I would be lying if I said I had fond memories of Morgan Freeman on The Electric Company. This is not because I did not enjoy his contributions to the program but more because I cannot make the connection between the Morgan Freeman of today with the Morgan Freeman who played Easy Reader. They seem, to my mind, two entirely different people and, subsequently, I find myself having to be reminded of this fact when it is presented to me. More importantly, however, may be the fact that most of my memories of The Electric Company are dominated by the silent specter of Spiderman.

Regardless of mute superheroes or faulty memories Mr. Freeman was a regular cast member playing a number of different characters including Vincent the Vegetable Vampire, which is about all the backstory you’ll need for this clip of Morgan Freeman taking a bath in a coffin.

Are you ready to have your mind blown? If the answer is yes, prepare for the bass stylings of one Hyunmo Kim, a South Korean man who “hopes to be the world’s greatest stupid idiot bass player”. He does this in a dress. With pigtails. He is a pigtailed man in a dress with mad bass skillz who does not drink milk until he gags or examine his delicate faux-cleavage with the aid of his camera. You must be imagining things. It’s probably the awesomeness of his bass, frying your brain.

Perhaps, like me, you find yourself in the midst of a tedious post-lunch session of completing TPS reports or contemplating non-work related questions like if science will be able to conquer the problem of cooking pancakes in space or, perhaps, you are simply staring blankly into space, a thin thread of drool dangling from your chin. If so, cheer up. No one reads those TPS reports anyway and spacecakes will be more wondrous than you could ever imagine. Now, wipe the drool off your chin and prepare for the wonder of internet archived filmic majesty.

Today’s offering is the short television documentary Aleister Crowley: The Other Loch Ness Monster, detailing the history of Boleskine House, where once Wickedest Man in the World and occult obsessed trust fund baby Aleister Crowley intended to perform the ritual found in The Book of the Sacred Magick of Abra-Melin the Mage, in order to call forth his guardian angel. The six month operation required Crowley to summon a number of demons and attempt to turn them towards good. However, he was called away from Boleskine House in order to help his mentor — and then-head of The Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn — Samuel Liddell, leaving the ritual unfinished and, more importantly, the evil spirits he called forth unbanished. He did not banish them! They are still there! Nessie might be one of them! Jimmy Page’s friend totally heard one outside his door one time!

It’s crazy, crazy shit, yet completely entertaining. Besides it will eat up some time between now and five o’clock.

Summer stretches on, dear readers, the air thick and heavy, set to a steady, slow broil. I anticipate these many, seemingly endless weeks with fear and loathing, knowing as I do the horrors that await, squatting, therein. I am decidedly unfit for such fiery months despite my heritage, my people being born of the arid deserts. Perhaps in the many years separating my ancestors and I, my genes have forgotten those traits that made survivable those wind-swept climbes. In the end, it doesn’t matter for the present remains the same, my time during those days between Spring and Fall consisting of scurrying from air conditioned room to air conditioned room in a vain attempt to thwart the heat and the body’s disgusting method of cooling itself. It is a battle I have yet to win and by now, already into the horrid month named for Augustus, my existence is a slick, damp, and sticky nightmare punctuated by frequent showers.

Were that the only plague visited upon this part of the Northeast it would be a blessing but, alas, this is not the case. With this infernal heat comes, of course, vast multitudes of insects. They are ubiquitous, gathering in great swarms that blacken the sky, yet do not provide shade. No, they bring no solace, only pain and itching. Truly it is a terrible time, each day finding me a salty, flailing golem shambling down the street flinging my arms, slick with perspiration, like a spastic and broken marionette as I am pursued by any number of buzzing parasites. It would, perhaps, be bearable were the nights to offer some sort of reprieve, but no. Holed up in my climate controlled habitat I can see them, gathering around the street lights, dancing on the humid air that rises from its dormancy in the asphalt. They are like flecks of summer snow. Filthy, disease-ridden, evil summer snow.

Charles McCarthy has documented this particular blight. His time-lapse photography makes them appear almost beautiful, belying their festering malevolence. Oh, how I long for Fall.

Contrary to the beliefs of some, Coilhouse is not a “fantasy magazine”. Yes, it’s a repository of amazing and wonderful things, but a “fantasy magazine” it is not. Some may dispute this fact and to those people I would say that you are mistaken. At the very least you are confused as to the definition of “fantasy magazine”, for just because you may woolgather about the inner workings of Coilhouse, such musings do not qualify the publication as a “fantasy magazine”.

The dark corners of your mind have no effect, then, on the actual reality of the magazine itself meaning, for instance, that editorial meetings are staid affairs in no way resembling a Cinemax offering in which the three lovely women who helm this ship dress in beautiful clothing and totally make out. Nor do the day-to-day operations of Coilhouse consist of the aforementioned goddesses lounging about in provocative frilly things in a giant, Victorian mansion when, suddenly, a casual discussion about Russian literature turns heated and finally breaks out into a sexy pillow fight, after which they totally make out. These things do not happen, I assure you, and there’s no use arguing about it or even threatening to quit even though you may feel that certain parties may have misled you or outright lied to you in order to lure you into their cold, fetid little lair where, instead of satin pillows, limber nymphs clad in frilly-things, and sloppy make-out sessions, you found a room with a desk, a computer, two buckets, and a 24 hour curfew. So, yeah, no fantasies here.

Der Orchideengarten (The Garden of Orchids) , on the other hand, was a fantasy magazine and it may be the first such publication of its kind. It ran for 51 issues, from 1919-1921, pre-dating Weird Tales by four years and was printed in the bedsheet format of 9¾” x 12″, square-bound. Contributors ranged from contemporary, German fantasy authors to stories by foreign writers such as H.G. Wells, Dickens, Poe, Voltaire, Victor Hugo, Pushkin, Washington Irving, and Hawthorne, among others. There were even two issues dedicated to mystery stories and one dedicated to erotic literature.

The real star here, though, has to be the art. Everything from reproductions of medieval woodcuts to work by Gustave Doré to pieces by Alfred Kubin is represented here. The covers, seen here, are simply magnificent, making those of Weird Tales (much as I love them) appear almost childish by comparison. Certainly it can be said that Der Orchideengarten‘s covers lack the kitsch factor so prevalent in its American counterpart. Whether that’s a good thing or not is up to the reader.

There are a myriad number of additional scans at the ever wonderful A Journey Round My Skull as well as some great interior illustrations; well worth checking out.

As far as medical curiosities go few are as famous in professional circles as Phineas Gage. Gage was 25 years old and working as a foreman for a blasting crew preparing a railroad bed outside of Cavendish, Vermont when, on September 13, 1848 he became the victim of an unfortunate accident. While using an iron rod to tamp gunpowder and sand into a hole in the rock a spark was struck and the resulting explosion sent the 3’7″, 13 and 1/2 pound rod through his left cheek and out the top of his skull. Amazingly, he did not die. When he was brought to Harvard University, doctors there made a cast of his head. It, along with Gage’s skull and the tamping iron that changed his life, remain on display at the university’s Warren Anatomical Museum.

What happened to Gage after the accident mostly comes to us through a report by Dr. Henry Jacob Bigelow, published in Proceedings of the Massachusetts Medical Society. Gage apparently returned to work but was much changed since his accident, he was “fitful, irreverent, indulging at times in the grossest profanity”. (Author’s Note: It has come to my attention that the basis for this quote comes, in fact, from Gage’s physician John Martyn Harlow. See comments.) For a time he exhibited himself in P.T. Barnum’s American Museum in New York City. He also worked with Currier’s livery stable and coach business for a year and a half, and in Chile in the same capacity. He died in 1860, 11 1/2 years after the accident, in California. After his death a litany of odd facts were added to those 11 1/2 years. Gage’s mother related to Harlow that he would often make up stories to entertain his nieces and nephews. This may have contributed to later stories that embellished his personality shift, turning him into a abusive lunatic and liar. It was also related that he became a slovenly drifter who toured with circus sideshows, most likely due to people seeing the name P.T. Barnum, more famous for his circus than the American Museum.

The most glaring omission in the life of Phineas Gage, however, has been the lack of a photograph of the man. That is, until recently. In 2007 Beverly Wilgus posted a photo on her Flickr account that she and her husband Jack had owned for over 30 years. Thinking the man was holding a harpoon, they titled it “Daguerreotype – One Eyed Man with Harpoon”. There was some discussion as to whether the object in the gentleman’s hands was actually a harpoon and, in December 2008, a commenter suggested that “maybe you found a photo of Phineas Gage? If so, it would be the only one known.” Six months later, a few road trips and a correspondence with a leading expert on Gage under their belt, the Wilguses are certain they have, indeed, the only image of the man. In August the Journal of the History of the Neurosciences will be publishing an article detailing their findings.

via MetaFilter

Like any good, nerdly child of my era I was enamored with the Ghostbusters. The original film is a hallmark of my early years, though I will admit that the cartoon, which would eventually be called The Real Ghostbusters, probably exerted a greater pull on my psyche. It was these representations of the quartet of spirit exterminators whose merchandise adorned my room. These were the faces on the action figures and posters. They were the ones whose proton-packs were emulated by hollow plastic, complete with child-safe foam beam. Wherever I went, a cartoon-themed trail of plastic detritus followed.

The brand has its hooks embedded deep in me, then, so one may understand why I would be so bewitched by this alternate past version of Ghost Busters from Columbia Pictures starring Dean Martin, Jerry Lewis, Bob Hope, and Fred MacMurray. A Frankenstein’s monster of various films and television shows expertly edited and stitched together to form a pitch-perfect trailer for this horror/sci-fi/comedy from an other-dimensional 1954, featuring a number of subtle references and skillfully hidden nods to a much loved, childhood touchstone. It’s almost enough to make me dig out the old charged particle accelerator.

In my mind’s eye there stands a mansion. From the outside it appears somewhat modest, at least for a mansion. Comprised of brick, mortar, and stone its facade is dotted with windows. It is wider than it is tall, though not by a great degree. It has a circular car park in front of it which you reach by driving down a long, cobblestone driveway. It is surrounded by green, verdant lawns. It is a conglomeration of every Merchant Ivory movie ever made. The skies in this place are always gray. It is a pleasant gray if such a thing exists.

Inside this mansion things become askew. The interior space is an impossibility when one considers the exterior dimensions. Hallways stretch seemingly forever, leading to room upon cavernous room. The architect of my mind’s mansion clearly shows his Escher influences without shame. When you walk your footsteps echo.

And everywhere, everywhere, there are shelves and drawers; cupboards and cubbyholes. The mansion in my mind has a library the size of a sports arena, the shelves rising multiple stories accessed by stairs and platforms and ladders. To attempt to reach a book in my library is to taunt death. The mansion in my mind is a container, a repository for things; a dilettante’s warehouse.

The mansion in my mind is always under construction; though there is never any construction to be seen. Every time I open my browser an addition appears. Sometimes it’s just an another piece of furniture; yet another card catalog on Craigslist. Sometimes it’s an entire room. Today it happens to be a Romanian pharmacy. I think the mansion in my mind could use a pharmacy.

via Curious Expeditions

I’m finding myself loving the work of Charlie Immer. It’s a combination of innocent cartoonish figures with brutal and often grotesque violence helping to create scenes of starkly surreal other-worldliness; an aesthetic quality reminiscent of mid-90s MTV animation or the more recent Superjail! from [adult swim]. These alien worlds are harrowingly dangerous places where beauty abounds and death lurks around every corner. It’s Fantastic Planet, pressed through a meat-grinder and it is delicious.

In a perfect world Switzerland would be exactly like the one depicted in these altered postcards by Franco Brambilla. The rolling, green fields littered with space-faring vehicles; an alien parking lot. The yodelers silenced by giant metal tripods which stride over the snow-capped mountains. The resorts, peppered with interstellar and Earthly tourists alike; gathered together for a weekend of skiing and chocolate tastings or in town for a cuckoo clock enthusiast’s convention.

Unfortunately this is not the case. No, in reality the aliens only come here to mutilate our bovines and abduct people who believe in the healing powers of crystals and the only reason anyone visits Switzerland is to utilize their efficient banking system to avoid paying taxes. And no one would ever admit to being a cuckoo clock enthusiast.