Back to life, friends. Back to reality. At least, for people like me who are fortunate enough to have spent the last week wallowing in excess and friendship. So I have returned to reality, and I’m currently sitting in a very quiet Writing Center, writing very quietly.
None the less.
They still haven’t killed me.
That’s not to say there haven’t been a few close calls. That time I pulled the job on the Federation Bank on Ganymede? Goddamn, that pig went belly-up the second I scratched the skin, but I walked out with an empty clip and sack full of cash. Needless to say, I won’t be going back to Jupiter anytime soon.
Or that time I stowed aboard the Belt Skipper in the hopes of finding my beau for a real lunar tryst of a weekend. Of course, I was discovered halfway through, and that fuck of a captain tried the `ole airlock gag on me. Thing is, that shit only works on the criminally unprepared, and I’m nothing if not one prepared criminal. Fucker punched the release and I flashed him the bird before wrapping myself in a solar sail and then leisurely drifting to a comrade’s outpost.
Oh, and then just yesterday I was having a drink at Old McQuarrie’s — bourbon and white wine, if you care – and all of a sudden the place goes neon! Bullets and beams whizzing past my head, Old McQuarrie crying behind the bar and doing that thing he does where he says those prayers and grabs at the – whatcha call it – that’s right, the Rosary beads! They managed to kill an old pervert sitting next to me, which is a shame because even though he’d spent a half hour shamelessly trying to get into my pants, everyone in the community really loved him.
So anyways, I end up having to basically gut Old McQuarrie’s with the better part of my arsenal – and I don’t just mean bullets and blades, I’m talking about pulse charges and pheno-drones, too. But, when someone’s trying to take your life, you don’t think to yourself, “Maybe I should save something for next time,” `cause the truth is that there might not be a next time.
They still haven’t killed me.
And I’ve got the privilege of next time.
But next time? They might just kill me.
Welcome to the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE, you salty dogs!
Y’either know the drill or y’don’t. If y’do, just keep movin’ along! If y’don’t, well here’s what’s what: first I warm you up with some half-baked bit of writing nonsense (see above). Then, I share what I’ll be thinking about or watching or listening to or doing over the next week. Finally, you hit up the comments section and share your own tentative plans?
Why do we do this here at OL? Well, because life can be brutal but solidarity can be liberating. We’re all just trying to make our days manageable — or enjoyable or maybe even, in rare instances, triumphant — and sometimes a good suggestion goes a long way.
Enough blathering, let’s freakin’ dance!
Oh, Oh, Oh! Dancing in September! Welcome to Weekend Open Bar! And it’s a uniquely special one, at least on the annual tip. It’s the first Weekend Open Bar of my favorite time of year. Mother. Fucking. Fall. Though not officially penetrating the calendar until later this month, this weekend begins a maelstrom of miscellany during the upcoming week which officially signals it for yours truly. So I’m lighting the autumn candles, slipping into a hoodie, and wanking it to rotting leaves, spectral forms populating our general psyche, gridiron collisions, and blockbuster games dropping.
Here’s another trailer for the Jason Bateman-starring Netflix series, Ozark. I’m in! Additionally, I’m going to continue being trite and compare it to Breaking Bad. But! If I’m lazy, I’m also intending it in the best way possible.