[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.]

It’s become the stuff of legend – as Star Wars neared the end of production, the pressure began to take its toll on George Lucas. The director found himself working round the clock and constantly worrying about the budget, doing everything in his power to finish the film he’d been imagining for years. Under this incredible strain, Lucas even believed that he suffered a heart attack.

The doctor assured George that he hadn’t had a proper attack, but was suffering from supreme exhaustion and hypertension. And so the film was finished.

The rest, as they say, is history.

But in this tale, it turns out that the ailments weren’t confined to fatigue and irregular blood pressure. George Lucas, despite being told otherwise, had in fact survived a heart attack. The motivation for the misdiagnosis? With so much on the line, both in terms of money and reputation, Twentieth Century Fox had greased the palm of Lucas’ physician, thereby ensuring that their product would be delivered.

Star Wars, of course, was a goddamn commercial and critical juggernaut. Lucas immediately began work on the sequel, and in 1980 The Empire Strikes Back was met with even more admiration. Personally and professionally, the USC alum was on top of the world.

But when it came time to finish the trilogy, George’s heart just couldn’t take it.

The bickering with Marcia climbed to new, more incendiary summits. George knew his wife was talented – hell, the whole world knew – but he couldn’t shake the feeling that his gut instincts were always the ones worth following. Love and work and sex made for a dangerous cocktail, and his home life was far from happy. In fact, it was pretty fucking terrible.

He and Stevie had barely finished their pet project when it was time to return to his space-epic. George was at a loss – he had some real, inspired ideas as to how the trilogy should conclude – like the serials of his childhood and the Spaghetti Westerns of his adolescence, this new movie should end on a somber, open-ended note. Perhaps the battle is won, but a new war looms on the horizon.

But he also knew what the studio executives were expecting. Cutesy. Cuddly. Lunchboxes and action figures. He was willing to bend, allowing for merchandise to made and marketed. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that they were trying to break him. They had come dangerously close to ruining him back in `78.

So on an October evening in 1981, when George Lucas felt those same chest pains he had experienced on the set of Star Wars, he put aside his notes and tried to relax, take his mind off the troubles at hand. He sat back in his recliner, rubbed his temples, closed his eyes, and tried to escape his woes.

George Lucas died at the age of 37.

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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]

In 1977, moviegoers were introduced to Darth Vader – an evil, robotic space-samurai capable of manipulating an invisible shroud of mystical energy that blankets the entire universe. Oh, and he also has a goddamn laser-sword.

In 1999, Jake Lloyd was given the opportunity to play the childhood incarnation of Darth Vader – a little boy named Anakin Skywalker. Lloyd comes across as an overly-optimistic, stiff, terribly scripted, and ultimately unaffecting playground-dweller.

In 2002 and 2005, Hayden Christensen took hold of the reins as he played the part of teenyboppin’ pre-Vader. Through his performances, Christensen proves that the Dark Lord of the Sith was once an unnecessarily moody, stiff, terribly scripted, and ultimately unsympathetic teenager.

It’s a question none of us want to think about…

Who’s better – Jake Lloyd or Hayden Christensen?

I can’t wait to see the comments on this one.

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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]

“So you really don’t think that the newest one is any good?”

“Listen, I didn’t say it’s not good!”

“Well, you kinda did when–”

“Damn it, 8-Bit! You always do this! You take something I say and then you spin it so that the meaning is completely different!” Riff was exasperated, partly because his friend was busting his balls and partly because he had failed to adequately express himself.

8-Bit removed his glasses, inspecting the lenses for grime. He held them up to GameWorld’s neon sign, which shone brighter than ever against the black night sky. It’s a strange thought — the clearest messages appear when the least number of people are around to receive them. Doesn’t matter, though. Most people don’t even heed the warnings they actually pick up on. But then again, there’s always one or two that do.

The nine brilliant letters cut their way through the blackness, helping the nerd clean his spectacles. Even as they got smaller during the walk home, the characters of GameWorld’s sign would forever read like a beacon of comfort to 8-Bit.

With vision regained, the dialogue continued. “Ok, let me get this straight. You said, and I quote, ‘Why the fuck would they use synthesizers? The damn things ruin the album!’ What was I supposed to take from that?”

Riff paused for a moment, trying to figure out how to undermine his friend’s well-crafted strategy. “Well…Are you sure I said that?”

“I’m positive.”

“I don’t know. It’d been about an hour since you had to feed the BurgerTime machine a quarter, and I’m not sure your attention was completely dedicated to my musical analysis.” Riff knew his argument was nothing other than a bluff.

8-Bit turned around, looking back the sign that was now a mere neon blur. He had spent the better part of the evening at the arcade and would still be there now had the manager not politely asked him to “Get the fuck outta here kid! I know you’ll be back tomorrow! The machines ain’t going nowhere!” 8-Bit couldn’t fend off Riff’s argument; after all, he had slipped into a state of nirvana, a period ensconced in tranquility, while gaming.

Levelheaded, he offered his counterpart the benefit of the doubt, “All right, maybe I misheard you. What did you say?”

Riff scrambled. “Well, what I had said was that I’m not sure exactly how I feel about the synthesizers in Somewhere in Time. I mean, the record’s been out for almost a month and I still don’t know just how much I like it. Which is fucked up, because it’s Iron Maiden!”

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[photo via x-ray delta one]

Turn on some music as loud as possible. I’m not fuggin’ around – I want you to blast it. I suggest OM.

Tilt your head back. Keep your mouth shut. Through your nose, suck in as much air as possible. And hold it.

Wait.
Wait.
Wait.

Now, exhale as hard as you can. Don’t stop until you think you’re about to gag. Then keep going. Feel the muscles in the back of your throat writhe. Don’t close your mouth – the burps want to come out. By the way, keep going. Let the tears come to your eyes. Enjoy that pre-puke taste filling your gullet. Keep going. Bend over at the torso and the let the blood flow into your face. Keep going. And just when you think you’re going to pass out, swing upright and suck in more air.

Congratulations. You just reminded yourself that you’re amongst the living.

In 100 years, this likely won’t be the case.

So let’s enjoy some shit along the way. Hop aboard Monday Morning Commute so I can tell you what I’m up to. Then hit up the comments section and do the same.

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[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]

Sometimes a narrative’s theme is so compelling that the accompanying flaws and lapses  itself can be forgiven. Hell, sometimes the golden idea, the kernel of truth lodged in the ventricle of the story, is so powerful that the plot becomes secondary. It’s welcomed to ride shotgun, but sure as hell ain’t wrestling away the wheel from the thematic content.

Such is the case with Captain Swing and the Electrical Pirates of Cindery Island.

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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]

In Tim Burton’s 1989 Batman, Billy Dee Williams delivers a Harvey Dent that is strong, tough on crime, and grandiose. However, narrow-minded fanboys scoff at Williams’ performance because of the fact that he’s…um…well, a dude with a mustache.

*Ahem*

On the other hand, Tommy Lee Jones’ performance in Batman Forever summons the true madness of Harvey Dent, the notion that residing within any single individual is the potential for unquantifiable conflict. Jones’ civil war of the mind affects every single viewer…who can look past the black lights and neon lasers.

So how about it? Who’s the better Harvey Dent – Lando Calrissian or No Country for Old Men?

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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 leaned forwards and Vanessa leaned backwards. The hero planted a kiss on his girl’s neck. There was enthusiasm only teens are capable of, a willingness to jump right into the thick of things without worrying about details. And that was for the best, too, ‘cause if Daryl started thinking about the particulars he’d have realized he had no clue as to what the fuck he was doing.

Or, more appropriately, how to do the fucking.

But that didn’t matter, because Daryl was a teenager. And as such, he was imbued with that special prowess of life that is lost when one allows bills and taxes and getting to the office on time and counting calories and changing the batteries in the smoke alarm to take precedence. When that happens life is no longer an experience but a goddamn calculation. Less of something to enjoy and more of something to figure out. Not a gift, but an expense.

Daryl and Vanessa didn’t concern themselves with such misdirecting thoughts. Instead, they went full-throttle into one another, grappling with a passion that could’ve been mistaken for violence had clothes not been removed. Neither had ever gone all the way before, but there was no doubt in either’s mind now.

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[photo by x-ray delta one]

No more than fifteen minutes ago, I came to the startling realization that my wireless connection was conking out. With the mission of delivering the Monday Morning Commute, there was only one choice. A grim, terrifying, dangerous choice.

Sneak into Caffeine Powered’s subterranean lair. Hack into his data-relay system. Deliver the lode. Get the fugg out.

So without further adieu, I present my weekly dose of beautiful brain damage. After checking out what entertainment I’ll be exploring, hit up the comments and share your own prospective travel plans.

–-

Wondering/Where’s Randy Savage?

[Where’s Randy Savage? Right here. And here. And here.]

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(Star Wars + Spaghetti Western) x Sick Art

[Chris Hunt]

[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]

Congratulations, Joe the Barbarian! Not only did you beat Jonah Hex and Sweet Tooth in this week’s triple-threat comics cage match, but with your final issue you’ve become one of my all-time favorite limited series. You’ve earned a spot in my Best Of list and, if there’s any damn justice in the world, comics history as well.

So how did you do it, Joe? How did you never tire while running for eight issues over the course of a year? Brandishing a tale of a hallucinating youth in the midst of insulin-shock, you easily could’ve devolved into incoherent drivel. Your parallel narratives (wandering through a house looking for sugar and traversing the most hidden recesses of childhood imagination) could have slugged each other out: DOUBLE KO!!!  And yet, with each appearance you became more effective.

More affective.

So how did you do it? It was, beyond a coffee-stained shadow of a doubt, that intangible, unquantifiable quality for which all art should aspire. It’s that warm little nagging at the forefront of excitement, the pinch on your ass that makes you giddy, that informs the reader/viewer/listener that the artists at work care. Necessarily, this quality defies definition and rears itself only in terms of gut-instinct. But it’s undeniable. Unshakable. Motherfucking unstoppable.

For lack of a better word, let’s call this quality heart.

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