Hear ye! Hear ye! The Monday Morning Commute has arrived! Let us meet this train of thought in the station, see what wares it has to offer, and then add our own before it continues toward Collective Conscious Square! `Tis our duty as denizens of the Omega Level to not only profit from the bounty of awesome-suggestions, but to contribute as well!

Make merry and dance in the street! Digital or otherwise!

Keep Reading »

[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]

The wise old man may be my favorite archetype of all. This is the dude that lives on the outskirts and is ostracized by regular folk because his otherworldly knowledge frightens them. Fortunately, this geezer’s benevolence keeps him buoyant enough to guide a callow protagonist on his epic journey, imparting wisdom along the way.

Oh, he’s also been known to die   mid-journey. But don’t worry, he’ll probably return from the grave. And if he does, the chief’s going to have plus-thirty Sick Powers.

Virgil. Pai Mei. Merlin. Odin. Henry. All wise old men. All bosses.

But there are two that stand shoulders above the rest, not only fulfilling the role of the helpful wizard but defining it for new generations. I’ll make a case for each and then let you hit up the comments section with your choice. Omega-Readers, short or tall, who is the dopest wizard of them all?

Ben Kenobi or Gandalf?

Keep Reading »

Thanks to the mind-warping that occurred while obtaining a Literature degree, there are times in which I can’t keep seem to keep myself from engaging in textual analysis. Whether I’m at the movies, in front of the TV, or curled up with a book, there’s no escaping the temptation to ruminate further, to dig deeper, to figure out what’s really going on. For better or worse, several analytic seeds have been planted in my brain-bone: authorial intent is irrelevant, structure is never as sound as it hopes to be, and genuine meanings must be extrapolated.

Truth be told, approaching texts this way can be frustrating as hell, capable of usurping all the pleasure that makes us want to experience them in the first place. But given the right piece, and the right circumstances, textual analysis can be fresh to death. Alas, I suppose it’s the academic equivalent of the `ole Peter Parker conundrum!

After giving it a few solid listen-throughs, I’ve come to the determination that the Devin Townsend Project’s Deconstruction is an album rich with meaning. So engorged is this album – sonically, lyrically, musically – that it almost demands to be subjected to an in-depth interpretation. And in an effort to entertain myself, and perhaps stumble upon something worthwhile along the way, that is what I’ve attempted.

Join me as I deconstruct Deconstruction.

Keep Reading »

[DEFEAT. is Rendar Frankenstein’s unabashed love song to the very things that’ve kept him alive – sci-fi, heavy metal, fantasy, war epics, and pop culture. Accompanied by original art by B. Galiano, each weekly episode continues the tale of Daryl Millar – a hero guaranteed to die upon the novella’s conclusion. All are welcome, but nerds are encouraged]

It was three o’clock in the afternoon. Daryl’d been sitting on top of the Pepsi machine for a half an hour. Perched above, he had clear view of the three suburban blocks in front of him.

It was a perfect panorama of suburban chaos.

Station wagons and vans whipped around corners, providing the day’s only excitement for their middle-aged drivers. Youngsters fleeing their elementary schools chased one another with no regard for their surroundings. Husbands rushed out of their front doors with their mistresses, returning to their offices after extended lunch breaks. Mailmen, finally shaking off their hangovers, swore at the ten-year-olds running through their paths of delivery.

All of these islands interested Daryl, but the makeshift crow’s nest had been designed in the hopes of spying one legendary continent. It was lush and full of life, capable of invigorating those few and far between who reached it. Daryl had ventured further into its jungles than any other, exploring the uncharted darkness that no man had ever before braved. Since leaving, it’d been Daryl’s desire to return as soon as possible. And return he would, for he could see his El Dorado on the horizon.

Vanessa.

Keep Reading »

[toby cypress]

When I opened the door this morning, it hit me. Hard. Fuck the scientific calculations, I know damn well when change is afoot. And you can, too. Tomorrow, when you leave for work or play or prison, tilt your head back and suck in deep. It’s bound to tickle your nose.

The smell of summer.

Keep Reading »

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

It took seventeen years for Prince’s prophecy to be refuted, but when 1999 hit there was plenty to party about. For one thing, the Internet was finally delivering porno at a rate that could compete with that of our constantly evolving fetishes. And mercifully, Disney’s Doug was slaughtered after besmirching the brand that had flourished for years on Nickelodeon.

But most worthy of celebration was 1999’s slew of cinematic masterpieces.

Keep Reading »

I enjoy drinking beer on Fridays – at this point in my life, it’s a well established ritual, a means of slinking into a couple days’ rest.

I’ll be the first to admit that sometimes I done-drank one too many. It happens. Not often, but I know that the possibility exists. I just get too excited by the warm fuzzy feelings that arise when slurping on deliciousness. And then I’m cooked.

But sometimes after a particularly arduous week, when I find myself drained by work or just the world at large, all I want is a good beer. One. A single beverage that will quench not only my thirst but my existential misgivings, my doubts about the blessing that is life. Fortunately, as the ancestral blood of maritime carpenters runs through my veins, a tasty brew is often enough to assuage even my most ostensibly unshakable qualms about reality.

Vanilla Porter is one such brew.

Keep Reading »

[DEFEAT. is Rendar Frankenstein’s unabashed love song to the very things that’ve kept him alive – sci-fi, heavy metal, fantasy, war epics, and pop culture. Accompanied by original art by B. Galiano, each weekly episode continues the tale of Daryl Millar – a hero guaranteed to die upon the novella’s conclusion. All are welcome, but nerds are encouraged]

[cue soundtrack]

Cliff stood outside of the bus for an additional moment. His cohorts, having already boarded and begun drinking, urged him onto the mammoth transport. But there was an electricity in the air that made him want to linger. An elusive vapor swam about and Cliff wanted nothing more than to breathe it in forever.

But alas, he had to heed his friends’ calls. After all, it was a long ride to Copenhagen and the sooner they got into the bus the sooner they could get out of it. The partying — the booze, the drugs, the women — it was all a well-designed escape. While many fantasize about touring the world, sharing their art, they don’t consider the means of transportation. Too many people, cramped into too small a space, traveling too far.

Far from ideal and even further from comfortable.

But it was worth it. Every single second of struggle, every instance in which discomfort and uneasiness reigned supreme, the countless arguments and tiffs, all the nonsense was erased from existence on a nightly basis. Walking onto the stage. Hearing the intro tape. Feeling the crowd surge as they waited for lights to hit. And then performing — this eradicated the very molecules of personal turbulence.

It was the goddamn dream – living to express ideas, bearing one’s soul to others, knowing that your perspective is appreciated.

As Cliff climbed into the bus he was nearly knocked backward by the stench of alcohol. The refreshing late September air had been fully expelled and was now replaced with the fumes of Jägermeister and Absolut. Hell, if he weren’t such a trusting man, Cliff would’ve sworn that even the bus driver reeked of booze.

On most evenings the musician wouldn’t have so much as batted an eye, chalking up the bath of ethanol-cologne as another perk of being on tour. But now he couldn’t help but feel overpowered by surreality. It was as though he was beginning to transition into something greater, floating above his body and perceiving the scene from an entirely new angle.

An angle not of the first four dimensions.

Keep Reading »

Hey there, welcome to Monday – the worst fucking day of the workweek! Tuesdays see the release of CDs and DVDs. Wednesdays are sacred, as comic books are released. Thursday is the last real workday, the final chance for bosses to make requests without being scoffed at. And Friday is a goddamn party – beers are drank and the ghettoblaster is cranked!

So how do we get through this most abysmal of days, this return to drudgery and serfdom? Well, we rock the Monday Morning Commute! This is the spot where I share what I’ll be doing in the upcoming days.

After you see which bits of entertainment form my anti-stress forcefield, it’s your duty to hit up the comments and tell me about your forcefield.

Let’s do this!

Keep Reading »

[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]

The Star Wars prequels were unmitigated disasters. Any attempt to debate this truism will be met with a polite request to leave OL. A refusal to do so will result in an introduction to the Midichlorian Masher – a butt-paddle we bought at the local state college’s annual auction of confiscated contraband.

Don’t tempt us.

Keep Reading »