Sylvester Stallone is releasing a Rocky IV Director’s Cut for no good reason. Fuck, maybe he’s bored in quarantine, too. However, due is cutting the goddamn robot! Unreal. If he’s going to go that far, he should cut Paulie. Dude is nothing but a freeloading piece of shit, just bitching, not being grateful at all. Fuck Paulie.

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There’s a pain in your stomach that can only be cured with Russian magic.

Go ahead, clench the side of your abdomen. C’mon, admit it already! Y’know that you feel an inflammation somewhere in your gut! In the darkest recesses of your tummy! Maybe it feels like a itch at the bottom of your cecum. Or maybe it throbs like a patch of warts in your large intestine. Hell, some of you might even have a burning in the colon, and you’d damn well better pray that it doesn’t keep runnin’ down your digestive tract.

The truth is that you’re afflicted with a goddamn existential bezoar.

Fortunately, the Russians have been attacking these motherfuckers for years. Although Rasputin’s mystical sojourns are well-documented, it’s not often mentioned that he was simply trying to remedy the bezoar ailing Russia’s collective unconscious. Later, during the dark days of the Soviet Empire, the mystic arts would be forfeited in favor of science. But even with the root of these explorations being the same desire to destroy all that ailed, these efforts would also fall short. As such, Mother Russia, proud and noble and willing to die trying, would forge ahead in search of a new solution. And it would be found.

The solution? Beer.

To be precise, tonight’s curative elixir is Raspberry Russian Imperial Stout `12.

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[WEEKEND OPEN BAR: The one-stop ramble-about-anything weekend post at OL. Comment on the topic at hand. Tell us how drunk you are. Describe a comic you bought. This is your chance to bring the party.]

I want you to consider the following premises, keepin’ an eye peeled for similarities.

When a West Philadelphia-born prince ascended his Californian throne, he sang a little ditty. That time when the boxer prepared to avenge his friend’s death and defend America’s honor? You bet your ass he was jammin’ to some butt-rock. And when the world was ushered into the era of Y2J, it was greeted by the dulcet tones of a computerized countdown and processed vocals.

The conclusion: theme songs kick ass.

Hell, if you think about your favorite movie, TV show, or video game, chances are that it features some sort of soundtrack. Moreover, it’s also a solid bet that there’re clear-as-day, identifiable-as-hell themes woven throughout said soundtrack. While you’re experiencing this bit of entertainment, themes amplify the emotion at hand, whether it happens to be jubilation or intrigue or suspense. So affective, in fact, are theme songs that hearing them out of context can still teleport our consciousnesses to the space-time junctions of entertainment-inebriation.

Fighting Sephiroth.
Being devoured by a Great White.
Swoonin’ over a man with a license to kill.

If you count yourself amongst the OL faithful, then some of your life’s most consequential moments have probably been accompanied by a soundtrack. As such, I encourage you to respond to one or both of this weekend’s OPEN BAR prompts:

[What is a theme song you dig?][What would you choose for your own theme song?]

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[DEFEAT. is Rendar Frankenstein’s truest attempt at fiction.   Presented in weekly episodes, the novella tells the tale of Daryl Millar – a hero who dies at the intersection of pop culture, science-fiction, war epic, and fantasy]

Eight hours after winning the first battle of a war that would last until the week’s end, Daryl Millar and his two allies ambled towards the Dean Brothers’ Fun-Time Circus. Clean and cold, the October air did its best to forewarn the teens of winter’s approach. Kicking fallen leaves. Screaming in their faces.

However, the trio was guarded. Denim. Studded leather. The heavy-duty hood of a cotton/polyester blend. And the warm fuzzy feelings of malt liquour.

Inspired by the day’s events, Riff had made an afterschool trip to the package store. With a wallet loose enough to waive the necessity of photo identification, Riff approached the counter with three fat bottles. An amateur beer-drinker, his purchase of Colt 45 was based on two key facts:

1) It was super cheap.
2) Billy Dee Williams, who had gained his trust by leading the Rebel Alliance to victory three years earlier, assured him that “It works every time.”

Snuggled in their brown paper jackets, the forties were tokens of victory. And celebration. And Brady Moore’s humiliation. And an evening of three-ringed entertainment. So even though it was only Tuesday, Daryl’s sensibilities (which were usually in place to curb Riff’s debauchery and 8-Bit’s anxiety) said that pounding beer was the right thing to do on this most glorious of nights.

Sensible sensibilities. Everything in moderation. Especially moderation.

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