It’s the fucking weekend, baby!
Not a minute too soon, not a moment too early. Caught myself some Blade Runner 2049 last night (it’s fucking amazing), and it was worth it! But goddamn, did I ever mentally and physically pay the Iron Price for it. No sleep, very little sleep, what sleep was had was shoddily attained that.
It’s the fucking weekend, baby!
Good for Walton Goggins, yo. I never predicted he’d have such a career after his excellent role on The Shield, but I’m gladdened to be so fucking wrong.
My desired Existential-Aesthetic is mid-to-late-1980s Jean-Claude Van Damme movies.
There is such a manic, loosely-tethered lunacy to his movies that more or less perfectly captures the reciprocal nature of It, itself. The meaning in his films are kind of missing, maybe there, sort of apparent, but always haunting you as you dare to ascertain It. Yet, despite the non-sensical, godless, utterly conflicting messages of his movies, that still manage to have fun and revel in doing so.
And yeah, I guess, that’s sort of how I want to approach life, to approach It. It’s a godless, non-sensical world, with no apparent plot or overriding structure. But, despite that, I’m going to cobble together my own absurdist meaning, and have fun doing so.
And I hope you’ll join me, this weekend, at the Open Bar, in celebrating our own non-sensical, absurd existences together. Come, come, come into the bar. Share what you’re up to. The movies you’re watching, the liquid you’re imbibing, the books you’re reading. Anything and Everything always, so long as it adheres to this place’s sole rule: goddamn it, you’ve got to be kind.
Oh, fuck! It’s the Weekend. Oh, fuck! It’s the Weekend Open Bar! Oh, fuck! My wife told me I only have ten minutes to Open the Bar. And, and, and, you know. Between fiddling with the volume control on my speakers, messaging a couple of friends, and, you know. Do you know? ‘Cause I don’t. Where the fuck is the time going? Oh, fuck! Time, it bleeds, life it bleeds, the universe it slowly, slowly bleeds out. Us, it, none of us truly conscious of it! Stay focused though, man! There ain’t time for your usual existential blatherings.
This is Weekend Open Bar!
The cure-all, catch-all weekly column at the end of the work week! Where I, your Captain and Local Garbage Lord, implore you to come and hang out! Share what you’re eating, watching, watching while eating, playing, et cetera. So on. So forth.
Get high, get drunk, get hard, get soft, whatever, whatever, whatever! It’s all good here. So long as you don your most welcoming and affable of affectations and share what you’re up to this weekend. Shoot the shit, if you will.
This is Weekend Open Bar!
I initially had a really dour headline and gif to kick off this weekend’s Open Bar. The title was “It’s Better If You Don’t”, which really was a phrase which didn’t mean anything to me. The gif was of an insomnia-riddled Jack from Fight Club blinking at the endless stuffing of the info-tube into his mind-gullet.
My wife’s been away for like fifteen days. My job is stressful and tenuous. The skies are gray and bleeding moisture. Just not feeling It today, you know?
But, hey, man. What the fuck, right? Why wallow?
Yeah! It’s Saturday. And I’m just opening up this weekend’s Open Bar. Which means, since OL is already pretty quiet these days, that it’s just going to be me rambling to myself about what I’m doing this weekend. That’s fine! I’ve brought this upon myself. I’ve brought this upon myself! But this is Weekend Open Bar, and name is Ian Omega-Caffeine Powered-Xavier Thunderkick.
Justified may have ended (and fuck I need to finish watching the series), but Elmore Leonard is returning to TV. That is, if an executive producer for Justified has his way.
No one reads this, so why bother? No one posts here, so why both? No one lives forever, so why bother? And I sat in bed with a tirade stuck in my head that not even the medication could medicate out. “How can I UnBe? How can I Not? How can this loosely tethered string of characteristics that is Me stop? Where will I go? What will it feel like?” This is Tuesday afternoon’s edition of what is supposed to be Monday morning’s commute. A column that used to be a place where lovely folk would gather and share their existential happenings. But now it’s a place primarily vacant. Primarily perpetuated by habit. A fading dissociation, the entropic nature of this formerly lively website-blog-collection of-Depraves mimicking the entropic nature of it All. Nothing stays, everything ends, energy can be neither created nor destroyed but it certainly fucking disperse. This is what this anxious, rotting, jittery Meat-Bag is up to this week. Feel free to ignore me, said the Lonely Man to the Empty Hallway.
All fantastic things must come to an end. Even Justified, which is my favorite television show currently airing. All fantastic things could also usually use some semblance of an end point to aim towards. So while I’m a bit butt hurt that Raylan’s adventures have a little less than two seasons left, I’m glad the writers have a trajectory they can keep in mind while they plot.
2013 was a bit of a benchmark year for me in the realm of my personal life. Over the course of the last twelve months I have: successfully not shit my pants (time left), moved into my first official apartment with my girlfriend (I was squatting in hers), spent hundreds of dollars on caffeinated products, proposed to said girlfriend and begun planning a wedding, played far too many hours of Borderlands 2, stared at far too many asses on Tumblr, taught my first classes (I love it), and hung with the Gang Omega far too little.
The drawback of a boomin’ personal life is that pop culture has flowed through my brain with far too little interaction this year. What I perceive, I half perceive. What I enjoy is fleeting. Worse still, I’ve ventured very little out of my comfort zone. Indie games, comics, movies, and fetish sites have been largely ignored due to want of time.
As a result, my list is a pedestrian collection of my favorites from a very sad little slice of what arrived onto the scene this past calendar year.