It ’tis I, the booty hunter! You know me! The man who can stare at gifs of butts on Tumblr for hours, but is always late with Monday Morning Commute. Listen! Listen. Booty hunting is a complicated profession. But more than that, it is gloriously passive. Way easier to watch ’em giggle than to pen something. Even slop! Even slop such as this, I know.
But! The booty hunter has arrived, and I’ve got with me my weekly satchel of sacred distractions that are getting me through the week. And oh, fuck, do I hate the weeks lately. Dark as fuck. Cold as fuck. I want to bury myself in blankets and caloric excess and wait for Spring. But, I can’t yield just yet. I mean, we got a significant amount of fucking months to go, and I can’t throw in the towel.
So this here is Monday Morning Commute! And the forthcoming are what I’m enjoying or looking forward to this week! I hope you’ll share your own satchel of sacred distractions in the comments section!
I must admit, I’m going to be quick! Dinner is on the way, and The Mandalorian awaits me. If I can punch this out prior to Mr. Door Dash arriving, I’ll be ecstatic.
Oh, fuck! It’s the Weekend. Oh, fuck! It’s the Weekend Open Bar! Oh, fuck! My wife told me I only have ten minutes to Open the Bar. And, and, and, you know. Between fiddling with the volume control on my speakers, messaging a couple of friends, and, you know. Do you know? ‘Cause I don’t. Where the fuck is the time going? Oh, fuck! Time, it bleeds, life it bleeds, the universe it slowly, slowly bleeds out. Us, it, none of us truly conscious of it! Stay focused though, man! There ain’t time for your usual existential blatherings.
This is Weekend Open Bar!
The cure-all, catch-all weekly column at the end of the work week! Where I, your Captain and Local Garbage Lord, implore you to come and hang out! Share what you’re eating, watching, watching while eating, playing, et cetera. So on. So forth.
Get high, get drunk, get hard, get soft, whatever, whatever, whatever! It’s all good here. So long as you don your most welcoming and affable of affectations and share what you’re up to this weekend. Shoot the shit, if you will.
This is Weekend Open Bar!
I suppose, invariably, writing Monday Morning Commute on an actual Monday evening will find me: tired, stank-ass from the gym, palming my eye sockets attempting to figure out what to say. So, invariably, here we are. Here I am. Stank ass. Tired. Palming my eye sockets, praying to the Elder Ones to provide Divination. I’m tired, you’re tired. I’m somewhat fulfilled, in a somewhat fulfilling job, that compensates for its fulfillment by being tenuously existent from semester to semester, and perpetually stressful about said existence. But as the French Philosopher CaffPow once said, “C’est la adjunct life or some shit.” He said that. I said that. I hope you’re feeling at least as fulfilled as me, minus the stress, the perpetual scrotum-shrinking stress of contemplating the harrowing, horrifying prospects of what Next Semester Will Bring, less than a week into This Semester.
Fuck, fuck me, I’ve gotten myself off one of them Old Tangents. They used to be about how I beat my meat inconsolably to gifs of Katy Perry or some shit. Many moons ago. Now they’re just another tepid meat-case lamenting its tepidity whilst stuck in said meat-case, completely ignoring how Goddamn Good the meat-case has it Relative To So Much Of The World.
But, uh, buddy. Buddies. How are you folk-fuckers doing? What are you up to this week? Watching anything dope? What are you sweating? Anticipating playing anything dope? Sharing the answers to said questions is not cheating, folk-fuckers. No, in fact, it’s encouraged in this post here’s comments section. One could even say it’s the fucking raison d’être (the phrase popped into my head but truthfully I had to Google it to confirm it actually was a phrase) of this entire column. Generating a self-sustaining Community Bubble wherein we can share what we’re STOKED and JACKED for during a given week.
Me, this little ole devil? I’ll go first.
Hope to see you in the comments section! Folk-fuckers!
Last Friday evening my family and I gathered for a bit of delicious ass (and if you’re confused, ass is delicious) Mexican food to celebrate my birthday. As my brother left, he told us all to “enjoy the last two weekends in America” — a resonant, if not hyperbolic statement. That leaves us, friends, on the precipice of the Last Weekend In America — a resonant, if not hyperbolic statement.
In a country that seems to be unspooling (on both sides of the political spectrum, mind you, I choose no side in this fusillade of suck), what is there to do?
Why, spend some time with you folks at the Weekend Open Bar.
Gather round, folks. The Vampires at the Throat at here, have been here. But as they drink from us, let us drink together. There is Nowhere to go, so let’s go to Nowhere together.
It’s Monday. My wife is away. I’m covered in calzone grease, and snot from the jalapenos in said calzone that have my nose running. I’m tired. The dog won’t stop barking. I’m tired. But Spring Break is soon! My wife will be home eventually. This too will pass. This life too will pass. This universe too will pass. What can you do? Eh. And I mean. Plus! plus, I got these various things that I’m enjoying/looking forward to/thinking about/et cetera.
This is Monday Morning Commute.
What are you up to this week?
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!
There’s no denyin’ that some creators are only interested in treadin’ water.
Once a successful formula has been stumbled upon – whether it’s a character arc, chord progression, or secret ingredient – it’s relied upon indefinitely. To some minds, there’s simply nothing wrong with rehashin’ the same material over and over and over again. In fact, some creators suggest that to stray too far from the tried and true is to do a great disservice, that the fans’re expectin’ something that resembles the work with which they originally fell in love.
These sorts of creative types grow like weeds in the comic book community. Think of how many careers have been made on the backs of characters created in previous decades. Again, some culpability may rest in the readership, which devours comics more for its comfort-food properties than its potential for innovation. But at the root of this issue is that there’s no shortage of creators who only want to relive past glories.
Fortunately, there’s always Warren Ellis.
Warren Ellis has the reputation of being a mind-pilot who of self-navigates the course of his own career. In addition to penning some of the most aspirational pieces in the comics medium (Planetary is just one example) and presaging scientific innovation (Spider Jerusalem was rockin’ Google Glass back in `97), Ellis has always made a point to explore other media forms. Most notably, Ellis has followed paths that have led to essays, novels, and television projects.
With this week’s release of Dead Pig Collector, Warren Ellis has given zero fucks unrelated to forward-thinking.
This is Monday Morning Commute.
It’s been one of those interminable Mondays. The sort that strike during the deadness of winter, challenging me not to stick the gas pump up my ass while singing falsetto at everyone staring at me. The dumb, dank, dirty snow. The middle-finger flipping ashen sky. One of those Mondays when I have to write this little column, and unfortunately all I can muster is, “man, I’m pretty much not excited about anything.” Everything is dirty underneath my bitter little gums today. Here is a list of begrudgingly rustled things that I’m kind of, sort of, enjoying.