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by The Editors

Soundtrack: Pop your digital cheeriness with John Ribó/Kapow! Music’s well-trimmed tracks, tuned to the tuna fish of outer space.

Now we have floated down the easy river of PBR, and the year is the year of the Cross-Dressing Wombat, or 2007, and we are not sure what we are going to do with our lives besides our careers and continually making this online magazine. So the old were rounded up to make something new, and so take this, Issue 2.

In no particular order, G. Neal McTighe’s pastime is to lock us in cages of unusually bold C’s & O’s, feeding us a babelfish, and use Latin at the same time. Oh, C, B, O, AY AY, the dew drops done did drip downtown!

Rafa is wantonly prone to galavanting his poetic on the front-side of a 32″ LCD. Not to be feared. In Puerto Rico you can mix r’s and ’s, so he went to school in the US to learn how to increase his product placement. The result has been deep discounts in thought, so that nobody helps nobody, and the weekday special is that you are now called “You.”

Amy pranced to us via a peacefully-sensual-plain-sun-filled golden-zen-cow-meadow. On the way she plopped into a moon-cow-pie of language, and was smeared in the babble of all the tongues in her head. Somewhere in the songs she gave us you can hear the sound of her Inglish arm-wrestling her Espanish into a spiral.

Brian Howe occasionally hints at the rich aroma of freshly roasted coffee, multiple bean-origins, Guatemala. It is mythologized that his creation was a stimulus to peck at a keyboard key. Slinking into the mire of wampum, Brian is unafraid in his image-verse to duet with his ghost through a jambox. Who’ s calling the jam-box junk NOW, eh grandpa?

Eduardo Ramos’s identity crisis was exacerbated by the passing of his Canon digital camera, which was itself brought on by unexpected error E-80 and subsequent introduction to the hard side of a desk-top at a speed fast enough to jolt its parts into semi-functionality, just enough to be frustrating and useless.

Swarthy kiosk dial; here lies truth! At the bazaar, the spit (toons) from the middle of the week quieren decir toxic jaw in Roosevelt Island awe.

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