The Forge

Every time Square-Enix releases a new game, i'm sure, friends and family members of gamers alike silently curse the gods. Four hours of the child's absence lead the anxious mother to check in on the whereabouts of her son. He sits with eyes starting to glaze as he stares intently at the glowing screen, plastic device in hand. "What are you playing?" she asks. It takes a moment for him to know he's been asked a question, another moment to pause. He begs her repeat the inquiry; she acquiesces. "Final Fantasy."

For a little under a week now i've been enraptured by the twelfth installment of said series, much to the chagrin of roommates and peers alike. In what i'd approximate to four days i've clocked in over twenty-two hours of gameplay with no sign of stopping in the near future. I've heard that simply completing the game takes over forty and that's if you don't try to completely level up and get every ultimate weapon and complete all the side quests etcetera etcetera. All told it's not inconceivable for one to spend one hundred and fifty of those precious sixty-minute blocks before reaching the absolute pinnacle of performance.

At first such a stretch seems absurd--and i'll allow that such a classification isn't too shy of truth--and an explanation is in order. How on earth could something even remain interesting for so long? Isn't it just a lot of running around and killing monsters to level up? Well, yes and no. To be sure, much of the actual gameplay consists of just that, a seemingly endless cycle of killing fiends, restoring health, and killing more fiends. The substance of a game like Final Fantasy, however, lies not in the gameplay necessarily but moreso in the story. If stories can be woven and spun then Square is an artisan without peer. Each game finds a new world, a new plot, and most importantly, new characters. Musical elements and various character types and spell names serve as the only unifying factor between the FF games; for the most part, each game is an entirely new universe to lose oneself in.

And lose myself i have, in much the same was as i did in Final Fantasy X. The land of Ivalice with its warring factions, the young orphans living in the city of Rabanastre which finds itself besieged by the powerful Archadian armies, the deposed princess who finds herself obligated to reclaim the throne but unable to do so by her own devices, the deserts and dungeons of the Ester and Westersands, the plains of Giza and the jungles beyond; in a word enthralling. Every beautiful CG episode has me on the edge of my seat (quite literally, seeing as the other day my chair literally broke beneath me as i played on) wondering anxiously how Vaan and Ashe and Balthier (my favorite) and the rest will make it through these exceptionally dark times in their lives.

People often joke about the paradox of having twelve (and others they don't know about) "final" fantasies. The answer is relatively simple: the man responsible for the first game was on the brink of ending his career in a company that itself was standing on a last leg. Were the game to fail as miserably as it very well stood to do, Final Fantasy would indeed have been a final thing. When it instead turned the company's luck in a new direction and saved Squaresoft from an early trip to the crypt, it became the company flagship. Every new installment would thus bear the name Final Fantasy for, theoretically, in a market as ever-changing as ours, every new game could be Square's last.

It's been proven that men are, in general, more object-driven than women. This would explain why so many guys play video games in which the target is to beat the game, to solve the problems, to win. We are far less likely to dabble in the sandbox, i would guess, because when there ceases to be any actual end to the game it becomes, to some extent, futile to participate. It just feels good to attain new levels, unlock new spells, be able to afford better equipment. Over time you become an increasingly formidable foe, a force to be reckoned with to use the cliche. And who among us doesn't want to be a force to be reckoned with?

If you are a Latin scholar, or use google, you may have already deciphered the title of this entry. The idea of "God from the game" or "God in the game" probably strikes you as humorous. "Come on now Adam," you say, "even you have to admit that you're reaching when you start trying to prove that video games are good because they can bring you closer to God."

Do i have to make such a concession? I think not.

The fact is that any and all art is a form of expression. It means something to the creator, and it means something (even if that something is nothing) to those that in one way or another consume the art. Thus, while Squaresoft may not have made Final Fantasy games to exhibit facets of the Christian walk, and while there are sure to be many people who play the games and never have an epiphany, i feel confident nevertheless in saying that the game is fairly good at producing such results.

As i sat under the lights at the fine arts building next to my dorm last night, trying with futility to avoid the rain and the cold, i reflected on the pilgrimage mentality toward life. Much as the FF games that i've played represent, life is truly a series of conflicts and characters that take us from place to place as we are hurled by time toward whatever ends we choose to meet. We can choose to improve ourselves in various ways--guarding our minds and our hearts, seeking out and uprooting falseness around us with Truth, witnessing to others in the hope that they will join us in our pilgrimage--and yet in the end we must all face the final Boss, whoever that may be. If you, like me, have the strategy guide, then you can find out ahead of time who that Boss is. You know what He likes, you know what He hates, and you spend your game trying to strengthen yourself accordingly. The last thing anyone wants to do is end up in the Boss's chamber inadquately equipped to succeed.

There is one difference worth noting though: unlike Squaresoft, there's not a chance that success in this game will give us an opportunity to make new ones. Indeed, it is appointed unto man to live once, to die once, and then to face the Boss. And so, accordingly, it's time that i started to level up. It's time that i start learning the scriptures.

This is my life.
This is my final fantasy.

Let's just say that, behind the smooth veneer, the wood is beginning to warp. And all this time i've spent not blogging has been made up for by the fact that someone else was writing the blog i needed to write.

So many people speculate on what it would be like to go back in time and revisit various cherished moments in their past. "I wish that day could've lasted forever," they say, sighing at the realization of the futility of such hopes. I'm here to say that going back in time isn't half as rewarding as you might hope. In fact, it can be downright embarrassing.

It all started when i realized i was hopelessly in need of Final Fantasy X. There's no good way to explain it other than every autumn i feel inclined to play that game, as well as (the very different franchise) Ratchet & Clank, whatever the most recent installment. After trying in vain to locate a wallpaper i'd really liked last autumn during my previous shtick, i remembered having made a fanvid for the game using Chad Kroeger's "Hero" (think the song from Spiderman; Chad is frontman for Nickelback). Finding a search of putfile.com, the site to which i'd uploaded said video, to be pointless, i decided to run a google search for my old name, Genesis11. What a wonderful idea.

It wasn't long before i realized how a. moronic and b. brash i used to be. The things i said and did scream such descriptors as "immature," "naive," and "troll." Allow me to show you some of my sparkling Internet moments:

unFiction forums
This one dates back to August 2004. Microsoft had launched a viral campaign for the upcoming Halo 2, using primarily a website called "i love bees." These forums were dedicated to finding a solution to the puzzle, and thus posts were supposed to aid the community in the mystery. I had read the Halo books and thus knew some backstory that other people were unaware of. When asked to explain some of this, i brushed people off and told them they should read the books if they wanted to know so badly. Worse, however, is that some other member of the board stepped in and left a long-winded explanation of the backstory i refused to post. When criticized for my behavior by another forumer, i breezily replied: "If you look, you will also see that I have been the ONLY person on this thead who even TRIED to give a backstory on who Ack was" as if this were a good enough defense of my unfortunate social conduct. I proceeded to call the others immature (on grounds i can no longer fathom) and restated my belief that they ought to invest in the books. The response was well-earned; namely, someone figured out how much money and time would go into such a purchase, pointed out how ludicrous such expenditure was when the alternative was me taking five minutes to summarize the necessary information, and reflected the immature label back at me. The succinct reply of another member was: "On behalf of all sane Halo/Bungie fans, please accept my apology for the poor behaviour demonstrated by Genesis11. We've been plagued with such for a while, from many fans of many ages and origins, and we're working on the problem. Hopefully we will see a return to analytical logic, respectful discourse, courteous exchanges of differing views, and empathy for others soon. In the mean time, please bear with us... we're doing the best we can." Go me.

iTg radio
If you recall my Fragdoll post, you'll remember mention of my alleged stalking of Eekers/Theresa entailed the joining of a certain online radio community. Well, i'd forgotten one of the more interesting encounters of that era, something my Google perusal has quickly rectified. If you are socially grounded enough to know the relevance of "69-minute hour" then you'll understand just how naive i was when i decided to tune in to a segment entitled "This Hour Has 69 Minutes" one fateful evening in my bedroom. Erotic music and sexual conversation permeated the show as my young ears began to bleed and my eyes widened in adolescent horror. Thus i did what any other naive immature teenager would do: i openly aired my opinion on how such a show should never be permitted again. As you might imagine, this set off torrents of laughter in and out of the message boards and IRC channel. The next 69-minute hour show announcment bore this disclaimer, verbatim: "Due to the adult nature of tonight's topic, THH69M is rated M for mature! Don't tune in if you're 15 and going to complain about it later - Genesis11, this means YOU!" Again, i love me.

Among my other finds were a livejournal i'd forgotten about, two redvsblue profiles that i don't think exist anymore, scattered posts on fansites and art pages, and some barbed criticism of others that proves far more eloquent and appropriate. For example, i encourage you to visit Kotaku's slam on the Frag Dolls. My unanswered lambasting and the article that evoked it can be found at http://kotaku.com/gaming/sex/how-to-become-a-frag-doll-170939.php .

There's not much else to say about my little trip back in time. All i know for sure is that i hope a Google search three years from now doesn't create the same nausea in me that this one has.

I've been listening to this song by My Chemical Romance for a few days almost exclusively, Dead! It's interesting because the lyrics are quite depressing but the upbeat tempo and wailing guitars make it an almost festive occasion every time the track repeats. That idea--of being outgoing during the most depressing of circumstances--is one that (while not exactly the purpose of the song) we should learn to exhibit. Don't worry, my circumstances aren't "the most depressing" possible, and they are certainly open to laughing at. Let's review:

Last night Carl and i decided to take the trek out to the local (read:45 minutes each way) Walmart. That's the place that you go to when you need to find people with even less fulfilling and promising lives than yourself. It's a real morale booster. Anyhow, as we walked along we discussed a few things, none so much as our histories in gaming and our theories on where the industry is headed in respect to whence it came. I was pleased to discover that he had a place in his heart almost as big as mine for platformers--Crash Bandicoot and Spyro the Dragon, for example--and thus might enjoy the upcoming installment of the Ratchet and Clank series (from the makers of that rascally Dragon's first three games).

We stopped to eat at Taco Bell. I've got to say, Taco Bell isn't really all that great. In fact it's terrible, greasy, and you never feel good after eating there. Our visit had two upshots however. First, Taco Bell is the only place (that i am aware of) where you can acquire the Baja Blast variation of Mountain Dew. While my love for that drink has waned in recent years i don't think i'll ever be able to disown it (especially as a college student, who must thrive off of caffeine in all forms) and the Baja flavor adds a nice twist to the blandness of its predecessor. The other upshot is that it was a Sunday, and (previously unbeknownst to me) Sundays are "49 cent hard taco Sundays." Consequently dinner was much cheaper than anticipated, and gave us an excuse to eat more than we might have otherwise chosen to eat.

After refusing a taco from two sketchy guys with tank tops and tattoos Carl and I headed on toward Walmart. Mind you, the store is adjacent to the restaurant, except that the former is a good fifteen feet above the latter and the two are separated with a stone wall. Thus your options are to brave the wall (which i heartily recommend so long as i can video tape you as you fall off and break various limbs) or to circumvent it. We chose the latter.

In Walmart, at least the one in Grove City, Pennsylvania, there is very little worth purchasing that you can't get a higher quality version of at the nearby outlet mall. Beggars can't be choosers, however, and since college students are by nature beggars, they go to Walmarts. Our water, poptarts, crappy movies, and other life-giving necessities are all purchased at Walmart. But, as Carl and I had walked there and would be walking back, we saw little virtue in buying anything of a bulky nature.

Carl wanted to get Zoolander (which they didn't have) and perhaps a computer game to divert him from his studies. After failing to find any new and decent movies, we opted to search through the discount bins for old and shoddy ones. I've never seen so many copies of Robocop. I picked out a couple--Cable Guy and A Knight's Tale, i think--and Carl grabbed Tears of the Sun. We then perused the games section for a while but when this proved futile we headed toward the counter. Suddenly i pointed out how i could probably live just as well without buying anything, and wondered if he could do likewise. As he pondered this he suddenly remembered a need for boxers, so we headed over to the clothing section.

We amused ourselves with the variety of belts and ties and poor-quality baseball caps one is likely to find at a Walmart until finally arriving in the underwear section. Now, you see, whenever i am in a Walmart or other department store with my mother, she invariably directs us through the women's undergarments section, presumably to torture me with awkwardness. Thus i've become a sort of expert on the various packaging styles and i have come to wonder: do women find it as disconcerting to see busty and scantilly-clad young ladies sticking out of bra multi-packs as i find it to see unnecessarily large--er--protuberances on men's briefs and boxers packaging?

While you process that, i'll just say that Carl and i are in one accord on the necessity of increased modesty in the packaging of intimates. Selecting a pack of decent price and questionable quality Carl moved toward the register when i noticed a j-hook rack bearing dew rags for some absurd price like a dollar and forty-four cents. I called him over, and we both stared at the pathetic selection like blind kids in a candy store: aware that something amazing was just around the corner but unable to fathom exactly what it might be. As if by the hand of God we'd been selected to be the only two people to purchase dew rags in Grove City's Walmart since--well, probably since dew rags were invented.

Suddenly the urge to get home was fleeting. We'd been through the electronics and now the clothing section--perhaps we should just tour the store. On our way to bedding we passed the furniture section, where--i kid you not--we discovered bunk beds that could not possibly have exceeded three feet in length. If you don't know why that's absurd, i'd like you to consider the usefulness of such an item. Children exceed this height easily by the age of four (by our calculation). And since they are bunk beds, complete with ladder and questionably secure wooden barriers, the child needs to be old enough not just to walk but to climb a ladder and hoist itself over said barriers. Even--and this is really putting a lot of faith in the kid--even if a toddler is that dextrous and the parents that stupid when it has reached the age of two, this indicates an absolute maximum of 2 years of utility. I'm not an expert on bed pricing, but it seems to me that 200 dollars for a piece of furniture that cannot possibly be useful past its second year of ownership is probably ridiculous.

Anyhow, we moved along from section to section until we arrived at the toy section, as every college-aged student must inevitably do when shopping at a Walmart. We reminisced about Legos and their inherent awesomeness. We stopped for no less than five minutes to tinker with the various battery-operated vehicles (one in particular caught my eye because it apparently can pull insane drfit-style u-turns). And then we saw plastic lightsabers. Not the standard ones that you have to swing open and that break within a week of purchasing. No, these were twenty-dollar, high-quality plastic lightsabers, complete with light and sound and a spring-loaded blade for instantaneous deployment. As with the dew rags, there were some things that were necessary.

I suppose the saving grace of this otherwise complete waste of money is that, since we needed to get batteries for the lightsabers, i was reminded that i needed to pick up some "C" batteries for my portable iPod speakers and some "AAA" batteries for my calculator. Ultimately i bought ten dollars' worth of batteries, a toy lightsaber, and a dew rag decorated with skulls. Carl purchased his boxers, Tears of the Sun (he decided he needed it) and the same final two items as myself (albeit his saber is red where mine is green and his dew rag depicts flames). So much for spending nothing.

On our way back home we stopped at Sheetz, which must be a southern variation on the whole 7-Eleven thing. I had a free ticket for a smoothie which i used to get a strawberries-and-cream beverage (quite like one of those Creme Savers) and then it was time to head back. My only complaint is that the "free" ticket didn't actually get me a free smoothie since i had to pay extra for the "-and-cream" part of it. Bearing dew rags and lightsabers we headed down the road to Grove City College.

And that's when i remembered that i don't have a gallbladder. And that i'd had Taco Bell. And i was drinking a smoothie. And i was nowhere near a restroom. When we saw that the neighborhood video store was open, i got hopeful. Carl wondered whether they'd even have a bathroom. "They must," i said, "for the employees." Pessimistic as ever, he then wondered if i'd be allowed to use it. "That's not going to be a problem. I'll just ask if i can use their restroom. If they say no, i'll be like 'um...i don't have a gallbladder.' And if they say no to that, i'll be up-front with them. I'll say 'Look, in about three seconds your action section is going to have more crap in it than it already does.'"

To its credit, the store was much nicer than i'd anticipated and the prices much lower than franchise movie lenders. That said...

"Do you have a restroom?" I asked the patron of the store. He opened a door with a cartoon of a living clapboard and replied "Be my guest" with a smile. I walked around the corner into the room, which was a storage closet with a toilet and sink in it. I placed my smoothie on top of what i later realized was a box of cleaning products, my Walmart bag beside it. Shorts were unzipped and drawers dropped--and then i saw the bare cardboard roll. There was no toilet paper.

Let me take a moment to admit, even i sort of wish i hadn't looked. The story would be exponentially better had i (for the fourth time) managed to get myself into the no-toilet-paper-in-a-strange-place scenario. Even better than other times because of what happened next.

I pulled up my pants (but not the zipper) and jogged out to find the guy. "Do you have toilet paper?"
Without even looking at me he said "No, i don't. Sorry. You could use paper towels, no?"

I know better than that--i've seen septic blocked up by such folly before--and so i kindly declined, zipped my pants up, retrieved my smoothie and Walmart bag, gathered Carl, and left the store, tossing a thank-you over my shoulder to the man who had so kindly offered me the use of a bathroom while fully aware that there was no ideal way of cleansing my nether cheeks.

The walk back was rough, its difficulty exacerbated by my decision to have worn Pumas. Don't get me wrong--Pumas are outrageously comfortable shoes and ideal for people with desk jobs and house work. But when it comes to walking, you really can't wear Puma casual shoes. Obviously, since they make running shoes, the company knows how to design a solid piece of footwear for long-term use. But the slick, trendy, slipperesque ones are terrible for long distances and leave one's feet quite sore after walking more than perhaps an hour or two.

As we started to leave the bright lights of Taco Bell and the video store behind us the houses became decidedly creepier. Finally Carl commented on the horror film quality of many of the domiciles overshadowing our path. Indeed, the sentiment that at any moment a crazy man with a chainsaw might jump out from behind a shrubbery and halve us was strong in both our minds.

Happily, no such thing occurred, and we got back safely in time for me to finish working on my term paper. The one that had been due on Friday (I get 2% off my grade for that snafoo, but it's worth it for reasons i won't get into). Today was pretty great too: I finished taking my notes in Civ, shut my laptop, and headed through HAL (the Hall of Arts and Letters) toward the exit. As i went to push the door open some guy shoved past me and i pressed myself up against it. After he passed i turned and lunged away, effectively severing the cord to my $150 Bose headphones in the process which had evidently been ensnared by the push bar on said door.

As i stumbled unhappily into C++, trying to figure out what this sudden loss meant, i went to boot up my laptop and got a message that said that C\Program Files was corrupted. My teacher didn't know what to think of it, so i ignored the message and managed to login. I ran command prompt, checked the C drive, and attempted to open the Program Files folder. It was incapable of being located. The entire program files folder of my computer had up and disappeared, taking with it such insignficant applications as Internet Explorer and all the Microsoft Office applications. I dropped it off around 3-ish at the TLC and was told that (for the third time since i got the laptop) they'd wipe it clean. I didn't go back to get it today so i'll have to gather it up tomorrow morning, right before the World Drama midterm i need to study for today. Then i'll have to reinstall (for the fourth time) Visual Studio so as to write my programming homework assignment.

So yeah, in a matter of twenty-four hours i managed to get ripped off by Sheetz, blind-sided by the owner of a video store, lost sleep over a term paper that should've been done earlier, broken expensive headphones, and gotten screwed--excuse my English--by the TLC once more. And really, none of that is funny.

So why are we all laughing? Who knows...

PS- I am quite aware of how clearly--for lack of a better term--"white" i am for calling the apparel we purchased "dew rags" rather than do-rags. And how white i am for calling do-rags "apparel." To get the proper spelling, and an equally funny recounting of the story, visit http://thevelvetconspiracy.blogspot.com for Carl's take.

The cool evening air reddened the faces of two young lovers outside the doors of Pew Fine Arts Center as the sweltering heat of two hundred students and staff within shuffled in their seats in anticipation of the second play of the evening, The Way of All Fish. We had only a quotation from Katherine Hepburn to suggest what the play’s context would be: “Enemies are so stimulating.” We also knew that the play involved only two characters, namely a Ms. Asquith (portrayed by Kayla Carpenter) and a Miss Riverton (portrayed by Rebecca Sherman). Stage hands scattered about, dropping a small desk, coffee table, and sofa about the playing area. They left and the lights dropped; enter two shapely silhouettes.

The scene is innocent enough. Miss Riverton is the secretary (though she seeks the title of assistant) to Ms. Asquith, whom we must assume is a prominent member of society (a scene involving cancelled dinner plans includes the dropping of Tommy Hilfiger’s name). After a dispute over exactly what purpose Riverton serves in Asquith’s life, the former inquires as to what her evening will consist of. Evidently nothing, since her original plans were cancelled in hope of a superior engagement which ultimately also fell through. With no reservations or important dinners to attend, the two resort to ordering out from a Japanese restaurant. The majority of the action takes place in the outrageously long interval between the placing of the order and its delivery.

As the bottle of wine is broken out, Ms. Asquith makes the fateful decision to make the evening casual and encourages her secretary to speak whatever comes to mind. Since the play begins with a dispute over the accidental (though that too is questionable) disposal of her manager’s exercise elastic, it’s fitting that Riverton’s first topic of conversation is whether her boss’s personal trainer is adequately training her. This, like much else of the dialogue, is presented in a tongue-in-cheek manner: “Do you honestly think that half an hour on the trampoline is quite enough?” As the discussion over fitness and exercise blossoms, Asquith comments on the apparent physical strength of her secretary, to which Riverton replies “I am very strong” with a sinister glance toward the audience.

This reminds Ms. Asquith about a variety of fish that are unique because of the way in which they deal with strength dispute. Allegedly, since male fish can only fight each other (chivalry, it seems, is not unique to humans), when a weaker member of this variety spies a stronger one it transforms into a female so as to avoid conflict. As Riverton jests, it’s a man’s world when you’re a fish. Anyhow, wine is poured again and again and each woman becomes a bit more liberal with her comments. Asquith is forced to admit her childhood was plagued by obesity, having grown up in Switzerland where the food is sinfully bad for you—“Swiss food is just butter, looking for a reason.” This vein of international intrigue leads her to inquire as to Riverton’s past. Miss Riverton hails from Michigan (humorously compared to Paris as a venue of severe travel interest), and has in fact led a very boring life. Suddenly she is struck by just how boring this life of hers has been, and remembers her lifelong aspiration to garnish fame.

Up until this point in the play, the secretary/boss exchange is perhaps a bit over-the-top but otherwise believable. Were Miss Riverton’s aspirations simply to become a rock star or to win an Oscar, the singularity of the play would cease to exist. But no, Riverton has never sought fame or fortune in the traditional way—one needs ‘talent’ for that. For her, there’s a much better way to become famous, and really it’s very simple: you just need to kill someone.

Here the play turns, and as her secretary speaks of the various methods and targets involved in such an aspiration Ms. Asquith begins to have very real cause to doubt her security. It’s difficult to convey why such a gruesome segment of dialogue is so uproarious without being able to see the enthusiastic grin on Rebecca Sherman’s face as she says it’s difficult to attain fame via murder “unless you kill a lot of people . . . Or a few people...in a really ghastly way!” Indeed, Riverton has given much thought to the ordeal. She was recently in a phase where she would have been content for just a little fame (this would have been reached by simply killing someone socially prominent…) but then realized she was compromising in her goals. Several times she refers to Charlie Manson as a hero, generating a classic line from her boss: “Sometimes things don’t turn out as happily as they did for Charlie Manson” in an attempt to deter her from such psychotic pursuits.

Finally dinner arrives and Miss Riverton departs to pay the delivery boy. In her absence Ms. Asquith receives a phone call from her financial manager and desperately tries to explain the predicament she’s in. Then she demands that Riverton be given a raise, which will hopefully appease her homicidal tendencies for awhile. When Riverton returns Asquith is far more calm and collected and begins to wonder whether the entire story was concocted on the basis of the fish story. After all, if Riverton could trick Asquith into believing she was the stronger of the two she’d be able to manipulate her boss into giving her a raise—much as she’d just done. This thought puts Asquith back on the offensive.

The fish analogy culminates in a contest of physical strength—a push-up contest—between the two women, initiated by Riverton who assumes that the laborious life she’s led has far better outfitted her to win (this mentality is expressed in the form of a stick-it-to-the-man-esque tirade). Unfortunately for Riverton, Asquith’s personal trainer hasn’t been as lax as she had so lately accused him of being, and she is able to demolish her secretary in the competition. Having been put back in her place the young secretary assumes she’s overstepped her boundaries but alas her antics have reminded her boss of the importance of staying well and wary of her surroundings: “You’re going to be the reason I stay in shape!”

Much like the male fish concealing its true identity under a female guise, The Way of All Fish seems at first to be an innocent comedy with a straightforward premise but proves to be a black comedy of the twisted and hilarious kind that people like me prefer to lighter fare. Miss Carpenter’s performance as Asquith definitely causes me to wonder whether she isn’t domineering and intense when out of character and newcomer Sherman’s subtle changes of expression behind her partner’s back lend a great degree of amiability to her otherwise sadistic character. Very well acted on both showings I attended, The Way of All Fish was the sake to my evening’s crab rolls.