What’s fascinating is that we know everything and nothing. Why, it’s almost as if there’s a dense, grey, suspended mass of moisture over the war. You find a YouTube account that looks at it all dispassionately:

All those icons! You wonder: where did he get this information? It’s densely informative. It also kinda sorta confirms my priors, which I have assembled from watching news, reading a variety of sites and sources, which agree with me! Imagine that. But of course I’m agreeing with them because they agree with me. This should make one nervous.

Is there no Russian propaganda available for airing on Western TV channels? I mean the stuff the Ukes are doing - the captures, interviews, bombed-out convoys, refugees, and so on. Either they’re not making it, or they are, and we’re not being shown it.

I want to see it, just to see what they’re trying to make everyone feel, but it seems more likely they’re not making it. They don’t care, or didn’t think it necessary. This would be a fast special operation, not a war; the world would scowl but accept it and move on, and in two weeks all would be back to normal. After all, the West was weak, effete, spiritually corrupt, unlikely to do anything except change colors on a social media icon. or deploy the fearsome power of a fully-operational hashtag.

But the very thing that seems to make the West look weak - a flock of knock-kneed ruminants in their social media veal pens, force-fed nonsense - turned out to be an unexpected asset for the Ukrainians, because social media is all about the passionate certainties of the moment. They say the goal of being on Twitter is not to be That Guy, the jerk who does or says something stupid, and is set upon by the digital murder of crows cawing TikTAWWWWWK. Well, Putin nominated himself to be That Guy.

Best of all, he was a Boss Level That Guy, not some barista who misgendered someone’s Komodo dragon. Add to that a great collective subconscious catharsis that occurred when people could shift their attention away from COVOD - indeed, felt justified in doing so, because of the terrible urgency of the New Thing. That indissoluble stone in the center of their head was gone, replaced by quicksilver sluicing through the heart. It wasn't good, but it was different.

No, this does not entirely explain why the West snapped to attention and started doing things, and then started doing serious things. Twitter is a barometer of atmospheric cultural pressure, but a lot of people concerned on Twitter does not make German leaders decide “you know, we should rearm.” Putin may well have asked “how many legions does Jack Dorsey have?” But you don’t want to get on the wrong side of a spontaneously arising narrative that’s locked in from the start, and broadcasts reinfocing messages to everyone on the planet with a glass slab in their hands.

Just spitballing. Bottom line, all that aside, Slava Ukraini.



All of a sudden, the contest changed. I can't find any more of the series we've run this year. I think people complained. Too hard! Give us something easier.

Okay. Is this easy enough for you morons?

You have to write an original reply. Or don't. We don't care. Just buy the damned things.




WAAAIT A MINUTE, you say. The Falcon usually arrives on the second Monday of the week. That's true! But there are five Monday in March if you count today, and that means two Buck Rogers.

Are we clear? Good. Now then:

I’m missing the third one. Let’s enjoy the opening credits, which roll out the Falcon Theme, and then the composer dusts off that symphony he had in the drawer . . .

   . . . and spends it all on this score.

As the story begins, a ship docks, and (scream of lady) a dead body is found in a stateroom. It’s the Falcon’s brother! Oh no! But of course, after 15 minutes of hugger mugger:

The “shock” of losing his brother is so great that the Falcon has to take to bed.


Meanwhile, his brother is investigating the murder of the dame who swindled him in the Caribbean. This means we have the usual assortment of hard blondes . . .

Nosy reporters to poke around where they don't belong . . .

Wisecracking colorful demimonde guy for comic relief .. . .

This time played by Don Barclay.

I like the examples of early 40s Glamour:


Sanders vanishes for most of the movie, letting Tom Conway do the work. And he’s quite up to the job:

Since it’s 1942, there’s a Nazi ring at work, and eventually we end up in the countryside, where Tom Falcon has been captured in a church, and Gaylord Falcon is trying to stop an assassination of a diplomat. And so:

It’s a programmer, so let’s wrap this one up with some headlines:

Well, we look forward to seeing Sanders do another one, and -

Hey, what?

That's right: he's dead. The main character was killed. They actually bumped him off so his brother could take over.

And I do mean his brother. Tom Conway’s original last name . . . was Sanders.




That will do. Buckle up.



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