Thursday, August 14, 2008

What I Learned in Space

1) A plane full of journalists worrying about barfing in front of one another is funny.

2) M&Ms and water are amazing toys to play with when you're weightless.

3) M&Ms and water are disgusting, goopy things to lay down on when you're not weightless anymore and they've been smeared all over the plane.

Monday, August 11, 2008

Tele-phooey

Setting what must be some sort of consumer electronics record for epic failure, my third Treo 650 died yesterday. My IT department is ordering me a new phone—the Treo 750—and it will probably get here in a few days, but in the meantime, I don’t have a phone.

Yes, I recognize the absurdity of purchasing the next iteration of a product that has absolutely, definitively not worked, but among the options, I think it’s the best one. Either that, or I go back to paying for my own phone service, and since this is basically the one perk I get from this job, you will have to pry the phone from my cold, dead hands.

Although you might not want to bother, since it probably won’t be working.

Thursday, August 7, 2008

Kristen Salvatore, MD

I take oral hygiene very seriously.

Nine years ago, during my first visit to the dentist in about three years, the attending doc leaned back and asked me, "So, are you interested in keeping your own teeth as you get older, or is your plan for dentures?" Because it's me, I was crushed that I'd let down this dentist I'd never met before, and as a result became a serial flosser/fluoride rinser. I haven't had a cavity since.

So imagine my surprise when a routine X-ray turned up what my dentist (different guy) described as "something bad." Then he asked me if I'd ever been in a car accident or been hit hard in the mouth. This seemed to embarrass me more than him, for some reason--I generally approach people's possible traumas gingerly--but luckily he didn't take that as cause to call health and human services. He just explained that it looked like the bottom of the root of one of my front teeth was infected and that I'd need a root canal. I thought this sounded crazy--I am a serial flosser!--but the X-ray did in fact show a big, black blotch on one of my front teeth.

I will spare you all the details of my root canal, except to say while it a) wasn't painful, it was b) absolutely disgusting, and it c) required several stitches. This is what they looked like:

I've had stitches before--many times, in fact--so four stitches at once wasn't new to me. Four stitches that looked like permanent shit in my front teeth was new (black thread? in my mouth? really?), but stitches, no, I'm old hat at those.

After a day spent on the couch with HRH Prince Vicodin (take a moment, bow to him), it was time to head em up, move em out, and head back to work. So I performed my morning ablutions--wash it, dry it, moisturize it--and got ready to head out. Before I did, I decided to rinse the coffee cup I'd been sipping from. Which was totally cool until it broke off in my hand and slice my thumb open something fierce.

This is what that looked like:

So me and my four existing stitches went off to the hospital (and I'd like to take a moment here to thank my ex for just dropping me off outside the emergency room and then heading out--what a sweetheart, folks!), where we met Dr. Matt:

got all shot up:

and added five stitches:


bringing the full stitch count to a total of nine, in two different places, for unrelated incidents.

I told Dr. Matt that had to be some sort of record. He rewarded me by telling me that if I was careful, I could take my own stitches out when they were ready.

And I did:




(Full disclosure: this happened two years ago, but I just stumbled upon the pictures/video.)

Monday, July 28, 2008

The Mad Milliner

I do this thing for Tracey every year on her birthday: I make her a hat. Sometimes, they're actually quite pretty (the newsboy cap made of fresh flowers). Sometimes, they're impractical but make for a funny joke (the hat made of hats). Sometimes, they're terrifically low-tech (the bubble-wrap hat). And sometimes
they're actually pretty involved.

Happy birthday to Captain Tracey of the Party Police.

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

We're Number 10! Go team!

This is my first-ever season as a fantasy baseball team manager, and I'm not in dead last! In fact, I am not even second-to-dead last: my team has been 10th out of 12th for weeks now, and that's with me even forgetting to play my starting pitchers for a couple of weeks. Imagine if that happened in the majors: if Bruce Bochy just forgot to put in Tim Lincecum for a couple of weeks. The Giants would be terrible!

Oh, wait...

Anyway, fantasy baseball turns out not to be as difficult as I thought it would (assuming you're not actually trying to be a contender, which I'm clearly not), but it has highlighted a fact that's dogged me through most of my career as a baseball fan, which is that when it comes to baseball fandom, I am a statistical outlier: I pay almost no attention to the statistics of the game.

As most people know, poring over minute statistical details--WHIP, ERA, OBP--is like mana to most baseball fans. In fact, it's a sweet treat for most announcers, too--that's why it's not out of the realm of possibility to hear one announce that a particular players is, say, leading his division for stolen bases among players whose last name includes at least three vowels.

While I'm all for crazy-ass math, I am just not this kind of fan. I couldn't tell you the ERA of my favorite pitcher or the batting average of my favorite slugger. In fact, I'm not even sure I could name the Oakland A's outfield right now, and they are my favorite team. I defy you to question my devotion to them: I cut open my hand last year severely enough to require multiple stitches and didn't so much as yelp. When the A's lost the ALDS to the Twins in 2002, I wept uncontrollably for an hour in the left-field bleachers.


Rollie Fingers: 114-188 career win/loss record; 341 career saves; 2.90 career ERA; leads Hall of Fame relievers with handlebar moustaches in delinquent Wisconsin tax payments

Saturday, July 19, 2008

Hate to Vote? Don't Vote to Hate

When you consider this, this, this, and especially this, you have to wonder what kind of people have such a hard time with this, this, and this. That last photo is of a gay couple and the five children they've adopted.

Five.

Friday, July 18, 2008

E3, and Growing Up

I just attended my sixth or seventh E3--I can't remember which, but as you can tell by the scintillating news at that link (Top 10 E3 Bathrooms!), things have changed from the days when all us game journos were fighting to be the first to file stories on hot new game announcements.

Not like we were all running around with "Press" badges tucked into our fedoras, but we did actually find out about new stuff at the show, and in between that, we were hard-partying freaks who regularly got into trouble for stuff like yakking all over hotel rooms.

Not me. Other people. But you get the idea.

This year, I was at E3 for a total of two days and two nights, both of which saw me home and tucked safely into bed in my assy hotel before midnight. I even gave away the two tickets I had to see The Who at the Rock Band event.

It was a kinder, gentler me, attending a smaller, gentler event. And look: Lego Batman! Literally!

[OK, I can't upload images right now, but it's coming...]

Friday, July 11, 2008

Indentity Theft!

Oh my god! Look what's happened!

Kristen Salvatore has been stolen...and replaced by a YOUNG PERKY BLONDE! Who apparently sells houses and airline tickets! And USED CARS!



Ok, that last part sounds like me.

Sporn



I always knew boobs would make me famous:

MSNBC
USA Today

Thursday, May 29, 2008

Look How Cute this Dog Is!


(Obviously, I haven't paid this space any attention lately, so I thought a cute photo of my dog might distract you.)

Thursday, April 24, 2008

Production Week--July Issue

It's production week on the mag, which means that by Friday, we'll have sent all the PDFs of all of the pages of the July issue to the printer. It's like finals week in college...except that we have finals week every 28 days, and we never graduate.

Not that that's all bad--you may recall that finals week, while to some degrees hellish, can also be kind of fun. If things are moving along at a good clip--which, I'm happy to report, they are here this week--then even though you're under the gun to get stuff completed and corrected and sent, the pressure element is kind of fun. There's a certain camaraderie among the stuff, and super-concentrated bursts of work are punctuated by the super-silly bursts of humor that only happen when people are under pressure and a little bit tired.

There's a tipping point, of course--if things aren't going well (a game is too broken to finish, the printer isn't working, the server is full, someone's come down with the flu, the polybag was misprinted, a last-minute ad is coming in or dropping out), or if everyone's really under-rested, then the goofing off ends up giving way to some raw nerves. It's all part of the process of putting out a magazine, and no one takes it personally or holds a grudge when one of us has a little personality explosion. But I'm happy to report that this week hasn't been that kind of production week. The mini-disasters that always come up have been handled with aplomb, everyone's been getting home at a reasonable hour and getting enough not-at-work time, and to boot, a new giant beanbag showed up in the office. Bonus!

Sunday, April 20, 2008

Beta Testing

People who really love games will go to great lengths to become beta testers on upcoming titles they're really into. I understand the appeal: everyone likes being first, everyone likes being part of something exclusive, and everyone likes being able to take credit for participating in something, especially if it ends up being something big and famous. Oh, and everyone likes free stuff, and when you play in a beta, you're getting to play a game early and for free.

But you're also signing up to be a development-team's gaming guinea pig, prostrating your in-game experience at the feet of their progress. Sunk a bunch of time into creating a character and leveling it up? Too bad--all characters get wiped during the next patch. Only have time to play on the weekends? Not this weekend--it'll take at least that long to download the 5GB patch you'll need...you know, the one that's wiping out all of your progress up to now. Server booting you off? Client crashing every 45 seconds? Framerates in the teens? Forget calling tech support--you essentially are tech support, helping the developers to zoom in on and hopefully eliminate problems and their causes, so that all the future paying customers don't have to deal with them.

Of course, given what I do for a living, I'd rather know that someone (not necessarily me, but someone) is testing out a game before it's released and people spend their money it. Now that I've had some experiences playing games in beta form, I think I've revised my opinion on actually being a beta tester: I think I'd rather test a game I wasn't excited about--testing one you are looking forward to and running into constant problems turns out to be no less frustrating than if you'd bought it and discovered them. Except of course that you're not out $50.

Monday, April 14, 2008

I Love a Good Bruise

Which is good, because I get them all the time. I'm clumsy, and I run into things and fall down a lot. Like Chevy Chase, but shorter and less rich. But it makes me feel like my bruises are proof that I am up and around and doing things, because just sitting still on the couch doesn't mark you up any, now, does it?

This weekend's bruises are a result of gardening at Tracey's and Chris' house. I may have mentioned that I planted some tomatoes in my own yard recently, but that's about the extent of my gardening experience. My sister and Chris own an actual house with an actual yard, where Tracey is now enacting an actual Gardening Vision that involves a lot of hole-digging and dirt-moving and dandelion-demolishing. That last one is where I came in: I waged full-scale war on the dandelions colonizing Tracey's front lawn, and as a result, I am boasting a quarter-sized bruise on my palm. It's not comfortable, but I actually don't mind it--gardening, as it turns out, is actually rather strenuous, good exercise, like playing soccer, and this sort of makes me feel like I was involved in something heavy-duty like a contact sport.


Also, Happy Birthday to Nicole! And hooray for Sian, who will be here soon!

Monday, March 31, 2008

Goeiemorgen, friends

I'm writing from gate C6 at Amsterdam's Schiphol airport. It's 11:30ish in the morning here, and I'm waiting patiently to board the plane that will whisk me off to Oslo, where it's apparently quite cold and salted meats are the norm. So far, the trip has been uneventful, and in fact, even touched by a bit of good luck: While I was originally slated to spend 11 grueling hours in a middle seat, I managed to get myself moved into an aisle when I checked in at SFO...and then some folks asked me if I'd switch seats so they could travel together, and my generosity was rewarded by the fates quite handsomely, since the seat next to me ended up the only empty one on an otherwise completely full plane. I confess that I was pretty sure the people around me were sending unhappy thoughts my way for a bit, but I can't blame them, I'd have done the very same from my middle seat. So, while I still didn't enjoy the most restful 10 hours--coach seats are coach seats, even when you have two of them, and there's no way to adequately set yourself up for some long-lasting shut-eye--I did manage to get some sleep, so I'm only like a class 2 zombie right now instead of a full-fledged Romero-esque nightmare.

More to come when I arrive in Oslo. I stupidly remembered my camera but not the USB cable to connect it to my PC, so photos might have to wait until I return to the states, but I'll happily provide sparkling descriptions of whatever I see. And eat, of course.

Tuesday, March 25, 2008

Best Reader Email Ever

I received this email from a PC Gamer reader this morning. It is officially my new favorite reader email:

From: xxxxxxx@netzero.net
Sent: Monday, March 24, 2008 6:39 PM
To: Kristen Salvatore
Subject: Hellgate london demo is out

Hi woman

I would like to get Pcgamer dvd with Hellgate london

demo next month. It is about 1.4GB.

I only get a dial up internet account with netzero

so I can not download it fast.I hope you can get the file

on dvd for me

use the game site:

www.3dgamers.com

www.filecloud.com

Search for "hellgate london" in google.com

sincerely,

President Yau Ng

Monday, March 24, 2008

Spring Flinging

Despite still suffering through whatever this b.s. sinus issue is (I went to the doctor today, where I was asked,"Have you tried Sudafed?" Uh, thanks for the tip, Doc), I made it out and about just a bit this weekend. Friday night was drinks and karaoke with my girls S and S, also known as the founding members of the Mary Banilows, an all-girl Barry Manilow cover band that the three of us cooked up conceptually one night. This Friday's brainiac-tastic idea was to buy the old Tower Records on Market Street in the Castro and convert it into a karaoke place full of private karaoke rooms (like the one the three of went to on Friday night), but to also have a bar attached, so patrons can order drinks while they're singing (like the one the three of us went to in London last year).

I also managed to drag myself to the Home Depot, accompanied by my friend D. He patiently waited while I picked out $68 worth of herbs, tomato plants, and planter boxes, and then generously offered his services as a backyard digger. I'd forgotten how nice it feels to plant things you one day hope to eat--I've never been one to plant flowers, not because I don't like them, but because I end up feeling less invested than I should in their health and well-being, and then I travel for work and forget to ask someone to take care of them and they die and I feel awful. But for some reason, I get very attached to my tomato plants and my little boxes of thyme and oregano and Italian flat-leaf parsley.

Wednesday, March 19, 2008

The Day of Eating Dangerously

I'm munching on one of those candy necklaces right now. Usually, I avoid the big bowl of candy ubiquitous to most HR offices (my company's included, obviously), but today, I felt like splashing out. I was too rushed this morning to pack my lunch, so I decided I'd treat myself to an eat-out, and maybe even to something kind of bad for me. The thing is, once you get into that mindset for a day, it's like all bets are off: Let's have a large latte! Let's have two! Let's have candy from HR! Let's have Jack in the Box for lunch! AND DINNER!

I'm kidding, I haven't been that bad at all--the candy necklace and a giant bowl of chicken pho have been my vices today. And some trail mix with M&Ms in it. But Jack in the Box was not only a very real option, it's the road down which some of my co-workers traveled today. And a terrible road it is:

There's actually a pretty long tradition of junky/competitive/disgusting/all-of-the-above eating in this office. Pizzas, burgers, something Logan calls "the sumo no-carb plate," Bucket Week at KFC (which is exactly what you are thinking, and exactly as awful)...it's all been done. Two of the guys here regularly go to the nearby Costco where they each buy themselves a pizza for lunch.

A whole pizza. Each. For lunch.

I find this terrifying, but of course I cannot look away. Which is why I documented some of today's Burger-Eating Contest, the rules of which were:
-Contestants much consume 5 Ultimate Cheeseburgers and one milkshake within 90 minutes, in one sitting. Contestants may not get up and walk around, and vomiting results in immediate disqualification, regardless of the fact that you will probably be glad that you did.

Here is what some of this looked like:

This is Dan after his first burger. I have to admit, I admired his technique: he just keep eating, steadily and calmly, unfazed by the fact that we were all crowded around him making puke jokes.


This is Dan after his second burger. Or maybe his third, I don't know. At this point, I was regularly retreating to another part of the office because the smell of Jack in the Box burgers was making me kind of queasy, to say nothing of the gorge-fest.


This is Norm the Intern after his second burger. I would feel bad for Norm--he's a smaller guy than Dan, and I think he's had less training in this department--except that he'd been walking around all week bragging about how sure he was that he was going to beat the five-burger record, so really, I was just kind of hoping we'd get some good puke shots from him. (No dice.)


This is Dan at his moment of triumph. And by "triumph," I mean, the moment at which he successfully finished consuming 5,000-plus calories in one sitting and lived to tell the tale. Hell, the guy is sitting one desk away from me right now working away, so if he's suffering at all, he's not showing it. I am equal parts disgusted and impressed by this display, but mostly, it makes me feel a little better about the idea of going back for one more dip into the HR candy jar.

Monday, March 17, 2008

The human head weighs 8 pounds

Unless you have your third head cold of the season--then it weighs about 22 pounds. I can hardly believe it myself, but I am sick AGAIN.

Luckily, this is just in time for my appearance this coming Wednesday on X-Play. I'll be talking about the PC Gaming Alliance, and doing my best not to sneeze snot all over the camera lens. Luckily, only about 2 million people will be watching, so I don't have too much to worry about in terms of totally embarrassing myself.

Wednesday, March 12, 2008

What Happens Next?

Last night was the final meeting of my Improv class--as in "Improvisational Acting I." One of the first things I learned in the class was the important distinction between "improv" and "comedy": while improv often ends up being funny, that isn't necessarily the point. Improv is about being in the moment, making choices in a scene to just do what seems to come next--or, as my instructor explained last night, improv is about making a choice and then justifying it. Which, as one of my astute classmates noted, is essentially the reverse of what we're taught to do in the rest of our lives. It's a very Zen exercise. At least, it's supposed to be. The truth is that it often ends up being very funny. In fact, it's much funnier when someone isn't trying to be funny--the more the actors are trying, the less funny it ends up being. I know this because I have a habit of trying to be funny, and it often just comes out forced.

Tuesday, March 11, 2008

I Was Just Trying to Help, Act III

Have you seen a 2008 Toyota Solara convertible?

It's a nice car. A sporty car. A car that is made for driving around and looking fabulous and flirting with the hot guy in the car next to you at the stop light. It is definitely not made for trips to the hardware store. Oh, and it has really nice leather seats, so it is also not made for terrible East Coast winter weather.

In fact, Mom, what are you doing with this car?

The wet-dry vac did not fit in the trunk--not even close. I briefly considered taking the thing out of the box and seeing if the vacuum itself would fit in the trunk, but it was raining so hard that all I wanted was to be someplace--anyplace--that it wasn't raining.

So, I opened the passenger-side door of the car and shoved the box in. It wasn't sliding in easily, but I knew there had to be a way, so I shoved. Hard. And eventually, I managed to get it in enough to close the door. I ran around to the driver's side and jumped in. The rain pounded the car, and I was shaking with cold and blinded by water pouring out of my hair. I figured I must look ridiculous, and I turned to the rear view mirror to get a good look. Which is when I discovered that I'd shoved the box against the mirror and actually pulled it out of the windshield, leaving a hole and two cracks where it had once been mounted.

I mentioned that this is a brand-new car, right?

Remember in Act II where, in a moment of panic, I grabbed a live electrical wire while standing in a pool of water? Some part of my brain must be shriveled and cracked, like the edges of a hard cheese that's been in the fridge too long. Because when I saw that I'd smashed up the windshield of my mom's new car, my first thought was:

"I need to move this box!"

Which I tried to do. Which is how I discovered that the broken part of the windshield had scattered into minuscule shards all over the box, a number of which immediately lodged in my hand. Which began bleeding profusely, all over my mother's brand-new leather seats.

Have you ever tried to drive a convertible, with its teeny back window and multiple blind spots? Have you ever tried to drive one in the blinding rain? With a broken rearview mirror swinging around? And a cracked windshield? And a bleeding hand? I imagine that playing the piano while simultaneously performing surgery is easier, if only because you know that when you're done, you won't be faced with telling your flu-addled mom that after you finish vacuuming 6 inches of water out of her basement, you'll need to borrow her car to find a new windshield and a good leather-cleaner that will remove bloodstains.

I Was Just Trying to Help, Act II

Here is what happened next:

I awoke the next morning to find Mom nursing what is now a full-blown case of the flu, which, as you know, basically inverts your ordinary sense of life and death such that instead of fearing death in all its forms, you curse it for not just taking you away immediately.

Torrents of rain the likes of which I have never seen were battering the house. I literally could not see out the front window because a solid sheet of water was pouring past it. M's surprise party began at 1:30, and it was going to take me at least an hour to get into the city, so I headed for the shower and discovered there was no hot water.

I yelled, "Mom there's no hot water."

In response, my mother screamed my name three times. Actually SCREAMED. Still in my pajamas, I careened downstairs to the living room. No Mom. She screamed again and I realized she was in the basement. I bounded down the basement stairs...and splashed into water past my ankles. The entire basement could have comfortably housed a school of koi. My mother was standing in the middle of this lake, wearing her pajamas and a pair of ski boots. She looked like she was about to cry.

The sight of my poor flu-ridden mom about to cry prodded me into immediate, thoughtless action. I looked around crazily for anything I could save from ruin by picking it up off the floor. For reasons no one will ever understand, I chose an electrical cord...that was plugged in. Somehow, the ensuing electrical shock did not transfer to the 6 inches of water in which I was standing and kill me. Which is good, because, y'know, my mom was right there.

I asked, "Mom, do you have a wet-dry vac?" (In case you've never lived someplace with a basement, this is not that weird a request--basements flood a lot.)

She waded over to what was once my grandfather's workbench and re-emerged with a small beige canister to which a limp, scarred hose was attached. I am pretty sure it pre-dated the Harding administration--it would have not surprised me in the least to discovered it ran via hand crank. We'd have been better off with two plastic milk containers.

I begged my mother to get out of the wet basement and told her I would drive to the hardware store to buy her a wet/dry vac designed to handle more water than a birdbath. Though I had not contrived to stupidly bring about my untimely death again, I was still in hyper-frenzied ACTION MODE. I did manage to change out of my pjs, but the only shoes I had with me were some cute leather ballet flats, so I shoved my size 9.5s into a pair of my mom's 7.5s and waded out into the weather.

The weather...was bad. Really, really bad. It was dangerous to be walking outside, let alone driving. I was in the hardware store's parking lot, but I couldn't see the building from the car because it was raining so hard. I was also having trouble walking in those very, very small shoes. But I got into the store and I bought the heaviest-duty wet/dry vac they had. The box noted that it's "contractor-grade," and it has a built-in pump, so you don't need to empty it, you can just keep vacuuming water away from where it shouldn't be and pumping it out the other end of a hose to where you'd rather it was. It cost $130 with a 1-year warranty. Considering the circumstances, I considered this to be a pretty good deal.

Then, I took the box out to the parking lot.

I Was Just Trying to Help, Act I

Last night, I returned from a trip to the Tri-State area. I am from there. My mom lives there. My grandparents and extended family live there. My closest college girlfriends live there. Various ex-lovers live there.

I flew out because my uber-capable friend N pulled together a surprise birthday party for my uber-free spirited friend M, who is also celebrating some good riddance to bad rubbish...but that's her story, not mine, so I'll leave it at that.

I got lucky for the flight out: for some reason, it cost the same amount of air miles to fly first class as it would have to fly coach. I'm here to tell you: Continental Airlines first class is top notch. I ate a crab and shrimp appetizer. I ate a tasty chicken breast stuffed with spinach and cheese. I ate an ice cream sundae with whipped cream and nuts. I drank a lot of free wine. I also kept checking to see if the curtain between first and coach was closed, which it wasn't, and I didn't like that. I kept expecting the plane packed full of angry Friday-night travelers to charge forward and storm my in-flight Versailles.

Let them eat peanuts!

Anyway, I arrived in Newark at midnight. My mom met me at the airport. I knew she wasn't feeling well--she cut a pretty pathetic-looking figure at the curb, trying to stay out of the driving rain. The first thing she asked me was, "How many drinks did you have on the plane?" She was feeling too sick to drive home, and handed me the keys to her brand-new 2008 Toyota Solara convertible. She also told me that I smelled like a brewery*. Then I turned the key in the ignition and tried to turn on the car. Which was already running.

It's a really quiet car. Seriously.

Anyway, she was really feeling awful, so I drove home, and we both crashed out.

*I think this was a function of having just come off an airplane. I don't, nor would I ever, drive after I'd been drinking. Especially not with my mom in the car.

Drama Finds Me

If you're reading this blog, then you probably know me, so you know this is true. In fact, you've probably said something along those lines about me. Maybe something like: "Drama just seems to find that girl!" Or maybe: "Her life is always so dramatic!"

Or possibly: "She's such a drama queen."

And that's cool, because it's true. But like any lifelong personal characteristic--a tendency to stutter when nervous, an awkwardly placed mole--that people no longer notice about themselves unless someone points it out, I usually miss the fact that the things that happen to me/with me/near me are often extraordinarily emotional to the point of being overwrought.

To me, it's just, y'know, Tuesday.

So, I'm going to start writing down what happens, and you can decide for yourselves.