It’s the Weekend! That can only mean one thing! Exerting a feigned since of self-autonomy through consumption and reproduction! The Man can’t hold us down! Not as long as we eat shitty food, buy shitty baubles, and consume shitty entertainment they engineer to distract us! Ha! Fuck you, The Man! And as a final, fleeting mechanism for self-actualization, we will gather here in the Weekend Open Bar.
And on the 22 of September 2014, I am writing this column. Monday Morning Commute. High on cough syrup, low on existence, I’m coming to you live from the Space-Ship Omega. Per par for the perpetual course, these are the niceties that are capturing my attention, imagination, and speculation during this week. Serving as a ship to hopefully sail me across the tempestuous work week waves.
OH GOD. How much stoic, brooding masculinity can you fit into one film? Winding Refn and Washington are going to try and find out. I hear the movie is just Denzel staring quietly into a mirror for two hours, fire in his eyes. Eventually the mirror begins to vibrate, then literally weep. It shatters. The movie ends.