Concerning the Chicken Ranch

Friends and neighbors, I have a project, and said project demands that I ask of you this simple question: "Do you remember the Chicken Ranch?" And by that, I don't mean "Do you vaguely recall it existed at one point?" or "Have you seen the Burt Reynolds/Dolly Parton movie, The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas or the Larry L. King play it was based on."

I am looking for, searching for, seeking out persons with actual, genuine first-hand knowledge of and experience with the famed brothel in La Grange, Texas. This would include former employees (yes, former employees. I know they're out there), former clients, failed Dallas-area restauranteurs, townsfolk, neighbors, law enforcement, relatives... anybody with a story, memory or recollection to tell regarding the history of what is, quite possibly, the world's most famous bordello. I would prefer being able to use sources full names, but given the particular nature of this unique subject matter, suitable arrangements can be made to ensure anonymity if required.

Lest you folks think I'm going about this the lazy way, posting this invite online and waiting for sources to come to me, I'd like to point out that I did go to ground zero for this, as it were. But sadly, nobody was around to answer any of my questions.



Feel free to spread the word.

Welcome to the party

Well over a week since our own Chris Nakashima-Brown alerted the world to the zombie menace in Austin, MSNBC wades into the fray. Cutting-edge, those folks are. The latest insightful contribution from corporate mediadom: "Pranks with electronic road signs stir worry." Uh, right. If the AP starts holding a contest for "most uninspired headline writer" my money's on this guy.

COLLINSVILLE, Illinois - Hackers are messing with electronic road signs in some U.S. states, warning of zombies and raptors down the road. Traffic safety officials aren't amused.

The latest breach came during Tuesday morning's rush hour near Collinsville, Illinois, east of St. Louis. That's where hackers changed a sign along southbound Interstate 255 to read, "DAILY LANE CLOSURES DUE TO ZOMBIES."

Seeing as how these zombies are local to Collinsville, one can only assume (hope) that they're Native American zombies, rising up from the nearby Cahokia Mounds, which was once a thriving city of some 20,000 inhabitants at a time when London and Paris were muddy, disease-riddled bumps in the road. Seriously, who wouldn't want to see an army of Native zombies cross the river and scale the Gateway Arch?

Ayatollahs...in space!

Blocked on coming up with scenarios for that near-future postcyberpunk space opera you've been wanting to work on? Well, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad has you covered, with the launching of the first Iranian satellite yesterday from an undisclosed location in the secret heart of Persia.



Take your 300 Spartans (last stand of the valiant Westerners against invading Persians, with extreme body-piercing)...



Mix in some cybernetically enhanced future mullahs (think electro-Saruman)...



Borrow some tricks from Ken Follett's On Wings of Eagles (the true story of Ross Perot recruiting ex-military guys to rescue a bunch of EDS employees trapped in revolutionary Tehran)...



Put them all on some kind of Sinbad-remixed Freeside (the degenerate space station home of the Teshier-Ashpool clan and the Wintermute AI from Neuromancer)...


And see what happens.

NYT "The Lede" — "What's the Farsi word for 'Sputnik'?"

Notes on the continuing generic crisis

io9 recently noted that science fiction narratives provided 2/3 of Hollywood's grosses in 2008 (at least if you count comics-based narratives).

Meanwhile, as widely reported, the leading commercial sf magazines are in a new wave of hurt (along with huge swaths of the magazine market generally). Dutiful authors supported (directly or indirectly) by such markets renew or restart their subscriptions. How much of the content they will actually read is the question none dare ask. As one who has not been published by such magazines, and always enjoys at least some of the fiction and nonfiction within, I will leave the ongoing debate about the relative faults of content, distribution, or media death to others, and say that dream editors and publishing entrepreneurs like FSF's Gordon van Gelder deserve to succeed. I think sf, broadly viewed, is very healthy, as evidenced by its domination of Hollywood and appropriation by so many great mainstream novelists in recent years. But I think literary sf, which is the hearth of wonder, could probably use a new marketing department (as well as some fresh pollination from sources outside the insular small town of the genre).

Consider the February issue of Asimov's. It has some great content. A sparkling cosmic collaboration between Rudy Rucker and Bruce Sterling, a rich space opera from Judith Berman, a welcome new story from Turkey City emeritus professor Steven Utley, a new story by grande dame Carol Emshwiller, a cool story from Matthew Johnson, some groovy speculative poetry from David Lunde and others, and some great reviews and short essays. Which makes me want to say, is it too much to ask that it be put in a package as cool as the work within? As in, something other than a wonderless pulp pastiche cover of a space-babe being assaulted by tentacles?



Would you want to be seen reading a magazine with that cover, other than at a science fiction convention? Or, maybe a hentai party? I'm not advocating some kind of literary gentility. But great sf like many of the stories in these magazines is intellectually vibrant and intensely cool. Why can't it be presented in a format that strives for those same qualities? I am sure the answer would be that unironic third-generation pulp covers are essential to keeping the core audience. To which I might ask, where else are they going to go if we try to push the comfort zone a little (and aren't they already leaving anyway)?

(See, e.g., Jayme's post below about Electric Velocipede, and compare the covers.)

Okay, time to go update my subscriptions. If you haven't done so before, disregard the cover, pick one of these up on the newsstand, and see if there isn't something in every one worth your five bucks.

Asimov's.

Fantasy & Science Fiction.

Analog.

Electric Velocipede

Wondering what to do with all that extra cash you'll have in your pockets once President Obama's economic stimulus plan kicks in? Well, wonder no more! What better to spend your hard-earned bailout money on than a subscription to Electric Velocipede? Single issues are groovy confections of literary goodness, and the current offering is actually a double issue, jam-packed with more inspired writing than is oft seen on this mortal coil. And, being "electric," it emits no greenhouse gases.

The fact that yours truly has a story contained therein--"A Plague of Banjos"--is merely value added.

A Plague of Banjos by Jayme Lynn Blaschke

When Moses left the Pharaoh, he prayed to the Lord. A great wind arose from the west, and swept away all the locusts, cleansing Egypt.

Seeing this Ramses grew obstinate, just as the Lord had foretold. He summoned Moses and Aaron before his court, and boasted loudly, “Eight plagues have your Lord sent upon the people of Egypt, and we have withstood them all. I will not let your people go. Return now to Goshen with my words, and let all Israelites weep and wail and beat their breasts.”

At this Moses grew angry. “Eight times have you begged forgiveness for your sins, Pharaoh, and eight times has our Lord been merciful. But be warned—the most awful power of the Lord has yet to be revealed! Thus says the Lord: If you refuse to let my people go, tomorrow I will bring banjos into your country. They shall cover your territory so that the ground itself will not be visible. Their noise shall fill the air, so that not even your own thoughts may be heard. They shall corrupt generations of Egyptians yet unborn, and you may cry to your progeny how ruthlessly I dealt with the obstinate Ramses!”

The rest of the story, of course, can be read within the pages of John Klima's Electric Velocipede.

MEMORY: 32

First
Previous

“Well,” said Flavius after an uncomfortably long pause. “Bit of water under the bridge since I’ve last been seeing you, eh? How’s life been treating you, then?”

“It is as you feared, Your Imperial Majesty,” Papantzin said, ignoring Flavius. “The Sajal has debased herself with the lesser-sentient.”

“If Your Imperial Majesty would--” Anacaona began, but the Empress Malinche raised a hand, cutting her off as she entered the room, closing the door behind her.

“I’ve never entirely grasped how it is that the imperial cousins are always so eager to bring scandal down upon themselves with this impure fixation on... beastiality,” Empress Malinche said easily as she walked over to Flavius.

“Disgraceful,” muttered Papantzin.

“Hold on, now,” protested Flavius. “Nae need to talk that way about me! I have seen ya starkers, after all. And a whole lot more that I cannae remember...”

“His Imperial Majesty said you had no memory of the affair,” gasped Anacaona in surprise.

“People don’t always tell the whole truth, now, do they?”

Empress Malinche stepped in front of Flavius, so close he had to stop himself from flinching back. Her manner was light, but he could almost feel the heat of her rage lurking beneath the surface. The Empress examined his erection with pursed lips, then ran her hand across his chest. It came away glittering with a dusty sheen. “Oh my. This is most distressing. You’ve shed your passion all over him, Sajal...”

“Anacaona,” Anacaona said. “Your Imperial Majesty knows very well who I am, third cousin--”

“Debased Sajal should know to hold their tongues in the presence of Her Imperial Majesty,” Papantzin said.

“Gently, dear Papantzin. Sajal Anacaona is obviously beholden to her more primitive urges. We mustn’t judge her too harshly. This defect sometimes manifests itself among the distant cousins where noble blood runs thin,” Empress Malinche said, rubbing her thumb and forefinger together thoughtfully. “The only decent thing to do is to protect her from herself. Tell me, Papantzin, do we know of any likely candidates for a union?”

“Nu’n Huyng comes to mind,” Papantzin answered.

“Ah! Perfect! Nu’n and Sajal always do make exceptional marriage pairings. Their unions are always so vigorous.”

“No,” Anacaona said, eyes wide. “You can’t do this. You can’t condemn me!”

“Anacaona, think of this as an act of Imperial generosity,” Empress Malinche said gently. “Think of the scandal. You’ve irredeemably tainted yourself. What citizen in the Eternal Dominion would consent to union with you after you’ve spread your sheen all over this lesser sentient?”

”His corpse fucking glowed when they dragged it out of your bedchamber!”

Silence descended like a vacuum, sucking all the air out of the room.

“You... you...” stammered Papantzin finally, “dare to slander Her Imperial Majesty so? In front of the lesser sentient? The penalty for those words is--”

“Death?” Anacaona offered. The Sajal was trembling, but uncowed. “Her Imperial Majesty has already given me a death sentence should she follow through on her threat to force my union with Nu’n Huyng. I wonder what the unfortunate Nu’n has done to earn her disfavor?”

Papantzin struck quickly. Flavius jumped in surprise. Anacaona lay on the floor, bleeding from a nasty gash running from her cheekbone up to her scalp. Flavius eyed Papantzin warily. The handmaiden had moved so fast he hadn’t seen the blow land. The notion crept into his mind that she might be somewhat more than a mere handmaiden.

“Hoo! Nae need to be getting rough on my account,” Flavius said, easing on his kilt. Not an easy task, unwilling as he was to unbuckle his swordbelt to do so. “Why dinnae we sit down and discuss this over a pint?”

“An interesting suggestion, friend Flavius, although I don’t believe the Sajal will be joining us,” Empress Malinche said, rubbing Flavius’ bare shoulder with her over-jointed fingers. He pulled on his shirt then, using it as an excuse to slip from her grasp. “She has overstepped herself by a wide margin, and needs time alone to contemplate her transgression.”

“She means I get a knife in the back and a toss over the side of the palace walls,” Anacaona said, wiping her bloody cheek. “She can’t stand it that I bedded you out from under her.”

Papantzin hit her again, a lightning strike to the opposite side of Anacaona’s face. Anacaona cried out.

“Hey!” Flavius shouted, and lunged to interpose himself between the two. In an instant, he found Papantzin’s hand at his throat, holding him with more force than he’d thought possible.

“Flavius, take me with you,” Anacaona pleaded as she used the bed to push herself to her feet. Blood streamed down both cheeks now. “She won’t kill me in front of you, because she still wants you in her bed. But I’m dead the moment we separate. Please, let me travel otherwhere with you.”

“Friend Flavius, do you really take us to be so barbaric?” Empress Malinche said.

Flavius managed a strangled wheeze in response.

“Oh, yes. Papantzin, let him go.”

Papantzin released her grip, and Flavius took a staggered step back, rubbing his throat.

“Her venomous attacks on my person must not go unanswered, but all justice is even-handed and well-considered. Papantzin will escort the Sajal back to her suite while you come with me to the Imperial wing. I’ll show you we really are a genteel and loving people.”

“She’s jealous and selfish and loathsome,” Anacaona said. “It’s not enough that she had you to herself for four days last time, she has to possess you again this time as well.”

Papantzin moved to strike Anacaona again, but this time Flavius was ready. In an instant, Memory came unsheathed, its gleaming edge interposed itself between the women.

“There now,” Flavius said. “Nae need to punctuate everything with fisticuffs, eh? As I was saying before-- Wait, did ya say four days?”

“Do not--” began Empress Malinche.

“Four days. Give or take,” Anacaona said, matter of factly. “Then they tossed your body over the wall.”

“That’s nae how I heard it,” Flavius muttered.

“I’ve tried to be tolerant, but your insolence...” fumed Empress Malinche. “You should not have bedded Flavius.”

“It’s not like you left me many alternatives, Your Imperial Majesty,” Anacaona shot back. “You’re the one who had all the peq castrated, after all.”

“Whoa there! I dinnae need to hear that.”

Empress Malinche closed her eyes and breathed deeply. “Just so,” she said softly. “Papantzin, kill the Sajal.”

Continued

Austin infects Austen with zombieism?

Be warned, people! The streets of Austin are not the only places you must be on guard lest shambling undead corpses attempt to devour your brains. Now comes word that not even proper British comedy-of-manners novels are safe havens:

Pride and Prejudice and Zombies features the original text of Jane Austen’s beloved novel with all-new scenes of bone-crunching zombie action. As our story opens, a mysterious plague has fallen upon the quiet English village of Meryton—and the dead are returning to life! Feisty heroine Elizabeth Bennet is determined to wipe out the zombie menace, but she’s soon distracted by the arrival of the haughty and arrogant Mr. Darcy. What ensues is a delightful comedy of manners with plenty of civilized sparring between the two young lovers—and even more violent sparring on the blood-soaked battlefield as Elizabeth wages war against hordes of flesh-eating undead. Complete with 20 illustrations in the style of C. E. Brock (the original illustrator of Pride and Prejudice), this insanely funny expanded edition will introduce Jane Austen’s classic novel to new legions of fans.

Is there any doubt that Austin, a proudly bookish city with such landmark literary institutions as Book People is the city that infected Austen (merely one letter apart--clearly a case of the zombie virus mutating and "making the jump" if ever there were one)? Now that this virulent plague has leapt from the living world to the literary one, where will the horror end? Certainly, some writings will fare better than others. On the genre front, Starship Troopers and Zombies I can't imagine being much different at all, but Flowers for Algernon and Zombies promises to be very painful, indeed. Thank goodness William Hjortsberg's 1971 tour-de-force Gray Matters remains safely out of print. Can you imagine the unending carnage were zombies to gain access to four billion brains in jars?