#Slop Culture
Quentin Tarantino is suing Gawker for pimping ‘THE HATEFUL EIGHT’ script
My inconsistency is demanded by the chemistry of my neurological processes. I promise. ‘Cause last week I thought it was ludicrous that Tarantino was shelving an entire film because the script leaked. Now I’m completely on board this week when news drops that the auteur (yeah, I said it!) is suing Gawker.
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Monday Morning Commute: A Most Glorious Death.
“Oh, I can’t possibly imagine that you’d consort with pigs,” chided Thelma the Bartender as she brought over two bottles and two shot glasses.
Over the months that saw Absalom writing at this bar, he’d grown fond of Thelma. She was busty and acerbic and two tax brackets below most of the clientele. More importantly, she was most attentive to Absalom, having memorized his preferred drink-sequence.
Serving the public ain’t easy, and doin’ it well is damn-near impossible.
“Thelma, goddess of libation that you are, how many times do I have to warn you against eavesdroppin’? It’s not becomin’ of a woman like you. If you want to experience a life-changin’ conversation, you mustn’t resort to NSA tactics,” Absalom gave a shot-in-the-dark wink that defied his age, “just ask me out to dinner.”
“Oh yes, ‘dinner,’ that lovely euphemism for those too cowardly to just come out ask for it. Sex. Even if it were my greatest desire to bed you – and believe me, it isn’t – I simply wouldn’t be able to go through with it.”
“And why not?”
“Are you serious?” Following Absalom’s implicit instructions, Thelma set down the two shot glasses. One for a formely-respected, now lying-in-the-gutter-but-lookin’-through-the-smog-hopin’-to-see-a-star Writer. The other for a stoned-on-booze-and-slowly-realizin’-that-my-careerist-aspirations-will-never-get-me-high-off-life Intern. Between them, she placed a bottle of bourbon.
And for Absalom, a fresh bottle of Pepsi.
“By the gods, of course I’m serious! Why wouldn’t you bed me?”
“Mr. Fabliaux-”
“It’s Señor Fabliaux, Thelma, and you know it!”
“Whatever! Even if I wanted to sleep with you, I wouldn’t. And the reason? Your ever-deteriorating old-man body couldn’t handle it! Having sex with me would literally kill you.”
“Ah, but it’d be a most glorious death.”
—-
Welcome to the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE! First, I give ya’ll a bit of fiction to get the mind warmed up! Then, I run through some of the ways I’ll be entertaining myself over the course of the workweek. After I’ve tired myself out, you hit up the comments section and share your strategies for fending off the Beasts of Boredom!
Yes, it’s basically the Spaceship OL way station.
Okay, let’s rock!
Monday Morning Commute: facekick the workweek
Goddamn!
Well, we’re back in the workweek, which means that spirits’re bound to be low. How why shouldn’t they be? There’re matters which need attending! There’re bosses lookin’ over our shoulders! Hell, there might even times that things have to be done by!
The horror!
Luckily, this here’s the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE! First, I’m goin’ to detail some of the small pleasures that’ll keep me from turning my bathtub and toaster into a fatal 2-in-1 combo. Then, you hit up the comments section and share your own entertainment strategies for survival. Finally, we all reply to one another, making for a totally geektastic show-and-tell.
Work sucks, life rules, let’s do this.
Shia LaDouche TWEETS RETIREMENT. Still grasps nothing.
You know nothing, Shia LaDouche. Fucking dummy. If you did, you wouldn’t have to go to such lengths as retirement. You certainly wouldn’t feel important enough to tweet it. And finally, you definitely wouldn’t say you’re retiring due to attacks on your artistic integrity.
Monday Morning Commute: Witch Craft is Magic?
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?”
“Uhh…”
“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.”
“What wuzzit?!”
“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!
Watch: MICHAEL BAY PRETTY MUCH MELTS DOWN at Samsung CES event. Solidarity, brah.
Michael Bay is a compatriot to bros everywhere. Fans of rotating cameras, ‘splosions, and vascularity. So while it’s pretty amazing watching his meltdown from Samsung’s CES event, I also want to offer a fist bump. I’m with you, Michael. From bro to bro. Just uh…you know. Don’t walk off the stage when things get hairy.
Blurst of 2013 – The Faux Bot’s picks
2013 is a landmark year for me in that it’s the first year on record where I am leaving it feeling genuinely bitter and downtrodden. Fuck 2013, man; full of disappointment, heartbreak and embarrassment. It’s the year in which I even turned my back on my beloved games industry, having to quit writing about it because I just couldn’t think of anything positive to say anymore.
Still, amongst the disappointment and fatigue, my natural optimism managed to shine through: finding joy in vinyl toys, the odd game, book or movie and of course plenty of good music. It wasn’t all bad, so let’s start off 2014 as I mean to go on – fucking pumped, bro! PROTEIN BRO!
Monday Morning Commute: Neon Light, Black Coffee, & Red Blood
With a fresh Pepsi in hand, Absalom took a deep breath and began his tale.
“We’d been tryin’ to get home for ages, and we were all in rough shape. Beat-up. Hungover. Outta gas. And hungry, to boot! There wasn’t no way we’d be able to travel through the night. So I had to call in a favor to woman I’d’ve rather not ever seen again.”
“Waitta second,” interjected the Pie-Eyed intern, sole audience member of this performance, “whereyou says you comed from? Why’s you away inna furs-place?”
“Ah, yes. It’s a long story. But in short, this guy I knew – friend-of-a-friend sort of thing – was all sorts of salty `bout his ex-girlfriend bein’ with another man. So, he assembled a crew to travel `cross a bunch of states and win her back. With nothin’ to do but sit around drinkin’ beers and readin’ science fiction, I volunteered for what I’d assumed would be a grand adventure.”
“Wuzzit?”
“You’re goddamned right it was! I don’t think I’ll ever see nothin’ more glorious than a midnight fist-fight in a donut shop – everything blurrin’ together in a wash of neon light and black coffee and red blood!”
Absalom seized a moment to swish cola across his gums and crack his knuckles, like hitting the reset button on a broken-bodied Storyteller Machine. He flagged down the bartender and re-upped Pie-Eyed’s drink.
“Phanks man, but I dunno if I needa ‘nother.”
“Kid, it ain’t `bout need! Hell, ain’t no needs bein’ met in this entire bar! This place is `bout the Tapioca Populace foolin’ themselves into believin’ that they can even conjure up the notion of danger or excitement or novelty! So drink your drink!”
Pie-Eyed obeyed and Absalom continued.
“So anyways, after spillin’ teeth in the donut shop we attracted some attention, so we had to scram. Hightailin’ it out, we got ourselves into all sorts of trouble. Drinkin’ and fornicatin’ and fightin’. Glorious! But before y’knew it, a three-day drive had mutated into two weeks. Two goddamn weeks.”
“Thazz,” Pie-Eyed slurred and sipped and slurred, “thazz crazy. Whattya do?”
“Well, with the gas-gauge on E, the backseat-keg on its last pint, and the paper absent from our wallets, I decided to rely on the generosity of Susy.”
“Who’s Susy?”
“Susy,” Absalom paused to take a rip of Pepsi and stare into the middle distance, “Susy’s a goddamn witch.”
—-
Come one, come all! This here’s the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE! What’s that, you ask? Well, once a week Spaceship OL has to touch down on a nearby moon or satellite-weigh station for refueling purposes. During this time, I share the upcoming itinerary with the crew, detailing the means by which I’ll be navigating our rusty pop-culture mind-vessel through the Omniverse. After sharing my plans, the floor is opened up and everyone is encouraged to share their prospective space-maps.
In other words, we nerd out about the various ways we’ll be entertaining ourselves.
Let’s do the damn thing!
Monday Morning Commute: A Fertile Heart Attack.
Absalom Fabliaux was halfway done with a breakthrough paragraph when he was interrupted.
“Haythaire, old man! Haythaire! Whatturya doing? Writing a poetry? An’ wireyou dranking Pepsi?”
Although Fabliaux found creative solace in the white-noise of this particular bar, he also knew that it was inevitably accompanied by crescendos of human detritus. Oily Three-Pieces clamoring about the day’s acquisitions. Stock Pirates tryin’ to sandbag tear-floods with shot glasses. Little Black Dresses guffawing their ways into Designer Pants, hoping to find wallets in the process. In this case, a Pie-Eyed Intern intrigued by the sight of an obviously out of place Miscreant drinkin’ Pepsi and punchin’ at a word-processor.
“Searsly, man, whillyu read me a poetry?”
In his younger and more vulnerable years, Absalom might’ve responded with a left hook. He’d had no patience for drunken curiosities. Many a tooth’d been spilled because of some errant remark to which offense’d been taken. This was, most likely, a symptom of the disease known as Self-Loathing, as Señor Fabliaux himself was once known as the most unabashedly drunken, incorrigibly inquisitive writers of his generation.
But with age comes patience, and there ain’t no doubt that Absalom Fabliaux was old as fuck.
“Son, I’m not writing a poem, I’m writing a novel.”
A vapid gaze spread into a smile. Pie-Eyed was excited. “A novel? Like a book?!”
“Exactly.”
“Oh shit! I usedta read books all the time, when I was a liddle kid…I haven’t even thoughta readin’ a book in years.”
Absalom took a hearty rip of refreshing cola. “Well, you should – there ain’t no goddamn experience like sittin’ down with a good book.”
Pie-Eyed’s head lolled from shoulder to shoulder in equal parts intoxication and amazement. This old bastard – who appeared more suited for dock-work or trash-disposal than word-crafting – had reminded him of a lost love. An affinity suppressed. A lust relegated to dreams.
Unprompted, Pie-Eyed leaned forward, tapped Absalom’s temple, and asked, “So, do ya got a good book in there?”
“I don’t know.” After a beat, the writer tapped his left breast, “But in here, I’ve got ex-wives and dead friends and missed opportunities. And there ain’t no ground more fertile for stories than this sort of heaviness.”
“Will…will you tell me about a dead friend?”
“You’re goddamn right I will. Barkeep! I need another Pepsi over here!”
—-
Welcome to the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE! As the navigator of Spaceship OL, I’m goin’ to chart an itinerary through the Pop-Nonsense Territories. After you check out the destinations I’ll be steering us towards this week, it’s up to you to hit up the comments section — where’ll you be heading this week? Comic Book Station? The TV Armory? The Cinema Sand Dunes?
In other words, it’s a show-and-tell danceathon for the Digital Nerd Crew.
Let’s headspin!
J.K. ROWLING producing ‘HARRY POTTER’ PREQUEL PLAY.
The Boy Who Lived Universe! continues to swell, and why should it? Potter fans want more, god dammit!, more! I am no one to begrudge them this desire. With every new Marvel or Star Wars announcement, my sad little gathering of atoms in my groin flare momentarily to life. Let us have our favorite universes into perpetuity.
