I planned on heroically going on with biz here, but once again I get up, feel kinda okay, stumble through my morning routine, losing track of what I'm doing, then end up back in bed.
Gonna be a Covid Christmas! Or did it already happen? When am I writing this? Would make a great demented carol, but I can’t seem to think up anything . . .
Ah, brain fog . . . It’s some people’s idea of a good time . . . They take drugs to achieve this level of mental bizarritude . . .
Where was I?
Oh yeah. I’m the Father of Chicano Science Fiction, a regular Papí Sci-Fi, and I have a lot of important business to take care of . . . like . . .
There’s this virus transforming civilization as we know it . . . Didn’t I write a novel about that once?
And there’s all kinds of turmoil sweeping over the planet. What the world needs now is some kinda newfangled chingadera vision to help us see a way through, or at least a few good laughs.
Maybe I am just a slapstick comedian, writing this on his phone, in bed.
And a new year is charging at us, so look out, amigos . . .
Ernest Hogan doesn’t usually need a virus or drugs to achieve a bizarre mental state, he just goes about his business and goes stark, raving sci-fi, whatever that means . . .
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