New Cell Phone Coppalas and Hitchcockers YOUR TIME HAS COME TODAY!

qik is the rage today... watch to see who can use their camera phone the best!
Why not? If you are a video head and want to get the down & dirty on this *NEW* form of homebrewed cinema head over to qik
and 'See what happens'

WoW! As if there was something a reader could tell a writer

Party for Babylon Falling

Who is Babylon ?

{and why we should support its' continued growth}

no matter how the blog-o-razzi quip chittingly about the eminent demise of culture & its' monuments...

Babylon is alive and well. An amorphous entity,Babylon continues to thrive & grow. Whether they sell t-shirt @ market price for festival or festival price for market or crowd up on the captured image/sound/motion, forget about it...

NOTE: a monochromatic photograph

'Jimmy Cliff Revisited, Trenchtown' google it and notice the spelling> in particular 'A UMIMUM' & 'ACCETYLENE'...

Twitters says 'Oh, man! That is so lame. I thought you were going to dish the cake on the Babylon Falling 1 (one) Year Anniversary party & impromptu sidewalk beer bash with all those fabulouso peeps from all those exotic places. Oh, WAHHH! Now i'm gonna have to navigate further down the googly search page to find what i'm looking for.'

Cool your high octane jets, Twit.

I received the invite to this party in e-mail blast format from Babylon Falling dot com blog. As did my loverly Spanish fiancee over yonder in Madrid (The 'almost' Capital City & World HQ of all the world's dragon population) say hi, honey... 'Holaaa, desde Madrid!'

Entering the party I was able to check out the Apocalyptic Ballerina & her lo-tech DJ. Refreshing!

This an excerpt from their site description:

Babylon Falling is a concept driven independent bookstore, located in Lower Nob Hill San Francisco, with a focus on the spirit of Revolution. In addition to new books we also carry similarly themed collectible toys, clothing, posters (original vintage stock, and silk screen re-prints from Ospaaal), artwork, and DVDs.

Revolution surrounds us. On one side of the store the shelves are dedicated to the history, theory, and politics of Revolution. The other wall of shelves is focused on aesthetic and stylistic Revolution and features sections devoted to literature, graphic novels, art, and music. The toys, artwork, clothing, and DVDs compliment and supplement the collection of over 3,000 titles. NO FILLER.

We also host regular events that have included performance art, book signings, and art exhibitions. You can see pictures of our past events here

As the good doctor was fond of saying, "Res ipsa loquitor" - The thing speaks for itself.

Some wackiness over the name Yuske and we're off to the races! Sean, owner of this shoppe nestled snuggly on Bush between Leavenworth & Jones, seemed in high spirits as i entered about 7-7:30. Being that i am the sort who always acknowledges the host I salutated him and grabbed a cup of red...

The thing that impressed me was the fact that the majority of the people, artist {mainly} of various disciplines, were super approachable and willing to chat, even with post-apocalyptic creatures of my style. There's hope, eh?

Babylon Falling stocks books and artworks left of the mainstream circle. If you'd like to get the skinny on the local vibrancy of local literary & artistic culture around SF Proper definitely do yourself the kindness of stopping in and saying hi to Sean and tell him you heard about Babylon Falling.

Experiments in Truth - from the notebooks of Doctor Hedskrǖ

It's a small way to be tortured when you come right down to it.
Stainless steel syringe pushes through the foreskin.
Generic brand Korean black market Sodium Pentothal slides through a pulsing bloodstream.

Nazi war criminals introduced Sodium Pentothal through the southwestern college towns of Texas early in the late eighties. The students took to banging it 'recreational' by the mid-nineties. Everyone and their mother caught its' effects on drunken frat boy reality video.
We've all seen what 'truth serum' does to egotistical drifters and desperadoes when they wise off to giants working the nightclub doors. It is a very small torture in the grand scheme of mortality.

She had planned that there would be a slip up in his story when it came right down to it. She believed so strongly in her feminine intuition of sociological dream interpretation, she could feel her venom rise as the syringe squeezed out the final cc. of truth juice.

- It doesn't mind. - she whispers tying off the rubber hose.

He willingly submitted for two basic reasons. The first and best played on the fact that he had nothing to hide. He hadn't slept with any other creature since he met her five years ago. He knew her mind to be clouded with the steady diet of ornately tapestried fictions.

Her mind a-blaze with images of young cosmopolite bodies lacking inhibition. She watched and read way too much. She imagined truths which would never come to past. This is a common problem among word people, especially writers of fiction.

Besides this reason he submitted quietly because, at least, she hadn't mentioned anything about the 'Stripper'. It wasn't the idea of the 'Stripper' being rubbed along his scrotum which concerned him. There is a hyper-pleasure associated with having your sack completely and professionally drained. He had it on first hand authority from the guys in Retail Division.

- She could suck the data off my silicon…any day. -

If you think the 'Stripper' is 'top-of-the-line…' at sucking large clusters of data off corporate governmental HDs and DVDs consider the electronic thrill of having your own polarity consumed by this marvelous device.

T'is the major problem, you see? He has been diagnosed as VoltPhobic. It's not like he started out with a fear of touching electrical appliances. He quite liked the idea as a youth. His earliest childhood electrical memory, after grabbing a toaster and stainless steel faucet, was that of a nine volt battery logo representing black lightning bolt cats each chasing the others tail up his arms, along his spine and finally, playfully patting his brain with sharp little paper thin claws.

He hadn't figured it for a problem until a talk show host brought it to his attention. Then making light of it to the company medical office had really proved he was a phobie. As sure as stink on Sunday morning this fear would ruin his life if he kept it hidden in denial.

Doctor Hedskrǖ filed many psych- grants to research and treat his unique phobic reaction of laughing and ejaculating at the point of contact. Luckily, his sweet Tormentress knew nothing of his condition.

the act of taking in raw data and taking an action based on the category of the data

At my job they never tell me anything. Literally. I step to the cube and everything gets eerily silent. My fellow workers refuse to acknowledge my presence. Weird, huh? Maybe they've read my new poem over @ SomaLit Maybe they've heard me ranting about the expensive dentistry in Amerka where it's easier to start a war than get your teeth fixed. Maybe the heard about Gavin and his crew of hepcats starting to roll out a grassroots wi-fi project (Gosh! I'm sure nobody ever thought of Citywide-WiFi before) Maybe they heard that I got an autographed copy of Pattern Recognition Needless to say I have been busy lately,...

NuevaDrid said...

Maybe your fellow workers are only set to feel some sort of sympathy for television celebrities.

Needless to say I miss you.

1:08 PM

Now the day & the time have come...

What are you waiting for, my little cabbage heads? Do you think you will show the world how good you are by taking all the money and rubbing it all over your body like the Mastodon stuck in the La Brea tarpits on a lost weekend down 66? Maybe you think you can impress your mama by doing exactly what she says... line by line; syllable by syllable... Think that will work? The End of the End won't work in a 'proof'-ed formula... so sorry... Change is the only constant and if you haven't got to that yet get ready for your entire perspective to collapse into itself before blooming into organic fractals...

4-11 Posting to the Peaceful People and Pacific Daylight Time

The Shape of What it is...
enjoying the looks caused by perspectives of the so called 'normal' and the 'teachers' of style
We ride head long into the fog screaming "Summertime! Summertime!" PMPope is a bit on the side of the Stranded... They need more Love... so they come to SFCA and the Edge World Studions or Citywide-WiFi or Edge Data or the International Apartment & they know THEN there are all sorts of them out there and the We are the lonesome in the groups of pick-up sticks to think they compete with the Time and the Gravity and the downward spiral of youth and glamour.... It's just ridiculous that Life is so cheap for some of the people and so precious for others they start to cry while they drink in the Sun or see an old person sing a child's song.... WoW!

China wants to be the Mack... Bush wants to be the Mack... England & Germany want to Mack out... Amerika has always been Amerika and even the snotty self-serving Usenet brats know that... hey, It's not our fault we have the East Coast & the West Coast, Texas & Wisconsin, The Statue of Liberty and the Golden Gate Bridge, ... not our fault... Somebody has to sing the blues and innovate and evolve... Land Ho! Pioneers & Patriots! Natives & Immigrants! We are the We the People and that's what it is.

Monkey VS. Cat - Christmas San Francisco 2007

Beware the fury of a patient man. -- John Dryden

I'm going to speak on a metophorical tone for a moment. If you get where I'm coming from you're doing better than 50% of the people on this planet. -Don't stick your hand in the tiger's cage.- You don't have to take this as a threat. I am not threatening you. If you were born in the jungle you may have grown, into a fine, civilized human being, with the common sense to understand this for what it is. This is a rule of survival.

A tiger is an animal of unmittigated cunning. So cunning, in fact, it's cuddly feline appearance may oft' times lead more naive animals into the mistaken belief it is simply a big pussycat. Beware the pussycats. They have the ability to become cunning and cruel at the drop of a hat.

There are many juveniles on the planet unable to fathom the depth of this, or any, creature's wild nature. Animals are soft, cuddly cartoons. Animals are what the parents buy to compensate for exorbitant babysitting fees. {sidenote: babysitters: What are they really after?}

-Don't stick your hand in the tiger's cage.-
The more spoiled a child is raised the less respect it has for the very real mortal danger of living. Felinus domesticus is a slighter descendant of the lion, leopard, or tiger family of big cats. If you have been trained to interact with these creatures at a carnival or zoological sideshow in a more or less laboratorially controlled environment, then... and only then... maybe you could walk away with your arm still connected to your shoulder. Even then the outcome is dependent on the humor of the cat on this particular day. There is no Hollywood script for a tiger. Behind their eyes swirl the mysteries of the ages. 'Professional animal handlers' know what makes these big cats tick, they have 'hands-on' experience, and still they know enough to never take these creatures for granted. Just because you play the wii or the ps2 doesn't even begin to suggest that you could escape with your heart still beating after a slightly pms tigress gets her claws into you. The attack of a tiger is ferocity exemplified. Make your peace with the Lord God Almighty before you stick your hand in that cage, boy.

Let's call you the lucky monkey, shall we? You step right up, stick your hand between the barrier of civilization and primordial eternity... the tiger leaps... all claws, fangs, and stripes barrel assing towards your little monkey paw. You retract the offer. Twelve to fifteen inches of razor sharp hooks burst through the same barrier. They plow four gashes through your Louis Vitton varsity jacket. A crimsom liquid rushes the torn material. After all, you're the lucky monkey. A couple of authoritarian lumberjacks open fire and the cat goes down. Lucky,...lucky... lucky.

There have been humans eaten by cats since the beginning of history. Check out a museum,an art gallery, a library, the world wide web,... The information is out there. Educate yourself if noone is willing to take you by the hand and tell you -Don't stick your hand in the tiger's cage.-

Personally, I find that zoological gardens always leave me gray. I guess if anyone wants to rid the world of terrorism and terroristic attacks they could quite possibly make a big name for themselves by stopping the subhuman, lowlifes that would kill one of God's most stunning creatures, by this I mean the poachers and not the defenders of civilization. I live in this place which has been named after a very particular, very peculiar saint. He was of the inspired ideology 'If God loves the birds of the sky, how much more does He love us?' Even if you get rushed out of the zoo in an ambulance, you're the lucky monkey.

Those gentlemen with the artillary, or firesticks as we used to call them are our explanation of how far we have come from beating off the creeping nocturnal beasts. They are the necessary defense for the antics of lucky monkeys who stick their arms in the tiger's cage. It's a thankless job but even in the 21st century it seems still of necessity.

I will pray for the soul of the child who stuck it's arm in the tiger's cage. More so will I weep for the extinction of Tatiana.

Safari Global - Chapter 1

'there is something happening
but you don't know what it is
do you, Mr. Jones?' BDylan

Friday before the Christmas tuesday when everyone who is anyone will be with the people they love to celebrate consumerisms' biggest holiday. 'What's he doing for Chrithmath?' Everybody would like to know what everyone else is doing. Well, I don't know about everyone else. I can tell you how I am listening to the ol' Stereolab CD on Friday night and waiting to eat up my International calling card funds (Yummy. Yummy.) I don't know that that's so terribly interesting.... I could tell you about electronic forms and the claims department which uses them, yet somehow, I feel, that is a vastly different tale and, most definitely, one deserving of it's own story/poem beyond the scope of this simple vision of a modern guy tapping away at the laptop keys so as to not simply stare into the audio analyzer or to dream too deep of colors the music makes. I could most certainly be writing this in a corporate cafe and drinking a cup of joe. I don't believe, however, that that is the correct or proper tone for a tone poem tomcatting from the Union Loin's most toxic anti-hero, Agent Zero of the Embarcadero.

Agent Zero is the zero who schleps the shoe leather throughout this town checkin' out the feminine body parts for no particular reason but only to dream of the material it could produce, were it to be recorded in some passionate clutch unbeknownst to himself or the general public at large.

The lover is the only one, who could be, reborn as the zero. When the government gave him the job of spying into the tender and intricate place no man must know, Agent Zero accepted like a retarded, half-mad, idiot. It would taken a flock of she-goats to knock him off course. Alas, those impetuous days of healthy pursuit soon took on other dimensions of unwieldy perspective. The beer was heavy. Her ass was heavy. There's no way of getting out of it once the video cameras catch you knee deep in elbows and pierced toes.

The Zero is the zero. Bad choices and a penchant for gambling on Fate's more unattractive sisters proved to be the pot to stew our Zero into a jambalya styled man chowder. Now, with the jalapeno atoms scorching his hairy genitals, he has no one to implore for mercy. As scoundrels have been known to, for century upon centuries, Agent Zero places a series of collect calls to God. The CD is skipping like a fudge merchant from the Barbary Coast. No one is picking up that phone. Not even voicemail.

'No crime. No qualm.' his mind attempts to dismiss the realty of the very real gravitational pull of larger, stronger, stranger astrological influences upon his warped and fractured grip on what is real and what could get 'too real', without proper medication being smuggled in by a beautiful camel jocky named Sonja Pope.


'Roberto, what will happen when Mars gets blindsided like a shitsalad in a snowstorm? It's all about extraterrestrial terrorism!. To tell the truth, I wouldn't be surprised (like Gomer Pyle 'Surprise! Surprise! Surprise!') If Bush and his boyfriend, Bin Laden, weren't arkestrating the whole kit & kaboddle from the Antarctic research facility where no man goes & no woman returns.'

Ah, IPA! Or ERA or NRA or FTD! What's it mean when you can't even hold your skinny ass down on the planet because some bad ass asteroid has ripped a chunk out the face of Mars, like a pitbull with no sorrow. Then, who's got the bus fare? Who, mama noodles? Who?

Yes. I could have used the ctrl+c & ctrl+v functions to build it like an art school bitch who might give you a case from Northport after sleeping with ugly, overwieght, bald, Nihilist rockstar wannabes. I could've went that route. You, my dear consumer, are paying high dollars to the boys from the lambda house to tell you why you are so stupid and how they could help you, for an extravagant fee, get over yourself and your lack of common knowledge and/or vision.

Like some lady told me,... she had to watch her carbs or her ass would mushroom to true organic proportions. 'What's the problem, lady? If that's who you are... be that thing. Be the best thing. Be the ONLY thing. Or be a thing in a series of things. It doesn't really matter in the long run. Trust me on this one,... God has an excellent sense of humor.' so spoke the Agent with a zero in his designation. Not a double zero, mind you. A single zero. Agent Zero. The way the Hindus would have wanted it.

The people had been busy building a God. A huge, technological affirmation of how worthy they are to be loved. With all their shortcomings, all their detestable stenchry, with all their masks and floral underwear. 'My God... the 'REAL' God gave me this huge package of meat to display on the inner net!' 'God gave us plastic surgeons to prove how beautiful and worthy we are.' 'God finally gave us a credit card with low interest rates!' 'God gave us this music.' "Forget the conspiracy crap, Agent Zero. We have a job to do. God help us if we screw this one up." You have got to serve somebody. Even if your name is Agent Zero. Even if you live and work in the Embarcadero. That's the way things is.

Agent Zero takes it in vain. A world music classic is streaming through his ragtop. Wind is blowing his hair like a one legged barber in Little Saigon. He rolls with the flow. On the radio playing at the end of the hall 'All we are is dust in the wind' probably from the wacked out Yoga lady or the smoked out security guard from Afrika. Either way. "It's one of one and two of two. Close on the sides. Clean on the neck."
"Chould I put the razor on the back of your neck?"
"It won't matter either way in a couple of weeks."
"say, mister,... jew sound like you're knowin' 'bout someting. I am only El Barbero. I ain't too smart. You got sometin to tell me?"
"I can't say too much, friend. Maybe I've said too much already... If you've got some family,... tu familia! No?"
"Si. Si. My family. Yo comprendo, senor."
"The best thing you could possibly do for those people is run to them. RIGHT NOW! I mean, after you finish my hair. There is something happening but if I dare breathe a word of it,... To ANY-BODY, we would all be systematically snuffed out by the US government. I'm only telling you this so you have a chance." Zero points at a Polaroid scotch taped to the barber's mirror "Take that little girl and kiss her like you've never kissed her before. That's my tip for you."
"You want me to kiss my wife's cousin? He's fifty years old and in la clinica psicopatica de Inglenterra. He is a very dangerous man. Don't be fooled be his prepubescent good looks, senor. He is an electromagnetic madman. Once, he even made me a present of a flaming dog turd! No, senor. I will not kiss him as if he were my daughter. Not for you or all the technological threats this world has to offer. I am a man and a barbero but there are somethings I just won't do."
"The point I am trying to make to you, my friend, is that the shit is going to hit the fan in a very large amounts and soon. Be prepared. That's all I am saying to you. Do you want to see your entire family consumed in a fiery natural catastrophe... OR worse to be left to the roving hordes of mutant rapists that will sour this scorched earth looking to consume anything with a pulse? Is that what you want!" Agent Zero jumps out of the barber's chair and throws off his protective smock "Well,... If that's the way you want it Senor Barbero..." Zero pulls open the frontdoor "You just made my shitlist!"
"But Senor,..."
Zero pulls out a wad of one dollar bills and throws them into the barber shop as he huffs off in hot footed fashion through the strip mall parking lot.
"Your hair..."

Another day in Paradise

Today has started with a series of inappropriate malfunctions @ the Edge of the World Studions. Please be assured that all the online data is secure. As for the proprietary storage devices [i.e. Palm Tungsten, and my cute little SUSE Thinkpad] suffice to say we are moving with all due haste and Godspeed to recover the data which can be recovered.

Sharks Going Out For Breakfast [ a new story in the upcoming book of short stories ] is in production today is on schedule and will be formated with all due diligence. Have a SUPER day and keep those cards and letters coming.

PMPope