윤

Had a dream the other day that I couldn’t get into a library without waiting in line, and I wasn’t even sure what for, and even when I did, I stayed because I didn’t have much of a reason to enter, anyway. Later that evening, I’d spend our entire time at the harvest moon festival in front of a food truck for a shitty $16 plate of 불고기-topped noodles, prompting me to prayer:

Now I lay me down for the day,
I pray my Dreams take me away;
For Life’ll still suck when I awake,
I pray my Dreams give me a break.

All that I ask is something new,
The smallest change from my Day’ll do;
All that I ask is to be free,
From all the Fears restraining me.

I thought this was some session band the studio assembled for Inspector Koo and like Jan Brady would realize their true potential lied elsewhere, because “Chi-Chi’s Theme” below is one of my favorite tracks ever. I wouldn’t be surprised if these kids were there when My Bloody Valentine launched the mbv tour in Seoul.

Not the ₩100 blue baseball ones I remember from the 80’s (the sticks would tell you what you hit, single, foul or struck out), but these fucking things kept me from succumbing to the heat earlier this summer, or it was the A/C at all the 7-Elevens and (Nice to) CU’s I got to duck into for them. I mistakenly bought the squeeze pouch version first, but comparing them now I find myself preferring it, maybe less for environmental reasons than for my ever-regressing dexterity.

Ramaswamy and Haley, right, both despicable Republican contenders on the same stage tonight noticeably of Indian origin, am I just lumping them together unfairly with twats like Bobby Jindal and Dinesh D’Souza? 한국 여자 Michelle Steel, Young Kim and 진라 don’t get a free pass, either, but I got to thinking about my Indian friends and acquaintances in high school, most of whom came from strict upbringings and showed it, such as one dude who cosplayed Alex P. Keaton everyday, briefcase and all, and the other guy who killed a salesman for a Camry.

I do keep an eye out for dogs, and this morning as I was making a right onto 166th stopped because there was one halfway into the crosswalk, no owner in sight, no collar visible. A larger one of the same breed and color, maybe its parent, stayed close to the curb next to the car and seemed to be motioning for it to return, which it finally did after the truck behind me honked. We don’t get many strays in these parts, much less partners of them (I suppose they may have been freed upon the death of their elderly master), so I wonder where they got to.

Along with Ichiran in Japan (I’ll never forget waiting in 35° heat at the Ikebukuro one across from the soapland, only to find an older machine inside that doesn’t take cards), our daily dining establishment on this past trip. And now all I’ve got are my Farmer Boys Cobb Salads whose Mountain Dew refills I’d gladly exchange.

…My 386/33 couldn’t run Doom with a playable framerate without shrinking the screen down to the size of, well, things clever people have been putting it on since. (The Ultima Underworlds required I read text.)
Used the AGE category on this entry but it’s more “Things Have Come” (as in a long way), isn’t it, though that’s probably a better acronym for another subject and as much as I like the riff on Wells, it’s not really something one notices or appreciates until there’s far enough to look back upon—not that a whole lot still can’t change, and for the better, but holy shit, there’s Lego of Korean boys.

In the furor over the 1899 cancellation a Reddit poster suggested a much cheaper and renewed Epix series From, which I binged in but a day or two and might have something more to say about (I honestly don’t, other than to hope this incarnation of Lost delivers at least one “[The] Constant”—what’s with these four-letter titles; Evil, too), for an opportune upload on Nyaa led me back to Netflix and overlooked drama 방법 from a few years ago. Brilliant villianess and some nice ideas like the gathering of shamans from around the world like Street Fighter, one of them being a manga artist like Lovecraft’s Pickman, though the best part was undoubtedly the craziest zombie chase scene, ever, in the follow-up film. If only Inspector Koo‘s 12 episodes could’ve received such treatment! …The thought got me started on a rewatch, and with that in mind, there certainly is enough material seeded for a similar short sequel, one that pits the team against a challenging enough one-off opponent but in the process, of course, must solve the mystery behind her husband’s suicide, which K was right, involved 산타씨, but maybe not as she described. “Santa’s Secret” could be the subtitle.

In retrospect it may not amount to much, but there was at least some progress from the Killing Eve remake where the queers were relegated to supporting characters then letting them be the leads, if only “coded” as such and surrounded by the most extreme examples of the opposite sex.

I looked through the doorway and saw a young person’s bare arm suspended unnaturally high above the room, undulating slightly and the fingers wiggling to show that someone unseen was behind it. Suddenly I was attacked by a dozen gray fists, but I fought them back, defiant and insistent that they weren’t getting to me, even as the image of my aggressor in the back changed shape and color.

In quite the change of setting to an anime convention, my friend and I (I think it was Frank Hsu, because he was tall, thin and decked out in motorcycling leathers) were admiring the life-sized mechs on display, and when we learned we could actually climb inside one for photos, queued up thinking that we were first in line. Turned out it already stretched around the display and the others were full-on cosplaying as sentai pilots, so the Shoei or Arai helmet and riding gear looked philistine in comparison. Nearing the end of our wait, a woman with a baby approached and we let her cut ahead of us, but she then tried chaining in a fat relative who waddled up and we objected vehemently. I don’t remember taking any pictures because the very next thing, my buddy looked more like that fucker Steve Bannon and was thanking me; such an abrupt edit in my timeline frightened me that Alzheimer’s had struck and this was how my perception would continue, jumping from one moment to another, unaware of what happened between them.

It’s how I reconcile Severance and Navillera. (Although the former will probably be revealed to be mad science like Dr. Brain, the Trojan Horse implant that has to be “macrodata’d” to override memory or willpower conflicts.) Bread-winning aside, what good are we to our loved ones if we don’t know who they are anymore? What good are we to ourselves?