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Intellectual property is a concept borne from capitalism, right, and yet it seems folks whose only concern is self-enrichment are always the worst at following its rules. And loathe as I am to credit that cocksucker for anything, the story did lead me (back? Because this banger sounds familiar) to—

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.

I think this will be the name of the game idea I had about finding a bathroom in time, and the oft-perilous journey that entails, forcing strategic decisions between locations far and near, braving hordes of obstacles and competitors, all the while the ominous meter gauges your remaining willpower to hold it in. Different “levels” could take place in crowded department stores, highway rest stops and even your own home during family get-togethers.

Here’s what I have so far for an eponymous homophonic one-off from my planned next season of “Still Not Happening” strips—

Narrator: *Our story begins, as did life on the planet
With all that water and what happens if you don’t plan it.*

Narrator: *Relief is a short distance away, but alas
The wait to receive it longer, unless you were a lass?*

Narrator: *Fate is a harsh mistress and when you will meet her
Is tracked by a remaining strength-to-hold-it-in meter.*

Narrator: *It suddenly dawns on you what the pastor meant
About overindulgence making for lasting torment.*

Narrator: *The reminders may grate, but you must be bolder
For the pressure is great, like being crushed by a boulder!*

Narrator: *Next time all your might goes to holding in urine
Focus it elsewhere to make the most of the mess you’re in.*

I had this dream I was copying an old documentary about the Pet Shop Boys, at least it looked like Neil Tennant who sat around while his bandmate swapped costumes. The remote for the Betamax featured two buttons on the top row that rewound the tape to the previous chapter and displayed its name, in this case “JOY DIVISION”; the snow in the playback, however, betrayed the technology. The end credits played an alternate version of New Order’s “Temptation” in a different key, and with unfamiliar choral vocals; I forgot the tune an hour after waking.

I didn’t think my words would hew so closely to the original (and I did want to get in how much I hate cutting my fucking nails every week), but they are what I have in mind when I hear the Ramones version.

When I’m trying to get outta bed
I don’t want to grow old
Nothing good seems up ahead
I don’t want to grow old
How do you last another year
In a world made for younger things
Makes me think the dog’s got the right idea
When I see the price I’m paying
I don’t want to grow old
It’s all going the way I’m saying
I don’t want to grow old
Folks might hope that time will bring
Everything they want
Living isn’t like how they’re portrayin’…
I’m gonna post on the Internet
I don’t want to grow old
Stock up the medicine cabinet
I don’t want to grow old
I don’t want to say no to fries
I don’t want to hide my hair with dyes
I don’t want to be told I’m wise
I don’t want to wear the wrong shirt size
I don’t want to occupy my mind
I don’t want to leave the most behind
No I don’t want to grow old
Well when the pain puts up a fight
I don’t want to grow old
Get up to pee five times a night
I don’t want to grow old
I’d rather GTFO here
Than stick around when the end is near
I don’t want to leave dust ev’rywhere
On my seat
When I look into a mirror
I don’t want to grow old
Nose’s only hair getting longer
I don’t want to grow old
Picture me in an old nightgown
I don’twanttobe afraid of falling down
I don’t want to be all groans and moans
Saggy skin and brittle bones
I don’t want to become deadweight
Break my hip and accept my fate
How the hell is it already too late
No I don’t want to grow old

Why are you hearing it now, you ask
Maybe you’re closer to here than you imagine
Maybe you’re closer to here than you care to be

I only heard the first part recently so I thought it was a recent remix’s addition, because oh man, are those lyrics incisive compared to the rest of the song.

I haven’t been running much lately, but last night I had a dream I was on the street around the block and awkwardly encountered Steven Devadanam (pardon my spelling, it’s been a while) with his toddler child, but before I could think of an excuse not to have to catch up, a man came rushing past, a terrified look on his face. We saw no one or thing in pursuit, but Steve wasn’t taking any chances, picked up his kid and took off down an alley; I saw the wisdom in his act, but didn’t consider that my lagging behind them would endanger us all, because my legs weren’t providing the speed they used to. Do they ever in these situations?

And worse, I’ve been craving donuts, which must’ve made me dream about visiting Will at his new place of employment in a big office building, which had inside its own Japanese chain of specialty donut-hole pastries. This business catered only to companies large enough to house and sustain their branches, and struck me as a brilliant concept, until, of course, I woke up and remembered those sad little shops closed after hours in the Minneapolis sky-walk connections.

In these days of evil presidentes
Working for the clampdown
But lately one or two has fully paid their due
For working for the clampdown

There was a brunette stewardess with an eyepatch; a vest hanging on the wall moved, indicating the presence of a ghost, whose solid but invisible body the boy and I proceeded to hit with poles, but weren’t sure what effect it was having. Oh, and I had a bunch of floppy diskettes I packed into the only available box, folding some of them in a way that at least the 3½-inchers couldn’t and definitely shouldn’t be. It was his birthday, and Rush were guests, Geddy Lee offering a wall display of their cables and adapters for his friends to pair with their electronic equipment, then finishing with a set where Neil Peart (RIP) set up his kit outside the screen door, he and Alex Lifeson (whose name I got right, but they insisted was “Eric”) used exotic pedals and keyboards instead of directly handling their guitars. To my bewilderment, our young player added “Thunderstruck” to the jam, which the group surprisingly incorporated deftly, equipment levels flickered, and I scrambled for my phone to capture the moment.
But maybe it took being wowed by a Constant-caliber bottle episode of The Last of Us to trigger truly once-in-decades appearances by Elaine Benes and Clara Oswald in our best ages, the former way out of my league though she deigned to lead me as she stomped through the huddled masses of the university halls; I stopped for a quick greeting as we cross paths with the latter, then later received a call from her jealously (!) asking me if that was “Lucille from the restaurant.”

…Of course that’s followed up by one where I’m still in a school somewhere, accompanied instead by two cases of Mountain Dew Pitch Black, a few 20-oz. bottles of a brighter flavor, maybe Maui Burst, some loose cans and unable to move the lot at once, I opted to leave the boxes on the floor and come back for them, my arms full, as I slowly made my way down a wide stairwell. This is why I don’t deserve control of my subconscious, it’s full of insecurity and greed. Seems only a complete clearing of all my fucking hangups makes my dreams come true.

I’m sometimes glad to be proven wrong—what am I saying, as a pessimist, I count on it—the mulefa and war with the angels weren’t unfilmable; I was only unable to predict that budgets for such spectacle would eventually be approved for the small screen. Not like me, too, to quote the books (“There’s plenty of folk as’d like to have a lion as a dæmon and they end up with a poodle”) and fail to make the connection to “Seen and Not Seen” from Remain in Light.

I’m also reminded how I found the series in the first place, from a co-worker whose church-arranged husband strung her along for just long enough to finance his business and obtain a green card. The spinster’s faith is surely unshaken: “L’absurde naît de cette confrontation entre l’appel humain et le silence déraisonnable du monde.” Albert Camus, Le mythe de Sisyphe

I woke up the other night and decided to read up on the Pussycats, having largely parted ways with them after disappointing revival attempts at the turn of the century. Their Wiki mentions a compilation from Rhino in 2001, but the one I got was issued a few years before, and neither had “Clock on the Wall”, anyway, which may have turned me off most of all.The 2020 Blu-Ray remaster looks crisp like my OTA VHS recordings aren’t (despite using SP mode!), and even while I was making them I knew it was too late for that idyllic spirit of adventure they depicted, it could still await my next of kin.