윤

…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.

First dream of the year, at least that I can recall, was about a missing girl whose suitors seemed to care less about her mental health and whereabouts than their own poor experiences with her: David Barreiro complained about being led on, and another character I felt was based upon the Terry Silver baddie in the latest season of Cobra Kai (whose six hours or so I binged in half that time by skipping the through the new kid’s subplot) continued to pursue revenge wearing special clue-gathering spectacles. Me, I was looking for a Lego car I had left in her place, which I eventually did inside a box or coat pocket; it wasn’t a set piece but built with standard gray and clear bricks and carried some sentimental significance.

In the other, I had been married previously, twice in fact, and never formalized our divorces, though my last wife was decent enough not to make it a big deal.

…And no, it wasn’t another new Netflix series. After my first two hours I woke and remembered seeing George Costanza as the host of his own radio show, since that was before streaming, talking about sports in an admirably competent manner, before he and Jerry conspired to remove precious photos others had taken from them and contributed to a display: his was proof, he angrily directed at his absent parents, of his “social interaction” and Jerry’s a shot from a talk show appearance. They had been printed onto rectangular blocks and when they tried moving them, became loose and jumbled like puzzle pieces.
Nasty stuff happened in the morning stretch, when I’d find under the covers a willing lass of unremarkable topography. In spite of my ability to satisfy her no more than a surfer asleep on his board, she agreed to accompany me to another destination, with an older consort in tow; the latter seemed unvexed by my hanky-panky and when we got so far into the parking lot, still in my red plaid pajamas, to realize that I had left the car keys inside, knew it was pointless to expect me to make the return trip for them and called a rideshare for us instead.

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.

Was catching up with Dangerous Minds recently, and they themselves had just gotten around to video posted almost ten years ago of McGoohan in LA that really is the stuff of my dreams, especially his new bit with the hanger motif.