Roger Ebert was wrong. I’m not sure when it happened, but modern video games crossed a threshold at some point where they ceased being simple time-sinks. Since the Battlezone, Moon Patrol, Gravitar, and Pac-Man days, they spun themselves into a digital cocoon and emerged as honest-to-goodness art.

At this point, it isn’t even an argument any more. The Smithsonian has an exhibit on art in video games. And the California Literary Review and Forbes magazine have featured articles on the impact of games. Fucking Forbes! It’s clear that we have turned a corner, culturally, and the only people still calling games “adolescent distractions” are like those parents in the 1950s who said “this rock-and-roll thing will never last.” Games have won.

Again, I’m not sure when it happened. The Deus Ex series has long made the argument, as biting in its social acumen as any warnings handed down to us from Orwell. The Legacy of Kain series served up a neo-gothic vampire story more original than any Hollywood bloodsucker. Grim Fandango and Psychonauts are in turns funnier and more brilliant than the last ten years of comedies, and Portal 2… well… if you haven’t played it, what’s your problem?

I’ve published on this before, and I don’t really want to spend the time to recap. But I want to talk about Mass Effect, and the company that made it, Bioware.

Bioware’s contribution to the video game industry has been nothing short of a paradigm shift. Don’t talk to me about Halo or Elder Scrolls, which are both tremendous fun and yet represent only a fraction of the skillful writing, masterful character development, and lovingly-crafted worlds which I’ve encountered in Bioware games. They’ve created virtual worlds you can believe in, and characters who you can get emotionally invested in. Jade Empire did this. Dragon Age did it too (as sick as I am of medieval high fantasy. Seriously, why is so much fantasy possessed by the ghost of Tolkien??)

Mass Effect did it better than both. It was not the most original science-fiction universe. It may even have been riddled with the usual tropes (aliens that looks suspiciously human) and pseudo-science (FTL travel) but man… did they ever pull it off in grand style!

Mass Effect rewards the player for getting to know its characters, forming friendships and/or relationships. It’s less a game than a simulation of life. The Companion Wheel common to Bioware games elevated the usual loner-saving-the-world-alone bit to a more satisfying, interactive experience. And the journey is what ultimately made it art.

Consider:

I’m on the war-torn world of Tuchanka with cure to the genophage in my pocket. The entire krogan race is depending on me successfully delivering this cure to a tower which can distribute it throughout the planetary atmosphere and remove a blight that has been plaguing the krogan for centuries.

The thing is, I’ve decided not to cure it.

In my estimation, the krogan are brutal, savage, and belligerent. Back before the genophage, they aggressively moved against other races, stealing land and provoking war. It was only the introduction of the genophage that culled their numbers and ended the war. If I cure it, I worry that I’ll unleash a new era of warfare on the galaxy.

No cure for you!

Mind you, I’ve interacted with many krogan over the course of the series. I even count two of them as close friends. But I’ve concluded they are too dangerous a species to be set free of the genophage’s shackles. In effect, I’ve reluctantly decided to doom them to slow extinction. I feel conflicted. I feel ashamed. But my mind is made up. This needs to be done. The krogan female traveling with me even asks me why I look troubled. I remain silent.

Then suddenly, as I make my way across the planet, I’m forced to take refuge in the underground ruins of a lost city. A lost krogan city. A sunken metropolis of bygone splendors, rich in art and culture. This city belongs to a forgotten age when the krogan weren’t all about battle and bloodlust. In the frescoes and statues I see a different side to the species, and it makes me ponder:

Would I want my own people (Italians, for those keeping track) judged solely by the depredations of corrupt late empire Romans? Am I really prepared to doom an entire species to the fire, because of what they might do?

And so, there in the dank shadows, I change my mind.

Moments later, I arrive at my destination. My favorite character, having accompanied the rest of us, insists on handling the dispersal himself. After all, he had a hand in the creation of the genophage and he needs this closure. The dispersal tower is aflame and rocked by explosions. He enters the elevator. I really don’t want him to go.

“It had to me,” he says. “Someone else might have gotten it wrong.”

The elevator doors close like a funerary curtain. He reaches the top, humming a favorite tune, and then he throws the switch. The cure to the genophage bursts off the top of the tower like dandelion spores to be carried far and wide. A second later, he dies as the tower explodes.

At the base of the tower, krogan stare in silent awe at the dispersal. I see the fatalism they’ve been living suddenly swept away, the hope kindling in their eyes.

A game took me on this emotional journey. That’s more than a book or film or TV show can do, because I had the power of decision. I made it happen and, depending on my choices, it could have unfolded in other ways.

That’s the unique power of this art-form. In Mass Effect 2, I embarked on a suicide mission to save the galaxy. It was evident that the stakes were high and our chances were very, very grim. I’ve grown to attached to everyone on my crew and so it’s with a heavy heart that I select each of them for various missions in the final battle, aware that this could be the last time I see them again. I’ve trained and prepared them, and I feel my decisions are logical, but doubt enfolds me.

Turns out, all my preparation and decisions made a difference. I lose only one squadmate (RIP, Jacqueline.) Standing over her coffin at the end, I think of the snarky jabs we’ll never share again. Behind me stand all the people I helped save, but this single coffin feels like a failure to me. When Mass Effect 3 rolls around, she’s still dead, and the universe is a little less complete without her.

A game did that.

Also in Mass Effect 3, I encounter a former crewmate who is working with refugees. She tells me that she’s happy to be helping others, inspired by my example of helping others.

Savior of fish across the galaxy, and one hell of a dancer

Since she is being hunted by extremely merciless enemies, I have the option of telling her to go into hiding, or to continue doing what makes her happy. I choose the latter option. She smiles at my supportive speech. I walk away, feeling good.

Some time later, I’m back on the station looking for her. She’s nowhere to be found. Strange. Is she getting some much deserved rest? Did she have to step away for a while? Suddenly I overhear two people talking. “You know that girl who was working with the refugees? Yeah, the Cerberus troops found her. They asked her name, put a gun against her head, and then just pulled the trigger.”

My heart drops into my stomach. There’s nothing else, no follow-up. She’s dead. A spur-of-the-moment decision from me ended her life.

A game did that.

In other forms of art, a character dies because they are scripted to die. In many of today’s games, they die because you let/made them die. Choice itself becomes an art-form.

Not everyone wants games like this, and certainly the overwhelming number of games are still games in the classic sense.

It’s for all those reasons that the ending to Mass Effect 3 has upset, enraged, and offended so many players. Adding insult to injury is the way Bioware has callously dismissed these complaints as the disgruntled mumblings of gamers with an overdeveloped sense of entitlement. It’s not about entitlement, it’s about common sense and the recognition that Bioware’s equivalent of the Mona Lisa was at 95 percent complete, hastily finished by a last-minute crayon-and-airbrush job. Mass Effect 3, an otherwise triumphant piece of storytelling about the cost of war on civilization, collapses into a thoughtless, senseless, illogical heap in its last hours. Its ending is so inane that it effectively ruins the series.

Others have written plenty on why the ending sucks so badly. Take a look at the reviews on Amazon. Take a gander at the discussion boards. It’s a strawman argument to say that the complaints are coming from trolls. Sure there are some — this is the Internet after all, and more trolls exist here than in every D&D campaign ever run by a shoddy Dungeonmaster. Heavily outnumbering the trolls, though, are tens of thousands of thoughtful, heartfelt criticisms.

Over and over, I run into people repeating the same sentiment: “I didn’t expect a happy ending. But I expected an ending that made sense!”

From a business standpoint, Bioware’s ending to the Mass Effect legacy has been a disaster. The cash cow is dead, if the current ending stands. It is impossible to make sequels. It is ridiculous to expect that anyone would buy future DLCs, games, or merchandise associated with this universe. But we can do prequels! the developers have said. We can do stories concurrent with Shepard’s adventures, but told from a different perspective and set of characters.

In almost any other scenario, I’d say that sounds swell. Not here. Why do a prequel — and ask players to invest themselves in that universe — when we all know it ends horribly? This is not the story of the Titanic we’re playing through. The sinking of RMS Titanic did not END THE UNIVERSE. It ended the stories of 1,514 people, but civilization went on.

Ok, you say, perhaps Bioware wanted to tell a story about the end of all things. Isn’t it their right to do so?

The problem with that argument is that Mass Effect was not the result of one man’s work. There were dozens of writers, artists, voice actors, and producers who collaborated on its universe. As a writer who has collaborated with many other artists on various projects, I can recognize the texture of such collaboration. It’s unmistakable. In such an environment, you toss lots of ideas around, and they are instantly peer-reviewed and discussed. If you’ve got a good group — and Bioware definitely does — then this process keeps the good ideas and throws out the bad ones. Hell, it’s the reason that writers often let others read their works before publication. Orson Scott Card did it with Ender’s Shadow, letting a few trusted readers peruse the document and helping him identify some problems in the manuscript with continuity and character.

It was this process that made Mass Effect what it was.

It is this process that absolutely was NOT done for the last hour of Mass Effect 3.

There is no doubt in my mind that the collaboration which made Mass Effect possible was not present in that tacked-on butcher-job of a conclusion. It was without doubt the result of one or two people, perhaps backed up against the wall by deadlines or producer pressure, who slapped something together and then brandished the cheapest of defenses: “It’s art! Don’t question it!”

Oh, look. It's Shepard's epiphany about life, the universe, and everything. Don't question it!

Besides, speaking as an artist, there reaches a point where what you’ve created doesn’t entirely belong to you anymore. It’s shocking to say it, but when a piece of art touches so many people, there are considerations beyond an insular vision. And neither do I buy the nonsensical argument that the artist always knows best. George Lucas invented Star Wars and then served up The Phantom Menace in three debilitating installments. J. Michael Straczinski brought Babylon 5 to television audiences and then followed it up with a vile  chaser that was The Legend of the Rangers. The lean, thought-provoking The Matrix somehow gave birth to the bloated mutant freaks that were Reloaded and Revolutions.

Mass Effect IS art, and it was art that was only possible because of compromise and spirited discussion. Hell, Warren Spector said the same thing about Deus Ex. But Mass Effect 3‘s conclusion is spackle thrown onto a masterpiece to hide an unfinished bottom corner. The ending is so out of joint with the rest of the game that it’s akin to creative blasphemy. And yet instead of acknowledging it, Bioware has dug in their heels and repeated, “This is art, man!”

To that, my response is: “No, it’s pretentiousness. And laziness.”

And I don’t buy the straw man argument that to change the needing of Mass Effect 3 sets a bad precedent. When you screw up, it’s good sense to own and fix it. Clean off the spackle.

Speaking of precedents, we’ve seen this before. Consider the example of Fallout 3.

A really good game (though paling by orders of magnitude to Mass Effect). Atmospheric, often compelling, and chilling. Yet it did have a little problem: Its original ending made no goddam sense. For the uninitiated, I’ll put in succinctly: don’t ask me to enter a radiation-steeped room to die, when I have a comrade standing right next to me who is immune to radiation and who has repeatedly demonstrated this. Demanding self-sacrifice under such circumstances felt artificial and forced. Because it was artificial and forced.

The developers acknowledged this error. They changed the ending so that it was possible to turn to your radiation-friendly pal (provided you brought him with you) and then send him in to finish the job, thereby making it possible to continue the Fallout story and make sense within the context and internal logic of the Fallout universe.

Mass Effect has become too beloved to be tarnished — or destroyed — by last minute artsy pretensions. I despair when I think how this decision is going to taint the entire legacy of the series. And it really will if it isn’t addressed. The upcoming DLC scheduled for this summer is unlikely to address it adequately, since Bioware has repeatedly stressed that it doesn’t change anything.

So, how SHOULD they change the ending? I don’t know. Personally I would have changed the final three hours. Make the War Assets actually matter, like in Assassins’ Creed Brotherhood where you’re tasked with sending your forces against Reapers around the galaxy in a strategic, side-mission element to the game.

That aside, I’d ask Bioware to have the courage to show the aftermath of the war, rather than to drop it all into an acid-bong. Show what the galaxy in which the Reapers are defeated, the merciless harvesting cycles over, and through ash and fire, death and anguish, the galaxy has to pick up the pieces. Instead of being little more than krill for some OCD machine race to swallow, galactic peoples have now thrown off the yoke. History has turned a page.

Maybe Shepard is dead. Maybe he’s indoctrinated. Maybe, depending on your playthrough, he survived as a physically scarred savior who now has to contemplate the “ever after” period. Do the Batarians get an embassy? Do the krogan? The quarians? If your Shepard survived, does he want to be the next Citadel councilor? Does he retire to some quiet colony and help them rebuild? Does he become a recluse, unable to deal with the loss of so many friends and allies, and assist Liara with archaeological digs under a false name where no one will find him?

It’s not sunshine and rainbows, and it’s not wrist-slitting absurdist nihilism either. It just… is. Life goes on. Friends and civilizations have gone into the fire. Now it’s about picking up the pieces. Play your cards right and your Shepard walks off Citadel’s sunset with Tali or Ash or Liara or Jack (or Cortez or Garrus or Traynor or Kelly) and give us their closure. Don’t give us an abstract painting.

Tali: “What does the savior of the galaxy do now?”
Sheperd: “Mourn those we’ve lost. Make their sacrifices mean something.”
Tali: “And then?”
Sheperd: “Sleep. For the first time in a long time, I’ll be getting some sleep tonight.”
Tali: “Oh? Says who?”

Or something. Fuck, I don’t know. I do know it would be better than what we got: a mystical deus ex machine, something that makes as much sense as having Lord Poseidon show up at the end of Jaws to hand Roy Scheider a magical trident and say, “With this wand, you must destroy all technology throughout the world. Set everyone back five hundred years. Why? Because sharks and people will never get along. Also, spackle. SPACKLE!”

For Mass Effect, it’s actually worse than our Jaws metaphor because in a series celebrating choice, it’s a narrative cattle-prod. Do this! Confused? It’s art!

What to And this way, you address three of the unquestionably solid reasons why people are upset:

1) Jettison the Starchild nonsense. This last-second bit of fantasy is so supremely silly it makes a mockery of the series. It reduces a patiently-designed, nuanced, and complex universe to a truncated logical fallacy.

2) Give players back their choice. I know people who finished Mass Effect 2 and lost nearly everyone in their crew. They earned that ending by rushing through. Others were rewarded by careful exploration and research, and they earned a satisfying victory. Mass Effect 3 should also offer this option. This includes the option of Shepard saying, “Hey Starchild! I’ve heard your speeches before. They were wrong then, and they’re wrong now.”

3) Keep the door to the universe open. If you’re wondering how, see points 1 and 2 above.

Then you begin Mass Effect 4 some decades later, when Shepard is either an honored statue or an active politician, and you step into the shoes of a new would-be hero. I don’t know what the next series would be about. Perhaps Mass Effect 4 starts with the diplomatic problem of the Yaahgs having achieved spaceflight and wanting in on the galactic pie. Perhaps the Batarians and Geth are extinct except for a few individuals who, when they are gone, will end the story on those fascinating cultures. Perhaps we find out that the Leviathan of Dis is a slumbering entity that lived alongside the Reapers before they went all neurotic. Perhaps a new Mass Relay is found that leads to another galaxy, complete with its own races, factions, and dire threats.

As it stands, Mass Effect 3 has ended all that. Even Dan Simmons’ Hyperion series ended in such a way that the story can (and did) continue. And though that series got trippy towards the end, Simmons never betrayed the meticulously constructed logic of his creation.

Mass Effect 3 does.

Great art deserves better than that.

Artists create to share. You grow up listening to music, watching films, reading books, and you are inspired by what your favorite works did for you, and you want to contribute something of your own to the genre.

So its always nice when you get favorable feedback. My steampunk story “Checkmate” published in the most recent issue of Electric Velocipede, has been the subject of several online literary reviews.

From Locus Online:

In this version of the Victorian world, the Chesswar has taken the place of battles between massed armies. Edward Oakshott is a Knight who has descended to the subterranean waters [it's not clear that they are the usual sewers] beneath London to meet a mysterious sorcerer who calls himself Thoth in order to purchase his aid against a robotic Russian Rook. No Knight has ever defeated a Rook.

“Each Chessman had an established menu of technological enhancements agreed upon by international guidelines. Edward’s success against four Spanish Pawns, a Portuguese Bishop, and even that legendary public duel with the German Knight was owed to an alchemy of skill, knowledge, and chance.

And now Anubis was a factor.”

Readers might be excused if they look at the title of this zine and wonder: Where is the steampunk? Here, in spades, is all the steampunk they might crave: ladies with deadly parasols, rocket packs, robotic war machines, and the mannered imperial society behind it all. A well-executed specimen of the species, an alternate version of the ways technology affects warfare and the individuals who engage in it.

And this came in from Rise Reviews:

“Checkmate” by Brian Trent take place in Thoth’s underworld and is populated by literal chessmen seeking to thwart the efforts of a Rook to attack London. There is a decidedly Victorian feel to the story but it never stoops into familiar steampunk tropes in order to tell the story. The thought of playing literal chess over land is a compelling premise that pulls the reader through this unique story.

And from “The Portal” –

“Checkmate” by Brian Trent is a nice bit of steampunk. Warriors based on chess pieces defend the great nations in lieu of war. A Russian Rook is advancing on London and a heroic British Knight, Edward, prepares to defend his nation. Rooks are more powerful than Knights, so he seeks out a mysterious weapons dealer, Thoth, who lives beneath London, to try to gain the advantage. The story builds nicely to the duel, and the duel itself is well described…. Another fun story.”

“Checkmate” was my first steampunk tale; while I had always admired the creative aesthetic of the genre, I had never tried my hand at it. The story’s theme (war reduced to a chess-like competition on a global scale) first occurred to me twenty years ago, and which subsequently defied all attempts to write it. I was only fifteen when I wrote the first version of it, printed back then on a dot-matrix printer.

It was bad.

In the ensuing years I tried my hand at it again and again, convinced that the core storyline was worthwhile. Yet it never really clicked for me, and so I kept it in a corner of my mind, letting it gather dust, although like a stubborn fireplace ember it would never wholly extinguish, so the slightest rush of oxygen would make it sizzle, burning a hole in the darkness.

About a year ago, I had been enjoying stories from Electric Velocipede and wanted to contribute something. I eventually settled on my old idea for “Checkmate”, but this time decided to move the story from straightforward sci-fi to an alternate history, Victorian steampunk setting.

And it worked. Like gears in a Victorian clock, everything came together. I was off and running with my first sentence, finished the story in a single weekend, and had it accepted for publication in two weeks.

So my thanks are due to that battered wooden chess-set my father first gave to me, which first inspired this tale all those years ago.

In related news, my UTNE article “America’s Addiction to Belief” got a nice shout-out on johnwilcock.net. That, of course, is the John Wilcock behind the Village Voice, the blogger and all-around underground press iconoclast:

BOTH THE “birthers” and the “truthers” are discussed in the Humanist by Brian Trent who explains that their “blind allegiance” thrives on the false principle that all opinions are equal, “even those without a shred of factual data, documentation or reasoned methodology”. Trent says that throughout history there have always been irrational true believers but ominously “we have taken this tendency to new heights”. In 2009, he writes, half the U.S. population accepted creationism—”one of the only developed nations where the subject is even a debate anymore”.

Here I am at the computer, anxiously checking for updates on the disaster. In the early moments of such catastrophes you can never trust the opening details. Especially today, as 24-hour news cycles demand incessant streams of information to keep the media god sated, and when hard facts are not known the void is filled with rumor and endless speculation. What we already know is ghastly enough: homes washed away, hundreds missing and presumed dead.

From the latest report:

Large fishing boats and other sea vessels rode high waves into the cities, slamming against overpasses or scraping under them and snapping power lines along the way. Upturned and partially submerged vehicles were seen bobbing in the water. Ships anchored in ports crashed against each other. Sendai airport was inundated with thick, muddy debris that included cars, trucks, buses and even light planes.

Last night I was up very late, returning from a rainy drive to New York for business, and I subsequently woke late. But once I logged onto my home computer, the news flashes hit me. Japan! Tsunami. 8.9 on the Richter scale.

And my very first thought was for my Japanese friends from college, most of whom I still speak to regularly. Where were they? How many are stateside? How many were in the affected regions?

Are they and their families safe?

Then I logged onto Facebook and was reminded of the power of friends. Real friends, authentic friendships, rather than generic friend-lists of social networking.

My old college circle was already online and reconnecting. The first post had gone out with a mighty “HEADS UP” for me, Patrick, Alice, Gary, Dan, Ann, and Bill. All core members of my college family. Linked across seas and mountains and states and nations. Reaching through the web, checking on our fondest fellows in the Land of the Rising Sun.

Has anyone heard from Kaz??

What about Nori? Is he okay?

A mad dash, a frantic fear-driven scramble. Instantly we were all online and connecting across miles and nations.

Then Nori Tanaka’s update from Japan:

Holy shit! ! Still shaking!
It’s end of world?!

A short time later comes Kaz Shibata’s reassurance:

“I, all my family and friends are OK.
…Thank you=)
My mom told me my dog gets excited…
It was biggest earthquake in the recorded history. (M8.8)
Tokyo got also heavy shake but not much damage.
Still shaking almost every 30min – 1h.
I just came back from my business trip from Osaka and I got the eartquake in the station.
My room was no problem!
Only my Downy was failed off from shelf.”

This followed by our old college staffer Edward Lazarus, posting to all:

Teikyo Post friends— I am trying to track down Asako (Asa) Itabashi—now married—-we lost touch a few years ago after I left Post. Can anyone direct me towards her?

to which Gary posts a helpful universal link:

Looking for someone in Japan? Google Person Finder: 2011

There are fires, and derailed trains, and the ominous possibility of a leaking nuclear power plant as I write this. For all the drama we bring to our own lives, here is the real deal (and the reason why basic humanism must be the prevailing code for us all.)

In the midst of it, my friend Alice offered an illuminating and much-needed tension-breaking moment:

Life has changed–we are all awake at 6 am–Dorothy we are not in college anymore…

And yet, I would hasten to add, the friendships we made there are as strong as ever, so maybe we still are.

My Our thoughts and hopes are with the people of Japan.

Oh, as a kid I had various fish, which is basically like owning a short-lived three-dimensional screensaver. And years later, I interacted with other people’s dogs and cats, lizards and lemurs.

Thought I was kidding, didn't you?

In the end, though, I enjoyed being a petless bachelor. There’s heavy enough wilderness where I live, and I was content to see animals from afar and, sometimes, up-close and personal, like that eerie predawn jog where I stumbled upon a pack of five coyotes.

When Donna moved in with me, we sort of inherited Charlie, her father’s pet cockatiel. Ancient and neurotic, Charlie is an odd addition to my household but ultimately only a step up from those aquatic screensavers I had as a kid.

Then, in January of 2011, this critter joined the tribe:

That curious face belongs to Athena Cloudfoot. After years of steadfastly avoiding pet ownership, why settle on a rabbit?

The decision was equal parts laborious and spontaneous. I didn’t really want another pet, and I wouldn’t classify myself as either a dog person or cat fan, so when Donna suggested we add an animal inhabitant to our home, we wondered aloud what options were available. She politely differed with my initial suggestions of ocelot, lemur, spider monkey, okapi, and wombat.

So we looked at rabbits.

My town has plenty of wild rabbits. They are a frequent sight in my yard, tiny furry ninjas who as a species have apparently mastered the art of teleportation before inventing the wheel, which counts for something.

So Donna and I discussed rabbits, and I approached the subject as I approach everything: I read, researched, wrestled with the subject until lagomorphs were hopping about in my dreams.

And yet, I let it stay a hypothetical element. Reading about rabbits is not the same as bringing one into your home. As with everything else in our fanatically divisive American culture, owner reviews typically fell on one side or the other of rabid rabbit partisanship. In the blue corner: Rabbits are angels sent from above to bring tranquility to mankind’s disturbed soul.

In the red corner: Rabbits are crop-chewing nasty devils who exist only for target practice.

I resigned myself to inaction. Rabbits. Whatever. In my mind I let them sit like a neutron star, in that I know neutron stars are out there, and neutron stars are interesting, and they are small, but they don’t really affect my life. So, whatever.

Then one day, I bought a rabbit.

It was a few days into 2011 (the Year of the Rabbit, mind you) and Donna and I were at a local mall. She was shopping, and I was pretending I was imprisoned in a futuristic arcology jail four thousand years in the future on the planet Medusa. I was doing this as a mental exercise for my latest novel. Also, because for me malls might as well be futuristic arcology jails four thousand years in the future on the planet Medusa.

Gradually we wandered into the mall’s pet store. We strayed to the bunny enclosures, and there they were, quivering little tribbles amid the wood-chips.

“I’ve had about enough of this,” I said.

Donna looked at me in surprise. “Enough of what?”

“Inaction.” And with that, I grabbed a bunny and walked with Donna to one of the little rooms where we could see how the little critter acted towards us. Would there be chemistry? Inquisitiveness? Just what were such creatures doing in a jail on Medusa?

The first rabbit fled from us and cowered in the corner, eyes so wide I feared they would hemorrhage. We put that one back and tried another. Same situation, only this one let its excretory system underscore its terror.

We tried one more. Three times a charm, right?

Here’s a picture from that initial meeting:

Athena (as we would soon name her) didn’t run from us. She expressed a kind of guarded optimism, actually. She came over and sniffed us, checked us out, explored the room, with a bold inquisitiveness that I found refreshing. When I held out my hand she ran over to see what it was.

Ten minutes later, she’s in a little box in my car, en route to her new home.

She has the run of the house during the day, since I break with the general tradition of leaving a rabbit in a cage or hutch for its entire freakin’ life. Subsequently, I have been treated to the astonishing antics of a happy rabbit. If you’ve never seen a rabbit perform a binky, there’s little I can do to describe it. Shaking her head, flipping around in the air, flopping onto the carpet, she is a bizarre creature. Neither angel nor demon, just  inquisitive, stubborn, affectionate, stubborn, playful, strange, affectionate, and very, very stubborn.

I don’t even know how this happened.

It has been a strange year for me, and for many people I know. There have been deaths, breakups, anguishes and sorrows. There have been triumphs and discoveries as well. It isn’t about balancing it all out. It isn’t about celebration, or despair, but both. It’s akin to my philosophy about funerals: Don’t edit the person (or year) that has passed, and don’t lionize them unfairly. It is neither optimism nor nihilism that define our waking moments, but both realism, passion, and imagination… working together.

I watched 144 movies this year, read 71 books, finished 6 video games, completed two novels and one volume of short stories, and wrote 4 screenplays (including the short film I’m producing in 2011.)

I lost 8 people in my family this year. I gained a pet. I went to Canada for research and pleasure. I raged against fools and monsters, drew blood, made love, and changed the landscape of my life. In the literal and figurative, life is organic.

Now there is more to do. Further books about Louisiana bayous, rainy British alleys, gory fields of war, treasures buried, and mysterious islands emerging from the mist. More journeys through Russia, Rome, and Madrid; more explorations into the sweltering jungles of India or the meltwater marshes of Mongolia.

More for us to do as a society and a species. Scientists have learned to make paralyzed mice walk, and have also reversed their aging. A technological Horn of Plenty has spilled over, and our eyes have pressed ever further into the reaches of space. While some to choose to believe in Apocalypse, others are extending the path of progress.

More politics to enrage me. More trolls to vanquish, friends to make, battles to win.

More fights to have, books to write,  films to watch and create. Like the narrator of A Descent into the Maelstrom, there are deeper sorrows and brilliant enlightenments, while we struggle to lasso that protean dragon of chaos through sheer force of willpower.

More opportunities to change the world, and make of it what we want.

Happy New Year’s 2011.

Brothers

“Down Memory Line” is a sadistic tale of revenge set in the far future. It appears in the new Winter issue of Dark Valentine, and is in the running for the Pushcart Prize. I wrote it last summer.

Also published is “Rahotep,” my answer to the vampire and werewolf craze. But the story has its origins many, many years ago in my life, far before vampires became sparkly and werewolves were heartthrobs. I have had a secret project cooking for years. A fantasy epic of unusual scope; I have a passion for intricate, highly detailed worlds and histories, and “Rahotep” is just the start.

*

I just rewatched Inception, now that it’s out on DVD, and was once again delighted by the fact that an extremely complex script which demanded the audience rise to its level (rather than the typical Hollywood culture of dumbing things down) actually did spectacularly well at the box office. Wow. A film masterfully constructed like a Chinese puzzle box that actually succeeded in theaters. Urge to hope… rising…

This holiday season, I also inherited a cockatiel. No one can tell me how old he is, though tales are woven suggesting multiple homes and levels of care over a decade of life. His name is Charlie, which means that on any given day, he is referred to in this house as Charlicus, Charlos, Charliehotep, Lugal-Charlie-sin, Charlie-sama, and other variants as the mood strikes. He watches me while I type, peering intently from the cage, seemingly fascinated by his new surroundings and expressing a guarded optimism with his strange menu of birdsong chirps. He doesn’t like to come out of his cage yet, and squawks like a demented velociraptor when I try to take him out.

He also likes to watch TV, pressing his bright cheeks against the cage bars to see what’s going on. Yesterday I decided to put a movie on for him while I worked on my latest novel. My choice of film? Hitchock’s The Birds. I did it as a joke, really, but this cockatiel who is typically so quiet was chirping wildly at his onscreen cohorts as if cheering them on.

My girlfriend Donna and I are proceeding slowly with him.

Happy Solstice, Yule, and Saturnalia season to everyone.

Donna, creating a wreath of such circular perfection that Archimedes is drooling in his grave.

From left to right: Ali Berman, Marty Lang, and Brian Trent

I have often said that my greatest gift in life has been friendship. For whatever roll of the dice and stir of the social pot, I have been gifted with extraordinary friends. It isn’t merely their talents or wits, their unique brands of humor and perceptiveness. It is the loyalty we all have had to each other. Driving across state lines to help a good friend in need. Sacrificing those late-night hours to listen and give counsel. Battle-drums sound on the midnight plain, and we huddle together in our tent, defying fear and disappointment and sorrow.

It is that eternal combination of late-night pizza, 20-sided dice, and roleplaying games. That midnight phone call to share a secret or unburden a soul. That network of allies and soulmates which is the closest to religion I have ever felt.

The voice of a friend. A shared smile in a darkened theater. A group walk along a foggy beach, a mountain trail, or a roadtrip. Planning to conquer the world with generals you trust and love.

These last couple months have been particularly special, as several reports of career success for them have appeared on the horizon…

Marty Lang directed his first feature film, Rising Star, which I was proud to have been a financial backer. Marty is a fellow cinemaphile, and is a rather quotable fellow. Marty is the nicest 6’8 filmmaker you’ll ever meet. (He’s also been the basis for a couple characters I’ve written. You can always spot them. They’re tall.)

My brother — and friend — David Michaels is playing Ali Hakeem on a national tour of Oklahoma! I saw him at the Shubert in New Haven for the Connecticut leg of the tour. He’s a spectacularly gifted actor and singer, a Jim Carey knack for physical comedy, and a joyfully bizarre guy (check out his first commercial and you’ll see what I mean.) Hard to believe that Broadway voice now emits from the kid I used to argue about Atari with.

One of my longest-running friends, Doug Sobon, a supremely gifted actor, artist, sculptor, storyteller, and all-around Renaissance man, is on the Hartford stage now!

My friend Scott Antonucci, actor and screenwriter, appears in the Crash the Superbowl Challenge video. Yes, he is the one in the black two-piece.

My friend Maria Orsini sang the National Anthem at the pre-season opening game of the New York Rangers versus the New Jersey Devils on September 23, at Madison Square Garden. Take a listen and tell me that applause isn’t deserved. And it’s with that voice that Maria sings me “Happy Birthday” every September 18.

Kristin Colapinto (my friend, although if I use that word too much I’ll come across as John McCain during the 2008 so-called debates) is the Social Vixen herself.

Jay Novella, radio personality and skeptic of the ever-popular Skeptics Guide to the Universe podcast, who I expect to chill with until Ted Williams is ready to play ball again.

And to all of my friends, who know exactly who they are. They appear elsewhere in these pages, and in my heart.

No one would choose the whole world

on condition of being alone.

No one would rule the great mountains of Earth

to have as his brother a stone.

So perhaps on my quest I found gold-lacquered fame

or mapped out the world to its ends.

The only real treasure which mattered to me

is that I made journeys

with friends.

As a rule, I am furiously opposed to remakes, reboots, sequels, and prequels. Every once in a while, though, exceptions emerge from the tide of mediocrity and abomination…

The first is a longtime favorite of mine — John Carpenter’s The Thing. Not only is it better than the Howard Hawkes original, it is far closer to John Campbell’s excellent short story “Who Goes There” and takes it all for a darker spin. Fantastic special effects; no artificially sleek CGI here. When the titular Thing changes form, it does so by messily breaking into its kaleidoscope of shapes. A head rips off its neck, sprouts legs, and scuttles away for safety. The sound effects are top-rate, and the visual imagery is unforgettable.

The movie also manages to create a palpable sense of isolation and paranoia; a superb cast led by Kurt Russell and Keith David solidify this horror tale. Definitely one of Carpenter’s very best films.

The second film we watched is also typical of 80′s horror; grisly, dripping special effects in splatter-based full-color. But it is nonetheless an excellent movie: David Cronenberg’s The Fly, and like Carpenter’s The Thing is one of the precious few remakes superior to the original. Before he settled on playing nerdy caricatures, Jeff Goldblum gave cinema a chilling and credible performance of a brilliant man being ravaged by mutation and madness. His underrated performance drives the film even more than the grotesque effects, though the latter is the oozing, blistering, fleshy centerpiece. It’s all straight-up Cronenberg, whose obsession about physical permutations is his signature style (eXistenz, Videodrome) and even finds its way into the dialogue (look for the scene where Geena Davis and Goldblum discuss flesh and how it even makes old women crazy.)

“I’ll hurt you if you stay.”

Last on the list is a 1970s offering. The original Invasion of the Body Snatchers was the genre’s perfect take on Cold War paranoia and McCarthyism. Not to mention, it stars a McCarthy too: Kevin. The remake is, while not necessarily better than the original, almost comes across as a sequel. (Look for Kevin McCarthy’s clever cameo.) Augmented by a better backstory and excellent visual effects, Philip Kaufman’s Invasion of the Body Snatchers is a frightening and kinetic horror film with a slam-bam ending. The camerawork is a bit eccentric, recalling the dutch angles and experimental editing of the previous decade, but the result is a classic nightmare. Too bad the latest attempt, The Invasion, failed to match the standard here.

Fourteen days later, she was dead. This pic is of both her and her husband, circa WWII:

I got to see her twice before the end. On her final Wednesday, I sat by her bedside to find that she was semi-conscious, dosed on painkillers that were doing very little to suppress the cancer that was systematically destroying her. I had hoped to talk to her one last time. I held her fragile hand and thought of all the history inside her, this tough Italian broad who was born in 1922.

She had one moment of lucidity. And what did she do? Told me she was sorry. I asked why.  She replied, “I can’t offer you anything to eat.” Italian to the end.

The following night I visited her again. This time there was no lucidity.  She remained unconscious but in agony, and I arrived just in time to watch her trying to pull out her IV and oxygen line in her spasms of torment.  I had to hold her wrists down while the hospital staff added morphine to her IV.

Her pain defied the morphine.

It took several minutes and a higher dose before she sank into a seemingly peaceful sleep.  I leaned over and told her I would be back.  That was Thursday.

I didn’t return on Friday.  It had been a long day, and I resolved to visit her on Saturday.

She died Friday night, a few minutes before midnight.

Yes, it’s 2010 and we still have people who are dying from cancer.  $10 billion a month fighting an unjustified war in Iraq, and no national commitment to defeating a threat which kills people by the millions, every single year.  Our national priorities are so demented as to be inexcusable.

Mary Tropasso was “Nana” to me and my brother growing up.  She was born on February 9, 1922, and lived most of her life on South Main in Waterbury.  A midwife assisted her birth.

She came from a large Italian family, six sisters and one brother. Her own mother was Rose Davino, born not far from Mount Vesuvius and Naples. The Davinos owned a general store, and Rose used to ride a donkey. She met Frank Cipriano (my future great-grandfather) at that store; Frank was a farmer and shepherd.

My grandmother Mary was born in America when Frank and Rose, newly married, immigrated to the New World.  Nana and her sister Jane used to sing in a local theater for Italian-Americans, and when my great-grandfather opened up the popular restaurant Johnny’s on South Main, she worked as a cashier.  Later she worked at Apothecary Hall, a pharmacy/soda shop like something out of It’s a Wonderful Life.

She met my grandfather Samuel at a wedding. My grandfather (“Poppy” to the future me and my brother) was also Italian, but came from the rougher side of tracks in America and of the darker elements of the 1930s which isn’t often talked about when people reflect on the good ole days.  Born to an abusive and alcoholic father, his first job had been selling papers and trying not to get beaten up by the local Irish boys in town.  He was handsome, charming, and brazen: at the wedding, he approached Mary and asked her to dance.

“I have to ask my father,” she said, to which he replied at once: “Well I’m not asking your father. I’m asking you.”

Unhappy with this “fresh” attitude, the dance never happened. Later that night, there was a knock on her door. She answered it to find her cousin and her cousin’s friend.

Samuel.

“What are you doing here?” she snapped.

“Thanks for the greeting,” Samuel replied, and came in.

That inauspicious beginning led to romance in the following months. And then World War II broke out and Samuel was drafted. He told Mary he wanted to propose to her, but didn’t want to make her a widow. And he nearly did while fighting in Africa and Europe, at one point being grazed in the chin by a bullet. But then the war ended, and Samuel came home and married the woman who hadn’t even wanted to dance with him.

My Nana was a loving, nervous, high-strung woman by the time I knew her. She was, like many Italians in her neighborhood, superstitious in the extreme; once when she broke her arm as a child, her own mother took her to the local witch doctor instead of a medical professional — who, amazingly enough, couldn’t cure a fractured limb by chanting.  When she actually was taken to an actual doctor who used SCIENCE instead of magic, that doctor had a few choice words for the earlier “treatment.” (And much later, when my Nana lost her second child to illness, another Italian witch doctor told her that the child had died because the Magical and Divine Mother Mary of Heaven had been jealous.)

Everyone says their grandmothers are phenomenal cooks. Nana actually was, although she pretty poor at math: cooking enough to sate a legion of Thracian barbarians when her holiday guests only numbered six.

By the time I knew my grandfather, he was old-fashioned (never swore) and subscribed to that stubborn model of reticence and refusing to show his feelings.  But he was a nice enough man who, when prodded enough, would talk about the war and his life.

That’s what cancer destroyed.

This particular execution is endorsed by Shariah law, and also by the Bible. The stones can’t be too small… because death would take far too long. Yet neither can they be too large… because some amount of suffering is important, apparently.

Ashtiani was convicted of adultery. The formal charge, however, is “enmity against God.”

I’m pleased that this case is getting a fair amount of media attention (almost enough to challenge Lindsey Lohan’s 90-day prison sentence.) I suspect the really important lesson will be lost on many, and brought up by precious few.

We have a separation of church and state in America precisely to prevent situations like this. Western civilization dealt with religious government for that 1,000 year stretch of history known as the Dark Ages. The Enlightenment broke that ugly tradition, and America was conceived as the post-child for that Enlightenment.

Now we need places like Iran to follow. And people like Mike-Let’s-Make-the-Constitution-Biblical-Huckabee and Christine O’Donnell to shut the f*ck up.