Welcome to Monday Morning Commute, fellow swine! Oh shit, you didn’t mean to stop here? Then carry on! You’re not swine. You’re just useless! Ha! Ingest my Hate-Gravy! Ah fuck, rambling again. Anyways – yeah – MMC. The column where we share the various things we’re looking forward to/enjoying/masturbating at/dreading/thinking about during a given week. Simple? Right? First you glance at my insipid list, then you share your own tasty morsels.
The Pie-Eyed former-bibliophile was flabbergasted, which was new for him. Drunk? Awkward? Socially maladjusted? Oh, he was plenty comfortable with these. But in this moment, he was straight-up flabbergasted.
“Goddamn boy, what’re you lookin’ so flabbergasted for?”
“‘Cause you says,” a youthful forehead was slapped by its own palm, “youhadda shackkup with a witch. A witch?!”
Absalom bellowed, “Oh yes! There’s no two ways about it, Susy’s a witch! Hell, she has to be the witchiest witch I’ve ever come across in my time!”
“You mean with a cauldron and potions and brum-stick and all?”
“Well, not exactly.”
Pie-Eyed was making the most of his ever-dwindling faculties to figure out what the hell Absalom meant. He lifted his drink to his lips, hesitated for a moment, and then drained the entire thing. “Wait! Wait! Did she have magical powers?!”
“Yes and no.” Absalom chucked to himself. “I mean, we can get into all sorts of discussions about ‘magic’ and of what it is composed. Access to supernatural realms? ‘Any sufficiently advanced technology,’ is that it? The ability to astound, to create scenarios that push the limits of imagination? Artistry? The ability to realize to turn an idea into a tangible product? Do any, or all, of these constitute magic?”
“So we’re coastin’ on fumes, and I swear to the Maker that we sputter to a stop right in Susy’s driveway! No damn brakes or nothin’! The jalopy croaks right in the driveway.”
“It, it,” Pie-Eyed paused to burp, but continued, “it was kismet?”
“It sure seemed like it at the time.” Absalom sratched his grey-goin’-white stubble and flagged down the bartender in the hopes of getting some peanuts. “There we were, a carful of over-eager youths, sweatin’ testosterone and hankerin’ booze. And what was before us? A cabin that looks more like a palace, set woods that look more like a national park, with bonfires lightin’ up a keg-party that looks more like Saturnalia!”
“Betcha couldn’t wait to get outtathat car!”
“I’d take that bet – I stayed right where I was, didn’t unbuckle or nothin’.”
Once again, Pie-Eyed was flabbergasted.
“I know what you’re thinkin.’” Absalom swooped in with a preemptive strike. “How could I sit in the car with the prospect of inebriation and fornication mere yards before me? Well, I’ll tell ya,” the old-timer took a rip of Pepsi. “It’s `cause I knew about Susy’s reputation. I’d never met her before, but we ran in the same circles. And the word was that she was a goddamn man-eater. A seductress. A master of cardiac-vivisection. After I’d made the call to see if we could crash at her place, I told my crew that I’d be sleepin’ in the car and encouraged to do the same.”
“They lissen toya?”
“Hell no! The car’d barely come to a rest when those monkey-brains were already runnin’ towards the coeds, practically unzippin’ their flies as they went.”
Absalom Fabliaux, ever the consummate gentleman, slid the bowl of peanuts to the Pie-Eyed intern. When a passerby attempted to filch a peanut, Señor Fabliaux grabbed the interloper by the collar, growled that the “Yuppie Scumsucker better drop my friend’s nut,” and then dispatched him with a firm shove.
Pie-Eyed was grateful.
“So, wuddya wake up inna morning? Allyur friends hanged over and witthur pants down?”
“I wish. At about three in the mornin’ I wake up to find my buddy Urie frantically bangin’ on the window, screamin’ for help.”
“To quote Urie: ‘You’re right, Susy’s a witch – she’s turned our friends into fucking pigs!’”
Welcome to the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE!
I’m going to show you some of the ways I’ll be keepin’ myself entertained over the next few days. Then, you (as an ever-faithful contributor to the Spaceship OL passenger-community), will hit up the comments section and do the same. Before all’s said and done, we’ll have had a nice round of digital show’n’tell.
Break the glass and grab your Emergency Word-Weapon!
With a fresh Pepsi in hand, Absalom took a deep breath and began his tale.
“We’d been tryin’ to get home for ages, and we were all in rough shape. Beat-up. Hungover. Outta gas. And hungry, to boot! There wasn’t no way we’d be able to travel through the night. So I had to call in a favor to woman I’d’ve rather not ever seen again.”
“Waitta second,” interjected the Pie-Eyed intern, sole audience member of this performance, “whereyou says you comed from? Why’s you away inna furs-place?”
“Ah, yes. It’s a long story. But in short, this guy I knew – friend-of-a-friend sort of thing – was all sorts of salty `bout his ex-girlfriend bein’ with another man. So, he assembled a crew to travel `cross a bunch of states and win her back. With nothin’ to do but sit around drinkin’ beers and readin’ science fiction, I volunteered for what I’d assumed would be a grand adventure.”
“You’re goddamned right it was! I don’t think I’ll ever see nothin’ more glorious than a midnight fist-fight in a donut shop – everything blurrin’ together in a wash of neon light and black coffee and red blood!”
Absalom seized a moment to swish cola across his gums and crack his knuckles, like hitting the reset button on a broken-bodied Storyteller Machine. He flagged down the bartender and re-upped Pie-Eyed’s drink.
“Phanks man, but I dunno if I needa ‘nother.”
“Kid, it ain’t `bout need! Hell, ain’t no needs bein’ met in this entire bar! This place is `bout the Tapioca Populace foolin’ themselves into believin’ that they can even conjure up the notion of danger or excitement or novelty! So drink your drink!”
Pie-Eyed obeyed and Absalom continued.
“So anyways, after spillin’ teeth in the donut shop we attracted some attention, so we had to scram. Hightailin’ it out, we got ourselves into all sorts of trouble. Drinkin’ and fornicatin’ and fightin’. Glorious! But before y’knew it, a three-day drive had mutated into two weeks. Two goddamn weeks.”
“Thazz,” Pie-Eyed slurred and sipped and slurred, “thazz crazy. Whattya do?”
“Well, with the gas-gauge on E, the backseat-keg on its last pint, and the paper absent from our wallets, I decided to rely on the generosity of Susy.”
“Susy,” Absalom paused to take a rip of Pepsi and stare into the middle distance, “Susy’s a goddamn witch.”
Come one, come all! This here’s the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE! What’s that, you ask? Well, once a week Spaceship OL has to touch down on a nearby moon or satellite-weigh station for refueling purposes. During this time, I share the upcoming itinerary with the crew, detailing the means by which I’ll be navigating our rusty pop-culture mind-vessel through the Omniverse. After sharing my plans, the floor is opened up and everyone is encouraged to share their prospective space-maps.
In other words, we nerd out about the various ways we’ll be entertaining ourselves.
Let’s do the damn thing!
Fred was certain that everything’d gone according to plan.
Sure, it was only the third time he’d been called upon to complete the procedure. But why should he worry? It was the first thing they’d taught him at the Neural Corps Academy, a matter of routine that even those struggling with the coursework could exact if necessary. And he wasn’t no goddamn wash-out, he was quick to remind himself while taking a deep whiff of the checkered material.
He was Fred DeCoup. First, a child prodigy. Then, the star student-cum-valedictorian. And at twenty-two, the youngest cadet awarded the position of Reprogrammer General .
Needless to say, Fred was more than a bit startled when the subject woke up screaming. Typically, subjects’ reentries into consciousness are marked by outward expressions of tranquility, sometimes even gratitude. But when XT-203 came to, he was writhing with hatred and spitting vitriol.
“You piece of shit! You raped me! I remember everything! Release these clamps so I can tear out your throat!”
Fred DeCoup dropped XT-203’s boxer shorts from under his nose. He froze. He knew that everything hadn’t gone according to plan, that he’d made an error of the most egregious sort.
In his perverted ecstasy, Fred had forgotten the most important rule: always run a mind-wipe.
Welcome to the Monday Morning Commute! This is the weekly call-to-arms for all aboard Spaceship OL — crew and passengers alike — to discuss the various ways we’ll combat the Boredom Bastards! Rumor has that a few of these fun-suckers’ve been spotted in the very sector we’re headed towards this week, so we need to make sure that everyone’s armed and ready to face `em!
Murder your familial responsibility with movies. Crush your manager’s halitosis with comics. Piledrive your self-doubt with pizza.
I’ll get us started, but you hafta join me in the comments section.
Let’s do this!
Yeah, total rip-off of the Far Cry 3: Blood Dragon premise for the article title. I can’t help it. That game has my tits a-twitter in ways that are normally relegated to the seedier portions of my tumblr dashboard. How are you doing this Monday? I am well, thank you for asking. Here on April the 8, it is going to climb to nearly sixty degrees in my neck of the Empire. That warmed clime is itself enough to make me smile. This is Monday Morning Commute, and herein are the things on my mind this week. Arts, farts, et cetera.
SyFy, Ridley Scott, and Frank Spotnitz are adapting PKD’s novel Man in the High Castle for TV. Said book is glorious alt-history, wrapped around mind-bending ideas about reality. Which, I suppose is a bit obvious given the author. What do you PKD fans think? Me? Color in the circle that says “Caff-Pow has no idea how to feel about this.”
There are more Philip K. Dick adaptations coming! Oh golly. If they can pull off a The Man in The High Castle flick with great justice, you’re going to feel my fluids flowing from wherever you are. Having only read it for the first time last year, the sumbitch is still fresh in my head. Still getting my pistons pumping, if you will.
In 1992 Dave Mustaine welcomed us to tomorrow. To be fair, this presentiment was most likely the product of combining hours of guitar-slingin’ with label deadlines and, of course, heroin. But the man wasn’t wrong. By the end of the 1990s, the world would be altered irrevocably, requiring us to adapt or perish.
A new Allegory of the Cave called The Matrix bullet-timed its way into our collective consciousness, reminding us that its of the utmost importance to wonder about the very nature of reality. The Internet skulked into our homes, providin’ us with unprecedented access to democracy and porn and free/stolen/whatever music. And then Star Wars fucking died.
Look around. Grandpa’s got a Bluetooth in his head, the teens use Twitter to goad one another into suicide, and SkyNet has invented a self-driving car in the hopes of obliterating human agency. So how do we survive the hustle in bustle of the post-cybernetic revolution?
We talk about the shit that makes us happy! Welcome to the Monday Morning Commute! This is the spot where I show you how I’ll be entertaining myself into the weekend. Your task is to hit up the comments section and share the wares you’ll be using. It’s really just show-and-tell with typing, but aren’t we all pretty much children these days anyways.
The official trailer for the new Total Recall dropped today during one of them basketball-games-things, and I don’t give a shit. I think it looks fucking radical, yo. Hit the jump, check it out, let me know what you think.
Maybe it’s the medication kicking in with its midday efficacy, but I’m digging this Total Recall teaser. Or maybe its just that I am a total floozy for anything futuristic or even quasi cyberpunk. I love the original, but if this can distance itself enough from Arnold On Mars while offering up its own futuristic swag, I’m down. Maybe.