Holy smokes — it’s the final day of 2013.

Reflectin’ on the last twelve months, I have to say that it was a pretty solid year. Am I without financial concerns? Do I wield enough agency to do whatever I please? Have I achieved all my goals? No. No. And no.

But as far as relative simple lives go, mine is a goddamn blessing. I’m surrounded by righteous friends. My zany family has my back. I live with the absolutely babe-tacular Bride of Frankenstein. I’ve got a job I believe in. And I don’t have to travel to a rival village, murder an elder with a rock, and steal the water supply.

Also, they still let me navigate Spaceship OL!

So with my love of life intact, let’s meander through some of my personal favorites from the year TWO-ZERO-ONE-THREE!

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With a fresh Pepsi in hand, Absalom took a deep breath and began his tale.

“We’d been tryin’ to get home for ages, and we were all in rough shape. Beat-up. Hungover. Outta gas. And hungry, to boot! There wasn’t no way we’d be able to travel through the night. So I had to call in a favor to woman I’d’ve rather not ever seen again.”

“Waitta second,” interjected the Pie-Eyed intern, sole audience member of this performance, “whereyou says you comed from? Why’s you away inna furs-place?”

“Ah, yes. It’s a long story. But in short, this guy I knew – friend-of-a-friend sort of thing – was all sorts of salty `bout his ex-girlfriend bein’ with another man. So, he assembled a crew to travel `cross a bunch of states and win her back. With nothin’ to do but sit around drinkin’ beers and readin’ science fiction, I volunteered for what I’d assumed would be a grand adventure.”

“Wuzzit?”

“You’re goddamned right it was! I don’t think I’ll ever see nothin’ more glorious than a midnight fist-fight in a donut shop – everything blurrin’ together in a wash of neon light and black coffee and red blood!”

Absalom seized a moment to swish cola across his gums and crack his knuckles, like hitting the reset button on a broken-bodied Storyteller Machine. He flagged down the bartender and re-upped Pie-Eyed’s drink.

“Phanks man, but I dunno if I needa ‘nother.”

“Kid, it ain’t `bout need! Hell, ain’t no needs bein’ met in this entire bar! This place is `bout the Tapioca Populace foolin’ themselves into believin’ that they can even conjure up the notion of danger or excitement or novelty! So drink your drink!”

Pie-Eyed obeyed and Absalom continued.

“So anyways, after spillin’ teeth in the donut shop we attracted some attention, so we had to scram. Hightailin’ it out, we got ourselves into all sorts of trouble. Drinkin’ and fornicatin’ and fightin’. Glorious!  But before y’knew it, a three-day drive had mutated into two weeks. Two goddamn weeks.”

“Thazz,” Pie-Eyed slurred and sipped and slurred, “thazz crazy. Whattya do?”

“Well, with the gas-gauge on E, the backseat-keg on its last pint, and the paper absent from our wallets, I decided to rely on the generosity of Susy.”

“Who’s Susy?”

“Susy,” Absalom paused to take a rip of Pepsi and stare into the middle distance, “Susy’s a goddamn witch.”

—-

Come one, come all! This here’s the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE! What’s that, you ask? Well, once a week Spaceship OL has to touch down on a nearby moon or satellite-weigh station for refueling purposes. During this time, I share the upcoming itinerary with the crew, detailing the means by which I’ll be navigating our rusty pop-culture mind-vessel through the Omniverse. After sharing my plans, the floor is opened up and everyone is encouraged to share their prospective space-maps.

In other words, we nerd out about the various ways we’ll be entertaining ourselves.

Let’s do the damn thing!

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Absalom Fabliaux was halfway done with a breakthrough paragraph when he was interrupted.

“Haythaire, old man! Haythaire! Whatturya doing? Writing a poetry? An’ wireyou dranking Pepsi?”

Although Fabliaux found creative solace in the white-noise of this particular bar, he also knew that it was inevitably accompanied by crescendos of human detritus. Oily Three-Pieces clamoring about the day’s acquisitions. Stock Pirates tryin’ to sandbag tear-floods with shot glasses. Little Black Dresses guffawing their ways into Designer Pants, hoping to find wallets in the process. In this case, a Pie-Eyed Intern intrigued by the sight of an obviously out of place Miscreant drinkin’ Pepsi and punchin’ at a word-processor.

“Searsly, man, whillyu read me a poetry?”

In his younger and more vulnerable years, Absalom might’ve responded with a left hook. He’d had no patience for drunken curiosities. Many a tooth’d been spilled because of some errant remark to which offense’d been taken. This was, most likely, a symptom of the disease known as Self-Loathing, as Señor Fabliaux himself was once known as the most unabashedly drunken, incorrigibly inquisitive writers of his generation.

But with age comes patience, and there ain’t no doubt that Absalom Fabliaux was old as fuck.

“Son, I’m not writing a poem, I’m writing a novel.”

A vapid gaze spread into a smile. Pie-Eyed was excited. “A novel? Like a book?!”

“Exactly.”

“Oh shit! I usedta read books all the time, when I was a liddle kid…I haven’t even thoughta readin’ a book in years.”

Absalom took a hearty rip of refreshing cola. “Well, you should – there ain’t no goddamn experience like sittin’ down with a good book.”

Pie-Eyed’s head lolled from shoulder to shoulder in equal parts intoxication and amazement. This old bastard – who appeared more suited for dock-work or trash-disposal than word-crafting – had reminded him of a lost love. An affinity suppressed. A lust relegated to dreams.

Unprompted, Pie-Eyed leaned forward, tapped Absalom’s temple, and asked, “So, do ya got a good book in there?”

“I don’t know.” After a beat, the writer tapped his left breast, “But in here, I’ve got ex-wives and dead friends and missed opportunities. And there ain’t no ground more fertile for stories than this sort of heaviness.”

“Will…will you tell me about a dead friend?”

“You’re goddamn right I will. Barkeep! I need another Pepsi over here!”

—-

Welcome to the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE! As the navigator of Spaceship OL, I’m goin’ to chart an itinerary through the Pop-Nonsense Territories. After you check out the destinations I’ll be steering us towards this week, it’s up to you to hit up the comments section — where’ll you be heading this week? Comic Book Station? The TV Armory? The Cinema Sand Dunes?

In other words, it’s a show-and-tell danceathon for the Digital Nerd Crew.

Let’s headspin!

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Absalom Fabliaux had drained fifteen Pepsi-Colas and he felt like a goddamn king.

Sitting in the bar for the better part of four hours, Absalom whittled away at a couple of chapters, clickety-clackin’ at his keyboard with little regard for his surroundings. Smarmy suits and slicked-back trustfunds poured shots into the fertile secretaries that’d someday be their suburban broodmares. Y’know, after accounts were conquered and four-oh-one-kays secured and dividends divided. The digital music lasered its way into their brains, encouraging the Vanilla Paste People to strut their stuff.

And still, Absalom forged ahead, undeterred.

His writer-comrades didn’t understand why he’d write in the midst of such chaos. Unlike him, they flocked to their studies and libraries and offices and espresso bars. But Absalom Fabliaux never found himself more distracted than when he tried to work in such venues. To him, these places were the domiciles of good — silence and thought and books, which contain no little amount of that stuff called the Incredible. And, of course, coffee.

Absalom Fabliaux could never count on making a deadline if he set up shop in a Den of Wonder.

His office? An upscale bar in the financial district. His workday? Happy hour until close. In the eye of the storm, Absalom Fabliaux knew he’d get work done. Zero temptation to talk to anyone. A consistent environment, day-in and day-out. With the rot in his periphery, he had just enough white noise to fuel his words. And to top it all off, the place served glass-bottle Pepsis.

As he requested another, Absalom chuckled to himself. “I’ll be goddamned if I’m not the only bastard who should’ve been cut off but ain’t.”

Absalom Fabliaux had drained sixteen Pepsi-Colas and he knew himself to be a goddamn king.

This is the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE! First, I spew words at you in the form of a short story or vomit-essay. Then, I show you the entertainment-debris I’ll be rummaging through in the next days. Lastly, you hit up the comments section and tell everyone what you’ll be doin’ to get through the week.

Rock and roll, baby!

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It’s been a week since I reappeared on the deck of the ship, smiling through the sludge I’d been wading in for far too long.

I was worried about the transition. Captain Pow had every right to be salty, seeing as I’d disappeared without any warning.  Piloting this old war-bird with even the most seasoned of navigators can be a goddamn nightmare, so my absence certainly didn’t help.Whereas I’d anticipated being on the receiving end of a Big-Brother Bitch-Slap, he greeted me with open arms.

The stalwart captain welcoming his prodigal brother.

Since then, the pop-culture seas have been kind to me, revitalizing me after an extended absence. My sealegs are strong, helping me regain my strength through the wonder of muscle memory. And still, I’ve yet to completely return to form. I’m still suffering the residual effects of being lost in that Modern-Life Maelstrom.

Every other nite, my crewmates find me sleep-screaming about memos to read and projects to complete and bills to pay and other such nonsense that crushes spirits.

So how’m I going to overcome my infected blood? How do I enjoy the ride when I know the high Highs are always curbed by low Lows? Well, I’m goin’ to keep readin’ the maps and chartin’ the stars. I’m going to breathe deep the life-giving air found these glorious, treacherous, horrifyingly wondrous astral-seas. I’m goin’ to suck the pulp until its dried and withered and I choke to death on the juice, clutching my throat and smiling all the way.

Holy smokes.

It’s been a long goddamn while, but I’ve finally managed to find my way back to Spaceship OL. What’s been keepin’ me? Why’s Caff-Pow been forced to man the wheel without my navigational assistance? Well, we were pushing the `ole Nerd-Bird through some specially turbulent space-waters and I went to check on the chimp cages. In the process, I fell overboard.

Yes, I’d been drinkin’.

Anyways, I ended up getting sucked into an Ennui Vortex and was propelled beyond my control through some of the vilest scenarios of my entire existence. There were Responsibility Phantoms and Work Monsters and Accountability Ghouls. Hell, at one point I floated through a strait that saw the Stress-Scylla on one side and the Overtime-Charybdis on the other.

It was terrible!

But lo! and behold! I survived! Here I am! The one and only Rendar Frankenstein, hack-writer extraordinaire, in the digital-flesh! And you’d better believe I’m here for some haphazard word-slingin’! So let’s shuffle off the stains of yesterday and strap on our immortal foils! After all, this is the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE, the spot for sharing ideas about actualizing spiritual potential! How do we survive the onslaught of everyday malaise?

First, I’m goin’ to run you through some of the keys I’m using to unlock my mind. Then, you hit up the comments section and share the strategies you’ll be using to break open your idea-doors!

C’mon!

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I used to believe in the `ole “Better late than never” adage.

But then there was that time that I was late in delivering that CD with the software update which told the Home Health Bots to not rape their clients. Boy oh boy, was Dr. Stephen J. Vunderlust upset with me! And he had good reason, too! The phone lines lit up like a Fifth of July hangover, with the receiver screeching out horrid details about old folks and invalids being robot-raped. Relentlessly. Until expiration.

So yeah, sometimes it’s not okay to be late.

But alas! This is the Monday Morning Commute and my tardiness ain’t resultin’ in any forced sodomy! This is the spot where I show you how I’ll be spending the next few days. Y’know, what I’ll be doin’ to kill time and avoid the type of boredom only available to First World Denizens of this Strange Future-Present. Anyways, then you hit up the comments section and share your upcoming activities.

Don’t be late to this ball — let’s dance!

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Gerard the Robot was in the midst of a mid-life crisis.

His wife was bangin’ the milkman. She hadn’t admitted to it, but she didn’t have to. Every time that Gerard came home from a double-shift or an overnight — he was a nurse at the most prestigious hospital in Town — the fridge’d be full of dairy. And while Gerard knew that Georgiette and L’il Henry enjoyed their morning bowls of cereal, there was no reasonable explanation for why the fridge was teeming with bovine.

A half gallon of skim. Three glass bottles of 2%. A carafe of heavy cream.

But most unsettling of all was the glow on his wife’s face. There was a rosy-hue, a vivacious scarlet dancing upon her cheeks that he’d only seen after they’d made love. She’d claim she’d spent the day in the sun or was just feeling under the weather, but he knew why there was blood in her cheeks. It was because she was satisfied.

And it wasn’t Gerard that was satisfying her.

See, Gerard’s pneumatic organ had broken down nearly half a year ago. If he was a human, he’d have gone to the doctor for an embarrassing appointment and walked out with a prescription for Triumph Pills. But as a robot, Gerard had to order a new part. Which normally wouldn’t be a problem. However, Gerard was an import, and with the all the trade sanctions being tossed around, he was having a real hard time.

Which is ironic, given that all Gerard wanted was a real hard time.

This is tomorrow’s mid-life crisis. A fridge full of milk. A wife full of the milkman. And a robot-eunuch weeping at the kitchen table.

—-

Welcome to the Monday Morning Commute! This is OL’s weekly venue for celebrating the entertainment that helps us survive the workweek! First, I’m going to show you the various ways I’ll be staving off bad-vibes and responsibilities! Then, y’all hit up the comments section and offer your own suggestions. This is Internet-based show-and-tell for the nerds and geeks and dweebs who aren’t afraid to wear their hearts on their sleeves!

Okay, let’s dance!

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Some claim that a mark of great art is that it conveys the creator’s enthusiasm.

If this is the case, then there’s no doubt that Ulises Farinas is one of comics’ greatest rising stars. Never heard of him? Oh, I hadn’t either, that is until I read his mindblowing GAMMA. In addition to its incredible art, compelling story, and ability to mash-up varied staples of nerdlore into one booty-shakin’ remix, GAMMA kills the reader with its passion. After reading this one-shot, I knew that I’d just discovered an artist who is truly excited to wake up and create!

And in a world inundated with paint-by-numbers, just-get-the-job-done entertainment, coming across something with a bit of zest and gusto is always refreshing.

In fact I was so won over by GAMMA that I immediately began scouring for more Ulises Farinas art. But my nerd-appetite wasn’t sated, and I hungered for more. As such, I thought I’d go directly to the gamma-powered source and ask for an interview. To the delight of all passengers aboard Spaceship OL, my questions were answered!

Hit the hyperspace jump and check out an interview with Ulises Farinas, an artist who bows to no one and bumps Rick Ross!

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Holy smokes.

Boston Comic Con 2013 turned out to be a couple of wonderful, wild, days. In the course of slingin’ t-shirts, debatin’ the message of said shirts, and snappin’ photos with cosplayers, the crew of Spaceship OL had an absolute blast. We got to meet up with some of the ever-faithful OL readers, we met Rich from Toucher and Rich, and at one point our very own Riff Simian started playin’ a goddamn guitar at the booth. Yowza!

I’m sure that in the days to come we’ll have some sort of BCC`13 recap that highlights some of the insanity that we just survived. It’d be lame of us not to give you such an insight. But right now, we have to get through the Monday Morning Commute!

That’s right, the weekend’s officially over and now it’s back to the tasks that put paper in our pockets. But as always, we have the MMC – the spot specifically set aside for sharin’ the strategies that’ll get us into the next weekend! Are you going to watch all of the Friday the 13th movies this week? Or is this finally the moment that you record your acoustic concept album about time-traveling so that you can save a young Michael Jackson from insanity? Oh, I know! Are you going to homebrew some beer and then drink it too early and then swear at the cat?!

How’re you planning to murder ennui?

I’ll get us started, but then hit up the comments section!

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