In honor of the time-honoured, continuing rampant destruction of the short stories of philip k dick into monetizable formats, we supply here in this issue merely old trite texts, cut up and butchered. And furthermore, we review them! Our helpful computer program the StoryAnalytiker007, thanx to the recent invention of the memristor, has fully parsed these texts and filtered out anything that might contribute to any kind of narrative that the general public as designed into being by Hollywood Demographers and Scribes of Culture, leaving us only those fragmentary bits and pieces of text which somehow escape such astringent massaging, might reject. This is known amongst alternative and transgressive revolutionary filmmakers as the “anti-cut”, so designated by the Bernstein Brothers in the early 1990, and put into practice by such video artists as bruce nauman, chris marker, and Otterness sculpture, but NOT bill viola. please. we know our art. Anyway, in NEXT, the hack that The Golden Man is being made into, we are treated not to the Bureau of Mutant Destroyers, but rather the FBI. Nicholas cage is part producer, part Form Destroyer, part worldwide financial depression, as he works with Todd Garner to remake the whole thing. However, that said, what the hell. We all bought our IMAX 7D tickets here at the offices of PostpOpPuLP. Theres still a ton of Philip K Dick out there and it would take a lifetime to convert into eyecandy. So go for it, we say.. blaze the glory!

We all know the story. Philip K. Dick writes an old musty book like A Scanner Darkly, it gets picked up by hip young directors like Richard Linklater, throw in a couple big names like Keanu Reeves, Winona Ryder, Robert Downey Jr., Woody Harrelson, and Rory Cochrane, convince a big studio like Warner Independent Pictures to throw some money at it, and whammo… force alternative culture nuts living on the fringes of society to learn how to become good addicted consumers. Of course there are the fringe benefits, also… all the nutcases whove been preaching the gospel according to Philip K. Dick get to go on the lecture circuit, write a book or two, or just generally aquire the status of the self-serving cynicism that proclaims its proximity to truth is now validated just because theres suddenly a mass-consumer market for it. But who cares, really? Snarf all the pleasure you can from the experience cause its gonna be really cool! And how many times do fringies get to feel they are close to the steering wheel of such a massive economic production, like driving the latest in military and surveillance technology as in Dr. Futurity, Vulcan’s Hammer, The Zap Gun, Counter-Clock World, The Ganymede Takeover, The Man in the High Castle, A Scanner Darkly, The World Jones Made, The Man Who Japed, Eye in the Sky, Solar Lottery, The Cosmic Puppets, Time Out of Joint, The Game-Players of Titan, The Penultimate Truth, Martian Time-Slip, The Simulacra, Clans of the Alphane Moon, The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch, Dr. Bloodmoney, or How We Got Along after the Bomb, Now Wait for Last Year, The Crack in Space, The Unteleported Man, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, Galactic Pot-Healer, Ubik, A Maze of Death, Our Friends from Frolix 8, We Can Build You, Flow My Tears the Policeman Said, Confessions of a Crap Artist, Deus Irae, VALIS, The Divine Invasion, The Transmigration of Timothy Archer, The Man Whose Teeth Were All Exactly Alike, Radio Free Albemuth, Puttering About in a Small Land, In Milton Lumky Territory, Humpty Dumpty in Oakland, Mary and the Giant, The Broken Bubble, Nick and the Glimmung, Gather Yourselves Together, and Lies Inc… all great books, sure. But is it possible that in a meta-analysis, in the end, its all just a big market hype dreamed up by androids? In my opinion, yes. We no longer make art for people; we only make art to serve the machines own aesthetic criteria, an unknown, anti-flesh aesthetic. And if thats the case, the machines will chew
up this movie and spit it out, since it is created so efficiently and technologically. Compared to
a typewriter, via this movie we, the soft pudgy human flesh-maggots, will finally get to sacrifice that part of ourselves fully in the process of giving a cyborgian birth to the machine sensibility of the future. Good luck, and enjoy the ride. We’ve included all the stories involving drug wars, surveillance technology, and paranoia we could find.

Once again, we have the misfortune of watching science fiction lose its face to

the new technologies. From Spielberg and his automatic poetry generator report

to Dick Gibsons The Minority Resort, and with Philip Stephens Surveyscam and

Warrior k. Universals Ratio, it looks like the grammy’s and movie oscars have

become nothing if not an homage to the ability of humans to create creative

machine wub gurble. I prefer Chuang Tzu myself, who points out that all we can

do is mimic nature in the end anyway. So why stress all this stuff? It seems we

just need something to do to keep busy. Which isnt too bad. Here in America,land

of over productivity of stuff like useless garfield mugs and prettier and

prettier cans for our sardines to come in, we got it easy. If we’re worried

about food, a 3 pound bag of chips is just 99 cents on sale at the corner

market. I think its all part of the building of a gas station convenience store

on every street corner which is driving this productivity. Hopefully we’ll be

able to see upcoming movies like star wars III : attack of the clones and The

Minority Report from our front porch when those russian and chinese investors

put that moon-size low orbit movie screen theyve been talking about for 50 years

up. Heres lookin at you kid… just make sure it crashes down off australia or

somewhere unpopulated please. We dont need any more frozen radioactive waste

balls falling from airplanes, we already have all that now.

We all have experienced the dumpsters across the collegiate, scholastic, and elementary school landscape that roll up towards the end of season. Loads of paper containing sordid gems of activity make their way out of loackers, bags and desks into the various recycling recepticles. From there, they are taken to be processed by MACHINES. Yes, machines… the very things we have grown fond of, the very things we want the latest of, the best of, the most of. However, in case no one has been noticing, in proportion to our humanist drive to want, and to embrace, there rises an effective hydra, known as the counter-force. This is the force of rejection, and of sadness. This, then, is what the machines that we leave behind aquire in proportion to the very desire with which we want them. For every 1968 mustang convertible some muscled out street-cred guy desires, theres 1000 dodge colts languishing in vengeful rustyards. Its to these machines, and to the rise of these machines, that we offhandedly turn over the cumalative efforts of our younger generations knowledge. This is dangerous, and it must stop. Please help out by destroying by fire any such information you may happen across in you daily routine. And please, wont you help spread the word? People need your help. In this issue, we revive some of the wasted information available in an attempt to save it from the machines. Wont you heed this cry for help? Thank you, Kathleen Toffler, Editor.

We just visited the old Skywalker Ranch, down in Lucas-ville, and we have to report that we just arent into Lucas big Dreamworks. We prefer the more real and subtle intricacies that come across in good writing. Whether its philosophy, fiction, non fictional philosophy, philosophical fiction or nonfiction with a bit of philosophy, the important thing is keeping the focus away from the eye. Literature is like being blinded. And once blinded, developing the other senses once again, and avoiding the advertising media saturated hues of distraction. comic books, cavalier and klay, star wars attack of the clones, the minority report, these are all just mission impossible drones like the buzzing of insects on a summer day. swat them away, and settle down with some words. they speak more truth than you would think a word could speak, if words could speak of words.

We all know the story. A psychologist played by Steven Soderbergh is sent to a space station orbiting the ocean world known as Solaris. A tragedy has befallen the mission’s members, such as James Cameron. These surviving members are strange and withdrawn, and when the psychologist begins to see things that simply can’t be happening, he suspects that the ocean on the world below, played by the reanimated corpse of Stanislaw Lem, considered to be alive and intelligent, is behind the manifestations. However, the dead wife of Soderbergh returns as an avenging army of reanimated movie sequals and puns, set to destory the vast culture of the near-death planet Solaris. Critical perspectives threaten the aura of Solaris in a new context as microtechnology lasers attack. Just as all seems lost, Stanislaw Lem rises up as the intelligent ocean and starts dismantling the set. In the end, he marries the dead wife to critical perspectives and presides over the wedding party as the chaplin. catch-22? perhaps. Either way, progress is good, two legs is bad. Andrei Tarkovsky and Fridrikh Gorenshtein, earlier sovietsky daemons of the 24 fps, and heirs to the Dovchenko filmic style of the 20 minute slow pan, might find the upcoming remake a bit too fast to capture any actual psychology and fear, but theyll probably be so distracted by the special effects and handsome actors and actresses to care. After all, Russia is on our side now, proving the anti-Lem equation bigger is better. Inside the vast cultural shift america undergoes as we start believing more and more in miniaturization and letting the little things in the world do all our work, its better to be on the side of the bigger and better than the smaller and more efficient. But this is all just conservative-romantic retrospection… when it comes right down to it, Stanislaw Lem is one disembodied brain to be seriously reckoned with. When we meet him on the other side of the veil, well bring along an infinite supply of baklava and a small silver spoon. We hope the stories in this issue do some justice to his greatness. All Praise!

It became apparent to me the other day when i was applying a small american flag to my car that there were some serious problems somewhere out there. For one thing, the glue which had been used to affix the flag to the small wooden dowell had become unsticky. Looking closer, i realized the flag had been manufactured in some small third world country. Just what, exactly, is going on? Where does our national heart come from? From the flag that I eventual was able to place on my car with ducktape( the yellow colored variety I bought at a piggledy wiggly store) to the many flags flying on all the other trucks, i realized that we are, in our collective hearts, all third world countries. Waving proudly! Eric Stepman, before leaving Postpoppulp, always mentioned how its better to be a mixed-up mut than to come from a long line of blue-blooded bleeders.But now we are all bleeding, have bled. And we must do what we can to staunch the flow out, and to keep the flow in, from our veins, to those who need it, to all of us that need it.

Irate readers have pelted us recently in the Rantarium with soft fruits, demanding a more equal share of bandwidth for those of the more, science based bent. In reply, a hardwood core of popish horror fans have swung rancidly back with sticks. Made, of course from recombined wood pulp imported from native-held lands in the forested mountains of Chile. In order to restore calm to the fray, PostPopPulp has mediated and offered up the facts that the horrorists have had a fair shake of their posts’ and pops and terror stories. And thus, this issue for the sci-fi folks, a tactile, techtile experience. They shall have their machines, and they shall have their technologies.

We’ve all seen the old Pastor Timothy, practiced throwing eggers at those passing cars, fought david v. goliath, eaten our imported cadbury lemon chocolate bars from the u.k. with a tendency towards genius. But the recent power blackouts here in san fran have put the knife into the back of the genetic fruit debate. In this issue, we try to bring it back, though its an impossible task because genetic pollution will soon be impossible to avoid. the recent demise of Feed and Suck, as well the unfortunate end of McSweeney’s, original online content magazines, have proved that global village really means global contamination. the days of pure organic and conventionally grown internet sites are no longer feasable. Internet genetic pollution is a disease affecting all of us. the results of this effect may not be known fully for generations to come. however, it has become obvious that the quality of work we’re able to publish has declined rapidly over the last 3 months. in fact, im resigning as editor this month. Kathleen has kindly picked up this software package that self generates editorial content. this is its first test. first question: finally, where am i?

New York City, World City, City of many a story. Word is, a place of…mayhem.
Or at least before Guiliani time and 1990′s money money money. In fact, statistics have murder and car thefts waaay down from previous years. Some, a few, have espressed (double shot) a faint nostaslgia for the more, subway graffitti days. So this issue is for the old days, the days as reported in the Jules Fieffer play, ‘Little Murders’ with Eliot Gould and Alan Arkin. Muggings, snipers, apathy. Time to put up the bullet-proof shutters and hide-away….Of course, a good therpaist will help..though one would have to return to a more, slam-bang cocktail type of 1950′s for the headshrink height. Think James Thurber, John Campbell, L.Ron Hubbard….Nowdays we know it is all chemical reactions anyway.
So read on, and travel back to ..
When The Apple was King!!