It’s the first Thursday of the month, and for cities with a thriving art scene that means crowding into galleries for gratis, eating all the free snacks you can lay your grubby mitts on, elbowing your way through crowds of booze-boldened hipsters, perusing the works of local artists, and, of course, leaving without buying a god damn thing.
If you’re in the Seattle area this evening, stop on by Starfish Studios to take a gander at the latest series from local artists Libby Bulloff and Angel Ceballos. Eroticized edibles is this month’s theme, and while all the work on display is well worth the walk to the waterfront, the added prospect of seeing one fourth of Ectomo’s writing staff perpetuate the apocryphal sexual origins of porcine influenza should practically guarantee your attendance.
As an added bonus, the first few Ectomites to introduce themselves will receive an Octobee sticker from yours truly (while meager supplies last).
Long time reader Asa Gilmore reminds us that, in life, it is good to set goals for one’s self:
Someday, when life affords me the luxury, I too shall be able to lounge in the nude, sword in hand (no, not that sword you foul minded cretins), upon the skins of those beasts whom I have defeated. I’m pretty sure having a dashing moustache has something to do with achieving this goal.
I like to think that at some point young Master Gilmore will be asked at a job interview where he sees himself in five years to which he may then reply “nude and moustached”.
I realize that our readership, both domestic and international, may in fact be entirely fed up with what has been this year’s political “season” and know that I empathize. However, having been put in a position — by people exercising questionable judgment I should add — in which my opinion is at the very least seen by a large group of people, I feel that it would be remiss of me if I did not urge those who are able to exercise your right to vote. Seriously, go out and do it.
For those who are too young to vote or for those who live outside the United States, and who can only sit by impotently while we go about our business, feel free to hold pretend voting in your homes. Or, perhaps, you could go to your local market and grab two delicious options for dinner, say a chicken and some pork chops, and wander through the store asking strangers their opinion. Whatever makes you feel better.
We now return you to your regularly scheduled weirdness.
My sincerest apologies, ye denizens of the wonderful, monstrous Ecto-Nation, for the deplorable lack of content over the last few days. Your outrage at the passing of a Monday unmoustachioed is, of course, understandable. Had I been able to drag myself to my computer I would have most assuredly fulfilled my duties however, due to the fact that I am a young man in possession of the body of a centenarian, I could not. No, dear readers, the past three days have been spent on my back, the muscles of my lumbar gripping the delicate nerves of my spine in a vise-like death grip. Only through sheer willpower — and 10 milligrams of Cyclobenzaprine — have a been able to lurch over to the keyboard. I pray this will serve as explanation should my normal, typo-laden musings be more…laden…than usual.
That out of the way, on to the clip. The above is an ad for Nike Women featuring Nicola Sanders, who I assume is a runner of some repute and whose organs and muscles all have mouths which they use to spit gibberish at each other. Also, her brain wears a monocle, an image which is so fitting that I dare say I will be unable to look at a brain ever again without superimposing the eyepiece upon it. The whole concept is extremely simple and the animation takes it just far enough into weird territory to work without coming off as horrifying. That’s how it strikes me at least, your unmedicated mileage may vary. Creativity has the hi-res version.
A Bridgestone advertisement, chronicling a dog’s attempt to end his own life after witnessing his bitch’s infidelity, leads to an Ectomite brainstorming session, not regarding the sale of rubber radials, but intead selling the act itself:
I can see it now, The scene opens on a suburban housewife in a black and white kitchen, frantically chopping away at ( and missing) a tomato. The baritone male voice over begins over the scene. “Every day tasks are such a bother. Why not just kill yourself?” The woman turns to the camera, smiles, and then turns the knife quickly on herself.
I believe at some point in the past you and several other ectomites requested the Pope, a Gorilla and an explosion, I have done my best to make this so. So without further ado, if you take a look at the photobucket link above, I’m hoping you’ll be at least moderately amused.
Ironically, I keep hearing a newscast along the lines of “And in Vatican City today, Archbishop Bobo and the Pope celebrate the first successful test of the “Holy Hand Grenade” series of tactical nuclear weapons….”
I’ve become absolutely obsessed with Tecktonik dancing since Eliza’s posting. It’s still obviously a work in progress, individually colored by the dancers but there’s a lot to like here.
I think Lektra’s (the girl in the “Best of” video) take on it is not only highly imaginative but absolutely stunning. I’m already formulating some sort of plan to visit France (my aunt already lives there) and see what I can do to learn it for myself.
Anyway, thank you for the post Eliza, although unintentional, it has inspired me to take dancing far more seriously than the private enterprise I considered it before.
This is probably the first and last time we’ll hear of Ectomo changing any lives. We’ve touched plenty of you, sure, but you wouldn’t remember that.
Good fortune to Tao, and anything to be of service.
Same deal as last time, gentlemen: you find me in the heaving crowd, I’ll do you up an Octobee, on the house. (clue: my hair is mintyblonde, and I will be dressed as a biplane-hijacking escapee from Mad Max’s personal bellydancing troupe)
This is Bong-Ra’s first US tour, and he’s augmented by a lineup of excellence including Pneumatic Detach, and Enduser, craftsman of one of my and Qais’ all-time favorite albums, Bollywood Breaks.
Ectofriend DJ Intoner, who put the show together, will be spinning between sets.
In case you, my treasured readership, are not yet familiar with Bong-Ra, allow me to advance the notion that he is fucking insane:
As for the rest of the cast, just click your dainty pointers below to be bathed in the relevant phat beats.
BLU’s Muto: animation on a public wall. Beautiful surely, but I couldn’t help but think about all the artwork he covered up to make it (I know, it’s a public wall, it comes with the territory.) Thanks to Ry-Tron and everyone else who sent this in!
Don’t you fucking dare post knitting patterns for Dr. Who characters. So sayeth the BBC, though most likely it was worded in a far more politely threatening manner filled with words contain superfluous “u”s. Thanks, August Moon!
Eliza put out a call for suggestions and the Ectomite Hive Mind responded with a bevy of bizarre links and nostalgic requests leaving us with a hodge-podge of old childhood favorites and surreal art-house films. Thanks to everyone who took the time to post and if you don’t see your contribution here, rest assured it will make an appearance in the very near future. Now, go Ectomomites! TO THE JUMP!
Yesterday I called into question the effectiveness of illustrator Rowena Morrill in capturing the likeness of Wilbur Whateley for the cover of the paperback edition of H.P. Lovecraft’s The Dunwich Horror. However, ectomite Nick Herold was having none of my shenanigans and, strapping on his neck-beard, brought the pain, pointing out that the fault did not lay with Morrill or her editor but with Lovecraft and my own, preconceived notions:
That’s actually pretty accurate to Lovecraft’s description of Wilbur Whateley. If I may quote:
“Above the waist it was semi-anthropomorphic; though its chest, where the dog’s rending paws still rested watchfully, had the leathery, reticulated hide of a crocodile or alligator. The back was piebald with yellow and black, and dimly suggested the squamous covering of certain snakes. Below the waist, though, it was the worst; for here all human resemblance left off and sheer phantasy began. The skin was thickly covered with coarse black fur, and from the abdomen a score of long greenish-grey tentacles with red sucking mouths protruded limply.
Their arrangement was odd, and seemed to follow the symmetries of some cosmic geometry unknown to earth or the solar system. On each of the hips, deep set in a kind of pinkish, ciliated orbit, was what seemed to be a rudimentary eye; whilst in lieu of a tail there depended a kind of trunk or feeler with purple annular markings, and with many evidences of being an undeveloped mouth or throat. The limbs, save for their black fur, roughly resembled the hind legs of prehistoric earth’s giant saurians, and terminated in ridgy-veined pads that were neither hooves nor claws. When the thing breathed, its tail and tentacles rhythmically changed colour, as if from some circulatory cause normal to the non-human greenish tinge, whilst in the tail it was manifest as a yellowish appearance which alternated with a sickly grayish-white in the spaces between the purple rings. Of genuine blood there was none; only the foetid greenish-yellow ichor which trickled along the painted floor beyond the radius of the stickiness, and left a curious discoloration behind it. “
You smell that? That’s the burning smell of emasculating pwnage!
Strange coincidences and eerie alignments this Tuesday morning. Steve Scott is a London based animation director and illustrator who also, apparently, has some sort of telepathic ability that has allowed him to lick the collective brain of Ectomo. This piece, entitled The Society of Victorian Mutants is as close as I believe I’ve seen to summing up the fetishes of Ectoplasmosis’s hive-mind in their entirety.
We don’t think it goes to far to say that Ectomo and Steve -if we may be so bold- should, and shall, be Best Friends Forever and we can hang out and do each other’s make-up and talk about tentacles and Cthulhu. We are sure of this, surer than anything in our entire, short lives. Make haste and hit up his site for an impressive collection of moustaches, Victorian fashion, robots, and pin-ups. Also, could you to pass him this note: “Do you like Ectomo? Circle one: Yes No”
Four Red Bulls, twenty hours, and a bag of squid chips later, it is done. The very first Ectoplamosis print broadside is ready for distribution.
But soft, ye say, what in blazes am I talking about? I’ll let Warren Ellis, Big Daddy to Ectomo’s Little Sister, explain:
The broadside has a centuries-long history as a device for disseminating news and ideas. I mean, flyers go up on the web to be printed off, sure. But it’s not quite the same thing. Getting an idea, or a piece of writing, on a single sheet and saying, yes, print this off, copy it and distribute it wherever you like — that’d be interesting.
In short, a single-page guerilla publication, distributed by xerox and zealous reader in coffee shops, cubicle farms, club bathrooms, 24-hour greasy spoon diners, on telephone poles, shoved under windshield wipers, wiped under windshield shovers, safety-pinned on unsuspecting hobos, and fluttering in a comet tail behind us, wherever we may roam.
The first episode of ECTOPLASMOSIS! is offered in three editions:
This broadside is formatted specifically for easy printing and xeroxing, and features original artwork, an updated version of my famous Toxoplasmosis article, vintage illustrations, and an octobee coloring contest! Those of you who wish to curry our excellent favor, print and distribute with zest and enthusiasm! You will be rewarded in this life, and the next.
Stay tuned for more information about the coloring contest, a distribution contest, and other blunt mutterings from Brownlee.
Ectomo wishes you and yours the very best on this joyous Christmas Day. We hope that while opening your presents you keep in mind the true spirit of the holiday and remember the story of little baby Santa Claus, born to a traveling encyclopedia salesman, Joe, and his wife, Mary, in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania in the pool shed behind the Holiday Inn Express, for the hotel was sold out and yea, it was indeed Joe’s fault for truly he traveled much and should have known better.
But lo, in the morning did three housekeepers, made to work but getting time and a half, bring them gifts of towels and shampoo and soap and let them bathe in the employee bathroom and were, perhaps, slightly aghast and confused as to why Mary decided to give birth in a pool shed instead of going to the hospital but they did not pry for it was, indeed, none of their business and they had rooms to turn down. So rejoice ye Ectomites! Rejoice, for Santa is born, so that one day he may die for your sins and, on the third day and on that day for every year after, rise from the dead delivering gifts while continuing to quell his eternal hunger for brains. Merry Christmas!
• Mmmm, girls with blue lips and porcelain skin. Wearing octopi. Oh yes. Thanks to Nadya, she of the ruff!
• For the Victorian videogame enthusiast of good breeding there is no substitute for Pac Gentleman. Assist in the toothsome devouring of ruffian spirits inside a diabolical maze. Thanks Cleveland!
• George Barbier’s frontispiece illustration takes care of the “issues” one is presented with when confronted with a gorgeous, nymphet mermaid in towering wig. NSFW for illustrated breasts. Thanks yhancik!
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.
