윤

I suppose it’s never too late to be taken by surprise. And honestly, even if I had known about the Atari Falcon at the turn of the millennium, I doubt it’d have broken my resolve outside CompUSA, nor lessened my subsequent experiences in Liberty and Vice Cities, among the many places that glorious black monolith took me. This chance historical revelation does, in fact, reinforce my long-held belief that their next iteration nose-dived and explains my disenchantment with console gaming, maybe a loss of faith in the Sony of old. (I say that as if I’m an Apple convert, but the PS3 still sits connected to the even older XBR LCD, which I refuse to update with dominant 재벌 brands and if we ever make it back to Japan, I’m definitely buying one of these.) You’re my only hope to feel again, GTA6!

Honestly superhero-saturation has gotten to me, too, but I’ll always appreciate any irreverence it explores, not unlike Lynchian disruption, which face it, has always come from the DC side, unconvincing pastiches aside. Why after all, wouldn’t gods be free to say “fuck” or vaunt their sexual prowess?

Speaking of DC characters with potty mouths (but at least don’t all sound the same as James Gunn), I had a dream I was seated next to Dianne Guerrero—I am unable to do more than that nowadays—whose hair was cut short, pixie-style. Our folding chairs were in a line and on my other side of me was a third wheel.

One of my favorite Korean words, with the more nuanced “what the fuck” meaning than is often translated. It’s what I look for, at least when really warranted in the dialogue, from creators whose ideas may not come from the same old places (like the Doom Patrol going outside the box instead of relying on Morrison—whose own early influence I miss), and for most K-content nowadays that’s the webtoon. Not that 지리산 was ever going to be Twin Peaks, and while Hellbound and Dr. Brain aren’t high art, either, they’ve got Netflix and Apple money to go crazy with. One of them just might veer off into The Wailing.

Meanwhile the WTF that Kara Wai‘s family went through in Tracey does seem to have had some effect, or I’m grasping for the kind of correlation that’ll lead me to nightcapping with hardcore gay porn, spurring a dream I was taking a sex ed class led by an Emma Stone-looking goddess who put me on the spot by getting in my face, revealing a bikini under her regalia and asking where I’d make my mounting deposit. Her left eye opened beyond its lid as if to invite the option. Below, I still told her. Fellow student Charlie Hunnam from Queer as Folk passed by afterward, removed his shirt and revealed that his went into a condom, tactic of choice by strip club goers of old. I wondered if our instructor had office hours.

unless i’m mistaken (studied tieng viet in the army) “tran” is pronounced “chan”, so “trump” would be “chump”.
alrighty, then.

I still hold to the idea that Lynch packaged his rejected Twin Peaks follow-up with the “it was all just a dream” finish as an FU to the studio.The night terror Ben’s experiencing in Evil (which reminds me a lot of Millennium) has got way too much of the demonic makeup for me: my latest one was just a dark outline of a face pressed against the small window in the door. It seemed pointless keeping it out, because the back of my apartment was always open to a stairwell shared with my neighbors, so I tried a frightening demonstration of martial arts. The door knob turned and the figure entered, still only a shadow.

At least it wasn’t like the kind I’ve been having the past few nights where all I’m doing is looking at screens, watching football on TV—surely a low point of my imagination, even if it was from my perspective as an unprepared player—scrolling through map locations between San Diego and the Mexican border, monitoring the child’s video content that included a Monty Python-narrated skit in which bodies chased one another lewdly inside a couple’s coat, and playing a Pokémon game together. There was a Chansey to catch, but I missed her.

Even more outrageous is that Miller not only probably relished being under that mask, but he’s still on their payroll. Though no way for these lines.

Seems it’s been five years since I last revisited this staple of my youth (and I find myself more curious about my circumstances when I did than what I left of them; hence the new tag); maybe by measuring the intervals I can determine the rate of my regression, though in this case the catalyst was the Shout! Factory channel on Twitch, which airs two episodes of the program weekday afternoons to all of a dozen viewers. It’s hard to stay focused on a traditional broadcast, complete with commercial breaks for their catalogue, when the Animal Farm that’s America is being addressed by other streamers, and there’s not even anyone in the chat. Wanting to see Sarah Douglas naked again, I opened Season 2 and found a story I couldn’t remember but seemed pieced together from various Star Treks. Title coincides with the final season of the satisfying Dark series on Netflix, who’s sure to remake it themselves. Small talk from Maya while resisting the urge to mate with Koenig on her study of “Comparative Universal Theology” is reminiscent of Serling or Seuss: “An interesting thing, we [Psychons] managed to find our God, creator of this universe, to find that He had a God, who created a bigger one.”

Dreamt I was at stopped an intersection in the Prius, under a freeway, which exited onto a two-lane circular ramp leading to the lane opposite me.  (I’ve not been very confident of my writing skills lately, having struggled with a paper on security that might’ve been a work of art in better times, so this description will have to do.)  Two trailer trucks came down it, and I could tell that the one on the inside was traveling faster than it should, revving its engine in race car fashion.  In the split second that it careened into the other but before tipping over, I looked to my right and saw the street empty for an escape; instead my reaction was to flick the shifter into reverse.  The large cab was already on its side and sliding at me, and my thoughts went from what damage the car might suffer on top of its current scrapes to the likelihood that I would survive this one–in that order, too, and not exclusively.  And before I could decide on backing up to avoid either, it tumbled again into the air, sailing over me and the overpass.

“Evidence-based” “science-based” “CDC bases its recommendations on science in consideration with community standards and wishes”

Has it really been that long since my last post? So many viable topics that came and went, too, like Pokémon Go representing the last vestige of my interest in videogames, an administration change threatening the absurdity barrier, Iron Fist utterly disappointing, realizing that relying on running as an escape is a race I’m destined not to win, and almost logged in the other day to bitch about tampering with Claudia Cardinale’s perfection, but it’s a dream, as usual, that brings me back. Two attempts to preserve my recollection on the recording app were dreams themselves. It was a first-person flying shooter where the goal of each level was to find the exit tunnel, hindered by the psychedelic lights and color filters, not to mention the two-planed controllers like a Wii’s. The last one led to the player opening his eyes to the crooked sight of an ultramodern white door, and it took several tries to orient my perspective to approach and let it slide open. A hospital corridor stretched outside, and a nurse composed of decent CG, though the obvious product of an in-game engine, smiled as she walked by. Turns out the game had been a simulation of recovery from mental illness [see “Loving the Alien”], and the rousing score transitioned a black screen to credits like the end of a Nolan film. Five of us gathered around a coffee table sat stunned by the revelation; one said he was inspired to run for office.