It’s getting nice out, folks. The sunshine is popping here on the Northeastern seaboard of the Empire. Temperatures are in the 80s today. The sky is blue. It’s almost enough to get you through the workday alone. If you’re one of those people who can appreciate leaving to Sol smiling upon your face, and not lament the fact that you’re indoors for eight-hours of its beauty. I am one of those people. So I’m feeling pretty fucking content, today. But that doesn’t mean I ain’t sweating a bunch of stuff this week. So Monday Morning Commute shall, of course, run its course. It just means that I’m going to be moderately less depressed as I toil through the week towards enjoying these arts, farts, and sundries.

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Better Off Dead is one of the best high school comedies about the absurdity of adolescence. It presents a myriad of predicaments that could conceivably mire a typical student’s well-being–mental, familiar, financial, social, and sexual, just to name a few–and runs wild with them all for the express purpose of laying waste to the insecurities and hang-ups that concern most people during this weird time in life. Every romantic hiccup is exaggerated to disastrous dimensions; every apparent shortcoming is tantamount to total deficiency. In turn, most of these problems that might trouble a young person are revealed to be completely laughable when they are properly framed for bizarre effect: anything this ridiculous and cartoonish should not be taken seriously, and issues even remotely similar to them should, as a result, become less world-crushing. When it can’t get any worse, it can only get better, and Better Off Dead is leaps and bounds funnier than many other comedies because it’s more than willing to go to some humiliating and hilarious lows before its protagonist ascends the proverbial mountain in the end.

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[face of a franchise presents two individuals that’ve fulfilled the same role. your task — choose the better of the two and defend your choice in the rancor pit that is the comments section]

This one’s been debated so many times that I almost didn’t write the post. But then I started thinking about the the potential responses the creatures that frequent OL would drop, and I couldn’t help myself. This one might get ugly.

And I’m looking forward to it.

Since I only listen to Cherone-era Van Halen, I had to do a little research. From what I’ve gathered, Van Halen had two singers before Gary Cherone and the relationships with both of them were somewhat tumultuous. So who were these jabronis? Which one was better? Let’s take a look!

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As I’ve often told Broseph Rendar, one of my great regrets in life is not being able to rock out to Van Halen as they were huge. Just driving around in some muscle car, totally thinking David Lee Roth is the man and secretly loving his homosexual undertones. Just me, the bros, and maybe some sick ass peel outs in the local parking lots.

One of the ways I’m coping with the fucking snow around this area is using guided meditation to do just that. I close my eyes, and I’m fucking blaring “Feel Your Love Tonight!” while cruising around with my friends. I’m totally still a virgin in high school, and I’m talking ridiculousness about how hot some chick is, while sneaking peeks at the groins of my friends in their tight jeans.

The snow?

I CAN’T WAIT TO FEEL YOUR LOVE TONIGHT.

The cold?

I CAN’T WAIT TO FEEL YOUR LOVE TONIGHT.

The miserable Northeast?

I CAN’T WAIT TO FEEL YOUR LOVE TONIGHT.

Hit the jump and check out the video. Guarantee it helps.

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Thunder and lightning and god seeks revenge! I have no idea what that means, in relation to this post. But let’s be clear about some things. Despite the fact that I have a swamp in my pants from the gym, outside is absolutely delightful. There’s none of the precipitation out in the trees that I can feel fermenting in the crevices of my thunder thighs. What a wonderful to time exist, no?

You’re just trudging through the woeful winter and all of a sudden you look up from your self-pitying and you catch blue skies and the rustling of leaves. There’s something to be said of the necessary evil of the winter for you to appreciate the spring. But eh, who fucking cares. I’m pretty sure I could enjoy the beautiful weather of say, San Diego, without having to live through snow and hail and cleaning out cars.

I pinky swear.

I’ll just come home for Christmas, that’d be enough to remind me, right?

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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