Reanimator Helles LagerProving that while H.P. Lovecraft might be problematic for the World Fantasy Convention the rest of the planet gives exactly zero fucks, Narragansett has released the third offering in its Lovecraft Series, the Reanimator Helles Lager.

“Herbert West — Reanimator” was Lovecraft’s first fiction sale, an episodic story in six parts for which he was paid $5 per installment. They appeared in the magazine Home Brew in 1922. The story follows the titular character and his nameless narrating assistant from their medical-student days at Miskatonic University to a small practice in Bolton, Massachusetts to the French lines of the Great War to an exclusive practice in Boston. All the while, West pursues his obsession with conquering death through science by injecting corpses with a special chemical cocktail. Intentional or not, a fine sense of gallows humor permeates as the pair by turns loot graves and smuggle corpses into West’s lab, only to either run screaming from or be beaten unconscious by the serum’s successes; a recurring joke sees West’s experiments often ending in gunfire, the only way he can return his cadavers to a second death.

The cans, illustrated by Rhode Island artist Aaron Bosworth, reference the story’s third chapter in which West injects a dead boxer with his serum, then prematurely buries the corpse when the juicing apparently fails. The chapter is also the most cringe worthy in the whole tale: the boxer is black, and Lovecraft pulls out the stops describing the character in subhuman terms. I believe Lovecraft’s life can be divided into two periods: the time before his 1926 separation from Sonia Greene (their divorce was never finalized); and the time afterwards, when he returned from New York to Providence, exhausted, starved, and humbled. “Reanimator” is definitely a product of the first period. Lovecraft never held anything that could be considered a regular job until 1920 — when he was 30 years old — and only began regularly traveling outside of Providence two years later. For all his autodidacticism, his views and political opinions were ignorant and provincial. Alas, we live in a season when to be ignorant and provincial in the 1920s is a social crime a hundred years later; when Princeton administrators capitulate and scrub every reference to Woodrow Wilson from the college he once presided over, it is only a matter of time before Brown students take sledgehammers to the Lovecraft plaque outside the John Hay Library or any of the other memorials scattered throughout the city.

Narragansett’s Reanimator is a resurrection of their retired helles bock, richer and denser than their standard lager, and at 6.5-percent ABV, slightly less drunkifying than their other Lovecrafts. It’s already my favorite in the series; I only wish they had offered it over the summer when lagers go better. There are those who may smash the award statues and claim that what someone wrote or said a century ago marginalizes and silences them today, but Cthulhu is indifferent to their complaints — as are brewers, drinkers, publishers, readers, and just about everybody else.

Me on the previous entry in the series, Innsmouth Olde Ale.

The Doom That Came to the WFC

The World Fantasy Convention has decided to redesign their award statuettes in response to a petition complaining about H.P. Lovecraft’s racism. Lovecraft scholar S.T. Joshi is none too happy about it. Meanwhile, over at Black Gate I threw some gasoline on the fire debating whether Lovecraft’s racism was more him or his times:

No one will argue that Lovecraft was a well-adjusted individual; from sex to seafood, a psychiatrist would have worn out an IKEA’s worth of sofas itemizing a complete list of the man’s phobias. I contend those same anxieties are precisely what make Lovecraft’s writing so much fun. If his racism was more vile than that of his neighbors and contemporaries, then it originated in that same pool of existential paranoia from which only madmen sip. It was part and parcel with his oversensitivity to smells, his finicky eating habits, and all the rest. H.P. Lovecraft may have been a genius. He was also crazy.

I don’t believe changing the award is the worst thing, and Joshi is certainly overreacting (“I will do everything in my power to urge a boycott of the World Fantasy Convention among my many friends and colleagues”). As Jayn commented on my post, “the definition of ‘fantasy’ nowadays includes Lovecraft’s horror as only a subset.” Let the WFC focus on a broader range of material; with endless homages and entire conventions dedicated to celebrating his work, Lovecraft isn’t going to be swallowed by Lethean lake waters anytime soon.

Read my whole post here.

On the Wagon

CC BY Dwight Burdette
CC BY Dwight Burdette

Wil Wheaton posted a list of Seven Things I Did To Reboot My Life which might as well be subtitled, Because Now I’m in My 40s. For this guy, all of them hit close to home:

Drink less beer.

I love beer. I mean, I really love it. I brew it, I write about it, I design recipes of my own, and I’ve structured entire meals around what food will pair with the beer I want to drink. The thing about beer, though, is that it’s really easy to just keep on drinking it until it’s all gone …

Like Wheaton, I’m invested in beer culture: I like to collect the glassware and I’m always DTF local craft creations (especially pilsners, which are a terribly underrepresented minority in a world of IPA privilege). But also like him, I’ve lately discovered that drinking alcohol isn’t as easy as it used to be. A good buddy of mine — a friend I used to drink with as a teenager — recently told me he started cutting back on his evening adult-beverage intake because just a couple of beers puts him in a bad mood the next day. I’ve had the same experience, though the following morning I’m not so much grumpy as I am groggy and addlebrained. The reason, Wheaton points out, is due to our metabolizing alcohol as sugar, which means drinking two or three beers at dinnertime is like chugging two or three bottles of Mountain Dew right before bed and then expecting a full night’s sleep to ensue. Even after a pair of seemingly innocuous low-APV drinks I don’t sleep as deeply. As Wheaton says, “it turns out that drinking alcohol to help you go to sleep does not result in good sleep, but does result in feeling like shit when you wake up.” Hence I’ve joined the temperance movement, at least on school nights.

Wheaton’s whole post feels semi-autobiographical for me, from the endorphins produced by writing, to trying to make more time to read, to his preference for running over lifting weights. This is 40, I guess.

It’s Over

The towns of Darien, Easton, Monroe, Trumbull and Wilton will pay Ronald Terebesi $1.25 million to settle a lawsuit stemming from a fatal 2008 police raid in Easton.

The U.S. Supreme Court previously denied an appeal by the five Connecticut police departments. The high court’s action meant a federal lawsuit by Terebesi, formerly of Dogwood Drive in Easton, could go forward against the Easton, Monroe, Trumbull, Darien, and Wilton police departments, the named police defendants in the case, and the municipalities of Easton and Monroe.

“Mr. Terebesi is satisfied,” according to Gary Mastronardi, Ronald Terebesi’s lawyer, a former member of the FBI. “Money is always important; what he feels is equally significant and quite impressive is that in order to get us to accept it they had to agree to allow judgments to enter against each and every one of the defendants, both the municipalities and the individual defendants, for multiple violation of his constitutional rights.”

Full story here.

My coverage of the whole saga here.

Short News, Literary Agency Edition

War of the Pamphlets. To promote the publication of a new, two-volume reprint collection of Revolutionary era pamphlets, the Library of America has posted an interview with editor Gordon S. Wood. Self-published luminaries Samuel Johnson, Edmund Burke, and John Dickinson make appearances, as does Thomas Paine:

He was our first public intellectual, and unlike the other pamphleteers, he lived solely by his pen. As such, he aimed at a much broader audience than did the others, one encompassing the middling class of artisans, tradesmen, and tavern-goers. Unlike the elite writers who bolstered their arguments with legal citations and references to the whole of Western culture going back to the ancients, Paine did not expect his readers to know more than the Bible and the English Book of Common Prayer.

Run Your Own Race. I love running as a metaphor for writing. There are sprints and long slogs, uphills that burn your quads and downhills that kill your knees, and most of all, the work that no one sees, the runs you put in just to show up. Kristine Kathryn Rusch makes the same analogy, arguing that every writer runs at his or her own pace:

I mentioned New York, which had 50,564 finishers in 2014, which made it the biggest marathon ever. Average “important” marathons usually have 35-40,000 finishers.

That’s a lot of runners, most of whom have no hope of crossing the finish line first.

Note I didn’t mention “winning,” because runners are very clear about the varied definitions of winning. Winning for a non-elite athlete might be a personal best.

Affordable Smith. Remember back in 2010 when I complained that inexpensive editions of Clark Ashton Smith’s work were largely unavailable to casual readers interested in learning more about him? Well, after years of financial troubles and improprieties — which finally ended with the company being bought by another publisher — Night Shade Books has begun releasing its five-volume collection of Smith’s work in paperback and for Kindle. Volume One is already out, with the next to appear in January.

NecronomiCon 2015

On Sunday I did something I swore I would never do: I attended a writerly convention.

I’ve mulled attending writers’ cons before but the programming — forums on television shows or movies I’ve never seen or academic panels hashing obtuse literary points — never appealed to me, and the current radioactive climate of genre writing is not an invitation to reconsider my apprehension. But when I learned of NecronomiCon 2015, a celebration of all things H.P. Lovecraft located in Providence, Rhode Island, just two hours up the highway from me, I was tempted. And when I realized NecronomiCon only happens every two years, and moreover 2015 was the 125th anniversary of HPL’s birth, I threw down $30 for a day pass and put gas in the car.

I don’t regret it. A panel on Clark Ashton Smith provided a wealth of biographical details I hadn’t known beforehand, and a later discussion on Lovecraft and philosophy, which ranged from existentialism to the Kantian sublime to Schopenhauer, was a hilarious high point of the day. Because a sure way to make a cynic laugh is to point out that Lovecraft’s monster-worshipping cultists were just millennialist Christians in bathrobes: the Rapture is great for them but a horror story for the rest of us.

Left to right: Jack Haringa, Phillip Gelatt, Scott Connors, and ST Joshi discuss Clark Ashton Smith's love of strange. And I mean that in the Urban Dictionary sense.
Left to right: Jack Haringa, Phillip Gelatt, Scott Connors, and S.T. Joshi discuss Clark Ashton Smith’s love of strange. And I mean that in the Urban Dictionary sense.

Over at the marketplace in the convention center, I met the super-nice artist Jason C. Eckhardt, who has done work for Chaosium as well as the illustration for the cans of Innsmouth Olde Ale. He said he had received enormous positive feedback at the con and was considering making prints of the Olde Ale artwork. Narragansett Beer also had a booth; their next offerings in the Lovecraft Series will be the Reanimator — a modification of their helles bock — and, in the winter, the I Am Providence stout. I bought some books and a T-shirt, which I suppose are connish things to do.

Reanimator Helles Lager

Yes, Lovecraft has his issues. But you know what else he has? Fun. As H.L. Mencken wrote,

The great artists of the world are never Puritans, and seldom even ordinarily respectable. No virtuous man — that is, virtuous in the Y.M.C.A. sense — has ever painted a picture worth looking at, or written a symphony worth hearing, or a book worth reading.

I love Lovecraft’s incredible descriptions of New England landscapes, I love his globetrotting mysteries, I love his Jazz Age atmospherics. Decades after first discovering him, I can crack open a Lovecraft story and still thrill as ordinary men become detectives, drawn to uncover dark secrets and cosmic conspiracies at the cost of their lives and sanity. There’s something powerful there, and it was worth $30 and a two-hour drive to reflect upon it for a day.