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No one’s gonna remember this nameless filler for those times in the week when AMC couldn’t air The Walking Dead, but every few years I feel like an underachieving nobody hung up on the past I return to watch all the ones whose lives it shared for its 20-episode run. Cut short? Maybe, nobody cares. The whole show was a big fat zugzwang. I suppose Mrs. Davis attempted something of the sort, but freeyow, was that cast good-looking, their characters too Harry Potter for my idea of Pynchon, and conspiracies nowadays might want to keep a lower profile. Setting it in nearby shitty Long Beach helped, too.

Joseph Lin was still the boss at work, and I sought his permission to borrow the truck parked in the warehouse to get home, though I thought it might not be worth the trouble, having to bring it back in the morning. His complexion was worse than I remember, and he wiped away the sweat or secretions while he explained to me that Patrick Stewart was retiring not only from his career in film and television, but his honorary position at the company. (Reminds me of the celebrity endorsement Apex purchased from Terry Bradshaw.) My earlier scenario found me free from my usual state of transportation-disabled, collecting my things after a class, fitting one backpack into another so that I’d only have two to carry. The girl that had sat beside me, who had curly brown hair like the actress who played Elaine’s counterpart on Jerry’s failed pilot, told me her father was picking her up, but that he was fussy about her sitting in his car, even the way she handled its door. I told her I’d take her home instead and not complain, “I’ll even open it for you,” I offered—the conversation felt real, I recall our exchange clearly; she asked me for my name, which despite a certain extent of intimacy we somehow hadn’t gotten to sharing, to which she replied, “The Jay?” “I guess I am,” I flustered, and our relationship having withstood my reputation, bravely requested her number. She smiled and nodded, and as I fumbled for a writing instrument in one of the nylon pockets, I would learn she was Marissa.

AI Seinfeld is a wondrous accomplishment, that I predict will have the monkeys beat in no time. (At least they’re striving for Shakespeare; most other writers had better consider a career change.) In fact, I hope it’s on my TV in San Junipero.

Update: And just like that, stream’s been taken down temp-banned (for the ad revenue must flow) after alleged filter omissions, in a machine learning lesson?

Second required three elements: a hitchhiker, allergy and map error. Couldn’t come up with a cohesive premise immediately but did overnight that wasn’t a complete rehash of the Twilight Zone episode—now that I think of it, weren’t the tiny invaders in one, too? Didn’t want to tank his grade with the obvious product of a dilettante who’s watched too much TV (but at least isn’t contributing to its decline), but I couldn’t just let it fade into our fleeting moments together.

[I went to sleep happy with the name Seth, until I realized in the morning that I missed an H and couldn’t make his last name “Amuck”, so Heath Smuck it is?]

It feels like all I’ve done today is drive, and I can’t even remember taking the mid-term in the morning, much less what was on it, or packing my things for the trip. There just haven’t been many noteworthy sights along the way, and everything in between has looked the same, mostly barren stretches of land. Sometimes it would go up into a hill, and if we had the high ground, the sky would take over most of our view out the windows.
“I’d like to get some sleep now, too, Mr. Chew,” I said. “Do you mind taking over for the next fifty miles or so?”
Of course he didn’t answer, much less stir from his bored slumber; as a cat, he was neither capable, nor eligible for a license (though I haven’t confirmed—I’m pretty certain I’ve seen people behind the wheel who couldn’t possibly be any more qualified than him). Even if he could reply, it’d probably go something like, “Please stop with that terrible joke, you’ve been repeating it before you finish each fifty miles.”
He did raise his head when the rain started and the wipers dragged noisily into action. It was growing dark, but off in this flat distance I saw an unfamiliar sight, not one of those signs by which you could calculate how many more times I’d ask Mr. Chew about driving, but a solitary figure, standing by the side of the freeway. I swear I was going fast enough that I shouldn’t have been able to notice his extended thumb or recall that meant he was hoping for a lift, or realize how pitiful it was to be caught in his situation, but I managed to slow down and stop not too far past that I didn’t have to back up for him to show up at the passenger window.
“Hello!” the man said warmly, his face battered by raindrops.
“Hi,” I replied as quickly as I could, sensing his agony, “Do you need a ride?”
“I could sure use one, as far as you’ll go.” Looking down at Mr. Chew’s cage on the seat and letting his wet long hair swing forward, “But I see you already have a partner. I don’t mind sitting in the back, if that’s alright.”
“Sure,” I welcomed, pushing my bag behind me to make space for him. I only got a quick glance directly at him before returning to the road and resuming our conversation through the rear-view mirror, but he did not seem as shabbily dressed as I might have expected in the city, and had with him a small backpack and walking stick, the kind I’ve seen used by hikers.
“I really appreciate this,” he started. “Not too many passing today, and no one as kind as you to pick me up. Name’s Seth, by the way.”
That took me by surprise. “But that’s my name, too! What a coinci—”
I was cut off by Mr. Chew, who had leaped up beside the head rest and started hissing viciously at our guest. This was remarkably uncommon behavior for him, as he’s been friendly with most everyone we meet, with exception of his veterinarian, of course, and that one guy who applied to be our roommate and brought over his pet groundhog.
Seth seemed to take it in stride, but didn’t dare offering his hand in friendship, instead using it to cover his mouth when he began sneezing.
“I’m afraid your other half has me at a disadvantage,” he barely made it through, “I’m terribly allergic.”
“No problem,” I told him. “Come on, Mr. Chew, we don’t want to be a bad host,” and with that I took him with my free arm and shut down his protest behind his cage door.
So against the sound of futile scratching against those little metal bars, we enjoyed a delightful conversation: he didn’t reveal much about himself, but I was happy to keep awake by telling him about school, my friends, the tournament starting tomorrow, and time must have passed like those reflective highway markers. In fact, they disappeared altogether, with the lights; it was pitch dark and the only thing visible was an approaching gas station. Behind it was an on-ramp for a route that crossed ours but I could only see the side that went in one direction.
“Strange,” I said, deftly swapping between apps on my phone. “I’ve still got a good signal but there’s no sign of this exit on any of the maps. Maybe we should stop and stretch our legs. Mr. Chew could use some time of the box. He hates it in there.”
The place was brightly-lit but mine was the lone car, and I couldn’t make out whether or not anyone was inside the attached shop as I parked. I politely asked Seth if I could get him something, he politely refused, and I freed Mr. Chew and let him on the ground, though grumpy as he still was, I trusted him not to flee in these unfamiliar surroundings.
Suddenly the sliding doors opened and some people stepped out. There were three of them, two taller than me and one shorter, almost a toddler’s height; their hair all different colors but natural; they wore collegiate gear and I think I caught the tail end of their fight song. The one who wasn’t smoking and coughing pointed at me and announced quite aggressively:
“Hey, that kid’s got what we need! Let’s get him!”
I backed up and bent down to reach for Mr. Chew, but he surprisingly sprung into a defensive position himself, somehow recognizing the threat and snarling with such ferocity his fur stood on edge. As if by instinct, I joined him and was prepared to protect what I thought they were after, the car. And its passenger, whose safety was now our responsibility.
“Come on, there’s no one around, he’ll be no match for us,” they continued. “Who’s that in there with him?” They peered around me and their faces fell. Seth was smiling at us through the window, the sight of which I didn’t think would cause that reaction, however odd it was looking as dry as he did; then again, I may have rambled for hours. Surely my aggressors had no way of knowing that, but I turned to find they were gone, a barely perceptible layer of dust they presumably displaced in their flight.
Mr. Chew stared where they had been, which I understood to mean he didn’t, then hopped into my arms with his usual agility, but I might have received him loudly like Mom does when I return home that it masked the sound of the car door opening and closing, for behind us stood Seth. He was so tall I’m not certain how he got in the back to begin with, his walking stick had become a full-length staff, and he was dry, bone dry! He read the plain expression on my face and spoke:
“You must have plenty of questions.”
“I sure do,” I almost didn’t wait for him to finish. “Do you know who those three were, and why were they so frightened of you?”
“Some minor ghouls, trying to steal your Mr. Chew. He’s very precious, you know.”
“Wait, what does that mean and how do you know? Just who are you, is your name even Seth?”
“It’s one of the many names I’ve been known by, yes.”
“But—”
“My young friend,” he interrupted, “I had intended to bring you here because of your reckless drive, your careless disregard for the need to rest before facing life’s challenges, but now that I have gotten to know you better, I see that you are deserving of another chance. Mr. Chew’s got many, I’m sure he won’t mind sparing you one so the two of you can spend more time together.”
With that, Mr. Chew made a noise unlike the usual screech at Seth, but more of a definite me-ow, then quieted down.
“I’ll get off here, thank you so much for the ride. Take care of each other, and good luck at the competition!”
My curiosity could’ve have kept me going, but I felt my feet taking me back to the driver’s seat, where I sat Mr. Chew next to me and left the other Seth in the mirror. I thought I saw his staff swivel and the reflection of a large blade come into view, but the light from the stop faded almost immediately as the freeway became lit with poles and signs.
One of them was for an upcoming rest area, where I got off and decided to nap; after all, sign-in wasn’t until noon. “What an adventure.” Mr. Chew was already asleep. “As far as driving companions go, I choose you, Mr. Chew.”

Honestly superhero-saturation has gotten to me, too, but I’ll always appreciate any irreverence it explores, not unlike Lynchian disruption, which face it, has always come from the DC side, unconvincing pastiches aside. Why after all, wouldn’t gods be free to say “fuck” or vaunt their sexual prowess?

Netflix has certainly struck gold with their Korean co-productions lately, with Kingdom (what was that last outing but another Joker), Move to Heaven and now this Parasite-cum-live-action Fall Guys, which should one-up their investment in comparatively ludicrous Alice in Borderland.Weebs claim that the concept was lifted from 神さまの言うとお, but seeing Miike’s adaptation, I realized why I let 13 years pass. Seems boredom is always the given reason for the powers that be to cycle back Adams’s course of history, but maybe we’ve reached a point in our “civilization”, too, where instead of allowing teenage superheroes overcome all the challenges it’s become more entertaining to see the players suffer and beg them for their lives—at which Koreans excel.

Rebound after the Line of Duty series (6) finale, police drama in the other part of England that give or take an iPhone, looks like it hasn’t changed in 50 years. I couldn’t find but the last episode of the second season—er, series, but it seemed more of the same, protagonist and criminal bumbling along, no grander scheme in mind other than self-preservation. Which I suppose is alike everywhere, even at work, where I was in my dream, fulfilling more of my staple IT duties, stopping with my bundle of paperwork at various stations throughout the office to take short naps, my way of distributing them without overindulging and maintaining the all-important appearance of industriousness. One of the characters jumped to his death at the end of Happy Valley, which carried over to a sad fellow who did the same in my building, except he did so with a bomb strapped to his chest and triggered it just as he passed my window. The explosion sent me flying headfirst in slow motion toward the remaining wall and I hoped it would at least be enough to get me out of the rest of the day.And if I were ever to return to a desk that’s dusted by the cleaning staff at night, I’d like to resume my reputation for techno-macabre with a faux body mod like this attachment, which reminds me of Zaphod’s third arm being used to operate a digital watch スマホ while my left could be free to help open sauce packets.

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.

Looks like it’s been more than a month since I toasted his departure with a revisit to They Live, which seems no more far-fetched as it was back then as things are now must’ve been. Confession: I was ambivalent of this film when it debuted, because as groundbreaking as I knew The Thing was even as a kid and as much as I may have enjoyed Big Trouble in Little China (although the latter is not quite as easy to return to), John Carpenter was surely stealing my earlier idea of an invaded Earth, the manuscript of which I recently unearthed. At least as far as I had gotten; the Gothic ball on my Selectric II must’ve given way by that last chapter, which would explain the abrupt change to Courier. My ending would’ve had the unfortunately-named protagonist uncover the secret conspiracy to control the destinies of our future leaders, only to be convinced by the aliens that we were all better off that way, anyway. It’s hardly remarkable, I admit, other than to show how much I owe Douglas Adams, but Henry’s treatment, wherever that went, could definitely be considered a progenitor of the modern graphic novel.