You know how some people are still waiting for hoverboards? Well, in the same way I’m still waiting for Motoko Kusanagi-style cyborg shells. Not that I want to be a 400 pound metallic hottie, more that I just want a set of unstoppable bionic eyes that don’t crap out on me between my relentless cycle of monitors. Playing video games is tough. It burns. Join me…..
What’s up, friends. It is Powered by Caffeine here. Rendar can’t come tonight. He’s in the woods with a couple of other friends, howling six-word odes dedicated to Hemingway. Prior to uttering these supplications to Lieutenant Shotgun Suicide, they strip down to their underwear and chest-chop each other while telling one another how fucking masculine it is to take five fingers off the sternum. It is not until their pectoral muscles are bright red and they’re wheezing that they bark at the moon. It is an annual late summer festival, and I dare not come between him and such a spectacle. So here I sit, grinding away on the Mothership per usual. This here is Monday Morning Commute, the column where we give the rundown on the various arts and crafts we’re enjoying on a given week.
Georges St-Pierre, blood of my blood. I see you, your perfect abs and your gorgeously thick thighs. I see you, and I write letters to my girlfriend that I never mail telling her how we’re leaving together. You are consulting on Sleeping Dogs, which I will never buy despite your contributions to it. You have no idea the pain this brings me.