One of the joys of being into sci-fi is that the genre has such a rich history to draw from. Even if I quit my job, touched the monolith, took up speed, and did nothing but devour sci-fi books and movies 24/7, I’d never reach the end. It’s a beautiful and exciting thing – especially on the book shelf.   You can go into any thrift store in the world and pick up a sci-fi paperback of yore for a quarter or two. That’s a cheap price to pay for a window into our beloved genre’s history. I thrift for books a couple times a month to snatch up any sci-fi paperbacks I haven’t hoarded yet. Believe me when I say that there are enough used copies of Rendezvous With Rama out there to build a bridge across the Atlantic.

Paperback Orgy will hopefully be a semi-regular column in which I discuss a choice selection from my recent booty. For our inaugural post I want to talk about a book that’s been collecting dust on my shelves for a minute now: Robert Sheckley‘s 1959 comical tale of the soul and the shittiness of rich people…Immortality Inc.

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Martin Scorsese is no stranger to gangster films populated by many dishonorable characters in seedy locations, scurrying around in the dark, power-playing for any (and all) loose change and on the even looser morality of their depraved circles. Starting with 1973’s Mean Streets and later reworking the turf in the 1990s with Goodfellas and Casino, Scorsese’s examinations into the gangster lifestyle have no doubt been artistically fruitful for him, as he has been better able–or, perhaps more appropriately, more willing–to show the brutal realities perpetuated by members of the underworld. And yet, in this place of double crosses and deceptions (all for the intention of looking out for number one), as outlandish as it seems, a certain code of “noble” behavior becomes hopelessly entangled in the proceedings: that, at the very least, disreputable people ought to have the common decency to live up to that reliable classification and not turn out to be backstabbers–rats–working against fellow low lives. It’s a fascinating quandary, both absurd and unsettling to behold, and it’s one that Scorsese brings to the forefront in his (only) Oscar-winning film The Departed.

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For your sake, I hope you never have to live life as I do – in the mindset of a crotchety old man.

Sometimes, when I’m especially tired or caffeine-deprived, I can’t help but see change as anything but a pain in the ass. I mean, if you’ve been frequenting Omega-Level regularly, you’ll have noticed a number of recent additions. I should be excited. Really. Instead, I find myself grumbling under my breath, waxing nostalgic for the glory days of OL that never existed.

I mean, why shouldn’t I be excited about all the advertisements on the site? Not only do I get to share my thoughts with the world, but I get to help hawk products such as Norwich University, Dragons of Atlantis, and eFax!

Get `em while they’re hot, suckahs!

Moreover, this site is now rife with all sorts of strange characters! There’re sneaks amongst us, vaginas sliding into the fold, and probably a couple of freaks fiendin’ for another teleportation rape-dream! It’s a veritable gathering!

Okay – time to take an Alka Seltzer and plow through this post.

Thissere’s the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE! You don’t even have to be a cantankerous bastard like me to know that the workweek sucks. As such, I’m going to show you some of the bits of entertainment I’ll be using to survive until the weekend. Your task is to hit up the comments and show off the various ways you’ll be ignoring the overwhelming responsibilities of real life.

Pull your damn pants up and let’s do this!

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I’ll be honest, I ain’t big on reviews. Firstly because I find them boring as shit to write, and secondly I hate committing to how I feel about something so immediately after I experience it. Lots of revision going on in my dome-piece after I ingest a work. That said, I want to ignite some conversation about The Hunger Games here at OL.

I once spent an entire afternoon hanging out with Boba Fett. He showed me around Slave I, taught me how to use a jetpack, and even let me tag along when he met some of his scummy friends for a drink. It was pretty much the best Saturday of my life.

Actually, that’s a lie. I didn’t get to do any of that shit. I was just trying to impress you.

But, what I did get to do this Saturday afternoon was spend some time with a six-pack of Black Jack Porter from the Left Hand Brewing Company. C’mon, let me apologize for telling tall tales by describing this beer to you! Seriously, check out my brew review! I promise it’ll be a halfway decent read!

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In my younger and more volatile years, I tried really hard to be smart. I read intelligent stuff, used big words, and analyzed movies more than I watched them. Hey, we all make mistakes. Anyways, per the requirements of a media theory class, I once found myself reading Scott Bukatman’s Terminal Penetration. At the time, I was simply enthralled by Bukatman’s examination of the postmodern relationship between technology, consciousness, narrative, and virtual reality.

This theorist’s words spoke to me, encouraging me to scrutinize reality and the ways I experience it. However, the class ended, so I went back to drinking beers and playing MarioKart: Double Dash!! instead of worrying about the inevitable collapsing of reality as its paper-thin foundation crumbles.

Whatevs.

However, I have now learned that Paul Pope has contributed art for the 2nd edition of Scott Bukatman’s Blade Runner reader. As a diehard acolyte of the PULPHOPE, a fan of Harrison Ford’s most under-appreciated work, and a one-time student of media theory, I may just have to snag this book.

Punch it to hyperspace to see art, clips of the movie, and a video of Bukatman analyzing superheroes.

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Having never traveled there myself, my knowledge of Mexico consists primarily of piecemeal anecdotal references. In my mind, the streets of Mexico City will forever be lined with folks headbangin’ away to Live Shit: Binge & Purge. As far as I know, these same Mexicans are so blessed as to taste the wonders of El Pelon every time they eat. And, of course, the nation’s favorite athlete is La Flama Blanca.

As far as I can tell, Mexico is a beautiful country.

However, I’d be a liar to suggest that I’ve ever thought of Mexican beer with anything more than a fleeting interest. Sure, Corona might be a good choice for barbeques and picnics and other days spent in the sun, but its light body leaves serious beer-drinkers desiring more. Similarly, I like the Dos Equis Guy‘s style, but that doesn’t mean that I want to drink his beer.

In an effort to perfect the image of Mexico in my mind’s eye, I’m dedicated to finding an exported beer that meets my (admittedly elevated) standards. As such, tonite I’m sipping on a product of Cucapá, a genuine Mexican micro-brewery.

The south-of-the-border concoction at hand: La Migra Imperial Stout!

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Welcome to Friday.

After the shitstorm that is the workweek, there’re plenty of ways to unwind. If your favorite sports team is in town, you could head to the game and cheer on the athletes. After all, sports heroes love their fans! Or, if sports aren’t your thing, you could go to the theater so as to bask in the relaxation of a concert. And if worst comes to worst, you could do your chores and then waste time with your friends.

But when it comes to end of the week refreshment, there’s really only one perfect accompaniment. Whether you’re playing video games or shredding on an eight-string, there’s a surefire way to make your experience more enjoyable. This means of party-amplification is, of course, sippin’ on a fine-ass brew.

This Friday sees me sampling Bannatyne’s Scotch Ale.

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There is no greater trial of will than that of the reigning champion. Sure, on the one hand champions are bathed in the adulation of admirers, those lesser-thans who need this hero to represent them in all the ways they can’t represent themselves. On the other hand, great kings also inspire the dissident hordes who want nothing more than to see the crown filched from head, smelted down, and forged into shackles.

When you’re on top, some people love you. But others want to watch you fail. And as such, you have to constantly watch the throne.

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When people think of Boston’s beer, they probably think of Sam Adams. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing, considering that the Boston Beer Company not only helped usher in the wonderful epoch of craft brewing in which now find ourselves but also continue to produce quality products. What would be a shame is if one were to think that Sam Adams is the only worthwhile suds-soda brewed in Greater Boston.

`Cause the fact of the matter – it ain’t.

Sure, if you’ve ever visited Lord Bergeron‘s domicile, you’ve probably stumbled across Boston Beer Works or Harpoon. While these brewers are good folk, and deserving of your palate’s attention, they’re essentially part of the same crew that John Adams’ cousin rolls with. But if you’re willing to look beyond even these supporting players, you might just find another star-to-be in the cast of Boston’s Brewahs!

And that’s exactly what I’ve done.

Tonight, I’m sipping on Porter Square Porter from the up-and-coming Slumbrew.

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