Double-digits, suckahs!

All y’all haters never thought we’d make it to ten podcasts! And y’know what, I don’t blame you! The fact that Riff Simian has yet to give me a lethal uppercut? The idea that Caffeine Powered hasn’t Diet Mountain Dew’d himself into a cardiac event? The notion that Patrick Bateman’s mobility scooter hasn’t collapsed under his weight?

Miracles. Goddamn miracles. Each and every one of `em.

So cue up our newest mini-miracle and laugh at our mental illnesses. That’s right, this is basically a digital journey into an insane asylum. This podcast’s topics are variegated in the least cohesive sense of the term, with grown men discussing the fourth dimension and Lex Luger and Caff-Pow’s first moment of post-pubescent self-awareness and movies and television.

Oh, we also make video game noises and dramatically read vulgar fiction.

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Life is tricky and heroes help out.

There’s no doubt that there’re plenty of problems to be had. Even the strongest amongst us is still, ultimately, an insatiable consciousness traveling in a meek meat-vehicle. While many are bound to experience transcendence at some point, all must deal with turmoil. Hell, dealing with bullshit might be the very yarn woven throughout the entire fabric of the human experience.

“We are all bitched from the start,” Hemingway once wrote.

Luckily, the variety of problems running amok is matched by an equally impressive assortment of heroes. There’re all different sortss, some real and some fictional and others somewhere in between. What do they do? Well, right now they’re at work doin’ medical research and teachin’ guitar and writin’ plays and demonstratin’ the high-jump and makin’ pots of coffee and intermediatin’ conflicts and givin’ earnest advice and huggin’ it out. So if it seems like shit’s gettin’ mad-daunting, keep your eye out for a hero.

In the same letter mentioned above, Hemingway instructed his friend to “Forget your personal tragedy.”

That friend was F. Scott Fitzgerald.

My hero du jour? Michael Keaton. As a self-diagnosed maniac (diagnose yourself otherwise the man with the clipboard will tell you what you are), I need my inspiration to come from superheroes and ghouls and Tarantino characters. So, Keaton’s pretty perfect.

Us maniacs, we need Michael Keaton.

—-

Welcome to the MMC. I’m goin’ to show you some stuff I’ll be doin’ this week. Check it out and then hit up the comments section and describe what you’ll be rockin’ in the upcoming days.

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Ain’t no damn time to be on time anymore!

Yeah, you’re lookin’ at the third late MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE in a row. Why’s that, you ask? Well, could be because I’m so goddamn busy. Y’know how it is in this modern condition! Papers to file! Dogs to sic on mailmen! Fistfights to have in grocery store dairy aisles!

Things to do!

But even though I’m chronically tardy, I’m still tryin’ to resist! Tryin’ to brace myself against the crashing waves of responsibility. And that’s why I keep comin’ back to the MMC! I need ideas, folks! Suggestions that’ll keep my head up while I suffer the slings and arrows of the outrageous 9-5 life.

Help me find fun things to do!

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I feel like Jared Leto.

And I don’t mean the Jared Leto from last nite’s Academy Awards. No, that one was all about having beautiful long-ass hair. And usin’ his victory speech to pay tribute to his Mahma. And bein’ all dappered out, white tuxedo beamin’ contrasts off his spray-tan.

I don’t feel like that Jared Leto.

And hell, I don’t feel like 30 Seconds to Mars Jared Leto, neither. Y’know that one, right? Yeah, exactly, the Jared Leto that somehow learned to play guitar and be all frontman-like while figuing out how to live his so-called life. What’s that? Yeah, this Jared Leto is also known as Ride a Bicycle in the Middle of Goddamn Street Without a Helmet Jared Leto.

Nope, I ain’t that sort of Jared Leto.

Today, I feel like good `ole fashioned Fight Club Jared Leto. The Jared Leto who, for a moment, is really happy that he’s pretty and blonde and surrounded by some peers. This Jared Leto is all, “Check it, I can fight too, dudes! First rule is — oh wait, can’t say it! Ha! Get it?! Kawaii!” Everything is pretty sweet.

And then he runs into Edward Norton.

Quite frankly, I’m feeling the grind of the workweek and life responsibilities and my own mortality and the fact that it’s been goddamn months since I’ve sat down with a stack of comic books. Allow me to wax philosophic. Wax misanthropic. Wax bitter tonic.

Wax Jared Leto.

But alas! Right here’s the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE! I’m goin’  to show you some of the buoys I’ll be hopin’ to cling to as I avoid getting washed out into the deepest depths of the Bullshit Sea! Then, you hit up the comments and share your own ideas! Let’s do this!

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Quick! Look out your window!

See it? It’s floating right there! Yeah, right above the guesthouse your neighbor uses for his weekend binges of cocaine and SNES. No, it ain’t a UFO, at least not of the little-green-men, flying-saucer variety. And yes, it does look a bit like a rocketship made of impounded station wagons and junkyarded computer components.

Because it is.

What’s that? Oh, the lights on the side? You’re goddamn right they’re Christmas lights. What’re they there for? C’mon, they spell something out. Look closer, it’s not hard to see a two-letter combination. Yeah, you’ve got it.

OL.

Spaceship OL is touching down in your neighborhood. Why’s that? Well, it’s `cause we’re bringing you the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE. Once you board the vessel, I’ll show you some of the strategies I’ll be using to spend the week celebrating existence. Then, you tell the crew and passengers what you’ll be doing to destroy boredom.

Let’s do this, before that nosy CPA across the street phones the neighborhood watch.

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Servin’ a life-sentence on Spaceship Earth is a tedious, painful, agonizing wonder.

Why’s that? For one thing, there’s the fact that everyone you love will die. Your best friend. Your kid sister. Your longtime mistress. Your high school math teacher.

Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.

Along the way you’re guaranteed to deal with inevitable body-breakdown. Maybe you’ll abuse your body. Maybe somebody else will fuck it up. Even if you think you’re unscathed, the sands of time are wearing away at your flesh-vehicle’s gears. Every single day. Every single moment. Until when, you ask?

Until they’re so smooth that they don’t move shit.

But alas! There’s hope! Even those of us who’re agin’ more like vinegar than wine have a fightin’ chance at experiencin’ glory! Not only are we fortunate enough to have been imbued with consciousnesses, but we get to live in a hyperreal future! Are things royally fucked up? Sure! But we live in times in which anything is possible!

So if you start to feel a chill as an existential shadow lurks over your shoulder, spin around and blast that motherfucker with a science fiction repulsor ray!

—-

Welcome to the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE! I’m goin’ to show off this week’s strategies for keeping me pleased with existence. I suggest you liven up the party by entering the dance circle that is the comments section.

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Welcome to the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE! First, I’m goin’ to throw a bit of fiction your way — this week sees another entry in the ongoing adventures of Absalom Fabliaux. Then, I’ll guide you through some of the ways I’ll be entertaining myself through the workweek. Then, you pony up your own suggestions, making your presence known in the comments section.

Let’s do this!

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“Oh, I can’t possibly imagine that you’d consort with pigs,” chided Thelma the Bartender as she brought over two bottles and two shot glasses.

Over the months that saw Absalom writing at this bar, he’d grown fond of Thelma. She was busty and acerbic and two tax brackets below most of the clientele. More importantly, she was most attentive to Absalom, having memorized his preferred drink-sequence.

Serving the public ain’t easy, and doin’ it well is damn-near impossible.

“Thelma, goddess of libation that you are, how many times do I have to warn you against eavesdroppin’? It’s not becomin’ of a woman like you. If you want to experience a life-changin’ conversation, you mustn’t resort to NSA tactics,” Absalom gave a shot-in-the-dark wink that defied his age, “just ask me out to dinner.”

“Oh yes, ‘dinner,’ that lovely euphemism for those too cowardly to just come out ask for it. Sex. Even if it were my greatest desire to bed you – and believe me, it isn’t – I simply wouldn’t be able to go through with it.”

“And why not?”

“Are you serious?” Following Absalom’s implicit instructions, Thelma set down the two shot glasses. One for a formely-respected, now lying-in-the-gutter-but-lookin’-through-the-smog-hopin’-to-see-a-star Writer. The other for a stoned-on-booze-and-slowly-realizin’-that-my-careerist-aspirations-will-never-get-me-high-off-life Intern. Between them, she placed a bottle of bourbon.

And for Absalom, a fresh bottle of Pepsi.

“By the gods, of course I’m serious! Why wouldn’t you bed me?”

“Mr. Fabliaux-”

“It’s Señor Fabliaux, Thelma, and you know it!”

“Whatever! Even if I wanted to sleep with you, I wouldn’t. And the reason? Your ever-deteriorating old-man body couldn’t handle it! Having sex with me would literally kill you.”

“Ah, but it’d be a most glorious death.”

Welcome to the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE! First, I give ya’ll a bit of fiction to get the mind warmed up! Then, I run through some of the ways I’ll be entertaining myself over the course of the workweek. After I’ve tired myself out, you hit up the comments section and share your strategies for fending off the Beasts of Boredom!

Yes, it’s basically the Spaceship OL way station.

Okay, let’s rock!

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Goddamn!

Well, we’re back in the workweek, which means that spirits’re bound to be low.  How why shouldn’t they be? There’re matters which need attending! There’re bosses lookin’ over our shoulders! Hell, there might even times that things have to be done by!

The horror!

Luckily, this here’s the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE! First, I’m goin’ to detail some of the small pleasures that’ll keep me from turning my bathtub and toaster into a fatal 2-in-1 combo. Then, you hit up the comments section and share your own entertainment strategies for survival. Finally, we all reply to one another, making for a totally geektastic show-and-tell.

Work sucks, life rules, let’s do this.

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The Pie-Eyed former-bibliophile was flabbergasted, which was new for him. Drunk?  Awkward? Socially maladjusted? Oh, he was plenty comfortable with these. But in this moment, he was straight-up flabbergasted.

“Goddamn boy, what’re you lookin’ so flabbergasted for?”

“‘Cause you says,” a youthful forehead was slapped by its own palm, “youhadda shackkup with a witch. A witch?!”

Absalom bellowed, “Oh yes! There’s no two ways about it, Susy’s a witch! Hell, she has to be the witchiest witch I’ve ever come across in my time!”

“You mean with a cauldron and potions and brum-stick and all?”

“Well, not exactly.”

Pie-Eyed was making the most of his ever-dwindling faculties to figure out what the hell Absalom meant. He lifted his drink to his lips, hesitated for a moment, and then drained the entire thing. “Wait! Wait! Did she have magical powers?!”

“Yes and no.” Absalom chucked to himself. “I mean, we can get into all sorts of discussions about ‘magic’ and of what it is composed. Access to supernatural realms? ‘Any sufficiently advanced technology,’ is that it? The ability to astound, to create scenarios that push the limits of imagination? Artistry? The ability to realize to turn an idea into a tangible product? Do any, or all, of these constitute magic?”

“Uhh…”

“So we’re coastin’ on fumes, and I swear to the Maker that we sputter to a stop right in Susy’s driveway! No damn brakes or nothin’! The jalopy croaks right in the driveway.”

“It, it,” Pie-Eyed paused to burp, but continued, “it was kismet?”

“It sure seemed like it at the time.” Absalom sratched his grey-goin’-white stubble and flagged down the bartender in the hopes of getting some peanuts. “There we were, a carful of over-eager youths, sweatin’ testosterone and hankerin’ booze. And what was before us? A cabin that looks more like a palace, set woods that look more like a national park, with bonfires lightin’ up a keg-party that looks more like Saturnalia!”

“Betcha couldn’t wait to get outtathat car!”

“I’d take that bet – I stayed right where I was, didn’t unbuckle or nothin’.”

Once again, Pie-Eyed was flabbergasted.

“I know what you’re thinkin.’” Absalom swooped in with a preemptive strike. “How could I sit in the car with the prospect of inebriation and fornication mere yards before me? Well, I’ll tell ya,” the old-timer took a rip of Pepsi. “It’s `cause I knew about Susy’s reputation. I’d never met her before, but we ran in the same circles. And the word was that she was a goddamn man-eater. A seductress. A master of cardiac-vivisection. After I’d made the call to see if we could crash at her place, I told my crew that I’d be sleepin’ in the car and encouraged to do the same.”

“They lissen toya?”

“Hell no! The car’d barely come to a rest when those monkey-brains were already runnin’ towards the coeds, practically unzippin’ their flies as they went.”

Absalom Fabliaux, ever the consummate gentleman, slid the bowl of peanuts to the Pie-Eyed intern. When a passerby attempted to filch a peanut, Señor Fabliaux grabbed the interloper by the collar, growled that the “Yuppie Scumsucker better drop my friend’s nut,” and then dispatched him with a firm shove.

Pie-Eyed was grateful.

“So, wuddya wake up inna morning? Allyur friends hanged over and witthur pants down?”

“I wish. At about three in the mornin’ I wake up to find my buddy Urie frantically bangin’ on the window, screamin’ for help.”

“What wuzzit?!”

“To quote Urie: ‘You’re right, Susy’s a witch – she’s turned our friends into fucking pigs!’”

—-

Welcome to the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE!

I’m going to show you some of the ways I’ll be keepin’ myself entertained over the next few days. Then, you (as an ever-faithful contributor to the Spaceship OL passenger-community), will hit up the comments section and do the same. Before all’s said and done, we’ll have had a nice round of digital show’n’tell.

Break the glass and grab your Emergency Word-Weapon!

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