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The server I’d left behind years ago and have only occasionally posted a .GIF to since was suddenly active with a smooth-voiced DJ welcoming visitors and even had someone streaming FFXI, though in painfully low resolution. One of my old online friends was happy to meet me in person and rested his weary head in my cradled arms, where he confessed he made up the story about losing his brother in Iraq with images from memes. Rajeev Gantela, looking very much like he did when I last saw him—interesting how memory is at once corrupted by time and unaffected by it—came out of the crowd and joined us on our bench to consult my legal opinion of an idea he came up with as a mathematician: he proposed that stores give discounts based upon their customer’s travel distance, so the further away they live, the less they have to pay, as reward and incentive to make the trip. The algorithm would have to take into account multiple locations (not to mention the privacy concerns), I thought, but I told him it could be patented.

Morrison has a nice interview where he discusses his time with fellow non-binary Ezra Miller and says—

They came over here to Scotland and hung out, and we wrote this thing. I really liked it. Warner Bros. only gave us two weeks! It was cruelty, you know. It was hardcore. We had to be like the Flash to get this thing done, and they were looking for something quite different.

See—and forgive me if this is but the most superficial of feedback on a subject long-since settled without my knowledge, as I can’t be arsed to make a proper investigation into it—the thing that annoys me about usage in this manner is the loss of pleasure I’d once derive from constructing sentences around pronouns based on their plurality and gender-based identification. Take for example this piece which might have been just too ugly for me to compose if I were to try and describe a fluid couple, their escapades interaction and my thoughts after witnessing them. (Had to change that word to remove any uncertainty about it.)

Heard that a script for a follow-up to Joker is already complete, which almost certainly isn’t good news. The Joaquin Phoenix tour de force captured the flashpoint of so much unrest and should have left us all alarmed by the true power of the fully-realized demagogue. Similar to its inspiration by Taxi Driver and The King of Comedy, my idea for an Owlman film or mini-series would be reminiscent of Oldboy, which always struck me as a superhero origin story, too. I know DC has done all sorts of variations on the Batman mythos, Bruce, Thomas, Thomas Jr., etc., and even made Alfred the killer, but this time the faithful butler could become Owlman, failing to protect the family. At least we wouldn’t need to explain the years of training, with his military background. I’m just uncertain what might spur such a vicious search for vengeance and how to twist it in a fucked-up enough way to leave him the nihilist who’d be welcomed into the ranks by the cameo appearance of Ultraman and Superwoman at the end. One thing for sure, I want his world to be the morally corrupt one in Morrison’s Earth 2 where the default outcome isn’t good. Maybe America in its death throes, ripped from the headlines: Commissioner Gordon won’t risk police injury to prevent the Wayne slaughter. Children like Bruce and brother Tommy sacrificed in the name of gun worship. And the fruit fly’s half-life attention span of the typical NIMBY/fuck-you-I-got-mine Gotham City resident who forgets about it a week later.

Update: I think I got something, at least an idea that hasn’t been done yet in the many Korean revenge movies I’ve seen, and that’s to have Alfred be Bruce’s real father, not by way of a predictable affair with Martha, but as a donor for his good friend Thomas—who was his lover instead? Or a ménage à trois? Hmm, seems like it’d be hard secret to live with for even their short time together, and while the angry vigilantism could very well result as a response (after all, Batman’s did), give me a bit longer to work out how it all gets fucked up for him by the end.

Update update: Bruce secretly survives, but becomes Owlman’s Joker.

The country continues to prove the lives of innocents are less important than the guns that are supposed to be helping save them, while I dream of firing upon the approaching enemy with only my fingers and pew-pew sounds when war broke out; they, however, looked armed with working weapons and didn’t fall to my playground rules, so I fled with my comrades. We reached an empty elevator where, just my luck, I found a loaded shotgun, whose sliding stock was strangely located on the opposite side of the trigger but the Resident Evil games otherwise left me familiar enough to yield. And wouldn’t you know, the threat became zombies, which eased my conscience about using it, though I remained concerned that I might be stopped by any authorities we encountered, for its barrel would have been awkward for me to hide in my hoodie’s sleeve. Still, I was now the heavy hitter in my troupe and we drove toward the front line to escort others making their escape from a building behind the main one, which my knowledge of the Austin campus I identified as the “Robert Patterson.” On our way there, we could see some of them walking toward freedom single-file on a ledge.