Monday Morning Commute: Climbin’ Aboard, Slingin’ My Words

Holy smokes.

It’s been a long goddamn while, but I’ve finally managed to find my way back to Spaceship OL. What’s been keepin’ me? Why’s Caff-Pow been forced to man the wheel without my navigational assistance? Well, we were pushing the `ole Nerd-Bird through some specially turbulent space-waters and I went to check on the chimp cages. In the process, I fell overboard.

Yes, I’d been drinkin’.

Anyways, I ended up getting sucked into an Ennui Vortex and was propelled beyond my control through some of the vilest scenarios of my entire existence. There were Responsibility Phantoms and Work Monsters and Accountability Ghouls. Hell, at one point I floated through a strait that saw the Stress-Scylla on one side and the Overtime-Charybdis on the other.

It was terrible!

But lo! and behold! I survived! Here I am! The one and only Rendar Frankenstein, hack-writer extraordinaire, in the digital-flesh! And you’d better believe I’m here for some haphazard word-slingin’! So let’s shuffle off the stains of yesterday and strap on our immortal foils! After all, this is the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE, the spot for sharing ideas about actualizing spiritual potential! How do we survive the onslaught of everyday malaise?

First, I’m goin’ to run you through some of the keys I’m using to unlock my mind. Then, you hit up the comments section and share the strategies you’ll be using to break open your idea-doors!

C’mon!

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I’ve Been Injectin’ Pure Heroine

Lorde’s full-length debut is absolutely everything I want in a pop-album. In just under forty minutes, the listener is taken through ten catchy-as-hell tracks, proving that Quality always uppercuts Quantity into a doo-doo stupor. Although it’s obvious on the first listen that the tunes are infectious and danceable, the layered production rewards those who’re interested in making the most of the replay value. Moreover, it also doesn’t hurt that Lorde’s lyrics wonderfully balanced — a bit deeper than the kiddie-pool material dominating the radio-waves, but hardly requiring the scuba gear that the avant-guardians don with pride.

Pure Heroine is the real deal.

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Fat Man on Batman has rekindled my appreciation for Kevin Smith.

My love for Kevin Smith has certainly ebbed and flowed through the years.

As a nerd coming of age in the late 1990s, the Jersey Trilogy transformed my perspective. Sure, I probably shouldn’t have been watching those movies, but I had wonderfully irresponsible parents. Also, Caff-Pow is four years older than I am, so he was always hookin’ up a younger bro with hardcore shit. By the time Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back came out Kevin Smith’s films had guided my formative mind through some of the stuff I currently consider most important.

Existential crises. Fandom. Religion. Drug Use. Sexuality. Romance. Bromance. Metafiction.

But then our tryst came to a halt. Now, I never considered myself amongst the horde of folks who seem to love hating Kevin Smith. I haven’t loved everything he’s done, but I’ve always appreciated his attempts. And even when his movies weren’t dazzling me, I still saw him as an entertaining figure. But truth be told, I sort of stopped following him.

Then Red State happened. I can’t speak highly enough of this film. Not only did Kevin Smith prove that he’s still a capable filmmaker, he did it with a movie that is a complete departure from anything he’s ever attempted. Bad ass.

Anyways, I’ve been spending some time diggin’ through the archives of Smith’s Fat Man on Batman, a podcast dedicated to discussions about the Dark Knight. Smith does a great job of nerdin’ out about Batman, reminding listeners that at the end of the day he’s just a fanboy who got the right breaks. Moreover, the podcast excels in covering all incarnations of the Caped Crusader, from the Adam West days to the animated series, the comics of yesteryear as well as present, and the works of Burton and Schumaker and Nolan. Additionally, there’ve been some pretty awesome guests, with my personal favorite being the transdimensional overlord known as Grant Morrison.

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Jump-startin’ my consciousness (and gettin’ delusional) with Cranberry Red Bull.

I’m still feelin’  the effects of that Ennui Vortex. As such, I’m been routinely takin’ the medicine that Dr. Ernest Sloppants prescribed me. It’s called Cranberry Red Bull, and it’s either giving me wings or auditory hallucinations.

DIDJA HEAR THAT? WHAT? YEAH, THAT!

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Re-re-re-reading The Catcher in the Rye for the one-thousandth time. Anyone know where I can find a Beatle?

“I was crazy about The Great Gatsby. Old Gatsby. Old sport. That killed me. Anyway, I’m sort of glad they’ve got the atomic bomb invented. If there’s ever another war, I’m going to sit right the hell on top of it. I’ll volunteer for it, I swear to God I will.”

Goddamn Holden.

I love him.

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So that’s my week — pop music and Batman podcasts and energy drinks and the quintessential teenage American breakdown.

What’re you doin’ this week?