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Time-delayed from the actual 50th anniversary of the show—referring, of course, to the time a broadcast takes to be uploaded to a PB torrent, then for me to get around to it—which meant so much in middle school, but now seems like any other Hollywood hokum. (This, from a middle-ager who digs what they’re doing on Arrow. It’s all Alan Moore’s fault.) Still, it’s nice to see Tom Baker acknowledged for his contribution, not only to the character’s universal appeal, but in the end, to my childhood imagination. “Who knows?” he asks.

Was on my way to Taco Bell when I began working on an idea I had for a Wonder Woman movie (which would explain why I forgot again that I could’ve eaten much better with $8.92 at Chipotle), coming to me, I suppose, after this screencap from Smallville and the portrayal of Diana as a Themysciran ambassador as in The Hiketeia. Oh, and the Black Canary character on Arrow focusing her fight for all women in trouble. Doesn’t seem to be that way in the New 52, but oh well.

Anyway, apart from a dalliance in WW2 where she got her Captain America-like style, she doesn’t bother much with the Western World nowadays. Why would she? There’s millions of women being raped in the Congo, and in comparison, being sexually discriminated at Prada hardly merits her or her Amazonian sisters’ attention. Instead, they show up in places like South Africa, nations under Sharia Law, and bring major whoop-ass on the evil men do, and are treated as goddesses by the survivors. Amy Adams’ Lois Lane (the sole DC crossover for this solo outing) decides to track them down and does, welcomes the princess to the United Nations as a symbol of women’s rights everywhere. She’s disdainful at first, but of course while she’s in town, discovers suffering even on a personal scale and gets to work bouncing bullets off her bracelets and what-not.

Dreading the prospect of returning to my regularly scheduled programming, I continue exploring later seasons of Mission: Impossible—though I swear, when Willy’s hair gets too long, I’m definitely stopping and digging out my Police Squad! DVD—and watched the episode they liked enough to remake as the opener of the Eighties revival, where the IMF must fool a hitman with the challenging MO of rolling dice to make his decisions “random”. (The latter I would find on YouTube, and yeah, it wasn’t a major studio production like the original, but at least they tried to correct the glaring mistake of faking the hotel address.) So, a cross between Two-Face and the Joker? Robert Conrad aced the role with that same James West confidence, and Lesley Ann Warren was a 70’s hottie.

I made it.

I’ve been fairly vocal on Reddit (my forum of choice lately) about my disdain for Joss Whedon’s approach for the Avengers—after all, what’s even the point of live-action superheroes if they’re not even going to try to make them believable—so I can readily forgive the handheld and emphasis on wholesale destruction, which is the least I’d expect were gods to walk the earth.I might as well commit my hope for the sequel to writing, because as surprisingly pleased as I was by this introduction (my reaction to Batman Begins, conversely, couldn’t prepare me at all for the majestic follow-up), I’m almost certain to be disappointed by any let-up in the breakneck pace. Nothing save the Justice League will top the Marvel squad now, so instead of spending $300 mil trying to convince us it can be done with Metallo or Brainiac or Luthor in ludicrous armor, I suggest the monomaniacal multi-billionaire use his resources to round up the world’s finest challengers to the alien threat. That pilot who was inducted into an intergalactic police force might be hailed back with enough investment in the right technologies. Rumors of vigilantes in Central City and Gotham investigated. He could even Charles Widmore a trip to a legendary lost island of the Amazons. And Atlantis. They’d all go at him, of course, which is what I’d rather have seen between Thor, Iron Man and the Hulk than them squashing that incompetent army Loki skimped on, then realize that he’s the real deal, the Man of Tomorrow.

The latest chapter of my past-blasting, courtesy of 남재’s Demonoid booty. All the Tom Baker Doctor Who’s are almost done (although I’d rather someone upload the Peter Davison era, so I can save myself from one day having to reunite with my beloved Tegan on VHS), Community recently reminded me of missed opportunities on the 90’s dance floor, and surely holding this in my hands again will force me back through time. Or into an institution.

I had forgotten how each year they’d introduce only a few new episodes with revamped opening sequences, then soon enough one Saturday morning you’d start seeing reruns from previous seasons. And you would think that with that many names in the credits, someone could’ve come up with more memorable stories, though that alternate universe one where the Superfriends were evil did get to me at an early age. They were going back to clean it up, but never showed it! Oh, and “Colossus”, the cosmic giant who flicked the Earth like a marble and then pocketed it; Apache Chief grew to the size of Jupiter and wrestled him in outer space while his duo partner, Superman, pushed the planet back into place. Madness. Total madness.

The retrofest continues. Last night I completed the Gerber Defenders run after what, 30 years, and today a few episodes of the recently-reissued Johnny Sokko compilation. Like Shout’s ウルトラセブン from last year, video quality is positively barbaric (my early Nineties ジャイアントロボ Laserdisc seemed like a remaster), but it’s excusable this time around, as they got the American dubbed version, which I’ve only seen in my youth as the “Voyage into Space” remix. Man, we would go nuts when that showed up Saturday afternoons.

I haven’t seen anything yet like that artsy Ultraseven episode, but the body count is simply staggering for a children’s show. Closing in on half a century of enlightenment later, I can’t imagine a 10-year-old being revealed as a master spy then getting shot dead in the back by his former masters, outside of maybe SVU.

Nice birthday present, Sony. Dumping Dan Harmon is either gonna go down like Alan Moore-less Watchmen, or Star Wars without Lucas. We’ll find out soon enough.

Oldboy lives on in DCUO (for as long as the game lasts, or I do), and as impressed as I was with Guild Wars 2, I’m reluctant to return to the elves and giant rats, especially without the name, so maybe some reinvention is in order, you know, the kind the comics do when the original concept just won’t cut it anymore.

This weekend is the second of their open betas, and I’ll give it a go again, this time with Xpadder because there’s no way I’d continue with one hand over the 1-7 ability keys on top of the other moving WASD-style. Either way, I doubt it’ll be an easy transition from the responsiveness and fluidity of animation I’ve come to take for granted—despite the utter lack of anything to do with them.

I was driving through Cypress with the mother-in-law when the red and blue lights of a police car appeared to my left and directed me to pull over by literally throwing a smaller flashing one onto my hood.  This was, I had just learned, how it’s done, but as it seemed unlikely that a lone driver could handle it without a passenger’s assistance, I surmised before complying that it must’ve been launched from a control inside.  It was a tight fit between two parked vehicles, but there was more on my mind, like exactly what I had done (I might’ve made an illegal turn at the last intersection, which would embarrass me in front of Mrs. Lin after making a big deal about Sheila having done the same just a week ago; or more likely, the cops were busting me for reading forbidden literature by hacking into my Kindle) and what I would do now that this town could go fuck itself.

Worse, when our business was concluded, the stress of the situation had gotten to me and I carelessly bumped the car behind me returning to the road.  It was a large old American sedan, the kind which we used to call boats, so given the difference in weight and amount of steel—had the elderly owner left it off the parking brake—the RAV4 should not caused it to roll away as it did.  In light of compounding my legal infractions insurance premium hikes, I chose to flee the woe that my life had become, and found salvation above: dark clouds collected unnaturally with a fringe of Kirby dots and aliens descended in the form of menacing red or blue bubbles, which apparently distinguished their genders.  They were slow enough for me to evade or shake off, but most everyone else, children, the mother-in-law included, got enveloped and carried away, their bodies used as hosts.  The human race would eventually evolve the power of flight to resist the invasion, or so the epilogue revealed.

He’s free to say what he wants, and it won’t take away The Dark Knight Returns or Year One, but that doesn’t mean he’s free from smackdown: