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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—

The product announced today has me tempted to capture one of my 全力坂 runs before it’s too late, even if it may already be, ironically, for my own vision.

Update: I don’t think it’s particularly creepy or Black Mirror-dystopian to record with one of these on, any more so than using a giant phone or iPad camera, but I did wake up screaming at a swarm of bugs hovering above us last night, only to realize that it just might have been the kind of nightmare AR will make possible.

I’m still reeling from the events of last weekend, but carry on as I always have with the imaginary solace that American safety net GoFundMe is amassing for William Cho a Bruce Wayne-sized estate to make something of a legacy. It was actually the night before that I sat for this recent release, was mildly entertained by its refreshingly tongue-in-cheek approach to the genre, only to spot right away what has understandably got to be my favorite cameo ever, despite it being no strange a feature in all these nostalgic sequels and remakes.

I forgot, I really did like seeing some of the 60’s cast members in the one-off Lost in Space movie—starring Gary Oldham? (And Heather Graham, who is always welcome to segue into my subconscious.) The show came up, right on cue, when I was reminded of Dr. Smith’s “oh, the pain” catchphrase upon turning over another year and expecting little else to convince me not to make it my own. Learning that Jonathan Harris was 54 during his act (and milked it for 3 decades) doesn’t help.

…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.

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.

Never seen this video before, but holy shit, Bowie was a god!
Back when he passed, I wrote an obituary of sorts on the old job’s content-starved Yammer site (thought that was bad enough, then after being taken over by a nearly 1K-large organization, theirs was still manned by a single executive whose role seemed to be to do nothing but), accompanied by this picture:

I remember some banter about David Bowie before the last staff meeting a couple of weeks ago, and I was rummaging through some of the boxes in the garage only to unearth these relics from a bygone era. 7th-generation [iPod] nano for scale… to think I ran with that thing, which really is as heavy as it looks! (And isn’t Apple getting a lot of flak over rumors that their next iPhone is going to do away with the headphone jack, it being what, 2016 now?) All the memorials may have since passed, but the “Heroes” cassette was surprisingly cued up for the title track—like a kind of time capsule, almost—and while the playback reminded me just how old this stuff is, it was a fine personal tribute to the artist.

Bonus: The song is just as brilliant in languages I’ve studied in my lifetime. Sadly, the only music I brought in to play on Mrs. Hogshead’s box turntable was Kraftwerk’s “Tour de France” 12-inch. (Pardon if the lyrics don’t display upon hover, the Soundcloud iFrame seems to interfere with the <title> tag. These links are all bound to fail one day, anyway, so best to preserve the content elsewhere.)

Jeff Lynne’s music sounds all the same, doesn’t it? Not that I’m complaining.

John Lai and his friends had started a new business selling “cars”, little remote-controlled metal boxes with caster-like wheels, and I bought one myself, though I began questioning whether you could even call them that, being useless as transportation, other than it costing two or eight thousand dollars. I helped with the design of a new sleeker model by attaching a thinner wooden panel, painted black, onto the body, holding it in place above and aligning its pegs above their matching holes. It must’ve been Houston, and I was visiting, still half-asleep with my comforter, because Rajeev Gantela showed up to discuss selling his parents’ home to Susan, who had a map of their subdivision.