Man! Like, so fucking torn. Part of me is really stoked for a Party Down limited series. But at the same time? The ending to the show was fucking perfect. Perfect! Perfect.

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Welcome, to another installment in Monday Morning Commute. It’s a barely-fair-to-even-call-it-regular-let-alone-weekly column here on the Space-Ship Omega. Within it I, a purveyor of poor taste and poorer morals, share what I’m up to during a given week. You know, what I’m enjoying. What I’m looking forward to at the end of the week, utilizing said anticipation as a rip-cord to pull me through the doldrums of the M-F Grind.

I’m sorry I’ve been in absentia. I’ve just been fucking busy, man. However I’m here now! And this is what I’m fucking digging this week! And this is what I expect from you: to join me in the comments section.

Let’s go!

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If it was anyone else than Rob Thomas, I would be hesitant about this news. Bringing Lost Boys to TV? Ehhh. But dude has brought us both Veronica Mars *and* Party Down (*and* iZombie, which I Haven’t watched), so I’m inclined to believe this could be good. Will I watch it? No. Could it be good? Yes.

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Party Down is one of my favorite shows. There has been talks of a movie. While I care about the characters, and hope the cast of the show financial wealth, my response to there being a movie shot next summer is: please no.

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I didn’t know about it, but there was a fucking Party Down marathon at the Alamo Drafthouse. It appears that everything awesome occurs in that place. Well fuck. Out of this Drafthouse came not just what I assume was endless fun and excitement with the cast and shiz, but the news that there could be a Party Down movie. Lawd don’t tease me, lawd don’t tease me!

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[via only the young die young]

The idea of her touching me around that region actually makes the threat seem a-okay. Where’s Monday Morning Commute? In your ass! Shit is on hiatus this week. Pepsibones is in Vermont, I’m sitting in the sun, and the rest of the Empire is celebrating Memorial Day. If it’s nice in your neck of the woods, go grab some toxic rays and drink your alcoholic or caffeinated (or both) beverage of your choice.

Regular banality resumes tomorrow.

I fucking love Party Down. I fucking love Snow Crash. If you don’t know what Snow Crash is, I deplore you! I dance in your blood. It’s only like, the dopest cyberpunk book ever. I love Snow Crash so much that I keep it next to my toilet. This way, when I’m rocketing one of my fifteen daily shits, I can flip it open and gander through a random chapter.

So this week, when Party Down referenced the book, I seriously geeked the fuck out. I shook my girlfriend Sam with glee! In the episode, douchey stud Kyle is trying out for the character of Vitaly Chernobyl in some sort of big screen adaptation. Which, of course, sends Nerd Lord Roman into a sort of apoplexy.

It’s a little tugjob to nerds, but it’s worth mentioning, since it’s one of the little things that makes the show so fucking radical, dood.

I absconded to New York this past weekend for the second time in three weeks or so. This is me yawning with a greatness. ‘Twas a good time. My Significant Other and I were fitted into a hotel room suite replete with a kitchen, refridgerator and other fancy stuff. It was fantastic, even if I felt bad at living in such luxury. I’m the guy who feels bad when someone calls him “sir” or carries his bags for him. I want to be like, “Dude, no seriously. I’m a 27 year-old schmuck who lives with his parents and you probably are busting your ass for ungrateful people. Let me carry my own bag.”

As I said though, it was enjoyable. My girlfriend, being infinitely more successful than myself despite being 4.5 years my younger, is a tough one to corral for a day alone. Her schedule is voluminous and her drive remarkable, and I’m just a guy reading books. So being able to get away with her, even to the noise and din of New York City was great.

I tried my best to not hyperventilate over all the school work I wasn’t getting done while I was there. When I closed my eyes I saw syllabuses not being completed. I could hear the crackle of pages not being turned. Grad school. It’s turning out to be a real son of a bitch.

Monday Morning Commute. Every Monday I’m going to detail the various things I’m either currently or will be watching, reading, playing, and listening to in the next seven days. It’s Monday. You’ve got a long week of school, work, or compulsive masturbation to get through. Tell me the arts that you’re indulging in, to stave off suicide.

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