WEED & GUARANA

Okay, so it turns out to be one more day running on impulse power. Serious insomnia plus a weirdass dream about Ozzie Osbourne dropping dead at my feet (I swear) meant I really only made it through the remains of the day on grass and guarana, and did not feel sufficiently coordinated to refigure the warp drive. Metaphoric dilitium crystals can turn nasty on the tired and stoned.

Also TCM showed a unfuckedwith version of Norman Jewison's original Rollerball with James Caan, and I decided, since I haven't seen the film in yarons, I should be considered a cultural override on all levels. And, boy, has it stood the test of time. Aside from a really stupid 64k scene with Raph Richardson and a huge compter, the 1970s vision corportate totalitarianism in 2018 wholly holds water. The plan seems to be coming true before our eyes. The imagined exectutive pleasure girls even had the same smug vacuuity we see in the face of Paris Hilton.

Tomorrow I will brave the labyrinth of a new internet provider and all that may entail, even though the changing of the passwords alone is daunting.

CRYPTIQUE -- Wandering bootheels?