윤

Joseph Lin was still the boss at work, and I sought his permission to borrow the truck parked in the warehouse to get home, though I thought it might not be worth the trouble, having to bring it back in the morning. His complexion was worse than I remember, and he wiped away the sweat or secretions while he explained to me that Patrick Stewart was retiring not only from his career in film and television, but his honorary position at the company. (Reminds me of the celebrity endorsement Apex purchased from Terry Bradshaw.) My earlier scenario found me free from my usual state of transportation-disabled, collecting my things after a class, fitting one backpack into another so that I’d only have two to carry. The girl that had sat beside me, who had curly brown hair like the actress who played Elaine’s counterpart on Jerry’s failed pilot, told me her father was picking her up, but that he was fussy about her sitting in his car, even the way she handled its door. I told her I’d take her home instead and not complain, “I’ll even open it for you,” I offered—the conversation felt real, I recall our exchange clearly; she asked me for my name, which despite a certain extent of intimacy we somehow hadn’t gotten to sharing, to which she replied, “The Jay?” “I guess I am,” I flustered, and our relationship having withstood my reputation, bravely requested her number. She smiled and nodded, and as I fumbled for a writing instrument in one of the nylon pockets, I would learn she was Marissa.

[Title and meme from this new track for old people like us.] Actually, I’m quite enjoying my daily visits to the am/pm down the street, where I would stop on my way to work 9-10 years ago for that refill of crunch ice and Mountain Dew on dispenser lines that must be corroded with just the right chemical buildup it’s borderline toxic and intoxicating. The rewards app helps, and I can’t help be amused that I’m charged 3¢ for tax on my free drink.

The latest chapter of my past-blasting, courtesy of 남재’s Demonoid booty. All the Tom Baker Doctor Who’s are almost done (although I’d rather someone upload the Peter Davison era, so I can save myself from one day having to reunite with my beloved Tegan on VHS), Community recently reminded me of missed opportunities on the 90’s dance floor, and surely holding this in my hands again will force me back through time. Or into an institution.

As out of it as I may seem sometimes, my attention will always be there for a mobile app that purports to take you to another reality of some greater import. Perhaps it goes back to waiting for all my cellphones to ring, beating X in a dingy Japanese youth hostel fortified by warm はちみつレモン, or thinking the low-battery antics on my Mattel Electronics Auto Race meant that something special was happening. To me. This time it’s called “Shadow Cities” and what I like (assuming I’ve read the conceit right) is being able to conquer your own block, virtually, and “call” everything in it, at least in your own mind.

Where’s a band like Midnight Oil when we need them? (2003)

Could be Peter Garrett is the marginalized Ralph Nader of Australia, the reaction the mention of one of my favorite bands got from a young LS mate down under, and who knows, in an alternate universe where they had more deservingly gone on to all the success U2 enjoys in ours, their message may have become the same commercialized crap. Still, Amazon got the sale when they finally marked down the price of their concert video (it said out of stock afterward, meaning the last one went to me—or better yet, other fans with whom I experienced a communion of mind) because his channeling Michael Berryman as some kind of electrified Frankenstein’s monster onstage was truly a highlight of my concert-going days. Could be I’ve missed out on stuff just as relevant in the interim yearsdecades, but to my knowledge no one’s put them quite as succinctly as, “The rich get richer/ The poor get the picture/The bombs never hit you when you’re down so low”.

…marked somewhat of a turning point in my life, did it not, finally eschewing the standardized texts and being introduced to revisionist interpretations of the American Revolution and Civil War. (Hint: it was all about the Benjamins.) Or was it that episode of Doctor Who where it was suggested mankind had been used as an evolutionary vessel by an alien race? Either way, I doubt we happen upon the forks in our roads quite so suddenly, like the movie moments described in recommended reading storybooks, but there’s still an occasional revelation—to me, at least—like the original concept for the Return of the Jedi, and why it was ditched, that serves as a reminder of the direction we took. And helps close that certain chapter hearing about a first mate who stood up to the captain’s orders. Imagine the Hollywood that could have been…

I’ve dreamed about them before, but this time I didn’t make it to any actual music. Or create any of my own. The daytime outdoor concert was just starting and presumably the band was prepping their appearance from behind a large white curtain on the stage. Drumming began as shadowy images were projected onto it, reminiscent of the puppetry in that Gong Li movie I stayed up late to get through a few weeks ago, and the sticks formed to spell out their name. The spiraling “E” in the center they couldn’t get right so it was obviously animated from a film; in fact, a montage of archival footage featuring each member performing took over the light show. Then the crowd’s attention was turned to a scene in the quiet countryside, where someone was having a spoken argument with his mother but to the same back-and-forth lyrics from “Uncontrollable Urge”.

Hulu has them all, for free. Stupid Philistines, I was once willing to pay for them in laserdisc boxsets!