Hello friends. Humanoids. Martians. Sentient cups of coffee. Pythons with overdeveloped cerebral systems courtesy of Nazi experiments still being conducted on the Far Side of the Dark Side of the Forgotten Moon of Jupiter, Rapture. If you’re reading this, I implore you to join in this wonderful column-based activity. Monday Morning Commute. The place where us Conscious Piles of Organic, Inorganic, and Unidentifiable Matter gather and share what we’re digging on during a given week.
I’ll go first, then you share your weekly beloveds.
Monday. Morning. Commute. Welcome to its Insides. The Place where we share what we’re up to during the current work week. It’s rife with strife, gloom, and malaise. JUST KIDDING. Let’s party! Fuck the Frowns, Embrace the Clowns?! Do I mean this?! I don’t know! Am I pumped up on Diet Dew and a False Sense of Excitement?! You fucking bet!
This is what I’m up to this week. Happily.
[OCTOBERFEAST is the greatest celebration of the year, a revelry dedicated to pop-culture’s most nutritious Halloween detritus. Plastic screams and artificial sweeteners have never been more bountiful. In the old country, villagers refer to the extended party as Satan’s Snacktime]
It is with the utmost respect and admiration that I present the following declaration:
Ray Bradbury is the official writer laureate of OCTOBERFEAST. The awarding of this position to Mr. Bradbury shouldn’t shock or surprise a single soul, as his work is the printed embodiment of the annual fright-festival. The bizarre, the ghastly, and the speculative synergize to convey a sense of wonder and possibility.
This year’s gala features Ray Bradbury’s The October Country.