A new combatant has entered the battle royale that is the OL STORE!

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He has PhDs in psychology and parapsychology. He’s the host of World of the Psychic. He thwarted Vigo the Carpathian’s plan to bring about the apocalypse. He defended New York City from a 50-foot marshmallow man, and five years later he piloted the Statue of Liberty. And when need be, he can show a prehistoric bitch how things’re done downtown.

He’s Dr. Peter Venkman and he crushes ass.

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Head over to the OL STORE and snag the t-shirt that celebrates the paranormal promiscuity of Billy Murray’s greatest character!

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Yes, that is awesome.

Check out artist Ramon Villalobos.

Want to know how to have a whole mess of fun?

Hide your grandpa’s medicine. Steal it from wherever he keeps it, and then put it somewhere else. Ideally, you’re goin’ to want to go at least two rooms over. After all, geriatric hips are rustier than robot dongs. And remember, you’re aimin’ to maximize your entertainment.

For example, if Grampy’s bottle of pills rests on the bathroom sink, filch that motherfucker and bring it to your kitchen. Once there, turn the bottle upside down and open it up over your dog’s dish. There’s no joy quite like that of besprinkling Alpo with Valtrex. Then, while you’re waiting for your parent’s parent to discover just how badly he’s been goofed, stand guard so as to make sure that Fido doesn’t start snackin’ away.

After all, the dog didn’t do anything.

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Welcome to the Monday Morning Commute! I’m going to show you some of the ways I’ll be keeping myself entertained during the hellish stretch known as the workweek. Then, you hit up the comments section and describe the weapons you’ll be wielding against the 40-Houred Beast of Burden. Yes, this is essentially electronic show-and-tell.

And no, you may not be excused to go to the nurse. Everyone must participate.

C’mon, let’s do this!

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[WEEKEND OPEN BAR: The one-stop ramble-about-anything weekend post at OL. Comment on the topic at hand. Tell us how drunk you are. Describe a comic you bought. This is your chance to bring the party.]

I’m always down to eat pizza.

How could I not be? Even in its most basic form, pizza is the perfect food. Dough. Tomato. Cheese. I’m no nutritionist, but I’m pretty sure that those ingredients cover all of the important food groups. As simple as it may be, a large cheese pizza is a versatile accompaniment, perfect for business meetings,  birthday parties, and beer drankin’ sessions.

But the true beauty of pizza-pie is that there’re so many goddamn varieties.

You can make a pizza with garden-ripe ingredients and freshly-mixed dough, or you can treat yourself to a frost-bitten bad-boy from the back of your freezer. Not digging circular shapes? Then feel free to rock a square pie! Thin crust? Chicago deep-dish? Both’re wonderful. Oh, and when it comes to toppings there’re no rules – pizzas are blank canvases, eager to be painted with pepperoni and mushrooms and pineapples and onions and BBQ chicken and whatever else your depraved mind desires.

I’m no Hellenic expert, but I know that there’s a pizza for every member of the Olympian pantheon. While Zeus chomps on a deep-dish three cheese, Poseidon Earthshaker snacks on a shrimp scampi pizza. Everyone gives Artemis a hard time, because she asked the pizzeria to use the venison she flayed herself. And of course, Dionysus steals a slice from everyone, too drunk to realize that he’s not eating his own pie.

Mortal or god, chances’re good that you enjoy pizza.

But here’s what we don’t know: What is your favorite type of pizza?

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At its core, the comic book medium can be thought of as the combining of words and images so as to produce a cohesive narrative. As such, it’s easy to understand why most comics are created not by a single individual, but by a team of creators. But even with this understanding in tow, most comic fans only acknowledge the prowess of their favorite writers, pencillers, and (occasionally) inkers.

Which is a damn shame, `cause colorists are the ones who truly bring the paneled pages to life.

In an attempt to better understand the role and responsibilities of a comics colorist, I reached out to Jordie Bellaire. As the colorist for MANHATTAN PROJECTS, HULK: SEASON ONE, and a slew of other projects, Jordie is making a name for herself as a sought-after and respected comics artist. Hit the hyperspace jump to check out her thoughts on her career thus far, the search for inspiration, and the challenges of being the last artist on a comic book’s creative assembly line.

Put away your Crayolas and come read the thoughts of a genuine talent!

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Welcome to the Monday Morning Commute!

This is the storage compartment of Spaceship OL dedicated to all the various bits of entertainment we’ll be using to get through the workweek. Think of it as an anti-boredom armory. After I show you the wares I’ll be using to fend off the ennui-goblins, hit up the comments section and do the same.

Let’s rock!

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[WEEKEND OPEN BAR: The one-stop ramble-about-anything weekend post at OL. Comment on the topic at hand. Tell us how drunk you are. Describe a comic you bought. This is your chance to bring the party.]

Whether you’re a poet, graffiti artist, basketball player, or accountant, chances’re that you occasionally stumble into a patch of malaise. In these moments of self-doubt, all forward momentum comes to a halt. The verses clench up, the spray-can nozzle snaps off, the free-throw lines extend, and the numbers stop adding up. For a few horrifying instances, it may seem as though all hope is lost.

That is, of course, until we look to our heroes for inspiration.

Heroes are those individuals whose demonstrations of excellence compel us to push ourselves to our own limits. When artists and athletes and scientists redefine the parameters of possibility, they also remind us that we can do great things. Hell, if all your hero does is provide a brief respite of escapism, your day has still been improved.

We all have our heroes, and with good reason. With this truism in tow, let’s show off the hearts on our sleeves. Grab a beer, make some nachos, and join the party in the open bar.

Who are your heroes and what do they do?

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Welcome to the Friday Brew Review!

For the uninitiated, I feel obligated to provide a few words of warning. There exists an entire community full of individuals who’ve spent years fine-tuning their appreciation for beer. The knowledgeable members of this community approach beer-drinking with a cultural respect, honoring the legacy of brewing that’s been weaving itself throughout the entire narrative of human existence. They come together – sometimes at respected websites – to discuss the current state of the beer world. In many ways, these aficionados are like a beer-enthusiast version of the Justice League.

But if that’s the case, then I’m definitely fulfilling the role of Plastic Man.

Whereas my peers use concise language and agreed-upon formats to review beer, I just go for it. In the course of a review, I’ll ramble and use too many pop culture references and showcase my ignorance of the brewing process. But I’ll be damned if my reviews aren’t entertaining (even if only in that, “Honey, slow down so I can see the wreckage before it explodes” sort of way).

Don’t say I didn’t warn ya!

Today, I’m sippin’ on VJ Black Imperial Stout.

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[Paul Pope’s submission to Warren Ellis’ Three Panels Open feature]

Transcender knew he was in for a world of shit.

He’d woken up from his Post-Lunar nap a bit early. Which wasn’t unusual. But rather than waiting for Larissa – the lab assistant with the big smile and bigger bust – to help him out of his pod, he crawled out on his own. Everyone on the Station knew that rule number one is that Transcender was never to be left to his own devices.

Especially after a nap.

Running a hand through his beard, Transcender gazed out the bay window and laughed to himself. “Sweet Man-Jesus, where’ve they sent me now? Is that Saturn? Oh, if Rodrigo could see this, he’d prolapse for sure!”

Had he studied the mission plans as thoroughly as he told Doc he would, Transcender would’ve known that they were far, far past Saturn.

Transcender Yonder’s attention was fully directed out the window, on the satellites and comets he’d soon be smashing to pieces, when a breeze of bitter wonder wafted into his nose. He immediately spun around, balancing best he could while his muscles readjusted to the artificial gravity, and began searching for the source of the smell. Other than his pod, all that was in the room was sterility – medical instruments, monitors, a vacuum.

And, much to Transcender’s delight, a coffee pot.

Fast as he could, the Meta-Man approached the coffee pot, threw back its lid, and poured the contents into unhinged gullet. Having never tasted coffee before, Transcender basked in the wonder of simply experiencing something new. Coffee! Aha! So this is what they drink when they wake up! A fine concoction! Chemically stimulating and socially facilitating!

But then Transcender’s hyper-sensitive neurons kicked into gear.

Larissa walked into the room just in time to see the six-foot-six ubermensch fall to his knees. He clutched at his left eye and screamed, “I have the pressure of a dying star within my skull! Sweet-mammaried  Larissa, save me! I beg of you!”

Without hesitation, Larissa picked up the phone on the wall and dialed zero. “Doc? Yeah, it’s me. Looks like he got into the coffee. Yeah, Transcender’s having his first headache.”

Already knowing the answer, Transcender Yonder looked up and asked sheepishly, “Am I in trouble?”

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This is the Monday Morning Commute. I’m going to run through the things I’ll be doing to entertain myself during the week. Then, you hit up the comments section and do the same. Hell, ain’t this the whole damn point of the Internet?

Let’s rock.

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