Monday Morning Commute: Maybe It Just Needs A Little Love

Whelp, the end of the semester has arrived. Just in time to compliment last week’s news that my wife doesn’t have cancer! A really lovely double axe handle to 2020’s absolutely brutal ennui. For the first time in a while I’m sleeping again, smiling again, enjoying the general day-to-day existence. Of course, I’m still concerned that dickheads out there are partying as the Pandemic reaches its peak! Of course, I’m still concerned that a significant strand of the Republican Party has turned into a reality-denying sledgehammer that is attempting to split the head of democracy fully open.

But, but, hey. We aren’t going to be able to turn the entire ship around. Not this quickly, perhaps not at all. However, the changes in my personal life are enough to gloss the synapses a bit, and allow me to enjoy my time with my wife! With you fucks! And make the best out of a mutilated holiday season, sans physical contact with friends and family.

Thus my friends, let’s dance the dance of digital reverie! Hark! What are you up to this week? Hark! What are you enjoying this week? This is Monday Morning Commute.

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Tuesday Afternoon Commute: There Will Be Blasé


The Sophists dance on the Funeral Pyres of Intellectualism, crafting arguments made of Fluff and Clickbait. The Cynics bark at the Low Hanging Fruit, crafting arguments made of Bitterness and Clickbait. The Virulent scream into the Faces of the Oppressed, crafting arguments encouraging them to sit down and enjoy it.

I stuff my face, refresh Tumblr, and welcome the Ennui.

I don’t consider myself a sophist, a cynic, or a virulent, mainly I’m just Tired.

Physically tired, after a trying few days. Mentally tired, after a trying few days.

I’m stuffed into dress clothes, unfortunately bulging with despair. I’m stuffed into dress, unfortunately (not) bulging with guts stuffed with junk food.

Welcome to the Grand Pall of MidSemester Ian!

There’s gotta be…I gotta be…Surely there are things for me to look forward to, this week. There’s gotta be…I gotta be…Surely there are things for enjoy, this week.  Right? Right! Sure? Sure!

This is Tuesday Afternoon Commute. The tardy edition of Monday Morning Commute, where I list what I’m looking forward to across a given week.

Join me in the comments section. Raise my Spirits. Raise My Soul. Exhume my essence and use it to fight your foes in astral combat. I don’t give a fuck!

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Tuesday Evening Commute: The Rolling Tide of Honeyed Ennui


Salutations, comrades. This is Monday Morning Commute by way of Tuesday Late Evening. Greetings, friends. I apologize for the tardiness, I’m just. I don’t know. Busy? Tired? Tired and Busy? Busy and Tired? Sure, sure. But if I’m being doubly honest, and let’s admit that I’ve written for nearly seven years an embarrassing amount of personal information, I’ve been a bit maudlin about OL.

Pillaging the archives makes me yearn for the days of commenters gone by, of days that were grad school, filled with too much caffeine, and a head full of ideas. I miss the folks who have drifted, I miss my own initiative.

What can you do?

Sally forth, I suppose. But it’s tinged with nostalgia when I know some of the old folk ain’t gonna comment.

What can you do?

Sally forth, I suppose. But it’s tinged with melancholy when I’m penning this shortly after grading papers for three hours, and shortly before I must slumber.

What can you do?

Sally forth, I suppose.

I’m still here, dammit.

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Monday Morning Commute: When in Hell we do shots at the bar!

when in hell

Hello, True Believers! Degenerates! Booger Eaters! Slobs! Slovens! Functioning Human Beings! Individuals Excelling At Their Vocations! If you’re down with the Space-Ship, if you’re here by mistake, if you’re on the Fence and considering writing my Mother a strongly worded email. I want all of you! All of you to share what you’re up to this week. What’s getting you through the doldrums? This is Monday Morning Commute. And that’s the point of this column.

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Monday Morning Commute: Endless War.

Endless War.Comrades, you mustn’t ever forget that we’re in the midst of an endless war.

Battles will be won. Victories will be celebrated. But we can’t let this momentary triumphs blind us to the grim reality — it never ends. Everything against which we fight will always come back, no matter how valiant our efforts. For as strong as we are, the enemies are immortal.

The Workload. The Stress. The Existential Crisis.

But it’s time that we cue up some new weapons. Tools with which we can wage our eternal struggle. This is the Monday Morning Commute, and I’m going to show you the entertainment that’s helping keep me alive. Your task? Hit up the comments section and show off your own wares.

Let’s go.

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Weekend Open Bar: Love & War In Cloud City


Yeehaw! It’s my favorite fucking column here on the Space-Ship Omega. Weekend Open Bar! The goddamn proverbial Royal Rumble around these parts. The obnoxious table of twenty at the Tavern. Here at Open Bar, anything goes. It’s the Weekend Long Column where I encourage you all to congregate. Use the comments section to opine about the NBA Draft. To declare your love for omnisexual Martians with Mommy issues. To post gifs of Honey Boo Boo. To share what you’re planning on sticking into your gut this weekend. Be it beer, pizza, or both (ideally). It doesn’t fucking matter, so long as it is in good spirits.

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Monday Morning Commute: For My Ally Is The Diet Dew


Ahoy, denizens of the Space-Ship Omega. Whether you’re a regular spending time in your own cabin on the Ship, or merely a smuggler stopping by for a refueling and some cheap protoplasmic omnisexual alien butt-poon before leaving, you’re all wonderful in my book. This is Monday Morning Commute, the column where all of us wayward organic meat-sacks share the various things we’re looking forward to on a given week. Or thinking about. Or anticipating. Or dreading.

Slide on up to the shit-smeared cantina bar, and knock back some synthetic oat sodas. Imma be quick with my own list though. It’s the first day back at the Helium Mining Factory on Asteroid X  and all the fumes got me dizzy. Rest assured you’ll find me lurking in the comments section though, pants-down, smile-applied.

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Monday Morning Commute: Your Groin My Hero


Oh Shit! Caff-Pow up in your cereal! Eating allllllllllllllllll the fucking marshmallows out of your Lucky Charms. What are you going to do about it? Nothing, and you’ll like it! Anyways so yeah it appears that Rendar is still locked in the fucking bathroom or something. His cock stuck, somehow simultaneously sizzling and dripping, in his Ryan Gosling plushie. So it’s me. You. And our choices for Monday Morning Commute. The rundown on what we’re looking forward to this week.

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MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE: Blackmail the Universe

Bask in the glory of Dave Mustaine’s melting face. It runs down his skull, slowly dripping onto his kevvy metal t-shirt. Despairingly, he rips the t-shirt off before it stains his perpetual undergarment. He forever wears a “Kill Em All!” tee that he stole back in 1983. Every night before he goes to bed, he rubs its fabric between his fingers. Praying to both Alex Jones and Whatever God He Believes In That Year, he utters one phrase over and over. “Please call me, Jimmy Hetfield. Please call me.” The sheer repetition of the hours-long nightly prayer dims into a dull drone, people throughout his underground bunker (the End is Coming) wishing that either Hetfield would call him, or he would go to sleep. They care not which, and they can’t express either. You see, throughout the compound Davey’s prayer is blared through loudspeakers on every wall. These same loudspeakers are live microphones. The peons must follow their Saviour (or employer, okay) in his prayers. Over and over again, they pray. Hoping to channel their extended energy in a way that has never, ever worked. The answering of a prayer through sheer mass of plea.

Uh, what? Anyways, this is MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE. Where we talk about the arts we’re enjoying this week. Guys and gals, let us party.

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Monday Morning Commute: Bakula’s Packin’

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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