DEATH IN WINTER AFTERNOONS

Arrrgh! My usual sources for bullfighting news and video ABC.es and Burladero.com have run short on new stuff. The season is over, the weather is cooling off in the Northern Hemisphere. You need El Sol for a proper bullfight.

. . . though the idea of one taking place in a snow-filled arena, with the bull exhaling clouds of steam as his body heat and blood vaporizes the white powder is appealing. It would have to be a bull designed for a subzero climate. Perhaps with some reconstituted Ice Age bull genes spliced in. This may end up in a story . . .

Luckily, it’s summer in the Southern Hemisphere. A bit of searching had me happily discovering Tauromaquias.com, a Peruvian website that will get me through this winter, when I’m going to have to survive working through the Great Retail Meltdown of 2009. It will be a struggle to stay civilized, and I’m going to need serious diversion to keep my savage mind from running amok.

Not only is there the usual news, photos, and video, but access to complete Peruvian television programs, blogs by both bullfighters and aficionados, and links that will take me months to explore. Oh boy! A portal to another world! It’s like finding a news site direct from Mars!

Already, I’ve discovered Milagros Sanchez the latest female torero, and boy wonder Michelito Lagravere.

Also, South American bullfighting has a different feel from the Spanish. In Spain, it’s all very dignified, with the royal family looking on and preliminary rituals that look like something out of the Middle Ages. In South America, it’s more rough and tumble. In one video, it seemed like it was all the entire torero crew could do to keep the bull from breaking down the arena walls and eviscerating the audience. It’s like classical versus rock and roll.

Not only does this sort of thing get my blood pumping, it makes me forget about the crap I had to participate in during the day: “I was only following orders! I’m only a clerk!”

And it inspires the hell out of me. Some wild science fiction and art will come out of this!

CHICANO IS A SCIENCE FICTION STATE OF BEING

Here I go explaining myself again. It’s what I get for being so complicated. My name is Ernest Hogan, and I write science fiction, and I’m a Chicano. Some of your heads started spinning when you read that.

I have reasons for preferring Chicano to the more popular Latino ( as in “sexy Latino star”) or Hispanic (as in “the suspect is Hispanic”).

Latino is the most globally inclusive term, derived from Latin America, that was coined by the French back when they had dreams of a non-English-speaking New World empire with a French-speaking elite. When you talk about the Latino world, you include Quebec, Haiti, and Brazil.

Hispanic is more specific, dealing with places and people that were touched and transformed by the Spanish Empire. It’s a step up from the days when anyone who spoke Spanish was considered a Mexican. Still it covers the majority of the Americas, and parts of Europe, Africa, and Asia.

So, I call myself a Chicano, even though it was once an insult, very much like “nigger.” It literally means “bastard Mexican.” It was originally what Mexicans called Americanized Mexicans who lived on the wrong side of the border (the American side).

During the Sixties, in imitation of the Black Power movement, it was turned around into a term of pride. It also connects to a place and time. I am a Chicano, therefore I’m from the Southwest of the United States (AKA Aztlán, the Aztec homeland), and lived through the second half of the Twentieth Century. It puts me in both geographical and historical context. And it connects me with the Chichimecas, which is a generic term for the nomadic tribes of Aztlán, who eventually became the Aztecs.

But what about the Irish name? Yeah, I’ve got a cowboy from Cork, Ireland in my family tree. And that actually makes me more, not less Chicano. To be Chicano is to be impure, polluted, a mongrel. Add something to the mix, you become more Chicano.

Which brings me to science fiction and visions of the future.

Have you noticed that if you take someone from India, the Middle East, or anywhere on the tropical zones of the planet where people have brown skin, teach them a little English, dress them in American clothes, put them in an urban environment – they become Chicanos!

When you’re a mixed-up stranger in a mixed-up strange land, you are a Chicano. You don’t need the Spanish language, or a Hispanic heritage, or any Latino connections. You don’t even need brown skin. Hell, you could even have blue eyes!

Here in the Twenty-First Century, globalization is making Chicanos of us all. The interface between you and your world is volatile and unstable – a recombocultural witch’s brew out of which bubbles brave new mutations and abominations. If you want an example, just look into a mirror.

I’ve had half a century’s head start on this. If you need any advice, let me know.

RE-THINKING THE FATE OF THE SHORT STORY IN THE TWENTY-FIRST CENTURY

Way back in another millennium, in a magazine called Science Fiction Eye, in an essay called “Guess Who’s Killing the Short Story,” I predicted the end of the short story.

A few years ago, I thought my prediction had come true. It looked like the only people who read short stories started doing it the day after they decided they wanted to write them. And a lot of people were writing stuff along the lines of: The Day I Almost Let My Hair Down – And Thank God I Changed My Mind.

So, why is it now, I’ve sold one short story, have another soon to be podcast, sent off another to a waiting editor, and am finishing still another to another editor?

For those of you who have been taking part in a sensory-deprivation experiment for the last few years, a whole lot of change has gone on. We are witnessing the Apocalypse of the Bookstores, soon we will see the Great Publishers Die-Off, and then it's the End of New York as the Center of the Publishing Universe (in a decade or so, that city will only be known as an Atlantis-like fable).

Of course, this will be hard on writers, but then we’re always swimming neck-deep in inky, candiru-infested waters. I feel sorry for my colleagues who were doing well in the last decade. But then, as Henry Cabot Henhouse III said, “You knew the job was dangerous when you took it, Fred!”

So, how is it that I’m suddenly doing a ridiculous amount of short story biz, amid all this turmoil?

Shortly after writing the “Killing” essay I really did try to give up writing short stories. Then I was unable to interest publishers in my novels, since Sci-Fi as Nerd Lit had become the official policy. When I decided to try again, I no longer thought of them as Literary Art, but Entertainment Modules.

Then the landscape shifted. New media and corporate collapse are bringing about the end of publishing as we knew it – and actually, it’s not a bad thing. For those of you who haven’t been struggling with the business, it’s sucked for a long time. There are no good old days here. It’s never been a good time to be a writer.

And with the shifts and upheavals, a new world is forming. People want entertainment that is an alternative to the corporate megaproductions, stuff that comes at them through cracks from the emerging society. Places are popping up where I can sell and promote my wacky Entertainment Modules.

And in the world of texting and e-mail, the skills of a writer (and artist), honed over some hard decades, come in handy.

It all makes me feel more like a professional and less like a guy with a bizarre addiction that he’s disguising as a hobby. And if more money starts coming in – look out.

THEME, VARIATIONS, AND THE MARIACHIS OF MARS

The world is in turmoil. Looks like the times they are a-changing, as we used say way the hell back when. It looks kinda apocalyptic, but I’m not worried. Like my wife, Emily, I don’t believe in the end of the world – it’s just change, you make some adjustments and go on.

As usual, I find myself hurtling ass-over-tea-kettle into a new frontier . . .

Theme & Variations a podcast anthology of science fiction with musical themes edited by Michelle M. Welch is now online. A new science fiction story on MP3 about music will become available every week for eight weeks. Maybe one of the stories – or hopefully, the whole anthology – will achieve my mad dream of science fiction that makes people want to get up and dance.

Mine will be the last, available on December 16,“The Rise and Fall of Paco Cohen and the Mariachis of Mars.” It first appeared the April 2001 issue of Analog -- about a guy working as a janitor on a Mars colony. The corporation in charge tries to use him to manipulate the workers. Paco has is own ideas, so does nanohudu that’s doing the terraforming on the molecular level.

Michelle put in some great blues by Jack Mangan to make it rock.

This is my second podcast, though my first in English, after the Russian one of "Coyote Goes Hollywood." I’d really like to hear from someone in Russia someday. Is anybody really using it for a ringtone?

I’d really like to know.

Meanwhile you can catch the rest of the Theme & Variations stories. I hope that somebody gets up and dances.

Wouldn’t it be great if science fiction could someday make the whole world get up and dance?

DELIRIUM ABOUT DEAD DAZE

Just about time again, Halloween and Días de Los Muertos. In my novel Smoking Mirror Blues, I suggested that these holidays from both sides of the Mexamerican border be run together into one three-day celebration of the fantastic, our fears, and remembering those who have died.

I like traditions, but I love to mess around with them, the way I love to mess around with everything else.

I remember and preserve the past, but I can never bring myself to leave well enough alone.

Jack O'Lanterns are great, but why not do some variations on the theme?

As for the Mexican Calaveras -- those lovable living skeletons -- they're going through changes, too. People call them calacas these days, just as the traditional gingerbread piggies have gone from cochinitos to cochitos.

And after all, aren't we all skeletons under the skin? So let the good times, our Dead Daze, roll . . .

CHRISTIAN VOODOO FROM NOLLYWOOD

Wow! That sure looks like voodoo from the Yoruban homeland of Nigeria, doesn’t it? Well, actually, you should probably look again. The “voodoo” people zapping each other are supposed to be Christians.

Nigeria has an Islamic majority. There’s also the “pagans,” “witches,” and a pesky Christian minority. And you know what happens with minorities . . .

Minorities, others, aliens, their very existence make people's imaginations go wild. See someone who looks, talks, or dresses funny move into your neighborhood, and the rumors of cannibalism, human sacrifice, “voodoo” start to fly. And if this includes some kind of strange religion – watch out!

I’m reminded of an anti-immigration road troupe from a few elections ago that included a black guy who dressed like he stepped out of a Seventies blaxsploitation movie, who screamed about how Mexicans were about to rush across the border to cook and eat “Americans.” Somehow, despite this revelation, Mexican restaurants are more popular than ever. And salsa has surpassed ketchup as America’s most popular condiment. Nobody is offering Aztec sacrificial tacos.

Meanwhile, outside of Christendom, it’s Christianity that has the reputation of being a scary, weirdo, alien religion. Its symbols and paraphernalia take on a voodooistic quality. Throughout the Middle East, centuries after the crusades, children have nightmares about monsters with crosses on their chests. In Japan, the cross is considered sexy. And, let’s face it, the crucifix is just plain weird.

There goes someone wearing a miniature 3D image of man undergoing a slow, torturous death – how freaking sadomasochistic can you get?

And even the Bible can inspire fear:

I wonder if the makers of this film realize that in America, the Bible is the number one book stolen from bookstores. And there are no signs of supernatural repercussions.

However, in my decade-long career as a bookstore clerk, I’ve never once heard of anyone stealing the Koran.

So one person’s blasphemy is another person’s creed. Horror in one culture is holy in another. And here we are in an age of globalization, the world is flat and all gods are created equal. Believe me, it’s gonna get weird!

LA LLORONA GOES COMMERCIAL

La Llorona has done better than El Cucuy. She pops up connected to pop music, films, literature, and my wife’s blog. For the ghost of a woman who killed her children and calls out for them, seeking others to share their fate, she’s doing great. She may become the Frida Kahlo of our era.

She’s even in commercials. I wanted to include the great one I saw where the Verizon team shows up and tells her that she doesn’t have to cry for her children anymore – she can call them on her network! When I searched, I couldn’t find it online. Maybe it got axed by the same sorts who got the Frito Bandito banned back in the Seventies. I don’t see why – it was funny and clever. And it’s not like she’s the Virgin of Guadalupe!

Besides, there are other commercials featuring La Llorona. Like this Got Milk spot:

I love that she’s holding a pan dulce! Though I usually prefer Ibarra chocolaté with mine.

And this Doritos one is a mini-horror masterpiece:

Another remarkable thing about La Llorona’s current manifestations is that she’s suddenly gotten beautiful. No more of the skull-faced Aztec spirits, or witchy hags of the traditional representations:

These days, La Llorona is a sexy babe, like the above commercials, and in this annual pageant performed on Mexico City’s Xochimilcho:

Can she go from an object of fear to a sex symbol? What effect will this have on the younger generation? How long before some corporation claims to own the rights to her image?

It’s gonna be some future, kids!

EL CUCUY IS ALIVE AND WELL . . .

I was worried about El Cucuy (and I don’t mean the morning disk jockey). Here we are in the Third Millennium, with the Internet and all kinds of hand-held and wearable gizmos that bring you information from all over the world, usually from some multinational corporation. How can a funky little bit o’ folklore – essentially a Hispanic version of the Boogieman – survive when he’s competing with video games and Hollywood productions?

For those of you who haven’t heard of him, El Cucuy is one of the things that Hispanic parents, especially in the Southwest/Aztlán, tell their children lurks in the dark of night, that will carry them away, “never to be seen again,” if they don’t get back in the house when the sun goes down. Like the Argentine gnomes, he comes out of the duende tradition, of gnomish creatures, that Spain spread throughout the New World along with the Catholic Church, the Spanish language, and spicy foods. Only El Cucuy doesn’t look like a cute little gnome with pointy hat.

The strange thing is, nobody seems to know what El Cucuy looks like. Since over the last several decades, Hispanic culture has been . . . let’s say “undocumented” in Norteamerica, no official version of the story exists, just parents giving a warning and kids imaginations going wild. The result is an unclear, faceless image and a name that, when properly pronouced (coo-COO-ee) with a Spanish accent, sends chills down the spine.

I did hear one detailed description, from one of my cousins. He grew pale and his eyes glazed over when he said it, as if he were describing an actual, traumatic experience. “He’s a man! But he’s got eyes – eyes all over his face! And he doesn’t have any arms – just legs! Lots and lots of legs! And he grabs you with his legs and takes you away!”

Great stuff, but can it survive in the Information Age? A bit of searching on Google and Youtube revealed that El Cucuy is alive and well and living online!

The above shows El Cucuy in his natural habitat – kids speculating about him. It’s pretty close to the kind of conversation that produced my cousin’s fantastic description.

With this one, a Hispanic student (with a British accent!), documents the spread of El Cucuy out of his usual territory.

Folklore is spreading and mutating through the new communications media like viruses. Ethnic monsters are escaping their ghettoes, and wandering the Earth in new ways. Children of the night, what music do they make! Be on the lookout when the sun goes down.

GNOMOPHOBIA IN ARGENTINA

I never thought much about gnomes, the little men in pointed hats that are used to decorate tacky gardens and who star in TV commercials. I never imagined that people could be afraid of them. Though apparently, this is the case in Argentina.

There is folklore about gnomes there. People see them – especially children. This is something that goes back for generations. Like UFOs or Bigfoot in our culture, there are sightings, close encounters, even videos.

It’s possible that it’s a spinoff from the Hispanic tradition of the duende – gnomish beings with a boogeyman-like reputation that spread across what was once the Spanish Empire. Out of New Mexico, throughout the Southwest/Aztlán, children live in dread of El Cucuy when the sun goes down, but El Cucuy doesn’t wear pointy hats.

In his 1927 book La Cueva del Fósil: Diálogos Increíbles sobre la Vida Literaria Argentina (“The Cave of the Fossil: Incredible Dialogues on Argentine Literary Life”), Carlos Obligado tells of finding a gnome in his library in the middle of the night. In the first chapter the gnome introduces himself as “Rahim” (an Arab gnome?), and explains that gnomes have a network of tunnels all over the world. They like to sneak into people libraries and “borrow” books.

Does Homeland Security know about this?

And is that why I had trouble finding my copy of Thor Heyerdahl’s Early Man and the Ocean this morning?

In the rest of Cueva del Fósil, Obligado and Rahim discuss the works of the poet Leopoldo Lugones and Argentine literary traditon. Obligado seems to be an Argentine precursor to Paul Riddell. But why use a gnome to present satirical literary criticism?

There probably is nothing to worry about. What could gnomes do to you, except carry you off to their underground homeland, never to return? And how many of them would it take to carry off a grownup or child?

Besides, they look so silly, pointy hats and all. The video of one terrorizing children looks like someone in a team mascot outfit.

It was put online by the British newspaper The Sun, with its reputation for sleaze. Some people have even made videos making fun of the whole business.

But still, why do perfectly rational, “civilized” people feel compelled to put effigies of gnomes in their gardens?

Why do such ancient archetypes persist into modern times?

And where is that book I was going to quote from?

NOT JUST ANY OLD BIG MACHINE

It was the cover of Victor LaValle’s Big Machine that caught my eye. Automatic pistols, cats, ghostly black people, and an array of objects dancing in a white background, under the red, swirly letters. It suggested hardboiled mayhem, but was so un-noir.

It’s the Twenty-First Century, folks. Noir is getting to be cliché. Black translated into French ain’t enough. We need more than darkness. How about some ultraviolet – the invisible light that makes the scorpions glow in the dark? Just a humble suggestion.

Anyway, the flaps and blurbs mentioned Hieronymus Bosch and paranormal investigations – could be kinda weird. Then I read a review that compared it to Ishmael Reed’s Mumbo Jumbo, which I consider to be one the great novels of the Twentieth Century. I ended up plunking down some hard-earned money for it.

It’s not the Mumbo Jumbo of our century – we’ll be lucky if we see such a thing – but I was not disappointed. The range of traditions that LaValle draws upon include Ishmael Reed, Chester Himes, Octavia Butler, and Philip K. Dick. He admits to being a horror fan, uses a quote from John Carpenter’s The Thing as an epigram, and lists Shirley Jackson, T.E.D. Klein, Stephen King, and “my man” Ambrose Bierce as influences. He’s not your typical African American writer, and this book will probably not become an Oprah selection.

Big Machine is the story of Ricky Rice, an ex-junkie janitor, who was raised in a cult that is truly bizarre but disturbingly believable. He is recruited into a group of psychic investigators, because he can hear The Voice. He is drawn into the wars between secret societies that include the one he grew up in. The story tears back and forth through time, revealing him and his world in startling, jagged chunks like brutal time-travel. And where it ends up is far beyond, and more fantastic than I was hoping for. Fans of the science fiction/fantasy/horror megagenre will enjoy the mindblowing conclusion.

The “paranormal” entities in the book are truly something different, have the texture of reality, and stand out in this age of cheap fantasy media overload.

Part of me wonders why Will Smith and Denzel Washington aren’t fighting over the movie rights, but this book digs deep into heroin, race, religion, politics, and other specters that are haunting Twenty-First Century America. It’s scary in a way that “horror” loving pop culture will have a hard time cozying up to. Which makes it a better book, and one to look out for.