Do Android-Makers Dream of Electric PKD?

The promo gods just dropped this on my doorstep: the upcoming trade paperback edition of David Dufty's How to Build an Android: The True Story of Philip K. Dick's Robotic Resurrection. And my cold replicant heart did a little leap.

Burning down the house

Just got a copy of As You Were, a great new comics zine from Silver Sprocket. The theme: DIY punk house shows. Every story in here is drop-dead awesome and brings back so many memories of going to/putting on/playing house shows over the years. Not to mention my long-lost past as a cartoonist and zinester. The kids, it seems, are alright.

Spoilers for The Office finale

Neutral Milk memories

Way back in the early '90s, Denver was the home of the yet-to-become-iconic Jeff Mangum of Neutral Milk Hotel. Denver just happened to be my home, too. So I wrote an article for The A.V. Club about those early days. Neutral Milk went on to do legendary things, but I'll always love those scrappy, crappy early recordings. Granted, the nostalgia doesn't hurt.

Let's all go to the science fiction disco

Just got my contributor's copy of Adventure Rocketship! with cover art by Stanley Donwood (of Radiohead fame) and some of my writing re: J. G. Ballard, Sun Ra, Kraftwerk, Parliament, Brian Eno, postpunk, etc. Damn proud to be a part of it.

Calel

Below is my pseudo-tribute to the mythos of Superman, first published in 2009 by the late, great, weird-fiction magazine Farrago's Wainscot as part of a series of linked vignettes titled "Seven Men (in Various States of Fabrication)." No, I don't really know what I was thinking.

VI: Calel

Ice cannot harm me, nor fire. Swords and pitchforks fall blunt against my skin. My thews, taut and thick, are knotted with monstrous energies. There is a furnace in my breast, a flintlock in my spine. My name is Calel. I never wanted this.

But I cannot remove what God has seen fit to install in my body. I often feel as though I am his finger, as if there is a vast, intangible fist behind me through which courses divine love, divine will, divine might.

And then abruptly, in the midst of such rapturous delirium, I remember. I remember where I come from. I remember who I am. As base as it is to hold one's soul at arm's length from heaven and covet it so, I cradle what little is left of myself as if it were an orphaned child, wasted from thirst and hunger.

But at night, I forget. At night, I fall. At night, the cloak calls.

Holy Hugo

So... I guess I'm up for a Hugo Award (for being part of the editorial staff of Clarkesworld Magazine, nominated in the Best Semiprozine category). Holy moly. I have no idea how to begin thanking Neil Clarke and all at Clarkesworld for letting me part of the team throughout 2012. And I'm super grateful to my predecessor and successor as nonfiction editor, Cheryl Morgan and Kate Baker, both of whom rock. This is crazy. I'll try my best to sleep tonight.

Adventure Rocketship!

I'm super excited to be part of Adventure Rocketship!, a new print publication out of the UK that focuses on science fiction and geek culture. The first issue will have a big piece by me on J. G. Ballard and his relation to postpunk, plus a few other tidbits I wrote on Sun Ra, Kraftwerk, Parliament, Brian Eno, and X-Ray Spex. Also: lots more rad stuff by others, including cover art by Stanley Donwood (of Radiohead fame); interviews with Michael Moorcock, China Mieville, and Mick Farren; and new fiction by Lavie Tidhar, Liz Williams, et al. Oh, and in case you're wondering: Yes, the magazine is named after the Robyn Hitchcock song. Pre-orders are available here.

Capitalism: The Unknown Ideal

Somewhere Over the Bloodbath

The first installment if my new music column for NSFWCORP is now live. The title--"Somewhere Over the Bloodbath: Ingrid Michaelson's Grotesque Sandy Hook Singalong"--pretty much says it all. That said, I hold out hope you may read the whole thing. WARNING: not for the weak of stomach or the lover of shitty folk-pop.