Man, speaking of fucking shows I need to catch-up on. The Goddamn Content Deluge is real, it’s never ending, and it cannot be conquered.
I’m behind on Silicon Valley to the tune of one season, so I don’t really have much to offer in the way of comment. That said, here, enjoy it!
I’m so bad about actually posting original content these days. Staggering even my MMCs and my Weekend Open Bars. Mea culpa, mea lazy, mea mea, something something! But I’m opening the bar! Goddamn Saturday night! But I’m opening the bar! Goddamn last, ain’t no one gonna come! You reap what you sow! Which is why I have terrible gas, a shitty beard, and low audience participation!
I hope you’ll saddle up to the bar! Though it be late, opened. I hope you’re share what you’re up to across the rest of the weekend! Though it be late, my inquiry.
Tuesday Afternoon Commute! I’m a day late. I’ve spent the last few days in a Theraflu haze. Thanks to my wife for bringing a death-flu back from the last conference she worked. Thanks to my wife for giving me the house I live in though, I suppose, I admit, begrudgingly, with her wonderful private sector job. A give and take, in life. A give and take, in existence.
What can you do? What can you do? What can you do? A little, or a lot. A lot, or a little. It all depends, it all depends.
What can I do? Well, I’m going to list the shit that I’m up to this week, that’s capturing my attention this week, that I’m sweating this week. Then I hope you do in the same in the comments section.
Feel like every time I pen one of these, my wife is out on business. But that’s what you got to do, when you make the big bucks in the family. Feel like every time I pen one of these, and my wife is out on business, I’m about to order pizza. But that’s what you got to do, when you’re a fat kid masquerading in a chubby kid’s body, and you refuse to cook for yourself. Feel like every time I pen one of these, I’m just winging it. But that’s what you go to do, when you’re exhausted from teaching and then tutoring for six hours straight, and you ain’t ate until eight or maybe even late(r).
This show is fucking fantastic. The trailer for this show’s third season is fucking fantastic. Fucking fantastic is fucking fantastic! Has anyone seen my apron? My dog is barking.
Goddamn, I fucking *love* Silicon Valley.
HBO has revealed the Drop Date for their beefy trifecta of programming that usually carries us through the Spring and into the Summer. April 24!
Roberta knew falling in love with Clauius, the thick-poled Cyborg was a mistake. He could see Infinity, perceive The All. His pistons would (practically) never age. His psyche could only expand. But still. Those eyes. That class. And don’t get me wrong. Clauius knew that falling in love with Roberta was a gamble only a foolish Flesh-Sack would make. She would age. Certainly, he was not immune to Entropy. But by the Circuitry Above, he could practically watch her decay happen in real-time. And when he sped up his relativistic perceptions, he did. But those eyes. And that brain. And so fell they love. Her programming and his programming (programmed by her programming) too much to overcome. For a moment, they will Find a Way. And for a moment we all Find a Way. There be romance, and mundanity, and hurt, and humping, and a cadre of other experiences. Most of them banal, some of them transcendent.
This is Monday Morning Commute | The arts, farts, blips, and blops that I look forward to during a given week. Share what you’re looking toward to. Join the community. Share your highlights, your misery.
Fucking crap day, here. Just busy. Really fucking busy, and ineffective. My class smells blood, knowing the end of the semester is upon them next week. Today this led to a case of The Mondays in class writ large. A disaffection that was equalled in enormity only by the disruptiveness with which it manifested itself. In other words, no one gave a fuck, and everyone was talking. So class was going shit, and then during our mid-class break it became known to me through a squabble of error messages and beeping that the copier was. In fact. Fucking broken. In other words, I wasn’t able to make a copy of (what should have been) tonight’s reading. So what am I doing tomorrow? Fuck if I know. Today was the first day (and this is probably actually a good sign) in my 3+ years of teaching where I openly asked myself, “What the fuck am I doing wasting my time with this?” A shuddering, unrelenting tidal wave of bile-duct refuse and existential despair washed over me. And for it I have no answers, other than to hope it ebbs as well as flows. I’m sure it does.