On this week's show Al and Tony break down the bizarre South Korean revenge movie Oldboy. They also break down the new 3D printing boom, and seek out the connections between Napoleon Dynamite and The Prestige. Stay tuned after the sponsors for a nerd out on the film Pacific Rim.

 

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3D printed space stations

Robotic hand that can feel

Napoleon Dynamite tether ball incident

Oldboy hallway scene

SPACE VAMPIRE FLASH CONTEST

Direct download: HEP_-_46_-_On_Revengence.mp3
Category:general -- posted at: 5:11am EDT

I want you to imagine that we are alone.

That on the biological spaceship we call earth, we drift through the void as a ship would upon quiet seas. On all horizons, there are no shores to be seen. In the deepest night, only the stars shine to share the lonely burden.

In our own sea, the solar system, we have found isles, but no refuge. Some planets seem suitable at a distance, but are toxic underfoot. Others, volcanic and turbulent, devoid of life. Some are even devoid of surface.

So we look outward, out to that currently insurmountable ocean. Centauri beckons. A mere 4.27 light years. An instant to the cosmic scale, or 165,000 years in our most advanced space vehicle. There is a chance of an exoplanet here. A planet that humans could call home. A place where the skies are blue and the soil rich. Where the only major difference is that the familiar night sky gives way to new stars and constellations. Where our own home star is just a glinting mote in a crystalline sky.

But only a chance.

What if we reach this world and still find ourselves as the only intelligent being in the universe? Do we look outward to our galaxy? There are an estimated 10 billion earth like planets in The Milky Way. Are we so lucky that only Earth had the chemical composition to spawn life? That we are 1 in 10 billion? Do we push this further and consider the quintillions of star systems in the known universe?

Is it empty?

Are we alone?

Are we the only instance of the biological epoch? Are we the only sets of atoms that are even aware of atoms?

Our vessel drifts through infinite black, embraced only by the mass of a finite thrashing from the basest elements in our star.

Yet we are one of billions in our own cosmic neighborhood. One of billions of trillions on far off shores in galaxies further than comprehension. Less than a single grain of sand in a great desert, or a piece of spittle falling into an ocean.

Does this make us more important? Or less? Are we simply a temporary anomaly so far beset in the depths of the void that it will never matter, or are we the only matter that matters because we understand ourselves to be matter? Or is our consciousness just the conduit for our delusions of grandeur?

Is it blind arrogance to think that with all that is, only we exist to understand it? That our one rock is somehow the center of all. That we do not share this common cosmos with a single other microbe or form of life, except for what is on our little blue ball. That an entire universe is dead except for us, who are to this planet little more than bacteria.

It cannot yet be said for certain, but smart money disagrees. Life thrives in every nook and cranny on this world, often in places said to be near impossible. If we can go 1 for 8 plus a Plutoid on our own block, then what’s to say that the same vitality doesn’t grip the rest of the universe? Even if the odds are 1 in 100, 1 in 10,000, hell, one in 10 billion for a heavenly body to contain life, that still makes for a staggering amount over the course of an entire universe.

Do I believe we are alone? Not a chance.

Direct download: TDS_Thoughts_-_1_-_Alone.mp3
Category:general -- posted at: 5:25pm EDT

In this episode, Al and Tony dig into the documentary Dark Days, and discuss the manifold problems of homelessness, and tenacity of the human spirit. They also discuss medical nonsense and Albert is outed as a Sharknado hipster.

 

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Sharknado

Texas legislature bans tampons

Pacific Rim

"N."

"The Wreck of the Charles Dexter Ward"

Direct download: HEP_-_45_-_Dude_its_Like_Medical.mp3
Category:general -- posted at: 3:10am EDT

Albert flies it solo suffering his way through the real-estate themed horror film House Hunting with a full-length commentary. Check out the movie on Netflix and watch along he encounters monsters with goofy hats, annoying antagonists, and a twist ending that makes not the slightest bit of sense.

Direct download: Albert_vs._Movies_-_1_-_House_Hunting.mp3
Category:general -- posted at: 3:18pm EDT

This week, the guys chat with awesome author Ellie Anne about writing, trans-media, and her new steam-punk fantasy novel, The Silver Sickle. Later in the show we dig into the strengths and weaknesses of World War Z (warning: spoilers).

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The Silver Sickle by Ellie Anne

Film Crit Hulk

The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss

Breaking Steele Aaron Patterson

J. C Hutchins

Transmedia

Sundown: White Birch [also on Google Play]

Steampunk Holmes

Direct download: HEP_-_44_-_Author_Interview_with_Ellie_Anne.mp3
Category:general -- posted at: 4:00am EDT

A Ghost In Time 
by B.T. Joy
He closes his eyes. The light flashes. 
Somewhere west. Wyoming. Montana. Little Hallmark across the street. Hanging lilacs. Next door along. A picture house showing the matinees. His eyes, getting old, can’t see the listings. 
May as well cross. Look what’s on. Halfway over. An Asian guy in an immaculate suit passes. He feels the familiar repulsive burn of electric between them. The Asian guy thinks they’ve brushed bodies and makes something of it. 
“Hey fella! Watch where you’re going, huh!?”
He doesn’t respond. 
You’re wondering how he can be so calm? It wasn’t always that way. Not always that way at all. 
His shuddering feet reach the other curb like tiny boats coming into shore and he shuffles to the doors of the picture house. He doesn’t have time to watch the movies. He’ll never have time to watch a full movie again. But sometimes he likes to read the advertisements. 
Schindler’s List. Jurassic Park. Sleepless in Seattle.
Must be the early 90s now. Christ the world was getting old. 
He closes his eyes. The light flashes. 
Sidewalk bench. Sitting. Early morning and no folk around. The Deep South by the look of the trees all shining in the muggy wind and the French Colonial facades, blue and peach, that line the good-sides of the streets like Hollywood sets of pinewood and plaster. 1970, by the cars.  
But what were you asking? Oh, yes, so calm. 
He wasn’t always so calm. It wasn’t always that way. For the first ten years he’d run around from place to place- from time to time- like a devil on speed. Trying to grab at people. Shouting. Screaming his name. Saying he was lost and he wanted to go home now. 
Nothing ever changed. He couldn’t make anything change at any rate.   
Nothing ever stayed the same long enough for anyone to understand. 
He looks down at his hands. Resting on his legs that rest on that little sky-blue bench in Louisiana or Mississippi; or wherever the fuck he is. Old hands. With delves deep as canyons and the little lilac rivers of veins rushing everywhere; eroding the skin. 
So old. Getting so... so... old. 
He closes his eyes. The light flashes.
Chase Field. On the grass. Fuck. Chase Field again. On the grass. Strewn with shirtless bodies, old and young. Brown porpoises lolling in the Phoenix summer. Pittsburg Pirates win. Arizona Diamondbacks lose. Ten runs to three. 
He sits on the wall. The lawn is emptying. Gingham. Striped. Checker. Tartan. Calico. White. The blankets are being skinned from the lawn. Folded between semi-naked bodies glossed with sweat. The grass is littered with cartons and discarded chili-dogs. The march is being played. 
Not again. Not again with the fucking march. Must times be recycled. Isn’t it bad enough. Isn’t it torture enough. Isn’t it hell enough. 
The march. The march. The triumphant peppy march. Pittsburg Pirates win. Arizona Diamondbacks lose. Ten runs to three.
The people are swarming like a chain of coffee-coloured ants. They bear insufferably close. The repulsive electric stabs at him. A thousand stinging tentacles. 
He falls off the wall and wails when he hits the earth. Mothers pull their children into shawls of towels and blankets. 
“Just a drunk.” They whisper to each other. 
From the flat of his back he stares up at the painful Arizona sun. 
He closes his eyes. The light flashes.
Dark place. Perhaps by the sea. Because he can hear it lolling on the shore. Cooler night. Still on his back. Faint wisps of air up there. In all that blackness. Faint green. Radiation green. Perhaps it’s thicker than it looks because there are no stars. 
But the sea. The sea out there. In the dark. Still lolling on the shore. 
What were you asking? 
Calm? 
Yes. 
Calm now. Calm now. Like the sea. Like the sea. Out there. In the dark. Still lolling on the shore. 
Not always like this. Not at all always like this. Ran frantic once. Devil on speed. Grab people. Shout. Scream name. 
Lost. Lost. Lost.  
Want to go home!  
Want to go home!
Sea now. Dark. Lolling on shore. 
What were you asking? 
What? 
Does he remember? 
Of course he remembers. 
Who could forget? Done with her. Blood on privates. Hers. His. Jimmy’s. Jimmy’s knife. Pulled it out. No. Put it back. Pulled it out. More blood. Throat this time. Not from below. Not from where they’d forced themselves inside. 
Throat this time. Welling up. Red. Like the sea. In the dark. Lolling on the shore. Tongue lolling. On the grass. Sea on the shore. Tongue on the grass. Lolling. Lolling. 
He closes his eyes. The light flashes.
Chase Field. On the grass. Fuck. Chase Field again. On the grass. Old and young. Brown porpoises. Lolling. Lolling. Lolling. Pittsburg Pirates win. Arizona Diamondbacks lose. Ten runs to three. 
He sits on the wall. Gingham. Striped. Checker. Tartan. Calico. White. Red. Like the sea. Welling up. Lolling. Lolling. Blankets. Skinned from the lawn. Not again. Not again. Fucking march. Recycled. Bad enough. Torture enough. Hell enough. 
The march. The march. Pittsburg Pirates. Arizona Diamondbacks. Ten runs to three.
Swarming ants. Insufferably close. The repulsive electric.
He falls. 
Mothers pull children. 
“Just a drunk.”
“Just a drunk.”  
  Painful Arizona sun.
He closes his eyes. The light flashes. 
No. No. 
Interstate 44. Lebanon. Missouri. June 14th. Cover of cypress trees. Old Harley store closed for business. Almost transparent moon. Dark clouds and gold-dust of dawn. 
No. No. No.  
He looks to the trees. To the murmuring sounds not leaves but men are making under the anonymity of shade. No. Old now. Weak now. No. 
In the dark a hand. His hand. Her mouth. His jeans. Her blood. Jimmy puts back his cock. Pulls out his knife. 
She dies. And here, they didn’t know, they knew too well, folk are placed in pods of iron; and fed to eternity. 
He closes is eyes. The light flashes. 
Direct download: HEP_-_Short_Echoes_5_-_Hard_Time_by_B.T._Joy.mp3
Category:general -- posted at: 3:22pm EDT

In this episode Tony and Al take a ride with Rubber, a movie about a cold-hearted serial killer named Robert who goes around exploding people's heads with his psychokinetic powers; also he is a tire. Later the joys of bad movies are extolled, and the tragic wonder of technological progress is examined.

 

Links

Atantic Rim

Phil Hornshaw 

So You Created a Wormhole

Upstream Color

Joyland by Stephen King

Linotype: the Film

John Titor

David Icke

Bohemian Grove

Coral Castle

Bishop Castle

 

"Linotype: The Film" Official Trailer from Linotype: The Film on Vimeo.

Direct download: HEP_-_43_-_The_Secret_Society_of_Forgotten_Arts.mp3
Category:general -- posted at: 3:25am EDT

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