(It’s been a fruitful fucking year for us here at OL. There’s been ups and downs, but one of the most fistfully-forceful awesome happenings was a swelling of the contributors. We decided what a better way to celebrate this than to get all of us to spout off our favorite things  of the year.)

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As we finish another orbit around the sun, it’s natural to peek over our shoulders and assess the voyage thus far. What’ve we done that we’re proud of? What improvements do we need to make? How closely do our realities resemble our dreams?

All questions worth asking, no doubt.

But if you’re daring, and I mean truly willing to look down the barrel of embarrassment, you’ll take this end-of-the-year opportunity to ask some better questions. Y’know, inquiries into love and hate and sex and death and everything else that makes life both horrifying and beautiful. Ask yourself just one of these types of questions, answer it honestly, and then revel in the ensuing revelations.

So what’s my question? Well, here it is: When did I fall in love with beer?

When I first started drinking, my libations of choice pretty much included anything other than beer. Hard liquor. Zima. Complicated cocktails. All of `em went down the hatch, tasted great, and made me feel good. But for some reason, I just couldn’t understand the appeal of beer. I’d drink it if it were around (show me a picky college student and I’ll show you a coddled miscreant), but it was never my go-to. I was a fool.

But I wouldn’t be foolish forever.

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Never doubt the intrepitude of lawyers. Apparently there’s some sort of financial high-five that can be acquired through action figures if they’re of non-humans. Thus, they’re arguing that mutants aren’t human, promoting Charles Xavier to telepathically wank them with flog-objects.

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I hadn’t realized this, but Bryan Hitch has been at Marvel for a solid decade. Now the pencil-smith is leaving, and I’m cool with it. Why? ‘Cause wherever he goes I’ll be following.

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Views From The Space-Ship, aka Desktop Tuesdays, aka Desktop Thursdays is a (theoretically) weekly column where I show you my worlds. Share your own in the comments section!

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Holy fucking Replicant loins engorged, Deckard! The Blade Runner sketch book has been foisted online by good souls and lovely human beings and my friend for Fans of the Runner it is the glory.

Hit the jump to check it out. For free. What a world.

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Why make a guitar synth using authentic Atari 2600 sounds? Why the fuck not  make it? Eh?

See the beauty in motion.

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Some dude in China up and spent $16,000. For a virtual sword. It gets even more bananas frappe! It’s on virtual sword for a game that isn’t even released yet.

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Here’s a grandmother holding it the fuck down to some dubstep on a Christmas morning. This video is eerily prescient of the sort of behavior I expect out of my Mom when she turns 94. Another thirty+ years of Brothers Omega corruption can only guarantee it.

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British filmmaker Ben Wheatley gave audiences a look behind the suburban crime curtain with his strong 2009 debut Down Terrace. Wheatley’s latest film, Kill List, takes another look at the delicate intricacies of domestic life then burns the house down. By the time the end credits started rolling I was reeling – damn near suffocated by the smothering atmosphere of pure dread. Over its 90 minutes, the Kill List shifts from a Mike Leigh-style family drama to terrifying folk horror that left me shivering. You’ll never guess how it ends as the film’s beginning is made up of the marital bickering of middle class Englanders Jay (Neil Maskell) and Shel (MyAnna Buring).

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