto the side of a building while DICK unloads the twin laser-gatlings mounted to his wheelchair arms, blowing the limo to smithereens. In a gambling hall full of robot dealers, DICK shows off his card skills. VIXEN grapples with a space octopus on the shores of a Martian lake as her cats howl and hiss. DICK and VIXEN fight back-to-back against little green men, fending them off with kicks and karate chops.
NARRATOR: With Sir Patrick Stewart as Fing Foom Mong, Kingpin of Mars.
MONG, half hidden in shadow on a throne of Martian rock and metal, leans forward into the light and thrusts his index finger at some minions.
MONG: I want that Dick!
NARRATOR: On Mars, love can get you killed. But sometimes, it's the only way out.
DICK and VIXEN in DICK's office, lamplight casting shadowblinds on their faces:
VIXEN: What put you in that wheelchair, Dick? Was it the same thing that put you at the bottom of that bottle?
DICK (hurling bottle to shatter it against the wall): I can quit right now, do you hear me? Right now!
NARRATOR: On a world being buried by old crimes, it takes a new kind of loser to set things right.
DICK (punching a cyborg bruiser): I'm gonna clean up this town one street at a time.
VIXEN (leaning on his shoulder, flipping a huge gold sovereign in the air and catching it): That's if he doesn't rob the whole town blind first.
NARRATOR: A grifter. A stripper. No plan, no chance, one mission: put the hurt on the mob before the mob makes them as extinct as the original Martians.
JUMP CUT of a mobster firing a bunch of bullets at DICK, point blank; but when we cut to DICK, he smiles calmly and spits them onto the sidewalk, one by one.
DICK: I have a hell of a dentist.
NARRATOR: Kristen Bell and Nathon Fillion are...
SPITTING BULLETS!
Bumbershoot and Dazzler
TV show
Steve "Bumbershoot" Smith, ex-high-school quarterback and now a broad-shouldered librarian, wields a bulletproof brolly and a quiet right hook. No talking!
Pavarti Dazzler, a foxy momma whose love of the disco beat can only be trumped by her love of the news heat. Her style is wild, her beat is sick, her pen is mightier that your disco stick!
Dazzler rolls into town in her Maserati Grancabrio Sport, hot on the trail of a rumor that could lead to the story of the century. Stopping at the local library for a little local research, she's immediately taken by the large handsome librarian leaning on his unusual umbrella. Sparks fly when their eyes meet, and then literally a few minutes later as unseen arsonists try to burn a few bookworms! The mystery unfolds with links to Spanish underground wrestling, high finance, a new street drug and a 5,000 year old Chinese mummy! Tune in for tonight's episode of Bumbershoot and Dazzler, "The Pain in Spain Shoots Straight Into the Vein", or "Mummy Dearest (Asian Edition)".
Mystic Rave, the comic
Cybersocket unit 'XF-88' and 'Sylph' La Familier Fatal, they fight crime!
In their eternal battles against the massive criminal organization P.E.C.K.E.R, XF-88 and Sylph find themselves pull apart trying to rescue the fraternity. Finally having met Dr. Feltch Witherspoon and losing him just as quickly in the ensuing chaos of the riot, will XF-88 find his true identity? Can Sylph bring herself to terms with her addictions?
Freebie and the Bean
(TV series)
Suave, smooth, good looking in a rough-hewn way, he could get the ladies any time he wanted, and he always wanted. He moved constantly, always looking for fresh meet (sic), and was willing to do anything to get it. Women couldn't resist his sweet, Latino heat and his suave accent.
He trusted no-one and no-one should trust him as he would turn on them faster than bus crossing behind a 747 at take-off. People would sell their soul for a chance at the promised land, he'd do it for them when they weren't looking.
The news showed his countrymen trying the Rio Grande, but he knew the best way across, the way where you never got caught, the way he brought the freedom fighters in.
Juan Valdez is the one no man can stop and no woman wants to.
Brandi Steele was born into the easy life where it was easy to get bored but Daddy always indulged her. Whatever it took to stimulate his daughter he gave willingly, including a job as the face of the family business. Daddy's eponymous detective firm would always give her the trappings of a job when she felt like doing it. When she didn't, there was always his money. There was no way for this to end well without adult supervision, and that's exactly what happened.
Left to her own devices she fell in with a bad crowd and the progression has been seen before on a dozen Interventions. Huffing and puffing was a dangerous combination, as David Bowie can tell you, but when her "friends" were attacked she was forced to apply her Daddy's training and then combine those elements of her wayward past in the best way she could: into a justice-seeking flame-thrower.
They met in prison. She was charged with assault with a flammable weapon, he was caught leading a squad of mercs across into Texas. As she invoked her father's name for freedom he ditched his countrymen and leapt at the opportunity, entrancing her and winning his freedom. Surfing the free ride by volunteering his street smarts, she burns up the crooks while they burns up the sheets.
Together, THEY FIGHT CRIME!
Title: Dingo & Splash
TV series
Character Names: Dingo Kadji and Elizabeth Windsor
Copy:
Dingo Kadji, the undead shaman from the vast Australian outback, struggles on in this existence bearing the dark secret of his village’s demise.
Elizabeth Windsor, aka Splash, was born with the gift of time-travel. Raised in the enchanted & hidden Mermaid’s Pool deep in the English Midlands, she left her home to see the world and has a knack for talking her way into trouble.
Dingo and Splash wander middle America trying to do the right thing and helping where they can. It was Dingo who saved Splash when her wise-cracking ways put her on the wrong side of a biker gang and, as a result, the long arm of the law. No slouch herself, Splash has kept Dingo in better…spirits….with her impressive wit and her ability to show her undead mystic friend the past and future lives of the people they encounter.
In other words, They Fight Crime!!!
He's a short-sighted alcoholic grifter in a wheelchair. She's a vivacious cat-loving stripper from Mars. They fight crime!
HBO SERIES TRAILER SCRIPT
NARRATOR: Coming this fall on HBO - a new original series from Earl J. Woods, the acclaimed creator of Toilet Chase and Blast Zone. Kristen Bell and Nathon Fillion star in...
Spitting Bullets
NARRATOR: By the year 2150 everything has changed. By the year 2150, nothing has changed.
S/FX: Scenes of 22nd century Mars from orbit, ringed with space stations and starships, many festooned with faux-neon lighting in the style of old Film Noir dives and speakeasies. Zoom down to night on the surface, to small settlements with the same 1940s aesthetic under starry skies. Yellow taxicabs grimy with red Martian dust and retro-futuristic design glide down the streets. Surly outcasts and desperate runaways fight for scraps as the rich and powerful sneer down from their gilt hotels.
NARRATOR: Starring Nathan Fillion as Ed Dick, a man with nothing left to lose and nothing left to prove.
Wheeling down the boardwalk comes Dick, chomping on a cigar, wearing horn-rimmed glasses, a fedora and a zoot suit. He spots the Dejah View, Mars' most notorious strip joint, and wheels inside.
DICK (V.O.): After that fateful night, I'd always ask myself: of all the strip joints on all the worlds, why did I hafta roll into this one....
NARRATOR: Kristen Bell stars as Katrina Vixen, an eccentric and exotic Martian beauty with very feline appetites.
As DICK wheels toward the strip joint's main stage, VIXEN (Bell) explodes from behind the curtain, wearing a shimmering liquid metal costume that slithers like a snake all over her body, revealing everything, yet revealing nothing. Burlesque music roars along with the crowd.
VIXEN: When he rolled into my place, I knew those baby blues spelled just one thing: trouble!
Jump cuts of DICK and VIXEN: A hover-limo full of Tommy-gun toting hoods dries to put a hit on DICK and VIXEN, but VIXEN leaps catlike onto the side of a building while DICK unloads the twin laser-gatlings mounted to his wheelchair arms, blowing the limo to smithereens. In a gambling hall full of robot dealers, DICK shows off his card skills. VIXEN grapples with a space octopus on the shores of a Martian lake as her cats howl and hiss. DICK and VIXEN fight back-to-back against little green men, fending them off with kicks and karate chops.
NARRATOR: With Sir Patrick Stewart as Fing Foom Mong, Kingpin of Mars.
MONG, half hidden in shadow on a throne of Martian rock and metal, leans forward into the light and thrusts his index finger at some minions.
MONG: I want that Dick!
NARRATOR: On Mars, love can get you killed. But sometimes, it's the only way out.
DICK and VIXEN in DICK's office, lamplight casting shadowblinds on their faces:
VIXEN: What put you in that wheelchair, Dick? Was it the same thing that put you at the bottom of that bottle?
DICK (hurling bottle to shatter it against the wall): I can quit right now, do you hear me? Right now!
NARRATOR: On a world being buried by old crimes, it takes a new kind of loser to set things right.
DICK (punching a cyborg bruiser): I'm gonna clean up this town one street at a time.
VIXEN (leaning on his shoulder, flipping a huge gold sovereign in the air and catching it): That's if he doesn't rob the whole town blind first.
NARRATOR: A grifter. A stripper. No plan, no chance, one mission: put the hurt on the mob before the mob makes them as extinct as the original Martians.
JUMP CUT of a mobster firing a bunch of bullets at DICK, point blank; but when we cut to DICK, he smiles calmly and spits them onto the sidewalk, one by one.
DICK: I have a hell of a dentist.
NARRATOR: Kristen Bell and Nathon Fillion are...
SPITTING BULLETS!
He's an all-American umbrella-wielding librarian with a secret. She's a disco-crazy extravagant journalist from out of town. They fight crime!
Bumbershoot and Dazzler
TV show
Steve "Bumbershoot" Smith, ex-high-school quarterback and now a broad-shouldered librarian, wields a bulletproof brolly and a quiet right hook. No talking!
Pavarti Dazzler, a foxy momma whose love of the disco beat can only be trumped by her love of the news heat. Her style is wild, her beat is sick, her pen is mightier that your disco stick!
Dazzler rolls into town in her Maserati Grancabrio Sport, hot on the trail of a rumor that could lead to the story of the century. Stopping at the local library for a little local research, she's immediately taken by the large handsome librarian leaning on his unusual umbrella. Sparks fly when their eyes meet, and then literally a few minutes later as unseen arsonists try to burn a few bookworms! The mystery unfolds with links to Spanish underground wrestling, high finance, a new street drug and a 5,000 year old Chinese mummy! Tune in for tonight's episode of Bumbershoot and Dazzler, "The Pain in Spain Shoots Straight Into the Vein", or "Mummy Dearest (Asian Edition)".
He's an oversexed voodoo cyborg on the wrong side of the law. She's an enchanted snooty hooker living on borrowed time. They fight crime!
Mystic Rave, the comic
Cybersocket unit 'XF-88' and 'Sylph' La Familier Fatal, they fight crime!
In their eternal battles against the massive criminal organization P.E.C.K.E.R, XF-88 and Sylph find themselves pull apart trying to rescue the fraternity. Finally having met Dr. Feltch Witherspoon and losing him just as quickly in the ensuing chaos of the riot, will XF-88 find his true identity? Can Sylph bring herself to terms with her addictions?
He's an oversexed crooked vagrant who knows the secret of the alien invasion. She's a wealthy junkie detective with a flame-thrower. They fight crime!
Freebie and the Bean
(TV series)
Suave, smooth, good looking in a rough-hewn way, he could get the ladies any time he wanted, and he always wanted. He moved constantly, always looking for fresh meet (sic), and was willing to do anything to get it. Women couldn't resist his sweet, Latino heat and his suave accent.
He trusted no-one and no-one should trust him as he would turn on them faster than bus crossing behind a 747 at take-off. People would sell their soul for a chance at the promised land, he'd do it for them when they weren't looking.
The news showed his countrymen trying the Rio Grande, but he knew the best way across, the way where you never got caught, the way he brought the freedom fighters in.
Juan Valdez is the one no man can stop and no woman wants to.
Brandi Steele was born into the easy life where it was easy to get bored but Daddy always indulged her. Whatever it took to stimulate his daughter he gave willingly, including a job as the face of the family business. Daddy's eponymous detective firm would always give her the trappings of a job when she felt like doing it. When she didn't, there was always his money. There was no way for this to end well without adult supervision, and that's exactly what happened.
Left to her own devices she fell in with a bad crowd and the progression has been seen before on a dozen Interventions. Huffing and puffing was a dangerous combination, as David Bowie can tell you, but when her "friends" were attacked she was forced to apply her Daddy's training and then combine those elements of her wayward past in the best way she could: into a justice-seeking flame-thrower.
They met in prison. She was charged with assault with a flammable weapon, he was caught leading a squad of mercs across into Texas. As she invoked her father's name for freedom he ditched his countrymen and leapt at the opportunity, entrancing her and winning his freedom. Surfing the free ride by volunteering his street smarts, she burns up the crooks while they burns up the sheets.
Together, THEY FIGHT CRIME!
He's a suicidal zombie shaman moving from town to town, helping folk in trouble. She's a time-travelling wisecracking mermaid on her way to prison for a murder she didn't commit. They fight crime!
Title: Dingo & Splash
TV series
Character Names: Dingo Kadji and Elizabeth Windsor
Copy:
Dingo Kadji, the undead shaman from the vast Australian outback, struggles on in this existence bearing the dark secret of his village’s demise.
Elizabeth Windsor, aka Splash, was born with the gift of time-travel. Raised in the enchanted & hidden Mermaid’s Pool deep in the English Midlands, she left her home to see the world and has a knack for talking her way into trouble.
Dingo and Splash wander middle America trying to do the right thing and helping where they can. It was Dingo who saved Splash when her wise-cracking ways put her on the wrong side of a biker gang and, as a result, the long arm of the law. No slouch herself, Splash has kept Dingo in better…spirits….with her impressive wit and her ability to show her undead mystic friend the past and future lives of the people they encounter.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Yet Another Space Cowboy
I've somehow managed to have something new posted at the start of every work week since I started this blog last year, and rather than break the streak while we prepare to go camping in Banff tomorrow, I thought I would cheat a little with a rerun of sorts.
A few years back, a friend of mine started a science-fiction role-playing campaign set in the universe of Joss Whedon's Serenity. All of us were huge fans of the short-lived Firefly TV series, and rightly so, and leapt at the chance to stretch out the experience of life in the 'Verse just a little longer, and to enjoy hearing those distinctively anachronistic turns of phrase so particular to the show. Plus, any book with a chapter entitled "Gorram Chinese" is a must have by my reckoning.
Unlike a lot of RPGs which follow an 'equip - quest - fight - loot - equip...' cycle pretty much ad infinitum, Serenity encouraged a high degree of drama and mystery, and expected the players to help the game master out with this by giving their characters idiosyncrasies such as a troubled past, a secret weakness or an implacable foe.
My character, Gus Hardy, would typically work as a dealmaker or frontman for a ship or crew looking for work, using his skills as a carny barker to drum up business or talk his way out of trouble. Not a violent man by nature, he is not to be trifled with as he is a very decent shot and (more importantly) incredibly fast on the draw.
I had a backstory worked out for Gus, and decided that the best way to impart it to the referee (and to formalize it for myself) was to write it up as a sort of short story, in the form of a one-sided interview. It's unlikely we will get an opportunity to play again anytime soon, what with the game master having moved out of province, so I thought I would share the story with those of an interest. Let me know what you think.
For the Record
Gus Hardy. Oh, full name? Augustus Chang Hardy. I guess if you’re recordin’ this for more than posterity I oughta keep things proper, huh? That’s a nice deck, can I have a look at it? Not a lot of people use these carts anymore…whoops.
There, it’s working again. Sorry about that.
No, I’m not currently employed, that’s what made me interested in the sign downstairs.
I guess it’s been, what, two weeks or thereabouts? I was working with a theater troupe touring Beaumonde, mostly barking, but occasionally up in the lights. Whassat? Ha, ha! No, no offense, I’m sure no self-respecting actor wants to be told they look like an actor. Kind of defeats the purpose, don’t it? No, it wasn’t that kind of thing at all, more like carny work.
Sure, if you’re having one. I’ve no preference, they all taste pretty much the same to me. Incident with my tastebuds, actually. Got any ice? Ahh, much obliged.
Not hardly Hamlet, mostly just tricks to drum up a crowd, a little light magic to charm the kids and their moms. Between you and me, if you can get a pretty lady to ask, ‘how’d you do that?’, you can pretty much close the box office, know what I mean?
Having a background with sideshows and the like is a good fall back. Seems there is always some group or another droppin’ in or leaving atmo, and I’ve loved the life since I was a tike. No, not to go to, to be in. My daddy’s cousin on Paquin took me in after my folks died back on Boros. Kind of the black sheep if you know what I mean, but he was the only kin what could take me in. I was 11. Helluva strange environ to grow up in, I don’t mind tellin’ you! Anyways, where was I? Oh yeah, Beaumonde. No, Mr Cartwright treated everyone respectful, and paid regular enough, which is rare in that line of work. It was just time to go. Time to try something new.
Sure, two fingers.
Yeah, barkin’ is just like sellin’. Ain’t nobody goes lookin’ for a show like that, you need to be convinced, y'know, cajoled. Yeah, I like that word too. I haven’t done any actually sellin’ for a long spell now. Medicine, actually. Didn’t much like it.
Well, that was their idea too. Have a well-spoken individual come out and do a few tricks to raise up a crowd, and then lay into my pitch about the benefits of Elixirase, the wonder remedy of the age. What? No, I’m pretty sure snakes had nothing to do with it. Oh! Ha, ha! I’m surprised you’ve heard of it, actually. Yeah, I’d say ‘unpleasant’ is a gorram polite way of puttin’ it all right.
No, I’m good…well, it ain’t hardly like I’m driving is it? All right.
That was a bad time, and no mistake. Sure I felt responsible, I sold it to to them. Me, personally! But let’s get one thing straight, I never once told them to give that luh suh swei to their gorram kid. I knew the stuff wasn’t all that good, I had no idea at all that it might end up with someone gettin’ hurt, let alone dying. I ain’t much for hurtin’ folk. Well, unless they’re tryin’ to hurt me.
Nope, never went back after that. In fact, I drank the rest of the stock before heading back to my ‘riginal line of work. Hmm? ‘Bout ten days I think. I have trouble recollectin’ exactly, I think it has something to do with the high alcohol content. Everything’s tasted the same ever since. Aw, it ain’t so bad, I save a lot of money buying the cheaper whiskey, and protein bars are as good as a steak now. I only know what you’re serving me is top shelf because I recognize the label. Whoa up, that’s good. Thanks.
And Kersey keeps turning up, and I keep moving on. The kid’s dad, that’s who. Can’t rightly say as I blame him either, but martyrdom ain’t exactly my cup of cha. At least he’s easy to spot now that he walks with a limp. The time before last was a mite closer than you like a feller to get with homicide in his intent. Ha, ha! No, it’s just…of course I could kill him. It’d be easy enough to do, too. I’m a damn sight faster ‘n him, and the reason the room was dark when I shot out his kneecap is because I shot out three candles in the room tryin’ to scare him off. That, and to backlight him and keep it dark enough he couldn’t see me too clear.
No, just the wicks. Any ruttin’ idiot can shoot a candle. How do you think I earned my keep with Uncle Lewis, playin’ ‘is it the eight of clubs?’ with some rube? Anyhow, being able to shoot him ain’t the problem. I could even make a damn good self defense case. It’s just I got enough to answer for with a dead kid on my plate without addin’ a grievin’ parent to the mix. No thanks.
Not as much help as you’d think. Most of them what need a man with a gun are less concerned with how good he is with it, and more concerned with how discrete he is with it, how willin’ he is to use it.
Sure, I’ve shot a few men. Even killed a few when they forced my hand. But they always drew first. I’m not one for dry gulchin’. Which, sure, has cost me the occasional job, but never one I wanted. I’ll work for unsavoury types when the need appears, but I’ll never kill a man for money.
Speaking of jobs, you’ve let me do most of the talkin’ here. Pardon my ramblin’, I don’t usually carry on like this. Must be the liquor. Strange how neither sellin’, speechin’ or shootin’ has prompted you to say much about what you want me to do. I reckon that could mean you’re workin’ for Kersey and wanted some proof I was here on Tonqa, hm? Hey now, no need to get jittery, mister; I understand how it is. We all gotta work, right?
Here’s a proposition: I'll keep that cart I palmed earlier on so you have nothin' for Kersey, and we go our separate ways, call it square, how's that sit by you?
On the other hand, if Kersey is bringing in third parties, he’s probably got a right shiny bounty on me. You've given me a fair amount of whiskey, it’s probably slowed me down some. Is it enough?
A few years back, a friend of mine started a science-fiction role-playing campaign set in the universe of Joss Whedon's Serenity. All of us were huge fans of the short-lived Firefly TV series, and rightly so, and leapt at the chance to stretch out the experience of life in the 'Verse just a little longer, and to enjoy hearing those distinctively anachronistic turns of phrase so particular to the show. Plus, any book with a chapter entitled "Gorram Chinese" is a must have by my reckoning.
Unlike a lot of RPGs which follow an 'equip - quest - fight - loot - equip...' cycle pretty much ad infinitum, Serenity encouraged a high degree of drama and mystery, and expected the players to help the game master out with this by giving their characters idiosyncrasies such as a troubled past, a secret weakness or an implacable foe.
My character, Gus Hardy, would typically work as a dealmaker or frontman for a ship or crew looking for work, using his skills as a carny barker to drum up business or talk his way out of trouble. Not a violent man by nature, he is not to be trifled with as he is a very decent shot and (more importantly) incredibly fast on the draw.
I had a backstory worked out for Gus, and decided that the best way to impart it to the referee (and to formalize it for myself) was to write it up as a sort of short story, in the form of a one-sided interview. It's unlikely we will get an opportunity to play again anytime soon, what with the game master having moved out of province, so I thought I would share the story with those of an interest. Let me know what you think.
For the Record
Gus Hardy. Oh, full name? Augustus Chang Hardy. I guess if you’re recordin’ this for more than posterity I oughta keep things proper, huh? That’s a nice deck, can I have a look at it? Not a lot of people use these carts anymore…whoops.
There, it’s working again. Sorry about that.
No, I’m not currently employed, that’s what made me interested in the sign downstairs.
I guess it’s been, what, two weeks or thereabouts? I was working with a theater troupe touring Beaumonde, mostly barking, but occasionally up in the lights. Whassat? Ha, ha! No, no offense, I’m sure no self-respecting actor wants to be told they look like an actor. Kind of defeats the purpose, don’t it? No, it wasn’t that kind of thing at all, more like carny work.
Sure, if you’re having one. I’ve no preference, they all taste pretty much the same to me. Incident with my tastebuds, actually. Got any ice? Ahh, much obliged.
Not hardly Hamlet, mostly just tricks to drum up a crowd, a little light magic to charm the kids and their moms. Between you and me, if you can get a pretty lady to ask, ‘how’d you do that?’, you can pretty much close the box office, know what I mean?
Having a background with sideshows and the like is a good fall back. Seems there is always some group or another droppin’ in or leaving atmo, and I’ve loved the life since I was a tike. No, not to go to, to be in. My daddy’s cousin on Paquin took me in after my folks died back on Boros. Kind of the black sheep if you know what I mean, but he was the only kin what could take me in. I was 11. Helluva strange environ to grow up in, I don’t mind tellin’ you! Anyways, where was I? Oh yeah, Beaumonde. No, Mr Cartwright treated everyone respectful, and paid regular enough, which is rare in that line of work. It was just time to go. Time to try something new.
Sure, two fingers.
Yeah, barkin’ is just like sellin’. Ain’t nobody goes lookin’ for a show like that, you need to be convinced, y'know, cajoled. Yeah, I like that word too. I haven’t done any actually sellin’ for a long spell now. Medicine, actually. Didn’t much like it.
Well, that was their idea too. Have a well-spoken individual come out and do a few tricks to raise up a crowd, and then lay into my pitch about the benefits of Elixirase, the wonder remedy of the age. What? No, I’m pretty sure snakes had nothing to do with it. Oh! Ha, ha! I’m surprised you’ve heard of it, actually. Yeah, I’d say ‘unpleasant’ is a gorram polite way of puttin’ it all right.
No, I’m good…well, it ain’t hardly like I’m driving is it? All right.
That was a bad time, and no mistake. Sure I felt responsible, I sold it to to them. Me, personally! But let’s get one thing straight, I never once told them to give that luh suh swei to their gorram kid. I knew the stuff wasn’t all that good, I had no idea at all that it might end up with someone gettin’ hurt, let alone dying. I ain’t much for hurtin’ folk. Well, unless they’re tryin’ to hurt me.
Nope, never went back after that. In fact, I drank the rest of the stock before heading back to my ‘riginal line of work. Hmm? ‘Bout ten days I think. I have trouble recollectin’ exactly, I think it has something to do with the high alcohol content. Everything’s tasted the same ever since. Aw, it ain’t so bad, I save a lot of money buying the cheaper whiskey, and protein bars are as good as a steak now. I only know what you’re serving me is top shelf because I recognize the label. Whoa up, that’s good. Thanks.
And Kersey keeps turning up, and I keep moving on. The kid’s dad, that’s who. Can’t rightly say as I blame him either, but martyrdom ain’t exactly my cup of cha. At least he’s easy to spot now that he walks with a limp. The time before last was a mite closer than you like a feller to get with homicide in his intent. Ha, ha! No, it’s just…of course I could kill him. It’d be easy enough to do, too. I’m a damn sight faster ‘n him, and the reason the room was dark when I shot out his kneecap is because I shot out three candles in the room tryin’ to scare him off. That, and to backlight him and keep it dark enough he couldn’t see me too clear.
No, just the wicks. Any ruttin’ idiot can shoot a candle. How do you think I earned my keep with Uncle Lewis, playin’ ‘is it the eight of clubs?’ with some rube? Anyhow, being able to shoot him ain’t the problem. I could even make a damn good self defense case. It’s just I got enough to answer for with a dead kid on my plate without addin’ a grievin’ parent to the mix. No thanks.
Not as much help as you’d think. Most of them what need a man with a gun are less concerned with how good he is with it, and more concerned with how discrete he is with it, how willin’ he is to use it.
Sure, I’ve shot a few men. Even killed a few when they forced my hand. But they always drew first. I’m not one for dry gulchin’. Which, sure, has cost me the occasional job, but never one I wanted. I’ll work for unsavoury types when the need appears, but I’ll never kill a man for money.
Speaking of jobs, you’ve let me do most of the talkin’ here. Pardon my ramblin’, I don’t usually carry on like this. Must be the liquor. Strange how neither sellin’, speechin’ or shootin’ has prompted you to say much about what you want me to do. I reckon that could mean you’re workin’ for Kersey and wanted some proof I was here on Tonqa, hm? Hey now, no need to get jittery, mister; I understand how it is. We all gotta work, right?
Here’s a proposition: I'll keep that cart I palmed earlier on so you have nothin' for Kersey, and we go our separate ways, call it square, how's that sit by you?
On the other hand, if Kersey is bringing in third parties, he’s probably got a right shiny bounty on me. You've given me a fair amount of whiskey, it’s probably slowed me down some. Is it enough?
You look like you could be fast. How fast? D’you want to find out?
No?
Much obliged for the drink.
No?
Much obliged for the drink.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
May Day
Hottish and stickyesque summerlike day
Bodes me to hang up my hammock and sway
The lawn being mowed and the dog having run
My nape starts to dry twixt the breeze and the sun
With duties complete I'm inclined to recline
While the pendulum swing of my hammock keeps time
About an hour away I see other jobs beckon
Which leaves enough time for some reading I reckon
Earbuds secure with a payload of music
Masks out the road and the engines that use it
A hum makes me wonder if an aircraft I've heard
But it's only a bumblebee as large as a bird
And although I still long for my family's return
I've layed here some time with no cries of 'My turn!'
A bright bolt of sunlight through clouds finds a gap
Which compels me to snug down the bill of my cap
Sol's rays through the branches are deliciously warm
And all that I need is in reach of my arm
The spiciest chip and the hoppiest beer
A paperback book and perfection is near
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Based on a True Story
I've mentioned in at least one previous post how much love I have for the movie Slap Shot. For a female screenwriter in 1977 to display such a deft hand with the amount of locker room profanity in this film is really astonishing, and it's also notable insofar as it is pretty unconventional for a sports movie, in which the final set-piece is a game where the outcome is pretty much irrelevant.
I recently had an opportunity to re-watch the film with Audrey, and I have to say, on the whole, it holds up really well. Not all of it mind; I am not sure how I would feel about the movie if I was gay, what with all the "fag" and "cocksucker" talk going around, but let's face it, it is hardly an unfair characterization of that culture at that time. To say nothing of the fact that when they address it with Paul Newman's character Reggie Dunlop a couple of times, he makes it pretty clear he doesn't really care. Sad to say, I find Dunlop's taste in pants more off-putting. Still and all, a very decent and eminently quotable comedy that draws well on a palette of great supporting characters, blue humor and slapstick, with a little pathos thrown in for contrast.
There's a scene during one game where Dunlop hears that the team is being sold, and he trots out of the player box in his skates and into the dressing room office, where he finds the manager (Strother Martin) slumped in a chair staring at a cigar in his hand. He looks up at Newman and says, "It's the final season; it'll be announced tomorrow."
Newman stares in disbelief, then collapses into another chair, his shoulders low. There is a beat, then from offscreen we hear the sound of the goal buzzer, followed by the cheesy organ music which tells us it wasn't the Chiefs. In that one scene, where he doesn't utter a word, I think Paul Newman looked older than he did in any of his next six pictures.
I've gotten into the habit of checking the "Trivia" tab under a movie's IMDb entry immediately after watching it, and when I did this for Slap Shot, I made a shocking discovery:
Slap Shot was very nearly a documentary.
I shit you not. It turns out that screenwriter Nancy Dowd had collected a number of anecdotes from her brother Ned, regarding his adventures with the Johnstown Jets in the North American Hockey League. She travelled with the team and even had Ned bring a tape recorder into the locker room on occasion.
Director George Roy Hill convinced her that the film had more potential as a feature-length comedy than a documentary, and legions of fans are glad he did.
Those who have seen the movie know what a great job they do building up the menace of Federal League uber-goon Ogie Ogelthorpe, with an early reference and relief that he has been suspended, to a later report from Dunlop that he's been deported. When he returns for the final game, the announcer really sells it:
If that isn't enough, the reactions of the players, especially French-Canadian goaltender Denis Lemieux's "Ogelt'orpe?!", certainly cements his reputation in the minds of the audience. So I was pretty stunned to find out that Ogelthorpe is based largely on real player Bill 'Goldie' Goldthorpe, a guy who got 25 majors for fighting by Christmas of his rookie year. In looking for more information on him, I found this great article that gives even more examples of the truth behind the fiction, including:
* The Hanson brothers are played by two Carlson brothers and an actual Hanson, because the third Carlson got called up by the Edmonton Oilers (!) prior to filming. The glasses were real too.
* The bounty? The fight during the warm-up? Going into the stands to fight a spectator? All based on real events.
* Michael Ontkean, who plays scorer Ned Braden in the movie, beat out Nick Nolte for the part, largely because he played hockey for three years in university.
The Carlsons (who played two of the Hansons), say the part about them "puttin' on the foil" was not true (although others say it was). They not only admit to wrapping their hands in leather, however, but they also say they would soak it in water then dry it with a heater to harden it.
And Nancy Dowd's brother, Ned? He's the one playing Ogelthorpe.
I recently had an opportunity to re-watch the film with Audrey, and I have to say, on the whole, it holds up really well. Not all of it mind; I am not sure how I would feel about the movie if I was gay, what with all the "fag" and "cocksucker" talk going around, but let's face it, it is hardly an unfair characterization of that culture at that time. To say nothing of the fact that when they address it with Paul Newman's character Reggie Dunlop a couple of times, he makes it pretty clear he doesn't really care. Sad to say, I find Dunlop's taste in pants more off-putting. Still and all, a very decent and eminently quotable comedy that draws well on a palette of great supporting characters, blue humor and slapstick, with a little pathos thrown in for contrast.
There's a scene during one game where Dunlop hears that the team is being sold, and he trots out of the player box in his skates and into the dressing room office, where he finds the manager (Strother Martin) slumped in a chair staring at a cigar in his hand. He looks up at Newman and says, "It's the final season; it'll be announced tomorrow."
Newman stares in disbelief, then collapses into another chair, his shoulders low. There is a beat, then from offscreen we hear the sound of the goal buzzer, followed by the cheesy organ music which tells us it wasn't the Chiefs. In that one scene, where he doesn't utter a word, I think Paul Newman looked older than he did in any of his next six pictures.
I've gotten into the habit of checking the "Trivia" tab under a movie's IMDb entry immediately after watching it, and when I did this for Slap Shot, I made a shocking discovery:
Slap Shot was very nearly a documentary.
I shit you not. It turns out that screenwriter Nancy Dowd had collected a number of anecdotes from her brother Ned, regarding his adventures with the Johnstown Jets in the North American Hockey League. She travelled with the team and even had Ned bring a tape recorder into the locker room on occasion.
Director George Roy Hill convinced her that the film had more potential as a feature-length comedy than a documentary, and legions of fans are glad he did.
Those who have seen the movie know what a great job they do building up the menace of Federal League uber-goon Ogie Ogelthorpe, with an early reference and relief that he has been suspended, to a later report from Dunlop that he's been deported. When he returns for the final game, the announcer really sells it:
"Oh this young man has had a very trying rookie season, what with the litigation, the notoriety, his subsequent deportation to Canada and that country's refusal to accept him, well, I guess that's more than most 21-year-olds can handle... Ogie Ogelthorpe!"
If that isn't enough, the reactions of the players, especially French-Canadian goaltender Denis Lemieux's "Ogelt'orpe?!", certainly cements his reputation in the minds of the audience. So I was pretty stunned to find out that Ogelthorpe is based largely on real player Bill 'Goldie' Goldthorpe, a guy who got 25 majors for fighting by Christmas of his rookie year. In looking for more information on him, I found this great article that gives even more examples of the truth behind the fiction, including:
* The Hanson brothers are played by two Carlson brothers and an actual Hanson, because the third Carlson got called up by the Edmonton Oilers (!) prior to filming. The glasses were real too.
* The bounty? The fight during the warm-up? Going into the stands to fight a spectator? All based on real events.
* Michael Ontkean, who plays scorer Ned Braden in the movie, beat out Nick Nolte for the part, largely because he played hockey for three years in university.
The Carlsons (who played two of the Hansons), say the part about them "puttin' on the foil" was not true (although others say it was). They not only admit to wrapping their hands in leather, however, but they also say they would soak it in water then dry it with a heater to harden it.
And Nancy Dowd's brother, Ned? He's the one playing Ogelthorpe.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Why Start a Blog?
Really, there is not a lot of incentive to start up a blog at this point in my life. I am hardly a unique demographic, either amongst internet users in general or bloggers in specific. There are already plenty out there, so it is not like I'm filling any sort of need, right?
Well, maybe my needs.
I've always enjoyed writing, and I wish I had taken steps in my younger days that could have led me to a career doing it, but I was never committed enough to be a journalist, or competitive enough to work in advertising, nor imaginative enough to come up with any other viable options. I wrote a few short stories here and there, mostly for training material or gaming background, or my own enjoyment and that of my friends, and once, years ago, I wrote a screenplay with a co-worker for a contest. But then comes work and a family, and writing takes a back seat to less strenuous or more sociable recreation, and your axe grows dull, and you content yourself with critiquing the writing you encounter in books and movies and television.
But it still needs to get out.
Within my circle of friends are a number of gents who are very handy with the verbage, some professionally so, and when they throw a word of praise (or better yet, an expression of jealousy) for a turn of phrase or an idea I've expressed in one of our G-mail threads, it makes my day. Seriously. Like many insecure humans, I get about 50 miles per pat-on-the-head, and praise from people you respect the way I respect my mates is more priceless than those MasterCard commercials could ever know.
So I find myself running on in my e-mails from time to time. Grandstanding. Soapboxing. Waxing eloquent, or at least, attempting to do so. Even when it doesn't generate feedback, I still enjoy it, still picture the reader smiling at his workplace or imagine the spontaneous generation of a soft chuckle or thoughtful nod. I mean, there is certainly no pressing need to proof a second draft of an e-mail being added to a thread entitled, "Anyone doing anything this Saturday?", is there?
And thus I end up here, taking the leap, and starting a blog. I am pretty sure there is no need for another electronic raconteur here on 'teh internets', but I am damned sure there is room. A chance to post some insights, share some stories, vent some spleen, and who knows what else.
If the axe gets sharp, who knows what might be done with it?
Well, maybe my needs.
I've always enjoyed writing, and I wish I had taken steps in my younger days that could have led me to a career doing it, but I was never committed enough to be a journalist, or competitive enough to work in advertising, nor imaginative enough to come up with any other viable options. I wrote a few short stories here and there, mostly for training material or gaming background, or my own enjoyment and that of my friends, and once, years ago, I wrote a screenplay with a co-worker for a contest. But then comes work and a family, and writing takes a back seat to less strenuous or more sociable recreation, and your axe grows dull, and you content yourself with critiquing the writing you encounter in books and movies and television.
But it still needs to get out.
Within my circle of friends are a number of gents who are very handy with the verbage, some professionally so, and when they throw a word of praise (or better yet, an expression of jealousy) for a turn of phrase or an idea I've expressed in one of our G-mail threads, it makes my day. Seriously. Like many insecure humans, I get about 50 miles per pat-on-the-head, and praise from people you respect the way I respect my mates is more priceless than those MasterCard commercials could ever know.
So I find myself running on in my e-mails from time to time. Grandstanding. Soapboxing. Waxing eloquent, or at least, attempting to do so. Even when it doesn't generate feedback, I still enjoy it, still picture the reader smiling at his workplace or imagine the spontaneous generation of a soft chuckle or thoughtful nod. I mean, there is certainly no pressing need to proof a second draft of an e-mail being added to a thread entitled, "Anyone doing anything this Saturday?", is there?
And thus I end up here, taking the leap, and starting a blog. I am pretty sure there is no need for another electronic raconteur here on 'teh internets', but I am damned sure there is room. A chance to post some insights, share some stories, vent some spleen, and who knows what else.
If the axe gets sharp, who knows what might be done with it?
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