The Triforce of Disdain

After finally tracking down a rental copy yesterday, I'm ass-in-the-middle of Mirror's Edge. Now, my greatest challenge: I am going to write my impression of this game without using the word "frustrating."

I constantly face situations where I'm stuck in a room full of people (who shoot me) and need to detect the exit before they're done shooting me. The game directs the player, early in the first chapter, to always avoid enemies. This is good advice, because Faith (the protagonist) can take about two hits before she goes down. Whenever I try to use the limited combat arsenal against more than two enemies, I die. But when I'm stuck in an enclosed space, being continually perforated by stormtroopers, it's often simply more expedient to kill them all so I can have enough breathing room to complete my jumping puzzle.

The jumping, sliding, and climbing are the best part of the game, but they're muddied by control choices and unresponsive environmental objects. Common scene: I'm running across the skyline, getting up to an exhilarating speed. I take a gigantic leap from one rooftop to another, aiming to catch a drainpipe and shimmy my way down to street level ... but, even though it looks like I've hit the pipe dead center, my character doesn't grab it, and I get to experience the very pretty death sequence yet again. I try the jump six more times before I finally get it right, but I throw the controller down and storm off ten minutes later when the whole situation repeats itself. It's really frustrating.

Whole Cloth

Sometimes I write just because I need to write. I see people in my extended peer group doing things that I'd love to, pursuing good jobs or schooling or relationships, and I get mad at myself. Anger turned inward can be a great motivator or it can wear you away. I feel very worn away. I don't know if it's serotonin, laziness, or a fierce desire to maintain homeostasis that keeps me from taking the minute steps necessary to improving my life. Left alone, I'd wait for a thousand tomorrows to come in hope that they'd bring me into a better situation and make me more of a person.

Well, I still need to write longer and more often. Then, expose that writing to more criticism than this little blog can draw.

Cataclysmic Pink

Covert videogame T-Shirts are my new obsession. You can buy a Mario shirt at any department store nowadays; apparel that says "I like games" has become devalued in its ubiquity. It's partially the snob in me, snarling at the thought that my niche pastime has become socially acceptable to espouse. Esoteric nerd merchandise acts as a hanky code for the high-functioning geek: a way to subtly communicate your interests without being the guy at the party who talks about his WoW character like new, starry-eyed parents talk about their children.

The T-Shirt itself has become this weird language of fabric semaphore, primarily for young men. Pants, jackets, skirts, and other items of clothing imply the traits of the wearer. Socioeconomic class, sexuality, gender, or political attitudes can be inferred from an outfit. But the T-Shirt is a Rorschach test emblazoned upon the chest: like the bumper sticker, it reveals a person's hidden tendencies, prejudices, convictions, and quirks.

In Just Seven Days, I Can Make You A Man

Burritos al pastor taste like Mexican sloppy joes.