[DEFEAT. is Rendar Frankenstein’s truest attempt at fiction.   Presented in weekly episodes, the novella tells the tale of Daryl Millar – a hero who dies at the intersection of pop culture, science-fiction, war epic, and fantasy]

Daryl got out of the car before it had even stopped. His mother, affixed to the rearview mirror as she applied a third coat of rouge, didn’t notice. Even if she had, she wouldn’t have stopped him. Chalk it up to an understanding that no words could ever contest one of her son’s resolutions. Or, chalk it up to a desire to return home, pop a couple of Vicodin, hide in bed, and listen to Barbara Streisand’s The Broadway Album.

Either way — chalk it up.

Parted by the wind, a pile of leaves got out the seventeen year old champion’s path. Orange. Brown. Pregnant with anticipation. Mother Nature knew that on this morning, Daryl was unstoppable.

There was no need to stop at the locker before class. Daryl didn’t even bring his backpack. His mother might’ve noticed if she weren’t so damn busy putting on makeup to impress nobody. Daryl sans backpack — he knew he wouldn’t be spending much of Thursday at school.

Had Daryl been more patient in this current endeavor, more willing to go through the regular routine before getting down to business, his day would’ve gone much differently. At his locker waited Vanessa, holding baited breath and hoping to discuss the wonder that was the previous evening. Just like her suitor, Vanessa felt something washing over her during the post-coital bliss. Not just the physical pleasure of orgasm, but the sense that a tide was turning. Possibility was afoot, and Vanessa wanted to see if Daryl felt the same.

Had he been less dedicated to his friends, he may have actually gone to his first class — Modern American History. Once there, he would’ve noticed just the distraught Ms. Lang, practically on the verge of tears. A conversation would have begun, and the two would have started unraveling some of the many links that connected their lives

But alas, neither of these were destinations on Itinerary-Vengeance.

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Baby, I don’t have time for foreplay tonight. So feel free to put down the bottle of champagne and NES controller. C’mon, hop right into the sack with me. It’s time to get frisky.

This here’s the Monday Morning Commute, the spot where I tell you what I’ll be doing this week. We’re all dealing with that pesky infirmity known as the work-world, and so a double-dose of entertainment is necessary. Administer as many times daily as possible. Let’s dance.

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Rockin’/Coloring Book EP – Glassjaw

I put off downloading Glassjaw’s latest effort for awhile, telling myself that they’d make it available for purchase. But they haven’t. In fact, the only way to snag a physical copy is to attend one of their shows, and unfortunately the Boston gig sold out before I got a ticket. So, promising myself that I’d give GJ money when they decide they want my money, I downloaded Coloring Book.

Some of the tunes have a real Latin vibe, with funky-ass claves and tamborines and shit. And then some of the songs absolutely crush. And, as though they knew exactly what I wanted, the band closes the album with Daytona White, a jazzier number complete with brushstrokin’ drums and Sunday-morning keyboards.

It’s fuggin’ sick.

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[WEEKEND OPEN BAR: The one-stop ramble-about-anything weekend post at OL. Comment on the topic at hand. Tell us how drunk you are. Describe a comic you bought. This is your chance to bring the party.]

When it comes to the pantheon of classic American literature, it’s hard to argue against the inclusion of The Great Gatsby. Fitzgerald’s seminal novel is an uncompromising examination of class divisions, the promise of the American dream, constructed identity, and the power of love. Who among us can’t sympathize with Gatsby’s yearning, his desire to become something greater than what he is? Is there anyone who hasn’t at least contemplated throwing caution to the wind, casting off the shackles clamped on at birth, and chasing the unattainable?

I fucking hope not.

Every time that I read The Great Gatsby, I feel as though I have a firm grasp on the title character — poor kid dreams of a life beyond his means, seizes the rare opportunity to move beyond his station, falls in love with a girl beyond his means, stops at nothing to fine tune a new persona, gets tangled up in crime, can’t acknowledge that his aspiration has been reduced to mere nostalgia, and is murdered for his inability to forfeit impossible ambitions. And while I’m absolutely enthralled by the transformative journey of James Gatz, I can’t say that he is the character most capable of piquing my interest.

It is Nick Carraway that I see as the most fascinating figure. And maybe the most enigmatic.

As the narrator, Carraway is responsible for taking us through The Great Gatsby’s alternately glamorous and sordid adventures. Between his actions and exposition, it would at first seem as though Carraway can be trusted as an objective, reliable narrator. In fact, the novel opens with a declaration of just this sort:

“In consequence I’m inclined to reserve all judgements, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores.” (5)

Right from the get-go the reader is led to believe that Nick will be presenting his story without bias, prejudice, or exaggeration. Which is sweet, I suppose, as these misdirections can lead one astray when traveling on the path of Truth. When a story is recounted, isn’t it of the utmost importance that all the facts and figures be in order, quotes presented verbatim, images recreated without blemish?

So if we want to, it’s easy to let Nick Carraway mollify our skepticisms — this is exactly what I did when I first read the book. After all, it’s both comforting and easy to take words at face value, never rousing suspicions that there may be an element of deception abound. But when one keeps a keen eye turned to the page, it’s a bit more difficult to invest complete faith in the absolute veracity of the narrator’s yarn.

For me, a turning point comes at the end of Chapter III. While recounting how he has been sending weekly love letters to a girl back home, Nick also expresses his physical attraction to Jordan Baker. He then states,

“Everyone suspects himself of at least one of the cardinal virtues, and this is mine: I am one of the few honest people that I have ever known.” (63)

As I read that line for the first time, I saw all sorts of flags go up. My knee-jerk reaction, off-the-cuff thought was, “What type of person feels compelled to constantly assert their honesty?” The answer I settled on?

A liar.

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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]

James Bond is the most popular fictional secret agent of all time. And why shouldn’t he be? After all, the dude has pretty much set the archetypal standard for the Suave Spy character. He’s that perfect balance of gorgeous yet gritty, cutthroat yet clever. He’s a man capable of accomplishing any mission, whether it’s securing nuclear secrets or banging a smokin’ babe.

Of course, with nearly fifty years worth of movies under his belt, James Bond has been portrayed by a few different folks. In my experience, any Best Bond Debate usually comes down to two choices: whoever is currently portraying the agent and the precedent-setting Sean Connery. But truthfully, I think that this discussion can, and should, extend beyond Daniel Craig and Forrester.

For most of the 1970s and 1980s, Roger Moore helmed the James Bond franchise. Moore’s 007 is noted for being a bit campier and more lustfully-minded than other portrayals. Movies like Octopussy give us a Bond with gadgets that are kooky and dames that are sexy. Audiences ate up this depiction, and by the end of his tenure Moore would be known as the actor with the most Bond-years.

On the other hand, Pierce Brosnan reinvigorated the stagnant franchise with 1995’s Goldeneye. Some might argue that Brosnan injected new life into James Bond, giving the character a sensibility and usefulness in a post-Cold War world. The Brosnan-Bond could also be credited as having tempered the character, bringing him back to the idea of a man with a license to kill. Moreover, Brosnan’s involvement in the series also made possible the greatest first-person-shooter of all time.

So who’s the better Bond? Roger Moore or Pierce Brosnan?

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[DEFEAT. is Rendar Frankenstein’s truest attempt at fiction.   Presented in weekly episodes, the novella tells the tale of Daryl Millar – a hero who dies at the intersection of pop culture, science-fiction, war epic, and fantasy]

Daryl Millar wasn’t one to brag. In fact, he held a special disdain for those who gloat about their triumphs. Part of this contempt stemmed from the fact that most braggarts haven’t done nearly as much as they claim. Gum-flapping as a means of self-denial. The rejection of a lackluster life. The other primary set of boasters are those who speak truthfully but only do so as to posture themselves above others. At the end of the day, Daryl believed that most who bragged were either liars or assholes.

Or, maybe even lying assholes.

So it was with some reservation that the protagonist considered phoning his friends. But he just had to tell them about his evening. “I can’t keep this to myself,” he thought, “it was just too unreal. Almost…otherworldly.” Daryl had turned a corner, and was on his street. As he approached his house, he picked up the pace of both his steps and his thoughts.

Thinking on it now, Daryl felt changed, as though shedding the skin of a virgin had not only opened his eyes but granted a third one as well. While he had been trained to connote first sexual experiences with the end of innocence, this was not his current perception. Instead, he felt an overwhelming sense of possibility, as though a door had opened and was urging him to take the final step across the threshold.

Something within had been activated and Daryl was sure that it was pushing him towards redefinition.

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The Monday Morning Commute is usually the spot where I tell you what bits of entertainment I’ll be distracting myself with in the upcoming days. Unfortunately, right now it’s looking like I’ve got more work than hours in the day. So while I could pretend to have a whole bunch of cool swag lined up, it’d be dishonest.

In place of the regularly scheduled programming, I present The Body Bag – a short piece from my archives of miscellaneous debris. Feel free to hit up the comments section, either sharing what you’ll be doing this week or taking a stab at some fiction of your own.

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[The body bag wouldn’t stop dripping.]
[And this drove me damn insane.]

It reminded me of being home during summer vacation. In the morning, Mom would take steaks out of the freezer and leave them on the kitchen counter to defrost. She’d go about her day, smoking cigarettes and vacuuming. Watching television and drinking. By three in the afternoon she’d be stuck to the couch. Passed out. Sweating profusely.

I don’t blame her for sweating. The summers were unbearable. And inescapable. Hot. Muggy. And my father refused to buy an air conditioner. Mom would plead for one and my father would just laugh in her face, “I already pay for heat in the winter and now you want cold air in the summer? You’re all backwards! Why don’t I just fly your ass to another hemisphere?!”

Of course, he spent the hottest hours of the day at the office. The air conditioned office. Fucking bastard.

Anyways, afternoons in the summer saw Mom imprisoned by the couch. She just couldn’t get up. Occasionally a few syllables would be spat out of her florid face and she would make a half-hearted attempt to rise. But she was always defeated, either by the humidity or her blood alcohol concentration. Sometimes she would even throw up on herself. Not often.

But often enough.

When she passed out I’d walk to the kitchen counter. At that point, the steak laid out in the morning would be hours beyond the point of defrosting. Beaten down by the sun, the sirloin would be bleeding everywhere. The white paper from the butcher shop giving its best impression of a sanitary napkin.

The countertop would end up resembling the Red Sea. Parting it in half with napkins, I was a seven-year-old Moses. I never seemed to be able to clean all of it, and this became a source of genuine frustration.

After all, maybe the day my father came home to a clean countertop would be the same day Mom didn’t get slapped.

“Is this bovine blood on the counter?”

“Oh, honey, don’t worry. It’s just a little juice.”

“Juice? JUICE?! Juice is what you get when you squeeze something that once grew on a tree! This is fucking blood! These are blood stains!”

Somehow it made sense to my father to express his aversion to blood stains by making more of them.

[The body bag wouldn’t stop dripping.]
[The steaks never stopped bleeding.]
[Mom never stopped drinking.]
[And my father never stopped slapping.]

[And this drove me damn insane.]

[images & words is the comic book pick-of-the-week at OL. equal parts review and diatribe, the post highlights the most memorable/infuriating/entertaining book released that wednesday]

After some deliberation, I’ve made the executive decision that OL is going to officially endorse FF #1 as the comic book of the week.

So why the hesitation? Well, I guess I was concerned that my choice would be scrutinized, determined to be nothing more than a declaration of pure fanboyism. After all, I did award the Images & Words honors to the final issue of Fantastic Four. And then I interviewed Nick Dragotta, said comic’s illustrator. And since I’m coming completely clean, I might as well admit that I featured the penultimate issue of Fantastic Four, as well.

So I didn’t want to come across as yet another Internet mouthbreather, shamelessly celebrating his current favorite bit of entertainment.

But after reading and re-reading FF, there’s no denyin’ that Jonathan Hickman has got me hooked. Indefensibly. The dude scripts the First Family with an earnestness that makes me weep. Forreal. As I read this issue, I can feel my heartstrings being yanked on with a violent fervor, reminding me that at its best science fiction is a genre concerned with the human condition. Hickman understands that the most outlandish of scenarios can resonate sympathetic.

Hell, even interdimensional conflicts and premonitions from the future can be imbued with familial strain.

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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]

Superman might be the hardest of all comics characters to cast. Why is that? Well, whoever plays him has to convey the power of a God while still coming across as a down-to-earth, awh-shucks farm boy. He eats mama’s apple pie and shits lightning bolts. He’s jacked as shit, but not a beefcake roid-head. Capable of pulverizing mountains, but always wears a smile that warms hearts.

Yeah, it’s a tough one.

From 1993-1997, Dean Cain graced ABC television with a magnanimous performance as the Man of Steel. So impressive was his four-year stint that he’s gone on to secure himself a spot as the host of TV’s greatest freakshow.

On the other hand, Brandon Routh graced the silver screen with his portrayal of Kal-El in 2006’s Superman Returns. While the film was a disasterpiece both financially and plot-wise, Routh should be commended for his work.

So who is it? Superman from that wacky TV show? Or Superman from that disappointing movie?

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[DEFEAT. is Rendar Frankenstein’s truest attempt at fiction.   Presented in weekly episodes, the novella tells the tale of Daryl Millar – a hero who dies at the intersection of pop culture, science-fiction, war epic, and fantasy]

December 10^th, 1964

Mother,
It’s been nine years since I wrote you last. I’m sure it comes as no surprise, but I’ve spent a good many number of these in anger. Towards you, that is, as well as your refusal to support my marriage. I understood why you might have been put off with my decision to wed Lukas, but I guess I had hoped you would put aside your disapproval for my sake.

After all, what’s a family if not a collection of people who tolerate disappointment for the sake of solidarity?

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The Archetype looked into the eyes of Revolution. “How come you look so sad? Why, just a moment ago you were buzzing with enthusiasm.”

Revolution blinked. Unfeelingly. “Yes, I had been…but why wouldn’t I? I’d just bathed in the winds of change and dined on paradigm shifts.”

“And now?”

“Well, I’ve figured it out. We’re not enemies, after all. You are…you are me. From the future. Given time to settle in, you are what I become.”

The Archetype chuckled. “You’ve got it right, my boy! But don’t worry, you won’t be bored and sad forever. Someday, when you’re me and I’m you, you’re going to have to fight for your life! Such is the way.”

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Let’s take a peek at what I’m up to this week.

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