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!

IT was said that a new person had appeared on the sea-front: a lady
with a little dog. Andy Gurov, who had by then been a
fortnight at Yalta, and so was fairly at home there, had begun to
take an interest in new arrivals. Sitting in Verney’s pavilion, he
saw, walking on the sea-front, a fair-haired young lady of medium
height, wearing a beret; a white Pomeranian dog was running behind
her.

And afterwards he met her in the public gardens and in the square
several times a day. She was walking alone, always wearing the same
beret, and always with the same white dog; no one knew who she
was, and every one called her simply “the lady with the dog.”

“If she is here alone without a husband or friends, it wouldn’t be
amiss to make her acquaintance,” Andy reflected.

He was under forty, but he had a daughter already twelve years old,
and two sons at school. He had been married young, when he was a
student in his second year, and by now his wife seemed half as old
again as he. She was a tall, erect woman with dark eyebrows, staid
and dignified, and, as she said of herself, intellectual. She read
a great deal, used phonetic spelling, called her husband, not Dmitri,
but Dimitri, and he secretly considered her unintelligent, narrow,
inelegant, was afraid of her, and did not like to be at home. He
had begun being unfaithful to her long ago–had been unfaithful
to her often, and, probably on that account, almost always spoke
ill of women, and when they were talked about in his presence, used
to call them “the lower race.”

It seemed to him that he had been so schooled by bitter experience
that he might call them what he liked, and yet he could not get on
for two days together without “the lower race.” In the society of
men he was bored and not himself, with them he was cold and
uncommunicative; but when he was in the company of women he felt
free, and knew what to say to them and how to behave; and he was
at ease with them even when he was silent. In his appearance, in
his character, in his whole nature, there was something attractive
and elusive which allured women and disposed them in his favour;
he knew that, and some force seemed to draw him, too, to them.

Experience often repeated, truly bitter experience, had taught him
long ago that with decent people, especially Moscow people–always
slow to move and irresolute–every intimacy, which at first so
agreeably diversifies life and appears a light and charming adventure,
inevitably grows into a regular problem of extreme intricacy, and
in the long run the situation becomes unbearable. But at every fresh
meeting with an interesting woman this experience seemed to slip
out of his memory, and he was eager for life, and everything seemed
simple and amusing.

One evening he was dining in the gardens, and the lady in the beret
came up slowly to take the next table. Her expression, her gait,
her dress, and the way she did her hair told him that she was a
lady, that she was married, that she was in Yalta for the first
time and alone, and that she was dull there. . . . The stories told
of the immorality in such places as Yalta are to a great extent
untrue; he despised them, and knew that such stories were for the
most part made up by persons who would themselves have been glad
to sin if they had been able; but when the lady sat down at the
next table three paces from him, he remembered these tales of easy
conquests, of trips to the mountains, and the tempting thought of
a swift, fleeting love affair, a romance with an unknown woman,
whose name he did not know, suddenly took possession of him.

Andy was especial inroaded by self-esteem at our success, the
rudiments of the scheme having originated in his own surmises and
premonitions. He got off the safe and lit the biggest cigar in the
house.

“Jeff,” says he, “I dont suppose that anywhere in the world you
could find three cormorants with brighter ideas about down-treading
the proletariat than the firm of Peters, Satan and Tucker,
incorporated. We have sure handed the small consumer a giant blow in
the sole apoplectic region. No?”

“Well,” says I, “it does look as if we would have to take up
gastritis and golf or be measured for kilts in spite of ourselves.
This little turn in bug juice is, verily, all to the Skibo. And I can
stand it,” says I, “Id rather batten than bant any day.”

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.

Scott Spielberg: right, the AI labs, with Murray Gellman and Chris. Until the biology lab fires…

Steven Ridley: …but I wanted to talk mostly about your artificial intelligence

generators. You started working with russell ford and his partner harry crowe. How did that

relationship start?

Scott Spielberg: At the very beginning of it, he said to me

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.

Collected Thoughts of a Barbecue Philosopher

Now, folks, Smokey will tell you what’s on his mind in a heartbeat. So
it was when we were having lunch one day last fall out at Pete’s Piggy
Palace in Lizard Lick, North
Carolina. Here are excerpts from our conversation that
afternoon over a barbecue sandwich or three.

Choice Pieces

Copyright

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.