Hey, did you hear about the new Harry Potter book?

I kid. I was pretty excited myself about the publication of the final book in the series, Harry Potter and the High-Voltage Fence. Vic and I actually planned our trip to South Carolina to coincide with the release date so that we’d be able to read it to each other on the road home. While my dad’s sudden illness kept us from finishing it together, I did reach the end by Tuesday evening.

A young wizard from the midnight release party we attended at a South Carolina Barnes & Noble.

Happily, I managed to do so before anyone spoiled it for me. Well, except for Stephen Colbert, but I thought he was kidding when he said that Hermione was a dude. Fortunately, no one tipped me to the other big reveals, such as Hagrid’s preference for women’s underthings or Luna Lovegood being crowned queen of the house-elves. And I was completely unprepared to learn that Rita Skeeter is secretly Aunt Petunia in disguise. Oh, I’m sorry, you haven’t read it yet?

While there were some kids at the party, I was floored by the number of young adults (one wearing a “Mrs. Amber Weasley” button) and goths.

To be serious (if only for a moment), I was truly riveted by the book. While the middle section dragged a bit–even the characters complained about too much time spent in a tent getting nowhere–it was bracketed by fast, furious and deadly action. (I especially loved the “Sigourney Weaver moment” involving Bellatrix Lestrange; you’ll know it when you read it.) In addition to the early chase sequence involving dozens of characters, there are two “big heists” and a huge battle involving virtually the entire cast. That last fight is going to make for a very expensive film.

Make no mistake, this book is a bloodbath. In an attempt to keep the stakes high in what is, after all, a war of ethnic cleansing, J.K. Rowling mows down secondary characters left, right and center. After a particularly unexpected death about midway through the volume, I declared “This woman is bloodthirsty!”

Catching a few zees beneath the bargain books.

Some of my pre-release speculation turned out to be right on the money. I was correct about the fates of the major characters, as well as Snape’s allegiance. One thing for which I have to give Rowling credit is that she resists any impulse for a last-second, Darth Vader-esque redemption of Snape. (Don’t worry, that’s not as much of a spoiler as it might appear.) And while Dudley Dursley and Draco Malfoy have their moments of humanity, neither entirely comes around, as I half-expected.

One thing about which I was completely wrong regarded the mysterious archway from Harry Potter and the Side-Order of Phoenix, into which Sirius Black fell after being fatally cursed. I had assumed that this was one of those soap-opera “we never found the body” things that would allow for a surprise resurrection, but it seems that to J.K. Rowling, dead is dead.

Our friend Christine and my wife Vic feign enthusiasm when their numbers are called.

My criticisms of the book–aside from all the time spent in a tent–are few. I still think that Rowling relies too often on entire chapters of exposition. There isn’t nearly as much of Snape as I believe was warranted. And finally, a vital revelation during the big throwdown between Harry and Voldemort relies on the reader recalling a specific event in Book Six, and therefore left me scratching my head at a crucial moment.

That said, I’m still satisfied by Harry Potter and the Contractual Obligation. Everything that really needs to be wrapped up has been, and the epilogue left me feeling good. I’m glad that I made it to the end of Harry’s adventures, though I’m hoping that Rowling will one day write a spin-off. Might I suggest Luna Lovegood and the Crumple-Horned Snorkacks?

Dave Books

Two images that greatly amused me during our recent trip down south:

These folks wanted other drivers to believe that they’d left a baby strapped to the roof of their minivan. They were accompanied by another car (not shown) which had a similar “baby” trapped in a half-rolled-up window. Gotta love neglectful parenting humor.

Three words: Meat Snack Center. Because you want to be sure that your meat snacks are easy to find.

Dave General

Dave Movies

I finally came home to Champaign last evening. While Dad was still in ICU when I left, it appeared he was to “graduate” soon. All of his signs continue to improve, though he’s still weak and seems to be having some hip trouble. I intend to call in daily and monitor his progress.

I feel pretty bad about leaving him there, and not just because one of his neighbors laid a massive guilt trip on me as I was preparing to go. Unfortunately, I don’t have the luxury of staying in Hobart indefinitely. I have responsibilities to others as well.

I’m back at work today. Although today is my 43rd birthday and I’d originally planned to celebrate it by spending the day playing video games, being in the office actually feels pretty good.

Dave General

I’d intended to blog sooner, but life has a way of intruding. Last Sunday, when Vic and I were on our way back from a short vacation visiting friends in South Carolina, I received a phone call from one of my dad’s neighbors in my hometown of Hobart, Indiana. Dad was in the hospital following a fall at home, and apparently suffering from failing kidneys.

I attempted to call the nurses’ station, but ran up against federal privacy rules. “I’m his son,” I said. “I have no way of proving that,” replied the nurse, adding “Can I take a message and have him call you?” “I was told that he was incoherent,” I answered.

Frustrated with the uncaring bureaucracy, my dad’s seemingly dire condition and the ten-hour drive between me and him, I shouted, “I DON’T CARE ABOUT YOUR FUCKING PRIVACY LAW! I AM IN FUCKING TENNESSEE AND I NEED TO KNOW HIS CONDITION NOW!” Needless to say, that approach didn’t work either: “Do you want me to take a phone number where he can reach you?” In the end, I gave it to her, adding “I hate you.” “I’m sorry to hear that you feel that way,” she said as she hung up.

I’ll admit that I feel bad about blowing up at a nurse, but dammit, she could tell I was upset and yet made no attempt to explain the proper method of obtaining information, nor did she contradict my (misinformed) belief that he would be unable to return my call. Surely, talking to family members is part of medical training?

Dad did call me back after a while, and he didn’t sound as bad as I’d feared. He’d had some sort of illness late last week, and collapsed with weakness in his bathroom. He lay there for an indeterminate number of hours before finally crawling to a phone and getting help from the neighbors.

Unfortunately, that time spent on the floor only made things worse, leaving him dehydrated. (Yes, in the midst of a room full of plumbing.) Furthermore, lying prone for hours caused microscopic particles of his muscle tissue to clog his kidneys, reducing their ability to function.

While he sounded pretty good on the phone, by the time I reached him (about 9:00 pm Sunday) he wasn’t looking very good. The fever was causing him to hallucinate about, of all things, a giant Pac-Man. That’s right, Pac-Man. “Wakka wakka.” Keep in mind that my dad is one of the few people who still plays arcade Pac-Man on a frequent basis. (Whether he was also hallucinating Inky, Pinky, Blinky or Clyde, I have been afraid to ask.)

The next day, he was moved into intensive care after his blood pressure began to drop, and he began receiving drugs to keep it up. Otherwise, he seemed stable, and happily Pac-Man had vanished, presumably to munch pellets elsewhere.

Vic and I arranged to be met halfway between Hobart and Champaign, so that I could trade her for a suitcase of clean clothes. She’s home taking care of kitties while I’m staying at my dad’s house and checking in on him.

As of six this evening, Dad is still in intensive care, but all of his signs are improving and everyone seems hopeful that’ll we’ll be able to move him to a different room tomorrow. They identified the bug that caused the infection–some form of streptococcus–and have been pumping him full of antibiotics. His fever has been gone for more than 24 hours, his blood pressure has returned to more or less normal without drugs, and his kidney and liver functions continue to improve. He is not seeing early ’80s videogame characters.

Meanwhile, I have discovered the joys of the borrowed laptop I had sent up with the suitcase. I am blogging this from a Panera Bread Co. restaurant: one of the few chains I’m aware of that provides free wi-fi. I’m thinking that I’m going to have to get my own laptop; it’s amazing just how much it comforts me to be connected.

I am hopeful that I’ll be able to return home soon. I miss Vic and the cats, and honestly, I’m looking forward to getting back to work.

Dave General

In this final post, I want to take a few moments to recognize the worst of the worst. The piercer and his friends might be silly, but don’t quite achieve the level of “what the hell were they thinking?” These do.

As I mentioned before, I never cared for the psionic powers in 1st edition Dungeons & Dragons. They seemed out of place in a high fantasy setting. They used a completely different combat system from the rest of the game. They had stupid names like “Id Insinuation” and “Ego Whip.” (“Ego Whip! The self-aggrandizing dessert topping!”) And they left one vulnerable to attacks by the likes of the Brain Mole. It was a mole. That burrowed into your brain. Granted, it was a psychic attack, so at least you were spared the indignity of having a small, furry ass protruding from your character’s head. Still, the brain mole was a sure sign that the designers of D & D were approaching their work a bit too literally.

In addition to the adherer and the nilbog, the Fiend Folio also gave us the Enveloper. A “mass of malleable flesh,” it took approximate human form, striking with two meaty fists. It received its name by its habit of falling down atop its slain foes, consuming their bodies and absorbing their knowledge and abilities. All while looking like a car dealership mascot. On the other hand, as it was presumably of British origin, I can’t help but think that what it resembled more than anything was a man-sized “jelly baby.” (Jelly babies are fruit-flavored gummy candies known in the U.S. primarily as a treat favored by Doctor Who.)

Some of the least likely members of the D & D bestiary were weakly justified as magically-spawned aberrations. The owlbear was “probably the result of genetic experimentation by some insane wizard.” Similarly, the bulette was explained as “the result of a mad wizard’s experimental cross breeding of a snapping turtle and armadillo with infusions of demons’ ichor.” However, the final dungeon denizen in my monster retrospective couldn’t blame its existence on a magic-user off his meds. Ladies and gentlemen, I bring you… …the Flail Snail. Apparently, there was no wizard mad enough to think that it was a good idea to stick a bunch of mace-like appendages on a giant mollusk, even if it would rhyme. Nope, the flail snail was presumably born that way. But if the prospect of being clubbed to death by escargot wasn’t pathetic enough, the flail snail had one final trick up its exoskeleton. Once its tentacles had been “killed,” it withdrew its body to die inside its shell, all the while uttering “pitiful, wailing cries which have a 50% chance per turn of attracting a wandering monster.” Which made it an ailing, wailing–and rather frail–flail snail.

That wraps it up. I hope that you enjoyed reading this series as much as I enjoyed wasting entirely too much time compiling it. I’ve received a grand total of three unsolicited comments on it, which is four more than I usually get. Thanks to all, and happy delving.

I’m heading off to vacation tomorrow, and won’t be online again until Monday or so. Secreast Out!

Dave Games

After a while, experienced D & D players began to take a “been there, killed that” approach to the lost tombs and unholy cemeteries awaiting exploration. It didn’t help that we had ample opportunity to study the Monster Manual and memorize the invulnerabilities of traditional underworld oozes. That’s when clever dungeon masters looking for new ways to bedevil adventurers had cause to employ Monsters That Look Like Other Monsters.

Creatures in this category were similar to the piercer, trapper and wolf-in-sheep’s-clothing in that they depended upon resembling something else to gain a measure of surprise. And, like the gelatinous cube, they could be attributed to the twisted form of natural selection in a world laced with underground, monster-filled mazes.

Yet, all of the above rationalization didn’t make the Adherer any less ridiculous. Its “loose folds of dirty, white skin” resembled a mummy’s bandages, but exuded a powerful adhesive that caused weapons (and characters) to stick to it. (Conveniently, stone was immune to this effect. Otherwise, players would’ve been treated to the amusing sight of a “mummy” desperately trying to unstick its own feet from the crypt floor.) According to the Fiend Folio–a British follow-up to the Monster Manual that was the source of many of the goofiest old-school D & D critters–”the adherer will catch its prey by waiting in ambush, camouflaging itself by rolling in dirt, sticks, and leaves and then artfully arranging larger pieces of debris to conceal its form.” So, if you saw what appeared to be a mummy covered in twigs, it was best not to shake its hand. It’s fun to imagine the adherer as the dungeon-crawl equivalent of Katamari Damacy, rolling up an ever-increasing ball of loose debris, electrum coins, kobolds and pissed-off player characters.

I never understood the theory behind the Gas Spore. A floating fungus that outwardly resembled the dread beholder, it violently exploded after receiving a single point of damage. Those within the blast radius were doused with infectious cells that proved lethal within 24 hours, with new gas spores sprouting from their bloated corpses. A fungus which reproduced in its moment of death seemed biologically reasonable, except when it was pretending to be one of the underworld’s most fearsome monsters. In nature, weak animals sometimes protect themselves by resembling something more ferocious, but the gas spore wanted to be attacked. Looking like something that’s likely to send low-level dungeoneers fleeing in terror down the nearest ten-foot-by-ten-foot corridor wasn’t the best way to accomplish that. Furthermore, a party of adventurers capable of taking on a beholder almost certainly had access to a Cure Disease spell or three. If I was an exploding, fungal gas ball, I’d want to appear as something less threatening, more likely to be attacked without careful consideration. Like, for instance, a goblin…

Which brings us to the Nilbog. When I was assembling the images for this series, I found that there was no drawing of the nilbog. No matter, because it looked exactly like the bog-standard goblin to which aspiring paladins graduated once they tired of hacking mere kobolds. Therefore, I took a bit of license for the picture to the right, including reversing the image for reasons that should be apparent. The Fiend Folio says that the nilbog suffered from a “curious spatio-temporal reversal.” Nilbogs gained hit points when struck, and took damage by being forcibly fed healing potions. Those encountering nilbogs would feel compelled to give them their own treasure and leave the lair empty-handed. The book adds that it was a mystery why only goblins had been found susceptible to this malady. (Actual reason: because the “redloheb” would’ve been a real bitch.)

The Shrieker had its own method of screwing with player characters. Resembling an ordinary (er…) giant mushroom, its only means of defense was to–you guessed it–let out a piercing shriek. Shouting fungi were no threat themselves, but were an excuse for the dungeon master to roll the dice and consult the “wandering monster” chart.

Once the area had been cleared of reversible goblins, sticky mummies and ululating yeasts, it was safe to clean out the treasure, right? Wrong! That’s when the Mimic was likely to make an appearance. Another creature whose existence was solely predicated upon the popularity of the dungeon delving hobby, the mimic could imitate stone or wood and would patiently lurk in the form of a door, a piece of stonework, or (inevitably) an inviting treasure chest. As a further “gotcha,” it shared the adherer’s ability to…adhere. Amusingly, D & D creator Gary Gygax is quoted in Monster Ecologies as believing that the mimic was one of the monsters worth further exploration. Courtney Solomon, director of the aforementioned Dungeons and Dragons theatrical film, also expressed a fondness for the mimic. But as he believed that beholders could be lured away by flung pebbles, I tend to discount his views.

Next (and last): The Odd And The End

Dave Games

The Tarrasque was unique among Dungeons & Dragons monsters. In this case, the word “unique” is being precisely used: there’s only one Tarrasque, and believe me, you don’t want two of them. The Tarrasque was the D & D world’s answer to Godzilla. A legendary creature that emerged from its underground dormancy on the average of once a year, it ate “voraciously and continually, and all living things are food to it,” according to Monster Manual II. Its carapace was virtually invulnerable, and it’s not difficult to envision the Kingdom of Greyhawk’s Self-Defense Forces firing a futile barrage of ballista bolts and magic missiles, only to see them harmlessly bounce away. Worse yet, the Tarrasque shared the ability of the infamous Danish movie monster Reptilicus in that it could regenerate from even the smallest remaining piece of flesh. The Monster Manual II goes on to warn that it can only be killed if “reduced to -30 or fewer hit points and a wish (spell) for its death then used.” You do not fuck around with the Tarrasque. A matchup I’d like to see.

Dave General

Creatures, even fictional ones, adapt to fit into their environment. And what amused me most about old-school D & D monsters was how their designers applied evolutionary theory in a world full of twisty passages, all looking alike.

One of my favorites was the Piercer. Like the roper, its natural environment was a stalactite/stalagmite filled cavern. Piercers invariably disguised themselves as stalactites, because their main (okay, only) form of attack was to drop from the ceiling and hope to embed themselves in the skull of a passing hero. Here was a monster that depended solely upon dumb luck (and a fresh supply of unwary adventures) for its sustenance. After its surprise attack, its only hope was to sheepishly crawl away and hope that no one noticed it. In 3rd edition D & D, its role was filled by the darkmantle, a slightly more plausible beast with (naturally) lots of tentacles and, more importantly, the ability to fly back up to the cave roof and try again. The very first “Ecology of the…” article in Dragon magazine featured the piercer, and unlike other entries in the series, it included a cutaway view: Admit it, right now you’re considering a piercer’s rectum.

The Trapper adapted to the dungeon crawl lifestyle by making itself appear to be a stone floor…

…while the Lurker Above decided to carve out its own niche on the ceiling. And any would-be dungeon master that didn’t immediately see the possibility of putting both of these in the same room wasn’t worth his polyhedral dice.

What about the walls, you ask? Meet the Stunjelly.

My friend Dave reminded me that the reason that the Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing was so damned weird was that it originally came from outer space. It debuted in the published adventure module Expedition to the Barrier Peaks, in which the players stumbled upon the remains of a crashed colony spaceship. Now, you may be thinking, “Dave, it’s not that odd. It’s just an animated tree stump with the prerequisite number of tentacles.” Yes, but consider this: the rabbit is part of it.

I saved my favorite for last. Like so many other D & D denizens, the Gelatinous Cube‘s name fully described it. It was a cousin to the various oozes, but rather than an amorphous mass, it retained a cube shape (ten feet on each side) as it traversed the dungeon, absorbing loose treasure and slow-moving kobolds. What better example of Darwinism at work in a world in which the most ubiquitous architectural feature is the ten-foot-by-ten-foot corridor?

 
Next: Fool Me Once…

Dave Games

Dungeons & Dragons was never exactly shy about “borrowing” material from works of fantasy and science-fiction. One of the most obvious influences was J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings, which rode a wave of popularity on college campuses in the decade prior to the rise of D & D. Certainly, the game’s depictions of elves and dwarves had much more in common with Tolkien’s characters than they did traditional folklore. Furthermore, the earliest edition of the game purportedly included “hobbits” until Tolkien’s lawyers forced them to be redubbed “halflings.” (“Orcs,” however, remain “orcs.”)

When Deities & Demigods, a guidebook to mythological pantheons, was published as an Advanced Dungeons & Dragons supplement in 1980, it included gods and monsters drawn from the fiction of Michael Moorcock, H.P. Lovecraft and Fritz Leiber. The publishers got into trouble when they mistakenly assumed that Lovecraft’s Cthulhu Mythos was in the public domain. A rival game company (Chaosium), which had licensed those books for their Call of Cthulhu role-playing game, was not happy about this, but a settlement was reached before the shoggoths were summoned.

Another cribbed creature was the curious Displacer Beast, a black panther with (what else?) tentacles sprouting from its shoulders. According to the original Monster Manual, “the molecular vibrations of the displacer beast are such that it always appears to be 3′ (away from) its actual position.” Even back then, this struck me as an odd inclusion into a Tolkienesque fantasy world. As it turned out, there was a good reason for that. Monster Ecologies confesses to the true origin of the displacer beast, a short story by A.E. van Vogt called “The Black Destroyer,” seen here in a 1973 Marvel Comics adaptation. Of course, as displacer beasts were weird, oversized pussycats, it naturally followed that their natural enemies were blink dogs, pack animals with a limited form of teleportation that allowed them to “blink” in and out of existence. (Less successful variations on this theme included the uncertainty trout and the teleportortoise.*)

A trio of equally unlikely critters hailed from, of all places, a bag of Chinese-made toys. I used to have these as a kid; they were cheap, poorly-sculpted “prehistoric monsters.” I’ve seen some of the same sculpts in dollar store toys to this day, though unfortunately not the more fanciful creatures that D & D appropriated to use as tabletop miniatures. Man, I wish that I’d kept mine. First was the infamous Rust Monster, whose sole purpose in the game was to divest players of their hard-earned loot. It couldn’t care less about eating people, it just wanted their stuff in the form of metal swords, metal shields, metal armor, etc. A touch from its tendrils turned ferrous metals to rust, leaving heroes naked and defenseless in the middle of the dungeon. And didn’t we dungeon masters love them for it!

Another D & D classic born of cheap, Chinese labor was the Owlbear, a beast with the body of the bear and the head of an owl. (A variant with the head of a bear and the body of an owl proved to be too front-heavy.)

The Bulette probably owed as much to Saturday Night Live and The Outer Limits as it did to the thrift store. The latter TV series featured an episode in which alien creatures burrowed beneath the sand, with only the fin atop their head visible. Meanwhile, SNL brought us Chevy Chase in the form of the wily “land shark.” However, if the bulette ever knocked on a peasant’s door pretending to deliver a candygram, history does not record it.

* Possibly not true.

Next: Unnatural Selection!

Dave Games