Welcome to Monday Morning Commute. This is the column where we all slow down enough to talk about what we’re enjoying on a given week. Me? How am I doing? Why, how kind of you to ask! As you may or may not know, I work on a college campus. And this week I’m lucky enough to enjoy the week off between Spring and Summer semesters. I’m going to spend the next seven days trying to figure out what that fuck I’m going to be teaching in a month, watching The Most Ill of all Bro Movies, and throwing a party at my new apartment. It’ll be a good week.
Welcome to Monday Morning Commute - the weekly tribal meeting where those upon the SpaceShip Omega share what they’re interested in during the next seven or so days. The exercise is designed to pollinate each other’s lives with both shared and new arts and farts, in an effort to mitigate the tediousness that Existence can become.
Time is short, let’s tug on one another.
It’s getting tougher to piece these recaps together in recent weeks on account of a school schedule that’s getting busier than ever; but it’s a labor of love, and a true pleasure to get to reflect on some of the most memorable television being made. Apologies to the OL community for the tardiness! Hopefully, this look back on ‘The Climb’ will whet your appetite for the next Thrones ep we’ll have coming this Sunday.
The episode this week was a strange mishmash of plodding and excellence. Let’s start with the rotten side of the apple.
Rumble rumble rumble goes the engines of Spaceship-Omega. Here aboard, I’m straight chilling. It is Sunday whilst I type this, though for those without premonition and-or access to dimensions where it is not so, the column won’t be going up until Monday at 9 am. Hello! From the past! The aforementioned column is Monday Morning Commute. Within its walls we share the Enjoyable that we are partaking in during a given week. It’s a simple conceit, and through its execution we brighten our respective Existences. Communal exchange of arts. Maybe even fluids. If you do find a dance partner, please relegate your interfacing to the designated rooms upon the Spaceship.
Let’s do this.
Game of Thrones has been kissed by fire in Season 3 – ratings are at a series high, and it’s easy to see why. The escalation all year has been almost out of control – new characters almost every week, new fantasy elements (to some viewers’ dismay), and new plots that aren’t in line with expectations.
The fifth episode’s title, “Kissed By Fire” is culled from a quote from red-headed wildling Ygritte, in reference to the boy that deflowered her. Red on red, as it were.
It’s a phrase very easily applied to half of Westeros, as well. The country is ravaged by war, farmlands are on fire, the religion of the Lord of Light and its affinity with fire are slowly creeping into all parts of the land, and Dany and her dragons have charred a city, and are marching to another.
And then there’s Beric Dondarrion.
This fool has had less than ten minutes of screen time and already reach maximum swagger allotment. It may have something to do with his pocket priest, Thoros of Myr – a red priest, not unlike Melisandre, Westeros’s resident shadow baby factory.
I’m happy to share the first installment of my friend Jeff (Sajuta) Jackson’s Retro Game Club. Frankly I don’t know where he is going with it. What I do know is that it features wit, gorgeous artwork, and Mike Tyson’s Punch Out.
Hit the jump for the first full page.
… and pessimist’s brains are half empty.
There’s something to be said for choosing a side in most every battle. The eternal struggle between optimism and pessimism however is one of those battlegrounds that I would always avoid. You see dear reader, I am a realist. I see the world and the people in it for what they are, not what I would hope those to be, like the optimist. I don’t project my own values and bitterness on the world as does the pessimist. However, before we delve further we must understand to two opposite sides of the spectrum if we are to find the creamy center. And nougat. Sweet delicious nougat.
Week in, week out, I find that I give fewer and fewer fucks about my greatest love: video games. Something about the world has changed recently: perhaps it’s a winding down as the console generation nears to a close, or maybe the industry has just plain run out of ideas. Whichever the case may be, I can’t help but wonder why anybody other than dedicated, pathetic losers like myself would be inclined to care. Abruptly, he slaps himself across the face with a force that ejects two fillings and a week’s worth of shitty debris that previously resided underneath his grubby fingernails. God-fucking-dammit, man! This is your one-true, your reason d’etre! C’mon, surely I can muster up a handful of halfway adequate reasons to deter any other would-be quitters. Here goes.
[This! Is! Mad Men! recaps the most recent developments of Don Draper and his lovable gang of sleazeball advertisers. In the spirit of the show, the post itself may very well be drunk. And sexist. Apologies ahead of time.]
One of the secrets of getting good at any game is to learning how to navigate through the rules. Just as a hacker can manipulate an operating system, a true sportsman knows how to bend, ignore, or even break the rules of his given game. In fact, this practice is so prevalent that many sports even develop their own sets of etiquette, terms, and conditions that are implicitly agreed upon.
Life, often compared to a game, certainly has its share of unspoken agreements.
But who’re the people that turn the other way when the rules are broken? Who deals in terms of tacit transactions? Well, it always seems to be The Collaborators.