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It’s been rumored for years, and the technology is brilliant, something that harks back to my fascination with this one of the more innocuous pieces of standard crime-fighting equipment. And while Apple’s compromised on privacy concerns to alert anyone nearby, I bet there’s still enough time for a swing through the city to find out where the girl of your dreams lives your stolen bike is.

Even more outrageous is that Miller not only probably relished being under that mask, but he’s still on their payroll. Though no way for these lines.

Not really sure if I can maintain any thematic consistency or segue the least bit logically this time around, but let’s see where this takes us: I had befriended a Korean teenager but somehow ended up with his Samsung-ish cellphone, which was a plot point towards the end of this series, wasn’t it, where the younger detective saves his partner from incrimination by intercepting a text message meant to lure him to the scene of an assassination. (There were some good moments, mostly early on, but I don’t think the conspiracy warranted that many episodes, much less the effort to keep it from the forgiving public.)

I sought him out to return it, but crowds began forming and a mountain of their backpacks blocked my passage in one direction. Seems his countrymen had booked Coyote Creek for an interscholastic sporting event and even set up seating along one of its walls. With all the children around, I gathered up a few of them and arranged to have them taken to a Lakers game or another local attraction by limo. The driver’s assistant requested their ages, which ranged from 5 to some in their teens, but once I got inside to confirm, the car drove off without the guest of honor, so he called up front and asked to circle back.

Frustrating outcome, as usual, but wholesome content, not like before my 1-7 break between watching the penultimate 15회 on the box and the finale live, where I was part of a resistance formed against the department management bent on reducing our numbers. I relayed our latest predicament to former co-worker Ailee as we plotted together to strengthen our resolve. The enemy crashed the secret gathering and my cohorts scattered while I deliberately turned my back to them to bear the brunt of their attention; I could see they were right behind me in my friend’s eyes. Bystanders noped any association with me by backing away, including classic Larry Trainor and his partner, a headless man in a flight uniform.

Update: Forgot to mention that when I was wading through all those students in the flood channel, I was explicitly dressed in my Uniqlo thermals, these wonderfully thick Costco socks and never any footwear, carrying my comforter as I’d expect from the new tenants. No one seemed to take notice of me.

I didn’t really see it like last time, but maybe if they had expanded their roster without resorting to the oddly-inserted cameo, they’d have filled their ranks with the full Olympian lineup—then again, this director‘s “cut” would’ve been six hours long. And yet, if that meant more scenes like the Flash got, I’d be all for it.

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.

Maybe nobody could, but as Dr. Tyrell said before succumbing to patricide, “the light that burns twice as bright burns half as long.” I get that there are brighter lights nowadays—the above-excerpted Button storyline, a show about a father and son playing Final Fantasy together, the health and well-being of my child—but this cancellation felt like a personal loss, yet another rebuke of my preferences by powerful popular opinion with which I continue to lose touch.

Sure, True Detective’s second season sucked, but Fargo’s more than made up for it, and with Game of Thrones arguably reaching its zenith, Mr. Robot thankfully returning in a month and the implausible takeover of a network by comical DC characters, it begs the question, why return to a relic that was itself put to pasture by the very Law and Order franchise which has been a season from retirement for the better part of a decade? Syndication, of course, and though there’s a lot less of it, my stubborn refusal to (re)join the Netflix generation but forgo further investment in hard copies has created an interesting delivery model that’s representative of most my preoccupations as of late.