The summer movie season is moving along, and all I can think about is Twin Peaks.

We’re closing in on the end of the long-awaited third season, or at least what will have to do for an ending. At this point, most TV shows, even a “limited event” series, would have given you a working idea of how things are going to end. With the current Showtime run of Twin Peaks, we have less of an idea, and more of a grave suspicion that our expectations on every level are going to be reduced to ashes. David Lynch and Mark Frost are not fucking around.

PODCASTDrunk Monkeys Radio:The FilmcastValerian and the City of a Thousand Planets & War for the Planet of the Apes

War! War in space, amongst primates, and between the Filmcast hosts as Ryan and Lawrence split votes on Valerian and the City of a Thousand Planets. After that, we dig into the conclusion of the Planet of the Apes Caesar trilogy, which leads to a discussion of wrapping up trilogies. Also, Matt reconsiders Rogue One and Lawrence and Ryan reconsider Adam Driver's face, all on the latest episode of The Drunk Monkeys Radio Filmcast!

PODCASTDrunk Monkeys RadioFilmcastBaby Driver &Spider-Man: Homecoming

TWO-FOR-TUESDAY ON DRUNK MONKEYS RADIO! For the first time, we dig into TWO movies in current release, Marvel's latest, Spider-Man: Homecoming and Edgar Wright's Baby Driver. Baby Driver's 98% on Rotten Tomatoes, but only 33% on Drunk Monkeys Radio! Listen as Ryan defends the movie against an onslaught of criticism by Matt and LVH. Also, Matt reconsiders Ryan Gosling and Carey Mulligan in Drive, LVH revisits The Last Starfighter, and much, much more!

The executive headquarters of Deities Limited, as far as science goes, doesn’t exist. It has no discernible mass or energy and doesn’t interact with anything, so, to our less-than-perfect powers of observation, it’s not there. At least, not in any “there” we can perceive. The only way to imagine it, even though its physical nature is nothing like this, is to picture a quadrillion-story office building.

Since I can only handle this horrible timeline of ours up to a certain point, I’ve been keen to find things that will keep me just ever so slightly distracted. Just enough to forget that the United States is finally becoming the country The Simpsons always said we were. Going through the entire Mystery Science Theater series while I work has been a great adventure in necessary distraction. This is also one of the best television shows of all time, and it’s been fascinating to revisit seasons 1 through 10, after the new Netflix season was released to such an excellent reception (I liked it, too).

Linda always got the aisle seat. She liked having easy access to the bathroom and to the flight attendants.

Frank always took the window seat. He liked not talking to anyone and watching the world go on below as if he weren’t a part of it.

I’m at my counselor’s office. He’s in the same practice as my wife’s counselor, so she’s in there with her counselor as well. This is our first joint counseling session. It’s about three weeks since I was found out, what those in recovery call “discovery.” My counselor wants to share with my wife’s counselor where we are in the counseling process. He told me that they want to talk about our “situation” together in front of us,  to make sure we are all “on the same page.” I. Am. Petrified. This is a potentially dangerous situation for my own well-being.

Herbert and Marilyn walked into the newest diner in town, The Brown Bag. A yellow GRAND OPENING banner hung the length of the wall behind the hostess stand and a greasy smell of overdone French fries lingered in the air. Herbert trudged to the front and put his name on the list. The hostess said it would be a few minutes. He headed back to the door and plopped down on a bench next to Marilyn.

Upstairs in late afternoon, in the advancing dark of November, Clora resets the timer on her desk lamp. It should click on at five, switch off at one until the setting begins to drift again like other things she once supposed exact. She wonders how soon it will start to wander, if she’ll still be waiting for light at six or surprised by it at three. Will she be turning a page when it shuts off? She shrugs, but that question is relevant.

At 18,000 miles, when my hair was still blondish, Dad flung me the keys to the ’53 DeSoto Powermaster. It was a voluptuous sedan, with a heavy chrome grille, painted in a deep red color that Dad called “Sophia Loren’s lipstick.” I was fifteen. It was a Sunday, and we were still wearing our suits from church. I didn’t know why he’d done it since the car was only a few years old, but it was my first ride, and I worked that beast all over Peoria—up and down the same streets—counting how many green lights I could rush through without finding a red one.