STAR WARS is the Michael Jordan of film franchises.

Keep Reading »

I met Kevin Feige once.

It was at a Red Robin, y’know the restaurant with the greasy burgers and tight-lipped waitstaff who don’t care if y’bring a little bourbon to sneak into your milkshake as long as y’don’t tell the manager when y’catch `em bumpin’ lines in the bathroom?

Yeah, that’s right, my favorite restaurant.

Anyways, I was drooling onto my Cajun-fries and preparing to send my boyfriend a breakup text for the fifth time that month — yeah, we were havin’ some serious problems — when I looked up to see the baseball-hat-wearin’-Marvel-Man himself. He was in a booth, a big booth, y’know, with a woman too sexy to be his wife but too classy to be an escort.

I saw this as my chance, so I bolted from my booth, jus’ a little tiny one, y’know, and I practically hopped over the bottle-blonde and sat nearly on Kevin’s lap. I asked if he’d like to hear my pitch for an MCU movie and when he said “No,” well, I knew he was playin’ hard to get. So anyways I launched into my pitch which saw Ben Grimm and Reed Richards livin’ in a post-apocalyptic vision of the Future Foundation’s ruins and they just go about their day doin’ normal apocalypse stuff like foraging for canned goods and stayin’ out of the sun, but without doin’ any superheroic shit. Sue’s dead and Johnny’s dead and eventually we find out that Franklin’s hooked on smack, so some of the movie, maybe even a half-hour, is just Reed cradling his dopesick son while Ben weeps in the corner.

“Real art house shit! Cannes! Sundance! TIFF” I kept shoutin’!

Anyways, I got to meet Kevin Feige and I thought I heard him say that he’d visit me in jail but the officer dragging me away was real rude, y’know, and wouldn’t let me go back into the Red Robin to double-check.

So, I don’t know, maybe’s it’s gonna be launched with Phase 5, but I’m really excited for Doom’s Day. 

—-

I’d apologize for that, but something tells me you either aren’t offended by my nonsense or you never even check it out.

So what’re we doing now, you ask? Well, we’re diving into the Monday Morning Commute, even though it’s the afternoon!

I’ll show off some of the stuff I’m diggin’ into this week, and you hit up the comments section to do the same! It’s pop culture cross-pollination at its finest!

Huzzah!

Keep Reading »

My bones’ve been ground down to dust & rust.

Been on this goddamn station, three wayposts-past where anyone but daredevils venture, for goin’ on five years now. Sure, it can be okay. Stable, at least. We’ve managed to get the radiation shields up-and-runnin’, with only the occasionally blip lettin’ the sun’s dark beams through to do their dirt on us.

Food replication’s strong and we get all of the spacecast signals and when we’re feelin’ real nostalgic we’ve got arguably the finest library on anything post-Pluto. Bellies full and minds engaged, we know there’re folks far worse off than us.

Hell, seems like couple times a quarter we even get to host a crew making their way to the Beyonder Fringes. Scientists and explorers and artists and even goddamn pirates, all of `em welcome to help themselves to some food and drink and dancin’ in the humble station we call home. And when they come, it’s goddamn glorious — factions and rivalries forfeited in the name of taking a breath and enjoyin’ themselves.

And we love it.

But those moments, while sustaining, are few and far between. Most days, even when we’re just peacefully orbiting, carry the potential for disaster. Shields can blip out and gamma rays can bludgeon and air-processors can spark and water can run out.

Y’ever find yourself desperately touchin’ down upon an unstable volcanic moon ’cause your water system bitched out? Y’ever hit the sandy gray soil of that satellite and frantically rover over to the emergency well that your forefathers established when they were pioneerin’ this sector? Y’ever beam with the promise of hope-fulfilled as you pull and pull upon the rope of that well, feelin’ great cause the bucket’s weight promises water? Y’ever curse your life because the bucket is filled, for sure, but not with water and definitely not with gold?

Sometimes when y’need water and you’re open to gold, all y’get is dust & rust.

Keep Reading »

Holy smokes — it’s finally AVENGERS: ENDGAME weekend!

Even if this movie were just a follow-up to last year’s INFINITY WAR, it’d be crazy-anticipated. But it isn’t. This movie is the culmination of over ten years of narrative thread interwoven throughout over twenty movies.

It’s an unprecedented aspiration in the history of filmmaking.

So, let’s discuss this Super Bowl of blockbuster movies! What’d y’think of the final installment of the now-dubbed INFINITY SAGA?

Of course, SPOILERS AHEAD!

Keep Reading »

As a headcase, a verifiable neurotic, a society-dwelling maniac, I often have mixed feelings about New Year’s Eve. Add to the fact that my life has thrown me some real curveballs over the last few years, and, well, I don’t necessarily always look forward to this evening.

There have been New Year’s Eves that I’ve felt absolutely breathless. I’ve watched that ball drop while struggling to not keel over, counting down while remaining unenthusiastic about walking the road in front of me. There have been New Year’s Eves where I’ve felt ravaged by the previous twelve months, like a sailor aboard the Pequod starting to understand the captain as madness incarnate. There have been New Year’s Eves where I’ve felt existentially disheveled, like a time traveler regaining consciousness only to realize that he’d hit a couple of extra buttons before launch.

I don’t exactly feel any of this right now.

Today, in this moment, I’ve got my breath – it’s slow and deep and thoughtful, and the cool air feels great on my hot lungs. The road in front of me, well, I have to admit that I can’t see too much of it at all. But what I can see looks inviting, or, at the very least, it doesn’t look too foreboding. I still feel like a sailor aboard the Pequod, but I’ve made peace with the fact that I’m on this goddamn voyage — there’s no wishing it away — so I’m going to do my best to help my fellow crewmates when the elements try to kill us or when that incorrigible captain thrusts us into danger, and I’m not going to forget about the simple pleasures of the saltwater breeze or the sunbeam precipitation. And, of course, I still feel like a time traveler, but as I look around I take solace in the fact that the lot of us, every single one of us who cruised at a time-speed of 365 days per Year, we’re all dusting off our trousers and exclaiming “That was wild!”

If I’ve learned anything, it’s that I have no fucking clue what my life will be like next NYE. I have some guesses, but I’m not a gambling man so I’ll just keep them to myself. Instead, I’d like to offer my sincere hopes that you find the next year full of the good health, the great experiences, and the transcendent love that makes this thing called life worth it.

“Live long and prosper.”

Welcome to this year’s final MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE!

When I’m at the helm of the MMC, it normally consists of me presenting some half-baked science fiction and then explaining what stuff I’ll be checking out in the next year.

But since the year ends today, I’m feeling reflective and speculative. So, now that you’ve slogged through my half-baked reflection, let’s think about what’s to come next — it could be for this upcoming week, month, or year.

Keep Reading »

Y’ever celebrate Christmas? Or Hanukkah? Boxing Day? Kwanzaa?

I’m bettin’ y’have, Dirt-Foot.

But what about Saturnalia? Y’ever get blasted on wine and orgy-bang until swollen and then check out a human sacrifice?

`Less I’m gettin’ y’ears through a time-tunnel, chances’re that y’never bowed before Saturn.

That, said, let’s s’pose y’actually have celebrated Saturnalia – where’d’y’do it? Poor folks, likely in a hovel w’rats scurryin’ in’n’out? Moneybags ‘mongst’ya, in th’actual Temple of Saturn?

That’s purdy cool.

But me? Where’m I celebratin’ Saturnalia this year? What’d’y’say if I told’y’that my mission brought me to Space Station Cronus, and I’m orbitin’ the sixth planet from the sun? What’d’y’say if I told y’that the boys already been loadin’ up on cheap terra-wine? What’d’y’say if I told y’that everyone chipped in to get a live-stream of the day’s NFL games and we’re aimin’ to gamble our ways into fortune? What’d’y’say if I told y’that we convinced Doc to order them good prescription horny-pills and we’re aimin’ to stink up the joint as we slide against each other?

What’d’y’say if I told you that even in the future the parties of the past prevail?

Well, if I was you – well, goddamn, I’d say “Happy Saturnalia, y’old son of a bitch!”

Welcome to the holiday edition of MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE!

Now that you’ve read some of my sci-fi nonsense, it’s time to discuss what we’re all doing this week! Let’s share strategies for having a good (Yule) time!

I’ll start!

Keep Reading »

“Runfer, what hell should we do? Runfer?!”

“Sorry, Harry! Goddamn crystal fragments in my eyes…gimme a readin’!”

“The lights’re blinkin’ red to blue to yellow.”

“Fuck.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Y’know what red to blue to yellow means?”

“Yeah, it means we’re down to two engines.”

“Right. And y’know what that means?”

“Other than the obvious?”

“It means that if we don’t muster up some serious elbow grease, there’s gonna be some serious blood on our hands.”

Runfer never thought he’d want to return to the job. Hell, who could blame him? Overseeing the engine room of Starforce One is a thankless nightmare. Everything’s perfect? No one notices. Anything’s wrong? Everyone notices.

And a situation like this? Engines blowing out? Smoke billowing all about? The very real possibility that the uncaring vacuum will tear the ship asunder?

The prospect is enough to prevent most men from ever even thinking about applying.

But Runfer wasn’t most men. He’d already retired. Twice. He’d already paid his dues, already done his duty, already decided he’d spend the rest of his days on a pleasure planet, getting rubdowns from his mistress. And nobody could’ve said shit.

So when Central Command called Runfer, desperate to replace the so-called prodigy whose chest pains got him medical’d less than a year into the gig, no one who knew him was surprised when he picked up the phone. And no one who’d worked with him was surprised when he was back aboard Starforce One the very next day.

`Cause some men will tell you that they just want to relax. They’ll jabber on about sleeping in late and drinking cocktails. They’ll declare fealty to Lord Relaxation. But when told there’re going to be fires to be put out and danger to run into, these goddamn maniacs lace up their boots and make room in their lungs for the smoke.

Two engines down, crystal shards cutting up his eyelids, and toxic fumes bathing over him, Runfer smiled the incorrigible smile of a goddamn maniac.

Welcome to the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE!

First, I toss a bit of drivel-fiction at you. Then, I show off what I’ll be doing throughout the week. Lastly, you hit up the comments section and share what you’ll be doing to survive the workweek.

You’ve either done this before or you’ll catch on quick — LET’S ROCK!

Keep Reading »

“There’s no escape velocity.”

Arnie’d just spent the last seven months workin’ on the Plutonian big rigs. Five moons, five drills, five crews. Zero contact, zero support, zero fucks given. Dangerous math no matter how it’s calculated.

But he’d just done it — a seven  month tour of duty, a seven month tour de force, that’d seen plenty of limbs and lives and love lost — and now it was over. Arnie’d fattened his bank account and his calluses and his belief that he was far from the baddest motherfucker in the solar system but he just might be one of the scrappiest.

A blessing and a curse.

`Cause when we see him right now, Arnie’s two feet are firmly planted on terra firma. He’s at his father-in-law’s annual Fourth of July barbecue. And he’s surrounded by friends and family and the afterglow of a job well done. Sparklers dancing through the purple dusk and laughter cutting through the cooling silence.

But he’s not really there at all.

`Cause when we see him right now, Arnie’s eyes are gazing towards the heavens that give him hell, towards the stars that brighten the sky and pierce the spirit. Towards the next mission that he’ll have to run because, well, if not him…who?

So when we see Arnie in this moment, he’s respondin’ to his wife Lola who’s askin’ him what he’s doin’ here all alone and why he’s so quiet and what he’s thinkin’ about. And, for the life of him, Arnie’s only got one response.

“There’s no escape velocity.”

Welcome to the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE!

This is the weekly(ish) feature that sees me throwing some drivel fiction in the general direction of anyone who’s willing to catch it. Then, I present some of the stuff I’ll be checking out this week. But wait! There’s more!

The best part is when you hit up the comments section and share what you’ll be doing this week.

So let’s play show and tell!

Keep Reading »

It happened — SOLO has been released.

It took the title-role casting of an actor that no one seems to trust and the support-role casting of an actor-comedian-musician-showrunner that’s beloved and the firing of the 21 Jump Street dudes and the hiring of the kid from Happy Days and a wading through a morass of antipathy that the fanbase hasn’t shown in over a decade, but it happened.

As a lifelong believer in the Force, I made my way to the first showing I could find. And now, I’m going to cannonball into a stream-of-conscious review/reaction of the tenth theatrically-released STAR WARS movie.

Of course, I’m much more interested in your reactions — so hit up the comments section and share your thoughts about the fourth post-prequel installment.

Of course, SPOILERS AHEAD!

Keep Reading »

He’d been told that as long as he maintained his regimen, he’d be able to keep pressin’ them down.

The flashbacks, that is.

When he was faithful, really faithful, to the routine his doctor’d advised him to keep, they weren’t that bad. Just sort of bleaked-out, occasional billboard-spotted-through-fog-on-a-lonely-highway memories. They’d light up quick and fade away quicker, like the business end of a cigarette in a rainstorm.

A moment of unpleasantness, for sure, but a moment. Just a moment. Without doubt.

But when he strayed? When he’d decided to listen to everyone who’d told him that he’d be a fool to keep listenin’ to a doctor who’d had his license revoked? When he’d had a lapse in conviction, cavin’ into the temptation to follow the advice of the squares and mouthbreathers and so-called respectable folks who’d never condescend to put their feet in his shoes, much less walk in them?

What then?

Well, the unpleasant moments felt like minutes and hours and days. The rainstorm that’d snuff out a cigarette would become a monsoon of memory, a typhoon of nausea. The fog’d part on the highway to reveal splatter-remains, and he’d be astrally-projected back into his younger self to relive the horror over and over and over and over.

Worse than you can imagine.

So he’d taken kind to dutifully following the orders of a doctor who’d had to flee the country. Long, long walks in hot, hot heat. Lots of water. Micro-doses of LSD before viewing Mel Brooks movies. Beer — never lite — in the early afternoon. Avoid ice cream. Avoid pharmaceuticals. Weed at nite only. Daily yogurt. Weekly trips to the demolition derby.

And it’d all helped. It didn’t make him better. But it’d made him better.

Welcome to the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE!

Now that you’ve endured a bit of my drivel-fiction, it’s time for us to discuss what we’ll all be up to this week. I’ll start, and then you hyperspace into the comments section and share what boredom-destroying, life-improving, depression-suppressing activities you’ll be rockin’!

Let’s go!

Keep Reading »