[This! Is! Mad Men! recaps the most recent developments of Don Draper and his lovable gang of sleazeball advertisers. In the spirit of the show, the post itself may very well be drunk. And sexist. Apologies ahead of time.]

One of the secrets of getting good at any game is to learning how to navigate through the rules. Just as a hacker can manipulate an operating system, a true sportsman knows how to bend, ignore, or even break the rules of his given game. In fact, this practice is so prevalent that many sports even develop their own sets of etiquette, terms, and conditions that are implicitly agreed upon.

Life, often compared to a game, certainly has its share of unspoken agreements.

But who’re the people that turn the other way when the rules are broken? Who deals in terms of tacit transactions? Well, it always seems to be The Collaborators.

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If there was one thing Durban hated, it was his bedside electronic crow.

Every morning, every goddamn morning, the metal-feathered automaton would leave its battery-perch, hover above the bed, and screech directly into Durban’s face. It didn’t matter to the faux-fowl whether Durban had a day off from the mineral farm or if he was dreaming of his ex-girlfriend from Jupiter or if he was in the midst of an ethanol-fueled fever dream. And this is why it was such an effective companion.

`Cause at 5:45 AM, the electronic crow was guaranteed to terror-scream Durban back into consciousness.

To be fair, Durban recognized the practical value of his name-brand, top-of-the line robot-rooster. After all, he wasn’t going to wake up and go to work completely of his own volition. And who could blame him? It takes a special sort of masochism to rise early enough to catch the first boneshaking Teleport-Shuttle of day to Rhea, the most bastardly of Saturn’s moons, only to spend the next eight hours scavenging for traces of Lupillian.

Goddamn.

But without the bird, Durban wouldn’t get to Rhea on time. And if Durban didn’t get to Rhea on time, there’s no chance an operator would save him an excavator. And if Durban didn’t excavate Lupillian, he wouldn’t be able to pay his rent. And on most days, the thought of not paying his rent on time positively horrified him.

But on one fantastic Monday morning, Durban decided that his hatred of the crow was more palpable than his fear of landlord-ire.

5:45 AM crept into existence, and the crow came to life. Shaking itself off of its docking station, the bird began to flutter upwards. But Durban had awoken nearly a half-hour before, plagued by a crotch-burn no doubt gifted to him by the discount Prosti-Clone he’d rented on Ganymede. So with one eye open and a fire plaguing his urethra, Durban waited for his every-morning adversary to strike first.

“CAW! CAW! THE CURRENT TIME IS FIVE-FORTY-FIVE ANTE-MERIDIEM! CAW! CA-“

Whoosh! The whiskey bottle spiraled through the air! Smash! The crow simply hadn’t been programmed to anticipate such an attack, and as such its beak was decimated by the hard glass corner of the bottle’s ass. The bird spent its last few seconds writhing in robo-agony, head caved in and vital sparks bleeding into the air.

“Well, I guess ya still woke me up, eh?” Durban was crouching down to assess the damage. Seeing that the target was destroyed, he took a self-satisfied swig from the whiskey bottle and walked over to his much-littered coffee table. From the table, Durban snatched a stack of comic books.

“Fuck work. And fuck birds. Today, I’m drinkin’ and readin’ comics.”

—-

Welcome to the Monday Morning Commute! As OL’s weekly gathering for entertainment show-and-tell, the MMC is digital nerd-discussion at its finest. Here’s how it works: I’m going to showcase some of the fun-stuffs I’ll be munching on throughout the week. Then, you hit up the comments section and show off the enjoyment-snacks you’ll be stuff into your own mind-gullet. In the process, we geek out and debate and talk all sorts of nonsense.

It’s wonderful.

Let’s go for it!

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[This! Is! Mad Men! recaps the most recent developments of Don Draper and his lovable gang of sleazeball advertisers. In the spirit of the show, the post itself may very well be drunk. And sexist. Apologies ahead of time.]

Oh, Mad Men, how I’ve missed every aspect of your beautiful face, not even excepting the five o’clock shadow and booze-breath and tobacco stains.

AMC must know that we’ve been champing at the bit for more spiritual ruin on Madison Avenue, as they deliver a sixth season premiere guaranteed to sate even the most ravenous of televisional appetites.  The Doorway never relents, using absolutely every second of its two-hour running time to remind us why love the characters. And how is this done, you ask? Why, by thrusting them into the midst of existential crises! Duh!

C’mon, let’s take a look at the last episode of Mad Men!

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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.]

I want you to consult your medium.

And I’m not talkin’ about that gargantuan-racked Gypsy babe you met at the bus stop. Do I think it’s righteous that she wore a revealing shawl and was jambox-blastin’ an Among the Living cassette? Yes. Do I think that she actually has psychic powers? No. Unless you like waking up in another state to find that you’ve been drugged, robbed, and’re wanted on an arson charge, you’re goin’ to want to stay away from her.

Trust me, I know from experience.

Anyways, the sort of medium we’re dealin’ with today ain’t of the supernatural variety. Well, not literally (we’ll come back to that). See, the word “medium” comes from the old-tyme Ancients’ expression for “in the middle.” As such, there’re a whole mess of ways to apply the term. Yes, that’s why when you go to Dunkin Donuts, the serving size of hot dirt-water that’s larger than the small but smaller than the large is called medium!

Ta-dah!

When takin’ a stroll across the Arts & Entertainment Dance Hall, we need to look at media as the ways in which creators express themselves. In a sense, any given medium is the means by which a transfer occurs from the mind of the Creator to the mind of the Viewer. It’s actually an alarmingly simple process: an idea is in the Creator’s mind, the Creator shapes some sort of artifact, the Viewer experiences said artifact, and now the same idea is in the Viewer’s mind! Voila!

Stephen King describes the process in On Writing:

Look — here’s a table covered with a red cloth. On it is a cage the size of a small fish aquarium. In the cage is a white rabbit with a pink nose and pink-rimmed eyes. In its front paws is a carrot-stub upon which it is contentedly munching. On its back, clearly marked in blue ink, is the numeral 8.

Do we see the same thing? We’d have to get together and compare notes to make absolutely sure, but I think we do. There will be necessary variations, of course…

I sent you a table with a red cloth on it, a cage, a rabbit, and the number eight in blue ink. You got them all, especially that blue eight. We’ve engaged in an act of telepathy. No mythy-mountain shit; real telepathy.

That’s right, you degenerate broads and bastard boozers clinging to the railing of Spaceship OL — every time you read a book or listen to an album or play a video game, you’re on the receiving end of some genuine telepathy! And when you find it in your soul to create some art? When you show someone the landscape you painted or the sonnet you penned? Yeah, you’ve got it — you’re on the transmitting end of the thought-transfer!

So what’s this all gettin’ at? Well, simply put, I want every goddamn one of you to declare your medium-allegiance. At the end of the day, in which art form are you most invested? Which mode of expression sweep-picks your heartstrings? What is it about this medium that gets your blood pumpin’ and spirit swirlin’?

[What is your medium of choice?]

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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.]

It’s time to sing the praises of the unsung hero.

That’s not to say that there isn’t something wonderful about zest and panache and pageantry. `Cause there most certainly is. In fact, some of the best entertainment consists of the bombastic acts of conspicuous heroes. Take the guitar solos out of Megadeth’s Rust in Peace and see how much headbanging you do. Don’t let Tony Stark drink and bang babes and fly in his metal-dude suit, and feast your eyes on a rich nerd. Hell, would you even watch basketball if the NBA outlawed slam dunks?

I certainly wouldn’t.

Still, that’s not to say that all heroes are of the sweep-pickin’, philanderin’, slam-dunkin’ variety. There exists another sort, a breed concerned less about the spotlight and more about gettin’ the job done. Y’know the type — the guy quietly keepin’ to himself while the hero of the day slugs champagne and smacks ass and gets high-fived. These taciturn troopers may not be the first to spring to mind, but when we consider their contributions it’s impossible to deny their importance.

What I’m tryin’ to say is that there are unsung heroes who deserve our praise. If you really love the Beatles, send George Martin some flowers. If you think Michael Jordan’s the all-time greatest, get Scottie Pippen a Dunkin Donuts gift card. And if you think Tarantino is an unparalleled master of cinema, find a way to pay tribute to Sally Menke.

Even Moses would’ve been a useless sack of shit without Aaron.

[Which unsung heroes deserve to have their praises sung?]

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Aloha! Welcome to the Monday Morning Commute! What is it that I do here at the MMC? Well, first I gather up all of Spaceship OL’s passengers – nerd-culture slovens and amigos and infidels alike! Then, I show `em the various bits of art and trash and fast-food debauchery that I’ll be devourin’ during the course of the week. At this point, I deactivate the laser-shackles and let the wayfarers bludgeon one another with their prospective plans for destroying ennui and undermining workplace productivity.

It’s a thing of goddamn beauty.

C’mon, jump in and join the madness!

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Hey you! Yeah, the turkey holdin’ the comic book! Why don’t you c’mon in? Oh, you’re not hungry? Well that doesn’t matter – you’re goin’ to want to check this place out. Of all the dining halls on Spaceship OL, this holodeckin’ eat-a-torium is most guaranteed to satiate your fanboy-cravings.

This is, after all, the Comic Book Café.

Now, I feel obligated to offer a word of warning. In spite of the innumerable perks that come with eating in a livin’ and breathin’ paneled-page, there’re some definite drawbacks. The lunchladies are cranky. The pizza’ll burn the roof of your mouth. And the cliques are unbearably divided.

By the Coca-Cola machine sits the Marvel crew – Peter Parker and Joe Quesada are trading yogurts, Betty Banner is smashing a watermelon with her fists, and Tony Stark is sneaking rips of gin out of a Gatorade bottle. At the top of the café is the DC posse – Wonder Woman is givin’ catty glares as Clark Kent sucks on Lois Lane’s bottom lip, Dan DiDio is nose-vomitin’ milk while he guffaws at Plastic Man, and Swamp Thing is tryin’ to extol the virtues of using a canteen instead of Styrofoam cups. And if you look between these two, you can see the IMAGE gang hanging by fire exit – Brandon Graham and Jonathan Hickman are hackin’ away at sketchbooks, some nutjob wearin’ headgear is claiming to be a prophet, and baby Hazel is cryin’ for milk.

It’s quite the scene.

But it’s not the whole scene. Sure, these three tables are the most jam-packed and rambunctious, but that doesn’t necessarily mean they’re the most exciting. If you’re lookin’ for a bit of adventure, why not take your tray to one of the other tables? What’s that? You thought that those three cliques were the only patrons of the Comic Book Café? Way wrong, bro!

Hey, take a seat at that small table next to the Art Club sign-ups. Yeah, the table with the dudes that don’t really look like anyone else in the cafeteria. This squad goes by the name of 215 INK, and they pride themselves in their independence from the other three. Once you get situated, you should strike up a conversation with the dude rockin’ the beautiful beard.

His name is Mauricio Pommella and he’s the illustrator of TRANSMEET, a comic about trying to grow love in the depleted soil that is our inevitable dystopia.

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It’s a spectacular time to be a Star Wars fan.

George Lucas, perhaps after being visited by some benevolent omnidimensional sojourner, has sold his most beloved franchise. The moment that fans realized Lucas was finally out of the picture, we began to dream. To wonder. To flirt with the idea that the piss-taste that’s been lurking in our mouths since 2005 may very well be washed away. New Star Wars films could be treated with the respect they deserve.

So, what’ve we been promised thus far? A new trilogy. Kasdan and Kinberg. J.J. Abrams. Cameos from members of the original cast. The interest of Hollywood’s finest actors and directors and other personnel. Spin-off, stand-alone movies.

In short, we finally have a newer hope.

Yesterday’s confirmation of the stand-alone flicks was the final nail in the coffin for my cautious optimism. I am now, for the first time in years, reveling in full-on nerdlust at the thought of new Star Wars. And while I have quite a bit of faith that a new trilogy could be beyond excellent, I’ve always loved the idea of free-standing movies taking place within the galaxy that Uncle George introduced back in `77!

Join me as I take a moment to geek-out about the prospect of new Star Wars movies! I’m going to fanboy my way through some of the premises I’d like to see materialize, no doubt getting so excited that my retainer spills onto the keyboard and my Diet Shasta bubbles over. After you check out my ideas, hit up the comments section and describe what you’d like to see during our next voyages to a galaxy far, far away…

Punch it, Chewie!

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There’s a pain in your stomach that can only be cured with Russian magic.

Go ahead, clench the side of your abdomen. C’mon, admit it already! Y’know that you feel an inflammation somewhere in your gut! In the darkest recesses of your tummy! Maybe it feels like a itch at the bottom of your cecum. Or maybe it throbs like a patch of warts in your large intestine. Hell, some of you might even have a burning in the colon, and you’d damn well better pray that it doesn’t keep runnin’ down your digestive tract.

The truth is that you’re afflicted with a goddamn existential bezoar.

Fortunately, the Russians have been attacking these motherfuckers for years. Although Rasputin’s mystical sojourns are well-documented, it’s not often mentioned that he was simply trying to remedy the bezoar ailing Russia’s collective unconscious. Later, during the dark days of the Soviet Empire, the mystic arts would be forfeited in favor of science. But even with the root of these explorations being the same desire to destroy all that ailed, these efforts would also fall short. As such, Mother Russia, proud and noble and willing to die trying, would forge ahead in search of a new solution. And it would be found.

The solution? Beer.

To be precise, tonight’s curative elixir is Raspberry Russian Imperial Stout `12.

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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.]

I want you to consider the following premises, keepin’ an eye peeled for similarities.

When a West Philadelphia-born prince ascended his Californian throne, he sang a little ditty. That time when the boxer prepared to avenge his friend’s death and defend America’s honor? You bet your ass he was jammin’ to some butt-rock. And when the world was ushered into the era of Y2J, it was greeted by the dulcet tones of a computerized countdown and processed vocals.

The conclusion: theme songs kick ass.

Hell, if you think about your favorite movie, TV show, or video game, chances are that it features some sort of soundtrack. Moreover, it’s also a solid bet that there’re clear-as-day, identifiable-as-hell themes woven throughout said soundtrack. While you’re experiencing this bit of entertainment, themes amplify the emotion at hand, whether it happens to be jubilation or intrigue or suspense. So affective, in fact, are theme songs that hearing them out of context can still teleport our consciousnesses to the space-time junctions of entertainment-inebriation.

Fighting Sephiroth.
Being devoured by a Great White.
Swoonin’ over a man with a license to kill.

If you count yourself amongst the OL faithful, then some of your life’s most consequential moments have probably been accompanied by a soundtrack. As such, I encourage you to respond to one or both of this weekend’s OPEN BAR prompts:

[What is a theme song you dig?][What would you choose for your own theme song?]

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