The drugs have ALREADY taken hold.
Haven’t update the blog in a while, for a variety of reasons, one of which included a week long personal and professional meltdown in the middle of Las Vegas, a la Hunter S. Thompson. It was supposed to be a four-day conference on anti-money laundering and Title 31 regulations, but after the approximately 14 gallons of beer I drank at the Hofbrauhuas (if you go, say hi to Tracey for me) it turned into something from a Kafka nightmare with accountants.
What’s that? Pics, you say? Pictures weren’t at the top of my list when I was having a paranoid meltdown at the security desk in the Aria Resort & Hotel. Full-bore panic freakout, booze sweats and palpitations, google-eyed stares of the passers by … there was no high white noise to be found in that place, just souls that don’t even know they’re lost, yet …
Anyway, while it was definitely an item off the ol’ bukkit list, it left me feeling about like Raoul Duke by the time we got back to Reno. I got home, locked the door, and didn’t speak to anyone but my cat for four days.
Fortunately, a week of complete radio silence left me feeling somewhere on the outskirts of human, just in time for the folks over at Cyanide Studios to release an update on Call of Cthulhu, which answers the age-old question: so can we, like, just blow the ever-lovin’ hell out of the Big C with a machine gun? (Answer: No.)
Which is a good thing, at least for this HPL obsessed drooling nerdboy. A quick image search on the Interwebz shows that when we think of Cthulhu, what we think of
is a giant hungry squid.
Which misses the point, for me. The horror of Lovecraft isn’t that you’ll be eaten by a monster, it’s what those monsters represent: the utter, alien, unfathomable otherness of the universe, the fact that in the end, reality neither loves nor hates us, but doesn’t even notice our existence.
And, of course, the REAL horror isn’t what the characters in the story experience – it’s what YOU, the reader, experience, as you realize that (aside from the rampant racism, sexism, and yearning for 17th century Britain) HPL’s vision of reality is more accurate than Steinbeck’s.
You can’t shoot something like that. “Fighting Cthulhu” is like fighting “Thursday.” Cthulhu, is, yes, a giant squid. (I want that carved on my tombstone.) But He is also the doctor telling you the results are positive, he’s your nose itching during a funeral, he’s every reminder that there is nothing to life except what we bring, and that is subject, at any moment, to an abrupt and unrefutable cancellation.