CHICANONAUTICA WRITES IN A MASS DEPORTATION

Chicanonautica is all about how I wrote a story about a mass deportation, over at La Bloga.

So here we are . . .

While I'm giving writing advice . . .

Time to be like Oscar Zeta Acosta . . .

And don't be afraid to be crazy . . .

DISPATCHES FROM THE LAST DANGEROUS VISIONS: A NIGHT AT THE OPERA, DAMMIT!

Almost summer. Another apocalyptic one. This book review is taking up a fat chunk of the year, but then, in this year, I need it. Now . . .

A NIGHT AT THE OPERA  by Robert Wissner

We come to the kind of story that this anthology was intended for. A truly dangerous vision! It breaks all the rules and tears society to bloody shreds. Not only are the traditional restrictions of the pulp science fiction magazine shattered, but so are the barriers of genre—is it speculative fiction? Satire? Fantasy? Horror? Could it actually be mainstream literature (something that Harlan always aspired to)? Then it gets to a bizarre place where slapstick collides with surrealism and dada. 

The weirdest thing is, it probably could happen. Some avant-garde performance art piece going out of control. If the right individuals read it . . .Talk about dangerous.

It’s like the scene in the Marx Brothers movie A Day at the Races (not A Night at the Opera) where Harpo demolishes a piano so he can play it’s guts like a harp, but it goes far beyond that—like Luis Buñuel took over, in his close-up-on-a-sliced-eyeball mood, then the mayhem popped out of the screen and attacked the audience.

Culture. Entertainment. Art. Life. Silly distinctions.

I’m deliberately not describing the story because J. Michael Straczynski is right--it’s best for the reader to be surprised by this diabolical gem.

It’s almost as if the preceding stories were meant to lull the reader into a false sense of security. Yeah, you can take all this so-called dangerous stuff—then: AIIIIIIEEEEEEEEE!

The mad genius who came up with this masterpiece only published a handful of stories in what they called “original anthologies” in the Seventies. Most of them were variations on the Dangerous Visions theme. The New Wave. Ah, kiddies! Them wuz the daze!

Googling him comes up with Robert Wissners who were (several obituaries) doctors in various states of the union. For whatever reason he has dropped off the ever more exacting radar. Maybe he was one of the doctors. Maybe he died. Maybe he just got fed up and went off to do something reasonable with his life.

I’d like to think that he’s still alive and well somewhere, and in some peculiar way, getting the last laugh.

In some high school campus, a quirky lass is slipping this story before the unprepared eyes of a quiet lad who led a sheltered life, and maybe the two of them will live outrageously, if not ever after, for one bright, shining moment. The image makes me smile . . .

Thank you, Robert Wissner, wherever you are.