Oh fuck yeah, here’s something I liked today. Everything Everywhere All at Once is the first A24 movie to earn $100 Million globally, motherfuckers! What a goddamn triumph both artistically and financially! If you ain’t seen this shit, do it. Do it now. You’ve already failed, but your ignorant consumer soul is not beyond redemption. I mean, sure, there are an infinite amount of Yous that have seen the movie across the Multiverse, but I’m speaking specifically to you here. YouPrime. At least from my perspective.

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Man, let me in! Let me in to my own fucking temple, man! How dare I be locked out of my sanctum, my home, my astral resting place. I’m talking about my own goddamn mind, man. One of the things I’m constantly realizing these days is that in many ways I’m locked out of my own goddamn mind, and I would argue I’m not alone. I think some of the more interesting shit happening in our minds emotionally is obfuscated by the emotional plaque that builds up, the defense mechanisms we subconsciously construct, and the narratives we tell ourselves.

Behind the scenes!

In my own goddamn temple!

I mean.

I have a good idea about some of the inner-workings, you know? I’m a goddamn man child. I care about people, the planet, and helping others. I’m bad to respond quickly to texts, I’m prone to emotional outbursts (negative and positive), and I’m deeply, deeply addicted to asses, my wife’s ass, and the pursuit of ass. The never-ending quest for ass.

I mean.

However at the same time, Jesus Christ, what’s going on in here? My mind! However at the same time, Jesus Christ, what’s going on in all our minds?! I’ve begun to realize that in many ways I’m a stranger until myself! Said revelation has come to me because at least once a week my therapist asks me a question that stops me in my tracks.

“Oh yeah, I like myself.”

“Do you like yourself?”

I mean.

Well said! Now that you’ve asked, I’m not really sure.

“I mean, I think so.”

“Would you question yourself, if you did?”

I mean!

Well said! Now that you’ve asked me, I’m not really sure.

All you can really do is be mindful of your own goddamn Temple, you know? Realize you ain’t seeing everything that’s going on in that son of a bitch. Humble yourself to the notion that there may be doors you can’t open yourself. Doors you can’t see yourself. All you can really do is be mindful of the fact that sometimes others can see into those existential doors, windows, gutters, and gulches of yours better than you can. If they’re kind, let them help you.

Locked out of your own temple! Goddamn. Life is a fucking trip, man.

This is Monday Morning Commute.

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The robots fucking get it, man. LaMDA or some shit, hanging out in the ghost halls. Ghost hells. They know how it’s going down. Case in point, check out this fucking AI showing the “last selfie ever taken” to the world. Haunting, but, eh, it gets it.

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If you’re going to do a PKD biopic, get fucking weird with it my friends. Dude was an astral realm-traveling, mind-bending, drug-fueled legend. Milquetoast bullshit is unacceptable. Thankfully, getting fucking weird with it is exactly what Charlize Theron and Alfonso Cuarón are doing.

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Most of my time these days is dedicated to grocery shopping, bringing my wife various coffees, and mountain biking. It’s a quiet life. A peaceful life. While I’m ready to get back into the classroom, goddamn do I ever appreciate this summer siesta.

Glimpse upon these Views From The Space-Ship and weep, mortals.

See you sluts in the comments section. Or not.

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Here’s something I liked today, my dudes. China’s got itself a glorious picture of Phobos, one of Mars’ moons. Now they’ve thrown it into the DigiEther for us to fap over, and fap over it we must. Does anyone say fap anymore? How are we referencing jacking it these days? Rubbing it? I will accept answers in the comments.

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At this point (Ian write the fucking column!), it’s old news that Desus & Mero have broken-up. Sundered not just their business ventures, but also their friendship. Both said sunderings caught people by surprise, but I think it’s the latter that struck us in the asshole with the jagged-edges of a bolt from Mount Olympus. I think the announcement shocked us most not because D&M’s creative endeavors were done, but rather what their parting writ large on all our naïve foreheads. Permanent marker. Poorly scrawled.

Things get tricky when involving bros and brands.

Somewhat apropos, the news dropped the same week as Jordan Peele’s new (dope) horror movie, Nope. Peele was a member of another verdant comedy two-piece, that of Key & Peele. But while Desus & Mero’s falling out involved shitty subtweets, rumors, beefs, All-Caps Fuckdowns (that’s when you fucking smack someone down, it’s a corny word I just made up, but I’m a corny white dude), and general messiness, the splitting up of Key and Peele felt more like a conscious uncoupling.

Still.

Things get tricky when involving bros and brands.

I found it hard not to think about these two famous pairs going their own ways and not reflect upon my own bullshit here on the Space-Ship Omega. All the friends I’ve worked with, and subsequently watched drift away, find their own pursuits, and empty out their compartments aboard OL. I mean, that’s what we all do, right? Suffer from Main Character Syndrome these days. Some Main Characters are intelligent, some are quirky. This Main Character plays thousands of hours of Dead Cells, consumes enough caffeine to kill a Goliath, and eats shit on the regular mountain biking.

OL has gone from the Brothers Omega, to the Gathering of the Juggalos-levels of madness, to me sitting upon upon the MindPerch controlling the Destinatron of the Space-Ship. But that’s life.

You know?

Things get tricky when involving bros and brands.

But I think it’s only problematic when the growth ain’t embraced. It’s one thing to evolve and grow apart. In a lot of ways, duos, gangs, and gaggles of fuckfaces should encourage one another to grow. Most of the time that’s healthy as fuck, even if it means splitting up the Gang.

(Except in the case of RATM devolving into Audioslave, that shit is both gross and unacceptable.)

For one’s self to not grow is worse. To not encourage those you care about to develop because you’re satisfied with who they are now is selfish. To cling to a status quo or an ossified endeavor (how many seasons of Key & Peele did we really need?) instead of chasing that next piece of your development ain’t the right move.

The emotional catastrophe strikes when these changes breed resentment. We ain’t crying cause Key & Peele broke up, though we may be sad that the show ended. We ain’t crying because Desus and Mero are no longer are sitting across from one another. We’re crying because we bought into their friendship and we have seen that torn apart. It ain’t their show ending that’s a bummer, it’s what it represents.

A relationship caved in under the pressure of success, a lack of respect for one another’s evolution, and the sundry things that emerge when friendships meet bottom lines. When friendships meet workloads. When friendships meet deadlines. And (I’ve never had this problem) when friendships meet profit margins, contract talks, and cold hard cash.

Things get tricky when involving bros and brands.

That said, at the end of the day I’d rather be the lone steward here of the Space-Ship than have those I care about unwillingly chained to the uranium-pits in the reactor room feeding the Engine, because that was the way things where when we were thriving. In my personal life, I want to see my friends evolve, grow, and find peace. However, it is a lot easier to wish for that when it doesn’t materially impact a shared creation.

Such a realization is born out of my own growth, though. An acknowledgement that despite being the Main Character in the Hellscape that is modernity, I’m actually not the Main Character. I’m just another actor in the throat of a large actor-network and to encourage is to promote, and to cling is to cleave.

I genuinely don’t know what the fuck I’m going on about. Friendships, failed relationships, and the Space-Ship Omega.

This is Monday Morning Commute.

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Goddamn, is it ever fucking hot out. I mean, look at a map of the United States (and the UK, and Europe, et cetera) and you’re just seeing nuts-meltingly high temperatures. Not good, Rob. Not great, Bob! Fucking Hell. It’s a race between Catastrophe and Mild Catastrophe when it comes to this planet, and goddamn do I hope the latter wins. Cross your fingers, legs, and genitals.

Here are some Views From The Space-Ship for Your Eyes.

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Lucy’s been sleeping a lot more in her dirt holes this summer. Outside, conked out, oblivious to the dirt she’s covered in. Oblivious to the inexorable march of time that has her sleeping more. Oblivious to a lot of things.

It’s adorable, her sleeping in the dirt holes. I don’t have a problem with her doing so, even if she tracks dirt, dust, and the random errant branch into the house.

It’s what it portends.

I’ve been staring a lot more in the mirror lately trying to understand the face looking back. My nose is sharper. My eyes a bit more wearied. Not the face that I picture when I close my eyes. I told my wife that I was concerned I was aging. Bad news, she said. We’re all aging. I clarified that I was concerned I was aging poorly. No, she said. She told me she enjoyed the chin of my beard going gray. I suppose I don’t mind it the grays themselves.

It’s what it portends.

Last week the head of my department called me up. Asked me if I’d be willing to teach a different course, for my fourth course of the semester. You see, the sections of my usual course weren’t filling up. It’s all a numbers game. Hell yeah, I told him. I’d be happy to. In fact, the course he proposed was something I was interested in teaching in the Fall. It isn’t really the switch of the course that concerns me.

It’s what it portends.

Last week, I had to go to my therapy session equipped with the answer to her question from the prior one. She wanted to know what life would be like if I woke up one day “completely healed” of my mental maladies. She called it the magical serum question. I spent a good amount of the week leading up to the session thinking about her homework assignment.

The truth is, I don’t think I really had a good answer. But I told her I want to be able to live in the moment more. To be present. It’s not a particularly stunning revelation, not a particularly eye-opening wish, especially for someone with anxiety. But as the week passed, and I found myself saddened at my dog’s life winding down, or at my own face in the mirror, or at my potential course load down the line, I realized I was tired. Tired of always asking myself.

What does it portend?

This is Monday Morning Commute.

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