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Work took me to a sparse apartment in one of New York City’s most dangerous neighborhoods, as evidenced by a crime scene right outside, but I felt fairly safe by staying inside with the door locked and lights on. When morning came I was joined by my team, a rag-tag group of folks, young and old, and one of them, a tall Kramer-type with a curly blonde afro, came out of the bathroom allowing me to go in next to shower and change for a final visit to the client today before returning home. I removed my pants, my only pair for the trip, and set them down but noticed there was water, no, urine pooled on the tile, and appalled as I was by the behavior of our resident hipster dufus, I had to prioritize drying them off in what little time I had. Dabbing it with a towel wasn’t likely to be effective, as wet as the jeans became like they had been submerged.

Googled the title in the hopes of finding a sufficiently tantalizing image to draw the reader’s attention to this otherwise personal subject of insecurity but instead learned that social media influencers took torn jeans up down yet another notch.

As often as I’m getting up for it in the middle of the night, I’m now peeing in my dreams, and the directions I got to where I could go in the office I was in led me to a plain plastic waste basket at the end of a desk in an open room. No one else seemed to mind, so I started with a small stream, then released it at full pressure, only for it to be reflected from the growing puddle inside with similar strength. The spray reached my pants, and wouldn’t be abated even after I dropped some paper over it. Finishing up, I heard a toilet flushing and regretted not having looked harder for proper facilities. I walked out of the building and could see in the daylight that there were still spots I’d better wait to dry before returning to my fiancée. My dark slacks originally had the same houndstooth pattern to match my jacket, but had changed to light brown.

Update: First title for this post was Archie Comics-like “Urination Tribulation”, but I thought I’d work in the boy’s fascination with KISS, strangely deviating from the anime path to follow in his father’s footsteps. Except instead of just playing up memories of action figures, blood-inked comics and made-for-TV movies for kitsch value, at least he might play “I Was Made for Lovin’ You” on the guitar?

This was a form of torture to which I was to be subjected—for what or by whom I don’t think was ever identified—but it caused me very little dread, even if my toes were completely removed, maybe because running is blackening each nail and flip-flops have all but ravaged the soles of my feet to where they no longer seem part of my body proper. (Speaking of which, losing those Reefs on the curb and never being able to replace them was one of my many experiences teaching me to stock backups against discontinued product. Latest example are wired headphones, but soon it might be the Lightning adapters for them.) Like the universe is taking me back starting at the borders.

Update: Legs felt heavier than ever, and made it an effort to lift each one, like my heart wasn’t getting the bonus coordinating the work anymore. There’s barely anything left to my stride. Could the safe zone be closing in on my extremities?

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.

Saw a preview for it on the Afro-centric “Bounce” digital channel, which must be how Kurt Russell showed up as the CEO of a high-end business whose first action with visiting Andy Hsu was to take him to his clothing shop and make new recommendations for his wardrobe. The proprietor produced them all from under his counter, such garish colors and textures, knit pantsuits and things, that I snuck off, but was cornered by another of his employees, who reminded me of Brent Spiner’s daughter in the episode of Criminal Intent I saw last night. We watched together from above as a huge ballroom became densely packed with dancers, then joined by giants, who grew increasingly larger, though it was apparent that they were Carnival-like puppets, all resembling Christopher Lee’s Saruman. I began slipping off the balcony and somehow grabbed hold of one of their long robes with her help, and we escaped through the crowds.

Was thrown for a loop when a cashier I didn’t recognize at the Pizza Studio rang up the 2.17 for the drink, saw me take the bills out of my wallet, then told me it was on the house. “It’s hot out there,” she said. It really wasn’t, but I was still dressed ten degrees warmer. (The loop came when I nearly walked out with the empty cup.) Could she have smelled the char-grilling on my clothes from next door, or was the guilt the other way around, and they looked worse than I could have ever imagined? I’ve been concerned about overpatching the jeans. Regardless, I wasn’t coming back for a refill.

My last one was over 7 years ago. Excel says next is due on 5/6/2021.

Yesterday at the coin laundry, which despite any other improvement in station I still patronize as long as my in-laws insist on hanging their wash outside a million-dollar home, I made what can only be described as a noob mistake by failing to secure a cart in the Sunday afternoon rush and had to load my dryers by several trips with handfuls of dropped socks or shorts. Later I overheard a woman who sought to avoid my frustration approach another Black couple and ask to borrow theirs, thanking them afterward by addressing them “my darlings.” This group camaraderie must’ve made its way into my subconscious last night when I brokered a meeting between two fellows, both with red hair. One was a graphic designer who dropped out of school but now ran a successful business, and when he and his large ginger female co-worker bid farewell to their new acquaintance with kisses on the mouth, they turned to me slyly and said something to the effect that I wouldn’t understand.

A short follow-up ensued whereby my other friend, whose last name was Johnson, explained his reluctance to get involved with another family of redheads with the same surname. A resident matriarch assured him there was no concern, as he wasn’t nearly as good-looking, followed by a pause for audience laughter.

Can’t say much for the Total Recall remake, including but not limited to its merits nor the very need thereof, but of all the things to bring back:

Try as I might, I cannot recall anything before the plane crash, which was in actuality a heist getaway. Three of our crew revealed themselves as impostors—maybe even aliens—just before bailing, and left us on our own as we trekked back towards civilization. The path along the rugged hillside where we landed eventually produced a square house, but upon closer inspection, it was a facsimile, then another. The third, a split-level vacation home, was occupied, and the couple we caught returning from grocery shopping allowed a blond woman among us to use their cellphone to call relatives she assured us were trustworthy. Her word, however, wasn’t good enough for me, and I ran for it into the night, recommending Daryl from The Office to do the same as I passed him and others relaxing outside. She betrayed us and the police arrived for the rest of them.

Seems like my whole department was on the lam with me, and our pictures were on the news. Mine appeared towards the end, so I hoped I would avoid detection by the public. I nervously boarded a train, but changed cars when I felt the heat was on. This one was oddly shaped like a triangle, with two entrances at one corner split by a wall: I sat along the far side, and when a Black afro’d police officer entered, searching for me, I hid my head under my hoodie. Luckily so did a number of other young men to my right; one caught his attention and he drew his weapon, shouting at him to show himself; in the confusion I calmly walked to the other exit on the left and discreetly hurdled some passengers to get out.

I have this pair of Adidas sweat pants—now that I mention it, my Nike “training” shorts are the same way, so it’s not a brand issue—whose pockets are so shallow that anything entrusted in them unfailingly fall out when I sit on anything equal to or sharper than a 90-degree angle. I suspect the Chinese manufacturers of skimping on the pattern-making and using the same ones regardless of the size, which may only be plenty deep for someone with legs half mine’s length. (I know what you’re thinking: if keys are gonna slide the entire distance anyway, what does it matter how far they’re down? Because friction’s more likely to intervene, that’s why. The additional travel time’s bound to alert me, too.) Or was it decided that it’s in the best interest of society to inconvenience us than to require another part of the population to dig in up to their elbows?

And while I’m at it, will they ever make a car without crevices between the seats too small for your hands to fit through and fumble around for such emptied contents without parking and moving the seat back? Tall people have it rough, too.