#January2017
Weekend Open Bar: Rocket Fuel & Rockin’ Fools
It’s the Weekend! Open Bar! Fuck, I know I’m late. Last night was a birthday dinner with family, rolled immediately into five hours of wrestling with Bateman. Oh! Lucha Underground. Oh! Wrestle Kingdom 11. Truthfully? I squeezed in a couple hours of Final Fantasy XV between the former ending and the latter beginning. Oh! No matter, no matter.
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Monday Morning Commute: the guy in the moderately tall skyscraper
Oh what a day, what a lovely day. The terrifying, inevitable transition from cultural entropy into the feigned doubling-down of effort and self-disciplined. Yes, yes, friends. Comrades. Frequenters of Space-Ship Omega. It’s the beginning of a new year, the cessation of the end-of-year celebrations. Darkness looms. Deadlines loom.
Hark, hark, may the Ennui strike you more as a honeyed blanket of anaesthetization. And not, oh dear god, and not as the sort of bowels-liquefying anxiety that plunges you through your corpus, through your bed, through your plane of existence and onto the bottom of the bottomless chasm of existential dread.
Oh, you need a lifeline? Oh, you need something to help with this transition back into the wild world of labor extraction? Well, buddy. Well, pal. Well, comrade. I got you. I got you.
See, this here jam is the Monday Morning Commute jam. And here at this here jam I list the various things I’m using to get myself through a work week. The TV I’m watching to close my third-eye, the music I’m using to block out the droning clarion call of Listlessness. The video games I’m employ for the total deinvigorating oculuar-auditory shutdown I just may need.
That uh, pal, that uh. Got a bit dark. But fuck it, fuck it with gumption and assertiveness.
We get can make it through this reentry together.
Happy Birthday, Carl Sagan!
Sir Carl would have been 78 today. Let us take this moment to take our mind-altering drug of choice! (chocolate! caffeine! wink!) and bask in his soliloquy about the “Pale Blue Dot.”
There is now a vagina on this site and it belongs to me. Also, birthday wishes. But mostly my vagina.
Sorry to interrupt your regularly-scheduled sausage fest, but there’s a new face on the OL team and it’s a damn sight prettier than anyone else’s around here.
The name’s R.C. and it’s nice to meetcha. Before we go any further, there’s one thing you should know right off the bat: I like things. All sorts of things. If things were a man, I’d marry it. And if you were married to things, I’d jeopardize our new friendship by nailing your hot husband. I have been described as many things, including: an immoral raconteur, an astrophile, a zombie aficionado, the bastard lovechild of Ellen Ripley and Badassery, insane, and ridiculously awesome. All of these things are true. I also have a Batman tattoo.
You’re probably thinking to yourself that I can’t possibly be this incredible, but don’t take my word for it. Here are just a few of my testimonials:
“I once lost a Shamon-off to her, and it was awesome.” — Michael Jackson
“She salted the burial grounds of my ancestors so nothing would grow there for a thousand years.” — Rick Santorum
“She’s bitchin’ as shit.” — God
So, let’s kick this off with a big fucking HAPPY BIRTHDAY to Leonard Nimoy, who is, like, 461 years old today. Leonard, I know you’re pretty sick to death of the Star Trek franchise, but nut up and accept the fact that I am going to spend the night Vulcan saluting all over the place in your honor.
Monday Morning Commute: Hope Above the Horizon
Babies and gents, please don’t forget this one fact. Hell, if you forget this, you’re really up the creek, `cause humanity’s been leaning on it since we done sloughed ourselves out of the primordial muck. Without this truism – no matter how you want to take it and run with it – we’re bound to fall face-first into the sludge of post-history and asphyxiate on the our own shortsightedness.
HOPE IS ABOVE THE HORIZON.
God? Space travel? Giant griffins that’ll swoop down, snatch us up with their pillowed talons, and nurture us in their super-nests? Could be. All I know is that we’re not going to actualize the potential of the collective unconscious by grinding ourselves down at jobs we hate.
So on that note, welcome to the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE! This is the spot where I show off the various wares I’ll be using to safeguard my mind from ennui and work-related dementia. After you take a peek, hit up the comments section and share your own recipe for the Entertainment Cocktail de huit jours.
Faux-French? Goddamn, let’s just get to this.
