It’s fun to guess at who the man is in the title of this week’s episode.  There are plenty of men without honor in Westeros and Essos.  The show’s breakout star of late, Alfie Allen’s Theon Greyjoy is the easy candidate, beheading Rodrik, roasting two children alive (supposedly Bran and Rickon), and betraying the Northern kingdom that was his home for half his life.  But we’re meant to sympathize with him too; he was the prisoner for that half of his life, taken from his home and his family.  The Greyjoy Rebellion bred this little shit, and it’s almost easy to believe that it isn’t his fault that he’s turned into a despicable, cruel Joffrey-in-the-North.

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Today is Friday. As such, I’m drinkin’ beer. And while I normally use this weekly inebriatory-ritual to seek out potions by breweries foreign, enticing, and sometimes entirely alien to my palate, today’s beer-drankin’ is goin’ to be an exception.

After all, I’d be remiss to not follow the advice of my good friend Grandeur Faex.

Grandeur Faex was a dude I used to work with at the post office. He was older than my grandfather but still alive, drunker than my dad but twice as strong, and funnier than my brother but more diseased. Mostly venereal. Also, he regularly made claims that he came from a utopia-future in which sex was currency and everyone was a millionaire.

Truth.

With these credentials, it’s not hard to believe that Grandeur proved to be an indispensable dispenser of advice. One afternoon, upon noticing that I wasn’t sorting mail with my usual panache, the old pervert wrapped his arm around my shoulder and began spouting out some words of wisdom. Totally unsolicited, of course – but I always open to getting some guidance from a self-proclaimed time-traveler and state-proclaimed maniac.

“M’boy, you ain’t got no soul today! Bones? Guts? Fat sack of shit in your gut? Sure. But no soul! You done broked, huh?”

I look at him and laughed. “Yeah, I guess I’m feeling a bit down today.”

“H’ain’t no worries, son!” He matched my chuckle with one of his own, except that his had more black abscesses than teeth. “Lemme give a wordda wisdom – when life gets you down, yagutta go to the stuff that yaknowle makkya happy! Your favorite pop song. Your woman’s bosom. And, most especially, a beer that you trust.”

Finding myself at the end of an incredibly overwhelming workweek, I’ve decided to follow the instructions of Grandeur Faex. Rather than seeking out a beer by a brewery I’ve never heard of, I’m diving into the deep end of my comfort zone. Today, I’m drinking Imperial White from the folks at Sam Adams.

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Walking around and making dumb ass movie references is one of our most sacred American traditions.   Be it children running around pretending to be the characters themselves to adults wishing to convey a complex scenario with just a few words, quotes are embedded in our everyday lives.   I don’t know about you, but I take comfort in that.

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Hello there!

Welcome to the Monday Morning Commute, the spot where I spit entertainment drivel into your can of workweek-cola in the hopes that you’ll take a sip! After you’ve got my germs, hit up the comments section and share your own. After all, if we’re not going to tell one another what we’ll be doin’ to get through the 9-5 life, what’s the point of even having the Internet?

What’s that? Oh, yeah I guess porn and gambling are cool, too.

Okay, let’s do this!

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If you’re a regular passenger on Spaceship OL, chances’re pretty good that your a bit of a comics fan. And if that’s the case, you’ve probably seen the name Ben McCool poppin’ up over the last few years. Unless, of course, you’re a genuine turkey. But let’s assume that this is a turkey-free zone, shall we?

The writer of MEMOIR and CHOKER (amongst others), Ben McCool has quickly established himself as a burgeoning force of nature in the sequential art ecosystem. Yes, it’s true that a viscous oil of staid storytelling may pump through the veins of the comic medium. But McCool takes a stab at narrative resuscitation by mainlining a cocktail of novelty, originality, daring, and genuine entertainment directly into the heart.

Yes, I am a fan of Ben McCool.

In fact, I recently found myself sending the British-born scribe a set of questions that I’d conjured up during a moment of half-inebriated super-confidence. To my delight, McCool pleasantly responded! What a gentleman! Hit the jump to check an exchange which includes an exploration of the comic book career path, some insight into what inspires creativity, the sharing of a truly filthy haiku, and plenty more!

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Sunday’s hour of Game of Thrones felt a scant 20 minutes, loaded with shock factor, upheaval and the brand of Westerosi monstrosity we’ve become accustomed to.

“The Old Gods and the New” is a phrase we’ve heard many, many times in Westeros.   The Old Gods were kept by the original, ‘first men’ of Westeros.  The New Gods are the Seven — the Mother, the Father, Warrior, the Crone, the Smith, the Maiden, and the Stranger.

And  still newer gods come from all directions; Melisandre’s Red God, which Jaqen has invoked.   Syrio’s God of Death, to whom we say, not today.   And certainly not least, the Drowned God of the Ironmen, to whom payment was made on Sunday, with Rodrik Cassel’s  head.

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With Mother’s Day fast approaching I wanted to pay homage to the fairer sex in some way.   I thought to myself; why not send out a High 5 to the kickass ladies of Hollywood?   I wanted to steer clear of the Suzy-Homemakers and the Damsel in Distress tropes that pop up everywhere.   So here we go, 5 ladies that kickass and take names … no word on their stance on bubble gum.

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Voodoo-prescribin’ witch doctors once invited me to a party.

It was the summer of 1987 and I was in the middle of one of the worst hangovers of my entire life. Since April, I’d spent every waking hour thrashing to Among the Living and doing lines of gasoline-soaked blow. As far as I can recall, it wasn’t until mid-July that I even realized I’d made it all the way to Nova Scotia.

Don’t let anyone tell you that heavy metal and drugs won’t lead you anywhere. They will. Specifically, to the beautiful port-town of Yarmouth.

Anyways, I stumbled out of buck-toothed Ambellina’s bedroom, leaving behind my Walkman and cocaine in the hopes of finding something slightly more transcendent. Fortunately, I found the Tim Hortons whose manager seemed eager to keep my coffee cup filled to the brim, free of charge. (In hindsight, I think must’ve let him look at my Polaroid collection. You ever see a Yeti’s genitals? No? Well, then you haven’t seen my Polaroid collection.) After my thirteenth cup of black wonder, I saw them.

The witch doctors.

There were three of `em. They were all black dudes. They were all wearing sleeveless Wham! t-shirts tucked into blue jeans, which were in turn tucked into work boots. And their accents couldn’t’ve been more diverse. The fat one spoke with a Cajun twang, the old one spoke through a metrosexual French patois, and the tall one sounded German.

In a flash, they’d all taken the liberty of joining me in my booth. Surrounded on all sides, strung out, and shaking in an over-caffeinated stupor, I had no hope of escaping `em. Which wasn’t really a concern of mine until the old one pulled a decapitated chicken out of his backpack and started rubbing it on my face. “Ah, mon ami, you need to stop stressing out!”

“Ja! Too stressed” shouted the tall one, loud enough to turn the heads of patrons.

“C’mon,” encouraged the fat man, “un p’tit boug hain’t gotta worries! We fixxya!”

I was vexed, absolutely sure that these three were going to murder me. I finished my coffee, the best last meal I could ever hope for, and prepared for my demise. “So, you’re goin’ to kill me, huh?”

Uproarious laughter.

The old man put the chicken back into his bag and did me the favor of wiping the grease and blood from my face. Granted, he cleaned my visage with his bare hand and then proceeded to clean his hand with his tongue, but the sentiment was there. He then did his best to reassure me.

“Eh bien! Murder is for poets! We are witch doctors! And we’ve got a prescription for you!”

I was curious. “Okay…what is it?”

“ES IST VOODOO!” bellowed the Bavarian.

“Um…” I equivocated, “what type of voodoo?”

Toothy grins spread across the trio of shadowy faces. And then, seemingly from out of nowhere, four of the ugliest, skankiest Canadian girls I’d ever seen appeared behind the witch doctors. If I had to bet, I’d’ve put my money on at least two of `em havin’ VD.

The old man grabbed my shoulder and cackled, “The type of voodoo that starts with a bourbon-soaked orgy!”

–-

Welcome to the Monday Morning Commute! This is the feature in which I write whatever nonsense pops into my mind and then run through the various ways I’ll be entertaining myself into the weekend. At that point, it’s your duty/honor/begrudging privilege to hit up the comments section and share your own ennui-destroyin’ elixirs.

Enough feet-draggin’, let’s rock!

–-

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Orson Welles’ The Trial is one of the great cinematic examples of style over substance, a work whose striking aesthetic overshadows many narrative considerations for the viewing audience. Although such a description is typically applied detrimentally, this film’s particular want of substance is precisely modulated. An adaptation of Franz Kafka’s novel, The Trial exhibits the logic of dreams/nightmares more than the logical mechanics of traditional storytelling; so what is shown will inherently trump anything that is explained (or explainable). In turn, navigating its dilapidated world of unusual (camera) angles, ominous surroundings, and haunting silhouettes, the audience yearns for clarity, just like protagonist Joseph K (Anthony Perkins) does. And just as The Trial is not a conventional story, the story contains no conventional trial, wherein an actualized attainability of justice is unworkable and idealistic notions like “nothing but the truth” are broken down to nothingness.

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The Avengers should be as necessary to you this weekend as breathing, if:

–  You saw and enjoyed the Marvel Universe films of the past five years — like Iron Man, Thor, and Captain America.

– You read and enjoy superhero comic books.

– You have a fucking pulse.

If two of these things apply, you’ve probably already seen it.   If all three do, you saw it last night at midnight like the rest of us.

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