I sort of fizzled out on Sherlock after the second season. The third one was average, and I didn’t even watch the fourth. That said, yeah, fuck it. I’ll check out this Dracula adaptation.
I really enjoyed the first couple of Sherlock seasons. To the point that, despite not liking the back half of the show, I’m excited its creators are going to be adapting Dracula in much the same fashion.
Jesus Christ, yes. Warren Ellis is writing this shit, in tandem with minds behind Adventure Time. If this doesn’t get your juices going, I don’t know. Check your glands, they’re fucked.
What’s up, fools? Would you know that Rendar Frankandbeans is straight up out of the country? Yeah, player. He’s on some magical mystery journey pretending he’s Ernest Hemingway or some shit. I have a nagging suspicion that he’s going to come back with the Great Grumpy White Guy Novel of the next century. Drop it on my desk and slap me across the face. It’s just brotherly love. With him meandering about, and the other of the OL Founding Fathers out of the country as well, I’m all alone.
I have no pants on. I’m eating laffy taffy by the bucketful. My children are quickly drying on my stomach. This is how life should be lived. Oh, who the fuck am I kidding? I have someone greater to answer to, one who inspires more fear and reverence than the two of them. Mrs. Caffeine Powered. Every day she’s with me is a fucking gift, one that I respect by only occasionally ripping ass and drooling on myself.
This column right here is MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE. Within the confines of this most Monday of columns, us capitalist grind monkeys share the various artistic afflictions that give us lives meaning amid the grind. For within these arts we cajole ourselves into enjoying ourselves, despite the banality of the everyday.
Lo! The vortex on the horizon – do you see it? Surely you must! It’s a gargantuan cyclone, an indomitable mass of swirling purple and orange and black. Those protesters who’ve spent the last month screaming at the revelers, naysaying and posturing themselves above the traditions of candied-chaos? Well, they’ll be summarily swept away, fallen victim to the natural disaster that’s been summoned by the OCTOBERFEAST celebrants to end the festival most tempestuously.
It’s the Tornado of Souls.
Look closer! At the top of the soul-storm is a wicker chair, stationery despite its position. The twister slowly diminishes as makes its way towards the campgrounds, giving all present parties a better view of both the chair and the individual sitting in it. He is aged but regal. Grey-haired but black-hearted. Avuncular but assailing.
Riding into the grand finale of the OCTOBERFEAST on a goddamn tornado-chair, this is figure represents evil incarnate in a way no other ever has.
This man is Christopher Lee. And he’s responsible for more cinematic villainy than anyone else on the planet.