Do you understand the spatial confusion that comes with the Thaw? Here I am, freshly out of my Cryo-Pod and pressed into service. That’s right, those aghast. Rendar isn’t here this week. It’s your boy, Caff-Pow. I was orbiting a particularly interesting noodle along the orbit of Charlatan-IV where the distress beacon run. It spoke to me in words and phrases I couldn’t understand; I wasn’t familiar with.

Beep – too busy. real world responsibilities. grown-up stuff.

Beep – do you comply, brother?

Being a good space-bound brother, I obliged. I may not understand responsibilities or the real world, but I do understand the humble request from a man who descended out of the same Momma gut as me. Entering my finger-prints-semen-saliva-testicle-taint into the recognition software, I jettisoned my temporary virtuality. Good bye, Charlatan-IV. Hello MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE. The column where we share those distractions that keep us cutting while peering into the oblivion of the wash-work-wank-rinse cycle that will transport us from one edge of oblivion into the next.

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Hello there!

Welcome to the Monday Morning Commute, the spot where I spit entertainment drivel into your can of workweek-cola in the hopes that you’ll take a sip! After you’ve got my germs, hit up the comments section and share your own. After all, if we’re not going to tell one another what we’ll be doin’ to get through the 9-5 life, what’s the point of even having the Internet?

What’s that? Oh, yeah I guess porn and gambling are cool, too.

Okay, let’s do this!

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Voodoo-prescribin’ witch doctors once invited me to a party.

It was the summer of 1987 and I was in the middle of one of the worst hangovers of my entire life. Since April, I’d spent every waking hour thrashing to Among the Living and doing lines of gasoline-soaked blow. As far as I can recall, it wasn’t until mid-July that I even realized I’d made it all the way to Nova Scotia.

Don’t let anyone tell you that heavy metal and drugs won’t lead you anywhere. They will. Specifically, to the beautiful port-town of Yarmouth.

Anyways, I stumbled out of buck-toothed Ambellina’s bedroom, leaving behind my Walkman and cocaine in the hopes of finding something slightly more transcendent. Fortunately, I found the Tim Hortons whose manager seemed eager to keep my coffee cup filled to the brim, free of charge. (In hindsight, I think must’ve let him look at my Polaroid collection. You ever see a Yeti’s genitals? No? Well, then you haven’t seen my Polaroid collection.) After my thirteenth cup of black wonder, I saw them.

The witch doctors.

There were three of `em. They were all black dudes. They were all wearing sleeveless Wham! t-shirts tucked into blue jeans, which were in turn tucked into work boots. And their accents couldn’t’ve been more diverse. The fat one spoke with a Cajun twang, the old one spoke through a metrosexual French patois, and the tall one sounded German.

In a flash, they’d all taken the liberty of joining me in my booth. Surrounded on all sides, strung out, and shaking in an over-caffeinated stupor, I had no hope of escaping `em. Which wasn’t really a concern of mine until the old one pulled a decapitated chicken out of his backpack and started rubbing it on my face. “Ah, mon ami, you need to stop stressing out!”

“Ja! Too stressed” shouted the tall one, loud enough to turn the heads of patrons.

“C’mon,” encouraged the fat man, “un p’tit boug hain’t gotta worries! We fixxya!”

I was vexed, absolutely sure that these three were going to murder me. I finished my coffee, the best last meal I could ever hope for, and prepared for my demise. “So, you’re goin’ to kill me, huh?”

Uproarious laughter.

The old man put the chicken back into his bag and did me the favor of wiping the grease and blood from my face. Granted, he cleaned my visage with his bare hand and then proceeded to clean his hand with his tongue, but the sentiment was there. He then did his best to reassure me.

“Eh bien! Murder is for poets! We are witch doctors! And we’ve got a prescription for you!”

I was curious. “Okay…what is it?”

“ES IST VOODOO!” bellowed the Bavarian.

“Um…” I equivocated, “what type of voodoo?”

Toothy grins spread across the trio of shadowy faces. And then, seemingly from out of nowhere, four of the ugliest, skankiest Canadian girls I’d ever seen appeared behind the witch doctors. If I had to bet, I’d’ve put my money on at least two of `em havin’ VD.

The old man grabbed my shoulder and cackled, “The type of voodoo that starts with a bourbon-soaked orgy!”

–-

Welcome to the Monday Morning Commute! This is the feature in which I write whatever nonsense pops into my mind and then run through the various ways I’ll be entertaining myself into the weekend. At that point, it’s your duty/honor/begrudging privilege to hit up the comments section and share your own ennui-destroyin’ elixirs.

Enough feet-draggin’, let’s rock!

–-

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In 1992 Dave Mustaine welcomed us to tomorrow. To be fair, this presentiment was most likely the product of combining hours of guitar-slingin’ with label deadlines and, of course, heroin. But the man wasn’t wrong. By the end of the 1990s, the world would be altered irrevocably, requiring us to adapt or perish.

A new Allegory of the Cave called The Matrix bullet-timed its way into our collective consciousness, reminding us that its of the utmost importance to wonder about the very nature of reality.   The Internet skulked into our homes, providin’ us with unprecedented access to democracy and porn and free/stolen/whatever music. And then Star Wars fucking died.

Again, Uncle Davey had tried to warn us.

Look around. Grandpa’s got a Bluetooth in his head, the teens use Twitter to goad one another into suicide, and SkyNet has invented a self-driving car in the hopes of obliterating human agency. So how do we survive the hustle in bustle of the post-cybernetic revolution?

We talk about the shit that makes us happy! Welcome to the Monday Morning Commute! This is the spot where I show you how I’ll be entertaining myself into the weekend. Your task is to hit up the comments section and share the wares you’ll be using. It’s really just show-and-tell with typing, but aren’t we all pretty much children these days anyways.

Let’s rock.

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What’s up, you slime. Where’s Rendar Frankenstein, you ask? Dead! Well. Dead set on having a good time on the left coast of the Empire. That’s right. You’re left with me, Caff-Pow. Play it cool and I’ll buy you pizza. Just don’t tell Rendar, okay? He hits me. I’m going to let you in on a secret. Frankenstein is Palpatine to my Vader. While I may seem to rule the roost here, it’s only at his blessing. He works the curtains and trots me out every once in a while. So yeah. Keep your hands off the inside, eat your fucking pizza, and we will all get through this edition of Monday Morning Commute  together. Or it’ll end in tears and blood and I’ll have to tell Rendar you slipped on the stairs on the way out of the car.

Anyways, this is the aforementioned MMC: the column where we list the things we’re enjoying and anticipating in order to get through this slog-fest-shit-hole that is our empty lives.

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Hello there, fellow worker bees! Are you already sick of the workweek? Don’t worry, you’re not alone! The way the Man has it set up, we’re all supposed to hate our Monday through Friday responsibilities, those tasks that we must complete so that we can earn currency to exchange for the electricity and beer and buffalo wings that we enjoy on the weekends.

It’s hardly an ideal system.

But fear not, for this right here is the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE! I’m going to show you the various ways I’ll be thwarting the advances of that spirit-crushing behemoth commonly referred to as Workweek Ennui! After you check out my snake-oils, hit up the comments section and display your own wares.

Grab a Diet Fanta and jump on in!

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I could’ve sworn I filled the tank.

I mean, if I was goin’ to risk my life time-travelin’, the best false sense of security I could’ve had would’ve been having enough fuel. As such, I spent countless weeks double-checking my math, the calculations whirring around around my mindscape even as I slept. The formula for post-temporal diesel was arcane knowledge, and if I wanted to concoct it myself I’d have to be super careful.

And when I finally felt that the arithmetic lined up, I got a big `ole metal barrel and mixed the ingredients:

– 1/2 gallon of gasoline
– 20 ounces of Pepsi Max
– 3 gallons of liquid zebra feces (grassfed animals only)
– 1/2 hour’s worth of tears

When the sludge was uniform in color (and pleasant to the taste), I poured it into the Toast-R-Oven I’d outfitted as the energy converter. I plugged in the converter, took a whiff of paint thinner, and then hopped into my combination broom closet/time machine.

I closed my eyes. Waited. Exited.

And here I am, trapped in the year 1998. Ugh. If the 1990s were an orgy, `98 would be the unwashed hippie who’s shown up despite having never received an invitation and hopin’ that some cooze grants poon-access to his scabby semen-dispenser. 1998 brandishes neither the novelty of the earlier 90s nor the enthusiasm of the turn-of-the-century. And yet it still cries for attention, hoping and pleading and wishing that someone will give a fuck.

I could’ve sworn I filled the tank. Next time I’ll check more carefully.

–-

Welcome to the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE. I’m going to present semi-coherence in the hopes that you’ll validate my role as a member of Team Omega-Level. In the process, I’ll detail the various ways I’ll be keeping myself entertained. Fuck human tragedy, let’s all have a swell time!

Your mission – if you’re as brazen as you wished your prom date thought you were – is to hit up the comments section and share the bits and pieces of fun-debris that you’ll be sifting through this workweek.

Let’s dance.

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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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If you’re reading this, it means that you survived Monday, the most dastardly day of the week. For it is on this day that we are forced to return to our places of business, to do the bidding of others in the hopes that we may one day fulfill our own dreams. Unless you’re last name is Thoreau and you’ve got a friend who’ll loan you a nice bit of land, chances’re that you’re not taking yourself off the grid. Instead, you’re going to deal with a bullshit commute to get to job you don’t love so as to be able to pay the bills.

Yikes.

But since we’re all in this together, we might as well pool our minds together and come up with an antidote to workweek ennui. Thissere’s the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE – the weekly post in which I share with you the various ways I’ll be entertaining myself until the weekend. Your task, should you choose to accept it, is to hit up the comments section and show off the Fun-Weapons you’ll be using while we pillage Boringville.

Without further adieu, let’s fuggin’ ROCK!

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Hello there, `fraidies and gentle-hams. My name is Rendar Frankenstein, and once upon a time I was one of the captains of the fine vessel known as Omega-Level. With Caffeine Powered, I helped steer this nerd-craft through the Interweb Ocean, fending off the ever-present threat of vibe-pirates and soul-trolls. In those early days, I’d write reviews and drink casks and even occasionally lend my word-vomit to the back of comic books.

But these days, I’ve taken to the dark underbelly of SPACESHIP OL. I like it here, where I can chat with the suspected mutineers about their murderous visions and incorrigible bloodlusts. And no, I wasn’t demoted to chomping on fish-heads and tossing the shit-barrels overboard by the powers-that-be, I volunteered for this spot. It fits me just fine.

Because the fact of the matter is that I’m Rendar Frankenstein — the hack writer extraordinaire who wears a heart on his sleeve that bleeds so profusely you’d swear he’s menstruating.

–-

This here’s the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE, a weekly show-and-tell session that promotes the cross-pollination of all things in the pop-nerd sphere. To get things started, I’m going to show you the various ways I’ll be staving off workweek ennui. Your job is to then hit up the comments section and share what you’ll be watching/reading/eating/playing/drinking/doing to exorcise the forty-hour-a-week demons.

Let’s do this.

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