Weekend Open Bar: And miles to go before I sleep
This — my friends and enemies — is Open Bar. Its sole purpose is to serve as an electronic refuge, asylum, comic shop, table in your favorite pub, during the duration of the Weekend. Quite literally any and all non-malicious behavior is welcome.

Excited for a movie? Drunk and nostalgic? Aggravated when Sporting Team X fails you? Want to share a song, gif, or YouTube video? It’s all fucking welcome. Let’s get weird!
Come lose your mind with us!

Weekend Open Bar: And miles to go before I sleep

This — my friends and enemies — is Open Bar. Its sole purpose is to serve as an electronic refuge, asylum, comic shop, table in your favorite pub, during the duration of the Weekend. Quite literally any and all non-malicious behavior is welcome.

Excited for a movie? Drunk and nostalgic? Aggravated when Sporting Team X fails you? Want to share a song, gif, or YouTube video? It’s all fucking welcome. Let’s get weird!

Come lose your mind with us!

Well fuck if Rafael Grampa doesn’t feel like actually delivering any new funny books, at least the dude is staying busy. Nike commercials, vokda bottles. The talented motherfucker’s artwork is coming to us still, just not in my desired form.

Still though. Pretty.

Come one, come all! This here’s the MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE! What’s that, you ask? Well, once a week Spaceship OL has to touch down on a nearby moon or satellite-weigh station for refueling purposes. During this time, I share the upcoming itinerary with the crew, detailing the means by which I’ll be navigating our rusty pop-culture mind-vessel through the Omniverse. After sharing my plans, the floor is opened up and everyone is encouraged to share their prospective space-maps.

In other words, we nerd out about the various ways we’ll be entertaining ourselves.

Let’s do the damn thing!

[WEEKEND OPEN BAR: The one-stop ramble-about-anything weekend post at OL. Share your plans for the weekend. Tell us how drunk you are. Describe a comic you bought. This is your chance to bring the party. Drop a dumb GIF you found.]

Why hello, Friday. Pleasure to see you. How are all you folks doing? It’s the first Weekend Open Bar in a while. You know the rules. Pull up a soda, beer, hard liquor, and a dashing helping of pretzels. And thank talk among yourselves. What’s good this weekend?

Saturday Brew Review: Walker’s Reserve

Hey you!

What’re you doin’ here? You’re lookin’ for beer reviews? Well, why don’t you hit up one of those aggregators that treat brewing as a time-honored art and present user comments with averaged scores? Oh, you’re not really interested in muddling up beer-drinking by quantifying it? I can appreciate that. Huh? You say that you’d put more stock in the opinions of a stark-raving lunatic? More than a well-informed opinion, you’re seeking a heartfelt knee-jerk response?

If that’s the case, I’d say you’re in the right place.

My name is Rendar Frankenstein. I am quasi-fictional, enthusiastic, and ready to drink beer. Fasten your seatbelt, return your tray table to the upright position, and prepare for the hyperspatial-jump.

Today, I’m going to detail my experience with Walker’s Reserve.

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Friday Brew Review: Colette Farmhouse Ale

Is it Friday nite yet? Nope!

Does that I mean that I have to wait to party? Nope!

The fact of the matter is that it’s Friday afternoon and this is as good a time as any to toss back the first brew of the weekend. This potable antecedent has quite the responsibility, providing a party overture without revealing all of the ways the motifs will develop. The name of the game is wonderful flavors and the buzz-inklings, not gustatory-overload brain-cell genocide.

Drinking on a Friday afternoon should be more burlesque than pornography.

So join me as I dip my toes into the the pool of weekend celebration. I assure you, I’m not going to smash light bulbs over my head and do’ keg stands. But I am definitely going to pump a jam and imbibe a bottle of Colette.

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Saturday Brew Review: Thirteenth Hour

When traveling through the galaxy, it’s of supreme importance to be on the lookout for liminal spaces. If you’re not paying attention while cruisin’ through hyperspace — maybe you’re rockin’ too hard to someLoad-era Metallica or you’re caught up in a high-stakes game of Sabaccor perhaps you’ve fallen asleep at the wheel — you may very well hit a pocket of liminality. If this happens, chances’re that you’re going to be lost for awhile.

More innocuous than thinnies but less defined than wormholes, these cloudbursts of purple dark matter will warp the perceptions of everyone in your starcruiser. Sophomore slumps will sound likemasterpiecesCash-grabs will look like artDog food will taste likedelectable cuisine. Hell, I’ve even heard tales of reckless space-pirates tongue-kissin’ their dogs and grabbin’ fat fistfuls of their sisters’ doughy fannies.

It ain’t pretty.

However, every now an individual that coasts through a violet gamma-shadow will be better for it. In these rare instances, the pilgrim does not incur the Wrath of In-Between, but is actually fortunate enough to go beyond the beyond. In this transcendent moment, possibilities are not only more apparent, but well within reach. Despite being in a tiny little vessel, hermetically and layered beyond reason so as to ward off solar radiation, the exo-planetary commuter is capable of turning off mental inhibitors so as to live beyond life.

Tonight, my vessel has skidded right through an extradimensional fold. And I’m not mad or concerned. `Cause the fact of the matter is that I’m rockin’ in the Thirteenth Hour.

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