I’m glad you (didn’t) ask! I just blitz’d a weekend in Maui for a best friend’s wedding, and well. Coming back to reality after two days in paradise requires efforting on several levels. Readjusting to timezones, readjusting to the perils and praxis of regular life, yadda, yadda.
But I can’t complain.
I’ve discovered the answer to a question I’ve been asking myself since last year, when I knew I would be going to Maui. Is thirty hours of travel in the span of four days, and thousands of dollars for said travel, and missing teaching two incredibly intensive summer classes, worth forty-eight hours in paradise, for a best friend’s wedding?
But this, right here! It’s the weekly column where we share what we’re up to, on a given week! I’ll share my own findings, as I rattle around in the befuddled muck of my consciousness, trying to figure out not just what I’m up to, but what day it is, what time it is, this and that, this and that.
I ain’t having an anxiety attack, though! Don’t let the headline fool you. Just popped into my head today, when I was brainstorming headlines. A headline for what? Why, the one, the only, the perpetually poorly written and only intermittently published: Weekend Open Bar!
That’s right! Come one, come all and grab a seat here. Here! In the rotgut, mind-melting tavern aboard the Space-Ship Omega.
Once seated, then what? Glad you (didn’t) ask! Share what you’re up to over the next couple of days. Don’t matter if you’re fortunate enough to have them off, or unfortunate enough to have to continue your grind.
All are welcome! Share, share what you’re playing! Share, what what you’re reading! Share what you’re watching, eating, contemplating. Anything and everything goes here, so long as you keep it very tight butthole (the existential state, regarding your own butthole, go fucking wild, I encourage it).
It’s been a minute, Space-Ship OMEGA. A hot minute, since I’ve dusted off and rolled out Monday Morning Commute. For that, to the three dedicated community members we have, I prostrate (and if you’d like, prostate) myself before you and beg forgiveness.
Rendar was doing them, and then he was maybe doing then, and then it seems life sped up and he simply wasn’t doing them, and I should have intervened. But, you know how it goes. Life speeds up, the mind slows down. It’s Monday evening at 10pm and I could idly blink at the TeleVisor, or I could activate the neurons. Lethargy always, entropy claims, I choose not to fight the great unwinding.
Anyways, hey! I hope you’re still here. Anyways, hey! I hope you’re still down to play the old game of Monday Morning Commute — where we share the various distractions, dalliances, and distillations that are helping us combat the weekly drudgery.
I and four hundred thousand of my closest strangers huddled in front of our computer screens, anxiously awaiting the reveal of a “brand new experience” that had been hyped beyond belief. While grandiose claims and clever commercials are pretty much a staple for large title releases these days, this was the first time I had been so personally affected given just how much I have been invested in the original game. To establish some context, over the last three years I have spent 2,310 hours actively playing Destiny. I have completed over 309 raids, including 242 hard raids (where you can’t be revived if you die). The real number is considerably higher, but the game only records the first time you’ve completed each raid on each character each week, so it’s missing all the raids I’ve done for no loot to help someone else. I have played 4,158 PvP matches in the Crucible, where I have killed 47,166 guardians and been killed 49,662 times. Oh, and I am the 400th ranked Sparrow Racer in the entire world. *flex* Basically, while other adults are out under that burning sky-ball thingy in the company of other human beings, I am playing Destiny.
My wife turns thirty this weekend, Saturday to be specific. It’s a weird sensation, knowing that she has shacked up with me for life, and been with me since she was literally twenty. Spent her golden years with a guaranteed Garbage Lord. It’s nice though, to chart our progress together, to check off life events together, and even more specifically to get high, eat cookies, and watch Workaholics together.
It’s nice, it’s quaint, it’s quiet.
I like spending time with her, and I like spending time with you folks, you denizens of the Space-Ship Omega. So let’s hang out at the Weekend Open Bar. Pass some marginal time within our comfortably marginal existences together, as we are lucky enough (or not lucky enough, the grape press of industry is whittling away our off-time) to have the next couple of days off.
So comrades, what are you doing this weekend? What are you watching? Eating? Reading? Thinking about? Anything and everything goes, so long as you adhere to the sign above the Tavern entrance: Thou Shalt Not Be A Douche.
I come to you, friends, from the Precipice of Doom. That’s right, I’m awaiting Bateman to pick me up in his charlatan chariot, and whisk me away to Montreal with the majority of OL for a Bachelor Weekend for a mutual friend. I come to, you, one Bateman-on-his-phone away-driving-100mph from the obliteration of Space-Ship Omega. I’m being dramatic, but I do anticipate witnessing some *shit* this weekend, the eye of a mellifluous maelstrom.
I wasn’t supposed to be upset that Russell was dead.
Pops and Mahma explained to me when we first got him, years back, that he was mine to look after. After all, they reasoned, it was because of my begging and pleading that they agreed to go to a breeder in the first place. While it was true, Pops admitted, that we all fell in love with Russell’s soft whimpering and pouty eyes, he was mine to look after.
And that meant, in their parental estimation, not only enjoying the benefits but also dealing with the baggage. And to do so with the grace and poise for which our family — the Eldertons — was known.
So, needless to say, Pops and Mahma were none too thrilled when they found me cradling Russell’s body on the morning that I found him, gently and peacefully, dead in the backyard. I was crying, and they were disgusted, but I told them that Russell was my best friend and they should honor my feelings even if they didn’t agree with them.
I wasn’t supposed to be upset that Russell was dead, they told me. I was supposed to know that Russell’s lifespan, given his breed, was going to be short, they told me. I was supposed to stop crying, and when I collected myself I could go back to the breeder and get a new Russell, they told me.
But they’d never told me that it was risky for me to get Russell in the first place. They’d never told me that something’d gone awry when I was programmed. They’d never told me that I’d been glitch-maxxed for empathy.
I wasn’t supposed to be upset that Russell was dead, but he was more than just a human being to me.
He was my best friend.
Welcome to the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE!
Now that you’ve survived another one of my brain-damaged attempts at drivel fiction, it’s time to discuss the upcoming week’s activities.
What’re you going to do to curb the blow of another workweek? What’re you looking forward to? What’s getting you jacked up and ready to embrace existence?
If I’m being honest, I don’t do Desktop Thursdays on the weekly because some weeks, you know. Some weeks I just haven’t accumulated enough artifacts of my life to make it worth sharing with you. But! This week, I have returned. So let’s Dance the Dance. I’m going to drop on you a glimpse or so into my world(s) – virtual, physical, existential. Following that, I hope you’ll share glimpses into your own!
The well had dried.
Just to be sure, Louise through dropped a stone and listened eagerly, waiting for a PLOP! and a renewed hope. All she got was a THUNK! and a reaffirmed desperation. It wasn’t looking good.
Louise turned the pail upside to triple-check for any signs of water, and when gravity told her that she was shit out of luck she almost cried. She would’ve, too, if she wasn’t’ already so dehydrated. At this point, she was sure her blood was turning into dust and that her next period would look more like Lawrence of Arabia than Dracula.
“Fuck it,” Louise muttered, dropping the pail and looking to the sky. Not. A. Cloud. In. Sight. Her only hope – the only hope – of getting water would be to march down to Padre Sausalita’s house and knock on the door. Diligent as ever, the good Padre’d anticipated the drought and had pre-ordered countless gallons so that the congregation’d never run out of holy water.
The only problem? Louise had promised herself that if she ever saw him again, she’d kill Padre Sausalita. In fact, she’d promised herself that she’d drag his scab-ass to a big `ole mirror and slit his throat in front of it so that he’d be able to watch himself bleed out.
And Louise never broke a promise.
This right here? This is the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE!
First, I caffeinate myself into enough of a frenzy to offer a bit of prose — call it microfiction or short narrative or drivel-fiction — for your reading pleasure! Then, I present the various means I’ll be using in the upcoming Monday-through-Friday to cope with the workweek. Finally, you hop into the comments section and offer your own anti-ennui elixirs.
It’s not much more than show-and-tell, but it’s a fairly well-attended event aboard SPACESHIP OL!
Okay, let’s rock!
I am of the opinion that posting a Weekend Open Bar belatedly is a losing gesture, if a gesture at all. If it don’t hit Friday evening, it might as well not hit. But hey, what can you do. Last night I was besieged by PLAYAWF HAWKEY, and blessed with the opportunity to spend time with Rendar and Bateman.
So like, you know.
When the stars align and the three founders of OL hangout all at the same time (an occurrence one can hope happens more often, but an occurrence complicated by busy lives and us upon our own journeys in the omni-multi-verses), you better take goddamn advantage of it.