Curmudgeon's Corner (3): Hollywood Don't Know Dick

      Smokey Burner, the Broken Stove’s resident curmudgeon, wants the carnage to stop. No, Smokey isn’t referring to man’s violence against man, but rather to Hollywood’s serial rape and pillage of the works of one man—Philip K. Dick.
      Back in high school, Smokey saw “Blade Runner” for the first time. Once he got over seeing Han Solo with a crew cut, and accepted the reality that Harrison Ford was not in fact obligated to play Han Solo for the rest of his life, Smokey enjoyed one of the best science fiction movies of all time. Smokey immediately rushed to read the movie’s source material, the novel "Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?" by some dude named Philip K. Dick. (Huh-huhh, huh-huhhh you just totally said “Dick.” Remember, Smokey was in high school). Once he got over the fact that the book had very little in common with the movie it produced, Smokey enjoyed an excellent speculative novel by one of the best science fiction writers of all time.
      Then something went horribly wrong. Years later, Smokey saw a preview for a Schwartzenegger movie called “Total Recall.” “Wait a minute,” thought Smokey,“ they stole that business about implanted memories and a virtual trip to Mars from ‘We Can Remember It For You Wholesale,’” a PKD short story published in 1966 (the year between the births of the Wachowski brothers). It turns out that it wasn’t stolen but purchased; the crime came several scripts and lead actor choices later when what had been a nifty exploration of existential angst (how can we know what is real if even our senses can be manipulated? Does "real" even matter?) became yet another loud, stupid, f/x action vehicle (what else can we blow up?). Of course, as such, it made lots of money. The stampede for PKD options was on.
      Since then, Smokey has doggedly sat through every PKD adaptation that Hollywood has vomited forth: “Screamers,” “Imposter,” “Minority Report,” “Paycheck,” “A Scanner Darkly,” and just this morning on DVD, “Next.” The credits for “Next” claim that it’s based on “the novel story ‘The Golden Man’” by PKD. The “novel story?” Are they trying to trick us into believing it’s a novel and not just a short story? Does that matter in any way?
      “The Golden Man” is set in the near future, where a nuclear war has led to the appearance of mutant humans, some obviously deformed and weak, others who appear normal but display disturbing powers that frighten the authorities into creating a special police division to round them up (it was originally published in 1954, when Chris Claremont, creator of “The Uncanny X-Men” was four). One mutant, Cris Johnson, is golden-skinned, physically irresistible to women, and, the police discover late in the story, can actually see a short distance into the future. He displays no sentience, merely a will to survive, and his continued existence might spell the end of the human race—ordinary humans wouldn’t be able to compete with his progeny.
      “Next,” the movie ostensibly based on this “novel story,” stars Nicolas Cage as Cris Johnson (so far, so good), a spray-tanned, golden-jacket wearing lounge magician who can see exactly 2 minutes into his own future—for some unknown reason—and uses that ability to eke out a modest, discreet living playing blackjack at the casinos. Except there’s one woman (Jessica Biel), whose future he can see farther into—for some unknown reason. Cris—for some unknown reason—has drawn the attention of FBI agent Ferris (Julianne Moore) who is trying to track down some vaguely European baddies who have stolen a nuke and are about to detonate it in L.A.—for some unknown reason. Ferris is convinced that Cris’s skill will help her find said baddies. Oh, and Peter Falk has a cameo—for some unknown reason.
      Let’s tot up the similarities, shall we?

1. a guy named Cris Johnson
2. limited prescience
3. …um…Smokey’s gonna count nukes, just to bring it to 3.

Smokey could make similar two-paragraph juxtapositions between the other great PKD stories and the mostly awful movies they “inspired,” but Smokey’s too lazy for that. Trust Smokey on this one; there’s a pattern of abuse.
      “So Smokey,” you ask, “who’s to blame? Whose yard should I toilet paper to stop the insanity?” Sadly, Smokey fears it’s too late for toilet paper, except perhaps to dab at your tears while you watch the latest evisceration of a beloved PKD story. “Valis,” “Flow My Tears the Policeman Said,” and “The Short Happy Life of the Brown Oxford” are currently bouncing around Hollywood; “Owl in Daylight” and “Radio Free Albemuth” are already in production. Dick’s children own the rights to his work, and according to a 2003 article in Wired, they’re only selling them at very high prices to established producers, effectively eliminating the possibility for any of them to be filmed by an enthusiastic and understanding artist outside of the Hollywood machine. So here’s Smokey’s telegram to the Dick family:

Your father’s legacy now assured stop
All books back in print or soon to be stop
You are now very wealthy stop
Please please stop

Ravens fall to Patriots, Refs, and Ravens

      I have very mixed feelings about last night's Monday Night Football game, in which the Patriots continued their march to a perfect season and high TV ratings thanks to some key Ravens blunders, some typical Brady magic, and a sprinkling of pixie dust from their Fairy God-Referees. Part of me very badly wanted the Ravens to win, just to see the twisted snarl of bitter hatred on Belichick's sourpuss, and to see how badly he would snub Billick at the post-game handshake. The Steelers fan in me thought, "If the Patriots lose this thing tonight, they're going to want to take it out on the Steelers." Ultimately, although I've never said or even thought this before, I felt bad for the Ravens.
      However, the Ravens players pointed a lot of fingers after the game, and not at themselves. Boller's terrible interception throw kept them from scoring again. On the first key 4th down play, they did call time out, and then the Patriots clearly had a false start (which can't be declined). But...
      I'm not generally a conspiracy theorist, but the defensive holding call on the 4th down at the goal line was definitely a ticky-tack call at best, and at worst had the distinct whiff of officially-sanctioned favoritism towards the league's Chosen Ones. A great game like that just should not turn on a yellow flag.
      By the way, what was with all the camera cuts to Belichick on the sidelines during the game--he was on camera as often as Tom Brady. And whenever they showed him smoldering away over there in his grey hoodie, I kept imagining what he was saying into the microphone, "Release your anger, young Brady. Feel the power of the dark side!"

Book Reviews: The Gates of the Alamo, by Stephen Harrigan

      I spent my college years living in central Texas, just a few hours' drive from San Antonio and its legendary Alamo, and so I witnessed that state's peculiar fascination with itself first-hand. Many Texans cling tenaciously to their state’s image as a wild western, larger than life, country unto itself. Back in the eighties, a Fort Worth politician once proudly referred to his city as "just a big ol' cow town," a description it had long since outgrown. Frankly, to a non-native, it was all a bit annoying.
      So when I was given a fat book to read called The Gates of the Alamo, I was less than enthusiastic. Here, I thought, is yet another Texas love letter to itself, a rehash of all the corniest myths that Texans hold so dear. But I decided to flip through the first pages and see just how bad it was.
      A good thing, too, because I might have missed a fine historical novel about those early days of Texas, rich in period detail and mercifully lacking in mythology. All the legendary principals appear--David Crockett, Jim Bowie, William Travis, Santa Anna--not in their legendary forms, but as real people with plausible reasons for acting the way they do. Sometimes as heroes, and sometimes not.
      The main characters, however, are all creations of Harrigan's own imagination. Edmund McGowan is an American botanist trying to complete his life's work--a comprehensive study of the plants of Texas--before war with Mexico can interfere. He meets Mary Mott, a widow, and her teenage son Terrell, and finds himself drawn to both of them.
      When Terrell has a disastrous first experience in love, Edmund's strange, self-imposed emotional coldness keeps him from reaching out to help the boy, and Terrell runs off to join up with the Texas republicans against Santa Anna. Mary, afraid that their angry parting will be Terrell's last memory of her, insists on traveling with Edmund to find him and reconcile, but their path leads them directly into the approaching crisis and the siege at San Antonio de Bexar.
      The story of these three alone would be plenty to flesh out a good book, but Harrigan deftly balances the Texan viewpoint with major subplots that tell the Mexican half of the story as well. Blas Montoya and Telesforo Villasenor, both soldiers in Santa Anna’s army, converge on the Alamo in very different ways. Montoya and his men must survive a brutal forced march before they even get to the Alamo, where many of them will be killed in the assault. Villasenor, an ambitious officer, catches the eye of Santa Anna with his bravado after being wounded in battle, and travels to San Antonio as the general’s aide.
      Both Montoya and Villasenor give Harrigan a chance to reveal historical details that only Mexican characters could know at the time. They also allow him to describe some of the more gruesome realities of 19th century warfare, and to present both sides of a thorny political tangle without choosing between them.
Die-hard Alamo buffs will undoubtedly protest the moments in The Gates of the Alamo when Harrigan departs from strict historical accuracy for the sake of story, especially when he allows a lone survivor to escape the siege. Yet he will probably upset others by sometimes sticking too close to truth, as when he reveals some of the less savory character traits of cherished heroic figures like Jim Bowie.
      But these are quibbles for the folks in Texas historical societies to squabble over. Most readers will find little to complain about--just a sprawling, well-researched, and richly populated historical novel to enjoy.

Curmudgeon's Corner (2)

      Smokey Burner, the Broken Stove's resident curmudgeon, is not a happy camper. Actually, Smokey is not any kind of camper because he believes that God had good reasons for giving us houses and recliners, and to forsake these things in order to go lie on the ground in the woods is to question His wisdom.
      Camping, however, has nothing to do with Smokey's unhappiness today. No, Smokey is unhappy today because Smokey is a Steeler's fan, and he just saw his team--a supposed post-season contender--drop a game to the 2nd or 3rd worst team in football, the NY Jest (not a typo). Smokey has a bruise on his arm in the place where he's been pinching himself all morning, convinced that he will wake up in a world where the real Steelers have trounced the lowly Jets and are now 8-2. But Smokey is already awake and must make do with these counterfeit Steelers, obviously a college team that, while everyone was looking the other way, bonked all the Steelers on their head, stole their uniforms, and played the Jets.
      How else to explain how one team could punish the rest of the AFC North but have three road losses to teams with a combined 11-18 record? How else could one team hold Jamal Lewis and Shaun Alexander to a combined total of 95 rushing yards--in three games!!--and then allow Thomas "Who the hell am I?" Jones to rush for 117 yards all by his lonesome? How else does an opposing defense with nine sacks in as many games suddenly come up with seven in just one?

"There's no place like home, there's no place like home..."
Nope.
We're still 7-3.

      Smokey knows that one bad road loss, even to a terrible team, does not end your season, especially if you're still 7-3 and a game up in your division, and you've beaten all of your division at least once already. Smokey knows that despite a shaky offensive line and wretched kick coverage, his beloved Stillers will probably go to the playoffs and might do very well. The Cardinals and Broncos probably, and the Jets definitely, are not good enough to do that. But what does it mean for the Steelers' playoff hopes that they all are still good enough to handle the Steelers?
      Smokey wonders, he does.
      By the way, has Smokey ever mentioned how much he hates "Steely McBeam," the new Steelers mascot? Imagine Tom Cruise transformed into a crazed, Muppet steelworker, who might be distantly related to Bert on Sesame Street. That's Steely.

Smokey does hate him so.

North Carolina Wine. Seriously.

      Donna and I spent today with a couple of friends, touring two of the many fine vineyards that have sprung up in North Carolina’s Piedmont region in the last couple of decades. The area has become enough of a draw for oenophiles, in fact, that five of its vintners have created the Haw River Wine Trail to encourage tourism and promote their wines.
      We couldn’t have chosen a more perfect day for our outing—sweater-weather with a brilliant blue sky to set off the orange, red, and gold fall foliage at its peak. I had almost despaired of having any kind of decent autumn after our long, dry summer, but a bit of rain and a sudden cold snap have made for one of the better leaf shows in recent years.
      We began the day at a winery that’s not officially part of the Haw River Wine Trail, the Silk Hope Winery, though we thought our day might be over before it even began when we encountered a CLOSED sign at their front gate. The gate itself was open, however, so we drove up their long, steep, gravel drive to what turned out to be one of the highest points in the Piedmont, with a beautiful view. We saw the couple of acres of vines and a few steel buildings, but no signs of life; disappointed, we began the steep descent. Cindy had the presence of mind to pull out her cell phone (Donna and I still live in the Stone Age without one) and give the owners a call:

“Are you guys open today?…you are?…great, we’re going to drop by…yes, we are the people who just drove through your roundabout without stopping…” (the rest drowned out by laughter).

      Back at the top of the hill, the owner’s son led us through a tasting of their wines, mostly Chambourcins and Chambourcin blends—I especially liked their “Grand Vista” red, a dry, slightly sharp Chambourcin/Cabernet Franc blend—and of course we ended up taking some with us, both for ourselves and for holiday gifts. He then walked us through the vines, pointing out their varieties and answering Donna the Gardener’s questions about pruning and drought and pesky critters. Us: "What kind of pests prey on grapes?" Vintner: "All of them." On the way out, we performed our good deed for the day by flipping their sign from CLOSED to OPEN.
      Our second and final stop was Benjamin Vineyards and Winery, part of the Haw River Wine Trail. Benjamin is a bigger operation than Silk Hope, catering more to the tourist trade with a larger selection of sweet, dessert wines and a kind of country-cutesy gift shop. They also had some very good dry and semi-dry wines, however, including both oaked and unoaked versions of their Chardonnay and a very interesting Chardonel, which I had never tried before.
      Unfortunately their Chambourcin was sold out, so we didn’t get a chance to conduct a “head-to-head Thunderdome match” with Silk Hope’s Chambourcin, but I think if—to paraphrase Tina Turner—“two wines enter, one wine leaves,” then Silk Hope Winery would be the Road Warrior to Benjamin Winery’s Master/Blaster.

Mr. Beer, the Sad Clown of Homebrews (but in a good way)

      O.K., I know you serious homebrewers will scoff, but I believe that with a little creativity, you can turn out a pretty decent half-batch (2.5 gallons) of beer with one of those beginner's kits from Mr. Beer. Yes, yes, Mr. Beer is the brewing equivalent of paint-by-numbers, but you can put together a pretty good wort by mixing their pre-hopped, condensed beer mixes with their unhopped malt extracts for added fermentables, and then adding your own favorite flavorings and additional hops. They even offer liquid yeasts. The benefits include a quick brew time, a smaller amount of wort to cool (which cuts down on contamination), and smaller batches mean you can try out more varieties--a big plus when you're the only beer-drinker in the household as I am.
      I've come out with some very serviceable ales from Mr. Beer ingredients, including a tasty Honey Maibock that included some orange zest for flavor, and my personal favorite, a hoppy Barleywine-style ale (pictured here). My main caveat is to avoid the "Booster" packs they sell to add fermentable sugars to their beer mixes. It makes for a very cidery flavor. The unhopped malt extracts they sell, or just plain honey or brown sugar, make for a better beer.

RECIPE
      To make the Barleywine, I used two cans of Mr. Beer's "Cowboy Lager" beer mix (which already has some hops in it), one can of their "West Coast Pale Ale" unhopped malt extract, then added 1 ounce of Cascade hops pellets and 1/4 ounce of Hallertau. I pitched it with a liquid ale yeast (also from Mr. Beer), and fermented it for not quite 3 weeks. My very lazy hydrometer measurements indicate that it turned out to be around 8% ABV. I have no idea about the IBU's, but it's definitely hoppy. I batch primed it and bottled it in some old Grolsch swingtop bottles (I hate capping), and left those at room temp for another 2 weeks. The longer they lager in the fridge, the better they'll be, but they're already pretty good.
      So if you're ever in a big hurry and want to go from start to fermenter in about half an hour, keep some Mr. Beer ingredients on hand and use your imagination...and your honey, and orange zest, and pureed raspberries...

Music Methadone

      About a week ago now, I pressed the power on my old JVC tuner/receiver, and instead of the robust click-clack of the electronics and then the amp coming up, I heard only a feeble cluck--then nothing. I tried CPR, but no. "He's dead, Jim." A moment of silence, please.
      Unfortunately, for various reasons, I won't be able to replace it for maybe a couple more weeks--the moment of silence drags on and on. My CD's, DVD's and satellite TV all run through the receiver; one remote runs the whole show. When I rehooked the satellite and ran audio through the TV's speakers for the first time this century, it sounded as if the show were being narrated by someone standing in the closet, in the next room, speaking through a handkerchief. Someone with a cold.
      I have some mp3's I can listen to, but compressed files run through headphones can't compare to the full digital glory that until recently pumped through my bookshelf B&W's. In desperation--as a sort of music Methadone--I've pulled my vintage 1990 boombox out of the closet to play my CD's. Like a retired veteran called back for his third tour of duty, it soldiers on once more. It sounds like crap.
      I can beat this, man. I don't need the receiver; I can quit anytime I want. I just don't, you know, want to. Like, if I want to watch the game, man, and the announcers are like, totally craptastic, I can turn off the TV sound and put some tunes on over the picture, or, dude if you could just score me a little receiver, man, I could crank up the subwoofer and play Halo in like, Sensoround with butt shakers, or I could...oh man...are those, like, purple lizards coming out of the walls?