Armadillocon

Here's where you'll find me pontificating this weekend, at the swank Doubletree Austin (which is decorated in a suitably surreal marriage of 1980s corporate chain hotel with Bring Me The Head of Alfredo Garcia Mexican Rancho).

ArmadilloCon 29 Schedule for Chris Nakashima-Brown

Fr2200Dz Group blogging by SF authors
Fri 10:00 PM-11:00 PM de Zavala
Nevins*, Blaschke, Nakashima-Brown, Gould, Spector,
Denton, McHugh
Jess Nevins and Chris Nakashima-Brown, et al. proffer
dueling bloggers, complete with PowerPoint live
blogging.

Fr2300Dz Why are most comic books that are made into
movies so friggin' bad?
Fri 11:00 PM-Midnight de Zavala
Roberson*, Nakashima-Brown, Porter, Wilson, Miles,
Klaw
Every once in awhile, a comic book movie will be
great, but for the most part, they are terrible. Is
it the screenplay? The director? The acting? The
comic book? Or something else?

Sa1800De Reading
Sat 6:00 PM-6:30 PM DeWitt
Chris Nakashima-Brown

Sa2100PN Politics in the 21st century and beyond
Sat 9:00 PM-10:00 PM Phoenix North
Conrad*, Nakashima-Brown, Rountree, Taylor, Stoddard,
Trimm, Spencer
How will today's politics affect future genre-related
media?

A preview of my reading (an excerpt from a new story, "Scrapbook from an Interrogation"):

IV. Regarding middle-class white boys

What a fucking awesome party. Talk about “obscene enjoyment.” Who knew the mujahideen assassins would have even better reefer than those Scythian priests camped out on top of the parking garage doing their blood bowls? The whole thing was like a post-apocalyptic Cheech and Chong flick.

Osama opened up his Blofeldian mountain hideout for a house party. The place was shaking with woofed up synthesized Fezcore running through the rebar. You were kind of spaced out, writing rhymeless poems in your bad calligraphy on the fuselages of the anti-aircraft missiles arrayed for launch. I got lost in the rave Abu Ghraib downstairs, with all the Dionysian Abercrombie P.O.W.s acting out their skankiest warporn fantasies. “Frat boys are so much better when they are on leashes,” you said. I came looking for the tough loving Lynndie England of my private midnights, and instead I found you. Who knew a latex Barbara Bush mask could be so fucking hot?

Liberian teenagers toting AK-47s haul ass down the David Addington Allée in an overloaded Lincoln Navigator with the top sawed off, dragging the bodies of a well-regarded architect and your vice president of marketing behind the car. You tell me to throw something at them, but come on, you know what a chicken shit I really am. I could lose my job.

In the bar called Heaven, they have all these Lolita-looking chicks cage dancing over the crowd like a Christmas tree decorated with clips from an old Robert Palmer video. After I drove your exploding X5 through the main reception lobby of your glass and steel office complex in a pathetic but undisputably stylin’ effort to free you (or at least get your attention), I hung out in the club until sun-up, drinking blue martinis in the hope that they would rewire my brain.