윤

Twentieth anniversary of the eponymous publication, but actually it’s been more than thirty years since I saw it carelessly sold on the shelves at Kroger. In a way, I pity the youth of today, whose introduction to pornography all pretty much comes via the Internet, depriving them of memories and psyche-shaping experiences such as these, the lengths we had to take to see breasts, like braving the undeveloped tracts past Douglas Avenue for a legendary shack, trying to pinpoint the exact position between the rockers on the cable box which would supposedly unlock the Playboy Channel—and accompanying Mom to buy groceries.

Apart from its Justice Lord-ish story told in two hours of cut scenes, the game itself had only as much time in the PS3 as the last Street Fighter before being sent to 남재’s welcoming arms, but the prequel series has easily laid claim to a life of its own. And next year, John Constantine joins the fray, turning this humble videogame supplement into Alan-fucking-Moore’s Twilight of the Superheroes.

Tonight on yet another over-the-air retro network (seriously, they expect me to pay for dross like reality TV when I can watch this), I was reunited with that episode of the Six Million Dollar Man where Steve and a posse pursue a family of aliens with special abilities, the patriarch of which I had remembered fast-forwarding time to flee, but turns out he was only creating an illusion of themselves headed in another direction. Mystery of almost four decades solved.

A year or so later I’d be smitten with the proto-Robotech Micronauts toy line, but as ultimately unrewarding as it may be to eBay another magnetic Force Commander, it’s the Michael Golden art in the Marvel comics that still astounds me. And thanks to speedy seeders out there, I can bask in their beauty again.

Eight points of light in the darkness that’s otherwise been enveloping my interest in anything lately. Sure, Community’s fifth season has been delivering (though with a weird alternate-universe vibe), the 7’s running again and GW2 is still, um, free, but that feeling of anticipation has long seemed missing in this age of instant gratification, of slick storytelling and easy answers, even if all the Lovecraftian dread amounted to a hallucination that gave the killer a jump on the hero. But apart from the formulaic finish, this was truly the anti-Sherlock.

Was thrown for a loop when a cashier I didn’t recognize at the Pizza Studio rang up the 2.17 for the drink, saw me take the bills out of my wallet, then told me it was on the house. “It’s hot out there,” she said. It really wasn’t, but I was still dressed ten degrees warmer. (The loop came when I nearly walked out with the empty cup.) Could she have smelled the char-grilling on my clothes from next door, or was the guilt the other way around, and they looked worse than I could have ever imagined? I’ve been concerned about overpatching the jeans. Regardless, I wasn’t coming back for a refill.

My last one was over 7 years ago. Excel says next is due on 5/6/2021.

Compare this to his defining moment in Superman Returns. Seriously, I don’t understand the critics. It’s as if him flying around the world to reverse time or removing Zod’s powers and tossing him into the frozen pit didn’t happen.

Right on schedule, three more episodes of the slick new Sherlock series from the UK. It’s more of the same, really, but then again, that can be the most welcome of comforts, the older you get. (I know there’s something wrong with that statement, but I’m just too lazy to fix it. Did I mean, the better your opinion of the original? Or the worse your memory?) Again, the clever smartphone/human GPS overlays remind me of the BBC’s own pioneering efforts with the Hitchhiker’s Guide so many years ago, but I especially liked Mary Morstan’s sympathetic analysis, that her face would launch a thousand words:

And in similar fashion, 老婆’s translators had their ニコニコ-like stream up in only a few hours after the torrent was seeded. I wonder if you can typo in Chinese?

The other day I figured out why I like this show so much, other than it going nuts with the DC universe (which can be good and bad; case in point, Smallville’s Mxyzptlk), and on the eve of the introduction of Barry Allen: it reminds me of Mortal Kombat: Conquest. I only hope that the same low-budget formula doesn’t hinder my vision for the Flash, which could use special effects like these and make Speed Force running a truly psychedelic experience.

Liquid-cooling should assuage my fears of another crashed laptop (assuming it wasn’t the SSD), but I’m finding little motivation to return to GW2 nowadays. Sure, there’s content galore and my new 24″ Asus with the new card makes it look all the more glorious, but the creeping progression game is unwelcome to on-and-off players like myself. Then again, at least there will always be a crowd at Jormag; I should check in on DCUO for some perspective.

So you’ll understand why I find solace in nerdglaze. (Loathsome, isn’t it, to resort to pop language; not that the term is even applicable, but a search for the 윤 family-familiar “thon” turned up only a relevant link in its oldest result.)Really, I got no other excuse for sitting through all 13 hours of this. Don’t tell me showing Laura Prepon’s breasts in the first minute of them wasn’t deliberate.

Somewhere on the Garbage Island of time is a cassette tape with the theme song I recorded “over the air”, as it were (before I discovered and amassed quite a collection of audio cables and mini-plug adapters), when the show returned to syndication on one of the local UHF networks. The music alone was positively thrilling, with an energy that distinguished it from the soundtracks of spy-king James Bond, and went nicely alongside the end credits to Space: 1999, which Chris will tell you I ruined by humming to. Martin Landau and Barbara Bain were in it, too, but we’d move away only a few weeks into the first season.
It’d be years later when cable afforded me the opportunity to revisit the series, and agree with the opinion that Steven Hill was the better frontman than Peter Graves. I watch Phelps now and it doesn’t even feel like the Sixties anymore, though “The Mind of Stephan Miklos” will always be one of my favorite episodes. There are fewer of Rollin’s ridiculous masks in that brilliant opening year than I remember, but Barney still does most of the work, ninja or otherwise, and the Rogosh one makes me wish the IMF had been charged with breaking No. 6.