August is now nothing more than a fleeting memory, a remembrance hoping to save itself by clinging to one of the few synapses that I haven’t killed with television and caffeine.   Some may see this unrelenting march as the temporal equivalent of total warfare, but I welcome the change of seasons. So while September is always a drag for schoolchildren and the Kansas City Royals, I welcome the ninth month of the year with open arms.

C’mon, September, let’s do this! Bring me the end of humidity and sunburns! Bring me pre-season hockey! Bring me the glory that is autumn!

And since you’re offering anyways, feel free to bring me your wonderful slew of Oktoberfest-inspired brews!

So to celebrate the changing of the guard, the graceful acceptance of time’s one-way flow, I’m sipping on Otter Creek’s Oktoberfest.

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Holy smokes. Today marks the antepenultimate day of August 2011. Goddamn, not only am I traveling to the future, I feel like I’m heading there faster than ever. It’s weird – my flesh-wrapped time machine seems to accelerate at the same rate as its own cellular death. The less of vehicle I have, the more appealing the destination on the horizon seems.

Tomorrow’s tomorrow may have moonbases and Martian settlements, but let’s hope it’s also got robotic replacements for the components under my time machine’s hood.

Once again, welcome to the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE — OL’s attempt to lubricate the spiritual meatus so that the workweek’s prickly-thrust don’t sting so bad! In short, I’m going to show you the various bits of entertainment I’ll be using to fend off stress and boredom. After reading, you’re encouraged to hit up the comments section and show off your own recipe for life-enrichment.

Time to rock and roll.

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I’m not missing anything important, am I?

Having never been there, I can still say without hesitation that I’m a fan of San Francisco.

How does that work? Well, the Golden Gate City is responsible for producing some straight-up characters, individuals whose accomplishments and antics have tacked layers and layers of quality onto my otherwise free-floating existence. And probably yours, as well! If Frisco’d never been established, we’d be without a legendary metal bassist, our modern conception of the perfect family, the man with no name, and America’s most infamous serial killer.

Amongst others.

In essence, San Francisco has carved a notch into my brain-bone as a city of repute, a community that regularly produces pure wonder. So when I ran into a sixer of the city’s Anchor Porter at my local beer-dealer, I knew that I had to bring it home with me. Hell, leaving it on the shelf would’ve been tantamount to sending it across the bridge to Oakland!

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I am a veritable man-slave to Lady Beer.

I live to wait on her hand and foot, making sure that her every desire is met. But how could I ever be expected to resist her? Is there a more breathtaking image than the gentle pulsating of Lady Beer’s bosom as she inhales and exhales alcoholic vapors? Could anyone ever assuage my workweek anxieties better than Madam Methanol? Hardly. She’s a goddamn beaut.

Sure, she can be bitter as all hell. And I’d be a liar to deny that entertaining her is a   fatiguing endeavor. After a few hours with Lady Beer, I’m ready to sleep indefinitely, awoken only by oppressive sunbeams and inebriation-induced teeth-grindin’. But it’s worth it, because her handsome hops and courageous carbonation are wonders that elevate existence from better than non-existence to the rare opportunity to join the universe as an active participant.

Wowzers.

But as I’m realizing tonight, I’ve been slightly negligent to my mistress. Lady Beer, love of my life though she is, has largely been ignored this summer. It wasn’t a conscious decision. Truly. However, the fact of the matter is that I’ve been spending an exorbitant amount of my drankin’-time with Ms. Apple Cider Bottom. She’s fruity and bubbly and making herself more available than she’s ever been.

Hell, I’m only man, damnit!

Tonight, I’m sipping on Honey Crisp.

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Hey-oh! Welcome to the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE — OL’s attempt to curb the blow that is the workweek! I’m going to give you the rundown on what I’ll be doing in the upcoming days to protect my soul from drudgery and malarkey. Your mission is to hit up the comments section and show off your own entertainment survival kit.

What’s in it? Movies? Music? Candy bars and porno? Let us know!

So c’mon kiddies, gather `round!

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[DEFEAT. is a   coming-of-death novella. Brian Galiano lends his artistic talents to each episode. the end is nigh.]

There is no tomorrow.
There is no yesterday.
There is only now.
And forever.

Daryl Millar stood outside of the high school gymnasium, peeking in through an open door. He could see that all members of the student body were taking their seats in the bleachers. All those in attendance, anyway. As is the case with any suburban high school, a fair number of burnouts and weasels and academically-uninterested driftabouts made a habit of not attending classes on Fridays. Especially those Fridays peppered with the self-aggrandizements known as pep rallies.

With that being said, the vast majority were present for Daryl Millar’s final stand. And the burnouts and weasels and academically-uninterested driftabouts? They didn’t get too far before they heard about it.

But before this could happen, before the news could spray over the town with the vigor of a severed artery, Daryl would have to wait. For the perfect moment. Otherwise, all would be for naught. An inability to exercise patience could result in the unraveling of his plan altogether.

Which, as Daryl saw it, would be tantamount to an unraveling of the very realities he was hoping to secure.

He watched. He waited. He resisted the urge to run to his friends when he saw them taking their places. 8-Bit, assisted by Riff, hobbled and crutched his way to a seat in the front row. Daryl couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he understood. He figured that they must have met before first block. He gathered that they’d have exchanged details about their last encounters with the third party of the triumvirate.

“Told me to play guitar.”

“Told me to believe in myself.”

Hell, Daryl mused, maybe Vanessa even met with them. Maybe she took my spot during the morning meeting of the minds. Yeah, that…that would make sense. Continuity would be provided. The three of them — the rocker, the gamer, the lover — together to venture guesses. Where was I? Why wasn’t I at the locker? What would I do today? It wouldn’t matter if they left questions unanswered. As long as they came together, in my absence, to ask questions.

That’s all that matters — asking the questions. The rest will fall into place. I’m sure of it.

He couldn’t have hoped for more; Daryl watched as Vanessa entered the gymnasium. She waved farewell to the classmate with whom she had entered, spotted Riff and 8-Bit, and found a spot next to them.

They’re all here. Now, what about my enemy? The Tyrant — where is he?

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Behold the glory that is the FRIDAY BREW REVIEW! There ain’t no damn laws against drinkin’ and writin’, so today’s edition of of FBR is coming to you just as the alcohol hits my bloodstream. Hell, if it worked for a titan like Hemingway, there’s no way it could befoul the prose of a dilettante such as myself.

Right?

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You have arrived at the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE — OL’s weekly celebration of fending off bad-vibes with fuzzy-feelings. I’m going to show you which bits of mindrot I’ll be ingesting in the hopes of adding some essence to my existence. After peeking at my goodies, you’re encouraged to hit up the comments section and lay out the modes of escapism you’ll be employing in the upcoming days.

In other words, it’s a game of show-and-tell.

Let’s do this.

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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]

If you fancy heavy metal, chances are that you probably like Black Sabbath. While crafting some of metal’s most recognizable tunes, England’s metal pioneers also established many of the genre’s time-tested motifs – an affinity for the occult, dark fantasies realized, and the systemic abuse by those in positions of power. Also, Tony Iommi proved that you don’t need fingertips to shred.

In short, Black Sabbath kicks ass.

But this begs the question – which Sabbath singer reigns supreme?

For the band’s first eleven years, Ozzy Osbourne fronted Black Sabbath. Before becoming a whack-job reality-television pawn of his evil wife, Ozzy was a metal-messiah. The dude crooned his way onto Sabbath’s seminal records, got booted from the band, and then continued setting dangerous precedents in a solo career that helped push Randy Rhoads into infamous realms. Although he’s a self-parody now, there’s no denyin’ that Ozzy is an icon inside and outside of the metal-world.

After Ozzy was ousted, Ronnie James Dio was brought into the fold and sang on the next two Sabbath albums, Heaven and Hell and Mob Rules (he also rejoined the group for 1992’s Dehumanizer). While Dio isn’t as well-known as Ozzy in the world of pop-culture, true metal-maniacs know of his glory. Between stints in Rainbow, Elf, Black Sabbath, and his eponymous group, Dio carved a name for himself in metal history. And hell, his inclusion in Heaven and Hell pretty much confirmed that Iommi’d rather work with him than Ozzy.

Which sucks, cause Dio passed away in 2010.

So, who do you prefer – Ozzy or Dio? Is Ozzy the better frontman but Dio the better singer? Does Dio get points for popularizing the horns? Who has the better solo career? Let’s see where the dust settles on this one!

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