I saw He-Man shit at other kids' houses, but like a lot of the eighties it simply wasn't allowed in my house. Even The Smurfs were considered a monstrous affront - not only the sorcerer Gargamel, but the "demonic" Smurfs used magic as well! My mother had a book called Turmoil In The Toybox which she used as a kind cultural baleen to winnow the (sacred) wheat from the (profane) chaff, because sometimes you gotta look really really hard at toys in order to figure out why they're bad and that's why it's somebody's full-time job. You might think My Little Pony is about horse dolls, but what these wanton mares actually do is seize daughters nationwide and corrupt them into hellbound sluts.

I saw Masters of the Universe over the weekend and wanted to give my review as a long time fan of the cartoon and the toys. 

Having run credits on 007 First Light - and I don't think there's another ending in here somewhere - my feeling is that they stuck the landing and that I want to know what's next in an unreasonable amount of time. Sometime late next week, perhaps. No? That's probably not going to happen? Alright. Well, I had to try.

What we discovered when creating this strip is that people have NSA stalker tier levels of knowledge about these mice. It sounds like Gabe has some serious competition in this arena and should - until further notice - make his enemies start his jeep. Just until things cool down.

The movies running away with the box office are "indie ahh" horror flicks, tuned to Generation Zed. Quarantine sorta permanently broke the theatre habit for Gabe I think, though he'll occasionally lurch out of his cavern for something his larvae might be interested in. By comparison, there are people in my neighborhood's younger cadre who are, like, members of AMC Stubs and shit. They love going to the Goddamn movies. And I'd bet that a strong part of the take for films like Obsession and Backrooms - which Gabriel will not be seeing - are people who were essentially robbed of the ritual because a actual horror movie was taking place worldwide.

If you aren't a moral busybody or a turbo wastrel there's no world for you left. I sometimes try to determine which performance I like least, but the answer is something I apparently have to build from first principles every time. They're utter duplications of the other, arguably manufactured by each other; sometimes they can even switch sides successfully. It's a personality type, as near as I can tell, trailed by a velvet cape of adherents. On the one side, you've got young people becoming old people, desperate to outrun their Something Awful posting history by pledging allegiance to… themselves, I guess. And on the other side, you've got people who get irrationally angry when they see an A cup. You know? It's the, uh… it's the fight of the century.

So, I sleep sometimes.  Obviously, it's a failure.  I'm working on it.  I'm doing the work.   There's an odd point between being asleep and awake where I am happily paralyzed, and when that occurs I can start thinking any thought I want to and it will simply unfold from there.  I can push play on a blank cassette and it will orchestrate itself.   I am not the best judge of these ideas, I mostly like to see them born, but every now and then one makes an impression and I wrap it up for delivery to the outside world.  A few nights ago, this entire sentence was projected onto the screen and for some reason I thought it was worth remembering.  Most of the people I've talked with about it don't agree.  Here it is: