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!

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It’s a celebration, bitches!

The fact of the matter is that we are officially one week away from Christmas, which means it’s okay to celebrate. Unlike other holidays, Christmas cannot be a month-long extravaganza. Fuck Black Friday. Fuck making popcorn balls the second week of December. Fuck “Twelve Days of Christmas,” seven are perfect. The best way to rock Christmas is to save up all of the joy/cheer/goodwill/tolerance for our mediocre culture you have and then spend it throughout the course of seven glorious days; any fewer and you run out of time to do it all, any more and you run the risk of fatigue.

Knowing that today marks the first opportunity to celebrate Jesus’ birth friendship and good vibes, I wanted to sample a likeminded brew. The trip to the liquor store was brief and determined, walking from the cooler to the counter in one swift loop — after all, it isn’t that difficult to find a product marketed as liquid-festivity. Actually, it’s not difficult at all.

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