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Today's lunch: El Burrito Tres Colores at El Sombrero in Cranberry Township, PA.

El Burrito Tres Colores

Hey, there. Long time no see.

With the NHL playoffs in full swing, I find myself watching Versus much more than I normally would, which is pretty much never. Their hockey announcers aren't bad, but I can't get over the fact that Brian Engblom sounds almost exactly like Bruce McCulloch from The Kids in the Hall. I keep waiting for him to cry out, "My pen! My pen!" It's uncanny.

Aside: the Flyers just beat the Caps. I don't know who looks more stunned: the Capital's or their fans. It's a nasty feeling - like someone punched you in the gut - when your team loses such a heartbreaker. I'm sure the Caps will come back strong next year, though.

Go Penguins!

So, my first thought when I saw the outpouring of emotion at the "presumed death" of Mr. McMahon on Smackdown tonight was, "Well, he's getting his Mr. McMahon Appreciation Night." The show is still airing, but, at this rate, I'm sure even Brett Hart will come out to say how much he respected Vince, blah, blah, blah.

My second thought was, "He'll probably re-appear right in the middle of an emotional tribute on Raw next week, just to rub it in about how he got everyone to feel bad about his demise." He was hated enough, but this would increase his heel factor by 1000.

Then I read that Sensational Sherri passed away today. The Mr. McMahon death angle was tacky enough as it is; imagine how much tackier it will be come Monday night. They can't possibly come out and give a real 10 bell salute for Sherri just to follow it up with a fake 10 bell salute for Vince. Do they delay the storyline for a week? That's unlikely. Do they delay honoring Sherri? That would be a huge dick move, right there.

I really can't see how the WWE can come out of this without looking any more cold and heartless than they already do. I guess that is to be expected, considering they are still milking Eddie Guerrero's death almost two years later.

The real Hulk Hogan

So, I was in Walmart the other day, just walking around and minding my own business. My local Walmart is packed 24 hours a day, and you are always bumping into people. I had grabbed the items I needed and was heading to the checkout when I almost ran into a slightly older couple that popped out from behind a display. I glanced over to excuse myself, and, I kid you not, the guy was dressed from head to toe like Hulk Hogan. He had the tank top, bandana, handlebar mustache, dark sunglasses, you name it. The only thing he was missing was the feather boas. I just had to stop and stare.

Since then, all I can think about is why the guy was dressed like the Hulkster. Is he an impersonator? An avid fan? A kook? I know Walmart has a reputation for attracting certain kinds, but my Walmart isn't that bad.

I should have asked the guy what the deal was. I really need to know.

I think my favorite thing about VOX so far is the quality of the posters I've been coming across while exploring. There are some really interesting, well written posts to be found. Art, literature, culture, and language discussions are abundant. It's time to start adding people to my neighborhood.

After watching Carnival of Souls the other night, I've been having some of the most memorable dreams I've had in years. CoS's theme of societal dissociation even popped up in one of them, only it took a more technological slant. Instead of just rehashing it stream-of-consciousness style, I thought I'd get a little creative and put it in the form of a short story.

--

     I had booked a night in a small, bed-and-breakfast style hotel. The hotel and its employees were friendly and warm. It felt more like I was staying at a relative's house than a cold, impersonal hotel. While checking in, I was told there was a problem with my room. The hotel was overbooked, but they offered to let me stay the night in an unused waiting room. I agreed to stay, as I had nowhere else to go at such a late hour.

     I tried to take ease in the waiting room, but something was out of place. The room felt dark and detached from the bright and welcoming tone the rest of the hotel had. In fact, the room didn't just feel dark, it was dark. The only light I could find came from a door across the room that was left ajar. A thin sliver of light oozed in through the slight opening, filling the room with sharp, noirish angles. I suddenly became uneasy and wanted to leave the hotel at once.

     From nowhere, a voice -- no voices -- started calling out to me. They were calling out every forum and blog post I ever made, every email, IM, and text message I ever sent. They knew every discussion I ever had on the phone, every show I ever Tivoed, every purchase ever made with my credit cards. The voices came through the TV, through the radio, through every electrical outlet in the room. It was technological convergence taken to supernaturally high levels. My cell phone rang. The caller ID showed a familiar number. I thought I was saved, and answered the call.

     The voices came through my phone. "We know you. We know all about you." What was once uneasiness became nausea.

     Through the crack in the door, I saw people milling around in the lobby. I cried out to them, but none of them noticed. "Help me! Can't you hear the voices? Please!" Not a single person even turned towards the room. They just went about their business. I panicked. Why wasn't anyone helping me? Can they even hear me? How could I escape these voices that knew everything I did, everything I had ever done? Wait, they didn't know everything, only the things I had done using some sort of technology. The answer was simple: I only had to remove myself from "the grid" and I might be free of them. Could it really work?

     Suddenly, a shadow appeared through the crack in the door. I lunged at it, took hold of its maker, and shook him violently. "Who are you and why are you doing this? How are you doing this? Why don't you just leave me alone?"  I pulled the figure's face into the light. It was the hotel manager.

     He cried, "I just came to tell you your room was ready. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you."

     "The voices. Tell me you heard the voices!" I shook him again.

     "Sir, please. I have no idea what you are talking about. The room was silent when I approached"

     I let him go.

     ...

--

At this point my phone rang and woke me up. Grrr! I'm sure I would have found the truth behind the voices if I only had 10 more minutes. Oh, did I mention that some of the voices sounded like Regan when she was possessed in The Exorcist and some sounded like the noise that kept appearing in The Grudge? Yeah. I think that's all I need to say about that.

The Art of Dreaming

Carlos Castaneda

Before I went to sleep that night, I concentrated on "seeing" my hands in my dreams. For those that haven't read Carlos Castaneda's The Art of Dreaming, the idea is that by concentrating on seeing something while you're dreaming you will be able to take control of your dreams. In other words, instead of just being a passive viewer, you will be an active participant and can control what happens in them. It's great when it works, but the effort needed to accomplish it often causes me to wake up prematurely. There were several times during this dream when I "saw" my hands and had a chance to take control, but it was so interesting I didn't want it to end.

*sigh* Maybe one day I'll learn the secret of the voices.

Illbleed

With shidoshi talking about Rule of Rose and Codi and Cori talking about Fatal Frame III, I found myself wanting to play a good survival horror game last night. Instead, I ended up pulling out my Dreamcast and Illbleed. For anyone that hasn't played it, Illbleed puts you in a horror theme-park where you have to search for your missing friends. Traps are set throughout the park, and you have to avoid them to survive. The major gameplay mechanic is that your character has to watch their heart rate, adrenaline level, and blood loss in addition to their health level. Keeping all of these at stable levels is quite a chore. There is more item management than any Resident Evil game could ever have.

I had completely forgotten how to play Illbleed, and starting from an old game save made me scratch my head trying to figure out the controls. One "New Game" and a quick read of the manual later, and I quickly remembered why I never made it all the way through Illbleed when it came out in 2001. The controls are clunky and  the camera is terrible. And having to scan for traps and monsters with your "horror monitor" every few steps is unbearable.

Now, all my complaining for the last two paragraphs might make you think I immediately pulled Illbleed out of my Dreamcast. Well, I didn't. The "scares" in Illbleed are so cheesy, so corny, so b-movie they more than make up for its shortcomings. Blood gushes out of windows, heads explode, chickens cooking in the kitchen turn into giant, hungry mouths. Anyone who loves bad haunted houses or cheesy horror movies will at least find a little to love about Illbleed. I think this time around, I'm gonna play it all the way through.

it feels good to be a gangsta.

So my friends peer-pressured me into signing up for VOX. I'm glad they weren't around during my formative years. They're pretty persuasive.

I'm not sure what I'm going to do with yet another web presence. Let me kick the tires a little and I'll come up with something. (Is it a cliche yet to say you're 'kicking the tires' of a social website?)

Tip of the Day: Corky Sherwood Forest is good for your soul.