[In an attempt to expand his insular perspective, Rendar Frankenstein became An American in Canada! Join Rendar as he tells of the wonders encountered while traveling through North America’s most jovial nation. It’s one-third travel guide and three-fourths misguided interpretation!]

The greatest attribute of any chemical dependency is its steadfast resolve. Olympic athletes may have an incredible level of focus, but even their efforts are diminutive when saddled next to those of an honest addiction. There are no external forces that’ll curb the insatiable appetite of a chemically-inspired jonesin’.

So even though I’d crossed borders and time zones, I still had that damn monkey on my back.

However, if you’re anticipating sordid tales about my forfeiture of oral dignity in exchange for heroin, you’re likely to be disappointed. I know, I know, I’d be much more artistically inclined if I used the drug preferred by the great songwriters of my generation and my parents’. Moreover, if I was going to break drug laws in another country, I might as well jump to the zombie-conclusion and rock some bath salts.

But alas, I’m a simple man and my substance of choice is good `ole fashioned caffeine.

As such, I had no doubt that I’d be able to cop a fix in Canada. After all, my two favorite types of caffeinated beverage – coffee and soda pop – are celebrated in every corner of Spaceship Earth. Nevertheless, there were some interesting differences in the modes of caffeine-delivery available to me during my Canadian adventure.

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[In an attempt to expand his insular perspective, Rendar Frankenstein became An American in Canada! Join Rendar as he tells of the wonders encountered while traveling through North America’s most jovial nation. It’s one-third travel guide and three-fourths misguided interpretation!]

For those of you with a shaky understanding of Canada’s geography, Yarmouth is on the very tip of the Nova Scotian peninsula. Consequently, getting there from Boston by car means driving through Maine and New Brunswick, and then traversing the entire province of Nova Scotia. Not wanting to push my luck, I decided I’d stop for the night and pick up the journey the next day.

Thus, this episode is archived under the title Mr. Frankenstein Goes to Halifax!

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[In an attempt to expand his insular perspective, Rendar Frankenstein became An American in Canada! Join Rendar as he tells of the wonders encountered while traveling through North America’s most jovial nation. It’s one-third travel guide and three-fourths misguided interpretation!]

In the seven hours I’d spent on the road since leaving Boston, I hadn’t had any problems.

Which is really astounding, given the fact that I seem to be a real shit-magnet when it comes to travel plans. If an airline baggage handler finally decides to express his displeasure at the fact that his boyfriend left him three years ago for a younger man, it’s my bag that’s getting pissed on and thrown on the wrong plane. If the terror alert goes from beige to cyan, it’s the very day I’m hopping on a transcontinental train. And if my iPod is going to die, it’s going to be right when the elderly couple I’m sitting next to on the bus decides to discuss their love of vomit-sex.

But it’d been seven hours of open road and blue-sky optimism. Hell, I even got through customs without any trouble. Actually, that was pretty easy – I just gave a fake name (Rendar Frankenstein raises eyebrows) and told the guy I was on vacation. Ha! He didn’t even suspect that I was going to be looking under his country’s fingernails for the cultural dirt!

Anyways, I was cruisin’ along New Brunswick’s highways, taking in the wonderful scenery – no doubt modeled after Middle Earth – when I saw a sign that made me gasp. The posting shouldn’t’ve been a revelation, as it was just another bit of standard freeway fare. But in my excitement to venture forth into alien territory, any thought of such a sign or its implication had slipped my mind.

Nevertheless, there it was: TOLL AHEAD.

Which was no problem, aside from the fact that I didn’t have any Canadian cash!

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[In an attempt to expand his insular perspective, Rendar Frankenstein became An American in Canada! Join Rendar as he tells of the wonders encountered while traveling through North America’s most jovial nation. It’s one-third travel guide and three-fourths misguided interpretation!]

My name is Rendar Frankenstein, and I’m an American.

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There’s something to be said for taking advice of the locals.

Now, I’m not enough of a daredevil to suggest that indigenous peoples are always lookin’ out for the tourists. There’re more than a few cases of an innocuous wayfarer being purposefully misdirected by the natives. Hell, I can tell you from experience that if you get lost on the way to Mos Eisley, don’t ask any Jawas for help.  I hate to perpetuate stereotypes, but Threepio was right when he called them “Disgusting creatures!”

But for Pete’s sake, don’t be one of those turkeys who goes on an adventure and then searches for the stuff you have at home! That’s total bogwash! Why even leave the front door?

So if it’s your first time venturing into a land whose citizens seem trustworthy, follow their lead. Even those who’ve led mundane lives will be able to steer you towards the essentials. So park your pride and incredulity under your bottom lip, and simply go to where you’ve been told you can find the region’s best burgers, babes, and beers.

When Rome, do as the Romans (and when in Hell, do shots at the bar).

During my recent trek through the Canadian Maritimes, I posed a simple question to anyone who I thought might have the answer (for the most part, this meant winos and women of ill-repute): “What’s the best Canadian beer?”

Without failure, they’d size me up, pausing for an extra moment at my ostentatious hi-tops, and then say in a tone that belied the thought that I could be an honest-to-Vishnu beer-drinker, “You’re goin’ to want to drink Alexander Keith’s.”

Tonite, from the porch of a farmhouse in Nova Scotia, I’m drinkin’ Alexander Keith’s Dark Ale.

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[face of a franchise presents two individuals that’ve fulfilled the same role. your task – choose the better of the two and defend your choice in the rancor pit that is the comments section]

Most us are nothing more than sacks of flesh feebly held together with some chicken-finger ligaments. We’re weak, cowardly, and directionless. The human condition, if you haven’t noticed, is not generally teeming with dignity. Consequently, we rely on those who manage to combine natural talent with hard work so as transcend the mundane. Whether into the realms of fiction or reality, we all venture forth in hopes of finding a hero.

So there’s really nothing more treacherous than when a hero turns his back on his admirers.

Unfortunately, there’re more than a few examples of our heroes failing us. No, these don’t include instances in which our champions fight on our behalves but fall short. Hell, dying for a cause might be the most heroic act of all. Instead, idols truly disappoint us when they disregard the joy and admiration we’ve afforded them, essentially spitting upon the very people who’ve forged the crowns adorning their heads.

So this begs the question – who is the most traitorous hero of all? Well, we’ve narrowed it down to two contenders: LeBron James and Hollywood Hogan.

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Jambo!

After being dead for ten months, it feels amazing to walk the Earth again. To feel the carpet beneath my toes, to bear hug loved ones, to booze in the fellowship of my ka-tet. These are the moments that the universe is pushing us towards, the acknowledgment of those simple pleasures that can only be appreciated when our spirits and minds are where they’re supposed to be.

`Cause let me tell ya, there’s nothing worse than being a poltergeist. I’ve been there. Roaming about, looking for a place to say, nothing more than a broken spirit relegated to brief appearances and disruptive dispositions. I’ve been that figure that people’re surprised to see, and not always pleasantly so.

It might be a perfect way to be dead, but it’s no way to live.

—-

Welcome to the Monday Morning Commute! I’m going to show you some of the various ways I’ll be entertainin’ myself during the week. After scoping out my wares, it’s your task to make your presence known in the rumble pit known as the comments section. What movies, comics, beverages, albums, and activities are you lookin’ forward to rockin’?

Let’s do this!

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A couple weeks ago I sat down with a comic called A.K.A., fully intending to just read the first issue in the collection. Before I knew it, an hour had passed and final panels of the book were quickly transforming from mysteries into memories. What was it that inspired me to keep readin’, ignorin’ the ringin’ phone and the frantic cries of the mailman outside my window to save him from the vocal veteran’s rabid mailman?

Pure comics bad-assery.

A.K.A. is a perfect throwback to those golden years when mawkish snooze fests hopin’ to snag Oscars weren’t the only films considered high-quality. No, this comic summons the spirits of the 1970s exploitation flicks that taught moviegoers the value of flawed heroes, babes with dangerous measurements, and gratuitous violence. As the (anti)hero of A.K.A., Guy Doyle navigates his way through these elements, in the process teaching the reader how to revel in the chaos of a mob war.

So won over was my heart that I decided to reach out to Steven Walters, the man responsible for penning this tasteful tale of tawdry turmoil. Walters proved to be incredibly gracious, answering each of my questions with vigor and poise. Which was reassuring, as many of his characters are less gracious and more bloodthirsty.

Hit the jump to check out what Walters’ thoughts on the comics medium, exploitation films, and the quest of artistic expression.

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Look to the stars and tell me what you see.

Hope? Possibility? Wonder? All there, of course. But sometimes when we crank our necks and gaze starward we can’t help but see the lifeless shells of our gods drifting about. The carcasses of once-beloved titans, now mere space debris. Inanimate. No longer fighting for us.

What’s worse is that upon being vacated, the cadavers of our deities fall prey to the very demons they’d hoped to battle into eternity. What these obsidian antagonists lack in strength they make up for with immortality. And tenacity. As such, they wait until their enemies have been felled by by the uncaring sword of Providence and then ravage the remains.

Apathy. Complacency. Pessimism. But three members of the nefarious tribe known as Cosmic Demons.

So what’re we to do? How can we help preserve the splendor of the night sky as dusk descends and the stars come out? Well, I’ll let you in on a secret. The truth is that those giant forms vulnerably swimming across our telescopic paths only look like god-corpses. But in actuality, they are vehicles just waiting to be piloted again. Hell, we can even set up shop and inhabit them for the rest of our days! We don’t have to mistake the idol for the idea!

Become the gods you praise. Take a stand against galactic gluttony. Slay demons with creativity.

—-

Welcome to the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE!

I’m going to take you through all the ways I’ll be slaying ennui-demons on my quest for the weekend! After checking out my conquests, hit up the comments sections and detail your own!

Grab your battle-axe and get in the rocketship!

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Dodging stray dogs and traffic and my own ineptitude, I ran through the streets in the rain.

I hadn’t felt that alive in a good long time. A month? A year? I’m not sure. But as I clutched the package and hopped over gasoline-streaked puddles, I felt an undeniable electricity dancing up and down my spine, reminding me that this is my one life and I’d damn well better appreciate it. So even though it was bright’n’sunny when I went into the liquor store, and I found myself sprinting with the ferocity of a Wally West fan-video so as safely transport my beers, I couldn’t help but smile.

Runnin’ through the rain on a Friday afternoon isn’t an inconvenience, it’s a goddamn privilege.

Safely within the confines of my apartment/spaceship (my therapist is tryin’ to help me come to terms with that one), I unloaded the cargo I’d guarded so closely. I didn’t want any of the wonderful acid-precipitation that we call weather to touch these containers, and in that mission I’d been wholly successful. Now, the next test revealed itself as I attempted to remedy faith with scientific experiment.

What the hell does any of this mean? Well, if I can decipher my own nonsense, it means that I’m going to try to quantitatively describe a sacred ritual. Science details religion?

That’s right, today I’m reviewin’ Monk’s Blood.

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