ASTRAL AVENUE
*****************

No 10.  August 1987

"like Route One, where it passes through the heart of Providence"
GRAVITY'S RAINBOW Thomas Pynchon page 537.

PUBLISHER'S NOTE

         We smell a conspiracy -- or at least a case of psychic collusion.
Tell us what you think.

         We refer to the increasing prevalence, in print and on televsion, of
ads for adult diapers.

         Logically, these ads would seem to be a waste of money.  It's like
advertising insulin.  The prouduct has a finite market.  Those who need it
are captive consumers, and are going to buy it whether exhorted or not.  It's
also likely they know where to purchase the item.  Those who don't need adult
diapers are not going to be persuaded to buy them by a smiling woman telling
them how secure she feels, now that she's discovered Baby-Huey-sized plastic
underwear.  There is just no reason for these ads to exist.

         Unless, of course, they represent some psychic need.  Is this
country retreating to infantilism?  In an age of sex as death. are we trying
to revert to a time when our genitals were solely instruments of excretion?
Do we all long to be swaddled in bunting?  Has adulthood proven too complex?

         If you aswered yes to any of these questions, perhaps I could
interest you in a new product I'm trying to market: scotch-flavored teething
rings....

LEAVING NEW YORK

         It was 96 degrees in New York that day.  Inside Penn Station, the
crowd of Boston-bound commuters was already sweaty and enervated, before they
had even begun their trip.  They waited anxiously for the announcement that
their train was ready to board.

         When the announcement came, it directed the passengers to a gate
that had never been used before, on the lower level of the station.  People
hurried for the stairs.  Shuffling down into the bowels of the station, they
exchanged wary glances.

         The train had come from Washigton.  It wasn't too full.  Everyone
got a seat.

         The train pulled out on time.  The hour was the 12:10.  It was due
in Boston four-and-a-half hours later.

         The air-conditioning was working.  The cafe cars were well-stocked
with drinks and food.  People settled in.

         The train proceeded swiftly until 1:30, making several stops along
the way, the last being Bridgeport.

         Twenty minutes north of Bridgeport, however, with no station in
sight, the train suddenly slowed and halted.

         Everyone began to fidget, suspecting the worst.  A few minutes after
the unscheduled stop, the voice of the condustor crackled over the PA.

         "We have encountered a drawbridge stuck in the up position.  We will
notify you of the progress of the situation."

         A mass groan arose.  Two sisters, with five toddelrs between them,
hung their heads.  One of the children began to cry.

         People got up and went for drinks.  Soon there was a long line at
both cafe cars.

         Every time a conductor appeared, he was deluged with questions.

         "Is the bridge being worked on?"  "When will it be fixed?"  "What
alternatives are there?"

         The answers the conductors gave were very unsatisfactory.

         An hour passed.  Half of another.  The train had now been stopped
for as long as it had travelled.  People were alternately angry, cyncical,
joking, resigned.  Rumors began to arise that one of the cafe cars had run
out of soda.  The prompted a new rush for what was left.

         At 3:00, the PA came alive.

         "We are backing up to Bridgeport.  What will happen there has not
yet been determined.  However, anyone leaving the train will not be allowed
back on."

         Sputtering, shock, disbelief filled the cars.

         The journey that had taken twenty minutes in forward took twice as
long in reverse.

         It was now about 4:30.  The trip had gone on for four-and-a-half
hours so far.  However, the train was only an hour or so out of New York.  It
should have been arriving in Boston just now.

         At Bridgeport a few people left the train.  Most stayed put, having
no choice.  Someone asked, "Why don't they bus us?"  Al;most as if on cue,
the voice of authority emerged from the loudspeakers.

         "There has been a change in plans.  We are going forward again to
the station before the drawbridge.  There will be buses there to take
passengers around the damageed bridge, where they will board a new train."

         There was scattered, weak applause and cheers.  Since it was getting
so close to suppertime, people went for more drinks and food.  Definite news
reports from people who returned indicated the cafe cars were almost empty of
provisions.

         The train started up after an indefinite time and went forward.  The
women with their five children looked exhausted, despite the fact that all
five kids were sleeping.

         The train stopped at a tiny station not normally serviced by the
train.

         "Please wait until told to leave."

         An hour or so passed.  It was now about 6:30.

         The order to disembark came.

         Hot furnace-air smacked the people in the face as they emerged.  It
was still in the nineties, and the sun was high.  The conductors stood on the
platform, pointing out the way for people.  They looked exhausted and mean.

         Down a set of iron stairs, under a rotting trestle where bums
obviously pissed, and up a slope into a parking lot, the passengers trooped,
carrying their luggage, some with just knapsacks, others bearing several
large cases.  The sisters with their children had vanished in the mass.
There were over two hundred people.

         At the top of the slope awaited three school-buses, their windows
open to the stagnant air.

         People shoved and jostled for a place on the buses.  Soon the aisles
were filled with luggage.  The bus smelled like elementary school.  People's
faces were sheened with sweat.  Their eyes were glazed.

         The first bus took off.  The little Connecticut town it went through
seemed poor and in disrepair.  People congregating outside seedy bars watched
the buses in disbelief.  Someone on board said, "I feel like that woman in
ROMANCING THE STONE."  Everyone knew what she meant.

         The bus travelled on a road over the estuary that had blocked the
train's progress.  It stopped.  Hefting their bags, people climbed wearily
off.  The bus left for another load.

         They had been deposited at a crumbling asphalt drive, flanked by
shrubs.  People trudged up it.  The tar turned into a gravel parking lot with
tow or three cars in it.  The new station came into view:  a small wooden
structure, red paint peeling from it, consisting of a single room for the
train personnel, and a soda machine.  A long concrete platform made up the
rest of the station.  There was no shade.

         At least a hundred people were already waiting there.  It turned out
they had been the occupants of another stalled train.  They were asked how
long they had been waiting.

         "Two hours," they said.

         Soon all the passengers of the twelve-ten from New York had been
delivered, to stand in the sun.  Local policemen were there to keep order.
They began to be subject to verbal abuse.  Some responded jokingly, others
with anger.  The sun shone on them too.

         It was now 7:30.  The people were still only an hour-and-a-half away
from the city.

         The sun began to sink.  People waited; broiling, stupefied as
cattle.

         They would not board a train until eight.  It would be the 2:10 from
New York, crossing over the now-fixed drawbridge.  Once aboard, they would
find an insufficiency of seats.  Ahead lay a broken rail and an hour delay in
New Haven, to switch engines.  They would not see Boston until midnight,
twelve hours after departure.

         No one knew this now, although they suspected the worst.  They had
no energy to think of the future.  It took all their strength just to deal
with the heat coming up off the concrete platform.

         There was a very fat man, about fifty, wearing green work pants
upheld by suspenders, a checked shirt, and glasses.  He looked ready to
faint.  To no one in particular he said the same thing, over and over.

         "And they tell us they could evacuate people during war or an
emergency.  How could they do it?  It's impossible.  How could they do it?
How could they even THINK they could do it?"

         No one had an answer.

MORE FUN COUPLES by A.P. McQuiddy

Ted and Leigh KENNEDY
Cyrus and Jack VANCE
Jodi and Alan Dean FOSTER
H&R and Robert BLOCH
Desmond and Janet MORRIS
Ben and James HOGAN
Sam and Stephen DONALDSON

THIS MONTH'S PERSPECTIVE:  "Perhaps if the future existed, concretely and
individually, as something that could be discerned by a better brain, the
past would not be so seductive; its demands would be balanced by those of the
future....  But the future has no such reality... the future is but a figure
of speech, a specter of thought."  -- TRANSPARENT THINGS, Vladimir Nabokov.


HOW DOES SHAKESPEARE FIT IN?

         Although most people in the know concede that Thomas Pynchon is
really J.D. Salinger (Pynchon's first novel appeared the same year Salinger
fell silent), even these cognoscenti do not realize that B. Traven (TREASURE
OF THE SIERRA MADRE, etc.) was really Ambrose Bierce.

         Consider that Bierce "disappeared" in Mexico the same year Traven
"moved" there from Germany, and you'll start to pick up the trail.

         Now if we could only link up Traven and Salinger, we'd have a
portrait of an immortal writer who shifted identities every time he started
to receive too much attention....
        
LLLLLLLLLLLLL LETTERS SSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

FROM CHARLES PLATT:  Once I do assimilate the content (of AA) I tend to feel
it lacks coherence.  Your thoughts are often amusing, and your brief
quotations from readers' letters are sometimes fun, but there is a lack of
overall sense-of-intent.  Maybe this is how my own stuff looks to readers; I
don't know.  But as a reader myself, it bothers me.  I used to enjoy CHEAP
TRUTH largely because, even when it seemed wrongheaded, it stood for
something.  I have absolutely no idea what ASTRAL AVENUE stands for.  Would
you be willing to enlighten us on this?


TENTATIVE RAISON D'ETRE NUMBER 1

         "Only partly to satirize the Ermine Mayor's decree, Praeger de Pinto
 issued a statement promising that if he were elected mayor the city would
enjoy the most beautiful winters it had ever experienced....

         "Stunned at first, then hostile, people gradually came to believe
him....

         "Where most politicians, including the Ermine Mayor, were quick to
promise things they would never deliver, such as clean streets or the absence
of crime, Praeger's approach was different, and he left the others far behind
in his wake.  The Ermine Mayor might address a street gathering and say that
in his next term he would put 30 percent more police on the streets, step up
garbage collection, and lower taxes.  Of course, everyone knew that in the
next mayoral term, no matter who was in office, thirty percent fewer police
would be on the street, the garbage piles would get higher and bigger, and
taxes would go up.  But they applauded anyway....

         "But then Praeger de Pinto would rise.  He never talked about
garbage, electricity, or police.  He only talked about winter, horses, and
the countryside.  He spoke almost hypnotically about love, loyalty, and
esthetics.  And just as they thought he was beginning to sound slightly
effete, he would get very tough... and lacerate the mayor...  He would throw
low punches, where it hurt.  He would be teribly cruel (they loved that) and
then he would surface again into his world of light....

         "They thought, or so it was generally stated at the time, that if
they were going to be lied to, they might as well pick the liar who did it
best."  -- WINTERS'S TALE, Mark Helprin.


TENTATIVE RAISON D'ETRE NUMBER 2
        
"DON'T TRY GATE-CRASHING A PARTY FULL OF BANKERS.  BURN THE HOUSE DOWN!" --
The Housemartins.

TENTATIVE RAISON D'ETRE NUMBER 3

"Another policy of this column will be to give my friends all the best of it
and blast the incompetents that I don't like.  There will be no deviation
from this policy." -- John O'Hara.


MORE LETTERS

From THE APOCRYPHAL LANDSBERG:  Definitely one of the most amusing zines I've
ever seen.

From THE LETHAL CHOCHOLAK:  This issue is really tops.  Even if you make it
look like I offed Terry Carr with wisecracks.

From THE ELUSIVE ZAVGORODNY:  I continue to get your fanzine.  Thank you!  I
understand this almost without knowing English, ha-ha.  I liked its
strangeness, the unusuality of things.  It has much bitter humor, it seems?

From THE THEORETICAL COBLEY:  Thought that Bruce Sterling's letter was a bit
toothsome, but he made several important points:  Gibsonian rip-offs,
potential extrapolative input, and genre structures (owing existence mostly
to ultra-commercial non-esthetics).  Following any one of these paths
obsessively across the conceptual terrain leads not necessarily to dead-ends,
but circular stagnation and alienation.

From THE METAPHYSICAL HOGAN:  Glad to see everybody's not taking things to
seriously in this postcyberpunk age.  The problem with most science fiction
writers is that they ain't got rhythm.  Surrealists have been a bigger
influence on me than sf writers, anyway.  What I'm mainly concerned with is
the way technology has sped up and multiplied the myth-making process.  The
planet is overloaded with clashing mythologies,.  Should be fun.

From THE EXPLANATORY HLAVATY:  I consider to enjoy your zine.  Discovering
that there were two different writers named William Jon Waktins and Walter
Jon Williams, and that neither of them was the other, did make my life a bit
less confused.  (It happened about a year ago.) // A few slight corrections
to Luke McGuff's letter:  The Jefferson Airplane line was "In loyalty to
their kind, they cannot tolerate our MINDS," and I believe it comes from John
Wyndham's THE CHRYSALIDS, also known as REBIRTH.

From THE PLAINTIVE PLATT:  Please don't publish any more postcards from
Texas.

From THE SPECULATIVE REILLY:  The most important question is:  what is the
significance of "OZ"?  Is is short for "Order of the Zoroastrians or
Zookeepers or Zygotes?"  Does it stand for some sound?  "OZ," the sound of
the body politic sighing?  Are the letters reversed?  Does "ZO" mean
anything?  I'm worried.

From THE ENTHUSIASTIC MCQUIDDY:  Takling about the ITGO article.  I think
that though you build up your argument well, in the end there is no real meat
to it...  I heartily disagree with your assertion that "there are only so
many sources."  Limits?  On the FUTURE?  You must be kidding....// Hey!  I
rubbed off the glitter on my "Clarion Bonus Rub-off" and it said I won an
all-expense-paid trip to Bermuda with Fawn Hall!// Keep those little pearls
of wisdom from the likes of Aldiss and Greenland coming -- they're great.//
Michael Bishop's "Bishop's Move" was a great companion peice to Rudy's
"Access To Tools."  Hope to see more from both of them.// Casting advice (for
the Iran-contra movie): Secord -- G. Gordon Liddy;  Fawn Hall -- Vanna White;
Ollie North -- Clint Eastwood: Reagan -- Jimmy Stewart; Poindexter -- Don
Ameche.  I also think we could place Jay Leno in the role of that young guy
who just testified -- without immunity, I believe -- and admitted that he
helped destroy files. // You're not the first to confuse WJ Williams and WJ
Watkins... in the meantime, try to avoid "retinal intercourse."// It's about
time somewhere, someone had the guts to attack Baum's Oz, and lay off Charles
Lutwidge Dodgson for a while.//  I've got to admit that I like Michael
Cobley's suggestion that what Gibson and Sterling are doing is "SF-as-theory"
instead of "SF as prediction."

*************

Dear Mr. Di-Fi:

         Arf!  Are you losin' it amigo, or what?  "Fluffy the Cyberpup" is a
fraud!  F-R-A-U-D!  The dead giveaway was the Austin, Texas postmark -- when
you yourself said (correctly) that "I don't live in Texas."

         I sent that snapshot to my cousin, B. Maurice Setter (who does live
in Austin), some months back.  I see he cleverly excised the rest of the
photo, including the bomb crater, banana plant, and Milly Muffins, a cute,
tough-as-toenails dingo who I met Down Under and persuaded to join me here.
I'm really pissed at Maurice for pulling this stunt.  For the record, the
first story I ever wrote WAS entitled "Barking Chrome," but I never sent it
to NEW PATHWAYS.  (If I find out Maurice is submitting MY work under his
name, I'll sue him for plagiarism -- AFTER I rip his throat out!)  I was not,
however, published in the MIRRORSHADES anthology, nor do I expect my work to
appear in any subsequent "sequels" to it.  I am currently researching my
first novel, DESERTED CITIES OF THE BARK.

         Also, I would like to clarify a point.  I am not a card-carrying
member of the Mirrorshades Movement, but I am associated with some people who
are.  (I, myself, do not wear mirrorshades.  Although, in the unexpurgated
version of the picture, Milly IS wearing a pair.)  However, I AM a member of
the rogue off-shoot of this literary wave -- we call ourselves "The
Wayfarers."

         And please, don't send me the Braun food processor/cyberdeck -- I've
got four already, one of which has an espresso attachment.  Send it to
Maurice instead.  I hope he chokes on
it...

                             Best wishes for "AA",
                             The Renegade Rover himself,
                             Husky Du

Managua, Nicaragua
May 30, 1987
(translated from the Spanish by G. Welshspring Corgi)