Every morning I take two pills so that I don’t die.

Most mornings, I whiz through the first twenty minutes of consciousness on zombie-autopilot, totally unaware of what I’m doing. I know there’s some sort of   routine at work, but I don’t actually think about it.

rub sleep out of eyes.stretch.take two pills so that I don’t die.pound yogurt.shower.brush teeth.dress myself.go to work.

By the time I’m cognizant of the surrounding world, my car is pulling into the parking lot. I get out of the driver’s seat, sigh, and then submit my soul for a work day’s worth of bondage.

But some mornings, because I’ve been interrupted in the middle of a REM cycle or an act of Providence has flown my way or the Omnidimensional Creator owes me a favor, I’m aware from the moment I awake. I take the time to think about what I’m doing, and the early-morning September mists amplify every emotion. Vanilla yogurt isn’t just sustenance, it’s an Earth-shattering flavor-quake. Brushing my teeth isn’t just a part of daily hygiene, it’s a rhythmic exercise. Taking two prescription pills isn’t just a health-choice, it’s a terrifying realization.

Every morning I take two pills so I don’t die. And when I think about it, I’m so fucking thankful to still be alive. My heart’s still pumping and my mouth’s still running, and I don’t want to waste this gift. So let’s take killer rips of black coffee, headbang to metal, and high-five one another as much as possible.

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Step right up, folks! This ‘ere is the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE, OL’s weekly feature in which I show you what I’ll be doing to survive until the weekend. After I run you through my entertainment gamut, you’re to hit up the comments section and show off your own articles of awesome.

It’s digital show-and-tell at its most abject.

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James Taylor once penned a tune called Country Road. I’m not exactly sure that it was Taylor’s intention, but when I hear Country Road  I can’t help but imagine myself walking through an apple orchard in the heart of autumn. Perhaps I’m some sort of modern day Johnny Appleseed, walking along a deserted October highway and handing out smartphones to indigent children. “Help us, Techno-Papa, help us! We want to download apps and steal music and message our friends in Vietnam! We’re tired of burning these orange leaves to make smoke-signals! Techno-Papa, we need you!”

And I’ll look at these children, plagued by rickets and smiling their Pepsi-stained smiles, and I’ll deliver. Against the backdrop of autumn, decay and decrepitude as beautiful and wondrous, I’ll hand these diseased scamps the modern-magic they need to survive.

Or, at the very least, to die with smiles on their faces.

Is this what James Taylor thought of when he wrote Country Road? Probably not. But the motherfucker spent so many years on heroin, I wouldn’t rule it out.

Tonight, I’m celebrating dragon-chasin’ pop-song daydreams of autumnal techno-wizardry. It feels good, real good, but it’s parching me out. So it looks like  I’m washing these dope-sick delusions down with a cold can of  Autumnation.

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It’s Monday.

Driving to work this morning, I saw a BMW pulled over in the breakdown lane. Hazards flashing. Black smoke billowing out from under the hood. The middle-aged driver pulled himself through the open sunroof, stood upright as though he were First Man emerging from the primordial birth canal, shook his balled-up fist at the sky, and let loose a guttural wail that cut through the nonsense-talkers inside of my radio-box. His briefcase was launched onto a station wagon, in the process cracking its windshield and scaring the illegal immigrants riding inside. He then slipped, fell off of the roof, and got to his feet just in time to spit blood into my open passenger side window as I drove by.

In my rear view, I saw him whip out his dick while strangling himself with his tie.

It’s Monday.

As such, it’s my pleasure to welcome you to the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE! This is the spot where we share our panaceas for work-induced ennui and existential fatigue. After I show you the cocktail I’ll be using, hit up the comments section and show off your own self-medications.

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[DEFEAT. is a   coming-of-death novella. Brian Galiano lends his artistic talents to each episode. this is the post-coital cigarette.]

Rimina Jacoby sat in Bandini’s Café, leisurely smoking a cigarette and drinking coffee. Black. Bandini himself had tried to persuade her to try the espresso but she said she’d seen what it was capable of. And frankly, she laughed, she didn’t think it would be quite strong enough for her taste.

With her gray sleeves rolled up to her elbows, Rimina handled a newspaper. Her eye searched the front page, settling on the date. “Yes, yes, yes…that is when today happened.

The little bell above the door jingled. The Woman in Gray Robes didn’t look up to see who was entering. She already knew. She had planned on meeting him here, at this moment. In fact, years later she would tell him to make sure he was there so that they could palaver. As equals.

Or as close to equals as they would ever be.

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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]

Since his debut in 1964, comics fans (especially those that love to exclaim Make mine Marvel, muthafuckah!!!) have been wowie-zowied by the antics of Daredevi, the man without fear! Despite hitting the scene in a costume ridiculous even by comics standards, Daredevil won over fans by   beating all sorts of criminal ass at night while maintaining a successful law practice during the day as Matt Murdock.

Pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty good.

Also, the guy’s blind. Which makes his feats even more spectacular. I mean, Ray Charles was cool as hell, but I don’t think he’d handle a trampoline half as well as Murdock.

Also tack on the fact that bad-ass writers seem to gravitate towards Daredevil (historically – Frank Miller/recently – Ed Brubaker), and it’s clear why the character is afforded such genuine respect. The mouthbreathin’, anti-social panel-worshippers that I count myself amongst fucking love Daredevil.

Fortunately, the admiration for this Marvel Knight has been truly honored by the two men fearless enough to portray him in live-action.

If for no other reason, 1989 was a wonderful year because it saw the release of The Trial of the Incredible Hulk, a made-for-TV movie continuing the adventure that began in The Incredible Hulk series. Of course, any time that a Marvel character goes on trial, there’s only one man to turn to for help: Attorney Matt Murdock! The hero of Hell’s Kitchen was portrayed by Rex Smith, the only man brave enough to ride the Street Hawk! Although relegated to a supporting role, Smith’s interpretation of Daredevil as a ninjutsu-lookin’ legally-blind lawyer that helps a green gargantuan is simply chilling.

Whereas Rex Smith’s Daredevil is a one-round knockout, Ben Affleck’s portrayal is a twelve-round slugfest. After blowing away audiences with Reindeer Games, Affleck was given his second once-in-a-lifetime role in 2003’s Daredevil. In this dark vision of the Daredevil mythos, Matt Murdock not only has to fight Bullseye, but the entire Green Mile as well! Proving himself to be a world-class thespian, Affleck navigated his way through playground battles with Elektra, Irish guys with facial scars, and a soundtrack that includes both Nickelback and Hoobastank.

A miracle performance. Nothing less.

So who do you think is the superior Daredevil? The dude from the TV-movie that no one remembers or the dude from the movie no one likes?

Rex Smith or Ben Affleck?

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[cue the music]

There’re moments   in life in which appreciation simply cannot be thwarted, try as Life might.

Today has been the Greater Boston area’s first real taste of fall, a forty-degree recess that seems to cool not just the sweltering landscape, but burning souls as well. That stack of work piling ever higher? Crack open the office window and laugh as the breeze pushes papers across your desk. Stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic, a nameless worker-bee in the mass exodus from the hive? Take a look beyond the overpass at the trees, all showing off their summer’s-end sunburns of red and yellow and orange. Finally home and having trouble sloughing off the day’s worth of stress?

Just crack open a Harvest Pumpkin Ale.

Autumnal awesomeness will follow.

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Welcome to the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE! This is the feature I use as an excuse to showcase the various debris that’ll be keeping my brain-bone lubricated so as to avoid jamming up at the hands of the workweek. Some Mondays, I write a little story beforehand as a creative writing exercise and preface the post with it. On other Mondays, I start the post by jotting down an amusing anecdote

And then there’re those Mondays when I’m so tired that my eyes are burning and I don’t have any goddamn coffee filters so kickstarting my creativity with a caffeine-defibrillator isn’t an option and all I want to do is pass out and wake up in 2013 so that I can laugh at all those fucking doomsayers and tell them that their apocalypse wasn’t even worth being awake for.

Guess what kind of Monday today is.

Quit’yer dinkin’ around, let’s do this.

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My lust for autumnal brews   is absolutely insatiable, transforming me into an ethanol Donkey Kong. Stay out of my way, other beers, or you’re liable to get a barrel thrown off your fucking neck! I’m serious, man! Watch out! The spell has been cast, and only orange-labeled harvest-intoxicants will lubricate my arid braincells properly!

Enjoying a recess from His reaping, the mighty Saturn gazes down into the terrestrial realm. Humans and their dominions, ants and their hills. It’s rustic but aspiring, unrealized but bursting with potential. The brisk breeze cools Saturn’s glistening brow and he smiles upon us in gratitude,   for we raise our glasses in his honor. He raises his chalice, teeming with the syrups and elixirs and sweet ambrosial dreams, and reciprocates.

Gods and Men, united in spirits.

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It’s Labor Day, so hopefully none of you are reading this after having put in a full day’s work. Today is the last HURRAH!, the final chance to high-five Summer before he starts putting his suitcases into the trunk of his car. Don’t worry, he’ll be back next year to regale us with hot-dogs and sunburns and countless hours of molasses-paced baseball. Everything’s going to be all right.

Besides, I can already see Autumn’s car down the road. He’s cruising towards us in a pickup truck full of pumpkins and foliage and warm apple pies. So as long as we stay strong during Summer’s departure, we’ll be fine.

Okay, let’s cut to the chase – this is the Monday Morning Commute, the spot where I show you all of the goodies that’re going to get me through the workweek in one piece. After you check out my wares, hit up the comments and show off your own ennui-destroyers.

Time to dance, beetle-breath.

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Red State is a flick that’s been on my radar for a few years now. When I first heard that Kevin Smith was planning on dipping his toes into the horror genre, I was skeptical through-and-through. Sure, Clerks and Chasing Amy are two of my all-time favorite flicks, and I spent many of my most formative years memorizing and reciting the clever quips of Smith’s characters, all of whom seem to have vocabularies that would shame both Sadlier and Oxford. But I just couldn’t imagine Kevin Smith pulling off a legitimately terrifying flick.

Then came a string of Smith movies that did absolutely nothing for me. Clerks II was a veritable Mooby the Golden Calf, desecrating the legacy of a film that I hold as sacred. Zack and Miri Make a Porno was also a let-down, as I got the sneaking suspicion that the director was trying to channel some of the Apatow spirits rather than focus on his unique perspectives. And I didn’t even see Cop Out, but was assured by trusted friends and critics that I wasn’t missing anything.

So when I heard that Red State was actually being produced and that Kevin Smith was going to distribute it himself, my cynicism once again reared its ugly head. I was a scorned lover, unwilling to rekindle the passion that once raged for fear that I would be hurt again. Hell, even the fact that Tarantino enjoyed the movie wasn’t enough to assuage my doubts. Simply put, there was nothing anyone could say that would convince me that this movie would be anything other than a disaster.

But after sitting down and watching Red State, I believe it to be nothing less than Kevin Smith’s redemption as a filmmaker.

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