CHERCHEZ LE WEIRD, MON AMOUR

I’m not up to my waist in sand being eaten by insects. Another weird Spring. Lots to distract me, still, my career keeps demanding my attention.

I suppose I’m lucky to have a career, maybe it keeps me sane. Is that laughter I hear?

I did a signing/reading event at Palabras Bilingual Bookstore in Phoenix with Scott Russell Duncan, editor of Xicanxfuturism: Gritos for Tomorrow, and author of Old California Strikes Back, calling ourselves Dos Space Vatos. I had copies of Guerrilla Mural of a Siren’s Song: 15 Gonzo Science Fiction Stories to sell and sign. People bought some, and there are now copies for sale at the store. I hope we stirred up  some excitement about the forthcoming Xicanxfuturism.

 

In June, the weekends of 7, 8 and 14, 15, I’ll be doing my “Gonzo Science Fiction, Chicano Style” class via Zoom as part of the Palabras del Pueblo Writing Workshop. I’m tweaking it to deal with the problems with writing as an imaginative Chicano (Xican, Latin, or even those who live at the fringes of the Global Barrio) in a time of mass deportations.

And, oh yeah, I’m still working on that mass deportation story. I’ve been watching what’s happening–not just the news–taking notes, coming up with something that will be crazy enough to cause laughter and make a few ridiculous truths self-evident.

I’ll also have stories in a couple of anthologies. “Radiation is Groovy, Kill the Pigs” will be in Seven to the Stars, and “Doula” will be in Sound Systems, a production of ASU’s Center of Science and the Imagination. No release dates, because that’s the way these things go, but I’ll pass news on as it comes to me.

I’m building up a stockpile of unpublished stories that I’m working on finding homes for. The process will probably result in some amusing adventures in a wacko new world.

Then there’s that novel, Zyx; Or, Bring Me the Brain of Victor Theremin. I’m hoping for a break in the socioeconomic turmoil to start bothering small presses about it. If not, I’ll commit some desperate acts like the professional that I am.

In the meantime, I’ll be doing what's necessary to get by, trying to have some fun amid the chaos, and being the same berserk, if aging, scifiista vato in the face of those who would disappear us all.

It turns out that down the street from the library where I work, next to the Hooters, there’s a Sri Hunamaan Vedic Temple with a sign featuring the Monkey God. I would have gotten a picture, but some unhoused people were camped out at the bus stop putting on deodorant and stuff. How’s that for a writing prompt?

CHICANONAUTICA CELEBRATES ANOTHER APOCALYPTIC SPRING

Don't worry, it just another apocalyptic Spring for Chicanonautica, at La Bloga.

Kinda poetic:

In a weird way:

Funny, too:

With cultural revelations:

 

A WRITING PROMPT

 

 

I’ll be teaching another “Gonzo Science Fiction, Chicano Style” class at Summer 2025 Palabras Del Pueblo Writing Workshop (check it out, sign up, it’s be on Zoom). One of the things I am adding more of is writing prompts.

Since I've been busy the last few decades being a writer rather than paying attention to what was going on in creative writing classes, I didn’t know what a writing prompt was. After a while, I figured it out, and am trying to incorporate it into my presentations.

I thought the idea was a bit silly at first. I see the whole world as made up of writing prompts, I go about my business, and run into all kinds of things I take note of. Sometimes they end up as part of a story, but mostly these days I put them on social media across several platforms. 

I’ll be collecting them and using them in my class.

Also, I’ll make part of it about how to create your own writing prompts. You know, that old saying about if you give a man (it’s an old saying, all genders feel included, please) a fish he eats for one day, but if you teach him to fish, he eats for a lifetime . . .

It happens to me all the time, like the other day, it had stopped raining, while making my way to my troque to go to work, I had just taken a picture of the glittering drops on a cactus when I noticed, a few door down, a young brown woman in a white bathing suit. This wouldn’t be unusual in the killing heat of the summer, but it was cold. And she was soaking herself down with a garden hose.

As I drove by, it became clear that what I had thought was a bathing suit was underwear, quite utilitarian, with exposed buckles.

Also, I had never seen her or the car at the house before.

Did she get splashed by something, ruining her dress and messing up her car, and she stopped at a random house to clean up?

Was she being pursued by assassins, stopped to change clothes, and triggered the moisture-activated paint to change colors?

Did she drive through a radioactive cloud, and needed to wash away the fallout?

This sort of thing occurs to me when I see something like this.

I can’t turn off my imagination.

The world is my raw material, and I pillage–er,I mean gather constantly.

I am never at loss for ideas, not just for stories (it usually takes about three of these things to make a story), but the little details that make a story come alive. Or maybe I just use them for my social media, or everyday conversation.

My life never gets dull.

CHICANONAUTICA AND XICANXFUTURISM GO LIVE IN PHOENIX

It's more than just weird new words and space vatos with gringo names on Chicanonautica, at La Bloga. 

On the location of an ancient, advanced civilization:

Chicano sci-fi is alive and wild:

Going mano a mano with the new reality:

In a struggle for a future:

DISPATCHES FROM THE LAST DANGEROUS VISIONS: WAY-OUT WITH A.E. VAN VOGT

As the world gets more dangerous every day, I wonder about what makes stories dangerous? Ideas can certainly be dangerous. Without some kind of disturbance to the status quo, you don’t have a story. I guess it depends on how way-out it is . . .

THE TIME OF THE SKIN by A.E. Van Vogt

Alfred Elton Van Vogt is unknown to younger generations of sci-fi consumers, though his status as a SFWA Grandmaster has kept some of his works in print and on library shelves. I met him a few times and heard him speak at science fiction conventions back in the Seventies. Some background about him is in order.

He was shy and socially awkward like a lot of science fiction people. Definitely not “hip,” but called himself a “way-out writer.” He was a big influence on Philip K. Dick. George Clayton Johnson called him the greatest science fiction writer because of the originality of his ideas. He was one of the writers who created the “hard science” subgenre in the Golden Age of John W. Campbell’s Astounding Stories. I once heard him give a talk about bad LSD trips of young friends and his theories about where they came from.

Though Alien is considered to be inspired by his story “Black Destroyer” part of his novel Voyage of the Space Beagle--20th Century Fox paid him a $50,000 out-of-court settlement--the media hasn’t discovered him, yet. (Emily reminded me that another Space Beagle story "Discord in Scarlet" also inspired Alien and was part of the lawsuit.)

Using a technique developed for churning out pulp fiction, he wrote in 800 word blocks, and would free-associate to decide what would happen next, and how the story would end. He also used an “industrial timer” to wake himself up during his dream cycle to access his subconscious and incorporate it into his writing. This nice, clean-cut, old-fashioned, rational man backed himself into surrealism.

His stories get quite “way-out.”

Which brings us to “The Time of the Skin.” Harlan told him to “Write whatever you want.” It takes place in a spaceport, that’s very much like an airport (which have always been futuristic, and still are, and always will be). These are places where worlds come together, which is a dangerous situation. There are aliens, of course. The security men (no women, Van Vogt has some peculiar ideas about the differences between the sexes) have to deal with their vampiric existence and their predatory relationship with humans and can’t tell the aliens from their victims. Sounds like a set-up for a sci-fi/horror thriller, but we see things from the aliens’ point of view, and it takes some odd turns. The heroes are not triumphant, but the ending isn’t one of those where the monsters win or are shown to be available for a sequel. A kind of symbiosis is revealed. A spaceport is shown to be like an organ through which we and others flow, and mix.

I was a little disappointed at first. But I found myself thinking about it. Which is probably what Van Vogt intended.

There are parallels with the current concerns about immigration, but it was written decades ago . . .

Once again, the encounter with the other has transformative effects.  

I’m seeing some recurring themes.

 

CHICANONAUTICA FINDS XICANX FUTURISM COVERED

Chicanonautica helps announce the cover of Xicanx Futurism: Gritos for Tomorrow at La Bloga.

So grito like a mariachi:

For tomorrow:

All the way to Mars:

 

Because today’s satire is tomorrow’s business plan:

DISPATCHES FROM THE LAST DANGEROUS VISIONS: LUSTING TO EAT THE HOLY UNIVERSE

Meanwhile, news from the White House sounds like dangerous visions. If they were written up as stories back in the day, would Harlan have bought them or rejected them as too bugfuck? Where could I get a hold of a time machine cheap? Do Trump’s executive orders deserve a special Hugo award?

But I digress . . .

THE GREAT FOREST LAWN CLEARANCE SALE–HURRY, LAST DAYS! Stephen Dedman

Besides aesthetic terrorism, I also believe in creative blasphemy. It’s the closest I come to having a religion, and the only path to enlightenment that makes sense to me. This story is chock full of the stuff. A way is found to bring back the dead, do they resurrect Jesus (not Chuy next door, that Jesus) and it goes horribly, and hilariously, wrong. And it’s not just an unbeliever putting down one of the world’s popular religions, trying hard not do a spoiler, the ending turns things around . . . Uh oh, what if it’s not a simple anti-religious tract? Too bad we don’t see more stuff like this. It’s fun. Why does religion have to be such a sacred cow?

INTERMEZZO 3: EVEN BEYOND OLYMPUS D.M. Rowles

Another one of these quickies. We used to call them short-shorts, but now they’re referred to as flash fiction. This one’s a fable about creation and oblivion. It could get heavy if you think too much about it. 

AFTER TASTE - Cecil Castellucci

Eating is a dangerous subject. Getting moralistic about the always violent act of assimilating living matter into yourself so you can survive gets touchy. The Aztecs considered plant and animal flesh to be the same substance. Life is all there is to eat, and we can’t not do it. The story starts like a space opera about a galactic food critic and goes beyond the expected light humor. Then there’s a take on sexual reproduction possible between different species—and it’s not consensual. Every contact leaves a residue. Experiencing the unknown changes you. A galactic civilization—and the coming together of different worlds—would not be like in commercial space operas where humans in the far future behave just like us, except in fresh costumes. We are what we eat. The universe is stranger that we can imagine. Cultural fusion, like nuclear, releases a lot of energy. Bravo Castellucci!

Gets me thinking about conceptual mayhem for my great science fiction bullfighting novel, but that’s a whole other chingadera . . .

LEVELED BEST Steve Herbst

A variation on Vonnegut’s “Harrison Bergeron” without the humor. This time it’s intellectual equality that’s being enforced. The destruction of the narrator’s mind and ability to use language is truly horrific. And we now live in a society that the thinks being smart is an abomination, and dystopias and considered proper amusements for teenage girls. Maybe some humor would help.

Meanwhile, the news from Washington D.C. is dystopian with a strong chance of getting apocalyptic. Funny in a blasphemous, alien way.

And there’s a lot more to come . . .

CHICANONAUTICA CATCHES EVERYBODY REDRAWING THE MAPS

Chicanonautica is all about global transmogrification, at La Bloga.

It’s because of some kind of emergency (or two or three):

So maps are being redrawn:

Guerrilla worldbuilding is in order:

Because powerful people have visions of their own:

WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO ZYX?

Doing things the “right” way, the way everybody tells me it’s supposed to be done, often doesn’t work for me. But of course, I have to try it, just to make sure.

Over a year ago, I finished Zyx; Or, Bring Me the Brain of Victor Theremin, and figured I needed to shop it around the big, New York publishers. Well, it’s taken this long for a couple of agents to decide it wasn’t their kind of thing and wish me luck in finding someone who could work with me. I figure if I keep sending it around for another decade or two I might find one.

The problem is, I ain’t getting any younger and I’m close to 70. I’m in great health, but who knows how many decades I have left? And my patience has been running low lately.

So, I’m giving up on New York, the big time, Zyx being a bestseller, and making me rich enough to retire from my day job to write all my bucket list novels.

Whenever I mention that I’ve finished another novel to a small press, they ask me to consider them. I’ve decided to give them a try, so I’m making a list, and scanning the horizon.

I’ve also revised my proposal for Zyx, this time, ditching all the advice about being “commercial” and about considering the concerns of the corporate world.

As a treat for your loyal readers, I’m presenting it here:

*******************

ZYX; Or, Bring Me the Brain of Victor Theremin is like a cross between Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas–several simultaneous cross country chases taking place in an apocalyptic time, and oh yeah, there’s an alien invasion. The Singularity is happening but collapsing under its own weight. AIs are trying to take over but are confused by the chaotic nature of humans and civilization. Access to technology has caused governments, big business, and crime syndicates to overlap in alarming and unpredictable ways. Search engines are ready to go to war with each other the way nations used to. Automated kaiju are evolving their own agendas, far different than what was intended by the entertainment industry that created them. Victor Theremin, down-and-out Chicano science fiction writer who has spent his life cultivating chaos as a means of adapting to change, has suddenly become a commodity – or at least his brain has. And now he’s on the run.

Fortunately, Victor is not without his allies, though many of them are more like frenemies – writers, artists, scientists, anarchists— and his female African American “intern.” A powerful network of AIs partnered with him years earlier, dazzling him with their graphene nanotechnology, hoping to adapt his philosophy of life into their strategies for creative problem-solving. Multiple ex-wives and ex-girlfriends are still invested in his survival, even while they’re trying to avoid entanglement in his schemes. When he’s kidnapped then kicks his way out of the prison and goes on the run, it’s a mad dash across the Southwest to see which colliding agendas will produce the biggest explosion. There’s UFOs, sasquatches, chupacabras, ayahuasca, secret black and Chicano space programs, Nazis, neohippies, and a lot of buffaloes. The very thing that Victor is trying to avoid may be the solution – and the salvation of the world. 

TRIGGER WARNING: THE ALIENS DO UNNATURAL THINGS TO THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES!

How is this book similar to other novels? It’s in the spirit of Harlan Ellison and Dangerous Visions Besides Douglas Adams and Hunter S. Thompson, readers may be reminded of Philip K. Dick, Kurt Vonnegut, and Ishmael Reed. Its On-the-Road qualities may inspire some comparisons to Jack Kerouac and Tom Robbins, and the more psychedelic passages could be compared with William S. Burroughs.  

How is this book different? Unlike Dune and Harry Potter, which take the King Arthur approach to story: a Chosen One suffers through travails, learns lessons, and then saves the day, this novel has more of a Don Quixote approach. Characters stumble around, tilting at windmills and misunderstanding the events unfolding around them, arriving at the solution only after they muster the wit to interpret their failures. The result is funnier than Neuromancer. Hubris is celebrated and chaos gives birth to new possibilities.

CHICANONAUTICA AGAIN, COMMITS DANGEROUS EDUCATION

 

Chicanonautica announces my next teaching gig, over at La Bloga.

Everybody wants to be a writer:

Even all kinds of Chicanoids:

In a world going stark, raving sci-fi:

Making dystopia while out wait: