Xboxicide goes Live with a Halo match on a Friday night

It was bound to happen eventually.

How much longer could I continue this “Xboxicide” bit up without venturing out into the wild world of live play?

Xbox pretty much brought the concept to the fore amongst popular game consoles and even now it has the market cornered when it comes to live play. Throw in a headset and Xbox Live offers much more than just games…you can form online parties and watch movies together (from the online version of Netflix) or just shoot the breeze about things which young geeks like to talk about…all with complete strangers, all connected by this strange little hard drive game-playing gadget that is the pathway into an online game world, courtesy of Microsoft.

Once you’ve played a round of competitive, lively Live play, everything else just doesn’t seem as intriguing. Playing local (not Live, against the game disk or other people in your living room) doesn’t seem to offer the same sense of pizazz. I could be mistaken about that…I don’t claim to be the king of Xbox or anything approaching “expert” level…I suppose the true gamer, the hard core type, finds satisfaction in any type of play environment.

So last Friday, —- and I squared off not against each other, but against any of the nameless thousands who populate the Xbox Live sphere on a Friday night. We played Halo 3, arguably one of the best Live games to choose from. Great fun ensued (14 minutes of it)!

Part 1:

Part 2, the continuation and conclusion of this debacle, will be posted later. And here it is, the thrilling conclusion:

My 3 cents, for what it’s worth…

This morning while reconciling my bank account, I discovered I was $0.03 off…meaning I had somehow managed to make it appear I had 3 extra pennies which the bank didn’t show. Horrors.

It reminded me of a period of time about 5 years ago, right after I was divorced and moved out on my own, when I discovered a $0.23 difference.

Perhaps preoccupied with the monumental task of getting my life in order and/or too much partying and debauchery, I let it slide. For a long time. Occasionally I would revisit my account and spot the 23 cent difference, shrug it off, pretend it was nothing. And it was…nothing. If 23 cents can make or break you, I think you have some serious problems which transcend the perfect and delightful fulfillment of a balanced checkbook. Once in a while I would try to backtrack and deconstruct my checking account…get to the bottom of those 23 cents. Put it to bed once and for all. But I never could because as time dragged on and I incurred new charges and expenditures, that 23 cent snafu became buried deeper and deeper in the historical salt mine of my checking account. If I had nipped it in the bud it would have been simple to remedy. Months later it had become a Sisyphean task that was proving unworthwhile of my precious drinking time. My life was a chaotic mess.

Those 23 cents: unimportant, insignificant. A low-grade bothersome disjunction in my life. But it was bothersome, for I have not forgotten it. Apparently…considering it burst back into my mind this morning as I contemplated today’s 3 cent dichotomy.

This is an important lesson to consider…even the smallest inconsistencies within one’s life, if allowed to fester, disrupt the harmony of a peaceful existence. That 23 cent difference, laughable on paper, incurred 500% interest, compounded daily, in terms of emotional and intellectual drain upon my life. And I didn’t realize it. In denial and blind, I looked past the difference and didn’t allow myself to experience the self-awareness that by allowing the difference to continue unabated, I was signaling the Gods of Peace that I was not ready for their gift.

Many times, the attainment of a goal supersedes the path itself. If you spend too much time examining your path and agonizing over which forks to take, which rocks and holes to avoid, you’ll never reach your destination. So when I made the decision that my goal was more important than a trifling 23 cents, I merely wrote it off. I entered an offsetting line and pulverized that 23 cents into non-existence once and for all! And moved on with my life.

This morning, I tracked down the 3 cents immediately and now I’m balanced. The quest to avoid imbalance…don’t let it become lost in the bustle of daily maintenance.

Blogroll Addition: FeministX


Frankly, this “blogroll addition” puzzles me.


It’s a blog I’m not enormously familiar with, definitely not to the level I would expect someone to be familiar with for a blog they list on their blogroll (which I would presume is a rather lofty personal honor). Essentially, this blogroll addition pertains to a concept and a few posts which strike me as personally gratifying, to the degree that I feel almost as if I could have written them myself, so deeply does my intellectual sympathy run with the author.


The author? Who? A mystery.


Don’t know her name. Her blog is called FeministX and though it seems strangely obvious, she is anything but.


She is not…typical. Whereas the field is over-populated with the obligatory dykish, male-hating, lumberjackish femininistic herd, FeministX lays back a little. Lets her long dark hair down and enjoys the male attention, especially the Alpha male attention. Cloaked behind the rowdy feminist ball-busting image, she’s also fond of her femininity.


And displays her wares proudly.


If we are to believe:




Yes, that is who the mysterious blogger known as FeministX claims to be. The feminist who has proven she can be harshly self-critical of her gender’s generalized failings but who is also able to resort to the tried and true feminist skewering of the male race. She is too sexy and too obliging of the typical borderline man’s-rights misogynist. She’s the female equivalent of a dark sudsy brew that contains no fat, no sugar, no carbs, yet all the nutrients and anti-oxidants you need in an FDA-decreed 24-hour day.


And as is prone to happen when such a shaky and suspicious congruence of events falls into place, people doubt. When FeministX posted her infamous breast photo (the original contained her face but she cropped it…evidently she didn’t want the face connected with the boobage) there was a chorus of accusers yelling “photochopped!”


I have to admit, I harbored (and still do) some doubts…anyone can be anyone on the internet. FeministX could very well be

, or more likely,


FeministX is young, and I suspect, molding her future persona, and while feminism may have been the original driving force behind the genesis of her blog, she’s begun to deconstruct some of the thinking, the paradigm, behind her chosen field of bloggery. In her profile, she even states:


I started my blog with the intention of focusing on feminist concerns, but lately I have taken to writing about the biological basis of human behavior.


Wow! That’s quite a departure, FemX. Feminists eschew the biology, the millions years of evolution thing, feminists are rabid and vehement deniers of the notion that sexuality is a fixed and genetic facet of our personality. Feminists are the ultimate biological relativists. And for FemX to proclaim on her blog that she is now concentrating on the “biological basis of human behavior” points to an almost complete turnaround of beliefs in a few short months her blog has lived.


Seems she has become the unofficial buxom spokeswoman for HBD (“human biodiversity” – not nearly as liberally academic as the name may imply) an interesting field of “study” or “thought” or whatever it is you see fit to call a rapidly expanding group of intellectuals who need to put a label on their belief system. Thing is, you end up with a legion of high-IQ’d members and you will be drawn in by their fluent and articulate arguments as they espouse whatever it is they…espouse.


As FemX concentrates on untangling human biological behavior, she is enticing flocks of HBD intellectuals to her site, for she combines all the necessary ingredients required for the social spread and societal exposure of the HBD phenomena…a sexy young Indian girl who claims to be a feminist but also not, who claims to see the “big picture” and can distinguish between natural human evolved urges and the wrath they have reserved for the female half of the species for millions of years. It’s odd. She recognizes what goes on, intellectualizes it, and finally, makes no demands. As if the act of pointing out the harsh genetic legacy we all bear defrays any pressing cultural revamping. Man, that is not a very good feminist.


That’s cool, whatever floats her boat. If there even is a real FeministX.


Some of those HBD folks and their neo-eugenicized framework can be quite utilitarian and imposingly egotistical…anything is possible.


In any case, FeministX, the blog, posts some excellent material.


I will go into HBD at another time. From a Chicano perspective.


If that’s not a draw, I don’t know what is.



A little “Seattle” for a Sunday night

Oh yep, 1987.

A strange musical year for me…a transitional period which saw me coming down from the thrashing mid-80s metal high, and begin to branch out into industrial and Brit dark alternative music. These were my prime concert-going days…literally going to concerts weekly. I still pay the price today, having to cock my head in order to make sure I’m hearing correctly when soft-spoken people speak and I find myself asking “huh?” way much more than I’d like. Next step is a big shiny hearing aid protruding out my hairy ear canal. Jesus.

That’s what happens when you spend too much time in 100+ decibel environments. 1987, 1988, it was all crazy shit those years. Watching Motorhead on Saturday at the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium and maybe the following Friday, The Jesus And Mary Chain at the Hollywood Paladium. Good times.

1987 saw John Lydon resurface yet again with an album, “Happy” from his Sex Pistols reincarnation-al project, Public Image Limited.

I loved the Seattle track immediately, and I still do. Have the mp3 tucked away on my hard drive and it means so much more now that it did then.

Back then it was just a morass of disconnected words…it was music and nothing else. We all take away a little of our soul from the music we choose to listen to. Basically soulless at the time, subsisting for a boozy good time, I took nothing. Listening to the song now, I love its damnation of the corporate rat race. Well, that’s how I see it. Apparently, and unfortunately, when PIL wrote it they were actually (so the story goes) trashing the city which was but one more dead-end, boring, tour stop.

Really, nothing to do with the corporate rat race at all.

That’s fine. As I said, it’s what we take away from music that matters. It’s like literature…a novel can symbolize something entirely different to another person…something which may seem laughable and completely nonsensical to your discerning mind. We are so presumptuous as an intelligent race as to believe our interpretation of anything is gospel.

And listening to this song on a Sunday night before heading back to the rat race tomorrow seems so deliciously rebellious.

Shoeboxed around the rifle range
Have all your functions rearranged
Your mind and body gagged and bound
On a new familiar playing ground
The ordinary will ignore
Whatever they canot explain
As if–nothing ever happened
And everything remained the same again

What in the world

-Written by Dias, Edmonds,
Lydon, McGeoch, Smith
Prod. by Gary Langan & PIL

Human suggestibility and my victory over whoredom

Your typical store-bought sweetened and fruit-flavored yogurt is like a junkie prostitute who has taken a shower and put on make-up and heels (and a tight long-sleeved shirt) for you. The illusion is fine and even a tad pleasing, but beneath the surface appeal, you do realize that what you’re really getting is a disconcertingly diseased rendition of one of Mother Nature’s gifts.

And as far as the yogurt is concerned, despite all the evidence and warnings I care to read that yogurt is most beneficial when unsweetened and unflavored (in its pure form when it actually is allowed to perform fully, and unencumbered by chemicals, its pleasant duties upon your digestive tract), I nevertheless find myself answering the whore call of Ms. Dannon or Ms. Yoplait over and over.

My aversion to plain yogurt has been nothing short of legendary. I simply couldn’t do it. The notion of fermented milk struck me as an intolerable consumption of sour goo, something like what kids used to vomit in the 1st and 3rd grade classroom. No way Jose, no go. No can do.

Well, I’m pleased to announce, I’ve surmounted (and dismounted) my reliance upon the yogurt whore.

I literally shifted my thinking, I’ve circumvented my gag reflex, I’ve redefined plain yogurt, and now it’s fine. It’s not plain yogurt anymore.

It’s sour cream.

Wow. I just had a bowl of the stuff with some Triscuits. Delicious, this sour cream.