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I wonder what was going on in my father’s head when I was ten years old: in which of the early 20th-century European Bildungsroman he’d next indulge; where he’d meet the adoring student for whom he’d eventually abandon his family and follow across the country; or more charitably, how they’d manage to afford a private middle school for an impressionable lad whose education couldn’t possibly be derailed among those without the same concerns about tuition—but most certainly there wasn’t a thought to peruse the comic books at a local newsstand and familiarize himself with his son’s interests so that they might bond over more mature insights or different perspectives into them.

I strive for the latter, of course, maybe because I’m older than he was and every run could be my last, or quite the opposite and I never grew up. (Fuck, I’m sipping on 2020 VooDew at 1am trying to justify more Lego from the mortgage refinance Mommy arranged, while suffering through the US remake of Utopia.) Hopefully the next generation will find a better balance of parenting and the meaningless pursuits over the course of one’s life, because I wouldn’t otherwise commit to a P2W lootbox grind, even after my disenchantment with Animal Crossing. And while I doubt I’ll ever take the place of the teammates that the new school year displaced, there’s sure to be a moment on the playfield to remember.

For once in my life I’m gunning for the default category, though who am I to fight it, it’s neither the extra bandana wrapped around the bottom half of my face nor the air quality from the fires to the north which remarkably dropped 40 points after I got back, Ser Davos was right, “Nothing fucks you harder than time.”

Watching with disbelief as the local Pokémon Go chapter still met up in the height of the pandemic to add pictures to their phones, I thought they were a due a good razzing but beats me why I expected it from the Simpsons of all places. Last laugh out of this dead horse came, what, 17 years ago and then it was an episode from ten seasons before that. Besides, I always felt that timely fad parody was something better suited for late night television or South Park and they handled so much more deftly in their heyday anachronistically (or at least only on Halloween). Just look at this and tell me that isn’t the appropriate reaction.

Without the luxury of cable service during college and the collapse of MTV afterward, music of that era was almost exclusively an aural experience, so those streamers I mentioned the other day led me down a rabbit hole with many period treasures like this Anton Corbijn-directed classic (other versions turn off the video for twenty seconds about halfway in), though his promo for the equally memorable B-side is nowhere to be found. Interesting that the genre’s referred to as electronic body music (“commonly abbreviated as EBM”, which is worse), which must also betray the blindness of its participants to historical perspective.

Cooped up at home over the long weekend, praying that the old A/C doesn’t implode under the record heat, I woke late this morning to hear the others watching what must have been more Disney drivel and despite recognizing the musical flourishes and voiceovers from a latter part of the ride, lay back down to relieve the unsatisfactory emergence. There was some bickering about the playback skipping, so I found myself lifting the appliance-like disc player from the rear and looking for the right connections underneath for a two-pronged grounding cable (possibly a callback to checking the condensation pump or frayed toilet tank flapper these past few days). Results notwithstanding, my immediate attention was to prepare for a visit from John Chen on the 22nd, whose inclusion is definitely the product of our recent support of his Twitch alter-ego and went to see whether we had the arrangements to host him.

An extra room at the end of the hall, open with a bar-high counter for a wall and furnished with two twin beds in the light ash-veneer color popular in newer Taiwanese homes/Muji stores, was a giveaway that this was a dream, and I remarked as much as I walked back. A pretty young woman with short red hair, resembling Buffy-era Alyson Hannigan passed with a smile and consented to allow me to follow her to the addition to the house and make the most of it. Our interaction on the far bed was surprisingly detailed, as often they are not and merely presumed as through some disappointing narrative device: I could see the side of her face when it was pressed against mine and the shape of her body as she removed the remainder of her clothing. She told me her name was Christina (taken, perhaps, from the Lovecraft Country character), but that I called her “Linnie.” I dismounted and turned her over for re-entry, which didn’t come without the sensation of collision but was successful in the end. After returning to a reclined position, I asked her how she came to be here, and she said her roommate Hylie had invited her. It was Nicole Tan, with a curly perm, who entered and sat down next to the other bed, curiously taken up by the wife in an agreeable state. Linnie welcomed her from her knees, then closed her mouth and proceeded to call forth one last, powerful rush on my exit—but again, the feeling wasn’t all too fleeting and gave me quite a running start in the real world!

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?

Used to be this was my primary source of aggravation, the fucking 아줌마 scofflaw who couldn’t take a hint no matter how many times I passed her with a scowl that her animated stride didn’t entitle her to be an obstacle any more than it would on the highway, but the stakes have been raised, weren’t they, in the last six months. They shut the lights off at the track and with gyms closed, the parks seem busier than ever, with no more adherence to road-sharing etiquette. Every so often I’d hop off the sidewalk, despite running on the right side of the street—but I understand, the bigger ones can have gulfs between them and be inefficient to cross—and an approaching couple would continue side-by-side, requiring me to risk my life further out to maintain our distance, just because they’re too god-damned lazy and inconsiderate to go single file for a moment or doing so would jeopardize the sexual liberation they moved to this country to celebrate. Cunts.

So something I kick around in my head while trying to stave off hypoxia is how I’d prioritize us based not only upon our direction of travel, but also the presence of pavement and intended-use signage; for instance, a cyclist following the arrow in his or her bike lane shouldn’t have to accommodate an oncoming pedestrian who could more easily step onto the curb, because spreading out to avoid transmitting the virus shouldn’t subject others to a traffic hazard. And I swear that same lady is now hugging her left to avoid walking along the steep edge of the creek, bitch.

I don’t blame the Biden campaign for reaching out to the gaming generation, but seeing as how Bernie would’ve done it with Medicare for All instead, yeah, not too thrilled. In fact, fuck them. I’d rather have had AOC visit when the game was fresher, just what we needed to get away and didn’t turn into a daily chore of checking turnip prices, gathering fruit and fossils and grinding rocks.