If I hear one more damned story about the zombie apocalypse, I swear I’ll ... read it like all the others that came before. Sure, the blogosphere may be sensationalizing a series of horrific events that have ended in people being shot, eaten and internally microwaved by bad acid. But whether these events are happening on the streets of Florida or prime time TV on AMC, there are those of us who can’t help but gnaw on tales that depict a doomed world full of undead cannibals. If you need insight into why we like this kind of sick shit, just ask your friend the horror-buff film major if you can see her thesis paper on sociopolitical metaphor in the work of George Romero. (Trust me, she’s written one.)
Now in its 44th year, Bubonicon is our resident sci-fi/fantasy convention. And its 2012 programming celebrates postapocalyptic fiction and the Mayan apocalypse. Panels such as “Silver Linings: Hope Found in Post-Apocalyptic Works” and insights into the definition of “Mayan-punk” will be explored at the Marriott Uptown Friday, Aug. 24, through Sunday, Aug. 26.
More than 40 authors, filmmakers and artists from around the nation will converge on Albuquerque like a horde of rabid flesh-eaters, spewing forth doomsday warnings. Check out Bubonicon.com for programming and tickets.
Parting is such sweet sorrow, once quoteth the bard. And as I mull over nearly two years of nostalgia from my tenure at this here fine weekly scroll, I can only conclude that the bard was righteth.
When bestowed with the position of arts editor (after a string of invaluable Alibi odd jobs), it was mentioned in an introductory column that I once ran numbers for the Chicago mob. Rumors that I’m leaving because my wit pro cover was blown by Jimmy Looselips are completely unfounded.
So are the ones that recently departed Editor-in-Chief Laura Marrich and I are conspiring to join previous Arts Editor Summer Olsson at her northern California commune, where we will take up didgeridoos and offer young lambs to Zanzibar, protector of the Fifth Wall.
(Not only do I not know if a Chicago mob still exists, but I’m not even sure what “numbers” are—and our applications to the cult were denied.)
The truth is that, well, sometimes it’s just right to move on, even if you have no idea what you’re moving toward. Me, I’m heading back to Chicago.
After that I plan to buy a shack on the Louisiana bayou, write novels and take up a profession that will enable me to work with alligators. Beyond that, the future is hazy.
So to all those I’ve worked with in this city’s arts scene—be you gallerists, theater folk, musicians or artists of any ilk—I extend my humble thanks. I doubt there are many places in this world brimming with such creative enthusiasm and capacity. (Please keep sending those arts inquiries to firstname.lastname@example.org.)
And to my brothers from other mothers and sisters from other misters who’ve coached me—and coped and commiserated with me—over these past two years, what can I say? You’re the fuckin’ bee’s knees. Cheers.
It’s been an honor.