If you are intrigued by virtual worlds, the search for extraterrestrial intelligence, the American culture wars, New Age mysticism, VR cybersex, and what will happen in twenty years when we become "post-America," then I recommend you check out the new science-fiction novel, "The Big God Network," now available at Amazon.com.
Lucid Screaming is a six-member group of L.A.-based writers and musicians who hail from California, Wisconsin, New Zealand and the Oort Belt. They have peformed short stories, poems, comedy, blues, bossa, and rock in various incarnations and combinations. Their satirical and surreal work draws upon eclectic influences and delves into love, internet sex, UFO abductions, and other fundamental mysteries of the universe. Take Firesign Theatre, Monty Python, the Bonzo Dog Band and mix with a little Samuel Beckett, Tom Waits and Werner Herzog. You’ve got Lucid Screaming.
On Arcanarama, the Lucid gang attempts to explain love, abductions, and other fundamental mysteries of the universe. Freud memorably wondered what it is that members of the fairer sex truly seek, and he is answered in "What I Really Want" by an anonymous female on the internet, who describes the smoldering passion she seeks in "a committed relationship." "Fraction Smith" is driven to drink when his baby leaves him ("at least that is what she said"), while "Love, the Wandering Emu" explores the extremes of love, comparing it to a "firing squad of angels" and a "hierophantic pageant on Saturn’s rings," among other things. However, love may not be in the cards if you travel to Main Street and there meet "Esmerelda the Indifferent," a gipsy fortuneteller full of dark tidings.
Encounters of a different sort are captured in "The Green Mistress," in which a rural couple has a "missing time" experience on a desert highway and encounters a green goddess they reckon will "do her spawning high in orbit." "Probed Like Me" is a disturbing tale of big-headed grey aliens who want samples, and lots of them. Osgood brings us back to earth when he elaborates on the phrase "life is like a box of chocolates," and we are faced with unsettling fudge-encased truths.
True lucidity requires that we channel Mississippi bluesmen, that we scream at glowing green meteors that no one else sees, that we drink fine imported ales until dawn, that we mock jihads and crusades, that we mourn the passing of Dr. Gonzo and the Quiet Beatle, and that we seek what lies east of the sun and west of the moon. Yes, this is the Lucid way. Or so say the rumors…