It’s true! My skeleton is my oldest house. Within its walls, do I ever haunt. The burbling, bubbling of a mad brain. The frenzied, arrhythmic horrors of an over-caffeinated heart.  The creaky, laborious groans of a skeleton subjected to gravity, entropy, and exertion. Oh, does my soul walk these halls. Oh, do I ever haunt. This house, the oldest house, it treats me well.

The oldest house keeps my meat-processor protected from the elements, until it doesn’t.

The oldest house keeps my circuitry protected from the elements, until it doesn’t.

I don’t fault the oldest house for its failing, for when it fails to protect me. Or, when the piping gets clogged. Or, when the meat-processor over-heats, or short-circuits. After all, what house is infallible? Show me the lark selling that shanty, and I’ll show you a liar.

My house, the oldest house, isn’t perfect.

But it’s the house I’ve got, and it’s the house I’ll have, until I have no house no more.

I take reasonable care of it, and it takes reasonable care of me.

On certain days, we’d probably ask more out of one another, but for the most part we’re pretty happy. Which is good.

‘Cause it’s the house I’ve got, and it’s the house I’ll have, until I have no house no more.

This is Monday Morning Commute.

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I don’t know how to think anymore.

I tried to write an earnest reflection about how I’m currently feeling about life. But, lo and behold, it turned out to be an overwrought thinkpiece of half-nonsense and half-pretense, and ultimately a whole lot of nothing. I’m thirty-one, which is five years too old to wax philosophic and call it honor.

So I killed that darling.

Then I tried to write one of my standard pieces of drivel-fiction. Y’know, the ones where I use robots and space as stand-ins for people and circumstances. The one I tried to hack away at this week was about an android named Dorothy who couldn’t bring herself to kill a dog, despite being able to predict that the dog was going to maim a little boy. Engrossing, I know, but it just felt too paint-by-numbers for me.

So that darling got killed, too.

Where does that leave us? Where does that leave me? Well, I guess all I can say is that I don’t know what – or maybe even how – to think anymore. But I have to believe that some of you are still thinkin’!

So let’s do this, MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE! I’m going to tell you what I’ve got lined up for this week. Then you swoop in to comment on my plans and share your own.

Let’s rock!

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Oh man. Back in the Veronica Mars days, I had a most massive of crushes on Kristen Bell. And I loved the shit out of Parks & Rec. So the two of them joining forces for a new show on NBC? That’s enough for me to actually turn on that channel.

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Netflix continues to bring in former NBC goodness to deliver them some tasty sitcoms. This time the company has landed none other than Aziz Ansari and cadre of talented folk.

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Monday, motherfuckers. Another day at the beginning of another week. For those of us on the M-F Grind, Monday heralds yet another blitz through the whirling blades of the Existential Gauntlet. But fear not, friends. The Man has peppered our lives with another Meaningless Morsels to keep us just Fat, Happy, and Distracted Enough from pulling plugs and diving into stark abysses.

These are the Meaningless Morsels I’m enjoying this week. Please share your own.

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Fucking sucks that Parks and Rec is ending, man. But it’ll end good. Fucking sucks that NBC is moving the show to Tuesdays for its final season, and pumping out the episodes two at a time. Burning right through them. Over in seven fucking weeks. But I’ll enjoy them.

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Final seasons are a wonderful thing. All sorts of people return. Even those like Rob Lowe who apparently most of the Parks and Rec cast couldn’t stand. It makes sense though. Get the gang back together! Rally them around the watering hole for one last Ritual Spit and Shit, and send them out to the pasture together.

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Servin’ a life-sentence on Spaceship Earth is a tedious, painful, agonizing wonder.

Why’s that? For one thing, there’s the fact that everyone you love will die. Your best friend. Your kid sister. Your longtime mistress. Your high school math teacher.

Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.

Along the way you’re guaranteed to deal with inevitable body-breakdown. Maybe you’ll abuse your body. Maybe somebody else will fuck it up. Even if you think you’re unscathed, the sands of time are wearing away at your flesh-vehicle’s gears. Every single day. Every single moment. Until when, you ask?

Until they’re so smooth that they don’t move shit.

But alas! There’s hope! Even those of us who’re agin’ more like vinegar than wine have a fightin’ chance at experiencin’ glory! Not only are we fortunate enough to have been imbued with consciousnesses, but we get to live in a hyperreal future! Are things royally fucked up? Sure! But we live in times in which anything is possible!

So if you start to feel a chill as an existential shadow lurks over your shoulder, spin around and blast that motherfucker with a science fiction repulsor ray!

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Welcome to the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE! I’m goin’ to show off this week’s strategies for keeping me pleased with existence. I suggest you liven up the party by entering the dance circle that is the comments section.

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This makes me happy. Tell me it doesn’t make you happy, and I’m liable to swing on you. I’ll swing! Seriously though, I want all the success in the world for this show. Even though I haven’t been as fucking thrilled with Parks this season as I have been in the past, I still enjoy it a heft amount. And more importantly, Parks and Rec continuing to exist when most fibers of my psyche are telling me “it’s not dumb enough for the average member of Bovine America” is a small victory.

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Fist pump-fist pump-fist pump-fist pump. Lying websites lying to me, me lying to you. Tears shed. All for nothing. Dry those eyes.

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