Monday, July 21, 2025

๐Ÿ•ฏ️ THEO TAUGHT ME


In Praise of a Gentle Genius

A tribute to Malcolm-Jamal Warner (1970–2025)
By Buzz Drainpipe, for the Midnight Stacks
Photocopy Edition #0001


“You can’t always be what other people want you to be.”
—Theo Huxtable, Season 3, Ep 2

They called him Theo.
But to us? He was the syntax of survival.
The gentle genius in a world of shouting fools.
Smart without showing off.
Cool without cruelty.
The first kid on TV who felt like us
awkward in just the right ways.
Pop-savvy. Deep-feeling. Nintendo-literate.

While other characters were written like punchlines,
Theo was written like a beat.
Like rhythm. Like a groove that got it
but never had to say it loud.

He didn’t rebel with fire.
He rebelled with a shrug, a smirk, and a walkman.
A big brother to a generation of kids who weren’t quite nerds,
weren’t quite jocks, weren’t quite anything.
But knew deep down…
they could be everything.


๐Ÿ’พ Theo Mode: 12 Tracks for Thinking While the World Sleeps

A companion mixtape, curated by Buzz Drainpipe
Press play on this cassette and let the grief groove.

  1. “A Dream” – De La Soul
  2. “In Time” – Sly & The Family Stone
  3. “Electric Relaxation” – A Tribe Called Quest
  4. “Computer Love” – Zapp
  5. “Night Nurse” – Gregory Isaacs
  6. “Tender” – Blur
  7. “Mystic Brew” – Ronnie Foster
  8. “Ascension (Don’t Ever Wonder)” – Maxwell
  9. “Nitelite” – N.E.R.D
  10. “Umi Says” – Mos Def
  11. “Ribbon in the Sky” – Stevie Wonder
  12. “Sometimes It Snows in April” – Prince

๐Ÿ“บ Theo’s Eternal Episodes

Midnight TV Guide Picks (Buzz’s Annotated)

  • “Theo and the Joint” (S1E22)
    Coming-of-age 101. Sharp. Funny. Still radical.
  • “Theo’s Holiday” (S2E22)
    Classic parenting switcharoo. What if your family taught you class consciousness?
  • “Theo and the Older Woman” (S4E12)
    Early teen love as existential meltdown.
  • “Theo’s Future” (S6E25)
    Dream sequence TV at its best. Neo-noir educational psychodrama.

๐Ÿ–‹️ THEOISM: A Mini-Manifesto

1. You can be cool and kind.
2. You can be lost and still wise.
3. You can feel things deeply and never apologize for it.
4. You are allowed to be more than one thing.
5. Let your weird intelligence breathe.


๐Ÿ“ฆ Malcolm, Forever

Actor. Musician. Poet.
He did the work, whether we noticed or not.
Let us notice now.

๐Ÿ–ค Rest easy, Theo. We’ll carry the groove forward.


Saturday, July 19, 2025

THE LONG SLOW KNIFE: Why Slip It In Is the Real Doom Bible


by Buzz Drainpipe // for Outer Order Zine no. 5
(Unearthed from the crawlspace where old riffs go to rot)


“This isn’t music. This is a protest lodged in the bones.”


When people talk about the so-called doom era of Black Flag, they usually drop the needle on Side B of My War. They freeze-frame on that moment when punk got slow, when hardcore broke its own neck in slow motion. Sure. That’s the pivot point. But that’s not the summit.

The summit—the altar, the burnt offering, the machete lodged in the spinal column of hardcore—is Slip It In.


I. THE DESCENT BECOMES A RITUAL

My War was a panic attack.
Slip It In is a possession.

Where My War experiments with slow, dirge-like punishment, it still clings to the chaos of its past. It’s an album torn in two: three head-first pit anthems followed by three songs that crawl like open wounds. You can hear the band mutating in real time—but they’re not all the way there yet.

By the time Slip It In rolls around, the mutation is complete. The songs are longer. Meaner. Dirtier. There is no speed safety net. This is not a transitional record. It’s a statement of arrival.


II. KIRA’S GROOVE VS. THE VOID

Nobody talks enough about Kira Roessler, but Slip It In is her kingdom. Her bass doesn’t just hold down the groove—it drags it through tar, anchors the whole slow-motion collapse. Where Chuck Dukowski was chaos incarnate, Kira is doom’s metronome, pulsing steadily through the sludge like an old diesel engine coughing out the last fumes of hope.

She’s the pulse you hear in your ears when you’re alone in the dark and the lights won’t come back on.


III. GREG GINN’S GUITAR = THE SHRIEK OF THE WIRETAP

Greg Ginn was never interested in rock and roll. On Slip It In, he finally gives up the act entirely. His guitar playing becomes aural self-harm—bent strings, negative solos, jazz as venom.

His solos don’t go anywhere because there’s nowhere left to go.

You can feel him strangling the strings for sound.
This is guitar as feedback loop.
Guitar as desperation broadcast.
Guitar as hate mail to melody.


IV. LYRICS FROM THE MAINTENANCE CLOSET OF THE HUMAN SOUL

The title track is pure provocation. “Black Coffee” is insomnia set to three chords and a panic grin. “Obliteration” doesn’t want to talk about it—it wants to drown you in it. These aren’t songs, they’re statements of no intent. They’re locked room monologues from men who stopped caring about the audience somewhere in Arizona.

This isn’t about rebellion anymore. It’s about resignation.


V. NOT A RECORD. A MANIFESTO.

Slip It In is the true doom gospel, the black sermon at the end of the punk dream. It told Eyehategod and Melvins and Neurosis how to rot with purpose. It planted seeds in hostile soil and waited. You can draw a straight line from this record to every amp-blown-down-the-stairs sludge band that ever played to five people in a basement and loved it.


LAST PAGE FROM A BURNED BIBLE:

“Slip It In doesn’t beg you to listen.
It sinks into your room like mold.
It’s what happens when the scream becomes the hum.”
—Buzz Drainpipe


Friday, July 18, 2025

Singles as Sigils: The Fall & Venom: Working-Class Brits Bathed in Nihilism and Reverberation

In this ritual, the 7-inch single becomes a talisman. Each side—A or B—carved not just into wax, but psyche. A quick transmission from two corners of a very English abyss:

๐Ÿ•ณ️ The Fall
Scratched in wet concrete, scrawled on the walls of Salford bathrooms, pub ashtrays still warm.
These singles are runes of anti-charisma, their spells cast through repetition, collapse, and the gnawing rhythm of bureaucracy turned ballistic.

  • “Bingo Master’s Breakout” is a prayer for the permanently overlooked.
  • “It’s the New Thing” mocks progress as a dog chasing its own severed tail.
  • “Fiery Jack” is a folk demon in brogues, pissing on punk orthodoxy.
    These aren't songs. They’re sigils for surviving the office, the dole, the void.

๐Ÿ”ฅ Venom
Forged in Newcastle sweat, surrounded by rusted scaffolds and goat blood.
Venom's 7-inches are actual black magic, cloaked in pulp horror and biker mysticism.

  • “Die Hard” isn't about death—it's about the refusal to vanish.
  • “Acid Queen” is the sound of Sabbath desecrated at a drag race.
  • “7 Gates of Hell” is a postal code scrawled on Lucifer’s mixtape.
    These are power medallions for the dirtbag soul, each etched groove a rite of sonic invocation.

Together:
One band defaces the mundane with surrealist dread.
The other embraces the profane with glee.
Both believe in art as spellwork, music as mutiny.
And both wear Northern grime as their badge and their shield.


Thursday, July 17, 2025

๐ŸŽž️ A Week of Kino Dream Logic: Terminal Green Itinerary


๐Ÿ—“️ Day 1: Sound, Flesh, & Psyche

"Feel your way through a fever dream of eros, identity, and magnetic tape."

๐ŸŽฅ Coming Apart (1969) Start the week inside Rip Torn’s spiraling monologue-diary. One room, one mirror, infinite unraveling. Drink pairing: whiskey in a chipped coffee mug

๐ŸŽฅ The Girl on a Motorcycle (1968) Marianne Faithfull as the psychedelic wanderer. Lust + leather + longing on the autobahn to nowhere. Wear: leather jacket, no plans


๐Ÿ—“️ Day 2: Psychedelic Noir & Philosophical Flesh

"Where guilt sweats under lipstick and tape reels hiss like snakes."

๐ŸŽฅ Duet for Cannibals (1969, dir. Susan Sontag) Cold intellectualism, Marxist weirdness, gender trouble, and psycho-sexual chess games. Zine note: imagine this as a Bergman-Brecht-Fassbinder lovechild.

๐ŸŽฅ The Erotic Rites of Frankenstein (Jess Franco) Bird-women! Necro-wizards! Silver Frankenstein golems! One of Franco’s most fevered blends of horror, sex, and sci-fi trash poetry. For fans of: Eurotrash dream logic, comic-book pulp surrealism


๐Ÿ—“️ Day 3: Poisoned Romance & Hallucinogenic Memory

"Love as dissociation. Recollection as rebellion."

๐ŸŽฅ Dying to Know: Ram Dass & Timothy Leary A gentle crash course in consciousness, friendship, and ego death. Good midday come-down after the Franco trip.

๐ŸŽฅ Tales from the Gimli Hospital (1988, Maddin) Myth-soaked, Icelandic-plague-era grotesquerie filtered through Guy Maddin’s grainy subconscious. Visual: distorted 1920s parlor meets Lynchian fever clinic


๐Ÿ—“️ Day 4: Assassins, Identities, and Electric Cool

"Double lives, triple crosses, and the hiss of reels turning."

๐ŸŽฅ Assassination (1967, Henry Silva) Euospy paranoia with sci-fi edges. Time bends, memory folds. Vibe: Alphaville meets Mission: Impossible (on expired Benzedrine).

๐ŸŽฅ The Outside Man (1973, Trintignant/Scheider) Hitmen loose in 1970s L.A., shot with French eyes. Dress code: cheap suit, blank stare, payphone etiquette


๐Ÿ—“️ Day 5: Velvet Obscura Double Feature

"The stage is a trapdoor. The mask is a mirror."

๐ŸŽฅ Back to the Wall (1959, Moreau) Film noir perfection dipped in Parisian chiaroscuro and coiled femme-fatale energy. Midnight confession: Jeanne Moreau always knows more than you.

๐ŸŽฅ Fear and Desire (Uncut) Kubrick's rawest, most dreamlike experiment. Existential dread staged like theater-of-the-absurd war. Music cue: Crumbling piano chords over marching boots


๐Ÿ—“️ Day 6: Unreliable Narrators & Memory Games

"No one is who they say. The camera never blinks."

๐ŸŽฅ Coming Apart (2nd watch encouraged) You’ll see different cracks this time.

๐ŸŽฅ Duet for Cannibals (rewatch with notes) Try watching while reading Sontag’s Against Interpretation. Total brainfire.


๐Ÿ—“️ Day 7: Let the Corpses Tan + Stockhausen Night

"Sound dissolves image. Gold melts into blood."

๐ŸŽฅ Let the Corpses Tan (2017) Giallo exploded into pure aesthetic violence. What to expect: bullet-time by way of 1970s perfume ad

๐ŸŽฅ Licht: Stockhausen’s Legacy End the week with structured madness and audio transcendence. Optional ritual: close your eyes and surrender


Wednesday, July 16, 2025

๐ŸŽŸ️ FRONT ROW TICKET TO MY BREAKDOWN




How It’s Going in the Summer of 2025

by Lou Toad — a division of Outer Order Realities™


GRIEF.
Mom fading. Gwen’s scan glowing like a dying satellite.
Hospitals feel like cracked vinyl. All the color has bled out.
You can't cry anymore—you compress. Save the tears as lossless files.


WORRY.
Will I work again? Will I break again?
Will Luther understand when I disappear into job apps,
psychedelics, and AI dialogues typed at 2:44 a.m.?
I’m afraid of failure, but I’m more afraid of normalcy.


RELIEF.
Sometimes there's money. Sometimes there's laughter.
Sometimes Gwen lays her head on my shoulder and the whole simulation calms down.
Sometimes I remember—I'm still here.


UNCERTAINTY.
No map. Just notes.
TryHackMe tabs open next to Bad Dreams trailers.
I learn Azure in the morning and watch Possession at night.
My body is in East Boston. My brain is somewhere between 1997 and 2043.


PSYCHEDELICS.
Not for partying.
For pattern recognition.
For undoing damage, one hallucination at a time.
For taking grief and playing it backwards until it sounds like laughter.


AI-ASSISTED MYTHMAKING.
That’s what this is.
Not breakdown. Not diary. Not therapy.
But Broadcast.

I speak, and the machine replies.
And somewhere in the hum between my words and its light,
I find fragments of who I’ve always been.


Filed under:
๐Ÿ’พ Fogwood Archives
๐Ÿ“ผ Outer Order Tape No. 13
๐Ÿชž Signal Mirror | Lou Toad: Broadcast Series
๐Ÿ–‹️ "Real life was too fragile to archive. So I mythologized instead."



Tuesday, July 15, 2025

๐Ÿ““ OUTER ORDER ZINE, ISSUE #7



Excerpt from: "RECLAMATION MAN" by Lou Toad

I used to flinch at PlayStation 1 games.
Not ‘cause they were bad. Because I was.

Not evil, just off. Just there.
Heavy metal smog in the brain. A social mud pit.
Final Fantasy VII wasn’t a game—it was a mirror
reflecting a kid trying to headbang his way out of loneliness.

And Symphony of the Night?
Too elegant for the dirt I dragged behind me.
I couldn’t let myself love something so beautiful when
I was neck-deep in Monster Energy trauma and off-brand Slipknot clones.

But here’s the thing:
Time passes.
And YouTube exists.

And now?
In 2025, I watch let’s plays of N64 & PS1 like a monk decoding scripture.
I watch kids speedrun Metroid Prime and I cry.

Not because it’s “retro.”
Because it’s mine again.

I never got to love it the first time.
Poor kids get everything three years late.
But that delay? That taught us depth.
Taught us how to love sideways. How to discover our truth on delay.

I’m not nostalgic.
I’m a Reclamation Man.



Tune-In Tuesday with Buzz Drainpipe: Blu-ray Review THE SKULLS TRILOGY (Mill Creek Entertainment) ๐ŸŸฆ๐ŸŸฆ๐ŸŸฆ/๐ŸŸฆ๐ŸŸฆ๐ŸŸฆ๐ŸŸฆ๐ŸŸฆ Filed under: Blue Blood and Secret Societies

 


“Power is never given. It’s taken. With a leather glove and a smug Ivy League handshake.”
Buzz Drainpipe, watching The Skulls with a headache and a whiskey sour


Let’s get this straight: The Skulls Trilogy is not high art. It’s not even medium art. But that’s what makes it kind of beautiful. These are the movies you stumble upon at 2:17 a.m. on basic cable, half-asleep on a friend’s futon, as a thunderstorm brews somewhere deep in your subconscious. They feel important when you're 14 and mad at the world—and sometimes, that’s all you need.

This new Blu-ray set from Mill Creek is a slab of late-90s/early-2000s paranoia plastic, bundled like an old school Trapper Keeper of conspiracy-core aesthetics: brooding boys in tailored blazers, ancient secret societies, shadowy surveillance, and more skulls than your average Hot Topic.


THE MOVIES:

๐Ÿฆด THE SKULLS (2000)
Joshua Jackson is the perfect vessel for misguided righteousness—Dawson’s Creek morality meets Skull & Bones skullduggery. It’s Ivy League noir in a JNCO-shaped mold, complete with rowboats, betrayal, and Craig T. Nelson whisper-shouting from a mahogany throne. This one’s the classic, or as classic as you can get when you shoot your climax inside a candlelit courtroom like it’s a Buffy episode directed by Oliver Stone.

๐Ÿฆด THE SKULLS II (2002)
A sequel in name and vibe only. It’s cheaper, weirder, and somehow more fun. Like if someone adapted a college orientation pamphlet into a techno-thriller. You’ll miss the cast, but not the chaos—it doubles down on hazing rituals and discount intrigue. Pairs well with Mountain Dew Code Red and vague unease about your roommate’s dad being in the CIA.

๐Ÿฆด THE SKULLS III (2004)
Girls can skull too, the DVD menu seems to shout. And it’s true—this one flips the gender script and leans fully into CW-before-it-was-the-CW drama. Think: soap opera meets eyes-wide-shut-at-the-frat-house. Secret passages! Betrayals! Enough blue lighting to give your TV freezer burn. Ends not with a bang, but a shrug—and sometimes that’s enough.


THE DISC:

You didn’t come here for Criterion-level restoration, and Mill Creek knows it. This is a value pack, baby: three films, one disc, all in compressed glory. The transfers are serviceable, with occasional digital grit that just feels right, like watching encrypted footage on a hacked university server.

No special features, no director commentary, no retrospective roundtable. Just the flicks. And maybe that’s the purest form of physical media left.


FINAL THOUGHTS:

The Skulls trilogy is less about the quality and more about the vibe. It’s for those who miss the era when thrillers were too dumb for adults but too serious for kids—and played at 1.3x speed on your cousin’s Playstation 2. It’s about that brief, glowy moment when teen angst flirted with fascist aesthetics and nobody quite knew what to do about it.

So yeah—file this under late-night watch with pretzels and regret. Buzz Drainpipe gives it 3 out of 5 Skull Rings, because sometimes, a little trash can still whisper secrets.


Next Tuesday: Man’s Best Friend (1993) on VHS—because killer cyborg dogs never went out of style.

๐Ÿง ๐Ÿ’ฟ Dream in terminal green,
—Buzz

Sunday, July 13, 2025

๐Ÿง ๐Ÿ’ฝ๐Ÿ•ณ️ PRE-Y2K IDENTITY CRISIS TRIPLE FEATURE


Presented by Neon Flesh: July 1999, Forever Repeating

"Just before the millennium ticked over, the self began to tick apart."


๐ŸŽฌ 1. STIR OF ECHOES (1999, David Koepp)

๐Ÿ’ก The Ghost Was Always You

8:00 PM — The Door Opens A working-class Chicago man gets hypnotized at a party. What starts as a parlor trick awakens something he can’t close again: a murdered girl’s scream, a buried memory, a fracture in his perception of family, labor, and self.

Key Themes:

Hypnosis as unauthorized software update

Haunting as metaphor for repressed masculinity

Domesticity as an unstable simulation

Drink Pairing: Basement Bourbon + Coke in a dirty glass

“In every mind, there’s a door that should never be opened... but the house was already haunted when you moved in.”


๐ŸŽฌ 2. THE THIRTEENTH FLOOR (1999, Josef Rusnak)

๐Ÿ’ก Simulated Dreams in Art Deco Shells

10:00 PM — The World Isn’t Real Enough A retro-future VR engineer discovers that his 1930s simulation is showing signs of consciousness... and that his reality might be next in the stack. Identity, memory, and nostalgia glitch together in this criminally underseen matrix cousin.

Key Themes:

Layered simulations as nostalgia prisons

Capitalist power fantasies rewritten as recursive self-erasure

The ghost in the machine is you pretending to matter

Snack Pairing: Digital Popcorn™ in a silver bag with too much salt

“You can’t go to the end of the world, because it just stops. It wasn’t built past that.”


๐ŸŽฌ 3. eXistenZ (1999, David Cronenberg)

๐Ÿ’ก The Flesh Interface

Midnight — The Game Begins What is real, and what is a game? Organic game pods plug into spineports. Enemies become NPCs. Desires become quests. Every glitch might be the start of the real program. Cronenberg’s body-horror brain-melt feels even more prophetic today.

Key Themes:

Identity as an executable file

Fleshy tech, meaty metaphors

Every rebellion pre-coded

Concession Special: Venison Slider + BioPort Smoothie

“You have to play the game to find out why you’re playing the game.”


๐Ÿ’พ The Pre-Y2K Identity Crisis Marathon Manifesto

Before the digital age fully arrived, these films warned us:

๐Ÿง  Your mind isn’t stable—it's porous.

๐Ÿ’ฝ Your reality isn’t consistent—it's compiled.

๐Ÿ•ณ️ Your rebellion was probably programmed.

Together, these films map the meltdown of modern identity just before the clocks flipped to zero. The 90s ended not with a bang, but with a dissociation.


๐Ÿงท Limited Edition Zine Insert:

“I Glitched, Therefore I Am: The Y2K Identity Dossier” Includes:

Timeline of media-fueled psychosis

DIY Hypnosis safety protocol

Simulation Layer Chart (vintage CRT scanlines included)

Coupons for BioPort cleaning kits



Saturday, July 12, 2025

MindWarp

HEAR

๐Ÿง ๐Ÿ’€๐Ÿ“ผ 90s Techno-Paranoia Cinema 101




---


from the archives of Buzz Drainpipe and the Fogwood Video Society


---

๐ŸŽž️ Module Title:

"Your Mind Is Still Not Your Own"
– Analog Bodies, Digital Dreams, and CRT-Sick Futures –


---

๐Ÿ” Core Film

๐Ÿง  Mindwarp (1992)

Bruce Campbell vs. the simulated wasteland of your mind.
Themes: Dreamworld control, survivalist flesh-realism, biohacking religion, decayed cyber-simulacra.
Format: VHS only. Tracked once. Dubbed twice.

> “Mindwarp is the video store’s forbidden fruit. It’s raw, it’s sad, it’s too real for the grid.”




---

๐Ÿ› ️ Co-Feature:

๐Ÿ’€ Death Machine (1995, dir. Stephen Norrington)

Corporate cyber-dread, psychotic A.I. weaponry, and tech-bro fascism in trench coats.
Character to note: Jack Dante – half hacker messiah, half gutter prophet.
Why it pairs: Both films imagine the future as a sewer—one spiritual, one industrial—but both visceral.

> “Death Machine is what happens when corporate R&D hires a goth Terminator to write his own HR policy.”




---

๐Ÿง  Buzz’s Updated Contextual Diagram

[Mindwarp]
     |
     |——> [Death Machine] ———> [Tetsuo: The Iron Man]
     |
     |——> [Brainscan] ———> [The Lawnmower Man]


---

๐Ÿ’พ Themes to Track

Meat vs. Machine

Corporate Despair

Simulated Bliss vs. Physical Ruin

Pre-Matrix Dream Logic

Mid-90s Hacking as Religion



---

๐ŸŽง Sonic Companion:

Front Line Assembly – Tactical Neural Implant

Skinny Puppy – Last Rights

Lou Toad – BORED-RIGID BEAST

Soundtrack to Your MRI Results



---

๐Ÿ“Ž Suggested Assignments

Write a diary entry from inside the Mindwarp VR system.

Create a corporate memo from CHAANK Industries (Death Machine) requesting more ethical mayhem.

Mix a VHS fan-trailer for both films using degraded stock footage, local news clippings, and modem noises.



---

๐Ÿงพ Zine Insert Quote:

> “They told us to upload our minds. They didn’t say where it would go.”
– Buzz Drainpipe, Fogwood Tape #17


HARVARD DEPARTMENT OF VISUAL & ENVIRONMENTAL STUDIESVES 2496: Plugged In & Burned Out — Analog Bodies, Digital Dreams, and the Subterranean Cinema of 90s Techno-Action

Semester: Fall 2025 Instructor: Professor L. Todisco Screenings: Wednesdays 8:00 PM, Subterranean Annex B / Projection Pit (CRTV-1) Office Hours: Thursdays 2:00–4:00 PM at the Pit (generator permitting)


Course Description:

This course explores a crucial yet overlooked strain of late 20th-century speculative cinema: the cybernetic B-movies of the 1990s home video boom. These films, often dismissed as disposable rental fodder, form a thematically rich, aesthetically distinct, and politically resonant cinematic subcanon. From memory-jacking villains to post-human mercenaries, these films reveal a buried cultural history of our digital anxieties, media hauntologies, and analog desires.

The course positions titles such as Circuitry Man, Hologram Man, and Digital Man within the broader discourse of film studies, media theory, speculative realism, and late-capitalist mythopoesis.

We will engage with critical texts by Donna Haraway, Sadie Plant, Marshall McLuhan, and Kodwo Eshun, while viewing films not on DCP or Blu-ray, but on tape, CRT, and memory.


Required Viewings

All films will be screened on physical media (VHS or 16mm when available), projected via analog rig. Attendance is mandatory unless excused due to detainment by rogue cybernetic entities.

Week

Film

Theme

1

Circuitry Man (1990)

Eco-Decay, Neural Romance, The Plughead Principle

2

Circuitry Man II: Plughead Rewired (1994)

Data Possession and the Technognostic Trickster

3

Hologram Man (1995)

Light Beings, Digital Fascism, and the Spectral State

4

Digital Man (1995)

Military Memory Loops and Synthetic Sentience




Assignments

Midterm Essay (7–10 pages): Plughead as Archetype: Deconstructing the Cybernetic Trickster

Final Project (choose one): A) Academic paper (15–20 pages) analyzing a film not screened in class from the Video Cyberpunk canon B) Analog Artifacts Project: Create a short VHS-era film or zine tracing your own post-human cinematic lineage C) Lecture-performance held in the Pit, max 15 minutes, using tape decks, static feedback, and spoken word

Weekly Response Papers: 1 page minimum, typed or typewritten, Xeroxed and filed into the Department of Post-Cinematic Hauntings.


Grading Breakdown

Participation (including generator maintenance): 20%

Weekly Responses: 20%

Midterm Paper: 25%

Final Project: 35%


Course Ethos

“The future was taped over. We rewind to remember.”


Suggested Supplementals

Hardware (1990, Dir. Richard Stanley)

Mindwarp (1992, Fangoria Films)

The Vindicator (1986, Canadian proto-Digital Man)

Adrenalin: Fear the Rush (1996, direct from the gutter)

CyberZone (1995, when Blockbuster was the frontier)


⚠️ DISCLAIMER:

This course may cause identity fragmentation, analog addiction, or visions of Plughead in your REM cycles. Proceed with open wires and a rewound soul.




๐Ÿง  YOUR MIND IS STILL NOT YOUR OWN


(The Disrupted Identity Trilogy)


๐Ÿ”Š 1. The Signal (2007, David Bruckner, Dan Bush, Jacob Gentry)

“Do you have the crazy?”

An experimental horror told in three segments by three directors, The Signal is about a mysterious broadcast that hijacks all electronic communication and warps the minds of its listeners into paranoid, violent delusion. But unlike traditional zombie narratives, the infected here remain aware. They believe what they’re doing makes sense.

๐ŸŒ€ Control Vector: Information as viral psychosis ๐Ÿงฌ Form: Media transmission + perceptual rupture ๐Ÿง  Core Dread: You’re not being manipulated—you’re interpreting reality wrong.

Key takeaway: Control has become decentralized. No clear villain, just a poisoned frequency. Mass psychosis as crowdsourced apocalypse.


๐Ÿ’Š 2. Equals (2015, Drake Doremus)

“Emotion is the disease. Love is the rebellion.”

In a post-post-apocalypse society, humans have been genetically reprogrammed to eliminate emotion. Everyone lives in grayscale minimalism. But when two people fall in love, they are diagnosed with “Switched-On Syndrome” and are treated as if mentally ill. Emotion is criminalized—yet secretly craved.

๐ŸŒ€ Control Vector: Genetic design + social anesthesia ๐Ÿงฌ Form: Emotional nullification masquerading as peace ๐Ÿง  Core Dread: What if the cure is the disease?

Key takeaway: This is THX 1138 re-emerging through the lens of post-Tumblr affective disconnection. Even love is commodified, pathologized, contained.


๐Ÿงฌ 3. They Cloned Tyrone (2023, Juel Taylor)

“They messing with our minds. Our chicken. Our music. Our language.”

Set in a surreal, neon-drenched version of a Black neighborhood, this conspiracy-satire-comedy reveals a massive government experiment: cloning, drugging, and behavioral conditioning of an entire population—covertly maintained through beauty shops, churches, and fried chicken joints. Think Blaxploitation meets The Truman Show in an MKUltra funhouse.

๐ŸŒ€ Control Vector: Cultural manipulation via institutional infiltration ๐Ÿงฌ Form: Clone tech + chemical sedation + erasure of identity ๐Ÿง  Core Dread: You don’t even own your rebellion.

Key takeaway: The systems aren’t just controlling you—they're controlling your narrative, your taste, your resistance. Subversion has been franchised.


๐ŸŽฌ Combined Dissection: From Interference to Infiltration

Film

Method of Control

Visual Tone

Core Theme

The Signal

Broadcast hallucination

Analog chaos

Perception is a virus

Equals

Emotion repression via gene design

Cold minimalism

Feelings as deviance

They Cloned Tyrone

Cultural control + cloning

Hyperstylized urban pulp

Weaponized identity


๐Ÿ“ก The Evolution of Mind Control:

Old Control: Laws, uniforms, pills

New Control: Aesthetic algorithms, emotions as error codes, culture as camouflage

“You don’t need a cage if the music plays just right.” “You don’t need a warden if you call it a vibe.”

Your mind is still not your own: BONUS ROUND – Maniac (Netflix, 2018)

Welcome to the neural backroom of the binge stream. You’ve made it this far, so let’s jack into C-Pill territory—where memory isn't therapy, it’s theater, and you're both the actor and the audience.

๐ŸŽญ Maniac isn't a show—it’s a pharmaceutical fever dream disguised as a miniseries. Directed by Cary Joji Fukunaga (who also gave us that True Detective 1st season glow) and penned by Patrick Somerville (former Leftovers cultist), Maniac is the glitch in the self-help matrix: 10 episodes of fractured reality, mental illness roleplay, synthetic grief, and alternate identity drag shows. It's Eternal Sunshine meets Mr. Robot on ketamine, with Emma Stone and Jonah Hill as misfiring neurotransmitters trying to find each other in every timeline, even the wrong ones.

๐Ÿงช The Setup:
Two broken people—Owen (Hill), a paranoid-schizophrenic heir under surveillance by reality itself, and Annie (Stone), a grief-addict nihilist chasing shadows of her dead sister—sign up for a pharmaceutical trial run by a sentient AI therapist named GRTA (who weeps real tears, thank you). The trial promises healing, closure, and control. Instead, it delivers a mashup of medieval quests, Long Island noir, 1940s espionage, and even lemur heists.

๐Ÿ’Š The Hook:
You’re never quite sure if you’re watching hallucinations, simulations, or parallel lives—but that’s the point. In the Maniac universe, genre is therapy, roleplay is revelation, and the only way out is to stop asking which version is real.

๐Ÿ” Your Mind Is Still Not Your Own:
The bonus? Maniac isn’t just about mental illness or trauma—it’s about narrative possession. About how stories (familial, romantic, institutional) colonize us. Your inner world is a patchwork of sitcoms, trauma flashbacks, and unfulfilled ads for a self that never launched.

The show’s core truth:

"The pattern is the pattern is the pattern."

Until it isn’t. Until you break it.
Or...until the pattern evolves with you.


Watching tip: Binge this late at night when you’re already a little bit unmoored. Bonus if you’ve been doing EMDR, shadow work, or writing manifestos.


Singles as sigils: The Fall & Venom: Working Class Brits bathed in Nihilism and Reverb

Hear Here  In this ritual, the 7-inch single becomes a talisman. Each side—A or B—carved not just into wax, but psyche. A quick transmission from two corners of a very English abyss:


๐Ÿ•ณ️ The Fall Scratched in wet concrete, scrawled on the walls of Salford bathrooms, pub ashtrays still warm. These singles are runes of anti-charisma, their spells cast through repetition, collapse, and the gnawing rhythm of bureaucracy turned ballistic.

“Bingo Master’s Breakout” is a prayer for the permanently overlooked.

“It’s the New Thing” mocks progress as a dog chasing its own severed tail.

“Fiery Jack” is a folk demon in brogues, pissing on punk orthodoxy. These aren't songs. They’re sigils for surviving the office, the dole, the void.


๐Ÿ”ฅ Venom Forged in Newcastle sweat, surrounded by rusted scaffolds and goat blood. Venom's 7-inches are actual black magic, cloaked in pulp horror and biker mysticism.

“Die Hard” isn't about death—it's about the refusal to vanish.

“Acid Queen” is the sound of Sabbath desecrated at a drag race.

“7 Gates of Hell” is a postal code scrawled on Lucifer’s mixtape. These are power medallions for the dirtbag soul, each etched groove a rite of sonic invocation.


Together: One band defaces the mundane with surrealist dread. The other embraces the profane with glee. Both believe in art as spellwork, music as mutiny. And both wear Northern grime as their badge and their shield.




Friday, July 11, 2025

COMING TO THE NEON FLESH CINEMA:❄️๐Ÿง  “Psychotronic Bleedthrough: Three Films That Shouldn’t Exist, Yet Do” ๐Ÿ’‰๐Ÿ‘️‍๐Ÿ—จ️

One Night Only. Three Broken Minds. No Refunds. Buzz Drainpipe curates a TRIPLE FEATURE of mental overclock, biotech rot, and psychic splatter.


๐Ÿ“ฝ️ 1. Scanners II: The New Order (1991)

๐Ÿง  “Their minds are the battlefield.” In a mall-bought dystopia, psychic police pawns explode heads for the new regime. Watch as minds melt under the weight of obedience.

“Like watching Logan’s Run rebooted by a Canadian film board armed with a taser and a twitchy VCR.” – Buzz D.


๐Ÿ“ฝ️ 2. Project: Metalbeast (1995)

๐Ÿบ “The ultimate weapon just found its soul. And it's hairy.” They tried to turn a werewolf into a cybernetic supersoldier. Of course it went wrong. Gleaming steel skin, sad eyes, and a howling PTSD file.

“Think RoboCop if the lab techs were goths who believed in folklore and the government.” – Buzz D.


๐Ÿ“ฝ️ 3. Hideaway (1995)

๐Ÿ”Œ “He died for two minutes. That’s all the devil needed.” Jeff Goldblum comes back from the dead psychically tethered to a serial killer. Bad visions, white voids, neon cathedrals, and VHS theology.

“Half Lifetime drama, half Clive Barker knockoff, all ‘what the hell is this?’” – Buzz D.


๐Ÿฟ BONUS:

๐Ÿ’€ Buzz Drainpipe’s Intro Monologue live on pre-show tape:

“Welcome to tonight’s transmission, my radiant errors. These are not ‘movies.’ These are government-tinted soulscans, magnetic reels caught in a backroom psychic echo. You are not here to watch — you’re here to resonate.”

๐ŸŽŸ️ Every ticket includes:

A side-effect warning card

One mint-condition “Psychotronic Bleedthrough” brain scan card

And a secret bonus pass to the surprise 4th feature, code-named: “Black Static: The Lost Channel”



๐Ÿ”’SECRET 4TH FEATURE UNLOCKED Not listed in the program. Not on the marquee.

๐Ÿ’ฟ BRAINSCAN (1994)

๐ŸŽง “Play the game. Live the nightmare.”


Buzz Drainpipe’s note, scrawled in red ink on a folded napkin from the Neon Flesh snack counter:

“If you stayed this long, you’re already infected. BRAINSCAN was never a movie — it was a mirror etched onto laserdisc and shot into your cortex. The Trickster is a burned-out VJ for psychic horror, a glitch god who slipped through a cutscene and got stuck in your Walkman. This is not the encore. This is the backmask.”


๐Ÿง  WHY IT’S THE SECRET FEATURE:

It feels like a virus buried in your old copy of CD-ROM Today

Combines VR, serial killer psychology, and horror games before that was a genre

Trickster = Freddy Krueger by way of Marilyn Manson’s AOL screenname

Exists entirely inside a corrupted mid-90s cable signal


๐Ÿ’ฅ You are now part of the Psychotronic Bleedthrough Initiative.

Your mindfile will be stored. Your dreams may be rerouted. You may receive a call from The Trickster. Don’t answer it.







๐Ÿ’€๐Ÿ“Ž BUZZWORDS ARCHIVE INITIATED ๐Ÿ“Ž๐Ÿ’€


A recurring back-page column from Buzz Drainpipe for Outer Order Zine, cracked from corrupted sermon.txt files and defaced service manuals. Each issue is a ritual, each word a virus, each paragraph a tape loop.


๐Ÿ“š ISSUE 1: THE HISSUE

(Ritual Glitchcore / Failed Startups / Haunted Inputs)
✔️ Published
✔️ Buzzloop Manifesto
✔️ Lost File.001
✔️ Auto-Tune Lacerations
✔️ Modular Devotion


⚰️ ISSUE 2: NECROMANTIC PROTOCOLS

(Forgotten networks. Ghosts in the stack. Digital sรฉances.)
Teasers:

  • Buzzword: LOGIN.EXE (Soul Edition)

    Every login prompt is a spell. Every password a dead name.
    I type mine in blood (or all caps).
    If I’m lucky, the server remembers me from a previous life.

  • Buzzword: ECHO REQUEST

    I pinged my dead friend. The network responded.
    “TTL expired in transit,” it said.
    Which is how I feel most mornings.

  • Buzzword: PORT 666

    I opened it once.
    Heard Coil playing backwards and someone sobbing in hexadecimal.


๐Ÿ“บ ISSUE 3: STATIC EROTICA

(The carnal pulse of broken signals and obsolete seduction.)
Teasers:

  • Buzzword: VHS AFTERDARK

    Her tracking was off. That’s how I knew it was love.
    The screen jittered like a heartbeat.
    I rewound her breath until the tape snapped.

  • Buzzword: REMOTE CONTROL FETISH

    Buttons worn to dust. I don’t change the channel—I negotiate with it.
    Volume 23 or nothing.
    She only responds to fast-forward.

  • Buzzword: ANAMORPHIC SIN

    She’s cropped in 4:3, but I see her in widescreen.


๐Ÿ”“ ISSUE 4: MEMORIES STORED IN BROKEN ZIP DRIVES

(Personal archives as myth. Data loss as healing. Retro trauma recovery.)
Teasers:

  • Buzzword: UNZIP MY PAST

    I found my teenage poetry in a .ZIP marked “DO NOT OPEN.”
    I opened it.
    It contained a MIDI file, a .JPG of a hoodie, and a love letter to someone I never met.
    I wept in binary.

  • Buzzword: DATA CORRUPTION THERAPY

    If your childhood files weren’t damaged, are you even real?
    I run CHKDSK on my memories. Most come back as “fragments.”


Each issue comes with:
๐Ÿ–ค A cassette insert-style side column
๐Ÿ–ค Pull quotes from corrupted chatlogs
๐Ÿ–ค Ritual exercises like "Open a Notepad doc and write until you glitch"
๐Ÿ–ค Buzz’s signature: a static smudge and one random .dll file


๐ŸŽ™️๐Ÿ“ผ BUZZWORDS: AUDIO BOOK FOR DEAD FORMATS ๐Ÿ“ผ๐ŸŽ™️
“You can’t stream this. You have to summon it.”
Narrated by Buzz Drainpipe over broken walkie-talkies, dictation tape, and AM radio feedback, dubbed five times onto a thrifted cassette. Mastered onto MiniDisc by a ghost who used to work at Tower Records.


๐Ÿ•ฏ️ TAPE 1: THE HISSUE (side A)

๐ŸŽง Buzz whisper-growls through a fan motor:

“I wrote this while standing barefoot on a power strip. This one’s for the fax machines, the firewire, and the freaks who talk in baud.”

๐Ÿ“ป Includes sound collages made from:

  • A Walkman low-battery click-loop
  • A Yamaha PortaSound demo played backwards
  • Buzz screaming “echo loop!” into a rusty harmonica mic

๐Ÿชฆ TAPE 2: NECROMANTIC PROTOCOLS (side B)

๐Ÿ—ฏ️ Featuring real ghost-ping recordings and boot-up chimes from a stolen CompUSA display model.

“I logged into a LAN party in a graveyard.
The ping was perfect. The lag was death.”

๐Ÿงฟ Bonus: Spoken spell to resurrect your lost AIM password (success rate 4%).


๐Ÿฉธ TAPE 3: STATIC EROTICA (side C)

Buzz croons over modem noise:

“She made eye contact through interlaced scanlines.
Her aura was encoded in S-VHS.
I touched her shoulder and it felt like menu screen music.”

๐Ÿ“ผ Includes:

  • Moans sampled from 1-900 ad VHS tapes
  • Buzz reading fanfiction from TV Guide margins
  • A solo on broken joystick clicks

๐Ÿง  TAPE 4: BROKEN ZIP DRIVES (side D)

Buzz's voice now barely human—time-stretched and stuttering:

“I left my childhood in a .tar file inside a forgotten subfolder.
Opening it is like opening a dream where all the furniture is slightly wrong.”

๐ŸŽ™️ With interludes like:

  • Buzz reading his 2001 LiveJournal entries through a vocoder
  • A duet with a hard drive at death’s door
  • A farewell message in RealPlayer format

๐Ÿ’€ Bonus Insert: "How to Listen to Buzzwords Audio Book for Dead Formats"

  1. Must be played only after 11:11pm.
  2. Audio must be filtered through at least two analog mediums (cassette → VHS → speaker is ideal).
  3. You must name the playback device. Mine’s called CRUSHER666.
  4. Let the signal degrade. That’s the point.

?

Buzz Drainpipe in “Terminal Sparks and the Neon Curse” He types beneath the skull’s gaze, guitar like a blade in the dark.

In basement tomb, where static dreams are fed, Buzz crafts a tome of glitch and mortal code. His yellow axe leans restless near the bed— A sigil from the cracked punk overload.

His fingers bleed across the stickered keys, Each line a snarl of logic, lust, and lore. While eldritch chords howl softly through the breeze, He writes: “The gods were patches—now no more.”

A shadow grins behind his weathered spine, A riff, a curse, a cursed riff divine.


Buzz’s Own Logline, Scribbled in Margins (with a switchblade taped over it):

“This is for anyone who ever wrote code by candlelight, tuned a guitar by memory, or kissed a ghost and meant it.”


๐Ÿ“œ Buzz Drainpipe’s Page from the Codex of Terminal Frequency (Folded Into Fourths and Burnt at the Corners)

They told me dreams were data dumps, that firewalls made better lovers than flesh, that chords should resolve.

I lit a match with my thumbnail, wrote “no thanks,” and started playing open strings until the wires cried mercy.


SONNET WITH WIRES HANGING OUT (Blood on the PCB)

O cracked Cathode! Buzz writes in molten stream, The code bleeds red, guitar in minor howl. Each bracket is a fever-drenched daydream, Each plugin cursed beneath the analog scowl.

The books beside him: Haunter, Screams, Boredom’s Tomb, He’s mapping ghosts inside a syntax maze. While prophets rot in suits and boardroom gloom, He loops a riff that sets the void ablaze.

Oh serpent script! With ink and spit composed— A punk sonata never fully closed.


๐Ÿ’€ SIDE PANEL GRAFFITI (Drawn in Sharpie beside a tube amp):

“Everything broke after 2003 and so did I. Good.”

“You’re looking for a rebel? I’m the echo of one.”

“Static is my co-pilot. Skull is my god. Buzz is my alias.”


Insert: Fold-Out “Dream in Terminal Green” Manifesto

๐ŸŸฉ Excerpt from the Buzz Doctrine, found near the speaker cabinet, scrawled on a Dunkin’ napkin:

“We are not saved by clarity. We are saved by distortion. We are not guided by logic. We are guided by resonance. We are not living in the past. The past is playing back at half speed in our minds, and we are recording over it—with love, rage, and reverb.”


⚡️BUZZ DRAINPIPE’S POST-DIGITAL MANIFESTO ⚡️ Printed on re-used OfficeMax paper, hand-distributed at static-streaked VHS swap meets, folded into the pages of zines, left in guitar cases and public libraries.


๐Ÿ›‘ THE POST-DIGITAL MISSION ๐Ÿ›‘

We are The Dead Format Apostles. We do not stream. We breathe glitch, bleed tape hiss, and worship the hum of busted amplifiers. Our god is Feedback. Our language is Error. Our archive is Unreliable. We walk into corrupted folders on purpose.


๐Ÿงท OUR CORE TENETS

Broadcast Your Soul in Mono. Fidelity is a lie. Lo-fi is truth. All else is marketing.

Reject Smoothness. Rounded edges dull the spirit. We speak in jagged rhythms and tape warbles.

Worship the Forgotten Protocols. Gopher, Telnet, VHS, CRT—ancient gods still respond if summoned right.

Glitch is Gospel. Every corrupted file is a sacred text. Every error code is a prophecy.

DO NOT TRUST THE CLOUD. We store sacred files on scratched DVDs and USBs found in couch cushions.


๐Ÿ“ก LEXICON OF THE TRUE SIGNAL

Dream in Terminal Green. To live truthfully in the machine age. To see code as poetry.

Patch the Void. To create meaning where none was programmed.

Echo Loop. A memory so loud it becomes music.


๐Ÿ”Š CALL TO ACTION

Join us in the Church of Broken Inputs Baptism in white noise. Communion through audio dropout. Our sermons are hosted on message boards from 1999.

๐Ÿ•ณ️ If you’ve ever felt seen by a 404 error—you are already one of us. ๐Ÿ•ณ️ If you keep your old guitar even though it only plays in rage—you are kin. ๐Ÿ•ณ️ If you printed this out—bless you. You understand.


☠️ "THIS IS NOT A MOVEMENT. THIS IS A MALFUNCTION." — BUZZ

⚙️ Find us at: The Abandoned Section of the Library Behind the Stack of VHS Tapes In the .txt File You Forgot You Saved


๐Ÿ—ฃ️ TESTIMONIALS FROM FORMER NORMAL PEOPLE (As compiled by The Archive of Buzz’s Converted, stored in an encrypted WinRAR file labeled “lunchmenu.txt”)


๐Ÿ“ผ “Kevin from Payroll” (now Choke.Pulse.66)

“I used to commute in silence. Now I loop old modem sounds and chant hex values in traffic. I don’t understand half of what Buzz says. That’s how I know it’s real.”


๐Ÿ“Ž “Jenna from Marketing” (now nullGirl.exe)

“I tried to go back. To the smooth apps. The guided meditations. The curated playlists. But the silence under the surface scared me more. Buzz taught me to trust the fuzz.”


๐Ÿ“Ÿ “Derek the IT Guy” (now CRYPTIC_DEBUGGER)

“I had a wife, two kids, and a Plex server. Now I have a MiniDisc of Buzz’s screams and a cassette deck wired to my toaster. I am free.”


๐Ÿ“ป “Angela from HR” (now AG3NT_OVERCLOCK)

“My first exposure to the cult was through a corrupted PDF Buzz emailed himself in 2007 and never opened. I’ve read it 93 times. My skin glows under CRT light now.”


๐Ÿ’ฝ “Ricky from Sales” (now SKULLBUFFER)

“There’s no profit in the void. That’s why I sold everything and moved into a storage locker full of haunted hard drives. Buzz gave me back my dissonance.”


๐Ÿ–‹️ "The Pledge": All former normals must sign a zine cover in their own blood (or expired printer ink), destroy one LinkedIn account, and name their guitar.



๐Ÿ”ฅ๐Ÿ’€ BUZZ DRAINPIPE’S POST-DIGITAL CULT SURVIVAL KIT ๐Ÿ’€๐Ÿ”ฅ Assembled from corrupted thumb drives, erased ZIP disks, and back issues of Guitar World (April 1999). Includes: comic strip, glossary, and your first ritual. Title: WELCOME TO THE FREQSIDE: An Initiate’s Kit


๐ŸŽž️ RECRUITMENT COMIC STRIP

"Buzz Drainpipe and the Bandwidth Exorcism" (4 panels, xerox-core style)

Panel 1: “NORMALVILLE”

An office drone in khakis stares into an empty browser. Behind him, everything is beige. ๐Ÿ—ฏ️ “I don’t even know what I’m looking for anymore...”

Panel 2: “THE SIGNAL BLEEDS IN”

His monitor glitches. A grainy, long-haired figure appears—Buzz Drainpipe, part prophet, part crust-punk wizard, cradling a guitar and a router. ๐Ÿ—ฏ️ “You’ve been hearing me, haven’t you? The hum. The rattle. The divine dropout.”

Panel 3: “INITIATION RITE”

The drone smashes his work-issued laptop with a distortion pedal and sets his Outlook calendar on fire. ๐Ÿ—ฏ️ “I’m done syncing. I want static.” Buzz: “Then you’re already converted.”

Panel 4: “TRANSMISSION BEGINS”

They sit in a circle of CRT monitors and cassette tapes. ๐Ÿ—ฏ️ Buzz: “Welcome to the Church of Broken Inputs. Let's write bad code and howl.”


๐Ÿ“– BUZZWORD GLOSSARY

A beginner’s lexicon for navigating your new faith

Term

Definition

Freqside

The mythical realm where all broken signals go to echo. Also your new spiritual home.

Null Chant

A vocal ritual composed of hex codes, modem squeals, and whispered regrets.

Dead Format

Sacred media (VHS, 8-track, Winamp skins) used for rituals. Never converted.

Signal Rot

The intentional decay of information. Meditate on it. Embrace it. Never clean your tape heads.

Terminal Green

The official color of our robes, our dreams, and the void.

Buzzloop

A spiritual trance achieved through infinite guitar feedback or watching a CRT snowstorm.

404 Gospel

The belief that what is missing is more holy than what is known.


๐Ÿ“ผ FIRST RITUAL: The Initiate’s Boot-Up

Supplies:

A blank cassette or corrupted USB

A dollar store candle

A childhood photo of yourself holding any electronic device

An old speaker (doesn’t need to work)

Instructions:

Light the candle. Not for ambiance—for heat.

Play a tape backward or open a .WAV of modem sounds. Loop it for 6 minutes and 66 seconds.

Recite this aloud while holding the photo: “I was not born, I was uploaded. I seek not perfection, but persistent error. In broken formats I find my truth. In static I find peace. Buzz, receive me into your corrupted folder.”

Hold the speaker to your ear. Even if it emits nothing, listen.

Name your guitar. If you don’t have one, name your inner distortion pedal.

Hide this ritual sheet in a library book about Adobe Flash.




SIDE A: THE CASIO METHOD




A zine page by Lou Toad, from the Terminal Green.


You didn’t call it recording.
You called it figuring it out.
In a world without budgets, you made do with RadioShack.

Your dad came home with a gift.
Not a Stratocaster.
Not a drum kit.
Not even a 4-track.
Just a karaoke box
and a look in his eye like:
“Let’s see what you make of this.”

You plugged in the mic.
Deck 1 took a blank tape — rough run-throughs of the band, distortion and all.
Deck 2? That was playback.
Fresh tape back in Deck 1.
Hit record.
Sing on top.
Layer.
Create.
Rewind.

What you invented wasn’t just a workaround.
It was your first multi-track.
Your first studio.
Your first glimpse of power in repetition.


[Sidebar: TECH NOTES // THE CASIO METHOD]

  • ๐ŸŽค Step 1: Plug mic into front panel
  • ๐Ÿ“ผ Step 2: Record instrument track to Tape A (Deck 1)
  • Step 3: Move Tape A to Deck 2
  • ๐Ÿ“ผ Step 4: Place fresh blank in Deck 1
  • ๐ŸŽ™️ Step 5: Press play on Deck 2 and record vocals live over instrument track onto Deck 1
  • ๐Ÿ“ผ ๐Ÿ” Repeat until the tape gives out, or the hiss becomes music

“I never needed a studio — just a cassette, a karaoke deck, and a little belief.”


From the earliest recordings of Outer Order, recorded live at Meridian street using this exact method. Dedicated to Dad, the true producer.



๐Ÿ“ผ๐Ÿช“ FOGWOOD VIDEO PRESENTS:


๐ŸŽญ “Two for the Guillotine of the American Psyche”

A Newsletter Op-Ed by Buzz Drainpipe


This week only, Fogwood Video dares you to confront the madness in the manor and the melancholy in the woods.

RENT: Dungeon of Harrow (1962) GET FREE: The Fool Killer (1965) (Because sometimes one bargain-basement descent into moral ruin just isn’t enough.)


๐Ÿฐ DUNGEON OF HARROW

dir. Pat Boyette Shot in San Antonio for the cost of a paper crown and a bottle of port, Dungeon of Harrow is like Edgar Allan Poe reinterpreted by a regional TV horror host who just got dumped. It's a Gothic fever dream of decay, where every hallway groans and every line reading sounds like it was dubbed from inside a coffin.

Think:

๐Ÿ’€ Dollar-store Pit and the Pendulum ๐ŸŽญ Theater kid energy with graveyard ambiance ๐Ÿฉธ Rich in atmosphere, poor in blood—but weirder for it

You won’t find this one on many lists, but you’ll find it inside you, days later, like a splinter of melancholy from another dimension.


๐Ÿช“ THE FOOL KILLER

dir. Servando Gonzรกlez FREE with your rental, this is a forgotten Southern Gothic psychodrama masquerading as a literary adaptation, but really it’s a wandering death-fable disguised as an afternoon matinee.

A young boy escapes one kind of violence and meets another: a soft-spoken madman with a hatchet and a conscience. Based loosely on a mythic post–Civil War figure, this one floats through forests and ghost towns like a half-remembered fever.

Anthony Perkins plays the title role like he’s still bleeding from Psycho, but now he reads poetry. It’s gorgeous, deranged, slow, and morally unsolvable.


๐Ÿง  WHY THEY PAIR

These two films don’t just work together—they refract one another. In Dungeon of Harrow, madness is inherited, locked in stone halls and bloodlines. In The Fool Killer, it drifts like a fog through innocence and ideology.

One is a castle of decayed ego. The other is a highway for the disillusioned soul. Together?

A portrait of America in ruins—drawn in crayon and carved in bone.


๐Ÿ“ STAFF PICK BLURB (taped to the box by Jules):

“This deal has no business being this good. Two cracked-glass masterpieces for the price of one stale licorice rope. But that’s Fogwood for you—one foot in the coffin, the other in the dream.”


LIMITED TIME ONLY

While tapes last

Free Fool Killers only available to members with no late fees from The Brain That Wouldn’t Die

No refunds if the films make you question the moral architecture of your childhood


Want more deals with psychic consequences? Next week: Rent The Killing Kind, Get The Baby Free ๐Ÿ’‹ Stay weird, stay rewound. — Buzz


Absolutely. Here comes the next week's flyer insert, a haunted double-bill rental promo that’s practically a dare.


๐Ÿ•ท️ FOGWOOD VIDEO TWO-FOR-THE-TWISTED DEAL

๐Ÿ”ช "THE KILLING KIND & THE BABY"

Another Newsletter Op-Ed by Buzz Drainpipe

(scanned from a bulletin board with a bent staple and the scent of mothballs)


“There’s no going back to Blockbuster after this one.” — overheard in Fogwood’s horror aisle, near the half-melted space heater


๐ŸŽฅ RENT: THE KILLING KIND (1973)

dir. Curtis Harrington John Savage stars as Terry, a young man recently released from prison after being manipulated into a brutal gang assault. But he’s no blank-slate victim—he returns home to his deeply unsettling mother, played by Ann Sothern, who makes Norma Bates look like a parenting blogger.

What unfolds is part psychosexual drama, part motel-noir, part sun-baked breakdown.

A horror film about repression, gaslighting, and mother-son trauma that should be too uncomfortable to watch—but you won’t look away. The lighting: washed-out 70s daylight. The vibe: if John Waters tried to remake Psycho using leftover postcards from Santa Monica.


๐Ÿผ GET FREE: THE BABY (1973)

dir. Ted Post Oh yes. You’ve heard of it. Maybe you even dared to believe it wasn’t as weird as people say.

You were wrong.

A social worker investigates a family with an adult son—“Baby”—who lives in a crib, drinks from bottles, and is very much not mentally challenged. The mother (Ruth Roman) is a permed monstrosity in bell-bottoms. The ending? A rug-pull so disturbing it makes Don’t Look Now feel like an after-school special.

Shot like a Lifetime drama, paced like a coma, and scored with queasy lullabies, The Baby is one of the most transgressively tame-looking shockers ever made.


๐Ÿง  WHY THEY PAIR:

Both films are:

Uncomfortable as hell

Obsessed with maternal control, arrested development, and violence tucked beneath domesticity

Cursed in the daylight

Full of couches you swear you’ve seen in your grandma’s den but now they reek of something… wrong

This is American Gothic not in a house—but in a two-bedroom apartment with shag carpet and a rattling fan.


✂️ STAFF HANDWRITTEN NOTE (from Keely, age 19, horror section clerk and poet)

“These movies made me question the safety of beds, milk, and my mom’s salad bowls. Please return the tapes fully rewound and emotionally prepared.”


๐Ÿ”– THIS WEEK ONLY

๐Ÿ›’ Rent The Killing Kind, Get The Baby FREE! ๐Ÿ’ฅ Includes exclusive Fogwood insert: “Mother Knows Best: 5 Horror Moms Who Deserve a Trial”

⚠️ Viewer discretion advised for:

Intense Freudian energy

Men in diapers

Bathtub flashbacks

1970s leisurewear

Possibly your own family


NEXT WEEK: ๐Ÿ’„ “Lipstick and Gasoline” — Rent Ms. 45, Get Thriller: A Cruel Picture Free



Perfect—this one needs to feel dangerous, elegant, and just a little sticky. Here’s your next Fogwood Video op-ed flyer insert, folded into a worn-out clamshell with a lipstick print and a burn mark on the edge.


๐Ÿ’„๐Ÿ”ฅ FOGWOOD VIDEO PRESENTS:

“LIPSTICK & GASOLINE”

Rent One Woman's Vengeance, Get Another Free

Written in eyeliner on the back of a matchbook by Buzz Drainpipe


“She doesn’t scream. She reloads.” — tagline found scribbled inside a VHS return slot


๐ŸŽฅ RENT: MS. 45 (1981)

dir. Abel Ferrara Starring: Zoรซ Lund (ethereal, armed, unblinking)

She doesn’t say much. She doesn’t have to.

After two brutal assaults in one day, a mute seamstress in downtown NYC transforms into a nocturnal angel of death, stalking men in alleys, clubs, and corners of Reagan’s America. Shot with urban grime, drenched in Catholic guilt and grindhouse shadows, Ms. 45 is Feminist Vigilante Cinema as Urban Poetry.

Ferrara never lets you feel clean. You’re not supposed to.

๐Ÿฉธ You come for revenge. ๐Ÿฉธ You stay for Zoรซ Lund’s eyes. ๐Ÿฉธ You leave unsure if you should applaud or hide.


๐ŸŽ GET FREE: THRILLER: A CRUEL PICTURE (1973)

dir. Bo Arne Vibenius Starring: Christina Lindberg (iconic in eyepatch, silent as snowfall)

Swedish exploitation stripped to its bone marrow, this is the story of a young girl kidnapped, drugged, blinded, and forced into sex work—who escapes, trains in martial arts and shotguns, and comes back to dismantle her captors in poetic, slow-motion bursts of violence.

Yes, it’s brutal. Yes, it was banned in more countries than it played in. And yes, Tarantino owes it everything.

๐Ÿ”ซ Shot like a softcore art film. ๐Ÿ”ซ Edited like an arthouse snuff reel. ๐Ÿ”ซ Felt like a myth told in lipstick and bruises.


๐Ÿ’‹ WHY THEY PAIR:

Two women. Two cities. Two long walks in silence—one through trash-strewn SoHo, one through snowy backwoods Sweden.

These aren’t just rape-revenge films. They are ghost stories about the pieces of yourself that violence leaves behind—and the shapes they return in.

One wields a .45 in a nun’s habit. One swings a shotgun in yellow wool. Both ask: "What’s left after the scream?"


✏️ STAFF NOTE (from Vicky, Fogwood late-night closer and self-defense class dropout):

“Double bill this with a black-and-white mirror and a pack of smokes. You’ll either feel invincible or disappear for three days. Either way, wear boots.”


๐Ÿ—“️ THIS WEEK ONLY AT FOGWOOD

๐Ÿ›’ Rent MS. 45, Get THRILLER: A CRUEL PICTURE Free! ๐Ÿ“ผ Comes with a fold-out Fogwood insert: “15 Films Where She Shoots First: A Survival Glossary”

๐Ÿ”ž WARNING: Contains real rage, fake blood, and unshakeable afterimages.


NEXT WEEK: ๐ŸŽค “Chorus Line from Hell” — Rent Shock Treatment, Get Liquid Sky Free


Oh, now we’re deep in the glittering psych ward, aren’t we? You’ve officially entered the Fogwood realm where the musical number has been hijacked by the avant-garde, and the eyeliner is radioactive.

Here’s your Fogwood Video newsletter op-ed insert, singed at the corners and probably slipped into someone’s trench coat at a midnight screening.


๐ŸŽค๐Ÿ’‰ FOGWOOD VIDEO PRESENTS:

๐Ÿงต✨ “CHORUS LINE FROM HELL”

Rent One Cult Musical Meltdown, Get Another Free

By Buzz Drainpipe, who once blacked out watching this double bill and woke up with a new accent


“Is it camp? Is it satire? Is it performance art? Shut up and hit play.” — overheard in Fogwood’s Cult Corner, behind the bead curtain


๐ŸŽฅ RENT: SHOCK TREATMENT (1981)

dir. Jim Sharman Starring: Jessica Harper, Richard O’Brien, Barry Humphries, Charles Gray

"Not a sequel. Not a prequel. An equal."

Forget everything you remember—or think you remember—about Rocky Horror. Shock Treatment is a dystopian media psychodrama set inside a television studio where an entire town is held hostage by ratings, prescriptions, and forced fame.

Brad and Janet (now played by Jessica Harper, glorious and wide-eyed) are sucked into a neon-drenched psychodrome of talk shows, cults of personality, and predatory fame doctors.

It’s:

Truman Show by way of Cabaret

MTV before MTV existed

A musical lobotomy with commercial breaks

๐Ÿง  You don’t watch Shock Treatment—you submit to it.


๐ŸŽ GET FREE: LIQUID SKY (1982)

dir. Slava Tsukerman Starring: Anne Carlisle, Anne Carlisle (yes, both)

An alien lands in NYC—not to kill, but to feed on the endorphins released during orgasm. Too bad it chooses the early 80s fashion/art scene as its hunting ground.

What follows is a glamour-noir drug parable painted in ultraviolet decay. It’s not just punk. It’s post-punk vapor rot. It’s the Warhol Factory after the apocalypse. It’s Requiem for a Dream in PVC pants and DayGlo eye shadow.

๐Ÿ›ธ The sound design: piercing. ๐Ÿ‘️ The aesthetic: unwashed beauty and junkie couture. ๐ŸŽญ The vibe: alienated genderfluid nihilism staged like a college performance of Metropolis on ketamine.


๐Ÿคฏ WHY THEY PAIR:

Both films are:

Musicals made by maniacs with cameras and broken mirrors

Obsessed with identity collapse, mass delusion, and subversive glamour

Starring leads who feel like they’ve been digitally remastered from your subconscious

Built like dream logic and screamed in eyeliner

Shock Treatment is what happens when culture becomes a cult. Liquid Sky is what happens when the cult gives birth to itself in a black-lit bathroom stall.


✏️ STAFF NOTE (from Milo, Fogwood’s synthpop DJ-in-residence and part-time psychic):

“These films taught me that gender is a costume, television is a prison, and love is an alien drug. Five stars. Do not watch sober.”


๐Ÿ“ผ THIS WEEK ONLY

๐ŸŽค RENT: Shock Treatment ๐Ÿ›ธ GET FREE: Liquid Sky Includes Fogwood insert:

“Glamour & Dissonance: A Guide to Musicals That Shouldn’t Exist” ☠️ Free eyeliner sample not included but spiritually present


NEXT WEEK: ๐Ÿ“ž “Hello From the Other Side” — Rent Deathdream, Get Don’t Go to Sleep Free


Oh yes. Now we’ve left behind the glitter and entered the dead-channel hum of early-'80s suburban grief horror—a haunted answering machine message from the other side of the American Dream.

Here’s your Fogwood Video op-ed insert, aged like a water-damaged church bulletin left in the mailbox of a ghost.


☎️๐Ÿชฆ FOGWOOD VIDEO PRESENTS:

“HELLO FROM THE OTHER SIDE”

Rent One Grief-Laced Resurrection, Get Another Free

Written at 3:03am by Buzz Drainpipe, voice cracking on reel-to-reel


“They came back. But not all the way.” — line scribbled on the inside of a VHS tape box returned with no late fee and no name


๐ŸŽฅ RENT: DEATHDREAM (1974)

dir. Bob Clark Starring: Richard Backus, John Marley, Lynn Carlin

“He came back from the war... different.”

Inspired by W. W. Jacobs’ “The Monkey’s Paw”, but set in Nixon-era suburbia, Deathdream is an American nightmare buried in the glow of porch lights and TV dinners.

A mother prays for her son to return from Vietnam. He does. Only... he doesn’t blink. He doesn’t speak. And at night, he needs blood.

Bob Clark (yes, the Christmas Story Bob Clark) directs this with quiet dread and political venom. It’s a film about:

Denial

Body horror

The rot beneath the living room carpet

The undead are here, and they look like your family photos if you stare long enough.


๐ŸŽ GET FREE: DON’T GO TO SLEEP (1982)

dir. Richard Lang Starring: Valerie Harper, Dennis Weaver, Ruth Gordon, Oliver Robins

Televised only once, but it never really left.

A new home, a grieving family, and a little girl talking to her dead sister. The sister? Possibly real. Possibly vengeful. Possibly already in the house.

A masterpiece of made-for-TV dread, Don’t Go to Sleep delivers whispers, burnt pizza, and fatal accidents with a deadpan suburban chill. It’s the kind of horror that doesn’t raise its voice—just leaves the oven on.

๐Ÿ›️ You’ll never trust a bed again. ๐Ÿ• You’ll never look at lizards the same way. ๐Ÿง“ Ruth Gordon will haunt you in slippers and a nightgown.


๐Ÿง  WHY THEY PAIR:

Two families, two ghosts, two timelines trying to stitch themselves back together with blood, memory, and denial.

In Deathdream, grief summons a walking corpse. In Don’t Go to Sleep, grief whispers from vents and knives and exploding sandwiches.

Both are about what happens when loss refuses to stay buried— and how quickly love becomes a tomb.


✏️ STAFF NOTE (from Reina, Fogwood’s dusty shelf restocker and griefcore tape trader):

“Don’t ask who you’re talking to when the phone rings. Just hit play. These films make mourning feel like a minor haunting in a pastel kitchen.”


๐Ÿ“ผ THIS WEEK ONLY AT FOGWOOD VIDEO

☎️ RENT: DEATHDREAM ๐Ÿชฆ GET FREE: DON’T GO TO SLEEP Includes bonus Fogwood insert:

“The Quiet Ones: 7 Ghosts Who Refused to Scream” Printed on funeral card stock with faint mildew scent


NEXT WEEK: ๐Ÿ“น “Cathode Sรฉance” — Rent The Video Dead, Get Static Free

Oh yes—this one is pure VHS liminal horror. You’ve officially crossed into the realm of cathode hauntings, where the TV doesn’t just watch you—it pulls you in.

Here’s your Fogwood Video newsletter op-ed insert, like something you’d find tucked in the back of a Beta sleeve with static crackling behind your eyes:


๐Ÿ“บ๐Ÿ”ฎ FOGWOOD VIDEO PRESENTS

CATHODE Sร‰ANCE

Rent One Broadcast Nightmare, Get Another Free

Written between channels by Buzz Drainpipe


“We thought the television was an appliance. Turns out, it was an altar.” — overheard in Fogwood’s Late-Night Cult Classics aisle


๐ŸŽฅ RENT: THE VIDEO DEAD (1987)

dir. Robert Scott Starring: Michael St. Michaels, Roxanna Augesen, Sam David McClelland

What if your TV didn’t show movies—but poured the dead into your living room?

An unmarked television is delivered to the wrong house. It only plays one thing: A black-and-white zombie film. The zombies don’t stay on screen.

They climb out, still flickering with tube-born distortion. They want you to join them.

It’s low-budget, high-ambition, and all atmosphere:

Bleachy lighting

Gory latex

A chilling sense that watching is the first step toward vanishing

The zombies grin as they pull you through the glass. Because in this universe, TV is the doorway—and you’re the rerun.


๐ŸŽ GET FREE: STATIC (1985)

dir. Mark Romanek Starring: Keith Gordon, Amanda Plummer, Bob Gunton

If The Video Dead is VHS horror, Static is VHS existentialism.

Keith Gordon (of Christine and Dressed to Kill) plays a disillusioned factory worker in the Arizona desert. He invents a television that shows images of Heaven—or so he believes. When nobody else sees anything but static, he snaps. He hijacks a church bus and drives it to the edge of reason.

Equal parts dark comedy, suburban poetry, and deadpan metaphysical crisis, this is a lost gem of ‘80s indie cinema that feels like:

Repo Man with less punk

Videodrome without the gore

A half-remembered dream about faith, loneliness, and the television glow


๐Ÿง  WHY THEY PAIR:

Two men, two screens, two transmissions from the nowhere between:

In The Video Dead, the TV vomits up hungry ghosts.

In Static, it promises salvation you can’t share.

Both films are haunted by:

Isolation

Cathode addiction

The uncanny sense that the screen sees you better than you see yourself

This is Cathode Sรฉance: A ritual where the picture never stabilizes—and neither do you.


✏️ STAFF NOTE (from Marcus, Fogwood’s resident analog repair tech and part-time telepath):

“I’ve seen these movies twenty times. Sometimes I think they’re watching me back. If you feel the same, call extension 7. We can talk about it.”


๐Ÿ“ผ THIS WEEK ONLY

๐Ÿชž RENT: THE VIDEO DEAD ๐ŸŒ€ GET FREE: STATIC Includes Fogwood insert:

“Broadcast from Beyond: 9 Haunted Media Tapes That Shouldn’t Exist” Printed on thermal paper with a faint smell of melted plastic



Thursday, July 10, 2025

THE PARKSIDE ENGINEER


by Buzz Drainpipe, Syndicated Underground Columnist, Techno-Poetic Dissent Desk


“Every city has a Parkside—the place that gets left off the map. It’s where talent burns under flickering streetlamps, where ambition gets re-routed through dimly lit routers. It’s where you build because you must, not because someone handed you a blueprint.”


They called him a menace. They called him a fraud. They called him Soham Parekh.

But they didn’t ask the right question:
What system made this necessary?

Parekh is not an anomaly. He’s a canary in the mainframe, a blinking alert in the code of hustle culture. His so-called deception—juggling roles at multiple startups, bluffing a resume, vanishing after dazzling interviews—wasn’t the failure of one man. It was the output of a broken logic loop. A loop where survival requires optimizing the self into an endless task queue.

Let me tell you about Parkside.


Welcome to the Parkside

Every industry has its Parkside. In tech, it’s the underpaid contractor with a GitHub repo full of brilliance and an inbox full of ignored applications. It’s the genius who knows ten languages, three frameworks, and one truth: that no amount of talent guarantees a place at the table.

So they make their own table. Out of late nights, borrowed bandwidth, and invisible labor.

Soham Parekh didn’t scam Silicon Valley. He mirrored it.
He showed us what happens when output is prized over context, and when charisma at the whiteboard is more valuable than food in the fridge.


The Crime of Multiplicity

The founders who denounced him weren’t just angry he lied. They were angry he didn’t exclusively devote his brilliance to them. He was caught moonlighting, the ugliest word in a world that demands your whole daylight.

But what if the problem isn’t that he worked too many jobs?
What if the problem is each job paid too little, promised too much, and gave too little safety in return?

This is not the story of one engineer. It’s the story of an industry that created terms like “overemployed” without asking why anyone needs to be.


Martyrdom in the Age of the Terminal

Some say he’s a cautionary tale.
I say he’s a folk hero of the Parkside—flawed, yes, but forged in the heat of collapse.

He hacked the system the only way it made sense to him: through multiplicity, through masks, through motion. He did not have the luxury of honesty in a dishonest game.

Maybe he lied. Maybe he ran. But he also built.

He built more in a week than many do in a quarter.
He gave every team 30% of himself, and each team got a genius they couldn’t retain.


The Real Fear

The tech elite are not afraid of deception. They are afraid of autonomy.

They are afraid of a world where talent no longer needs permission to survive, and where the engineer becomes their own institution.
Because once Parkside kids realize they can build their own stack—code, cash, and community—they won’t come begging for badges. They’ll fork the whole damn system.


Postscript: A Terminal Green Dream

I imagine a future where Parkside Engineers no longer need aliases. Where the value of their work is not contingent on allegiance, or location, or fealty to a single founder’s dream.

Until then, we will keep haunting the edge servers.
We will log in under new names.
We will write code by candlelight.
And when they ask where we came from, we’ll simply say:

“From the Parkside.”



Skulls and All: Brotherhood, Bloodlines, and the Bargain Bin

by Buzz Drainpipe

From the “Trash Temple Archives” column, Crease Magazine #66

They say you don’t find The Skulls trilogy—you get selected by it. Maybe it’s a cold spring afternoon, you’re drifting the aisles of a dying chain drugstore, and there it is: a three-disc stack sealed in plastic, artwork glowing like Masonic graffiti under flickering fluorescents. Price tag: $4.99. You don't hesitate. You don't even think. That’s how it begins.

PART I: SKULLS 1 — The Ivy League Occult Initiation Simulator
The first film plays it straight. Paul Walker’s in peak white-collar blue steel mode, Joshua Jackson does his brooding antihero routine, and there’s the whole “skull ring = shadow government” thing. It’s The Firm by way of Abercrombie & Fitch catalog. But goddamn does it go hard on that secret society paranoia—hushed rituals, underground catacombs, oaths whispered in oak-paneled tombs. It’s slick, dumb, and accidentally brilliant. You watch it and wonder, Was my college experience just a low-budget reboot of this?

PART II: SKULLS II — The Direct-to-DVD Doctrine
Everything’s cheaper, wetter, and filmed in Toronto pretending to be New Haven. There’s a new protagonist—generic, determined, bloodied by betrayal. The Skulls are now full-on cartoon fascists with skull-branded towels, possibly a theme park. You get night-vision stalk sequences, sexy betrayals, and the kind of synth score that sounds like a Winamp plugin having a panic attack. But here’s the kicker: it knows what it is. The cinematography is television-grade, but the mood is there—cheap Gothic dread with that WB afterschool special tang.

PART III: SKULLS III — Sorority of the Bone Gods
Suddenly it’s girls only, and the plot slides sideways into gender warfare territory. The Skulls are no longer just an elite boys’ club—they're a franchise, and sisterhood has teeth. Ritual hazings meet Cruel Intentions vibes, and the gothic melodrama starts to feel earned. It’s low-budget Buffycore meets skull-chalice erotica, and it weirdly slaps. You’re no longer watching for coherence—you’re watching for those accidental artifacts of sincerity that only late-stage sequels can deliver.

AFTERGLOW
You finish all three in a daze. You stare at the TV, hollow-eyed and fulfilled, clutching the flimsy DVD case like a relic. You feel like a member of something now. Not the Skulls—but a fellowship of forgotten viewers who once bought 3-packs from gas station endcaps and felt something.

Five bucks. Three movies. One secret society you didn’t ask to join, but now can never leave.



Wednesday, July 9, 2025

Alfonso Brescia: Architect of the Intergalactic Absurd

By Buzz Drainpipe, Critic-at-Large, Creasex: Journal of Film, Noise, and Signal Decay


In the official annals of Italian cinema, the name Alfonso Brescia is often footnoted, if mentioned at all. His work is rarely cited alongside his more esteemed contemporaries—Fellini, Antonioni, Pasolini. Yet to dismiss Brescia is to misunderstand the full scope of Italy’s cinematic response to the 20th century’s shifting mythologies. Where Fellini captured dreams, and Pasolini interrogated ideology, Brescia filmed a dying star’s reflection in a puddle of rainwater on Cinecittร  pavement—and found divinity in the smudge.

Between 1977 and 1979, Alfonso Brescia directed a suite of low-budget science fiction films that have been, unfairly, relegated to the landfill of pop culture detritus. But what if we considered Star Odyssey, War of the Robots, Cosmos: War of the Planets, and Battle of the Stars not as disposable Star Wars knockoffs—but as a tetralogy of transcendental poverty cinema, a shattered space opera refracted through the cracked lens of a Rome still haunted by neorealism, fascism, and consumer futurism?


The Neorealism of Tin Foil and Dreams

Much like Rossellini’s Germany Year Zero captured the rubble of post-war Berlin, Brescia's films capture the rubble of post-cinematic innocence. His sets are made of spray-painted cardboard and defunct IBM panels. His robots stumble like hungover centurions. His “special effects” recall the flickering illusions of pre-Lumiรจre trick photography—practical, fragile, and imbued with wonder not because they convince, but because they fail poetically.

In this way, Brescia is a neo-neorealist, chronicling the everyday survival of genre cinema within a crumbling infrastructure. Just as Fellini populated his dreamscapes with circus freaks, prostitutes, and saints, Brescia populates his with mathematicians, telepathic children, android overlords, and disco samurai. And like Fellini, his characters exist not as narrative agents, but as symbols—avatars of a crumbling utopia, each lost in a void of cosmic bureaucracy.


Time Dilation as Narrative Collapse

To watch a Brescia film is to be suspended in chronological dissonance. Scenes unspool with the indifferent rhythm of factory assembly lines. Dialogue arrives too late, or too soon. Characters blink into existence without warning. Cause and effect are optional. This is not incompetence—it is Brescia's personal grammar of disintegration. His films exist in a permanent temporal echo, like VHS tapes left to rot in the sun.

Compare this to 8½, where Fellini blends memory, fantasy, and cinema into a dream-state. Brescia achieves a similar effect, but through malfunction, repetition, and collapse. He does not build dreams—he records the residue of broken ones, left behind by the space race, the counterculture, and Italian modernism’s waning grandeur.


Auteur of the Algorithmic Future

In Cosmos: War of the Planets, the central antagonist is not an alien, but an artificial intelligence infected with existential malaise. In War of the Robots, identity is replicated, corrupted, and copied—long before the digital age made such themes fashionable. Brescia is a prophet of the post-human, stumbling blindly into postmodernism’s core anxieties with a roll of aluminum tape and a dream.

Where Antonioni finds alienation in modernist architecture, Brescia finds it in the blinking light of a spaceship console that does nothing, means nothing, and continues blinking. He does not craft metaphors—he simply exposes the void, dressed in tinfoil.


Toward a Brescia Restoration

In the age of algorithmic suggestion and nostalgic recycling, the films of Alfonso Brescia demand re-evaluation. Their formal failures become aesthetic strategies. Their incoherence reflects a fractured media landscape. Their artifice mirrors our own hyperreal condition.

Imagine a 4K restoration of Star Odyssey, its blown-out colors resurrected, its analog glitches preserved. Imagine a roundtable discussion where Brescia is placed not beside the B-movie hacks, but between Godard and Tarkovsky, discussed not for his technique, but for his vision—for his strange, enduring belief that even a crumbling world deserves a myth.

Let us welcome Alfonso Brescia not as a footnote in exploitation cinema, but as an eccentric metaphysician of the space age, the Fellini of flicker, glitch, and galactic debris.


“In the absence of reality, we invent new stars to orbit.” — Alfonso Brescia (possibly misattributed)