Morrison has a nice interview where he discusses his time with fellow non-binary Ezra Miller and says—
They came over here to Scotland and hung out, and we wrote this thing. I really liked it. Warner Bros. only gave us two weeks! It was cruelty, you know. It was hardcore. We had to be like the Flash to get this thing done, and they were looking for something quite different.
See—and forgive me if this is but the most superficial of feedback on a subject long-since settled without my knowledge, as I can’t be arsed to make a proper investigation into it—the thing that annoys me about usage in this manner is the loss of pleasure I’d once derive from constructing sentences around pronouns based on their plurality and gender-based identification. Take for example this piece which might have been just too ugly for me to compose if I were to try and describe a fluid couple, their escapades interaction and my thoughts after witnessing them. (Had to change that word to remove any uncertainty about it.)
I can’t believe the kind of er, resolve to right-justify each line of this document; it definitely seems to have skipped this generation, probably for the better. One might be tempted to exemplify these early demonstrations of perfectionism—I still remember 짜증난Chris refusing to sleep until he got the “A” on Captain America’s forehead just right—and deduce achievements later in life from similar drive, but that’s the product of astigmatic hindsight or at the very least skewed by tinted glasses to gloss over the nagging agony it induces. Do paragraphs that are aligned to CSS margins (or punctuation) belie exacting content, or vice versa?
An excerpt from one of several pinnacles of the franchise, accomplishing in a single 45-minute episode what the new series cannot in two season-long arcs. Talk about boring! Fuck Akiva Goldsman, everything that hack touches is shit.
I dl’d this bass-heavy version, but should be able to find the original Now disc in one of my boxes
A mainstay in my 5-disc changer, the one into which I painstakingly keyed so many titles for it to display throughout the early 90’s. Talk about life’s labor lost, I wonder if its onboard memory preserved them, or like my 100% Super Metroid save, they’re all but digital ghosts in broken-down machines, the precarious memories of yet another who is himself fast approaching the same state.
…Until then, however, I’ll accelerate things by eating whatever the fuck I want, including supermarket deli lasagna and Oreo Cakesters, which take me back, too, perhaps not as far, but still to a time when there seemed more ahead than behind. Got me thinking how the Metaverse/San Junipero will recreate ancient treats like these in our minds, because I can’t recall re-experiencing them in dreams, maybe by hijacking the right areas of the brain and simulating the sensations? Could this be done in real-time, say, to disregard information your nerves are sending and fool you into thinking that your dinner smells and tastes like dessert? Might the discrepancy in the fake crunch of the delicious burnt pieces cause bite irregularities or would that be compensated for as well?
This was a form of torture to which I was to be subjected—for what or by whom I don’t think was ever identified—but it caused me very little dread, even if my toes were completely removed, maybe because running is blackening each nail and flip-flops have all but ravaged the soles of my feet to where they no longer seem part of my body proper. (Speaking of which, losing those Reefs on the curb and never being able to replace them was one of my many experiences teaching me to stock backups against discontinued product. Latest example are wired headphones, but soon it might be the Lightning adapters for them.) Like the universe is taking me back starting at the borders.
Update: Legs felt heavier than ever, and made it an effort to lift each one, like my heart wasn’t getting the bonus coordinating the work anymore. There’s barely anything left to my stride. Could the safe zone be closing in on my extremities?
Used to be this was my primary source of aggravation, the fucking 아줌마 scofflaw who couldn’t take a hint no matter how many times I passed her with a scowl that her animated stride didn’t entitle her to be an obstacle any more than it would on the highway, but the stakes have been raised, weren’t they, in the last six months. They shut the lights off at the track and with gyms closed, the parks seem busier than ever, with no more adherence to road-sharing etiquette. Every so often I’d hop off the sidewalk, despite running on the right side of the street—but I understand, the bigger ones can have gulfs between them and be inefficient to cross—and an approaching couple would continue side-by-side, requiring me to risk my life further out to maintain our distance, just because they’re too god-damned lazy and inconsiderate to go single file for a moment or doing so would jeopardize the sexual liberation they moved to this country to celebrate. Cunts.
So something I kick around in my head while trying to stave off hypoxia is how I’d prioritize us based not only upon our direction of travel, but also the presence of pavement and intended-use signage; for instance, a cyclist following the arrow in his or her bike lane shouldn’t have to accommodate an oncoming pedestrian who could more easily step onto the curb, because spreading out to avoid transmitting the virus shouldn’t subject others to a traffic hazard. And I swear that same lady is now hugging her left to avoid walking along the steep edge of the creek, bitch.
Just when I’d had enough of the game, blew my hoarded gold and mats on not one but two legendaries, does RNG finally yield a “toilet” reward:
There’s really nothing left for me here, though, other than playing dress-up with my alts (I was thinking of making my greatsword-wielding Necromancer/Reaper into a Suicide Squad-based Katana), but I will cherish these experiences of participating in the best examples of the large-scale open-world adventure, especially after missing it so badly in poorly-programmed DCUO; in FFXI it was just a pipe dream. Though ultimately, GW2 might’ve squeezed a few more months out of an obsessive-compulsive like myself with an NM drop or two.
Streets of Rage has been our thing, the two games (never did get the third; maybe Street Fighter II had by then relegated 2P co-op to lower priority than new controllers) being loud and violent yet playable enough for a toddler to conquer—if only I had Twitched the time he started break-dancing, trying to stand on his head and everything, to the 古代 祐三 boss theme.
I Steamed (look at me incorporating all the modern lingo in a post about a twenty-year-old game) Streets of Rage III and found it far too difficult for us, but did some reading up on it to learn that wasn’t the case with the Japanese version, which also had additional content deemed unsuitable for the US, namely, Ash:
Twenty-plus years of amassing “exclusive” collectibles worth little more than the momentary reminiscence when coming across them in a silverfish-infested box, and I still felt the calling, caving to untimely inflation on eBay, only to learn Sega instituted hardware region locking after my interest in MegaDrive imports waned.
The boy underestimated the solution: either buy the latest monstrosity (from, coincidentally, one of our prospective clients, though their recent sticker-shock at our services makes any discount unreliable), or resort to Game Genie codes.
Quite possibly my last camp, though who knows, I may join my son for them in the future. (Especially if the world goes to pot and we’re forced to live on rations of Soylent Green or something.) My halcyon days of vying with scalpers for tickets to a Talking Heads show, braving the elements overnight outside Comp USA to nab a launch-day PlayStation 2, counting down windows of real time on virtual loot, these posters may serve as a memorial to them.
Still think Wonder Woman should be hella curvier, and it’s more than a little troubling that with almost a year out, the sheer amount of information about the film leaked so far doesn’t seem to leave much room for those genuinely surprising moments in The Dark Knight (not that I’m wholly innocent of staying clear of the fray myself), but I’d rather they try to tell a story about the epic impact these larger-than-life characters might sensibly have on the world than assembling them every few years and make like there’s really another threat to it.
Last week I had a dream with Amy Adams and Laura Prepon in some exciting relationship, but the more salient aspect of it was the “re-do”, a feature that’s appeared before, where I will replay or rerun a series of events from that or another night, or at least try and most often fail. (The original hasn’t necessarily happened, but it’s understood to have.) I don’t think I got them on the couch right, so I forfeited any further progress towards that enticing goal.
I called it a “re-do”, of course, because that’s the term coined by this episode of Black Mirror for their perfect assisted recall, and the writer’s choice over more apt ones probably because he’s British. In the end, 記恨 gets at the truth and again it’s the pleasant memories that compel him to go spotless. The most frightening of the anthology for me, especially in light of my recent interest in Google Glass and GoPro to catalogue the excruciating minutiae of my everyday life for future viewing—not at all to appraise my appraisals or pierce jalousies, but foremost to convince my son to make a living instead out of what he enjoys.
Used to be this was my primary source of aggravation, the fucking 아줌마 scofflaw who couldn’t take a hint no matter how many times I passed her with a scowl that her animated stride didn’t entitle her to be an obstacle any more than it would on the highway, but the stakes have been raised, weren’t they, in the last six months. They shut the lights off at the track and with gyms closed, the parks seem busier than ever, with no more adherence to road-sharing etiquette. Every so often I’d hop off the sidewalk, despite running on the right side of the street—but I understand, the bigger ones can have gulfs between them and be inefficient to cross—and an approaching couple would continue side-by-side, requiring me to risk my life further out to maintain our distance, just because they’re too god-damned lazy and inconsiderate to go single file for a moment or doing so would jeopardize the sexual liberation they moved to this country to celebrate. Cunts.
