Ernest Hogan's Blog, page 67

BRAINPAN FALLOUT: INTRODUCTION

©Ernest Hogan 2014

It was one of those dangerous experiments in things that man was not meant to know that went horribly wrong and almost destroyed the experimenter. Just like in all those cheapo black&white sci-fi flicks I watched on TV back in childhood, way back in those days before cable. My earliest role-models were Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi, and Peter Lorre.  As a boy I wanted to be a mad scientist.
Anyway, it was a different world back then when all this started, it was 1993: A man named George Bush had saved the world on CNN, everyone loved him even though the economy was in the toilet. The South-Central riots were still sending off aftershocks. My wife (the fabulous Emily Devenport) and I were impoverished, the Nueva York publishing industry didn't seem to want to touch our work with a teflon-lined ten-foot pole. Copies of my first novel, Cortez on Jupiter, mysteriously vanished, the publisher claiming that nobody bought them, even though people on three continents were seeking them out. Emily's publisher had bought a book ages earlier, and now wasn't returning any calls. High Aztech, my second novel had come out, but was not getting reviewed -- people kept telling me, "What? Your book came out? Gee, Tor sends me copies of all their books, but yours wasn't in the package." Em and I had gone back to cleaning houses for burger bucks, and were spending spare hours drinking iced-tea at midnight (a quaint Phoenix custom, which seems downright sensible during the blistering high summer) listening to friends' crazy ideas.
One of these friends was Stephen Michael Barnes (not be confused with Steven Barnes, the black science fiction writer -- this is a white guy, the anarchist publisher) who had an idea for a magazine called The Red Dog Journal. The guy was amazing. He couldn't be stopped. Just when we'd figured the Dog was a goner, Barnes would switch modes and media, and come up with new resources -- he was reading Hakim Bey's T.A.Z. and taking it to heart. The Reddog lived in mutation frenzy . . .
At one point, Stephen had helped Phil Esch with a new idea called FaxMO -- a fax-accessible information service, that included Reddog material. He asked me if I'd do some entertainment stuff, like serializing a short story or something. I thought about it.

You see, being trashed by Nueva York left me depressed, and with a horrible case of writer's block.  At one point I turned on the computer, and could do nothing but weep.  Why bother?  Even in the magazine world, the only people who were willing to publish me were those who couldn't afford to pay. Meanwhile, Em and I has signed up as custodians for a local school district so we could afford to keep eating.
Serializing a short story seemed stupid to me, but I thought about the form of one-page fax, and a business that wanted to keep people calling. I thought of a serial. I always liked that to-be-continued stuff. It has also traditionally been used to lure consumers to new media, like newspapers, movies, radio, television . . . so why not fax?
Another iced-tea-at-midnight buddy was Rick Cook, whose Wiz novels had recently attained cult status among computer geeks (heh, don't blame me -- that's what they call themselves). Rick had explained how A.E. Van Vogt's novels were so strange because he was practically the only writer to actually use the technique of putting a mini-climax at the end of every 800 words, which ends up creating a high-speed pulp fiction pace, and at the same time disrupting and disjointing the story until it resembles something out of William Burroughs' cut-up experiments. (Someday I'm going to have to write an essay on how Van Vogt and other pulp sf writers are precursors to Burroughs.) He also had a theory that Philip K. Dick's novels were like a parlor game: A group of people could get together at a party, throw together a few random ideas, and come up with something like a Phildick novel. Hm . . . went something deep inside my brain.
I also had this title, "Brainpan Fallout," that I thought was suitably surreal and applied to life in the Nineties. In Science Fiction Eye, I had recently shot my mouth off about the need for "sci-fi that the kids can dance to" and this looked like a chance to demonstrate what I meant.
Not sure where all this was going, I started carrying around a poorman's laptop (i.e; a memo book and ballpoint pen), and like Hunter Thompson, would jot down bits of random weirdness that I saw as Emily and I rushed around Phoenix in our never-ending struggle for survival. Add some gonzo journalism to the mix, and stir. Hey, did it just move on its own?
The one-page fax format meant the disruptive mini-climaxes came about every 400 words, so pacing was faster, as if Van Vogt had gotten a hold of some of Dick's amphetamines. Fasten your seat belts. Keep your hands and feet inside the capsule.  Remember, I am a professional, so kids, don't try this at home -- or at least don't come running to me because you need to scrape your brains off the ceiling.
NEXT WEEK: SHOOT-OUT AT SMITTY'S

CHICANONAUTICA ASKS ABOUT CHICANONAUTICA

Just what is Chicanonautia anyway, La Bolga?
La Raza Cosmica is taking off:


Lowriders are getting futuristic:


La Pocha Nostra is insurrecting the body:

And in California, it's looking brown:

DISPATCH FROM THE BRAINPAN FALLOUT FRONT

Muy misterioso. For the last month or so the most popular posting here on Mondo Ernesto has been one about Brainpan Falloutfrom way back in 2012. Every day follks were clicking on it. I did to, to see what the hell was going on.
Turns out it has links to the Red Dog Journal version that is still available, original typos and all.
At the end I did say that, “I'll serialize the final edit of Brainpan Fallout here at Mondo Ernesto,” and never got around to it. It's been a busy couple of years.
Since there does seem to be interest in Brainpan Fallout, I'm going to do that serialization. Besides, it will give me a break from my Mondo Ernesto duties, and give me a chance to work on all those other important projects.
So stay tuned.

CHICANONAUTICA CROSSES THE BORDER WITH ROY ROGERS Y MÁS

Chicanonauticafocuses on the Roy Rogers movie, Hands Across the Border, over at La Bloga.
Among other things, it's revealed that this song became the theme to Disney's The Three Caballeros.

There's some peculiar political overtones in the Roy Rogers universe:

And, of course, Trigger is damnear supernatural:

But some things are best kept under your hat:

And how's that border fence coming along?

ST. PATRICK/DAMBALLAH RECOMBOCULTURE UPDATE 2014

Happy St. Patrick's Day! Time to not only recognise that I'm a Chicano with an Irish heritage, but remind everyone about the the St. Patrick/Damballah connection through the cosmic symbolism of serpent imagery.

Of course, these days, St. Patrick's Day is mostly commercialismo:

And St. Paddy himself has gotten a CGI Hollywood fantasy makeover:


But Damballah is still dancing in the streets:


Ancient magic dances to new music:

It even comes through in Tongolélé's vudú from the Boris Karloff movie Snake People, that introduced me to Damballah:

CHICANONAUTICA FACES THE STRANGE DOGS OF AZTLÁN

Chicanonauticagoes to the dogs, over at La Bloga.


I didn't make it up, wild Chihuahuas are terrorizing Arizona neighborhoods:

In case you need to use xoloitzcuintli in conversation:

More about the Mexican hairless:

And in Texas, if something looks like the chupacabras, it's shoot first and ask questions later:

PLUGGED INTO CARNIVAL AND MARDI GRAS IN 2014

We live in a wonderful age, kids. You can go online and plug into interesting cultural happenings all over the world. Can't make it to New Orleans or Rio? No problema! You can catch Mardi Gras and Carnival on the interwebs.
You can find longer videos on the YouTube channels, Carnaval Completo and Carnaval Carioca. But meanwhile, here are some shorter shots . . .
Let start in New Orleans, where they've got tradition:

And King Kong was manifested:

But, mostly people were happy:

Down in Rio, there was an Occupy Carnival movement. If you look close, you can see anti-government activists among the topless dancers:

Meanwhile, Planet Sambadrome came to glorious life:


And the samba schools taught some lessons in postcolonial, Afrofuturistic, alternate historic, ecstatic utopianism:

These muses should inspire you:

CHICANONAUTICA IS STILL WEIRD IN ARIZONA

It's the Arizona state legislature vs. the lesbian lizards of Aztlán in Chicanonautica, over at La Bloga.

Yup, those reptilian humanoids are everywhere.

Parthenogenesis, too.


So, look out, Arizona!

FUN WITH MAYHEM

Once upon a time in Amazing Stories, there was a man named Mayhem.
Really, he became Johnny Mayhem after he was disembodied on a jungle planet. Voodoo? The word isn't used, but . . . he can now inhabit dead bodies for a month.
An alternate title for The Man who Saved the Universe [The Adventures of Johnny Mayem #1] by C.H. Thames could have been Johnny Mayhem, Galactic Zombie.
The Galactic League keeps bodies on tap for him on all their planets, so they can send him to “hot spots” (that's Cold War speak for places that could go commie) to bring “law and order” and “sanity” through methods that could be considered terroristic – like assassinating the president of Earth!
It's as if in 1955, the editors of Amazinglooked out at America's leather-jacketed, switchblade-weilding youngsters and came up with a hero for them. It's not exactly “Rock and Roll hoodlums storm the streets of all nations” like in William Burrough's Naked Lunch, but it is action-packed pulp sci-fi sprinkled with wild, crazy ideas, just the sort of things to have in hour hand-held device for diverting chuckles as you navigate our chaotic, riotous 21stcentury reality.
And Futures Past Editions is offering the first three Johnny Mayhem stories for free. Better get it before they come to their senses.

CHICANONAUTICA SEARCHES FOR HIGH AZTECH REVIEWS

In Chicanonautica, at La Bloga, I search for reivews of High Aztech, and find mentions in academic books.
Meanwhile, back in Tenochititlán:

And I'm not the only one to notice the viral nature of religion:

Náhuatl is alive and well . . .


As for academia: