Maintenance is my favorite word because I pretty much spell it wrong every time I write it.
Think about that.
Every time I write the word maintenance I have to go back and do maintenance on the word maintenance.
Maintenance keeps me on my toes, keeps me sharp. Maintenance is my sparring partner. Maintenance performs maintenance on me.
No other word does it for me quite like that.
this is
the post nuclear
new clear . . . the new clear . . .
role playing game
that lets you be
who you want to be
new . . . clarity . . . The . . .
put points into brains, communications, skill with weapons
New . . . Clarity . . .
you can even dial your capacity to communicate down to zero
most will not do this
the game steers you towards having an intelligence based approach balanced with some weapons skills
The New . . .
but you can be who you want to be
within limits
within the parameters of a violent post-apocalyptic survival game
you won't be taking up cosmetology, semiotics, or site maintenance custodial duties
but think on those Mad Max movies, you'll get the drift
. . . Clarity . . .
your mission is to save your insular community that lives in a subterranean survival complex known as a Vault by finding water purification equipment out in the World, but your adventures shape'n'sharpen you into a stranger by game's end, thus causing you to be cast out from your Vault, accursed to wander the radioactive wasteland
. . . The New . . .
it's a riff on Eden, I suppose
except with a bunch of Adams and Eves choosing to stay in the garden while You get scapegoated for learning of the Good and the Evil out there in the scary huge World
. . . Clear . . . The New . . .
the people of the Vault are grateful
but your ass has to Exit
Status Quo must be preserved
from You
who reeks of the New
. . . Clarity . . .
born of nuclear annihilation
kind of a bummer
but open for sequelization
across the decades
yes
plural of decade
since 1997 A.D. (Anime Domini)
the year of Final Fantasy VII
. . . The New Clarity . . .
that product we already know
must be sold and resold
perma-wander the wasteland
. . . The New . . . Clear . . .
not so new
-January 2009-September 2022
you realize
okay
that so much trouble could've been avoided
if Sephiroth hadn't been left alone
down in that secret library
that time alone
fixating on such a bizarre conception of himself
it's a fuckin' dilemma
'cause I don't like anyone looking over my shoulder
and I never had any teachers worth-a-fuck
I had to seek out the Good Shit all on my own-
-hmmm.
Maybe I'm okay with Sephiroth's unsupervised reading time. Sure, he caused a lot of damage, but the Shinra regime was already violent, and thereby provoked responses in kind. Sephiroth just clarified the worldaround situation by igniting the planet's rage, causing it to vomit forth giant monsters and speeding up the collapse of the Mako-extractive Shinra machine, and this in turn puts the Player on the map to intervene. Cloud, Barret, Tifa, Aerith, Vincent, Cait Sith, Cid, Yuffie, Red XIII-just so many cooling rods getting dropped into place, y'know? But without that brush with cataclysm . . . would the people of Midgar get the point?
-I know, I know, I know.
It isn't fair.
The collateral damage was incalculable.
It really sucks.
But the people of Midgar had to have their asses kicked a bit to wake them up out of their narcotized complacency. Sephiroth crossed every line, sure, but nothing less would hit it, y'know?
Even the Ending refuses a return to Status Quo, depicting the corrupt metropolis of Midgar reabsorbed into Nature in the fullness of time-all the storm and stress of Cloud v. Sephiroth-just the workings out of so many chemical-metaphysical reactions-
Of course, this all got rolled back quite a bit by subsequent sequelizations/remakes/remixes.
1997 ended up being a lifetime ago, didn't it? More than enough time for millennial zeal to cool out, and the Inevitable Nostalgia Malfunction to seize up the brainworks-
Nothing can be left well enough alone, can it?
-December 1999-August 2022
Shart to the Top: A New Vision of the Protestant Work Ethic In Action by Bubba Swaingro
The Secret Millennial Aspirations of Decade-ism: A Deep Dive Into (Not-So) Buried Desires by Cronus Sandwichian
The Joy of Unbridled Assholery: a Cultural History of the Unitary Executive by Jury Burnself
Dirty Bombs: A Childhood Memoir of Sneaking Dog Turds into Snowballs by Scat Brinks
Forever Y2K: Annualized Approaches to the Millennium by Darst Apocahills
FORM LIKE VOLTRON: Future Prospects of Rousseau's General Will in the Post-9/11 Universe: a Shindig Institute Symposium curated by William D. Tucker
Moist McSharty: The Wild, Unauthorized History of the Worst Fucking Name of All Times by Bends Hopceleratorson
Repetitive Heavy Lifting Motions: Principles and Precepts by Chet Beefhauser
Content and its Discontents by Smith Johns
Count Rimjobula's Castle of Rimjobs by E. Nebulon Yowzers
"-that and seven bucks": Towards the Proverbial Cup of Coffee by Club Werkin
"I HAVE ARRIVED.": A Post-Liminality Reader edited by Sham Trenderson
The Fucknuts of Supreme Mystery by Hortenzio Obitus
"Stay on the scene like a guillotine": James Brown's Forgotten Time Travel Adventure to Revolutionary France by Rob Crownroller
Shartgeist: Spirit of the Sharting Age by Franklin Lectric Badgegoon
Getting High as Blank: How Smoking Weed Cured Me of Compulsive Swearing and Allowed Me to Become a Successful Children's Television Personality by Fluffy Nitro
I'm too uptight. This world is too loose, too informal, too sloppy with the details. It's no good. I'm over here all perfectly put together, not a hair or a fart out of place, and this damn dumb world is showing up in sandals and beachwear, goddamnit-the fuck is that, eh? It's a crime, is what. Everybody's just tripping over their shoelaces while mine are precision double-tied, no need for one of those plastic froggy-looking bow-biters. Look at this asshole: velcro. At least they're not tripping over it. But velcro . . . Jesus . . . velcro is its own kind of disgrace. We got a bunch of losers stumbling around, knocking over the tall potted plants, their desks are essentially boneyards. Meanwhile, I'm manifesting an impressive smooth-glide hover effect by pure force of will and my desk has just set new paradigms in the realms of indexes and searchability and such. I don't even consider my desk to be anything special in those partucular arenas and yet . . . and yet . . . and yet . . . I'm just too uptight in a world of sweatpants and snacks at the workstation. I see a half-eaten Lunchable next to a keyboard I see the Final Seal of Productivity Apocalypse just all splayed open like decency is just one more piece of trash for History's Shitpile. Just let it all burn. I'm uptight asbestos. I made my peace that gives me no peace. It's called the total work ethic . . . but how can these slobs sneakin' hits off their weed vapes between videocalls possibly comprehend-I mean, I'm so uptight that a sharpness, okay, a sharpness is constantly upon me . . . and I just slice right through the mediocre and the mundane. I fall outta this trifling sphere, and thereby transcend into a stony, pitiless visage-truly, a monumental man aborning-and kick maximum ass all over slacker dreams-total demolition job on the entire operations of that slackety dreamlife . . . ah, but I weep for this world of loserdom . . . truly, I weep . . . but then I must apply my oh-so-shiny boot to loserdom's ass for 'tis my duty, and that ass ain't gonna kick itself . . . sighs elaborately . . .
I'm so uptight, I can't even write literary pornography for personal use. Not for publication. Not in any kind of digitally word-processed version-longhand, fer Christ's sakes! Zero chance anyone would ever see it or even be able to read my spidery handwriting if they did. I'm just too self-conscious. I'm an atheist, so it's not like I'm afraid of divine punishment. Even if God did exist-so what? Go ahead. Do your worst. The All Mighty zaps another bug. Whooptee-shit. What a hero. What a guy . . . you know what it is? What gets me so uptight? I know that whatever I would write would be embarrassingly trashy and contrived, so why waste the time and energy? Best to focus on productive endeavors. Ain't that a curse? No God, and yet the Protestant Work Ethic still kicks my ass . . . sighs elaborately . . .
Produced/Directed by Robert Altman
Screenplay by Frank Barhydt, Robert Altman, and Patricia Resnick
Story by Robert Altman, Lionel Chetwynd, and Patricia Resnick
Music by Tom Pierson
Starring
Paul Newman
Fernando Rey
Bibbi Andersson
Vittorio Gassman
. . .
"All things of value fit the game. The game is the only thing of value."
. . .
Review by William D. Tucker.
In a frozen hell of a world-maybe it's a new Ice Age brought on by nuclear winter-the final remnants of humanity while away their days in and around a ruined subterranean city playing a board game called Quintet. The rules of this game are utterly impenetrable to We the Audience, but the characters in the movie seem to understand them. The stakes are life and death, but the emotional affect of the people of these end times is severely reduced. These humans know the end is coming for the species. They hunted the seals to extinction. The supply of fish is uncertain. Cannibalism will only hasten the end; and anyways, there are dutiful packs of dogs trained to eat human corpses where they fall. And there's no discernible appetite for dogflesh. There's still electricity, but that could fizzle out any day. No one's getting pregnant since no person of conscience would seek the agonies of childbirth for a woman in these dire circumstances nor subject a newborn to such a harsh environment. No more art. No more technology. Plenty of religion, mostly centered around the murderous board game of Quintet, which affords the final humans a neat trick: the ability to die purposefully-to die for the sake of the game.
Quintet is the next level bummer of apocalyptic science fiction cinema. Humanity is so demoralized that it has literally gamified death as a means to (literally) play out its final days. And that's only for the privileged few who are good at the game. If you're no good at Quintet, then you receive no economic chits, you therefore must seek your own food outside of the game economy, and, inevitably, you slowly wither from the nutrition-deficient gruel spooned out by the church until you finally keel over where you stand and the carrion doggos swarm you and eat you. Please note that these dogs are not aggressive and do not attack the living. These vulture mutts are, in fact, the loyal friends of humanity by virtue of saving us from the final degeneration of cannibalism. It's surely something for which to be grateful in these final days. Good dogs, indeed!
The rules of Quintet are enforced by roaming referees who are empowered to use daggers and cutthroat razors to stab and slash and bleed out the losers. One overzealous ref uses a bomb that ends up wiping out an entire family. This bombing precipitates the plot of Quintet. A surviving member of this family unit assumes the identity of a dead man and goes questing for answers: why play such a lethal game? How were the explosives manufactured? Is there any reason to keep on living in a ruined city that participates in such a bizarre death sport?
Our Designated Protagonist Man is played by Paul Newman with an intriguing mix of doggedness and resignation. He's been away from the subterranean city for years, hunting seals, and has just returned due to the extinction of his prey, his livelihood. He remembers the game of Quintet from his younger days, and has little interest in it. The bombing drags him back in, and, in a sense, his quest is to get his head around the absurdity of Quintet even as he seeks justice. In his head, he's still a man seeking an honest living, a job, even though the human species is trudging towards an icy doom. He is hostile to the idleness and fickle childish sadism of Quintet even as he begins to come to terms with his own inner illusions about the prospects of meaningful work during humanity's final era.
One of the referees is memorably played with diabolical relish by Fernando Rey as a true believer in the game of Quintet. Rey and Newman have a series of conversations that also function as collisions between Believer and Skeptic. This leads to a somewhat on-the-nose climax, where I think things are spelled out that had already been revealed, but it's forgiveable. Quintet spends much of its running time with such a reticent protagonist that any extended dialogue risks seeming extravagantly loquacious. Since the film ends up being a sort of philosophical murder mystery, an Agatha Christie-esque scene of summing up becomes a formal necessity, I suppose, whatever its flaws.
The final scene could be edited into a supercut with the endings of films like The Shining, The Human Condition, John Carpenter's The Thing, Goyokin, McCabe and Mrs. Miller . . . it isn't just a murder mystery about the extermination of a single family unit, that's for sure . . .
. . . at a certain point, you are obliged to navigate a post-nuke Tokyo, that's all rubbled and obstructed, so you're obliged to take a mazelike, circuitous route, and your player characters are also outsiders to this place, so, y'know, it makes sense that you kinda just follow what breadcrumbs the game drops before you.
Meanwhile, outside of the game . . . I have this travel guide to Tokyo. I picked it up on discount, I don't recall where. I just remember that I paid five bucks or so for it. It's a listing of bars and nightclubs and museums. It's catering to "creatives," I guess, people with money. Architects, you know. Not for poets, that's for sure.
The book-a small paperback-has a dust jacket that unfolds into a cute, colorful not-to-scale map of Tokyo. Not a proper map, but an artistic map. It could conceivably be something you find in some part of the game world, a poignant reminder of the pre-apocalyptic world. I ended up using this map to help me navigate the post-nuke Tokyo of Shin Megami Tensei IV. It sorta worked. The book had no connection to the game, so you can't call it a proper pack-in feelie.
I came to think of it as an emergent feelie.
Sometimes, you get a return on an imaginative investment. It's sorta neat.
MANY COMPLETIONIST PLAYERS SOON ENOUGH LEARN TO APPRECIATE THE SNUG FIT OF AN ADULT DIAPER. WHY LEAVE WHEN IT'S SO EASY TO STAY?
Imperial Bowel Movements: Wastewater Portraits of British Royals by Dr. Audrey Strainer
Collaborative Bowel Movements: A Handbook for Communities by Danny Double Dumps
Pushin' the Cushion: New Pillow Stress Test Paradigms in the Post-9/11 Universe by William D. Tucker of the Shindig Institute
I WORK A DAY, I JERK A DAY: My Wild Journey into the Soda Jerk Revival Scene by Suds Spurtos
Opus 69: Putting the Sexy Back Into Classical Music by Melody Shamus
A Comprehender's Comprehensive Compendium of Comprehensive Comprehensions by and for Comprehenders by Smith Johns
A Certain and Familiar Doom a novel by H. H. Brill
Hallucinogenic Butt Crust, or How I Learned to Stop Wiping and Transform My Asscrack into a Garden of Hallucinatory Delights by Trip Crackson
Doing Backflips Forever: A Beginner's Guide to Injuring All of their Shit by Bannion Flail
Suspect Fluids: an Erotic Thriller by Busting Champeen
Postmodern Identity Performance in the Contemporary Security Theatre by Clortis Dannywall
The Joy of Nonstop Unforced Errors: Living Your Best Worst Life at Maximum Volume by Flowery Sharpe
An Aesthetic Appreciation of Rudy Giuliani's Mystery Head Goo: a Shindig Institute Emergency Appreciation Symposium curated by William D. Tucker
Blunt Instruments: Overapplications of Marijuana Smoke in Civil Engineering Projects by Murph Derby
Fortresses of Forbearance a novel by H.H. Brill
Rowdy Conformists: a Sociological Dream Life Analysis of NASCAR Fandoms in the Post 9/11 Universe by Dr. Hildegarde Crasher
Postures of Action: Late Capitalist Semiotics of Life Drawing Class Models by Dio McGillicutty
Perpetual Diarrhea: One Man's Quest to Become a Raging Asshole by Bob Tubecloggingson
The Need State of Necessary Necessities by Smith Johns
Liminal Feces: a Case Study of the U.S.S. Ronald Reagan's Phantom Shitter by McCubbins Delgado
Epizoochory as the Ultimate Freerider Threat to Libertarian Discourse: an Emergency Symposium of the Profits Without Limits Institute curated by Zapper Grabtube
"I honestly couldn't tell the difference": Porn Parodies and the Looming Ontological Crisis by William D. Tucker of the Shindig Institute
Introduction to Quantum Proctology by Dr. Angela Fiberblast
Wild Stasis: My Inspirational Journey From Gestating Fetus to Inherited Wealth by Prince Geoffrey Poshstain
Nothing Exists: the Counterintuitive Saga of How Reality Actually Exists by Serpenty Serpentson
The Memory of Furniture a novel by H.H. Brill
Randomly Breaking Shit While Yelling Incoherently: My Life Changing Odyssey Through the Post-9/11 Universe by Butch Thruston
Patternicity Structures in the Worldaround Context by Smith Johns
10,000 Years of Honda Hotboxing: a Saga of the Future by Becky Rollingpape
Gas Line Explosion at the Comedy Open Mic: an Insider's Account of How Nothing of Value was Lost by Carl Hawtson
Pristine Valley: the Inside Story of the Visionaries Chasing the Dream of the World's First Self-Wiping Asshole by Clay Brown
Metamodern Approaches to Pre-Drywall Inspection: a Primer edited by William D. Tucker of the Shindig Institute
Mildly Psychic: My Life of Occasionally Being Able to Guess Shit Correctly by Johnny Nonmalta
Audio Auto Fellatio: Tips and Hacks for the Up-and-Coming Podcaster by Jack Swallows
Football, Faith, and Family: One Man's Quest to Fill the Empty, Mocking Hole of Life with Various Activities by Eldo Parzival Butts
Governance Prospects of the New Millenium in Context: Challenges, Perceptions, Rewards, and Punishments by Johns Smith
Death Duel at the Farmer's Market: Localism and its Discontents by Firmalon Dukepour
Angry Absolutions: My Journey of Faith, French Fries, and Fanny Packs by Father Merriman Tubebringer
Howl of Savings: The Citizens' Guide to Precision Coupon Clipping by Gordon Plasmellion
"Ya'll play purdy, now!": Gladiator Capitalism of the New Reality: a Transcript of the Shindig Institute Symposium curated by William D. Tucker
Towards the New Derp: YouTube, Post-Literacy, and Adult Diaperism by Samuel Spooliston
Roast Beef Elitism: the Final Days of Fast Food Chic by Cornby Pressuredowl
The Sharting Economy: Is It Scalable? by Rivers Duty
Fundamentals of Essential Elements by Smith Johns
Group Sex in the Age of Hyperindividualism by Sol Randy
"I can't start existing!" and Other Pertinent Dilemmas of the Disillusionment Era by Prima Nons
INFERNO AT SPEED: One Man's Journey Through Flamethrower Themed Fight Calls of the American Theatre in the Post-Literacy Age by Bannion Flail
Civilizations in Collision: Cat People, Dog People, and the Risk of Nuclear Annihilation by William D. Tucker of the Shindig Institute
Portable Toilets and the Image of (Post) Modernity: Reflections on a Lifetime of Greasy Bowel Movements at State Fairs by Linder Hole
FINAL DIALECTIC: How the Wendy's Salad Bar Returned from the Dead to Become the Final Boss of the Internet by Sally Fuchs of the Trend Pursuer Institute
"Who even are we anymore?": Whipped Cream Semiotics of Instagram Dog Videos in a Post-9/11 Universe by Petty Scratcherson
The Threat of Uniform Mischief a novel by H.H. Brill
Dancing Forever in the Land of Hooray: One Woman's Journey to Re-Create the K-Mart Snack Bar Inside Her Own Apartment by Isabella Dairy
Signs of Wife: One Man's Daring Quest to Remember Why He Ever Wanted to Get Married In the First Place, and the Tantalizing Possibility that Quantum Mechanics May Yet Prove that He Has Always/Never Been Married to that Cat in that Box that Scientists May or May Not Have Poisoned for Some Reason by Bill Dews
SUPERSTAR: THE AMAZING TRUE SAGA OF A NARCISSISTIC STELLAR OBJECT by Professor Ida Grands of the Cosmic Psychopathology Institute
. . . not really a fan of creationism.
Unless I get to be The God.
Why not be Number One, y'know?
Don't give me that look.
You see the size of that megachurch?
You really expect me to believe the spray tan asshole with the $50,000 suit and $60,000 teeth isn't grooving on the same flavor of God Complex?
Sure. Okay.
You must live in such a lovely and relaxing reality.
I envy you that.
I really do . . .