We are literally awash in Biblical Ass Shit these days, folks. Official term for the fires gnashing their away across Western portion of the Empire, and the Hurricanes engulfing the Eastern portion. The Earth’s melting, the boot of the Empire is stomping, and the Universe itself is dying. Thus, while there are bigger things to worry about than being late opening the Weekend Bar, I still feel bad. For if we can’t dance together as the Palaces burn, what can we do?
So, let’s hang out! Indulge in the chemicals and calories of your choice, pull up a chair, and shoot the shit with me.
Clap your hands, say Weekend Open Bar!
Clap with me, rhythmically at first! Ignore, ignore your eyes rolling into the back of your head!
Clap your hands, say Weekend Open Bar!
Clap with me, now with a bit of horror, a pinch of fear! Ignore, ignore your mind being severed from your body!
For! My friends! To the Omniverse!
Man, it’s been a hot minute since I opened up the Bar, huh? Whelp, ain’t got no excuse outside of the usual ones. Lethargy, malaise, a preference for staring at butts and memes over creating. You know, the usual shit. But! Fuck! I’m here. But! Fuck! I’m excited to spend the Weekend (Open Bar) with you folks.
I’m a sucker for the Fourth of July. Or at the very least, the notion of it. As someone who is both a recluse *and* has to fucking work on the 3rd and the 5th, I imagine I won’t be doing much literal celebrating. But, the holiday gets to me.
Maybe it’s the programming from growing up a KidBot during the end of the Cold War and into the Myth of a New Golden age, but I have to admit — there’s a twinge of excitement at the idea of Seared Flesh and American Flags.
It’s the sort of deep-seated, inextricable programming that pops up from time to time, attempt to defy it as I may. The same programming that has me unconsciously doing the Sign of the Cross during a Catholic wedding or some shit. Which, has happened, and as it happened I looked appalled at my own gestures like I had a fucking Ghost Hand.
So here I sit, melancholic for the old days when I Believe In Things, and Celebrated Stuff. So here I sit, melancholic for the days when folks used to come around these parts, and spend the Weekend Open Bar with me.
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.
And a welcome one, at that. I’m ready. To kick off the pants, slap on some fat kid sweats. To slough off the responsibilities, pop on some wrestling. Or some Westworld. Or some Mob Psycho 100. Recline, recline, recline into the primo portion of the sectional in our sunroom.
Hey! Oh. Oh, hey! It’s Weekend Open Bar! Pray tell, are you being a dedicated consumer? Buying those you love their trinkets, both asked for and unasked? Are you wearied from long lines, or did you abstain from corporeal-shopping in lieu of the gilded pipes of the Amazonian forms of commerce? Hey — man. If the Titanic is going down (and oh, are sinking), we might as well raid the gift shop. Hey man — if the Titanic is going down, we might as well all congregate at the (open) bar!
That’s bleak, that’s burnt, that’s bluster. I’m actually quite content right now! It’s warm here in my cabin on the Space-Ship Omega. I don’t want nothing other than to spend the weekend with friends and loved ones. You folks, included!
It’s the freakin’ weekend, baby! This is the freakin’ Weekend Open Bar, baby! After a particularly strenuous week, I’m happy to report I’m currently supine. Type-type-typing away. Next to Mrs. Omega. Got a weekend of gaming, reading, watching, and sleeping on the docket. Can’t complain, can’t complain.
The bar is open early, friends. It’s Thanksgiving Eve here on the eastern arm of the Empire. I’m blessed enough to have the rest of the week off. So why not let the Asgardian ale flow already? So why not let the Martian space spice be smoked already? I have no good reasons for why not to, I have no good explanations. All I know is that life is too short, too vicious for even the most blessed, to not seize upon moments of revelry with you and yours.
Weekend Open Bar on a Wednesday evening.
It’s that time again, folks. Weekend Open Bar, folks. I’ll level with you: I’m tired. I’ll level with you: I have nary an ounce of creative juice to squeeze out of my mind-guts, and that’s if you’re being optimistic and crediting me with creativity on occasion. But. Hey. It’s that time again, folks. Weekend Open Bar, folks. Someone has got to turn on the neon lights. Someone has got to make sure the hearth is lit. Someone gotta hook up the draught. That’s me, that’s me, that’s me! None the less, outside of that fact, with that taken into consideration, I’m pretty fucking good.
A little fatigued, a little woozy, a little weary. But here! Here, dammit.