Another week comes to a close here at the catacombs. Once again on I am on 24 hour lock down as my lithe and mysterious superiors sequester themselves in the lower levels to commune with the Ogdru Jahad in preparation for the dissemination of horrible and blasphemous texts. This isn’t as much of an inconvenience as one might think, as my movements are usually kept to a mere three hours outside of my cell. The current situation just means that I have to call for a eunuch in order to send faxes or make copies. It’s really not that bad, though it does mean that I know longer have access to the aging and, admittedly understocked vending machines. This may be a good thing. It really depends on how you feel about consuming soda past it’s sell-by date I suppose.
Besides, I still have the internet to keep me company, entertain me when I’m bored, and distract me from the horrible chanting and voices from outside time and space emanating from caverns miles beneath me. To that end the Friday Afternoon Movie presents the BBC Channel 5 program David Icke: Was He Right?, detailing the history of the chief crusader against the alien lizard people who control the world, who previously had gone on television to declare he was the son of God, and looking at whether or not he may, in fact, be correct in his various, outlandish assertions about What Is Really Going On. Icke has made an appearance on the FAM before, but I think it’s well worth further exploring his theories, because they’re just so damn crazy. There’s almost a perfection to his insanity, as to ignore it is to let him carry on about alien lizard people controlling the world but to argue it is to acknowledge the idea of alien lizard people who control the world. Either way, David Icke has won. In that regard, the man is a genius. In every other, he is endlessly entertaining.
This is one of the worst things I’ve ever seen. This may seem like hyperbole, especially when one considers my posting history on these internets, but I assure you it is not. This may be due to the fact that I am old enough to remember when the news that Kurt Cobain had committed suicide was A Big Deal. I knew some people who may have shed a tear or more upon hearing this proclamation. Those people will, no doubt, deny the veracity of that statement, but we both know it to be true. Maybe, on the other hand, it is simply due to my curmudgeonly nature, that wizened, frowning, disapproving aspect of my personality given to bemoaning the state of modern music and remonstrating youths for loitering on my well manicured lawn.
Whatever the reason, Chilean singer Abigail’s version of the Nirvana classic Smells Like Teen Spirit remains a stupendous atrocity; a pop-techno re-imagining devoid of irony but instead recorded with what seems to be a complete lack of understanding. I’m no great fan of the band but, really, I think they deserve better than this. Of course, I could be completely wrong. This could, in actuality, be an exquisitely orchestrated trolling a thoughtful deconstruction of Grunge; ruthlessly exposing its teen existential angst as petulant whinging and bubblegum philosophy.
Today has not been a good day. Not. At. All. Usually, you would join your other co-workers around the photocopier, placing bets on which intern can make the most copies of their face without blinking, but you’re in no mood for such frivolities. Today you can only stare at your desk in despair. How much longer can you go on working this soul-sucking job; planted in front of your computer inside the thin, blank walls of your cubicle? What does it even matter? How can you, a single, lowly person, possibly prevail in the face of the worldwide Jewish banking conspiracy? What’s to be done?
The answer, of course, is nothing. Take it from me, an insider who types these words on a golden keyboard while sitting atop a pile of money, sipping from a tall glass of still-warm Christian baby’s blood. Don’t get too down on yourself though. After all it’s Friday. That’s a good thing, right? Sure it is. So why don’t you just ignore the screams of Jessica as her retinas are seared with ultraviolet light and watch some documentaries about a few of the people who may or may not control the world.
That’s right, this week we offer you Secret Rulers of the World, Jon Ronson’s series detailing the puppet masters who work behind the scenes and the lovable loons who strive to expose them. The highlight for me has to be Episode 2, which focuses on David Icke, a man so crazy, it turns out that when he talks about the world being run by “a race of 12 foot, blood-drinking, shape-shifting lizards” he is not making a coded reference to Jews but actually means a race of 12 foot, blood drinking, shape-shifting lizard men. You don’t run into that kind of batshit insanity everyday; especially unaccompanied by an orderly. So enjoy all five episodes; hours of New World entertainment.
Now if you’ll excuse me, my baby’s blood is getting cold.
The footage we’re watching aims to raise funds and support for The Tunnel, a documentary film project that could potentially solve one of America’s most notorious mysteries. Behind the wall in question may lie an overturned (but otherwise perfectly preserved) locomotive from the early 1800’s, as well as missing pages from the diary of John Wilkes Booth, naming all of the conspirators involved in Lincoln’s death. No one can know for sure unless The Tunnel’s production team is able to convince state and local officials to let them excavate, with the tape rolling. (No easy task, that.)
“At the heart of The Tunnel is a story that delves into mysteries, engineering feats, murders, and cover-ups. Some of the stories are completely true, some of them merely urban legends yet to be proven. Interviews with experts and modern day explorers will offer insight into the tantalizing traces of facts and fiction. There is no shortage of secret societies, bootleggers, pirates, mobsters, ghosts, and even Nazis in the Tunnel’s rich past and this story will shine new light on all the heinous details. One thing is certain – the tunnel is as much a physical place and place in history, as it is a doorway into a labyrinth of discovery.”
Tiny little hairs standing up on the back of your neck? Me too. Think it all sounds too juicy to be true? Maybe. Maybe not. Aren’t you dying to find out for certain? Put the word out. This is a film project worth supporting.*
At first, I hesitated blogging about The Vigilant Citizen, a site that exposes the Masonic/Illuminati symbolism present in everyday things ranging from pop stars to national monuments. The site had to be a joke, I told myself, poking fun at occult nuts the same way that Christwire pokes fun at religious zealots. I’m not so sure, though. It feels like too much research to be fake, and yet it feels too silly to be real (case in point: Lady Gaga, The Illuminati Puppet). Whether or not the site is faux, it’s attracted some true believers! As one commenter writes in response to the the Gaga post:
This is truly amazing im shocked. I believe god told me to check this site. I feel like a total fool I wad becoming a fan of hers. Im totally conviced that this is what she’s trying to convey.
So dive right in, and have an occultastic good time! My favorite article is a toss-up between Top 5 Worst 9/11 Memorials and Vigilant’s analysis of the Denver National Airport (part of his Sinister Sites series, which examines the architectural occultism of buildings from all over the world). In a style that reminds me somewhat of Weird New Jersey, the latter article gives us a spooky tour of the most evil airport in America, introducing us to the apocalyptic horse with glowing red eyes that guards the entrance, the airport’s nightmarish murals, the arcane symbols embedded in the floor, the gargoyle statues, and of course the Nazi swastika-shaped runway. All part of the impending New World Order! Enjoy.
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.
Believe me when I say that my admission into the inner halls of Coilhouse has been rife with surprises. Between discovering that Nadya had a wooden leg (lost to Latvian leg thieves, apparently, although I have a feeling this is a lie) and finding that the Panda bone office furniture was an elaborate lie to entice me to relocate to the catacombs, my illusions have been shattered. Still, sitting here at my plain, pressed wood desk, nary an Ursine skull or femur in sight, I can say that these pale in comparison to the true nature of Meredith Yayanos. Revealing it here will no doubt put a swift end to my employment and, unfortunately, mean that I will be on the run for some time; for this is no tiny secret, dear reader. Many have died so that Mer’s true nature would remain known to only a small circle of powerful insiders. But I can’t think about that. My life is nothing in comparison to my service to humanity. The world has to know!
The Matrix turned 10 last week. It debuted March 31, 1999, though us plebs had to wait til April 2 to see it.
It’s easy to forget, in the wake of two disastrous sequels and equally lackluster (except for the Animatrix) tie-ins, exactly how radical and groundbreaking a pop culture artifact the first movie was.
Try, for a second, to look at the original trailer. Imagine you know absolutely nothing about the movie inside:
Pretty f’in cool, no?
To date myself, I was 16 at the time and came out of the theater utterly energized. I wasn’t the only one. William Gibson dubbed it “an innocent delight I hadn’t felt in a long time.” Darren Aronofsky raved that it heralded a new age in sci-fi. Neil Gaiman and Poppy Z. Brite wrote stories to fill out the movie’s universe.
It became a phenomenon, immensely successful and influential beyond anyone’s expectation. Hell, conservative scolds even blamed the movie’s anarchistic heroes for the Columbine massacre.
The Matrix worked because it managed to blend philosophy, allegory, action and fashion into one glorious, fun package.
The Bloop is the name given to an ultra-low frequency underwater sound detected by the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration several times during the summer of 1997. The source of the sound remains unknown. The sound, traced to somewhere around 50° S 100° W (South American southwest coast), was detected repeatedly by the Equatorial Pacific Ocean autonomous hydrophone array, which uses U.S. Navy equipment originally designed to detect Soviet submarines. According to the NOAA description, it “rises rapidly in frequency over about one minute and was of sufficient amplitude to be heard on multiple sensors, at a range of over 5,000 km.” According to scientists who have studied the phenomenon, it matches the audio profile of a living creature but there is no known animal that could have produced the sound. If it is an animal, it would have to be, reportedly, much larger than even a Blue Whale, the largest known animal on the earth.
OMG, R’YLEH?! But seriously. That is some mind-rending, scary-ass, dont-think-about-it-too-hard-or-you’ll-shit-a-squid kinda stuff, people! Forget about alien invasion from outer space. Our destruction shall come from the depths. I’m telling you.
Some kooky Thelemite going by the humble title of Frater Tanranin Uhcheek Gozaknee, 222 has composed the following “Cthulhu Meditation” using original Bloop sound files (as well as what sounds suspiciously like a human left-cheeky-sneaky thrown in for lulz) and put it on YouTube. Quite mesmerizing, actually! I recommend popping some ‘luudes and listening to it in the bathtub. With the lights on.
Return from exile, 1994. Photo by Mikhail Evstafiev.
Literature transmits incontrovertible condensed experience from generation to generation. In this way literature becomes the living memory of a nation. – Solzhenitsyn
Alexandr Solzhenitsyn, Nobel Prize winner and Russia’s voice against Stalinist regime’s brutality, has died at 89. The caustic prose of Gulag Archipelago and One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich exposed his fellow countrymen to the truth about inhuman suffering in secret slave labor camps, stirred the nation and ultimately cost him his citizenship.
After 20 years spent in exile, Solzhenitsyn was living and working in Moscow again, remaining vocal about his strong political views well into old age. In his recent years he briefly had his own TV show and wrote several political works condemning communism, Russia’s rampant nationalism and war as a whole.
Solzhenitsyn’s death is a tremendous loss and his work deserves special attention here at some point. Until then I suggest you pick up all 3 volumes of this and tell us what you think.
Video of Putin awarding Solzhenitsyn an award last year; a rather strange event as even the reporter points out.
A short autobiography written for Le Prix Nobel books.
