hawaii | sachiko

The summer drags on, man.

As I predicted a bit ago, I knew I was going to find myself melancholic as I found myself stranded in the liminal state between Summer Teaching and Fall Teaching. At first it was great. Sleeping in late. No lesson planning. Rocking shorts every day! Shorts, every day! Then the tedium set in.

My wife went away today, she’s going to be away, for something like thirteen out of sixteen days. At first it was great. I’ve jacked off fourteen times, walked the dog twice, crushed nineteen Diet Dew, and marveled at what freedom I have. Then the tedium set in.

The summer drags on, man.

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untitled | christopher zelaya

We can dance if you want to!

We can leave the Material Realm behind! ‘

Cause your connection to the Linear Tangible Time-Cord is weak and if it’s weak, well, let’s leave this Plane behind!

What’s up, you fucking degenerates! Oh, don’t take offense. We’re all degenerating into worm-food, into former-human, entrapped by failing meat-cases.

So we might as well dance.

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Come one, come all.

It’s Hot as Fuck along the Northeastern seaboard of the Empire. Our West Coast comrades seem to be dealing with their own Raging Fires and Non-Moisture. And the Midwest? The Rest of the Earth? I don’t know, but I imagine there are Failings and Fantastic Findings there as well.

Come one, come all.

To the Weekend Open Bar. Soothe your scorched Existence with a cold ale, a back rub that lingers perhaps a bit too long from yours truly, and some good old fashion Shooting of the Shit with fellow kind pop culture kindred. Let’s hang out across the next couple of days, sharing what we’re doing to enjoy Life.

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rayguns | eugenia loli

Okay, okay, okay, okay, okay, okay! I’m here, I’m here, I’m here, I’m here, I’m here, I’m here! Would you believe, would you somehow believe, that I didn’t get around to this column until today, Tuesday, because my wife and I had to go out to eat with a financial advisor last night? What life am I living? Who am I? Am I child-man in semen-crusted Star Wars shirts that dreams of being a man-child, or a man-child in dress pants who dreams of being a child-man in semen-crusted Star Wars shirts? The answer, of course, is that I am both. And the cognitive dissonance that arises from containing both entities in the Multitudes that Compromises Me (and Us all) sometimes gives me a nosebleed. Well, I’m getting the nosebleed from that, or the hundreds upon hundreds of milligrams of caffeine I ingest every day. One of those. Maybe both of those.

But I’m here now. But it’s Monday Morning Commute now. So here’s the deal now, Comrades. I’m about to fire off everything I’m enjoying this week, anticipating this week, looking forward to this week. Then you’re going to do me a solid!, a fucking solid!, and share your own list in the comments section.

Let’s be man-children posing as children-men posing as man-children together.

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降雨kōu-sjø-1990

Finally, the Bar is back! Finally, the Bar is Open! Where have I been? Where have you been? A blinking cursor staring at an unclicking keyboard, attempting to nudge an illusory mousepad. Right? Right! Right? Right! I think, if the synapses are firing correctly, and oh god are they never firing correctly anymore, that this is my second week off from the (welcomed) grind of summer teaching. I’ve been filling my (non)free hours with posting dumb memes on OL’s Facebook page, tutoring students on campus, eating too little, conversely at times eating far too much, and occasionally playing Rise of the Tomb Raider and Borderlands 2.

Oh. And oh! Oh. And oh!! Oh. And oh!!! I’ve also been obsessing over Stranger Things which really should be called Boner Things or perhaps more accurately An Array of Things In The Guise of a Television Show That Give Me A Boner. Not sure why they didn’t go with that title, but I suppose one’s flaws serve only to point out their perfections. Or, in my case, to keep me from getting laid the first twenty-five years of my life and suffer through wearing an uncomfortable though familiar shawl of self-doubt and insecurities. But we can talk about that more! Later! Oh, where, when, later?

How about here, in the comments section, of Weekend Open Bar!

The weekly column where I encourage those of you kind enough, brave enough, pitying enough, lonely enough, horny enough, strong enough, gassy enough, brash enough to share what you’re up to during a given weekend.

Share what you’re eating. Share what you’re watching. Share what you’re playing. Fuck it, tell me what’s giving you a boner. I don’t care! We’re all friends! We’re all family! You’re all getting a toenail and a used pair of underwear of mine when I die, so fuck, you know you’re close to me.

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Well, you had one fucking job, Suicide Squad. One fucking job. A small job, a large job, I’m no sure. But a job none the less. Save my summer blockbuster experience. But reviews are coming in, and if they aren’t calling the film a raging dumpster fire (which, by the way, they are), they’re definitely condemning it as more raw-ass DCU detritus. Detritus for the fanboys to gorge themselves on, chins coated in calamitous slop, decrying the critics and their harsh reviewers. Detritus for the critics to sharpen their polemical swords upon, their polemical broadsides upon, swinging said weaponry at low-hanging fecaltainment.

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It hit me after I died for the 4th time to Super Mutants during one quest.  There is no way this character could align with anyone but the Brotherhood of Steel.  It just didn’t make sense.  Sure, they are xenophobes.  Sure, they are warmongers. However, this wasteland is so brutal and so unforgiving on Survival mode. I realized that someone who really went through this much struggle and hardship to find their child, they would not accept the synths. USURPERS really.
The Railroad does nothing to address Super Mutants. The Institute is actively trying to replace the human race! The Minutemen are good natured, but they aren’t willing to go the extra mile to do what is necessary.

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I started this series doing some serious base building. I could feel I was getting behind the games power curve so I was looking for some quick XP. I did nothing but build up 4 settlements, set up supply lines and try to get a steady supply of food and water as the next few quests were pretty far south and I knew all that running meant I would need to have supplies.

After I left the safety of my settlements I proceeded to die. A lot. One shot by a radscorpion. Two shot by a ghoul I didn’t see. One shot by a mine. One shot by a stray grenade that was thrown while I was in VATS and immediately blew up when I exited. Beat to death by a baseball bat weilding raider. The list goes on. Between level 10 and 20 I was beatdown and humbled many times over. At one point, I really did want to quit.

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Monday Morning Commute! On a Monday Evening! Truthfully, this tardiness is, relativistically speaking, pretty good compared to my usual antics. In fact, this column would have slithered out of my mind-hole earlier had the words come to me. Sometimes the Muses toss lightning bolts up your ass, and you feel Empowered. Emboldened. Surfing The Edge. Sometimes the Muses retreat to a 7-Eleven bathroom to trib with faeries and knaves and satyrs. Coating themselves in the slickening sugary confections we pass off as food, writhing in wrappers and detritus, orgasming in supplication to the Eternal Engine which neither Cares nor Notices us.

Today? For me? The Muses are fucking around with the fucking faeries in the fucking bathroom.  But still, I persist. But still, I exist. Put that on a Hallmark card and staple it onto my forehead, I know it’s fucking lame.

Today? For me? I’m going to write this column anyways. Even though the Muses ain’t here. I’m going to tell you everything I’m excited about this week. Even though the Muses ain’t here. I’m going to ask you to join me, vapid, broken, banal me, in the comments section, letting me know what you are excited for this week. Even though the Muses ain’t here.

Well? Shall we?

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Yesterday, I finished the last day of the summer class that I teach at UMass Boston. I am celebrating as only I, CaffDouche, can. Which is to say I’m currently eating Chez-Its, sipping directly from a 2 Liter of Pepsi Max, and playing Rise of the Tomb Raider after a long, under-caffeinated day. It’s a gratifying sensation to know that I’m done lesson planning (but not done working, this prole sallies forth like most others) for the summer. Six-weeks of being able to just beat that meat and game that game and read that comic without having to withdraw into pedagogical tomfoolery. But it’s also a bit melancholic, as six-weeks starts off sounding wonderful and slowly metamorphosizes into feeling interminable. These days, it feels culturally anathema to say you like your job. I do, though. Guilty. It’s rewarding, challenging, stimulating, and as dynamic as it gets.

I must not cop to that, though.

I’ll be ousted.

From my Millennial Generation, where self-loathing memes, anxiety, and a general pall seem to engulf the various news-feeds anyone internet-addicted and my age frequent.

Certainly, I understand the occasional bout of despair. The Earth is melting, when it’s not busy devolving into a rotting garbage heap. The United States’ election is being decided between a Crook and a Despot. We’re still not on Mars, we’re still fighting over oil and Sky People. So. Yeah. Certainly, I understand the occasional bout of despair.

But it’s exhausting man! And I won’t stand for it. Not today! Today, being the first day of my six-week break from wearing pants (I’ll be wearing shorts, but fuck pants until September 6). Not today! Being Saturday, the first day of my glorious weekend. Not today! Why, instead of leaning into the perpetual pall of misery and malaise, we could all embrace the glory of Weekend Open Bar!

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