In 1992 Dave Mustaine welcomed us to tomorrow. To be fair, this presentiment was most likely the product of combining hours of guitar-slingin’ with label deadlines and, of course, heroin. But the man wasn’t wrong. By the end of the 1990s, the world would be altered irrevocably, requiring us to adapt or perish.

A new Allegory of the Cave called The Matrix bullet-timed its way into our collective consciousness, reminding us that its of the utmost importance to wonder about the very nature of reality.   The Internet skulked into our homes, providin’ us with unprecedented access to democracy and porn and free/stolen/whatever music. And then Star Wars fucking died.

Again, Uncle Davey had tried to warn us.

Look around. Grandpa’s got a Bluetooth in his head, the teens use Twitter to goad one another into suicide, and SkyNet has invented a self-driving car in the hopes of obliterating human agency. So how do we survive the hustle in bustle of the post-cybernetic revolution?

We talk about the shit that makes us happy! Welcome to the Monday Morning Commute! This is the spot where I show you how I’ll be entertaining myself into the weekend. Your task is to hit up the comments section and share the wares you’ll be using. It’s really just show-and-tell with typing, but aren’t we all pretty much children these days anyways.

Let’s rock.

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If you’re a regular passenger of Spaceship OL, you know that we love us some comic books. As a crew of over-caffeinated pop-culture junkies who’ve read, watched, heard, and played all of the standards, what we also love are new ideas. Needless to say, we get especially jazzed up when we come across comic books that’re filled to the brim with the unconventional, the experimental, or even just the atypical.

Unfortunately, if you know anything about comics it’s that most of `em are just re-tellings of the same stories that’ve been around for years. You think the Big Two are primarily concerned with novelty and innovation? Then why did DC just retcon its continuity for the six-billionth time? Why is the current crux of the Marvel universe another battle between its heroes?

Something’s rotten in the state of funnybooks.

However, there are those who’re doing their best to push the limits of the paneled medium. These artists and writers dedicate their livelihoods to creating quality comics that take chances with their characters, settings, themes, compositions, and structures. And in the current comics climate, it seems that Image Comics is a nexus of creativity.

I reached out to Image publisher Eric Stephenson in the hopes of getting his thoughts on a few questions concerning the state of the medium. To my surprise, he responded! Huzzah! Behold the power of the Internet!

Hit the hyperspace button to check out what Stephenson had to say about dwindling readership, adaptations, digital comics, Pepsi-Cola, and more!

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OL has been given first crack at previewing A God-Awful, Small Affair, the first installment of OMNI from first-time writer Allen Drinkwater (who is, apparently, a friend of this site). After checking out the preview materials and being completely won over by the artwork of Manny Hernaez, I’ve decided to oblige.

Set on the Mars of 2090 CE, this comic follows Detective Farmer Murdock as he attempts to complete his final mission. The catch? The task at hand is to assassinate two of the planet’s most well-respected statesmen. The ensuing tale is filled with violence, rock’n’roll, nefarious secrets, and even a hint of the miraculous.

Hit the hyperspace jump to check out some samples!

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Hey you!

What’re you doin’ here? You’re lookin’ for beer reviews? Well, why don’t you hit up one of those aggregators that treat brewing as a time-honored art and present user comments with averaged scores? Oh, you’re not really interested in muddling up beer-drinking by quantifying it? I can appreciate that. Huh? You say that you’d put more stock in the opinions of a stark-raving lunatic? More than a well-informed opinion, you’re seeking a heartfelt knee-jerk response?

If that’s the case, I’d say you’re in the right place.

My name is Rendar Frankenstein. I am quasi-fictional, enthusiastic, and ready to drink beer. Fasten your seatbelt, return your tray table to the upright position, and prepare for the hyperspatial-jump.

Today, I’m going to detail my experience with Walker’s Reserve.

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The Avengers drops next week, and if you ain’t goin’ kooky-bananas then I don’t think this website is the place for you. Seriously.

After all, every single member of Spaceship OL has been pounding Red Bulls and speculating about this flick until passing out from exhaustion. Hell, just this morning I saw Caffeine Powered stroking his beard and swinging a hammer he stole from Pop’s tool-box, all while screaming at a geriatric crossing guard. If I recall, some key phrases from the public castigation included “Return to true-form, wretched Skrull-Bitch” and “Where’s Bucky!?” and “Beware Midgard racists, for Nick Fury is the manifestation of Smooth-Dancin’ Danger-Babysitter’s greatest dreams!”

True story.

Anyways, Paul Sizer created a minimalist poster for The Avengers that kicks maximum gamma-irradiated butt. Hit hyperspace and check it out!

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Is it Friday nite yet? Nope!

Does that I mean that I have to wait to party? Nope!

The fact of the matter is that it’s Friday afternoon and this is as good a time as any to toss back the first brew of the weekend. This potable antecedent has quite the responsibility, providing a party overture without revealing all of the ways the motifs will develop. The name of the game is wonderful flavors and the buzz-inklings, not gustatory-overload brain-cell genocide.

Drinking on a Friday afternoon should be more burlesque than pornography.

So join me as I dip my toes into the the pool of weekend celebration. I assure you, I’m not going to smash light bulbs over my head and do keg stands. But I am definitely going to pump a jam and imbibe a bottle of Colette.

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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]

John McClane is a goddamn bad-ass. From the late 1980s to the mid-1990s, McClane made a point to periodically run through a Die Hard flick in the hopes of averting disaster and making clever quips. Towers? Airports? An entire city? No matter the intended terror-target, McClane never shirked from responsibility, even if it meant working through a bombastic hangover.

However, part of what makes the Die Hard trilogy so fun is the fact that John McClane never has an easy go of his adventures. By the end of each movie, Bruce Willis looks more like a broken-spirited vagrant than any sort of wealthy restauranteur. The truth of the matter is that McClane is always outmatched by his enemies, and as such he has to get the piss beaten out of him before he can save the day.

So who of McClane’s foes are the most formidable? Which motherfuckers stick in the craw most? Well, the honor has to go to the Gruber Brothers.

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Hello there, fellow worker bees! Are you already sick of the workweek? Don’t worry, you’re not alone! The way the Man has it set up, we’re all supposed to hate our Monday through Friday responsibilities, those tasks that we must complete so that we can earn currency to exchange for the electricity and beer and buffalo wings that we enjoy on the weekends.

It’s hardly an ideal system.

But fear not, for this right here is the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE! I’m going to show you the various ways I’ll be thwarting the advances of that spirit-crushing behemoth commonly referred to as Workweek Ennui! After you check out my snake-oils, hit up the comments section and display your own wares.

Grab a Diet Fanta and jump on in!

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I could’ve sworn I filled the tank.

I mean, if I was goin’ to risk my life time-travelin’, the best false sense of security I could’ve had would’ve been having enough fuel. As such, I spent countless weeks double-checking my math, the calculations whirring around around my mindscape even as I slept. The formula for post-temporal diesel was arcane knowledge, and if I wanted to concoct it myself I’d have to be super careful.

And when I finally felt that the arithmetic lined up, I got a big `ole metal barrel and mixed the ingredients:

– 1/2 gallon of gasoline
– 20 ounces of Pepsi Max
– 3 gallons of liquid zebra feces (grassfed animals only)
– 1/2 hour’s worth of tears

When the sludge was uniform in color (and pleasant to the taste), I poured it into the Toast-R-Oven I’d outfitted as the energy converter. I plugged in the converter, took a whiff of paint thinner, and then hopped into my combination broom closet/time machine.

I closed my eyes. Waited. Exited.

And here I am, trapped in the year 1998. Ugh. If the 1990s were an orgy, `98 would be the unwashed hippie who’s shown up despite having never received an invitation and hopin’ that some cooze grants poon-access to his scabby semen-dispenser. 1998 brandishes neither the novelty of the earlier 90s nor the enthusiasm of the turn-of-the-century. And yet it still cries for attention, hoping and pleading and wishing that someone will give a fuck.

I could’ve sworn I filled the tank. Next time I’ll check more carefully.

–-

Welcome to the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE. I’m going to present semi-coherence in the hopes that you’ll validate my role as a member of Team Omega-Level. In the process, I’ll detail the various ways I’ll be keeping myself entertained. Fuck human tragedy, let’s all have a swell time!

Your mission – if you’re as brazen as you wished your prom date thought you were – is to hit up the comments section and share the bits and pieces of fun-debris that you’ll be sifting through this workweek.

Let’s dance.

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When traveling through the galaxy, it’s of supreme importance to be on the lookout for liminal spaces. If you’re not paying attention while cruisin’ through hyperspace — maybe you’re rockin’ too hard to some Load-era Metallica or you’re caught up in a high-stakes game of Sabacc or perhaps you’ve fallen asleep at the wheel — you may very well hit a pocket of liminality. If this happens, chances’re that you’re going to be lost for awhile.

More innocuous than thinnies but less defined than wormholes, these cloudbursts of purple dark matter will warp the perceptions of everyone in your starcruiser. Sophomore slumps will sound like masterpieces. Cash-grabs will look like art. Dog food will taste like delectable cuisine. Hell, I’ve even heard tales of reckless space-pirates tongue-kissin’ their dogs and grabbin’ fat fistfuls of their sisters’ doughy fannies.

It ain’t pretty.

However, every now and then an individual that coasts through a violet gamma-shadow will be better for it. In these rare instances, the pilgrim does not incur the Wrath of In-Between, but is actually fortunate enough to go beyond the beyond. In this transcendent moment, possibilities are not only more apparent, but well within reach. Despite being in a tiny little vessel, hermetically sealed and layered beyond reason so as to ward off solar radiation, the exo-planetary commuter is capable of turning off mental inhibitors so as to live beyond life.

Tonight, my vessel has skidded right through an extradimensional fold. And I’m not mad or concerned. `Cause the fact of the matter is that I’m rockin’ in the Thirteenth Hour.

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