Has an elderly member of your family recently gone from berating kids for standing on their lawn to berating unicorns instead? When you visit do they brandish their cane and swear to defend their special, magic combs to the death? If so, remember:
“For prompt control of the agitated, belligerent senile…THORAZINE”
As much as we enjoy conjecture and extravagant speculation regarding the future and the treasures it holds it’s a shock when something from the pages of the professional speculators, aka sci-fi authors, worms its way into our disappointingly nonfictional reality. Though in all fairness, less so when it comes from Japan.
Yet the newest way in which the metropolitan Japanese surprise and confound we less progressive western dullards is a bit surprising even with the knowledge of its origins. Frenetic salarymen dissatisfied with the pink-cheeked rush the pharmaceutical melange of energy drinks has to offer can now pop in to Tenteki10 for a vein full of “vitamins and other nutritional supplements”.
Yes that’s right; if you’ve got $20 (2,000 Yen) and 10 minutes you can have a doctor stuff your veins with the mysterious “vitamins and nutritional supplements” for what they describe as a “pick-me-up”. While I’m intimately familiar with the potentially less than pleasant effects of a botched intravening (to say nothing of potential “supplement” overdoses) I can’t help but wonder when we’ll have similar set ups in the States.
Even now you can swing by your local plastic surgeon’s office for a speedy syringe full of botulism for all your muscle paralysis needs. How long until Starbucks trades baristas for nurses? And further, how long until our “supplements” are supplemented with the wares of illicit chemists and old-fashioned coffeehouse snobbery is supplanted by a caste system of stat-boost aficionados?
My hope is not long; my daily ritual of chasing down a handful of No-Doze with three or four Viente Quad-Americanos has long since stopped clearing away the borderline somnambulance of the morning.
Wendy and Richard Pini, creators of long-running indy comic series Elfquest, are making the whole caboodle available free of charge at their website. New issues will be posted weekly until 30 years’ worth is online.
Comment from BoingBoing and Metafilter remind us why this is one of the best comics you’ve never heard of, but here’s a quick primer on why it rules.
• With Dave Sim’s Cerebus, it was among the first self-published comics to make it big, booting down the door for new talent the nation over. Its success as a graphic novel in mainstream bookstores helped infect the American mainstream with a European-esque appreciation for comics. Women actually read this. Women.
• Wendy Pini’s art is a melting pot of comics, manga and classical illustration. And she’s been at it since before most people had even heard of manga…
• The feral, omnisexual, hallucinogen-guzzling protagonists aren’t Tolkien-derived clichés, but a freakish medley of european lore, native american myth and hippy free love.
• No superheroes, magic wands or other arbitrary magics. It’s consistently plotted to tight rules of engagement and expertly crafted by the same wife-and-husband team thats been doing little else since 1977.
• It’s a neat blend of high fantasy and science fiction: the “elves” are aliens who wanted to impress us by appearing as angels, but got stuck in a genetic disguise by their slaves’ violent rebellion.
• All the fashions in it are either from the 1970s or the 1930s: everyone is either a pimp in furs and leather or something sculpted by Erté. They just don’t make ‘em like this any more.
• Winnowill is the best arch-villainess since Maleficent Cthulhu.
• It’s not over: the story’s final showdown, the creators write, has been written but not yet published.
• 6,000 pages of full-color classic indy brilliance free of charge. Precedent set.
• Issue #17’s Elf Orgy. If nothing else, a great name for a punk band. (Brownlee has already demanded scans, but I don’t have a copy to hand — any fans out there who can do the honors?)
Back in the early 90’s David Cronenberg adapted Naked Lunch to film, a release that had a profound effect on my development, introducing me not only to the works of Cronenberg but also Burroughs and then further into the strange labyrinth of cinema and beat poetry. Naturally, the film was received with a mixed reaction; an unsurprising turn of events considering the combination of both Cronenberg and Burroughs was likely to stir the hornets nest of fanboyism for the latter. Personally, I found my first (and subsequent) viewing of it similar to the abject horror followed by near post-coital bliss of the insipid Reese’s commercials from the 80’s; two great tastes that did indeed taste great together.
While I could prattle on about my love for Cronenberg, Burroughs, and the combination of the two artist’s work for hours on end I’m also able to admit it’s not going to be to everyone’s tastes. Regardless, if you’re enough of a thick-skulled bint not to wholly appreciate the film in its entirety (it’s ok, we still love you, but you only get half an Octobee for Christmas this year), simply mute your TV; because this movie is pure eye-candy ladies and gents. Hit the jump for more stills from Naked Lunch.
I think in many ways I’ve done my best to avoid this week’s theme. Rarely do I find opportunities for music to worm its way into my life unfiltered. I’ve insulated myself against the radio, last.fms, and Pandoras of the world allowing me to remain unapologetic about my musical tastes, though that doesn’t stop other people from, perhaps, being embarrassed for me.
Now, I realize that this seems unrepentantly snobbish but much of this defensive attitude towards music comes not from a desire to be shameless in my tastes but is the result of both a disturbing propensity for my mind to latch onto the lyrics of any given song — causing them to repeat themselves endlessly until I am mumbling them to myself and rocking back and forth like an autistic child — and the way I listen to music, which at best can be considered myopic, as I usually listen to an album for weeks on end until I know it so well that I lose all interest in it. My cd collection is actually comprised of a recent purchase and dozens that will most likely never be played again.
With that in mind then I can say that most of my guilt, as far as music is concerned, is relegated to the past. Looking back on the history of my music purchases I shudder, chilled to the bone by my overwhelming shame. The Spin Doctors? Seriously? Oh, gods, the horror! However, try as I might to keep myself safe from ear worms and embarrassment, some things still sneak in.
Take this song for instance. It’s infectious rhythm and insipid lyrics instantly fused themselves to my brain sending me into my usual, meditative fits. The video makes no sense, consisting mainly of imagery from what is most likely a gay man’s acid trip, featuring a man who dresses exactly like Brownlee singing like the unholy, bastard child of Elton John and Barry Gibb. It is truly awful but I can’t help but like it. That said I must go now, the only way to exercise such musical gremlins is to change all the lyrics to something about monkeys and that takes at least an hour.
Y’know, I always thought that once time travel had been invented I’d use it to go back and give advice to my adolescent self, not to parade around the streets of Paris in what is apparently the natural evolution of my already questionable fashion choices, though when I think about it the idea makes sense. Apparently even in my advanced years I am a force of fashion with which to be reckoned.
Higher education is not an area that we at Ectomo spend much time dwelling on with, perhaps, the exception of Brownlee whose Ivy League education requires a certain amount of sneering condescension every month. I, as previously mentioned, attended art school, which is a bit like paying an absurd amount of money to attend four years of kindergarten, albeit with more drug use and more opportunities for sexual encounters featuring multiple participants. On the other hand Eliza, when questioned about her education, responded with “the streets” which I take to mean that she was part of a Dickensian pack of pickpocketing urchins or that she attended a school run by hobos out of refrigerator cartons. Qais’s Bedouin lifestyle, of course, did not afford him the luxury of college. However, those years spent traipsing about the desert did imbue him with various, real world abilities such as hunting rabbits with dogs and navigating by the stars. He can also tell you where the nearest well is in relation to your current whereabouts.
As such, we are not apt to recommend a particular college or university, nor should our readers turn to us for such advice. That said, if one were inclined to pick a school based on its support of the Follicular Arts one could do a lot worse than the University of Chicago which, on February 27th, is resurrecting its Great Mustache Race after an apparent sixty-eight year hiatus. It is an auspicious occasion, marred only slightly, by the pedestrian spelling of “moustache”. Such pedantic trifles must be put aside, however. The school must be applauded for contributing to, hopefully, a resurgence in facial hair education as well as being progressive enough to allow women to participate. For too long have women been denied the ability to partake in the sport of hirsute facial appendages. We await the outcome of this contest with great anticipation and look forward to it spreading to other schools.
• Ninja-bot proceeds to kick out the jams with a bevy colored Octobees. Send us your submissions for glittering prizes!
• Will we never be free of the disturbingly sensual Orangina Octopus? Le Roi’s sucker mark laden tip indicates not.
• Dominic reminds us of the dangers of drug use with comics
• Concerned with the results in Iowa, Tim correctly points out that there is only one real choice for president
If you sent in a tip this past week but didn’t see it here (or used), it likely contained a malformed URL or we intend to use it later. We rely on you, our darling Ectodroogs, to pump the lifeblood of tips into our withered inbox veins. Keep up the good work!
A crowning achievement in anti-drug hysteria, jenkem has now been cited by various news outlets and law enforcement agencies as the new teen drug of choice. Jenkem, for those not “in the know”, is made by placing raw sewage into a still made from a plastic bottle capped with a balloon. The mixture is then left to ferment in the sun and the user then huffs the gas produced and captured in the balloon. The high is supposed to be of the hallucinogenic variety and many times more powerful then cannabis. Continue Reading…
I don’t know about where you live, but in my corner of northeastern Pennsylvania there isn’t much in the way of interesting food. The closest that I come to danger, upon the rare occasions that I eat out, is the threat of contracting bovine spongiform encephalopathy from my steak. I certainly do not partake in the life-on-the-edge culinary experience of fugu, or pufferfish.
Considered a delicacy in Asia, the fugu contains a deadly neurotoxin called tetrodotoxin (TTX), found in the liver, ovaries, and flesh. The fish are so deadly that sushi chefs in Japan must endure a vigorous test; a test that only about thirty percent actually pass. The small amount of poison found in the flesh produces a “funny tingly sensation on the tongue and lips”, which is good because, if you’re anything like me, garnishing your hamburgers with Demerol is both expensive and stressful (not so much post-meal, admittedly).
However in large doses, like those found in the liver and ovaries, the effects are quite different:
“Those poisoned gradually lose muscle control, although not consciousness, and eventually suffocate to death when the diaphragm becomes paralyzed.”
Fun! A firsthand account of a non-lethal case of fugu poisoning is quite harrowing:
Ahhhh, the Sixties. The Era of Peace, Love, and Testing Psychoactive Substances on Your Own Country’s Troopers Without Their Consent. Even though such a thing is Obviously Wrong in every possible way, you still can’t help but feel that the British GIs in the above clip definitely got the good end of that stick the day they were rationed Electric Kool-Aid along with their breakfast kippers!
Let’s just hope that those were NOT live weapons the troops were totin’ around the Fancy Forest as the trees began to speak to them in bright purple love poems….
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.
