somenewlanguage

Like thousands of others, I waited with baited breath for the release of the second expansion pack for Fallout 3, called The Pitt. Fallout 3 is perhaps the best game I’ve played in years. When the Anchorage Assault  pack was released, I downloaded it within hours and blasted my way through.

Unfortunately, the same thing happened with The Pitt. Granted, my expectations may have been unusually high for this expansion module. The gossip and rumors I’d been hearing were equating it with the Shivering Isles expansion for Bethesda’s other hit, Oblivion. Sadly, the reality was far different.

I powered up the old Xbox 360 and loaded the game. I used a previously created character, one who had topped out at 20^th level. After a few moments of wandering the wastes, I received the radio call and headed towards the map marker. I met a man named Wehrner who led me to the ruins of Pittsburg.

The morally ambiguous plotline was frustrating, actually. By committing a kidnapping to secure a cure for intense radiation sickness, you begin a brutal revolution that ultimately forces you to blast the child’s parents. In this case, I chose a recently liberated flamer, as I was desperately low on regular ammo, charred “the Cure’s” Ma and Pa. However, first time through, I chose to not kidnap the child, as I realized it would result in a conflagration of serious proportion. The slaves wouldn’t budge and end up attacking your character. Blasting a few slaves, I quickly noticed my Karma was disappearing faster than my ammo.

I reloaded the game, and against my better judgment, I took the baby/cure. So, as it all unravels the slaves get freed and the child/cure has a foster mother who, though worn out and obviously regretting her decision, attempts to take care of the child as best she can.

Before the climax of the plot, you are asked to fiddle around with the usual gather/investigate quests. Most irritating is the much-lauded and greatly anticipated Arena. Three matches and you’ve earned your freedom, are Arena champion, and the plot climax is only moments away. The arena itself is a tiny little room, baked with radiation, and the opponents were one V.A.T.S. click away from being splattered all over the radioactive rocks.

The exploration of the Pitt took longer than the actual quests, of which there were like three.

Of the new weapons available, none are remarkable. The Auto-Axe or Man Opener is cute, but frankly, if I wanted a melee weapon game, I’d play Oblivion. The new rifle, called the Infiltrator, is an automatic assault rifle with a sound suppressor and scope. At full zoom, its accuracy is about as good as a drunk trying to make it into the toilet bowl so his wife doesn’t bitch him out the next morning. That is to say, the rifle has some serious drift and does significantly less damage than the Chinese Assault rifle. It’s basically dead weight.

After some hours scraping through the Pitt, I found an abandoned apartment complex. Suddenly excited for a little of that magic that made Fallout 3 so great, I sat up straight and dove into the Trog infested building. Two floors later, I’d scoured it clean and was once again bored. The ongoing quests of bringing teddy bears to the baby-cure is a little more depressing (if possible) than the rest of The Pitt, and as the residents had not yet chosen to police the corpses from their revolution, I don’t think I’ll be taking my character back there any time soon.

Technically, it was a very nice expansion. The environments were convoluted and messy, true Fallout 3 style. But spending most of your time in a steel mill and surrounding areas felt rather… blah.

Overall, it’s a beautiful expansion, but with not much real game play. Diehard Fallout 3 fans will enjoy, as always, but find themselves craving more. 

In film school, I spent hour upon credit-hour analyzing, dissecting and basically tearing into film. It was a good time – so many rotten films are made, we had plenty of material to go over. We’d start at the top of the list with the overall plot and work through, like a hacksaw to the meat and bones of a film, the directing and acting, cinematography and sound design, et cetera. There was always something to bite into. In fact, even text-book perfect films had something to chew up. Jaws, perfect by all standards had that abominable fake shark, the mismatched B-roll shark footage. Citizen Kane even had some snorks in it.

Watchmen, no doubt had a few glicks, but overall it was a great movie. The super-hero genre is being pummeled to death by super-sized budgets and two-dimensional villains, so it was refreshing to see some super heroes who aren’t so super. I’ve heard fans say that a lot of material was left out from the original graphic novel, but for new fans and fresh-starters, it was a very complete telling.

No screen time was wasted with the stock genre tropes like the time-hogging and seemingly obligatory “origin scenes.” The audience is just dropped with into the story, with nary a care for the vigilante weirdo’s pasts. Set in the mid 80’s, Watchmen was a very now tale. The philosophical questions it provokes are timeless and skillfully demonstrated. The astute observer will note that while there were protagonists and opposition, this was another film without a villain – simply a whole lot of anti-heroism.

The production design was stellar, as was the direction and editing. Fast paced and thoughtful, with intriguing characters the whole piece was great fun. Perhaps a little too much blue tube, but hey, the guy has transcended time and space, so I guess he can walk around naked if he likes.

I’m a classics geek. I admit it. I’m always picking up books written by ancient greeks and romans to add to my library. I’ve got quite a collection - Xenophon, Thucydides, Plato, Pliny, Cicero, Suetonius, Ovid, Homer, Virgil, et cetera. So, when ever I see a video game set in my favorite historical period, I have to pick it up. 

Rise of the Argonauts was described to me as being somewhere between God of War (which were great games!) and Conan (a hack n’ slash game of exquisite entertainment value).  I’m thinking this is going to be great, though Jason is my least favorite of Greek heroes, I can give it a chance. 

Well, I played it through. There’s actually only about three hours of actual “play.” The rest of the game is desperately long conversations with uninspired (perhaps too well known) characters, loaded with exposition and inopportune options for dialogue. Between running around expansive levels with limits options for action, interaction or combat, and the dreadfully elaborate conversations, I found myself considering turning the game off and returning it, at least for the first two hours. 

Eventually, I started to get the hang of the game, and even enjoyed playing. Like any game in it’s genre, the camera angles aren’t quite right. Once you get used to the action, Jason becomes a much more effective fighter, and incidentally, much more fun to play. Of course, the opponents were either evil monsters from Tarterus or Ionians (an arbitrary selection from the true-life ancient greek sub-cultures), neither appearing as much more than a glowing suit of armor to be hacked at.

The inclusion of the other Argonauts seems superfluous. They serve very little purpose except to distract opponents while you massacre others. While we’re talking about the Argonauts, I feel compelled to comment on the game designers choices for Argonauts. The inclusion of Achilles and Pan, Lycomedes and Medusa, was just awkward. As one friend commented to me “It’s as if one designer was a classics major and the others had seen alot of movies.” 

He’s right. There are moments in the game where the designers knowledge of classics is impressive. And in the rest of the game, they seem to nothing except what they learned from Clash of the Titans. 

Over all, a simple, straight forward game with little to offer a true classics buff, too much talking and limited combat.

It was perhaps, because she was so cold, that he found her charming. He surely suspected that to her, he was just another sub-routine. A program, she would start up and run, when her other programs told her central processor that it was appropriate to do so. He glanced at her eyes.

She smiled, demurely and reached out to touch his hand. Her hand moved slow, her long delicate fingers seemed to absorb light. They reached his hand and wrapped around it slowly, then, squeezed, ever so gently. Her hand then retreated, to rest once again in her own lap.

Simon marveled at the warmth of her skin, the almost too human face. She blinked and smiled up to him.

“Why do you stare at me Simon?”

“Because you are a marvel.” He smiled. “Do you love me, Symphony?”

“Of course Simon.”

“Are you just saying that because you know that it’s what I want to hear?”

“No.”

“Are you just saying that because you are programmed to?”

“No.”

“How do you know what love is?”

Symphony cocked her head and narrowed her eyes, an all too human expression of puzzlement.

“Because you make me happy.”

“Yes, but how do you know that?” He persisted. He looked away from her and stared out into the cold night. His eyes caught the thruster flare of a ship, far off, preparing to leave orbit. “Aren’t you programmed to love me?”

“Aren’t you programmed to laugh when something is funny?” She countered,

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“I don’t have programming.”

“That is debatable.”

He sighed. “But how do you know it’s not just a series of complex instructions?”

“I know it because I smile involuntarily when you are near. I know it because I derive pleasure from your happiness. I know it, because I do.”

“But that could be programming! Subtle, yes, and genius, yes, but it still could be programming.”

“Does it make it less real for you knowing that you are supposed to feel a thing when certain stimuli occur?”

He turned and looked at her. Her womanly shape relaxed in the contoured co-pilots chair, her skin glittering somewhere between rosey-pink and flickering stars. He almost believed her. Then she looked out into space and her eyes flicked, her irises constricted and her pupils flared, micro-miniature circuitry was pulsing to life just behind the curve of her blue eyes. She’d seen that engine flare as well.

“Simon. It’s a pursuit craft. We need to leave.” Symphony announced non-chalantly as she began to buckle herself into her seat.

“We’re in the que, we’ll get our chance soon.”

“Negative, Simon. We’re in danger.”

“What!?”

Symphony’s fingers flew over the ships controls and the darkened bridge lit up with hundreds of displays and lights and switches. She moved with frightening speed and grace. She continued to speak.

“Please, Love, strap yourself in. Prepare for dimension fold.”

“Right here?”

“I’m afraid so.” Her voice was low, soothing.

“Don’t worry love. I won’t let them hurt you.” And as she spoke, she coded in the incredibly complex figures for their impending leap through time and space. Figures, that would take most normal computers hours to crunch, a human perhaps days. This was why he didn’t believe she loved him, but it was certainly why he loved her.

And then they jumped through space and left time to sort itself out.

The world became solid and time took up its vigil again as the small shuttle materialized from its dimension fold. Simon blinked and turned to Symphony. Symphony moved from her seat and swept her hand over the ship’s control, gracefully putting it to sleep.

“Where are we?” Simon asked, rising from his own seat and moving up beside Symphony. He put his arms around her waist and pulled her close. He grinned as she playfully struggled, wriggling gently in a feigned attempt to escape his embrace.

“We are nowhere, my Love.” She pointed to the star charts.

“Why?”

“It was the only place I knew that no one was.” She smiled at him.

“They’ll be coming for us, for you.”

“And you.”

“Yes.”

“What shall we do Simon?”

The anti-hero’s acceptance into mainstream media is a relatively recent happening. Within the past ten years, it seems that we’re saturated with anti-heroes; comics, books, television, video games. The white armored knight is cliché to the jaded Gen-Xers, and down right hokey to me-centric Millenials. Maybe the Millenials can easier identify with a character that takes what he wants, and doesn’t have to go through the hoops to get it. It’s closer to their instant gratification culture. Easier to identify with, perhaps, than the stodgy moralist heroes like Captain America. Regardless of the cultural consequences of a generation raised on Grand Theft Auto, the Punisher and Hellboy, anti-heroes are in.

The Top Ten Anti-Heroes

10. Hellboy (Hellboy I and II)
Seems like this would be a no brainer; the dude is a demon. But he was raised by a wise old man who tried to impart upon him the virtues of being human. I don’t know if it worked, but so far Hellboy hasn’t destroyed the world. He’s a character with a conscience, but an ever lasting teenagers dis-respect of authority. Frankly, he’s a rather mild demon, throwing tantrums and the like when he doesn’t agree with his curfew. It is solely the character’s origins and his perceived destiny that make him an anti-hero. Without that demonic starting point, he might just be a loose-cannon cop movie.

9. Riddick (Pitch Black / Chronicles of Riddick)
The two Riddick films were excellent science-fiction. By no means were they Academy Award winners, both were thought provoking and well cast. The character of Riddick is the quintessential anti-hero. His origins are shrouded in mystery, stalked by the law and the unlawful, he is both prey and hunter, a perfect and simultaneous juxtaposition of dueling realties. He proves he has feelings, but has no qualms about killing. A close viewer will see that it becomes almost an act of pleasure. If not pleasure, then perhaps satisfaction. That’s about as anti-hero as it gets.

8. Corwin of Amber (Chronicles of Amber by Roger Zelazny)
Corwin, one of the Nine Princes in Amber, hails from a family of anti-heroes and outright villains. Pitted in a fatal competition against his siblings, Corwin raises an army from across dimensions to march on his family’s/brother’s castle. But Corwin remains frosty through out the endeavor. Even when his brother puts out his eyes and throws him in the dungeon, Corwin, more or less, stays composed. His love’em and leave’em attitude, his daring-do and cut-throat swordsmanship reserve his place in the Top Ten of Bad Good Guys (or is it Good Bad Guys?) forever.

7. Wolverine
Old snarl butt himself. I’ve been reading X-men comics since I was 11 (which was a long time ago). I think Wolverine is the only character who’s gotten more interesting as time progresses. Of course, he was basically an empty canvass. Introducing generic “bad asses” with amnesia is pretty heavy handed. But I think the writers did okay with it. I mean, he didn’t end up a lost prince or king of the vampires did he? Anyway, Wolverine is a cold-blooded killer with a heart of gold. He’s a perfect, if predictable and somewhat unsophisticated anti-hero. The dichotomy of his personality, the need for efficiency in his function, a sadistic bit of savagery and the idea that he is still a feeling human, make his a pretty classic anti-hero.

6. Bobba Fett
Yes, I know he’s got cool Mandalorian armor. I know he’s got a jet pack, missiles and disintegration ray. But he’s also a bounty hunter; that is, he’s a fighter-type who hunts other sentients for money, regardless of their innocence or guilt. Sure, he does good when he gets the bad guys. But how does that weight against all the innocents he’s accidentally or intentionally disintegrated? He’s a clone of few words, but if we can believe Lucas’ expanded universe, and prequels, he’s the direct clone of the last of the Mandalorian warriors… which makes me wonder why the rest of the clone army doesn’t shoot better. Bob, as he’s known to his friends, later reaches an uneasy truce with Han Solor, as years of Coyote and Roadrunner antics. Bob is a great example of a bad guy being co-opted by public opinion, and being written in to fill the role he’s expected to have. 

5. Blade 
He is a vampire, after all. I mean, half vampire. His heart is in the right place. You know, stalk the night, jack the leeches, send them flying, bursting into hot cinders and ashes, flinging stakes and blasting shotgun shells filled with…whatever the hell he puts in them. For all his grim determination and brutal efficiency, he’s sorta got a heart of gold, or at least a soft spot for strays. Perhaps it’s that so many anti-heroes see themselves, or at least, how they could or should have been in the disaffected and disenfranchised. I know when ever I’m plotting major pseudo-villainy, I always feel a pang of sympathy for the victims of my plots, almost as if I could see it from their point of view…

4. Batman
Everyone’s favorite ego-maniacal pseudo-sociopath! Yes, the Batman is a true anti-hero. But I’m afraid his high-prioced rough and tumble antics are wearing a little thin these days. The last installment of Batman’s legend was a great flick, no doubt. But here’s the thing - putting “Xxtreme” in front of the Joker doesn’t really make for a better story. Don’t get me wrong. The last Batman movie was spectacular, well played, posted, and cut. But I was watching Xxtreme Joker more than I was watching Batman. The hero has actually in this case become too “anti.” Batman’s need to dispense justice is now totally overshadowed by his lunacy. Nevertheless, he’s a classic anti-hero will will likely never escape any listing “chaotic good” characters.

3. Alex (A Clockwork Orange)
His favorite pastimes are assault, rape and thievery. He certainly sounds like a villain. But in the novel A Clockwork Orange, Alex is “our humble narrator.” His apparent inability to tell right from wrong seems to stem from a sociopathic view regarding other humans as not-quite living things. I’m not making much of a case for the hero aspect am I? Well, in this context he’s our only point of reference for the world. While he seems atypical to us, he does have droogs who are more of less, just like him. Perhaps, in fact, he’s not an anti-hero, but more appropriately, just the main character…

2. Dexter comes in at a strong #2 on the top ten anti-hero list. I mean, he is a serial killer. It’s just that he kills the bad guys. His methods are gruesomely effective, his habit are typically fastidious and he’s desperately clever. He’d be a great hero, except that, you know, he chops people up. Nevertheless, for a sociopath, he manages to balance a job, family life and relationships reasonable well. For someone who is off and on again hunted by the FBI, he manages to “take care of business.” It’s Dexter’s ethical code that keeps him in our hearts as a merely misunderstood vigilante. He uses his code to curb, control, alleviate and justify his behavior. And from an absolute justice point of view, he’s absolutely correct. But then again, he’s using his code as a shield, a catch-all excuse that allows him to indulge in his more base behaviors. He is, after all, a serial killer.  

1. Achilles – “Sing oh Muse, of the mighty Achilles, whose wrath laid low so many great and noble heroes…” For my money, Achilles of Homer’s Iliad is the number one anti-hero of all time. Indestructible, or at least, invulnerable, unparalleled martial prowess and an ego to match, Achilles temper and self-centric world view cost the lives of many Greeks. Achilles fights for the Greeks, the invaders, looking to take troy by force of arms. The excuse for the conflict, Agamemnon’s wife Helen, is ostensibly justifiable. She was, according to their cultural tradition, the wife/property of Greek king, and Paris had no rights, legal recourse, or authority to take her, gods or no. Hector, the best of all Greek men, fought on the side of the Wrong. It is precisely because he had conscious knowledge of that fact, that he was the perfect man. He was honor bound to defend his family, his home and his people. When Achilles defeated Hector and his rage drove him to drag Hector’s corpse around, we see clearly what sort of monster we’re dealing with.

Enter the Dollhouse, a hidden location where beautiful men and women, are stored in a subdued and distracted state. Stored until they are needed again. These men and women owe a debt to society, and in this new series, an anonymous A-team like corporate makes these operative available, for a price. The pretense is that the organization is doing good, helping society and generally improving the world. The reality is that this organization is taking away the freewill and lives of it’s operative, by mind-wiping and implanting new personalities for each mission.

Sounds like the stuff of classic science fiction, no? Well, no. Set in contemporary generic urban setting 4a, the plot had holes in it big enough to drive a truck through. Like, a top-secret, but cozy mind-wipe lab where patients can just wander in and out during procedures. Buzz. Try again Joss.

Joss, the brilliant mind behind Firefly, Buffy and Angel, might have thrown his first bomb. This eagerly awaited premiere showed off the so-so acting talents of Eliza Dushku, as an attractive but rather unconvincing programmable operative. Here’s hoping the second episode rolls out a little stronger than the first.

I’ll admit I might have been overly skeptical when I first heard the words “afro samurai.” As a long time fan of the samurai film genre and the occasional viewer of anime, I felt it was my obligation to give this movie a fair chance. I loved it. It was violent and convoluted heavy with metaphor and surrealism, highly stylized and, for lack of a better term, very sexy. It had all the components necessary for an instant classic. The juxtaposition of medieval Japanese warrior culture and off the deep-end sci-fi made my mouth water.

That said I was equally skeptical as my wandering through the local GameStop led me to a box labeled Afro Samurai. I narrowed my eyes; I might have scowled as well. I’d heard there was a new film coming out, but an Xbox 360 game? Weren’t they jumping the gun? The little GameStop boy, Seth, noticing my consternation, charged forward with a chipper “Can I help you Sir?”

The video game places love adults. We’ve got the cash, and they don’t need to card us. Suppressing a snicker, I said unto Seth “Why yes! Have you played Afro Samurai for the Xbox 360?”

Seth replied in the negative. But his buddy had… when they bring up their friends, a buddy who played, a cousin who liked it, a sister’s boyfriend who thought it was a great game… you know they are just quoting from the latest issue of Game Informer or whatever rag they have laying around the store.

I listened to his list of fabricated testimonies with feigned interest and the dutiful “uh huh” and “hmmm.” I told him I needed to think on it for a bit, and he left to ponder.

Skeptical though I was, the Bushido would not allow me to pass up this game. I felt honor bound to support such a noble endeavor by a little known studio. Further, I’ll admit, I often pay full price for games that I know will be “B” at best. I had no real reason not to purchase Afro Samurai.

And I’m glad I did.

The opening animation instantly brought to mind the paradox of Zen mysticism, the nothing of existence, and the violence and anger that must stem from the restrictive warrior culture of the samurai.

I was instantly enthralled. Reliving that feeling of excitement and wonder I’d first experienced when I saw the movie, Afro Samurai.  An hour later, when I entered a bosses’ lair and was confronted by three, topless, pole-dancing, sword-wielding ninja women, I knew this was going to be a game I’d enjoy from start to finish.

Technically, it’s not perfect. The camera seems to not track like it should, and I’m finding that often my field of view is obscured. During combat, I’m frantically trying to slide the camera to another angle. Tutorial messages are only onscreen for the briefest of times, and moves tend to subtle, combos blending perfectly into regular attacks. I find myself saying “Did I do that?” Currently I’m stuck trying a combo that will throw my volatile opponents into a big power generator.

Regardless of these minor flaws, this game is everything Prince of Persia should have been. The cell-shading animation style works perfectly for Afro, and the ability to literally slice an opponent in half lands somewhere between Conan and Musashi. Blood is tracked by gallons, and the audio track is not the sensitive. Afro’s alter-ego (played by Samuel L. Jackson) has a mouth that would make a sailor blush. Overall, not for the faint of heart (or those under 18), but a great game. 

She wells up from beneath, a leviathan of old, hungry and elemental, witnesses feel the disturbance, but their rolling minds cannot make sense of what occurs about them. It’s a storm, swirling motions of thought and insight and anger, such raw, intense anger.

Plants wither and the ground blackens, turns cold, frosted and crackles. The sky becomes black and blue, an epic bruise on reality.

The minds race and tick-tick-click to unravel, to make sense of, to justify what they are witnessing. Their mommies and gods did not prepare them for those who would step out-side.

*

Later

The Outsiders have come and gone, moved on to new slaying grounds. In their wake all is rui, but undeniably,  a freshness hangs in the air. Rebirth at the hands of the destroyers. The fires are out, the ground is no longer hard and cold and dry. Bright green pushes through cracks in the firma, bubbles of life from the earthy ocean.

The poet-boy, Piotr, is now grown to manhood. And he leads his people, those few who survived the Outsiders. At night, when the children are asleep, he gathers the adults and tells them, again and again, (“for it is the doom of men that they forget”) of his encounters with the Outsiders, how he lived as their thrall.

He closes his eyes as he speaks, to better recall the horrors. The Outsiders made him swear, upon threat of their eventual return, to never forget what they made him witness too.

Piotr, dutiful Piotr, remembers clearly. His eyes press tight, his breath comes fast. He can see the Outsiders; the suit, the armsman, the speaker, the plotter. They came in sheep skins and mingled among the flocks until their idol burst forth from the earth, their ideology, summed best *revolution*.

To their banner flocked the mis, the dis, and lost, the hungry, the wild, the mad, and the dreamers. Armed with hope and hatred and contempt, the Outsiders made war upon upon Piotr’s people, slaying their ways as surely as they had slain their way-makers. In all of the Lands of the Second Blessed, only Piotr, who wanted to be a policeman when he grew up, was spared.

Piotr the poet tells the story, sparing no detail, with his words weaving tornadoes of fire, oceans of blood, and avalanches of bone. The Outsiders are gorgons, flayers, knife-fighters, and insidious venomous snakes.

Piotr the poet, uses his words to hide meaning, layered dreams of freedom, long, still eyed looks and purposeful tears, as he tells the story. And he hopes, hopes against hope (for prayer is forbidden to Man-who-thinks), that the children will see his message and one day grow strong, become mighty and throw off the shackles of the Outsiders.

And Poor Piotr the Poet who wanted to be a police man, cannot see that he is a police man, and he is forced,  unknown to enact a pattern of protection. The Outsiders, their phoenix-army of ideals, foresaw poor dreaming Priotr, the last child of the Before.

These new babies, they don’t know the kiss of silicon and plastic, they’ve never, nor will they ever, feel the adrenaline fueled thrum of internal combustion.

Theirs is a simple world, they know love and satisfaction, and hard work. They know music and dance. They know very little, but they know all they need.

It’s rough out there, this much is true. Between job-losses and the rising costs of everything, corruption and greed, the perpetual misunderstanding between dogs and cats, managers and employees, toxic waste and global warming, seat belts and improperly de-veined shrimp, it’s a wonder any of us have any marbles left to play with.  But, we continue to play. Sometimes we come out ahead in marbles, sometimes we come out behind. What’s one or two marbles, more or less, right?

But seriously, it’s badnews all around. I’m keeping track, and with todays job cut announcements, I counter 100,000 people since last Monday who’ve been axed.

Still, what’s a poet or writer to do in these harsh times? The paperworks all say that entertainment flourishes during a depression. Entertainment might be the only recession proof job. But how does that trickle down to us fiction writers? In an already stark market, rife with brutal competition and bleeding critique, how does one cut ahead from the pack?

I don’t know. You tell me. I’m still stuck in the pack, racing neck and neck with Joe Schmo, the alligator writer, and Findlekeen Morbosa, the chump down town who hacks out the film reviews for the local paper (who, incidentally, loves everything).

How does one get ahead in the most writerly of ways during one of the most unwriterly of crises?  Maybe this is a writerly crises. Maybe it’s just that desperation writers need to get and stay focused, rallying around the dim blue light of their computer screen, huddled close together for warmth, tip-tapping out line after line of improbable but very accurate real world experience, telling gruesome and vicious tales about corporate espionage, plots and misdeeds. Lurid tales about the indiscretion of their former employers while gambling, drinking, dancing girls, martinis, the bodies in the desert, the page marked plot point three upon which nothing is written, and of course the epic climax, the falling action, which heretofore and beyond the reach of memory and the times of recession, shall be known as Pormax Matrugen. In the future, teachers will say “Have you written your Pormax Matrugen yet?” Classes will be solely dedicated to the fine art of Pormax Matrugen.

But the art of Pormax Matrugen, is today just a fantasy. Today, in these harsh realms, we’ve got to focus on the here and the now. The fact that writers are scrizzled, no matter which way you slorg it.

Needless to say, my skepticism waned immediately upon arrival, and disappeared altogether by the second quarter. I won’t pretend to be an expert on the rules, but it breaks down something like this:

The fast skaters, called Jammers, have to lap the pack, without going out of bounds or falling or knocking anyone over. That scores some points. There are fouls, a penalty box and all the rest of it as well. The serve beer, pizza, pretzels, and have a full bar – as well as rum-laced smoothies. Yes, the promoter’s knew their audience well. My girlfriend said to me “This seems like a sport pervs would do to. You know, like all female mud wrestling.”

Pervs? Yes, I suppose, the prospect of fast moving women in tank tops and skirts with too much eye make-up and nick-names like Clara Path and Kaiser Suze could perhaps evoke an element of eroticism. Moreover, the reputation Roller Derby girls have for being foul mouthed and tough as nails does little to assuage the fears of those of us with more delicate sensibilities. But, then again, are they that different than male athletes, ranting and roaring about their prowess and supremacy?

In fact, there was something altogether missing from the pomp and pride that most athletic teams demonstrate when vying for whatever prize they deem worthy that week. There was very little trash talking, no confrontations with other players, and a startling lack of swearing. Yes, overall, it was a rather wholesome event. I was four beers into the event when we left, and loved every minute of it.

On my way out, I found myself saying “Man, we should start our own team! We could go all the way to nationals! We could write the sports movie – you know the underdog, ragtag (insert sport) team, brought together by a washed up loser, struggling to make a comeback/impress a girl/end his career on a high note/stay employed ‘til next season.”

My girl friend, bless her, just nodded her head. I went on, “Yeah, the Sports Movie goes alternative. Maybe we can have like, Tony Hawke’s wife be the coach, And he can do a cameo. But first we need to decide… is this Roller Derby meets Bad News Bears or Roller Derby meets Field of Dreams/Friday Night Lights?”

Yes, the future was indeed, wide open, as we left the arena parking lot, she driving and me rambling away, dreaming about a return to the day when sports movies numbered in the mere dozens instead of thousands. Dreaming of a day when something as formulaic as a sports movie didn’t stand a chance at an award…