Chicanonautica is about my character Paco Cohen, Mariachi of Mars, over at La Bloga.
So here's some of my favorite songs:
My dad had a Charro Avitia album that he played a lot:
Then Dr. Doctor Demento introduced me to Lalo Guerrero:
And Flaco Jimenez:
These days I listen to Cancion Mexicana on KUVO.org on Sunday mornings. They play this a lot:
In case you haven’t been paying attention the last few months, I have a new story out, called “Doula” in Sound Systems: The Future of the Orchestra. Yippie!
I think that everything I write is going to rock the world. It feels great when I publish something. Then . . . well, reality tends to be different. Turns out most people just don’t give a damn about short stories.
And if I don't get any feedback, I get nervous. Did anybody read it? Was all my hard work for nothing?
I’ve found that besides going on and writing something else, the best thing to do is self-promotion.
Like this post.
“Doula” is different from most of my other stories. It was written for the Center for Science and the Imagination. First there was an event at ASU where some science fiction writers were each teamed with three people who had insider’s knowledge about the subject.
I was teamed with Paul D. Miller (aka DJ Spooky), experimental/hiphop composer, multimedia artist and writer; Garrett McQueen, bassoonist, radio host, an activist working to decolonize classical music; and Ashley Lauren Firth, violist, songwriter, educator, activist, and death doula (yeah, that’s where I got the word). This was the first time I was the whitest person in a group.
They had amazing experiences, opinions, and ideas. I put away the stuff I had prepared and took a lot of notes on the fantastic conversations we had over the next two days. This story was going to be about what they had to say, rather than my usual obsessions. I found myself committing an act of Afrofuturism, rather than my usual Raza-centric, Xicanxfuturist view.
It was refreshing and invigorating.
There is one Chicano, or rather Chicana character, but this is me assembling something out of the material I was provided. Being a hired gun, so to speak.
Did I mention that it also paid well?
In “Doula” a wood from Tanzania used to make a musical instrument, with the help of fungus, and plugged into the network that is used for a world-wide concert, becomes intelligent, and wreaks havoc on corporate civilization, changing the world as well as some character’s lives. These things are always so hard to capsulize, and I really don’t want to get lost in a labyrinthian synopsis.
Better I should give you a taste. Here’s the beginning:
*****
The file opens with static, 03380, head hidden behind a huge mask and distorted video filters, twitched.
“It’s happening again.”
The voice was also distorted into an electronic growl.
“I’m trying to work! Leave me alone!”
Then 03380 laughed, and the head shook.
“As if you’d listen to me, whoever you are. You’re probably trying to prevent me from doing this job.”
Jump cut.
“I was going to cut that out, but you need to see that. Just an example of how difficult this job is and why it’s been taking so long. This . . . I don’t know what to call it. Like the incident, event, whatever . . . Maybe I should start at the beginning . . .”
*****
A classic sci-fi encounter with the unknown–a different kind of alien intelligence!
Not only that, be there are essays from my three collaborators, who I am indebted to for triggering this creation.
And there are three other stories created in this manner with essays from the rest of the teams. Warning: The way you think about music may be altered!
It’s available free in e-versions,or bought as a print-on-demand paperback! Order now!
I'd still like to see a short story go viral and take the world by storm, changing the world, or maybe even saving it.
It's a dream, but ain’t dreaming what science fiction is all about?
Meanwhile, a certain creature has plans for Greenland . . .
That are getting sci-fi . . .
And getting ugly . . .
Dammit, 2026! You take
M. Christian on your first day!
For those of you who don’t know, M. Christian was a prolific, bestselling, award-winning author. I hate using the word was . . . They died January 1, 2026 of heart failure.
I’m reminded of what my high school health teacher liked to say: “For a lot of people, their first indication of heart disease is their death.”
What cruel universe!
After some correspondence, Cortez on Jupiter, High Aztech, Smoking Mirror Blues, and eventually, Guerrilla Mural of a Siren’s Song: 15 Gonzo Science Fiction Stories became available in professional-looking e- and trade paperback editions from Strange Particle Press. Meanwhile, La Bloga found me and I became known as the Father of Chicano Science Fiction. Some say I created a genre, but I was just trying to carve out a niche for myself, and I turned out to be the tip of the iceberg, and what was perceived as a ghetto was actually a galaxy.
But enough about me, M. Christian has written a lot of books; their Book Notification list is blurred out with a note:
THIS AUTHOR'S WORKS CONTAIN EXPLICIT ADULT MATERIAL.
PLEASE REGISTER OR LOGIN TO CONFIRM YOU'RE 18+
Ah yes, the sort of folks that publish me . . .
They've written science fiction, fantasy, horror, thrillers, and nonfiction (they were a Senior Columnist for The Future of Sex)
They also are responsible for a number of anthologies. In the Science Fiction by the Numbers series, I was allowed to indulge in extreme abuses of the genre: Seven to the Stars, has my Victor Theremin story “Radiation is Groovy, Kill the Pigs,” a light-hearted romp about the dangers of radioactive marijuana. Five to the Future has “Uno! Dos! One-Two! Tres! Cuatro!” inspired by the creature currently infesting the White House. Nine to Eternity includes “The Great Mars-A-Go-Go Mexican Standoff,” a perverse take on Mars colonization. There are also excellent stories by M. Christian, my wife Emily Devenport, and several other authors of note.
I also recommend their gay erotic thriller Finger’s Breath–one of the most outrageous novels I’ve ever read–their collections, Love without Gun Control and Hard Drive: The Best Sci-Fi Erotica of M. Christian.
At least we still have these, and their many other books. I need to do some re-reading, and buying . . .
Did I mention that it really pisses me off the way writers tend to be forgotten soon after they die? Especially when they are friends of mine.
Meanwhile, the world-wide dystopia gets more apocalyptic every day without any new M. Christian books or stories . . .
It's Chicanonautica vs. 2026 over at La Bloga.
Is the world ready for it?
And then there's the writer's life . . .
Is the publishing industry doomed?
And what about Xicanxfuturism?
Our next motel in the part of Aztlán now called Utah, had an all-gender restroom. Calamity Jane wouldn’t have to worry about being arrested.
The coffee in the breakfast room was obscenely weak. The mini-cinnamon rolls and muffins tasted like the plastic they were sealed in. I was not satisfied.
The Mexican-looking people on the streets were Indians. Or are the Indian-looking people Mexicans? Like my family gatherings.
Still hungry, so I grabbed a ham, cheese, and jalapeño roll at Cowboy Donuts. The gals working there wore cute costumes. In honor of the holiday. Halloween.
My emergency sunglasses had a tint, causing a red shift. I switched to the broken pair to see the landscape in true color. It was classic Wild West wide-open spaces studded with wild horses, antelopes, coyotes . . . and cattle.
Colorado, like the rest of Aztlán, has many intersecting l layers of reality. You need more than glasses to see it clearly. I’ve always experienced hallucinogenic side-effects in my homeland.
It amps up in places like the Gates of Lodore—sure sounds like a location out of a fantasy novel—in Dinosaur National Monument on the Green River.
In Maybell we couldn't resist a place called the Oasis Bar & Grill. There was a big WELCOME HUNTERS sign. It was full of colorful local characters and sported Halloween decorations. The food was good, too.
That night, the big night, we checked into a motel in Grand Junction. A morose desk clerk grumbled about how Halloween was a “bastardization” of All-Saints Day. I had a feeling that I shouldn’t remind him that there were other religions and traditions here before the Christian missionaries invaded.
Soon the sun was setting and the streets were filled with kids, up to their teens, some twenty something, in costume. Some were working at jobs, others wandered the streets in search of fun. Maybe some visiting spirits joined in.
Next day was Día de Los Angelitos, Day of the Little Angels, the children who died. If the antivaxxers get their way, there will be more of them to remember.
After another Chile Chorizo Omelette at yet another First Watch we were on the road to Delta, and my sunglasses made the sky look a washed-out purple. I decided to go with it, basking in the illusion of being on a funked-out Mars.
A sign on top of a wrecked truck advertised cornhole billiards, and disc golf. Guess pickleball hasn’t made it into these parts yet.
There was also a lot of yard art and old cars.
In a Montrose thrift store, three classic Little Old Ladies from Hell made all the registers crash in a thrift store where I found a copy of John W. Williams’ The Man Who Cried I Am. Had to hand some cash to a manager so we could escape right into some streets clogged with a rally of Trump supporters in vehicles flying flags.
Later we stopped in a place Mike highly recommended called Don Gilberto’s. Emily and I split an excellent, and large, burrito. A local waiting for his order called it the “best Mexican food between Delta and Ouray.”
I grabbed a gratis copy of Enterate Latino (a .org indicated that they had a website), “El Cronista de los latinos del oeste de Colorado,” an interesting mix of local news as well as advice and opinions about the current immigration situation.
We did a quick cut through New Mexico, and a corner of Arizona. While driving into a typically spectacular Navajo Sunset–tinted by my sunglasses.
Mike and I discussed a possible collaboration. We left him at his studio in Flagstaff, got in our car, and headed for Prescott, where we settled into the Ironhorse Inn at about midnight.
The next day was Día de los Muertos, the one for the rest of the dead. Funny how you see sugar skulls and calaveras everywhere these days.
I wonder what the clerk in Grand Junction thought of Los Días? He probably considered it more bastardization, which is just recomboculture, or rasquache misspelled.
It also looks like the shape of things to come.
In Prescott, a Ford Galaxie was parked on Main Street. What dangerous assignment brought Lemmy Caution to town? Is Cottonwood the new Alphaville? Were Jerry Cornenius and Raoul Duke in on this caper? And what about Victor Theremin?
Previews of a never-to-be- made movie flash through my brain . . . as usual.
On the I-17 men in camouflage had pulled over and were arresting a man.
When we got back to Phoenix, I saw a woman at a bus stop with a wild red wig, black tights, nothing covering her breasts, swaying to the rhythms of her altered state of consciousness . . .
Above Aztlán, Chicanonautica visits the Gringo West, at La Bloga.
There's Idaho:
Utah:
And I always through Joe was from Arizona, but . . .
Then, there's these alligators . . .
Oregon is strange in flavors all its own. Maybe it's the cooler, damper climate.
The giant yellow slugs wouldn’t survive in the chili-fueled red hot Aztecoid Weird West of the deserts of my Native Aztlan. Though I could imagine a weirdo western where a stoic protagonist is buried up to his chin the searing sand, while the villain places these slugs on his face . . .
It was probably something that inspired Slugs & Stones & Ice Cream Cones and its unique decor. As far as I could tell, there were no slugs used in any of the ice cream served there.
We got up the next morning at the Americoast by the Pacific. The totem-pole-ish stack of signs boasted a vape joint, live theater, grooming for beach dogs, and still another dispensary in a town clogged with them.
There was even a colorful Mexican restaurant down the street. Just outside of Aztlán.
Next morning Emily and I had the taco omelette at the Indian Creek Cafe. Some kind of new cultural mix going on.
We headed north in search of the unusual.
At 11AM, in the moving Prius, I tried to log on to the Zoom event for Sound Systems: The Future of the Orchestra that had my latest story. Got connected but was cut off. We were in a no cell service zone. Later, I got back on again, able to at least participate as a spectator. We stopped to check out and take pictures of a bizarre store and an amazing sculpture of a bird.
I wonder if the folks on Zoom saw my face as I moved around . . .
Soon we came across the home/studio of the Chainsaw Wizard. Some of his sculptures were worse for wear and a few were gone.
He was actually there. Mike was soon searching through a poorly lit barn for pieces of weird wood that he could incorporate into his drums.
Nearby was a decaying hippie colony made up of old barns, treehouses, repurposed vehicles, shipping containers . . . and plastic greenhouses.
A friendly guy handed me a handful of home-grown marijuana buds, even though I told him I didn’t smoke it. He told me to give it to someone who does. When I showed it to Emily, she said, “You better get rid of it before we get to Idaho.”
A new divided country. Cannabis and non-cannabis states instead of slave and free.
Later we checked out antique stores in Coos Bay and other places that were full of people who had dropped out of the rat race in search of a human lifestyle.
America. Has anybody seen it lately?
Next morning, in a warm hotel room, I did a cross-portal social media announcement about Sound Systems and my story “Doula.”
Then, in the Otis Cafe I had a chorizo scramble with old fashioned hash browns. Chorizo is becoming popular all over, but it's a milder, gringo-friendly kind . . .
Tillamook was full of surreal photo ops as usual, including a Charlie Kirk memorial poster. Mike said he saw two more. I tried to get a picture but couldn’t get an angle with the right sense of irony.
Mike got a speeding ticket in Rockaway Beach–a school zone scam. They gotta raise money, I guess . . .
After a few more quaint towns we crossed the Columbia River Bridge into Washington.
Mike and I noticed that the cattle in Utah were bigger than those in California, Oregon, and Washington. Secret Mormon genetic engineering experiments? Something for the Jerry Corneilius/Raoul Duke story . . .
Restroom graffiti at gas stations was about yoga and trans rights.
There was more rain.
Next day, in Port Townsend, we took a ferry to deliver some drums.
This corner of the Pacific Northwest is like a countercultural utopia with a hint of dystopia turned upsidedown. Washington is far more industrial, more cyberpunk than post-apocalyptic Arcadia. More subtle about the weed, though not much better on the economic front.
Folks in Oregon seem to be having more fun, but maybe it’s the filtered sunlight.
There were not many displays of Trump support on this trip, and the Halloween decor was fewer and more low key. The worldwide horror reality show radiating from Washington D.C. overwhelms. Blues in the air.
I broke my prescription sunglasses due to the awkwardly placed cargo pockets on my pants. These designers just have to get creative. Guess I can look for a funky souvenir.
Whidbey Island was full of rich people who did more Halloween stuff. Money does make some folk more festive.
While delivering another drum in La Conner, I captured a moss-covered dragon’s spider web. The delicate dance of this subtle light is hard to capture.
In some secluded spots, Washington looks like California or Nevada, except it’s cool, cold even . . And crumbling. Like Yakima, where Emily found and bought a Jack-O-Lantern gas can and another Buddha for her collection.
By the freeway, there was a sign: YAKIMA IS THE PALM SPRINGS OF WASHINGTON.
In the morning, we woke up in Ontario, Oregon. Breath was visible. Ice (the natural phenomenon, NOT the evil government organization) has crystalized on the Prius.
The rising sun set a golden mist ablaze.
