…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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Hello friends. Apologies for posting Monday Morning Commute on a Tuesday Evening. Thirteen hour work days. All that fun stuff. Anyways. Here’s uh — the thing. Wait, what thing? Ah yes, the thing. The list of activities I’m indulging in this week, in an effort to stave off the grind-based madness of the modern condition.

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Welcome, friends. Welcome to Monday Morning Commute. Hereon in is a column where we come together to share the various holo-films, digi-books, and post-post-caterwaulcore musics (and other assorted genres) we are enjoying during a given week. Share! Care! Be your contributions either current obsessions or happenings occurring during the next seven days. Let’s grind through the grind together.

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It’s Labor Day here in the Empire. The holiday that has been co-opted and become a celebration of the successful completion of a Summer. It also signals what is for many the Long March towards Winter. Via Autumn. Me? I fucking love the Fall. Favorite season. It’s not too cold, but it’s cool enough to snuggle up with a blanket. It heralds my favorite Opiate of the Masses: football (and my 1a: hockey). In addition, a secondary market of cool balms to draw me out of my peretual existential crisis arrives in the form of Fall Television Programming. Finally let us not forget how it drums up my favorite gauntlet of Fabricated Reasons to Celebrate, which is the stretch from Halloween through Christmas.

So yeah, I’m down with Labor Day. Cool enough. But I’m really down with what it signals.

(Oh yeah wait this is Monday Morning Commute the column where we share the various aforementioned balms and  non-literal and perhaps literal sedatives that get us through the week with minimal scarring so I’ll start by giving you a rundown of what I’m enjoying this week and then you do me the solid of letting me know what you’re totally into this week and that way we will all be a happy commune full of run-on sentences and dementia and cool arts and farts to try out okay how does that sound?)

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Hello, friends! Be you long-time wards of the Spaceship, or recent innocent bystanders gobbled up by last weekend’s Fan Expo in Toronto. This column right here is Monday Morning Commute, a weekly installment where we blather about the various things we’re indulging in during a given week. A list of the ointments we shall be applying to the burn of Existence. Too overwrought? Too grandiose? Post a fucking list of the shit you are getting down with over the course of the next seven days.

Ah, better.

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I used to believe in the `ole “Better late than never” adage.

But then there was that time that I was late in delivering that CD with the software update which told the Home Health Bots to not rape their clients. Boy oh boy, was Dr. Stephen J. Vunderlust upset with me! And he had good reason, too! The phone lines lit up like a Fifth of July hangover, with the receiver screeching out horrid details about old folks and invalids being robot-raped. Relentlessly. Until expiration.

So yeah, sometimes it’s not okay to be late.

But alas! This is the Monday Morning Commute and my tardiness ain’t resultin’ in any forced sodomy! This is the spot where I show you how I’ll be spending the next few days. Y’know, what I’ll be doin’ to kill time and avoid the type of boredom only available to First World Denizens of this Strange Future-Present. Anyways, then you hit up the comments section and share your upcoming activities.

Don’t be late to this ball — let’s dance!

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Gerard the Robot was in the midst of a mid-life crisis.

His wife was bangin’ the milkman. She hadn’t admitted to it, but she didn’t have to. Every time that Gerard came home from a double-shift or an overnight — he was a nurse at the most prestigious hospital in Town — the fridge’d be full of dairy. And while Gerard knew that Georgiette and L’il Henry enjoyed their morning bowls of cereal, there was no reasonable explanation for why the fridge was teeming with bovine.

A half gallon of skim. Three glass bottles of 2%. A carafe of heavy cream.

But most unsettling of all was the glow on his wife’s face. There was a rosy-hue, a vivacious scarlet dancing upon her cheeks that he’d only seen after they’d made love. She’d claim she’d spent the day in the sun or was just feeling under the weather, but he knew why there was blood in her cheeks. It was because she was satisfied.

And it wasn’t Gerard that was satisfying her.

See, Gerard’s pneumatic organ had broken down nearly half a year ago. If he was a human, he’d have gone to the doctor for an embarrassing appointment and walked out with a prescription for Triumph Pills. But as a robot, Gerard had to order a new part. Which normally wouldn’t be a problem. However, Gerard was an import, and with the all the trade sanctions being tossed around, he was having a real hard time.

Which is ironic, given that all Gerard wanted was a real hard time.

This is tomorrow’s mid-life crisis. A fridge full of milk. A wife full of the milkman. And a robot-eunuch weeping at the kitchen table.

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Welcome to the Monday Morning Commute! This is OL’s weekly venue for celebrating the entertainment that helps us survive the workweek! First, I’m going to show you the various ways I’ll be staving off bad-vibes and responsibilities! Then, y’all hit up the comments section and offer your own suggestions. This is Internet-based show-and-tell for the nerds and geeks and dweebs who aren’t afraid to wear their hearts on their sleeves!

Okay, let’s dance!

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Holy smokes.

Boston Comic Con 2013 turned out to be a couple of wonderful, wild, days. In the course of slingin’ t-shirts, debatin’ the message of said shirts, and snappin’ photos with cosplayers, the crew of Spaceship OL had an absolute blast. We got to meet up with some of the ever-faithful OL readers, we met Rich from Toucher and Rich, and at one point our very own Riff Simian started playin’ a goddamn guitar at the booth. Yowza!

I’m sure that in the days to come we’ll have some sort of BCC`13 recap that highlights some of the insanity that we just survived. It’d be lame of us not to give you such an insight. But right now, we have to get through the Monday Morning Commute!

That’s right, the weekend’s officially over and now it’s back to the tasks that put paper in our pockets. But as always, we have the MMC – the spot specifically set aside for sharin’ the strategies that’ll get us into the next weekend! Are you going to watch all of the Friday the 13th movies this week? Or is this finally the moment that you record your acoustic concept album about time-traveling so that you can save a young Michael Jackson from insanity? Oh, I know! Are you going to homebrew some beer and then drink it too early and then swear at the cat?!

How’re you planning to murder ennui?

I’ll get us started, but then hit up the comments section!

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Fred was certain that everything’d gone according to plan.

Sure, it was only the third time he’d been called upon to complete the procedure. But why should he worry? It was the first thing they’d taught him at the Neural Corps Academy, a matter of routine that even those struggling with the coursework could exact if necessary. And he wasn’t no goddamn wash-out, he was quick to remind himself while taking a deep whiff of the checkered material.

He was Fred DeCoup. First, a child prodigy. Then, the star student-cum-valedictorian. And at twenty-two, the youngest cadet awarded the position of Reprogrammer General .

Needless to say, Fred was more than a bit startled when the subject woke up screaming. Typically, subjects’ reentries into consciousness are marked by outward expressions of tranquility, sometimes even gratitude. But when XT-203 came to, he was writhing with hatred and spitting vitriol.

“You piece of shit! You raped me! I remember everything! Release these clamps so I can tear out your throat!”

Fred DeCoup dropped XT-203’s boxer shorts from under his nose. He froze. He knew that everything hadn’t gone according to plan, that he’d made an error of the most egregious sort.

In his perverted ecstasy, Fred had forgotten the most important rule: always run a mind-wipe.

—-

Welcome to the Monday Morning Commute! This is the weekly call-to-arms for all aboard Spaceship OL — crew and passengers alike — to discuss the various ways we’ll combat the Boredom Bastards! Rumor has that a few of these fun-suckers’ve been spotted in the very sector we’re headed towards this week, so we need to make sure that everyone’s armed and ready to face `em!

Murder your familial responsibility with movies. Crush your manager’s halitosis with comics. Piledrive your self-doubt with pizza.

I’ll get us started, but you hafta join me in the comments section.

Let’s do this!

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Another Monday. Another Morning Commute. I ain’t complaining. I’m still sucking wind on the Big Blue Marble. For the moment. And for the moment it is still Big, and Blue. So while I’m here, let me lead the communion. This is the wonderful column where we share the various arts, farts, liquors, variety of cracker, and other nonsenses that are entertaining us in a given week.

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