Just A Writer

Some writers construct symphonies with words, mastering semantics, cadence, and rhythm. Flowing poetry, seamless and succinct. Displaying a copious vocabulary, a knack for wordplay and nailing everything perfectly.

I have yet to do this.

They construct mansions with their words, elegant spaces with comfortable nooks, sprawling gardens and classical elements. I construct a hovel, whose cardboard walls are flimsy and in danger of collapsing. Yet I can erect the four walls, so that’s something.

With every story I write, I’m learning. With every story I read, I’m learning. The mantra they teach you about writing is: Read. Write. Repeat. Read different genres, write something out of your comfort zone and continue doing this until you’re dead.

Writing should not be a dilettante hobby. It’s a lifelong commitment. It’s the monkey on your shoulder flinging its poop at you whenever you get complacent, whenever you feel sorry for yourself and want to sit on the couch, eat Cheetos and watch “2 Broke Girls”.

That’s especially sad.

The monkey smacks you on your head, urging you to continue, forcing you back into Word City, driving you forward. It pries your mouth open with its little monkey fingers and pours coffee down your gullet. It chants eek eek ook ook and gets you to regroup and write.

You are not a human being with free will. You are that monkey’s bitch. Mistress Monkey with the 9-inch stiletto heels and bullwhip, smacking you around, forcing you to meet deadlines.

You’re a writer. You’re weird. Get used to it.

Twenty years ago I came down to Cape May County to work in newspapers. I started out editing obituaries, because 23-year olds find typing and proofreading death notices mentally stimulating and fun. From there came a plethora of mundane assignments; covering the freeholder board, local zoning boards, school boards and town councils.

Journalism doesn’t have a monkey muse on your shoulder. It has a gorilla on your shoulder, crushing your spine, wearing you out and thrashing you about like a suitcase in a 1972 American Tourister commercial.

It’s brutal, the hours and pay suck and as far as respect, Congress has a higher approval rating. The print media is a dinosaur going extinct. In 2013, the Wall Street Journal named newspaper reporters as the worst job in America. That means the guy who cleans the elephant shit in the zoo has more job satisfaction than newspaper reporters.

I dedicated my adult life to a sinking ship. Cynicism, gloomy prognostications and hand-wringing fill newsrooms. The once idealistic and gullible writer I was became squashed under the gorilla’s fist. The hot breath from the monster’s nostrils down my neck. A stressful, thankless parade of writing on deadline, getting a paper out and doing it all again. Not allowing myself time to relax. Not laughing. Letting the corrupt system running the world chip away at the writer I was.

No wonder why so many reporters are alcoholics.

It’s taken me years to ignore the false doomsayers in the media and politics and refocus my energies on writing. Only on the cusp of middle age do I grasp the importance of words, of this bizarre gift and curse.

When you’re north of 40, you’ve lived half your life. You assess yourself, where you’ve been, where you’d like to go. I didn’t want my remaining years consumed with further regret. I refuse to be a washed-up hack, toiling in front of a computer screen. If I’m going to further commit to this, I’m doing it my way.

Full throttle, balls deep, in the zone.

This career is not just another way to pay bills. It’s not just about competing with other newspapers and websites for readers. Since editorial doesn’t generate revenue, as one editor told me, I am not as important as the advertising department. I disagree. The pen is mightier than the sword. It’s mightier than an F-16 fighter jet carrying a 100-megaton nuclear warhead. Words can do more than entertain and amuse. They can change the world. They can send the forces of corruption and evil running for the hills. They can topple careers, expose abuse and neglect and burrow right into your gut like pinworms with super powers.

Words inflame your passions and raise the dead. Lazarus frantically typing away, cursing the darkness and shining the Fresnel lens of truth. Your Mighty Word Beacon illuminates the night, scattering ugliness across the land, like the deformed demonic critters from a Hieronymus Bosch triptych. With your skill and perseverance, you squash every one of those corrupt buggers.

Every. Single. One. 

Maybe there’s a tiny bit of the idealistic young man inside me, even though I’m old and petulant most days. Perhaps keeping a sense of humor, a need for satire and a reputation for honesty and truth helps.

Especially in a small town like this, where truth is often swept under the rug for expediency’s sake, and superficiality replaces substance.

But I wouldn’t know anything about that.

I’m just a writer.

Come At Me, Bro

Life is the ultimate bully, picking on 98-pound weakling you, kicking sand in your face and stealing your girl.

When things are at their darkest, life bursts from its seedy grime-covered hole and starts poking your chest. “Come at me, bro!” it taunts. “Come at me!”

At age 11, I lost both my grandparents, one to a heart attack, the other to liver cancer. Life left a traumatic impression, like waking to a rat skittering across your chest.

“Come at me, bro!” life mocked.

I wasn’t like the other students and was left behind a grade. It wasn’t that I lacked motivation or intelligence; I just wanted the pain to stop. Wanted people to listen to me. Didn’t want them to tease me.

“Come at me, bro! Come at me!”

Every girl who rejected me in school, who made fun of my last name, who laughed because I was withdrawn. The fights after school on the playground. Humiliating. Blood on concrete. Muffled sobs into a pillow because I didn’t want my parents to hear.

“Come at me, bro!"

Jobs with asshole bosses. Suffering the ridicule and the positions I didn’t want but slogged through because I needed the income. Trying to squeeze out of the shell suffocating me.

Life became a drunken lout and boorish jackass.

“Come at me, bro! Come at me!”

When I struggled through an unhappy marriage and stressful divorce, the disillusionment poured over me like waterboarding. Whispers and promises, paying bills and drowning in a torpid routine. You’re flawed and she makes you feel small, makes you regret. Makes you attempt suicide. Noose slung over beam in garage.

 “Come at me, bro!”

What you thought was love was only lust. Drunken tryst with someone you regarded as your soul mate. Turns out you were too immature for anything deep.

Hurtful words said in the heat of the moment. Hurtful words you could not take back. Life calling you a loser, a failure, a nobody.

Life slaps you, punches you, gives you a bloody nose.

“Come at me, bro!”

A series of missteps, accusations you’re incompetent. Self doubt. She texts you, calling  you a liar and saying you’re afraid of life. Your writing career is a joke. What the hell do you have to say? Back pain. A herniated disc. Hypochondriac. Munchausen syndrome because you want others to feel sympathy.

You just want someone to feel anything for you.

Life jabs you repeatedly, uppercut, overhand, hook, liver punch. Staggering and stumbling, seeing stars.

“Come at me, bro! Come at me.”

Then you do the most unexpected and surprising thing, when life has you on the ropes and you’re drooling blood and black puffy eyes obscure your vision.

You punch back.

You’re Muhammad Ali, Rocky Balboa and Popeye the Sailor beating the shit out of life.

That’s all you can stand, you can’t stands no more.

When life retaliates, you don’t throw in the towel. You defend yourself and swing.

No matter how much life bullies you, knocks you down or trips you, you don’t give it the satisfaction of quitting. Punch back, spit blood, grunt like a wolverine on steroids and say “Is that all you got? I’m still standing. I won’t be undone. I’m tired of your bullshit, tired of feeling sad and insignificant. I will kick your ass.”

That moment life realizes you’re not weak and easily intimidated. It wobbles like a battered crane, hobbling on one foot. Mouth agape, stunned into silence.

You lean over, scrunch up your face and say to life, “Come at me, bro.”

Somewhere the Devil is Laughing

The more I take my yearly travels around the sun, the more I learn uncomfortable truths.

Namely, everything no matter how grandiose or miniscule, has a beginning, middle and an end.  Life exists, thrives and dies. Seasons change. Nations rise and fall.

The second truth is, politicians lie to preserve their careers and legacies.

They lie, distort, mislead and misdirect. Both political parties do this. They manipulate the press and voters, even bullshitting their own supporters and backers.

All for their greater good. A grand journey of manipulating the public and securing backers with fat paychecks. I think of them as Chucky, the evil puppet, for isn’t that what politicians are when you deconstruct them? Evil puppets? Bought and paid for by corporate or lobby interests to shill a specific agenda?

When their loyal toadies transgress, these unsavory ones must be culled from the herd and slaughtered for self-preservation’s sake.

Which brings us to the George Washington Bridge fiasco, or Bridgegate, or Bridgeghazi, or whatever ridiculous moniker the media uses.

Here’s what happened:

Last September, before New Jersey’s gubernatorial election, the George Washington Bridge, a vital link between Fort Lee and Manhattan, experienced lane closures. These closures delayed traffic, caused terrible congestion problems and inconvenienced everybody.

Fort Lee’s Democratic mayor Mark Sokolich asserts the lane closures were in retribution for him not supporting Christie’s reelection.

Emails released Jan. 8 between Christie’s deputy chief of staff Bridget Anne Kelly and Christie-appointed Port Authority official David Wildstein indicate efforts to close the lanes for political retribution.

“Time for some traffic problems in Fort Lee, “ Kelly wrote to Wildstein on Aug. 13.

“Got it.” Wildstein responded.

A text conversation between Wildstein and an unknown sender (whose name was redacted), reveled in the closures and the problems they presented.

“Is it wrong that I’m smiling?” the unknown texter wrote.

“No.” Wildstein responded.

“I feel badly about the kids. I guess,” the person wrote back.

“They are the children of Buono voters,” Wildstein wrote.

In another exchange, Kelly asked Wildstein if the Port Authoirty was going to respond to several of Sololich’s complaints.

“Radio silence,” Wildstein wrote to Kelly.

These exchanges sound like the worst revenge porn, grudge-fucking while wearing clown masks, or the filthiest golden shower/Cleveland steamer Penthouse Forum letters ever written.

They portray a decadent government whose dysfunctions rival that of ancient Rome, accept the Romans actually patronized the arts.

Those involved are blindly loyal to Christie, complete partisan hacks who’d sell their mothers into slavery in order to pad their political resumes and curry favor with the governor.

It’s as if they were all lounging on crushed velvet-covered divans, typing these emails on their iPads, clad only in silk bathrobes, popping Belgian chocolates and getting handjobs from their Guatemalan nannies.

How these debauched reprobates could brazenly carry out such a flagrant abuse of power all to settle a petty political score boggles the mind.

Wildstein resigned Dec. 13 as the controversy grew. By then the proverbial shit was ready to hit the proverbial fan. 

Gov. Christie held a press conference on Jan. 9 and begged the state to forgive him. He fired Kelly and demanded an inquiry be conducted. Now his administration is under federal investigation, and the rats are scurrying all over this sinking ship.

It didn’t help Christie that his administration told the public the land closures were for a “traffic safety study”.

The issue isn’t just about an uncivil and petty political system, but how truly warped our society has become. We don’t view each other as equals, as human beings. We tend to compartmentalize and divide people into easily-defined labels and categories. We’re either conservatives or liberals, religious or secular, straight or gay.

Familiar or alien.

Us or them.

It’s tragic these political zombies, mindless drones whose fealty to Christie blinded them to right and wrong, decided to act without conscience and enact a revenge fantasy against a politician who didn’t support their boss.

The ugly incident reminds me of how political campaigns were fought 90 years ago, when the thugs and local gangsters intimidated factory workers and everyday citizens, bullying them into voting for their candidates. The recent season of Boardwalk Empire illustrates this perfectly, with hoodlums flanking workers emerging from a factory, cajoling them with threats and displaying baseball bats and other weaponry if the proles didn’t vote their way.

New Jersey’s political climate mimics this dreadful scene, with Christie’s lackeys waging a stealth war against those who don’t play ball.

This “you’re either with us or you’re against us” mentality is ultimately destructive and breeds resentment and fosters ill will among the populace.

Such bullying tactics may have worked in 1920s Illinois, but not in 2013 New Jersey.

The governor sets the tone for the state. He brags his administration is bipartisan and works with Democrats, as demonstrated by his cuddlefest with President Obama following Hurricane Sandy in 2012.

Yet the incident at the George Washington Bridge exposed the administration’s rotten core, one festering with the stink of cronyism, payback and partisanship.

While this scandal doesn’t bode well for Christie, who is a potential 2016 presidential candidate, it doesn’t play well for the Republican Party.

Even during the dark days of former Democratic Gov. Jon Corzine, who incidentally did to New Jersey what the Hillside Strangler did to runaway prostitutes, things weren’t this bad. Sure, everyone lived in dung-covered hovels and eked out a peasant’s living while the Trenton glitterati held orgies in Drumthwacket, but at least things were civil.

No political operatives shutting down lanes on a bridge to punish recalcitrant Republicans. 

Not that they haven’t tried. Democrats in this state might be incompetent, but they’re not psychotic. Ever since Christie got in, his circle of friends and backers increased. The stakes became higher. The spin became faster and agenda broader.

This underlies the real difference between Democrats and Republicans here.

Democrats are well-meaning, but deeply flawed, goofy intellectuals, Don Quixote charging at windmills. All idealism, but zero organizational skills.

Republicans here are well-meaning in doses, but the higher you climb up the food chain, the more devious and brutal they become. It’s as if Darth Vader and Satan had a baby and the result is a New Jersey Republican political operative.

This unholy spawn, this goat-headed bastard baby only wants one thing: to feed on the tears of Democrats. Writhing in its suit, driving its towncar, Damien only wishes to sup upon misery it created, while bolstering support for his dad. Utterances against his dad will be dealt with harshly. So the operative colludes with his buddies to make life miserable for the opposition. To thwart anyone perceived as an obstacle or enemy of the state. During these stealthy, pitched battles, they vie to increase dad’s prestige and power, trampling any dissenters under their cloven hooves.

Lying is wrong. For public officials to lie is a breach of trust.

Yet in the malformed mind of a political operative, lying is part of the game. It’s how they deflect truth and pass the buck.

If Christie truly cared about his legacy, he’d cast these beasts into the furthest depths of perdition, banish them from public office for life and let them rot in prison. Their names shall be nothing but blasphemous heresies mumbled in garbled tones by disheveled madmen wandering the state capital.

The governor did the right thing by firing Kelly. We need more of a purging, a grand cleansing to wash away the stink. Then he should reexamine those close to him and choose those who want to serve all of New Jersey, not just the Republican inner circle.

Partisan politics has grown outrageous and toxic. It’s time to reassess our priorities and clean house.

Goodbye, 2013

For me, 2013 felt like a year in exile. Having lost my apartment to Hurricane Sandy in 2012, I’d been living at the family beach compound, paying rent, eking out a meager existence. Over 80 percent of my belongings that survived the storm have been in storage for the last 13 months.

So 2013 was limbo.

Purgatory.

A transient state of existence.

I feel like I should be moving on, pulling up stakes and exploring whatever’s over the horizon.

The shore is sand and surf and incestuous politics. Small towns with boardwalks and garish condominiums. It wears on you after a while. The lack of intellectual stimulation. A drought of new ideas and people. A foreboding sense that everything is run by the same tribe and anything from the outside is anathema.

I’ve felt this crushing sense of mediocrity for a long time.

2013 crystalized it for me, living on the edge, not having my own place.

Staying here just for the job, a career I’ve had for 20 years.

So what kind of end-of-the-year summary is this?

Some good things and bad things happened in 2013. No major catastrophes, thank God. Yet no stunning victories, either. Just baby steps along the “Time Marches On” montage occurring in my head every Dec. 31.

Being blunt, I’m very lucky. Blessed, even. Fortunate to have my family and a wonderful girlfriend and soulmate in my life. They keep me sane and grounded and loved and for this I’m eternally grateful.

So let’s crank this shit out so I can ring in the new year drunk off my ass:

Still In Love. Yep. Elnie is still with me, and tells me she loves me every day. This girl is like luggage – I’ll have her for life. We celebrated our one-year living together milestone in June, and three years dating in July. Not too shabby.

Diabetic Cat. Smuttynose, my furry feline companion since 2000 started looking peaked, emaciated and sickly during the summer. His fur, a tattered mess, his third eyelid closing. After a trip to the vet, we found out he has diabetes. We now have to inject him with insulin twice a day. Now he’s put on weight and his eyelid receded, so he’s on the mend. Plus, he doesn’t urinate like a race horse. Had we not done anything, Smuttynose would’ve died.

New Car, New Computer, New Job Promotion. Adding to the changes, I sold my old car and bought a new Honda Civic, and in the spring purchased a shiny new MacBook Pro. I also was promoted from a lowly reporter to a managing editor. This comes with a modest – and I stress modest – pay increase, but I’m not complaining. It means more responsibility and learning additional skills, which I’m greatly anticipating. I’ll still file stories, but I’ll also prepare pages, write headlines and edit stories.

No Gencon. We couldn’t make it to Gencon this year. The August gaming convention is something I look forward to, but in 2013, it wasn’t in the cards. Maybe next year…

Ravaged Earth Second Revised Edition. This one’s a biggie. The second revised edition of my roleplaying game, Ravaged Earth, was released in May. Limited PDF release, with a softcover released at Gencon in August, making it doubly sad I didn’t attend the convention to promote the book. Still, having Ravaged Earth released in the form I’ve always wanted was a fulfillment of a dream. It’s 322 pages of pulpy goodness surrounded by Martians, weird science and fisticuffs.

Sickness Stalks Me Like A Plague. Okay, a bit dramatic here, but I did have a strep throat and a cold this year. Throw in a few upset stomachs, high blood pressure and bad cholesterol and I’m a ticking time bomb. Hope I get better in 2014. Maybe cybernetic enhancements will prolong my life.

Juicing. During the summer I watched “Fat, Sick and Nearly Dead”, a documentary about Australian businessman Joe Cross, who used a Breville juicer to help him lose weight. Obese and out of shape, Cross drank nothing but fresh juice for over a month and shed pounds. Bolstered by this touching infomercial, I bought a Breville juicer and started my juicing adventure in August. Here are the results: Joe Cross saved my life. I went from 214 pounds of sweaty American lardass to 194 pounds, and kept the weight off for five months and counting. Every morning I blend a unique concoction of kale, cucumber, celery, apples and carrots, or whatever else I have on hand. And it works. My ultimate goal is to continue juicing and exercising until I’m down to 184 pounds, my ideal weight.

The Novel. I’ve been trying to publish my satirical novel “Ecophreaks” for a few years now. Between manic bursts of energy, I’d pimp the thing out, usually receiving no responses or a polite “we’re not interested”. I never made it past the query stage. Apparently, humorous novels about the environmental movement, corporate greed and talking monkeys don’t sell. In March, a small book publisher in California expressed interest in the novel, which I sent to them. I finally passed the query phase and sent a chapter of the book. They wanted to read the entire thing! This was the furthest along I’ve ever come. Ultimately, they rejected the novel, saying they’d have to pass on it. I didn’t do much with the novel after that, but 2014 is a new year. I might try again. Self-publishing is out. Heard too many negative things about that. I’d rather have a funny novel gathering dust than a funny self-published novel nobody buys.

Writing Like A Demon. I haven’t exactly been shoving Cheetos in my maw and watching re-runs of “30 Rock” on Netflix. I’ve been writing. Like a fucking demon. Sometime in the fall, I got my writing mojo back and began frantically scribbling new tales. I finished a few short stories set in an alternative steampunk Paris, complete with magic and supernatural creatures. It’s a dark historical fantasy setting, and it’s beautiful. The mythology weaves itself over several stories, and Im about to complete a prequel which sets everything in motion. The ideas for this world germinated in my head for a long time, and it’s about time they come alive. The more I write, the more details reveal themselves. Hope to tell more stories wet in this universe in 2014.

Won Another Award. In 2013 I won a third place award for best feature in the New jersey Press Association's Better Newspaper Contest. The story was a feature about World War II veterans and the war's impact on the small coastal community I cover.

 Family and Friends. Spent time with relatives I haven't seen in years. Went to the family's church and had fun introducing my girlfriend to everyone, eating Armenian food and enjoying good company. Hung out with family at a Christmas party and played light saber duels with my cousin. Gaming with friends, played some pretty outstanding tabletop games: Boss Monster, Dominion, Cards Against Humanity, Smash Up!, Dixit, Ticket to Ride, Carcassonne and Fortune and Glory. Good times!

             As far as resolutions for 2014 are concerned, I have one: to not live with regret. During a recent lunch with a friend, he told me how talented I was and that I was "wasting my time" writing for a weekly newspaper. He said I should venture out into the world of larger things, at least a metropolitan newsroom, where my talents could be appreciated. 

           When I told a family member about how my job wasn't that challenging, she replied "At least you like to write." Implication being, I should enjoy my job because I like to write.

            Thing is, journalism isn't what I like to write. I create characters, weave stories, forge worlds from words. It's much more rewarding struggling through a short story, fashioning all the plot hooks and building characters than it is sitting through a boring council meeting. 

            Yet journalism is how I make money. It's how I keep the bill collector at bay and the wolves from my door. It's not what will get me noticed, land me an agent or published in the real world. 

            Hard work crafting those stories will, not stringing together 500 words about the latest zoning ordinance. 

            I want to be braver when it comes to myself. I want to say yes to new experiences, not dodge them out of convenience. I'd like to network and develop a cadre of like-minded people who share the same goofy, geeky interests I do. 

            I'd like to finally be published, to entertain readers with my stories. For 2014, I'd like continue doing the insane thing I was put on Earth to do. Continue writing. 

Here's hoping 2014 brings opportunity, health, and success. Also, good books to read. 

Ravaging Philcon

This past Saturday, I demoed Ravaged Earth at Philcon, a science fiction convention based in Philadelphia but now held in Cherry Hill, New Jersey.

I first ran Ravaged Earth at Philcon back in 2006, when the game was mired in development hell with a fledgling publisher who couldn’t get it off the ground.

Since then, two editions of the game were released. I spent four panels at this Philcon promoting the hell out of the second revised edition. Grasping my copy of the game like a mouthy infomercial pitchman, I attended every panel and plugged the book, the publisher (Reality Blurs), and explained to strangers in a conference room at the Crowne Plaza Hotel everything I could think of about the luxurious and ever profitable world of game design.

     The infamous sign-up sheet, taped to the game suite door. Names have been painstakingly redacted to protect everyone's identity.

For my demo, which I was

scheduled to run from 8 p.m. until midnight, I wouldn’t be caught off guard. Like any good Boy Scout, I understood preparation is key. Before the convention, I busied myself gathering the essential tools every Game Master should possess. I fashioned a GM screen from two binders and fastener clips, bought a BattleMat, printed and cut out Disposable Heroes line of paper miniatures.

If I ran an RPG, I’d go in with both barrels fully loaded and triggers cocked. I’d blow the kneecaps off the players with my awesome pre-made character sheets, and dazzle them with my brain-shattering GM skills.

In short, I’d be an indestructible Teflon-coated game mastering juggernaut, a polyhedral dice-throwing stud.

However grandiose my ambitions, reality widely diverged from my Walter Mittyesque fantasies. At that point, I was running on fumes, as I’d attended a staggering four panels that day, starting with an early one at 9 a.m. Four panels, each separated by one hour increments, doesn't give you time to rest. If I wanted to unleash the fury, I'd have to recharge my spent geek batteries.

By the time 8 p.m. rolled around, I had taken a brief afternoon nap and was refreshed, invigorated and rarin’ to go. Earlier that day, I noticed the sign-up sheet for Ravaged Earth was filled. Players were coming. All I had to do was deliver.

As 8 p.m. rolled around, I set up in the gaming suite at a large table. It would serve as the arena for my carefully woven pulpy tale.

There’d be action, thrills and heart-pounding adventure.

Oh, yes.

There’d be adventure.

However, as 8 p.m. turned into 8:10 p.m., no gamers showed up. Would I have to cancel the demo and slink back home, head hung low in defeat? What happened to all of the players who signed up? Did they get cold feet? Grow bored? Latched on to a decadent private party elsewhere in the hotel and were doing bodyshots off an 18-year old elf princess in a chainmail bikini?

What happened?

If I was going to run the game just for my girlfriend, so be it. She showed infinite patience with me and supported my writing endeavors. Girlfriend played Ravaged Earth in the con games I’d run before and excitedly recounted her exploits from the gaming sessions. This time, she even came dressed as her character, Fun Yi, a.k.a. The Black Lotus, fabled avenger from Shanghai. She ordered a red silk cheongsam adorned with peacocks. The dress was a little too tight, but she squeezed into it for the convention.

Fun Yi would not be denied her night of glory!

Fortunately, Fun Yi wouldn’t be alone. Other players arrived and joined the game, much to my relief. Heroes included the aforementioned Fun Yi; Dr. Blake Cutler the gadgeteer; Captain Lightning, a superhero; and Mr. Automatix, a robot butler. A fifth player who portrayed the Amazing Renaldo, a magician, briefly joined and cut out early. More on this dude later. 

The heroes began in New York City in the summer of 1936. A mysterious red light erupted in the night sky several weeks before, suspended in the atmosphere over the city. As the days pass, New Yorkers have grown accustomed to the object, which the newspapers dub “the Red Star”. One night as the heroes are out, they witness a bright flash of light burst from the Red Star and plummet earthward, crash landing somewhere in the city. The heroes decide to investigate and inquire about the object. A newspaper vendor tells them the object fell somewhere in the Manhattan’s Upper West Side. Following up leads, they arrive at Paterno Castle just in time to hear a woman screaming. The heroes knock on the door and a weary-eyed butler greets them. Mr. Automatix finagles his way past the butler and the others follow. The heroes search the house while the robot keeps the butler busy. They stumble upon the maid’s body in an upstairs closet, then see a Martian probe digging in the garden. They confront the Martian probe and destroy it. Captain Lightning summons his contacts at the New York City Police Department, who arrive on the scene. The heroes learn the Martian probe was digging in the garden, possibly searching for something. Grabbing shovels from the garden shed, the heroes start digging and find a small piece of Aetherium buried deep in the soil. Dr. Cutler takes the metal back to his laboratory for further study.

A peculiar advertisement runs in the newspaper the following day, seeking anyone who witnessed the strange object fall from the sky the previous night. Inquiring about the ad, the heroes travel to Colombia University and find Dr. Dunphy, an eccentric professor interviewing the witnesses. The heroes recount their tale to Dunphy, who tells them about a dreadful cult of Martian worshippers called the Children of Phobos. Dunphy suspects the cult is behind a recent spate of murders occurring after the Red Star first appeared. He tasks the heroes with finding his contact, Officer Simmons of the NYPD. Simmons had been investigating strange Martian glyphs found in the New York City sewer tunnels underneath Manhattan when he vanished.

Armed with their wits (and a few flashlights) the heroes descend into the dank sewers. After dealing with a swarm of sewer rats Captain Lightning quickly dispatches by slinging lightning at them, the heroes encounter Officer Simmons’ battered cadaver.       

Without giving too much away, the heroes meet a femme fatale, discover the cultist’s lair, and manage arresting the ringleader in one huge boss battle involving robed cultists and mutated superheroes. When the battle ended, the players wanted to quit.

Yet more of the tale remained, additional adventurous tidbits I’d yet to entice them with. I started explaining the police found additional information in the cultist’s lair pointing to Dr. Richard Pierson of Princeton University.

At the mention of that, one player perked up.

“That’s the guy from War of the Worlds,” he said. “Let’s keep playing and see where this is going.”

With that hook, I launched into the second act, where the intrepid heroes met Pierson in his observatory doing what academic astronomers do best: peering through a telescope at the heavens. Pierson notices jets of blue flame bursting from Mars’ surface. He attributes them to natural weather phenomenon on the Red Planet, until the radio program of orchestral music is halted abruptly and an emergency news report reveals an object crash-landed in the small farming community of Grover’s Mill nearby.

Sound familiar? 

Orson Welles’ rendition of War of the Worlds is a playable scenario in Ravaged Earth!

Pierson takes the heroes in his car to Grover’s Mill, with Captain Lightning flying above. On the road, the Children of Phobos attack Pierson’s car and a chase ensues. Fun Yi, Mr. Automatix and Dr. Cutler manage to shoot the tires on the cultist’s vehicle. Captain Lightning swoops down, lands on the cultist’s car and crashes through the window, terrifying the hapless mooks.

In Grover’s Mill, Martian tripods assault the small farming community. The trundling fighting machines surround the old mill as the State Police arrive. I used the BattleMat and minis for the climactic battle. Captain Lightning entered the mill, found the millstone and pried it loose. Grasping the millstone, he flew through the roof and soared over one of the fighting machines. Making a flawless Agility roll, he dropped the millstone on one of the tripods, crushing it. Dr. Cutler used his telekinesis helmet to jostle loose the bolts on one fighting machine’s spindly leg. The tripod whirled before tumbling onto a house. Meanwhile, the remaining fighting machines incinerated half the cordon of State Troopers. Mr. Automatix fired his zapgun and scored tremendously insane damage, which fried one of the fighting machines, sending it toppling into Grover’s Mill Pond. Fun Yi used her martial arts skill to shimmy up one of the tripods and vault onto its hood. The Martians fired their heat ray and Fun Yi suffered two wounds and fell shaken. Captain Lightning flew to her rescue, seizing the avenger from the tripod, just as a combined flurry of Mr. Automatix’ zapgun and Dr. Cutler’s telekinesis helmet crippled the fighting machine. A bombardment by the heroes and State Troopers felled the final mechanical horror onto a parked car.

The Battle of Grover’s Mill ended with scorched earth, widespread ruination and crushed Martian tripods.

The players were overjoyed, and I felt reinvigorated. Pulling off a good game is one thing. Keeping people hooked and interested requires a unique talent. From their reaction, they enjoyed Ravaged Earth and their new pulpy personas. They investigated murders, scuffled with cultists and took on Martian invaders, all in the span of four hours, my allotted game time.

Onlookers who wandered into the gaming suite gathered around the table throughout the night to observe. They were likewise enthralled with the game and asked about it afterwards.

The player who assumed the guise of the magician returned following the game. He apologized for cutting out early and said that was his first tabletop role-playing experience. He peppered me with questions about the game and I told him where to find it. Pretty cool of him to let me know that. Kudos, mystery man, wherever you are. 

After a day of shilling the game and finally running a demo, I was ready for a little rest. My girlfriend and I played a game of Cards Against Humanity for an hour with about ten people, and had a profanity-laced good time.

I’ve run Ravaged Earth before at Gen Con and Philcon, and in a local game store. I’ve explained it to gamers, game designers, fellow writers and the uninitiated multitudes I work with. This was one of the best gaming sessions I’ve ever had. Chalk it up to the intimacy, the relaxed atmosphere or the late hours.

Despite being in a near state of zombielike catatonia, I forged ahead and ran the game. For that determination, I should at least get a medal/steak dinner/back rub. 

Thanks to the players who showed up and played Ravaged Earth at Philcon this year. You were a very enthusiastic and fun group. An additional thanks goes out to the Philcon staff who worked with me in the gaming suite.

I’d like to do it again, say next year?

What other exciting tales of adventure and intrigue await?

Tune in to find out!

Sandy, One Year Later

One year ago, Hurricane Sandy blew into my life, flooded my apartment and uprooted my comfort and security.

Time heals all wounds, yet the pain of Sandy still lingers. Over a foot of water sloshed around my apartment, soaking my books and furniture, drenching and invading my personal space.

Private living space should be a sanctuary, a respite from the outside. Sandy barged right in, flooding the neighboring streets and seeping under the door cracks, rolling over the carpeting and creeping into low-lying cupboards and drawers.

Waterlogged mattresses, sofa cushions and bookcases. Sandy spared nothing, leaving me with a grim task of sorting through my possessions. A hurricane rendered me homeless, made me a victim.

I hate Hurricane Sandy.

Hate the fact I had to call a shoddy moving company to move my few remaining boxed personal effects one cold November night. Fat men with clumsy hands and dinosaur feet clomping through the dark rooms because the electricity was cut off. Flashlights stabbing the blackness, breaths foggy as the chill crept in.

Hate the idiotic moniker "Superstorm", as if it was forged from Olympus and charged with superhuman atomic thunderbolts.

Hate living without 80 percent of my possessions for a year. Boxes piled in a monstrous heap inside a metal storage facility. Paying over $100 to shelter my belongings while I stay in temporary lodgings where I’ve clearly overstayed my welcome.

Feeling helpless and immobile.

Seeing the town slowly rebuild, watching homes jacked up higher. Constructing taller than base flood elevation because the Federal Emergency Management Agency decrees it. It’s all about flood insurance, about reimbursements, grants and cash making people whole again.

Soup eaten in restaurants, eking out meager sustenance while the downtown digs out, scraping mud from floors, steam-cleaning carpets saturated with briny stench, noticing a sheen of scum where the high water mark receded.

How do you survive something like this?

The loss.

The new reality, where you’re a victim.

Landlord can’t rebuild the apartment. Walls removed, down to bare studs. Fans dry everything, preventing mold and mildew from creeping back. No renter’s insurance means nothing you have is covered.

Everything’s gone.

A FEMA worker from Tennessee apologizes as he records your information. Uncle Sam cuts you a check for your troubles, for another month’s rent in another apartment which you don’t see because you’re too proud to look.

Too proud to admit anything is wrong.

Fixated on fleeing far from this island, this resort town which brims in the summer, choking with tourists frolicking on the Boardwalk.

Yet the Boardwalk is deserted. Badly eroded beach, bereft of sand, which spilled onto the neighboring roads.

Front end loaders, dump trucks, debris. Downed power lines, furniture piled in gargantuan mountains on curbsides.

Gov. Chris Christie in his blue fleece, hugs teary residents, tours the coast. The state uses federal funds to tout how resilient the Jersey shore is, a phoenix rising defiantly from the ashes.

“Stronger Than The Storm.”

We weren’t stronger than the storm. If we were, the storm wouldn’t have gutted our homes, turned us into bitter wanderers, crippled our sense of security and purpose.

A year after Sandy, we’re still putting our lives back together. We’re still frantically searching for new homes and grieving for our old ones. FEMA’s red tape strangles us all, and those who can’t rebuild, sold their homes and moved on. Developers gobbled up crumbling houses, razed them and rebuilt condos and duplexes.  

Sandy was kind to the development community and construction trade.

Champagne corks popping round the clock for them.

How’s my life been this past year?

I still feel like I’m anxiously waiting for something to arrive. Mingled depression and frustration at my inaction. Sandy left me in limbo, in a place where things run molasses slow. I’ve largely had to do without what I escaped with. When you suddenly lose most of your stuff, the books and music and objects which give your life comfort and meaning, you realize how banal and trite materialism is.

On a personal level, I’m making do with less, streamlining existence. Spartan living with a few books, movies and creature comforts. In this stark absence there’s simplicity and less clutter. Nothing is burdensome, tempest-tossed bookshelves, brimming with volumes and CDs.

Life is very Zen right now. Less is more. Minimalist in the extreme.

I still have my girlfriend, and her love and support have weathered Sandy and every troubling storm since. We’re living together, far from our former lodgings. It might not be closer, with the same conveniences, but it’s become our sanctuary.

She wonders when we’re going to move. She wants new furniture, a new place.

I’m not ready to look just yet. I’m trying to save money to upgrade my apartment. I worry about the neighborhood, about crime, about our future.

Everything drowned in Sandy’s icy waters last October. Part of me sunk, pulled down never to emerge.

Political hyperbole and axioms do little to quell the pain or stave the losses.

Resentment, sorrow, bemoaning our malaise. We’re uprooted, torn asunder, flung to the wolves. Traumatized and angry, blaming FEMA, the state, our own ineptitude to plan better.

We were caught up in a historical storm which tore a rollercoaster from an amusement pier, pushed sand into beachfront homes and turned quiet neighborhoods into canals. We saw nature’s wrath and fury up close, witnessed widespread devastation and began the slow task of rebuilding. Amid the chaos and anger, we saw strangers helping strangers. Whether assisting an elderly neighbor, cooking hot meals or helping someone move, the best of humanity revealed itself following Sandy.

Though Sandy destroyed our homes and property, it didn’t damage true goodness. Selfless acts of kindness came through, amid all this suffering.

We huddle for warmth and give thanks.