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Astral Avenue 02
From Rhode Island: Where Quahogs Outnumber Humans -- it's
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ASTRAL AVENUE
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Number 2 December 1986 Sycophant Sam Sez: "Keep on Trucklin'!"
Surf Forecast: Waves of Hyperbole, Followed by Resounding Crashes and Froth
PUBLISHER'S NOTE
Much to our chagrin, our independence was not able to survive for more
than one issue before we were taken over by Mysterious Forces. The source of
our distress is the Organization of Apocryphal Power. (Readers desiring more
information on this group are advised to turn to Italo Calvino's IF ON A
WINTER'S NIGHT A TRAVELER. However, be forewarned that CALVINO DID NOT DIE
OF NATURAL CAUSES....)
The permanent representative of the OAP now lives beneath our kitchen
sink, and demands final right of censorship over all material herein. What's
worse, he won't tell us if he's working for the Wing of Shadow or the Wing of
Light. Still, we persist....
HOW I ALMOST SPENT MY SUMMER VACATION
One day this summer, I received an unusual piece of unsolicited mail.
At first, I thought it was one of those slick inducements to purchase a
time-share in some vacation condo. A quick scan of the glossy brochure turned
up boilerplate phrases like "one of these prizes has been registered in your
name", "quiet retreat", "luxurious surroundings", "easy terms", and
"congenial company."
I was ready to toss the third-class mailing into the trash, when I
noticed a boldface injunction at the bottom of the text:
ONLY SF WRITERS NEED APPLY
I was bemused. Was this some kind of inclusive self-segregation, the
obverse of the warning NO IRISH NEED APPLY, earlier in this century? What
kind of "community" was this brochure advertising? Reading more closely, I
was astonished to discover --
But let me jump directly to my firsthand experiences at SHARE-A-WORLD
KAMPS, INC. (a wholly owned subsidiary of Bigg & Slymi, Korporate
Publishers).
I pulled up in my rented car to the locked gate in the razor-wire-topped
fence surrounding the sylvan acreage high in the Adirondacks. Beyond the
chainlink barrier, I could see scattered rustic buildings, reminiscent of
those in a Boy Scout camp. As soon as I stepped from my car, a woman emerged
from the security booth outside the enclosure. She wore a coiled whip at her
belt.
"Hello," she said pleasantly enough. "Can I help you?"
I flourished the ad that had drawn me there, and explained that I was
interested in seeing the accomodations and activities described therein.
The woman scrutinized me closely. "Are you an SF writer? I don't
recognize your face."
I recited my modest credits.
"Oh, I suppose you'll do," she grudgingly conceded. "Just leave your car
there -- no one will bother it."
I could easily believe that: the place seemed deader than the latest
Heinlein novel. Still, I pocketed my car keys.
Once inside, the woman locked the gate behind us. I thought then to ask
her name. She introduced herslef with the name of a Famous Editor, which I
won't use here. Let's just call her "The Dominatrix."
"So," I said, trying to ingratiate myself, "this is the place where all
those shared-universe anthologies and novels come from. It seems hard to
believe -- "
"This is the place," she replied. "We do everything right here, from
brainstorming the parameters of the shared universe -- characters, locales,
physical laws, whatever -- right down to fabricating the actual wordage
required to fill up a volume. We can turn out something as big and glossy as
MEDEA, or as cheap and tinny as HEROES IN HELL."
"Fascinating," I lied. The absence of visible activity was starting to
get on my nerves. The place seemed suddenly less like a summer camp and more
like a POW camp. I imagined I could hear chipper Limeys whistling "Bridge on
the River Kwai."
"What would you like to see first?" she asked.
"Uh, how about the Parameter Fabrication Plant?"
The Dominatrix led me to a log building without screens or doors.
Inside, chained to wooden benches, sat a corps of failed Ph.D's from various
disciplines, whose duty it was to concoct hare-brained anthropological,
botanical, sociological, mythological, stellar, etc. gimmicks which could
form the basis for a Shared World Series. All were typing busily into
networked word-processors.
"We use only the latest equipment," said the Dominatrix. "And if their
ideas aren't stale enough, we can even run them through special software that
will mix in a few old proven concepts from the days of Twayne Triplets."
"Wonderful. And the writers can tap into these guidelines from their
own terminals -- ?"
"You've got it. Let's peek in on them."
In a similar building, under similar conditions, sat dozens of writers,
laboriously pecking away. Not one bothered to look up when we entered, so
apathetic were they, so eager to achieve the Kamp Kwota, which the Dominatrix
informed me was set at a modest 10,000 words per day. Over the hunched
shoulders of the scriveners, I read snatches of Shared-Universal Prose:
endless tedious lines about thieves, rock 'n' roll elves, fuxes, dead heroes,
and wizards.
My guide had stepped away to crack her whip over a writer who had slowed
up from exhaustion. I took the opportunity to question one of the poor
wretches.
"Don't you hate and abhor with all your soul the idea of subordinating
your own imagination and skills to some marketing concept aimed at
twelve-year-olds?"
"Say wha?" he replied, and I knew the pitiful drudge was nearly
brain-dead.
The Dominatrix returned and led me outside. "So, are you interested?"
I stalled for time as I strolled back toward the gate and freedom.
"What's the advance and royalty rate?"
"Advance? Royalties? There's nothing like that. Room and board is it.
You're doing this to establish your name in the public eye, and for the
'fun.'" She looked me up and down witheringly. "And believe me, someone of
your insignificant bibliography could really benefit by this."
We were now at the gate. "Uh, great, I'll sign on. But I left my
favorite fountain pen in the car -- "
A tremor in my voice must have betrayed my real intentions. "That's
okay," she countered, "I've got a pen."
I hit the fence four feet up, clawing for the top.
I lost the seat of my pants on the razor-wire, and one earlobe to the
Dominatrix's whip, but I was roaring off down the alpine rutted road before
she could stop me.
I counted myself lucky to escape at all.
IT'S A WYLDE, WYLDE LIFE
Among all the new writers receiving extravagant praise, I have yet to
see the name of Thomas Wylde. His stories in ASIMOV'S and F&SF which I have
had the pleasure to read have been gonzo fantasies exhibiting humor, wit and
sharp invention. Check out "Magic Cookies" (F&SF, 12/85) and hope someone
convinces Mr. Wylde to write a novel.
INVASION OF THE FEMALE POP STARS
Take a close look at the Giger illustrations for Jack Dann's story
"Tattoos" in the November OMNI. Is it borrowed from the cover of Debbie
Harry's KOO KOO, or am I missing something? And isn't that a portrait of
Annie Lennox on the cover of SKEEN'S LEAP by Jo Clayton? What next? Barbra
Streisand for a Connie Willis story?
AMERICA AS JOYSTICK
One must always replenish one's figures of speech from new technology.
It is with this tenet in mind that I propose the simile above, in the light
of the recent November elections and the precipitous drop in Reagan's
popularity due to the Iran-contra mess.
Joysticks boast a feature known as "defeatable self-centering." They
may be pushed to the right or left, but they always spring back to the
center. Thus America. We learn once again, as we did when the 'Sixties died,
that mo matter how far right or left the country is pushed, it always returns
to the Great Sane and Mediocre Center.
Now if we could just keep everyone's finger off the firing button....
FIRST-NAME BASIS
And while we're on the topic of politics, what about a lesson we could
learn from the Philippines? I'm referring, of course, to how everyone from
peasants to ministers calls the Aquino administration "the Cory government."
This shows an admirable lack of respect for all politicians, which we
could well emulate. I, for one, plan to refer only to "the Ronnie
government" from now on. (Locally, I will speak of "the Joey city government"
and "the Eddie state government.")
Exercise your right to nicknames now!
BEST GRAFFITO OF THE MONTH -- DOUGLAS HOFSTADTER SELF-REFERENTIAL CATEGORY
"Graffiti is a political act!"
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS (Replies to Many Queries of General Interest --
Valuable Suggestions from Readers)
T.E.D. KLEIN, on my Stephen King essay: "...a courageous piece of work." --
Well, Ted, I was just spouting off, but thanks anyway. I was guided by that
famous folk-saying, "Even a Krazy Kat may look at a King!"
CHARLES PLATT, on ditto: "...there have been some stories of his, such as
'Apt Pupil,' which I feel bring to life certain aspects of the human psyche,
and unpleasant qualities in American culture, better than almost any writer I
have ever read."
-- I don't deny King an occasional shining moment, I guess. What I
object to is calling his work "art." There are plenty of beautiful natural
objects -- seashells, spiderwebs -- which can not be called art because they
are simply blind expressions of their creators' genes. King's work strikes
me as much the same, only he fails more often than he succeeds. I resent
plowing through piles of crap -- a la the output of the writing program
RACTER -- just to find the rare gem.
WHEREIN I SHED 96 TEARS
Okay folks, I realize this issue is coming out less than a month after
the first (to avoid the Xmas postal glut), but still and all, I received no
correspondence other than the above, after a couple of weeks. All you
SLUGABEDS and PROCRASTINATORS out there, lissen up: if you have any interest
in this VANITY PROJECT of mine, please respond. (If you hate it, a simple
LETTER BOMB will suffice....) Your missive doesn't even have to be
COMPREHENSIBLE. A simple POSTCARD with your THUMBPRINT will do. Or emulate
the two PARAGONS OF EPISTOLARY VIRTUE cited
above....
ASTRAL AVENUE Paul Di Filippo
2 Poplar Street
Providence, RI 02906
