Halo 3: saying goodbye to my brain cells

Halo 3 is out. I can feel my brain cells leaving my brain as we speak.

Now, people may think I'm talking about how video games are a waste of time, blah blah blah. No. I'm talking about how I just may be that small percentage of players that video game boxes warn everyone about.

What am I talking about? I've been playing Halo for about an hour and I'm nauseous. Apparently, video games have been known to cause seizures in a "small percentage" of players. Since the bf is not at home right now (which is why I actually was able to get my hands on the 360 tonight), I didn't think it'd be a great idea to come home to me on the ground with controller in hand, having a seizure and foaming at the mouth. So, as loathe as I was to turn off the game -- I was in the middle of a frustrating campaign, maybe it was a good idea to step away -- I walked away and have hopped onto my computer with a weird headache, my eyes feeling sore and a nauseous stomach.

I can't shake off this weird feeling and while staring at a computer screen probably isn't helping, I'm wondering if maybe I'm just not built for video games or if it's my shitty tv that's to blame for this headache of mine. Since I'm a nerd and must google everything, I came across this article on "[helping avoid] rare cases of seizures triggered by flickering lights from TV and video games."

Included in the article are tips on making video game playing more comfortable and reduce stress on the player. While most were valid ("sit at least 2 feet away from the screen" or "reduce the screen's brightness"), I was a little amused at this suggestion:

Cover one eye while playing and regularly change which eye is covered.

Hrm. Are they trying to suggest I wear an eyepatch while playing? Like this guy?



Or, am I supposed to play with a perpetual wink, switching eyes when tired?

Augh. Whatever. I'm sooo going back to play once Reaper is over. And then when I'm finished playing, I'm going to lay down and rest right after.

Besides, it's sexy to watch girls play video games with one eye closed. Right?

Rawr.

New Post

I was going to write up a new post, but I'm tired. It's all of 11:35 p.m. and I am contemplating going to the safety of my bed.* I shall try and write up something tomorrow. I'm trying to give myself a two-post per week deadline.

In other news, the side writing gig is giving me a raise in November. Suh-weeeeet!

Happenings: Sondre + Air show on Wednesday. Exciting..








*I miss my social life.

New Hangouts

I am working. Hard. While I sit and copyedit, I am at my new neighborhood bar, 540 Club. As a writer/editor, you can't help but love a place with free wi-fi and alcohol.

As a side note: I am currently on my second Hoegaarden. I friggin' love this place.

I've been on the lookout for new hangouts and this is as good as any. With the swell of bar-goers at Trad'r Sam's, I am forced to go elsewhere but have been pleased with results.

Where else can I go that the bartender pauses the music ("Humpty Dance") to have an informal poll: Is a pissing contest about distance or endurance?

Answer -- according to bar-goers -- is distance.

I've been recently having a love/hate relationship with San Francisco, having problems with the pretentiousness of us and yet loving how we are low-key, all at the same time. It's only when I am at local dives that I question how I will ever be able to leave (graduate school? new job?) and the prospect of leaving seems impossible.

The hatred of San Francisco, however, is actually stemming from a few different places. Not to point fingers (cough*Marina*cough) but I was recently at a bar, sitting at a stool. At my own admittance, the bar was quite full and I was lucky enough to snag a seat. That was when another patron decided that I wasn't using enough of the stool and decided to share it with me.

Yes. He sat on the back portion of my stool while I sat at the bar. What. the. fuck.

Despite hip negotiations wherein I tried to reclaim my seat, once he realized that I wanted (all of) my seat back, he had the audacity to sigh (loudly) and act indignant at losing the back half of my stool.

Don't even make me mention the asshole who ran through a red light in Union Square and almost hit my friend's daughter (in baby carriage). Upon confrontation with him -- where "Why don't you watch where you're going?" was yelled into his open window -- he flipped off me, my friend, and my friend's daughter. Classy.

The asshole-ishness has seemed to transformed onto the web as well, typifying San Franciscans as self-righteous commenters. Writing for a website has become daunting: the SF commenters are brutal. Myself and others from SF have been writing articles about the SF scene and are constantly bombarded with rude messages: "Are you even FROM San Francisco?" to "Haven't you ever heard of _______? Obviously you haven't." Snide jabs to make you question why you love this city and its inhabitants so much.

No city is perfect, but I hate to have such a negative stigma creep in. This is one of the few weekends where I've been able to realize a more purified San Francisco experience (bridge and tunnel dwellers have been limited as the bridge and tunnel have been temporarily put out of commission) and it hasn't been bad. Is the horrific attitude I'm coming across from our neighboring cities? As a native east bay'er, I'm loathe to think so.

Right now, I'm trying to go out as much as I can this weekend so I can experience this city at its least crowded, in its full glory and at its best. I don't want to believe in a city where we've been typified by our "smug" and our ability to enjoy our own farts (ref: South Park) but we've somehow earned it. I'm embarrassed. This isn't us. Yet, I can't help but smirk as an outsider and an insider. Shit. What are we going to do with ourselves?

*I've felt the purpose and reason for this post ebb and wane. Four hoegaardens in. Let's just say I'm distracted. I'm sure I'll be flamed through messaging by tomorrow. cheers.

Cheating.

Doing a trial run on Vox.com.







We'll see which one I like better.

Vote for Tyler.

Tyler Durden: You have to know the answer to this question! If you died right now, how would you feel about your life?
Narrator: I don't know, I wouldn't feel anything good about my life, is that what you want to hear me say? Fine. Come on!
Tyler Durden: Not good enough.

--------------------------
I've been in a Fight Club mood lately; it's a feeling that usually creeps up on me every season or so and flourishes into this whiny "what the fuck am I doing with my life?" vein of thinking. It's not something I really like to succumb to -- perpetual bitching that makes its way onto my blog -- but there it is.

I haven't been blogging lately because to be perfectly honest, I haven't felt the need to. If you could look at my pending entries, I must have at least five going, but nothing I felt needed finishing or publishing. Sometimes I feel that blogging is depressing, its blatantently self-promotory -- something that I cringe at, but have fallen victim to.

--------------------------
San Francisco moments:

In an effort to get more creative juices going, I decided I needed a change of scenery and headed to Fillmore street for some veggie chili + wi-fi. And since Fillmore Street is.. well, Fillmore Street, I was having some problems finding parking. After 15 minutes of circling, I ended up blocking traffic for nearly five minutes waiting for a car to leave its space. While the person who I was waiting for failed to mention to me that he was illegally parked when I asked if he was leaving, the valet for a nearby restaurant jogged over to let me know it wasn't a space. He gestured to his valet sign and shrugged, saying, "Valet?" I shook my head and said no, but thanks anyway and drove off.

I spend fifteen more minutes looking for parking when I find myself turning back onto that same block with the valet person. He recognizes my car and we lock eyes for an instant, me feeling embarrassed that I'm actually still looking for parking. I shrug as a funny gesture and keep driving, finding a parking spot -- finally -- three cars down. I back up and reverse into the space. As I climbed out of the car, I see the valet person jogging over towards me and I think, 'oh shit, give me a fucking break. This isn't a space, either?'

Instead, when he reaches me he says, "Awesome space!" before giving me a high five and running back to his restaurant.

Sometimes I fucking love this city.

Found.

From my former, wistful, girly blog:

Detach and Release

This is a Contest.

There are only two competitive structures:

1. Who can care less?
2. Who can let go first?

Contestant number one, through years of intensive training, is leading the pack and dominating in the first structure of the game. She is, however, at the ready to win the second competition should it come down to the wire and is determined to stay in until the last second before ducking out and remaining victorious with an intact and still-beating heart.

Contestant number two will never know what hit him.

*****
It is a simple thing, this thing that's happening, and yet she can't quash the cuteness, the quietness of the act -- she can't stomach the full enjoyment of it in case of its inevitable leave from her.

And he questions her, "You mean you've never..." and she says, 'no' and leaves it at that; thinking back on if there was ever anyone who tempted her or made her wish for a closeness that wasn't there. This isn't about sex, but intimacy; she had learned long ago, when hearts were only imaginarily broken by unrequited crushes, that her unbridled heart must be tamed. That the quiet simple acts -- when shunned or taken away -- are the real moments which injure the soul if it is not tucked away carefully, oh-so-carefully, and can irreparably tear everything apart. Wildness can be broken and, once she has tamed her heart, she can wile away the time wisting away for those once-true moments from a safer distance. Those moments long gone and learning to be no longer desired.

She thinks of the parts of herself that are hidden away that she once gave freely and wonders what this means for her future. Not their future, per se, but her own outlook on love and where her experiences will take her and lead. She relaxes and gives into the smiles and the gleam in her eyes, but feels a shadow in the back of her mind that allows her room to recoil and retreat. It is then that you notice the sadness at the helm of the ship -- if you pause and look -- something he sees sometimes but doesn't understand and lets slip away with a singular 'no' and a look that begs not to be questioned.

*****

I could post something nicer and non-heavy, but it's Monday and I feel like it.

You Know You're Not Having a Good Day When..

you're absolutely convinced that this doll can make everything seem better.

Despite the fact that you are 24-years-old and no longer living at your parents house.