Ohhhhh, shit. The Faux Bot has fluttered down from his feces-covered throne (a fair sign of cultural supremacy in a local Dimension) and gifted us with the third episode of Blanka Boyz. Easily my favorite one yet, we get a gleaming look into the internal monologue of Phil Fish. I laughed. I cried. Then I laughed again at Phil Fish’s sideburns. Not only that, but there’s a review for The Swapper, what I think is the Taliban, and of course Mike Haggar.

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Hello friends. Another harried edition of Monday Morning Commute for you right here. I’m in that liminal state between teaching and tutoring today (the two hat I don upon the campus), and I reckon this moment may be my only chance to vomit this up before the evening. So uh, rules of the game — we share what we are enjoying, looking forward to, and consuming with great relish on a given week.

Here is my collection of existence!

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I love Colorado.

Now, I’ve never been to the state. But even from my perch aboard Spaceship OL, it ain’t hard to discern that Colorado is a multifaceted wonder. After all, it was the thirty-eighth entry into the Union that bore the mighty Tim Allen, creator of America’s greatest sitcom about a tool-man. Lest we not forget that Colorado gave refuge to a Boston hero and allowed him to become a champion. And then, of course, there’s always South Park.

I also love Mexico.

Again, I ain’t never been to Mexico, neither. But there’s plenty to appreciate about the nation. First of all, the Mexican flag features an eagle tearin’ a snake to shreds. Epic! Brutal! Awesome! There’s also the fact that Mexico is responsible for the taco. The goddamn taco! If there was ever a perfect food, it could very well be the taco! And if this didn’t win you over, the Land of the Shaking Earth was also the site of one of humanity’s greatest triumphs.

And now that I’ve discovered Agave Wheat, I can express my love for both Colorado and Mexico by drinking!

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“Oh snap! He just kicked off Grandpa’s fuckin’ head! Didja see that shit! Grandpa ain’t got no fuckin’ head anymore!”

Yeah, I guess you can say it was an eventful Fourth of July weekend at Casa de Los Brothers Omega.

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But today is Monday, and as such we must embark upon the Monday Morning Commute! This is the spot where I show you all of the entertainment-junk I’ll crammin’ down my mind-mandible during the next few days. Then, you hit up the comments section and tell everyone what you’ll be feastin’ upon to get to the end of the workweek. Yes, it’s a bit like show-and-tell.

Except instead of kindy-gardners, the participants are the depraved Internet pirates clingin’ to the deck of Spaceship OL.

Okay, let’s do this!

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There’s been a lot of talk this week on Omega-Level about the future of Star Wars. Arguments and counterarguments, both civil and passionate, flourished in the wake of JJ Abrams’ divisive entry in the Star Trek cannon. And now that he’s currently trekking across that universe towards a galaxy far, far way, most of the debating followed that trajectory by warping from Trek to Wars, going from what he’s done with his previous work(s) to what he will do with his forthcoming ones. In turn, it’s all become decidedly speculative and forward-looking, as we all try to get a read (and perhaps a grip) on what is to come. But before we can go forward, it’d be wise to examine why past Star Wars lent themselves to expansive and exciting storytelling—the stuff that truly made us want to go for the ride in the first place (and, ideally, attract us to the prospects of new installments). For this reason, let’s take a look back at the “long time ago” part of the Star Wars equation, principally by discussing the original trilogy in this week’s Opinions Vary.

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Faux Bot is back with his second installment of Blanka Boyz. This one focuses its mentally ill gaze upon the raging degenerate that is Microsoft’s XBONE. As with the first, it is laden with smash cuts,  old school references, and thick slathers of insanity.

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Hello friends and family aboard the Spaceship Omega. As we hail from the Empire Proper, the lot of us shall be celebrating the Fourth of July. You’re not from this Solar System? Confused as to how we rock our celebrations around these parts? It’s simple! All you have to do to join us is fill yourselves with chemical-soaked animal flesh. In-between teeth gnashing the bits, swallow healthy amounts of Amber Liquids. These suds shall assuage the indigestion. Not only that, but they shall elevate you to another plane. Careful, though. Should you consume too much Amber Liquid and Animal Flesh, you may theoretically pass out in the kiddie pool. With your pants down. Theoretically, you’ll wake up lobster pink. The children will notice your lack of pants, the parents will notice the vomit baked into your beard.

So even though it isn’t in league with the celebration, I also caution temperance.

[Caff Note: A good friend of Rendar and myself wrote this rather awesome defense of Star Trek Into Darkness. I imagine he saw dullards like me bashing it, and decided to wave a righteous saber. Despite not seeing eye to eye with him, I demanded that he allow me to share it here. Enjoy.]

Into Darkness.  What’s in a title?  Nothing (if you ask me).  However, Into Darkness attempted to conjure into the minds of the would-be viewers a universe that was literally entering into a ‘darker’ world.  Into Darkness is the post 9/11 Trek – a world in which, yes, you can die.  Into Darkness has a body count that would rival the epic end of Commando. More humans (not Vulcans) die in this film than in any other Trek film.  San Francisco is literally leveled to the ground at the end of the film.  Is this a forward direction for Trek? Did Abrams destroy a franchise that deserved something more?

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Holy shit! Maine’s making beer now!

As a lifelong resident of Massachusetts, I’ve always been a bit weary of Maine. That’s not to say that the Pine Tree State doesn’t have anything to offer. It does. It’s the spot to go for quintessential New England seafood, the people are friendly, and it’s scenic as hell. I wouldn’t try to dissuade anyone from vacationing in Maine.

With that said, there’s something a bit discomfiting about Maine.

Maybe it’s the fact that the state is in a weird spot culturally. After all, Maine is wedged right next to the libertarian paradise that is New Hampshire, the hippie epicenter of Vermont, and the progressive-to-the-point-of-scrutiny Massachusetts. What does this leave Maine claiming? Rocky shores and some mountains.

Or maybe I find Maine distressing because it’s mostly uninhabited. Last year I drove to Nova Scotia by myself, and spent the better part of six hours weaving my way through the wilderness of Maine. And let me tell you, if I had hit a moose out there (as the signs so comfortingly warned that I might), I would’ve been dead meat. There’s no way that anyone with the abilities of resuscitating my mangled corpse would’ve found me in time.

Then, of course, there’s Stephen King.

So it was with a bit of trepidation that I picked up a sixer of Bar Harbor Blueberry Ale from the folks at the Atlantic Brewing Company. As I brought the beers to the register, grappling with a barrage of thoughts, some rational and most not. “Is this ale any good? How strong is the blueberry flavor going to be? Is it safe to drink? Is this nothing more than Maine-yokels fooling us by bottling their pee after eating blueberry pie? Should I call Sam Adams and tell him that there’re some wild Mainers tryin’ to cut in on his action?”

By the time I got home, I was driven to investigate this beer.

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Coming out of Star Trek Into Unnecessary Reveals, a slow rolling realization swept over me. J.J. Abrams wasn’t unquestionably awesome. In fact, he was becoming the master of Smug, Self-Satisfaction courtesy of Contrived, Forced Mysteries. Don’t get me wrong. He can get great performances out of folks. He can cut a mean set piece. However, there are other concerns. As I sat stewing, wanting to chop him and the entirety of the Bad Plotting team in the fucking neck, I began to get concerned. You see, this is the ass clown who is the official steward of The Franchise.

I was concerned.

After much ruminations on the topic – involving Divinations courtesy of Blood Letting, Tin Foil Hats, and countless conversations with our own Eduardo Pluto – I’ve come to a conclusion. Abrams ain’t right for Star Wars. Or, at the very least he isn’t the Glory Be Messiah that I (I will take culpability for jizzing all over his initial announcement) originally ordained him to be. Here’s the deal: Abrams could knock it out of the park. Episode VII could rule. I’m allowing for that possibility. But this OV is dedicated to the delineation of my various anxieties involving Captain Lens Flare and Self Back-Patting.

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