It’s the freakin’ weekend, baby! It’s Weekend Open Bar, baby! At least for me. Hitting a bit early, too. Goddamn first significant snow storm of the year is currently rampaging its way through the guts of Massachusetts’ coast, and yet! And yet! My fucking university didn’t cancel class. All the schools-universities-establishments-basement latex fuck dungeons are closed for the day! But not mine. Not even though it’s a fucking commuter school. So I called an audible and canceled my class, myself.

Ain’t no way I’m taking my 2007 Civic with its bald ass tires and death-wish (it has told me after three years of me sneezing on it, farting in, and vaguely rubbing my penis in traffic while driving in it, that it longs for oblivion) onto these terrible roads.

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Yeah, yeah, yeah. This ain’t Monday Morning Commute. It’s Tuesday Morning Commute, and I’m barely goddamn sorry! Nothing like hitting the workweek hard to remind you of your own entropic plummet towards oblivion. Days like yesterday remind me of one of my favorite passages from Palahniuk’s Survivor, “Time is running out. There isn’t the kind of energy you used to have. You start to slow down. You start to give in” (263). Maybe five years ago, I have a busy day of work, I come home. Churn out thirteen articles for the next two days, jack off three times, eat dinner, jack off three more times, and play seven hours of Mass Effect.

These days? I come home, kiss my wife on the head, throw my backpack to the ground, put on sweatpants, and watch Jeopardy.

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This is, as always, Weekend Open Bar. The objective is, as always, to create a holistic HorrorDump at the Internet where like-minded folk can gather. Once gathered we will, as always, shoot the shit about what we’re doing this weekend. You know, flap our flabby lips. Pointedly pontificate about nothing–something. Everything and anything goes, as always, so long as its in a positive spirit.

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Hello SlimeLords, you slithering salacious rot-souls. Clamber into my compartment aboard the Space-Ship Omega and lend me your ocular-meat. I’m going to describe to you the various things I’m looking forward to this week. What is on my mind. What is on your mind! I have telepathy! And caffeine! And telepathy! And a hearty desire to regal your loved ones with falsified tales from your unfortified mouths! Telepathy!

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It’s that time again! Weekend Open Bar! I am turning the sign on a bit late tonight, having gone straight from work to my parents’ house. Crushed some pizza. Hung out with Rendar and his Better Half. Now? Now I’m putting this column up before I go and hopefully play Destiny: The Taken King for a solid three hours or so!

This is! Weekend Open Bar! The column at the end of the Work Week/Internet/Universe where I invite you to join me every weekend. Come share what you’re doing this weekend. What you’re wearing. What you’re reading. The comic books you’re worshipping, the flavor of the boogers (argh, allergies!) you’re feeling slide down the back of your throat! Anything! Everything! Gifs, gabs, gestures towards Deities Who Have Abandoned You. It’s all fair game, here. Just come hang out.

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It’s that glorious time again, comrades. That’s right! That’s correct! That’s precisely it. It’s time to kick-in the doors of the Weekend Open Bar. Flock to our designated *favorite* tables in the musty, dank-ass-air-filled tavern here on the Space-Ship Omega. It’s that glorious time again, comrades. For us to sit around the aforementioned tables, sharing with one another the glory that is the hypothetical weekend. I know some of you have the weekend off. I know that some of you have a long weekend. I know that some of you unfortunately have to work. But whatever your Existent Conditions are here in the OMNIVERSE, I hope you’ll join in the camaraderie.

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In this post-modern world, where we doubt ourselves, our expressions, our very reality, not much is certain. At least for those of us who ascribe those wanky, somewhat debatable beliefs to Reality. But I think there’s one thing those of us who enjoy funny books and post-modernism can agree upon. One pointed, penetrating, non-perishable truth. That pierces through the pall of Post-Modernity: Jack Kirby is as awesome as it gets. In Reality. He’s the Best. And today, August 28, 2015, he would have been 98. Now sadly (for us, not him) he’s sloughed his mortal coil, transcended its greasy, entropy-bound parameters. But he’s still out there, surfing the gnarly astral waves. Beckoning us to join him. And while it is not our time to join him yet, let us honor Kirby.

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I am no great leader of men. I am not good at planning, or issuing commands. For many that may be difficult to admit, but I find leaning into your strengths and acknowledging your weaknesses is the best route. I am no great leader of men, but I’m certainly quite adept at being their right hand man. I think this is one of the reasons I get along with my wife, Sam. She is an Alpha-Human, designed to implement designs. Bend reality to her will. And I’m there to. You know. Make her laugh at the end of a long day of being professional and powerful and whatever. I can’t budget, I can’t conceive of running conferences like her. But when she’s hungry I can get her a bagel. Listen, it’s not the most glamorous life. But when you’ve caught the tail of a brilliant, gorgeous comet, you play to your strengths.

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To perceive oblivion is to invite your own doom. Ignore Yog-Soggoth’s dark, piercing clarion call. Turn your eyes away from his enticements. Do the same for the other Elder Ones. They whisper promises that shall only fill their bellies with your psychic-vomit, as your ears bleed and your ocular holes find themselves filled to the brim with gelatinous, former-eyes. Yeah, I know. It’s a letdown. The limitations of our meat-sacks. But hey! Until the great Transhumanism Movement of 20XX, we can spend our time bound in these rot-vessels together! Hanging out at the Weekend Open Bar.

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I bag on Rendar and Eddie on the regular for being wanky transcendentalists. But the truth of the whole fiasco is that the only reason I became friends with Pluto in the first place is because we were both fans of Walden (okay, and a litany of other nerdier things) in a college class. And so while I think it’s a privileged idea — let’s go and hang out in the woods – Thoreau’s denunciation of the pursuit of materiality is something that’s stuck with me.

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