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Back at the public access station where I made my small contribution to pre-Internet subculture by bringing back Shaw Brothers to the airwaves, I remember sharing the ¾” tape decks with a reticent older gentleman who I would later see hosting a program spewing some trash about the superiority of the White man. (Which, of course, doesn’t explain him having to learn how to edit it from me.) And as one observer puts it opinions are only taking over the information superhighway in the years since, even the geek world is under siege from these cretins: they take issue with Idris Elba playing Asgard doorman Heimdall—but seem to care less that Hogun of Thor’s backup trio will be Asian, just as I suspected as a kid—then with a French Muslim being Batman™ de Paris. Like alien gods and superheroes would ever come from their superstitious, cowardly lot. That’s some wild shit Morrison’s done there, by the way.

The actual show hasn’t let up with the creativity since I started tuning back in at that paintball episode, making NBC’s Thursday night lineup some kinda record-holder for most switched allegiances. My take, not so much. Just the gang deciding to go with Chevy Chase’s suggestion to smoke pot in a sauna. (Alas, none of the ladies were present for the nudity. Take that as you will.) Shit hits the fan when the principal busts them and has the whole lot expelled, me included as Ken Jeong’s other Asian homie. But Troy and Abed have a plan to settle things.

Perhaps the routine of parenting turns up the subconscious, because 老婆 is saying all the dreaming’s leaving her less rested, too. Me, I brushed with celebrity, seated in the back next to an embarrassed Johnny Depp at a gala honoring Anne Hathaway, then played House’s brother like Frasier’s Niles on an action-packed paparazzi escapade, and last night made a big ruckus at a Ralphs counter over an improperly-delivered piece of cheesecake. (Which seems unlikely, after downing a cream cheese-filled crêpe at IHOP last weekend.) The act felt so forced that I woke up questioning whether or not I keep it up only to qualify myself with character. But today at Vie de France was an utter twat who insisted on having a conversation with some acquaintances standing at their table in a room full of seated patrons who had waited over thirty minutes for theirs. He kept his arm around his partner, who occupied the fourth chair for the party of three and listened as he broadcast his drivel. Bugged the hell outta me. So no, it’s who I am.

I suppose in a few years’ time (if that), the word will lose all its meaning and be replaced by another, maybe even more colorful—or peace will arrive to mankind’s hearts and we’ll no longer have use for terms of disaffection. Such is the dream.

The sister-in-law and her latest guy return home from a party last night (after she destroyed the corn soup my wife proudly cooked with chopped ham we got on a family trip to the supermarket and the pot it was in, I might add), couldn’t care less that the driveway’s meant for two vehicles, and while years of training managed to get it to the other side of the one leaving the garage first thing in the morning, they still didn’t make it easy. If she didn’t want to exit the passenger side onto the grass, then at least he could have let her out before straightening the car? And look at where he parked his own, in the middle of the neighbor’s. So what if they’re rarely home and were kind enough to okay it a boyfriend ago, who would take her word for it and not look for a spot on the street. It was raining? Getting a little wet didn’t seem to bother him while he was walking the separation-anxious poodle he brings over to a house with a sleeping baby and leaves barking.

Try as I might, I cannot recall anything before the plane crash, which was in actuality a heist getaway. Three of our crew revealed themselves as impostors—maybe even aliens—just before bailing, and left us on our own as we trekked back towards civilization. The path along the rugged hillside where we landed eventually produced a square house, but upon closer inspection, it was a facsimile, then another. The third, a split-level vacation home, was occupied, and the couple we caught returning from grocery shopping allowed a blond woman among us to use their cellphone to call relatives she assured us were trustworthy. Her word, however, wasn’t good enough for me, and I ran for it into the night, recommending Daryl from The Office to do the same as I passed him and others relaxing outside. She betrayed us and the police arrived for the rest of them.

Seems like my whole department was on the lam with me, and our pictures were on the news. Mine appeared towards the end, so I hoped I would avoid detection by the public. I nervously boarded a train, but changed cars when I felt the heat was on. This one was oddly shaped like a triangle, with two entrances at one corner split by a wall: I sat along the far side, and when a Black afro’d police officer entered, searching for me, I hid my head under my hoodie. Luckily so did a number of other young men to my right; one caught his attention and he drew his weapon, shouting at him to show himself; in the confusion I calmly walked to the other exit on the left and discreetly hurdled some passengers to get out.

None of this last night, but I thought I’d take the opportunity to share the all-too common sensation of my stratospheric flights, as reproduced in my recent forays into DC Universe Online. The beta’s convinced me to return come launch, so shouldn’t I give something else a shot? STO is still in the drawer at work.

Olly Moss shows off again.

If there’s any proof Christians like this deserve all the hell they preach, it’s the claim that Job if ever there was one needs to thank God.

Season’s over as fast as Sherlock’s. At one point I felt the parallels with Lost, too, but the arc’s looking less curved as the gang moved on at the end. These motley castaways may seem the more likely, but maybe six episodes weren’t enough to make them promising. Then again, had JJ been in charge, the CDC doc might’ve been on the verge of a cure (which doesn’t strike me as too great a challenge for a facility equipped with a Tony Stark-like computer), but killed by one-handed Merle, whose ravenous rampage would only be stopped by the surprise return of the father-and-son team from the beginning.

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”.