윤

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.

Supposedly Gödel spotted a loophole in the Constitution that threatens our democracy, but as the writer notes, we’re long past it meaning anything to those who do. Speaking of whom, I wonder if the G.E.B. in that book 윤대섭 gave me at too early an age was any kind of inspiration for the B.E.R. of “The Night Begins to Shine” or is that too much a stretch even for my whimsies?

“I can’t sit in traffic. I’m—I’m too smart. I’m not like these people. You have to have done something stupid to be in traffic. I don’t belong here.” With every season and three or four years that passes, the laughs come fewer and further between, more forced and familiar as ever, but there’s an occasional banger from him even at this advanced age. It’s nowhere near one of his most original or insightful grievances, and he did just admit being responsible for his very own predicament, though of course what sets Larry apart from the rest of us who might have the same thought is that he can so easily extricate himself from it (keywords in this week’s Doctor Who were “quantum extraction”), walk the fuck away and not give any, he’s got the money, fallout with a half-life of only an episode, and above all, the willingness to do so without compunction.

It was time for a spin-off as Grady accepted a job at Rolls-Royce in England and was splitting up the gang or introducing new cast members who would join him. My blonde fiancée Laura and I were among them, but one of the remaining team, an otherwise awkward White fellow who looked like the bumbling police officer on Monk, took me to the side and professed his love, reaching his hand under my shirt and around my waist. I backed off and reminded him of my impending marital status, then began packing my things, which consisted only of two pairs of pants and a Black short-sleeved shirt. He didn’t give up, however, kneeling to my side and producing a ring. The episode ended with a joke about policemen being there for us, then a few of them sitting down to eat in a dining room that was completely empty; the audience applauded, I grabbed my things and hurried off the set to meet with the others at the airport.

Damn Marxists on r/antiwork, bless their hearts, call for a boycott during McRib season? I suppose just the mention of it in this context has disqualified me from their ranks, fucking wannabe leftist that I am, knowing full well the plight of labor but availing myself of its fruits. It’s too bad, too, because I’ve recently gotten into the habit of walking or biking there with a smug sense of self-satisfaction that doing so somehow offsets their insalubrious menu; by not eating in I can do my part to stave off breakthrough infection and disparage the Lexus-driving Koreans who have moved back inside from their makeshift camps in the parking lot; and ogling the occasional black-clad employee who hands me extra BBQ sauce without the least concern for an adequate wage to be objectified by old pervs.

Update: That was two episodes in, I still haven’t seen a more stunning moment than that one at the end of them, and with only two to go, I’m handily convinced this is my favorite series of the year. Korean one, ever, for sure, the Oldboy joke and the Chun Doo-hwan certificate framed on the wall of the old-timer sealed it.

Only because it happened the weekend I was on a red-eye for the job I since quit must I have missed the news and maybe a memorial seed of Tricks of the Trade, though all I’m seeing is a porno with that very title released the same year.

Following a harrowing hearing in front of the Supreme Court, I was returning home on a train dogged by two detectives who suspected me of being the masked vigilante. They tried outing me by watching my reaction to the last page of a nondescript graphic novel where the Bat symbol appears, but I didn’t flinch and kept up my identity hunching over as I walked. I could take them all, I thought, but decided to play it out until we arrived at a London station. There I would meet and greet my neighbor Madonna with a baby in pram, then tried ditching my pursuers by a dirt path into the park. A sting in my left leg as I mounted a knee-high mound alerted me that I had stepped into an ant hill, and though most of them seemed inert when I kicked it open, many had climbed onto me and left bites as far as my right forearm. However, as Batman, I was unfazed.

Back in the real world, the closest thing we have is a knob with the Wayne family fortune and none of the drive for justice. God, would one of them at least bankroll another decent live-action portrayal to keep us restless masses opiated? Because boy, was he terrible in this past season of Titans, blasphemously bad. Now the plan is to bring back Keaton? And Pattinson’s “I’m vengeance” line is pretty hard to take seriously in a society that abandons a mentally-ill loner and treats him like trash. For as frightening as he tries to make himself to the superstitious cowardly lot, how much more effective are clowns on the rest of us?