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Nukaworld

I had two days alone.  Such a stretch of time is unprecedented, and I have difficulty with self-management when it comes to leisure.  Seriously, I don’t know what to do with myself when no projects are demanding my immediate attention.  Then I saw the Fallout 4 expansion was on sale, amusing since I just recently lamented on its price.  $12 is fairly reasonable, so I pulled the trigger, and many times thereafter.

[SPOILERS]

Ordinarily after buying a Bethesda DLC, one generally boots the game and waits around for a quest update.  In this instance, however, the update happened immediately.  Perhaps the DLC was feeling desperate and wanted my attention right away.  I was notified of a suddenly new radio broadcast, to which I listened and received a map marker–an entire train terminal that had appeared instantly.  How could I not investigate that?  I began my journey.

I arrived at the terminal and killed some Gunners, who were apparently there for the same reasons as I–murder and loot.  Then I entered the station and a wounded man pleads for me to go save his wife.  Further investigation reveals he’s a doorman of sorts, helping to lure people in.  I found his role largely unnecessary, seeing as I was already there.  And why wouldn’t I continue inside, seeing as I already spent the 12 bucks?  No matter, I hop on the monorail and await my destination.

My destination turns out to be a lethal obstacle course.  Who would have thought that raiders were so cruel?

At least they have a sense of humor

So I begin, with Piper–my eternally-faithful girlfriend–following along.  We shoot a lot of turrets.  Piper even goes so far as to taunt them.  She has a temper, that one.

That bullet to the knee doesn’t seem to faze her one bit

I kill things, evade traps, set off most of the traps…it was actually a really irritating journey, filled with things I hate in games: platforms and traps and lengthy dungeons.  And it took about an hour, too.

Then I arrive in the magical park.  I fight a boss battle, am immediately named the new boss, then I wander around the park for a bit seeing the new sights and picking up side quests, as is the Bethesda way.

Then I receive notice that I have to defend one of my settlements so I immediately leave, only to arrive too late.  Then then game graphics got all screwy so I did a hard reboot.

Upon restart, the cloud sync deleted all my progress since I installed the DLC.  I abandoned the game in irritation.

Maybe I’m just getting old and impatient, or my standards are too high, but I note that many of my game experiences quickly terminate with a glitch or crash.  This is why I find Apple’s rallying cry so amusing: “It just works”.  And how true is that?  If things just worked as intended, then I could actually get around to enjoying and evaluating them.

This wouldn’t have been so bad, had that intro not been so painful and had my saves actually saved.  I guess I’ll consider this my $12 Fallout cure.  I turned off the Xbox and went to do something else.  I’m sure adventure still awaits, but let someone else do it.  I saved the Commonwealth and rebuilt civilization.  I retire.

–Simon

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Dry Martini

Of all cocktails, none are as needlessly pretentious as the martini.  I say “needlessly” because there’s a very simple way to make them, with minor variations based on personal preference, as with all cocktails, yet unlike other cocktails, we as a people judge these variations of personal preference as bastardizations of an elitist beverage.

I have a good idea why: James Bond.

“Vodka martini.  Shaken, not stirred.”  (Nearby woman starts swooning and taking off her clothes).

Now I’ll add my opinions.  Martinis should be gin, not vodka.  Vodka can be used of course, but then it’s not a true martini.  They should also be stirred and not shaken.  Shaking them introduces air which modifies the taste and texture.  Of course, this method requires being patient, as one has to allow the gin to sit in the ice for a time to get the right amount of melting–this will drop the gin to the correct temperature as well as enhance the flavor with the small amount of added water.  In short–everyone is making their martinis wrong except me.  There–pretentiousness achieved.

But enough of that.  So I prefer extra-dry martinis.  This of course means adding a very small amount of vermouth.  In my case, this means a very teensy weensy bit of vermouth, like 2 drops.  As family was visiting for Thanksgiving I unsurprisingly sought solace in my liquor cabinet.  It had been a while since I had made a martini, and catching a glimpse of the vermouth bottle fancied my whims and I decided it was time.

Apparently my pretentiousness has limits, as I’ve never been one to appreciate more expensive vermouths–probably because I only use 2 drops at a time.

And it’s because I only use 2 drops at a time that I realized that this was the same bottle I’ve had since before I could legally buy it.

That has to be at least 50 martini’s worth

Dry indeed.  Perhaps, when I finally finish the bottle, I’ll have achieved ultimate martini-making mastery, and villainous women in fancy hotel bars will swoon over me too.

–Moorhead.  Simon Moorhead.

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Blood Price

My father was always pretty handy around the house I recall.  He’d change the car’s oil, fix the air conditioner, run speaker wire through the walls…you name it.  And it was through this hands-on instruction that I learned my own basic handyman competence and the self-confidence needed to undertake my eventual home projects.

Yet, there’s a price exacted by the animistic spirits of the home, if I understand anything about the supernatural world.  A blood price.  It’s akin to the Angel’s Share of evaporated bourbon, but more Lovecraftian.  The spirits grant the boon of accomplishment, but in turn must be paid a sacrifice.

For my father, this price was quite literally paid in blood.  Every time he fixed something, he bled–a hammer to the thumb, a slipped knife to the fingers, a burr on a pipe finding his hand–these are some examples.  The project saw fruition, but its culmination always required bandages.  At the time, I thought this correlation extremely amusing, the way all kids find grownups getting hurt amusing.  Little did I know that the pact would extend to all male heirs.  Now I too pay the price.

I was putting up Christmas lights on the roof and a friggin pine needle poked me deep enough to draw an actual stream of blood.  I was putting nails into a kitchen drawer to fix a broken slat and I skinned a knuckle.  But the biggest price I paid to date at this house was to have a clean oven, and by extension, a properly cooked Thanksgiving turkey.  Such was the impact of this lofty goal (impressing in-laws (or showing them up, depending how you want to look at it, wink wink)), that the price needed to be high.

I began cleaning, and noticed that the spray nozzle on the can of oven cleaner was gunked up.  I wiggled it, trying to dislodge the blockage, and it popped off.  This action released the pressure on the aerosol within that little metal delivery tube.  A blast of liquid sodium hydroxide impacted my face, and had I not been wearing my glasses at the time, would have caused ER-worthy damage, for the resultant chemical burn was instantaneous, not to mention painful.

A few seconds of exposure–glad it didn’t hit my eye

Statistics for kitchen injuries during holidays are rather amusing.  We might attribute them to alcohol, fatigue, or simply being in the kitchen more.  But I say no–it’s that the stakes of our projects are higher and so the sprites can exact a steeper price.

But the turkey was damn good.

–Simon