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!

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I am a big hockey fan. I am. Which is why I can say with  assuredness that almost every idea the NHL has is fucking awful. Okay, I’ll acknowledge that the Winter Classic is choice, and this year’s documentary leading up to it was also stellar. But as an organization, it is routinely obvious why they lag behind everything else here in the United States.

File this under: yet another amazing disaster in the making. The NHL and Stan  Lee have teamed up to create 30 unique superheroes under the title the Guardian Project. Comics Alliance quotes NHL.com which explains it as a “creative concept that organically and authentically incorporates various NHL elements but is not set in the world of hockey.” Oh, now I gotcha. A creative concept that organically incorporates the NHL and superheroes. How didn’t someone already think of this shit? Yup, this is going to breakdown the boundaries and get this sport back into the spotlight. Or, more than likely, it’s going to get two douchebags on Sportscenter talking shit as they fade out in some “Not Top Ten” list at the end of a segment.

Today, the first two superheroes were dropped. And good lord are they as awful/amazing as you could hope for.

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Oh snap! NHL 10 came out today. Which means, if you’re a decent human being like me, you’re going to do two things. First you’re going to buy it. And then you’re going to take run after run at Sidney Crosby. It’s not that I want to mercilessly paralyze him in the game forever. I mean, that’d be cool and all. But I’d settle for knocking him over and tearing a shoulder-socket out or something. It’s going to be therapeutic. I’ve been suffering night terrors since the little bitch won the Stanley Cup like three months ago.

So do your part. Buy the game, choose your favorite team, and just wail away on the little punk. I wish it was like old-school SNES NHL ’94. Then I could drill him and receive that beautiful little graphic of the sprite rolling around on the ice in agony. But I’ll just have to settle for a Lucic slam against the boards. Again. And again. And again.