Facebook comes in handy. Through their Messenger, I heard from an old writer friend, Jaq Greenspon. He’s teaching in Lithuania and wanted to know if I would be willing to talk to his class via Zoom.
A new experience and a chance to talk to Jaq again. I said yes.
I would have to be awake at 2:15 AM Arizona time, but it would be fun, a chance to get knocked out of my comfort zone.
When the day came, I did my usual stuff, but instead of goofing off in the afternoon, I took a nap. When I woke up, I had a cup of tea with caffeine—I no longer abuse the legal drug but indulge now and then because I don’t believe in Puritanism.
Then I watched a couple of silly old sci-fi flicks and some Warner Brothers cartoons until it was time to set up the Hacienda Hogan video studio.
After the obligatory technical difficulties, I was connected to Jaq and about 20 students in Lithuania, on the other side of the planet, next to Russia. Only a few students were in the classroom with Jaq. The rest were at home, watching through Zoom.
To make it stranger, the homebodies did not turn on their cameras, so my screen was mostly full of black (and blank) boxes with strange (to me) and fascinating names attached. I was definitely talking to another world, none of the Spanish, Navajo, Hopi, or Mayan I run across in Arizona. To make it more bizarre, the video of me was blurred, jumpy, and delayed.
I might as well have been broadcasting from a spaceship in the middle of a magnetic storm.
We keep forgetting how big the planet—and the universe—is. How do
flat-earthers explain the need for time zones? Guess that’s why we need sci-fi.
The first question was, had I heard of Hulk Hogan. The young man also noted that Hulk and I had the same kind of moustache. So, our cultures had some things in common . . .
They were a bit shy, and also English was a second language for them. This gave Jaq and I a chance to reminisce about science fiction conventions in the old days, Marion Zimmerman Bradley’s belief that all humor was immoral, and the time that he, Emily, and I were in a store and brainstormed creative murder techniques inspired by a display of cooking utensils.
There was a shrimp de-veiner that looked downright diabolical . . .
The questions I got were unusual. I ended up mostly explaining myself, which I don’t enjoy, even though a lot of my writing is dedicated to it. It's what I get for being such an unlikely character.
One young woman asked about writing. I tried to be helpful.
I had to explain what Chicano was. People outside of Aztlán usually don’t know about the reality that I live in. Why do I use Spanish words? I didn’t get into how some of them are other languages they probably haven’t heard of. I hope I did a good job.
They had read a few of my stories that I suggested. This got me onto how I was shocked by the overall angry tone of Guerrilla Mural of a Siren’s Song: 15 Gonzo Science Fiction. That’s me, always at odds with my environment, deconstructing our current predicament, to figure out what to do next.
It’s always a confrontation. I should have told them how I believe that bullfighting is the mother of all art forms . . .
I couldn’t get back to sleep, so I watched part of another wackazoid movie, drifted off about the time I usually wake up. Didn’t sleep much. The Global Barrio felt different, but it was still there.
And my brain felt fuzzy for a few days after.
No comments:
Post a Comment