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Intellectual property is a concept borne from capitalism, right, and yet it seems folks whose only concern is self-enrichment are always the worst at following its rules. And loathe as I am to credit that cocksucker for anything, the story did lead me (back? Because this banger sounds familiar) to—

Leela’s last few stories were by no means my favorites of the short Tom Baker run we had growing up—I remember scratching my head seeing Sarah again after Invasion, being disappointed when it happened a second time, then a third, fourth… but maybe it was for the best, considering what actually followed. Wouldn’t it have been great if it turned out that Romana was Leela all along, gentrified by Time Lord society? Killing her off wasn’t the right call (imagine the effect on the Doctor, though), but a time skip definitely would’ve worked.

Crazy that they were actually thinking of doing it in The Sun Makers, which I admit I like now more than I did back then, when I was far too young to relish the overthrow of a corporatocracy, however cheaply dramatized. As if the BBC would air a group of terrorists tossing a government official off a building anymore, much less greenlight a companion named after a Palestinian freedom fighter! Underworld also suffered from trying to present an epic with a shoestring budget, but I’ve always had a soft spot for takes on Greek mythology, those shield guns were as cool as anything in Star Wars, and Leela truly had her final best moments under (and after) the influence of the Pacifier Gun. Orf was not a beautiful name.

One banger after another, leading to arguably the pinnacle of the franchise (Talons, which I revisited recently so I may skip this time around, you know, allow the nostalgia gauge to refill, try and appreciate newer work like Evil that’s the only thing to come close), the inspired costume design, no-nonsense whodunnit, and dialogue Davies ought to try harder to emulate:

“You mean you can’t control this machine?”
“Well of course I can control it! …Nine times out of ten. Well, seven times out of ten; five times—look, never mind, let’s see where we are.” [Heads towards exit. Leela takes Tesh rifle from previous episode. In hindsight, probably more effective against those vocs than her knife.]
“You won’t need that.”
“How do you know?”
“I never carry weapons. If people see you mean them no harm, they never hurt you …nine times out of ten.”

I had just about given up on Disney Who after that entire episode written around a single brilliant (better) moment between Harry and the Doctor from “Genesis of the Daleks”, but I’m a sucker for time-skip stories like “73 Yards”, though I think Black Red Mirror’s “Demon 79” did something similar (and again, better). The next two felt like the inevitable reminders Gatwa’s both Black and gay and were serviceable enough, but damn, was that finale ever a twisted abhorrence to this long-time fan. For an all-new series, it sure does rely on marvels of its past; even that homage to a scene from “Pyramids” in an earlier outing was a pale imitation, amidst hokum appropriate for mid-to-later-era CW Flash. At least nonagenarian Gabriel Woolf got paid in 2024 money.

Stuck in the hotel on my latest trip to the Twin Cities I got to explore the free offerings on Pluto TV, one of whose channels ran ad-supported Britbox reruns of the Pertwee era, more or less in order until it got to Baker, and never was the popular term “peak” more apt. I fear my Doctor’s not long for this world, so allow me to praise his performance in those first few seasons we had on PBS, including in Leela’s debut, when he was at his most ruthless and egomaniacal.

I thought this was some session band the studio assembled for Inspector Koo and like Jan Brady would realize their true potential lied elsewhere, because “Chi-Chi’s Theme” below is one of my favorite tracks ever. I wouldn’t be surprised if these kids were there when My Bloody Valentine launched the mbv tour in Seoul.

Not the ₩100 blue baseball ones I remember from the 80’s (the sticks would tell you what you hit, single, foul or struck out), but these fucking things kept me from succumbing to the heat earlier this summer, or it was the A/C at all the 7-Elevens and (Nice to) CU’s I got to duck into for them. I mistakenly bought the squeeze pouch version first, but comparing them now I find myself preferring it, maybe less for environmental reasons than for my ever-regressing dexterity.

Along with Ichiran in Japan (I’ll never forget waiting in 35° heat at the Ikebukuro one across from the soapland, only to find an older machine inside that doesn’t take cards), our daily dining establishment on this past trip. And now all I’ve got are my Farmer Boys Cobb Salads whose Mountain Dew refills I’d gladly exchange.

I’m certain I’ve never written about this place, since I only first stepped into our location this year. (There’s been some competition from the Panini Kabob Grill around the corner.) Last week I upped my “lines” of their 130K Scoville red sauce on my platter to six, and it cost me most of the following day.

Which got me thinking again about my three pillars of taste, and how the human flowchart will eventually force me to give them up, only one at a time, if I’m lucky. Jin compared them to Ultima’s Principles of Truth, Love and Courage (which of course combine to form the Eight Virtues, because they needed more than just three cities and dungeons) and gave me the idea for a comic where I’d meet their personifications, possibly represented by Geri Halliwell
, Gene Wilder and who else but that fucking nightmare from Star Trek. They’d have to emerge from within me, since I’ve already used the cosmic pantheon for my Lance Reddick one—I’ve really got to get to work to drop them all someday like a Netflix season.

Strange seeing it alongside the White Out I got from someone online, but it’s better than I remember. No rhymes yet.