It would be easy to dismiss, on first glance, Miguel Sternberg’s Night of the Cephalopod. It relies on the outdated, yet still popular, sprite based graphics and its premise is a model of simplicity: you find yourself in a forest, shotgun in hand, surrounded by floating, milky-eyed cephalopods and are told that the sun rises in six hours time. On the face of it there is not much here, just the usual survival-horror trappings: run from enemy, find and conserve ammo, don’t die.
The real meat of NotC , however, is the narration. It begins immediately, the voice of Scott Moyle intoning “I had run from the cottage in a blind fear, having only time to grab my shotgun and a handful of shells. Hours, or minutes, later, when the madness finally fled from my heart, I found myself lost, but blessedly alone.” and from there on it proceeds to narrate your entire play through. It’s a brilliant feature, a running, Lovecraftian color commentary detailing almost every move and action the player makes. Its success is based on both the quality of the writing and the unexpected timing of the narrative tidbits. At one point I failed to reload and when I finally did so — after having “wandered about like an impotent fool” — the narrator thrilled “Oh, how I love reloading during battle!”
In those two lines I may have actually given away too much. Discovering these flourishes is a joy in and of itself. There is a demo available, small with a self contained executable, and you would be cheating yourself if you did not not take a quick look at it. If the breathless voice of the Lovecraftian scribe fills you with glee, then this is most certainly for you.
Apologies to ye Apple users as it appears to be Windows only, but there is a video if you would like a basic idea of the game.
Frequently featured ectopeep, and Ego Likeness front-man, Steven Archer has hit the halfway mark of his Lovecraftian art project “365 Days Of Blasphemous Horror,” in which he aims to create a Cthonic painting every day for a year. Being one hell of a mensch, Mr. Archer is offering up the pieces that haven’t yet sold to the tune of a mere $25 a piece.
Naturally, when I discovered these works were available for a pittance I snapped up a few for myself. For if my predictions are correct, these’ll be worth a tidy sum once this ritual project is complete and poor Mr. Archer gives birth to a tentacular monstrosity from the crown of his skull. There are but a few works left to be had, so to those of you interested in owning a piece of the Octopocalypse I recommend purchasing early and often.
I can say that one of the good things that has come from writing for Ectomo has been the wide range of music it has exposed me to. It almost outweighs the many downsides of working under They Who Shall Not Be Named including, but not limited to, a new-found hatred of squid chips, the slow, painful whittling away of my self esteem, and shingles. Also, soy. I feel no need to explain that one, you’ll just have to trust me.
Today’s offering hails from the island near Europe that is a part of Europe but refuses to use Europe’s money; the United Kingdom. Specifically that part of Great Britain which causes people to pronounce “nothing” as “nuffink” which, if the wikipedia article I skimmed is correct, is Essex. Should I be wrong some politely incensed Briton shall correct me; of this I have no doubt. They are a proud, if not predictable people.
“Letter From God To Man” is, then, an serving of British hip-hop, my knowledge of which is limited being confined mainly to the works of Mike Skinner, known as The Streets, a fact that the aforementioned Britons will perhaps sneer at. The themes here are decidedly different than Mr. Skinner’s; they are, in the simplest of terms, bigger. Scroobius Pip’s verse is not concerned much with the day-to-day routines of his fellow citizens but with things of a more philosophical nature. Nowhere else is the more plain than in this single. Less about god than about man’s idea of god and his own place in nature, it is a song that you will either love or hate depending much on your ideological leanings. It is an unavoidable side-effect of making a song with “A Message”.
If you can avoid internalizing the meaning I think there is still much to appreciate here. Pip’s slightly slurred delivery retains a natural, easy rhythm, a fact that makes the more clearly enunciated emphasis that much more pointed. His verbal gymnastics lope along comfortably inside Dan Le Sac’s stuttering, churning sampling of Radiohead’s “Planet Telex” with all the anthemic trappings it brings with it.
The video is odd. I find it interesting in the sense that I get the feeling that there may be meaning, subtext, metaphor but I cannot, for the life of me, figure it out. Should I be mistaken, then it is simply footage of a little girl walking around in a dinosaur costume. WHAT DOES IT MEAN!?
Someone, somewhere saw this photo by one jimofwales depicting a warning to swimmers of cephalopodal jellyfish rapists and thought “My god, this is absurd; a squid would never molest a swimmer. The real danger is tentacled cock monsters with transgender fetishes. I’ve got to warn them!” And so, they did.
Amanda Palmer — one half of the musical duo Dresden Dolls — recently released her first solo album, Who Killed Amanda Palmer. A concept album, it features many non-musical accoutrements including a fake radio station’s website, a book of photographs with words by Neil Gaiman, a number of interconnected videos, and a t-shirt. As for the concept, well, someone killed Amanda Palmer. As for how that is conveyed on the album, well, it isn’t. In fact, come to think of it, it isn’t actually a concept album but merely an album and a bunch of extras to spend your money on.
The album itself, regardless of the trail of superfluous tchotchke that drags behind it, is quite good. Ms. Palmer is an accomplished musician who has in her possession a stunning voice. “Runs In The Family” is both one of the better songs on the album and the best representation of Palmer’s oeuvre; the themes of lonely promiscuity, self-alienation, and lamentations of “No one understands me!” are all here in full force, delivered with a theatrical bombast and accompanied by raucous piano, and wavering strings. It all runs the risk of sounding like a 15 year-old Goth’s diary but it mostly avoids it.
The video, unfortunately, is merely 5 minutes of Palmer writhing in a cluttered room of meticulous staging. It does make it easier to ignore and simply listen. I’ll leave it up to you to decide if this is a good thing or a bad thing.
One of the world’s leading rocket scientists, Britain’s Daniel Jubb is the ideal mascot for Science! (Science!, as we all know, is different than science which is almost fundamentally boring). He’s young, adventurous, and, of course, moustachioed; a fact that The Times’s Will Pavia is keenly aware of:
It is a magnificent moustache, bristling with mischief, sweeping from cheek-bone to cheekbone like a second smile. It was the first thing I saw as I entered a room in the faculty of computing, engineering and mathematical sciences at the University of the West of England. The moustache was in the middle of a meeting: engineers in jeans and shirts sat on either side. Daniel Jubb, 24, the owner of the moustache, was wearing a crisp black suit. He looked like a Victorian scientist transposed to the 21st century.
Jubb, who hopes to build the rocket that will crush the world land-speed record of 763.035mph, is a prodigy of both rockets and moustaches. He helped set up his development company, The Falcon Project, with his grandfather at the tender age of 12 and dropped out of school one year later to devote himself full-time to it. He has also had a moustache since that very same age, being without it only once, when an explosion singed half of it from his visage when he was 15. Luckily it made a full recovery. Truly, Daniel Jubb is one of the modern era’s great minds and we look forward to his future, hirsute accomplishments.
For this particular Moustache Monday post I pull a Doctorow and turn the floor over to reader Seamus Heffernan, who writes with the wistfulness that only America’s northern neighbors can honestly summon up for hockey:
Ah, ice hockey from the windswept tundra of my homeland…
Saturday night in Toronto, former Maple Leaf Wendel Clark had his number retired in a pre-game ceremony. As part of the celebrations, the Leafs organisation provided fans with replica moustaches in tribute to Clark’s trademark appearance. Thought it might be an interesting choice for Moustache Monday.
P.S. Here’s a picture of Clark during his playing days, if it helps
Ectomo is always pleased to see the achievements of moustaches recognized by those beyond these pages, a trend we hope will branch out into other fields culminating one day, we hope, with a Nobel Prize for moustachery. We can always dream.
And by that I of course mean one Thanksgiving special followed by a group of random, animated detritus. Yes, this week is Thanksgiving — real, American Thanksgiving, not that cheap, Canadian imitation — the day on which we can all stuff ourselves with food until we collapse into a carbohydrate induced coma and after which we begin the long, arduous task of celebrating Christmas for a month.
Also, this is my six hundred and sixty sixth post. Coincidence? Who cares!?
• A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving: I’m of two minds when it comes to Charles Schultz’s creation in both print and on screen. Part of me loathes its saccharine sweet sentimentality and its trite, overtly Christian preaching and another part admires the man’s artistic and creative ability and the cartoons remain firmly fixed in my animated childhood memory. It is perhaps a testament to Peanuts that my usually dominant, cynical side uncharacteristically loses this particular battle.
• Home Movies: “Curses”: I’ve touted my love for Home Movies before so all I will say is if you don’t like it you are insane or brain dead. In this episode our diminutive filmmakers explore the use of foul language and its humorous effects. Make sure to watch out for the hidden surprise right before the credits.
• The Ren & Stimpy Show: The second episode — counting the pilot — featuring the adventures of everyone’s favorite dog and cat. Also featuring Log! I’m sure this will be pulled by the end o the day so get it while it’s hot.
• Dexter’s Laboratory: “Opposites Attract”: Another show that rarely shows up on YouTube and will most surely be pulled. Not the best episode featuring Genndy Tartakovsky’s diminutive mad scientist, but you take what you can get.
•Korgoth of Barbaria: Dear [adult swim], I’m writing to inquire as to what, exactly, is wrong with you. No really, I would like to know why you continue giving asshats like Tim Heidecker and Eric Wareheim money to churn out hours of retarded pap while shelving truly brilliant ideas like Korgoth of Barbaria. If you find men dressing in drag to be that funny, might I suggest you export your Tim & Eric stuff to England, it is my understanding that they too like that sort of thing. Afterwards, you can pull your heads out of your asses and start to produce more shows that are, you know, good. Regards, Ross Rosenberg
Primping and preening such as I do — with an exaggerated care and precision born from the fear of skin slumped suddenly earthward in progeriatric defiance of the natural progression toward frailty — I can understand the sudden conversion to theism (and subsequent polite request) of Clayton Cubitt upon seeing the dual identities of Winston Churchill. However, if age and wither I must, I’ll take the Churchillian furrowed brow and wobbly jowls over the alternative unknown any day.
As all ectomites know, bees are no stranger to the briny waters of the world’s oceans for, if that were the case, the unnatural tryst that spawned the noble Octobee would never have occurred. Still, not all bees are able to adjust to the aquatic milleu, as evidenced in this painting by Gail Potocki, entitled Shipwrecked.
In an interview in the excellent art mag Hi-Fructose she explains that much of her more recent work has centered on environmental themes, with works like Shipwrecked focusing on the mysterious disappearance of honeybees in the last few years.
In all honesty this is a painting I would have passed over if it wasn’t for the bee in the center midground. If asked to explain why I would be unable but, if pressed, I would say that I find something distinctly human in its posture; the way its head is turned from the approaching surf. Its struggle is palpable.
Admittedly, I’ve come across many things on this vast internet — either on my own or through our tip line — since I started writing for Ectomo, but few things have presented any sort of internal conflict on whether or not to post. No, the line is usually clear as to whether something belongs on the front page and, in the rare instances that I have been unsure, my esteemed editors have been swift and most often times brutal in their duty, striking down the most heinous of content while simultaneously letting me know just how disgusting they find whatever piece of my buried subconscious I had decided to expose to the open air.
This particular video did, indeed, give me pause. Should this go up? I didn’t know. By its creators own admission it is nothing official; it does not represent some newly discovered mise en scène employed by Microsoft to market their Zune device, and yet there is effort here. It is not merely a collection of images with no inherent meaning, but instead spotlights one of the Zune’s social features that is, the ability to share or “squirt” music between Zunes. In that regard, this faux ad succeeds brilliantly, deftly highlighting that very ability with a splattering of colors. On the other hand, it does this with a rotund, hirsute gentleman who also happens to be nude. I will leave it to you to find out for yourself how the whole visual metaphor works out.
And with that I hit “Publish”. Believe me when I say that I am so, so sorry to have done this to you but, as we all know, misery loves company.
Also, NSFW.
Zune Paint by Sibling Rivalry [Vimeo] : Blame Frank!
DJ Wheezypig dropped this track on my head a few nights ago, during one of our late-night, desperate-for-new-sounds Nicecast sessions. The heaving chunk, grinding glitch, and choppy vox appease all the monster centers of my brain at once. And after you pick yourself up off the floor and Q-tip the congealed blood and cerebellar fluid from your ears, I’m sure you’ll agree.
A reminder: the Ectomo writers are constantly hungry for new music. We have impeccable taste, as demonstrated, except for Qais, who persists in an unreasonable attachment to european pop acts and hobo jug bands. Please tip us new tracks just as you would pictures of YET MORE OCTOPI (seriously, droogs, go easy on the cephalotips). Imeem.com is an excellent place to find new stuff, and if you’re brave enough to do serious clicking in MySpace, that, too, can yield results.
I am a self-professed “Dickhead”, dedicating two full shelves of bookcase space to the work of Philip K. Dick, one of science fiction’s most prolific and insane authors. The ebb and flow of his popularity has been an interesting phenomenon to watch; his status remains that of a cult figure and yet, every few years, an article will pop up in, say, the New York Times expounding on his genius or someone will make a film based on one of his stories and then he will again sink underground, so to speak.
This is all very unsurprising seeing as how, from a purely literary perspective, Dick was not necessarily what one would call an accomplished writer. His characters are generally flat, the women always leeching shrews, the men are wimpy schlubs, usually somewhere in the vicinity of their life’s nadir. His dialogue is generally stilted and overwrought.
Yet despite these shortcomings, Dick embodies everything that I like about sci-fi, for while his characters and their interactions may be lacking, the worlds in which they dwell and the societies that run them are superbly realized. The conflicts which arise in these worlds are fantastic, oftentimes absurd, and yet they mesh flawlessly with the reality that he created. It was these aspects that defined the genre for Dick and, in turn, it was these aspects that he poured most of his efforts.
Which brings us, finally, to the documentary at hand. Philip K. Dick: A Day in the Afterlife was produced for the BBC and focuses on the man himself, in all his crazy, drug-addled, paranoid glory. The mind behind some of my favorite books is fascinated by the constant bombardment of advertising, the effects of giant media conglomerates, and the overwhelming feeling that the world in which we live exists only in the glowing vacuum tubes of countless television sets. It is an ode to one of the most creative minds in science fiction, and another step in the crusade for a wider recognition of his accomplishments.
In sheer defiance of the World Wide Web Consortium's will, Ectomo was designed using a non-web-standard font. Luckily, it is included in the excellent font pack released by the H.P. Lovecraft Historical Society, which can be freely downloaded in Mac and PC formats here. Ectomo should still look fine without it, though.
