The long-in-development adaptation of Ernie Cline’s Ready Player One finally has a release date.
Holy cannoli, down the rabbit hole we go. Steven Spielberg is directing Ready Player One, which was a coming of age novel based off of lavishly wanking it to (among other things) an era where…Steven Spielberg was directing wonderful…coming of age movies.
I think Ready Player One is deec. It cribs some concepts from better works (IMO~ OF COURSE) and uses them to jack off to the 1980’s. Which is cool. I imagine it was even cooler to those who valorize said decade. Does the novel need a sequel? I don’t know. Will I read it? Yes.
Ready Player One really isn’t that good of a book. (Though it’s enjoyable. Am I equivocating here? I guess.) However, it is a really enjoyable pastiche that pays homage to about 3,000 of my loves. So while I wasn’t blown away by the title, the content and the concept would certainly be awesome to see on the big screen. And Christopher Nolan directing it? Fuck yes. But I think this is more wishful thinking on WB’s part than anything else.
Hello friends. Nuzzle your bunghole close to the center of your leather seat here aboard the Mothership, and grab a beverage. This here is Monday Morning Commute, the therapy session where we all discuss the various arts, crafts, beverages, and bloat-inducing burgers that are helping us through this thing called Existence. Oh me? I’m just wallowing away here on break from work. My days have slide into nights, vampire weekends into a vampire existence. I’ve broken the noon wake-up call a couple of times, and my self-loathing is spiking. You’re all beautiful.
Well then! Nary three days have passed since our own Rendar was lavishing rope all over the bust and buns of Ready Player One when this news comes out. The author of the aforementioned jam is currently the hotness around The Town, and he has been afforded a ridiculous advance for his next endeavor. At, to be paid for writing. The concept, the concept alone.
“I shouldn’t’ve done this. She’s not safe by herself. We gotta go back.”
“Dammit Greg, we haven’t had a date-nite in thirteen weeks.”
“You’ve been keeping track?”
“Of course I’ve been keeping track. Date-nite is a sacred event, a testament to the wonder that is our relationship. There’s compromise – you choose the movie, I choose the restaurant. There’s chivalry – you hold every door and pay for everything, even when I protest. And there’s sex – we always end the evening by rolling around in bed, expressing our physical attraction by playing with each other’s ballsacks. We need this.”
Greg paused. He wanted to feel okay about leaving his mom at home, but he couldn’t. Dale saw this, and continued making his argument.
“Listen, your mother’s going to be fine. She’s just old, and sometimes that means she gets a little confused-”
“A little confused? Yesterday I poured myself a glass of a milk and she said that she never knew Martians could handle Earth-dairy.”
“I’m sure she was just joking around.”
“Oh yeah? Then why did she part the curtains, point out the window, and exclaim, ‘Looks like, we’ll be touching down on Ganymede in no time! Quick! Put on your spacesuit! If the admiral catches you out of it, he’ll stick you with kitchen-duty!’?”
Dale knew his boyfriend had a point. But couldn’t give up. Selfishly, he wanted dinner and a movie, followed by sex. More altruistically, he honestly didn’t think Greg’s mother was in any jeopardy.
“Greg, if I thought there a serious risk that Rhonda would hurt herself, I wouldn’t be in the car with you right now. But she’s fine — you put her to bed and watched her fall asleep. You know where she’s going to be when we get back? In bed, sleeping! Probably dreaming about traveling the solar system in a rocketship, but in bed nonetheless. We’ll check in to see her peacefully sleeping, sneak into the kitchen for a piece of that rum cake you spent all afternoon baking, and then hit the bedroom.”
Dale kissed Greg on the cheek, and all was well. Greg had been mollified. Date-nite was still ready for lift-off.
And then the panic-gazelles stampeded across the Great Plains of Greg’s face.
“Oh shit! Oh shit! Oh shit!”
“What’s the matter?”
“Fuck, we have to go back right now! Dale, turn the fucking car around!”
“Greg, calm down! What’s wrong?”
“I’m so stupid! I was so fucking caught up in putting Mom to bed that I forgot take the cake out! I forget to turn off the goddamn oven! D’ya know how much alcohol I put in that cake? The fucking house is going explode!”
Rhonda Bilkes crossed the threshold, excited for the mission at hand. She’d been to Ganymede to Mars and even Pluto. But never had she been tasked with surveying the Sun.
Oh, she could already feel the wonderful solar heat penetrating her spacesuit!
Welcome to the Monday Morning Commute!
This is the spot I drop a whole bunch of nonsense, and then show off the various ways I’ll be entertaining myself during the course of the workweek. Hey man, don’t blame me! I’m a hack-writer and I’ve got duties to fulfill! Anyways, your job is to hit up the comments section and share the methods of life-improvement you’ll be employing.
It’s show-and-tell for pop-culture addicts, basement-dwelling-nerds, aspiring artists, and all others who count themselves amongst the OL faithful.