When pulled off, cameos are great.  Its fun to see an actor let their hair down and do a small role in a film.  It humanizes them, and injects humor into a scene.  Its like a private joke to be share between the audience and the casting director.  So here we go, my 5 favorite cameos.

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Gather round, children. Taste the delicious taste of my nectar. This here sugary paste didn’t distill itself. No sir. No ma’am. Salutations to all genders, the myriad of multiple possibilities in a world where binary is only for coding! Ha! Speaking of delectable, what a pun, no? Where I am from you respect your mother and sharpen your pun. Did I ever tell you the story about how my Great Great Great Vat Father was shanked behind a stim stage for mouthing off without a retort? Old mucous-face tried to parry with a master of repartee and when his wits ran dry, his blood ran fluidly. Never forget what Jean-Paul said. Oh sure he was a coke-head and was banging the chicks working under him and sure he ultimately went even way too Red for my socialist, anarchist, burn-it-down ass. None the less. Remember when Jeanie said.

Words are loaded pistols.

What does that have to do with this column? Nothing. This is Monday Morning Commute. Gather around the watering hole, us shackled to the churning of the capitalist tides! How are you hiding from the next sixty years of brain-numbing repetition? This week, which arts are you finding salvation in? Movies, music, television, funny book, new sexy toys. I want to hear it all. Share it.

This is what I am digging.

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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.]

Hullo there, chums!

It’s the weekend again, and as such we all need to take some time to enjoy ourselves. Pop open bottles of beer! Blast some tunes! Squeeze some ass! Sure, we all have obligations that need attendin’ – voyages to the supermarket, respect-payings at the in-laws’, survival-games at karate class you signed up for because the lady-sensei has an incredible rack and you’re hopin’ she’ll beat the ever-livin’ shit out of you! But you have to enjoy these days, too!

`Cause what’s the point of havin’ a life if you aren’t goin’ to enjoy livin’ it?

This weekend, I want us all to take the time to think about just how wonderfully foolish we’ve been. Hell, actin’ like an idiot from time to time is a symptom of the perception-granting disease known as human existence. And it’s an important one too, `cause it enables us to learn from our mistakes. Since we’re all guilty of being momentary schmohawks, we might as well call ourselves out on it.

At best, it’ll help us become more actualized human beings. At worst, we’ll get some laughs.

To gain entrance into this weekend’s OPEN BAR, you need to share an embarrassing story from your childhood.

Did you barge into the bathroom to find your Uncle Rojo disinfecting his nether-regions? Care to retell how you asked your mom’s barren friend why she didn’t have any children? What about the time that you told your older sister’s boyfriend that he was hunkier than Hulk Hogan?

Allow me to start the tab at this OPEN BAR.

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Confession time: I missed last week’s article for three incredibly valid reasons.

1. Borderlands 2
2. A stealth hangover (seriously did not see the bastard coming)
3. Hernia

OK, I possibly invented the third one, but still one and two are still pretty solid. Now, do you see the validity? Absorb it. Forgive me and then let’s move on. I’m about to hit you with such an incredibly powerful fistful of gaming news and titillation that you’ll wish I’d finally eaten myself into that early grave.

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Been a bit slow here at OL, with the litany of us working, doing school work, jet-setting, or slaying things in virtual worlds. Here are some glimpses from inside my existence to sate you.

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Today we’ll discuss the works of an important man.

Someone of whom I’m a giant fan.

I am of course talking about Dr. Seuss

A genius as sure as a dozen beats a deuce.

In tribute I will try to do this in rhyme,

Something that may take some time.

So get ready, get set and let’s get on with it

Hit the jump, read my choices and maybe shoot the shit.

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He’d read all about Transcender’s journey to Saturn, and the havoc that was wreaked upon that that hotel. It upset his constitution to think that the System’s savior, the genetically-perfected designed to fend off nether-threats, could be derailed so easily. And by such trifles, nonetheless. Alcohol. Women. Drug-beams. All of the vices that, according to many, had done in Earth in the first place.

To the moonbeam death-child, Transcender Yonder had lost his way. Which may have been true. But as seven-year old, there ain’t no way he could understand Transcender’s appreciate of fine pussy and bourbon.

Headphones clamped on tight, the moonbeam death-child tried to tune out his negative thoughts. Rather than dwell on the various ways he’d like to torture Earth’s mightiest drunkard – testicle-electrocution, force-fed glass sandwiches, and atomic bombings at the top of the list – he made his peace with the omniverse. Heck, three songs in, the moonbeam death-child laughed at the thought that people didn’t always realize that music aligns the brainwaves to the same frequencies that neutrinos use to slip between dimensions.

How comical!

So relaxed by the music was the child that he fell into a deep slumber. So relaxed was this slumber that he didn’t notice the blanket being draped over his listless frame. And so gentle was the draping that he smiled the hearty grin of the runt who’s looked after by the alpha male.

Transcender Yonder was finally home, and was glad to see that his moonbeam death-child, whether or not he’d admit it, didn’t hate him.

—-

Thanks for checking out the Monday Morning Commute! This is the spot where I ramble about the make-believe and the real-believe alike, sharing with you the various ways I’ll be entertaining myself throughout the workweek. After you peep my means of destroying ennui, hit up the comments section and share yours. C’mon, you know how it is – work sucks, life rules, let’s party until we’re dead!

Are you ready to rock?

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There are few films with more buzz surrounding them this year than Paul Thomas Anderson’s The Master – his first film since 2007’s cynical masterpiece There Will Be Blood. The rumors boiling online that it’s a fictionalized look at the origins of Scientology have fueled controversy – peaking when word spread that the church’s shit-eating poster boy Tom Cruise “has issues” with the film.

But the film is not an expose on Scientology and certainly not an attack on its sci-fi theology. Although nearly everyone in the film is a member of a blooming, controversial cult, PTA only uses Scientology and L. Ron Hubbard as a loose framework to stage his perplexing and brilliant character study set in post-World War II America. At this point, PTA’s grasp of cinematic expression is ridiculous. Every shot, every camera movement is sharp and profound. As with There Will Be Blood, The Master grips you by the balls before a single line of dialogue is spoken, which doesn’t happen until several minutes in. Once Joaquin Phoenix opens his mouth…game over, man.

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I don’t know about you, but I really want a robot companion.  In most media robots are portrayed as evil.  However, there are some that work for the forces of good … or at least less evil.  Be it an artificial intelligence or a full bodied robot, I want one.  These are the 5 I would take.

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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.]

Hi kids, the Dude here beaming sunshine and happy thoughts to you this fine weekend direct from OL Prime.  A planet populated by busty leather clad lasses and the odd, yet delicious buffalo chickens.

I just want us all to take a moment and reflect on how awesome it is to be human.  We can talk, we can write, hell we can masturbate.  I’m pretty sure those are the three required elements of building a civilization.  Think about it.  If you’re raging about something with a person you’re writing with or talking too, you can step back, rub one out (or flick it if you’re a lady) to let off the steam and get back to work.

Now that you’ve appreciated the finer things to humanity, we’re ready to move on.  I count myself lucky to be human.  The thing I wonder is are there any other species out there that count themselves luck to be what they are?  I guess the core question is this.

What other species would you want to be if you could no longer be human?

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