윤

It’s been a trip, living long enough to see a gay Black Doctor. (No doubt Disney will try to make it Harry Potter rather than allow It’s a Sin.)
I fear, however, no shot at outlasting evil cunts like Sunak and Braverman who want to ship migrants off to the actor’s home country of Rwanda.

Why are you hearing it now, you ask
Maybe you’re closer to here than you imagine
Maybe you’re closer to here than you care to be

I only heard the first part recently so I thought it was a recent remix’s addition, because oh man, are those lyrics incisive compared to the rest of the song.

I haven’t been running much lately, but last night I had a dream I was on the street around the block and awkwardly encountered Steven Devadanam (pardon my spelling, it’s been a while) with his toddler child, but before I could think of an excuse not to have to catch up, a man came rushing past, a terrified look on his face. We saw no one or thing in pursuit, but Steve wasn’t taking any chances, picked up his kid and took off down an alley; I saw the wisdom in his act, but didn’t consider that my lagging behind them would endanger us all, because my legs weren’t providing the speed they used to. Do they ever in these situations?

And worse, I’ve been craving donuts, which must’ve made me dream about visiting Will at his new place of employment in a big office building, which had inside its own Japanese chain of specialty donut-hole pastries. This business catered only to companies large enough to house and sustain their branches, and struck me as a brilliant concept, until, of course, I woke up and remembered those sad little shops closed after hours in the Minneapolis sky-walk connections.

[I had the kind of dream the other night that made me realize everyone else in them is an NPC and wonder if that’s what it’s like to be sociopath. That did, however, get me thinking about these things, the recurring motifs, characters and settings that don’t give, whether or not they might as well be automated and if so, why I couldn’t just have the popular “AI” come up with them for me. The following is the bland scenario returned from a sampling of my last few entries; an initial attempt was simply a regurgitation of the Rush one. If someday this shit is supposed to take my place, it’d better learn to be anal enough to add author avatars or at the very least justify the paragraphs.]

You find yourself in a strange place where time and space seem to be distorted. You’re surrounded by high-tech gadgets and futuristic vehicles, and you can’t shake the feeling that you’re not where you’re supposed to be. Suddenly, you’re approached by a group of people who claim to be from the future. They warn you that the world you know is in danger, and that only you can save it. They take you on a journey through time and space, where you encounter strange creatures and otherworldly landscapes.

Along the way, you must use your wits and your gaming skills to outsmart your enemies and solve complex puzzles. You find yourself battling against time-traveling villains and strange machines, all while trying to save the world from certain doom. With every twist and turn, you’re constantly challenged and pushed to the limits of your imagination.

But as the journey reaches its climax, you realize that the fate of the world rests in your hands. Will you be able to save the day and return to your own time and place, or will you be forever lost in this strange and wondrous world? The only way to find out is to keep dreaming and let your imagination soar.
[Dall-E wasn’t much better, serving up this depiction of another imaginary bout of frustration with the woman’s Facebook-driven sense of adventure.]

Son has been tasked with creative writing prompts these past couple of weeks, the first about a spaceship landing in his backyard, for which he went with my suggestion to make its passenger his future self with a warning not to become an astronaut, and he ignores it in the end, though I didn’t read his 9/10 submission whether he included the touching reunion with his parents, or an idea about the cataclysm he wants to avoid. My other one figured anything arriving without all that attention from neighbors would have to be small, and the aliens inside bring technology that can control their size, critical for intergalactic travel; this they’d grant the narrator, who’d go on to capturing and training animals by shrinking them into little containers he’d keep in his pocket… his name, of course, “A. K.“

Second required three elements: a hitchhiker, allergy and map error. Couldn’t come up with a cohesive premise immediately but did overnight that wasn’t a complete rehash of the Twilight Zone episode—now that I think of it, weren’t the tiny invaders in one, too? Didn’t want to tank his grade with the obvious product of a dilettante who’s watched too much TV (but at least isn’t contributing to its decline), but I couldn’t just let it fade into our fleeting moments together.

[I went to sleep happy with the name Seth, until I realized in the morning that I missed an H and couldn’t make his last name “Amuck”, so Heath Smuck it is?]

It feels like all I’ve done today is drive, and I can’t even remember taking the mid-term in the morning, much less what was on it, or packing my things for the trip. There just haven’t been many noteworthy sights along the way, and everything in between has looked the same, mostly barren stretches of land. Sometimes it would go up into a hill, and if we had the high ground, the sky would take over most of our view out the windows.
“I’d like to get some sleep now, too, Mr. Chew,” I said. “Do you mind taking over for the next fifty miles or so?”
Of course he didn’t answer, much less stir from his bored slumber; as a cat, he was neither capable, nor eligible for a license (though I haven’t confirmed—I’m pretty certain I’ve seen people behind the wheel who couldn’t possibly be any more qualified than him). Even if he could reply, it’d probably go something like, “Please stop with that terrible joke, you’ve been repeating it before you finish each fifty miles.”
He did raise his head when the rain started and the wipers dragged noisily into action. It was growing dark, but off in this flat distance I saw an unfamiliar sight, not one of those signs by which you could calculate how many more times I’d ask Mr. Chew about driving, but a solitary figure, standing by the side of the freeway. I swear I was going fast enough that I shouldn’t have been able to notice his extended thumb or recall that meant he was hoping for a lift, or realize how pitiful it was to be caught in his situation, but I managed to slow down and stop not too far past that I didn’t have to back up for him to show up at the passenger window.
“Hello!” the man said warmly, his face battered by raindrops.
“Hi,” I replied as quickly as I could, sensing his agony, “Do you need a ride?”
“I could sure use one, as far as you’ll go.” Looking down at Mr. Chew’s cage on the seat and letting his wet long hair swing forward, “But I see you already have a partner. I don’t mind sitting in the back, if that’s alright.”
“Sure,” I welcomed, pushing my bag behind me to make space for him. I only got a quick glance directly at him before returning to the road and resuming our conversation through the rear-view mirror, but he did not seem as shabbily dressed as I might have expected in the city, and had with him a small backpack and walking stick, the kind I’ve seen used by hikers.
“I really appreciate this,” he started. “Not too many passing today, and no one as kind as you to pick me up. Name’s Seth, by the way.”
That took me by surprise. “But that’s my name, too! What a coinci—”
I was cut off by Mr. Chew, who had leaped up beside the head rest and started hissing viciously at our guest. This was remarkably uncommon behavior for him, as he’s been friendly with most everyone we meet, with exception of his veterinarian, of course, and that one guy who applied to be our roommate and brought over his pet groundhog.
Seth seemed to take it in stride, but didn’t dare offering his hand in friendship, instead using it to cover his mouth when he began sneezing.
“I’m afraid your other half has me at a disadvantage,” he barely made it through, “I’m terribly allergic.”
“No problem,” I told him. “Come on, Mr. Chew, we don’t want to be a bad host,” and with that I took him with my free arm and shut down his protest behind his cage door.
So against the sound of futile scratching against those little metal bars, we enjoyed a delightful conversation: he didn’t reveal much about himself, but I was happy to keep awake by telling him about school, my friends, the tournament starting tomorrow, and time must have passed like those reflective highway markers. In fact, they disappeared altogether, with the lights; it was pitch dark and the only thing visible was an approaching gas station. Behind it was an on-ramp for a route that crossed ours but I could only see the side that went in one direction.
“Strange,” I said, deftly swapping between apps on my phone. “I’ve still got a good signal but there’s no sign of this exit on any of the maps. Maybe we should stop and stretch our legs. Mr. Chew could use some time of the box. He hates it in there.”
The place was brightly-lit but mine was the lone car, and I couldn’t make out whether or not anyone was inside the attached shop as I parked. I politely asked Seth if I could get him something, he politely refused, and I freed Mr. Chew and let him on the ground, though grumpy as he still was, I trusted him not to flee in these unfamiliar surroundings.
Suddenly the sliding doors opened and some people stepped out. There were three of them, two taller than me and one shorter, almost a toddler’s height; their hair all different colors but natural; they wore collegiate gear and I think I caught the tail end of their fight song. The one who wasn’t smoking and coughing pointed at me and announced quite aggressively:
“Hey, that kid’s got what we need! Let’s get him!”
I backed up and bent down to reach for Mr. Chew, but he surprisingly sprung into a defensive position himself, somehow recognizing the threat and snarling with such ferocity his fur stood on edge. As if by instinct, I joined him and was prepared to protect what I thought they were after, the car. And its passenger, whose safety was now our responsibility.
“Come on, there’s no one around, he’ll be no match for us,” they continued. “Who’s that in there with him?” They peered around me and their faces fell. Seth was smiling at us through the window, the sight of which I didn’t think would cause that reaction, however odd it was looking as dry as he did; then again, I may have rambled for hours. Surely my aggressors had no way of knowing that, but I turned to find they were gone, a barely perceptible layer of dust they presumably displaced in their flight.
Mr. Chew stared where they had been, which I understood to mean he didn’t, then hopped into my arms with his usual agility, but I might have received him loudly like Mom does when I return home that it masked the sound of the car door opening and closing, for behind us stood Seth. He was so tall I’m not certain how he got in the back to begin with, his walking stick had become a full-length staff, and he was dry, bone dry! He read the plain expression on my face and spoke:
“You must have plenty of questions.”
“I sure do,” I almost didn’t wait for him to finish. “Do you know who those three were, and why were they so frightened of you?”
“Some minor ghouls, trying to steal your Mr. Chew. He’s very precious, you know.”
“Wait, what does that mean and how do you know? Just who are you, is your name even Seth?”
“It’s one of the many names I’ve been known by, yes.”
“But—”
“My young friend,” he interrupted, “I had intended to bring you here because of your reckless drive, your careless disregard for the need to rest before facing life’s challenges, but now that I have gotten to know you better, I see that you are deserving of another chance. Mr. Chew’s got many, I’m sure he won’t mind sparing you one so the two of you can spend more time together.”
With that, Mr. Chew made a noise unlike the usual screech at Seth, but more of a definite me-ow, then quieted down.
“I’ll get off here, thank you so much for the ride. Take care of each other, and good luck at the competition!”
My curiosity could’ve have kept me going, but I felt my feet taking me back to the driver’s seat, where I sat Mr. Chew next to me and left the other Seth in the mirror. I thought I saw his staff swivel and the reflection of a large blade come into view, but the light from the stop faded almost immediately as the freeway became lit with poles and signs.
One of them was for an upcoming rest area, where I got off and decided to nap; after all, sign-in wasn’t until noon. “What an adventure.” Mr. Chew was already asleep. “As far as driving companions go, I choose you, Mr. Chew.”

Not as strange a segue if you consider that I happened across it again a few weeks back on the ファミリー劇場 channel and it’d been sitting at 83.2% all this time. Wait, wasn’t Ken also 笑わない男 in The Yakuza? I’d like to think it’s some kinda wild coincidence in the tiny universe that I’ve carved out for myself here, but come on, it’s like their signature trade-off for superhuman capabilities. Inquiry on a higher level, perhaps, would be comparing the 수상한 (“suspect”?) 가정부 Korean remake for differences both cultural and superficial like the ones between their Signals. The additional episodes provided valuable main cast connections to the serial killer timelines, but are almost twice as many necessary to draw out side characters and let 최지우 explore Sadako Mary Poppins?

Twitch’s algorithm recommended a streamer who plays mostly 80’s videos from the UK, and enough of them were right up my alley (well, that particular alley) I tuned in to see some that I must have missed on MTV or have only the faintest memory of, including the catchy Propaganda hit above and this Secession single. Why does it seem acts named themselves back then by taking whatever words happen to be available? I’m unsure how he skirts the obvious copyright violations, other than not having the audience to draw attention to them, but I wonder if, technology willing, the videos were actually being mixed could these broadcasts be justified as DJ-like performances, where instead of just transitioning into one another, clips or images from the next in queue are spliced in towards the end?

From the dissenting opinion of California Supreme Court Chief Justice Tani Cantil-Sakauye in a cruel & unusual punishment case:

I anticipate that even the majority would concede that profound life experiences still may lie ahead of someone released from prison at age 66 or 74. The majority describes these ages as falling “near the end” of a person’s life, language that suggests that fulfillment at such a juncture is well-nigh impossible. [Citation.] The millions of productively employed senior citizens would beg to differ [citation, seriously, to note that “in today’s society, it is not unusual for people to work well into their seventies”], as would the millions more who have retired from the workforce, or perhaps never entered it, but represent valued contributors to their families and communities.

Sandwiched between ads for senior medications with the usual side effects so frightening they can’t possibly make up for the benefits, and offers for legal representation to products liability victims who surely must not have survived their ordeals, were two episodes of this rather sleepy series I’d forgotten had originally aired in time slots for livelier audiences, then into syndication where it kept me company for a decade of lonely late nights—

[Sent: Fri Jun 28 04:46:08 1996] Speaking of religion, I’m up right now (at, what, 4:30 in the morning–I woke up a couple of hours ago after this weird dream that made me question my feelings for couple of women from my past), watching late-night TV, of course, and find myself flipping between a number of different programs, one of which happens to be the Jack Van Impe Ministries, somewhat reminiscent of the 700 Club in format and content. (The other is Dear John, not only because Kate’s tits look bigger than ever before in this particular episode, but also since this local channel airs the phone sex ads featuring my beloved 1-800-510-SEXY woman. I make no bones about my damnation.) Seems like the Christians are foretelling doom and gloom, but then again, what else is new: now they’re predicting the Second Coming before the Millennium, preceded, if you recall your New Testament, by the rise of the Anti-Christ. Oh, geez. I wonder if they’ll wipe out past credit problems after Armageddon?

Looking at them again, no, they weren’t that big (I’ll clean up my act whenever the church proves themselves right), but she was the sort of vulnerable character that would ultimately shape my interactions with women, for better or worse. Surprised to realize it is the same Isabella Hofmann now with the recurring role as Martin “Firestorm” Stein’s wife on The Flash and Legends of Tomorrow.

Was catching up with Dangerous Minds recently, and they themselves had just gotten around to video posted almost ten years ago of McGoohan in LA that really is the stuff of my dreams, especially his new bit with the hanger motif.