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It was a pleasant enough day for an unveiling ceremony.  When I arrived there was already a formidable nebula of people in all directions, nevermind finding any sort of seating.  The sun was still shining in its last throes of supremacy and painted the trees behind that ominous black cloth monolith with all the pleasant, muddled tones of a Monet painting you'd see at a high-falootin' impressionist art exhibit. There was a backing band up on a side stage, filling up this idle period just before the ceremony with the loping rhythms of Soul and Funk essentials.  The atmosphere seemed perfect for some sort of tropical drink or cocktail, filled w

There are movie buffs, music collectors, comic book collectors, perhaps even a classical literature buff.  It seems that every medium of popular entertainment is bound to develop the remora-attachment of some sort of dedicated fan base.  Fan bases have become an indelible part of pop culture and no entertainment medium shouts 'pop culture' louder than videogames. The videogame fan base, or 'gamers' as some prefer to be called, has grown exponentially since the birth of the medium in the late 70s.  Much has changed since the early days of dank, cavernous arcades in which bespectacled competitors jammed joysticks to PacMan and Tron.  The core

Losing my edge. Yes, losing my edge It's an unmistakable sign The slashdots are no longer mine I'm losing my edge To kids from Scotland, and Little Havana And Montana But I was there I was there in 1980 When Miyamoto dug up Radar Scope parts And built Donkey Kong I'm losing my edge, to the kids Whose Adidas leave scuff marks on the EB carpet. I'm losing my edge To the message board kids Who can tell me the details of every Cid Who's ever been in a Final Fantasy From 1987 to 2003. I'm losing my edge To the kids in SF with their fanzines I'm losing my edge to graphics designing Tokyojin who took JET and wear tight t-shirts

Braised spareribs glazed gold and vivid orange in a mélange of gravies and doused in its own natural oil.  Plumped sesame seeds.  Some steamed Eastern vegetables on the side possibly, free of vat stem dyes and chem soaks.  Spinach, bok-choi, tofu bricks. He was jacked back into reality clean enough to see Boss Tamastai's roundhouse kick connect with the archaic ash brick wall he leaned upon.  "An' now I ham paying you to calcify?  Come wif me!" Colin would have muttered under his breath but he remembered seeing the bills for Tamastai's aural amps, along with a new internal double-capacity Dictaphone for particularly important calls. The

The blackened remnants of the last six hours' rain creeped over the six-hundred meter eaves of the geodesic's mouth up overhead.  The ventilation shaft, large enough to fit a full-sized Godzilla, gave the underground borough a clear view of the sky, mottled and fat with the swollen gray of clouds.  The greased rain had scrubbed many of the plastic bubble windows of the neighborhood clean of the standard subterranean grime, making the sky seem all the more distant in soot-less clarity. The U-Ground police were out in force today; or tonight, it was difficult to say anymore.  Their vivid white-gray squad cars cut sleek italicized figures in t

Immaculate rows of fiberglass on sweating tarmac, reflect back the sun, as if in defiance. Ardent black wire and spiked spires cordon off the sky, sag under the weight of the world. Generations-old billboards stand half dead by their masters.  Fizzling neons paw weak and starving at the sleeves of your periphery. Alarm clock time 1 PM The morning rounds and a hack of phleghm Landlady fell out of her walker chair Wouldn't stare but you Really don't care Would go to work But you're unemployed Telephone bill Dwarfs Tolstoy For lasting fame You need an airplane Like the Marshall Monty At El Alamein Operation Ligh

Riding the tail end of a glut on hot off-kilter funk/jazz fusion tracks Nic lugged in.  No will to write.  It's just not fucking there, what the hell?  I thought this shit was supposed to be inspirational, instead i'm left here scattered across the garbanzo bean futon feeling like an X-Com brainsucker has secreted itself through the air con grate and performed its namesake purpose.  Sludgy eyes staring moist at me from the fogged glass of the balcony doors, bleak onyx-silver orbs. Am I off my art-fucking rocker?  I shift and one of Taka's jade and gold bottles of Premium sake slides from my loosening fingers to clod against the persian.  Th

"Erm, ah, okay then." Erik struggled to maintain control over the shrill vulture cries of the stage audio system stuck in vicious cycle of feedback. Stage was a liberal denotation.  The spot the mess of wires and boxes had been clumped down upon was more of an alcove of the laminated wood dance floor cordoned off by an arc of thick black snake wiring. "So much shite for a two-piece…" he glanced back over his shoulder at Sal, who was pretending to be busy with a screw on the side of one of his tom-toms.  The brim of his sun cap rested on one of the high hat cymbals.  "Well okay…" he fiddled with the strap of his acoustic.  Someone in the aud

  We all feel the same Now you when time  we your cry Know the feel of  string of cooled of bits carbon fiber Microchips Solder white plane as the behind of of linear hexadecimal in chrome-plated waxy leaves jack my and of slide into pleasure nothing to gain I've brain in vain If you don't change with me flow Without you night won't go Without you I'm   good's a lie never  show They're dumb pain Join our world and play our crucify my bastion wafers of gold guarding the goods. Nothing. Dead with a blue line channel on clip slant. All name You search  your empty your ways You'll  know Without they'll  never show Without you

It's the rattle of the aircon in the wall It's the drone of voices in the Professors so droll Hearing clocks click down seconds On the week Echoing tremors in the agora Of the Greeks Daydream on the lemon in the glass Yellow desert island where I'd rather Sit my arse Generically great to be alive and free Being godless and smart Like XTC Chiming beepers Giving way To howling cellphones I've got no six-packs Save the ones that kill the seagulls The kind that float one's brain Within their skull Sold in three million round the globe And more on the march The ditty hurt my eyes as they Strain past a golden arch