Outer Order Media

by Buzz Drainpipe You don’t watch these movies. You find them. Washed up. Warped. Breathing faintly through tracking lines and magnetic rot. This edition of Down The Tubis drags four relics out of the Ohio undercurrent—courtesy of J. R. Bookwalter—and lets them flicker until something in the room changes. First up: The Dead Next Door. Super8 apocalypse. No gloss, no mercy. Just guts, masks, and a sense that everyone involved believed—truly believed—they were making the next great zombie film. That belief leaks through every frame. You can’t fake that. You can only record it before it disappears. Then comes Robot Ninja. Something breaks here. The tone fractures. Superhero? Slasher? Delusion? It doesn’t matter. The film lunges forward anyway, stitched together from comic book rage and backyard ingenuity. This is what happens when genre melts in a garage. You think you’re adjusted by now. You’re not. Ozone seeps in. Not a movie. A spill. A chemical mistake caught on tape. It hums. It drip...

The cinematic experience of a triple feature program—specifically one curated under the "Sat Night Fright" banner and hosted by the ghoulish interlocutor Buzz Drainpipe—functions as a modern iteration of the philosophical triptych.1 By examining Samuel Gallu’s Theatre of Death (1967), Antony Balch’s Horror Hospital (1973), and Alan Gibson’s Dracula A.D. 1972 (1972) through the intellectual rigor of Denis Diderot and the jittery, hyper-focused lens of excessive coffee consumption, one may discern a profound dialogue between Enlightenment materialism and the visceral decadence of mid-century British horror.4 This analysis posits that these films are not merely "shockers of sinister terror" but are, in fact, audiovisual manifestations of the "Paradox of the Actor," the "Diderot Effect," and the radical democratization of knowledge fueled by the Parisian café culture.4 The Proscenium of Calculation: Philippe Darvas and the Absence of Feel...

Shadow of the Vampire / Gods and Monsters There’s something quietly haunting about pairing these two late-90s films together. Not because they’re traditionally scary—but because they suggest that the real horror of cinema isn’t what appears on screen. It’s what lingers behind it. Shadow of the Vampire , directed by E. Elias Merhige, is the louder, stranger half of the pairing. A fictionalized account of the making of Nosferatu , it imagines that actor Max Schreck isn’t acting at all—he’s a real vampire. What unfolds is both absurd and unsettling, a darkly comic descent into artistic obsession. Willem Dafoe delivers a performance that feels almost otherworldly—equal parts grotesque and pitiable—while John Malkovich plays director F. W. Murnau as a man willing to sacrifice anything, even human lives, in pursuit of cinematic immortality. The film pulses with a manic energy, blurring the line between performance and reality until both feel equally dangerous. If Shadow of the V...

A Review by Dax Silver The primitive ancients of the 20th century were, by and large, a clattering, graceless mob, yet they occasionally stumbled upon a frequency that resonates even through the silicon-fog of our own sublime era. Dorothy Ashby was not merely a harpist; she was a sonic architect who understood that the harp—that fragile, angelic scaffolding—could be weaponized with soul. The Immaculate Artifacts | Era | Vessel | Observations from the 30th Century | |---|---|---| | Early | Hip Harp | A quaint, monochrome affair where the harp dances with Frank Wess’s flute. It is polite, yet dangerous—like a silk glove concealing a laser-scalpel. | | Peak | Afro-Harping | Here, the vibrations shift. It is the sound of a star collapsing into a velvet lounge. The track "Soul Vibrations" remains the definitive blueprint for rhythmic elegance. | | Ascended | The Rubáiyát | Her final transformation. By integrating the koto and the mysticism of Khayyam, she ceased being ...

🎥 Welcome to the Deepdown Zone — where VHS grit meets laser focus. 🍿 Hey crew, Buzz Drainpipe here — and today we’re dropping deep into one of the most bizarre, renegade, borderline why‑is‑this‑a‑quadrology action sagas ever put to film: Black Cobra 1 through 4 . Strap in — this isn’t your Dad’s Die Hard binge. This is Fred Williamson in full throttle spaghetti action vortex. 🛞💥 🎬 Black Cobra (1987) — Origin: Boomstick Edition This is where the legend begins — or where the legend blows up a convenience store while introducing itself with a shotgun. Fred Williamson wanders into Italy, they hand him a badge and a pistol, and suddenly we’re all complicit in this glorious neon crime jungle. Buzz’s Take: Pure Euro‑oiled action energy William­son’s delivery: glacier‑cool Tone: Serious… but also very Italian about it 🇮🇹🍝 You watch this and think: “If 80s action had a jazz riff, this would be it — often off‑tempo but always stylish.” 💣 Black Cobra 2 — Fire in ...

Today’s cultural plumbing experiment pairs two films separated by nearly four decades but united by one noble mission: watching society turn violence into entertainment . One does it with glossy future-shock spectacle. The other does it with a mustached Italian cop punching criminals like he’s trying to ring a church bell. The result? A double feature that feels like prophecy colliding with bootleg VHS thunder . 🎮 The Running Man Genre: Corporate dystopia / televised bloodsport Buzz Drainpipe Rating: ⚡⚡⚡⚡ The new Running Man arrives like a rebooted arcade cabinet in a crumbling mall. Same idea as the classic premise: a future where criminals survive by running a televised gauntlet while celebrity hunters try to delete them for ratings. But the 2025 version cranks the spectacle dial into algorithmic nightmare territory . The world here feels less like a dystopia and more like Tuesday afternoon on the internet . Violence packaged as content. Comment feeds screaming. Corpo...

There is a particular kind of streaming experience that happens only on Tubi. You start with curiosity, maybe a little insomnia, maybe a beverage that glows faintly under kitchen light. One click becomes two. The algorithm throws a velvet curtain aside and suddenly you’re standing inside a gothic hallway built in 1961. Tonight’s corridor: the Roger Corman / Vincent Price Edgar Allan Poe cycle . These films feel less like movies and more like haunted stage plays dipped in melted crayon color. The castles are matte paintings and plywood, the fog machines are working overtime, and Vincent Price floats through it all like a silk-robed ghost who knows he’s the smartest person in the room. House of Usher (1960) starts the ritual. Everything is rot, lineage, and cursed architecture. Price whispers doom like he’s narrating the end of civilization. The Pit and the Pendulum (1961) tightens the screws. Psychological horror, Spanish-Inquisition dread, and one of the great theatrical ...

In a little alley behind a loud music shop lived a boy named Milton . Most kids called him Melting Milton . Not because he was sad. Not because he cried. But because Milton was always… dripping . Plip. Plop. Drip. His elbows leaked green goo. His ears fizzed like soda. One of his eyes sometimes rolled away and had to be politely picked up and put back. Milton didn’t mind. He liked interesting problems. Milton loved music . His favorite kind was the loudest kind ever invented: PUKE ROCK. The band on the radio screamed and the guitars roared and the speakers rattled like a trash can full of skeletons. Milton danced. Unfortunately when Milton danced… things sometimes fell off . A toe once hopped away like a frog. Two fingers slid under a dumpster. And one evening his left eyebrow simply floated upward like a balloon . Milton waved goodbye to it. “Have a nice trip,” he said. One night the music got extra loud . Milton head-banged. The alley shook. The boombox buzzed. The neon s...

Between the late 1970s and early 1980s, both action cinema and British heavy metal were in a transitional phase – the grit of the 1970s “bleak reality” still lingered even as pop‐style spectacle and theatricality began to emerge. In Jungian terms, the period’s heroes and songs can be seen as variations on archetypes like the skilled rebel/outlaw , the noble loner/knight-errant , and the poet-warrior . These archetypal figures cut across media: for example, the NWOBHM movement’s do-it-yourself, fiercely aggressive sound became a rallying cry for rebel outsiders, while late-’70s action heroes often operated solo on society’s fringes. Together, the era’s films and records blend into a single “big blender” of iconic motifs. The Skilled Rebel (Outlaw): This is the iconoclast who “breaks the rules” and fights corrupt systems. In film, Chuck Norris’s A Force of One (1979) casts him as a karate champion enlisted to fight a narcotics ring – a disciplined tough-guy who punishes crime ...

Good Guys Wear Black (1978) Buzz Drainpipe’s Living-Room Transmission I put this on late. Lights low. City humming outside like an old transformer about to blow. I didn’t want “a movie.” I wanted a relic. A slab of analog paranoia with sideburns and unresolved Vietnam energy. Enter Good Guys Wear Black . Enter Chuck Norris — not yet the meme, not yet the mythic roundhouse deity. Just a stiff, coiled presence walking through late-70s America like a man who knows something is wrong but hasn’t decided whether to punch it or expose it. And that’s what surprised me. This isn’t wall-to-wall karate confetti. It’s quieter. Stranger. A conspiracy picture wearing a gi under its trench coat. Norris plays a former special forces commander turned professor, which is already such a beautifully unhinged career pivot that I respect it on principle. You can feel the Cold War fog drifting through every scene. It’s less “fight montage” and more “who’s deleting my friends from the ledger?” T...

DOWN THE TUBIS Issue #01 – “Chuck Norris Knockdown” (Photocopied at 2:13am. Stapled crooked. Smells faintly like basement dust and permanent marker.) 🥋 CHUCK NORRIS KNOCKDOWN A Triple-Feature Transmission from the Concrete Dojo Tonight’s curriculum: A Force of One The Octagon An Eye for an Eye Three films. Three years. One gradual transformation from man → myth → municipal defense infrastructure. This is not just a watchlist. This is a lineage. SIDE A: THE INSTRUCTOR 🥊 A FORCE OF ONE (1979) The last breath of the 70s still clings to this one. Police procedural framing. Disco tension. Cocaine villainy. Chuck is still recognizably human here — a karate champion brought in to help cops who punch first and think never. The fight scenes are clear, almost pedagogical. You see the kicks land. The editing respects bone structure. This isn’t chaos. It’s geometry. There’s something earnest about it. Like the film believes discipline can still fix America if applied correctly. Margi...

Listen, Dad—can you hear it? The Art of Noise is kicking a hole through the drywall of the universe, a frantic, synthetic thud-thud-thud that sounds like a factory dancing in the neon rain. I’m sitting here, high on the sheer, electric speed of the moment, watching the cursor blink like a heartbeat on the screen. I got this email, Dad. From Postman. And it’s the Go-signal. It’s the green light at the end of the dock. They’re talking about Orchestrating Systems. You remember how it used to be—everything separate, lonely, broken into little boxes. Your code over here, your tests over there, your soul somewhere in the middle trying to bridge the gap. But the walls are coming down, man! Postman says: No more islands. Now the collections, the mocks, the whole wild spectrum of the API lives right there on the local disk, breathing the same air as the code. It’s all Git-bound now. It’s all versioned. It’s a road trip where the car, the map, and the gasoline are finally the same da...

The screen is a flickering grid of emerald and cadmium. It is 1968, and Boris Karloff is dying in a studio in Los Angeles, yet he is more prolific than the living. It is 1973, and Dave Greenslade is building a cathedral out of Mellotrons, yet the architecture is made of vapor. This is the Post-Mortem Baroque. I. The Anatomy of the Green Wizard In the artwork of Roger Dean, the Greenslade mascot—a multi-armed, grasshopper-limbed magus—sits in a state of perpetual, vibrating stasis. He is the visual echo of the band’s lack of a guitarist. Why need a six-string when you have the "double keyboard attack"? Greenslade is music that refuses the floor. In Bedside Manners Are Extra, the title track begins with an undulating, polite jazz-prog trot that masks a "caustic bite." It is the sound of a private clinic where the anesthesia is made of Hammond organ swells. But look closer at the wizard’s face. He has the weary, heavy-lidded eyes of an octogenarian in a wheelchair. He ...

The sky over Maverick City did not hold stars; it held data. bathus sat in the basement of the Monolithic Maze, the air smelling of ozone and old paper. Before him, the Wanderer’s Syllabus floated, suspended by a gold-leaf circuit. It wasn't just a book. It was a map of everything the Company had deleted. Across the table, the Scribe—what was left of him—clattered his finger bones against the wood. "The Great Hiatus is coming," the Scribe rasped. "The silence between worlds is growing louder." bathus looked out the reinforced window. In the distance, the black spire of The Company pierced the digital clouds. They owned the light. They owned the history. But they didn't own the absence. "Technomancy isn't about what’s there," bathus whispered, tracing a glowing rune on the floor. "It’s about the gaps they forgot to bridge." He tapped the final sequence into his terminal. 2026 was the year the grid would flicker. The gold ci...