Welcome, friends. Welcome to the Space-Ship Omega’s weekly column, Monday Morning Commute. Within these walls, I, the captain, and you all will share the various arts and farts that we’re interested in during a given week. The foci are generally said arts (and poots!) that are upcoming, but feel free to share past-dalliances that are on your dome-piece as well.

Time is of the something!

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The powers-that-be would have you believe that today is just a Wednesday, another school day.  Another workday.  Some jack-ass, somewhere around the world, right this very instant, is quoting that inane GEICO camel, asking every other poor sap that has the misfortune working with him if they know what day it is.  “What day is it, Leslie? “  “Mike, do you know what day it is?”  If that guy is in your office – coffee mug in hand, smug, all-too satisfied look plastered on his corporate sellout face, do me a favor.  Stand up and tell him what day it is.  Take your keyboard and unplug it from your PC.  Just as he rounds the corner to your cubicle and asks you if you know what day it is – you swing.  Swing HARD*.  Make sure plastic keys connect with bone.  Make sure coffee ruins khakis, and teeth spray like Skittles from a rainbow.  Stand over him, and wait for his eyes to focus again and meet your own. “I know what day it is, Kyle.  Wednesday is Comic Book Day!  Bitch.”  Hit the jump and lets talk comics, and you should probably get away from that d-bag Kyle before he calls the cops.

*Omega-Level does not condone the use of violence to let people know about comic book day, and suggests perhaps just handing out free/unwanted comics to co-workers and friends as a much healthier way of dealing with your issues.

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Woo! Look at Killer Mike fucking have at it! From a super-froggy-fresh live performance of “Run the Jewels.” Killer Mike? That’s how I’m feeling on this final day of the long weekend. Nothing like sleeping in late three days in a row to revive the synapses, restore the soul, and pack on an easy five pounds or so. This is Monday Morning Commute, the column where I share the esoteric entities (not really) in my existence that are helping me get through a given week. I spread them all around the ground, pointing at them while shouting “Fuck!, Fuck!, Fuck!, Delicious!” This serves to let you know I love them. After that, you share your dilly dallyings in the comments.

Let’s groove, folks.

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Rejoice, my friends! We are living in a golden age of television, when viewers have more and better options than ever before. There’s something for everyone, and that something is oftentimes quite impressive. In particular, dramatic narratives have become a go-to form for fans of creative story arcs and complex characters, presenting a more wide-ranging, novelistic approach to visual storytelling than even what most commercial films currently offer. And a pulp paragon of this form is Breaking Bad. It’s so defining, in fact, that some contemplate that it may be seen as this age’s end someday. But let’s be more optimistic than that. There is still a lot of quality TV-watching to be done and now that Breaking Bad has come to an end and fans of the show, myself included, start to turn to other shows, to find quality entertainment somewhere else, I think it’s a good time to explicate my strangely hesitant relationship with narrative television.

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You know the drill, peeps!  Hit the jump and lets get down to the nittiest of the gritties: Pull Lists.  I show you mine, you show me yours, we giggle and point like schoolchildren, we compare and contrast, and I do my damndest to hip you to the comics you SHOULD be buying this week.  Get clicky with it, because this week brings us some delicious books.  See you inside.

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I’d be lying if I said the first thing I wanted to do after being gone from home for fourteen hours was pen a column for you swine. But the Space-Ship demands its supplication. I must adhere to the scriptures. Lest the ones in the belly of the Ship awaken. Claw their way to the cockpit. Eat our souls, our mothers’ hearts, the organs of our unborn Space-Babies. We don’t want that, right? What’s a little fatigue-drunk groveling in the form of a column, if it saves the Omega-Ship? It’s nothing! Nothing god dammit!

—Oh, you don’t know what I’m rambling about? This is Monday Morning Commute. The column where we share the various things we’re anticipating, currently enjoying, or day-dreaming about on a given week. It serves as a meeting place, a virtual comic shop floor, the bathroom at a rock concert. It also keeps the Dark Lords from awakening. Fair trade.

Share your shit! What are you digging this week? (Oh, and if the comments aren’t working please clear your Chrome plug-in data.)

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No hyperbole in those words folks.  No disclaimer.  No caveats.  Rafael Grampa is one of the greatest artists in the comic/pop art world today.  So what we have to wait with baited breath for his forever-delayed Dark Horse mini-series “Furry Water”?  So what he takes time away from drawing to shill vodka and play drums in a band?  Not since Paul Pope have we had a rock start artist that backed up his reputation with truly dynamic and iconic visuals.  The dude is a dream.  This week he’s got three pieces available for us jokers to get our grubby mitts on.  Hit the jump and let’s chat about them and some other comic books of note hitting the shelves Wednesday!

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Welcome, friends. Welcome to Monday Morning Commute. The column where we announce (proudly?) the various things we’re going to enjoy across the next seven days. It’s an integral motion, you know. Enjoying things. Helps me personally get through ten hour work days. The calming influence that is having a movie-video-game-album-stroke-fest on the horizon.

Here are the subjects I shall be dabbling in.

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Did you know that every minute of every day, roughly 167 thousand people around the world are having sex?  Rough as an estimate, not as in the aggressiveness of the intercourse.  Does this number seem high?  Low?  Depressing?  Invigorating?  Whatever the case, people around the world – RIGHT NOW – are waking up neighbors with throaty moans, or shouting to whatever god they pray to in ecstasy and existential bliss, or trying to figure out what goes where, but generally having a good time doing the one thing humans do best:  screw.  It took me nearly a minute to put these first couple of sentences together, and sadly, I was not engaging in sex.  I was coming up with a batch of comics from this week’s shipping list that look tasty enough to buy and recommend to you guys and gals.  So hit the jump and let’s chat about comics, sex, and sexy comics!

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…hello there, friends. Caffeine Powered at your service. I do not say leisure, for I am a busy’d man these days. It is a Sunday Evening whilst I type this, it will be a Monday Morning on the Eastern Seaboard of the Theoretically United States when this is published. As I tippy-type, I race the literal clock. How can I share with you what I am going to be enjoying in this next week (as per the nature of Monday Morning Commute), while still finishing before Breaking Bad begins? Easy. By doing what I always do. By typing with stunning alacrity, nauseating disregard for grammatical form, and an utter disregard for proof-reading.

Let’s do this, you turkeys.

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