The American Dream walks among us and we don’t recognize him. He’s not a weepy bootlegger, changing his name and spying on his babe from across Long Island Sound. And he’s not some punk-ass kid running away from Pencey Prep, hoping to bang broads in the big city and failing miserably. And he sure as hell isn’t some over-the-hill salesman who’s hopin’ that his suicide will save his family.

This is the fuckin’ future, so let’s pay it some damn respect. The American Dream is digital – aspirations have been converted to ones and zeros. The collective consciousness is uploaded and downloaded, torrented with the assistance of an Electrical Storm Zeitgeist.

You’re reading  MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE, the weekly post where I jabber pseudo-philosophy at you and then show you what I’ll be doing during the week. We all know the drill – the workweek sucks, so let’s find some refuge in the shit that makes us happy. After I detail my plans, you hit up the comments section and share yours. And thus, a dialogue is born.

Let’s do this.

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To all space-babies and planet-dwellers tuning in – welcome. Thanks for making OL your choice in the galaxy’s foodcourt of edible debris. Tonight’s special is the charbroiled mindrot, served with   a side of over-enthused nerdgasm. Make sure you wash it down with an ice-cold beer.

This here is the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE, the weekly joint in which I lay out all of the puddles of escapism I’ll be soaking up. Inspired, you then hit up the comments section and do the same. In the ideal universe, the MMC is the chillout tent we use to avoid the burden of the workweek. So c’mon, let’s dance.

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Spark a cigarette and pour a drink – you’ve made it home after the first day of the workweek! Congratulations! You’ve only got to get through that 9-5 shitstorm four more times until the weekend! And from there it’s only a few more decades before you either retire into poverty or die! Ta-dah!

Fugg that, son. Life’s a glorious experiment, so let’s dance in the laboratory and smash some beakers! This here’s the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE, a weekly post dedicated to combating ennui. If you fear that you’re becoming one of the flesh-and-blood automatons that chokes Wonder to death, hop into this refugee-camp. I’m going to show you what I’m doing to destroy apathy.

If you’re daring, you’ll hit up the comments section and do the same.

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WELCOME TO THE   MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE! FUGG YEAH, BOI!

Whoa. Sorry, I just lost my mind for a bit. Can you blame me though, life’s damn wonderful! Worth getting psyched up for! Also, I’ve been pounding caffeine all afternoon, so I scream in the irrational belief that it’ll keep my heart pumping.

Anyways. Posted on Monday evenings by a dude with less than fifteen minutes on his daily commute, this is the weekly show-and-tell at OL. I show you the bits of trivial nonsense I’ll use to numb the sting of indentured servitude. Then, like a good little doobie, you hit up the comments and tell me what you’re up to.

A failure to comply will result in the destruction of your homeworld. The Planet Smasher has been summoned. Don’t test me.

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Thank the Maker – April’s almost over! Here in New England, winters are absolutely brutal and I’m pretty sure that this last one has been the bleakest of my life. As such, April seemed like it’d be a great reprieve but it’s proven to be a fickle bitch – cold and rainy with just enough sunshine to keep the razor from my wrist. But once May hits the winter coats are traded for hooded sweatshirts and smiles are abound.

It’s true – scientists say so.

To get us through this final week of National Sexual Assault Awareness Month, let’s hop into the Monday Morning Commute – the shining piercing on the tip of the dong that is the workweek. I’m going to run you through the highlights of the upcoming seven days, and then you can do the same. It’s internet-buddy show-and-tell at its best. Or worst. You decide.

Let’s do this.

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Dark days have descended upon the workweek. Just as the work continues to pile up, I come home feeling fatigued. Although a nap provides momentary refuge, when I return to fight the beast I find it just as formidable but ten times as pissed off. I forge ahead, knowing that that at the end of this five-day torture rack, I will fumble, exhausted and smiling, into a week-long vacation.

Don’t think I’m complainin’ – I know that most jobs don’t include occasional weeks off. But rest assured, my weeks off and relatively low wages are now considered by many the real problem with the nation’s budget. Yeah, it’s totally not the million-dollar missiles we’re hurling at countries whose conflicts we have no reason to get involved in.

Shit. I’m grandstanding. Back to the point. Welcome to the Monday Morning Commute, the spot where I show you what I’m doing this week. If all goes to plan, you then get so excited that you hit up the comments and share YOUR plans. Give’n’take, get it?

Lezrokk.

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Rockin’/The Parallax: Hypersleep Dialogues

BTBAM’s new EP drops tomorrow and I couldn’t be more excited. Okay, to be fair, I downloaded the leak last week, but there’s something about actually purchasing a CD that gets me fuggin’ amped. Artwork?! JEWEL CASE?! Wait, A DIGI-PACK!?!? OH SHIT!

Anyways, this three-song, thirty-minute release is goddamn dense. I’ve listened to it the full way through more than a few times, and I hear new bits every damn time. I think bassist Dan Briggs deserves mad respect – his parts fit cohesively into the audio canvas, but are kooky and insane when you listen for them.

This shit is like Bitches Brew for a new generation.

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Baby, I don’t have time for foreplay tonight. So feel free to put down the bottle of champagne and NES controller. C’mon, hop right into the sack with me. It’s time to get frisky.

This here’s the Monday Morning Commute, the spot where I tell you what I’ll be doing this week. We’re all dealing with that pesky infirmity known as the work-world, and so a double-dose of entertainment is necessary. Administer as many times daily as possible. Let’s dance.

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Rockin’/Coloring Book EP – Glassjaw

I put off downloading Glassjaw’s latest effort for awhile, telling myself that they’d make it available for purchase. But they haven’t. In fact, the only way to snag a physical copy is to attend one of their shows, and unfortunately the Boston gig sold out before I got a ticket. So, promising myself that I’d give GJ money when they decide they want my money, I downloaded Coloring Book.

Some of the tunes have a real Latin vibe, with funky-ass claves and tamborines and shit. And then some of the songs absolutely crush. And, as though they knew exactly what I wanted, the band closes the album with Daytona White, a jazzier number complete with brushstrokin’ drums and Sunday-morning keyboards.

It’s fuggin’ sick.

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The Monday Morning Commute is usually the spot where I tell you what bits of entertainment I’ll be distracting myself with in the upcoming days. Unfortunately, right now it’s looking like I’ve got more work than hours in the day. So while I could pretend to have a whole bunch of cool swag lined up, it’d be dishonest.

In place of the regularly scheduled programming, I present The Body Bag – a short piece from my archives of miscellaneous debris. Feel free to hit up the comments section, either sharing what you’ll be doing this week or taking a stab at some fiction of your own.

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[The body bag wouldn’t stop dripping.]
[And this drove me damn insane.]

It reminded me of being home during summer vacation. In the morning, Mom would take steaks out of the freezer and leave them on the kitchen counter to defrost. She’d go about her day, smoking cigarettes and vacuuming. Watching television and drinking. By three in the afternoon she’d be stuck to the couch. Passed out. Sweating profusely.

I don’t blame her for sweating. The summers were unbearable. And inescapable. Hot. Muggy. And my father refused to buy an air conditioner. Mom would plead for one and my father would just laugh in her face, “I already pay for heat in the winter and now you want cold air in the summer? You’re all backwards! Why don’t I just fly your ass to another hemisphere?!”

Of course, he spent the hottest hours of the day at the office. The air conditioned office. Fucking bastard.

Anyways, afternoons in the summer saw Mom imprisoned by the couch. She just couldn’t get up. Occasionally a few syllables would be spat out of her florid face and she would make a half-hearted attempt to rise. But she was always defeated, either by the humidity or her blood alcohol concentration. Sometimes she would even throw up on herself. Not often.

But often enough.

When she passed out I’d walk to the kitchen counter. At that point, the steak laid out in the morning would be hours beyond the point of defrosting. Beaten down by the sun, the sirloin would be bleeding everywhere. The white paper from the butcher shop giving its best impression of a sanitary napkin.

The countertop would end up resembling the Red Sea. Parting it in half with napkins, I was a seven-year-old Moses. I never seemed to be able to clean all of it, and this became a source of genuine frustration.

After all, maybe the day my father came home to a clean countertop would be the same day Mom didn’t get slapped.

“Is this bovine blood on the counter?”

“Oh, honey, don’t worry. It’s just a little juice.”

“Juice? JUICE?! Juice is what you get when you squeeze something that once grew on a tree! This is fucking blood! These are blood stains!”

Somehow it made sense to my father to express his aversion to blood stains by making more of them.

[The body bag wouldn’t stop dripping.]
[The steaks never stopped bleeding.]
[Mom never stopped drinking.]
[And my father never stopped slapping.]

[And this drove me damn insane.]

The Archetype looked into the eyes of Revolution. “How come you look so sad? Why, just a moment ago you were buzzing with enthusiasm.”

Revolution blinked. Unfeelingly. “Yes, I had been…but why wouldn’t I? I’d just bathed in the winds of change and dined on paradigm shifts.”

“And now?”

“Well, I’ve figured it out. We’re not enemies, after all. You are…you are me. From the future. Given time to settle in, you are what I become.”

The Archetype chuckled. “You’ve got it right, my boy! But don’t worry, you won’t be bored and sad forever. Someday, when you’re me and I’m you, you’re going to have to fight for your life! Such is the way.”

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Let’s take a peek at what I’m up to this week.

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[photo via x-ray delta one]

Turn on some music as loud as possible. I’m not fuggin’ around – I want you to blast it. I suggest OM.

Tilt your head back. Keep your mouth shut. Through your nose, suck in as much air as possible. And hold it.

Wait.
Wait.
Wait.

Now, exhale as hard as you can. Don’t stop until you think you’re about to gag. Then keep going. Feel the muscles in the back of your throat writhe. Don’t close your mouth – the burps want to come out. By the way, keep going. Let the tears come to your eyes. Enjoy that pre-puke taste filling your gullet. Keep going. Bend over at the torso and the let the blood flow into your face. Keep going. And just when you think you’re going to pass out, swing upright and suck in more air.

Congratulations. You just reminded yourself that you’re amongst the living.

In 100 years, this likely won’t be the case.

So let’s enjoy some shit along the way. Hop aboard Monday Morning Commute so I can tell you what I’m up to. Then hit up the comments section and do the same.

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