perfidy

While enjoying a midnight snifter of umbilical blood and Asbach- a drink called the “Baby Hitler”, customary among Perfidians- I settled into my favorite wing-backed chair and, once satisfied my back was against the wall and there were still two exits from the room, I allowed myself to relax.

My mind was pleased with the state of things: perpetual war; incurable pestilence; rampant poverty; and irredeemable sloth and corruption are all fundamental aspects of modern Man. Across the Multiverse, even, Light has been retreating before Dark for millennia. Good is out across the infinite Cosmos; Evil is cool, and Chaos is the new/old/new black. It is in those circumstances that the Ministry thrives. And so I was, by conscious reckoning anyway, content.

But as the coal-fired hemoglobin started to pull me under, my unconscious offered a disturbing realization: soon, very soon, there will be no new frontiers to conquer, no more people or species to corrupt. Possibly even before the Third Millennium of the Son, all will be dark. Evil will reign, but over what?

Startled, I jerked from my semi-dream so suddenly that the vivid images and impending dread drained from my mind like water. It was only with a bit of reflection, and a couple more drinks, that I was able even to recall even as much as I have. One detail, though, was burned into my conscious and needed no further prompting to retain. A vision as clear as the sun I so loathe.

It was a marquee.

And the marquee proclaimed: “The Ministry of Minor Perfidy: The Movie”.

And it was clear then that film was the last frontier for evil to continue to spawn. Even after the final curtain for homo sapiens- as our civilization evaporates into supernova, or dread demon Thaoekilikhan devours us all feet first- there will be entertainment lawyers, studio executives, and armies of hacks still surviving, somewhere, like roaches. And like roaches, they will do what comes naturally to them: making entertainment so bad it perpetuates the cause of pure evil everywhere.

The Ministry needs to make a movie. The first biopic about a blog. There is no script yet, but that’s rarely stopped filmmakers before. I do have some ideas about casting though:

JohnO: Toss-up between Steve Buscemi or Charlie Sheen.

Buckethead: I’m leaning toward Lawrence Fishburne.

Patton: Maybe Billy Crudup; maybe Billy Bob Thornton. Definitely someone named “Billy”.

Ross: Jet Li.

Me: Could go Carlos Mencia; if unavailable, get Lee Van Cleef back from the dead.

Without putting too fine a point on it, yes.

Make your own demotivational posters here.

The sickest celebration in our civilization has just begun, an annual get-down so intense, so loud, so full of people, fluids, and animatronic lions, one must surely weep or, if you're not the weepin' kind, urinate. New Year's Eve in Time's Square, your wanna-be Animal House frat brothers, and surely your jerkoff cousins' lame parties are all eye candy by comparison.

It's September, people. September in Bavaria.

And that means Oktoberfest.

Oktober-fucking-fest.

At no time is the scent of beer stronger than the Munich autumn. The fest beer flows like water...who am I kidding?...it flows better than water. The Theresienwiese will be thronged with visitors, so many that they will quaff 1/3 of the annual production of Munich's six big brewers. There are also plenty of other brews from around Germany (myself, I'll take a nice Werner hefe-weissen wherever I can find one, although those are better with food, I find, and not conducive to the burly 1-liter mugs ubiquitous under the fest tents). Plenty of spirits are readily available of course, as are carnival rides for the kiddies. As are adults who went on those rides after they washed down their 4th stein of lager with a nice smooth Ratzeputz shot and end up vomiting in shady corners, contributing their own personal and intimate colors and bits of stomach lining to the already festive blues, whites, and yellows of the tents.

Ah...Oktoberfest. Ahhhhktoberfest.

I am not there, so I am wrong.

But at the very least, maybe I can talk Lady Lethal into a dirndl. She'd make St. Pauli's girl look like a tired Bremen sea-hag.

Ministry readers are familiar with our ongoing concern for surviving the onslaught of any number of real or ethereal enemies: the robots, the zombies, the aliens, the Dark Ones, the Atlanteans- the list is long and dread. Those readers also understand that we are, to put a fine sharp point on things, concerned with our survival.

But we recognize that in order to rule the stooped, half-mad survivors of the smoldering afterworld, there will have to be stooped, half-mad survivors. With that in mind, we do have to maintain some concern over the wellbeing of the balance of our species, and it is in that spirit that I share this link and discussion with you now.

Slate has some thoughts regarding a short-term, family-scale survival kit. Alot of the products make sense- particularly regarding the storage, transportation, and treatment of water. The collapsible water cans are a great idea. Also, anything that can function without a wall socket or batteries, like hand-crank flashlights and radios would be terrific.

A couple things though have been overlooked. A decent multitool, for example. A small portable Gerber or Leatherman ought to be handy anyway, in your usual life, and one certainly belongs in a survival kit. And they don't break the bank, either- I got a good Gerber for like $50, but it pays to shop around. Other tools should be included as well, like a decent knife. Sharp things have been fundamental to the success of the human species thus far; why would it not be so after the Poppyclips?

Another item that's overlooked in these discussions is dry bags. That is, nylon (or other non-naturally occurring material) duffel-type bags. I think people tend to underestimate how fast water can fuck up everything, even just being in the rain for a couple hours. You can buy these in any camping supply store or online, and they're not expensive, either. They come in all sizes, so can keep food, documents, or delicate equipment dry, besides clothes or blankets. When empty of course they can wad up to nothing, so there's no space constraint. More of these is better, I feel.

And it goes without saying that no survival plan is complete without considering personal safety. It is surely inadvisable to keep loaded firearms in a duffel bag in your closet with your hazmat suit and respirator, but that doesn't mean you ought to eschew them entirely. Seriously, what in your personal life experience with other homo sapiens leads you to conclude that, in the absence of governmental authority -even if only briefly- people would not hesitate to take from you what they need to live another day? Are you willing to put your own survival- and we are talking survival here, not comfort and convenience-in the hands of strangers? For your family's sake, I hope not.

All of these things though are only things. Valuable and important things, but tangible objects. People also need intangibles, like a plan for how to get to where they feel safe, or training to build a fire, erect a shelter, apply first aid, or use a weapon.

Apply these ideas to your actual survival plan, and you will be in a much better position to be ruled by us later.

Hadn't seen coverage of this elsewhere, but Stars and Stripes is reporting that a female USAF officer reported missing, then abducted, last week has been found and is on her way back to the Land of the Round Doorknob.

Major Jill Metzger was in Kyrgyzstan, with her unit nearing the end of its tour, when she was taken from a shopping mall in Bishkek. The article states that Major Metzger escaped her captors and was subsequently found by police, but is otherwise lean on detail. Well, it's enough to know that they didn't have her long.

I like to think though that her being a competetive marathon runner was helpful in her escape:

"Achmed! She's making a break for it! Drop the hookah! After her!"

500 meters later:

"Achmed! She's...getting...away...gasp...Quickly!"

Two kilometers later:

"Achmed...gasp...we...wheeze...will...speak...of...this...to...no one...gasp...*hurl*"

...just by their faded Dream Theater t-shirt.

Dr. David Thorpe at Something Awful unveils his Your Band Sucks Aptitude Test.

I was already hemorrhaging points by the time I had to admit former affiliation with a semi-metal act. I knew the final result wasn't going to be good, but never reached it thanks to this question:

27. I tend to dress:

a. In a zoot suit (-15)
b. In leather and safety pins (-5)
c. In tight jeans, Chuck Taylors, a faded t-shirt and a half gallon of hair-shellac (-10)
d. Like a normal human being (Automatic fail)

Mmmmm, the familiar kiss of failure.

I checked the answer key at the end anyway, and found I was well within the "play air guitar forever" category. Which is really not so far off the mark.
It was plain as the moles on Lemmy's face that my band sucked; I knew it, but did it anyway to alleviate my stifling boredom. But this quiz might be very helpful to those who are not well-adjusted enough to notice the level of their own suck. By taking it, and applying the result, they might save the rest of us minutes of face-pinching displeasure the first time we hear their noise and, grimacing, turn their shit off.

Apropos of nothing in particular, I found this kickass pic of a commie attack helo. Seemingly a late-model Hind variant:

Pretty flippin' cool, huh?

Without having had my cockles warmed for several days now- and I loathe cold cockles- I thought I'd have a look at gauging my own evil. Not only is there a quiz for it, your personal evil has a name:

You scored as Xeohelios, Demon of Cunning and Manipulation.

You are Xeohelios, Demon of Cunning and Manipulation. You are an intelligent being who kills his victims in unique and unusual ways. You often have others do your dirty work for you by manipulating them. You rarely dirty your hands with killing, but have many people killed.

And the only times you do this yourself is when you have a personal issue with them. (like envy or hate)

Fair warning: the quiz is a little intense.

[wik] "Who kills his victims" yet "you rarely dirty you hands with killing," a conflicted demon, I guess. - B

[alsø wik] First, running true to form, Buckethead had to fix the quiz code and take the rough edges off the mis-spellings and retarded grammar. So, props. As for the "conflict", maybe not- note the qualifier "rarely"; so he will do his own dirty work at times. But regardless, the end result- whether inflicted by the actual malevolent entity or his tormented slaves- is the same: an unusual and/or cruel death.

[alsø alsø wik] But besides that, who are you to question Satan's minions, Daniel fucking Webster?

Operational Art of War III
Scenario "Taiwan 2015"

People's Republic of China: Programmed Opponent (PO)
Taiwan: Yours truly

This scenario is a hypothetical sketch of an invasion of Taiwan by the PRC. Discussion below the fold.

The area of operations is the northern quarter or so of Taiwan. The north-central area is dominated by Taipei and environs; to the west, there is dense urban terrain around the airport. Much of the map outside the cities is open/cropland that favors fairly easy mobility.

The PRC starts out aggressive, but is not consistently so. Turn 1 finds large airborne attacks that seize the airport and much of the surrounding city; the harbor; and most of Taipei proper. Subsequent turns see further airborne drops, as well as marine infantry flowing into the harbor. By about Turn 4, Taipei was in commie hands, their grip on the western areas was strong, and the marines were poised to blast south between them.

The good news for the Taiwanese player is that victory is tied to Taipei. The city center is worth 90 vp alone; counting up the broader urban sprawl surrounding it, it’s in the neighborhood of 200 vp. This is good, because the mission is pretty cut and dried: hold Taipei, win.

In order to do that, a couple of things needed to happen. The strong marine forces lollygagging around the harbor could not be allowed to flow into the city; I had a feeling that once in there they’d never be dug out. As it was, the light units dug into the city were trouble enough. The enemy marines had to be either destroyed, fixed in place, or otherwise prevented from linking with its forces in Taipei to the E or the force in the W. Such a link would establish a solid line of invaders across a fairly narrow frontage, stretching across nearly half the island. The Taiwanese player does not have enough combat power fielded to destroy them; fixing them might be feasible with a strong force, but most of my heavy units were trying to wrest the airport or the capital from the bad guys.

So it looks grim in the opening turns- strong PRC units appear everywhere you don’t want them, and do a lot of damage. Friendly forces are dispersed and, early on, inadequate to do much beyond meeting engagements. But, as with NATO/Pact scenarios, the invader’s reinforcements peter out as the defender’s increase. Although parity is never reached, Taiwan is able to field some robust armored and mech units, as well as several attack helo units that are very effective against PRC artillery.

What ended up happening was that I had basically 3 forces. The west had armor and mech units leavened with some reserve leg battalions that, in time, were enough to destroy most of the PRC airborne and push back the rest until the enemy line thickened up with reinforcing marine units. In the east, everything I had went toward retaking Taipei, an ugly fight. The only way to keep attrition to a minimum in the destroyed, dense rubble of the city is the application of overwhelming, concentrated firepower. There are no political consequences of reducing the city to ash, or for making the rubble bounce, so go for it. The defenders don’t retreat readily, so it’s fairly easy to maneuver around and isolate them, but then it’s time consuming to eradicate them. The center, though, was my biggest concern.

Even though the game would be won by whoever held Taipei at the end, the PRC marines in the center were the key element in the fight. After committing everything I felt was needed to recapture the capital, there was very little left to drive between the city and those enemy marines. For most of the game, I had a thin line of leg infantry and a couple small mech formations as a speed bump for them, and that was it. At any moment, the PRC marines could have burst out of the harbor area and swung east to relieve the capital, or west to maneuver across the open terrain and envelope my force there. The PO chose neither. It made a few thrusts that pushed the line back pretty easily, but it never really went for it. Once all the PRC’s units were committed to Taiwan, it just sort of let them hang around. An aggressive human opponent would’ve eaten my lunch, I’m sure.

This scenario is really the PRC’s to lose; with Taipei and the airport the game is all but won. The rest of the game should be spent holding them, and parrying efforts to dislodge them. There is plenty of space and favorable terrain for bold maneuver, but in this scenario it’s not strictly necessary for the win. I’d like to try this fight again, but as the Chicoms, and see what kind of damage I can do with those marines.

I play the guitar. By which I mean that I know some chords and can improvise a lame lead built in a pentatonic box. That knowledge pretty much grants access to the entire AC/DC catalog which, really, ought to be enough for anyone.

But there are legions of folks in this great land of ours who are just starting and can't yet play by ear. Others seek more than what Angus Young can teach us- odd, yes, but they're out there and I've met them. They want an edge, a little more knowledge, or at the very least, a more refined dabbling in the guitary arts. Some people take private lessons which, judging by the fliers I see at any given moment on any campus or metro area, must be a booming business.

The quickest way though to learn how to play a song yourself, and if you can't do it by ear, is to use tablature. Tab is a graphical shorthand that explains where your fingers go on certain strings. Tab can help you fret a weird chord you didn't hear in the song, or with a spiffy lead run you can't pick out yourself. It also has the benefit of having near instantaneous utility, as opposed to having to train to read formal sheet music. If you can see, you can apply tablature. Its main drawback though is that tab cannot help you if you don't already know how the song is supposed to sound.

As with every other perversion, the internets are full of tablature sites. Typically, more skilled players will post their shorthand interpretations of popular songs for novices. They are free, and understood to be a sort of fraternal public service. Yours truly, not 2 weeks ago, consulted a site because I knew the tuning of a song was all fucky, and didn't get it. In about 10 seconds I was able to find the song, see the layout, go "Oh, THAT's how...", and presto-change-o, could play the song.

But now the lawyers got wind of it, so it's all fucked up for everybody.

The site I used for tab, OLGA, has been down for awhile. They've now posted links to the nastygrams they got from the law firm representing the National Music Publishers Association and the Music Publishers Association of the United States that accuse OLGA, and several similar sites, of copyright infringement and ordered them to stop operating. Their argument is that because music writers, transcribers, and related fields have to go through the legal hassle of following copyright law when they do their business, the result of which is selling songbooks and such to musicians, offering what is ostensibly the same service for free (yet still generating an income with blogads and such) is illegal.

So dig, I can get- marginally- the infringement argument. That's the law, the publishers feel threatened, and seek remedy through legal action. As far as a reasonably well-adjusted society's legal mechanism working, I get it. But the MPA said a little too much with this remark:

We are doing this to protect the interests of the creators and publishers of music so that, the profession of songwriting remains viable and that new and exciting music will be continued to be created and enjoyed for generations to come.

So- just so I'm clear- the Music Publisher's Association's position is that, if the broader population know how to play older, previously released music, musicians will no longer care to produce new work?

I'm pretty sure that wide popularity has not yet worked AGAINST a musician. And it's odd that a dilettante has to explain this to the MPA, but here you go: musicians are artists. Artists create because if they don't, they go mental. Admittedly sometimes they are mental beforehand. But regardless of their personal sanity timeline, artists make art because they have to, not for the friggin pay; are you kidding?! As for the income, I am highly skeptical of the claim that some schmoe running a tab site is winning the big money and fabulous prizes. The whole point is to share information to enjoy the music, not to play musical capitalist. It's not like Russell Simmons made his gajillions on tablature.

And thinking about it, are they going to file cease and desist orders on every cover band in the Union? Because not only do they play copyrighted material, they profit from it too. Sure some get paid in cocaine, but it is, strictly speaking, compensation. And as much as I would love to see crummy cover bands wither and fail, I'd rather it done through people telling them they suck by not paying to see them, than by playing lawyer-ball. Although, to be fair, they may have tried serving them with court papers, but often those folks have no fixed address and it's tough to deliver to "the van with all the bondo on it in the field behind the old fire station."

But let's test the waters here, and see how music publishers feel about this. I will reveal the most secretest secrety secret of rock and roll, right here and now. I am gambling that this revelation will not cause popular music in general, and rock n roll in particular, to screech to a jarring and disastrous halt. I am willing to gamble that, contrary to the MPA's weird assertion, its transcribers will continue to be able "to feed their families". It is nothing less than the Key to Rock. It is the entry path to Chuck Berry; through Crosby, Stills, Nash and (sometimes) Young; past KISS; on to the Ramones, Pearl Jam, and the nu-metal flavor of the month.

I stand at the cliffside now, Prometheus-like, and hereby give the gift of rock and roll fire to the yearning multitudes:

A-C-E-A

Use it wisely, my children.

Now let's see if they send their legal vultures to peck at my innards for all eternity.

One of my favorite flicks, Full Metal Jacket, was on last night.

For me, the whole movie is the first half or so. Everything after the suicide scene gets weirder and weirder, it starts to drag, and byt he end I really don't care what happens to these characters, who I nominally cared about to begin with anyway. But every scene that includes Gunnery Sergeant Hartman cracks me up. And the harder he pushes his recruits, the harder I laugh. Lady Lethal, who I have asked to endure the movie in the past, doesn't really get it. Even after I pause the scene, and repeat the rapid-fire obscenities just to make sure she got them, she agrees they're terrible but can't quite get from there to humor. So, alas, I laugh alone.

And for no better reason than because I fucking feel like it, here are two quotes from FMJ that crack me up to tears. These have been washed and then, heh, back-washed through Altavista's web translator:

Who said that? To whom did the Bumsen say that? Who has slimy little communist shit, Twinkle toed more cocksucker down here, who signed straight its own Exekutionsbefehl? Nobody, huh? Fairy fucking the patin said it. From bumsenden standing. I will pint it all cube bumsender to it. I will pint you to their ass hole suck butter milk.

And my personal fave:

Private Pyle you had the best place your ass far and beginning shitting I them cufflinks or me of Tiffany get stuffed will certainly upwards.

Curiously, with the movie fresh in my mind, astonishingly perceptive-and loyal- reader Othershoe provided me this link to discussion of what Joker calls "the Jungian thing". I went two ways with this exchange. First, I was excited at reading reasonably detailed explanations or interpretations of Kubrick's intentions and results with Jungian philosophy in the film. Then, about halfway through, I thanked the Dark Ones that my college days are safely behind me and I didn't have to listen to a roomful of students discuss the hidden, and probably made-up, meanings in movies.

Mad props to Othershoe for providing a trifecta of entertainment, nostalgia, and the creeping feeling you're going to blow the final, all in one swell foop.

CNN has a story about injecting children with growth hormone. For their own good.

The video is brief, but compelling. Parents, seeking the best for their sons, look to chemistry to grow their small children. Opponents say it's wrong for a variety of reasons you might guess without watching; a diminutive adult says he'd do it even now if he could because being small (5'3" in his case) just sucks so bad.

I guess the story resonated with me as a new father, who's still settling into the role of example-setter and role model. If my son seemed to be tracking toward tiny, would I turn to hormones to grow him? Would the pain and possible side-effects, not to mention gambling that the treatment's completely ineffective, outweigh a small height gain?

Even if I could get insurance to cover it- as the parents profiled did, which seems just this side of miraculous- I don't think I would.

Those parents' ultimate concern is for their sons' self-esteem, allowing for a well-adjusted adult and one that, as a man who fell within "normal" height range, would be that much less challenged in the quest for jobs, careers, and chicks. Their contention is that short men are more challenged, more limited, than "tall" men, and due to no fault of their own.

I think though that self esteem is more rightly rooted in achievement than physical stature. A guy who's 6'4 but spends his days collecting empty cans is not a winner. A man who's 5'6 and a blackbelt in tae-kwon-do is a winner. I'm 6' even, mebbe 6'1 in boots; I've known tons of men taller than me, and tons shorter than me. And with very few exceptions, I've worked for the ones shorter than me. And I'm not exactly setting the world on fire with my scary finances and swinging career possibilities. At the end of the day, I find some satisfaction in writing projects or other activities that have nothing to do with my job, my family, or, of all things, my height. It's those sorts of things, challenges that I've overcome, that allow me to look men in the eye. It has nothing to do with my physical stature. And I try to block out the stuff that I've utterly failed at.

One point that was overlooked in the CNN piece was that the taller you get, the harder alot of mundane tasks become. Again, I have to apply my own experiences, in this cae with continual back pain. Every so often, if I'm not very careful with my body mechanics, it can cause excruciating pain for days, if not weeks- we're talking painkillers for 3 meals a day.

And it's as someone who must be so careful with how he moves that I realize how much of our world is built for people who are about 5'7. See how far you have to bend over to do anything in the bathroom- lift the seat, flush, reach soap or anything else on the sink, turn faucets, wash your hands, take a shower- a dozen little things we do that are perfectly normal and routine but tough for a bigger person trying to keep his back straight. I joke about raising everything about 3" once I'm in charge, just so I can reach it without having to squat. Seriously, a typical bathroom sink barely comes up to about my crotch. Picking something up off the floor can be an adventure in pain management. Cars that sit 2" off the ground- which these days seems like all of them- are completely out of the question; folding myself into a sporty car is unthinkable. And let me emphasize that I'm hardly Shaq, here.

All of which just points out that being an average-sized man is not so flipping terrific either.

Look, people get gigs for alot reasons- talent, effort, luck, nepotism- but I am skeptical that someone ever got a job because he was tall. Money I think works similarly; I've never gotten a check due to my height. And chicks? Hey, different women go for different men. But most of all, chicks dig winners- short or tall.

I think the Li'lest Lethal will probably end up about my height, as his mother's about 5'8/9 herself, but I'm certainly not going to encourage him to let his physical dimensions- whatever they may be later- to be the basis for his self worth. I hope that if I can encourage, support, and guide my son toward achieving goals that are important to him, he can be a big winner in the end- even if he's not big.

This edition of Forgotten Punchline Thursday has been made possible by a grant from the Society for Creative Negation. By pushing the boundaries of how humans conceive of, express, and contend with the word “no”, the Society furthers humankind’s understanding of crushing disappointment.

The Ministry also thanks Cthulhu’s Own-brand Mandible Wax and Cavity Sheen for their generosity. To lend an unearthly glow to your Earth-bound minions, trust Cthulhu’s Own.

Forthwith, today’s Forgotten Punchline:

“Ugnnh! Ughnnh! Ugnhh!”

Seemingly this pic was published by Stormfront Photo Services- the future will have no black people, but it will have one extra hot chick for every three Aryans.

You scored as Andromeda Ascendant (Andromeda).

The universe around you in complete anarchy, but you know just how to handle it. You have a clear head no matter how dire the situation around you may be and people have a tendency to come to you for help. Now if only the Magog would quit trying to lay eggs in your stomach.

I haven't seen about half of these, including Andromeda, whose crew I most represent. I tried once, but it felt like that old Buck Rogers episode where Buck and Wilma go back in time to fight...no, wait, it was the one where like Flash Gordon goes into the future, and pilots a fighter in Wilma's attack wing, and...with Buck...fight...fuck it, I don't remember now, but it was shitty.

Never one to run from free and easy content, allow me to piggyback on Buckethead and Thoughts, Ideas and Wildfires spiffy little book thingum. Oh, don't worry about Buckethead; he has the grit, gristle, and shoulders to heave even my girthy girthness about freely.

There are several books near to hand as I type, all of which seem generally the same distance from me. Well ok the dictionary is closest, but it's a little lean on complete sentences (in case anyone really needs to know though, the 5th entry on page 123 is "bachelorette"). There are 3 or 4 books that are also arguably closest, but they are either reference-y or very specific to my job, so I'm declaring them out of bounds.

So let's take the first and last books from this small row, a row that exists about 30" off the back of my seat:

Shah claimed that Sufism was a form of universal wisdom and not Islamic, since it existed from before the historical development of Islam. It was not static in nature and could not be understood by studying past manifestations and methods of old masters. It needed to be constantly redefined for new circumstances and new environments.

That's from that cozy old fireside favorite, Islamic Thought in the Twentieth Century, edited by Suha Taji-Farouki and Basheer M. Nafi.

At the other end of the row comes:

Almost everyone who cared about privacy had been focusing on federal surveillance initiatives. John Poindexter's Total Information Awareness program was target number one. But even Poindexter, who had seen a demonstration of the Matrix, condemned the project, in part because of Asher's involvement.

That's from No Place to Hide by Robert O'Harrow Jr.

I've not read either of them, by the way, beyond the introduction or early chapters. That's why they're on my shelf, and not resting comfortably back in the library.

Not too long ago, in response to a discussion about wargames and such, I explained that my fave was The Operational Art of War. My preference for such games is big- leave the squad-leader stuff for people who like Squad Leader. I like big games of bold maneuver, and TOAW had it. Usually the basic unit of maneuver was a regiment or division, and the maps were pretty large. Depended on the scenario, of course, but maps spanning an entire country and its neighbors were common. The graphics and sound were simple, but so what? The action was on the battlefield; so long as the player could determine the terrain he was fighting over, he was in. He didn’t even have to know standard NATO symbology; one could presto-change-o the whole affair, rendering the units as little tanks and infantrymen.

But, as I wrote, it was gone. Didn’t run on XP without kludgy workarounds. A spiffy little game that came and went, forever to be referred to in the past tense.

And it’s back!

The Operational Art of War 3 is out, it’s fun, and it’s all that with a slice of cheese.

I have a lot of rust to work off my warbrain. The first scenario I tried, Tannenberg, I went balls out as the Russians and was getting my ass irredeemably stomped by about turn 3. After some re-education and refamiliarization, I tried an Operation OLYMPIC scenario, which models an attack on Kyushu by the Allies in November of ’45. I went in as the Americans, and most of my landing forces were crushed on the eastern and southern beaches. I was successful in the west, but it didn’t look like I was going to have enough combat power left to break out and conquer the island. Pretty much lost by about turn 6.

After some other short re-training exercises, I tried a WW1 scenario, playing as the Hun. I was most successful at this one so far.

The opening turns followed history fairly closely. The sweep through Belgium was not as simple as the schrifters of the General Staff had predicted, but I did OK. By about turn 7, Antwerp and Brussels were firmly in my hands; lead elements had secured Dunkirk, with small light recon units at the city limits of Calais. The BEF showed up though, and got all uppity; after some changing of hands, the hated nation of shopkeepers firmly held Calais and Dunkirk. By the last 3d of the game, fresh French forces leavened with the BEF were able to push me back to I believe it’s the river Scheldt in the NW, and small counterattacks pushed me back north, away from the border.

In the center, my line went roughly Charleville-Verdun-Metz. I had one heavily attritted and isolated unit occupying Reims, the remnant of a thrust from the NE that the AI managed to thwart; he lasted about 4 turns there but was eliminated before the final turn, so no victory points for me for Reims.

It was in the south though where I had almost comical success. All of a sudden and completely unforeseen, the French effort utterly fell apart. I had been working on building up a drive on Nancy; once it fell, I found I was in a position to seriously threaten the larger French line. Once French delaying forces along the southern border were gone, I was able to drive units SW from the Nancy area and NW from Belfort/Besancon. I gambled that the French were weak there, but had no idea how weak they were. In essence, the French army in the field south of Nancy was caught in a respectable- if I do say so myself- double envelopment.

It took several turns to destroy that pocket in detail but I had enough combat power to hold the encirclement and still send something like 15 divisions on the roads to Paris, which is ridiculous. I had cavalry in the front; on the left, threatening Orleans; and on the right flank, expecting the computer to strip units from his dense center to take me on the right. Heavier leg infantry and supporting units found a knot of French defenders anchored in the Troyes area, but I had enough to both bypass and isolate them for future reduction. All told, by what my screening units told me, very little stood between the Kaiser's mailed fist and the City of Lights.

And then the scenario ended.

I forgot that this game is strict with its turns. Unlike Civ, which allows you to keep playing even after you've technically won, TOAW ends the game after you've finished your last turn. Period. I was pissed I didn't even get units into the Paris suburbs; doubly so because the game ended a "draw", with a brief bit of text tersely predicting a long war. Draw? Long war? I have like 3 corps, at about 90% capability, tearing virtually unopposed toward Paris and it's going to be a long war? Feh! I just wasn’t paying attention, and it cost me the whole fight.

So going forward, I learned to watch that more closely. Or, instead, employing Buckethead’s solution and changing the scenario parameters. But whichever- I had a lot of fun crushing the poilus, and even had fun when I lost those earlier games. Sort of.

I’m just tickled the game is back.

"Is it bigger than a breadbox?"

"Probably. What the fuck is a breadbox?"

For anyone needing to scratch their naval aviation itch, peep Google Earth's imagery of the Intrepid Museum. Just scroll up the West Side Highway into the West 40s until you see the building laying in the water with the jets on it. That'll be the Intrepid. Resolution is pretty good, even cranked down to max. Clearly visible are an SR-71, F-14, F-4, other carrier stuff; at least one MiG product; and various and sundry helicopters.

Google Earth doesn't have a 3D simulation for the carrier proper, which rather understates its size. I drove past it once; it towers over the road below and looks a helluva lot closer than the 100 or so feet the map suggests. It seems quite insane, really, to be tooling along the west side and suddenly seeing what looks to be a huge warship nuzzling Manhattan, and then to realize that in fact that's precisely what it is.

This week's Forgotten Punchline was made possible by a grant from Cthulhu's Own Tentacle Salve and Beak Balm. For the unholy irritation caused by dry, cracked appendages, summon the Unholiest: Cthulhu's Own.

Further support was provided by Krill. Krill: Wild Rice of the Briny Deep. With Legs.

Forthwith, today's forgotten punchline:

"So the cowboy drops his pants and says, 'Lady, this just ain't your day'".

You don't step on Superman's cape.

You don't spit into the wind.

You don't pull the mask off the ol' Lone Ranger.

And you don't pop unaimed mortar rounds on howitzer batteries.

Stars and Stripes discusses life for a Paladin gun crew in Ramadi here. Great primer for how the crews operate, how seriously they take their counterbattery role, and their relief that they can quit operating as the Queen of Battle and get back to being the Kings. Good stuff.