#Miscellaneous
The Tree of Life Works Wonders
Coming to theaters during a summer overstuffed with sequels to big movie franchises, reboots to past successes with built-in fanbases, and potential blockbusters based on pre-existing properties from other media, Terrence Malick’s The Tree of Life is nothing less than a godsend for movie lovers. A work of sheer originality and cinematic virtuosity, it attempts to inspect all of existence and humanity’s place within the awe-inspiring cosmos–and brilliantly boils it all down into one immensely perceptive family drama.
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MASTODON – DEATHBOUND!
The fine folks at Adult Swim have used an unreleased track from Mastodon’s Crack the Skye as the soundtrack for one of the best videos I’ve seen in a long time. You’re guaranteed to love it – unless, of course, you don’t like puppets, gunshots, monsters, UFOs, robots, explosions, or metal.
And if that’s the case, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.
THIS WEEK ON True Blood: She’s Not There
I tried to approach this season of True Blood with a healthy set of expectations. I told myself that it is, at best, pulpy empty fun. Even with that in mind, whew. Going from Game of Thrones to True Blood in the span of a week is fucking brutal. Brutal! It wasn’t that the season four premiere was awful. It was the same as the last two seasons or so have been. Intermittently entertaining, trying too hard to cram in too much story, and at times utterly painful to consume.
LulzSec Says They’re Done Hacking. Def Not Because Of Arrests.
LulzSec is done fucking up servers and games and things and stuff and whatever they do. They issued an overwrought statement, one complete with sunsets and sailing. Nice.
Deconstructing Deconstruction
Thanks to the mind-warping that occurred while obtaining a Literature degree, there are times in which I can’t keep seem to keep myself from engaging in textual analysis. Whether I’m at the movies, in front of the TV, or curled up with a book, there’s no escaping the temptation to ruminate further, to dig deeper, to figure out what’s really going on. For better or worse, several analytic seeds have been planted in my brain-bone: authorial intent is irrelevant, structure is never as sound as it hopes to be, and genuine meanings must be extrapolated.
Truth be told, approaching texts this way can be frustrating as hell, capable of usurping all the pleasure that makes us want to experience them in the first place. But given the right piece, and the right circumstances, textual analysis can be fresh to death. Alas, I suppose it’s the academic equivalent of the `ole Peter Parker conundrum!
After giving it a few solid listen-throughs, I’ve come to the determination that the Devin Townsend Project’s Deconstruction is an album rich with meaning. So engorged is this album – sonically, lyrically, musically – that it almost demands to be subjected to an in-depth interpretation. And in an effort to entertain myself, and perhaps stumble upon something worthwhile along the way, that is what I’ve attempted.
Join me as I deconstruct Deconstruction.
DEFEAT. 038 – Cola-Flavored Love
[DEFEAT. is Rendar Frankenstein’s unabashed love song to the very things that’ve kept him alive – sci-fi, heavy metal, fantasy, war epics, and pop culture. Accompanied by original art by B. Galiano, each weekly episode continues the tale of Daryl Millar – a hero guaranteed to die upon the novella’s conclusion. All are welcome, but nerds are encouraged]
It was three o’clock in the afternoon. Daryl’d been sitting on top of the Pepsi machine for a half an hour. Perched above, he had clear view of the three suburban blocks in front of him.
It was a perfect panorama of suburban chaos.
Station wagons and vans whipped around corners, providing the day’s only excitement for their middle-aged drivers. Youngsters fleeing their elementary schools chased one another with no regard for their surroundings. Husbands rushed out of their front doors with their mistresses, returning to their offices after extended lunch breaks. Mailmen, finally shaking off their hangovers, swore at the ten-year-olds running through their paths of delivery.
All of these islands interested Daryl, but the makeshift crow’s nest had been designed in the hopes of spying one legendary continent. It was lush and full of life, capable of invigorating those few and far between who reached it. Daryl had ventured further into its jungles than any other, exploring the uncharted darkness that no man had ever before braved. Since leaving, it’d been Daryl’s desire to return as soon as possible. And return he would, for he could see his El Dorado on the horizon.
Vanessa.
We’ve Got The First Cancer Vaccine That Works. Yeah, Science!
There’s a vaccine that’s tailor-made to combat a specific kind of cancer. That works. In mice. But it still works.
‘Banksy of Bulgaria’ Turns Statues of Russian Soldiers Into Superheroes.
There’s a good lad with the nickname Banksy of Bulgaria. Said Bulgarian Banksy recently turned “Russian Red Army soldiers from a monument in the city of Sofia, in Bulgaria, into popular superheroes and cartoon characters.”
Pretty rad, if I suppose, vandalistic stuff.
Hit the jump for pictures and details.
Japanese Scientists Synthesize Steak From Feces. No, Really.
This is a bit late, but we swagger during the weekends here at OL. Japanese scientists have synthesized steak out of shit. Yeah, shit. Not
DEFEAT. 037 – Stranger Aeons
[DEFEAT. is Rendar Frankenstein’s unabashed love song to the very things that’ve kept him alive – sci-fi, heavy metal, fantasy, war epics, and pop culture. Accompanied by original art by B. Galiano, each weekly episode continues the tale of Daryl Millar – a hero guaranteed to die upon the novella’s conclusion. All are welcome, but nerds are encouraged]
[cue soundtrack]
Cliff stood outside of the bus for an additional moment. His cohorts, having already boarded and begun drinking, urged him onto the mammoth transport. But there was an electricity in the air that made him want to linger. An elusive vapor swam about and Cliff wanted nothing more than to breathe it in forever.
But alas, he had to heed his friends’ calls. After all, it was a long ride to Copenhagen and the sooner they got into the bus the sooner they could get out of it. The partying — the booze, the drugs, the women — it was all a well-designed escape. While many fantasize about touring the world, sharing their art, they don’t consider the means of transportation. Too many people, cramped into too small a space, traveling too far.
Far from ideal and even further from comfortable.
But it was worth it. Every single second of struggle, every instance in which discomfort and uneasiness reigned supreme, the countless arguments and tiffs, all the nonsense was erased from existence on a nightly basis. Walking onto the stage. Hearing the intro tape. Feeling the crowd surge as they waited for lights to hit. And then performing — this eradicated the very molecules of personal turbulence.
It was the goddamn dream – living to express ideas, bearing one’s soul to others, knowing that your perspective is appreciated.
As Cliff climbed into the bus he was nearly knocked backward by the stench of alcohol. The refreshing late September air had been fully expelled and was now replaced with the fumes of Jägermeister and Absolut. Hell, if he weren’t such a trusting man, Cliff would’ve sworn that even the bus driver reeked of booze.
On most evenings the musician wouldn’t have so much as batted an eye, chalking up the bath of ethanol-cologne as another perk of being on tour. But now he couldn’t help but feel overpowered by surreality. It was as though he was beginning to transition into something greater, floating above his body and perceiving the scene from an entirely new angle.
An angle not of the first four dimensions.
