If you’re anything like me, you’ve contemplated leaving the planet forever rather than deal with 90% of the mouth breathing mall zombies we happen to share this rock with.  When you realize that you’re stuck here, you then begin to wonder how easy it would be just to blow the whole damn place up.  Well fret no longer because Mars One is coming up with a solution.  Hit the jump for some info and your orientation.

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Electronic Arts and Visceral Games confirmed this week at E3 the inevitable. After weeks of speculation and rolling confirmation they acknowledged what we had already seen, the bloated cyst hanging off of the tits of the previously remarkable Dead Space series. The cyst is a predominant one, flaring up in magnificent lumps across many a franchise I have come to behold. You can call it multiplayer. It is blight across this generation, as company after company double-fist outstanding single-player games. Red faced and drunk for profits, their ten knuckles dig deep into the game’s previously welcoming sphincter.

Butt play is fun, fingering around with little changes. Exploding a game’s design in the search of the almighty dollar with hungry hands is not.

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It’s that time again. Time to shove our meaty paws into the depths of the internet grab bag and see what fun prizes we can scoop out. And this week is a treat: Pro-me-the-us! The film’s stunning visuals were like whipped cream on a pile of shit. But we already knew that from our more scholarly interpretations found elsewhere on Spaceship OL. Now we get to check out what other sardonic assholes thought, in the medium of meme.
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This isn’t really a Prometheus review. By now you’ve most likely seen the movie, read reviews, or heard about it from your boys. This article is a rant with plenty of spoilers.

Does anyone honestly expect greatness from Sir Ridley Scott anymore? There’s no doubt he’s still a master craftsman who can create some truly stunning visuals. But for a while now he’s been more concerned with those visuals than with minor annoyances like story and characters. That’s why for his prequel to Alien Scott was cool working off of a script originally written by the guy who wrote The Darkest Hour (remember that one?), that was later touched up by Damon Lindelof. We all know Lindelof from Lost, which we still argue about, but that’s only because we still love it so much.

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It’s a bit of a stretch, asking anyone to come out of Prometheus this weekend without an overwhelming sensation of feeling hollow.  It’s a rather empty, desolate film in all the ways that matter:  setting, visuals, character – even plot.  There just isn’t a lot there.

Compounding the problem is that the marketing machine behind the film has inadvertently already given you 90% of it.  Walking out of the theatre tonight or tomorrow will feel like you’ve just seen an extended trailer, albeit a two hour one.

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Before I went to see Prometheus last night, I spent the week watching every space mission movie I owned. So, after a while, I began wondering why these missions are populated with the stupidest people alive, because as soon as these idiots step off their craft, compound, whatever, common sense seems to fuck off to destinations unknown. And after this marathon culminated with Prometheus, I began compiling a list of rules, simple enough for these morons to follow, to ensure a safe mission and hopefully cut down on casualties.

Planning to take a trip to some uncharted planet? Print these out and keep them with you.

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Dodging stray dogs and traffic and my own ineptitude, I ran through the streets in the rain.

I hadn’t felt that alive in a good long time. A month? A year? I’m not sure. But as I clutched the package and hopped over gasoline-streaked puddles, I felt an undeniable electricity dancing up and down my spine, reminding me that this is my one life and I’d damn well better appreciate it. So even though it was bright’n’sunny when I went into the liquor store, and I found myself sprinting with the ferocity of a Wally West fan-video so as safely transport my beers, I couldn’t help but smile.

Runnin’ through the rain on a Friday afternoon isn’t an inconvenience, it’s a goddamn privilege.

Safely within the confines of my apartment/spaceship (my therapist is tryin’ to help me come to terms with that one), I unloaded the cargo I’d guarded so closely. I didn’t want any of the wonderful acid-precipitation that we call weather to touch these containers, and in that mission I’d been wholly successful. Now, the next test revealed itself as I attempted to remedy faith with scientific experiment.

What the hell does any of this mean? Well, if I can decipher my own nonsense, it means that I’m going to try to quantitatively describe a sacred ritual. Science details religion?

That’s right, today I’m reviewin’ Monk’s Blood.

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Fifty Shades of Grey has been making uncomfortably-sourced panties soggy (my Mom read it) for the past couple of months, and as such there is the inevitable movie adaptation. Now one of our generation’s most sexualized ladies is in the running to direct. Maybe. Can she star?

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Blogging is hard. Blogging for three years straight is harder. Doing it all as a broke-ass graduate student grinding out a day’s content while trying to write papers and read motherfucking Jane Austen’s Northanger Abbey is limit break material. I’m not complaining, just explaining. So you see around Sunday evening when the chimes rung and it was time to saddle up to the computer, I just couldn’t fucking do it. Tired. Burnt out. Then a calamitous week from Hell struck, malware up our guts and our server down around our ankles.

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(I hate to start this piece in the most boring way possible, but) I grew up in Andover, New Jersey. Nestled in the farmlands and forests of Sussex County, Andover is an old mining town and the polar opposite of the general population’s image of “Dirty Jersey.” Expansive corn fields, forests criss-crossed with streams, and a local hot-spot called Lake Illiff make up most of the geography of my homeland. The neighborhood was a giant nipple feeding my imagination. I lived there until I was 19 when I thought it would be a good idea to go to college.

Like most young boys, I harbored a large imagination. With tools like action figures and my Mongoose BMX, Andover was one big playground. My dad introduced me to Star Wars when I was in the 2nd grade (because that’s what everyone should feel like happened to them during their first Star Wars experience, right? We’re “introduced” to it). I read a lot of escapist fiction like Dragonlance and Lord of the Rings – also courtesy of my dad. All of these sacred works blew my imagination up, made me want to jump in my X-Wing and take on the Empire up. I wanted out of Andover. This town wasn’t big enough for Patrick Cooper, who would surely grow up to save the planet from evil. Then along came Ray Bradbury.

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