#January2013
MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE: Blackmail the Universe
Bask in the glory of Dave Mustaine’s melting face. It runs down his skull, slowly dripping onto his kevvy metal t-shirt. Despairingly, he rips the t-shirt off before it stains his perpetual undergarment. He forever wears a “Kill Em All!” tee that he stole back in 1983. Every night before he goes to bed, he rubs its fabric between his fingers. Praying to both Alex Jones and Whatever God He Believes In That Year, he utters one phrase over and over. “Please call me, Jimmy Hetfield. Please call me.” The sheer repetition of the hours-long nightly prayer dims into a dull drone, people throughout his underground bunker (the End is Coming) wishing that either Hetfield would call him, or he would go to sleep. They care not which, and they can’t express either. You see, throughout the compound Davey’s prayer is blared through loudspeakers on every wall. These same loudspeakers are live microphones. The peons must follow their Saviour (or employer, okay) in his prayers. Over and over again, they pray. Hoping to channel their extended energy in a way that has never, ever worked. The answering of a prayer through sheer mass of plea.
Uh, what? Anyways, this is MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE. Where we talk about the arts we’re enjoying this week. Guys and gals, let us party.
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THE GANG OMEGA’S PICKS OF 2012: Rendar Frankenstein’s Rumination Frenzy!!
It’s with a tearful eye and a hyper-extended thumbs-up that I bid farewell to 2012.
The last twelve months have been some of the finest of my entire life. And I’m not exaggerating. Unlike those saccharine slobs who always clamor about the present hour being their finest and the preceding moments nothing more than the bliss-steps to their existence plateaus, I have no illusions about the fact that I’ve chalked up some miserable years. I’ve anguished through entire calendars, burnin’ `em up with fuel of the most incendiary sort.
Self-doubt! Resentment! Apathy! Vitriol! Cynicism! Sally forth towards the mire!
But 2012 was a whole different beast. Sure, there definitely some moments when my nostrils were assailed by the wispy vapors of the aforementioned propellants. But repugnance was ultimately cast aside, overpowered by the surfeit of wonder! It’s almost as though entertainment and art and love formed a giant sword-wieldin’, monster-destroyin’ mech, and I got to pilot the son-of-a-bitch!
If only!
Anyways, it looks as though every crew member of Spaceship OL is delivering their year-end highlights, so I’m going to join the party. But since I’ve garnered a reputation as being the erratic, currently-undiagnosed-but-we’re-working-on-it, hack-writin’ resident of the crew, I’m going to switch things up a bit. Each of my highlights will be paired with an Ultra-Dimensional Portal! By clicking on any UDP, a hole will be punched in space-time, and your consciousness will be projected astrally.
Got it? Okay, here’s one last look at 2012!
SpaceX found says we could have humans on Mars in 12 to 15 years. Bradburyboner.
Hell yes. SpaceX wizard Elon Musk says that human beings could be on Mars in as early as 12 years. This may very well be bluster and nonsense, but who gives a shit. Let me have this, you naysaying bastards.
How Ray Bradbury Changed My Life
(I hate to start this piece in the most boring way possible, but) I grew up in Andover, New Jersey. Nestled in the farmlands and forests of Sussex County, Andover is an old mining town and the polar opposite of the general population’s image of “Dirty Jersey.” Expansive corn fields, forests criss-crossed with streams, and a local hot-spot called Lake Illiff make up most of the geography of my homeland. The neighborhood was a giant nipple feeding my imagination. I lived there until I was 19 when I thought it would be a good idea to go to college.
Like most young boys, I harbored a large imagination. With tools like action figures and my Mongoose BMX, Andover was one big playground. My dad introduced me to Star Wars when I was in the 2nd grade (because that’s what everyone should feel like happened to them during their first Star Wars experience, right? We’re “introduced” to it). I read a lot of escapist fiction like Dragonlance and Lord of the Rings – also courtesy of my dad. All of these sacred works blew my imagination up, made me want to jump in my X-Wing and take on the Empire up. I wanted out of Andover. This town wasn’t big enough for Patrick Cooper, who would surely grow up to save the planet from evil. Then along came Ray Bradbury.
Bradbury Forever.
[Ray Bradbury died today]
I was filching my seventh cup of caffeinated splendor from the coffee machine when a coworker came rushing towards me. He had mustard on his shirt and concern in his eyes. “Hey man, how’re you holding up? You all right?”
After taking a rip of coffee, I proceeded. “Rodrigo, what the hell’re you talkin’ about? Why wouldn’t I be all right?”
“Oh shit, I thought you heard…Dude, Ray Bradbury died.”
“Bwahahaha,” I sprayed coffee all over my dress-pants. “That’s hilarious!
Rodrigo was befuddled. “Hilarious? I thought you’d be upset. Isn’t Bradbury your favorite author?”
“Of course he is! Bradbury straddles the lines between science fiction and fantasy and parable like no other! He’s an avuncular horror-master, a winsome conveyor of the fantastic! Fahrenheit 451! The Illustrated Man! The Martian Chronicles! How could Bradbury not be my favorite?”
“So,” Rodrigo ventured forth cautiously, “you love Ray Bradbury but don’t care that he’s dead?”
I once again found myself struggling to spill the coffee past the bulwark of laughter and into my gullet. Finally successful, I wiped an errant tear streaming down my cheek and broke into a smile. I’d help my coworker understand.
“Ray Bradbury can’t die. When he was twelve years old, Mr. Electrico imbued him with the power to live forever! And now, regardless of what’s happened to his corporeal form, Ray’s going to be with us forever.”
[Ray Bradbury is going to live forever]
Monday Morning Commute: False Fire-Eaters
Come one, come all!
Step right up folks, no need to be shy! Thissere’s the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE, Omega-Level’s weekly session of pop culture show-and-tell! I’m going to show off the various entertainment-runes I’ll be using to ward off the workweek-trolls, and then you can hit up the comments section and display your own wares.
It’s a goddamn breeding ground for all ideas nerdcore.
This week it looks like I’m finally paying tribute to those wonders to which I’ve been negligent. Enough is enough, I owe it to myself to experience the rockin’ tunes and fantastic episodes and whimsical passages that’ve eluded me. Time to map out this week’s mind-commutes!
Let’s do this!
Monday Morning Commute: ex-hoes’ skeletons
Hulloh there, folks!
How was your Christmas? How is your Chanukah? Pumped for Kwanzaa? Find someone to smooch on New Year’s Eve? No matter how you get down, chances’re that you’re in midst of celebration. And hell, what’s not to celebrate? We just passed the winter solstice, which means that the days of darkness are going to be coming to an end. While winter is sure to bludgeon us with icy blows, we can rest assured knowing that more and more sunlight will be headed our way.
Unless, of course, you’re a dweller of of the Southern Hemisphere — if that’s the case, you’re still rocking barbeques at the beach. But then again, you’re probably getting into fistfights with joeys and hunting down the dingos that stole your babies. Damn Aussies.
Anyways, welcome to the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE! This is the nerd-friendly show-and-tell jump-off! I’m going to sift through the entertainment debris that’ll be occupying my time in the following week, giving you the highlights along the way. After you check out `em out, it’s your duty to hit up the comments section and share your own recreational wreckage.
OL-5, standing by!
Monday Morning Commute: DESTROY APATHY!
Spark a cigarette and pour a drink – you’ve made it home after the first day of the workweek! Congratulations! You’ve only got to get through that 9-5 shitstorm four more times until the weekend! And from there it’s only a few more decades before you either retire into poverty or die! Ta-dah!
Fugg that, son. Life’s a glorious experiment, so let’s dance in the laboratory and smash some beakers! This here’s the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE, a weekly post dedicated to combating ennui. If you fear that you’re becoming one of the flesh-and-blood automatons that chokes Wonder to death, hop into this refugee-camp. I’m going to show you what I’m doing to destroy apathy.
If you’re daring, you’ll hit up the comments section and do the same.
OCTOBERFEAST – The October Country
[OCTOBERFEAST is the greatest celebration of the year, a revelry dedicated to pop-culture’s most nutritious Halloween detritus. Plastic screams and artificial sweeteners have never been more bountiful. In the old country, villagers refer to the extended party as Satan’s Snacktime]
It is with the utmost respect and admiration that I present the following declaration:
Ray Bradbury is the official writer laureate of OCTOBERFEAST. The awarding of this position to Mr. Bradbury shouldn’t shock or surprise a single soul, as his work is the printed embodiment of the annual fright-festival. The bizarre, the ghastly, and the speculative synergize to convey a sense of wonder and possibility.
This year’s gala features Ray Bradbury’s The October Country.
Ray the Writer
Ray Bradbury, one of my personal heroes. If you believe in the power of fiction, watch the video below. He speaks on the art of writing as well as the necessity of appreciating the reality we perceive. It’s awesome.
And if you don’t believe in the power of fiction, I can’t guarantee your safety. At least not at OL.
