Tag Archives: Philip StrevorGTAV^*++$

December 28, 2024 · 5:25 pm

00450404 (Schrodinger’s Car)

With exactly 50% of the 1:04:58 length video named “Comfy Driving Around the Alamo Sea” behind us and exactly 50% to go, we find this statement by the maker at 32:29, saying he estimates there’s a 50/50 chance his car is still where he parked it up the hill several minutes back while he investigated a lighthouse down at the coast. And not derezzed like many vehicles when you leave them even for a short time in the GTA V game.

Btw, the car was still there. But there’s an equal chance it wouldn’t be according to him. Reality split. Fork in the road, as they say…

… where later in this same video, the maker, through his chosen avatar of Trevor, parks this same intact auto, a red Chevy El Camino as I’ve checked, to witness a crime being committed resulting in several shot people, perpetrators and cops alike. This is where he decided to peel off from the Alamo Sea loop and not complete what the title alluded would happen. *Around* the sea, it said. Okay, disappointment, but the guy was a freewheeler as he freely admitted a number of times in this and the other GTA V video he’s created that I found online. Anyway, *we* indeed intend to complete this loop, if on foot if not by car — which might be better anyway; can look at more details of the sea itself — through another video which hopefully stays truer to its very similar title. This one. We want to get an in-depth look at this Alamo Sea, dive into the subject matter as it were. I’ve honed into it as a place of special significance to this blog and attached photo-novels, 45 being the present number we’re on. What secrets does it hold underneath its gently waved water? and so forth. Circumnavigation first, though. *Hopefully*.

I’ll report back to you about my find or finds, if any.

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December 27, 2024 · 3:04 pm

00450401

My study of Osamu Sato’s 1998 LSD Dream Emulator game and the setting up of this mini-museum to it in the attic of my Aisle of Palms “Big Victorian House” seems so long ago now. It was only April. So seems my heavy involvement with Our Second Lyfe, whose influence is undoubtedly fading from this here blog and attached photo-novels, 44 1/2 in number now (a long journey!), as more modern and much better looking games like Grand Theft Auto V, Witcher 3, and especially Cyberpunk 2077 and its humongous Night City take more and more of both my daytime and nighttime attention. But also, My Second Lyfe is not dead. Just *concentrated*. Think that’s the best way to put it. It glows bright blue to me, a square in the middle of everything still, a house-like home base sitting in the center of a large yard, with GTA V lying green to the west, C2077 red to the east, and Witcher3 yellow to the south (also taking the shape of a square unattached to the first (like a garage or large shed?)). This what-we-can-call expansion is happening now, but it also happened long long ago, in what seems like a different lifetime over 50 years back now. Aisle of Palms is my virtual village that represents the launching pad for exploring these post-Second Lyfe worlds, beginning, really, with Red Dead Redemption earlier this year, before the influence of the 3 likewise newer games I mentioned really started kicking in. A link from this far far past to the present in this way is MONKEY.

Monkey City = Lost Sanos

There I said it, Mother. Monkey City *is* relevant to all this. But I think she sees that now.

This is probably where I’ll first virtually incarnate beyond Our Second Lyfe in the near future. A good guess, given this snapshot of GTA V’s original monkey mosaic 1 1/2 photo-novels back taken by Trevor (beginning of 44) coupled with a snapshot of a *different* Trevor — recently dead — wearing monkey brand underpants in the Badlands desert of C2077 from later in the same photo-novel. Maybe hard to explain but I definitely think the two images from two different games are linked.

Why GTA V (Lost Sanos) over C2077 (Nightsity) then for the incarnation? I’ll have to think about that explanation and get back to you.

(to be continued)

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December 20, 2024 · 6:57 am

00450305

He spied the 4 colored lines running parallel to each other and knew he was in the right place.

Now to figure out which color was *correct* for the next selection. Train lines, Philip Strevor originally thought…

… until passing yet another poster advertising The Bleeder and realized it was not green, not blue, not even yellow he needed, but red, as in dripping oozing cow blood red. Not a train line but good enough, yum.

He exits the train station and resets his course to the nearest Burger Shot for a quickie meal. Maybe even hold up the place so he won’t have to buy it, ha.

“What’s *he* doing here??” utters Grant Price the janitor as he watches him exit his taxi and walk toward the door he’s cleaning.

Collision, I’m assuming. Of realities. Might be human blood here soon to go along with the cow.

(to be continued?)

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November 27, 2024 · 11:20 pm

00450106

I see the Wall the Wall sees me.

—–

“Find anything?!”

“Gold!”

“Yeah, it’s out here!” the silhouetted man calls back from the distance.

“Just laying around! Like rocks!”

“Yuup!”

“So why aren’t there…?! I mean…!”

“Why aren’t there more people around, then?!”

“Yeah!”

“Because it’s fool’s gold you fool! fool’s gold you fool! fool’s gold you fool!”

—–

Fern wakes up under the umbrella the color of TILE. Desert dreams. Badlands. There’s actually only her out here… and Billy, who doesn’t really count since he’s a 3-4 foot, chrome plated mechanoid. He observes with bright, electric blue, pupil-less eyes her awakening not 3 feet away, out of the shade and into the sun. If he stretched out in place, he could almost prop his shadowed, robotic feet up on her torso. “Hi” he metes out as is his duty, and adds a little glinty morning salute to his sunny smile. “Cereal and milk has already been poured in that order. Just like you like.” He winks and his smile also appears to glint like his arm did before. Fern checks her watch (not on her arm?). 9 o’clock. She overslept by an hour and Billy was ready at 8. Can’t blame him for the sogginess then, pheh. Just following orders. She makes a mental note, to add to those orders, to rouse her at the appointed time and not let her sleep late. But for this morning, limp Toasty-O’s Snakes and Ladders pepper and mint flavored breakfast in heavily colored red and green milk to make gray it is.

He washed Fern’s bowl without water, using the sandpaper hand attachment #4 to do the job. Ceramic would hold up under this finer abrasion, he knew. But what happened to all the water? He had produced soo much of it with his endless waterfall toward the end of photo-novel 44, the last installment in our series and also perhaps perpetual it seems. At least I don’t see an end anywhere in sight using my future vision. I’ll switch it off now; back to the present.

After being unable to sand out a particularly persistent stain in the required time according to his inner clockwork, Billy cusses in his peculiar robot vernacular (“Nuts and Bolts!” I believe it was) and throws the bowl into the gorge next to them and proceeds to fashion another from the local clay. Will take him all morning, Fern reckons. Time for her to explore the hills around here without being followed everywhere. She’ll enjoy the isolation.

In the middle of the desert which was also its edge, she soon comes across this military grade helicopter, not so much landed here as crashed — both at once. Philip Stevor was working on one of the broken landing wheels presently. She approached, recognizing the figure. But why was he *here*? In the desert? Outside Nightsity?

“Cpt.,” she said about 10 feet away, unnoticed in approaching the chopper and addressing him the way she always did. He drew his gun as he stood up and spun around. Not drunk this morning, it appears, Fern thought. Impressive! Must have done a required stint in rehab.

“Oh,” he said, relaxing and putting the gun away. “It’s you, phew! So many bad things out here in the Badlands. Guess you came here through the portal — don’t mind if I keep working on the chopper while we talk, I hope. Gotta get out of here asap. I can take you with me. If you’re also stuck out here in the middle of nowhere for reasons still unknown to me.” He turned only his head now while the hands were still busy with the wheel. “Are you?… stuck?”

Was she?

Was I?

(to be continued)

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November 14, 2024 · 4:36 pm

00440609

“So I drove up to this shed in the middle of freak-n nowhere, knowing there was something inside I needed to see.

“And then when I get out of my car and went inside, I see… him.”

“Him?” said Frank Lynn.

“Monkey? Dawg?” said Philip, trying to guess.

“No, Philip. No animal in this one. It was a man. But a man made of green: a solid green man. I’m not talking about someone wearing just a green shirt and green pants or even a green body suit. Green — top of the head to the bottom of the feet. And *glowing*.”

“Freaky,” said enraptured Frank Lynn.

“O-kaay,” uttered Philip Strevor. He needed to get some meth ready for a sale tonight, he thinks in the back of his head, but it can wait a little longer. He wants to see this through. In the moment, he even tries to focus a bit, which is rare.

“He starts to describe who he is,” continues Mikie. “Said he was actually made of uranium and that he was from the planet Uranus. ‘Both?’ I asked. ‘Both,’ he said.”

“Maybe he wanted you to think he was a piece of glowing sh-t,” offered Philip.

“Maybe,” said Mikie. “Okay, so then I remembered I had a Geiger counter on me — don’t ask me how. I switch it on — in my head somehow; something — and the thing registered off the charts, way too dangerous to stand very close to. So I backed off, planned my escape. Just then he turned into something else, like he was picking up on my fear. A human. Maybe — I don’t know — to be more on my level or something. Some kind of mind meld, mind you.”

“Huh,” said Frank Lynn.

“Hmph,” said Philip, shifting his feet and starting to truly get impatient. Just a little more.

“He was, I don’t know, trying to tell me something. He wanted me to know how he got here. Or what would happen to him if the wrong people found him. He was afraid, get this, of white people. He was green; they were white. Like, er, you and me Philip. But not like Frank Lynn, who’s black instead. He said he wasn’t afraid of black — specified it. Just white. Unless white combines with black to turn gray.”

“Listen,” said a now quite confused Philip. “I’m outta here; gotta measure out some drugs for a deal. I told my dream, I listened to yours, Frank Lynn, and I’ve listened to Mikie’s here long enough too. Green man in shed. Radioactive asshole or something. Got it.”

“Don’t you want to know if the white people catch up with him, dawg?” said Frank Lynn to Philip Strevor, who was already walking away.

“Nah, I’ll leave that story with you and your outstanding blackness,” he waved off while leaving the scene.

(to be continued)

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November 13, 2024 · 5:05 pm

00440608

“Wild dream, man,” began Frank Lynn to the others, his so-called friends Mikie and Philip Strevor, the great triumvirate of video gaming for this day and age, at least under their truer names and not their newer names created for this here blog and attached photo-novels. “I — get this — was *Chomp* (= Chop). Driving through that repo man’s window you made me do when we first met in that car with you pointing your gun at my head.”

“Yeah, ha,” said Mikie by his side, still by his side but in the right way this time. “I remember.”

“And so I drove it through that big front window — just like we did before — and lo and behold I was there again inside. As me! I was the repo man who owned the car dealership as well as his hired help doing the actual work.”

“Totally f-ed up,” says Philip, shaking his head a bit. “Okay… me,” he quickly shifted.

“*You* had a dream too, dawg?” questioned Frank Lynn, watching Philip try to remember it.

“Well, not as a *dawg*… dawg. But: yeah. I’m always having dreams lately; you know that. So in this one… actually I had a gun pointed at you too Frank.”

“Say whaat?” said Frank Lynn.

“Hmm,” said more suspicious Mikie, sensing a tall tale. Which it indeed was but not in the way he was thinking, as we know from the posts just before this one. Truth Philip is telling. He continues…

“Yeah. Let’s see: way up on top of a building, maybe a mile high even. Way up.” He points up, but only at some trees in this unspecified Lost Sanos location — working on it. “I-I was a monkey; yeah that’s it. Or dressed as a monkey, something. Maybe I just had a monkey’s head. Anyway, for some reason I didn’t pull the trigger — maybe couldn’t get a bead on your own head I was so far away. So I just dropped the gun and jumped — think I jumped.”

“Dawg!”

“Monkey,” corrected Philip, perhaps in a comical way. “But I landed right on a pile of mattresses, soft as um, downy pillows, heh. Or walked out and fell asleep on them. But then that officer came along and woke me up. And I woke up.”

“Wow man, Philip. You crazy!”

“*You* crazy.” He points to Frank as they share a chuckle. Two wild and crazy dreamers.

“Those are great, guys,” issued Mikie between them now, being only partially sarcastic in comparison to his normal, full on version. “Really. Both of you as animals… not far off, actually.”

“Pheh,” one or both of them say back.

“But now it’s *my* turn. I had a dream too as it so happens. Get a load of *this,* guys.”

And then he proceeds to tell them about finding the ring.

(to be continued)

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November 13, 2024 · 4:37 pm

00440607 (that policeman)

A red mushroom, a green mushroom, Officer Howard Sterner observes in his head about the yard beside him. This must be the childhood home of the famous Frank C. Lynn. Deserted his hood for a fat, rich life in the hills after writing that bestseller book, pheh.

And there’s the woman who helped him get to the top, Officer Sterner thinks 2 minutes later in his beat while passing the Fern’s sign across the road, not his usual beat since he’s filling in for Jr. Officer Philburg Johnson Jones, sick with the pill. Fern Stalin — odd name; easy to remember (Philburg told him all about her). Sounds like a commie, a red, he continues to ruminate. Maybe she converted Frank Lynn to a red, hmm. Maybe that would explain that red book he wrote. Gotta read that sometime now and see if this theory holds any water, he makes a mental note to himself.

Not too long afterwards, he spots prostrate Philip Strevor on a pile of mattresses outside the Mile High Building and rouses him to consciousness. 4:44, he pinpoints with his watch. Time of life.

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November 13, 2024 · 3:56 pm

00440606 (monkey man)

“Man I gotta find out what’s the shizzle about these red cubes so that Philip can stop having nightmares and falling asleep during our day work!”

“Just a little more into the light, my friend,” mask wearing Philip Strevor said far above, finally snapping under the night(mare) pressure. “Out of the darkness, into the light.” Luckily for Frank, his friend is not very patient.

“C’mon c’mon *c’mon!*” Pause. “Aw, f-ck it,” and he drops the rifle and leaves the building and falls asleep on the sidewalk outside, not remembering anything about the aborted shooting when he is awoken by that policeman.

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November 1, 2024 · 6:52 am

00440508

“My first real gig as an owner of a business actually came through the vineyard. I bought out the O’Neill Brother’s crop dusting business when 2/3rds of them died in that unfortunate fire which destroyed their family home, including the only 2 of the 3 who could actually fly a plane. Like me. Only later did I learn the true culprit behind the tragedy.”

“So… you knew how to fly a plane?”

“Yeah. Learned it from my 2 uncles growing up in Wrightsville Beach, North Carolina.”

“Interesting.”

“Isn’t it? Anyway,  Martha — the owner of the vineyard at the time — said to come by every week to douse the vines with a special herbal pesticide she concocted herself, just like those O’Neill brothers did before me, and be sure to leave by 3, or else take a break at 2:45 and don’t resume until 3:15. Else — and the first time she mentioned this she made a throat slitting gesture with her hand and mouth, which of course I took as death. 3 o’clock — death; keep that in mind. But at the time I just took all of this as part of the peculiarities of the old woman and didn’t believe the stuff she was telling me. After all, she had a special recipe for pesticides, you see — a weird-o. But I still didn’t fly at 3. No use taking any chances, I figured. She later revealed that 3 o’clock at night would be bad for me too but didn’t mention it at first because she knew I’d only fly the plane during the day.”

“Why did you call yourself Jack Sheepe in those days?” he asked, thinking of the hanger and its sign. “Instead of Jack Shepherde, like you are now — like the LOST guy? But, let me guess: because you view yourself as a *leader* now, and not a follower. You changed the name to show this.”

“Correct. Do you even need me here? Sounds like you could have done this interview by yourself (!).”

“No, I need you here,” he says with no humor. “Now. Let’s talk about the move to the big city, how that came about.”

“First there was a detour. Through Christianity.”

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October 27, 2024 · 4:01 pm

00440503

“Gotta light?”

“Lincoln!!” both occupants of the black car in the desert or at least the very arid landscape screamed in unison, their last coherent words.

—–

“Com’n Trevor. Time to go home.” And he dumped the lifeless body in the container, determined this would be his last Badlands gig. Ever. Retirement himself, if not in body, in soul. He had a old bunker picked out he could remake as a desert home. Even had a contractor on board for the remodeling process. Cliffside dwelling. Perfection. Half an hour tops now and done with all this. He got into the make-shift hearse and put the 4 way flashers on, Tiler Church straight ahead and then turn left and another left and then a right and then a left and right. And left, he believes. Then: done. Away from the grave and reborn. This old monkey’s about to acquire a leaf and turn into a new man. Adam. And he also has an Eve picked out. Mechanism, but it was the best he could do. They would manage. Box labelled Live Cargo should be arriving any day now down at the harbour.

—–

“What do you *mean* I can’t go home?!” shot back Fern, her business done here in The Aisles with Tin and all, with much learned and much to ponder about later.

“The Cpt.’s duties have ended,” he said plainly, not going into any details.

OD, Fern assumed. Or hospitalized or fired or a combination of 2 or all three in one. Well, something had to happen sooner or later, she rationalized.

“How long till you get another cpt.?” she asked, knowing she could pilot the vessel herself back to mainland if needed. But she had to obey protocols with this officer of the Navy, Army and Air Force in one. And perhaps the Marines as well, the oft forgotten 4th. She looked at the insignia. Hard to tell from them; designed that way due to the ’68 Force Bias Wars as they became known.

“1 day, maybe 2.” She looked at the many weapons about his body. She’d have to wait. He’d stand guard until the replacement showed up, she knew from his stance and former talk.

Finally time for that drink, she supposed. Time to visit Rose, one of ’em, maybe both of ’em before the day’s ended. She heads in their general direction from the harbour, letting her feet decide which is what and who first.

(to be continued)

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